PlaneShift
Fan Area => Roleplaying (Communitive Storywriting) => Topic started by: Mariana Xiechai on December 30, 2011, 04:43:42 pm
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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.
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Ah, yes. A good old-fashioned serial killer mystery. This'll be my first attempt at molding an RP, hopefully it goes over well, but bear with me on RPing this specific character (most likely you haven't met her yet.) She's a bit complex and I'm still hashing out the details.
This is why I should not have been allowed to watch Sherlock Holmes, kids.
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Hehehe, somehow I feel I know where this is going.
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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.
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I certainly hope not, Batman ;)
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By using my alias, that makes it all the more likely that I'm on the case and or have solved it. XD
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Said before and am compelled over and over again... I love the stories and the way you write, Mariana :flowers:
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Why thank you Dannae. This one is actually an ongoing roleplay I hope to involve more people in. Your words are very encouraging :-[ :love:
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[Tentative, pending approval from interested parties]
Iss. #1 - FREE!
THE AMDENEIR GAZETTE
"For the Good of Society"
brought to you in part by:
- Ad Libertatum -
Contents:
P.1 TRUE DEATH KILLER TERRORIZES HYDLAA - An Investigative Report
P.2 RELIGIOUS CONFLICT BREWING?
P.3 NEW RESEARCH IN HEALING MAGIC
P.4 FIREBREATHING SKELETON ATTACKS TRAVELERS
P.5 AD LIBERTATUM DECRIES OCTARCHAL DECREES
====================================================================
P.1
TRUE DEATH KILLER TERRORIZES HYDLAA
An Investigative Report, by Sserp Detaicossa
Whispers of dark dealings in and around the city of Hydlaa have been spreading across the Dome like wildfire, including to my home-city of Amdeneir. There have been stories of gruesome murders resulting in True Death with bodies tied to the plaza fountain, beatings in which starphire flowers were left on the victims, and other crimes ranging from burglery to kidnapping. Setting out to uncover the realities behind the rumors, this reporter had no idea how deeply buried the truth would be. And even as this goes to print, new theories and evidence continue to come to light.
The story that reached Amdeneir was that the bloodied body of a fenki minstrel was found chained to the ballastrades of the fountain in Hydlaa Plaza. A knife was found stuck inside the body, and upon removal of the blade, the body crumbled into dust and ashes, which blew away in the wind. The knife was taken by members of Dakkru's Devout, and then changed hands a number of times afterword. Analysis of the blade found it to be coated in a poison that causes True Death, denying the victim corporeal entry into the Death Realm. Since that first murder, other bodies have been found at the fountain in similar conditions. Sometimes there have been notes left with the victims. And most recently, the killer has left threatening notes addressed to the citizenry of Hydlaa as a collective whole.
What follows is an account of my investigation into these matters thus far:
Upon arriving in Hydlaa, this reporter went straight to the city government for an official statement. Vigesimi Stronghand's people stated her unavailability until sometime next century, and the guards have been mostly tight-lipped as well. And as this reporter figured, the Octarch was even less available.
Jefecra Harcrit, Lieutenant of the Guard, declined to comment, stating, "I can neither confim nor deny anything; an official investigation is still underway."
A guard near the Winch Gate (who wishes to remain anonymous) was more forthcoming with his information. At about 2:00am he had seen a robed figure carrying an unconscious Ylian male over its shoulder, heading in the general direction of the Iron Temple of Laanx. The night was dark, but the guard could hear the clink of chainmail from the unconscous Ylian. The guard stated that he supposed the figure was Laanx priest helping a drunk find shelter for the night.
The civilian citizenry of Hydlaa has been much more helpful to this investigation than either the government or the guards. Harnquist, the local blacksmith, reported seeing the same two individuals pass by his smithy earlier that night. He said that at the time, the ylian in chainmail appeared to have trouble walking, and that the robed figure was helping him stand.
Teshia Dastrid, a member of the Adani Council, had the following to say when this reporter asked if she had seen or heared anything unusual that night:
"Just something unusual? I dare say if it wasn't beyond unusual, it wasn't the killer you are writing about. As to my knowledge, no more than one person has seen him and lived to tell the tale. The killer wears a red robe. It's entirely possible the killer took the man. But if he did, i fear there's little hope for him, unless someone intervened. I've met the killer, quite intimately. He does not usually take a long time to end his victims. [However,] it's possible that the killer took him off to try his experiement again. You'll forgive me if I' not very comfortable discussing that."
The Gazette interviewed Dannae Reinor, Nolthrir proprietor of the Red Crystal Den, a local hotspot for Hydlaa's social scene. She commented on both the True Death Murders, and the Starphire Beatings:
"I have quite a lot to say about those events to be sure. I have heard of quite a number of these (Starphire) assaults, all ending with a badly beaten and at least one dead victim. And the strange thing about each, is that a flower was left behind on each victim. As far as I know, I was actually the first of these, and although I wasn't beaten except for a club to the back of my head, and a charmflower was left on me. All the others I've heard about, a starphire was left.
"I doubt I know anything to add about the true death killings... although it's thought that I may have seen the killer at Kada El's once. Yeah, I just remember something about him that I didn't like. He was staring a lot, for one thing. I didn't know until the next day when that klyros... Vire... she thought it must've been him when I mentioned a ylian with burn marks on his forearms. Vire... or Evirea is her whole name I've come to find out, but she goes by Vire. And the killer seems to be playing some kind of sick game with her. He left a poem on the victim I found claiming she [Vire] will be dead in the end."
Another Nolthrir, named Onilise, stated:
"Oh yes!! I found one of the [Starphire beating] victims. Tragic. It was at the bottom of those stairs outside [of Kada El's Tavern]. I saw a fenki laying on the ground and her head was gashed open and she was unconscious; there was a starphire flower in her mouth. I took the flower from her mouth and tried to clean her up, then my high priestess, Dannae, and menki Hipie came and we took her to the infirmary. We stitched her up and bandaged her and gave her medicine there. That's all I know. I don't anything about the True Death murders. I saw one fenki a long time ago hanging by the plaza fountain. She turned to ashes and blew away."
Herihi Kerihi, servant leader of the recently publicized guild Ad Libertatum (and one of this publication's sponsors), shared her own theories:
"I got an inside scoop on the [Starphire] attacks as well. In fact I know a few of the victims personally. Dannae was a victim of them and just recently discovered the culprit. He is well known those those of us who have been around here for awhile. To be honest I think I suspect who might be behind this. Seems he [the culprit in the Starphire Beatings] is saying he was charmed or influenced by another to do the attacks. Did you hear about previous incidents with people claiming to be controlled by objects that were cursed? I know of a dagger that a dwarf named Ardoin picked up that twisted him into a violent psychopath. From what I heard seems the [Starphire] suspect claims he is under the influence of some kind of spell. That some kind of priest made him do it.
"I heard about one true death murder but didn't know there was more. Something to do with a poisoned or cursed dagger I think. I may have a couple suspects you could look into. Ever heard of Marsuveus or Rigwyn? I got irrefutable proof that Marsuveus is very much alive. I had to give it back to the one who discovered it but it talked in length about him returning some how. Seems he made a deal with Dakkru. Odd how the Dakkru followers are involved in so much of this, right? If I were you I would view him as one of the prime suspects for all of this mess. I tried to convince people months ago something dark was coming. But they couldn't be bothered to actually take it seriously. And of course they thought Stillwater was the real threat. But I can promise you that Marsuveus is back, though I am not sure of his purpose.
"And Rigwyn, well at one time he was a slaver, a thief, a thug, and a murderer. So I would not be suprised if he's not behind it.
"I wouldn't be shocked if this 'priest,' the suspect who people think attacked people is really Marsuveus himself. Or at the very least an acolyte of his. I wouldn't be surprised if they all lead back to Marsuveus. I think that is all I know about what is going on for now."
The Gazette got a brief statement from Evirea, the Klyran alchemist who has been at the forefront of the True Death case:
"You want to know about the killer, do you? Have you ever seen a body, Sserp? One that fails to move again? One that doesn't vanish mercifully into the Realm and into the embrace of the illustrious Dakkru? It's a terrible thing, Mr. Sserp. You see, to you life is an infinate thing. Oh certainly you are aware of your own mortality, but even in that knowledge you do not truly KNOW of it. At this very moment your life could be stolen from you, but the notion does not strike your fancy, and you do not truly believe it possible." She leans forward, a certain sadness, coupled with a steeled apathy, alive in her eyes. "But to breathe your last at the hands of a killer, because you have been lead to believe you do not deserve to draw breath at all? Now that, that is a truly terrible thing to know. A terrible thing to behold. [The killer] somehow convinces his victims to become suicidal, makes them believe they have killed loved ones, and then gives them the chance to kill themselves. Emotional, then physical, devistation."
When this reporter asked Evirea if she feels she is close to catching this person, her response:
"That is difficult to answer; I do not have a clear answer for you."
Lastly, on an anonymous tip, this reporter made contact with Timil Deeps, the Ylian who eariler in our story was the victim of the kidnapping, and who survived an attempted True Death murder. The following is his statement to the Gazette:
"I was a fool. When I put the clues together and tracked the murderer out of Kada El's that night, I should have asked my guild for backup or something. The killer got the better of me with Azure Way magic. He's quite skilled in it. He hid me in the ruins near Gugrontid. I managed to summon my groffel to get my guild, the Adani Order, for help. They rescued me, but were unable to capture the murderer. He was instead sent to the Death Realm in that encounter, but it obviously was not the True Death that he deserves. What I would say to anyone going after the murderer is this: Don't. He may be insane, but he is also extremely clever, and knows what he is doing. Leave this to the professionals. And be wary when travelling alone at night, or even by daylight, for that matter."
The Gazette will bring you updates to this story as they come to light. Until then, stay safe, citizens of Hydlaa.
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P.2
RELIGIOUS CONFLICT BREWING?
"LIFE vs AFTERLIFE .. Game ON!" - Anonymous
The Daughters of Xiosia may be under threat from followers of Dakkru. An eyewitness, who wishes to remain anonymous, recently informed the Amdeneir Gazette:
"You might consider a somewhat religious conflict developing here. As a personal eyewitness I am speaking firsthand, and as an intended victim, I am speaking as anonymous. I am just wanting you to know that the source is quite real. The timeless jealousy and conflict between Xiosia and Dakkru is about to flare again, and in fact, has already begun. I have actually once renounced Dakkru, and was won over by Xiosia.
"Quite recently, two devout followers of Dakkru came to Hydlaa from afar. They questioned folks about the High Priestess of the Daughters of Xiosia, and they quickly learned of her identity. That is what caught my attention. I allowed my self to become involved, them knowing that I am a Matri of the DOX. Not only did they ask many questions about our High Priestess, they tried to sacrifice me. The ones who tried to sacrifice me left a threatening poem on our door the next day, along with a charmflower.
"And lastly and up to date, they actually did meet the High priestess of DOX and are planning a huge feast with her as host, and I suspect as sacrifice. The last part is deduction. But clearly, they were delighted just to go for my blood and I am only a Matri. We are not sure if we should allow their feast to expose their plans."
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P.3
NEW RESEARCH IN HEALING MAGIC
A local Diaboli woman has been practicing the art of magical healing, and is pioneering some advanced techniques. Sserp Detaicossa of the Amdeneir Gazette recently spoke with Herihi Kerihi about her discoveries.
Herihi: "I have been doing some extensive research into magical healing. There are many around Yliakum who think that there are many things you cannot heal with magic, and I've been doing some research about it and have discovered how effective magic an be for healing. Now the research is still in it's beginning stages. I have learned how to focus healing magics to better heal terrible wounds. But also i have learned how to heal the person as a whole. I also developed a spell that gives the caster specific knowledge about the ailments of the target, and the injuries and illnesses that afflict them, to a very detailed degree."
SD: "Wow. Such a diagnotic spell would be invaluable."
Herihi: "Indeed. And the combination of ways you use is actually very interesting. Everyone thinks that dark way can only be used to hurt or for evil purposes. One of the glyphs used for this spell is ilness which is a dark glyph."
SD: "When you mentioned an 'interesting combination of ways, I wondered if Dark way was involved."
Herihi: "Yes it is."
SD: "Very clever."
Herihi: "I've come across some difficulty in my research now however. Part of the way to use magic to heal is visualizing what the injured body needs to look like to be repaired. So broken bones are not an issue because it's rather easy to picture them solid again, external injuries are the same. But the problem comes in with internal injuries."
SD: "I see, one would need detailed knowledge of anatomy, and for each species."
Herihi: "With every species a little different it takes extensive knowledge of anatomy to be able to picture how things work. What I need are living volunteers so I can see how things work internally while someone is alive. I can keep them alive with magic and heal everything afterwards. But as you can imagine I doubt I would get many who'd be willing to do it, even though I can cast spells so they won't be awake or feel anything. I was thinking of offering a hefty sum for volunteers though. Their choice to allow me to test on them [would be] voluntary."
SD: "It sounds like fascinating research, with great potential, albeit risky."
Herihi: "It has already helped out a few I've healed with the magic. Much better then spending weeks or even months having your body heal itself, but yes, the research is risky indeed."
SD: "Some think that magic is too artificial, and that slow, natural healing gives better results."
Herihi: "Indeed. I find the unwillingness to be healed by magic a little odd. Other then the fact that someone who tries without any knowledge can do more harm then good, of course. I found that out the hard way when I healed someone's injured ribs without putting them in the correct place or visualizing where they needed to go. Wound up making it worse. But the potential for a knowedgable healer is amazing. If someone doesn't want to be healed [with magic] that is their right. But I would much prefer getting healed in a few minutes rather then weeks. And plus without magic certain injuries are permanent. I am not doing this research to force people to see things my way. I am doing it to further our knowledge and make the people's lives better.
SD: "Well, good luck with your continued research! Do you have any final comments?"
Herihi: "I would be ecstatic if anyone would be willing to help me with my research. I'll pay them handsomely for it. I think the hunt for knowledge should be celebrated even when sacrifices might be needed."
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P.4
FIREBREATHING SKELETON ATTACKS TRAVELERS
A terrifying monster has been reported stalking the road leading to the Eagle Bronze Doors fortress. Sserp Detaicossa spoke with Mariana of The Adani Order:
Mariana: "I was attacked by a skeleton."
SD: "A.... skeleton? As in, something already dead?"
Mariana says: "Looked quite dead to me, yup. Breathed fire too."
SD: "I've heard of unded monsters, such as grendols and wrathrats, but not breathing fire."
Mariana: "It was a skeleton. You know, flesh peeled off the bones, picked clean by presumably a bunch of birds, some unfortunate permanantly dead individual -- that kind of thing. I tried to burn the damn thing but that just seemed to make it all that much stronger. It was... interesting."
SD: "How did you finally defeat it? Or escape?"
Mariana: "I lobbed off its head. Then it basically fell into a pile of dust. It had jumped Chessire and tried to pummel her with its fists, bit me in the paw, and stabbed her. With its arm. You have to understand its a bit hazy. I got knocked out... when I came to the thing was attacking Ketta and Sanrai. I tried to melt it... that's when the fire happened. After that, I just... well, I'll admit it, I went batcrazy on it. I didn't know what it was and clearly, I didn't like it. Yes, someone knocked its arm off, and it in turn used it as a weapon... we found the creature on the Bronze Doors road. This thing was not easy to defeat....there were four of us."
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P.5
AD LIBERTATUM DECRIES OCTARCHAL DECREES
As a guild that upholds the ideals of freedom from tyranny and oppression, Ad Libertatum wishes to include this public service announcement:
Who of you, citizens, has read the Octarchal Decrees? They are available for you to read in the Octarchal residence outside of Kada El's, or in Jayose's library.
Study them closely, and you will see that they give the Octarchy and Vigesimis free reign to take away your property and goods, as well as forcing you into military service as they see fit! The Octarchy reserves for itself ultimate ownership of all resources: Your land, water, farms, and homes, even the very ore you dig from the ground with your own hands!
We don't need to put our lives in the hands of the few who hold on to a legacy of power and corruption. The guards they tout as our protection do nothing of the kind! Look at how they let murderers run free!
Ad Libertatum believes there is a better way for the people to govern themselves. Someday there will come a new social order in which everyone is truely free to live in peace, to act according to their own consciences, and to have fair representation of their interests. In the meantime:
Read the Octarchal Decrees;
Recognize what power they hold over you;
Realize that there is a better way.
The future of Yliakum is in your hands.
[End]
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I like this idea. In fact, I'm gonna post about it again, from a different angle:
http://www.hydlaaplaza.com/smf/index.php?topic=40723.msg457093#msg457093
Suggestions for here: Snappier headlines, and consider a tabloid style. Work those quotes - cut wordiness and make them count.
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;D I love it Sserp. Mind if I post it to the ongoing role play thread as well?
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But of course! feel free to cross-post it over there. What's funny is, when I later went back to read my post, I ended up in that other (ongoing), and didn't see my post, and thought "What gives? was it removed? and where'd all this other stuff come from?" ::| :lol:
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Hey Sserp
Great job on the Gazette \\o//
Am glad I finally got to read it. Would be even better if you could reproduce it ingame and either give it or sell it to the citizens of Hydlaa. :thumbup:
And Mariana. I have to agree with Dannae. I couldn't stop reading. In fact I wanted more \\o// Fantastic writing! I'm sure I speak for all who have read your work - more- more-more :thumbup:
Shaz curls her tail around herself in anticipation, and looks forward to it with glee
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He'd always found it entirely shocking, the delusion of some people, regarding those in his unique profession. It seemed that the masses thought that working from the shadows and maintaining a certain level of secrecy was the norm, and that these necessary evils were things meant to stay away from the light of common knowledge. Little did they grasp the workings of their own body, then, if they presumed that such doings were better off left lingering in ignorance. The foolish allowed their master works to remain in the pit, but not him. He understood precisely how the system would respond to panic: to fight or flee, to take up arms or seek refuge elsewhere. The thought processes flipped like a switch from cerebrum to cerebellum and the resulting actions of the target became ever so deliciously savage. For someone who fought with blade and armor, yes, this would be an issue, making the would-be accosted more fit to stand their ground by filling their muscles with bursts of adrenaline. But, for a man of thought, a studier of literature and text, for someone whose power came from the sharpness of his mind, this reaction gave him a foothold leagues above his prey. It was in this fog of natural chemical reaction that he most relished in springing the trap. And what better way to begin the game than by inciting this fantastic response throughout the entire populous? It would grow, and grow, and grow further, fueled from person to person, blossoming into a ravishingly beautiful hysteria that would begin unraveling them long before he delivered a final blow.
The unfortunate part about this methodology was that his first target was usually selected at random. Well, random in his consideration of the term. He didn't necessarily need them for their own personal morals or stigmas. No, he selected the primary victim based upon their fame or, in some cases, even their infamy. Anybody could take out some half-baked simpleton who roamed the streets on a daily basis and had about as much popularity as a rotting log. It was when the known was hindered, or disrupted, that people grew the most frantic. Routine to most is a constant comfort. Being without it is akin to being flung into a void, empty space and left adrift for an undisclosed period of time. Taking out a much-loved or at least well-known object, much less a person, was a devastating blow. What made the entire thing even more perfect was the simplicity of it, the ease of finding this one individual whose demise would spur a healthy panic response. Common gossip, uttered freely from oblivious lips and animated by eager hands, gave away fairly clearly a lengthy list of prospective targets. And from there, based upon varying levels of resistance and mental stability, observed through the facial tics and casual interactions between target and other civilians, Barsidious easily enough made his decision.
Teshia Dastrid. A woman of slightly questionable moral, or so the rumors ran, and a history of infrequent or frequent violence, dependent upon the person speaking. Of course, wasn't that always how the bias worked? One man's Saint is another man's Sinner. Regardless, she would do nicely for the Ylians first homicide, all he had to to was get her alone or near to it, and knock her unconscious. This initial step could tell him many things about how smoothly the next few days would move. If he could simply cast a heavy sleep spell with the use of Azure Way, then the prey would be open to such manipulation without too much trouble. If, however, he had to resort to drugging, well...
He also had other potent options in his arson.
It was after watching some pointless meeting or other, the details of which held no relevance and so he spared no thought towards, that he made his move. Teshia and, if whispers were accurate, her clamod, enki husband sat alone in a rather secluded spot, playing some cute little game of water tag or other, mindless to his presence. First he had to take out the menki of course. The last thing he needed was a draining battle, and judging by the bracers and master staff, a fight with Caraick would have been more taxing and time consuming than he could afford. So, a quick dart to the neck, concealed easily by a convenient sprinkling of water from their boisterous back and forth, and suddenly he was off to la la land. Simple, easy, quick and painless. Perfect.
It was also decidedly perfect that Mrs. Dastrid didn't even notice his presence until he was directly behind her. As such, the force of his sleep spell literally knocked her flat on her face, and for the most comical of moments it appeared as though husband and wife were snuggling with one another. A nice way to remember her, he thought, looking down at the pair for only a moment before bending to collect Teshia gently into his arms. He carried her this way to disperse any suspicion, of course, while be transported her through the alleyways and out towards the desired gateway. Her face hidden in his darkened robes, as much anonymous as he was, this part of the process was just as rapid, and with the general lack of population, it was rendered even more so. He wouldn't don the mask until it was time...it was an interesting trinket to be sure, but the horizontal slits that served to let him see also limited slightly his peripheral vision, and at this point he needed his sight to be clear.
Stepping through the gate and mounting the awaiting drifter, Barsidious held the incoherent woman around her waist and guided the creature towards its predetermined destination. Everything was falling beautifully into place, and soon, very soon, his lessons to the dome level would begin.
-
[Teshia and Mariana co-authored:]
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.
-
Of all the thought processes and deep deliberations, of all of the intricate planning and plotting and scheming, there is nothing quite so helpful to someone seeking something than the unpredictable piece on the chess board not totally within the player's control.
Dumb luck.
And while Evirea was personally loathe to be constrained to utilize such a force, as it was typically too good to be true and came with certain hidden agendas, here it was, taking place right in front of her. Well, right below her, where she perched between wall and building, her wings splayed outwards to help her keep her balance. She had been taking part in the tricky maneuvering that involves being close enough to a conversation to hear, yet far away enough that those damned enkidukai muzzles didn't pick up on her scent. She'd just been getting close enough to catch faint murmurings coming from the group when they suddenly split up, dispersed, and left the Dastrid duo sitting together, alone.
Watching this is about as interesting as letting a potion steep, the klyra thought. As she observed further, and watched them begin playing some obscene game of water-tag, she felt bile rise in her throat. Oh, joy. As fascinating as watching them make goo goo eyes at each other is, perhaps I should simply take my leave.
She had been preparing to do just that: gathering her journal full of alchemical combinations and sliding her travelsack across her shoulders, when the menki suddenly seemed to fall asleep. A curious reaction to be sure, considering the fact that with their recent activities his system probably would have been shifted more to the sympathetic than the parasympathetic mechanism, meaning that more blood would have been pumped through his arteries, and more awareness would have been a result. Of course, it had simply been a harmless leisure sport with his wife, so it was distinctly possible that he'd simply grow bored. Could just have an incredibly short attention span. I wouldn't find that shocking.
The sight of the figure, cloaked entirely and shrouded in anonymity, made her heart race. A considerable reaction from her, who was as usual a controlled and logical being. Thought before passion, always, and never let the one overcome the other. She made no move to cry out and warn the Ylian woman, and had no intention of doing so. In fact, watching the faceless being take her down only filled her with more eagerness, as his actions began to answer potential unanswered questions. Her tongue ran along her pointed teeth and she squinted to watch better, silent as a shadow, pressed against the wall like a dispassionate gargoyle. It was not until Teshia had been abducted and the figure moved far out of sight, and then a few minutes after to ensure they were truly gone, that Evirea glided down towards the snoozing Caraick and landed nimbly beside him. She didn't know the strength of whatever he'd been given, but she had a clue as to its method of entry, and she smoothed her hands over the grass in a searching manner, careful to make as little sound as possible so as not to alert her presence. She was thankful now for the seclusion of the area, and she praised whatever deity might haughtily take credit for these events when her fingers curled around a small, tipped dart.
Bringing the thing closer to her face, she first examined its scent, breathed it in deeply and let her brain make connections. Potent, sharp. Non-lethal. To check this, she glanced once more towards the napping menki, who was still snoring quite loudly, with his tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth. Right, definitely non-lethal. Induces sleep within oh, ten minutes or so after its administration. Subtle.
A list of ideas sprang into her head even as she flicked her tongue out, giving the drug an experimental taste, rolling it around with the saliva in her mouth. She instantly turned her head and spat it out, nose wrinkling at the overwhelming bitterness. The list narrowed itself down at this new revelation, until she finally came to one in thing that the compound likely was.
Kirium. Common plant found around the base of stones, thrives mainly in moving water. Rivers, waterfalls, potential locations. Stagnant pools, out of the question. The river between Ojaveda and Hydlaa is inhabited by too many gobbles who could interfere with killer's actions. The waterfall at the Bronze Doors, a distinct possibility. Highest probability. Structures for shelter against elements, labyrinthine passageways available for hiding...
Evirea tossed the dart to the side, her mind a blur, still going over her next course of action even as she slipped a change of clothes out of her bag. She donned them right over her tunic and trousers, concealing herself completely, wrapping her wings tightly around her torso and then wrapping those, too, with a great amount of fabric. She slipped a hood over her face, the strip in front of her eyes marked by a film that was opaque from the outside, but allowed her to view the world without effort from the inside. Transformation complete, the klyros took approximately thirty two seconds to look down at Caraick and consider reviving him, before disregarding the notion entirely and taking off to leave him slumbering where he lay.
By studying his previous victims and tracking the amount of time it usually took for the corpses to surface, she knew her time was limited, but that there was a small lax window of opportunity that spanned approximately a day and a half, two at best. The killer would not do his victim in without some sort of nefarious foreplay; probably something like watching a bird pluck the legs off of a spider before devouring the thrashing creature whole. The idea of the Ylian woman falling prey to this process did not bother her in the slightest, however, she was motivated to rescue her at the opportune time. She needed more information on how the killer worked, what his motives were, why he took the strenuous actions that he did.
She needed to get inside his head.
And with that acknowledgment, Evirea swung her leg into the stirrup of her Rivnak's saddle and spurned the thing to a full gallop, her direction clear, aiming for hopefully the same direction the killer had taken, laden with his catch. She honestly had no idea what she would find there, but she had already decided that the actual fortress would be off limits as a place of refuge for his plans, and so planned to scan the area around it closely and with extreme caution. Still uninformed precisely of the culprit's abilities, she hardly wanted to risk her own neck for that of a stranger. That, of course, did not change the fact that she needed the Dastrid woman alive, for questioning, and that meant getting to her before that damned butcher managed to do her in.
-
There was something almost euphoric about holding a life in your hands. Something that nearly rendered him to state of exultant delirium, standing there, staring at where Teshia lay on the other side of the cage. Unconscious, awaiting his final say, his final word on how events were about to transpire. She was the one trapped, both physically and, soon enough, within the confines her own mind. He could feel the shaking beginning in his fingers, a nervous tic he'd never been able to get rid of, and he managed to conceal it expertly beneath the forgiving, long sleeves of his robes.
His excitement was only heightened when her vulnerability became more apparent. When he delved into her mind, confident in his position to turn the entirety of his focus to his task, he found it both defenseless and compliant. Soon she was dancing along with him, picking up the emotions he threw at her easily as picking up the beat of a catchy tune. They could have been dancing together, unanimously, whirling round and round the room in a morbid sort of waltz. The pounding of his frantic heart was deafening to him—or perhaps it was her heart, he wasn't entirely sure. It was the drumbeat that held the entire chaotic symphony together, all waiting eagerly for the final note of the song to fill the air in an achingly beautiful chord.
A note he was fully determined to deliver, and as his illusion played itself out, he was more and more assured that everything was going precisely according to plan. Once this woman was dead and her body planted in the plaza for all to gawk at, he would begin selecting more targets, ones that he himself would observe and decide upon simply for their specific characteristics. That was half of the joy, of course. Learning enough about the person to actually know them, better than anyone, better than they knew themselves. It made the entire operation run far more smoothly, and he had conquered it now as a well-oiled machine, with practiced art and tact. Such a simple thing, to offer a shoulder to someone, and quickly garner a lifetime of defining moments and memories. This strange notion that wicked things of ill intent had to look outwardly wicked, well, that in itself was simply absurd. Have they never heard of the kaleidoscopic tropical plants, dazzling in their array of colors, that if eaten, cause the lining of the esophagus and trachea to swell so tightly that breathing is made impossible? Have they never seen the motions of a flying falcon, spreading gold-fringed wings and then collapsing them inward to tangle its prey between pointed talons to be disemboweled?
They find it comforting, he realized, as he carefully counted the chemicals available to him upon his little dilapidated table. They want it to look hideous, to be disgusting and displeasing to the eye. They want what is inside, to reflect outside, so that they can better tell light from dark. A chuckle reverberated in his chest, and his fingers curled into fists as he continued to direct the disturbing waking-dream in Teshia's head. They want it to be unlike themselves. Want to live with their petty squabbles and lies and deceit, and to believe that comparatively their filth is far below that of others. A constant comparison, issuing condemnation from a collective guilty conscience! And yet they are shocked when something truly evil can be spawned from an unassuming and inconspicuous host!
His hand moved up to trace the ragged wooden mask affixed to his face, wondering at the irony of his internal diatribe. He could still see through the haze of his powerful magic, though most of his thoughts were directed on keeping the haze functional, and his eyes traced the slits cut harshly upon the surface that gave him sight. His breathing was issuing forth forcibly, creaking through this artificial maw, through a narrow gap almost as miniscule as his eyes. Patterns from the bark of the tree he'd torn the piece from were present; whorls and knots and random fissures. A fitting disguise, almost a last comfort to those looking upon it, those about to feel his righteous wrath. As if he was saying, yes, that's right, I am that thing from your nightmares, just the same. No trickery. You can truly see what it is now, that thing that's been breathing down your neck and making your skin prickle. No more hiding. No more lies.
She was coming to the end of her story now, the end of her dream. He could feel the waves of her remorse and sorrow washing over him in a powerful tide. She was full of it, but especially full of guilt, which poured out of unknown crevices not even he had predicted, as if such a situation had been presented to her many times before and she had fought again and again to deny its truth. The sensation of a tear trickling down his cheek, moving into his trimmed beard and parting the hairs, alerted him to how gravely it affected him. But then, it always did, when it came to this point. She was realizing, and he was reliving the time when he had come face to face with the vileness of his own soul, and the liberation that followed. And now he would present her with the same choice he gave all, the same fatal choice, and see about the decision she would make.
Watching the droplets of poison slide slickly along the blade, Barsidious gently laid it on the ground and gave it the slightest of shoves, watching it skitter across the small space between them, closing it, moving closer to its target. He watched her fingers twitch towards it, find it, wrap eagerly around the offered hilt and...
The guard at the door suddenly dropped to his knees, then to the floor, his body seeming to make the entire shack quake. So caught in the illusion was he that at first he was presented with mere shadows: the walls of the cabin merged with trees, as if the wood were attempting to return to its original state once more. A green canopy at peace with the rain-ravaged planks above his head. Dense foliage mingled with hardened, much traversed earth. As such, he did not realize entirely what was happening until he felt the burning upon his flesh, searing fabric to skin, a pain so sharp and distinct that his only possible reaction was to let out an agonized scream. A blow to his stomach, to his neck, and that one nearly did him in then and there, sent him witless to the floor. Fortunately the dealer of the blows obviously didn't have much substance to them, and he latched onto that opportunity, throwing himself upon them and listening to the woosh as the action knocked the breath from their lungs. They landed in a tussle of robes and scratching nails, until finally he shoved off of the dark figure and took off, trapped in an nearly incoherent fog that rendered his world a random scape of fuzzy shapes. It happened too quickly for his mind to recover from the magic he'd been recently using, which was taxing and draining even on the most malleable of recipients.
Encouraged by the fact that he heard nothing behind him, no footsteps and no heavy breathing, the crazed Ylian hobbled his way out into the fresh air and away from the building. Need to recollect. Think. Rest and recuperate. Later. Later, finish what I started. He lunged into the tunnels that were inhabited by Valnishi and all assortment of cutthroats, not particularly worried about either. His mind was only on the chase, about what had just occurred, and as it cleared he found a smile growing firmly across his lips. Stopping beside one of the walls, ignoring the dirt that rained down upon his head, he began to laugh softly, then louder, growing to a nearly hysterical pitch as he realized exactly what had happened. The acidic burns covering his arm, bicep to wrist, confirmed his suspicion further. She finally managed to stop me, he thought, and the concept was refreshing. Oh, she finally figured out how to play this game!
Clearing his throat, he grinned impishly into the darkness, pearly teeth set against his lower lip as if his internal joy might actually cause him to explode. “You win this round, Evirea,” he said. “You win this round.”
But now the chase truly begins.
-
Evirea sat squatted against the outer wall, trying desperately to glean anything useful from the sparse conversation going on inside. Her fingers curled around different vials tucked safely away in her bags. She counted them, sorted them, having memorized their locations to the last and knowing where each lay within the leathery folds. But she did nothing as she heard the captive woman begin to say strange things, murmurings that were both petrified and delirious in origin. Wanting to get as much out of this encounter as she possibly could, and still needing verification that this masked figure was the one she sought, she merely leaned her head against the lower portion of the open window and waited in absolute silence.
More rambling. Endless rambling on the woman's part, that Dastrid. Can't remember what her first name was, really, come to think of it. Something with a T. Subject fairly silent, except...is he, giggling? Surely not. Unless he's suffering from a distinct form of mania. I suppose that actually wouldn't be entirely shocking...
She risked a peek, a quick bobbing of her head over the windowsill so that she could glimpse the setup of the interior through her peripheral. There was a guard standing at the door, back turned to her. The evident bulge of weapons concealed beneath his trousers, his face concealed. Muscle marked his arms and was quite prominent, making it obvious that he was an experienced fighter. Element of surprise. Drug, dart potentially. Avoid hand-to-hand encounter at all costs. First, debilitating blow to the throat. Approximate thirty seconds for recovery. Place dart directly beneath chin, caudal, give barb access to carotid artery to encourage quicker traveling of contaminant through blood stream.
Thus having deduced her angle for taking care of the rogue, she turned her mind towards disposing of the robed individual. His back was to her, yet she could see the hint of a mask present, as he turned his head just so. A craggy thing, but bothersome as it served the purpose of hiding his identity. A hood was fastened over it, just connecting in a juncture between the eerie oaken visage and his hair, concealing that too. Not even his hands were visible, and she could only make out that he was some sort of “human” being. Dermorian, Ylian, Nolthrir or Lemur. Quite a wide array of options, and not exactly encouraging. His voice was rarely used. Mutterings about killing, something regarding closer, feel the fear. Look at what you are doing, what you have done! Yes, yes, slice through the flesh, kill the beast, before it devours you and...
Evirea's eyes widened as she noted the faint blue light flickering amidst the man's gloved fingertips. Every god and goddess be damned. He's using Azure Way.
She had no practical defense against Azure Way. She knew the ins and outs, the mechanics behind it, the capacity of the spells. But she herself had never actually taken up the practice of any magic, not because she felt it was necessarily wrong to do so, but because it had never seemed prudent to her work. Regretting that decision now, she began to filter through her options. Her mind, sharp as it was, could only hold up to a barrage of illusion for so long. Logic could only carry her so far, and she had no idea what particular elements the man was implementing into his phantom, artificial dreams. They could very well be something she was highly susceptible to.
But whatever he is performing is taking up all of his attention. And if he can so dutifully and completely wrap that woman up in that illusion, that means that he's a very powerful mage. Possibly a master. Mental manipulation of that level takes energy, however, and will likely overshadow his thoughts just as much as hers. He himself must be guiding her through the entire ordeal, trapped inside her own mind. Linking her to himself. If that is true, I might be able to take him out before he has time to turn the brunt of his ability to me.
The thought that this man might not even be her killer was also what gave her pause. There was no reason to save the woman at all if it meant that this was just some...elaborate squabble between two petty people. Might not even have intent to kill, she acknowledged. Could be bad blood, a little revenge, little payback.
And really, what right did she have to interfere, if that were the case? She didn't have time for that. She had a crazed serial killer to find, and this excursion, headed by someone who for all she knew was nothing more than an overly irrational ignoramus with pathetic ideals of revenge...
The mans hand twitched, and an all too familiar knife slid out, dripping with a venom whose purposes were all too clear. At the same time, she witnessed the woman begin clawing around on the ground, weeping bitterly and wailing her husband's name. It was entirely a puzzling situation altogether. She must be truly obsessed if she was still thinking about the clamod even now. That or the man was just sick, and had used the much-loved image of her husband to reduce her to this despairing creature, gnashing her teeth and scratching her cheeks in desperation.
Her trembling fingers were moving unerringly for the hilt of that blade, closer and closer, and closer still, only inches away from claiming it.
Move.
Body springing, using the advantage of weighing next to nothing, she shoved off the wall after planting her feet against it and catapulted herself towards the rogue. The room was small, and the maneuver rendered possible by this gracious fact. The throat, and her hand followed the order, smashing into it just as her wrist flicked and the dart embedded itself. She turned before he even finished falling, and went for the killer, who was still trying to recover from the tangled effects of his spell. Make him hurt, use resulting shock. Tearing open a compartment in her bag, she smashed the contents of the exposed bottle – a highly concentrated chemical compound that would burn through the skin with an agonizing speed – on his arm. He shrieked, screamed, a gurgled sound that hinted at both shock and rage, both disorienting emotions she could utilize to bring the man down. Hand flashing again, she made a blow to his abdomen, causing him to crouch over and add force to an additional blow to his trachea. Unfortunately, adrenaline was on his side now, his sympathetic system was in full force, and he withstood the assault by keeping consciousness. He bowled into her, and they both tumbled to the ground, his superior weight gaining the advantage and knocking the breath right out of her lungs. There was a brief fighting, one that in the general confusion was mostly unfruitful for both sides, and he tore out of the building.
Every instinct told her to give chase. He was injured, he was confused, and he was vulnerable. Her feet had nearly cleared the threshold in pursuit when her eyes locked on the form of Teshia, just in time to see her draw the blade across her wrist.
Logic dictated that she should let her die.
Logic dictated that she go after the killer, and stop his body count then and there.
Logic dictated that she let well enough alone, and let the ylian face her own fate, since she couldn't draw herself out of the stopped illusion in time to save her own damnable neck.
Logic, for once in Evirea's rather long and impressive career, didn't win out. She whirled, splashed a powerful corrosive on the bars and kicked them through. She applied the agent to the small wound on Teshia's flesh, drawing out the poison before it could begin tearing her apart from the inside out. And she dragged her out to her Rivnak, looking around and knowing that her target had long since found solace and sanctuary in some place it would take hours to discover, even if she knew where to look. By the time she was able to find him, he would be recovered, and would rip through her mind like so much tattered tissue paper.
She told herself that was the reason she jumped up onto her beast of burden and made the long trek to deliver the Dastrid to a save haven. It was not a breach in her careful track record of keeping firm control over her emotions, and doing what was necessary. She was simply avoiding going into a fight without being fully prepared to withstand attacks initiated upon her person. All lies, of course, but perhaps they would help her get to sleep that night.
The truth was that seeing Teshia's flesh torn open by that blade had sent her memory to flaring, back to an incident that she'd thought she had long since buried beneath layers of dispassion and mediated self-refinement.
Their skin and stomachs torn open. Piled one on top of the other, all dead, all bright white eyes looking skyward, the corners tinged red with blood that trickled out of noses and mouths. Chests laid bare, bones broken, bruises discoloring scaly skin evidencing the brutality that preordained their death. Blood, blood, blood, and more of the stuff, flowing out and staining the rich green carpet a sickening red. Other fluids let unnaturally free to mingle down, traveling towards her to include her in the chaos, staining her feet, tainting her claws, filling the cracks decay and filth and grim and gore and dirty disgusting...
The image was easily shredded with a single thought. A command towards reason, impossible to deny. She breathed in and out, counting the beating of her heart, checking behind her to look at the silent woman who sat without saying a word, her gaze downcast. Think in steps, and muddle through. Keep your actions and emotions in check, lest they take over and threaten sanity.
One: Drop off the Dastrid
Two: Assure antidote was successful
Three: Initiate another round of chasing that bastard down
Nodding her head firmly, she clicked her tongue, and coaxed her Rivnak to running.
-
Finally, something had gone entirely right. Smooth as butter, as some would say, spread across so much warm and toasted bread. Pathetic that the first body had caused so little stir. It was possible that was because it belonged to a person not of this level. As stated, disruption of the norm was difficult, but at the same time it was proving rather hard to kidnap another steady and stalwart figure without invoking full-blown societal wrath. And while he may have been a man with considerable talent to stave off the suffocating tide of mass justice, there was only so much he could do on his own.
So he had opted for going in between. Had stolen the lovely yet unsuspecting bard right as she practiced her tune in the streets. From what he could figure, she'd been present for a few weeks in the city at least, enough to make friends, gifted with a personality nearly as inviting and amiable as the music her fingers produced upon that well-worn little lute. Her lungs had had approximately a second to release a startled squeak before he pressed the liquid-laden cloth against her muzzle. This, of course, led to a sharp influx of air on her part in, which carried the powerful relaxant nicely through her system. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she peered at his masked face, limbs limp, unable to make a sound in her near comatose state. The fear was only translated by the rapid contraction of her pupils and the quivering of her crooked whiskers, bent by the pressure of his hand.
Surrounded by wavering green lights and the nearly tangible panic he'd already invoked in the woman, it had been a simple matter to invade her mind. Not quite as malleable as that Teshia woman, but, well, beggars could hardly be choosers. The stench of rot and wreak of rats was also helpful, though often it made even his eyes water and he eventually reached up and covered his mouth and nose with a cloth beneath the mask. In no time the bard, whose name was irrelevant to his purpose...an A, something? Was reaching out towards the venomous dagger and plunging it harshly into her stomach. The illusion fell away, she found herself knee-deep in sewage, and her eyes fell upon his figure looming in front of her just as the light left them. Blood tricked past her pointed teeth and stained a path down the striped whiteness of her fur, and her paws released the weapon she'd just killed herself with, leaving it stuck inside her gut. She struggled to get out a question, a final query, knowing that her time was up. Perhaps not permanently, though she'd figure that out soon enough. The single word was indecipherable primarily, taken over by the gurgling of bodily fluids rushing into her throat at the ravaged condition of her intestines. It made it's way out with the accompaniment of more scarlet liquid, spat upon the ground just before her face met the muck below:
“Why?”
With that, her blood and bile quickly mixed with the feces and urine around her, soaking into her clothing, her fur. The final representation of the truth about her condition rising to the surface, and making itself glaringly known.
His fingers moved of their own accord, used to these motions by now. He plucked up the body, unmindful of the stench and squalor, and brought her over to a table. This time he would make sure he got the point across. He would not take pains in leaving it even partially concealed, oh no. This time, they would be forced to look upon this Truth, with their naked eye, right beneath the statue of Laanx to boot. He would strap her corpse to the balustrade. But first—unfortunate, since such brutality was not typically his methodology—he would have to raise the stakes.
Barsidious grabbed the deceased woman's arm and, using leverage against the table and the full brunt of his weight, snapped through her radius clean. Her forearm swelled, her recent death allowing some sort of reaction that to anyone else would indicate that it was done before her demise. He repeated the process so that the ulna, too, was split, leaving it hanging only by the flesh and letting the edema of the busted vessels fill up the newly vacated spaces. Feeling this perhaps was not quite enough to get his point across, he moved around the table and repeated the process with her ankle, making sure that the awkward angle it sat at made its condition rather obvious.
If they cannot be coaxed to fear death, perhaps they can be convinced to fear a little pain.
Finished with his ministrations, the Ylian picked up the dead kore and his supplies, stuffing them into a large burlap sack, lined to keep her blood from spilling so that he could be at least...somewhat subtle. Then again, dead as it was at this time, even on the plaza, there should not be any issue. With a grunt, he hefted his heavy burden and descended into the sewers, using a subtle path to find his way up to the surface.
-
There had been another killing. Granted, all she had learned about it was hearsay, since she'd arrived apparently moments after the ritual disintegration of the corpse. And of corpse, some idiotic delinquent had taken it upon themselves to liberate the oh-so-necessary murder weapon from the crime scene, which was tantamount to ripping the foundation out from beneath a building.
Without that residual sample of poison I can't possibly figure out where to look next for the killer, she thought, pacing back and forth on some hill outside the city. She couldn't take the throng of people, bustling and talking and bumping into one another, constantly spreading their own bodily odor. Too many sights and smells and convoluted voices. And the irrelevant conversations and chattering was possibly the worst part, half-whispered murmurings of the most recent “juicy” gossip that drove her batty with its persistent stupidity. Much better listening to the distant chirruping of crickets, or the even more detached rustling of wild beasts exploring the brush with clumsy, lumbering limbs.
Pausing for a moment, she let her thoughts ram into a wall and come to an abrupt halt. Folding her legs, she sunk to the grassy ground beneath her and breathed deeply, her hands finding their way to clamp down on her knees. She inhaled the crisp, wintry air and exhaled the tension from her wound up muscles and scrambling mind. Nothing about this entire endeavor was going as it should have. To numerous people, the Dastrid included, her true identity—or at least the “identity” she professed to be true—had been revealed. One layer peeled back. She only had one more below that, one that had never actually been torn asunder, but still. Typically the primary role of clueless bystander was never compromised, so it was certainly cause for some concern. She had even gone so far as to accept help from one of them; a Travosh, a klyros she knew little to nothing about, with a tendency to be as cryptic as the most complicated and infuriating of alchemical formulas.
She was certain he wasn't the killer, of course, or she wouldn't have let him within ten feet of her. But that hardly meant she trusted him. She trusted nobody. A paranoid statement for sure, yet strenuously maintained caution was what had kept her throat from being slit many many times before. Her instincts told her to be wary, and she followed them religiously, as they'd never led her astray before. She'd accept his help for this endeavor only because he'd proven useful and slightly more tolerable than the masses, but once this ordeal was over she'd make every attempt to ditch him. It shouldn't prove too difficult. He was comparatively as aloof as she was, and would most likely make no effort beyond the initial offer to help track down the killer.
Icerra and Lazarene.
Evirea leaned back and exhaled again, her hand moving over to grip her shoulder. Already she'd tried to track down the pair that had allegedly stolen the dagger from atop the desiccated corpse. As par to her recent run of luck, they turned out to be of the less than sane variety. The kore had killed herself just to get away from their encounter and keep hold of the dagger, and the clamod was one she'd encountered already once before. She was unsound of mind entirely, unable to think with a pattern above that of a common child, and consequently she could consider her as little more than that. A child.
And I was never particularly good with children. They can be so whiny and demanding, and you're always snatching them out of danger. It does no good to further torment the fenki. Best leave her to her own devices. Though from what I understand she was not always so addled. I'm sure the issue is mainly chemical, as most things are in the body. If the small deviation could somehow be corrected I'm certain I could somehow manage to rectify whatever happened and return her to her former level of intellect...
The klyros shook her head and forced her thoughts back onto a more productive track, though she knew it was basically a dead end. Her accomplice had somehow gone down to the death realm to try and deal with Icerra, left her here to wait for him, which only twisted her gut further. A bit of the twisting was guilt, to be sure, as the ordeal was taxing so far as she understood, but also because it left a gap in her knowledge of how it was all unfolding, and that was a twisting thorn in the bottom of her foot.
And then of course there is that Teshia woman, the Dastrid, the presumptuous one that nearly put a damper on the entire operation. Anger made her heart clench, and she soothed herself by running her fingers along the length of her head-fin, breathing out again with slow deliberation. Popped up while we were trying to reclaim the dagger. The little harlot actually thought she could evaluate me. Me, of all people! Hah! She's not spoken more than a single conversation, and yet she professes to have a firm grasp of who I am?!
Evirea looked down at her hands and picked idly at some of the dried, cracking flesh there, still healing from the acid burns she'd given herself from the last encounter with Barsidious. The encounter that had saved the Ylians life, not that she'd actually bothered to offer a thank you. Oh no, rather, she'd decided her thanks would be carried on a snowball chucked at her back and the words “keep your eyes on what is important,” or some cryptic equivalent. Whatever the death realm that meant.
I'm currently chasing a killer that leaves his victims gone from this realm for all eternity, cutting lives abruptly short, and whose death toll is thirteen. One that might be even higher than that, if my estimations and research missed something. I should think that is the most important piece of this entire puzzle, to the abyss with everything else. If my personality is too callous for the fragile little flower then she would do best to simply remain out of my work.
Her lips worked themselves into a tight line as she stood up, deciding she should be checking around to see if her assistant had yet resurfaced with the obnoxious, meddling fenki. She turned herself towards the path leading towards the gate and moved towards it, her steps quick and assured. As she moved, she made a promise to herself regarding the self-righteous woman.
And if you don't stay out of my business, Dastrid, I swear I'll drug your arse so badly you'll be a babbling mass for the remainder of my time in this blasted city. People will be talking about your drug addict issues for weeks after, and you'll likely never even figure out precisely what happened.
The comedic images this promise produced brought a faint smile to Evirea's lips.
-
She was to be his finale. His glorious conclusion to what had been an egregious culmination of thought and work and time. His time, spent mulling about in city after city, going everywhere from the higher ups to the lowest of lows. He'd romped through elaborately decorated halls marked by the most precious of stones, mingled with the grossly arrogant proprietors, the wealthy. And he'd spent countless days cloaked in squalor, adorned in nothing but tattered rags, caked in half-dried clay from the ground on which he slept. The best disguises were of the very nature, rather than appearance. All that was needed was the appropriate application of altered personality, and he could flip from aristocrat to beggar with a snap of his fingers. An illusion that could fool those around him better than any spell he could ever hope to conjure.
His victims were diverse, of course. There was no reason to keep his lessons contained by petty differences like race or religion. So he'd culled the lot, and selected the finest from every region of the social globe. Only a few more lucky recipients now, before he reached his last act, his beautiful and harmonious swan song.
It was brilliant. Part of it was guilty pleasure of course, he'd first learned of her quite by accident, overhearing tidbits of gossip and reading a simple article relating scant and vague details of her deliciously tragic story. But the other part of it was the uproar it was bound to cause. When they found out that the hunter, the valorous hero that might have brought this enigma of nightmares to its knees had actually been a mere fish upon its line the entire time...devastation. Total. Absolute. Resplendent.
Oh and she was perfect. In every sense of the word, she would be both vulnerable and resistant to him. Her steady logic and deadened emotions would make her strong in the face of his affliction, yet her history would be the ultimate crack in her foundation, the thing that would send her sniveling to the floor in a puddle of sorrow and despair.
His hands took on a tremor as they moved over the various piles of data he'd collected about her. The fact that she'd been raised in brilliance, that her parents had invoked from the very beginning a love of knowledge and learning. That she'd excelled in her schooling, and had enlisted to be a part of the guard, showing a prodigal-like promise that had mentor and caretaker alike crowing in excitement. That she'd been assigned to track down a well-known killer, one dubbed the butcher, some villain that maimed his victims by severing and cauterizing their limbs, before delivering a final blow by injecting a rather sloppy potion that severed their souls eternally. If he were to be asked about it, Barsidious would probably confess his disapproval if such actions. Such a pathetically meaningless killing. And so grotesque. He administered some desecration postmortem to make a point, certainly, but his operations always served a purpose. He had a plan, he was not some manic madman that slaughtered at random and left a glaring trail in his wake.
Eyes moving to his favorite of all the tiny periodicals he'd gathered, he pulled it towards him, marveling at the details the artist had rendered in drawing Evirea's heartsick face. Beneath the portrait were words, scrawling words etched by some scribe or other, telling the sad, sad tale of his precious klyros:
Due to her involvement in a yet to be disclosed operation, investigator Pomolle's home was recently invaded by the infamous Barn Level Butcher. Thankfully, Ms. Pomolle was not home, but her parents, the famous alchemist Omia Pomolle and the noted scholar and author Inar Pomolle, happened to be present during the transpiring events. It's been confirmed that both were killed by the Butcher, and that Detective Pomolle has asked for a leave of absence to collect herself after said events...
There was a mention later in the article, something about having found the killer dead and mutilated and planted for all the world to see. Few knew the association between the two, though certainly some had suspected. But he knew. He knew her dirty little secret, about what she had done, and it hadn't taken terribly long for her employers to figure it out as well. What was it her file had read? That her actions after her return to work had been erratic and...obsessive? She had gone after her assignments with a renewed fervor that at first seemed excellent, but as time went on, revealed a tattered and battered psyche. She'd become an addict, compelled to capture the criminals she was charged to as a sort of amorphous salvation for her failure to protect her family.
She blames herself for what happened! He mused, a childlike giggle creeping past his lips. He was giddy with the idea of it. How perfect it all was. His fingers danced over the letters of another piece of writing, one elaborating upon her honorable discharge from the service, on the grounds of instability. Oh, the irony of it. She was so fragile, ready to be cracked open, wrapped in a guise. One that, when removed, would reveal nothing but a broken girl, and even with all of her gumption and reasoning she would be completely unable to hide this Truth. The Truth about what she was. It would be, truly, the most satisfying kill he would ever make, and just thinking of it filled him with an eagerness he could hardly contain.
Not yet, he reminded himself, forcing, as always, a careful and constant control. He still hadn't invoked the panic he wanted. Hadn't stirred the masses to where he wanted them to be. No, more were required. Someone else. Someone whose capacity for mingling had already marked them as beloved, someone who would be well missed. Before he could get to his prize, he had to lay out the trap just right. He had to finish reeling in the carp and the bottom feeders until he was ready to pull in the shimmering swordfish.
Ah, but the next corpse would have a memento. A gift, straight from him. No, he could not physically take her yet, but he would at least give her the benefit of knowing her most ardent attentions had not gone unnoticed. Chuckling to himself, he dipped a quill into a jar of readied ink, saturating the small space inside, and let the crimson liquid flow out onto a pristine, white piece of parchment. His handwriting was morphed, still legible of course. He was not foolish enough to even leave that miniscule of a clue. Writing could be tracked. Even the very letters he was now creating had to take on a disguise of their own, a mask just as solid and real as the one that now sat upon his face.
Intelligent and quick you are
To have followed me this far
But soon our merry chase shall end
So unto you, a hand I'll lend
A benefit upon the doubt
Due to your dedication stout
Though it may come as quite a shock
I'll spare the chance to simply mock
A face that you have never seen,
And from this message you shall glean
The Truth and matter of the facts
Despite your smart and careful acts
You've not a clue, upon the whole,
Ah, but I know you...
Evirea Pomolle.
He set the pen down and took a long moment to imagine her face. The way it would break it's composure, if only for one, single, memorable moment. How her heartbeat would race, how she would quickly begin formulating new concepts and theories and ideas, seeking a solution. For soon she would see who here was truly in control. She was leagues away, floundering about in open sea, and the boat was drawing ever nearer, harpoons at the ready.
-
This situation is becoming increasingly aggravating.
Her fingers were already burning something horrid, as she didn't have a proper lab to work with and the careful administration this particular process required could not be done with clumsy, clunky tongs. The liquid required to separate the blood from the poison that had been lethally pumped through it was...less than pleasant, and a hissing issued through her clenched teeth as it managed to move down through the cracks of her already chemical-ravaged skin. This could all have been avoided if she'd simply been able to get her hands on that dagger, but no. First it had been the annoying kore with an unstable obsession for all things necrotic and dead, and now it was some meddling menki who'd tried to barter the weapon as a means to get “in” on the action. Literally, he'd had the nerve to approach her and make demands for knowledge about the goings on of her case, and stated that only then he would give her the knife she needed to make her affirmations.
Got the better of you though, eh Sacho? She thought as she tucked her injured hands painfully against herself, not touching her tunic. If she did it would unravel the fabric like fire melting ice, easy and smooth. She'd learned long ago that trying to wash it off was useless and only further intensified the pain of it, so instead she only waited for it to subside, eyes squinted in agony, and attempted to distract herself by watching as the blood was drawn out of the trace sample she'd managed to collect. Thankfully she only needed to ensure that one of the ingredients was in fact extract from a dark mushroom plant; now that her appendages had been rendered so excruciatingly tattered it would be a few days before she could actually carry out the more intricate work. She smirked to herself as she observed the desired change in color, giving a dip of her head, experiencing momentary relief at her success before she leaned back against the cold stone wall behind her and closed her eyes.
It was as though multiple needles were being stuck beneath her skin, heated to a ripe old degree prior to the morbid acupuncture. Her face twitched and she hissed again, a faint screeching rattling her throat, which only made her thankful that she'd finished her other work prior to running this experiment. What was it the nolthrir had asked for? A cure for sickness, that's right. Well, she'd delivered a treatment at least, nobody could say she hadn't tried.
And why do you care anyway, hey Evi? It's not your problem. You've got plenty on your plate, besides coming up with balms and poultices to heal the sick. You're just a sucker because her family was in danger, and it hit too close to home.
Jerking her head to the side, she shoved her heels into the gravel beneath her and braced herself against the wall as another sensation briefly scattered her thoughts. The first few layers of her epidermis, right down to specific regions of her dermis, would slough off quickly enough, but such a rapid sloughing didn't come with all to pleasant a sensation. The discoloration left on her skin and scales would take months to actually disappear, which was why this alternative was considerably less ideal than simply using a more concentrated sample. Unfortunately that thrice-condemned menki had spoiled it all, and she had not the time to argue with the ignoramus. She needed to find her killer, and then get the death realm off of this level.
The people here are either of three categories: deluded into a belief of their own self-created omnipotence, so crystal-blessed and happy go lucky they don't know negative if it slaps them in the face, or so wrapped up in their damnable secrets its like pulling teeth to get anything out of them. In a listed order she could even spell them out one by one, the pinheads that she believed officially designated the standards one needed to meet in order to fall into any particular category. Sacho, Dannae, Travosh...
She was just about to dip into defining several different sub categories and combinations of these anthologized groupings when her hands suddenly gave off the impression that they were being torn off. Slow baked might even be a more accurate description, though she personally had never had the experience of sticking her hand straight into the heart of a fire and letting it burn every article right off of the bone. Nevertheless, she imagined it would be a very similar scenario as a whole. Glad she'd selected a secluded location in which to carry this out, she slammed her head back against the moss-riddled stone and screamed into her clenched teeth, producing a half-muffled and strangled noise that might have attracted attention if she hadn't taken great pains to make it quieter. She really just wanted to let out a blood-curdling howl, but this wasn't the first time she'd had to live with the effects of this potion, and she wasn't about to be a sissy now.
Bloody bleeping trepor's bleeping for all that is holy bleeping death to Laanx, Dakkru, Xiosia, Talad and whoever else I forgot!
Sagging over to the side, for a few good minutes all she was aware of were blurry shapes and images. She blinked her eyes to reacquire some semblance of focus and looked down to where a warm sensation was creeping through the newly rendered cracks between her dark blue scales. Her blood was seeping out in tiny rivulets, and the flesh on her palms was stained a bruised and abused violet. Shreds of dead skin lay idly and innocently in her lap, and she stood up stiffly to let them fall to the floor, unwilling to do much of anything with her hands for the moment. Shaking each leg to relieve her trousers of the rather gruesome reminder, she stepped forward and pressed her forehead to the wall, her arms limp at her sides. For one paralyzing, petrifying moment, thoughts of failure assailed her. They chocked her in a tangible, physical way, and she suddenly found it very difficult to even breathe as her throat closed in upon itself. You can't really catch him, you know. You've failed so far, and that blasted klyros is probably right. The killer probably even knows who you are. Down to every little detail. And if you're right about his methodology, you'd be like honey to him. You'll end up dead, a failure as you've always been, and everybody here will know it in the end. Impossible to hide it, really. Totally impossible to...
She slammed her bleeding hand against one of the rocks of the wall, and the white-hot flash of pain scattered all of those thoughts rather effectively, eliciting another throaty scream. Leaving a red imprint that showed all five fingers in grotesquely artistic detail, she lowered her fisted hand and glared at the cracks between the mortared stones. She waited for every trace of frustration to seep out of her shoulders, and every single thread of hysterical emotion to work its way from her mind. Then, having worked herself into her usual state of mechanical and carefully regulated calm, she wrapped her hands and strode out of the alleyway.
She didn't have time for such irrelevant drivel, after all.
She had a killer to catch.
-
It would be a lie to say she wasn't at least somewhat out of sorts. And who wouldn't be, following the events that had occurred over the past few weeks? Her cover was so horrifically shattered that there really wasn't a point in maintaining it any longer. So she'd shed it like so much dead skin, just like the necrotic skin that had been left on her hands. Come off like mutated gloves it had, really disturbing when one thought too much about it. She mumbled obscenities to herself as she quickly applied the honey-egg-white combination that Teshia woman had had concocted for her. Not only did that gods forsaken killer know who she was, but now, because of the workings of that downright neurotic clamod Miomai, the guards actually believed she was the killer! Her! Hah!
I'm damn glad they booted me out of their service. They've been a driveling mob of incompetent blockheads for longer than the government has been alive. All brawn, no brain. Their bloody helmets are probably constricting oxygen to whatever gray matter might actually exist between their ears.
Of course Travosh had done some talking and had finagled the fenki into confessing that her testimony had been a lie. Not that it should even have been necessary; from what she understood the woman was a widely known lunatic. But of course, who cared about actually catching the one doling out True deaths when you could just pin it on somebody and avoid public unsettling? The moment that guard had walked onto the scene the whole thing had just about toppled in on itself and collapsed in a dreadful, chaotic display. Not only had she taken the letter, the one that could have been used as further evidence aimed at finding the killer, but thanks to that nincompoop Sacho, she'd almost gotten her hands on the dagger as well.
Wasn't about to lose that too, she scoffed, and pulled it out of her bag. She'd tossed a duplicate at that iron-clad menki and he'd taken the bait without question. Again, hardly shocking, and it served her purposes perfectly. Really, it was like tossing meat to a bunch of dogs and then watching them fight ravenously over it.
Leaning her head back against the tree, Evirea carefully unwrapped the dagger and looked at the dark metal. There were the dried bits of blood and poison on it, just as she'd suspected, and honestly with the combination of the letter there really wasn't much she could test about it. She already knew it was the killer's, especially with the abrupt disintegration of the Lemur. And of course, as par to her recent run of luck, a giant group of gossiping bystanders had been there to observe the entire ordeal, confounded clamod Sacho included. Who, in his state of brilliance, had ultimately been the one to lose her her letter. Not to mention that he'd read the thing, and now knew her real name.
I should just reactivate the poison on this thing and kill myself with it, she mused, rotating it this way and that. It would be a preferable end than dealing with this rabble.
She knew that was a lie, of course, and that she was really just being an overly emotional twit. But she figured at this point she'd at least earned the right to have a fit, a blessed moment of hysteric, illogical fuming. Truth be told, each body was like a personal blow to her. It was a reminder that she'd failed this stranger. She hadn't been there to stave the approach of the dagger, hadn't been there to ensure that their family wouldn't have to wander around in black mourning clothes for months as a result of their untimely demise. She didn't want anyone else to die. Every single person that did, stranger or not, rattled her further and further, shoving her ever closer to the edge of her sanity and self-control.
You're a bastard, you know that, she thought, glaring heatedly at the dagger tip. A good for nothing, scum, lowly, disgusting bastard. What gives you the right to take someone's life? What gives you the right to make the decision to stop their beating heart, their steady breathing? Who died and made you a god?
Stabbing the weapon into the grass beside her till the lush green foliage reached the hilt, she brought her tender, still-healing hands up to cover her face. The scales were soft and supple, which wasn't at all natural, but she was used to this. It had the rather troublesome side effect of having to touch every surface she encountered like it was white hot and flaming, though. Most bothersome.
Setting her mouth in a grim line, the klyros stared at where she'd driven the dagger deep into the soil. She imagined what it would be like to drive it straight into the killer's heart. To plunge it deep and see the light slowly leaving his eyes, to watch him die with a look of open-mouthed shock, and to smile as his fingers unclenched. Maybe she'd even wait until his corpse reached a pleasant rigor mortis before she finally set it on a pier, drenched it in alcohol, and lit a celebratory bonfire.
The anger at her situation was growing, compounded further as her thoughts carried on along this vindictive train. Yanking a strip of blank paper from her journal, she began to scrawl a letter in a sloppy hand, as the emotion in her chest caused a trembling in her fingers:
Your intellect is hardly worth merit. Nothing you could possibly say will steer me from my course of action. I can assure you, for every life that you take, I'll lob off a limb, before I kill you. I'll make your skin look like it was driven though with shards of glass. I shall put into use every piece of knowledge I have to make you suffer, signal every nerve ending to screaming. You may know my name, but I know your race, Ylian. It's only a matter of time before I target who you are, and believe you me, you will pay for every life that you have taken.
Her breathing rate had increased considerably, to a ragged, harsh sound. The shaking in her hands made an audible rustling in the paper. It occurred to her that the letter was somewhat outrageous, and that this was the first time any of her rather unwilling clients had gotten under her skin so effectively. It probably had something to do with being so exposed to the general public. She felt naked without the front of her disguise. She'd never been trapped in such a situation where she could literally be grilled about her failures or successes. Just recently she'd had to tolerate it plenty from that dunderhead Icerra, asking all of these overwhelmingly idiotic questions about her motives for trying to catch the killer. Wasn't that obvious? Who wouldn't, if they had the capacity as she did, try to stop such events from occurring? What other motivation could she possibly need for bringing the man to his knees, plucking out his eyes, wresting his heart from his chest, lopping his head off his shoulders...
Shocked out of the musings by the graphic images they produced, the idea that the kore had a point crept slowly up her spine, like a shiver from a rush of unexpected cold. Could it be possible that what spurred her actions was in fact an emotional ramification of her traumatic history? Surely not. She was above such things, after all, and had proven it time and again as she made her way through case after case. Her purpose and goals were perfectly clear, clear as the crystal itself, and she didn't need some stupid excuse to justify them. She possessed no niggling voice in the back of her head that told her she needed to redeem herself from her own failures. There was no guilt in her conscience about what had happened years ago. The haunting image of her mother's head staring up at her with wide white eyes, the red of blood leaking slowly from her tear ducts and staining her corneas, had absolutely nothing to do with her lofty pursuit of these criminals.
Clenching her eyes shut, Evirea forced the gruesome picture from her mind. She leaned forward and took several deep breaths, instilling in herself the usual artificial calm that she managed to carefully fabricate throughout her daily life. The letter she planned to plant at the fountain before the killer could make his next post-tortuous delivery crinkled in her fist, and she pressed her knuckles against the lids of her eyes until she saw sparks in the darkness behind them. After she'd collected herself, she stood to her feet, her gaze angling downwards towards where that knife stood innocently and harmlessly planted in the ground by her feet.
“I won't let you win,” she rasped at it, quivering as her oath was made. “I swear on my life, I won't let you win.”
-
The ruins. Such an interesting illustration of metamorphosis. At some point it must have been a social mecca. A place of congregation for buyers and sellers with eager hands and flushed faces. Consumers passing tria over for both the mundane and the titillating in product variety. The proud and noble walls must have been polished to a notable shimmer, one with the capacity to magnify its own glamor by capturing and reflecting the light of the crystal on the clearest of days. These weeds would have been replaced by trampled dirt or frequently installed rubble. Perhaps the overgrown paths had even been laid with cobblestones that had been cut from the caverns and stones surrounding the place, using the natural geography of the region to mold the land into a less chaotic state.
But no longer. And this was where the transformation originated. Now it sat in this physical state of brokenness, a shadow of what it had once been. Nature had for the most part reclaimed it, and stretched her emerald arms over the sharpened, jagged points of the shattered stone buildings, adding these remnants to its own craggy version of aesthetic appeal. Maybe some day a civilization would see this place in its state of disrepair and mold it back to wholeness. Maybe they would erect newer, stronger walls. Maybe they would come together and make something glorious out of something so horrifically maimed and forsaken. At that point there would be an astounding reversion, and from the memory of what it had been like to be in such a moribund state, the city would stand prouder that it had ever been before.
Sharpening the knife against a rough-hewn stone that seemed made for such a purpose, Barsidious eyed his latest victim as he laid chained against one of those abandoned walls. Finnis was his name, a simple Xacha traveler. Unfortunately for him, all it took to be selected at this point was a general adeptness at social capabilities, and he could mingle well, from what he'd observed. He wasn't aware of his fate yet, sleeping in a drug-induced coma, his chest rising and falling to its own steady beat. He was covered in a blanket, tucked tightly around him. After all, it would have been terribly rude to let the chill of these stones get into his skin and touch his bones beneath. He hardly wanted his guest to be catching any colds or illnesses of the sort. He wanted him sharp, ready to discuss the nebulous moral fiber that they had been hinting at back in the tavern. Ready to see what else the man might have lodged up between his ears, he sincerely hoped that fear would not render him incapable of speech or, gods forbid, reduce him to a sniveling fool that wept and cried piteously in the corner.
Or to screaming. He'd just kill him outright if he started screaming.
The Ylian set the knife aside, astride his small sack of carefully mixed and fermented poison. He wouldn't coat it quite yet, not yet. He enjoyed letting himself have the pleasure of getting to know his victim before they both embarked on this rather personal journey. And the man would take a while to stir, so he settled himself down and reached into his robes, unfurling the letter he'd found placed upon the fountain. His eyes scanned it briefly, and instantly his head tipped back, rolls of laughter peeling from his mouth and echoing in the enclosed structure. She was so entirely dry about it. No elaborations, as if she were stating scientific fact and that the matter was mostly irrefutable.
Ah, Pomolle. My dear, dear miss Pomolle. I suppose we shall have to give you another demonstration, shall we? Not so easily rattled?
Oh, but he had rattled her, he could see it in the sloppy curves and arches of the letter he held between his thumb and index finger. If so little a thing as the knowledge of her name could invoke such a precious and entertaining response, certainly, then, his next application would send her reeling over the edge. Or at least skirting along right next to it, ready to throw herself over at the slightest shove.
Hands digging around in his bags, he eagerly began to scribe his elaborate and romanticized response. He knew his continued lightheartedness would likely infuriate her, which only pleased him further as the works were born upon the page. He saw no reason to waste perfectly useful time on waiting for Mr. Shelnut to awaken. After all, time was of the essence, and he was in rather a short supply as more of it slipped through his fingers.
How incredibly adorable you are
To try and engage me in this spar
You boast that you now know my race
While still you've yet to see my face
The fact and truth, dear miss Pomolle
Is that your guess is simply droll
I'm disappointed, can't you see!
For I know so much more of thee:
So sad your tale of grief and woe
To lose your family to your foe
Their limbs lop't off, their lives cut short
There could not be a greater retort
Would that I could have been the one
To spark your tears to endless run
Alas! I shall simply settle for
A simple settling of the score
I know your every move and dread
And soon you shall end, well...
QUITE DEAD.
Pleased with himself, Barsidious let his breath ghost across the still-wet ink to hasten its drying and folded it lengthwise, neatly, before putting it back into the pocket that sat above his heart. He figured the klyros would appreciate such tidiness. He knew that this too was an interesting quirk of hers, one that he found more than amusing in light of her chosen career.
Hopefully, she wouldn't be too put out when her own blood stained her tunic irreparably.
-
He was honestly depressed about how easy it'd been. No lying on the topic, the fact that he could simply saunter right up to the plaza with a dead and bleeding body slung over his shoulder and plant it without even the slightest amount of resistance from any bystander...
Pathetic, really.
He could hear in the distance the hammering of iron workers as he went about his task, his hands making quick work of the rope and tying it into a steady knot that would hold Finnis Shelnut upright so that he could meet onlookers with a sense of dignity. As usual, he did not bother to close those eyes, and he did not make any attempt to hide any of the atrocities the scarlet of his blood-stained shirt attested to. He wanted the people to stare fear directly in the face and cope with it as they would. He wanted them to be rooted to the ground, and to be forced to gaze upon this enigma of their own mortality, while diving into a serious session of introspective soul-searching.
For his part, he simply made his way without incident towards one of the shadowed alleyways, wedging himself easily in one of the rather uncomfortable crannies by the houses. He had a view of the plaza from this vantage, though not of the expressions his primal artwork would evoke. With a resigned sort of sigh, he leaned against the craggy wall beside him and contented himself with simply watching the events, however they should unfold. Still cloaked and cowled, he really had no reason to hide his face, already shrouded in anonymity as he was. But he hardly wanted to test his run of luck, if one could call it that. Using his gloved hand, he turned slightly in his cramped space so that he could pick away at some of the moss that had accumulated on the wall. The grim came off in miniscule tidbits, and the menial labor did something to at least keep him from going stark raving mad.
Then again, most would probably contend that he'd thrown himself headfirst and tumbling over that cliff long, long ago.
An admirable pile of ivy and green-tinted dust had accumulated between his boots by the time someone looked up at Finnis and actually realized what it was they were looking upon. Tearing his gaze away from the gray words he'd dug out of the foliage, he watched with a sense of self-satisfaction as a nolthrir found his humble gift to Hydlaa, and began to scream as such a situation would merit. It did not take long for this racket she raised to summon another woman, a dermorian if he could deduce accurately without being able to see the finger details of her pointed ears. They spoke in animated whispers, their hands flying, and of course he could not actually make out a single utterance. He did, however, like to think that he felt their coming panic as one feels a gentle, friendly breeze, infecting the air with the intricate strands of terror and fright.
It did not take long for his precious corpse to disintegrate. He waited until the body could fully dematerialize, and then, summoning a strong and steady current of wind, he brought what remained: the fleshy powdery tidbits that his employer was so eager to get his hands on, over towards himself. Forming into a pointed spiral, he opened a small leather pouch for the contents to fall in to, and then canceled the spell suspending the ashy substance in the air. It fell down in a collective, dusty thump, some of the white powder making a soft puff as though the bag was breathing. Tying this tightly shut, Barsidious tucked it safely away for future delivery, and turned delighted eyes back to the scene as a familiar klyros finally made her appearance.
Oh, how he wished he could see the look on her face as she read the letter. His heart burned with longing as he watched her stand there, though he had no way of knowing the impact just yet. She was immobile and lifeless as any dead body, except that she stood upright on stiffened legs. Her wings were drooping, he could see that much at least and revel in it, enjoying the sight further as she slowly sunk down to her knees in defeat.
Do you feel that, my lovely Miss Pomolle? Do you feel that fear and despair, feel it clawing at you with relentless fervor? You were ruffled before, but you're frightened now, I can almost feel that fear upon my tongue. Taste it, and the flavor is heavenly. Embrace that fear, let the first cracks and fissures of your mind take hold, allow them to plague you body and soul.
They were trying to comfort her, two nolthrir that he could see and another klyros, male if he could tell the bloody difference. Come to think of it he'd seen that one before. Have to make note of that, he surmised. Have to keep an eye out for that.
After some lengthy discussion between those in that sparse group, he watched, giddy, as Evirea stood up and bounded off, fleeing from aid as he was assured she eventually would. But what happened next he had not expected, and it left him entirely breathless.
She made a bee-line straight towards him. Unintentional to be certain, she had no way of knowing about his presence. He was well hidden from her, even as she turned and used the same small space as her own sanctuary. Balanced with his legs between the wooden overhang and the wall between, he observed her with morbid curiosity, watching this unraveling that he had caused. That he was certain would follow.
But she did not fall apart. Quite the contrary, she seemed collected. Seemed being the important variable here, as she sat herself down and placed her hands on her knees. And she feel silent, her breathing steady. It took only a moment for him to figure out that she was attempting to meditate herself into a trace. To figure out that she had in fact been successful.
She was now as good as asleep. Asleep, and completely vulnerable to him, sitting right there where all he had to do was give the slightest nudge, and he'd be inside her thoughts, that subtle whisper that preludes the coming of a nightmare.
A smile crept along and cracked the Ylians face, and his fingers began to emit the softest Azure glow...
-
Peace. Tranquility. All the things that told of a stable mind. She allowed herself to fall into a deep meditation, and to let those words which burned in the back of her mind disappear. Their limps lop't off, the note had said. Simple words, and funny, if you were into macabre humor. Not so funny when you were the one to personally witness the slaughter, and when you yourself recognized and loved those gore-smeared faces.
Banishing that from her mind, she settled herself into a trance. There were trees, reacting to a pleasantly warm breeze that toyed at their leafy branches. Their rustling was like a warm balm to her soul, and she opened her eyes to smile at the crystal-clear surface of the water in front of her. A tiny, delightfully clean pond reflected the canopy above, where the flit of birds could be detected by the flashes of vibrant color. Lapping at the surface in steady and measured waves, Evirea counted the quiet sounds the water made against the shore, standing up and in her own mind's eye moving towards it. Looking down, she found her own placid face staring back at her, and her erratic heartbeat slowed in time with her measured breathing. She felt the tension flee from her shoulders, the tightened knots loosening to a much more comfortable state, and a tangible smile appeared on her face as she continued the practice of settling her troubled thoughts.
She was about to dip a single claw into the water to create a nice little ripple, when the surface began to change. It grew cloudy and dark. Blackness shifted beneath the water, and her own reflection shifted from showing her face to that of another, familiar woman. Decapitated. Floating disembodied and staring at her with the blood dripping down from her neck. The water began to bubble as if heated, but the air around her grew cold, a chill that dug its claws right down into her bones. She felt a horrible sense of duality, between trying to grasp that the situation was out of hand and that she should remain calm, and the other part of her that screamed in horror at this sight of her long dead mother.
Something is wrong. This is wrong. Focus. Remain calm. Do not panic...
Turning away from the image, she observed casually that the rest of her surroundings had darkened as well. The tree's leaves had fallen off, leaving their branches as bones stretched up against a black and inky sky. The creatures that had inhabited them moments ago lay upon the ground at her feet, peppering the grass and filling the air with the stench of decay, their flesh covered in boils and infected lesions. Tugging a cloth from her pocket, Evirea reacted to this merely by covering her nose to relieve the smell, and to keep it from layering her nostrils and further disorienting her.
Moving towards one of the corpses left on the forest's floor, she was about to stoop to examine it when movement caught her eye. She turned just in time to see the water rise up out of the pond in the form of a hand, fingers spread, moving towards her rapidly and colliding with her to form a fist around her fragile body. It chocked the breath out of her as it soaked through her clothing, and without the ground beneath her feet to hold her stable, she felt the vestiges of panic begin to win the battle. The surface of the pond, and the image of her mother's face came flying up to meet her even as she was forcibly pulled down into it. As if passing through a barrier, she fell, the water filling her lungs so that she was certain she would drown even as her head began to feel crushed by the incredible pressure.
And just as she thought she would die from either a bursting of her ribs or her skull, suddenly she broke through the other side, followed by the cascade of polluted water all around her, flooding the grass below her hands. It took a moment for her to actually be able to raise her head because of the torrent, and to blink the water from her eyes. Coughing harshly, she ejected the water from her lungs and took several ragged, frantic breaths. She recovered slowly by moving first her fingers, and then her feet, finally unfurling and furling her wings to make sure that none of the tiny, delicate bones had been broken.
Rising to her feet, she tried to gain a grip. Tried to force herself to live out this strange dream, knowing that her presence was not corporeal, and that in no way could she possibly harm herself in experiencing it. Besides, perhaps it would reveal something, her subconscious trying to tell her something that the higher workings of her brain had not yet comprehended...
Oh gods.
Like a flower wilting under the rays of a harsh sun, all of her careful deliberating and confidence simply shattered. It was all she could do to keep from hyperventilating as she stared at the tiny, humble cottage in front of her.
Oh gods, no no. Get me out of here. Get me...
Her feet began moving. She wasn't telling them to. The autonomic parts of her brain stem had not sent signals, triggered by desires residing in her cerebral cortex, to move forward. But she was moving forward, her limbs shifting lazily, and she felt her lips pucker and heard the sound of her own whistling ringing in the air, cheery and joyous at having been dismissed from classes early due to her studious habits.
She wasn't being forced back into these shoes. She was reliving it, in every excruciating little detail.
The door to the house was ajar, the darkness beyond speaking of hidden things. Horrible things that she could not see in the half light. Blissfully and blessedly unaware...except that she was all too aware. She was so aware of what lay beyond that door, and she didn't want to see it. The idea of plunging her claws into her eyes and wrenching them out of her sockets presented itself as a better alternative. Instead, she attempted to drive those claws into the archway, letting splinters dig into her skin and feeling the blood trickle beneath her nails.
Her legs kept moving, and the force they could produce greatly outdid what her arms could do. Her claws scratched at the wood, leaving thin, pale lines in her wake as she continued to fight this coming vision. A sob bubbled up in her throat, but no tears were produced, and her fingers were torn forcefully from their residence in the paneling. Her hand shifted to the lamp upon the wall, and she reached with the other to grapple desperately at her wrist, trying in vain to pull it away before a light could be struck.
“No!” She shrieked, planting her feet and wrenching backwards with all her might. “Not the light! Don't turn on the light! Don't turn on...”
That traitorous wick burst into a lively flame, spilling the small interior with a golden, warm sort of glow. It illuminated the remains she was expecting, and for the first time she was aware of the wet feeling beneath her boots, sloshing, staining them. Her hands trembled, and her eyes stared widely at the wall.
Don't turn around. Don't look. Don't look Don't look Don't...
She whirled, the motion forced upon her. And she was forced to stare directly at them, sprawled all across the floor, floating in their own scarlet blood. She could not close her eyes. She tried, but something held her lids back, pinned them that way so that she could not even allow herself such a small mercy.
Their limbs were scattered every which way. Only their torsos were left intact, the rest had been severed and duly cauterized, but not before they were exsanguinated fully, leaving their once blue skin ashy and pale. Bright white eyes, just like her own, stared at her from opposite corners of the room, a length of rope fastened to a hook that pierced through their headfins and left them hanging suspended before her. She could taste the blood on her tongue, coppery and salty, as she took in large open-mouthed gulps of air, trying to gain a grip on the situation, trying to recover enough to either flee or fight, trying to break this down into a formulated equation she could solve and understand with ease.
Instead, her eyes fell to the letters written in sanguine ink, caked and dried to the wall. She remembered what they should have said. Originally the words had read, Regards, the Butcher. Simple. Short and concise. The writing had been etched with a shaking manic hand and hardly legible.
But now it was written in a looping cursive, illustrated with beautiful flourishes. The message was longer, wordier, and had an air of comedy to it that stood out starkly amidst the nightmarish scenery.
Not to worry Miss Pomolle.
I know the state of your tortured soul.
Soon your anguished life shall end.
I promise this to you my friend.
Very soon you shall all meet.
Your family you shall once more greet.
I shall steal away your very breath.
I shall aid you in meeting death.
And as my poison takes its course.
You shall no longer have remorse.
She hadn't realized she was screaming until the raw sensation in her throat alerted her to it. Her mouth hung loosely ajar and the high-pitched sound rang in her ears, echoed off the walls, and further scattered her thoughts until all traces of logic and practicality was evicted from her. And she simply kept screaming, the words glowing fiery red in her vision, prompting her terror to grow and grow and grow until she thought she might implode from the sheer...
Jerking awake with the sound of her own shouting, Evirea smacked her head into the stone wall in front of her. The blessed pain that followed assured her of two things: one, that she was alive, and two, that she had escaped from the morbid dream. Or memory. Frankly it had felt like a combination of both, but the words from it were what stuck most, even as her scrambled thoughts recollected themselves. As she realized what they were, she quickly made a terrible deduction, and instantly she was on her feet and running out of the alleyway as though someone had lit a fire beneath her heels.
Those words hadn't been concocted by herself. They had been planted there as a message. The killer wasn't just close, he was upon her, ready to sink his teeth into her flesh and tear her apart. As it was, she was helpless and vulnerable.
She could no longer be left alone.
-
Getting closer now.
The steady breathing of his newly captured Ylian friend kept a certain tempo as he threaded and looped his way around the tiny pouch of dust, sealing it firmly shut. Tiny particles hovered in the air as he pulled it taut, and he marveled at them, even now still shocked that they had once been part of a full and functioning sentient being. Now they were so much dust in the empty space above his head, hovering as an insignificant reminder of an ultimately insignificant life. Exhaled from the leather like the final breath of a body long dead.
He would have three packages to deliver when the time came. His employers would be pleased. Already he sensed soon they would be chomping at the bit, demanding that he provide the compensation they were due in exchange for the valuable...lessons he'd been taught regarding this intricate form of alchemy. What they wanted with this disintegrated collection of dust, he had no idea. He himself had never met the one in charge, supposedly pulling the strings of the people who came by now and then and opened their eager hands to accept his meager offerings. Nor did he care to know what their goals and ambitions consisted of.
He knew his purpose as sure as the waxing and waning of the crystal at dawn and dusk. There was no reason to concern himself with such nit picky details as these.
Enjoying the solid feel of the stone beneath him, Barsidious turned his attention towards where Timil Deeps, his newest companion, was sleeping soundly upon the ground. For some reason the man had struck him as a pertinent one to take, and so he had, and it had been quite simple, inebriated as he had appeared to be. Something told him that the level of intoxication he'd displayed had been a guise, however. In truth, most likely this man had been trying to find him out, had been sticking his nose where it should not have been. Not that it truly mattered. Soon enough he would pay the price for those actions, and soon enough he would join the victims he'd sought to avenge upon the balustrade by the fountain.
He settled his back against the firmness of the ruined tower's wall and pulled out a strip of parchment. Quickly, he scribed a short and simple note upon it, much less flowery than his usual pieces of literature and considerably less enjoyable to entertain, but nonetheless, it had to be done.
Additional deliveries are ready.
A meeting is required for discussion.
B.
His fingers worked to tear off the corner of the paper he'd used to write the note, and he sent it quickly off with his groffel. Folding what was left of the paper, he set this bit down and placed a rock on top of it, to assure that it would not be coaxed away by a stray wind that stretched its fingers down into the roofless abode. I'll use it later to write Evirea another letter, he thought, laughing internally as already his mind began formulating the words he would use. He wanted to invoke sheer terror, and to do that in someone like the klyran detective took...talent. Tact.
Barsidious left the paper in the tower. He turned and walked out into the open air, taking a deep breath, stretching his legs to work the kinks out of his muscles. For once in his careful planning he'd made a mistake, one that he was oblivious to, but one that could lead to considerable issue for him in the near future.
He'd left Timil inside, with his ring of familiar still firmly attached to his own hand.
And the Ylian was beginning to rouse.
-
Being dead was really quite bothersome. For one, there was the whole process of having died, which in this case had been wholly unpleasant. Not that dying was ever a particularly enjoyable experience, but having an incinerating ray shot directly through your chest had to at least be up there somewhere on the list of unfortunate demises.
Shouldn't have forgotten the ring of familiar, he thought, turning his head and listening to the silent echoes throughout the death realm. Always remove the rings. I'm getting sloppy; it was my own fault, really.
Glancing down at his ankle, he tore off a section of his robe and wrapped it around the shallow scratches the blasted groffel had left there. He was certain that they were sitting up there in self-satisfaction at the moment, quite proud at having saved their friend from this dastardly villain. In truth they'd only denied Timil the chance to have the most valuable, soul-searching lesson he ever had...but, he supposed he would simply have to live with this failure. He had a few more slots to fill before his pièce de résistance. Another target would have to be selected, and he merely needed turn his attention to that endeavor.
Once he found his way out of this damnable place, at any rate.
Now the true loss here was the loss of his anonymity. He had no doubt that they would succeed in stopping the poison from doing its work. Which meant that, unless they were the most incompetant lot imaginable, (not wholly impossible but sadly rather unlikely,) they could peg down who he was. He needed a new face, as it were. He could create that illusion well enough. With a bit of spell application he could weave himself a new body, even, in the eyes of anyone without the expertise to see through the guise. Unforunately, there were those who could peer through the facade and see the truth behind it. So he needed something to throw this off, somehow. To create something behind this new mask that would make them instantly turn their eyes away with guilt, chagrin at having tried to search him out.
He sighed. This was going to be more of a bother than the actual dying, sadly. And would hurt a great deal. Such a pity. He really rather liked his face, too. He was not the most handsome man, no, but he did think it had kindly enough qualities. Good for his deception. Ah, but there was yet some hilarious irony in what he now had to do. The insides coming to bear on the outside, some might say.
But first the clothing. He imagined such notable robes as these would be noteworthy in one's description of him. So, without too much thought, he removed them, and tossed them over the metal grating to hover in the air briefly before floating down into the empty abyss.
Finding a change of clothing was not difficult in this place. Quickly enough he found a corpse, which provided a ragged ensemble to be certain, but it would suit his needs. He stripped the deceased of its sparse wares and observed as the desicated husk crumpled into so much fine, white powder. Shaking the threadbare tunic, he relieved it of most of the remnants of its previous owner before pulling it over his own head. The pants came next, patched nearly beyond recognition and tattered at the ends. Luckily the shoes weren't an issue; his boots were common enough not to be notable. Grasping his ruby amulet in his hand, he dropped it beneath the newly found shirt and was comforted by the cold feel of metal agains his skin.
Now wearing peasant's garb, Barsidious turned to his next task. One that would more most...distasteful. And yet it was necesary. He would not stop, could not stop, in his pursuit of Truth. He would do anything to enlighten those around him to its persistence, to its presence. It was his calling, after all. His duty to the world.
Down in the bowels of the Death Realm, the crazed Ylian worked quickly. He had precious little time. His employer would be making demands soon, sending messangers to seek him out. He could hardly meet them at specified locations, found out as he was. First, he had to secure a certain secrecy.
Sitting down on the rusted bars and grimy grating, he pulled a bottle of acid from his travelsack. He soaked a length of cloth in a combative agent so that his eyes would not be devestated, and tied it tightly around them, blinding himself. His fingers groped until they found a bit of twisted metal, and this he wrapped with yet more fabric, before thrusting it between his teeth and biting down harshly, the muscles in his jaw evident in the exercise, making sure that no part of his mouth was open.
He tilted his head back. And he poured the acid over his face, his screams echoing so loudly that the nearby carakas shuddered and warily drew back in fear. It made quick work of his skin, tearing the cells apart, leaving bloody rivulets dripping from his chin as it bit down deep into muscle and sinew. Finally, when the pain was beyond bearing, he grappled at what was left of the more basic liquid and splashed it over his face. His hands glittered with inexpert Crystal Way, not enough to remove this manic self-mutilation, but enough to hasten the process to its inevitable scarring.
For a long while he sat there, his hands covering his throbbing face, sobbing in the overwhelming agony. Dakkru would surely have enjoyed such a display, had she been privy to it. The act of masochism was like a final declaration of mania. Perhaps not in his own mind, yet it was nevertheless a truth.
When finally he found the courage, Barsidious removed his fingers, the white glimmer of magic dispersing as he stopped channeling the spell. He ran his hands over what was left; feeling the exposed muscle along his left cheek, the tiny gap left there where the flesh had been thoroughly eaten through. His skin felt dead, numb, the feeling ebbing away as the nerve endings responded to his healing by becoming necrotic faster and quickly dying off. The shape of his face had been lost entirely, leaving this amorphous, hideous mask, one that he could never remove.
His breathing ragged and hoarse, the ylian began to crawl on his hands and knees, feeling his way along the grating, the blindfold still present. He reached back to loosen the tie when he bumped into some object or other, and it fell away easily. Between his hands was a battered remnant of a breastplate, rusted and dusty. Feeling suddenly desperate, he began to claw away at the erosion, wiping at it with his sullied sleeves, until he could use it as a reflective surface.
The pale-white palor of his skin unsettled him. He truly looked as though he were walking dead. The wrinkles that he'd gained over the years were gone, replaced by an unnatural smoothness, except where the ruddy fingers of the acid had left furrows and deep, painful crevices in his skin. The exposed muscle was darkened and had been covered by scar tissue, appearing as though he had suffered this accident long, long ago.
It took a moment to connect this face with his own. When he did, he could not help but laugh at the thought of it. Yes, he would still use a shaky illusion to try and cover himself, when he could. And when people suspected him because of it, they would force him to drop the spell and expose what was behind it.
And they would wail in astonishment and disgust at what they saw.
But they would certainly not know him for who he was. And that was what he had needed in the end, was it not?
The man stumbled, still deranged, to his feet. He began to shuffle along the grating, searching for a cloak among he skeletons and bones, something to cover himself with. He found one; black in color, strangely in good condition as though it had recently passed on with the wearer. Snatching his up, Barsidious swung it over his shoulders and tied the string round his throat, still chuckling softly, still breathing as though every lungful would be his last. He had traversed this realm before, and he knew that it would not take him long to find his way back to the surface.
It was all only a matter of time, and everything would be as he had ordained.
-
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.
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Barsidious, a mere cloaked figure in his current state, anonymous to all, approached the billboard. His fist was curled tightly around a small, innocent looking piece of parchment. He glanced around to make sure that nobody was present, before pasting the paper up to a smooth section of the wall. Turning quickly, he darted away, leaving the threatening letters glaring at his back as he retreated:
Oh lovely citizens of picturesque and thriving Hydlaa
With walls washed white and hearts stained black
Now's the time for my lessons to extend further
Illusions of safety, deluded security, I attack
One small victory your numbers had attained
A stroke of luck, fate's eternal bane
But here I am, returned, still whole
Your effort was in fact, in vain
Before was merely a setting of the stage
Upon which my final scene will play
A puppet master, wielder of strings am I
Tugging and pulling and leading you astray
Now comes the time for a final assertion of prowess!
Now is the time for fear and unsettling
Now to break free of all pretense and politeness!
Now to claim lives, set corpses to fest'ring
Oh dear and wonderful citizens
Eyes wide and innocent and unaware
Are you ready to play my game?
He repeated this again and again, dodging past passersby, secure in his secrecy. He placed them everywhere they would be in view of the masses, anywhere where someone could easily find them, and easily become afraid. For that was what he wanted. It was a rather...general letter, he had to admit, but it encompassed countless people with its all inclusive air, and that was precisely the sort of thing he was looking for.
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The smell was cloying in there. It permeated, so much so that his skin nearly felt permeable, as though it were nothing more than a paper-thin barrier between himself and the outside world. Then again, for all intents and purposes that's exactly what it was, especially in his case. No matter. It served its intention well enough, even down in that soggy, vaporous place.
Hefting his torch higher, Teeleh cast one glance back at his clean, dry study. A sigh heaved from his lungs. He would love to simply carry through with his procedure here, but sadly no amount of money could probably keep the guards outside from entering to check on him following the din he was about to create. A pity, really. He supposed he could have them executed easily enough. Money might not make a suitable muzzle for gabbing mouths, but it did hold a certain sway over the hang-man's noose. Depressingly, though, that would risk drawing attention to himself, and he loathed that far more than he loathed the considerable inconvenience of withstanding the irriguous sod below.
Stooping to roll up his pant legs so that they would not be sullied by the damp earth, the elf strode purposefully into the tunnel. His hand groped along the grimy dirt-carved wall until he found a protruding handle, and to this he gave a definitive tug. Behind him, the book case gave a soft rumbling, muted by careful oiling and tedious design, and closed him entirely in darkness.
Unperturbed, a quick motion with the torch ignited a line of sconces that traveled deep, deep down into the concealed passageway. Connected by tiny filamentous strings, they burst to life one after the other, bringing into sharp contrast the many statues lining the walls, encrusted in mud. Teeleh thrust the now useless torch into the ground by his feet and left it there, moving slowly, following the slope of this cavern. The sloshing sounds his feet made sickened him to his core, as did the gritty condition of the macabre artwork. Gargoyles grinned menacingly at him, emaciated forms punctuated by visible spinal columns and long, groping, gangly fingers, marked by sharpened claws. It was all for show, really. Not that he ever suspected that someone would actually have the intellectual capacity to find this place, but precaution was always wise.
And fear was an incredibly potent weapon.
Downwards he spiraled, for some undisclosed amount of time or other. Time immeasurable, retarded by the absence of the waning and waxing crystal light to define it. He knew of course that most of this was illusion, and traversing this less than illustrious hall only took a quarter of an hour. That, of course, was a disorientation he was used to. So much time he had lived in, over so many countless years. Like clockwork, the never-ending mechanism, it would continue on and on. The rising of civilizations and the falling of kings. Inevitable and utterly pointless, it all was. Often he pondered if he was missing some greater complexity, but in the end was always confronted with the realization that the only thing that would ever hold any real value was his own neck, the rest be damned. When push came to shove, the rest of society was always forced to agree. Dust in the wind, as it were, and in his dealings this became much more than an obscure metaphor.
Eventually, like the uncoiling of a tightly bound string, he reached the end of the passage. Here the muck and grime have way to a polished hardwood floor, clean and shimmering. Glancing downwards, he smiled as his blurry reflection looked back at him, removing his boots so that he would not grievously stain the soft golden hue. The floor was cool against his feet, a testimony to how deeply he had traveled, a reminder that he was now in the bowels of his impressive manor.
Striding across the room, Teeleh wound his way past shelves of neatly organized belongings: tightly bound leather tomes, alchemical paraphernalia, scrolls upon scrolls of documents written in his own hand. All of this he ignored, for it was not relevant in his current task. His movements assured and practiced as though he'd been through them countless times, he moved swiftly for the center of the room. Marked by a strangely archaic design that was depicted in a thick, ruddy, scarlet ink, the wood was marred by the image of a single circle, linked with countless outwardly spiraling loops. On one half, these vine-like pictures were shriveled and dead, their leaves crumpled from dehydration, the buds hanging desiccated and limp. Upon the other, flowers were bursting to new life, rejoicing in the coming of spring.
Removing the small parcel of ashes from his belt, he began to sprinkle the remains amongst the dead, decaying foliage, a smile of eagerness touching his lips. Round and round he went, pouring it out thoroughly, ensuring that the area was covered in the cremated deceased. With steps nearly faltering in anticipation, he stumbled backwards into the center of the living flora, his bare feet nestled among the painted leaves and petals. Again, the same smile cracked across his face, and he raises his arms slowly, intoning, the light in the room seeming to grow dimmer as his words echoed throughout. Simplistic, the incantation nevertheless held its own eerie foreboding:
“Dó tlexe ri dén”
I consume your life
He took a shuddering breath, and the fire shuddered with it, hinged upon his actions as though he were in perfect control of even his environment. The tips of his fingers twitched slightly, giving off their own faint glow, so subtle and hesitant a light that it was imperceptible to all but those who were trained to see it. He opened his mouth a second time, his heartbeat accelerating, eyes entranced by the image of the ashes spread upon the ground before him.
“Xup, ni dó drem dénee.”
Die, so I might live.
Slowly, ever so slowly, with a lethargy that was infuriating, the dust began to shift. Moving upward in a manner that crept rather than billowed, like dozens of tiny insects coming together to make a single coherent form, the ashes rose. If his heart was beating faster before, it exploded now, his excitement making the beat entirely irregular. He closed his eyes and continued his chanting, his tone monotone and low, soft, yet commanding.
“ Dó tlexe ri dén. Xup, ni dó drem dénee.”
“ Dó tlexe ri dén. Xup, ni dó drem dénee.”
“ Dó tlexe ri dén. Xup, ni dó drem dénee.”
Up to the empty ceiling, spotted with hanging stalagmites, the verbal charm echoed. The firelight in the sconces around him fell to a dull, dying glow, and then spontaneously burst to life again, a flickering sickly green. Reflected in his eyes, he was rendered pupil-less, his corneas entirely consumed by the nauseating color. Not like the living green of trees or grass, but a squeamish green, reminiscent of bile, of rotting things. The smile grew wider, until he looked like one of the grinning gargoyles that lined the tunnels. The ashes finished their shifting, taking on their final, humanoid form, completely with a slowly swaying tail and feline ears. Arms moving up further, fingers groping towards the malformed, gray impersonation of the fenki victim Barsidious had killed. He spoke directly to it, whispered as though conveying a sense of intimacy with it, his quivering tongue coming out to deliver moisture to his now dry lips.
“Dó tlexe ri dén.” He rasped, rattling breath, heaved from desperate lungs. Fingers twitched, eyes widened to their limit, lips parted to show gritted teeth as spittle hissed out, as though the process was taking a physical toll upon him, causing him pain.
The powdery, eyeless face jerked towards him, muzzle raised as if to sniff the air. Its movements were animated by particles following in its wake, giving the feel that it was in slow motion. Beneath its malformed paws, the deadened vines began to pulsate softly, dull-green sheen, pounding to the rhythm of the fire and moving upwards into the insubstantial wraith like an infection. Soon the glow had completely encompassed the undead creature, and an expression of panic, muted by the lack of brows, was unmistakable. The mouth opened wide to reveal a black, hollow interior, agonized enough to give the impression of a scream even when there was none.
Water flowing from an aquifer and into irrigation channels, the green, nearly tangible light poured past the painted lines, following dutifully to wrap themselves up Teeleh's ankles, travel up his legs. Centering itself on his left breast, hovering over his heart, it made his body quake with the power. His fists now clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms, the elf spat out the final words in an animal-like shriek. “Xup, ni dó drem dénee!”
The fenki came apart at the seams. Dissolved, revealing a detailed skeleton complete with vertebral column and tiny, multitudinous fangs. It collapsed and was absorbed into the convoluted pattern, spirited away along its length, where it became one with the light that hurtled itself towards the dermorian and bowled him over with a force that sent him flying back into the wall.
The fire snuffed out and left the room in pitch darkness. Minutes ticked by, an hour. There was total silence, the sort that is so encompassing it's nearly deafening in its emptiness.
Finally, rustling belied the presence of life. Teeleh groaned, unable to make out any details, and stumbled towards the wall. He cursed beneath his breath and repeated a simple red way spell many times before he managed to get a spark, but when he did, the wall-hung torches re-lit. Groggy, taxed from his efforts, he made his way towards a long narrow mirror that was affixed to the wall and studied his appearance.
A young face looked back at him, surely not any older than forty cycles. At least thirty had been knocked off of his physical body. Turning his head left and right to examine the rosy pallor of is cheeks and youthful prominence in his fully fleshed face, a satisfied smile of contentment now graced his lips. It faltered as he felt something coarse and gritty against his tongue, and he scowled as he reached lithe fingers inside to pull out a clump of soft white fur.
Ah, side effects, he thought, casting the thing into one of the torches.
And he simply stood to watch it burn.
-
Okay. Updated this, I forgot I posted the story here as well. Eventually I may turn the actual role play logs into writing, which will fill in any gaps that may be present from purely the writings. But I won't post the role play logs here, just the strict "story" thread. ;D
@Shaz and Dannae: Thanks :)
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Simply awesome :flowers:
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:thumbup:
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I just now finished reading this entire RP, and I am quite excited by it! Well played. I hope to see more, perhaps?
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Teeleh is now my role-model.
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I just now finished reading this entire RP, and I am quite excited by it! Well played. I hope to see more, perhaps?
Eyup! That is the plan anyway, but first things first, finals :'(
Teeleh is now my role-model.
::| You worry me sometimes Ardoin.
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Well I wans be involved.
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Well I wans be involved.
And I wans involve anyone who wans be involved. :woot:
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Then I am excite! I enjoyed reading through the descriptiveness, and Teshia's "Qestionable" morality :D
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She prefers morally ambiguous. ;)
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D: what the heck are you saying!?
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Nothing that hasn't already been said.
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Moral ambiguity my left foot! Mariana, I humbly request a meeting between Teeleh and Teshia to allow me the chance to vindicate myself [or damn my self irrevocably... :whistling: ]
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*Teeleh cranes his head to one side, his eyes narrowing nearly imperceptibly as he studies Teshia. "Good and evil are simply ambiguous, I could offer you a boon that you would never refuse. A loved one, perhaps, that you have lost in your life? Wouldn't you do anything at all to get them back...?"
(You may not want a meeting from this one Tesh ;D)
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Moral ambiguity my left foot! Mariana, I humbly request a meeting between Teeleh and Teshia to allow me the chance to vindicate myself [or damn my self irrevocably... :whistling: ]
Your track record indicates it's most likely the latter >_>
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/me tilts her head aside, watching Teeleh from under slightly drooping lashes. "Good and Evil are simply words that mortals use to describe whether they like or fear their creations. They are as far apart as any two can be, and yet one and the same eternally. Prove to me you can bring him back, and I'll show you the true meaning of loyalty."
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Damn.
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Don't sweat it, morality and the foundation of ethics or even the bare principles of both have been in question for centuries.