| The Diaboli rolled upon the jail's stone floor in search of a cooler patch as sweat rolled off his skin in beaded, saline streams. The windows were locked tight as were the thick, wooden doors. The cell had become so muggy and warm that the guards had moved their chairs and game of cards outside where a gentle, summer breeze whispered though the quiet town. As he laid upon his back he wondered if he was asleep or merely recalling the events that lead up to this point. The days were black as night and evening never seemed to pass away. His worst nightmares were no longer shrouded in darkness, but in light. He recalled that burst of orange, yellow flame that burned his head and chest like a sulfurous flare while he flailed his arms and screamed in agonizing pain. His eyeballs burst with steamy blood tinged fluid and ruptured bits of flesh as he fell to his knees. He crawled and crackled like an unwanted sliver of bacon in a pan full of grease. While Roled's fury had left him charred, it was the fumbled healing spell of Aleeane that left him forever changed. Soaked in magic drawn of crystal way, she flashed a healing bolt of light which clashed and flayed his evil skin in ways that one might not have thought. Wounds healed, flesh grew and morphed - while his body, so steeped and stained with magic of darkest ways collapsed and slipped away. Rolling over in his cell once again, Rigwyn pressed his cheek and ear against the cool stone floor. He could hear the faint conversation of the guards just outside, but their words were inaudible and he hadn't the patience to strain much more. Bored, he slipped back into that nether region between imagination and sleep where his dreamy recollection replayed. He recalled his awakening upon the death realm floor - grasping and clawing at the ground with a terrible fright. The smell of putrid, rotted flesh was now identifiable and sickened him to his core. Having vomited during his failed attempt to get up, he tried once more - grasping onto a nearby wall as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. They never did. | (http://i.imgur.com/0Dij4Er.png) |
| His dreams were filled with terrible threats and images of people tied to trees like scarecrows and burned alive as they screamed and sputtered in the wind. He could smell their smoldering corpses both while asleep and awake and feel the warmth and blistering heat which they seemed to give off. To the guards whom he inquired about said odors and sensations, he was met with laughter, mockery and genuine concern. As he basked in one such dream, a slender, young elf approached from outside. Rigwyn's body flopped about on the floor as he tossed in his sleep - leaving his legs and torso straight and his arms stretched apart like an intersection at the crossroads. Above his head was a thick image of a triangle traced upon the floor in blood. Coincidentally, his head laid just below it. It was as if a triangular hat was drawn just above his head. How grotesque. Startled and scared upon being woken by the elven stranger who had evidently seen the public notice requesting council, he crept backwards into a corer where he perched and listened. Gawain was rather young and his face was smooth like a child's. His seemed almost timid, though well educated - so he said. When offered money, favors and other forms of compensation for his utmost effort to defend and free him, the elf replied that he already had these things. He only wanted to help. Upon Gawain'srequest, the Diaboli gave his version of the story; it was as unbiased as Rigwyn's twisted mind, and as straight as the poker face that he would use to rob his own mother. He pushed once more for the elf's promise of devotion, but the elf slowly slipped away. Hearing his voice fade, the Diaboli shouted, "Please! Don't abandon me!" but before long, there was no sound be heard - not even the beating of his heart or the crisp whisper of endless breath. Saddened and confused, he sat once more. | (http://i.imgur.com/Uj821jN.png) |
| Now scraped heavily and blackened with dust and clotted blood, the Diaboli's meaty finger tips throbbed with pain and the fine stone walls surrounding him were littered with archaic symbols drawn in blood. There were random arcs, hooks and circles smudged into the floor and walls. Among them, a wide variety of cross shaped markings adorned with triangular tops - some inverted, others not. Despite his success in creating a metallic stench that drew in flies and moths, he could not stop scratching and smudging. He was crazed and determined to blurt something out. One would swear that this was not the man they saw before. The thug who strolled so carelessly though the plaza just a week ago. He was now devoid of that charisma and jaded smile that he flashed at Zalya as she backed away from the creepy woman with the ornamental mask. He was no longer the punk who held her up for her tips and offered Eleese the flowered dress which she wore. This Diaboli resembled a man who knew that his days were marked, that the remainder of his life was nothing more than an obstacle to his last breath. One might say that the "writing" was on the wall. Now laying shamelessly amid his sanguine scrawls, his mind drifted once more to that place where thoughts and dreams twist and fight. He could feel his body ache with frozen ice and smell a waft of piss and day old ale. Feeling his flesh weld to the stairs as he drifted out of his drunken stupor, he could remember the sound of Aleeane's voice and others left and right - chattering back and forth like dhergirs in an unintelligible, noisy strife. In the midst of his recollection, the sensation of a dark, ominous presence was felt. He could hear the sound of its rotten wings flapping as it hovered over the small crowd by the stairs. He could feel its enraged eyes burning golden white as it stared down at him with unfathomable disgust. He trembled from the inside out. His legs began to spasm and jerk as his awareness of this horrible figure festered and bloomed. Rigwyn shook his head left and right and screamed, "I won't do it! I swear!" but the figure's presence intensified and its face drew closer to his own. | (http://i.imgur.com/LYt3Hsl.png) |
| (http://i.imgur.com/LS0n0N4.png) | Butted up into the corner, Rigwyn laid. His arms were bound to his hips and wrapped tightly with a white bed sheet. At his hip and shoulders, a thick leather belt was buckled securely. Where his hand met his hips, deep red stains soaked through. With the clack and scratch of the thick, metal lock, the armor-clad guard let Gawain back in. Upon approaching Rigwyn's cell he spoke. "Rigwyn, I have researched your case and come to a conclusion. It is Gawain. From before." Rigwyn slowly turned his head to face Gawain's familiar voice, but said nothing at all. After an awkward moment, he curiously replied, "Have you seen the man burning? The man in the fields with the hat on his head?" Gawain's head turned to the right, and his violet eyes narrowed to slits. He whispered, "What...?" Then, after a moment with his mouth slightly open, asked in a low tone, "Is this a dream of yours, Rigwyn?" Rigwyn hissed sharply, "No, its not! I see him in my head and in my sleep. He stands in the open fields with his arms drawn side to side like a scarecrow. Sometimes he wears a hat to shade his head, sometimes his head's on fire - sputtering and smoldering as he screams and convulses! Why? Why I am seeing this?" Gawain licked his lips as a bit of sweat ran down his forehead. He whispered to himself, "Brave, Gawain. Be -brave-," then spoke aloud with a slight tremble, "Perhaps because you're something of a ra...ra-rabid dog, Rigwyn. Nightmares tend to affect the guilty." He swallowed. |
| The smell of books and burnt falka was thick enough to taste, and Izalox was patiently waiting for Jayose to make up his mind about the validity of a new volume on Laanxism which he had presented. This volume contained personal letters supposedly between Galeran Tarbius - the very man through whom Laanx reestablished her religion, and Shindrock, his early mentor. Jayose was concerned with how it conflicted with the rest of Galeran's works and hence did not seem to represent his known views. Izalox held that the views in the secret volume were authentic but hidden from the eyes of the lay so that they would not become confused. Jayose was not convinced and gave the book back with an apologetic smile. Hiding his frustration the best he could, Izalox flipped his hood over his head to protect his pale skin from the crystal, then slipped out the door with the book tucked under his arm. His cloak was scarlet with a jade and gold serpent-like twist embroidered into the back of it - quite similar to the symbol seen in the Laanx Temple. As he approached the archway leading to the plaza, he made eye contact with a Menki. The two exchanged casual greetings, then stopped to chat. A casual blessing followed as he prepared to depart. They were joined by an elf who was on his way to tend to a sick man who was injured and without means to mobilize himself. When asked if he might lend a hand, Izalox and the Celrau agreed and followed - as any person with any semblance of morality would. Roled lead them to the guard's station in East Hydlaa, and then into a dimly lit cell. The cool air sent an erie shiver up Izalox's spine. Roled spoke softly and with a trembling voice. He quietly asked Rigwyn if he would like to have his eyes replaced and eventually received his consent. Roled called the guard over and asked that the box be removed that he may bestow a blessing. Without question the guard did so, then stepped outside - leaving the four of them alone. Having given Rigwyn a bottle of the strongest liquor he could find, Roled sent Celrau off to fetch pure water from the secret garden while be prepared his poultices and compressions of various sorts. | (http://i.imgur.com/gEr4rN4.png) |
| "I've seen people locked up before," his voice softly caressing the air, "but never in a box." Shocked, Rigywn froze in place as he wondered who that could have been. While the lavender fragrance was the same as the once that Vayl often wore, the voice was clearly unfamiliar. He hissed though the feeding hole in his head-box. "Who are you!" The visitor did not reveal his name and when he spoke, he was careful in choosing his words - never quite revealing who he was or exactly what he wanted with a blind, helpless prisoner. As the hour passed, it was clear that this man was of Rigwyn's ilk. He spoke of making connections and seemed to express an openness to deeds that most would never consider. Finally, he inquired about a real job - the spilling of blood. With an embittered heart, the diaboli spoke of those he hated most, his reasons for feeling this way and the sadistic desires that stirred with his heart. The man did not hesitate or falter in his speech, nor did the second man who had unexpectedly arrived. "Riiiigy!" Rigwyn cringed and snapped his head in the direction of the second voice as the first occulted himself from Stashka's site. He was shocked to say the least, yet pleased. The elf sounded quite sane, though somewhat hoarse. As they spoke, Rigwyn's head was awash with memories of their first encounters. They were Outlaws and working in secret to abduct female citizens to be auctioned to men and women who were just as vile as them if not worse. At the time, Stashka was a bit of a lunatic - changing his mind and failing in his promises to assist. As crazy as he was, Rigwyn hoped that he could be of some use. Having had the chance to vent and list his litany of gripes, Rigwyn mentioned the eyes in his head which Roled replaced. He was puzzled as the two elves questioned why the same man who blinded him would want to restore his sight, then realized that it might have been nothing more than a rotten scam. | (http://i.imgur.com/wpTjx0k.jpg) |
| (http://i.imgur.com/mmbszq1.png) | He found himself walking alone in the dark once more. Twigs and dead leaves crunched and kneaded into the blackened soil as a cold chill ran up though his bare feet. Using his hands to part the branches and cobwebs that approached his face, he noticed an orange glow blocked by a figure in a hunter green robe. As he crept, the figure hunched in front of a metal canister that sat atop of roaring fire. A metal pipe rose from the top of the barrel and was fitted to a huge glass tube that spiraled down into a thick, glass flask with a crude spout on the bottom. Not knowing what to make of this man and his contraption, he barked. "Who are you? What are you doing here?!" Oblivious to his voice, the figure continued tinkering and fussing with the makeshift furnace - opening its top to fill it with violet-red cinnabar crystals, then sealing tightly and locking it in place. Cursing under his breath, the gaunt figure hobbled to the collection flask with a wide, shallow bowl in his hands. He placed it under the flask and turned a small, metal knob to fill the bowl with its contents. "What are you doing, you old fool?" The old man coughed and cringed - still ignoring the diaboli as he struggled to close the valve on the flask. With it shut tightly, he rose to face Rigwyn, holding the bowl in his trembling, shaky hands as he approached - whispering maniacally, "It burns the brimstone from the crystal!" His face was contorted as if insane. The glimmer in his eyes and the changing smile on his face reeked of chaos and violence. "You see this, diaboli? Look at it!" Rigwyn smirked at the old man, then slowly leaned forward to gaze. The bowl contained a liquid more brilliant than polished sword-steel. It beaded and spilled like water as the old man coughed and shook. He touched it with his finger, depressing the warm, metallic fluid as he gazed upon his distorted reflection. With a fiery burst of anger, the old man's face reddened and stretched as his throat strained and the spokes of his neck stood out. His body shook as if about to explode. "A hex on you, betrayer of the gods," he shouted, "She knows who you are!" Rigwyn swallowed as if about to vomit. His fists clenched and his jaw tightened as he realized what the man had said. He screamed a second time - clearly straining his throat, "She will destroy you over and over again! She will never let you die! Ever!" As Rigwyn looked up, he could feel a great taloned claw grasp the back of his head. He tried to resist, but his head was shoved down towards the concoction. In the reflection, he saw his own mother's tormented face. She was screaming as quicksilver streamed from her nose and her mouth. He screamed in response and pursed his eyes shut as tears of agony met the splash and foul taste of mercury. Once again he was left in the solitude of night. The voice of two elves could be heard to his side. He climbed to his feet and stood - placing his hands upon his face to feel his eyes. His skin was smooth and cured and he could feel the lumps of his closed eyes where there had been none. Slowly, he cracked them open, dreading the thought that he might still be blind. His eyes slipped awkwardly in his skull as he struggled to keep them still. His world looked different now, distorted and unfamiliar. Dizzy and off-balance from his horrible, new sight, he staggered and fought to keep his footing as Stashka and the elf known as Mr. Shadows started him on his journey through the realm of death. | (http://i.imgur.com/b2B2hA2.png) |
I need the assistance of an alchemist, a messenger who is willing and able to go topside, and someone who can supply me with dark way glyphs. In return, I can arrange for almost anything you need from the dome to be strapped to a screaming warm body and delivered here via corpse mail.
Meet me near the citadel if you wish to flesh out a deal.
Rigwyn
Sarras's face hair was damp with humidity
[Dope write ups. Evirea's masochistic selflessness and Rigwyn's insanity play out pretty well.]
in·sane
inˈsān/
adjective
adjective: insane
1.
in a state of mind that prevents normal perception, behavior, or social interaction; seriously mentally ill.
| The torches crackled and flashed with autumn light, casting long, jittery shadows though the windy tubes and tunnels as two blood spattered women dragged an unconscious diaboli up the stairs and to the entrance. The guards held their noses and turned their heads as they passed by, hiding his severed arm from view as his head hung forward with his long, black hair covering his face. He could hear the clack and creek of a door, then feel the divider upon the floor as they dragged him trough the doorway of the Red Crystal Den. The aroma of wine and finger foods began to rouse his mind - conjuring memories of the days when he worked as a guard. As they dragged him beneath the balcony, he recalled the opening night, the songs and plays performed, the clinking of glasses, the murmer of random conversation, and the hurling of a heavy, glass beer mug from the balcony to the curvaceuos diaboli on stage. It was the first time he had met Semutara, a free, firey spirit with a habit of speaking her mind at the risk of being stomped on. Had it not been for Orgonwukh's intercessions, she might not have made it out alive. With some discussion, Dannae and Sarras dragged him down into the wine cellar and pressed him against a solid foundational beam. As Sarras began to tie him up, a flash of crystal light grew between a slender pair of Nolthrir hands. It had caught his eye in the worst of ways. He shreiked, "NO!" ordering her to stop. For he knew that crystal way did no good, its effects had ceased to heal him, and as of late, was doing far more damage that good. Dannae immediately stopped her spell at the shriek, withdrawing her hand quickly. She grimmaced, "Why is it that everyone I ever try to heal with crystal is hurt by it instead! Sometimes I wonder who even called it healing!" Looking at his hand, then back at Dannae as if worried, he replied, "You don't understand, that light... it doesn't mesh well with me. I need to drain something to heal." Leaning to the side, Dannae looked at his severed stump. It was raw and red with thickening blood, singed on the edges from the spell she had begin to cast. "Please!", Rigywn shouted, "I don't want to bleed to death, or loose my... my hand. Where's my hand?" Bewildered by the explanation and the request, Dannae asked, "Hand? Sarras?" "What did you do with my hand!" Peeking out from behind Rigwyn, momentarily pausing her work, Sarras asked, "What?" "My freakin hand!" "The hand Sarras...", Dannae asked, "did you uh... bring it?" "Um... No." With this, Rigwyn clamped his eyes shut as his head fells forward. - how the hell could they forget my hand. They forgot MY hand! Dannae shrinked back instinctivly expecting another outburst. | (http://i.imgur.com/lqTGQZE.png) |
| With a slow and rusty creak, the door at the top of the stairs opened a crack, casting a long, white ray of light down the steps, past the central beam, and to the stony, rear wall of the cellar. Slowly, it widened, partially illuminating the dark, damp room. Sarras removed her hand from the door and carefully descended the creaky, wooden steps one by one. With a twist of her slender hand, she lit a falka lamp before proceeeding forward. She had brought a bowl of cooked fish as she had the day before, and the day before that. It seemed like it was all she ever brought, no steaks, no jooniper jam or maaca pie, just .... fish. He complained about the fish and the way he was being kept captive. He argued about how terribly immoral she and Dannae were for lobbing off his hand, and keeping him as a slave - and not an active one, but just a thing in the closet. A mere, neglected pet in a cage. It was clear that his release would not be anytime soon if ever, but one thing troubled him quite deeply. He was alive, and being fed three times a day. They had allowed him to heal instead of just neglecting him. It was clear that they wanted him alive, but why? Just so they could have something to feed, something to complain to them about every perceive injustice inflicted on him? It made no sense. They were neither friend nor enemy. Something smelled fishy. | (http://i.imgur.com/r9RA3Wv.jpg) |
| The sound of nibbling came to a stop as the cellar door cracked open once again. As the cold, white glow spread, tiny claws scratched and scurried across the floor and disappeared behind the crates and barrels. A Klyran voice pierced the darkness this time, feminine and strangely familiar. "Hello again, Rigwyn. Hasn't been terribly long. Not really long enough in my book, honestly." There was no answer, only dead silence. From behind her, Sarras held the door open for Evirea as she gazed into the darkened cellar, staring as if something was a bit off. "He might be unconscious," she whispered. Several moments passed. Evirea glanced briefly back at the dermorian behind her, sighing softly. She then stepped downwards, thumping one step at a time, using her crutch for support as she went. "I wouldn't attack me if I were you, Rigwyn," she called simply. Her call was met only by its echo as her voice bounced against the vacant walls. With a rustling sound, she pulled a small rod from her pocket, the top aglow with a single stone. She flinched slightly at the light it cast, disgruntled, before taking a seat on the stair. "So we can do this the easy way or the hard way. You can come up and hear what I have to say or you can stay down in that darkness, and wallow." Again, there was no response. She turned her head slightly and nodded, indicating that Sarras should shut the door. Sarras shook her head to Evirea and took a few steps into the cellar. "Is he not... Where is he? He should be tied! ... He's loose. Careful." Ahead of them, the beam to which she had tied him was freshly scuffed at the corners, but there was no body attached. Sitting now at the top of the steps, Evirea cautioned, "I wouldn't go any further, Sarras. He has the element of surprise." The klyros merely nodded at the dermorian's words. "You don't have a way to send a bright flash down there, do you? To illuminate him? If I could see him I could probably immobolize him." | (http://i.imgur.com/ac65VPm.png) |
[There definitely is no ciriticism the style of your writing and such. But please, guys. Can't you keep it a little more compact? My brain says tl;dr after a few paragraphs.]
Seria is sleeping comfortably in her bed. She is having a dream, perhaps a vision? Suno and Evirea, happily married. Their children, as Suno's progeny, raised as true Imperials. She sees herself teaching the values and morals of the Dark Empire to them, much to the pleasure of Evirea. She wakes up with the lovely image of children standing over their mother's corpse, tiny knives in their even tinier hands.
For the eyes of Magister Blackmire and those with whom he consults or who's service he prescribes. May all others suffer the merciless torment and abuse of their shadow.
I require prompt assistance with the destruction of a demon. During a ritual designed to summon and question a lesser beast, a far stronger demon appeared in it's place- throwing the ritual into chaos. I was over powered, and so too was my assistant whom I had faultlessly prepared in advance. Likewise, the magical barrier that I had constructed proved to be ineffective for this particular kind of demon.
Again, prompt assistance will prevent much discord and unrest.
Rigwyn Setson, DO