[RP] Come Home, My Love. The Gods await.

[Jiggs]

A Hunt Through the Darkness.

He feels the thrumming in his veins, that soothing feeling that's always there when he's in Her Realm. On his feet before his eyes are even fully open as he finishes coming through. He looks around, smiling as he recognises this particular area "Where the light is darkest." he says, as he starts to walk off, heading towards the chamber of the crystal. "Don't worry Lyla... I'll find you, and if not... I'll wait for them to bring you to me." he says as he starts checking what's left of the supplies in his satchel, formulating a plan as he does.

[Garris Shrike]

[Got a cool PM from Prreta, I hope she doesn't mind if I share at least a few tidbits and an apology related to it:  :-[]

[Basically, she asked if we would do a bit more to include some of the players on the fringe of the action, such as scheduling and stuff.

I wholeheartedly agree! Were it up to me, scheduling would be tantamount. The gist of my reply was that I can't dungeon master at all, and that I have on-call work.

Truthfully it's the on-call work that makes it impossible to schedule, which is just out of my control.

So to end with my apology: I am sorry that some people got to miss the ritual. Good news? That's not nearly the end. This isn't a set RP with an end per se. It goes until it's either stopped or...etc. So there will be tons of chances for an entirely different group of guys and gals to get involved, still, and on a very deep level! Thanks Prreta for bringing this up.

So many thanks to those who have put time into this. We're looking forward to even more time with all of you, wherever we meet you and wherever we end up together! Happy playing, PlaneShift.]

[Cairn]

[I'll try very hard to summarize this all as best I can, up to current events. Many thanks to Celroc, Prreta, Evirea, Mariana, Sacho, Anysu, Allena, Sulaika, Asmo, Mishka, and many, many more that have come through recently....]

As soon as the dagger hit his neck, darkness enclosed him. Wulfar knew that he wasn't dead yet, not quite, but his mind quieted, almost accepting the imminent fate. Pondering why it was happening this way wasn't an option, no, he knew that it was time. Why it was time wasn't even an issue. What it was time for was a mystery in and of itself. Something in his mind, however, knew that it was time to die, and the message delivered by the unknown thrower of the dagger made it quite clear. So as the Klyros rushed up to him, and consciousness left the Clamod's body, there was almost a sense of peace. And as the last breath shuddered from his white, bloodless lips, and the pool of red matted his fur, Wulfar accepted his fate.

Death, but with purpose. What sort of purpose was his aim to find.

Soon, he awoke. Or the shell of the Enki awoke, swathed in black. The mind of the man itself was trapped, a raging figure set in an endless castle of which there seemed to be no escape. Control had been given to some other being, some other set of commands that were hardwired into his brain by cycles of torture and Azure Way magic. Insidiously, his feet moved, one in front of the other, taking him all the way to the Dark Crystal, wherein he knew he would find something or someone.

Unwilling was the man, but the control of him was too great to resist. And although the actions were not his own, still he carried them out. Dutifully, without anything but feeble mental resistance, Wulfar began the ceremony.

The Diaboli was first chained to the Crystal, not without struggle. Heavy chains had been wrought by the Brown Way master, heavy enough to contain any otherworldly creature should the ceremony go wrong. Certainly heavy enough to hold the waif of the Diaboli that they held, as clueless as she was of the whole ordeal. The other robed Enkidukai assisted in the chaining of the woman, and only until she was securely fastened did they awake her. It was tantamount, apparently, that she be awake for the ceremony. The blood must seek the victim, must have resistance for there to be any effect.

And so the mind of the Menki watched, watched as his own paws drew the circle of blood, carefully measuring and pouring a part of each vial together and drawing the lines of magic. It raged against the stentorian bars of confinement as those selfsame paws finished and fell to his side, and as the beginnings of Dark Way enchantments were ripped from the back of the Clamod, the mind felt the pain, but the body felt nothing. Numb were the puppet's actions, but on fire was the encaged mind.

And from the entrance to the room, the Lemur seemed to be merely watching.

Wulfar's mind again noted the blur of Akkaian fenki, and the monster of a Ynnwyn man as they entered the room. Hope sprung to it as first the Lemur fell, receiving a saber to the face that ended that shriveled creature's life. Hope was quickly squashed, though, as the Ynnwyn was brutally smashed by a summoned rock from the other robed figure, and the ceremony continued to seemingly drain the very life from Wulfar's back. Finally, a hint of hope was given to the caged prisoner as a fiery fist first shot through, and then scorched the very blood of the other robed occultist, leaving only Wulfar and the Akkaian fenki standing.

But perhaps it had been too late. As the last dregs of Dark Way energy left Wulfar's body, the Diaboli girl slumped in her chains against the Crystal. All of the blood had been absorbed into her body, and Wulfar had been left completely drained, with no idea of what the proceedings had even been about.

It was then that the Akkaian fenki came to Wulfar. Surely she couldn't recognize him, his mind thought, desperately. Surely she would end this misery. His body, or whomever controlled it, seemed to have other ideas.

Frustration, sheer frustration and fury welled in the Clamod Enkidukai as his own paw, not under his own control, lifted the wicked-looking bone hilted dagger, completely prepared to dismember his opponent.

Something stirred at that moment, the small figure of the mind throwing itself against the bars of imprisonment, expending all of his mental energy in any attempt to cease this! Stop it at once, this is not what you are to be doing!

Perhaps it got through, for as the saber of the fenki came slashing in at him, the paw did nothing to defend the body. Death came quickly, and mercifully, and the mind of the Clamod was once again blank.

[I will try and post a bit more here in a little....]

[Masked]

The Diaboli's head swam, flecks of black dancing over her pupils and her thoughts beginning to blur. This wasn't supposed to be happening. She had been promised that she was going to be safe. Asmo had told her, Evirea had told her. It wasn't supposed to end like this.

Tired steps drug Lyla to the door, tired hands and heavy arms lifted the bolt. Looking out into the hallowed streets of Amdeneir was like looking into a child's kaleidoscope: Buildings were inverted, the cobblestone a parody of the physical item. The street to the right looked a mile long, and to the left it was infinitesimal. She wasn't supposed to be outside. She wasn't supposed to answer the door. But no knock had come on the guildhouse door, no, she was doing this with her own strength, under the bidding of some unseen force that compelled her.

When one sense is removed, another awakens. And as Lyla's vision was blurred, her hearing perked up, spurred by the desperation of her brain, which fought the dark magic as if it were heading to a certain death. And perhaps it was. Perhaps this would be the end of the young Diaboli, brought to Hydlaa under pretense of a resurrection that had been promised but not yet delivered. This might be the final stroke of a madman, some cowled genius with no regard for the life of the young woman whom he held in the palm of his hand. So the sounds of the streets, of the others around her, of the life thrumming through the Dome kept her sane as her tired body marched on the strings of a puppetmaster.

It was peaceful in Amdeneir. The streets were mostly vacant, but if one was listening, they could hear the inhabitants of the town going about their daily business. There was the bar nearby, the gruff owner occasionally barking out an upcoming order or demanding a customer's recompense. Birds were quite the artists here, as the Klyran design gave flight to both song and winged creature alike.
Their chirps were a mockery to her ears, as in their freedom they taunted her in flight and song alike.

The thud of her dull steps echoed in the bastion of Klyr-dom, and as she approached the Pterosaur and flight attendant alike, she was all too aware of the clink and jangle of tria, her own tria, as she spent it preparing for her doom.

Some sort of devilish sleep overtook her midflight, either a great weariness as her mind succumbed to the enchantment, or simply a method of her body giving up, and giving in, although it was unlike her to give in. Very unlike her. Her parents had taught her that giving in was never an option, and that when confronted with tragedy, oppression, or any sort of fight, that it was paramount to be the champion, to overcome.

Her eyes opened with complete clarity, perhaps too much clarity. She was dead. Somehow, they had killed her, and she was dead. Looking down, she saw chains on her feet. To both sides revealed them cinched tightly around her wrists, and it didn't take much to tell where she was. In the room of the great Dark Crystal, in the Death Realm itself. In fact, strapped to the crystal. What an ignominious end, dying as a pawn in some madman's scheme. This was not how Lyelora Kulesara had intended to die. A quick test revealed that no amount of wiggling or fighting would break her free of this.

It didn't take very long after she awoke that those who would doom her appeared. A cursory glance revealed the two cloaked figures, one of which was the man she had first encountered: A blur, hard to pin down. This would be the leader then, she figured, the one who would cast whatever dark spells that would do her in. The other simply stood here, masked and hooded.

It was this one that scared her more, the featureless mask like some sort of skeletal visage peering from the depths of an unknown hell. It was impossible to pin down any features, even, or even tell the color of the creature's eyes. That it stood there, uncaring and with no compassion whatsoever unnerved her. There was no hope here, no hope in either of these two.

And unawares to her, the third figure watched.

By blood wrought, by blood sealed. No blood shed in vain, no blood to be shed in vain. The circle is drawn, the line has been set. By strength untold, we shall have a return.

And so the Diaboli's eyes closed, unaware of her rescuers to be, her captors actions, or anything of the sort.



Blissfully, serenely the blood began to flow. Not hers, no. The blood of both victim and ally, friend and foe alike were warped by the power of the Way and the Dark Crystal's flood, seeking the pores of the Diaboli woman. Like a constrictor wrapping around its prey, the red liquid undulated around Lyelora, slowly and lethargically being called into a new host by an unseen master. Red found the black skin, like a deathly mist seeping into the very bones of the hostess. From the vials arranged around the circle, more of the liquid crept upwards in defiance of the very laws of nature itself, roiling with power and purpose.

Black stars exploded in Lyla's vision, though her eyes were closed. Her body felt full, full to bursting with something unseen as the blood poured IN to her.

Finally, the blood in the urns was dry, gone. Eyes fluttering open, Lyla saw that one of her assailants was lying nearly dead on the ground near her, a gaping scorch wound opening him up completely through his stomach. The other assailant was standing several feet in front of her to her right, a dagger in his hand. And Asmo was trying to free her, his sword swinging in at the chains that bound her.

Asmo's sword bit into her arm, leaving a horrid red gash mark as a stone nearly flattened the large Ynnwyn from behind. Lyla stifled a gasp, but the pain seemed to never come, and the blood simply recycled into her body like the rest.

And with a swing of a saber, the ordeal was over. Mariana, the Akkaian fenki, had completely leveled her other captor. Like the first few bodies, the aggressors faded into a semblance of nothingness, and freedom was hers.....


For now....

[Garris Shrike]

Two Diaries

The menki sits in his cell, the cramped confines of the simple metal creation bearing down on him from all sides. In front of him is a table, with a small assortment of chairs, haphazardly scattered. There is a notepad on the table, with neat scribbles - the notes of a guardsman, listening to the latest accuser to come forwards. The guardsman is no longer there, and the accuser is long gone.

To his left are two other cells, much more spacious than his. His is solitary, alone. Small, desolate, and unfurnished. Should he wish to sleep, he sleeps with his back up against the wall, his feet propped up against the bars in front of him. The left his clothes, tattered and torn as they are. His glyphs are gone, his weapons gone as well. The one thing remaining to him are his books, which were deemed unimportant.

The captive can have books. Books never killed anyone. They're just words, words on a page. There has never been a time in history when words were catalysts for events, have there? So in between marred bouts of sleep and the occasional jeering catcalls of another accuser, the menki reads. And in his head, he writes as well: a parallel diary, memories to consider.

Because it could be a short trip for him. There may be nothing left but memories, sooner or later. Men paid dearly for things like this. He could only hope that in his desperation, it had paid off.

So in his hands he holds the worn pages, hundreds of cycles old. Bound in ratty leather and filmed with dust, he carefully, ever so carefully cups it in his paws and turns the pages as if caressing a lover. This has been his gospel, his modus operandi. And in whatever time he has left in this stalactite, he will read them once more.

The Writings of Isan Goldeneyed
The book seems to be written like a diary, with multiple entries. Some are dated, but most are not. They do seem to follow a sequential order, however. The handwriting of the author is neat, but slanted and heavily lined in and strong.

Entry 1: I begin to wonder if this is a mockery. I swore service, only to hear nothing. I expected it to be a matter of days before the first task would come, but it has been weeks, perhaps months.
I am afraid. Perhaps it means they have found me unworthy. Perhaps, somehow, I have let my tongue be loose. I ought not to be even writing this. Great is the risk if they find it in my possession. Greater still if it is in someone else's.
I am the greatest fool. This is no way to live, this uncertainty.
Is it worth it? The promises, the whispers, the lies?
It is too late to ask this question. I should've asked it, debated it long ago. I should've spent my nights in the tavern agonizing over it, until each possibility was laid bare and every piece of this equation had been set in an order. Than I could have solved it. And my soul would be my own, not sold for a whisper.
Gods be damned.
I may not live to see morning.

Entry 2:
There has been a current, a slight sound. My ears strain to hear it, but the inexorable waft of air moves on. I have been....given an opportunity. I do not know why, I will not even chance to guess. I can't ask questions, can I? No. There are too many risks. Faceless I will remain.

Entry 3:
She walks among the flowers like a wraith, this woman. I thought I had known beauty, but she - she is like a goddess. Were Laanx to see her, her jealousy would burn hot enough to scorch this level ten times over. Why would they ask this of me? Isn't it enough, to sow what we have already sown?
I will not be a reaper of death. Such a thing shouldn't be removed from this place, lest we all wither from the loss.
She didn't even see me, today. I am indeed Faceless.

I tracked her from the outskirts of town, where she gathered the flowers, all the way to her stall where she sells them. It's rather crafty of her, really, the way she preserves them. It must be a trick of the Blue Way, because as the customers stop and look at them, they always remark on the beads of dew still on the colored petals.

I know what else she does, though. Flowers aren't her only ware. If a customer asks enough, there's something else she'll sell, a different sort of thing that grows. Hope. Perhaps that is why they want her. But...I am not sure I can justify this.
It feels like my soul tears at the thought.

Entry 4:
I have bidden my time for nigh on 2 cycles since my last writing. She still suspects nothing. Several times I have bought flowers from her, went home, and sat in anguish. Several times I have sent out for advice, and received only one word: wait. How long must I wait? If I wait any longer, I will not be able to do this deed. Even now, when I smile at her, my gut wrenches at the thought of what must happen. And when she smiles back, I must turn away - there would be no other way to hide what I truly feel.

My own room in this dilapidated house is filled with withering flowers. The petals are strewn about the floor, some rotten, some withered altogether. Every time I open the door, I feel like I ought to clean it.
But if I clean it, I may not be able to wait any more. There may be a message that comes back that I do not wish to read.

There will be no more flowers. And I will have cleansed my memories, and blackened my soul completely.

Entry 5:
I had a visitor today. Not a man I recognized. I was given more tria, told to wait just a while longer.
I am afraid. I think he spotted this.

No.
I would be dead, had he. There would be no forgiveness.

Entry 6:
The air is thick, today. Fog has settled on the city, and the cobbles in the street are moist with it. Every breath seems to add to the cloud, and the quiet is unnatural.
She has even closed her stall today. There were no trips outside the walls, and no smiles for her customers. Nor one for me.
I have received nothing for several days.
This fog affects my mood. I.....miss her. She knows not who I am, probably not even my name, but the sight of her brings forth feelings I thought had been sacrificed and removed from my heart.

I begin to question this endeavour. Perhaps it is all a sham? Perhaps the strength that I thought was there is nothing but a faƧade. Perhaps I am one menki creating evil where evil does not exist. It is said the Crystal will shine brightly tomorrow. I will visit her than.

Entry 7:
Her stall was open today, and gods, the bouquets of flowers she provided were matched only by her own beauty.
I will always remember the dull thudding of my heart as I approached her. I laid the tria out on the counter, and asked for her very best.
She remembered my name. I don't know if she was supposed to. Have I gone too far? Am I found out?
It is no matter. It will not be a matter. I am convinced that they have forgotten me, and my task is no longer needed. I will consider her a fortuitous outcome, and be on with my life.

Entry 8:
I took her to the Inn today, and what a feast we had! Perhaps my only regret is eating too much, because I felt like quite the slug afterwards. Weeks in, and I still can't believe she agreed to start seeing this menki. I never really considered myself handsome, but she says my eyes are what drew her in. Hmm, well I'm not complaining, but I always thought they'd be more of a put-off than anything, being purely golden and all. My dad says it was a curse from the gods, but mother would always correct him and turn it into a blessing.
I figured it was just what it was. I can see, that's all I need, right?
And she loves them. So they must be a blessing, I suppose.
I will not write any longer, she sees the book and is coming here. Ah, well, I'm not abject to a kiss or two...

Entry 9:
This is the first morning I have awoken to see her beside me.
I am not sure I have words to describe the feeling. My eyes, fluttering open to the sight of her shoulders, our (our?) shift barely covering the corners of them. The smell of her hair, haphazardly down her back and on the bed. The smell of her, flowers, perfume, and some other scent. I cannot place it, but were I to give it a word, it would be bliss. She is still sleeping, and I have moved to my desk to write. Sometimes, I look over, and shake myself. It must be a dream, right?

Entry 10:
She asked if I had plans for the day, today. I don't, so we're off to see the meadows. I've packed a lunch, and we'll be back before crystallight has dimmed. She's closed her shop for the day, and it's no matter.

Entry 11:
What a marvelous day, yesterday! I feel....a bit embarrassed to write it, perhaps, but how could I not? I've felt love, I've made love, and the crystal is witness! All gods be damned, I need to marry this woman.
I can only hope that she is as happy as I am. She seems to be, but sometimes she's hard to read. I really try not to pay it any matter, because she's busy. It must be hard, running a business and putting up with me.

I'm almost out of tria....but I'm to be her new partner at the stall, anyways. We'll move, this house is not for me anymore.

Entry 12:
It has been months since my last writing. I often wonder why I wrote in the first place, I feel like I was missing out on life itself! It must've been something that I did, to pass time.
Now, time is hard to come by! We're married, happily, and we've moved to the upper levels of the town, closer to our favorite Inn. She told me she has a surprise for me this evening, and I can't wait. If it's like most of her surprises, it'll either be something I cannot write about, or another dream come true. Frankly, I don't mind either one.

Entry 13:
There is a boy on the way! I'm to have a son.
We'll call him Idris, Idris Ruuka. A fine name, for the son of the Goldeneyed and his wife!
Today, I feel like there is no weight on my shoulders.
The past is gone.
I am complete.

Entry 14:
The air here is different. She has been home all day, doing something. I've just come back from the fields, but I think something is wrong.
The door to her room is locked, and there's a strange smell coming from it.
I found a note, the contents of it strange. I do not think it was meant for me. But what is it time for?
There is a strange odor. Like boiling blood. It's here in this house.
She's in one of her moods. She won't let me in.

Entry 15:
It's been two days since she first came out.
It does not look like anything has changed. She says our child is fine. She should be due soon.
She has not been sleeping well. Several times I've woken up to find her sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing.

Entry 16:
If anyone finds this book, please destroy it. She will find me soon. I cannot leave the house. I am here, in the room. The door is locked, but I can sense traces of her magic building on the other side.

I can hear whispers.

Entry 17:
[The writing is changed. It is a beautiful, flowing style. Very feminine.]
My dear child, and to your children as well:
One day, you shall find this. I have made it so that you will, but only when one of you possessing the courage and cunning to do so is born.
It may not be you, my dearest Idris. But the line has been started, and the blood magic has been wrought.
Stitched to the cover, you have already found the talisman. Believe me when I say that you do not want your blood to touch this piece. I would even go so far as to ensure you do not touch it with bare skin.
For years, I have worked on this, this one, powerful magic. And I will tell you about it, so that you may know what to do when these two things fall into your possession:

Four cycles ago, your father was marked. If you have this journal, you already know why.
There is a plan, and the Faceless believe that when the time is ripe, your father will be allowed to return to this plane of existence.
The flowers were the first phase. From the moment I knew that he had been chosen, I began to wrought enchantments on the ones he would purchase. They blurred his mind, altered his thoughts. Very faint Azure magics gave me a slight ability to suggest things to him, and in turn, he would be much more likely to follow through with these suggestions. It was a painstaking process, and the requirements on my own health, time, and wellness were extreme. For four cycles, I have been someone else. I have walked in someone else's shoes.
But that is a story that none need hear.
The child was the second phase. I have not been given the entire plan, but there needed to be a lineage. Someone to carry this plan to fruition, to allow the vine time to ripen and the full fruits be plucked at the right opportunity.
The blood magic was the third, and hardest phase. For the entirety of the four cycles, I collected blood - anyone's blood. Some people would prick their hands on the thorns, and that was enough. Some would be hurt in the tent, as as the town's herbalist, I would be called on. That was enough.
The blood of the people will bring about the destruction of the people.
The last six vials of blood you must replicate when the time is due. Blood containing the magic of six different ways of magic were gathered, and not just from ordinary mages.
Masters each, these mages were. Some had to be duped, tricked, or injured. Some...I sacrificed myself for. Some were simple, as tria motivated them greater than lust. But each were gathered, and at a cost. The writings of the Faceless, of which you must have access to by now, will reveal this in greater depth.

Into this coin has gone the blood magic. The last six are the seal, the binding.

You must release your own blood, the father of your line. The poor, unwitting soul has been in torment for the last cycle, and finally his soul is with Dakkru.

But it is not just a simple soul we are sending her. He has been tempered, refined.....re-made.
I have no regrets about what we have done to him. He is simply a tool now, simply a man refined in fires from the depths.
He will come for those around him. But his own blood, he will recognize. This is all I offer you. There will be no solace in him, no comfort. No peace will rest in that gnarled soul. What purpose he serves I have not been granted to know. But my part is done.

When you read this, you are to release him. Gather the blood of six mages, and a conduit through which you can channel the energy of the Realm, the Dark Way. You must also have a body waiting for your great-father, for souls cannot inhabit thin air. Through the blood of the mages his soul will be released, but it will be weak. Give it time to fester, to find a foothold. And when the time is right, you must bring the talisman to your father, to the vessel he holds, and give it to him. The simple blood-magic of the people will energize his spirit, and give it the strength it needs to shed and re-make the body into his own.

One note, about the vessel: It must hold particular import to your father. Something that can conjure a memory for him, evoking emotion. No ordinary citizen will do.
I trust that you will know how to go about this. You were clever enough to find this.

And as the last piece, my blood too shall bind this talisman.

The blood of a Diaboli.

with love,

Mother.

[Garris Shrike]

[As a side note: We aren't in the business of summoning faceless monsters or immortal entities. We often find that doing so results in a disinterested, overwhelmed player base. There are very few people who can do the whole Apocalyptic thing well (we're looking at you, Joss Whedon), and this team decided it would be in our best interests to keep it local. Or at least local enough.....]