Within a crag of a tall cliff positioned impossibly in the middle of an endless desert stood just short of a dozen unlikely figures outside of several dark, hovering ships.
Harzgar shifted from side to side uncomfortably.
Grelada heard his voice in her head.
"What kind of things are these anyway?"
"Chitons, if I am not mistaken... they are from Crenea." She replied, beaming a smile across the table.
"They look like contructs... it is making me want to kill em."
"Calm your nerves, Harzgar... we have to work with these things - for now."
A resonant voice filled the air as the lead of the creatures spoke.
"So, you are certain that this thief of theirs did this?"
They stood before the slaughtered remnants of the camp, the ground covered in dead Therans and Naga.
Richala spoke to the four man sized insects together. "Well, we tracked him this far, but he couldn't have acted alone."
Grelada spoke up "Why don't you just ask their spirits?"
The creature emitted a chatter from it's mandibles.
"They are corrupted, such would be a fool's errand. This you should have already known."
Grelada spoke to her group "So I guess they are just as afraid of horrors as anyone else."
The Chitons murmered to eachother in an unknown tongue.
Thill stomped his foot on the ground angrily. "Why in the passion's name would you bring us all the way back out here if you knew there was nothing to be gained from it?"
The leader figure turned again, a strange cacophony of sound emitting from its various rings and jeweled pendants that peirced through his angular flesh.
"Well, little one, you make a good point. You would not have come back at all were the shadow lord still here."
Grelada took pause. "The Shadow Lord? Nulth? Master of Mole'heim?"
The leader "nodded."
Grelada seemed shocked "So the legend is true? The Jinari of the Shades not only exists but resides in some simple cave? I find that hard to beleive of an entity that has existed since the dawn of the dragons."
One of the other creatures spoke this time.
"The legends of Marac are very clear about the subject. These are the harsh masters, nothing like the pharons, or your passions or dragons. These jinari spawned from Ao, the Immortal. Torn apart by All-Wings, they all returned to the land of their creation."
Richala laughed. "That is ridiculous, how would they have survived the scourge? How would they not be well known in power throughout unified Thera?"
The leader spoke again this time.
"They were split into 6 aspects. So goes the knowledge that the Therans were the first to discover. The bones of Ao were rent, and became earth, the blood of Ao was spilled, and became sea, the strength of Ao was torn and became fire, and the last breath of ao became the air."
Grelada noted "Six?"
The creature paused before continuing.
"Yes, supposedly. The last two were less well understood. The fear that All-Wings held for Ao became the night, and the conviction of All-Wings became the day."
Richala spoke "They sounded reasonable until this - perhaps by sun they mean life and death, as in Vasgothian druidic principles?"
Harzgar spoke up "No, the night belongs to the creatures of deception, and the sun to those of thought. It is not so simple as you say it."
"They are just legends." The leader said quickly.
"They have value in so far as they give us clues to the reality of the situation at hand. The jinari who resided here has gone. This represents a great degree of unrest. If the balance between these ancients is disturbed, it could be damaging for those of all of Thera."
Ruglor snorted "Maybe for Marac, but who cares?"
The chitinous creature shook its angular head back and forth.
"No, my Orcish friend. This affects far more than Marac. Look around you, do you see more than emptiness? Where are the great mountains of Vasgothia? Where are the tall trees of Shoshara? This place is trapped in the void of absence."
Richala nodded "He is right, there is little of any elemental strength here, save for, perhaps, the heat. Are you saying that the 'stength' is the only aspect here?"
The creature cocked it's head at an impossible angle, "Far from it, what do you think burns within the Death Sea?"
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Veltom the 30th
"Klagar, you did what you could. On such a short notice, and without my direct intervention, I am pleased with the results. The rest of them can cause havok as they see fit. It will be a welcome distraction. With two of Seven dead, you exceeded my expectations. Take an extra two weeks pay and spend the time alone, I have several books to study."
Morgraine patted the stack of books with his gloved hand.
His bodyguard bowed deeply and exited his office, leaving him alone. Morgraine picked up the first book and examined the cover and spine. Definitely the work of a master, but older than he expected. He scribbled notes about its appearance on a parchment. His peace was broken by a hurried knocking on the door.
He placed the book hurriedly in his desk along with the others and spoke up "Who disturbs my chambers?" he said loudly.
A woman's voice replied "I have a message for you, open the door!"
Morgraine cocked his head to one side. This was so out of place it piqued his curiosity. He walked to a large reflective table and waved his hand over it. An image appeared of a woman with almost shorn cropped hair and dowdy clothing nervously waiting before a door, and repeatedly checking over her shoulder. She wrung her hands nervously, and then knocked again. Morgraine waved the image away and started returning to his seat.
"Begone" he said, "I have no time for games, go before I have you removed."
"Your life is in danger, the brotherhood is on to you."
Morgraine's smug expression sank. He strode across the grand chamber and flung open the door. The woman almost fell into him.
"Enter, and speak well. These might be your last words."
She stepped in a few paces, looking down the whole while. He slammed the doors shut behind her and walked around to face her.
"Well?" He said, his impatience palpable.
She stammered for moment trying to collect her words.
He reached out with lightning speed and grabbed her throat.
"Tell me what you know of the brotherhood while you still live, or I will take it from your soul." He squeezed.
She instinctively tried to pry him away. "Vur-eel" she choked.
"The name means nothing to me, is that all you came here to say?"
"He... nightwing... seven... books ..." Her face was red.
Morgraine held for a couple more seconds and dropped her to the floor gasping.
"I am curious..." he began conversationally, "just what you think you know. The depth of your wild fantasies is vast enough that I will consider granting you another minutes time. Sit, and tell me all you know, or I will make it quite difficult for you."
She crawled away from him until her back was against a wall. After a few moments she started regaining her composure as best she could, and stood for a moment and sat in the farthest of several chairs facing Morgraine's desk.
"Your 'group' - one went missing, and the Seven had something to do with it right?" She began slowly.
Morgraine stared at her from his seat across the massive desk, his face like stone.
She adjusted uncomfortably before continuing. "They killed one of the order of messias who had some important information? There are more people after that information than just your brotherhood."
Morgraine spoke quickly "Your yapping is producing nothing new."
"The Iopians - they tricked your man, Vureel, or whatever his real name was... he was working for them in secret! They gave him the charm, they call it, and he was theirs. He tried to get me killed, and tried to give them one of the Seven as a bargaining peice for something."
Morgraine laughed a cruel laugh.
"Oh pity you silly creature. I don't know how you found me, but it was a mistake. All that you might have stumbled into has happened according to my desires. I know full well the Iopians want what I now have."
She tried to stammer out a defense, Morgraine lifted his hand, and the spell was quick and efficient. She clutched her chest and simply stopped moving, and slumped forward, a confused look on her face.
Morgraine sighed. How could this much have gotten in the hands of a madwoman. Considering the levels of secrecy and magic being used to keep the brotherhood unknown, that some sort of simple slave might know something of them was deeply concerning.
He moved the body into his workshop. Perhaps another time he might study it to gain insight into the true name of her spirit. It would certainly be easier than asking her what she knew while she was alive.
As he carried her into the next room he caught a wiff of her. She smelled like rot, like old flesh, something dead. He didn't notice the singed hair and burns on her shoulders and head. He turned back after heaping her body into the workshop and returned to his books.
He shook off the strangeness of the visit. He would focus on this later. For now, he must memorize and destroy the books. There was too much risk that whoever this odd one was might know something and seek them.
He pulled out the tomes, and foregoing the notes, cracked open the oldest of the three and began reading.
A sound rang across his mind. Like someone snapping their fingers. It was a triggered spell. He felt a wave of magic surge from inside of him, forming a bubble around his mind. He felt washed with sudden confusion as he gazed down on the page. Simple runes, and simple drawings. Not even any words. He felt himself grow closer and closer to it. He gritted his teeth against an unknown force, gazing down with a cold stare into the very fibers of the lines themselves... there was something within them... he forced his way towards it, as he felt his mental block faltering... down, down, down until...
*pop*!
-------------------------------------------
The council watched as the blood sprayed from Morgraines head. Vureel let go of the magic, and the illusionary vision faded.
The eleven cloaked figures on the opposite side of the table stood.
They spoke in one voice. "After reviewing your work in this matter, we forgive your failure in Barsaive. Your additional riddance of a traitor to our cause shows us your superior capacity as a caster. We will lift your block on knowledge and memory, and reinstate you as a member of the Ancient Order of Messias. Your efforts to this end has been impressive, and you will be the first honored so."
Vureel gave a casual nod.
"That would be helpful, I couldn't quite jostle it all free. I am honored, my brothers."
The group took their seats again.
An obsidiman pulled the hood from his head. "Impressive work nonetheless, I have never had one of my subjects remember so much in this manner. I would like to share your technique when you have the time."
Vureel took one of the two empty seats calmly, and replied politely.
"Thank you, Grim Rock."
The figure at the head of the table stood and pulled back his hood. He had dark, scarred skin and a very guant and thin face for an Ork. He spoke in a resonating and deep tone.
"The scar placed upon the Denairastas must now be sealed with fire. Should we pressure the leaders, we will pressure Denairastas himself, and bring him out of hiding. Once free of the protections within his citadel, he will be easily dealt with, and his meddlings undone."
As the Ork sat back down, a human stood.
"I concur, Ghestalt. What of Musaf Sharif? Seven are loyal if anything else. From what Vureel has brought us, we know they seek him in Marac. Should he rise again, he could threaten Fashiir and his rulership in that provice. With the overgoverner calling for the expansion of our borders past Espana, he will not tolerate unrest on the southern coast."
The human resumed his seat, the Ork stood again.
"We must not let this come to pass. All attention must be on Iopos and Throal. If we release the pressure on these two kingdoms, we allow the Dragons to know our minds. Send a few observers, Vureel, as you will now control both the Keys and Mason's Blight, I suggest you use them."
Vureel smiled politely, and nodded.
"If the snake is rising from the basket, then we shall secure VN and see to it that the head is properly removed before it threatens the overgoverner."
The Ork then paused, looking around the room.
"For now, however, let us focus on understanding our next target, Denairastas. We have to complete the ritual Hefera has led us to. Such an opportunity is not missed."
-------------------------------------------------------
"Two gifts, for my dark lord."
The Orkish servant held forth a silk cloth folded over and bowed on the stoney surface of the great chamber.
Two burning red slashes appeared in the darkness, and focused on him.
A voice spoke from behind the Ork. Calm and smooth. "Three gifts, my lord." he said, motioning towards the cloth.
"Place them before you, creature of low blood." boomed a thunderous voice.
The Ork did so without hesitation. Almost as quickly, the two eyes darted through the darkness, the massive head of the great dragon moving a quickly as any namegiver might. Glinting grey fangs appeared for a moment, and the mouth consumed the entire Ork before he had time to know what was happening.
The Great Dragon only parted his lips to chew once, a screaming crunching sound briefly emitting out.
The other figure present, walked forward to the cloth, and gently removed it. Beneath it was a glinting golden sword and a book.
"Your weapon, my lord, and a book."
The eyes squinted at the items.
The room seemed to echo before the creature even began speaking.
"You have done well, my child. I see in your mind that these have come from many efforts, and much swift thinking. Take your sisters staff, Falseroot, and give it as a gift to your benefactor in Thera. They will make a powerful ally."
The figure adjusted.
"Master of all, I have given him the stone, so there is no need to return a gift to him. He serves us unconditionally."
The Great Dragon heaved a growl at being questioned.
"YOU FOOL, DO YOU NOT SEE YOUR OWN SCAR?"
The dragon's hand flung out and pinned the elf to the ground with the force of a boulder. The gigantic claws ripped off the entirity of his over-garments, revealing his bare chest. He looked down desperately, and there, below his ribs on his left side there was a nearly 3 inch scar. Definitely a heart-stone, and definitely applied with some force... he was lucky to have survived it.
The Great Dragon continued.
"The success of your efforts is tainted by the embarassment of your pathetic failures. Dare not question me again and live. Do and face death. Clean yourself of that. I will not have my children bring me shame in their existance alone."
Morgraine patted the stack of books with his gloved hand.
His bodyguard bowed deeply and exited his office, leaving him alone. Morgraine picked up the first book and examined the cover and spine. Definitely the work of a master, but older than he expected. He scribbled notes about its appearance on a parchment. His peace was broken by a hurried knocking on the door.
He placed the book hurriedly in his desk along with the others and spoke up "Who disturbs my chambers?" he said loudly.
A woman's voice replied "I have a message for you, open the door!"
Morgraine cocked his head to one side. This was so out of place it piqued his curiosity. He walked to a large reflective table and waved his hand over it. An image appeared of a woman with almost shorn cropped hair and dowdy clothing nervously waiting before a door, and repeatedly checking over her shoulder. She wrung her hands nervously, and then knocked again. Morgraine waved the image away and started returning to his seat.
"Begone" he said, "I have no time for games, go before I have you removed."
"Your life is in danger, the brotherhood is on to you."
Morgraine's smug expression sank. He strode across the grand chamber and flung open the door. The woman almost fell into him.
"Enter, and speak well. These might be your last words."
She stepped in a few paces, looking down the whole while. He slammed the doors shut behind her and walked around to face her.
"Well?" He said, his impatience palpable.
She stammered for moment trying to collect her words.
He reached out with lightning speed and grabbed her throat.
"Tell me what you know of the brotherhood while you still live, or I will take it from your soul." He squeezed.
She instinctively tried to pry him away. "Vur-eel" she choked.
"The name means nothing to me, is that all you came here to say?"
"He... nightwing... seven... books ..." Her face was red.
Morgraine held for a couple more seconds and dropped her to the floor gasping.
"I am curious..." he began conversationally, "just what you think you know. The depth of your wild fantasies is vast enough that I will consider granting you another minutes time. Sit, and tell me all you know, or I will make it quite difficult for you."
She crawled away from him until her back was against a wall. After a few moments she started regaining her composure as best she could, and stood for a moment and sat in the farthest of several chairs facing Morgraine's desk.
"Your 'group' - one went missing, and the Seven had something to do with it right?" She began slowly.
Morgraine stared at her from his seat across the massive desk, his face like stone.
She adjusted uncomfortably before continuing. "They killed one of the order of messias who had some important information? There are more people after that information than just your brotherhood."
Morgraine spoke quickly "Your yapping is producing nothing new."
"The Iopians - they tricked your man, Vureel, or whatever his real name was... he was working for them in secret! They gave him the charm, they call it, and he was theirs. He tried to get me killed, and tried to give them one of the Seven as a bargaining peice for something."
Morgraine laughed a cruel laugh.
"Oh pity you silly creature. I don't know how you found me, but it was a mistake. All that you might have stumbled into has happened according to my desires. I know full well the Iopians want what I now have."
She tried to stammer out a defense, Morgraine lifted his hand, and the spell was quick and efficient. She clutched her chest and simply stopped moving, and slumped forward, a confused look on her face.
Morgraine sighed. How could this much have gotten in the hands of a madwoman. Considering the levels of secrecy and magic being used to keep the brotherhood unknown, that some sort of simple slave might know something of them was deeply concerning.
He moved the body into his workshop. Perhaps another time he might study it to gain insight into the true name of her spirit. It would certainly be easier than asking her what she knew while she was alive.
As he carried her into the next room he caught a wiff of her. She smelled like rot, like old flesh, something dead. He didn't notice the singed hair and burns on her shoulders and head. He turned back after heaping her body into the workshop and returned to his books.
He shook off the strangeness of the visit. He would focus on this later. For now, he must memorize and destroy the books. There was too much risk that whoever this odd one was might know something and seek them.
He pulled out the tomes, and foregoing the notes, cracked open the oldest of the three and began reading.
A sound rang across his mind. Like someone snapping their fingers. It was a triggered spell. He felt a wave of magic surge from inside of him, forming a bubble around his mind. He felt washed with sudden confusion as he gazed down on the page. Simple runes, and simple drawings. Not even any words. He felt himself grow closer and closer to it. He gritted his teeth against an unknown force, gazing down with a cold stare into the very fibers of the lines themselves... there was something within them... he forced his way towards it, as he felt his mental block faltering... down, down, down until...
*pop*!
-------------------------------------------
The council watched as the blood sprayed from Morgraines head. Vureel let go of the magic, and the illusionary vision faded.
The eleven cloaked figures on the opposite side of the table stood.
They spoke in one voice. "After reviewing your work in this matter, we forgive your failure in Barsaive. Your additional riddance of a traitor to our cause shows us your superior capacity as a caster. We will lift your block on knowledge and memory, and reinstate you as a member of the Ancient Order of Messias. Your efforts to this end has been impressive, and you will be the first honored so."
Vureel gave a casual nod.
"That would be helpful, I couldn't quite jostle it all free. I am honored, my brothers."
The group took their seats again.
An obsidiman pulled the hood from his head. "Impressive work nonetheless, I have never had one of my subjects remember so much in this manner. I would like to share your technique when you have the time."
Vureel took one of the two empty seats calmly, and replied politely.
"Thank you, Grim Rock."
The figure at the head of the table stood and pulled back his hood. He had dark, scarred skin and a very guant and thin face for an Ork. He spoke in a resonating and deep tone.
"The scar placed upon the Denairastas must now be sealed with fire. Should we pressure the leaders, we will pressure Denairastas himself, and bring him out of hiding. Once free of the protections within his citadel, he will be easily dealt with, and his meddlings undone."
As the Ork sat back down, a human stood.
"I concur, Ghestalt. What of Musaf Sharif? Seven are loyal if anything else. From what Vureel has brought us, we know they seek him in Marac. Should he rise again, he could threaten Fashiir and his rulership in that provice. With the overgoverner calling for the expansion of our borders past Espana, he will not tolerate unrest on the southern coast."
The human resumed his seat, the Ork stood again.
"We must not let this come to pass. All attention must be on Iopos and Throal. If we release the pressure on these two kingdoms, we allow the Dragons to know our minds. Send a few observers, Vureel, as you will now control both the Keys and Mason's Blight, I suggest you use them."
Vureel smiled politely, and nodded.
"If the snake is rising from the basket, then we shall secure VN and see to it that the head is properly removed before it threatens the overgoverner."
The Ork then paused, looking around the room.
"For now, however, let us focus on understanding our next target, Denairastas. We have to complete the ritual Hefera has led us to. Such an opportunity is not missed."
-------------------------------------------------------
"Two gifts, for my dark lord."
The Orkish servant held forth a silk cloth folded over and bowed on the stoney surface of the great chamber.
Two burning red slashes appeared in the darkness, and focused on him.
A voice spoke from behind the Ork. Calm and smooth. "Three gifts, my lord." he said, motioning towards the cloth.
"Place them before you, creature of low blood." boomed a thunderous voice.
The Ork did so without hesitation. Almost as quickly, the two eyes darted through the darkness, the massive head of the great dragon moving a quickly as any namegiver might. Glinting grey fangs appeared for a moment, and the mouth consumed the entire Ork before he had time to know what was happening.
The Great Dragon only parted his lips to chew once, a screaming crunching sound briefly emitting out.
The other figure present, walked forward to the cloth, and gently removed it. Beneath it was a glinting golden sword and a book.
"Your weapon, my lord, and a book."
The eyes squinted at the items.
The room seemed to echo before the creature even began speaking.
"You have done well, my child. I see in your mind that these have come from many efforts, and much swift thinking. Take your sisters staff, Falseroot, and give it as a gift to your benefactor in Thera. They will make a powerful ally."
The figure adjusted.
"Master of all, I have given him the stone, so there is no need to return a gift to him. He serves us unconditionally."
The Great Dragon heaved a growl at being questioned.
"YOU FOOL, DO YOU NOT SEE YOUR OWN SCAR?"
The dragon's hand flung out and pinned the elf to the ground with the force of a boulder. The gigantic claws ripped off the entirity of his over-garments, revealing his bare chest. He looked down desperately, and there, below his ribs on his left side there was a nearly 3 inch scar. Definitely a heart-stone, and definitely applied with some force... he was lucky to have survived it.
The Great Dragon continued.
"The success of your efforts is tainted by the embarassment of your pathetic failures. Dare not question me again and live. Do and face death. Clean yourself of that. I will not have my children bring me shame in their existance alone."
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Sometime before Veltom the 20th.
"Heavenherds, of course yes, one of them owes me a great favor, and he could -"
The air fled from his lungs mid-sentence. Vureel toppled into the wall of the cell. He opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue rebelled, and forced it's way down his throat. He started choking.
"Speaking from experience," the interrogator began, "you should only answer truthfully if you are going to bother to answer at all. This process is significantly more pleasant than the other methods I have employed to gather information."
As Vureel gasped for air, the interrogator turned back to the guardsmen watching the door to the room. He gestured calmly. One of the three human guardsmen ran off and returned rapidly with a glass of water.
The Interrogator pushed the glass into Vureels hands as he sat on the floor against the wooden wall of the small room.
"Haven-herds" he said "do you have a book of their spells?"
Vureel seemed to be fighting against a pathological habit of lying. He mouthed something meaningless, but shook his head several times quickly.
"Do you know who does?"
Vureel's eyes shot up to the interrogator, and then rapidly fell away. There was no connection there, just a small peircing red disk floating before an expressionless metallic mask, reflecting his own crumpled figure.
Vureel's struggle was apparent. He slowly lowered his head, and brought it up again.
"Then I expect you will know what your new purpose is?"
Vureel immediately had no compulsion to lie. He shook his head.
"I can't, they will kill me for sure. They almost did twice, and now there are more of them!"
The interrogator raised a gloved finger to the front of his mask, and pressed it gently against Vureels lips. He flinched.
"You will have an opportunity. Right now, the Havenherds, an order of Masters decended from Messias himself are preparing to retrieve some stolen items, currently in possession of these Seven. You will take this opportunity to be among those bracing the attack. I have measured your abilities carefully, and you should have no problem impersonating one of the NightsWing. Once in place, you are to simply recover a few things for me. Does that sound unreasonable?"
Vureel turned his face down to the ground. His eyes revealing his search for a way out.
The interogator reached within his tight-formed coat and pulled out a small pouch. He emptied the contents into the palm of his gloved hand. It was a gem - about four inches long and cut jagged on the edges, like a fishhook. It shined in the dim light, even though it was almost coal black. If the stone could speak it would produce a neverending scream. The interogator held it between his gloved fingers, and lifted it up before his "face", appearing to examine it.
"Your cooperation is not optional. There are two ways this can be done..." he said conversationally.
Vureel's eyes grew wide, and he quickly answered. "I don't need that - I will do it... as... a challenge to myself."
The interrogator turned his head towards the prisoner, snapping the gem up in his fist.
"Good. That is the answer I expected. Stand up. You shall recieve a liason from us shortly. She will assist you in this endeavor."
Vureel stood cautiously, bowing his head slightly to avoid hitting the cramped ceiling of the cabin.
The interogator stood as well. Vureel half-started a motion to follow him out the door, but the interrogator didn't budge.
"Hold him." the interogator said calmly.
The guards rushed like a tidal wave, slamming Vureels frame against the wall and then the ground as he struggled. He uttered a shrill and panicked cry.
"NO! NO, I WILL DO IT!" Vureel screamed. He tried to squirm out of the guardsmen's grip, but the three of them overpowered him tremendously.
"As I said, there are two ways this can be done. With you dead, or with your unquestioning cooperation."
Vureel kicked and screamed, but one of the guardsmen put a gloved hand over his mouth.
"Struggling will only make this much more painful than I am intending it to be, human."
The interogator pulled open Vureel's shirt. His sweating chest was pounding up and down with his desperate breaths. "Calm your heart, little living thing, or all this might be for nothing."
He positioned the shard in his fingers like a scalpel and knelt before the shreiking prisoner.
The air fled from his lungs mid-sentence. Vureel toppled into the wall of the cell. He opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue rebelled, and forced it's way down his throat. He started choking.
"Speaking from experience," the interrogator began, "you should only answer truthfully if you are going to bother to answer at all. This process is significantly more pleasant than the other methods I have employed to gather information."
As Vureel gasped for air, the interrogator turned back to the guardsmen watching the door to the room. He gestured calmly. One of the three human guardsmen ran off and returned rapidly with a glass of water.
The Interrogator pushed the glass into Vureels hands as he sat on the floor against the wooden wall of the small room.
"Haven-herds" he said "do you have a book of their spells?"
Vureel seemed to be fighting against a pathological habit of lying. He mouthed something meaningless, but shook his head several times quickly.
"Do you know who does?"
Vureel's eyes shot up to the interrogator, and then rapidly fell away. There was no connection there, just a small peircing red disk floating before an expressionless metallic mask, reflecting his own crumpled figure.
Vureel's struggle was apparent. He slowly lowered his head, and brought it up again.
"Then I expect you will know what your new purpose is?"
Vureel immediately had no compulsion to lie. He shook his head.
"I can't, they will kill me for sure. They almost did twice, and now there are more of them!"
The interrogator raised a gloved finger to the front of his mask, and pressed it gently against Vureels lips. He flinched.
"You will have an opportunity. Right now, the Havenherds, an order of Masters decended from Messias himself are preparing to retrieve some stolen items, currently in possession of these Seven. You will take this opportunity to be among those bracing the attack. I have measured your abilities carefully, and you should have no problem impersonating one of the NightsWing. Once in place, you are to simply recover a few things for me. Does that sound unreasonable?"
Vureel turned his face down to the ground. His eyes revealing his search for a way out.
The interogator reached within his tight-formed coat and pulled out a small pouch. He emptied the contents into the palm of his gloved hand. It was a gem - about four inches long and cut jagged on the edges, like a fishhook. It shined in the dim light, even though it was almost coal black. If the stone could speak it would produce a neverending scream. The interogator held it between his gloved fingers, and lifted it up before his "face", appearing to examine it.
"Your cooperation is not optional. There are two ways this can be done..." he said conversationally.
Vureel's eyes grew wide, and he quickly answered. "I don't need that - I will do it... as... a challenge to myself."
The interrogator turned his head towards the prisoner, snapping the gem up in his fist.
"Good. That is the answer I expected. Stand up. You shall recieve a liason from us shortly. She will assist you in this endeavor."
Vureel stood cautiously, bowing his head slightly to avoid hitting the cramped ceiling of the cabin.
The interogator stood as well. Vureel half-started a motion to follow him out the door, but the interrogator didn't budge.
"Hold him." the interogator said calmly.
The guards rushed like a tidal wave, slamming Vureels frame against the wall and then the ground as he struggled. He uttered a shrill and panicked cry.
"NO! NO, I WILL DO IT!" Vureel screamed. He tried to squirm out of the guardsmen's grip, but the three of them overpowered him tremendously.
"As I said, there are two ways this can be done. With you dead, or with your unquestioning cooperation."
Vureel kicked and screamed, but one of the guardsmen put a gloved hand over his mouth.
"Struggling will only make this much more painful than I am intending it to be, human."
The interogator pulled open Vureel's shirt. His sweating chest was pounding up and down with his desperate breaths. "Calm your heart, little living thing, or all this might be for nothing."
He positioned the shard in his fingers like a scalpel and knelt before the shreiking prisoner.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Veltom the 26th
"This was your stupidest idea thus far. How many times do you need to get involved with these guys before they kill us?"
Her voice carried all the ire and frustration it would have outloud, even though it was entirely in his head.
He didn't turn away from their prisoner even for a second, but responded using his mind entirely.
"They keep involving themselves with me, and I am more than happy to entertain them, since I owe them one for ruining my reputation... I intend to pay it back today."
She gave a hard glare but didn't respond. Excuses for stupid ideas.
A loud blaring noise peirced the air in the distance. Like a long and continous metalic scream. She recognized the sound immediately as the Royal Guardsman, probably the NightWing. The horses started, and the cart careened down the street. She braced herself against the walls. The prisoner, meanwhile, managed to remain handsome even while he blankly stared at her chest. She frowned.
"Exactly what pleasant visions is he experiencing right now?" She said aloud.
"Of course, my love." Vureel replied idlely.
She froze. The words awakening a host of memories.
"Exactly what.." she said louder, but was cut off by Vureel's response.
"My dear, you do look lovely, I wish you wouldn't fret." he replied, turning calmly and staring out the window.
She reached her hand out and swatted at him. For a brief moment she felt his tunic against her hand, but it rapidly gave way and her hand passed straight through his being. An illusion.
"What is the meaning of this!?" She cried out, first aloud, and then in her mind.
The image of Vureel replied as though the door was open, and he was speaking to someone outside of the carraige.
"Both of these will no doubt be of interest to you, Morgraine. Take them as my gift with my apologies." He said.
She stared in disbelief as the cart took a sharp corner too quickly, almost ramping onto two wheels. She focused inward, on her link, but her mind was more quiet than it had been in the last three months. She frantically drew her sleeve past her elbow. A ritual scar on her upper arm was faintly visible, but bore no fresh blood. A wave of sudden panic flowed from her stomach to her fingertips. She searched her mind desperately for options.
"Wake up you idiot!" she stood in the cart and slapped the prisoner across the face several times.
"WAKE UP!!" she cried, but there was no response in his vacant eyes.
She hit the roof of the cart several times, telling the driver to stop, but he was in no position to even notice, as he was shouting desperate cries to the horses to slow them down.
They passed over a sharp edge and the gallop of the horses changed distinctly. She heard a distinct repeated 'klack' sound come from below, as the wagon transitioned from cobblestones to wood. They were on the docks. She lunged for the door, but it was stuck.
A voice calmly filled her mind. "T'was a good run, love. Again, we part in less-than-ideal conditions."
"Damn you!" She cried, but there was no part of her mind connected to the source. She leaned down in the seat and started kicking the door desperately. She heard a slam, and a cry, as the cart bounced.
She found herself losing grip, and slammed against the ceiling of the cart, amidst the sound of a massive explosion, and the whinney of horses, and everything went black.
Her voice carried all the ire and frustration it would have outloud, even though it was entirely in his head.
He didn't turn away from their prisoner even for a second, but responded using his mind entirely.
"They keep involving themselves with me, and I am more than happy to entertain them, since I owe them one for ruining my reputation... I intend to pay it back today."
She gave a hard glare but didn't respond. Excuses for stupid ideas.
A loud blaring noise peirced the air in the distance. Like a long and continous metalic scream. She recognized the sound immediately as the Royal Guardsman, probably the NightWing. The horses started, and the cart careened down the street. She braced herself against the walls. The prisoner, meanwhile, managed to remain handsome even while he blankly stared at her chest. She frowned.
"Exactly what pleasant visions is he experiencing right now?" She said aloud.
"Of course, my love." Vureel replied idlely.
She froze. The words awakening a host of memories.
"Exactly what.." she said louder, but was cut off by Vureel's response.
"My dear, you do look lovely, I wish you wouldn't fret." he replied, turning calmly and staring out the window.
She reached her hand out and swatted at him. For a brief moment she felt his tunic against her hand, but it rapidly gave way and her hand passed straight through his being. An illusion.
"What is the meaning of this!?" She cried out, first aloud, and then in her mind.
The image of Vureel replied as though the door was open, and he was speaking to someone outside of the carraige.
"Both of these will no doubt be of interest to you, Morgraine. Take them as my gift with my apologies." He said.
She stared in disbelief as the cart took a sharp corner too quickly, almost ramping onto two wheels. She focused inward, on her link, but her mind was more quiet than it had been in the last three months. She frantically drew her sleeve past her elbow. A ritual scar on her upper arm was faintly visible, but bore no fresh blood. A wave of sudden panic flowed from her stomach to her fingertips. She searched her mind desperately for options.
"Wake up you idiot!" she stood in the cart and slapped the prisoner across the face several times.
"WAKE UP!!" she cried, but there was no response in his vacant eyes.
She hit the roof of the cart several times, telling the driver to stop, but he was in no position to even notice, as he was shouting desperate cries to the horses to slow them down.
They passed over a sharp edge and the gallop of the horses changed distinctly. She heard a distinct repeated 'klack' sound come from below, as the wagon transitioned from cobblestones to wood. They were on the docks. She lunged for the door, but it was stuck.
A voice calmly filled her mind. "T'was a good run, love. Again, we part in less-than-ideal conditions."
"Damn you!" She cried, but there was no part of her mind connected to the source. She leaned down in the seat and started kicking the door desperately. She heard a slam, and a cry, as the cart bounced.
She found herself losing grip, and slammed against the ceiling of the cart, amidst the sound of a massive explosion, and the whinney of horses, and everything went black.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Veltom the 22nd
The discipline of messenger was the most true of all of them. The most true in the sense of the word "discipline." It took tremendous discipline to take a message and hear none of the contents, deliver it without failing to another, and forget it as though it had never happened.
It took great discipline.
Marelius the Fleet-footed was the best of his breed, but even he felt a heavy burden upon his summons to the grand hall that morning.
Navigating the byways and skyways of the city was as normal and second nature for him that he could do it with his eyes closed, or unconciously. He focused on the latter, based on the extremely unsettling nature of where he was being summoned to.
He misstepped as he almost let himself begin thinking about his destination. As a 7th circle messenger, it would be an insult to the ancestors who followed his path should he have violated the trust between the messenger and their client.
Making his way to the lower ancillary beyond the entrance to the great hall, he stepped out onto the elemental air floors, looking down upon all of the city proper. He spent the time studying his least familiar portions of the city from the position of authority while he made his way to the large double-doors at the end of the hall.
As he approached there were no royal guardsmen - odd considering where he was. He slowed his pace at the door, rapidly feeling a slight chill as though a breeze had swept in underneath his light garments.
"Enter." a voice spoke deep within his ear.
He stepped closer to the door which had begun to open on it's own. Inside was a large round room, with several individuals seated around a wide-round table. He immediately gave his message and awaited their instructions. Should they wish to retain his response, he would give them time to compose it.
One of the figures raised his hand for the messenger to be attent.
He looked across the table at the other figures. They nodded in approval.
"We will issue a response," he spoke, "but not to your charge. Give the response to whomever greets you at his home."
Marelius nodded in agreement. This was common enough.
"We gladly accept your master's gift. Surely the one who sent the message knows that the nameless council to whom he wished it sent does not repay favors, but out of respect for the special consideration and interest we have in this specific matter, we have allowed you to live for another day."
He took in a breath, as though preparing to speak another sentence, but rather than issue it forth in words, it came out all at once - not in a word, so much as a sound.
Fleet-foot didn't "hear" the message, so much as memorize it - but this was something different. This was the word of Death. He felt the thing enter his mind and begin expanding, slamming against his willpower to invade his consciousness and ring through his mind - shattering it.
Marelius wobbled for a moment, stunned.
"Dismissed, Messenger." said the figure as he took his seat once more.
Marelius's mind was ready to burst. He took all of his effort to shove it down and keep it together. He must not know the message. Must not know.
So preoccupied with this effort, he didn't hear the figures as he left.
"Suprising and interesting ability of that messenger... I didn't expect it to work, brother."
If the city didn't play through his dreams he might have never been able to find his destination. Fleet-Foot stumbled and careened his way through the city, his face twisted and his hands on his head. He found himself pounding on the door the manor in the city proper after what felt like an eternity with his head in a vice.
Several shouts from within were issued. A young slave opened the door, and looked up at him. She had green eyes and curly red hair. She couldn't have been older than 14. She gave him an innocent and worried look, and whispered "Welcome, Marelius, sir - what messge do you bring?"
She must be familiar to him, as she knew his name, but he was in no state to identify her. Behind her, an older, but beautiful woman stood, wearing casual theran clothes appear to be worth three times as much as normal, and beyond her, standing in an open doorway stood his retainer. He had a worried look on his face.
Marelius barely thought, as he began spilling out the message to the girl, each word growing more and more intense, and each syllable choking him with the force of the dying-word's desire to be free.
As he continued, he realized what would happen. There was nothing he could do about it. He looked down upon her, her wide eyes, fearful expression, and quivering lips.
"...allowed you to live for another day." he said, leaning on the wall for support. The older woman grabbed the servant girl by the arm and pulled her behind her robes. His retainer had slammed shut the door between the two.
Marelius looked bewildered at the woman, who was ready to lay hands on him in combat, and took a brief glimpse around the room and outside, at the busy street and passers by. He thought briefly of his trainer into the second circle of Messenger. "The art is finer than all martial disciplines, since we bring ends to wars, rather than perpetuate them, we bring joy to those seperated, rather than seperate, and we bring words to ears, as a painter does art to eyes."
----***----
Restranna grabbed the door-bar and readied it like a weapon at the frothing messenger, but before she could do anything about it, he seemed to snap out of it for a second, and then his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he crumpled like a rag-doll, arms and head falling through the doorway.
Vureel opened the door and looked out. Two women - both his.
He sighed a breath of releif, before feeling a shove and knocking into a wall. He opened his eyes and heard a crash behind him as the bar of the door flew into the stockroom and down the stairs.
"What in the passion's name was that!?" Restranna roared, her eyes filled with fear and rage.
Vureel quickly considered his options.
"I just called in a favor from a friend who was less than responsive... All it means is that we are heading back to Barsaive earlier than I thought... Now pull that body in the house and get Merianna ready."
----***----
"My Brothers,"
The word broke the rooms silence as the hooded speaker raised his face from the scrying pool, levelling his eyes with a waiting man-at-arms.
"must not know."
The battle-worn warrior nodded. "Of course, master - your word is law." He said, in a curt and practiced manner.
"Fetch the books from Seven, and bring them to me. Do not make any mistakes, and have no arrogance - these are superior combatants. Take them alone, and never when they have the advantage of their compatriots. You have until the 25th of Veltom."
The Orkish warrior saluted and spun around, leaving the room promptly. The image of an airship in the desert faded from the pool as the hooded figure slouched into a large armchair.
He swivelled and faced large windows overlooking the isle. His gaze slowly travelled over it's innumerable nuances.
"What could possibly be drawing them to Marac..." he said to himself unconciously.
It took great discipline.
Marelius the Fleet-footed was the best of his breed, but even he felt a heavy burden upon his summons to the grand hall that morning.
Navigating the byways and skyways of the city was as normal and second nature for him that he could do it with his eyes closed, or unconciously. He focused on the latter, based on the extremely unsettling nature of where he was being summoned to.
He misstepped as he almost let himself begin thinking about his destination. As a 7th circle messenger, it would be an insult to the ancestors who followed his path should he have violated the trust between the messenger and their client.
Making his way to the lower ancillary beyond the entrance to the great hall, he stepped out onto the elemental air floors, looking down upon all of the city proper. He spent the time studying his least familiar portions of the city from the position of authority while he made his way to the large double-doors at the end of the hall.
As he approached there were no royal guardsmen - odd considering where he was. He slowed his pace at the door, rapidly feeling a slight chill as though a breeze had swept in underneath his light garments.
"Enter." a voice spoke deep within his ear.
He stepped closer to the door which had begun to open on it's own. Inside was a large round room, with several individuals seated around a wide-round table. He immediately gave his message and awaited their instructions. Should they wish to retain his response, he would give them time to compose it.
One of the figures raised his hand for the messenger to be attent.
He looked across the table at the other figures. They nodded in approval.
"We will issue a response," he spoke, "but not to your charge. Give the response to whomever greets you at his home."
Marelius nodded in agreement. This was common enough.
"We gladly accept your master's gift. Surely the one who sent the message knows that the nameless council to whom he wished it sent does not repay favors, but out of respect for the special consideration and interest we have in this specific matter, we have allowed you to live for another day."
He took in a breath, as though preparing to speak another sentence, but rather than issue it forth in words, it came out all at once - not in a word, so much as a sound.
Fleet-foot didn't "hear" the message, so much as memorize it - but this was something different. This was the word of Death. He felt the thing enter his mind and begin expanding, slamming against his willpower to invade his consciousness and ring through his mind - shattering it.
Marelius wobbled for a moment, stunned.
"Dismissed, Messenger." said the figure as he took his seat once more.
Marelius's mind was ready to burst. He took all of his effort to shove it down and keep it together. He must not know the message. Must not know.
So preoccupied with this effort, he didn't hear the figures as he left.
"Suprising and interesting ability of that messenger... I didn't expect it to work, brother."
If the city didn't play through his dreams he might have never been able to find his destination. Fleet-Foot stumbled and careened his way through the city, his face twisted and his hands on his head. He found himself pounding on the door the manor in the city proper after what felt like an eternity with his head in a vice.
Several shouts from within were issued. A young slave opened the door, and looked up at him. She had green eyes and curly red hair. She couldn't have been older than 14. She gave him an innocent and worried look, and whispered "Welcome, Marelius, sir - what messge do you bring?"
She must be familiar to him, as she knew his name, but he was in no state to identify her. Behind her, an older, but beautiful woman stood, wearing casual theran clothes appear to be worth three times as much as normal, and beyond her, standing in an open doorway stood his retainer. He had a worried look on his face.
Marelius barely thought, as he began spilling out the message to the girl, each word growing more and more intense, and each syllable choking him with the force of the dying-word's desire to be free.
As he continued, he realized what would happen. There was nothing he could do about it. He looked down upon her, her wide eyes, fearful expression, and quivering lips.
"...allowed you to live for another day." he said, leaning on the wall for support. The older woman grabbed the servant girl by the arm and pulled her behind her robes. His retainer had slammed shut the door between the two.
Marelius looked bewildered at the woman, who was ready to lay hands on him in combat, and took a brief glimpse around the room and outside, at the busy street and passers by. He thought briefly of his trainer into the second circle of Messenger. "The art is finer than all martial disciplines, since we bring ends to wars, rather than perpetuate them, we bring joy to those seperated, rather than seperate, and we bring words to ears, as a painter does art to eyes."
----***----
Restranna grabbed the door-bar and readied it like a weapon at the frothing messenger, but before she could do anything about it, he seemed to snap out of it for a second, and then his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he crumpled like a rag-doll, arms and head falling through the doorway.
Vureel opened the door and looked out. Two women - both his.
He sighed a breath of releif, before feeling a shove and knocking into a wall. He opened his eyes and heard a crash behind him as the bar of the door flew into the stockroom and down the stairs.
"What in the passion's name was that!?" Restranna roared, her eyes filled with fear and rage.
Vureel quickly considered his options.
"I just called in a favor from a friend who was less than responsive... All it means is that we are heading back to Barsaive earlier than I thought... Now pull that body in the house and get Merianna ready."
----***----
"My Brothers,"
The word broke the rooms silence as the hooded speaker raised his face from the scrying pool, levelling his eyes with a waiting man-at-arms.
"must not know."
The battle-worn warrior nodded. "Of course, master - your word is law." He said, in a curt and practiced manner.
"Fetch the books from Seven, and bring them to me. Do not make any mistakes, and have no arrogance - these are superior combatants. Take them alone, and never when they have the advantage of their compatriots. You have until the 25th of Veltom."
The Orkish warrior saluted and spun around, leaving the room promptly. The image of an airship in the desert faded from the pool as the hooded figure slouched into a large armchair.
He swivelled and faced large windows overlooking the isle. His gaze slowly travelled over it's innumerable nuances.
"What could possibly be drawing them to Marac..." he said to himself unconciously.
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