"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.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
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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