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Post by Jadey/Ala/Oria on Apr 21, 2006 11:16:29 GMT -5
The Secret Demand, part 1 ~Written by Valeth~
A hunt of another kind...
Pacing in slow small circles, Valeth picked at the seems of her armor with a blade. The quandry was not an easy one to traverse. Each side offered benefits veiling terrible retribution in ways unbound by simple things as pain and death. Furrowing her brow, she sought some method of escape while completing what they demanded.
Her life had become letters. Through a network of folk, random heralds, paid goblins, she sent out these words or had others pen them. She would not reveal herself as the Keystone had. Being seen and found had led to issues for the order. Every act had to be scurtinized. Every life considered before his unholy altar.
She would not lose what remained of her soul for the simplicity of tidy answers to pressing problems. At least, not before resolving the standing orders left by her family's honor to the black rook.
The thinking strayed her eyes again to th parchment and inks. "No, I must wait. What I have sent will be reviewed and replied to. Patience, Valeth. For now though..." She sighed watching the blood pool around one night black satchel. It was a crudely made thing from the leathered hide of felbeasts.
The dead one had sent a message in her own way. Reaching out, she flicked open the to peer within. The organ was nothing she could place, pale and strange in the wane candle light. Her breath faster, deeper, she knew what must be done. Taking hold of the flesh, she squeezed. The blood oozed through the thin cuts and marks, etchings of a letter.
Eyes moving quickly over the symbols, her shaking hand stilled. "Something has been stolen. What could Alabaster be seeking? Follow the human woman...the one called...Ilysar."
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Post by Jadey/Ala/Oria on Apr 21, 2006 11:16:54 GMT -5
The Secret Demand, part 2
The missus must be answered...
Eyes closed, she waited patiently within the dry air of the hut. The simple home was heavily laden with the scent of burnt spices. Mats and feathers, masks and dreamcatchers, all the things of Tchan were worn and leeched of bright color. All except the robes. Yet even these blood soaked things were fraying. Everything about him was ancient. His age was a comfort to Alabaster.
Sitting on his basket, she mused over all that had come, all that passed. Hallistra had great demands. Her displeasure had been wrought with a sweet smile and sharp tongue. For too long Alabaster had been kept in Brill, tending a house, learning the protocols of the Banshee Queen. But both knew, she was a killer.
A gruff snort met her ears as the old shaman entered.
"Ya nevah cease ta amaze me, sistah. Dat mah basket ya breakin' wit ya bony--"
She smiled. A real, warm smile. It stopped his blustering as sharply as if Heviosso had touched him. Alabaster was happy...and something more. That smile spoke of many things. His blood began to burn with the dream of war.
"Brotherr, I havee missed you soo. I havee been awayy seekingg visionss in my ownn simplee ways. And in the travelingg of the deadd...the listeningg of that eternall whisperingg...I havee foundd new answerss for the futuree."
He settled before her, bones creaking softly as her own did. Tongueing a chip in his tusk, he nodded. "'Bout time ya havin' visions, sistah. Tell meh."
Her eyes opened slowly, the gleaming of elven eyes. His grin widened in surprise and hunger. She had been successful in regaining the vision again of the Alliance. Malikyte's eye and that of another unknown. And that vision meant a path. So much death and retribution would be theirs. Absently, they both rubbed twinned cuts on the hands.
"Theree is a groupp within the Alliancee. A coven of faithhfull. They seekk some powerr thatt shall grantt us a pathh to the vengeancee we desire so desperatelyy. They are movingg, faster so now. I havee soughtt the wisdomm of one that wouldd holdd their livess upon the pikess of ourr hate. And finallyy the moment has comee for ourr unleashingg."
He pulled forth shells and skulls gathered from the kills of the troll seers. From each Tchan took spices and weeds, things to burn. Stuffing them in the hooka, repaired time and again in humorous fights between them, he prepared the seer's path.
"Who des dat need killin'?"
"Wee teachh thiss covenn a lessonn. Theeirr keystonee is their witchdoctorr. Andd wee huntt anotherr. I shalll showw you, brotherr. Sleep...sleepp and see thiss dreamm."
With a prayer to the loa, fire leapt to his hand, burning the concotion. Taking slow even puffs, his eyes glazed. The smoke took longer to work on Alabaster, but they had found a way by adding dream dust to the mixture.
And soon, they journeyed. The image was there...of a circle of brown robed figures... of a lady rogue... all of them needed hunting... and lessons in pain...
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Post by Jadey/Ala/Oria on Apr 21, 2006 11:17:18 GMT -5
The Secret Demand, part 3
The nightmare begins... plans and movements... The ball nears...
They met in the quiet of night. The lady in her black leathers, worn with rips and old mends. The gentleman in his simple nondescript fare, just another face among the crowd.
Yet as they spoke of things passing, the truth of their identities was not of simple folk. Czarvich considered what Valeth spoke, every word a crucial piece to the game surrounding him yet again. He had made a bold move in revealing himself. Perhaps...too grand.
And now, the White Hand was loosed from the gates of Brill's lady of terror. As he gave final orders to the elven shadowmaster, the one question he feared was why...why was this fiend loosed? And would she seek him?
Returning to the shadows to continue his work, the Keystone once again was lost from the world.
---//*\\---
Valeth returned to her constant writing of letters. With each missive, she was closer to the answers. The questions left to her by the keystone wound about her thoughts.
Long the hours passed into the night as page upon page filled. When last she laid aside the quill, the constant quandry remained.
"None of this will matter. Something has to be done...some actions taken. If only you were here father, I think your advice would be sound."
The peeking of dawn's light softened the night sky as Valeth stepped out into the air. The crispness was falling away to the warmth of spring. A new dawning...but for which, for whom?
"Perhaps it is time to meet, cousins."
A movement caught her eye as a familiar messenger moved below. Eyes slitting, she left the balcony to the street below.
Darkly hooded, the figure leaned closer. One of the spies with some urgent thing. "There is a gathering soon. An event. Whispers say...it is time to move and pay homage to the Old Ones. Blood for the altar. A sacrifice."
Taking the speaker by the elbow, she hissed him into quiet. "This way. We have plans to make...or are others in the works? What lunacy---"
The speaker neared her ear, whispering the words that struck fear into all that knew of such things.
Her eyes filled with fear, but the voice was awe-touched. "What a sight...indeed..."
---//*\\---
Smiling, Oria settled in the vault with Celah. They spoke gaily, dressed in simple things, digging through their chests of clothing.
"I have no idea what to wear. Though I do have a few stunning pieces I have gatherer over time."
Celah grinned, feeding bit of fish to her simaese Ish'nu. "Oh! I have mine all set! A captain indeed. Blues and this hat, with such long plumes! Though they tickled my nose and made me sneeze while making it."
The priestess wrinkled her brow watching the huntress unpack suits of mail armor. It was lovely, but armor? "Why ever are you going to wear armor to a costume ball?"
Eyes warring in happiness and worry met Celah's. "The world has been too quiet of late when it comes to our enemies. I sometimes feel as if eyes are watching. And that dwarven lass. The green flame that flickered in her eyes. The warnings she spoke. I just...I feel a need to be prepared."
Casting down her eyes to the lovely robes and dress, Oria sighed wistfully. A hand laid on hers, a blessing of peace flowing from it. "Don't trouble yourself with what could happen. Just know that if anything did, we would all stand and fight together. That's what friends do. So! What pretty gown will you wear?"
They laughed and smiled, trying everything they own on. But a shadow remained upon Oria.
Something did not seem quite right.
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Post by Jadey/Ala/Oria on Apr 21, 2006 11:17:43 GMT -5
The Secret Demand, part 4
Of parties and wars...the hunt begins...
The celebrations continued, yet Oria could not take it anymore. Songs and dance had held her spinning and happy. She looked upon the gathering of friends new and old, sought to speak with the pub keeper Seamus, even made entreaties to the intrepid reporters of the ABC.
It was going well...until the attack. While the judges remained outside, discussing the costumes, the light shown from the sky. Flames of green power roses with a shriek as the Infernal attacked the gathered. The target was clear.
Only the night before had Oria truly met and spoke with this warlock called Dinvalis. Through him, he wielded a power of responsibility. One taken seriously to turn back corruption..to smite it through raw power. It seemed his mark was well known.
His falling amid the many guests brought a sudden end to the frivolty. Spells and weapons were brought to bear as others sought to reclaim the warlock from death's domain. And from the edges of the gathering, she saw it.
The world stopped in that moment...the brown robes. As they stood quietly, not moving, they backed away and melted into shadows one by one. She could not see their faces or catch scents with so many about. Taking her staff, she followed.
And there on the steps, where now she stood again, she met Celdia. The druid lover of Nephizul. The one that aided in her torture. The one still roaming her nightmares. And the words...the command...of Clearchus rang in her thoughts. Kill them all on sight. Decreed by the Herzog of Kenafin.
Now she stood on those same steps again, the simple garments of the party long since left behind. Dragonscale and mail covered every inch of her. Donning a helm that left only a slit forher eyes, she prepared to mount the war sabre by her side.
"Oria, what's wrong?" The voice was edged, the warrior's keen eyes on her stance. Zeklor had hunted with Oria before, knew something had spurred the wild. She had fidgeted and turned her eyes wary throughout the evening.
The mailed gauntlet tighted on the reigns of the sabre, her back as steel. "I am not of the cities, Zeklor. The hunt...the wild...the will of Lord Clearchus. Those are me. Not this place. Not any longer." The words warred in her mind, the haze of coming battle and need to hunt a red tide rising.
He reached to lay a hand on her shoulder, sensing the feralness. "I know, Oria. These cities war with our people. You will go. If you have need, call. My blades are yours."
Leaping upon the back of the cat, she nodded. Fierce glowing eyes met his as she took out a letter, sealed with the Herzog Clearchus' signet. Trepidation filled Zeklor...such missives meant one thing. She was seeking a hunt. Alone.
"Oria..."
She slitted her eyes, a soft growl in her helm. "Too long I have held my anger. Too long have I bowed and waited, accepted the chains on what must be done. No more. We are a hunted people. My blood cannot allow that. All others may accept it...not I. I shall be in touch. In the name of the Herzog...I do what I must."
Into the night she bounded. Calling swiftly to Lioro, the great white owl swooped to her arm. And to it, she entrusted letters to the misfits.
Eyes steeled, it was time to end this game.
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Post by Jadey/Ala/Oria on Apr 21, 2006 11:18:00 GMT -5
The Way of Mists, part 1
In distant corners of Azeroth, they waited. Fleeting rumors had reached them, always shifting and changing as the truth was sought. A deception so clever all rendered by the hands of this one called the Keystone. And yet, what bitter hand in turn shaped him? What falseness of life that wore the finery of a house lost to disrepair?
What of this one called Lady Hallistra?
Upon the battlements of Menethil, the lethal shadowed flower waited. None could pierce the hidden figure's vigil. Briads of indigo, leathers of the gray morn, blade hidden in grave dust. Nothing of him shone beyond the luminous eyes, fierce in there cold calculation.
Within the forest of Feralas, the pale poet moved with alert eyes searching rocky ledges and thick foliage. Moonlight drifting through the canopy burnished his hair silver as that of the gray hyena by his side. Spear in hand, he followed paths to the crest of a cliff, watching the shore and bay towards Feathermoon stronghold.
Lost in the jungles, the wayward leaf moved in slow paths, no shifting of the trees above giving way the prowling cat. The two hunted as wild and untamed as the world around them, yet ever watchful, they wound their way to the height of trollish ruins, waiting for word.
To each the falcon gave cry, the message delivered from the hand of Lord Clearchus. In a touching of stones, they whispered swift words. A gathering was called.
The misfits had a mission.
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Post by Jadey/Ala/Oria on Apr 21, 2006 11:18:27 GMT -5
The Way of Mists, part 2
With a flicking of wrist, Janlith cleared away what refuse remained on the blade. The Inquistor had sent a gift, one with an intent only men such as they understood. With a spin on heel, deft leaping over rocks, he floated effortlessly from the windows and spires of Brill's elite.
Eyes careful, he left the ruins set to him to watch for the roads beyond. A flickering of green, and he was gone. The misfits were gathering and in need of this information.
As he appeared, the words reached him quick and harsh. The intensity of her brought a grin, though it annoyed him that all called her leaf now. It was once a special thing.
"Something's happening. I know it."
Short movements transformed the shadowmaster into the decadent Janlith all the world knew. "Ah Oria, what makes you think that?" He could feel her chewing that lip, teeth grinding.
"The ball. A demon was summoned. And now he is talking to me. Only a select few knew I was hunting him. And somehow he learned it. I think we still have spies in the orders."
He moved through Menethil toward the ships, seeking the others. "Are you certain? Sometimes--"
He a moment he mused the stone heating in his hand from the angry catlike hiss. "Of course I am. I spoke it only before a few. And I begin to wonder."
Settling in the boat, he kicked up his feet awaiting the journey. "You know, a friend of mine overheard that Zeklor and others were screaming your name, roaming Stormwind to find you. They told folk you were hunting and demanding answers of the coven."
At first he though she would continue the angry retorts, but the laugh was priceless. "Then it worked?"
He laughed in return. "It did. And I have information for you, poet, and melty."
"Melty? Oh she will hate that."
He grinned wider. "I count on that. But for now, tell me more of what exactly you found in your hunt."
The musing voice drew him closer. Soon perhaps was the time to make some move. And within the hours to come, they gathered with the others, the misfits of a Lord's hand.
Each looked to the foppish elf, but the lord was still prevalent in his eyes. "My misfits, I have news of Brill. And more..."
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Post by Jadey/Ala/Oria on Apr 21, 2006 11:18:49 GMT -5
The Way of Mists, part 3
"Greetings, huntress. I hear you have been looking for me?"
The words haunted Oria as she wandered through Darnassus. A game of words and moves, they continued a dance that would one day lead to death and destruction. But whose...and how...
Hands curled around her staff, she made a pacing journey of the city, following the tended paths to let her thoughts wander. Janlith brought knowledge of a house, a manor of sorts. Upon it laid the ancient marks Lord Clearchus had given fine details of. The dead white tree. The lost house now held in a zombie's grip.
Moving through the city, her eyes unfocused noticing little of those that hailed her, the whispers at her back, the turned heads. Let them note her, the gleaming scaled armor, the snarling hunting cat at her side, the slitted dangerous eyes. It was a part well played since her youth.
A tumbling of thoughts sought answers. It was only a matter of time as the flower neared his prey. Soon they would all move, dictated by the needs of the house.
"I found him." Nodding to her stone, she whispered softly in return to watch, follow, be ever careful. Her thoughts were correct regarding Czarvich. He was becoming...predictable.
They were waiting for such a thing to be. The next act would be clear, concise, well executed. And towards it, she again checked the ancient tome bound at her side.
A strange scent flowed over her, something at first she did not register. Slipping into shadows, Corelua prowled to find the source as her friend continued walking. Death. The sense of it stopped Oria in her tracks. Old death? The sense from the cat seemed yes.
Slipping aside, past the gardens, Oria followed the cat away from orders rows to the wayward vines and limbs of the great tree. Something loomed here, a rotten core of unease. It reminded her of the spongy bark of Felwood trees, the unyeilding rancor of the Plaguelands dead.
It was another of the furbolgs. Not only was it driven mad by corruption but remained in a strange wandering stance of the scourge. Pustuales and tumors had long since ruptured leaving gapping holes along its flesh. Eyes milk white turned at the life it sensed.
With wide eyes, Oria entered the battle. But the words she told Czarvich and Janlith returned. The game always to lure the Keystone from hiding...the flower upon finding him...and now it seemed a new player arrived.
"The dead walk in Darnassus..." Was it the coven? Or something else?
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Post by Jadey/Ala/Oria on Apr 21, 2006 11:19:14 GMT -5
The Way of Mists, part 4
Donyal Toval, first rank of arcanists in Stormwind, minor lord of his house, and keeper of the royal library sat perplexed and worried! All of his assistants it seemed had an experience he found disturbing. Someone had been in the records. And that someone it seemed was asking about House Kenafin.
Settling back in his favorite chair, a glass filled with a mulled wine of an old vintage, he laid a hand ever so dramatically over his eyes. "The last such a thing was sought, Dibbs, the Lord Clearchus and Sherrif Thenra went missing! The commissioner Izul was found beheaded in Darnassus! And my finest works upon Dalaran pillaged! I cannot stress how this is vexing me to know someone else is yet again delving into the very documentation of our city's masters and their loyal subjects!"
Before Loremaster Dibbs could get a word in, Donyal continued at a jabbering pace that fully revealed his worry that the Lady Preston would have his heart and head on matching platters. With an irritated sigh, he waited as patiently as he could.
"Donyal...but you must...there is probably...DONYAL!" The master librarian looked with wide eyes, quickly regaining his control. "Do you know who was seeking?"
"Well, no hence the worry."
"Only that someone delved into the past and histories of Kenafin?"
"Well, yes."
Steepling his hands, Dibbs regarded the fluttering man. "Could it have been someone of their order? Perhaps the Lord giving order for them to seek such things?"
With a heavy sigh, Donyal shook his head. "No, the Lord is very conscious of such things. A young and rather overwhelmed man, but true to his word nonetheless. He is of the Silver Hand you see."
Dibbs likewise sighed and nodded. "Very well. Then there is only one thing for it." Rising, the Loremaster took up his satchel, slipping various documents and a wrapped round of cheese into it.
"You are going? At a time like this!?"
Gruffly, he silenced the lord. "You will carry on the investigation here. I must do...what must be done for the safety and security of the crown. I am off to Menethil to speak with the lord." Clapping a hand on the librarian's shoulder, the elderly keeper of scrolls left into the gardens.
Nearby it seemed whispers were bandied in shadows, eyes meeting then slipping away. Something was not right in the capital. But it was beyond men such as he to fight it. Leaving the keep for a gryphon, Dibbs knew certainly who could be trusted.
"Lord of the Silver Hand, your heart better be as true as the vows you gave." Leaving into the night, Dibbs made way to warn and speak in confidence with the Lord Clearchus.
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Post by Jadey/Ala/Oria on Apr 21, 2006 11:20:55 GMT -5
The Way of Mists, Part 5
"I know nothing of these journeys. I hunt in a far different way. This is your arena, flower, what should we do?"
It was but an hour before she gave the call. It was time to move on the orders of Clearchus. Theonalas continued his research, scouring what information he could. For now, she needed to learn this way of seeking, this art of the shadowmasters.
Janlith removed his tabard, a strange dullness coming to his eyes. As he pulled the hood tight over his face, he became another person. The eyes reminded Oria of something old, from a dream of the past that simply had faded to nothing over the ages. She felt a sense of fear within, a need to turn away and find safety. He was not of a hunter...but a killer. It was a mask of acceptence, to do what must be done.
As they rode upon the tors, seeking a cliff overlooking Tarren Mill, she watched his back in wonder. What had he sacrificed, experienced, endured to change so? To become this man? Despite their centuries together, there was such a sense of mystery. He made her feel so very young and wayward in these moments.
Shaking free of her thoughts, the way of hunting rose between them. And as in the olden days of their travels, they stood upon the mount.
Taking hold of a spyglass, Janlith looked over the city. "I mark a few sentries. The buildings seem in disrepair..." His voice faded as he turned to look at Oria.
Her eyes stared wide, a strange snarl to her lips. For a moment, she seemed as the hawk in flight, diving to kill. With whispers, she hissed to him what she saw...smelled...as if she was truly walking among the dead below.
"Many to count. Forsaken scourge. Those of the city life. Those of war. A ghost. An Orc. I smell poisons, decay, and a strange sweetness from the orchard. Dead men, rotting from too long in the sun hand over doorways. And...a man. In robes. I...I do not know what."
Nearing her, he laid a hand on her shoulder. Whispering into her ear, voice velvet in its calm yet edged with a demand, he urged her for information. Slowly he learned more of the place...and knowledge of something else. "That robed one is an inquistor. Nobility. Why here? Watch my back and be ready to move."
Slipping to shadows, he moved as the unseen among them. Oria fidgeted among trees, as close as she dared. And there within the halls and homes of the Forsaken, Janlith prowled. His step was ever so well placed. Until he neared the inquisitor.
Eyes of pulsating yellow meet his. The Inquisitor watched the living one before him, adorned in robes edged in gold thread, worn yet still coveted in finery among their kind. A harsh, simple word in their gutteral speech left his lips as guards unsheathed swords and advanced upon Janlith.
With deft parrying of blades, beads of sweat stung his eyes. So many at once was a dangerous thing. A sense of worry touched his stone. For a moment, he thought to kill them all in a flurry of death, yet he knew she would come. And if she did, such a horror would be hers to see.
Even in his way of killing, that was one experience he would try to keep from his leaf if he could. With a blast of powder, he was gone.
"They watch. They move. But these are more agile than we once thought, leaf. Listen to what I speak, note it. The Lord must know."
It was time to consider other places...other lands. And as they rode, the questions remained. What of the dead in Darnassus? What of this Hallistra? Would they find something of the Coven here? Were any of the forsaken scourge of the coven?
Unto the hills of Silverpine they arrived, the next village of their visit the place called Sepulcher. Old records kept by the Red Hand in Stormwind afforded them a great deal of information. Graves tended by the dead. Once protected at all costs by those of the Horde as if a great secret laid within. The magister Kami had written scores of volumes upon such things.
And upon seeing it, they could understand why. "Easily defended. High ground. High perches. One road in. Two paths beyond it. And an underground to seek."
Oria fidgeted beside him. "What of the graves? Do you think they would rise from them? As the dead in the troll ruins did?"
Janlith quirked a brow in thought. "That would be dangerous. An army held in the earth to rise on command. Devious within a graveyard as well. Let me near as you watch. Do not worry."
Again he slipped into shadow. Yet here were none of the Inquitor's ilk. It seemed simple folk seeking simple things. All...but one. "Oria!" She jumped as the stone warmed. "The White Tree! A seller here is so marked by it."
"What does he do? Are you certain? The one of Hallistra?"
Janlith curled his fingers tighter on the blades. A sense of passing cold neared him. A flash of familiarity. Turning his head, he saw nothing. Again to the right. Again a turn to see nothing but hollows and dust.
"Yes...the white tree of Kenafin's past. He seems to simply sell things to those that visit. I know not why..." His voice faded as the chill revealed itself.
A thrill wound about his spine as when he read the book as she neared. Talons of ivory clutched a staff glowing like the sun. Eyes the soft white of elves peered upon him. The robes of indigo and death hung from her shoulders. The robed one from Hallistra's home. The one that gave him the tome of magics.
She watched him as he stood transfixed. With a nod of respect, she moved near...and past...a tap of claw touching his blade ever so slight. A sense power moved through him, or perhaps it was just his nerves.
Still held in shadows, he backed away to return to Oria. "Yes, a man in the garb of the tree...and nothing else."
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Post by Jadey/Ala/Oria on Apr 21, 2006 11:25:11 GMT -5
The Dead of Night, Part 1
The coming of some end...
She had his eyes within her own. The way of fear and lure of passion was such a delicious thing in elven eyes. The soft glow would pulse, as if twinned moons caught in bone and blood. They could roll and shift, widen and slit yet always the intensity of Elune was in them. Such a force of life. They could mezmorize her for hours.
The blood dipped stone hanging around her neck pulsed with Tchan's disdain. He wanted to kill this elf, or perhaps it was the dead around him he wished ground to powder. But Alabaster knew such a concoction would end up within a pipe or drink for visions. It was no longer a personal thing.
Backwards and out, the elven rogue slipped away. The book was working its slow magic upon him. "Just a matterr of timee now..."
The gruffness of a snort sounded as Tchan neared. In a cracked skull, with the end of a dark iron capped bone, he ground something of his herbs and magics. They had come for supplies, and a sending of messages.
The bones rattled from the emblazoned voodoo robes as Tchan shook in his fury. Rubicant eyes delved into the dead glow of Alabaster's. "Why choo let dat one live?"
"He iss within ourr garden. We cann pick him any momentt we wishedd. Andd now he knowss this. But beyondd that, he iss a seeker."
Tchan thought on the words and grunted. "He be nearing de pickin', offerin' himself, ya? De old ways o' ritual? De willin' sacrifice."
Turning again to the broken stairway up from Sepulcher's depths, she nodded with a soft, motherly smile. "Iss it nott lovelyy to watchh them grow?"
They both cackled at such a decadent thought.
With a wayward motion of hand, she gave the bone scrollcase to one of the many in Hallistra's employ. "Forr now, the Herzogin is informed. Andd we cann continuee ourr journeyy for that which wass taken. Iss the powder readyy?"
Tchan shook his head. "We be needin' someting from dat city again. Der be a root."
Alabaster's soft voice was venomous in her delight. "Theree alwayss is. Comee, and lett us continuee our gathering for her bitterr lastt night."
Tchan grunted again, taking up his packs and ghostly mask. With a soft rubbing between claws, the warlock lifted a tied piece of black hair to her nose. Pulling hard on her thin lungs, she forced her body to smell the strange scents of old dried sweat, blood, and fear. "Ahh roguee, I am comingg."
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Post by Jadey/Ala/Oria on Apr 21, 2006 11:25:45 GMT -5
The Dead of Night, part 2
May the Light shine in places caught eternally in dark.
Timothy sighed from his shoes, moving his hands in those motions Gunther taught him. Hard circles, press in the middle and then softer out. Like trying to rub a dent into the armor. Don't fear the metal, it won't bend. He spoke it as a mantra not noticing as the Lord entered the adjoined room. The scuff of Clearchus' boot sent the boy into vapors as a tried leaping to feet long ago fallen asleep.
Instinctively, the paladin reached out to steady the lad, for a vertigo moment wondering if Demerzel felt as such when he first looked upon he and Tanor so long ago. "Timmy, you have missed the evening meal again. Do not make this a habit."
The Lord grinned wide, eyes warm, yet for a moment the boy was hesitant. Soon enough, he grinned, nodding his head to run off as young lads do. Dropping his eyes to the armors of his station, Clearchus could see his reflection, changed, not so hagard or thin, yet...
"You're thinking too hard again. It's giving you that mark between your eyes. Should I rub it out like he did that Light awful stain from the dragonkin you received last eve?"
Any regrets or harsh thoughts flew from his mind as Thenra slipt closer. "My lady, I cannot help but wonder of the future. Of all that has come. All that shall be. All--"
"You haven't changed, only grown. You worry too much, my husband. Far too much." Her presence calmed him, brought a sense of peace. Without her again, the beast of his rage, the monster that he restrained with prayer, would rise again.
Embracing her, the scent of steel and her light perfume reached Clearchus as he silently vowed they would pay for all they had done.
----//*\\----
Within the gleaming light of torchlight and friendship, they gathered in the feasthall. Elves, gnomes, dwarves, and men, friends and brothers, all those of the oathsworn of Kenafin. Rising from his station as Lord, Clearchus moved forward with Thenra and Tolliver taking up places near to his sides.
So many eyes looked to him, shining in their admiration and support. Some were new in their arrival. Others ancient comrades long held in the bonds of war and peace. Yet each was known to him, in some close way.
Voice rich, rising to fill the room, Lord Clearchus Gla'Nath welcomed to the many kindred souls. He gave prayers, bestowing the strength of the Light upon their souls, santifying the very ground of the Keep with his calling. And for the briefest of moments, he felt it... The soft observance of some dark malovence.
On into the night he led his House, promoting friends, accepting sworn oaths, raising another unto the ranks of leadership. They discussed the wars of the Coven, the rising tide of darkness around them, the many victories.
Something feral felt close, strange and predatory. Torchlight seemed to flicker and change. As if the night itself was coming to life. Yet in such glow of the Light and its hand of power within the young lord, none within the hall felt it, sensed it...not even the silently attending warlock Zaroth.
Horses whickered in their tack as a strange howling seemed to move about them. Attendents though it nothing more than storm, calming them with a leading to fires and oats.
And in this dead of night, upon the rising rocks of the hills overlooking the marshes, thin grasses caught in a rushing inferno to die away as quickly set. Shadows spilled all the darker around the pair, of demon and raptor borne.
"Ahh nearr everr near Tchann. The herbb you seekk." Eyes casting over the land, they neared the old tomb to take what they would. A guard gave cry, seeing the brazen act of the Horde. Leaping from raptorback, Tchan's mace gave a deadened crunch upon the stunted body's back. The cry was swift, the whimpering long becoming a keening wail as sharpened splinters and blades danced in the ritualist's hands.
Alabaster grinned watching Tchan revel in his work. Tilting her head, she spied something of interest. "Hiss tabardd, givee it to mee." The cloth ripped with a snarl as the troll flung it to the warlock's talons.
Despite the blood, the mark of Kenafin was easily spied. "Ahh so...the youngg lord hass retinuee here. Carefull in the killingg. We needd information."
Tchan's eyes lit with an inner fire through the bone mask. "Mah pleasuah."
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Post by Jadey/Ala/Oria on Apr 21, 2006 11:26:32 GMT -5
The Dead of Night, part 3
Judman and Beldram trudged their way along the roads. Their boots had long fallen apart in bits as the hard journey pushed them. Yet, every few hours of the many days spent walking, one or the other lifted spirits.
"Ale. When we get there, the lord's bound to give us ale, Jud. They were kind and all before. They should remember us."
Judman rubbed his hagard face. "Jus' you wait'n see. They'll see us 'n yell, good ol' Bel and Jud!" With a piercing far too sober look, and cuffed Bel on the arm. "What a ninny sense! That ol' lord and his cronies won't recall us at'all."
And with an equally furious look, Bel shot back. this lead to a scuffle and rolling in the ground. Normally, it would. But now, in these forsaken marshes, they just did not have the strength for it.
Gloom and the sounds of night crowded around them. Eyes along the road, the men secretly wished they had not followed the other. In the distance, a lantern light wavered, as if a nightwatchman walked the paths.
Judman shook Beldram, pointing ahead with muddy fingers. "Look, Bel! Seems the lord sends men on the roads after all. Les' seek 'em. Find the way?"
Bel rubbed his unshaven jaw, lack of real food starting to gnaw at his sense. But what did they know of the wilds? Something about it reminded him of the wars. "Alright. Just take it slow. No yelling out in the dark."
On and on they followed the bobbing light, not realizing the road was long since lost. It was too late as their feet sunk in the mire as Beldram realized this was a will'o'wisp.
The mocking laugh of gnolls exploded around them. Screaming to rip their throats raw, the men ripped and clawed at the mud, seeking any solid ground to escape on. The wicked talons of the snarling dogmen scratched dug into their flesh. Snarling maws snapped to taste their flesh as they war cries to the camp.
Beldram felt the scarlet pain as a fire on his shoulder, eyes snapping open wide. Old training took over as he brought up a found branch, smashing it into the gnolls face. But in his mind, it was a murloc he envisioned. Terrible and fierce, the year of wars against those foul creatures. The ones that had imprisoned him, feasted on his slowly. It would never happen again.
Fires exploded around them as Judman reached out to aid his friend. The whine and howl of the gnolls filled their ears as something truly terrible threatened their lives. Beldram continued to thrash and rail, branch held before him. Laying a hand on his shoulder, Judman peered into the rising and falling flames. "Easy, Bel. Easy. No 'locs are here."
"You men! Are you well?" The voice was cultured and raised, cutting through the chaos of dying gnolls and sloshing men. Peering into the mists burning away from the scorching, they spied a man upon horseback, dark hat pulled over his eyes.
A few scouts ran about, led by some elven woman. The woman landed on the backs of writhing gnolls, the fire not touching her for the dragonscales. With a snarl, she sliced through necks, ending their lives.
Beldram fell to his knees in the murk as his friend walked forward. "Sirs, ye' be of Menethil?"
The arcanist as he could now see from the robes and staff gave a nod. Tipping back the hat, grinning in the reflected light, he gave a nod. "That we are. I am Tolliver, Arcanist of Kenafin. We protect these lands. Come, this is no place for good folk to be lost."
Despite the pain, Judman grinned wide. With a shaking and pulling, he pulled Beldram to his feet. "See, Bel. I tol' ya that house was here. And here they are. We was comin' to join and help in Menethil good sir. Name's Judman. This is Beldram. We're straight from Stormwind and could use some ale and soup a might bit."
The elven woman slit her eyes and nodded. Sniffing at them, which seemed so strange, she neared Beldram, pulling his arm over her shoulder as she leaned. "He's biten, Tolliver. I'll take him. The smell of his blood will stir the crocks."
The arcanist nodded offering the back of his horse to Judman. "Take him and be careful, Oria. Let's ride, good sir. Ale, food, and tending. Easily met. Welcome to the Wetlands, protectorate of Kenafin."
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Post by Jadey/Ala/Oria on Apr 21, 2006 11:30:50 GMT -5
The Dead of Night, Part 4
The pair had caused quite the stir brought in muddy and gnoll gnawed. Militia men took the bridge, taking note of Tolliver's reports of rising activity along the waterways, eyes bright and attentive with a new lord leading them. The folk of the port town nodded or waved, calling out greetings as they wended to their homes for suppers and sleep.
To Beldram and Judman it seemed a paradise. Comely women who would not say no, docks for fishing, nothing fancy, everything simple. The Light must really be on their side for once.
Darcy nodded to the gathered as Oria helped drag Beldram to the inn's door, followed by Tolliver and a muddy Judman. She was a fine lass Tolliver had tried his charms upon before. But giving him a wry look, Judman could tell it would not get far with this one.
Wiping her hands on her apron, Darcy gave Tolliver a wry look. The two had their moments with ale when the occassion presented itself. But she was quick to know this game. Many a pirate once called this home.
"What ya bringin' me, Tolli? Seems the murk done spit out more lads traveling at times best spent in homes?"
The Arcanist grinned calling magics to shake away the mud and grime. "Evening Darcy. That I am. The Lord declared a watch of the roads. Seems these two didn't know what they were getting into."
Oria grumbled, rolling her eyes as she led the men into the warm light of the tavern. Judman watched his friend from over her shoulder, worrying about the way he hung his head. Yanking open a pouch, the elf began working with herbs that wrinkled his nose from pungent scents. With a splashing of water, rubbing of the poltice, she had Bel cleaned up and wrapped with enchanted bandages as quick as any field medic.
"Is he well? He's got a bad knee too. Those things swarmed up from no where!"
The hunter nodded, tossing aside her helm to get a better look over them both. "The gnolls have been pressing further south. We don't know why. But if you need rest, the Lord won't turn you away. What brings you this way in the dead of night?"
Clearing his throat, Judman found it hard to stare in her eyes. It felt like staring into the eyes of a savage wolf. "Beg pardon, jus' heard there be some work out here. Your house was kind before, when Bel was in trouble. We thought maybe we'd come and see what a new life we could have."
Crossing her arms, Oria regarded the drunk and lay'about. "I'll let the Lord's men know. They handle such things. And fair warning, stay in the walls at sundown. The night is not meant for such as you in the wilds."
The door creaked open as Tolliver entered, eyes grim. "Oria, something's been found near Ironbeard's tomb. We need to go."
Laying a hand on his friend's good shoulder, Judman watched them go wondering if maybe this journey was not such a good idea. The windows rattled briefly from a growing storm. Moving to them, Judman peered out into the night. it had seemed misty before, perhaps a bit wet from being in the swamps, but here he did not see a cloud in the moonlit sky.
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Post by Jadey/Ala/Oria on Apr 21, 2006 11:33:24 GMT -5
The Dead of Night, Part 5
It was a funny thing, being clean and sober, but Beldram seemed dead set to change things. He was quieter, focused and keen of eye. Without question, he did what the dwarf commander set before them. Clean the wallows? Not a problem. Help that blasted elf with the bilges? Easy.
Sometimes Judman thought his friend was replaced. Did the journey wake him up? Was it the dreams that sent his screaming in the night of the murlocs? Or was it the long walks he kept taking night after night? Returning from his crabbing for the lord's table, he once again found their shared bunks empty. Cursing, he dug in a bag for their old shared flask.
"Enough to send a man to drinkin'."
And indeed Beldram was changed. It all started with a girl. Like all men of low means and brute strength, Beldram was a force with women. With a backhand or harsh word, he had the world laid before him from wenches. Then he met the new help...
Standing by her in the dark, arms crossed as he peered in the gloom, Beldram recalled how his backhand had earned him a slice of dagger deep in that same hand. She was fierce, dark, a soft whisper of hate. They had spoken in turns from that night, those glowing eyes damning him each and every time.
The gravel crunched around them as he stepped forward to block the way for her. How strange it was to protect her, follow her lead. A man such as he bested? He refused to be. Yet every time she demanded his aid, no was lost to him.
"Black Hand, a letter for you." The figure from shadows was muddy, plain, some grubber of the herbs and roots from the marshes. A faceless lost man that no one would notice or miss. Like they all were. Beldram peered hard, trying to find something to mark them by.
Valeth nodded behind her blood red mask. Clad in black leathers, she seemed nothing more than shadow even in the direct light of Elune. Taking the scroll case, she read carefully the words. "Inform the Keystone the hand is now within the house. The Usurper has met with another lord of a fallen house, a gentry of Feir. They spoke of the past and future, of alliances and rebuilding. Such a thing needs watching. Also, gentry of the reporters of ABC now reside in these walls. A Zaroth, well known to the Keystone. And their mistress I believe visits on occassion to the tavern. They are keen eyes, but know us not only of the name Sable Coven."
The peasant nodded to the pair, memorizing all the Black Hand spoke. Hands laying over their hearts, they spoke prayers of leavetaking, disappearing away.
Beldram took hold of her arm, roughly turning the shadowmaster on her heel. "Wait, Val. We need some talking. I think it's time to teach me a bit of what this all means."
Eyes cold as justicars met his. Searching for a moment, she nodded. "To understand our journey, you must know death. Come."
And the housekeeper and stablehand left into the night, blades pulled, a pact to be made in blood.
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Post by Jadey/Ala/Oria on Apr 21, 2006 11:39:02 GMT -5
~written by Zaroth~
Returning back home to Menethil, Zaroth cautiously walks the road in. It isn't nice to be unpleasently surprised by a bloodthirsty gnoll, greedy bandit, or hungy crocolisk when all you want is home, a good meal, and sleep.
Near the bridge, he notices some activity. Figures sillouetted in the setting moon. Voices heard but not clearly understood.
He steps silently into the deep darkness off the side of the road.
" .....the Hand.......in the house..............ABC.......Zaroth.....". Pieces of the whole and not enough to fill in the massive blanks.
The sillouettes. Hmmmm....1 male human next to a female night elf.......talking to........another male ? Yes, male.
That voice. Zaroth has heard that female nelf before. Twice before. Once in that distasteful episode in Darnassus. She was a huntress then. Kept company with a scorpion. Fit her personality.
Second time, at the inn Dolanar. She was just starting rogue training then. If she had continued that training, she would be quite an opponent. She was of the cold-blooded type.
Her name.....her name.....what was it. Started with a 'V'....Val..
Valeth
Zaroth waits in the darkness until all of the parties left, one back to the marshes, the other two off somewhere else, both brandishing knives, by the glint of moonlight off their blades.
Hmmm...., Zaroth muses, last time we met she was still linked to Czarvich and the Sable Coven. No real proof, but I've got a nasty feeling that there is evil afoot. Best keep an extra eye out.
Zaroth emerges from the darkness and continues to Deepwater Inn, mind racing amongst all of the possible reasons for her appearance here.
Whatever the reason, it most certainly isn't just a casual visit.
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