Veiled Visions (RP) Part 2

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Re: Veiled Visions (RP) Part 2

Postby Elijah Morteron » Sun May 04, 2008 11:20 am

The suddeness of the door bursting open had caught Elijah momentarily off guard. The scene seemed to slow as he wheeled about. Allson was tumbling backwards through that door, launched back by the brutish man in the corner that had leered at them when they had first entered the place. The gunpowder on his hands and knees told Elijah that he had fired the shot earlier and had been part way through reloading when he'd been attacked.

Beyond the two men, Elijah caught a glimpse of the Landlord dropping down behind the bar, hiding away from the room that had descended into chaos.

He made his decision in that slow world and went for his gun just as everything seemed to burst back into full motion. His shot cracked from the barrel of his pistol, catching the bulky patron in the gut. The man hardly slowed his charge and leapt over the dropped body of Allson to put one great meaty handy about the Lord Morteron's throat. The other meaty fist collided with enormous force against Elijah's stomach, knocking the wind from his lungs even as the man charged on and slammed him into the wall.

Two more shots went off. He couldn't only guess that these were the weapons of Eamon and Fitch joining the fray at last. Elijah struggled wth desperation, trying to stave off the rising panic that slow asphyxiation brought about. He could see Bretina over the man's shoulder, her eyes mirroring theat panic he felt inside. He managed to gasp "Go, run! Get out!" Even as his hands fought to gain some purchase on the monstrous foe he faced. He'd fought street battles before. He knew a number of dirty tricks. He also knew he would have to employ some if he ever hoped to survive this melee.

Slowly, as his vision begin to dim, he managed to work a hand round to the man' face and with all the force he could manage, thrust his thumb into the waiting eye, which burst open from the pressure and elicited a howl from his opponent. The hold his enemy had on him fell away, and he fell too to the floor, gasping for air and fighting against the threat of unconsciousness.

Unseen by Elijah, the man had stumbled back, hands shielding the grievous wound that had been inflicted upon him. He was dimbly away of Allson climbing to his feet, using the wall for support, hands shakely working to reload his rifle. Another brute was in the doorway as Elijah unsteadily climbed to his feet, and it was then that he spotted something he had missed before. The man that had attacked him bore the the same design that had been reported at Hepple Manor, tatooed upon his neck. The foe that had just entered the room shared this mark in exactly the same place.

His mind raced through his previous thoughts on the arson and murder that had taken place there. He didn't have time to work out those conclusions, there wasn't enough time now to make the connections. It was time to act.
"I give hope to men, I keep none for myself."
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Re: Veiled Visions (RP) Part 2

Postby Bretina » Tue May 20, 2008 10:12 pm

"Go, run! Get out!"

The initial panic she'd felt at their little sanctuary being disturbed was stilled in a moment of quiet clarity that she could only assume came from Elijah since her heart was still pounding faster than ever before. She looked about her and analyzed the opponents with a false calm. The man who had attacked Elijah was too caught up in his own wound to be able to inflict any others, but another burly hulk of a man had already followed and was overtaking their rifleman. With an agility born of years learning to tread intricate court dances, the maiden reached into her boot and moved to the guard's aid, not even really noticing that she'd grabbed her hidden sting until she slashed inexpertly at the attackers face with the dagger. He dodged the blow meant for his eyes, but she managed to slice a good portion of his right ear before drawing back to make another attempt. He cried out in surprise and anger, drawing a hand up to cover the damage. That moment of hesitation was enough for her to get a better shot at him. Her next slice came down across the left side of his face, just missing his eye. She would have done more, but the blood she hadn't seen at his ear couldn't be hidden pouring down his face. Bretina went white and barely kept herself from dropping her knife.

"Oh gods!" Her voice was forced out in a choked whisper as she felt the pain radiating from their assailants. She backed into the guard who had taken her diversion as a chance to finish loading his weapon. There were others in the common room who were eager to join the fray, though they were less likely to charge in unarmed judging by the thoughtful looks they were giving the doorway and wisps of thought that she caught underneath the other distracting emotions. Only then did she remember that she'd been given a pistol loaded with one shot. Shaking hands that must have been hers for how small and white they looked reached into her belt and pulled the gun. Odd that she only remotely felt her extremities, though perhaps someone with more experience would point out that such was a predictible shock reaction. Again Lady Traimon's ringed gaze fell on the man with the slashed face as he tried to stumble back out to his comrades. Her gorge rose at the sight of his blood...blood she had drawn. She swallowed stiffly and resisted the urge to drop everything and wipe her hands compulsively on her pants. However, she could not stop her eyes from welling up and draining silently down her cheeks.

"Elijah?" She kept her voice soft less by force of will and mostly by force of fear as moved farther back into the room to where the lord lay on the floor regaining his breath. She kept her weapons pointed tremulously at the doorway, and then after a thought, pointed the blade at the man who was still clutching his eye. Her gaze fell to the man who had so foolishly allowed her to follow him into danger that only multiplied with her presence. She didn't even bother trying to offer him a smile; she wasn't sure her face would be able to form such an expression for a long time. Instead she sheathed her knife in her boot again and gave Elijah a hand up. He was better equipped to handle this situation. From where Bretina was standing, she saw only one option. All that remained was to get up the nerve to offer herself has a bargaining chip to get Elijah and his men out of there alive. She could sense that she was a primary target of most of the people in the tavern due to her nature, though a fair number did seem to want her companion dead for some reason she hadn't the energy to determine. Elijah was the one with the grand plans to save the kingdom. The Grey Lark Estates and its lady were not necessary parts of this turned about 'heroic' ideas of his. She looked him in the eyes, her resignation probably all too apparent since her masks had long since faded under the pressure of other people. She only hoped he'd let her do this one thing right.
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Re: Veiled Visions (RP) Part 2

Postby Elijah Morteron » Sun May 25, 2008 8:32 am

Elijah caught the look in those silver ringed eyes, the expression on that vsage that had turned so pale. He also felt her decision in a way he couldn't understand. He knew implicitly what she was about to do. He understood it. Accepting it was another matter altogether.

"Bretina no!" He shouted earnestly, even as she turned the weapon in her hands and gave it to the man Elijah had blinded in one eye.

Two others had walked in to the room. Elijah did not need to look to know that they also bore the mark. He could hear no further fighting beyond the room. He could only assume that Eamon and fitch had been overcome.

He turned to Allson. Still struggling with shaky hands to reload his rifle, as if he could somehow still change the situation alone. Elijah shook his head and gave him a palm down gesture that made the soldier stop and place the weapon on the floor.

The room was hushed, but for the moans of the man that Bretina had stabbed who was calling her all the names under the sun and muttering black curses under his breath.

One of the men that had joined the room grabbed Allson's weapon and set about loading it, even as the other set about bandaging dressing the wounds that had been inflicted on his comrades.

One eye, the man Elijah know decided was in charge of the attack, grimaced even as he chuckled darkly. "The woman has it right.. Lord Morteron. By her action she may well have saved your miserable life."

Elijah's mind raced. They did know who he was, the fact they had not killed him outright certainly meant that they were not allied with those who had attempted to assassinate him. At least not directly. It was all about Bretina then. The arson and murder at Hepple Manor, designed to bring not him back here, but her. He cursed himself for not making her go back to the Estates.

He was brought back to reality as the man continued. "Unfortunately. There are always casualties of any war.." With that the man flicked the pistol Bretina had given him up and turned it on Allson. The shot caught the soldier clear in the forehead, blood and brain splattering the wall behind him.

"You bastards!" Elijah moved but stopped in restrained fury when Allson's rifle was brought to bear on him.

"Its only good business Morteron." replied one-eye, tentatively touching the gut shot he'd taken and giving him an ugly smile. "Fair's fair. Take the girl." At the last, the man who had had his face dressed, and the medic took hold of Bretina by the arms and dragged her from the room.

Elijah made to rush them, all clear thought evaporating from his mind, overcome by a panic that sparked his fury like a match to lamp oil. A kick connected with his already bruised ribs and he went down to his knees. The next thing he knew was an explosion of pain in the side of his head, caused he could only assume by the butt of Allson's rifle. Stars burst burst behind his eyes and he lay on the floor, dazed for an uncertain passage of time.

When he came to his arms were bound and he could not see. For a moment he thought he was blind. Then he realised a hood had been placed over his head. He could vaguely make out small parts of the conversation of the men that surrounded him.

"... do it now."

"This is him.. Morteron?"

"Yes.. do it now.."

Steps came closer then stopped. A voice rung clear in his ears. ".. you probably have no idea who I am.. but I know you. Lord Morteron. This is for my mother.. and all the others you've destroyed. The underworld beckons. Murderer."

He did not recognise the voice. But there was something else. Something he did recognise. Something he could not place. And something... dark... He had no idea where these feelings were coming from. He also felt a panic the like of which he had never known before.

In the otherwise crisp silence that followed he made out the sound of rope or string under tension.

Then there was pain. Unebelievable pain. Then a waiting darkness that at first he welcomed, before it opened up into a waking nightmare.
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Re: Veiled Visions (RP) Part 2

Postby Bretina » Sat Jun 07, 2008 12:42 am

Bretina's desire to show complacence was unnecessary and quite forgotten since she was retching violently and couldn't have fought those who took her away if she'd wanted to. Only once before had she seen anything like what she'd just witness, and her dream had been easy enough to set aside from reality once she was awake. So great was her disgust and shock, she couldn't even weep for the lives of the men who had died trying to protect her and Elijah. Poor young Eamon looked to be the only one still alive, but he wouldn't be for long if some of the wounds she saw in passing weren't tended soon. Just as she was shoved from the inn, she caught the eyes of a familiar looking blond man with cold blue eyes. Were it not for the sickening sense of evil radiating from him, she might have ignored him. Instead she stared until he had moved into the building, a frown creasing her brow. He'd moved with too much purpose and looked too similar to Lord Morteron to be there by accident. 'Oh Elijah! Did I only put you in a worse situation?....I can't seem to do anything right.'

Waves of pain assaulted her mind as a rainbow of colors flooded her vision leaving her hanging limp and frightened between the men who led her through and then out of town. With a flicker of thought she recognized the source being Elijah, but that didn't stop it from affecting her. Had she been more aware of her surroundings, she might have noticed that she was being dragged along a well manicured path through light woods which led to a large building contructed of wood which stood as tall as the tallest trees. Its roof had a hole in it for the smoke of Cleasing Fires to escape, and the roof itself was black as if the char that would have only shown around the smoke hole had been spread over its entirety. The sides had no windows and few doors, and bore a variety of small markings, one per piece of wood. Each symbol, upon closer inspection, would have shown itself to be branded into the wood, just as the 'tattoos' of those who had lead the attack on her traveling party were actually brands.

The followers of the Cult of Crusifal were easily spotted in a crowd for each one bore some mark of where the Divine Fire had touched their skin. Many families had their own symbol that was used on everyone who could claim kinship by blood. Those whose families were too poor to afford their own branding irons simply achieved the desired markings by placing a red hot blade to their arms or necks. The marks of Cult membership were meant to be displayed prominently as a sign that the person bearing them had nothing to fear from the searing flames of divine justice, unlike the witches they burned. The leaders of the faith took the branding a step further, frequently damaging their bodies or their faces with naked fires to show their passionate devotion. The fervor with which they mutilated themselves was a large part of what kept the Cult from becoming more of a force in Phaeretii's political arenas; however, that same eager disregard for their safety and faith in the gods to protect them swayed the lower classes within reach of the town. Quietly, and right under the noses of those claiming control from Krysthian, the Cult of Crusifal's ranks were swelling at an alarming rate. All it would take was one leader strong and charismatic enough to lead the faith, and there would be little that could keep the rule of secular law intact.

Bretina was unaware of any of this though as she was hauled inside the Crusifal Temple. The interior seemed to be primarily an open sanctuary that had pulpit and altar in the center as opposed to the back of the room. The lady shuddered as the reason for such an arrangement became clear to her; the central area was a stone floored circle where they burned their condemned, and it could be viewed with ease from every bench in the sanctuary. Thankfully her captors followed a walkway along the wall and apparently had no intention of making her cross the scorched stones. Even so, she could feel the press of disembodied despair, echoes of souls in torment. Once they reached the back wall, the burly man on her left knocked a peculiar rhythm on an unmarked portion which opened to reveal a narrow hallway lit by dirty lanterns. She couldn't clearly see the face of whoever opened the door for them, but she got the feeling it was for the best because the distorted shape in the shadows was enough to send a chill down her spine. About halfway down the hall, another door was opened, and she was unceremonially tossed into an dark, bare room.

"Don't try anythin' stupid, witch, and ye might not suffer too many 'ardships before the burnin'." She didn't move from where she'd fallen on the floor to suggest she'd heard what was said, but the man chuckled harshly anyways. "Then again, it's more fun to watch the preparations for the unruly 'uns, and you did cause a mess o' trouble before givin' in..." He let that thought hang in the air between them and closed the door, barring it from the outside and leaving her in pitch blackness. Only then did she curl into a ball and begin weeping silently.
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It is what we do."
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Re: Veiled Visions (RP) Part 2

Postby Febre » Sun Aug 17, 2008 7:59 pm

Captain Raphael Febre, spy in the service of Lusoth Renning; Emperor of Yugaron, gazes out of the window at the dark, rain slick sprawl of the capital with a gentle smile creasing his thin lips. His left hand presses flat against the cold glass as he traces meaningless patterns in the condensation with the index finger of his right, using the lines and swirls to catch brief glimpses of the city below before the view is swallowed up by rivulets of rain trailing down the glass. After a moment he leans forward to rest his forehead against the cool surface and murmurs softly.

What was that?

The words of his lover for the evening slur ever so slightly, a sign of the amount of alcohol imbibed during the course of the festivities experienced this day. Febre remains silent for a few seconds before answering, not bothering to turn to face his companion as he speaks.

I said that she is so very, very beautiful. I would go so far as to say exquisite, in fact!

Who is?

Alcohol fuelled jealousy force the words out of the young noblemans mouth faster and more forcefully than he had really intended, and a crimson hue spreads across his features. Febre's scarred shoulders spasm slightly and it takes the young man a moment to realise that he is chuckling, the soft hissing noise of his mirth passes quickly and he waves his left hand airily as he points out of the window with his right.

She is, Daeinicea is, the fair capital of this glorious land we call our home is!

The--the city? The city is beautiful?

A slightly puzzled look crosses the young mans face and after a moment he raises himself into a sitting position, twisting his head slightly to be able to gaze at Febre, not for the first time finding his eyes drawn to the patterns of scars that cover his back from the nape of his neck down to the very bottom of his spine. The way the candle light casts guttering shadows across the scar tissue causes it, sometimes, to look like it all interlocks to make a series of images or words but that can't be right, can it? The young man shakes his head and groans softly, too much wine had clearly affected his reasoning and now, with the hour of his return home swiftly approaching, he is starting to regret the excesses of the evening. As he slips out of bed to begin to dress, he speaks once more.

You're a strange man, Febre. For all that you are a wit and a delight to be around, sometimes you speak as though you have been lifted straight from the pages of a story book. I've never met anybody else who speaks the same way that you do sometimes. Very strange indeed--but very funny as well.

He smiles softly and retries his scarf, placing it over his shoulder as he casts his gaze around for the rest of his clothes.
Febre turns from the window and cocks his head slightly, his gaze taking in the form of the young man like a predator seeing its prey for the first time. A humourless smile creases his lips and he takes a single, measured step away from the window, his fingers flexing and dancing almost of their own accord as his arms hang loosely by his side. Another measured step is taken and he speaks once more, his voice soft and lilting with the vaguest trace of mockery flitting around the edges of his words.

Funny? Oh I'm not a very funny man, in my line of work I'm afraid humour is a luxury one can rarely afford. Oh but enough about me, what of you, young Aran Donovan? Why so hurried to leave my side? Is the leash that your father, the Principle Secretary, placed around your neck tighter than even he had dared to imagine? Or are you, perhaps, growing more responsible as your years advance and you no longer care to tarnish the name of your dear family with the black paint of debauchery and deviance?

He closes the gap with his last word just as young Aran triumphantly retrieves his discarded britches from their resting place beneath the large bed. Aran glances over his shoulder at Febre and manages to somehow frown and smile at the exact same time, creating a somewhat comical expression upon his face as he responds.

See, that's what I mean. Nobody talks like that, not just the words but the rhythm as well. And how did you know who my father is, did I mention it at the party?

Febre smiles that cold smile again and places a gentle hand on Aran's shoulder, his fingers caressing the silken material of the scarf that rests there, leaning in to whisper in his ear.

I know everything about you and your family. Your father is such a remarkable man, so unshakeable in his beliefs and principles that he is willing to even stand face to face with Lusoth himself and say “You are wrong!" And in you? In you I see so very much of your father, I really do. Yes it is buried beneath the carefully crafted veneer of a reckless, wayward youth but it is impossible to hide from an eye existing solely to uncover such things. I admire you--one could go so far as to say that in my own way; in my own, special way, I love you!

He follows his words with a savage kick to the back of the knee, his hands drawing the silken scarf tightly around Aran's neck as his legs buckle beneath him. The young noble kicks and scrabbles in an effort to find his feet once more, his fingers scratching, clawing and grabbing at the material around his neck desperately. It is all to no avail as Febre hauls him bodily face first onto the bed, placing his body weight on Aran's back and, despite knowing perfectly well that the young man can hear nothing but the pounding of his own heartbeat and the rush of blood in his ears, leaning in to whisper softly as his grip on the scarf tightens.

I don't expect you to understand, I honestly don't. It's okay though, I don't hold your ignorance against you because how could you possible know? You see, that barbaric, tawdry little act we performed together this evening in this very bed? That's wasn't love, it wasn't even close to being sport let alone something as pure and celestial as love. This though? This is love! This is my love for him. This is my love for everything he stands for, everything he believes in and everything he will become. Oh yes, this is love, and you should rest easily knowing that your life was offered up in the name of something so very magnificent!

The struggling has stopped, he pulls tighter on the scarf as he waits for the irregular spasms of death to pass through the body before he releases his grip and straightens up slowly, panting ever so slightly and reaching out to tap out a peculiar beat upon the wall just above the headboard of the bed. He pats the back of Aran's head gently before sliding off the corpse and moving away from the bed.
His vigil by the window has been resumed by the time that the door to the room opens and a pair of cloaked figures slip quickly inside, moving without pause to stand beside the bed. The larger of the two scowls down at the prone body upon the bed before shifting his gaze to Febre.

Is 'e meant to be dead, chief?

Oh ye of little faith, my dear Brute. Of course he is meant to be dead. Now be a darling and swipe that little trinket from the bedside table and illuminate your darkened mind to the plan as it stands.

Febre smiles and shakes his head as he hears the large man fumbling around inside the drawers of the table in question for several moments before he retrieves a black medallion from within. Holding it up to peer at its surface in the candle light.

'Ere, this is the symbol of house Svetos ain't it? That mean the boss is droppin' the 'ammer on 'er then?

Febre sighs forlornly and turns from the window to lock eyes with the big man, shaking his head once more and twirling a finger in a slow circular motion.

There's more on the other side old chap, the other side will reveal all to you.

A genuine smile crosses Febres mouth as Brute attempts to view the other side by twisting the chain rather than simply gripping the medallion and turning it over. The irregular motion of the chain combined with the guttering light of the candles combining to create something of a pantomime effect until, once again, the sheer stubborn perseverance of Brute manages to defeat the world around him and he gets a good look at the opposite side of the metal, the revelation serving only to increase the perplexity dwelling upon his features and he strokes his chin as he speaks.

It's the emblem of the 134th--I don't get it, what's it meant to mean like?

Febre rolls his eyes and turns back to the window, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose momentarily before beginning to explain everything to his companion.

It's really a very simple equation Brute. You see Svetos plus the 134th, the legion in which we all served under Lusoth and with which he won his most famous military victories, equals a message for Principle Secretary Donovan.
Now I shall be the first to admit that this a very drastic and particularly blunt message, lacking the finesse that I usually favour, however we are pressed for time and Lusoth has given me leave to deliver the message in whatever way I see fit.
And the message, before you ask, is that our reach is without limit. Killing him would be more concise, but it would more than likely galvanise the other members of the council and would certainly tip our hand on a more public scale than I would like. No, we reveal the truth of our existence in this manner to Donovan and he tows the line with Lusoth's wishes on Myriana. Thus dragging the rest of the council along with him since they have no spine without him at their head. More importantly this will put a stop to their foolish “clandestine" investigations into her affairs, investigations which are far more likely to discover things that jeopardise Lusoth's grand schemes than they are to uncover any skeletons she has in her closet. Now Donovan knows that all the whispers and rumours about the 134th surviving the purge and operating as the Emperors knives in the dark are very, very real and that we can get any member of his family at any time we choose. To the rest of them? We remain whispers and rumours among the serving staff, just wraiths among the commoners; nothing for them to be concerned with.
Now get it out of here, and make sure it is strung up on the gates of the Donovan estate by the end of the week at the latest!

Brute shrugs and stuffs the medallion into a pouch at his waist before he begins to wrap the corpse of the second Donovan son in the satin sheets that it sprawls atop. He performs the task fastidiously, beginning anew repeatedly until finally the task is completed to his liking, at which time he grins at his smaller companion who stands across the bed from him, motioning for them to open the door as he hauls the bundle over his shoulder with a grunt. When he reaches the door he pauses and looks back at Febre expectantly.

You commin' chief?

No Brute, I find myself rather enthralled right where I am if it's all the same to you.

The big man shrugs, more than accustomed to the quirks of his superior officer and knowing better than to press the matter he simply walks through the open door, kicking it closed behind him with his heel and then trundling down the hall after his companion.

Alone at last. It feels like so very long since we were at last alone!

That predators smile returns to his lips and he reaches out to wipe the window free of condensation, when the task is complete his brings his hands up to his face. Shivering at the cold and damp on his skin he drags his hands downwards, across his throat and over his chest before reaching out to rest them on the window, palms flat against the glass and thumbs extended to touch one another, effectively creating a window within a window. Slowly he drags his hands across the surface of the window, drinking in the view of the city as it stretches out below him and revelling in the rain pattering against the other side of the window, the impact travelling through the glass and into his skin and the feel of it widening his smile.

I can feel your tears, my sweet, makes me feel so close to you that I could cry myself.

His smile fades away and he leans forward to rest his forehead against the window, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as he continues to speak.

He loves you--did you know that? He does, he loves you so much. He loves everything about, no matter how imperfect or abhorrent it may be in the eyes of everybody else. He loves you purely and unconditionally. Did you know that?
He loves you so much that he is willing to risk everything in order to see you become everything you deserve to be, everything you are entitled to be--even everything that you are destined to be. Oh yes he loves you so very much , so very powerfully.
Me? Do I love you, you ask? You're so pretty, so very achingly pretty when you cry that I think I love you.

He closes his eyes and presses his lips against the cold glass for a split second, repeating the action twice more before speaking again.

I do love you--I love you only when you cry. So why not cry some more for me, my sweet, succulent slut of a city? Cry for me and let me taste those tears that make my heart sing for you.
I do love you--in my own, special way.
Last edited by Febre on Mon Jul 27, 2009 10:08 pm, edited 1 time in total.
You’re so pretty, so very achingly pretty when you cry that I think I love you.
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Re: Veiled Visions (RP) Part 2

Postby Taldric » Sat Aug 23, 2008 10:46 pm

In the heart of Phaeretii an air of nervous anxiety pulsed above the marketplace crowd-- a most unusual occurence. People milled about, and tense voices cropped up throughout the square. This was not good, it took much to disrupt the hustle and bustle of the city's commercial hub. With a subtle gesture, Gandil signaled his men to wait at the market's edge. A gentle tug on an ivory handle ensured his knife was loose. He doubted he'd need it, but one never knew. Expecting no trouble, but prepared for the worst, his cloaked figure drifted through the mob. He passed unnoticed through the throng as all eyes were focused on a black-wrapped figure standing on a platform beneath the market wall. A few words drifted to him in ominous tones from the yet distant orator, but Gandil couldn't quite make them out. However, the man was a doomsayer, no doubt, a preacher of the apocalypse, weaving tales of pestilence and death. In normal times his diatribe on the end of days would have been peremptorily dismissed, but, with rumors of border skirmishes and impending war abounding, his message reached fertile ground.

Gandil had heard enough and made his way to the front of the crowd. Flicking his wrist, he sent his blade through the air to bury itself in a wooden post behind and to the left of the aged speaker. Silence fell with the suddeness of a hammer at the forge, and eyes darted all around. A pair of burly men appeared where Gandil had left them and approached the makeshift stage. Both missing their left hands and encased in ash-darkened hard leather they cut imposing figures. The worn scabbards on their backs had seen much use. Gandil couldn't help but smile as citizens scurried out of his men's way leaving a broad path before them, but the mirth never reached his eyes. The taller of his Dark Caste grabbed the shocked man by the shoulder and began to lead him away. His battle-scarred cohort covered his back and swept a baleful glare at the front rank of the human corridor they would walk through.

As the man was prodded down the steps and towards Gandil's distant tower, the executioner took in a slackjawed face which sported a ragged white beard. He further took note of the slight glint of madness in the ancient eyes, then the man was past, and Gandil vaulted onto the stage. He lowered his hood and stood facing the crowd. Recognition set in. The silence held.

In a voice barely above a whisper, yet one that carried across the crowd none-the-less, Gandil spoke icily,"Pay no heed to the ramblings of an old man. His portents were no doubt found in the bottom of his cup and more the fruit of drink than gods. Be on about your business."

Gandil shoo'ed away the crowd dismissively, and they dispersed quickly. Fear did have its uses. Once he was sure he was unwatched, Gandil lifted a sleeve and the bracer underneath. He eyed the flesh hidden beneath and ran a finger lightly over the symbol of Dyrhos imprinted there. The foreboding words had the ring of truth. Did the Dark god stir? There were ways of finding out. Something had led him to this chance encounter. Perhaps fate, perhaps something else- he'd best discover what. It seemed his latest fancy, as much as she stirred his blood, would have to wait. He jerked his blade from the seasoned oak that held it and slid it back into his belt. Gandil tumbled deftly from the platform and headed towards his oppressive lair. It was time to find out what was in store.
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Re: Veiled Visions (RP) Part 2

Postby Elijah Morteron » Tue Aug 26, 2008 5:52 pm

"I tell you this... the Lord of destruction stirs. His time comes, fast upon the ever flowing tide. Now he eats at the souls of the weak, like rain seeping into softened rock. Soon he shall rise like leviathian's waves and consume us all!" The doomsayer wailed the last word and seemingly as if heralding some otherworldy support, a crackle of thunder sounded and the heavens opened casting down a torrential downpour of bitter cold rain.

Laughing punctuated the brief silence that had followed, scarce at first but more resounding as other more superstitious folk felt their worries eased. Mutterings of 'old fool' followed and one passerby flicked a copper piece at the doomsayer that caught him square on the chin eliciting only a momentary blink before he flew back in to another dark 'foretelling'.

Elijah shivered, rubbing at his shoulders and wishing he'd brought a storm-cape with him from the ship. He'd been waiting for over half an hour, hidden in plain sight in the slim shadow cast between the wall of the 'Maid and Calf' and lantern-post whose stone had lost its charge and thus its illumination. Pen was unusually late, usually he took great pains to show up early just so he could rib the boy on his tardiness. But then usually they weren't this far from the harbour mouth, and certainly not this late. The last light in the 'Maid and Calf' had been extinguished and the last of its drunken patrons had been the flinger of the copper. A bell chimed the midnight hour as the streets cleared before his eyes until only he and the doomsayer remained. Forty minutes.

Where was he?

It was with that thought that he became aware of something he couldn't quite place.There was a sudden stillness in the air that at first he just felt, but then began to see. The wind had died. His breathe was laboured and there was no mist... and the rain! He gasped soundlessly. The rain hung in droplets, suspended from the ground. Somethng unseen tugged at his ankle, but he found himself too afraid to look down. In that frozen time only one thing moved. The lips of the doomsayer. Silence gave way to an almost inaudible whisper which grew until finally he could make out the words of the portenter of doom.

"He comes.. for you..."

Elijah became aware of his own heartbeat. A drumming that rose in intensity until it seemed as if it would burst from his chest. The tugging at his ankle also intensifed. He felt a burning then and his eyes percieved a darkness beyond the doomsayer. An inky blankness that became a form in and of itself.

At last, when he thought it was all but over, he looked down. Red ribbon was tied to his ankle and flickered in a non existant wind away from the darkness. The dark shape moved towards him, slowly as if somehow sure it could reach him with an eternity of time to get away at the boy's disposal.

"Elijah!" Came a scream. Pain burned up his leg. The darkness issued a noise that was like nothing the boy had ever heard, but in it he discerned rage. Then there was nothing.
"I give hope to men, I keep none for myself."
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Re: Veiled Visions (RP) Part 2

Postby Bretina » Thu Sep 11, 2008 10:30 pm

A day and a half passed in the darkness of her cell, or so she guessed since the only measure of time she had was the arrival of crusty bread and a bowl of water for her meals. Bretina didn't look up at those who served her after the first glimpse she'd taken. The features of those wandering the torch lit corridors of the temple were so distorted by scar tissue that one would be hard pressed to believe they had more than holes where noses should have been. She'd stifled a scream, bringing a rictus grin of hate fueled pleasure to what was left of the acolyte's face. Fear and worry kept her from moving from the back wall or reacting after that; fear for herself, and worry for Elijah.

She could not even sense him anymore, and he had always been such a bright point of strength in her mind. There was no way to know what was happening to him, or if he lived at all. Certainly nothing she picked up in the darkness gave any clue to his health or well-being. At the forefront of those thoughts that swarmed her overburdened mind were the dogmatic 'voices' of priests, novices, and townsfolk as they prepared for her Cleansing. It was too much to be forced to sit and listen to plans for accomodating the entire town and outlying farms in the temple. The idea that so many people were eager to watch the tortured last moments of her life drove the lady to do something she'd never attemped before.

She ran.

Her spirit rushed from her body with all of the strength that terror can give. She had no destination in mind, and no intention to see anything around her. She merely knew that she was not brave enough to face her death. Had her spirit been able, she would have wept as she flew over the countryside. Death by was her destiny, it seemed, to be claimed by the very element she'd miraculously evaded in childhood. It was only right that she fall as her family had, but her acceptance didn't hurt her heart any less. With a throbbing lurch, she changed direction to head towards the hills and mountains that bordered Phaeretii, seeking to separate herself fully from the torment her body would soon experience.

Back in the Temple her body was bound at the wrists with a piece of clean linen and led through a bloodthirsty mob crying for the Hand of the Divine to remove her unnatural taint from the land. Only a few noticed that her witchy eyes were an empty black, with no sign of the haunting silver rings, and that she did not show any signs of the fear or contempt that they had come to expect from those they killed for their gods. Her figure seemed at peace as it was roughly lashed to a stake on a platform hidden amid a pile of tinder. Everyone backed away from the central pit of the sanctuary as the High Priest stepped forward with a torch, shouting words of ritual and inflamation, stirring the crowd into a fury that would soon be matched by the conflagration before them. Bretina did nothing but close her eyes, her face bearing the serenity of a child asleep. The High Priest, only slightly disturbed by the witch's reaction, thrust the torch into the pitch soaked kindling that would speed the feasting flames.

Her spirit was far away, desperately speeding headlong for the border she had barely explored once before. This time there would be no anchor to keep her from being torn from her flesh and sent reeling into the abyss. She was almost there, and almost free of the tormented life she had come to hate. Only a flicker of thought remained to give away the lie, since she had begun to think life worth living...but that reason was gone and likely dead. She could almost feel the haze of power that enclosed Yugaron, and braced herself for the storm she would unleash. However, the wall was not built to withstand the onslaught of a mind in full tilt, and her mind was not strong enough to withstand the power of the wall. She hit the barrier, and it shattered.

Her soul was drawn into a vortex of power as a new fear threw her thoughts into chaos. She could barely acknowledge what she saw before new images flashed across her vision. The destruction of Yugaron's psionic protection took the lives of two young mages who were powering it, and their deaths wracked Bretina's exposed soul with a pain she'd not felt before. Blood-soaked battlefields, aged tomes glowing with a power she was loath to name, barren fields, and ancient tombs flashed before her eyes...and laced throughout were images of the world in flame held in the hands of a dark young man, a gold ring with raised relief of a broken sceptre glowing with the heat of the fires. The Lady of Grey Lark began shrieking in fear and eventually pain as those flames grew to encompass her, before she realized that she was actually feeling her own bonfire.

Her mind fragmented as it broke free of the power binding it to the visions of Yugaron, snapping back into the body she'd not managed to escape. All of the fear, panic, sorrow, and anger she'd been exposed to and felt in that split second of Sight flowed back into a body too weak to contain it. Her eyes flashed molten silver in agony as the weight of emotions both hers and not hers overwhelmed what was left of her mind and found the only outlet available. A force exploded from her body sending the flames roaring away from her to devour the screeching people of Crusifal. All those years, she'd thought her survival as a child either a miracle or curse of the gods. Never once did her aunt, so eager to acheive her own ends, explore the possibilities presented by such a strange event. No one put more thought into how the flames had not touched Bretina other than to declaim her a witch. Had she any sanity left in that moment, she surely would have been in awe of her own hidden strength, if not a little afraid. But she was broken, and what pieces of her mind and soul remained were nothing but a conduit for rage. Her features melted into a mask of absolute calm as the people who had thought to watch her painful end met their own in flames that danced to a tune only she could hear.

When the fires finally died down, not one soul who had attended the Cleansing remained alive, nor did a single beam of the Crusifal Temple remain standing.
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Re: Veiled Visions (RP) Part 2

Postby Elijah Morteron » Sat Nov 01, 2008 8:49 pm

He was running down dark corridors, flickering torches along the walls away from the impending weight of the shadow that chased him. His limbs screamed out in exhaustion and he felt his very life being drawn from his body. He saw the ribbon, scarlet, almost shining in the dark, but even as he chased it seemed to pull further away from him. He chased it along a right turn, then a left, always at the same distance, frustrated by it, fearful of what it meant.

Finally the turns led him into a dead end. The ribbon was gone. He was alone with only his racing heartbeat for company. It beat faster and faster. The shadow was almost upon him. What could he do? But then he saw two silver rings and in their light a handle in the wall before him. He clutched it forcefully, took a breath of cold desperate air and turned it.

The wall fell away. Before him stood a garden. Tranquility and beauty stripping away his fears, his doubts in one instantaneous moment. Blue skies, verdant green foliage, reds and blues all in bloom. A fountain stood as centerpiece to the beauty that surrounded him. Water trickled down in a way that drew all his fatigue away, all his fear, all his pain, gone in one instant. Even as he stared at the water he felt he was losing something. Memories were fading. Slipping from his grasp.

"Leave something here and you shall find it again." The voice came from nowhere, familiar and yet he could not place it.

"Leave what? I Have nothing, but for the clothes on my back!" He shouted back, unsure why he shouted at all.

"Your life is in peril. You must leave it here lest you lose it for ever"

His life was in peril, but how? And from what? He felt a chill building within him and as it grew he attached it to the shadow that pursued him. At the moment it was kept at bay, frosty jaws snapping at air. But what little safety he felt within this garden, he knew would fade. It was only a temporary security.

"Hurry!", the voice urged, and as if the word was a signal cracks began to appear in what he had taken to be the open sky. Black lines cutting themselves across the ceiling as his protection waned against some unseen assault. The garden about him began to betray itself as naught but a detailed mural upon four walls, splintering and crumbing. The room shook against the attack that could in his mind only be from the shadow.

He moved over to the fountain, as if being closer to that trickling calm would keep him safe against what pursued him.

"Hurry!" Came the voice again, it seemed even more familiar this time, but again he could not place it. He cupped his hands at the urging and swept them into the water. Moments later the cool liquid was racing down his throat into his stomach and then into the core of his being, making his spine tingle. On cue the walls shattered about him, casting rubble all around. The force of the blast threw him from his feet to land in a heap on the floor. The shadow burst in, screaming in the same howl of frustration and rage and with a scream it engulfed him.


He awoke in agony, white hot pain seemingly englufing his entire body. His eyes struggled to focus against that pain in the dimly illuminated chamber that he found himself in.

"Impossible. Something aids him."

"My lord?"

"No matter. I have what I need. The other will do just as well with this one's darkness."

It was then that he became awar that his feet were off the ground. He was somehow suspended. He turned his head weakly and discerned ropes in the same moment that he became aware of how he was suspened from the floor. The pain he was feeling was due to large iron hooks that had been thrust into his flesh around his shoulders.

Somehow the realisation made the pain ebb away. It did not occur to him in his present state that the reason for this was that his life blood was flowing away, down his naked body in rivulets to the cold heavily stained floor.

"Awake are we? Wishing you were still asleep no doubt." The hazy figure before him, hidden beneath a dark cowl laughed at him. "Don't even remember your name do you? That's no matter. Where yu are going you shall not need to know, though no doubt it shall be thrust upon you."

"What would you have me do with him my Lord? Should I kill him?" The other figure was bigger than the first. A heavy set brute with a dirty feral face.

"No no no. I have a better plan for this one. Take him to the capital in Yugaron and leave him with the guards at the palace gates. Tell them who he is and tell them also that a favour is owed. I shall call on it in time." The cowled man chuckled to himself. "And be sure he lives till then... and for goodness sake, clothe him.. in beggars garb. Allow him some dignity."

The laughter was all he heard before he sunk into the waiting arms of sleep.
"I give hope to men, I keep none for myself."
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Re: Veiled Visions (RP) Part 2

Postby Elijah Morteron » Sat Nov 01, 2008 8:50 pm

Double post
"I give hope to men, I keep none for myself."
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Re: Veiled Visions (RP) Part 2

Postby Elijah Morteron » Sat Apr 04, 2009 11:59 am

"Wakey wakey...", the voice urged in a mock gentle voice. He had only time enough to register it's underlying gruff nature before a shock of freezing cold water lent weight to the implication that this was in no way a request. His immediate reaction was to flail about and move to stand. This was a mistake. The quick movement resulted in searing pain around his neck as it pulled at an unyieldingly strong metal collar and chain. Panic rose within him and his heart beated in time to the clank of the chains as base animal instinct for flight filled his senses. His hands found the collar and he pulled at it, and when this failed he flailed on, his hands colliding with more metal at his sides, the skin bruising and breaking with the ferocity of his attack.

"Now now... we don't want the whip again do we?" The voice was once again as cruel and heavy as he remembered, finally recognising it as that of his serial tormentor these past days... weeks? He could no longer remember how long it had been. Pain had blurred the passage of time. Questions he could not answer, repeated with parrotic manotany, had in no way aided his memory in retrieving the vital information he so desired. Who was he? Why was he here in this place? What had he done. These were not questions he was asked.

He calmed himself, returned to his crouching seat, one hand still holding the chain limply in a fatigued grip.

"Better. Now.... open your eyes and look upon the face of your salvation my pretty little pet."

He knew better than to refuse. He had retreated into a shell of silence after his own questions had been violently rebuked, only to find that anything but immediate and unequivocal response to command would yield a greater pain than he had ever felt before. The whip. It was no natural thing. He could feel its presence even now, otherworldy, dark and purest malice. It struck and cut and rent the flesh as any barbed whip would do, but it cut deeper, beyond the flesh. It seared the soul, if there were such a thing. A pain that time could not fully heal, it hung there, burning away inside for hours. It still burned now from the last time.

As he opened his eyes he saw it there, within that leather gloved vice of a hand. Carried proudly like a mark of office. It shimmered with a faint purple light, an aura of twilight. He moved his gaze along the man's arms, tight sinewy muscle that always seemed tensed for action, onto shoulders that were slight, but deceptively so. He knew well the strength that lay in the man. Onwards and upwards until he came upon that cruel blue eyed stare, unblinking, full of zealous flame.

"Neither of us wants this to continue my young boy. There are... better things we could be using our time for." A lick of thin pale lips and eyes betrayed a glint of something else. He followed his tormentor as he paced back and forth along the length of the cage. "Why not make this easy for yourself.. just answer my questions and I can make it all go away." A pause for effect. Then he sweapt his arm away from the cage to a lone door, steel braced wood, within a plain stone wall illuminated dimly in the wake of a single light crystal. "There. Beyond that door lies freedom. An end to the pain. The despair....." another lick of the lips.." and perhaps even the loneliness.."

Except there were no answers.. at least none that were wanted.

"When will the attack happen?"

He held his captor's gaze.. willing an answer to emrge out of the nothingness of his past, but there was nothing. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Unabated, the whip-bearer continued his line of questioning. "Where are the other conspirators?"

Again he had no reply forthcoming. As before this had only told him that he had not been alone before this. But an attack? Conspirators? What had he been doing and why? "I don't know... you know I don't!" He shouted back.

A sad shake of the head that would have been sympathetic had those eyes still not held that viral hatred. "Lies. And we both know I hate lies. You are not making this easy.. for me and most certainly not for yourself."

He could feel the power of the whip growing. As if the captor's dissatisfaction with the futility of the questions was seeping into it, feeding it. "What do you want to hear!? I don't know anything!" He was shaking with apprehension. He knew what was coming. Knew that nomatter what he did or said, the end was inevitable."

A tut and a mock sigh. "Why do you make me do this to you..?"


He awoke in agony. Still chained. His soul on fire. His eyes wet with tears of desperation. He felt like a child alone. Afraid. THe sound of the door botls being pulled aside snapped him alert. It was time to eat. Like all other things he only knew this because his last memory was of the torture. There was no way to use it as a reference tool for time, he'd tried. Had found himself silently counting on many an occasion, to try and make some sense of it, but it seemed as if the events were spread at random intervals and now he only counted to hear a friendly voice within his cold solitary world.

He closed his eyes before the light crystal ignited, then slowly opened them again as they adjusted to the light. A slight figure in grey hooded raiment stepped inside carrying his food. A bowl of porridge and a wooden drinking cup that would hold his water. It was the same figure each time. He knew this from the way it moved, from its height and build and from the shape of the slim honey coloured fingers of the person's hands. He had guessed it was a she. But at no time did the visitor speak during the brief meetings and the hood was never drawn. BUt this time was different. The figure almost dropped what she carried at the sight of him and the hood moved just enough for him to catch sight of her lips and a lock of long blonde hair. She recovered her composure and continued on until she reached the cage.

Then she changed the routine. Each time before she had placed the drink and bowl quickly down upon the ground just within his reach and had stepped quickly back and left the room with haste. This time she hesitated, as if weighing him up. Then slowly.. as if still unsure, she stepped closer, holding out the meal to him.

His first instincts declared this a trick. His tormentor playing with him during his only moments of peace. But the more she stood there, holding out the food, the more he began to believe that he had found a sympathetic ear. Somone he could perhaps even trust. He reached out between the bars, as slowly as she had, not wanting to startle her away from this act of grace. When he took it from her she looked as if she were about to go, but then she reached out and gently touched the back of his hand with her palm. He felt an overwhelming feeling of understanding, of pity, of mercy all jumbled together. It was fleeting, she pulled back and turned to go.

"Wait!" He whispered urgently. "Please.... my name... what is my name? Do you know?"

She looked to the door. Then back to him. Shaking her head.

"Please. Please.. I don't know anything... please give me this.."

She looked once more to the door . Her hand were clasped and she was wringing them as if trying to wash her hands of something... "Elijah.... Your name is Elijah....." With that she flew from the room. The doorclunked back into place and bolts were slid across.

Elijah.. his name was Elijah. Something hammered at a closed door somewhere in his mind. The name felt right.. there was more. A tide of knowing just waiting to be loosed, but the door was as tightly shut as the one to his cell. "My name is Elijah.." he whispered it to himself over and over and then silently over and over and over. His meal lay forgotten by the side of his cage. His pain was a distant thought. He had something. A glimmer of hope. The rest would come with time. He only hoped that whatever he had been before would be worth remembering and not more dangerous to him than the situation he was now in.
"I give hope to men, I keep none for myself."
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