"Your complaint is noted. Why don't you go sit by Kergh. Things might get a bit messy," Barnabas says as he draws ut his dagger and focuses his attention on Blackerly.
"Hey there Sargent, we need to talk and I don't have time belabour the point. I'm going to ask you a very important question. If I'm not happy with what you tell me I'm going to scoop out one of your eyes. If you dispoint me a second time, then my pretty face is going to be the last thing you ever see. At that point I think that we will have to take a break. I'm not really equipped here for a proper torture session, but I assure you, we will revisit the question at a later date."
Barnabas leans in close and taps his dagger on Blackerly's cheek, beneath his right eye. "So now that we understand each other, who is this Ventris that you seem to be such good friends with?"
There was a time when the Walker in Darkness has its many eyes set on Kergh, as if it had seen something in the dwarf that it wanted. Now, however, the oily shadow on four legs has stalked up behind Barnabas, even as Drisella sulkingly walks away from the proceedings.
Making itself known with a throaty growl that sounds like something grumbling into a tin can, the Walker upturns its head towards Barnabas, inspecting him with all six eyes, before turning its attention towards Blackerly. The Walker's snaking tail curls behind Barnabas, drifts by cheek level, and the tapered point motions towards Blackerly's eye slowly.
Then, it grows silent and still, watching.
Looking up into Barnabas’s face, Tomas Blackerly awoke to a world that was nothing but pain. Wrists and ankles were bitten tight with manacles taken from Branderscar prison, the same ones that had once been used on the prisoners that he had lorded over. All of Blackerlys equipment had been taken, armor, sword, curative potion, even his boots. What could only be dried blood caked his lips, mouth, chin, throat and chest, and fresh blood still drooled from his nose.
Blackerly opened his eyes. A dexterous hand was holding a dagger beneath his right eye. Spitting blood to the ground, Blackerly looked up. “Your very foolish Mr. Wright, very foolish indeed. I have powerful friends. Others will know that I am missing. You really don’t want to be messing with me no matter how much at your mercy you think I am. We could have come to an arraignment before you decided to burn down the prison. Instead you threw yourself in with common criminals when there is nothing common about you.
As the situation tenses up with Blackerly waking up and Barnabas bringing his knife ever so close to the other man's eye, so does Ethaniel, though it is not readily apparent. The prospect of torture does make the magus at the very least uncomfortable, despite the last few days and the sergeant's role in what he has endured. Still, he says nothing, at least for now. These are hardly the kind of people that would look kindly upon signs of compassion, especially towards their tormentor.
So Ethaniel does nothing to stop Barnabas, finding a confrontation with the man and the rest of his "companions" a most unwise course of action. Instead he focuses his attention on the girl's otherwordly pet, which seems to enjoy this unpleasantness. Almost absentmindedly, his hand moves ever so slightly closer to his sword's hilt, but he stops short of touching it, much less making a move to draw the black blade. Outwardly, he seems calm and controlled, yet inwardly he is already playing out a potential fight against the creature. Truth be told, between them all, even counting the ogre and the vampire, it is the one member of their disparate group too alien for him to trust for now. Or whatever passes for trust among them all.
On the path between Varyston and Branderscar Prison. Round 4 (Forty Minutes into the Chase)
The rush of the chase, and letting the melody of The Even-Tongued Conquest dominate his thoughts, Kaynen finally comes to a stop at the end of the muddy field.
Ah, and where has our field mouse fled to now?
Straining in the dim light of the night sky, anxiety finds purchase in Kaynen's mind as he rushes his scan of the field and sees no signs of passage by the fleeing guard.
"Hmmm, have we lost him then?"
Giving a final look in all directions, Kaynen continues his course, trying to pick out the more stable parts for his mount to use for safe crossing.
Through the washed out field Kaynen skillfully maneuvers his horse through the lightest parts of the mud. The rain has made what might have been a rich loamy expanse, soggy and damp. Reaching the other side of the clearing, Kaynen scans the trees and is able to find a break where a hard beaten path winds between two tall conifers. Of more importance however is the trail of muddy footprints that dot the path leading deeper into the forest. Urging his horse onward the half-elf gallops down the path and deeper into the ticket of woods. Curving around several switchbacks dotted with boulders and down a slope the trail narrows dangerously into a tight ravine littered with fallen stone and sharp granite outcroppings. Eyes quickly scanning the route, the virtuoso is able to determine that he might be able to scale the edge of the ravine and ride along the edge, but it would be a hard climb from horseback. Alternatively he could elect to continue down the path and through the ravine. Normally this would pose no hazard, but at full speed, the scattered rocks and tight walls could make the route dangerous.
Thanks to your keen eleven heritages you are able to hear the sound of hoof beats on stone. It sounds like it is coming from north of the ravine, along the path towards Varyston.
Mikhail dismounts and forcibly takes the horse by its reins. Angry at his inability to navigate the narrow passage except by on foot, and angry that his prey may be moving further away, he pulls the recalcitrant animal until he is through the tunnel. While he is glad that Kaynen's presence increases their chances, he is disappointed that he may not be able to sink his fangs into the fleeing guard and feel the hope drain out of him with the blood.
After several minutes of leading his mount by the reigns through the ancient forest with its ancient, lichen encrusted brances and mushroom dotted trunks. Mikhail breaks through the lowest, most overgrown section of the forest and is able to remount. Urging his horse onward to make up for lost time, Mikhail pulls sharply back on the reigns as the path opened up and the ground gave way to a large muddy clearing that was dominated by a large and steep hill on the right. Despite the darkness, Mikhail's dark gift allowed to make out the shape of two sets of horses tracks ahead of him that lead deeper into the muddy field.
It looks as if the horse tracks abruptly stop and then the mud has been heavily disturbed. Appearing in the middle of the mud is a set of human tracks that appear to wear high leather boots. Then the human and horse tracks lead off. Common sense would indicate that the guards mount stumbled at this point and the man was thrown off his horse. It looks like he then led the mount off towards the other side of the muddy field. Alternatively, you may choose to dismount. You will be considered to have failed this skill check and you will spend the next round safely guiding your horse through the muddy field.
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Mikhail, returned to the back of the horse, rides up to the muddy field. He immediately spots the tracks, likely left by either Kaynen or the guard, that lead through the mud. In the darkness, he can make out the horse's tracks thanks to his ability to pierce the darkness with his vision, borne of his heritage. He presses onward, following the path with his horse and easily making it through the mud and the muck. Only one of the horse tracks leads through the mud; while Mikhail is uncertain of which one went through, he knows that this is the best and only route to Varyston - the guard, if the one who didn't try to navigate the mud on the back of the horse - will have to eventually return to the roadway to follow his duty.
As Blackerly's empty threats wash over him, Barnabas crouches motionless. The guard's petty speech finishes, yet the ex-nobleman blade does not move and Blackerly breaks into a bloody grin, thinking that he's called the prisoners bluff. Barnabas does hesitate, but not because he was bluffing.
Always before, he could justify his actions, vile as some had been. There had been no other options. Even tonight, where he had spilled more blood than he could ever have imagined, he had been painted into a corner. It had been he or they and, though his conscience recoiled at the thought that some of those felled had no doubt been honest folk, given second chance, he wouldn't have changed a thing. Now though, he had a choice. He could just let Blackerly go, or even just let the ogre or the girl's foul beast end his miserable life. Either would serve, but this man had information Barnabas needed. The Sargent was a link to those who had orchestrated his downfall and held the key to his revenge. What price would he pay for it?
These were the thoughts that held Barnabas' blade in check. Could he accept this all as a fitting punishment for the misery he had caused some many others and just walk away, or would he cross the line into deeper darkness in the name of revenge? A single tear falls, shed for the loss of the man he could have been, as Barnabas lunges forward.
With his free hand, Barnabas clamps down of Blackerly's mouth and leans his full weight into it, forcing the man's head into the soft ground. At the same time, his blade darts forward into Blackerly's eye. There is a heartbeat of resistance before the eye pops like a pressed grape. Blackerly's muffled screams are awful to hear and he weakly bats at Barnabas in an attempt to lossen his grip. Lost in his deadly focus, Barnabas hardly notices. Not wanting to cause to much other damage, he merely slices out the centre of the eye, flicking the horrible jelly off to one side.
Breathing hard and a little wild-eyed at what he had just done, Barnabas removes his other hand from Blackerly's mouth and looks into his remaining eye.
"I ask you again, who is Ventris. Disapoint me again, and maybe when I take your other eye, I'll just leave you to wander this bog blind until the weasels and ravens finish you off."
Kaynen eyes the jagged rocks with concern, and looks back over his shoulder for Mikhail.
No doubt, he'd scold me for dallying to wait for him, but that outcropping does remind me of a lumpy, old Mitran priest I used to know...
Kaynen glances down at his Branderscar chain shirt and wonders if such armor was a good idea during a chase, but shrugs realizing that as long as he's not chaffing, he shouldn't complain.
Whistling to his steed, he meanders his way past the rocky parts of the ravine.
Oswald shuffles closer to the impromptu torture session, holding Rosaline in a sitting position across one of his forearms as they both watch the show. The doctor leans in to listen to his poppet for a moment while whispering something back into the place her ear should be if she was actually a living creature. He nods as he shares a snicker with her, "Yes, yes, that would be most fun to watch." Oswald comes to stand behind Blackerly and Barnabas as he tsks at the man's lack of artistry in the medical arts, "For the next one, I recommend cutting here, here, and here," he points out several spots around the eye but not actually through it. "You'll be able to sever the muscles holding the eye in the socket and then you can slowly pull it out while letting him keep the nerve cluster intact. You can carve him like a gourd and let him see your handiwork firsthand. I find removing one of the senses, while might intensify the sensitivity of the rest, also runs the risk of sending the patient into shock were they cannot experience the rest of the procedure with as must enthusiasm," the doctor lectures before stepping back to watch more of Barnabas' work.
Tomas Blackerly screamed. Gods, but it hurt! More than any wound he had taken along the watch wall, more than any insult or barb. It was as if the dagger that Barnabas held had pressed its silvery blade into his mind and soul.
Laying on the on the dirt with his hands manacled, Tomas raised his cuffed hands to his face. He felt slickness on his cheek and he screamed again as his fingers felt the empty hole where his eye had been.
Shaking his head back and forth he threw his head back and yelled, the sound echoing in the swamp. It was a bellow of agony.
Around him the Forsaken watched in fascination. Oswald critiquing in a moment of lucidity while Walker in Darkness cackle-purred in excitement. Ethaniel continued to study the strange otherworldly creature. Eyes narrowing, he watched as the creature became more agitated. it was as if it fed upon agony inflicted.
Tomas howled, his rain slicked hair falling back as he looked through a single tear-muddled eye towards the nights sky above. His eye socket seemed to be on fire! Blazing! He felt the blood and sera run down his face as he screamed. Walker in Darkness shivered and swayed, drawing in a deep breath as if drunk.
Tomas let out one final scream. Then he clenched his fists together and shut his jaw, though he could not stop a low groan - a growl of anger and pain - from sounding deep within his throat. Teeth still clenched against the pain, Tomas forced himself to look up at Barnabas.
His remaining eye blinked tears of pain. It seemed as if half of the stars in the sky had suddenly winked out. As if everything had gone darker. It was like looking through a window with one half blackened. Despite the blazing pain in his right socket, he felt as if he should be able to open his eye.
But he could not. It was gone and no amount of healing from a priest could replace it.
Voice hoarse from yelling, Tomas shook his head final time as if trying to somehow shake away such a deep and unrelenting, unimaginable pain.
Fine.. I'll tell you who Ventris is... Tomas whispered through gritted teeth.
As the mention of his prize, Barnabas leaned in close so his brow was near touching Tomas's so as to not miss a single word.
And in that moment Tomas Blackerly lunged forward and bit into Barnabas's mouth.
In the crimson embrace, Tomas felt Barnabas scream, the motion transmitted through his jaw. Barnabas's fists and the pommel of his dagger struck Blackerly repeatedly and desperately against Tomas's skull and neck. Arms flailing, Barnabas's purloined cloak whipped about Tomas's head. Finally, Barnabas was able to tear himself away, roaring in pain.
Looking down at the man, Barnabas clamped a hand to his mouth. Tomas's mouth and lips were slathered in a deep crimson, a matching counterpart to the empty, angry socket where Tomas's had eye had been. Grinning, Blackerly retched out a mouthful of blood and a good fleshy lump of Barnabas's lower lip.
Blackerly roared. Nothing you can do to me is worse than what Ventris will do if I talk.
__________________________
Kaynen eyes the jagged rocks with concern, and looks back over his shoulder for Mikhail.
No doubt, he'd scold me for dallying to wait for him, but that outcropping does remind me of a lumpy, old Mitran priest I used to know...
Kaynen glances down at his Branderscar chain shirt and wonders if such armor was a good idea during a chase, but shrugs realizing that as long as he's not chaffing, he shouldn't complain.
Whistling to his steed, he meanders his way past the rocky parts of the ravine.
Riding onward, the trail continued to snake through rocky spurs and jagged steep granite slopes. The cold air blew against Kaynen's skin and the rain continued to fall like tears from the gods. Winding around a final bend in the narrow ravine, The trail began to open up. Dead ahead of Kaynen, he could make out what appeared to be a long pool of still water that had collected in a particular deep section of the ravine, before the trail continued onward, rapidly ascending and leading out of the steep alpine canyon. While this normally would have been a setback, in this case it was a boon, because stuck in the middle of the pool was a single, rain soaked man who wore the blue and white of Branderscar, mounted atop a horse.
Mikhail, returned to the back of the horse, rides up to the muddy field. He immediately spots the tracks, likely left by either Kaynen or the guard, that lead through the mud. In the darkness, he can make out the horse's tracks thanks to his ability to pierce the darkness with his vision, borne of his heritage. He presses onward, following the path with his horse and easily making it through the mud and the muck. Only one of the horse tracks leads through the mud; while Mikhail is uncertain of which one went through, he knows that this is the best and only route to Varyston - the guard, if the one who didn't try to navigate the mud on the back of the horse - will have to eventually return to the roadway to follow his duty.
Following the horse tracks through the washed out field Mikhail relied on his dark heritage to direct his mount alongside the hoofprints. The rain has made the rich loamy expanse, soggy and damp, but thankfully it had made it easier to locate the broken trail. Not pausing to stop on the other side of the clearing, Mikhail is able to find a trail of mud that leads to a hard beaten path winding between two tall conifers. Blinking in the darkness, Mikhails smile curls up in anticipation. There was clearly more then one set of tracks that dotted the path and they were both fresh. Grabbing the reins tightly, Mikhail urged his mount onward down the dirt path as it lead deeper into the forest. Galloping down the rock and dirt trail it begins to curve around several switchbacks that are dotted with boulders before leading down a steep slope and narrowing dangerously into a tight ravine littered with fallen stone and sharp granite outcroppings. Quickly evaluating the route, the dark prince is able to determine that he might be able to scale the edge of the ravine and ride along the edge, but it would be a hard climb from horseback. Alternatively he could elect to continue down the path and through the ravine. Normally this would pose no hazard, but at full speed, the scattered rocks and tight walls could make the route dangerous.
___________________________
Bringing his horse to a stop, Kaynen surveys the floodwater and grins to himself as he catches a glimpse of the guard struggling ahead.
Well, I'll be damned, we've actually caught up to him..
Glancing over his shoulder, Kaynen's eyes narrowed to size up how much further behind him Mikhail might be.
Sighing when he realizes he's traversed the latest stretch alone, and has mostly exhausted both his voice and his more useful spells for the day, he clears his throat and attempts to call to the fleeing soldier.
"A-hem... Look here, there's a half-dozen forsaken that will be upon us any moment. I'd suggest surrender, or a reconsideration of allegiance immediately if you don't want to face the wrath of our sorcery. It's perhaps your only chance to see your family alive again... "
Mikhail decides that he has wasted enough time with a cautious approach. He spurs the horse on ahead, pushing it to its limits over the rain-slicked rocks. It climbs up onto the ravine, assisted by Mikhail taking some of his weight off by grabbing at the rocks with his inborn strength. In the rain and the darkness, it doesn't see that one of the rocks is loose. When its hoof tries to find footing, the rock tumbles loose. Trying desperately to keep itself from falling down the ravine in its totality, it bucks Mikhail hard. The fallen nobleman hits the wall and tumbles downwards, grabbing onto rocks to slow his fall. The chain shirt, removed to ease the ride's challenges, catches on a rock and gives him something to grab onto, stopping his bloody fall. He pulls himself back upwards, heading back to his horse, though now with scratches and cuts all over his pale skin.
Crouching down and drawing her knees to her chest, Drisella looks lost in thought as she finger paints in the mud several paces away from where the torture of Blakerly is happening. Rainsoaked and tiny-looking, she seems wholly incongruent when juxtaposed with the men here, if only on the surface.
The Walker in Darkness is just as much a wolf in sheep's clothing as Drisella is, but for wholly other reasons. When Barnabas gouges out a portion of Blackerly's eye, the terrible creature releases a rattling sound like cabled wires clattering inside of a steel drum. It steps forward, just enough to breathe in something with a loud snort; fear, blood, something more ethereal.
Then the Walker moves back to Barnabas' side and lets its chitinous, segmented tail gently brush along the man's blade arm as it murmurs something that -- for once -- isn't in some pit-spawned tongue. "When a man dies in the name of another God," its voice is a cacophony of whispers, each of them sounding like the voices of drowned men still slick with water, "the soul does not move on, but is gifted to He whose name is invoked at the time of death."
The voice is a whisper, enough for Barnabas and Blackerly to make out clearly. "The pious do not fear death, because they know that their God awaits them."
Turning its sixfold eyes up to Barnabas, Walker suggests, "Show him that stone walls and iron bars do not alone make a prison."
Tearing free, Barnabas stumbles to his feet. Spraying blood, he clutches at the ruin of his mouth and probes the damage with his tongue. It's the last straw. The whole night he's been keeping it together. Staying calm. Staying focused. But there is only so much a man can take and Barnabas has reached his limit. Clutching fistfuls of hair in his bloody hands, he lets out a scream of rage and anguish.
Turning back to Blackerly, he kicks the man, full force in the knee. "You stupid whore's son!!" He raves, his voice growing louder and louder. "Kill you? Kill? You? I will never let you die! You're afraid of what Ventris will do to you? You're nothing to him! Just some pissant little prison guard, who's too stupid to pick a clean death. Kill you? I'm going to to let the ogre eat you limb by limb, a slice at a time. Once you're nothing but a torso, I'm going to track down every person you ever cared for and let him eat them, as you listen to their screams. As you hear them beg for mercy. Or maybe I'll just sell them to a brothel, where they will be used so badly that they will curse your name every day until they die diseased and lice ridden. Kill you? I promise that every day of your long, long life will be so full of pain and horror that devils will cry out for mercy."
Visibly shaking and out of breath, Barnabas slowly begins to regain his composure. Eyes still wild, he smirks a horrible bloody grin and hand his dagger to Oswald.
"Now my good doctor you were making some interesting suggestions about eye removal." He kneels and clamps Blackerly's head in a white knuckled grip. "Why don't you come over here and show me how a professional does it."
Kergh wanders off to relieve himself, leaving the others to their victim.
"Well, I see torture has proven so very effective thus far," Ethaniel remarks drily, keeping whatever discomfort he may be feeling at Barnabas' attempt at surgery hidden behind wit and sarcasm. Moving a little closer towards the former slaver, the magus puts his hand on the other man's shoulder, though his eyes are still on the strange creature among them.
"Pull yourself together," he advises softly, his voice a whisper. "You have tried vinegar, perhaps you should give honey a chance? Though I am not quite sure what you could offer the man. Other than his freedom that is..."
He seems to pause for a moment, as if a thought came to his mind, or more precisely as if trying to better listen to something. "Or perhaps simply the illusion of it."
Whirling around in his shadle, young Bertram Holt scowls. The Sarg said you would kill me if you caught me. And Brother Harvin said you were a blight! The man yells atop his horse as it continues to ford the river. Then as Kaynen's spell takes hold the man goes slack eyed and unfocused, but the horse without a command continues to swim onward through the flooded path.
Cursing to himself Mikhail continues onward down the path, this time with more caution. His sides hurt from where he was thrown from the horse. Shaking his head in anger, the dark prince scowls. Not a single guard had managed to strike him, or inflict a single wound, and yet now this traitorous horse had hurt him worse than any of the prison guards.
_______________________
Kergh sits alone, away from the others with a small fire now. He can hear the sounds of Oswald and Barnabas off to the left but the dwarf has his own plans.
The distant sounds of anger and screams laced with trickery and promises all make a fine atmosphere for what Kergh intends. The dwarf lifts his new holy symbol of thorns and smiles at the love and support it means. After all without the Love of the Dark Prince no one could have been wand healed, and his spell gifts would never have been allowed. That is a sign that his master believes in himself and even believed in helping Kergh escape. Further Kergh is no great brain, he needs guidance in this place, and they have come to replace his poor Nana.
So Kergh holds the symbol over the flames and grits his teeth, lowering both hands little by little to prove his faith. Then he stops and waits for the pain to grow. This is not about damaging himself forever, this about testing that endurance and seeing how much he can ignore the heat. Slowly Kergh begins to recite the Dirge of Nessus, the litany may start slow but Kergh is no hero, as the pain mounts and his hands start shaking, the dwarf starts to speed up his mouthings. Spittle sprays out to sizzle on the hot stones while the priest tries hard to find his inner place of darkness ..... safety. One day he will pierce that veil and see into his master's home but not this day.
Eventually the litany finishes and Kergh is free to pull his hands away, but Nana always taught him to not give in to weakness but hold just a little longer. That strength gives a sweet ecstasy of true faith and makes the holy dwarf smile.
Then he stops exhausted and looks at his hands. The hands tingle and slowly the needles of pain fade back into the symbol. Kergh is done.
Oswald takes the offered dagger delicately with his right hand, examining the edge of the blade before shaking his head, "It should be sharper but I suppose it will have to do. Now, Mr. Blackerly, you seem to be suffering from muscle spasms that are proving somewhat of an inconvenience to your current condition. Let me help you with those first." The doctor sets Rosaline down on a rock nearby with a good view of the operation before gripping the dagger firmly in one hand while grabbing one of Blackerly's arms with the other.
Despite the weak struggles of the wounded man, Oswald slices deep into the flesh in several small, precise incisions meant to completely sever Blackerly's tendons. As the muscles curl and bunch from being disconnected from the bone, the agony radiating up Blackerly's still functioning nerves are enough to cause the strongest man to scream in pain. Oswald holds the index finger of his left hand in front of his lips as he makes sshing noises, "Now, now, Mr Blackerly, please do try to keep your discomfort to yourself. You're disturbing the other patients." The mad doctor hums a wordless nursery song to himself as he moves to each of the remaining three limbs and does the same to them.
His initial surgery complete, Oswald takes a moment to check Blackerly's pulse and vitals before holding the bloody point of the dagger an inch from the sergeant's eye, "We move on to the more difficult part. There might be some disorientation, Mr. Blackerly, but it should pass with time. I do hope you have a strong stomach for vertigo." His free hand holding down the man's head, Oswald leans in close with the dagger.
As flesh parts easily under the steel edge of the dagger, Oswald carefully cuts away the connective tissue and muscle from around Blackerly's remaining eye. Blood runs like tears down the man's face while the doctor hums his merry-sounding tune. The last muscle severed, the mad doctor sets down his dagger and tenderly reaches in with his filthy hand and pops the sergeant's orb from its socket. Still connected via bloody tendrils of blood vessels and nerves to the brain, the eye can only be moved a short distance from its prior home. Oswald motions at Barnabas and beckons him over, "Mr. Barnabas, if you'll hold our patient's ocular sphere for a moment, I need to stem the bleeding in the socket before we lose our patient to blood loss. Just keep dabbing it with a few drops of water ever minute to help it stay moist. A dry eye is quite irritating." While he waits for Barnabas to comply, the doctor starts ripping strips of Blackerly's tunis off to use as makeshift bandages to stuff in his bleeding socket.
Frowning, as he realizes the guard has little chance to believe him, Kaynen does notice his spell takes hold of the man's mind as he stops guiding his horse forward.
Excellent!
Clapping his hands together, the half-elf's eyes shoot upward as he considers what vicious creature might lurk in the brackish water that would be sufficient to scare a horse.
As he completes murmuring yet more arcane words, a horrid lizard-like snarl can be heard echoing through the glade a handful of paces ahead of the horse.
Rain beating down in the gorge a chunk of mud slides down the ravine as Kaynen watches from the shore as Guardsman Holt begins to recover from his senses. Knowing that he has but seconds left before the guardsman is beyond his reach, Kayene calls upon his training and begins to utter lilting syllables of a forgotten tongue.
Letting his spell take hold, the former revolutionary creates a whisper of darkness and loathing. It is the sound that scratches in the night. It is the voice in the shadows that children fear.
It is the voice of terror beckoned forth.
As the sound of a thousand muted whispers, broken dreams and endless pain and suffering suffuses the water. The horse rolls its eyes in terror. Its nostrils snort and the horse bucks and leaps, seeking the surest path away from the roar and a snarl of something wet and hungry.
Desperately trying to hold on Bertram Holt is thrown from the horse and into water with a curse and a splash. He looks around frantically as he treads the deep, rain filled ravine and then realizing the trick scowls at Kaynen.
Dam you! He screams, before coughing and gurgling up water while trying to paddle away. Tragically however fate is cruel to the man. Perhaps it was the exhaustion, and the weight of his armor... or the fact that poor, foolish Bertram had never learned to swim. But as the rain fell down, Kaynen Catesby, last of house watched as Bertram Holt, floundered and failed before slipping below the surface of the flooded gully with a single muted cry and failed to resurface.
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They say that children born with blindness do not know the loss they have experienced and the priests of Mitra say that it is the will of the gods, and sometimes their actions are inscrutable to the human mind.
Right now none of that mattered.
AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHhhh.... Blackerly screamed as the "good" doctor cut both one tendon and then the next.. and the one after that.. and again. He screamed and roared, cursed and bellowed. It did not matter that the man had branded, beat and kicked each and every Forsaken that had passed through the walls of Branderscar before their execution. What was done to Blackerly was more than any man should endure.
Tomas Blackerly's world has been shrunk to a ball of pain and darkness. The smell of blood and peat filled his nostrils and he could feel the wetness of sera and ichor streaming down from both of his eye sockets. He could feel the ground beneath his shins and the rain falling on his back. But he could not move, no matter how much he could try. And the swamp, and turned to nothingness. It was as if the whole world had turned black, and for the first time in his life he knew how the Forsaken prisoners that he has been placed in the lightless depths of the oubliette below the Wardens Tower must have felt.
The doctor’s good work done, Barnabas carefully considered his options.
On one hand I could...
AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHhhh.... Blackerly bellowed again, causing Barnabas to frown in distaste. Kneeling down the slaver, grabbed a muddy piece of Tomas's tunic and ripped it off with a tearing sound.
Your making it hard to think with all of that bellowing you self-righteous bastard. Giving Tomas a patronizing smile, though the man couldn't see it, Barnabas patted him on the shoulder, just above one of Oswalds tendon cuts, causing the sergeant to illicit another muffled scream.
Taking a few steps away, Barnabas crossed his arms and tried to focus despite the throbbing pain in his lip.
On one hand I can deal that Tomas now, but besides the letter postage we found back in Branderscar that linked Ventris to somewhere in Farholde I had no other leads. On the other I could bring the man back with us, and try to get some answers some otherway. Either way I had to make a decision soon. There was no telling how long our benefactor invitation is good for.
Nodding to himself, Barnabas turned around and walked back to the others while dabbing at his maimed and torn lip. Ok then, Grumblejack. Grab the prisoner. I'm afraid he's going to have a hard time getting around now. Everyone else, grab your things. We are getting the hell out of this moor.
Kergh sits alone hearing the muted screams and cries of rage echo across the moor as Oswald and Barnabas proceed about their grim work. The fire was comforting to the misshapen man. He had sat by fires like this as a boy with his nana as he had learned the first truths about the dark prince. Before the dark time, before the vale.
Holding the thorn wrapped symbol of the dark father in his large and callused hands, Kergh knew that this was truth. The world was full of pain. Pain and hatred, they were constants. Pain had made him strong, it was his devotion, it was all that he had to give. It was he had to give.
But everything was what the dark prince promised and it was what he demanded.
Feeling the pinpricks of the silver wrought thorns, it focused Kergh's mind. All of this was just a test. He had been saved. He should have died in that prison along with the rest of the Forsaken, but they had been rescued, and he knew that all along. Where others had failed and faltered, Kergh had trusted and believed, as only the innocent or fanatically devoted could.
And yet a gnawing doubt continued to plague him. Why had he been saved and his nana been taken? Was it time for her to return to the prince? What plan did his lord have for him?
As the rain continued to fall, a gust of wind rose up, unnoticed by the others. The flames of the fire guttered and weaned in the wind before roaring and crackling. Faintly in the depths of the fire, in the reddest of coals Kergh could hear a quiet, self-assured whisper.
You have done well... acolyte
The cries of pain echoed about the swamp and Ethaniel grimaced. During his youth Ethaniel had learned hard lessons in life. First as a orphan and then later under the tutelage of Master Tessarin. As a child Ethaniel had seen other children starve in the streets. It was rare in a nation such as Talingarde that prided itself on charity, but nonetheless, he had seen it. Later, after his adoption he would learn how to control pain from Master Tessarin. It would have been wrong to say that the Swordmaster was a harsh man, but nor would it have been correct to say that he was coddling. Rather he was a soldier that had lived with death the way a rich man might live with a mistress. The master had taught him that death might come at any moment so Ethaniel needed to be prepared and always ready. Pain.. pain was a weakness not needed by a soldier. Caution could keep a man alive. Awareness could keep a man alive. But pain, if one did not know how to deal with pain, it would kill you faster than a Alerion knight with his lance bared.
Stepping forward towards Barnabas, Ethaniel clasped his hand on the slavers should and leaned in close with his advice. No sooner had he finished giving it, did the sky light up with a single crack of lightning causing the swordsman to stiffen.
In the distance was a man in black. The wind flowed around him buffeting the reeds and rushes... but it did not touch his hair or cloak. He had dark hair, and a neatly trimmed goatee. And he carried a sword identical to Ethaniel's own in his hand.
With a start, Ethaniel lurched forward and opened his mouth as if to call out or shout a warning but before he could do so he felt a strange warmth in his hand.
Patience.. young one.. Echoed a dark voice from inside of himself. With a shiver, Ethaniel blinded. The man in the distance was gone. We shall meet soon enough..
_____________________
Dark Blessing
School enchantment (compulsion) [mind-affecting]; Level antipaladin 1, cleric 1,inquisitor 1
CASTING
Casting Time 1 standard action
Components V, S, DF
EFFECT
Range 50 ft.
Area The caster and allies within a 50-ft. burst, centered on the
caster
Duration 1 min./level
Saving Throw none; Spell Resistance yes (harmless)
DESCRIPTION
Dark blessing grants you and your allies a spark of infernal power. You and each ally in range gains a +1 morale bonus on weapon damage rolls and on saving throws against compulsion effects.
Having watched the gruesome torture of Blackerly, the Walker in Darkness continues its slow and methodical circling of the scene, tail flicking left and right as it observes the aftermath with the attentiveness of a predator. Six eyes focus on Oswald, and then down to the poppet that he had set aside before beginning that grim task.
The Walker makes a soft, silken sound like a purr with undertones of rattling metal before circling back to Drisella and waiting somewhere nearby in the darkness.
Mikhail rides through the ravine, dabbing at a bloody gash on his forehead. Even in his determination to catch the guard, he finds himself hoping pridefully that it will not mar his countenance. Scars and injuries are fit for a soldier - not a king. As he rides through the path - quickly, so as to not lose even more time - he reflects that this whole ordeal will have to either remain out of his official history or that the details will have to be glossed over. He would be loathe to leave out his imprisonment entirely, as it further solidifies his claim that Markadian was willing to have him killed to keep him from the throne that is rightfully his. However, he knows that most of the commoners would be less than understanding about what they had forced them to do in order to survive. It wouldn't be the first time that Talingarde's history was re-written to suit its rulers, but Mikhail should be the one who it benefits.
He arrives at the mouth of the ravine and sees Kaynen standing on the pathway in front of a flooded section. "Why have you stopped?" Mikhail demands of him.
Kaynen points to a horse that stands fearfully at the edge of the water, trapped along the side of the flooded gorge. "The steed heard a song and felt the need to dance alone. His partner found that it is difficult to hear the song under the water, and has thus stopped dancing."
A smile spreads across Mikhail's face. As bloody as this night has been, he has always preferred getting others to have the blood on their hands. "Excellent work, Kaynen. Your resourcefulness is why I selected you to join me," he praises. Whether the words are simple honey to further develop Kaynen's loyalty or genuine praise is unclear - even to Mikhail. The events of their escape has given him some measure of affection to those who remained loyal to him.
He dismounts from his own horse and hands the reins to Kaynen. "We can't have a guardsman floating up on the path to town, can we?" He leaves his blade and shield on the ground, alongside his removed armor. He steps into the flooded gorge, its cool water lapping up against his cool skin. He takes a few steps in until he is chest-deep, then dives in. Under the water, he opens his eyes in the blackness. There on the bottom, the drowned guardsman rests where he sank. Mikhail grabs him and pulls him upwards, throwing the body upon solid ground. Dripping the stagnant water on the path, he picks the limp body up as if it were a doll instead of over two-hundred pounds of dead, waterlogged weight, and places it on the back of his horse.
He returns to the water, swimming across the gorge to the frightened horse. It backs away when he gets out of the water in front of it, but there is nowhere for it to go. He looks at it deeply in the eyes, grabbing the horse's snout to keep its head straight. The horse struggles for a moment and seems to fall under a spell. "You have done well. You will be treated well in our care. You have seen me swimming in the water. There is nothing to fear. Come now. Let us depart." He returns to the water, leading the fearful horse through the gorge to show it that it is safe. When they arrive at the other side, Mikhail quickly puts on his chain shirt, shield, and sword, then climbs into the saddle of their new mount. "Let's go. The others are waiting," he says to Kaynen. "Barnabas drew a map for me to follow. We will ride through the moors, cutting through them as Barnabas and the others did. We will find a house with a lantern burning in a second story window of a manor on the old moor road. We should be able to catch up, thanks to the horses, by the time they get there."
Gathering up the others, Barnabas takes a moment to get his bearings and, with a quick look at the map, he leads them onwards through the moors. Their passage was marked only by Blackerly's groans and whimpers. Barnabas felt a twinge of pity for the man, but it was a small and distant thing. He was glad for that. He had never been a hands of kind of man, he had others to crack the whip and mete out the punishment. Now that he was involved in violence first hand, he was a bit surprised to find that he enjoyed it. It might have been due to the throbbing of his lip, but he was even looking forward to continuing his conversation with Blackerly and seeing what other tricks Oswald had up his sleeve.
Reliving that sweet scene of revenge reminded him of something and he dropped back a bit to talk to Ethaniel.
"I can't help but feel that you didn't approve of what happened back there. I would have you know that I didn't particularly enjoy that little scene, but I assure you, I mean to have the information Blackerly is withholding. I will flay the skin off of him inch by inch if necessary. but I assure you nothing would make me happier if you can think of a way to get him to talk without anymore pain and suffering."
Barnabas seems a touch excited by the idea of flaying Blackerly and you think he would actually be a little disappointed if you got him to talk.
Kergh lumbers along beside Grumblejack and watches with interest as the ogre takes out some meat to eat. But then he realises that the meat is an arm and he stops salivating briefly. The crunching of bones is no more pleasant and the dwarf slows a little to give the sounds some distance.
As the warrior mage speaks his mind to the slaver, no sooner does he pull his hand back from the man's shoulder than his eyes widen, fixed as they are on something in the distance. He opens his mouth to call to the others, but quickly closes it, once again composing himself, once again in control of his emotions and reactions. 'Noone sees him,' he realizes, but before his mind can process what he sees any further, the man in black is gone as suddenly as he appeared. And as he vanishes, he hears the voice, that so very familiar voice that has spoken only to him thus far, or at least so he believes. 'Very well then,' he answers in his own thoughs, the words directed as much to himself as to the one behind the whispers. 'Patience.'
With a sigh, he finds himself moving alongside the others through the moors, though perhaps a little lost in thought as he walks. At least until Barnabas approaches and speaks to him.
"And how will you know that when he does talk, it will be the truth? I am fairly certain a man would say anything to save himself from further suffering," Ethaniel asks in return. He thinks for a moment, allowing Barnabas the chance to answer. Regardless of the man's reply, however, the magus continues after his brief pause. "I am not a particularly diplomatic man. But I suppose it does not hurt to give it a try. I believe I do have something to offer him in return for his... cooperation."
"But," he adds in the end, "you should know I plan to keep my end of the bargain if he does agree to talk. I will give him what I will promise him."
"It's cold," Drisella speaks up from where she's crouched in the moors, looking up to Barnabas and Ethaniel with jaw trembling and arms wrapped around herself. "Can we go now?" There's a look of worry on the young woman's face as she glances into the dark of the night, then back to them.
Kaynen smirks as Mikhail chides him for stopping, reluctantly informing the dhampir of the guard's final fate.
His half-elven eyes watch intently as Mikhail dismounts, swims to the corpse and loads it upon his horse.
I wonder who is doing whose dirty work, here?
Once again, climbing astride his own recently acquired steed, Kaynen pulls his hair back and searches for something to fasten it before realizing he was only recently relegated to nothing but tattered rags in a prison.
It does feel like it's been an eternity since we sat in that cell together...
Allowing his damp hair to drop again to his shoulders and stir in the wind, Kaynen gives a nod to Mikhail to lead the way back to the others before surveying the scene one last time, not unlike a painter attempting to memorize a natural locale to paint from memory upon his return to his workshop.
"Best we hurry, Grumblejack will likely be hungry again."
so it was that after slaughtering each and every man and woman within Branderscar Prison, riding down the escaped messenger Bertram Holt and interrogating Tomas Blackerly, the Forsaken crossed the moors and learned that finding the house on the Old Moor Road paled in difficultly beside the Forsakens other dark deeds. As promised, a lonely lantern burned in the upper story. The place otherwise showed little sign of habitation. Old but well-appointed, the house was large, imposing and alone on its hill. Painted in a dark green and surrounded by barbed wrought iron fencing, nothing about the place seemed inviting or a sanctuary. Still, it was the Forsakens destination. It was the succor that was promised to Barnabas when all hope seemed lost. Where would the forsaken have gone if not here? Ariana had made her decision and she would face the consequences while the others had instead chosen wisely.
Glancing up at the hill, the Forsaken, now reunited gazed up at the manor house. They had an appointment to keep and until they knew more it was best not to keep their nameless benefactor waiting…
Cardinal Adrastus Thorn, devilishly handsome sat in a leather high backed chair within a beautifully appointed office richly decorated with dark wood and sumptuous brocade tapestry. Rain continued to pelt against the window and far off in the distance he could hear it falling on the roof. Placing the pipe he had been smoking from back on a side table he glanced into the flames that burned warmly in the hearth. The rain would make them difficult to follow and by morning any tracks would have disappeared thanks to the downpour. He idly wondered if his soon to be arriving guests knew what had caused the storm in the first place. Smiling to himself he shook his head. He had learned a long time ago that there was no such thing as happenstance. The storm like all of his power was the will of the Dark Prince. And it was his will to command. To think that Mitra was more powerful then the Lord of Secrets was ignorance beyond compare.
Sneering to himself, the flames in front of the Cardinal roared for a moment. Cocking his head to the right the Cardinal bowed his head as if in submission and sighed. As he did so the flames weakened and waned in a seemingly sympathetic measure. Smiling again the Cardinal gazed at the other object that lay at the table. Picking up the ring that bore the Wright coat of arms, the Cardinal gazed at it in the fire light. Flame glittering in the mans eyes, Cardinal Thorn studied it intensely. Selanna, Asmodeus bless her dark heart had been correct. He had watched each death unfold within Branderscar by the hands of the Forsaken and she had been right. There was great potential there. But there were other forces at work. A Herald of the Demagogue's had already made its presence known to the group and the inquisidor also had interests in certain members.. but they would be He would not allow them to be claimed by another. They would serve him, or they would die.
The wickedly barbed fence glided open silently as the Forsaken made their way to the front of the manor house through the drizzling rain. Exhausted from their escape, the promise of a warm room and a respite from the freezing cold spring storm fueled their last steps up the hill. Reaching the entrance of the manor house, the door opened smoothly as a beautiful blond haired and green-eyed woman stepped out. Giving a bloody smile Barnabas nodded to the others, this was the same woman that had given him the veil that had proved so essential to their escape. Everything about her looked identical, except for her dress. Whereas before Tiadora had been draped in black and wore a veil looking like she was destined for a funeral, now she wore a diaphanous white gown that make her look almost angelic. However when she spoke, any illusions about her angelic character were quickly dispelled.
Dearest, you took long enough, she began pitilessly to Barnabas. And I see you have a new smile... She trailed off, glancing over his shoulder at the quivering shape of Drisella and Walker in Darkness who stands in the shadows beyond. Տեսանող եւ դեմագոգ, իմ ներողություն. Ես տեղյակ չեմ եղել, որ դուք որեւէ շահագրգռվածություն այդ միջոցառումներին: Ես տեսնում եմ, որ ձեր կարիքները տրամադրվում են, իսկ այստեղ. Tiadora said in a harsh and clipped language that made Ethaniel's skin crawl while giving a very shallow bow to the inky creature. Glancing back at Barnabas, her condescending demeanor returned once more. We were beginning to wonder if you’d ever make it. Oh, and I see you brought friends. She said while glancing at the others, her eyes eventually settling on the gagged and eyeless for of Tomas Blackerly. The master commands all of you to appear before him but before that, you must be made presentable. Slaves! She clapped her hands and a dozen young attractive men and women all wearing very traditional servant’s livery appear quickly, their heads bowed. These people are our guests, she commands imperiously. See them to their rooms. I want them cleaned, dressed and refreshed. Quickly.
There as something in that last word that sounded like a threat. Certainly the slaves took it that way, hustling to perform their duties.
As each of the Forsaken are lead into the manor house, they each see something that catches their eye. For Barnabas it was the slaves. For Kaynen it was a large music room and library, carefully appointed with hardwood instruments strategically placed in nooks along the wall. For Drisella after being shoeless and only in a shift for the last two months, the pure warmth of the manor was a relief. For Mikhail it is the trappings of aristocracy that are tasteful and refined. For Kergh it was the paintings hanging from the hallway that skillfully depict veiled references to The Asmodean Monograph that only a true believe would be able to detect. For Ethaniel it was a room with wooden practice swords carefully arrayed in racks and floor pads neatly stacked against one wall. And for Oswald it was his daughter who mattered far more to him than any house.
One by one each of the Forsaken are shown to your rooms. One had been set aside for each member of the band. The accommodations were comfortable, with large goose down beds that dominated the center of room. Laying atop each bed was a fresh set of clothes that seemed to match the occupant of the room perfectly. For Mikhail it was a Royal Outfit with the house crest of the Halancoun line stitched over the breast. On Oswalds bed lay a Doctors Outfit complete with a white coat. As Barnabas reached his room he glanced down. Laying on the bed was a Nobles Outfit with the Wright family signet ring laying atop it. When the slave escorted Kergh to his room he found a set Cleric Vestments not unlike what he had seen acolytes of Mitra wear at the vale, though in place of the white with silver stitching, it was black with red stitching. Kaynen too, found a Nobles Outfit sized to fit him, laying out in his suite. Done in the green and red of his house the man gave a smile. The guardsman role was getting old and it was time to move onto a new character. As Ethaniel reached his room guided by the servant he found atop the bed a Soldiers Uniform not unlike what he has seen his adopted father wear to funerals and ceremonies. And atop Drisella's was a Scholars Outfit With a thick warm robe, a sturdy belt and a grey cloak. Thoughtfully the shoes were missing.
Also in each room is a bath, already drawn with steam rising from it. On a nearby table is a razor, soap and a mirror. Next to the copper tubs are buckets of cold water so that the bather can adjust the temperature as needed. At the door, each slave who was assigned to their individual Forsaken waits patiently. The mistress commanded that I prepare you for your audience. Each says with a flat monotone voice, as if half asleep. I am to take away your old clothes and see that you are washed, and I am to assist you in any way you deem fit. Is there anything you need that this slave has not provided? Do you wish for food or drink? Healing? Speak and my mistress will make it so.
Seer of Demagogue, my apologies. I was not aware that you had any interest in these events. I will see to it that your needs are provided for while you are here.
As Tiadora says the word "slaves" you glance past her studying each of the "servants", more out of a professional sense of curiosity than anything else. To your shock you realize that you recognize two of the slaves that you had previously shipped off the island. While you can't remember their names the sheer size of one of them jogs your memory. The other a woman had some passing skill in music. Both turned a tidy profit. Thinking back you remember that both of them had been sent to Cheliax, so what in the world are they doing here?
Something seems off about these slaves. Their eyes are blank and their smiles seem permanently affixed to their faces. It seems as they would respond to any order given. Its likely that either magic or some long term, highly intensive "brain washing" was used on them. The slaves act more like animated dolls rather than living, breathing people. In a way it makes sense. Whoever these people are, they are taking no chances. Servants hear everything.
_____________________
Kergh tries to keep his lopsided mouth closed, but the saliva gobs out every time he doesn't wipe. He keeps staring at the religious icons and demands of Asmodeus.
The steps up to his room prove daunting. Someone had made them just a little too high and his trailing leg struggled to lift over the edge each time. By the time he reaches the top, the dwarf is sweating and gaping.
He waits in the corner of his room as the slave arrives and starts to speak, "wait, I not special. I usually stay in back and wait for my time. You got it wrong. Leave rags and bowl of water, I do this, then no one sees me ugly bits. Don't worry you did good and I'll tell them that so no one gets beaten. Tell Mikhail I am here and I'll go to sleep now. He tells me what to do now."
The dwarf Kergh goes off leaving the slave standing alone and crawls into bed. Here he is not in a cell but somewhere infinitely worse back in a place just like the Malkenkergh home, a mansion with rules and servants and this was his childhood prison. No one can know how often Kergh has spent whole nights just wishing to be somewhere else. Even on a muddy road. And now he is back where it all started, someone's fine home and they wouldn't really want to see him. They wanted to see the nice looking people. Mikhail. Ethaniel. Barnabas. The Flowery One too.
As the slave begins to realise that Kergh wasn't getting ready at all, she moves to speak and he waves a hand out and away, "I am tired. Go now."
Barnabas can't help but shake his head at the slaves.
All that trouble to smuggle them off the island and they bring them right back.
In his room, he begins to strip off his filthy and bloody clothes, wincing as he peels the fabric from his half healed wounds. At the slaves question, he looks up, "Wine and healing, in that order," he tells the man and then dismisses him from his thoughts.
The bath calls to him. A bath is something you take for granted, hardly spending anything thought on it, until you no longer have access to it. Testing the water, he adjusts the temperature until it is just on the cool side of painful and slips in, an inch at a time until fully submerged. His wounds burn and he forces himself to clean them thoroughly, gritting his teeth against the pain. That done he goes to work scrubbing off the accumulated filth of his incarceration and emerges from the water ruddy from the heat. Wrapping himself in a towel he trims his beard and runs a brush through his thinning hair. The reflection staring back at him from the mirror is thin and drawn and he nearly doesn't recognize the man in it. The sight of his maimed face causes his anger at Blackerly, nearly forgotten in the pleasures of the bath, to flare up anew. The man would pay.
Finding his signet ring among the clothes laid out for him, gives him pause and he just stares at it for a long time. Was that who he was? Was that a mantle he wished to take up again? He wasn't so sure anymore, but those were thoughts for another day. Taking up the ring he threads on a chain included with his outfit and, putting it around his neck, he dresses.
Clothed and brooding, he awaits the summons of the master of the house.
As the Forsaken finally enter the manor house that apparently serves as their benefactor's abode, Ethaniel feels uneasy, as if he has just traded one prison for another, albeit one looking far more luxurious and comfortable. The woman's, Tiadora's, strange speech when addressing Drisella's pet does not help put him at ease, instead causing him to tighten his grip on his sword's hilt for a moment or two before he realizes he is doing it and relaxes. 'The woman is... wrong,' he thinks to himself, 'the place is wrong, even the slaves are somehow wrong. Too docile, too obedient, even for slaves.'
As they move through the house towards their rooms, the training room with its practice weapons and other assorted equipment catches the magus' eye. He cannot help but smile a little at the sight. After all, he has gone for so long without training, without wielding a sword and practicing his skill with it. This should help to get him back in fighting shape. At the thought of finally using Marvius' black sword, now finally his by right, even in practice, his smile widens. And when he reaches his room, his mood improves a little more.
"I could use some food and something to drink, yes," Ethaniel replies to the slave's question. "Thank you," he adds politely. "But first a bath and a shave, I think." The last words are directed more to himself than the slave as he tries the water before beginning to undress. He takes his time, enjoying his first hot bath in what seems like an eternity, and then shaves, having always preferred a clean look. All the while he keeps his sword within easy reach, even when he sits down to partake of the food and drink the slave returns with.
Once finished, he wears the clothes provided for him, appreciating both the look and the functionality of the uniform. And then he simply waits, his mind filled with curiosity about the people that have summoned him and the others here..
In his room, Mikhail looks at his surroundings for a moment, taking the time to appreciate the finery of the room. It is a ritual he has been through before, when he first clawed his way to a new identity of wealth and power after Markadian I forced him to flee the palace after winning the throne. This rise is from a greater depth, but Mikhail notes to himself that it is not a victory; it is simply a step on the way to his throne.
He eyes the servant girl who offers him food and drink. She is a pretty girl, a young brunette with large brown eyes and a slender neck. In another place and time, he would likely attempt to have her join him in the bath as a welcome distraction. This one, though, would likely offer no resistance to him and no challenge, being little more than a simulacrum of whoever she was before she was brought here. Her mind is addled, and Mikhail would desire at least the illusion of a challenge. Satisfaction comes from the power of seduction, not the act.
He tears into her throat, ripping at her with fangs in an orgy of blood-fueled violence. He drinks of the flowing blood, getting it all over her servant's clothing and on the floor. He pushes the slave girl into the water of the bath, blood spilling into the water and making it red and cloudy. It spills over the side as Mikhail follows her in the water, unable to tear himself from her throat as he drains all the blood from her.
Mikhail snaps to, looking at the girl who he just fantasized about murdering. He chides himself, wondering where such an uncivilized thought came from. He drinks blood because he must, not because he can, and it is far from an uncontrollable urge. He purses his lips in annoyance at the impulse. "Bring me something to eat. Quail, perhaps. Wine, red. That will be all." The girl bows and exits the room, leaving him alone.
He bathes himself slowly in lukewarm water that feels quite warm on his cool skin, taking time to appreciate not being stuck in a prison. He has little need to shave, though his hair needs washing and grooming to be at his normal standards. He runs his fingers over the branded "F" with distaste. His vanity burns with anger at being marred like that, as if he were a common criminal or an animal. He cleans the small cuts from his ride, ensuring that they will not scar and further diminish his appearance.
When it comes time to dress himself, Mikhail looks at himself in the mirror. For a long moment, it is as if Mikhail is looking through a window and not into a mirror; he is seemingly invisible in the room. He blinks and the trick disappears, with his visage back to normal. He can't help but notice that he looks even paler than normal, a little drawn - but he attributes it to the conditions of his stay in the prison. He dresses in the crimson and burgundy clothing, wondering if they somehow retrieved some of his clothes from his estate. His mind wanders to the well-being of Tommas and Eleana briefly, but he presses it out for the time being.
The Mikhail Halancoun that steps out of the room is his true face. The prisoner's clothing left behind, he emerges with his full, charismatic power. He looks like a nobleman, a man of wealth and power and ambition. Being in such clothing, in such a place, brings a smile to his face. For the first time in many years, he makes no attempt to reflexively hide his fangs while showing his true nobleman's face.
Your food and wine, Master. A monotone voice uttered as Mikhail finished dressing in the crimson and burgundy doublet that had been laid on the bed for him. Without turning his back, Mikhail gave a dismissive gesture gesturing to the table in front of him.
Pour me a glass of wine and leave it on the table. Mikhail commanded, momentarily entranced with the feeling of the luxurious velvet and silk smooth on his skin. Frowning he glanced at the right sleeve. There was a scuff there not unlike the one that he had once owned..
Will that be all Master? The slave asked again this time with a hint of a giggle in her voice.
Whirling around, Mikhail stood in shock. Holding a platter with a large quail and a crystal decanter full of velvety red wine stood Selanna Talasyan, regal and effervescent in a flowing green dress with a smile on her face. As Mikhail rushed to embrace her, the elf calmly placed the silver serving platter on the bed and held up a hand. Talk first, She began before gliding towards him and oozing her way into Mikhail's arms.
After a long embrace and a longer kiss, Selanna pulled herself away in a measure that to Mikhail seemed reluctant. Running a hand along Mikhail's sallow cheek, Selanna frowned. Your thin. She said at last, taking in the full measure to him. Sighing, Selanna sat on the bed and motioned for Mikhail to do the same. I don't have much time before you are called before Adrastus and you need to understand a few important facts. First, take nothing for granted here. This place is far more dangerous than Branderscar ever was. Second, She paused smiling. You can thank me for getting you out of that place. Laying a hand on Mikhail's shoulder, Selanna, vivacious and bold stared into her lovers eyes. Mikhail, you know who I work for, and they have a great deal of interest in the events that are unfolding on this island. I used what little influence I had with Adrastus in convincing him to recruit you to his cause. He will be summoning you shortly. You cannot refuse his offer. Gently running her hand down Mikhail's cheek again Selanna sighed. He will kill all of you if you refuse and there will be nothing I can do to help you. He commands the full might of the Dark Prince on this island. Third, she said with a triumphant smile. Tommas and Eleana are safe. I saw to it personally. Frowning to herself, Selanna rose giving a final kiss on the cheek on Mikhail. The spell does not last long. She said by way of apology. Heading for the door she turned and gave a serious nod. When we meet each other again, speak of none of this. The walls have ears and from the moment the veil was gifted to your group you were watched. All of this is a test. See to the others members of your group. Make sure they are ready to meet with the Cardinal. He does not take disobedience or disrespect lightly. Nodding to Mikhail with a deadly serious expression, Selanna reached for the door. I will see you after you have met Adrastus. She said with a finality before she silently closed the door behind her.
Splash.
Water the color of rust runs in vein-like rivulets down a white porcelain surface.
Splash.
Puddles accumulate on the floor, pooling in the crevasses between checkered tiles and welling over to reveal fine granules of dirt when spread thin.
Splash.
Strips of inky black hair fall flat against pale shoulders, small hands grab the length of hair and twist it, wringing more rust-colored water out of those tresses.
Splash.
Water-wrinkled hands grasp for a long pair of ornately crafted shears sitting on a side table.
Snip.
Locks of dark hair fall to the surface of the water, skimming across the top before spilling over the side of the overfull claw-foot tub.
Splash.
Bare feet the color of porcelain touch toees-first on the tile floor, squeaking as they scuff against the thin film of murky water.
Clink.
Shears fall to the tile with a noisy clatter, and in the shadows beneath the tub, a chitinous tail of segmented vertebrae slithers out like some lost snake.
"Refreshing," Drisella admits in a huff of breath, staring at herself in a full length mirror, running pale fingers through starkly contrasting locks of dark hair, her bangs now cut mostly even just above her brow. Ruffling her hands through her hair, she discards a few more errant pieces of clipped hair down to the floor, while the remainder stick to her still warm shoulders as she strides across the tile floor.
Her stride widens just enough to step over the glistening, tarry bulk of Walker in Darkness, laid out on the floor with its chin on its paws like some sort of gigantic cat. Its long tail lashes from side to side, missing Drisella's feet in some sort of synchronized dance between heel and tail. Transitioning onto the hardwood floor of the bedroom proper, Drisella leaves wet footprints in her wake. But fetching the carnation dress from where it hangs on the armoire is of the utmost importance. She holds it up against herself, pinning it with a tuck of her chin as she turns around, the gauzy fabric swishing at her ankles.
"What do you think?" She asks of the creature on the floor nearby, but Walker in Darkness only makes a low, guttural sound of clattering wire and scraping metal. Cocking her head to the side, Drisella shakes the dress out and furrows her brows. "That's hardly helpful," she opines as she inspects the fabric. Her fingers find something hard and metallic in the dress, and fumbling with the cloth, Drisella discovers a hook of copper engraved to resemble a snake that has coiled up through the side of the dress, holding open a window that reveals what she presumes would be part of her hip.
"This is scandalous," the young woman bemusedly notes, hoisting it up and quickly tugging it down over her head. Walker looks up, briefly, watching her pull the garment down with unfamiliar tugs and turns, trying to fit into something in the backwards way as would be appropriate. She manages, in spite of herself, and has to twist the entire dress around back to front. With that ordeal finished, Drisella smooths out the front and sides of the dress and pads across the obscenely elegant room towards where the cloak that compliments this outfit had been laid over the bed. A few buddy handprints on the linens paint a story of earlier attempts at getting changed, though the balled up, bloody shrift on the floor near the tub gives the ending away.
Lifting up the cloak, Drisella admires the night black coloration, the crow-feather stole around the neck, and the serpent clasps at the throat. Lifting her chin up, she gives a smile of appreciation and unfurls the garment before wrapping it around herself. There's some small amount of pride when she smooths out the creases at the collar, runs her fingers over the feathers, and then holds out her arms expectantly in a gesture wordlessly asking "well?" of the Walker.
It makes a small, subtle noise, then rises up onto all fours and clears the distance between itself and Drisella. Then, with a lash of its tail it retrieves the knife from the night stand that Barnabas had given Drisella. It is brandished, point-first at the girl, then turned around and offered handle out. Hesitantly, Drisella takes the knife and inspects the notched, old blade. Then, with a wordless nod she takes a leather bracer found beside the bed and straps it on to her arm, sliding the knife into the sheathe in the bracer's surface along her forearm.
"Դուք նայում եք պետք է," Walker finally states, and Drisella offers one raised brow to the creature, then bends into a crouch and runs her hands over its glossy head.
"You say the sweetest things."
__________
"You look as you should."
Drisella's remarkably inappropriate dress.
Eyes closed, humming to himself, Kaynen shifted in the water, his right hand darting to and fro in rhythm with the song in his head. The half-elf's smile provided little evidence to his imprisonment just a few short hours earlier - in his mind, it was if it was merely a rehearsal to some play staged at a new upstart theater revived in one of Ghaster's older neighborhoods.
Chuckling to himself, Kaynen remembered the various events of the day like he might remember the performance of colleagues on stage, admiring each bit of creative improvisation, and lamenting each injury as if it were nothing more than a scrape from a mistimed jump.
Rising at last, but not before flirting with a well-needed nap, he allowed himself to be patted dry by the various available servants and clothed in passable attire for the evening.
Not a fan of any sort of silence, his eyes studied the servants and he broke the silence.
"Your master. Tell me of him."
Mikhail's head swims as he considers Selanna's presence here. It had been a few years since he last saw her, but they were used to a pattern of separation and reunification. His first thoughts travel to a place of sensation and gratification, a desire far more powerful than the petty impulse he felt earlier to drain the servant's blood. For all their time together, having first met more than seven decades before, she has been the one constant in Mikhail's life other than his ambition for the throne. He knows that her first loyalty is to Cheliax, but he thinks that she surely has true feelings for him. That he isn't completely certain only adds to the flames of his desire.
Markadian I, the Victor, sits on the throne of Talingarde after defeating House Barca eight years before. Many consider themselves to be living at the beginning of a golden age for their island nation, free of Cheliax and free of Asmodeus. While their former colonial master had concluded their civil war earlier that year through an infernal pact with the Lord of Hell, they were free. They followed Mitra, and Mitra would lead them to prosperity and peace that lesser faiths and lesser nations would never know.
At least, that's what they tell themselves, Mikhail thinks darkly. He sits alone and half-dressed in the moonlight. His mark sleeps silently in her opulent, four-posted bed. The moonlight shimmers on her sleeping form, tangled in the sheets. He reflects on the translucent violet canopy that hangs above it like a fairy's touch. Seducing her had been easy, like dealing with a child. Delusions of being a princess were easy for someone like him to prey upon. He had simply presented himself as a visiting nobleman from Marathyan, treated her with courtly grace, and let her curiosity do the rest. If only she knew that what he wanted wasn't her; she was a pretty girl, but disposable. Mikhail wanted her access to the local social court, to better make the contacts that he would need to make in order to maintain his plan.
He shrugs on his shirt, noting with disdain that she had torn some of the buttons in her excitement. He stands over her for a few long moments, considering if he should awaken her before heading back to his own room. He decides instead to leave her sleeping. When she awakens and sees that he is gone, it would only further drive her passions for him. When she sees him at breakfast, unable to speak about what happened in front of her fool of a father, she would be unable to resist him ever again. "The foolishness of youth," he murmurs to himself. "No patience."
He heads into the darkened manor estate, intent on returning to his own room. A human would light a torch to see, but he needs no light. As he passes the duke's study, something catches his eye. A torch would have blinded him to it. He steps up to the door, just ajar enough so that it would not latch again. Peering through the crack, he sees a woman with a tiny candle that offers almost no illumination sitting in front of an unlocked safe. He recognizes her as another courtier, an elven woman who seemed to have taken an interest in his own mark's brother. The fool fancies himself a scholar and was hung on each word that she told him about the Mierani Forest and the wild frontier of Varisia. Without looking up from the papers pulled out of the safe, she calls out to him, "Why don't you come in rather than hang around the door and ensure that we are both caught? Oh, and don't close the door or it will lock itself and re-activate the wards."
He steps in, taking care not to let the door latch behind him. She stands up, dressed in hardly more than a corset and clinging emerald underwear. Her blonde hair pours down in lazy curls. He is almost taken aback by her beauty, and his body stirs in response immediately. The one he'd spent the evening in passion with was a girl, hardly more than a child - but this was a woman. "You're up awfully late. Seranna, was it? What are you doing at this hour in the duke's private study?" His voice catches as he speaks, suddenly and uncharacteristically unsure of himself.
She smiles at him, sultry and self-confident. "I'm not alone, am I? I see that you were as successful tonight as I was in gaining a superior position. Though I imagine you enjoyed yourself more. The boy needed... Guidance." She walks forward and places her hand on his chest. "Of course, this poses a problem. You could expose me. You would have to admit to seducing the little lady of the manor and gaining the temporary ire of her father, but that would be a small price to pay for the goodwill once he gained some perspective." From somewhere, a small dagger appears in her hand, though the smile never leaves her face.
Mikhail eyes the dagger. He knows that he is fast and strong enough that he could easily overpower her, but such an action would be rash and foolhardy. Though he hates to admit it, her beauty is such that he can't draw himself to do so easily. "And if I expose you, what might you do?"
"I would escape, of course. That's not the point. You'd surely be forced to wed the girl by the duke, which would make your whole facade crumble. You are no courtier from Marthyan. You have some wealth and some contacts, but I think we both know they're not as much as you claim. Isn't that correct, Mikhail?" Her utterance of his true name instead of the one that he had been using the last several years takes him aback. "Imagine my surprise when Mikhail Charthagnion came to my attention. Can you imagine the Brotherhood of Marthanya's response - your brother's response - if you were to be exposed? Your parents needed assistance in setting up your first alias, and Cheliax kept an eye on its investment until you slipped away."
Dark anger flashes across Mikhail's face. Exposure of his secret would force him to run again, to lose the momentum of the last decade's work. He steps forward, trying to imagine how he would hide her body. "Expose me and you expose yourself," he says. He knows that he can't kill her here and now, not without raising too many questions and risking his own footing.
She glides back to the safe, giving him an enviable view as she does so. She collects the papers and carefully returns them to the safe. "Then we are at an impasse, are we not? I look forward to finding out what you will do next, Mikhail. Until then..." She opens the door to the hallway, allowing him to walk through it first. With a final smile, she walks back towards her own room. As it is in the guest's wing, he heads the same way a dozen or more paces behind to ensure that she doesn't turn suddenly with another hidden weapon. She turns into her room with a final glance at him. As he passes her still-open doorway, he notices that both the corset and the underwear lay discarded on the floor. She looks over her shoulder at him as he watches from the hallway. "Until then," she repeats as she closes the door.
The long night of murder and escape coupled the surgery and journey across the moor left Oswald exhausted as they were welcomed so warmly into the manor. As the others examined the surroundings, the mad doctor held Rosaline and whispered softly to his doll, “Finally… we are free, my dove. Never again will we let those damned Mitrans tear us apart. Never, never, never!” He continues to rant to himself while the rest get lead to rooms to freshen up, his own slave guide waiting with a dull look in its eyes nearby.
Oswald jumps for a moment when he finally does notice the slave waiting next to him, “Oh, yes… I suppose we could use a bath, Rosaline. Your mother will kill me if I let you stay covered in dirt and blood.” He follows the slave toward his room, lost in catching up with his daughter. Inside the private room, Oswald shucks his borrowed guard outfit and prison rags underneath, throwing them into the slave’s arms as he gingerly slides into the steaming tub of water. He hisses as the water stings his wounds, slowly lowering himself until he is sitting almost fully submerged. The soothing nature of the water’s warmth works knots out of his muscles that had been with him since the bastards had come to their home and taken himself, his wife, and his children away in chains. He slams a fist down into the water, sending waves splashing out of the tub as he growls, “Never again, my dove. Never again. We’ll find your mother and brother. Then we’ll make them all pay… I’m sorry, little one; daddy didn’t mean to scare you.”
Oswald runs a wet hand over his poppet’s grisly collection of hair and skin stitched right into its scalp, working at the filth that has accrued there, “Are you hungry, Rosaline? I don’t think they fed us a thing in that horrible tomb. Trying to starve us to death because they lacked the courage to do the deed themselves, I’m sure.” He turns to look at the slave waiting nearby for his directions, “Um… do you think we can get some food. Something mild as my little Rosaline has a delicate stomach. And some medical supplies. I have a few burns that need ointment and proper bandaging. That will be all.” The doctor goes back to scrubbing Rosaline until she is a damp, wretched-looking doll instead of a dry, wretched-looking doll. When he is done, he sets her down nearby and ducks his own head fully under the bath water. Years of dirt, bugs, and crusted blood turn the tub into a murky pool before he finally stands up and walks naked over to the razor and mirror. Oswald runs his finger across the razor edge, just sigh of enough pressure to part skin while still noting its sharpness. He glances back toward Rosaline, “Do you think daddy needs a haircut, my dove?… Yes, I suppose I do look like a wild man right now. They never paid me much mind when I looked the part of the digger of graves. Until they paid too much mind… Yes, you are right, my dove, it is time for a change. Like your mother always says, ‘Put on a fresh face to greet each new day.’” The razor attacks his mop of wet hair, hacking chunks of it away until a pile the size of a large melon is laying on the floor at his feet. Oswald sets the razor down, turning back to Rosaline as he turns his asymmetrical hairdo this way and that for his daughter’s benefit, “How does it look, Rosaline? I take too much off?… Yes, I suppose it will do. Now time for us to get dressed and eat dinner. You’ll need to make sure you eat all your vegetables this time, my dove… No, you can’t let your brother eat them like normal. He’s already a big, strong boy while you need to regain your strength… No arguing, young lady. What would your mother say?”
Walking into Kergh’s room arrayed in the trappings of nobility with Blackerlys exquisite longsword hung to his side from a baldric Mikhail frowns slightly. Glancing about the room he picked up the crystal goblet and poured himself a glass of wine. It had been too long since he had the chance to enjoy the privileges of his station and secretly the man reveled it in. Gesturing with the wine glass to Kergh and then pointing to the discarded clothes that lay on the floor, Mikhail spoke softly but firmly to the misshapen man. Kergh, you need to get up. We will be meeting the master soon. If these accommodations are not to your liking we can discuss them later, but for now we are guests and we will show our appreciating for the gifts we have been given. Get up, take a bath and then meet me in my room. Hurry. Nodding to the man, Mikhail turned and make his way to the others who each shared a room in the long hallway. Their patron wanted something from them and thanks to Selanna’s warning he knew he would have to approach the matter with caution. If the man was as cognizant of disrespect as Selenna had warned, then something as simple as refusing to wear the clothes provided could be seen as a mark against them. Mikhail had played this game before. He knew the dance. He would ensure that the others were prepared and then he would meet the master of the house.
After another thirty minutes Tiadora comes to the forsaken, now washed and shaved and wearing the clothes given to them. Despite the blood and grime being washed and rinsed, the Forsaken look more, rather than less dangerous. There was an air about the group of carefully controlled violence. Each and every one of them had killed, had done unspeakable acts of cruelty and pain, but it was their elegance and masked civility that set them apart from common criminals. Each was brilliant in his or her own way. A perfect conflux had created them, had led them down their dark paths. And now it led them deeper.
Following the platinum haired beauty downward to the first floor the Forsaken are lead into a classically elegant office. Everything is just so, from the large hard wood desk that was placed before a large window that overlooked the trackless moors to the high backed leather chair that stood before a fireplace, now lit and casting shadows into the room. Seated in the chair was a devilishly handsome man who smiled as the forsaken entered into the office. In his hand he held a curved wooden pipe that he puffed on and the smoke curled around his head, as if wreathing him in smoke and ash. Eyes’ catching the fire, his face is regal and aquiline. Putting down the pipe, the man smiles at the forsaken and his ivory teeth glint. They look like the teeth of a predator. Waiting for each of the Forsaken to fill the office he gestures to them.
I believe you to be the first to ever escape from Branderscar Prison. Well done! Of course, you had help from the outside, He states with a wicked smile. Folding his hands in front of him, he entwines them together and brings his index fingers to a point. But enough with pleasantries, you all must be curious why I’ve helped you. Chucking softly to himself, the man gives another small smile. Rest assured this was no random act of altruism. I have brought you here for a reason. My name is Cardinal Adrastus Thorn. I am the last high priest of Asmodeus left on the island of Talingarde. Once the Prince of Nessus was rightly revered alongside the other great powers. Now, the king of Talingarde has become a puppet to Mitran fanatics who wish to destroy any religion that does not bow to their insipid sun god. For their blasphemy, I will see the same people who imprisoned and condemned you suffer. I understand what you went through for I have faced it myself. With that, he pulls down the sleeve of his robe and reveals his own runic brand. I am going to burn Talingarde to the ground and from the ashes I will build a new nation that knows its rightful master. I cannot do this alone. I seek servants worthy of our Infernal Father’s majesty. Have I found them in you?”
Rising from the chair, his eyes flash with hellfire and divine purpose. Since you have received the veil that my messenger sent you, I have watched you each step along the way. Mikhail, He points to the aristocratic man. I watched as you led the Forsaken and took them from individuals and formed them into a team. And Barnabas, I watched as you interrogated Sergeant Blackerly. Drisella, I watched as you burned the fool of a priest to the ground as he called out to his weak god. Kergh, my son. I watched as you dedicated Branderscar to the fires of our lord as it so truly deserved. Kaynen. I saw as you chased down the fleeing guard in the dead of night, and silenced him with your sweet song so that others might not know of your dark deeds. And Oswald, I watched as you assisted Barnabas with his grim work. Never have I seen such a sure knife used to inflict such pain.
Reaching out his hand to each of the Forsaken, he gestured to the inverted pentragram that rested on the mantle of the fireplace. Join me! Serve ne well in this holy endeavor and I will raise you up in the eyes of gods and men. I will make you princes of the new Talingarde. Today, swear fealty to me and to Asmodeus. Put aside forgiveness and I shall give you vengeance. Put aside mercy and be made powerful. Put aside peace and become my harbingers of war. What say you? Will you swear your allegiance or will you burn with the rest of the blind fools?
"So our options are to bind ourselves to you and your cause, or die? That's not really much of a choice. I have no desire to die Cardinal Thorn, so I guess I'm your man. I must admit, it would be nice to see the Mitrans taken down a few pegs, but I will confess, I have little knowledge of, let alone love for, Asmodeus, or indeed, any idea what service to his cause might require from me."
Barnabas pauses with a frown, "I guess what I'm getting at is, what exactly have I just agreed to?"
"Sorry Mikhail. I will stay here if you say so."
He cringes and washes quickly trying to make sure that he looks his best for the leader. And the others.
As for swearing, Adrastus Thorn is like his nana, not someone to make angry and giving strict orders to be obeyed. Then it will all be alright. Then they can be safe and happy and spreading the good words of the Prince.
"I so swear. I promise to do my best for you Master." In those words it sounds like Kergh has given himself over to a higher cause and a higher person than anyone - but Asmodeus.
"We was meant to come here."
Standing side-by-side with the others, Drisella looks much less like the helpless and frantic girl that was imprisoned in Brandescar. With eyes half-lidded she listens to the Cardinal speak. By her side, Walker in Darkness sits upright on its haunches, back straight and six-eyed head angled ever so subtly to the side, like a hound listening attentively for a noise.
Drisella offers a look down to the Walker, brows furrowed, and the Walker looks back to her as if the two were sharing some sort of verbal exchange. Nothing is outwardly said, but there is implicit understanding between the two. Finally, Drisella offers the Cardinal a smile and slowly approaches. Walker rises up onto all fours and pads across the floor behind her, its lashing tail snaking from side to side as it moves.
"We," she motions to the forsaken, "have little left. Barnabas is correct in his assessment. Perhaps we could take our chances, flee this land for distant shores? Hope that we are not chased down like dogs and made examples of." One dark brow raises slowly, and Drisella traces a fingertip in a curl in the air. "You've found us in a perfectly,' he finger twirs again, "precarious," and again, "position."
Lowering her hand, Drisella lets it come to rest on her hip. "Who would we be to say no, but fools? You didn't risk breaking fools out, did you?" she surmises with eyes cast to the floor. "So, probably also realize the risk in not bringing fools to your table." The young woman's lips purse. "Fools are easy to control."
When Drisella lifts her eyes back to the Cardinal, she inclines her head in a subtle nod of acquiescence. "I won't serve you" Drisella states flatly, turning her stare to the forsaken one by one, and then the Cardinal again.
"But," the young woman begins with a ginger flourish of her hand in the air, "you are a gracious host, and a perfect enabler."
Walker in Darkness comes to sit beside Drisella, and the young woman lays a hand down on the creature's head. "I am already sworn to another, so I may not serve."
Smiling, the young woman concludes with, "But I can, and will, cooperate."
Mikhail eyes Drisella carefully. Gone is the wet child dragged along with them, replaced with a precocious and dangerous one. Her words remain true, though her impertinence may find her (and her dangerous creature) in a position far more precarious than she knows. Selanna's warning to him makes him even more cautious and canny than usual... But surely the Cardinal expects that, if he knows Mikhail's story well enough to supply his clothing.
He addresses the Cardinal before Drisella's impertinence can sink in, so that he might show the others the proper mixture of deference and independence. He bows to the Cardinal, demonstrating his noble upbringing, before beginning. "Cardinal Thorn, thank you for your kind words, your hospitality, and your assistance in bringing us here. We are supremely thankful, both to Your Holiness personally and to He whom you serve. Not one of us holds any love for Mitra in his or her heart. You ask us to put aside forgiveness for them? To us, this was never an option. You ask us to put aside mercy for them? To us, this was never a possibility. Put aside peace? They sowed the seeds of this with their lies, their hypocrisy, their dedication to a false god - and we shall be the reapers."
He pauses dramatically - seeing an appreciative nod from Kaynen in his timing - before continuing. Mikhail knows that the Cardinal would expect nothing less from him, and that he must go further to make an impression. "You offer to make us princes of the new Talingarde, which is a generous offer. The divine will of Asmodeus is at work, for I am in a position to offer you something greater. You clearly know that I am Mikhail Halancoun," he says while gesturing to his family crest, "and that I am no mere mortal man." He briefly bares his fangs to point this out. "This is not my true name, but merely a creation decades in the making. My true name is Mikhail Charthagnion, first-born son of Marthanya Charthagnion. I am one-hundred and twenty-one years old. My younger brother was Markadian the Victor, the first of his name. He stole my birthright and erased the true history of our family. It has been burned from the history texts, but our family worshiped Aroden and Asmodeus until Aroden died, then simply Asmodeus. The sole reason Markadian adopted the worship of Mitra was to justify his rebellion against Cheliax. The Church of Mitra is built upon a lie. His son, Markadian the Second, intended to restore me to the throne. Undisturbed in the Arcanium sits a sealed and sworn writ from Markadian the Second naming me as the true heir to the throne."
He lets the news settle in for both the Cardinal (who, he admits to himself, may already know this) and for his comrades. "As the true king of Talingarde, I swear to restore Asmodeus to his rightful place and to tear down the corrupt line that sits upon my throne." He takes a knee in front of the pentagram. "I swear my allegiance to Asmodeus and his holy servant. I accept his dark blessing, and pledge my throne to his interests." With a bent head, he awaits. Prostrating himself is not a place a man of his stature desires to be, but the power offered by the alliance is surely enough for him to arrive at his kingship and to sate his ambition.
As each of the others speaks, Ethaniel's eyes look to whoever does so. Barnabas' question gets an almost imperceptible nod as the magus is himself curious what it is exactly the Cardinal is asking of them. Kergh's answer is predictable, of course, but Drisella's, or rather her tone, is anything but. This is a new face she wears, at least as far as he is concerned, so much different from the strange or even frightened girl of hours ago, and her choice of dress certainly serves to complement that fact. His eyes narrow a little, as he considers that perhaps her pet is after all the lesser of the two evils. But as he ponders on it, Mikhail's speech -for what he says is as much as answer to Adrastus as it is a speech for the Forsaken's benefit- snaps him out of it. 'Over a century old and the true king of Talingarde, is it?' The warrior mage absorbs the information as best he can, putting it all aside for now as his turn to answer the Cardinal comes.
"Barnabas has it right more or less, as far as I too am concerned," Ethaniel says calmly, his tone matter-of-fact. Standing tall and with his left hand resting on his curved sword's pommel, he appears composed, unafraid. Ever the warrior, his eyes study both Tiadora and Adrastus. 'There is no choice here. No fight to be won, only lost,' he concludes.
"I am at your service," he states, before adding a few more words. "There is no other choice and there is no other place for me now."
Caught up in his own thoughts, Barnabas only half listens to the others as they pledge their allegiance to the mysterious Cardinal Thorn. He can't help but smirk as Mikhail strikes a pose and begins his grandiose proclamation, He's been spending too much time with the bard. His grand revelation, though, slaps that smirk from Barnabas' face. He is dimly aware of Ethaniel's speech, as his mind races furiously.
That can't be true, can it? If it is and there's proof, his authority would supersede any other, so maybe, just maybe...
Suddenly revenge isn't the only thing on Barnabas' mind.
Abruptly he turns to Mikhail and drops to one knee, "My lord King. I, Barnabas Wright, being the rightful heir to House Wright and all its associated lands and incomes, do hereby swear you fealty. I pledge my blade to your quest to reclaim your rightful crown. My life is yours sire."