Barnabas' eyes flick over the finery of the room. Always moving, never stoping, he scans for any signs of danger, only half listening to the rules of this latest game. No matter what the door said, he couldn't help but assume that the test that was not a test, was in fact a test.
"What is the the third choice? We are to have three, but you mention but two and I don't think anyone will be choosing anything until we know all the options."
Barnabas was bruised and tired, but his wits had not so dulled as to miss such an obvious ploy.
Such green eyes.
Kaynen cautiously crept into the room behind a few of the others and watched with uncertainty as Mikhail casually took up a seat next to the woman.
Another trick? Optional? Is this the sixth room again, an attempt to teach us to focus on our objective and to not be distracted?
Now several steps closer, Kaynen locked his gaze on the woman and studied her, his mind whirling like a puzzle box that desperately needed a solution.
Ethaniel joins the rest, his curved sword resting in its scabbard as he enters the room. The familiar incantation that enabled him to see arcane auras before comes to his lips once again, his eyes briefly glowing with a silvery blue light as the magic takes hold.
"Sometimes deviating from our path may prove wise, even helpful where our goals are concerned," he mutters softly, "or it may prove disastrous."
He waits patiently to hear the third choice about which Barnabas, ever perceptive, inquired, at the same time his eyes sweeping the room before coming to rest on the woman within it in search for any active magical effects.
Immediately, the opulence of the room in the midst of this maze of dank tunnels and un-tended fungal growth sends off warning explosions in Oswald's mind. The word dangerous from the sign before the room keeps playing in his mind as the mad doctor starts pacing around the room, carefully examining it for any falsehoods hidden behind the wealth. He seems completely oblivious to the woman as he mutters arcane words beneath his breath as he runs a finger over a tapestry.
Oswald's examination makes its way to the table as he bends over to tap on the narghili's beaker before standing erect once more and finally noticing the card shuffling woman dominating the center of the room, "Oh, hello there, Miss... I'm sorry, I must have missed your name. Oswald Turrill. A pleasure. Yes, a pleasure I'm sure." The doctor examines the woman with his eyes as he nods, "Yes, a very healthy specimen. You must come from good stock."
Abruptly, Oswald steps back a few steps to be closer to Mikhail and leans in to whisper, "There seems to be a strange woman guarding this room. She is probably dangerous like the sign said."
Kergh goes to the door and tries it to see if it is locked. He doesn't open it just tries to see what happens.
"Addled bag of holy thickness, Barbellar, wants you to listen to me not her. Never her. No geas or quest in case it breaks faith with our Lord or his servant Cardinal. You have no need of half truths and cards, I will lead you, you doltish thug. Lord bless you!"
Kergh listens to his inner voice and his shoulders hunch and lower with each insult. He fingers his shirt symbol of Asmodeus to feel safer again.
"Irin hasn't told us what she will make us do. Can some do one thing or another ..... or the last one?"
Smiling softly to herself, Irin nods approvingly at Barnabas. A wise and prudent question Lord Wright. The woman states before sniffing at her white-amber wine and swirling it in her glass. Here is a true fact: a white needs just a few moments in the decanter. Don't trust people who make a big fuss about decanting a white. Whites don't need to breathe like reds do. Unless the white is very old and complex, it's just not that big a thing. Lightly, Irin holds the glass under her nose for a moment and breathes deeply. Mmm... call me a traditionalist. Red for meat dishes, sex, torture, nightmares, pain, blasting magic, domination, terror and strong cheeses. White for fish, chicken, despair, flirtations, divination, illusions, salty snacks, and the more delicate forms of mental manipulation. Of course there are exceptions -- a light, tannic red can go very well with fish, especially if it's grilled, while a sweet, heavy white can be a perfectly pleasant accompaniment to a brisk bout of torture. And when you get right down to it, good sex goes with everything. She takes a sip, eyes still closed. But red with divination is, and always will be, tacky, would you not agree?
Laughing softly to herself, the odd woman sips slowly at the wine before setting it down on the table. Your question touches on the third choice. I am the caretaker -- not the owner -- of a powerful magic item. I can offer you the opportunity to... interact, with this item. I'd prefer to keep this separate from the issue of the readings. Why? Precisely because I am not the owner of this item. I don't want there to be any confusion on this point. Nodding back to Mikhail, the woman taps a finger against the arrayed cards ever so slightly. You can ask for a reading for yourself, for another, or for your group as a whole. You can ask for information about yourself or another; about the past, the present, or the future. You can ask a general question, like 'What is the greatest danger we will face, and how can we overcome it?'. Or you can ask something specific, like How can I become a vampire'? or.. Turning to Kaynen I want to know who turned me in? Or.. Glancing at Barnabas the woman smiles again. Who is Ventris and why is he after me? I set the terms of the geas as I will, subject to the limitations of the spell.
Turning the doorknob Kergh is able to find that, as promise the door is unlocked.
At the mention of a powerful magic item, your gaze flickers about the room.
In the room: The wine decanter, the lamps on the walls, the fruit bowl.
Upon Irin: her headscarf, a heavy gold bracelet on her left arm, a brooch-like ornament on the robe, her dagger and her cards. The cards in question radiate strong (all schools). Please make a DC21 Will save or be stunned for rounds due to the overwhelming aura of gazing upon an artifact.
Note: There are lots of tapestries and heavy hangings and tables with drawers in this room, so there could easily be other items hidden away.
She's not human. That much your sure of. She reminds you of Tiadora, but without the cruelty that the woman seems to carry behind her eyes. She has almost a raw force about her. Creativity, Disolution, Creation. You can't pinpoint anything, but she's not human. That much is very clear to you.
It's *possible* that she is a human, but you get the overwhelming idea that she is likely not. It's not so much any one particular thing, but how she moves. She has a feeling about her gracefulness that any human might spend most of their life perfecting. You have watched the ballet many times in Ghastenhall and nothing has compared to her sure and graceful movements.
As Kaynen and Oswald's spells come into effect, Irin glances at them with a knowing look Yes, not very much, is it. It's what I could grab in a hurry. She states before shrugging. This is defeat, Kaynen. Avoid it.
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Oswald listens to the woman go on about wine choices as he taps his lips with one finger in beat with her tone while he mutters under his breath, "No, definitely not human. More primal. Raw with power, or power that raws. Yes, forces in opposition." His eyes flick around the room at the mention of something of power hidden within the place. He catalogues each minor node of energy until his gaze falls on the cards arrayed before Irin while at the same time he leans close to Mikhail again to whisper, "What if the truth is a li..."
Stopping in mid-sentence, the mad doctor's eyes glaze over while a string of drool begins its slow inevitable descent toward the floor below. A few moments later, Oswald comes out of his trance, rubbing the burnt rectangular images out of his vision with one hand while the other removes the saliva from his chin. "What were we saying? Oh yes, the wine. I always find a nice white is relaxing after a long day of grueling toil."
Kaynen's eyes flit from the woman to the cards and back several times as she continues to sell her offer to the members of the Forsaken.
He smiles at each mention of his name, licking his licks absentmindedly at the discussion of the wine, suppressing any thirst he feels after the onerous sequence of trials this day.
The half-elf shakes his head to clear any thoughts that distract him from his purpose, to get out of the damned manor, the damned challenges, and get back to his efforts to burn down every damned Mitran temple on the island.
"You think to tempt me with whomever betrayed me? They all betrayed me. Left me to rot, and find my own way out."
Kaynen begins to cross the room, taking great pains to hide his curiosity at the deck's magical powers. As he reaches the halfway point, he allows himself a part in the game of cat and hungrier cat.
"My dearest lady, you make it sound as if your services in the reading are so truly invaluable. Whatever power do you possess that one of us performing our own reading does not?"
Kaynen almost turns to exit the room, teasing as if her answer is of little consequence in his desires.
Having been watching from just inside the entrance of the red room with halfway lidded eyes, there were some similarities to be drawn between Drisella's demeanor, her choice of colorations and even hair color and the woman laid across the divan. While Drisella's infernal side walked clearly behind her in the form of a hideous, tar-skinned beast of flesh and metal, Irin's side was concealed behind pearly white teeth and a crimson smile.
After watching the reactions of her allies, the way that they are drawn to her enticing like moths to an open flame, Drisella looks askance to Walker in Darkness who in turn focuses his six-eyed stare up at her. The two exchange a wordless conversation expressed in body language and subtle facial expressions before coming to a unified agreement.
No.
Without verbalizing the decision to the others, Drisella instead pads across the room on bare feet, carrying her puzzlebox carefully in both hands as she does. On reaching the door to the further trial that Kergh is already at, she pauses and waits for Walker to heel at her feet. The beast lays down, chin on its paws, barbed tail curling around Drisella's ankles.
"I am uninterested," Drisella finally states, clasping her hands on the puzzlebox firmly. "I will await your arrival to your senses and the mission."
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"Nor me. My Master rules me. No one else."
Kherg smiles by way of answer to the woman then opens the door so that Drisella can leave first, then Walker. He follows brushing against one wall with his lump and then waits beyond, the door ajar.
"You did well. I will make sure our Lord knows."
Mikhail smiles at Irin, making no effort to hide his fangs from her. She seems to know about him in any case, so he may as well be true to himself. Oswald leans in to whisper to him, but stops mid sentence. "Personally, I find that red goes with everything," he wryly jokes. "Your offer is of great value. Kaynen, she is a woman of power as plainly as the full moon over the night sky." He ponders her offer. On the one hand, his desire for power is unparalleled. For a hundred years, he traded information for power and parleyed that power for more information. Words led to his rise - and to his fall. On the other, Mikhail cannot stomach the idea of subjecting himself to the will of another, even temporarily. But he has already done so with Asmodeus and Cardinal Thorne, in the pursuit of his goals. "Strength and decisiveness are necessary tools at times, but it is information that presents the greatest opportunities. This is not an offer that we should turn down."
He holds his hands to his sides in an accepting posture. "I accept your offer, Irin. I wish to know the answer to this question: 'Which, if any, agents of House Darius are aware of our escape from Branderscar Prison?'" They had taken great pains to cover their tracks amid the rainstorm, even killing the escaping guard, but he knew that the prisoners may yet be discovered to have survived the fire.
Irin nods softly at Oswald and Mikhail, inclining her head at the mention of wine. Yes, Lord Halancoun, I could see how you would think that. But, as the good doctor has stated, I find a white preferable in times like these. Irin runs her finger around the rim of the glass for a moment. Then she suddenly smiles at Mikhail. The effect is truly arresting. This must be how the deer feels, when the hunters shine the torchlight in their eyes, Mikhail thinks experienceing the sensation from the other end for the first time. I find you polite, Mikhail, charming even. I do. So I'll tell you truly: Since you have chosen a reading, I won't call upon a single one of the various deceits and misdirections I could use to place your feet on the path of destruction. I would even be willing to assist you in the proper phraseology to affect best results in the reading Irin shrugs. Perhaps it's that I'm bored, or just that you've kept a civil tongue in your head. Anyway, not one in a dozen of my clients has had such an offer. It's your choice. If that is indeed the question you want answered I will conduct a reading on your behalf. For instance you made mention of only the inclusion of House Darius. If you select this wording that only those who hold a favorable bias to House Darius would be included. It would exclude any other groups or individuals that might be opposed to House Darius, but might also be aware of you.
Setting the wine down, she glances towards Kergh and Drisella who made their way towards the door. As I said before you are free to leave. It is your choice to stay or go. Only you can weight the price of knowledge versus the potential risk of entrapment. And as for you Kaynen. The woman smiles softly. Men have died for a chance to sit before my table. I have counseled paupers that went onto become lords and lords who had they asked the right question at the right time would have been kings. I speak truth, and in so reading the cards they are the truth. Twenty-six aspirants have passed through this complex. I've seen parts of the Third and Fourth knots, three versions of the Seventh, and the Eighth as well. My contract with the Cardinal extends to these readings. I will tell you that he himself sought me out for my service before he returned to Talingarde. You many choose to do so as you wish, or reserve judgement until you have witnessed Mikhails reading. I make the offer, as required. Nothing more.
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Mikhail nods along with Irin's advice. He knows that he ought to change his question, if for no reason but to flatter her. Truth be told, her question is likely better than his. Mikhail may be prideful, but he is not a fool to discredit her advice. "You are correct, my lady. Your counsel is more valuable than the whole of the gold in the kingdom." Her words about a lord becoming king burn in his mind, as enticing as a woman's touch. "Who - outside those who have sworn loyalty to Asmodeus, Cardinal Thorne, or myself - knows that the six of us in the Ninth Knot escaped Branderscar Prison and yet survive?"
Much like Oswald, Ethaniel is overwhelmed as soon as he looks at the aura surrounding Irin's deck of cards, remaining stunned for a few moments, his eyes wide and fixed on the powerful item. He does regain his senses soon enough, however, and in time to witness the conversation between Mikhail and the strange woman. "It matters not whether any other chooses to ask a question now," he mutters softly mostly to himself, his tone impassive. "Now that our leader has chosen to do so, we are as much beholden to do as she asks when she asks as he is."
He does admit he is sorely tempted himself, his gaze turning to the curved sword resting in its scabbard by his left hip. He does opt to wait though, preferring to see Mikhail's exchange first.
Inclining her head softly, Irin, nods approvingly at the phraseology of the question. Please sit, She begins shuffling the cards in front of her. As she does so she closes her eyes and draws in a sip of wine. Your question is very, very specific. Therefor I will be using a Star based spread for this reading. Laying the cards in front of her, she slips them back and forth and then back again. Had this situation been different one might have thought they were in an opulent gambling house rather than the secret headquarters of the last remaining Bishop of Asmodeus. Quietly the woman continues to shuffle and draw, shuffle and draw before laying five cards down in front of her face down. Let us begin, she states, flipping the first card over..
::Ten of Wands, Strength and power may have been misused. Heartache is possible. Persistence will eventually solve all problems. he rain beat down on the smoke covered walls of Branderscar prison. Crows dotted the central courtyard, cawing in mournful echos. Many murders had occurred here three days prior, so it seemed appropriate that a murder of crows be present, in some symbolic way. A man in white dismounted from his horse. Behind him his entourage fanned out behind him leading their horses into the muddy central courtyard. The mans face was hard and weather bitten. His eyes carried with it a fanatic zeal. A flaming heart of Mitra was worn over the left side of his cloak and a red crook embellished behind it. It was the mark of a Inquisitor of Mitra. A younger man approached him, bowing his head in reverence, My Lord, what are your orders? Glancing up, his eyes gray as the storm clouds above the Inquisitor pointed towards the burned remains of a tower in the southern end of the prison. Search the prison. Leave no stone unturned. Find me and answer to what happened here.::
::Six of Cups Reversed, Preoccupation with the past. Overdependence on outdated ideas and morals. ain fell in the smoky streets of the western Port of Talingard, Daveryn. Crouching behind a barrel, the dirty and wasted form of Ariana Ddraig carefully clutched at a rotten apple. Since her escape from the other prisoners at Branderscar, life had been a series of escapes one after another. In the days following the burning of Branderscar, Ariana had fled westward towards Daveryn. With what little gold she had been able to collect from their pillage of the prison the woman had initially been successful, but several weeks later the gold had run out and with her scar marking her as Forsaken, she knew she had to leave. In the smaller towns along the coast, strangers with money were tolerated. Poor strangers drew eyes. Finally however, she had reached Daveryn. Ships constantly sailed in and out between Talingard and the mainland and the woman knew that if she could just find a boat that would take her away she could finally escape this island that she once called home..::
::The Hierophant, A lover of tradition and ceremony, The Hierophant needs social approval and appreciates the positive aspects of conformity. beron Wright held the reins of a brown dappled gelding. Just seventeen years old, the youngest of the male line of the Wright's had upon his eldest brothers condemnation, found acceptance in the oddest of all places. "The Church". Following his elder brother Tobias advancement to the head of House Wright, Oberon took to the Mitrian teachings with a zeal fueled by his hatred of his eldest brother's blight on their family honor. Two months after word of Barnabas's death in a fire at Branderscar prison had reached young Oberon reached at the Cathedral for Holy Light, he was met one sunny morning by a stranger. Coming back from a ride Oberon dismounted from his horse and took the reins in his hands. There was a man, dressed in white waiting for him at the stables. His eyes were like storm clouds and he wore a flaming heart of Mitra over the left side of his cloak and a red crook was embellished behind it. Lord Wright, The stranger called, raising a hand to greet the young noble. I would like a moment to speak with you concerning your brother.::
::The Queen of Wands Reversed, Vengence and domination, possibly unfaithfulness and deceit. ailors swaggered down the docks of Daveryn. Despite the air of holiness that pervaded the primary port city of Talingard, Sailors would be sailors and there were needs that needed to be met. Painted in rouge and eyes glassy from drink doxies called out to the passing men. This was the rough part of town, the town that no one wanted to speak of, yet still existed. Sylphia clutched at a bottle in her hands. She had been a prostitute once and after the money had run out from her reward at turning in a pair of devil worshipers, she had foolishly fallen back into a life of sin. Now the days blurred together, one after another, lost in drink or the rare puff of pesh she could obtain that had been illegally smuggled into the city by foreign traders. To Sylphia's left and right, red shaded lanterns cast bloody red light along the narrow streets and cobblestones. A figure approached her, wrapped in a dark cloak. Loooking fur a good time? she slurred, her eyes unfocused. The alcohol helped sometimes to ease the pain. But the memories always came back. As the cloaked figure approached the woman, a hand held out silver. I've been looking for you... the figure stated quietly. Eyes glassy, the woman peered at the figure before recoiling instinctively. But it was not fast enough. In the red light, the spray of blood was dark and splotchy. It coated the walls and the woman tried to scream but her throat was already torn. Hand moving forward, claws flashing, a fist formed around the woman's throat. No.. no dying yet. I have so many stories to tell you first.::
::Temperance Reversed, A fallen angel, faith misplaced. riana Ddraig felt the night breeze flowing through her hair. A ship had arrived early in the day with plans to return to the mainland the following morning once goods had been unloaded. The young woman glanced at the bow of the ship from the dock. The Empty Lighthouse. It was an odd name as names went, but fitting she supposed. An Empty Lighthouse sounded like one unmanned, providing no view of the dangerous rocks that it was intended to protect. For the first time in months, Ariana felt at peace. She was finally leaving this island and she could start her life over again. Perhaps she would go to Cheliax, were her religion could be worshiped openly and without fear of the stupid and uncultured masses. Approaching the ship, suddenly ahead of her a ring of steel clad men stepped out from neighboring ships. Each was cloaked in white and their leveled crossbows at her menacingly. Whirling around, Ariana glanced behind her. There were yet more crossbow men at her back. No one move a voice called out, commanding and sure as a man with a flaming heart of Mitra over the left side of his cloak and a red crook was embellished behind it stepped forward. Forsaken! Do not move. I assure you, my men are most skilled and you will be dead before you hit the water. Tiredly, Ariana sagged to her knees. She wanted to cry. She saw the ship. She had been so close. But now she had lost it all. Two men approached behind the inquisidor, each carrying shackles. Forsaken. I know who you are. I know where you came from. What I want to know is, what happened to the other prisoners from Branderscar?::
Sighing, Irin released the cards, flipping them over. She takes a deep breath and then a small sip of her wine. Closing her eyes momentarily, she opens them again, the green of her irises, green and piercing. Lord Halancoun, do you have any questions concerning your reading? I believe it should have answered your question in a satisfactory nature however.
Mikhail snarls in anger as the vision fades from his eyes. "I should have killed her!" The rage grows in him, furious at her. Ariana was weak of mind and of will; a few days torture would take the unearned arrogance out of her. Mikhail is sure that Ariana has told all that she knows. He lets the anger flow through him, burning out and turning into a cold fury. "Ariana Ddraig did not escape. The foolish girl was taken by an inquisitor. I suspect that it was Matthais Harkon. His letter to Warden Richter said that he would attend our executions. He also wanted Ethaniel's file and sword ready for him. Barnabas, the same inquisitor was speaking to your brother Oberon, who has embraced the false religion." Mikhail silently mulls the fourth vision of the whore being murdered by a cloaked figure, wondering who he might be.
Mikhail lets the anger disappear in its endless well in his soul, and the calm visage of nobility reappears. "Thank you, Irin. That was most illuminating. I am in your debt." He offers a bow and stands up, giving up his seat for anyone else who wants a vision of their own.
"Figures..." Barnabas mutters. "Oberon is a zealot. If he thinks I've escaped Mitra's 'justice', he'll come after me. I've no doubt he'll turn up and make trouble if he can."
Barnabas takes Mikhail's seat at the table, "I can't help, but feel as though I am about to make a very bad bargain, but I must say, you've peaked my curiosity. I wish I had some grand and enlightened question to ask of you, but it has been a trying day and I am tired and dirty. So I will have to settle for being small and petty, and squander this excellent opportunity on something as selfish as simple revenge. To that end, I ask; Who are all those responsible for orchestrating my downfall and imprisonment."
Smiling coyly, Irin takes another sip of the white wine, before inclining her head towards Barnabas. You know, I have often wondered what Cardinal Thorn looked for in the choice of his knots. As I mentioned before I have played witness to twenty-six aspirants. Some were mindlessly bloodthirsty, others unflinchingly cruel. Others still were stoic, believing they were doing their duty no matter how unappealing it was. Sipping her wine, Irin's eyes sparkled knowingly. It was all lies of course. Most would think the Cardinal an opportunist. Irin shakes her head. They would be wrong. He has planned all of this out. To survive where others have fallen. To call upon the lords of Hell. No.. one cannot do that by mere opportunity. Tapping the cards in front of her, Irin smiles. So why am I telling you this, you might ask? After all, I suspect a man like you knows the truth in the words that nothing in life is free.
Flipping over the first card, Irin glances at it. It is the Three of pentacles. I tell you this because, I think you will appreciate the truth. There is one quality that every aspirant I have ever met possesed. It is the only quality that was shared by each and every one. Any idea? No? Tapping the card, Irin stared into Barnabas's eyes. Selfishness.. Why Selfishness? Because it makes you predictable. If you take nothing else away from this reading, consider that. Holding the card towards Barnabas. Irin taps it. Your first card is the Three of Pentacles. An appropriate card. Pentacles are often related to luck, earth or money. The three represents how many people were responsible for orchestrating your downfall. Shuffling the cards back and forth, Irin lays down three cards face down. One card for each person.. let us see what the cards hold Lord Wright.
::The Queen of Air and Darkness, Powerful knowledge secreted away, a whisper in the shadows. Seated in a comfortable chair of purple velvet, the woman glanced up from a sheaf of papers. She rubbed her eyes tiredly before moving the flickering edge of a candle away from the papers before her. Boxes along the left of the room held stacks of carefully cataloged paper. In the days and weeks ahead some letters would go out while new ones would come in. The woman smiled faintly. In some ways she likened herself to a spider. Each letter was the tiny tug of a single gossamer strand below her fingers. Pushing herself back from her chair, the woman rose and glancing one final time at the letter from Ventris, placed it carefully on the table. Turning her back to her web of letters, the woman walked to the window and pushed open the glass. A gust of wind ruffled the stack of paper and snuffed out the light. Breathing in the air, the woman with her tired eyes and wrinkled hands gazed out from the window at the lights of Ghastenhall and the great Library of Ghaster to the south. Taking a deep breath, she relaxed her eyes and closed them momentarily before turning back to Ventris's letter. Orders must be issued and as the Voice of the Triad, she must speak.::
::Endurance, Unyielding patience able to withstand any test of time. Chains clinked in the darkness as the bald headed brute breathed in and out of his nose. The pain was excruciating, but it also awakened his senses. Hanging suspended in air, the man continued to recite to himself the third mantra of enlightened suffering. Around him torches flickered and fluttered. Tiny droplets of blood ran along the ripples of his skin, falling to the ground below him. This was his meditation, this was his penance. Eyes flicking open, the man heard steps down the stone passageway outside of his room. The door opened and the monk stared through the door and the messenger as if looking into him. The messenger was also bald though his hair had been shorn as opposed to an absence of hair. His first lesson was to show no fear. That was difficult standing infront of the master. The master continued to stare. He would not have been disturbed without reason. Bowing, the acolyte craned his forehead to the stone floor before proffering forward a letter. Chains clinked in the darkness, and the acolyte kept his eyes averted. It was not wise to earn the ire of his master, the Fist of the Triad.::
::Demise, The last breath of a dying man. That which wise men fear. Stalking the streets of Matharyn, the shadow glided from rooftop to rooftop. He had held many names, over many years but names did not matter to him. The shadow hated this city. With its soaring towers dedicated to righteousness and purity, the man wanted to scream. From high atop a steeple the shadow glances down at the milling people below. They did not understand that for ever rise of the sun, there would be a moon, for every life born there was a death. There was and would always be balance in all things. Crouching over the towering precipice, the shadow looked towards the gap below him. It was fifty feet from this tower to the next. Lips curving coldly, the shadow ran a finger along the edge of his black blade at his side before leaping from the tower in a puff of black swirling shadow and reappearing on the ledge across the street. Keeping a firm grip on the dagger, the man walked along the spine of the buildings roof towards the balcony that he knew was fifteen feet below. Names did not matter to him, he had never asked for the name, but he would accept it. They called him the Blade of the Triad, and tonight he had a debt to balance.::
The reading complete, Irin looks up at Barnabas, gazing towards the man. You have made a powerful set of enemies Lord Wright. Shaking her head softly, Irin, takes a sip of wine before setting it down. Count it a small blessing that they are not yet aware of your survival. Of course, now that your brother Oberon has become involved with an inquisidor, I wonder how long it will be before your survival is noted? Leaning back in her chair, the woman's eyes sparkle and her mouth quirks up thoughtfully. How long indeed?
"Mmm yes, this Ventris does seem to be a touch more dangerous than I would have expected. Quite the little band of ruffians that he has assembled, nothing we can't handle though."
"You've given me a quite a lot to ponder Irin. Thank you for your time. I hope your payment will not prove too onerous."
Barnabas rises from the seat and offer Irin a polite bow. Turning away, he offers the seat to his other companions and walks over to lean against a wall to think on his reading.
Kaynen continues to stand in mock hesitation at the exit, taking a few steps ever so slightly to observe Mikhail and Barnabas' respective fortunes.
His curiosity is first piqued as he seeks to assess the woman's capability to tell either things that they could truly not know, or that any two-bit con artist might be able to conjure up. The mention of names and specific bits of fact brings him a few inches closer.
Ariana's capture...
Kaynen frowns for the briefest second before his smile returns.
Of course - who knows if she talks. Perhaps her capture is common knowledge now and word travels faster that a Mitran to service on Sunday. Perhaps Irin's talent is nothing more than creative storytelling of news we've missed while down here in these pointless trials...
The half-elf's gaze turns towards Drisella and Kergh, who both appear to be uninterested in the games afoot.
He contemplates Ethaniel's words.
A geas between Mikhail and Irin is no geas between us. Who knows if Mikhail or Barnabas even live a fortnight from today?
Brief flashes of a burning church dance through Kaynen's imagination. The roof collapses. Screams. He senses the briefest tickle of heat upon his face.
I've seen the future. I control the future. I do not need this woman to share what I already see.
With an audible sigh, he spins on his heel and winks at Ethaniel. Whistling low, he closes the distance to Kergh and grabs the edge of the door while smiling as the hunched man.
"After you, good Kergh. We have much work to do for our respective masters!"
Ethaniel is ambivalent. Not on the subject of whether he should ask for a reading or not; as far as that is concerned, he has finally decided. Two of his companions have received one and if they are to survive as a Knot, when the time comes to pay the price for these answers, the rest of them will be dragged into it anyway, at least as far as he can tell. The magus sighs and approaches the woman known to them as Irin.
"A question then," he says simply, his eyes looking into hers. Drawing his curved sword from its black and crimson scabbard, he studies it for a brief moment before he sets it down on the table, opposite her deck of cards. He then takes a seat, making a sweeping motion in front of him with his right hand to indicate the exotic weapon. "This is my question."
With the retreat of Barnabas and the approach of Ethaniel, Irin motions placidly towards the table in front of her. She opens her mouth to speak but before a word can come from her mouth, Ethaniel gestures towards the exotic blade at his side. "This is my question." The man states quietly. He peers at the woman, wondering if it will be more readings of cards. He does not have to wait long.
Taking a single sip of wine, Irin, places the glass down to her left and then plants both hands on the table in front of her. She gazes at the blade and then at the cards. As if conducting a mental calculation, she shakes her head thoughtful and places the cards aside. They will be useless for what you seek. She states by way of explanation. Peering at the man, she nods towards the blade at his side. I don't suppose you have bothered to as it instead? Snorting softly to herself, Irin shakes her head. No, of course not. Pointing to the blade, Irin motions to the table. Draw the sword and place it on the table. Put one hand on the pommel and a second on the flat of the blade.
Watching carefully, Irin nods as Ethaniel does as asked. Taking another short sip of wine, Irin breathes in and out slowly. She closes her eyes and her hands dart out to where Ethaniel's are carefully placed over the blade with a speed akin to a snake lurching at prey from the bushes. Her hands move with incredible speed and strength, She clamps down on Ethaniel's hands. It is as if she is somehow afraid to touch the blade herself, and she knows of no other way to leverage her strength against it. The pressure builds against Ethaniels hands and he cries out as a thin trickle of blood, caused by the razor sharp edge runs down the wavy form of the blade.
Irin barks, her eyes still closed. The blood felt warm against Ethaniel's hand and he could feel the blade, slicing into the meat of his palm while Irin held his hand down.
::The Calling - Like all things, there was a beginning. One could trace back the paths and fates the drew together the materials that would make up the blade, but that would be a story in and of itself. So let us begin at a point that is comprehensible. The Dark Tapestry... Freezing cold enveloped the rock that floated in the inky expanse between worlds. Ancient in time, the rock was a poisonous remnant of an unborn planet, drifting in space. Far, far away in a world dominated by an ancient people who became arrogant and proud, their inhuman benefactors began the calling. The magic, driven by aberrant minds sought out the planet killer that drifted in the darkness. Through ancient rituals, the rock was called. Pulled between worlds the floating sphere of adamantite, nickel, iron and ore picked up speed. Locked on a collision course with the world, it was only by the intervention of two that the rock was shattered at it's last moment's, denying the inhuman creatures the revenge they had so eagerly sought and giving life a chance to survive.::
::The Tempering - A world enveloped by darkness. Nations had fallen, the elder kin had fled from the world and all of the great empires lay in ruins. This was the "Age of Ashes". One fragment from the asteroid that was shattered just prior to Earthfall, lay along the slopes of the Chenlun Mountains. Located at the antipode of the greatest strikes against Azlant, the Chenlun Mountains rise up in a storm of volcanoes. Ashes blot out the sun for years, ushering in an impossibly long winter. The onslaught from land, sea, and air devastates the land, especially the southern reptilian empire of Valashai. The ashes of Azlant hang physically in the skies for years—but metaphorically, they loom for a thousand more. All the while the fist sized lump of strange sky metal remained, waiting to be discovered.::
::The Forging - A clan of a hammer beat through the walls of the smithy. It was fiendishly hot within the room. The master studied the hunk of ore that had been brought before him. There was color and striations in the steel that he had never seen before. To his left a cloud of steam billowed out from a quenching tank as one of his students lowered a blade by the tongs into the vat. Quietly the master swordsmith picked up the ore in his hands. He felt its weight and the ageworn smoothness. There was a coldness to the metal that the smith had never encountered before. He had worked with the noble metals; ruthenium, rhodium, palladium, silver, osmium, iridium, platinum, and gold. Also with the even more rare sky metals; ultra hard adamantine, magic resistant noqual and time quickening horacalcum. But he did not recognize this. Feeling the coldness of the metal in his hands the smith shivered with a touch of madness. Gripping the ore in his hands he lifted it up into the light, looking at the dull reflection of his face in the stone. People whispered that his blades were cursed, that his madness was supposed to have passed into his blades. Madness! - It was all lies. Obsession with perfection could be called madness, but it was only a word used by small minded men. Still, others whispered that his blades hungered for blood impelled their wielder to commit murder or suicide. Shaking his head, Muramasa Sengo turned to the forge. He would show them all.::
::The Inscribing - The blade rested upon the anvil. Muramasa wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. His hair was grey, and seemed to have thinned from the last vision of him holding the ore before him. His eyes were sunken and his skin pale. He looked as if he were dying. Letting the hammer that he had held fall to the floor, Muramasa gazed upon his last masterpiece with tired eyes. Each creation took something out of him. He demanded perfection in his students and he could accept no less from himself. He felt tired. But he felt at peace. The creation of a beautiful weapon always calmed him. It kept the shadows at bay. He could not explain it had he been asked to. It did not matter. Shaking his head tiredly, the smith gazed upon the sword. It would need a name. It deserved a name. It would be a blade that would last for thousands of years. He was sure of that. The blade was black as night. Even in his hottest forges, the ore seemed to resist change. It was hard, amazingly so. In the hands of the right wielder, he knew that it would never shatter. It's tang was tapered, it was an uncommon but sophisticated design, necessary due to the amount of ore the smith had to work with. The weight of the blade would be reduced but without significant sacrifice of strength along horizontal and vertical vectors. Looking out the window, the elderly smith knew this was his finest work. In the morning he would affix the handle and wrap it with silk. Abruptly his hand stopped. His head whipped towards the window. In the sky above the moon took on a crimson hue. The smith's face paled and he glanced at the blade. Frantically he snatched up his mallet and chisel. It was an omen. He knew the blades name. It would be called Crimson Eclipse.::
Letting her hands go, Irin snaps back and takes a half-step away from the table before brushing down the front of her dress. You.. you wield the last blade of Muramasa Sengo, forged from a fragment of the same stone that brought the Starfall. Breathless the woman's sight bores into the blade. There is a legend of a Muramasa blade being put into a river strewn with lotus leaves. It was said that the leaves swirled around the Muramasa blade and each one that traveled past it would be perfectly cut. It has also been told that once drawn, a Muramasa blade has to draw blood before it can be returned to its scabbard, even to the point of forcing its wielder to wound himself or commit suicide. Muramasa blades are thought of as a demonic cursed blade that creates bloodlust in those who wield it. It is also said that Muramasa forged each of his blades with a fraction of his own cursed soul. Shaking her head softly, Irin eyes Mikhail, Ethaniel and Barnabas. Such a profound collection of unique individuals. Your gathering was no chance.
______________________________
Ethaniel's Blade:
This katana, named Crimson Eclipse, enlarges with flowing red ribbons on the handle at Ethaniel's command of "Sever, Crimson Eclipse!"
Once per day you may spend one point from your arcane pool to unlock the hidden power of your blade. By speaking your blades name as a standard action, your blade enlarges as per a lead blades spell, using your caster level.
Ethaniel: Additional powers may be unlocked as you continue your story progression and continue to learn about its history, or through special events.
Mikhail's eyes are drawn enviously to the blade. Previously, he had not given it much thought beyond its usefulness in his ally's hand. Now, he considers what he might do with it. His own blade seems woefully inadequate, not fit for a king at all. He lets the envy run through him before pushing it out of his mind. The sword, after all, belonged to Ethaniel - and it would be a foolish king who took his subjects' most valuable possessions.
He turns his attention to the beautiful and beguiling enchantress. "Irin, thank you for your guidance. I'm certain that you will watch us, and I do look forward to seeing you again." His words promise far more than a reading, as if he has already forgotten that there may be a downside to his bargain. "We must be fetching the Cardinal's prize, to show him that we are worthy. Allow us to take our leave of you." With a bow, he steps to the doorway and beckons for the others still inside. It's clear that he intends to be the last one that Irin sees as they leave.
Oswald watches the readings with rapt attention. When the interested party are finally finished with their visions of the past, present, and future, the mad doctor clears his throat to catch Irin's attention, "Now, I won't need a reading, m'dear, as I know enough from my own sources, however, there was talk of access to a powerful magical artifact that you are the supposed caretaker of at this moment. May I examine said item and make what use of it that I might?"
Overwhelmed by the visions he has just witnessed, Ethaniel remains seated for a few more moments, his eyes fixed on the sword as if seeing it for the first time. Then, raising his head to look at the woman in front of him, he nods. "Thank you, Irin," he says, his gratitude entirely honest as he rises from his seat and almost reverently picks up his curved blade and places it in its scabbard. "That was most... educational."
As he moves to join the others of the Ninth Knot, his eyes meet Mikhail's, recognizing in the vampiric noble's gaze his own from when he had first laid eyes on the exotic weapon. There is envy in that gaze, envy and want. Still, he cannot fault the other man. "You may not have the weapon, Mikhail," the magus says softly after approaching his comrade and leader, "but you do have the next best thing. Its wielder."
Kaynen stands with Kergh and Drisella, allowing the others to complete their thank-yous.
He smiles at Drisella, impressed by the wisdom and independence of the young girl at avoiding becoming beholden to yet another "master".
"Want to wait for them. Can hear what the price is too?" Kergh smiles back in lopsided fashion, his milky eye weeping a little. He knuckles the tears away. Then resumes his watch.
"See. You were right to listen to me. They will not be happy when they find out what the payment must be. You must listen to me. I am right. Always."
Irin smiled at Kaynen. It was a strange, complicated smile. You're awfully eager to rush forward, Kaynen Catesby. I salute you. It should be interesting to watch what will happen when you reach your destination and if you will like what you find there..
As the smile fades, Irin sits back for a moment and looks up at the ceiling, seeming to compose herself. Then she carefully sets wine decanter and wine glass aside. She reaches under the table and pulls out a small chest. Something about the way she holds it gives you the impression that it's heavier than it looks.
Irin's gaze moves towards Oswald before she speaks again softly. The guttural, singsong accent that seemed to peak through when she first spoke seems to rise to the surface of her voice again, this time more strongly than before. Previous owners tried to lock them away Oswald, Vaults, Elaborate death traps. Even a demiplane. It never worked. They simply cannot be owned. Not by mortals, not by fiends, not by gods. So let me make this perfectly clear, even for someone like you to understand. I don't own them. Don't claim to own them. The box... it's not locked, you see? One day they'll go away. I know that. I'm just their... custodian, for a little while. Her expression flutters and takes on a strange visage. Is it fear? Loathing? Longing? Impossible to tell. Irin's hands clench a little on the box, then relax. I offer them, to anyone who seems interested. I watch. I watch what happens. I try to understand.
As I have told you twice before, twenty-six aspirants have passed through this complex. With the Cardinal's permission, I have opened the box for all of them. Of twenty-six aspirants, seven stepped forward to dare the chance. Of those seven, two died almost immediately. A third gained the enmity of a powerful outsider and was dead within a few days. A fourth was... transformed, in a way that made it impossible for her to continue as part of a Knot. The Cardinal kept her here for a while, but eventually she despaired and took her own life.
The fifth became wiser and more cunning, greatly to his advantage. The sixth acquired the ability to open any lock in the universe -- once. The seventh gained a castle, a crown, and followers. He is a noble of the kingdom now. The Book of the Great Houses says that he has always been so, though this is not in fact the case. If I told you his name, you might well know it. And you would say, "but he has always been noble! He, and his family for long years before him!" But this is not, in fact, the case.
They can do that, you see. They can change... anything.
Irin opens the box. Inside is a small cloth pouch. Moving very slowly and carefully, she undoes the drawstring of the pouch.
Inside is a set of cards.
Each of you share an involuntary twitch at the same time. You can each remember remember the anti-magic ward, back in Branderscar. The feeling radiating from the cards feels a little like that. Except not. That was a grating background whine, like an annoying mosquito. This is a deep, confident thrum. Like the slow pounding of ocean waves on the surf.
Something about the light in the room changes. It seems to dim. The cards don't actually glow, but they seem more solid and real than the room around them. The patterns of light on the ceiling begin to flow and shift in a strange way, like light reflecting off the surface of a pool of water. A strange, unidentifiable scent fills the air.
I know for certain of two sets. There are rumors of a third, never confirmed. Some say they are the originals, of which all others are copies. Drawn by the gods at the dawn of time. Others say that the universe itself created them, out of the Plane of Archetypes... I do not know the truth.
But I know how they work. The woman states cryptically.
Gesturing to the cards before her, Irin looks at the group, her eyes soft, calculating and wondering. You choose to draw, or not. No penalty attaches if you refuse. Many would call it the only course of wisdom! But if you choose to draw, then... you draw.
Gazing at the cards, Irin seems to be thinking back. Sometimes -- usually -- the effects are immediate. Sometimes nothing seems to happen. But something always does happen. Even if it is not immediately apparent.
Tapping the table as if explaining points Irin gestures with her free hand. There are good effects, and bad ones, and ones that are... ambiguous. Would you like to have your gender changed? Do you want to grow as large as a troll... permanently? I've seen those. I've seen a man weep with joy as he gained the power to change the worst mistake he ever made in his life, long years ago. Time bent backwards, and the universe rewove itself, just a little. I saw that. And I saw the woman whose touch became deadly poison kill everyone in her family by accident, and then kill herself in despair. I saw the man struck mute, and his comrade afflicted with a disease without a name. I saw the girl who became immune to every sort of fire, and the other girl who grew the skin of a dragon, and the boy who became a drooling, babbling idiot. I saw the woman who gained the power to call upon an angel. And I saw the old man who found a little magical world, all his own, for the few years he had remaining. Lost in the memory Irin's eyes seem to glaze over as she recalls the wonders and horrors that the cards have shown her.
The magic is ancient and powerful. Some of the effects can be reversed only by the greatest of spells, wishes and miracles. And some, I think, cannot be reversed even by those.
So there you have it. A deck. A deck of cards. A deck of... things. A deck of...
...many things
Mikhail slowly walks back into the room. He heard Irin's warning, but only the possible benefits stood out to him. Convinced that his destiny will protect him, he returns to a position of importance and dominance in the room. "Well, then. You offer another temptation, and I am powerless to resist." He smiles - fangs showing - as he flirts with the oracle. Selanna had left him pleased, but his appetite for companionship was insatiable. "I have faith in my destiny, in the Dark Prince, in the Cardinal - and in you." Left unsaid is that he would not allow the others to show him up by accepting her offer - dangerous as it is - before he could demonstrate his courage. Mikhail's pride would not allow it.
"I will accept a card."
Barnabas' eyes widen as Irin explains the purpose of the cards and he licks his lips nervously.
"Well I can't say I have Mikhail's faith, but really, what's the worst that could happen? Death? We're going to need a miracle to survive Thorn's little plan anyways, so why not take the gamble."
Barnabas palms sweat and his finger twitch, as he reaches for the deck. "I always was a fan of the easy way out..."
Oswald appears lost in Irin's words of the possibilities of this simple deck of cards. But they weren't so simple as the audible whining of power seeped from the box containing them. His eyes drift down to the box, the cards as he starts to reach for the strange woman's offer of everything, including death. "The power to change a mistake... yes, turn back time on the misfortune that fate has burdened me with." His eyes seem lost in a dream as Oswald suddenly snaps out of his daze and clenches the fingers of his outstretched hand.
He look Irin straight in the eyes as he opens his hand once more, "Let us see what reparations fate is willing to pay for it's crimes. I shall draw."
Kaynen felt the lure of the magic like a fish called to a hook. To pursue his goals, he could shirk the whispers of an attractive woman. But what Irin now offered was far more than a glimpse into a future he already predicted in an exchange to be beholden to yet another inconvenient master.
Here she held real power.
The half-elf imagined for a moment, himself lord of his own castle and this very deck itself deep within a vault sealed under powerful magicks of his own hand.
Kaynen has spent time at the university in study of all manner of arts, but he had always gravitated at what came easy for him. Was this yet another way of the universe simply handing him his dues.
He inched forward, maintaining a careful eye on the woman who had earlier offered to turn him into a pawn of her own.
His heart raced as he contemplated the universe and what card it might deal him and he remembered one inalienable fact that he carried with him everywhere he went.
The universe loved him as a favored son.
Smiling deeper and broader and supremely confident in his own self, Kaynen whistled as he walked up to Irin and the deck as if he were doing nothing more than emptying a chamberpot into the alley.
As he continued to whistle casually, he reached down while maintaining his usual self-assured smile at Irin and flipped over the next card.
Ethaniel sighs as he sees his associates and fellow Forsaken draw a card, one after the other. First the lord, then the rogue, and then the madman and the revolutionary. Be it pride or trust in themselves or in their destiny, or even a spur of the moment, they accept to take the risk in exchange for the promise of power, yet not the certainty of it. Still, the magus himself is tempted as well. Despite what he has already learned about his most prized possession and what he has gained because of that knowledge, the lure of greater power still is undeniable. The man he was would never risk all with the hope of gaining more than he already had. But the man he is now, the man he is becoming? The man whose... "friends" are vampires and killers and madmen, men that would perhaps perceive his refusal to take the same chance as they have taken as weakness or cowardice?
"So be it," he says simply, softly, as he steps forward and draws a card with his right hand, his left hand gripping Crimson Eclipse's hilt tightly as if looking for strength and steadiness there.
Kherg wets his lips as Mikhail and the others take a card. Everyone takes a card. He smiles a lopsided and gooey grin as they leave Irin's side.
"Do not even think about it, dwarf. I command you to not do this. Think of the risks, the pain and the torture on some of those cards. Do not disobey me, or I shall not be happy. It is a mistake. Your mistake.
For once, Kherg answers the voice in his head quickly, so that it cannot interrupt. "But I always used to do well at cards. In the nursery with Nana, she let me play. Lots. I always won. And, and, and there is no favour or quest attached. I have faith, Nana said that is why I always beat her. Snap. Remember cards took ages but I won. I did. I can do this. I can."
Then the cold response comes back like a sliky stilleto, "Your Nana lied. But do not believe me. Take a card. If you lose then never question my orders ever again. Ever again, Kherg."
Hesistantly and almost clutching at his holy armour, the man sidles in, dripping with sweat, fear and hidden bravery. He goes to take a card. Eventually he firmly does it, desperate for his luck to run true. His eyes plead with Irin for a sign that he has still got that childhood success.