As you step through the portal, you are immediately greeted with the site of a lavishly decorated chamber. Black silk banners hang from the walls bearing skulls of embroidered silver. Glowing orbs of light float above sconces on the walls, illuminating the chamber in a pale light.
Along the center of the room is a large oak table, long enough to host a vast number of guests, and covered in all manner of foodstuffs. As you take in the site, a nearly invisible, transparent form approaches you and asks in a monotonous voice, "Greetings. How might I be of service?"
"Just let me know if I can eat this."
Taking off his hat and setting it on a chair's corner, Drovius seats himself and starts helping himself to generous helpings of meats, cheeses, and a glass of wine; the "savory stuff", he would say. He breathes deep the aroma of the meal building on his plate, but does not eat just yet.
Lifting the glass in a mock toast, Drovius glances at where he guesses the form is now. "I'm hoping this isn't another run-of-the-mill dream, because I really would like to taste this stuff." He sips the wine, catching some spilling from his missing cheek before it went to waste, and sighs contentedly. "Ah, that's good to know."
He looks around the room once more. "Love what you done with the place." He gestures with the glass, nodding before taking another sip.
Taking in the room as he regains his bearings, Kizarmak eyes the approaching phantom with some trepidation. On the verge of uttering a reply to its welcome, he stops short, reaches a hand up to his own cheek, and pinches - hard. Hmh. No superficial dream, at least.
"Well, it appears you have me here bodily, which I'm sure can only put me at your disposal," he grimaces, inspecting himself to see what, if any, of his belongings have arrived with him. "Perhaps you can tell me roughly where 'here' is?"
"Everything that has been prepared for consumption before you is entirely edible. This is not a dream," the spectral servant states flatly to Drovius before turning its body towards Kizarmak, "rather, you have been summoned to a localized demi-plane located, in the grand scheme of things, between the Astral and Material realms. Do make yourselves comfortable."
"Impressive," Kizarmak gives the servant a knowing nod, recalling his own former master's protocol regarding petitioners, supplicants, and other would-be clients - one never got anything substantive from the 'help'; his inquiries would have to wait until the 'Master' arrived.
Suddenly viscerally aware of just how hungry he is after more than a week as a fugitive in the wilderness, Kizarmak tentatively takes an apple from the table, returns the other stranger's mock toast, and begins devouring it.
Blinking into a resplendent dining chamber where before had stretched yawning desert, Steth bellows forth a guttural yell, swinging wildly with a pole of lumber he had been carrying. He stops immediately upon being addressed by the spectral figure, dropping into a flourished bow, the pole clattering noisily beside.
"Good day to you sir," Steth says, addressing the figure as he rises, sweeping his gaze over the room, "Perhaps you can show me the way t-"
On catching sight of the banquet, Steth abruptly rushes to the nearest item, scooping a large handful of nuts and forcing them into his mouth; he grimaces after a few chews, and violently spits into the bowl, the amalgam of saliva and particulates coating the remaining nuts. Looking down the table at the remainder of the buffet, he catches sight of the two other occupants and frowns.
"Smoky didn't tell me we had company. I apologize for my crudity." Steth apologetically offers the bowl of nuts to the half-rotten individual, "Nuts? You seem to be malnourished." He casts a glare upon the other occupant, sneering, "None for you; you're fat enough already."
His face softens, and a hearty laugh shakes Steth's body, nuts and spittle flying from the bowl he makes no effort to keep still. After a moment he sighs, and gestures with the messy offering once again, giving the man an inquisitive look.
Drovius' eyes dart between the loud man's mouth to the proffered bowl containing exactly twelve, moistened nuts. Despite having eaten far worse, a time he had nourished himself on plague rats and carrion bettles, he realized he might have spoiled himself in recent years. "Thanks, but no thanks. More of a flesh and bone guy myself these days." He followed this declaration by carving into a roast he was sure was made from a humanoid's torso.
As a rack of ribs was placed on his plate, he nodded in greeting to the other two newcomers. "I don't suppose any of you've saw His Lordship before getting here?"
Before he begins eating, Drovius pulls out a metallic fly on a chain and kisses it, whispering a prayer to the Pallid Princess before taking a rib between the teeth.
Kizarmak's eyes go wide at the bearded newcomer's outburst, then narrow as he continues silently observing the man's erratic behavior, finally squinting in consternation as he tries to discern whether the fellow is mad, playing at being so, or simply intoxicated.
He spares a sidelong glance at the cadaverous figure's question. "Seen him? He's been little more than a legend and a bogeyman for crusaders nigh on a millennium, now," he answers distractedly.
Shrugging, Steth takes advantage of his proximity to tear his own chunk of the roast, splashing it repeatedly in gravy before depositing the meat atop his dozen nuts. He picks through the table, scooping various handfuls of vegetables, wiping his hand between servings on his beard.
He mutters to himself during the process;
Taking a seat near the "livelier" human, Steth stares down at the bowl of food, his head bobbing in a slight nod.
"The Rough Beast dwells 'ere in the Pit, with but the Trickster to hold the Key. Yet that which holds is but a span, and His hunger has not end. I ask you this, dear fellow, dear fellow."
With a violent wrench, Steth brings his gaze upon the half-corpse, "When the world cackles from the belly of the Beast, whom do you suppose is Lord?"
Steth blinks, turning from the awkward pose to look at his neighbor, "And I am certain similar conversations were held then."
Locating the nearest utensils, Steth begins to delicately eat, making careful cuts of roast and portioning proper bites.
A man materializes kneeling on the floor as if meditating. His eyes snap open, he stands, and he approaches the table. Under normal circumstances his bloodstained clothes would identify him as a simple butcher but here his is more than he appears.
"Looks like I'm not the only one here." Vladimir walks up to the table and puts the biggest slab of the least cooked meat onto his plate."Greetings everyone, I have a feeling we're all here for the same reason. Who ever set this up though has prepared the most delicious meal for us!" Vladimir pulls out an iron amulet in the shape of a skull filled with maggots and sets it on the table next to his plate, mutters to himself; Abyssal; Praise Kabriri, who strips the flesh of the grave., before he sets upon it like a ravenous ghoul, digging in with his teeth and hands.
"Good to know I still know how to pick the best kind of company." Drovius muttered, rolling his eyes at the madman's rants and at the manners of the others as they feasted upon their meal like the ghouls and zombies that haunted his childhood.
"Quite the menagerie assembled already, and I'm sure we'll meet even more before this night is out." He thought, taking a sip and then another few bites.
Drovius realized then his manners were quite tame to his fellow dinner guests. While he used fork and knife, they had no reservations on using their hands and teeth to tear into their shares. Thinking back, the Daughter that had raised him made sure he knew his manners and who to respect and how to show it. Remaining himself to thank the Daughter for her part in his upkeep, he set himself on trying to figure out who was who.
The madman probably had seen something beyond mortal understanding, and what remains of his sanity now throws out pieces of his "wisdom" to any who'd listen.
The darkly robed one had too much dust upon his person to have come from an urban setting. That did not leave much to work with.
The most recent arrival looked the butcher, but his appetite alluded to more.
"Oh yes, best company."
Steth's attitude towards the newest arrival rapidly changes, from curious glance as he approaches the table, to welcoming smile and the beginnings of a greeting when the stranger selects his meal; his welcome is interrupted by the presentation of the unknown relic, and Steth's brow furrows in concentration as the newcomer speaks an alien tongue.
Then, as the professional butchers his trade, fiendishly delving into his meal, Steth laughs uproariously, pounding the table in his raucousness. "Well said, stranger! A feast indeed to be thankful for! And what fortune did bring, that another among us should blather nonsense! Ask Twiggy-," turning bodily with outstretched arm, Steth indicates the man with a hat on his chair, "he'll tell you a thing or two!"
Lowering his arm, Steth tilts his head to the left, staring markedly at the skeletal figure as he begins speaking in his own strange tongue.
Looking around at the assembly of ghouls, madmen, and cultists, Kizarmak closes his eyes and massages his temple with a weary expression. Maybe I can still come to some kind of an understanding with the Technic League? They seemed relatively reasonable. Opening one eye again, he sighs. More reasonable by the minute.
Vladimir, in an attempt to wipe blood away from his mouth, smears it across his face with a huge, kinda creepy and devilish smile as he looks at Drovius.
"The best of company always comes from the unlikeliest of places." He takes up a glass of wine, motions like a toast and takes a swig.
Vladimir's eyes shift from the half-rotten man to the kelshite as he spoke in a strange language, his eyes squinting as if trying to figure out what he was saying, but he shakes his head as he realizes it's in a language he doesn't know.
"You're not to bad at blathering nonsense yourself either, friend." Vladimir picks up a chunk of flesh, about the size of a fist, and inspects it like one would an apple.
"I'd like to give my sincerest apologies," His eyes scan the others in the room. "I haven't introduced myself yet. That was rather rude of me." Vladimir takes a bite from the flesh in his hand, like you would an apple.
"I am Vladimir Cromwell, butcher by day and Priest of Kabriri by night."
"Well said, and well met." Drovius mimics Vladimir's toast. "It would seem my own manners are in need of practice. The name's Drovius. I'd give you my family name if I knew it, but folks have taken to calling me 'the Half-Dead'. Whatever for I don't know." The last sentence was dripping with sarcasm, as he then opens his mouth and thus widens the mostly "rotten" right side of his face.
"Kabiri, eh? Name rings a bell, but not a particularly loud one. The Pallid Princess holds my devotion, personally. I probably owe what life I have now to her, and so I seek to further her ends and those who'd serve or ally with her." He then gestures around the room. "I'd be willing to bet quite a bit that we're being gathered together for something of that nature."
He then regards the others seated/standing around the table. "And what of you? What might have brought you to join us here?"
The portal pulses to life as not one but a pair of new arrivals come through. Both are tall yet nearly as different in dress and manner as night and day. One is covered in studded leather armor, every inch covered even their head with a full helmet. Bearing a number of weapons as well, he stands as stiff as a statue. The other is in the same range of great height yet covered in cloth of black and white. His simple plain vestments in contrast to the strangeness of his features, only enhanced by the strange light. Unlike his comrade he scans the room taking in everything from the other guest to the table and it's food.
"Come."
Taking his time he slowly moves to a healthy distance from the others, clearly having no desire to seat beside these strangers. He takes his chair as his comrade follows, with a motion the warrior takes it's place to the side and behind his chair. At the ready to guard his apparent master. Finally he takes a napkin and lays it on his lap before taking the utensils needed to serve himself and begin eating. He takes a moment to give a quick prayer beforehand. His manners are not overly refined but they seem well practiced if simplistic. No matter what he eats or drinks his eyes keep everyone in sight.
He cast Purify Food and Drink.
Steth tilts his head Drovius giving him an awkward look, "Would that I knew, friend 'the Half-Dead'. This place was not, and then it was, and so I am here now. I am called Steth, by those who should call. 'Tis is a fair pleasure."
Grinning, Steth turns to Vladimir, "Kabriri? The goddess of flank and shank! What a noble deity for a butcher! Tell me," he asks, rising from his seat and moving along the table, until he comes upon a wonderfully-roasted turkey; he delicately carves off a leg, plating it with precision in a sauce of gravy. Steth moves back towards the butcher, presenting the meat for his inspection, "is this a fine cut of poultry?"
He had been inspecting the newest arrivals during his trek for meaty greatness, and watches carefully as the smaller one mumbles; a bit of gravy dribbles off the plate as, just before Steth arrives at Vladimir, he suddenly grips the turkey by the bone, hurling it at the less-armored of the two.
"TOO CLEAN!!
Ialo's head snaps up as if he half suspected something. The leg goes wide but the damage was done. The armored guard was already moving in that strange stiff gait only faster then it should closing the gap and drawing his morningstar.
"Stop."
The guard freezes in a moment at Ialo's word. An unnaturally fast reaction. Ialo stares at the filthy man, meeting his gaze squarely. His glowing clear blue eyes suddenly seem to lunge at Steth, sending dread into the madman.
"Threaten me or provoke Servos a second time."
He let's the words dangle with his smooth cool calm voice.
"And I will not restrain him again. Come back Servos."
The guard moves back into place, a motionless statue by his master once more. Putting a little more force into his voice so that it carries to the others as well, he continues.
"I assume we have all been gathered here by someone. I will not be foolish enough to insult our host. Unless forced to that is. Clearly only a heavy price will come of it."
He did not know if the others knew where they were or those that had done the summoning but he had no illusions as to his position. A very low one with very real monsters above.
Steth grits his teeth as some unknown source causes weakness to flood through him; the feeling passes quickly, however, and he brings his palms up in a shrug.
"Who is to say the purpose of our supper? None gathered possess the power to bring us here, and yet we are here all the same. You are correct; none would be wise to bring insult. That is all, however, I can say for you."
Pacing along his side of the table, Steth gestures to the others present, "These people do not flinch at poor manners, nor are they afraid to sully themselves with eating. I can see their worth in the eyes of our betters. But one such as you? One 'threatened' by a roasted bird? Of what quality you possess that is desirable is beyond my comprehension."
Steth sits, moving what remained in his food trough aside, and claps at the servant-creature floating around, "Smoky, dear fellow, fetch the gentlemen yonder some flayleaf, if you please? It would seem they need to relax."
Ialo does not react to the provocation. If this man or the others were unaware, he would not be the one to expose what may be intended to remain hidden. The whispering way were shifting allies and he cultivated his relationship with them in care. Yet he gives a reply none the less.
"It is not my concern what you consider of value."
He leaves it at that and raises a ivory hand to forestall the apparition's approach should it make the attempt.
A dark figure in blackened armor and tattered cloak strides into the inn. Dragos is an imposing man. He stands nearly six feet tall and walks with the sure grace and measured steps of a seasoned warrior. He has broad shoulders and thick arms, and he gazes intensely from beneath a dark helm. His armor is covered in cruel spines and razors. The plates and bars of his scale mail mold perfectly to the contours of his body and bend perfectly with his every movement like a second skin. Two celices are wrapped around each bicep, which are bereft of armor. Every movement reveals small pinpricks of blood. A spiked shield is strapped to his back and a long sword hangs from his belt.
Without speaking, he pulls his helm off and hooks it to his belt, revealing pale skin and piercing hazel eyes. His hair is a dark black gelled into severe spikes on the top of his head. The sides of his head have been shaved down to the skin, and the top of his hair grows down to a mane at his shoulders. He walks about the room and examines the silken banners about the walls.
Fascinating. The skulls are quite intricate. His voice is deep and commanding, but quiet. It’s the kind of voice that carries across a room without needing to be raised. It is the voice of a man who is confident and sure in himself. He is someone who can do great violence, or prevent it. Dragos’ eyes never soften as he surveys the artwork, despite his approval. Once he has has examined the work to his satisfaction, he turns on his heel and gives a respectful nod to the others in the room.
Greetings. I am Dragos Vaako. He seems unaffected by the tone of the room, although his hand never strays far from his sword. May you ever hear Joyous Noise. He nods his head again, it's not quite a bow, but not abrupt enough to be rude. He takes a seat at the table and motions to the ghostly servant to fill his plate.
Vladimir scrutinizes the turkey leg but as he opened his mouth to answer, Steth threw it. He chuckles and continues to pick at his food while keeping an eye on the situation around him, smiling widely and chuckling. Once things settle down the man in black armor arrived.
With a slight bow, "Greetings, Dragos. I'm Vladimir. We were all discussing why we're all here, well before our tightly-wound friend arrived that is."
Dragos returns the polite bow. I, too, am curious to learn why I was summoned. The message said that I was to free someone imprisoned in Gallowspire. Perhaps, the Whispering Tyrant brought us to him,that we might release him?
Vladimir's eyes go wide and his jaw almost hits the floor, but he does his best to keep his composure. "That would be a monumental feat! half to himself That would explain why this meeting was creating such a big wave with my contacts in the Whispering Way."
It would be an honor to bring about one who caused such wonderful mortifications to this world, yes. Dragos tightens the celise about his arm, a few fresh pinpricks of blood well up from where the device bites in to his skin. He shudders for a moment and then sighs. If it is true, I would be most pleased. Few in this world could be as worthy as he for my service. I will send many joyous noises to the Midnight Lord tonight to show him my gratitude.
He takes another sip of wine and finishes his plate of food. Once the cup of wine is finished, he switches to water.
What is the Whispering Way?
A pale, aged looking man in dark robes appears in the hall. He is hunched over, and moves slowly as if he were very weak or in pain. His face is thin and wrinkled, covered in a patchy growth of short white and grey facial hair. He takes in the chamber with a sneer. "What is this!? Can it be the Way has finally seen fit to count my majesty amongst their roster?"
The man hobbles into a chair. "I should certainly hope so. Anything less would be an unacceptable interruption to my studies."
Dragos nods politely to the aged man. Again, the Way is mentioned. I assume you speak of the Whispering Way?
"What other Way is there?" Aleksei responds.
The way of the Midnight Lord, good Sir. Dragos smiles drinks from his cup of water. What is the Whispering Way? I have never heard of it.
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From the non-space a woman enters. Her dress is of a good cut, but quite threadbare, possibly from too-long on the road, or even deliberate intent. Her steps are hesitant, as if forced to walk by a mind distracted by many things with little power left for locomotion.
She advances on the table and takes a seat, not really close to the others but neither deliberately far way--she simply doesn't weigh others in her choice of seat.
She takes a goblet and fills to the brim with wine, drinks it down in an uninterrupted gulp, fills it again, sets it down. She takes a pork chop hold it in her hands. She tears it apart. Then twists the sections. Then tears those into small pieces, then tears those pieces down. When there's nothing left but pig-mush she takes another one and repeats the process. At sometime in the middle she looks up, seeing the others for the first time.
Her expression doesn't change. "Are we supposed to kill each other now?" Her face brightens into an embarrassed smile. "No, wait, sorry. I think we help each other. Oops." The smile is full, embarrassed, playful. "I'm new to this."
The smile melts away. She returns to torturing the meat.
As you each take your seats and become acquainted, yet more "guests" make their way through the shimmering portal. This time, however, it is not quite what you expect. A retinue of skeletons clad in plate armor and carrying longswords and steel shields march into the extra-planar dining hall. Their bodies drip with gore and blood, leaving red-stained trails of grime in their wake. The move to encircle the entire table, turning to stand at attention upon reaching their destinations.
Then, a skeleton the size of a giant steps through the portal, crouching to fit. It is clad in armor as well, though its hands end in sharp claws that mark it as having belonged to something clearly other than a giant in life. Immediately behind it, strides a man clad in black full plate, the armor adorned with markings of silver filigree skulls with chains wrapped about them. His glowing red eyes survey the scene, before walking around the table, two more armored bloody skeletons flanking him, and taking a seat opposite most of those gathered. The skeletons that had accompanied him take up positions behind him.
Next to enter a moment later is a creature that is clearly a lich. It slowly walks around the table, never acknowledging anyone that is present. Its staff echoes throughout the chamber until it finally arrives at its own seat. With a wave of a skeletal hand, the chair slides out from the table, and the lich sits.
Strangely enough, the next pair of bodies to enter the chamber again to appear to be of the living. Two women enter, their clothes torn and in tattered rags, their arms clasped behind them in manacles. One is a raven haired human, the other a fair skinned elf girl, with hair the color of the sun. They gasp in unison at the sight of so many terrifying creatures arrayed about the room, as well as at the sight of some of the other gathered guests. Immediately after this oddity enters a pair of well dressed humanoids, laughing and talking among themselves. One is a well dressed man, a well crafted sword at his hip. The other is a beautiful woman with fiery red hair, also dressed in the finery of the noble-born. As their captives stand weeping before them, the male clicks his tongue at them. "Tsk tsk tsk. Now, now. Let us not keep the others waiting. Move along, my pets." His chiding remark elicits a chuckle from his companion, and they lead their slaves around the table and take a pair of seats opposite the armored knight, forcing their captives to their knees between them.
Lastly, a black robed man enters through the portal, his hood pulled low over his eyes, a snide smile painted across his face. Flanking him are a pair of ghouls, their jaws dripping with saliva as they take in the sight of so many living bodies gathered before them. One of them reflexively begins to lunge forward towards Steth, before taking a reprimanding whack in the back of the head from his master. "You know better than that!" he hisses in reprimand. The undead creature returns to his position beside and behind the necromancer, all the while maintaining a hungry gaze on his "prey."
The fire haired woman looks about the table, and says coyly, "It would appear two of our guests declined our invitation. How rude!"
The necromancer lets his eyes scan the table, before commenting, "Indeed. I suppose this rabble will have to suffice."
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Paynne speaks up, her hands encrusted with mush that once was flesh. "Suffice for what? With so impressive a host arrayed, what need would one have for 'rabble'? Indeed, to inhabit so sumptuous an abode but to resort to anything you would think so poorly of, indicates a weakness. Or even a desperation of sorts."
She smiles, her caked-over hands remaining motionless, her gaze returning the necromancers stare. Death held no fear for her. "Or perhaps you shouldn't insult before we've agreed to anything. Now, let us begin at the beginning. I am Paynne."
Whether she intends it simply as her name or not, it's pronounced as the phonetic clone of the word 'pain'. Or at least that's how it sounds.
As you each take your seats and become acquainted, yet more "guests" make their way through the shimmering portal. This time, however, it is not quite what you expect. A retinue of skeletons clad in plate armor and carrying longswords and steel shields march into the extra-planar dining hall. Their bodies drip with gore and blood, leaving red-stained trails of grime in their wake. The move to encircle the entire table, turning to stand at attention upon reaching their destinations.
Then, a skeleton the size of a giant steps through the portal, crouching to fit. It is clad in armor as well, though its hands end in sharp claws that mark it as having belonged to something clearly other than a giant in life. Immediately behind it, strides a man clad in black full plate, the armor adorned with markings of silver filigree skulls with chains wrapped about them. His glowing red eyes survey the scene, before walking around the table, two more armored bloody skeletons flanking him, and taking a seat opposite most of those gathered. The skeletons that had accompanied him take up positions behind him.
Next to enter a moment later is a creature that is clearly a lich. It slowly walks around the table, never acknowledging anyone that is present. Its staff echoes throughout the chamber until it finally arrives at its own seat. With a wave of a skeletal hand, the chair slides out from the table, and the lich sits.
Strangely enough, the next pair of bodies to enter the chamber again to appear to be of the living. Two women enter, their clothes torn and in tattered rags, their arms clasped behind them in manacles. One is a raven haired human,...
Dragos nods to the assemblage. He remains calm, although keenly interested in each of the newcomers, and clearly marks their entry and where each of the bleeding skeletons stand. When the armored knight enters, Dragos eyes follow his every movement, clearly impressed with the figure's apparent martial prowess. As the necromancer sits, Dragos stands and bows to all of them. May the Midnight Lord bless you this evening. I am Dragos Vaako, a humble servant of Our Lord in Chains.
Ialo says nothing and simply watches, the skeletons give him slightly more room then the others. It seemed the undead sensed his ability, not that he was powerful enough to be a threat to them. Nor would he be foolish enough to make the attempt, still they knew. He would not provoke them and see how things developed. Already the others were giving themselves away and luring these new arrivals to do the same. He would follow suit nether.
He studied everything and everyone of the arrivals carefully, searching them as he searched his mind. Getting a sense of things and what he knew to reveal connections and patterns to all this. Perhaps glean a sliver of truth.
"Indeed, Fostian, do be polite to our guests. After all, they were summoned here with naught but a hint of what is to come," the well dressed man says. The black robed mage across the table from him scowls back at him in response, but offers up no reply.
"Apologies for my uncouth comrade, he has not had the years of experience to properly learn the etiquette of such a gathering. Allow me to join you in the introductions. I am Lord Marcus, the Eternal, and this is my lovely bride Isabella," he gestures to the red haired woman at his side, who bows her head slightly, a smirk on her face as she glares at the mage across the table that had been so quickly reprimanded by her husband.
He then gestures to the mage across the table, "That would be Fostian, a necromancer hailing from Geb, and loyal subject of our shared master," he then gestures towards the lich, "And this would be..."
The lich shoots him a stern gaze and interrupts him, "I am capable of my own introductions, Marcus. Silence your prattling!" He turns his glowing eyes from the nobleman, who only shrugs and takes his seat with a chuckle, and looks from person to person intently before continuing, "I am called Zarkal."
The armored man stands from his own seat, leaning into his gauntlet clad fists that rest upon the table, "I am Krovax Draverian, Deathknight to the Dark Prince. There will be time for you each to become acquainted further in time. For now, it is more important that you come to terms with why you have been summoned for this mission."
He steps away from the table and walks about the room as he speaks, "The time has come to release the Whispering Tyrant from his prison. Some here have waited centuries for this moment, others, like myself, find themselves as new-found allies to the Whispering Way. For those of you unaware as to what that is, the Way is both a philosophy and an organization, one that promotes undeath and, in it's own part, serves the Tyrant still. You were each hand picked for this task for one reason, and one reason only: you are simultaneously a valuable asset, as well as expendable." His gaze settles on Paynne as if to make sure the last point strikes home. After but a moment's pause, he continues, "Do not take that as an insult. The fact of the matter is, the Shining Crusade is well aware of the bulk of the more powerful allies to Tar-Baphon, even if they do not have the resources to act against us directly. However, each of you, are as of yet unknowns to them, and as such, that gives you a unique advantage to exploit."
The elven captive, thus far silent aside from some sniffling, speaks up, "You cannot be serious! The innocent lives that would be lost! The world will not stand for this!"
Marcus lowers a hand to the elf-maiden's chin, lifting it up and causing her to immediately fall silent, as if she were frightened of what was to follow. "Do not worry, my pet. This is going to happen. Whether or not you are alive to witness it, however, remains to be seen."
Fostian adds, "Before we can continue, however, there is something that must be addressed, and that is each of your loyalty to this cause. For obvious reasons, this is not a task that we can let the plans of which escape the most trusted of circles, so we will need to make certain that each of you will in fact remain loyal to the cause, even under the most unpleasant means of duress..."
The Dark Prince teaches us to endure mortification of the flesh, that we may be corrected and better appreciate our own strength and talents. Dragos sets his cup to the side. If you wish us to prove our worth, so bet it.
For the first time sense the new arrivals came Ialo speaks.
"I have worked with the way for thirty years. My loyalty is not is not in question. That said I am well aware of what the way can do, I doubt any of it's enemies can match their capability."
He would suffer no enchantments or magical binding, why should he. A cunning enemy would find ways around that and it would only serve to alert said enemies. The way has always prized secrecy and information control in it's dealings. That they wanted to free the tyrant was no new goal. If they were mistrusted then they need not know the meaning behind their assigned task, a simple and effective solution. If they were captured before their task was done then they had already failed. He had no reason to trust the necromancer much less allow him to bind him in any fashion, he had ghouls for that.
Isabella laughs at Ialo's statement.
"Then your overconfidence will be your undoing," Zarkal says flatly. "The Shining Crusade manage to bind Tar-Baphon centuries ago, and have ably managed to maintain their ward ever since. If they were so easily thwarted, do you not think we'd have done it by now?"
Recoiling with a small 'yip' at the near-assault by the ghoul, Steth rises harshly, hand instinctively reaching for his mace as the necromancer calms his minion and moves on. Steth relaxes his posture as the newest arrivals take their places, watching with a smirk as even their powerful hosts bicker among themselves.
Moving to the entrance, Steth waves aside the line of skeletons to retrieve his pole. He holds it awkwardly, like a green guardsman might hold a pike for the first time, before shrugging and gripping it with one hand.
Using the ten-foot length of wood as an over-sized pointer, he gestures at those arrivals who, like himself, came apparently summoned by the new party; in faux-subtlety, he tips a plate nearest Ialo towards the man, hoping to soil his garments with whatever it contains.
"Each of us has been called to this gathering for some reason or another. We, like this pole, are tools, and as my new friend Krovax so eloquently stated, we are both valuable assets and completely expendable." Moving the pole wildly to point at the Deathknight, Steth prods gently at the man's armor three times in succession. "I know, now, that you are an object, ten feet away from me. Your armor provides resistance on the other end, telling me this object is solid." He drops an end to the floor, holding the limb as upright as possible, and taps three times against the surface below. "You do not feel like the floor, and thus are made of something else."
"Each tool has its use, and its value is determined as such. You, as our hosts, have seen in us, your guests, some manner of value, some use as a tool. Elsewise, we would not have found ourselves here on this day. Some of you would declare us as rabble-" Shooting a glance at the necromancer, Steth switches his dialect.
Steth clears his throat, and moves his focus to the noble couple and their slaves. "Lord Marcus, Lady Isabella; it is a pleasure to dine with you this day. Clearly your colleague need learn better manners, and to teach them to his...companions...as you have." Paying no heed to the slave women, he returns his focus to the Deathknight, "One who often makes use of tools can gain an understanding of their strength and value before even picking them for the task. I knew that this pole would serve its purpose before taking it from the tree." Steth angles his pole, placing it securely against a foot as the other steps upon the middle; the pole bends, but does not break. "And my understanding was correct."
Taking the pole to his side, Steth mutters to the skeletons to take hold, and drops it, inconsiderate of any grasping hands. He turns to face the lich, meeting his gaze.
Steth sits, his abrupt poem finished, and finds the nearest piece of fruit, biting into it casually as he continues to gaze at Zarkon.
I am a weapon. An instrument to bring mortification to the world. I only seek a hand strong enough to wield me. I care little for philosophy pointless speeches. Dragos keeps his seat curious to see what his summoners will do. Perhaps one will prove strong enough to hold his leash, if Tar-Baphon cannot from his prison.
Ialo's eyes drift over to the lich.
"With respect I do not possess your condition. Holy water and sacred words do nothing but soak and annoy me, equally worthless are most tools of the so called righteous. Perhaps that is part of my value. Diversity in all things is advantageous, that said. You misunderstood my earlier meaning."
He let his last words hang a moment, more to prove a point then to insult.
"The whispering way is capable of far more unpleasantness then any of their enemies can even dream of. My doubt lies in their ability to rival that expertise."
The whispering way could silence even the dead. They meddled in souls and courted forces of destruction. What could the crusaders do, kill him, imprison him, or force him into insanity with their endless talk of the holy light. Even torture seemed a lesser price to the tender mercies of half the creatures in this very room. Only a fool would think otherwise and the way had but one place for fools, as shuffling corpses whose strings they endlessly plucked.
The madman that had provoked Servos earlier tested his guard again with the gesture of foolishness. The plate clattered to the floor with it's contents, far from reaching him. For his part he had given his only warning, if Servos made to attack a second time he would not interfere. As the man speaks, switching languages, Ialo declines to listen. For he had tested his much more powerful and deadly host. That was where his attention was focused, words were often hollow but actions spoke of sterner stuff.
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Paynne openly scoffs, both at Lord Marcus' plans and at the Necromancer Fostian's desire for a show of loyalty. She first address the mage. "Ill manners is an ill guest, necromancer hailing from Geb. An' you had intent to prove, the wise man would choose the guest before inviting him to table. I think you have already made your mind up, and now seek to humiliate us further. But so be it! If you must needs play Lord Marucs' tune, I'll dance to it, without mind for song or step. The Tyrant has my service to cast away as he wills it for services rendered. It matters not that you play the merchant to draw upon the bill."
She turns her gaze to Lord Marucs. "And what backing have you to prove that such a titan task can even be done? Have you gathered all 12 pieces of the shield to your bosom? Or do you claim powers enough to rend the Great Seal inert? I should think that a show of good faith on both sides is in order afore I pledge the last drop of heart's blood to some flight of fancy."
"What sort of test did you have in mind?" Aleksei asks Fostian. This is exactly the chance I have been waiting for. Maybe I will finally get what I deserve.
The lich looks Steth directly in the eyes, an unsettling sensation to the young man to say the least, then speaks in the tongue of the dead:
"True enough, Master Darkfang, we are willing to go to depths our foes are not, but we are severely limited in regards to numbers and resources, and they have strong allies, as well as are quite powerful themselves. As I have said, do not underestimate our foes. This mission will require some tact, as well as raw power," Krovax says.
Marcus smirks at Paynne, "Do you think we'd go to all the trouble to assemble this little gathering if we didn't have a plan?"
Fostian looks to Aleksei to answer his question. "More a show of faith than anything. My family and I have been entrusted to protect these vials for ages for the right time, and my allies and I believe that time to be now." He removes five vials of black, inky liquid from a pocket within his robes, and sets them one by one in front of him.
"These, are but a few of the remaining vials of a special substance the Whispering Tyrant prepared in his time of power. They have the capability of ensuring one's loyalty to him. However, should you be willing to imbibe the contents, you will also be granted incredible power as a show of good faith. But be warned, any deviation from your loyalty to the Master will result in your body, mind, and soul to begin to wane until you come to your senses..."
The lich stands and adds, "Before you each assume this to be a quick path to power and privilege, know this: there is no coming back from this choice. If you agree to join us and our endeavor, there is no changing your mind later, the elixir will see to that. If you try to escape your duties, you WILL die. There is no means of dispelling this effect. However, as Fostian has said, you will be rewarded as well."
"Will it keep me alive?" Aleksei asks, hope gleaming in his eyes for the first time.
"That would remain to be seen," Fostian says with a smirk.
It would be a great mortification to suffer the effects of this vial. But, should I obey, I will have the chance to remove even greater weaknesses from this world.. Dragos ponders the vials before him and then nods. Aye, I accept. I will drink your vial.
"I have been seeking the attention of the way for years now. If this is what is desired for acceptance, then I took will imbibe."