As the knives score his body, a noise somewhere between laugh and roar tears out of his body. "Finally found your spines, did you? I'm sure those spines will make a lovely decoration on my wall." He grins as his blade swings toward the foe to his right, a shimmer of power glowing through his blade. . He adjusts his stance on his second attack, stepping back with his customary bloody smile.
Ezkal, seeing the odd floating creatures flank his brother, roared and moved into battle. Positioning himself to flank the closest creature, he swung while condemning the creature.
Something mild? Thaegrin recalls the scrolls on his person, and the simpler incantations studied that morning. His vanishing spell was weak enough already; if he were to attempt any harm on the Halfblood, light that folds around his hidden form would unravel immediately. In plain view of this assassin. That will not do. I hope that lying half-kinsman has a flair for theatrics...
With a muttered magic word, four lights appear circling around the sparkling assassin, as though summoned by the intruder. They glow orange, each resembling a burning torch head. After a single orbit, they speed toward the spymaster, one trailing after another. The floating, blazing orbs fly through the Halfblood's chest, before circling around for another pass through his body.
The scholar silently moves again, this time stopping five feet away from the glittering informant.
With a surprised look, Facion attempts to bat away the magical lights with his sword. But the attempt is fruitless as the illumination flows through him, writhing with apparent pain he is quick to adopt a defensive stance towards the confused assassin cum hedge-wizard. He puts up a brave face and coughs a little through the "pain" before addressing "Master Variel."
"Heh, there you are, I knew you still had your magic somewhere in your addled mind." A slightly curious look starts to form on Anga's brow. "Though you really seem to believe in your farce. I wonder if your years of magical nonsense and cryptic musings have finally broken the wall between fantasy and reality? Tell me, Variel, who do you think you are? What purpose do you pretend to achieve here tonight?"
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Four lights appear around the assassin and crash into Facion. He steps back in confusion."But I...How? I can't." He seems to think hard after Anga's words. "I am Devin Karthus. I am here to kill Thaegrin Variel on behalf of the Master of Revels."
Suddenly he looks very angry and shakes his head. "But that information is not for you!" He attacks!
Anga parries the strike.
Tholan's blade swings quickly, his eyes darkening as War Dancer spins in arcs around his body, cutting out at the foe who had injured him.
Ezkal, seeing a creature stabbing at his brother, flew into a battle rage.
Seeing the brief hesitation in their actions, Tholan steps back and roars, "Burn with me, little ones! Burn in Gorum's glory!"
The Master of Revels? Thaegrin knows nothing of this title, or the person behind it. Again, he whispers into the confused assassin's ear from a distance. "You were so close, Thaegrin. To impersonate my trusted assassin, sneak into my very chamber... But the Master of Revels is not so easily dispatched. Karthus is here to put an end to your meddling, once and for all, wizard..."
As he says this, he quietly pulls a scroll from a case and side steps to a new position.
Easily turning aside the blade again, Anga shoots back at the would-be assassin. "YOU are Thaegrin Variel. A half-wit wizard, of little consequence, apparently. He looks down his own swords blade at the man before him. "Still, it's puzzling how you learned of the Master." Facions gray eyes turn deadly as his words lash forth, cutting far sharper than any knife. "HOW DID YOU LEARN OF THE MASTER OF REVELS?!"
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The man drops his sword and cringes down to his knees, sobbing. "I'm not the wizard...am I? No. Master of Revels came to me. I am Devin Karthus, I think. Yes. No! Aaaggh!"
Suddenly, the would-be assassin's shirt explodes open revealing a deep, palm shaped depression on the man's sternum. A small trickle of blood issues from his nose, Then he lies dead.
Anga's eyes quickly scan the room, his false posture of defense now all too real as he tries to ascertain whether the unseen danger was still present.
Such unrelenting death... He quietly passes through the woods. On the one hand, if the hand of death was Trenton's enemy, we could utilize that force against a shared foe... The familiar smells of civilization cause Iskandarr to slow his place. Hands and clothes replace paws and fur, a frown replaces folded ears. I fear, however, that this was more punishment for failure, an example for others to inspire fear to achieve results. If that is the case, the question then becomes what is the extent of the capabilities of our foe? his feet go on their own as his mind continues to speculate. No wise leader exhausts themselves to make a spectacle of internal failure...Continuing to Thaegrin's study, he knocks on the wizard's door, too preoccupied with his thoughts to hear the quiet that comes with death.
Breathing slowly through his nose, Tholan closes his eyes, the flames flickering and dying, his blade glimmering and glinting with reflected flames as it's spin slows. As the last of the flames gutters and dies, his blade spins one more slow, lazy turn before it slips into its normal home across his back.
"Pathetic wretches. Hardly worth the time it would have taken to cut them down." He sighs heavily, then his brow furrows. "We should check on the old man. He finds far less joy in battle, and he may not have had quite the enjoyable experience we have." Grabbing his half-full tankard of ale, he downs it in a big gulp as he moves toward the door, setting it down on a table as he passes. His fingers drum on his chest, a quiet prayer of thanks to Gorum on his lips as a light tinted pink instead of it's normal while emanates from his hand. "Are you injured, brother? Finish your tankard, I don't know what we'll find when we visit the old man, but there's no sense in wasting good drink," Tholan chuckles as he stands in the doorway, waiting for his brother.
Slowly the man of shadows eases his stance and returns his weapons to their place. Speaking to the room he says, "I assume you saw that?"
"Hmph," Ezkal grunted, clearly disgruntled that he did not have a chance to slay more creatures. "That was well done, I must admit. Perhaps next time I might do more. Until then, down the gullet!" Ezkal poked around the dead bodies, looking for anything of worth. After he was doing searching, Ezkal snatched his tankard off the counter and drained it then followed his brother out of the door.
"Ah HA! Brother! One for you and one for me!" Ezkal hooted as he tossed a cloak to Tholan as they headed to the door. Ezkal draped it over his shoulder and struck a pose on a keg.
Thaegrin reappears a few moments after the Halfblood's question, standing not far from the fallen foe. He holds one hand out, bony fingers apart, palm towards the assassin's corpse. He does not answer the spymaster.
The door knocks, and the old Feraweni stiffens. After gleaning all the information he can from the body, he turns his open palm to the door, sensing for any magical auras beyond it. In a few moments, the various origins of magic clarify.
The signatures match those of the Man-Beast, but such markers can be replicated... In light of tonight's visitor, Thaegrin is not interested in taking chances.
He turns to the Halfblood. "Could you see who that is? It may be the Tiger Lord, or an imposter of him."
At the possibility of facing another foe, and this time without the guise of invisibility, Thaegrin's mind recalls the beginning incantations that would blast a beam of light from his outstretched hand.
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Thaegrin notes the outline of palm print on the man's sternum and recalls there are those in Isteroth that study an ancient martial path wherein a master might strike a body a killing blow without that body dying until the master so chooses.
Anga opens the door to see Iskandarr standing in the hall.
Iskandarr cocks his head when he sees Anga open the door "I'm here to see Thaegrin, is he available?"
"No," he answers the Beast-Man tersely. Thaegrin's eyes returning to the body on the floor. He bristles when his pointed, enchanted hat alerts him to a scryer. "This is a development I did not expect," he sighs heavily, gesturing at the corpse. Kneeling down, his ink-stained index finger traces the imprint of a hand on the dead man's chest.
"I'm afraid you've given yourself away..." he says to no one in particular. With a casual weaving of Feraweni and an arcane utterance, the wizard calls forth a spell that flickers silver over the late Karthus.
"Now," he rises, seemingly more at ease, "if you would fetch the Ordo Hereticus, I have need of his talents."
Iskandarr nods and leaves without a word. Upon finding the Thelkonlanders, he looks to Ezkal and explains what he saw and that Thaegrin needs him.
"You summoned us wizard?" Ezkal grunts as he eyes the dead body
“Yes, Ezkal.” Thaegrin answers. He could smell the ale on their breath from here, but says nothing of it. “As you can see, I had the privilege of an unwelcome guest. Unfortunately, his soul absconded before our discussion was finished. And that,” he wags a scolding finger at the corpse, “is just rude.”
He looks up again at the Inquisitor. “I remember that you managed to coax a few answers from Lady Tearlag before she fully joined the choir invisible, and I hoped that you might oblige me again. This lad, Devin Karthus, owes us an explanation. Namely, his methods of contacting the Master of Revels. And, who this ‘Master of Revels’ might be. His answers might give rise to new questions, so I will supervise as you attend to your arts...”
The wizard steps back, to allow the Ordo Hereticus the room he needs to speak with the dead.
Ezkal nods and kneels down and begins his ritual of eating the sins of the dead. He kneels and gently places a hand near the heart of the deceased. He whispers words and then brings his hand to his mouth, like a man eating a piece of bread.
"Devin Karthus, come, speak with me. What are your methods of contacting the Master of Revels? WHO is the Master or Revels?" he says in a booming voice.
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The dead man stirs, jerking in unnatural movements until he reaches a semi-sitting position. Lifeless eyes roll to stare passed the Ordo Hereticus.
"The Master of Revels does the contacting. I was but a performer on his stage. I know not who he is, but he told me to give you Jathus' best wishes if I got the chance."
Ezkal looks up to the wizard. "I have but two questions left."
Iskandarr looks to the wizard. "It could be good to know if he is aware of any other contacts the Master of Revels has in the area, but I will leave that to you if you have any other questions, especially since if he is not aware of anyone else, that could be a wasted question."
Anga, wearing the face of the deceased Karthus, looks to the groups newest arrival. "I doubt he'll know anything. This Master of Revels has shown himself to be careful in the past. If I were he, and I'm not," He casts a glance at Variel "I wouldn't allow any of my cells or operatives to know of any others in the organization." He indicates the body on the floor and Inquisitor standing near by. "For just such an occasion."
Stepping lightly through the room the man of secrets kneels down and begins to search the body, adopting a more mundane method of acquiring information.
Performer on his stage. So the R. R., this ‘Master of Revels’, is male…
“A performer on his stage? A little late for waxing poetic.” Thaegrin comments. He is quiet as he listens to the spymaster’s wisdom. Two questions left…
“You may recall that we are not the ones who ended your life. It seems your Master of Revels found your performance unacceptable. Exeunt Devin Karthis. Describe to us the man who employed the ancient Isterothi combat technique on you. The one who left the imprint,” he points at the palm-shaped depression in Devin’s chest, “and killed you.”
Bodily fluids. Thaegrin grimaces, displeased with the solution his puzzle-solving mind had turned. Significantly messier than locks of hair or nail trimmings. Secretions resonate a stronger sympathy with one's essence. If their pairing was recent, and a proper amount of his humours extracted, a scrying spell might be difficult for her to resist... The work involved with fluid extraction reminded him of his master, Cervantes, and the grotesque progress he made in the field of Necromancy. All it served to do for the young pupil Thaegrin, over a century ago, was push him further from that school of magic. The old wizard suppresses a shudder.
"How touching," Variel says dryly.
"What is her name?"