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The night is coming, and with it the curse that defines the lives of the Wiscrani who suffer under it. Busy citizens rush to finish their work as the sun inches downwards towards the horizon. Shadows across the city, indoor and out, can be seen visibly darkening and lengthening as the curse begins to take its daily hold.
The Dottari and their assistants go through the hurried ritual of lighting the many lanterns and torches along the main avenues that act as a deterrent to the creatures of darkness that stalk the streets each night. Even so, everyone knows someone who has been lost to the darkness. It's an occurrence as frequent as it is numbing. Tavern owners call the last round, and offer to rent cots to those who won't make it home on time. On the foolish or the desperate try to make it home in the dark.
It had not quite been a crime to enter into the abandoned townhouse. Belinda had known that the Moncrue's had left Westcrown some five years ago. She had also known that the last Moncrue heir had died in the capital three months previous. Is it really theft to take from the dead?
The Moncrue library was covered in dust but it was a delight. There were so many old books! Unfortunately, Belinda had lost track of time while she catalogued the collection.
Even worse she had removed several books which she knew to be banned. So now she was avoiding not only whatever fell beasts that stalked the night but also the guards who should be protecting her.
She simply had to get back to her rooms. These books could not be lost!
Belinda makes her way out of the abandoned house, arms full of a few heavy books. She cuts down a side street, mentally calculating the quickest route back to her rooms in the Rego Pena before full dark. The shadows seem to loom out at her from the doorways and the hard edges of the stone buildings in the Parego Regicona. The first of the night's howls pierces the cold air as she rounds a corner to come face to face with a tall humanoid figure, heavily cloaked and swathed in black cloth. As she moves to react, it swings a heavy cudgel two-handed at the base of her neck.
Her vision bursts with black and white stars as pain flares at the base of her skull. Belinda is whipped around enough by the blow to see two more black-cloaked figures creeping up silently behind her. She barely manages to cling to both her books, and her consciousness.
"Fire! Fire! " Belinda wails as she tries to rush past the man in front of her.
The figure curses under its breath in a masculine voice, swinging its large club at Belinda again as she tries to pass him. "Sorry miss," is the last thing she hears before another burst of pain and stars gives way to darkness. She collapses onto the pavement, her unconscious hands releasing their grip on the books. The three figures quickly move to gather her and her belongings. A whistle from one of the men and a few seconds brings a carriage to the nearby corner with a larger avenue. The men stuff Belinda and her gear quickly, but gently, into the carriage and a few seconds later the driver has the horses trotting off into the night.
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His heart in his mouth, Geoffrey hurries back to his master's workshop after *yet another* late-evening delivery.
By all the Gods, I *wish* he would stop getting me to do this. It was bad enough before, but now...
Geoffrey shudders involuntarily, and picks up speed.
I just want to be home.
Turning a corner without appreciably slowing down, Geoffrey hurries down a street where the lamps have yet to be lit, trying to take the quickest route home.
As fate would have it Geoffrey's errand had him leaving the Parego Regicona as well. He rounds the corner and heads through an alley shortcut that he'd used dozens of times in the light of day. In the shadowy miasma of wiscrani dusk, the alley has taken on a sinister and alien mien. Geoffrey's boots splash in the waste water and kitchen leavings covering the uneven cobblestones. He hears the first of the night's howls in the distance. Geoffrey smiles seeing the opening to a larger, if not any better lit, street up ahead. At least the looming stone walls would be further back. Just as he's about to run out into the street a tall cloaked figure swathed in black cloth steps partially into the alley's entrance. The figure swings a large club as part of its movement. The length of wood whistles through the air straight towards Geoffrey's face.
The club impacts his nose, shattering it in a single blow. Geoffrey's vision explodes with stars as pain rushes through his face. He reels, barely hanging onto consciousness. Whirling, he sees two more similarly cloaked club wielding figures behind him.
Geoffrey, in a blind panic, (ultimately futilely) attempts to delay the inevitable by withdrawing away from his assailants, but passes out before taking a step.
Oktavia runs through the streets trying to get back to the abandoned warehouse she was staying in. It had been almost a week since she ran away from home. It wasn't the first time she had ran away, though it was the longest. She didn't want to face her father's anger at her actions. Instead she reflected upon earlier.
Her target this time wasn't so much a merchant as a dealer in properties. He had his eye on an orphanage that was behind on taxes, and he was working to pay them off to seize the property. She happened to overhear him talking to a government official nearby the property one day. His actions weren't malicious, purely professional, somehow making it worse to Oktavia.
She had been planning this one for almost a month. When he wasn't home, he had a servant that would care for the manor. Oktavia was going to give up hitting his house until she learned he was going to be out of town for a week. Tonight was the day after his leaving. Sneaking in was relatively easy, the servant wasn't the most astute, and Oktavia snuck the key out of her pocket when she left earlier in the day. Heading back in, she took her time searching for anything of value, anything he would be upset about missing. Finally, she found something.
In a locked drawer in his desk was a stack of papers, contracts, agreements, notes. This was it! She wasn't sure what to make of the documents, but she thought she might find someone who would. Stuffing them into a satchel, she thought about what to do next when she heard a door open downstairs.
A panicked thought crossed her mind, her eyes taking in the room. Running to the window, she attempted to open it quickly only to find it was sealed shut. Her panick rising, she heard footsteps coming up the stairs. She quickly darted under the desk as the door started opening. The heavy footfalls gave her the impression of a man, probably much larger than her in size. This was proven right as his legs came into view from her hiding spot.
He began to tap about the walls, objects shuffled. Another thief? The thought was unsuprising to her. Another voice called up the stairs. An accomplice of his? The two spent a great deal of time searching the house. Time that was running out for Oktavia. Not sure what the hour was, and the two seeming to plan sleeping here tonight, she began to sneak out from her spot. Creeping into the hallway and down the stairs, she quietly went down listening to them move about. Slowly, quietly, creeping one at a time until she's almost at the bottom. CREAAAAK! The betrayal of the bottom step alerted the two to her presence. Instincts taking control she darted for the front door. The two charged into the room, one tripping up as the other tried to grab at her as she ran outside. All he managed was to grab the satchel, tearing it from her as she darted into the street. He gave up pursuit, more interested in the contents of her stolen bag than chasing down a fellow thief.
A few blocks away she paused to get her bearings. Looking up at the sky, she quickly realized the trouble she was in. The hour was much later than she thought, and she still had a good ways to go back to the warehouse. Which brings her back to the now, running before night falls on the city and the shadowbeasts come out.
Old York made his way through the streets, pressing at a steady, but still somewhat elderly pace. His walking stick hit the flagstones regularly, adding an odd staccato to the sound of his steps. Shuffle, shuffle, click. Shuffle, shuffle, click. He looked up at the sky, noting the hour, and scowling silently to himself.
Damned cheapskate of a keep! I kept his custom calling for drinks through the entire evening, gulping their drinks instead of sipping them, and all the while calling for more while listening at the edge of their seats!
York had taken up a spot near the hearth in a one room, tiny excuse for a underground pub. He'd not been by this one in a few months, and though by the look of the trappings the place might have changed hands, the sign still bore the familiar name. The Rusted Hinge. He seemed to remember liking the place the last time he'd been there, the small space making for a captive audience while he told his tales and entertained. This time hadn't been much different; the crowd looked a little rougher, the place a bit dirtier than he remembered, but all in all, it was tolerable.
They had taken well to his tales, and he'd had as much as he could drink, and a warm meal besides, due to the graces of his patrons. The meal was bland, greasy, and more filler than meat, but it had been hot.
Based on his performance, and the way he'd kept the crowd drinking, he thought a room was in the offering for sure; a done deal - a sure thing. However, when the last call was rung, and the inebriated custom making their way out, the tender hadn't even looked at him to acknowledge or ignore his gap-toothed grin. When he noticed the old man still standing in the room, he'd told him to get out.
Ousted! Kicked out, when a fine room and a comfortable bed was the least he should have offered! York remembered reaching for his purse, begrudgingly, but no way he was going to risk the streets when he had coin in his pocket. But again the man had cut him off. He'd said something about beggars and their smell, and then ordered him out all the same. Not even a cot for good silver! Now, here he was, only god knows where, minutes before curfew, and no place to hide.
He moved along the increasingly deserted streets looking for a safe haven, anywhere to hide or camp out. A hovel, a squatter's nest, an abandoned building, hell, he'd even part with gold at this point to get a room. However, no such refuge was appearing. This part of town seemed all shut up; all pubs and stores, with nary an inn or house in sight. Damn it!
Geofrrey hits the pavement, only to be dragged away and stuffed into a carriage a moment later.
The merchant's house was on the edge of the Parego Regicona. Oktavia finds herself running towards a bridge that leads back over the Westrun to the less wealthy districts of the city. The dusk is quickly fleeting as the angry red orb of the sun sinks slowly below the horizon. The first of the night's howls cut through the evening minutes earlier, and now a spattering of more howls break out across the city.
Oktavia breaks onto a two lane street that leads to one of the smaller bridges over the Westrun. The last thing she needed was a discussion with the Dottari about why she was out past curfew, she'd have to avoid the lighted ways. She hears a muted thumping behind her, and glancing over her shoulder, sees a carriage with the horses' hooves and its wheels muffled. There is a dark cloaked figure standing in the driver's box drawing a bow. A moment later an arrow streaks through the night to hit Oktavia in the head. Instead of dying as she expects, it feels as if she got hit by an iron golem. The blunted shaft snaps her head to the side and she loses consciousness, tumbling to the street in mid-stride
A moment later the carriage comes to relatively quiet halt next to Oktavia. The bowman jumps down and picks her up, shoving her into the carriage as the door opens from within.
York is hobbling past a bridge that leads to the Parego Regicona when the sun goes down. He'd been wandering for far longer than he expected and now it was essentially full dark. He didn't have time to make it back to the lighted areas of the city, and that would just land him in jail for a curfew violation anyway. He can't remember the last time he was out on the street at this time. This is bound to end badly.
York is busy mentally berating himself for allowing things to get to this point when he hears a muffled thudding behind him. He turns to see an over sized, purposefully muted, yet well-lit carriage tearing down the street, past shuttered up windows and locked storefronts. The carriage slows as it approaches, seeing his hunched back form partially blocking the road. York begins to move aside, but isn't eager to forsake the bubble of relative safety provided by the carriage's lights.
Shockingly, the carriage stops next to the old man. "You shouldn't be out here old man," says one of the heavily cloaked and hooded figures in the driver's box. "Our boss wants to talk to you, get in." The men draw large cudgels, implying a threat. The sudden explosion of a terrifying howl a block or two away seems to be a much more present danger. The carriage door opens, its dark interior beckoning to York. "This ends with you in the carriage one way or another, York," the man continues. He is seemingly unfazed by the howl. The horses however whinny and nicker nervously, stamping in place.
York looks the carriage over, from the horses in front to the back stoop. Without eyeing the goons, he raps the bottom of the carriage a time or two with a few hits with his stick, as if checking to make sure the thing is sturdy.
"Hmmm. Your boss wants a word with ol' York, hey?" Eyeing the carriage again he responds with deliberate casualness, "Well, your boss would seem to have means, so I suppose I can do him the honour of seeing want he wants from me."
Making his way aboard, he makes his way to the most comfortable seat he can spy out, keeping his face a calm blank. Once seated, he wraps the wall of the carriage with his stick, and shouts out, "Driver? You may go now."
As York steps to the carriage a third cloaked figure offers him a hand up from inside. As he steps awkwardly up into the vehicle with the figure's assistance, he is greeted with the sight of three bodies sprawled out on the far side bench and floor. Two young women and a man.
The figure brings around his other hand to jam a syringe into York's shoulder. "Just relax," it says.
As whatever is in the needle courses through his veins, York slides peacefully into unconsciousness.
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Belinda, Geoffrey, Oktavia and York wake with a sudden spasm. Sensations come flooding in. Restriction; they can't move their heads, limbs or hands. They are bound tight against a hard flat surface, at a seventy five degree angle to where gravity tells them the floor is. Discomfort; there are tubes shoved deep into their mouths, strapped in tight with leather bindings. Those who were injured feel their wounds knitting shut under the effects of magical healing. York feels the last dregs of whatever he was drugged with fading. Disorientation; the space they are in is dark.
Only Geoffrey can see anything. His black and white darkvision illuminates the inside of some kind of ruined temple. From where he's strapped in all he can see is a cracked stone wall dominated by a stained glass window. The window depicts twelve small human figures, with a much larger man standing over them, his arms upraised around a winged eye --Aroden. Across from him Belinda is strapped in. To his left is York, and Oktavia is to his right. He can see that they are all strapped into the same strange device. It has four iron arms, each supporting one of the wooden tables they are strapped to. The arms run down between the captives' legs to come together in the center to support an iron maiden-like, man-shaped chamber elevated above their heads. The chamber is divided in half, hinged at the right fingertips and right toes. It currently hangs open and empty. To get inside someone would have to climb up the pegs where the arms come together, then step in backwards with their legs shoulder width apart and extend their arms up to make an X with their body. Once shut, they would be pierced through by hundreds of wickedly sharp metal spikes. The tubes that are jammed nearly down their throats lead up to connect to the back of the apparent torture device.
The chamber is relatively quiet, there are no obvious noises other than the shuffling of the others against their bonds, and their panting breaths through their nostrils. After a moment a man's voice, rich and sonorous comes from behind Geoffrey, out of the darkness. "We're all awake now, yes? We must be curious, yes? Who, what, when, where, why, hoo-hoo!" The question is followed by an explosion of light, as four flame colored luminescent orbs appear in the air above the device, shedding light across the room.
Belinda can now see the other side of the chapel. It's a small sanctuary, filled with a half dozen rows of wooden pews. Most of them are knocked over and broken. The arched ceiling rises about twenty feet overhead. Much of the ceiling is peeling and flaking from water damage. Debris from it and broken side windows and decaying walls litter the whole room. There is a set of stairs leading upward set in a recess in the far wall (opposite the stained glass window). The entire chamber is no longer than 40 feet, maybe half that in width.
Standing hunched over in the aisle, partway up the steps that lead to the stage where the device is set up stands an old man. He's dressed in rags and is completely filthy. His thigh length white hair and beard are tangled and matted together. His pale face is so craggy and wrinkled that he could pass for York's father. He has two features that distinguish him from any other extremely old beggar. He's got a purplish tattoo? birthmark? of a winged eye splashed across his forehead. The second feature is his eyes. They seem to almost glow with their own light, and are the most curious shade. Pure, perfectly smooth, yellow gold folded together a million times in an intricate pattern with slivers of yellow diamond surrounding pupils of pure, snowy white.
Oktavia suddenly awakens to a darkened room. Her first thought was that she had been caught by the Dottari, then realizing her bonds possibly a slaver. The tube going down her throat makes her even question that response. She attempts to stay quiet in the darkness, hoping to maybe gain some advantage, until lights shine causing her to try to look away so they can adjust, but to little effect with the straps.
She looks around the room now, taking in the surroundings as best able. A new fear grips her. What was going on, some kind of experiment? What was being done to her? A magic ritual of some form? She visibly tries to escape out of the bonds at this point, her small form not quiet nimble enough to escape.
Unable to escape she instead settles on staring at the man, their apparent captor. Her red hair comes down around her head, shoulder length and in need of a wash. Green eyes stare ahead, set in a face that could be described as lovely if not caked with dirt. A mask sits around her neck and a hide shirt can be seen underneath her simple shirt. Pants and soft shoes complete her outfit.
After a moment, she attempts to speak around the tubing, "Mgmd dgsd dsgji sigid dfisog?*"
Completely unsuited to fieldwork. The thought flashed through Belinda's addled mind.
This is insult piled unto indignity.
Belinda's pale hair has escaped its bun. Wisps of it float around her head as she thrashes. There might be more clothe than woman entrapped by this device as Belinda is hampered by both petticoat and restraints. Her slippered feet kick feebly.
She stills.
My gifts have never been physical. My mind is my greatest weapon. What is there to learn here?
Geoffrey's groans as he swims back to consciousness are muffled by the tube in his throat. He immediately begins to gag, and try to spit it out, with no effect, and struggles violently (but futilely) against his bonds.
Right. I am alive. Which is *good*. Whoever brought me here wants me alive - but I doubt I am going to enjoy this...
As his eyes adjust, and he sees his surroundings, he does a double-take.
Oktavia? What in the Nine Hells?
"Asffewe! Dt'v jg! Vu hgk chtu sdgi't cpfny du?"
When he sees the man, Geoffrey shivers.
"Dfo, vu, *zxud* bui boi?"
The old man on the table lifts his head, smacking his gummy lips as though tasting something foul, or perhaps suffering a particularly dry mouth. He looks old, really old, and well weathered. He's dressed in a robe of modest homespun brown; well worn, and patched here and there, but still presentable, except perhaps the tattered fringe along the bottom. His hair, or what he has left of his hair, forms a stark whit fringe around his bald pate, the skin coloured here and there with liver spots. A rough beard covers his chin, and while his mouth still sports a few teeth, more are probably missing than present.
He looks around the room, blinking at the harsh intrusion of light, after the prolonged darkness. He takes a long gander at the bonds holding him, and then inexplicably, starts straining against the bonds, as though he thinks he might be able to break them, despite his rail thin frame.
Giving up for the moment he relaxes a bit, mumbling something at the seated man.
"Mmph fruferm hrsh gablit ramph."
When he hears others talking, he does what he can to try and understand them.
Turning to focus on the others imprisoned with her, her eyes widen hearing her muffled name. "Wait, is that...?" She mumbles around the tube again. "Sgduvjrid? Dpsk ckb do spod."
”Mmmfph gug burgle? Whmm rr mmn?” the old man mocks, dancing about, before cackling madly. ”Don’t understand! Sorry for the inconvenience.” He hops up the steps to the chapel’s stage like a bird, moving into the center of the apparatus. He perches on one of the iron arms so all four prisoners can see him clearly. ”I am a son of the last Azlanti. I am the last Azlanti? You are the ones.” He seems to lose focus for a moment, staring off into nothingness. Then he snaps back to reality. ”Long, looooong my vision has been clouded. Four times I’ve watched babies grow old and die. A hundred and more years since the truth died. Lost, lost in the paths. So many paths, too many choices. But only one. Watched, watched I have as my city has crumbled. Madness, then war, then devils. Now, a shadow that grows ever darker. But I know! Yes, yes I know!” He twists his head sideways until his neck cracks and his ear is nearly touching his shoulder, grinning maniacally. ”Only one choice. Only four faces.”
The old man swings around, clattering around the central pole of the device like a monkey. He stops to peer into each of the four captive’s faces, from an inch or two away. He looks them over keenly, muttering to himself in an incomprehensible mixture of tongues. After he finishes examining them all he returns to his central perch and begins speaking again, ”Four faces, four threads, woven together to form the wick. The glimmer. Loom, loom, I am the spinner. Four little gems caught in my web, a necessary distaste. Destiny calls, and I am tired.” He begins to climb up towards the iron-maiden chamber. ”The beginning of you is the ending of me. You will see. This I See.”
The man completes his climb quickly. He clambers into the device, and stretches up to his full height to fill it. He’s surprisingly tall when he wrenches himself upward. He takes in a long, deep, breath and closes his eyes. He slips out of his robe, letting it fall to the floor below. He stretches his arms upwards, to fit the arms of the X shaped device. He hesitates, still and silent for a painfully long moment. Then he speaks in a loud clear voice, ” Από μένα σε αυτά, έχω περάσει στο αίμα. Είμαι η σπίθα που ανάβει τη λάμπα, η οποία θα είναι το φως προς το σκοτάδι.”
As the echoes of his words die, he steps back onto the spikes. They pierce his flesh, and the front half of the chamber swings shut with a loud CLANG undoubtedly impaling the man within. With the chamber shut, a relief on its surface becomes clearly evident. A stylized winged eye of Aroden is raised up from the surface, over where the man’s heart would be. The eye begins to glow. First it takes on a soft yellow hue, which heats up to cherry red, then to white hot. The four captive witnesses to this madness can feel stale air being expelled from the tubes into their mouths. This is followed a moment later by all four tubes being rapidly filled from the device downward with a dark crimson liquid, blood. Struggle as they might, they are held in place as the blood quickly reaches their mouths. As the flow simultaneously reaches all four of them, the blood now flowing into their throats begins to glow. Like a pieces of iron in the forge, it first takes on a cherry hue which rapidly heats to a dull red glow, then a yellowish orange blaze and finally blindingly bright white light. It feels as if molten lava is pouring down their throats and into their lungs. It blazes through their lungs and into their bloodstreams, pumped by their rapidly beating, panicked hearts into every extremity of their restrained bodies. As they thrash and twist the can feel new pathways being forged in their brains, they can feel themselves changing….
Oktavia struggles as best she's able against the bonds of the machine, watching as the glowing blood flows into her. She tries to scream around the tubing, but gags as the pain takes her. Suddenly, the room begins to come into contrast. No, not the room, but the shadows within the room! Every corner, every nook and cranny seems to come into focus to her. They call, the places that the light refuses to touch. She goes to them, to each corner of the room, to every spot of darkness within, a comfort from the pain as she feels herself begin to slip away...
No
"What's happening?!" She thinks to herself. She looks down at her hands, her body, her legs. "My body! I can't find it? Where is it!?" Panic beginning to take her she looks, and from the shadows she sees the machine. The other three are there too, experiencing their own changes.
But she can't see where she is, the back to her. She tries to go where she lays, focusing her mind. She imagines her body on the wooden slab, hands and feet bound, tube in her throat. She doesn't move but her perception does. She sees where she should lay, but a shadow hangs over it, lacking form, tendrils of shadow seeping away.
I won't die, not like this
Oktavia looks into the shadow, the shapeless form where her body once was bound. A silver mark, almost like two eyes, burns from the top of it glowing. She focuses on that mark, the eyes of the image. From there she gives it form, a head, a neck, a body, two arms coming to the sides and two legs down below. She uses the rack not as a means of keeping her imprisoned but a template for her own form. And then she moves her mind back into it.
The restraints
As Oktavia desperately struggles to keep her body together, she looks to where her left arm is bound. She slips the shadowy limb out from the binding and brings it in front of her. She can almost see an arm within the mass. But the fingers, no claws. She makes short work of the binding on her right arm then her feet. As she falls to the floor, she feels the tube slip out, a welcome relief.
The impact she makes as she comes to rest on the ground tells her she's still there, still alive, something more yet something less at the same time. Her shape still writhes at the edges, but now she at least seems to be human in shape. Coughing up some of the remnants in her system, she looks to the others, "What's happened to us?"
Wait, that voice was not her own. It seemed to carry differently, as though a whispered sound yet loud enough to be heard. She takes a moment to concentrate, trying to figure out what she's become.
Link to Fused Character
To help me along, I made a separate alias for the fused form. I didn't post with it in case you'd rather I use the same alias regardless, I just thought this would help. Let me know!
Mechanically I went with Biped Eidolon. I chose Skilled (Stealth) and Shadow Blend as my evolutions for now. I plan to pick up Shadow From as soon as I can. As far as the spells, I tried to be thematic about it. I'm leery of taking Unseen Servant as a spontaneous caster, but the thought of an unseen servant where there is a shadow of it but nothing to be seen sounded awesome to me.
Far above Westcrown the stars wheeled in the heavens. Some say that the stars predict our future. Others say that the stars are inert to us -- that there is no such thing as destiny. Those voices have only grown louder since Aroden's demise.
Those voices are wrong.
The stars are neither uncaring nor are they benign. There are things within those stars -- or trapped in the spaces between them -- that watch and wait. They wait for an opportune time to re-enter this world.
Belinda is not thinking about alien presences beyond the stars. She is consumed by the hot gush that spills into her mouth. Her mind is expanding, unfolding somehow. The pain and confusion are intense. She seeks to escape them. Yet, her limbs are no stronger than they were before. She is trapped. She knows she is dying.
Bereft on surcease, her mind abandons the sensations wracking her body. Her mind reaches out beyond Westcrown. She seeks to ascend to celestial heights. She seeks to dance among the stars.
As she reaches up, something -- something alien -- senses an opportunity it reaches down to meet her. There is mingling. There is horror. Slowly a door in her mind opens and something slithers through the crack. It is met by the blood. The blood that is killing her is still with her in the celestial heights. It fights the slithering chaos, mingling with it, changing, but still shutting that crack. The being from the Dark Tapestry recoils, howling, the connection between earthly mind and celestial thoughts severs.
Belinda's mind retreats from its celestial ascension, retreating back to her pain wracked body. Yet, she is not alone. She brings back a trace of the Dark Tapestry. Her flesh ripples as white furs sprouts. Her body elongates, becoming a fur clad pillar of flesh. Her legs fuse together and then split into four trunk-like legs covered in tarred flesh. The same black flesh covers her arms as her hands twist into claws. Her beautiful lips twist into a shark-toothed maw.
The bindings that held her were not equipped to hold a Gnop-Keh. Those bindings burst. The eldritch abomination that was once Belinda Thuru, opens its maw and screams. The wheeling stars above quiver in echo.
The old man didn't know quite what to make of this madman's ramblings, or what he might possibly want with an old codger like himself. The other guests this old fool had brought in looked a lot more youthful and vital than he; why the disparity? Why would someone like him, all his best years long, long, behind him, be of any interest?
The longer the madman spoke, the more theories flying through the old storyteller's mind came in to being, only to be just as quickly dismissed. Ransom? Never. Torture? To what end? Experimentation? Subjects too varied. There was no sensical explanation for this. Things only became more unbelievable as their captor, the man himself, carried himself up to that evil looking contraption and got in on his own! Willingly!
This must be some kind of joke! Some kind of bluff! No man would ever willingly end himself in such a gru...
When the lid slammed shut with a clang, York's mind went blank from the shock. He didn't see the luminescent blood snaking its way down into their mouths until it was almost on him. The surprise brought on a gasp of breath; the most unpleasant thing he might possibly have done, just as his mouth was filling with the other man's blood. The thick liquid rushed into his lungs, burning, choking, consuming him. Pain...
The winds were soft and warm, blowing late summer scents and a few of the early fallen leaves across his path. The young man sat resting, leaning against a tree atop a green covered hill, looking at rolling hills all around, and majestic mountains in the distance. A girl stirred against his chest. Looking down, he saw her, the young woman cradled against the muscles of a bare chest, roped heavily with muscle, and dirty with soot and a few streaks of blood. A scent of smoke wafted his way with a slight change of the breeze, a hint of the fires that still burned just out of sight. The village, or dungeon, or keep that burned, he couldn't remember which; it was where he had rescued this girl. She had been so relieved to find help come when she had lost all hope of anyone doing so; so joyous that someone had come for her, and plucked her out of the jaws of hell when she had so completely given up hope. Her name was... was...
York's eye's bulged as the thick golden blood forced its was into him, and he gagged, coughed, and spasmed as the stuff filled his lungs, throat, stomach, and nose. A moment later they closed, as if the old man were steeling himself against the death he new must be mere moments away. With a shudder, his body went still.
Merely a moment after the stillness set in, the body began to distort, and to grow. The wrinkles on the old man's skin, wrinkles upon wrinkles, given the man's extreme age, smoothed out as the flesh expanded. As his dimensions grew, the straps holding him stretched and groaned until the strain was too great, and they snapped with a crack. The figure, still growing, slid to the flood below the platform, and on hands and knees finished the transformation.
Where before had lain an old man, nay, an ancient man, withered and tiny, wrinkled and wretched, now kneeled a shape akin to a god. Nearly seven feet tall, and covered in rippling muscles, this new figure bore the visage of a statue; a sculpture of human perfection. White wispy hair had been replaced with a main of thick black, and a gummy mouth of yellow and broken teeth was replaced by a strong face and perfect even teeth. The skin was the colour of bronze. Not the bronze of a man blessed by the sun, but of an almost metallic sheen; as though the wish for a statuesque physique was almost too literally granted, and a man cast of bronze stood before you.
Slowly, the man stood up, and gained his balance, as if unaccustomed to his own height. Confused, he looked about at the chamber, and the bizarre figures within it.
Geoffrey shrieks through the mouthpiece as blood pours down his throat, gradually heating-up to a white-hot intensity. The stench of seared flesh fills his nostrils, and he continues to shriek, the scream gradually digitizing as he feels the terrible heat spread out through his body, overwhelming conscious thought and sensation, and causing him to lose track of where the man ends, and the machine begins....
...Unconsciousness, when it comes, is a mercy, and he accepts the darkness without question.
-----
Gradually, Geoffrey becomes dimly aware of sounds - a constant, merciless ticking; the whirr of clockwork, and the sound of hydraulics. Slowly, too, he becomes aware of the acrid stench of acid, and the smell of charcoal. He opens his eyes, and realizes, to his surprise, that the world is... different somehow, in a way that he cannot quite express; details are sharper, colors brighter, sounds louder... but always, in the background, a soft, at-the-limit-of-perception, but mercilessly, implacably constant, ticking.
Raising a hand to his face, he realises with a start that he does not recognise it - a three-clawed ball of strange metal resides where his normal, five-fingered, flesh one belonged. In a panic, he suddenly sat up, and realised with a start that he was no longer bound; he was simply lying on a table, rather than bound to it.
Frantically, he began to inspect his body, discovering that soft flesh had been replaced with smooth sheets of metal, separated by tough bands of leather to allow for better flexibility. He was also taller than before, standing on powerful, hydraulic legs; the only thing he recognised were his eyes, moist orbs of the most brilliant purple, couched carefully in a strangely pliable, but still metallic, face.
Turning, he finally notices that he is surrounded by other monsters where once there were other humans, and sobs.
Am I mad, or has this truly happened? What did that man DO?
Turning to the creature where Oktavia once rested, he tentatively asks:
"Oktavia?"
As the foursome are coming to terms with what just happened to them, they hear a loud, wooden crash come from upstairs. Several booted feet can be heard thunking across floorboards, followed by shouts of "Dotarri! Put down your weapons! PUT DOWN YOUR WEAPONS!"
A moment later more feet clatter and there is a loud grunt followed by more garbled shouting. More crashes and heavy footfalls make it clear, there is some kind of battle going on the in the chamber above them!
Hearing her name, she turns and see's where Geoffrey once stood, now stood a...a something of metal. "Geoffrey, what did he do to us?" The same not quite present voice came out again as she pulled herself up by the bench she had laid on, a wispy clawed hand of shadow doing the grasping.
Her confusion at what's happened is replaced by survival instinct as she hears the words and sounds from upstairs. "Oh gods, the Dottari! If they find us like....this, then we're dead. The Rack will see us in their care and kill us. We need to get out of here." Oktavia begins looking for any exits from this room, not so much walking as gliding.
Now that everyone can see in the dark and are free to look around, it seems like this chapel might be under ground. There's no light coming in from any of the windows, and there is dirt showing where parts of the roof's structure have rotted away. The hunch is confirmed by the set of cellar style doors set in the ceiling above the landing at the top of the steps. There is a short ladder of three iron rungs set into the wall to make ascension easier. It's from the direction of those doors that the sounds are coming.
In a deep voice, very much unlike her normal one, Belinda rumbles. "We must escape! Should we burst through the cellar doors and flee into the night?"
Geoffrey shakes his head.
"It sounds like the Dottari are already up there; if they see us, we are screwed."
He then begins to quickly glance around.
"There *must* be another exit..."
Belinda is going to try to open the cellar doors if possible or bash them down if not.
I cannot be taken again. I will not be. The terror of what she thought was going to be her rape had curdled into something equally foul. That man may not have raped her, but his machine had violated her in a very real way.
The doors open easily, dislodging a rug as they do so. Belinda pokes her head up out of them to find herself emerging into a short interior hallway. It's clearly some kind of residence, with papered walls and lamps in fixtures. To her right, about ten feet away the hallway opens up into a room. The room is crowded with men, struggling with one another. Closest to her are the three tall cloaked figures that captured her. Their hoods are thrown back to reveal long flowing blonde hair and almost identical features on all three of their faces. Triplets? They are wielding their cudgels in a continuing battle against a unit of Dottari who are attempting to force their way into the house.
To her left the hallway opens into a kitchen, where she can see another door on the far side of the room. One of the blonde brothers looks over his shoulder as she emerges from the trap doors. At first he starts in horror at her appearance, nearly taking a guard's baton upside his head. He sees the glowing symbol on her forehead and shouts, "Go! Run!" He points to the back door in the kitchen. The eyes of the Dottari who spot Belinda go wide in horror. "There're bloody monsters in the cellar!" one of them shouts. "Call for reinforcements!"
There's already two Dottari unconscious on the floor, bleeding from head wounds. The three blondes are competent fighters, but they are outnumbered, and showing signs of fatigue.
Geoffrey sighs, punching a wall in frustration (and incidentally a fist-shaped impression in the wall).
"Right then, it looks like we need to go upstairs. Does anyone have any recommendations as to where we should go? Stick together, or scatter to the four winds?"
They knew. These bastards knew what was going to happen to us. For a moment, Belinda is frozen in place. Conflicting thoughts jumble together: Run. Run! // Do I help them? They might know how to fix me. // I should punish them. // Completely unsuited to field research.
"Demon-scum!" the bronze man mumbles. "My vote would be to stick together. I don't know what possessed that mad man to choose us for what he did, but it appears we are all in the same boat now. I suggest we stick together until we learn why. As for the Dotari, they're like roaches; if we need to kill them, that's fine, but there will be many more to replace them, and killing a few might make the others more keen to find us. I suggest we just fight our way free, and pay them no mind. We should have a rendezvous point in case we are separated; do you all know the city?"