Mikhail smiles at Barnabas's offer, knowing that he has the capability to cement this alliance. "Lord Wright, you have seen that I have sworn myself to Asmodeus in the presence of Cardinal Thorne, his dark servant. Do you make the same pledge, to obey and serve, willfully and knowingly?"
and Kergh offers Mikhail the favour of Asmodeus as he asked. The prince gave him that new spell for a reason and now is the best time to unveil it. The sudden burst of dark heat and faint clatter of chains jangling all around the group as they all feel that blessing and a slight uplifting of their similar hearts.
Kergh dribbles happily.
Kaynen stood appreciatively while the cardinal and Mikhail waged their battles of dramatic words, thrusting, parrying, and thrusting again.
Splendid performances! Both of them!
The half-elf stopped himself short of clapping in applause, instead realizing the delicacy of the moment and not wanting to compromise such a valuable opportunity to size up the other Forsaken for the first time since they formed their impromptu band whereby cooperation wasn't an option, but a necessary evil for their escape and survival.
His mind reeled with the dueling ambitions of both the cardinal and the dhampir, and his eyes narrowed imperceptibly as he tried to size up either man's endeavors or claims.
However, more than anyone else, he kept his eyes trained on Barnabas, who was asking the questions most likely on the minds of the other Forsaken - questions about choice, of which there appeared to be little offered.
Does Talingarde simply replace a holy fanatic of Mitra with a holy fanatic of Asmodeus? Is not freedom our ultimate ambition? Yet he is right, at least at this moment, it seems we have little choice...
Kaynen, realizing he will have little opportunity to size up the true intents of the Forsaken in current company, allows his thoughts to wander before a few key words catch his attention.
... burn Talingarde to the ground and from the ashes I will build a new nation that knows its rightful master...
Smiling, Kaynen allows his eyes to lock with the cardinal's.
His acquiescence is brief and paced.
"Certainly. I wish nothing more than to see the current Talingarde burn."
Kaynen's mind alights with calculations for the necessary reagents - quantities, sources, costs.
He is pleased to have found a willing financier.
He waits to learn exactly how the cardinal proposes to achieve his ambitions.
Well, Prince Charthagnion.. Cardinal Adrastus Thorn says quietly, a genuine smile starting to appear on his face. It would seem that when Ms. Talasyan mentioned that you would be useful to the our she was underplaying her hand. Clapping his hands once together, a slave enters the room and gives a deep bow not making eye contact with the Cardinal. Bring a chair in here and seat it next to mine. He says commandingly. Wordlessly the slave complies and after a few moments another large chair is dragged into the room by two burly male slaves. Gesturing to the chair and then to Mikhail, the Cardinal nods. Please sit. He says. The indication of one chair is clear. He has risen Mikhail up in his eyes above the others. While they may be useful, he has now become essential.
Speaking to the group of Forsaken, he waves a hand towards all of them. You have questions? Good! I am not looking for mindless killers. They are a penny a pound. Those who would serve me need intelligence, cunning and the ability to slip through the shadows of our nation, doing what must be done so that we can bring down the rancid influence of Mitra. I'm afraid however that what I cannot do is tell you all of what I entail. That would be foolish. Should you be captured you might be interrogated. Our adversary has many tools at his disposal and I could not ensure your silence. It is best if there are some things you cannot know. But I am willing to tell you what your first task would entail. We will talk. As Prince Charthagnion has agreed to serve me, so too do I expect each of you to do so as well. There will be a contract. It will lay out my expectations. It will bind us together in this holy endeavor. And then you will train. Myself and my associates will work with each of you to perfect your skills. You will learn the ways of the Dark Prince. I will see you formed into a knot. As tightly bound to each other and to my lord. And then I plan to unleash you. Even as we speak, others who serve me work in the shadows of our kingdom. But I plan for you to strike the first blow. Be assured, the tasks that I assign you will be for you to complete as you see fit. But I do expect results. Failures would prove costly to our endeavor.
Standing up, the Cardinal made his way to the massive table and picked up a matching set of documents that had been scribed on some sort of leather.
The leather in question is the skin of a flayed lemure skin.
Handing the contract first to Mikhail and then to the others, The Carinal patiently waited as he let the others read it.
on this, the 25 Calistril, 2413 a perpetual Compact is made between Cardinal Adrastus Thorn (hereafter the Master) and those who would be bound to him as his acolytes (hereafter the Bound). Both the Master and the Bound shall hold fast and true to this Compact through all trial and tribulation. By blood and soul the Bound commit to the Compact and swear that it shall never be undone.
The Bound shall know and understand the Four Loyalties.
The First Loyalty is to their patron and god: mighty Asmodeus, first among the fallen, Prince of the Nine Hells, our father below. They shall do all that can be done to further his worship and his glory.
The Second Loyalty is to their Master: the High Priest of Asmodeus in Talingarde, he who is called the Cardinal Adrastus Thorn. They shall do the Master no harm, and shall obey his every commandment as long as those commandments do not clash with their First Loyalty.
The Third Loyalty is to their companions: the other Bound who serve alongside them. The Bound shall deal with each other fairly and honorably as long as doing so does not clash with their First or Second Loyalties. All treasure, wealth and reward garnered in their exploits will be equally shared with all of the Bound who aided in its acquisition.
The Fourth Loyalty is to themselves: for Asmodeus is the Lord of Ambition. All who serve him should strive to become great and powerful in his service, as long as doing so does not clash with their First, Second or Third loyalties. By their weakness, ye shall know the unworthy.
The Bound swear that they cleave to and uphold the Four Loyalties even in the face of death and damnation. The Master swears that as long as the Four Loyalties are upheld, he shall reward the Bound as they deserve for their deeds.
Thus it is written, and thus it shall be.
We being of sound mind and free will do so swear. Let they who violate this Compact know all the wrath of Hell unending.
Signed,
______________________________
Gesturing to the contract, the Cardinal smiled. As you can see. As long as you uphold the four loyalties that I have lay out, I will see you rewarded as you deserve for your deeds. All it asks is that you bind yourself to Asmodeus in this endeavor. You pledge to serve me. You swear to remain loyal to the other members of the group and you place your own ambition above the petty needs and desires of lesser people.
Eyes running over Drisella the cardinal taps his finger on the armchair softly in though. Glancing at Walker in Darkness and then back to the woman, the Cardinal frowns. I'm afraid in this instance you are correct my dear. Your soul is already bound to another. The Covenant of Overlords have taken an interest in these matters and theirs is the first claim. Slowly the Cardinal considers his options. I am willing.. he finally states. To amend the contract for you, and you alone, due to your.. unique circumstance. It would would contain a rider that would allow you to remain dedicated to Asmodeus as long as doing so did not violate the tenets of the previous claim, and should you fail in meeting this compact you would know the fury of the chained lords for all of eternity. Would this be acceptable?
Mikhail reviews the contract, sweeping over it with canny eyes in his newly-elevated seat. He does not say anything or show any surprise at the Cardinal's mention of Selanna, knowing that doing so could overplay his own hand as well. Reading it to his satisfaction, he ensures that he is the first to sign - and to do so with enough drama that even Kaynen might blush. He takes an offered quill from one of the slaves, but eschews the offered ink. He bares his fangs and carefully punctures his own left palm, dipping the quill in his blood. He signs the contract with his name - his true name, the one denied to him for his entire life. While Mikhail Halancoun may be his most favored alias, a contract with Asmodeus is not something uses an alias for. He signs with a flourish in a long-practiced but never-used signature, then offers it to the rest of the group for their signatures.
Nodding seriously, Cardinal Thorn watches as Prince Charthagnion signs the contract. It had been an appropriate measure for him to sign with his full and true name. A contract like this was binding body and soul. Clapping his hand again a slave scurried forward. Watching Mikhail's enthusiastic approach, he motioned for the slave to approach the others. The slave carried a silver platter. Atop of it rested a black feathered quill and a silver ritual knife inset with bloodstone. He glanced at the others. Excellent, since all seems to be in order let us make our union official. Gesturing to Mikhail who sits to his right, his left palm still bleeding slightly, his eyes turn to the sharp blade on the platter. Signing in blood is traditional.
_____________________
Barnabas rises to his feet, "Oh course my Liege. As goes the King, so goes the Kingdom."
He inwardly sighs at the pomp and ceremony that follows Mikhail's revelation, This could get old fast, but he learned long ago that his place was in the shadows. It was safer that way.
Barnabas reads the contract carefully, paying special attention the added clause. Seeing that it didn't appear to contain anything too suspicious, he sees no sane reason not to sign it. Though he didn't care for being referred to as Bound. Little too late to back out now.
He watches with distaste Mikhail's macabre display. "Is blood really necessary? I have a variety of other bodily fluids that are so much more accessible."
He doesn't even wait for a response, knowing the answer, and takes up the the silver knife. Wincing, he makes a small slice on his hand and squeezes out a minimal amount of blood. Taking up the quill he dabs it in the redness and dashes off his signature, though without any of the usual whirls and embellishments. The Cardinal will have to be satisfied with a small and sedate B. Wright.
Ethaniel raises an eyebrow at Barnabas' mention of bodily fluids, his expression one of amusement at the rogue's little jest. Taking his turn, he reads the contract, allowing himself a brief smirk as he reaches the word 'Bound'; the magus already considers himself bound to something and it to him. As he thinks for a moment on it, he eyes the silver ritual knife brought along with the platter and the quill. The crooked smile remains on his face as he approaches the set of items, but does not take up the small blade. Instead, he draws his sword from its scabbard just a little, enough though to reveal the black blade. Then, he runs his palm over the edge and makes a shallow cut, noting that, like before, the blood does not stay on the sword for more than a second or two before it vanishes as if it were never there, the weapon absorbing the crimson liquid, drinking it in.
Letting the curved sword to fall back in its scabbard, Ethaniel proceeds to squeeze his palm over the silver platter, allowing a few drops of blood to fall in, and then takes up the feather quill. A few moments later, he is done, his full name now on the contract. "Lemure, I believe? Interesting choice," he notices, his voice soft, "and fitting, I suppose." He then moves away, letting the next Forsaken -or is it Bound now?- take his place.
Kherg has no idea what the others are doing just that he has to sign something he would normally sign in a heartbeat. No one has to ask him, its his faith. The dwarf shrugs and wipes his hand clean using his own saliva and the vestments he wears. Then never one to know if it is good or just copying the rest, Kherg rips his hand open with the pointed holy symbol, letting the gash gush before squeezing his hand tight and dripping his blood onto the page.
His finger traces a large K in the small pool of red, smearing the letter twice before he gets it right.
"What about Grumblejack? He help us and is very strong, Master. You want him sign like me."
Studying Kergh with piercing eyes, Cardinal Thorn's face remains passive. He had seen the burst of dark power that had flooded out from the misshapen man and the High Priest was troubled by it. His place was not to question the lord of the fallen, but that his lord would invest such power in such a simple man bothered the Cardinal. There was only so much training that he could provide on their behalf. Once they left his manor and went onto do his lord's will, it would fall on this man to lead them in their spiritual devotion. It was clear to Thorn that this man in his present state could not fulfill such duties. He seemed more like a simple minded brute, rather than a man who had engulfed himself in the teaching of the first among the fallen.
Changes had to be made.
Gesturing to the contract, Cardinal Thorn waved dismissively towards the door. As you can see, I did not summon the ogre here, my son. It cannot be denied that he was useful to your escape, but the ogre is a simple creature with simple desires. Shaking his head slowly in a definite "no" he turns and looks back to Kergh. I watched as you befriended the savage and for that I applaud you. You made excellent use of a tool. Grumblejack as you call him. The Cardinals mouth quirks in distaste. Will be the first of your minions. Yours to do with as you see fit. Never forget your place in this world my child. The dark lord as elevated you above the common rabble and set you apart. As it is he has already eaten one of the slaves. A beast like that requires a tight rein.
Fingered steepled in front of him he gazes over his hands at the deformed man. Kergh, when the others have finished signing the contract I would like you to remain behind. There are matters of faith I would care to discuss with you.
The dwarf nods, he expected to be told he was not worth anything and now that time is drawing near. It is the way of the world.
"Ogre is minion," he whispers to himself soto voce.
As Kaynen steps up to the contract, he scans the contract several times to ensure there's no hidden clauses about someone owning his soul after he dies.
Then again, I'm not sure I really need my soul even while I'm alive...
Shrugging as if he were making a decision about where the Forsaken should have brunch, he imagines himself signing nothing more than a petition to change the annuals planed in a Ghaster park and dips the pen in the inkwell.
He hesitates for a moment, sniffing the ink and smiling to himself as he sorts out the various components used before licking the tip of the pen and dipping it into the well a second time.
Finally, he puts ink to paper and signs his name with several flourishes before bowing and handing the pen to Oswald with a flourish.
"Well, now that we've finally signed your contract Cardinal, how would you suggest we proceed?"
The we is a bit premature, as even after the contract's rider is disclosed, Drisella is reluctant to sign the contract. With one brow raised, she consults the Walker in Darkness. Silently, they share an exchange of looks before the young woman finally approaches the desk. Instead of utilizing the same knife the others had, Drisella draws the dagger from Brandescar prison that Barnabas had given her.
Drawing the knife along her hand, Drisella cuts a thin like from second knuckle to the tip of her index finger. Then, bringing her fingertip down to the contract, she signs a blotchy and messy signature that shows once fine penmanship that has gone unpracticed.
Once finished, Drisella slides the knife back into her wrist sheathe and brings her injured finger to her mouth. She stares, wordlessly, at the Cardinal before taking a few steps back to allow the others to discuss more pressing matters.
Oswald slipped into his new clothes, the fabric like silk against his newly cleansed skin. No more the rubbing irritation of coarse material grinding into him, the good doctor ran a brush through his shortened hair before collecting Rosaline and moving out of the room to join the others. Oswald appears a nearly different man without the layers of filth and grime covering his flesh and the mop of wild hair atop his head and face sheared back to managable levels of decency.
In what followed from the introduction of Cardinal Thorn, their mysterious benefactor, to the revelation of Mikhail's true name and lienage, Oswald kept to the rear of the group while he whispered with his poppet, "Yes, yes, I know my dear. A very dangerous man. Best not to upset dangerous men.... I know the wording is funny, it wouldn't be a contract without it doing that... yes, yes, my dove, I'll mention it to the fellow." One of the last to sign the document, Oswald steps forward but stops by Mikhail. The doctor gives a poorly executed bow, having never really dealt with much nobility in his life before, and makes his doll give a curtsey to the would-be king, "Your Majesty. We did not know we journeyed in such company. No, no, we did not know. My dear sweet child wishes you many happy years of rule and many plump babies with your bride."
With the formalities taken care of with their 'king', Oswald steps up before the contract swelling with its names of blood. He runs his finger over the material of the contract as he holds Rosaline close to read the wording once more. He turns to look at the Cardinal as he picks up the dagger in preparation for adding his own signature to the mix, "Your Unholyship, my daughter thinks I would be remiss if I didn't mention before signing some questioning with the wording 'he shall reward the Bound as they deserve for their deeds' on the document. Does that encompass such things as if we complete all tasks asked of us to a satisfactory conclusion but you think we deserve having live bees sewn in under our skin then we'd just learn to enjoy the honey? I don't think I'd much like having bees sewn under my skin nor does my daughter, honey or not. Why the faithful of the Prince of the Nine Hells would keep bees is beyond me..."
The mad doctor rambles on for a bit before shaking his head in confusion and looking around, "Where was I? Or right, signing an employment contract. Yes, yes, the Mitran plague must be quarantined and systemically erraticated. I'm familiar with such diseases and would be glad to add my expertise to your hospital's staff, sir." Lost in another place in another time, Oswald runs the dagger across his finger tip and writes his name with his bleeding fingertip in looping cursive nearly eligible to non-doctors.
Kergh moves to one side, almost in the shadows, so that no one may notice him while they discuss important matters and perhaps a small part of him hopes the fear of Thorn is misplaced. There are still shreds of childish optimism that maybe about to be ripped out. If the dwarf is lucky he will learn more of how to do things right and proper.
His mind wanders to the past introduction to Nana. The first time she hugged his twisted body and laughed at his mishapen face, explaining his heart was beautiful and his love of service would be rewarded. Then Nana got up and before he could speak at the sudden lost cuddle, she hit him. Hard and sharp with the edge of her hand. Then she cuddled him again and slowly in the space of one tired night he learnt to do whatever she said and he would be loved. By morning, he was convinced by the miracle of magical healing and healthy pain.
The contract finished, the Cardinal smiles. Excllent! He says and with a wave of his hand produces a copy of the signed contract that he hands to Mikhail. As you have bound yourself to me, so too am I bound to you. Glancing at Oswald, the Cardinal nods thoughtfully. It is true enough that what you believe you deserve and what I believe you deserve can often differ. That said, how useful to me would you be should I prove myself unrewarding? I will be entrusting you with dangerous knowledge and arming you to go against our foes. The contract states that I will reward you. This is taken in good faith. Now.. should you fail to fulfil my demands then there may be consequences, but I think it best if we leave that eventuality for when we come to it.
Rising, the Cardinal motions to the gathered Forsaken. My First command is thus. Stay within the manor. In the next few days your escape will likely be noticed and then you will be hunted by the Talirean soldiery. The walls of this manor have been lined with lead and your presence here will be undetected. In three days we will begin your training. Return to you rooms and sleep. You have all had a long day. In the morning Tiadora will come for you and show you about the manor. I'm sure that your incarceration has been wearying on you so take the chance to rest and recoup before the trials ahead. You may go now. Kergh please remain behind. Mikhail as the leader of the group it is at your discretion if you wish to remain or go, although I believe there is someone that is waiting to see you. The cardinal states with a slight smile.
Rising from the armchair the cardinal makes his way to his desk with slow, steady steps. Reaching into a drawer he withdraws a small vial and then returns to his seat, cupping the liquid in his hands. Kergh, my son. The cardinal states, his eyes running over the hulking form of the man slowly. There are things you and I need to discuss and I am not sure that we can do so in your present state. Drink this potion and then we will speak more.
Returning to your rooms you each find several additional outfits laid out upon the bed. Food lays out and a warm fire has been made in each of the suites. Weary from the escape and the long trip across the moors it only takes a few moments before you are each asleep.
_____________________
In the afternoon each of the Forsaken awake, it is late in the day. Perhaps because of the long trek or the ordeals that each had gone through over the long months before their escape, simply laying in a feather bed rather than a stone lined cell was for lack of a better word luxurious. Rising up out of bed, Ethaniel could see that he had somehow kicked off his covers some time during the night. His sword as always remained within distance of his hand and he could vaguely remember fighting a black haired man in his dreams, but like most dreams the memory quickly faded from thought. As each of the Forsaken pushed their way out of bed they saw that a table had been laid out carefully near the center of the room. Fool laid piled high atop it and a slave stood at attention ready to provide another bath... or anything else that the dammed required.
Enjoying the first moments of freedom, the Forsaken dressed, ate and bathed before Tiadora came for them. Gathering the whole into a group, she nodded as the group was finally assembled. The Cardinal, had ordered me to show you the manor. As a reminder you are not to leave until his unholyness has granted you permission. We would hate for your escape to be undone by something as simple as a magical spell. Now then, the first place I will take you to is our Mr. Pilkington, our actuary. He will oversee any funds issued to you on your behalf. I would warn you that while his job is not particularly glamorous, it is highly useful. And as they say, the devil is in the details.
Leading you down to the first floor, you pass the large training room whose walls are covered with mirrors and contain padded floors. She moves past the well-appointed music room and the beyond into a large communal study with a large fireplace. The sounds of conversation can be heard in the room beyond and as you pass the door you are able to make out the figure of a austere woman with pure white hair who is gesturing to a large fur covered man. Prodding you onward, she leads you into a room that is covered in bookshelves with a small neat desk adorned with papers and and abacus. Seated behind the desk is a thin man with a thin voice and a pencil-thin mustache. He seems fussy and wears and annoyed expression.
Klapaucious Q. Pilkington was the last child of a poor and very minor noble family who joined the royal bureaucracy at a very early age. It quickly became apparent that he was a bureaucratic prodigy: energetic, diligent, incredibly well organized; meticulous and honest, with a prodigious memory and absolutely no sense of humor. He rose rapidly through the ranks until he was First Assistant to the Royal Chancellor, with duties that included overseeing all the grain warehouses throughout the kingdom.
Then came the famine during 4708AR. The King swore that the grain stores would be opened to feed the hungry... but he neglected to put it in writing, and he didn't provide a set of proper procedures. Pilkington gave firm orders that no grain be distributed until this was resolved. The resulting delay was only a few days, but hundreds died of starvation, and dozens more in the infamous Grain Riots. The outraged King ordered Pilkington stripped of all ranks and honors and exiled. So ended the career of Talingarde's most brilliant bureaucrat... or so everyone thought.
Glancing up at Tiadora as she entered his pinched face took on a scowl that he quickly covered. Rising, he gave a small bow to the woman. So these are the new arrivals then? He said with a reedy, high pitched voice. Right, well then, let’s get started. Flipping a large carefully penned book open, he reached for a quill and eyed the assorted villains. The books, as they say are open.
_______________________
Kergh watches the others leave and concentrates on the Cardinal. Without hesitation, he takes the vial and sucks it down noisily.
Something strange comes over the dwarf, he can see his deformed body and dull eyes from the outside. Kergh realises that he has been set free by the Cardinal and uses the next few precious moments to take in his surroundings. The tapestries and their relevance to Asmodeus, the taste and beauty of the furnishings, and even the quality of his new vestments all assault his senses. Kergh cannot process it all fast enough.
He tries to give the Cardinal a proper smile, not so much a lopsided one with drips.
"You gave me a bigger brain! I thought it would make me not so ugly for everyone to look at. Thank you Master."
Cardinal Thorn, smiles and with Kerghs new intellect he can see just the faintest glimmer of something in the man’s eyes. Anger? Frustration? It is hard to say. This moment is tragic in its own way. In a few minutes the brief spark of intelligence that Kergh held would be cruelly ripped away from the man. Kergh had thought he had known pain when he had first met Nessuri, but nothing would compare to the realization that this new awareness would quickly be stripped away as fast as it appeared.
Kergh.. The Cardinal said forcefully, his eyes boring into the misshapen man. This gift that I have given you is fleeting. Soon it will fade and before it does we need to speak candidly. Do. You. Understand? With a mute nod, Kergh looks at the Cardinal and then down at the floor. Appearances can easily be fixed. Indeed our Lord regularly provides us such blessings so that we might walk within the masses, unseen and unobserved. This blessing however is far more rare.. and temporary.
Gesturing to the man, the Cardinal picks up his pipe and puffs at it slowly, choosing his next words carefully. Eventually, if the training of the other Forsaken goes according to plan, you will leave this place and then, who will ensure their devotion to our Lord? Pointing to Kergh, the Cardinal rises. It will be you Kergh. When you prayed to the dark lord, when he filled this room with his dark blessing it was by your will. Shaking his head, the Cardinal sighs. But faith is not enough my boy. Not nearly enough. I cannot be there to guide the others, I will not be there. Not always. When the others turn to you, to ask you matters of faith how will you respond? You believe, but it is a simple belief. To do this, you must understand.
Setting his pipe down, the Cardinal crosses a leg and then glances to the fire, its inner heat carrying the promise of pain and anguish, enlightenment and dark majesty. So I ask you, now while you carry a measure of your full faculties. How far are you willing to go to understand? Placing a hand in front of him towards Kergh, the Cardinal beacons towards the man. I can assist you in this. I can guide you. But it will be painful as all steps along the thorny road to the Basalt Throne are.
While he waits for his answer, the Cardinal turns towards the flames. He gazes into it. Did you know that on this island there are only five who carry the dark blessing from the Lord of the Fallen? You are among a rare handful. This gift I offer you is not something to be taken lightly. It will yoke you to our master in a way you cannot comprehend. There will be no going back. But because our Lord has seen fit to give you his blessing, I must take it as a sign as well.
Mikhail stays to watch the interaction with Cardinal Thorne and Kergh. His decision to stay is borne partially out of strategy, to further his bond with the powerful patron; it is borne largely of ego and pride, as only he was invited to remain; it is borne slightly of loyalty to the powerful, misshapen cleric who had helped him and shown great loyalty to him personally.
He watches with curiosity as Kergh receives the blessing of intellect, however fleeting it will be. 'What must it feel like for a man to know that his awareness will fade and be replaced by a simpleton's mind?' His mind flashes to his manipulations of his similarly addle-minded nephew. 'Fools are simple to guide, but intelligent allies are so much more valuable,' he thinks to himself. He places a cool hand on Kergh's shoulder as a rare sign of encouragement. He says not a word to interrupt the Cardinal, but he silently nods his support.
Mikhail falls asleep just before the dawn comes, falling into a deep and uninterrupted sleep. He neither dreams nor registers the sleep. He simply awakens, not entirely refreshed, seemingly a moment and an eternity after falling asleep. He notes that someone (likely Selanna) acquired thick, heavy curtains for the windows that block out the sunlight. Instinctively, he knows that it is still daylight. He dresses with the help of the mind-addled servant and checks over his appearance in the mirror - half-expecting not to show up in its reflection. The minor injuries he received the night before have healed as if they were never present. No scabs, no scars, not even a mark.
He keeps an eye out for Selanna as Tiadora leads them through the manor, noting the presence of the people inside beyond their number. When Tiadora mentions Pilkinton, he recalls quite well the scandal of his fall. He steps up first when called upon. "Mikhail Halancoun, Mr. Pilkinton. It seems that we have much in common, having both been exiled from our positions by a corrupt government. It also seems that we have a common patron in the Cardinal, from which we can regain them. As for equipment, Barnabas here has a record of all the items that we procured from Branderscar. I imagine it is enough - once properly excised of traces of their origin - that we ought to have a sizable amount of assets from which to draw additional equipment. As noted in our contract, we are Bound together and share equally in the rewards of our exploits."
Seeing a nod from the scowling bureaucrat, he continues. "For my part, I desire a more appropriate armor in which to go into battle. I need neither the shield nor the chain shirt that I wore in Branderscar, and I will have a servant bring both to you to add to our collective account. I request a breastplate of the finest quality, tailored to my measurements to maximize my movement. I wish it to be of a dark or dusky metal, with my crest emblazoned near the chest. Additionally, in note of the agreement, I desire it to have a thick crimson cloak that can be attached with pentagram fasteners. I assume that this is well within the crafting grasp of the artisans that we have access to." He notes with approval that Pilkinton has meticulously written each portion of the request down, and seemingly appraised it in his mind at 350 gold pieces. "Thank you, Mr. Pilkinton." He steps aside to allow the next person to make their request.
Something drips down as Kherg drops his head to think and take a moment away from this pressure. The strong gaze of the Cardinal requires a great deal but also seems to bore into the dwarf so looking away is necessary.
When he looks back up at first Mikhail and then their Master, its not drips of saliva but it is tears of pure joy. The broken face is wide open and eyes dancing with pure pleasure.
"Nothing is ever easy. But give me the tools to make our Lord's faith burn like a king's pyre and I shall see it through to the end. So what if there is pain, I have lived with that all my life and I cannot live without it. You take this brain and make me mush again and I will die every day inside until I get it back again."
Kherg hops about the room, "Obedience and understanding sounds like Hell to me. Everything that is best and strong of my heart's home. You are taking me to another plane of living and one I desire."
The dark priest returns from this instant of exultation and stands solemn before the pair, then kneels before the Cardinal and utters the final words,
"whatever it takes."
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The Cardinal rises and holding out his hand, he murmurs to Kergh Rise my son. Pulling the large man to his feet with a strong grip despite his slight exterior, a feverous gleam shines in the Cardinals eyes. Splendid, He pronounces, nodding first to Kergh and towards Mikhail. Mighty are the servants who worship our Lord, but there are some among us that truly find a calling in their service among the Prince of Devils. Kergh, I see you one day being among our Lord's most powerful servants in these lands, tirelessly working to enslave all who dare to oppose him. Gazing into the flames, the Cardinal speaks softly the whisper barely audible above the crackle of flames.
Dessiter է Phistophilus, փաստաբանին վճարված գումարը եւ ստվեր, պահապանն Պայմանագրերի նախագահ անունները եւ ընկել Տերը կապերը, կոչ եմ անում ձեզ, Այնպես որ խոսել, ես ձեր անունը, այնպես որ պետք է այն լինի. Եկեք ինձ.
Dessiter of the Phistophilus, Barrister of the Shadows, Keeper of Contracts, Speaker of Names and Fallen Lord of Bindings, I call upon you, So speak I your name, so shall it be. Come to me.
The flames roar with an inner light. The shadows in the room seem to darken. Silence reigns.
From a cloud of brimstone and sulfurous smoke he appears and bows. Polite, formal even. He was well dressed with rust-colored skin and a jutting crown of ridge-like horns, he is muscular and draped in lengthy contracts that seemed to float about from an unseen wind
Cardinal Thorn The devil said in a pleasant low voice. How nice to see you again. I was just doing some paperwork. Unease filled the room. The devil seemed to have an echo: half a second after he spoke his words were repeated in the appalling shriek of one undergoing torture. The screamed words were not loud. They were audible just beond the walls of the room, as if they had soared up through miles of unearthly heat from some trench in Hell's floor.
What can I do for you? He continued. (What can I do for you? Came the soulless how of misery.) Still trying to lead the nation you call home into ashes? The contract devil smiled slightly.
The Cardinal smiled back and shook his head. You know what I intend to do. The Cardinal replied levelly. I'll not be drawn, I'm afraid. You can't provoke me into existential fear, you know. The Cardinal replied with a polite little laugh to which the devil responded in hind. As did his horrendous echo. I am beyond such things now. As we both know.
The devil bowed his head in polite demure.
The Cardinal waved his hand impatiently. He was composed, He did not flinch at the pitiable screams which shadowed devils words. And he did not allow himself to experience any disquiet when, as he stared at the devil, the image of the man before him flickered for a tiny sliver of a second, to replaced by... something else.
The Cardinal had experienced this before. But Mikhail and Kergh had not. When they each blinked for that infinitesimal moment, they saw the room and its occupant in very different forms. Through his eyelids, Kergh and Mikhail saw the inside of a slatted cage; iron bars moving like snakes; arcs of unthinkable force, a jagged, rippling maelstrom of heat. Where the devil stood, the pair were able to catch glimpses of a monstrous form. A hyaena's head stared at them, tongue lolling. Breasts with gnashed teeth. Hooves and Claws.
The stale air in the room would not allow the pair to keep their eyes open. They had to blink. They tried to ignore the brief visions and instead watched as the Cardinal treated the devil with wary respect. Such was also the devils attitude towards the Cardinal.
Dessiter of the Phistophilus, I have called you here for two reasons. The first to extend to your master, His Diabolic Majesty, the Lord of the Fallen my respectful greetings on behalf of myself and this endeavor. The Devil nodded graciously in response. The other is to ask your assistance on behalf of my young apprentice.
It is always our greatest pleasure to aid our allies in the world of the living, Cardinal Thorn. Especially those such as yourself with whom It's Majesty has such good relations. The devil rubbed its chin absently, waiting.
However, The Cardinal stated, shaking his head. It is not I who wish something from you, but this man. The Cardinal announced, pointing towards Kergh. Consider me nothing more than an... intermediary conducting an introduction.
The devil shook his head examining Kergh. (Great hyaena tongue briefly slavering from side to side) and smiled. Indeed? The Devil stated speculatively, eyeing the misshapen man in thought while he ran a single clawed finger over his chin. And what assistance is it you wish for, young one.
"That might be a little bit of a simplification, My Liege. Good master Pilkington did let a substantial number of people starve to death over some missing paperwork. I will say that I have full confidence that our accounts will be well managed, let's just hope he's not in charge of the kitchen purchases."
Barnabas steps forward and places two sacs on Pilkington's desk and points to the first sac, "Master Pilkington, I would be grateful if you could arrange to have these goods sold and the profits equally spit among the Party's account. The second bag contains items we would like stored communally so that they may be accessed by any member of the Party."
Barnabas pauses to think about what items he needs, As for me, I find myself desiring a new weapon. My current ones tend to make things a bit messy. I was thinking that perhaps a fine mace might make a suitable replacement, and seems quite appropriate considering our current situation. I would also like you to acquire a high quality suit of studded leather, I can provide you with my measurements. I'm sure there are other thing I will require, but those shall suffice for the time being."
No one should be prepared for this, but Kergh was.
The contract devil is not known to him, but in his heart, he had spent years being cut, pummelled and hammered by the Vale of Mitra, tortured by those priests so many times. And during that time, he was kept whole by his faith and there in the shadows watching were those hellish eyes. It was they that kept the dwarf alive and whole, and safe from harm. He had given his soul to those eyes many times over and would do so again.
Kergh gave another lopsided smile, "I want my birthright. You made me this way, sent me a guide for those first few years of suffering, protected by in the crucible of the Vale and brought me here."
He points at Mikhail and the Cardinal and then walks over to stand before the imposing Dessiter. He straightens his body as best he can and tries to look up at the outsider.
"Give me the tools to make those sheepish Mitrans understand that with duty and loyalty, truth and strength they can live a prosperous life under our Prince. My brain will be mindless soon. Give me a way to be clever like my friends so I can........be."
Ethaniel listens as Mikhail and Barnabas casually discuss the specifics of Mr. Pilkington's past with the man, taking in its somewhat sordid details with little surprise or even interest. After all, he hardly expects the people in this place he has found himself in to not have one or more skeletons in the proverbial closet.
'Mikhail is already starting to clothe himself with attire befitting his station, I see,' he muses, noting with approval that the vampire is not only considering looks where his armor is concerned, but practicality as well. As the other two men have shifted the conversation from Pilkington's personal history to the details of buying and selling equipment, the magus considers his own needs. He has his sword back, but his tome of spells, few that they were, and his pouch of components are long gone, taken from him as they were on the day of his apprehension. And although he has made do so far with spell components provided by the magic veil, they are almost at an end.
"I require a spellbook, Mr. Pilkington," he says finally when his turn is up, "and a full pouch of components needed for my spells. Nothing too exotic or expensive where the components are concerned, though the specifics will have to wait until I have a list of the scrolls I would need as well. After all, a book of spells without any of them inside it is not much use." He smiles before continuing, remembering also that he should take a better look at Richter's spellbook now that he has the luxury of time. "And of course some writing materials. I suspect I am going to need quite a few of those."
"And finally," he adds after a moment's thought, "a lock for securing the book. The best nonmagical lock you can find."
Padding into the room beside Walker in Darkness, Drisella's expression is a measured level of disinterest in this money-handler. Halfway lidded eyes instead scan the floor for an interesting crack or imperfection, while Walker seems more interested in observing Mikhail for the time being. Drisella wanders a few paces away from the conversation, moving to the bookshelves and runs her fingers over the spines of the books on display. Her head cants to the side, one brow raised, and she looks over her shoulder for a moment before returning to her perusal.
Walker in Darkness moves to sit on its haunches beside Mikhail, looking over to Drisella for one interested moment before focusing his attention back on Mikhail's conversation with Pilkington. It isn't long, however, before Drisella grows bored of the entire affair, huffing a breath and turning on her bare heels to face the moneyhandler.
"A man of the coin and letter of law," she begins to speak, though in the iambic pentameter of her sibilant fits. "What is the tally of the dead? Hundreds yet and never fed?" She creeps up on their conversation, edging close to the desk before propping herself up to sit on a corner, crossing one leg over the other.
Drisella offers a look to Mikhail, then Pilkington. "Are you familiar with a Chelish crux?" She asks of Pilkington, using her index fingers to trace a square in the air. "It's a puzzle-box," she adds afterward, one brow lifted. "I just want... the box part." She then pantomimes twisting and solving the puzzlebox in the air.
"The shiniest one," Drisella asks with a subtle pout, "if you'd be so kind?"
_____________
Kaynen murmurs to himself upon recognizing the actuary's name while he sizes up his current situation.
We seem to have traded one prison for another - instead of bars and manacles preventing our freedom, we now must beg permission from a Cardinal?
Kaynen observes at the other Forsaken begin to discuss their requests with Pinkington, appraising their individual specialties. He then realizes he has managed to take up a position in line somewhere between Oswald and Ethaniel.
As the magi makes his requests for a spellbook, Kaynen makes a mental note about the incantations being requested, and how he might be able to apply those to his own theories about how they could be melded into his studies of alchemy.
Conspiratorially, he leans to Oswald, more by default than anything else.
"I feel like a schoolchild in line waiting for his text book."
Stepping forward once Ethaniel had completed his own request, Kaynen greeted the actuary with the method he greeted practically everyone, with a smile and slight bow.
"Ah! At last. Interesting requests from our motley band, no?"
Kaynen allows the man to respond and share his own thoughts about the situation.
"It is fortuitous to have another such as yourself among us, my good Lord Pinkington. May I call you Klapaucious? You may call me Kaynen, if you wish..."
Understanding that an actuary is not unlike a mathematician, a talent both applicable to music and alchemy, Kaynen is quick to his needs.
"A chain shirt lacking this wretched symbolism, a nice one if at all possible. I trust in your ability to find an appropriate size and quality at a discerning value."
Awaking from a deep, dream-filled sleep, Oswald prepares for the day by falling into his normal routine. By the time he emerges fully washed and dressed with his poppet, the others have already been milling about for a bit. They are soon herded into another room with a pencil-pusher and his books.
Oswald whispers to Rosaline, cradled in his arms as normal, while standing near the back with Kaynen. The others are called forth one by one, listing personal effects they wish commissioned or retrieved. Kaynen leans close and tells the mad doctor about schoolchildren and text books. Oswald glances at his daugher and nods, "My Rosaline should be attending school right now but the teachers are scared her cough will spread to the other children. So she gets to spend her days with her father until she gets better, isn't that right, my dove?.. Yes, yes, we'll get some sweets on the way home but first daddy has to order some new supplies with the inventory clerk, my dove." He fondly strokes his poppet's tangled locks of hair.
When it is Oswald's turn with Mr. Pilkington, he steps forward and clears his throat before starting on a large list of required medical supplies and drugs. Near the end of his long list he starts on the more personal items, "And with all that medical equipment, Mr. Pilkington, I'll need a good and sturdy shovel and one mithral sewing needle. The shovel should be able to withstand heavy digging, yes, very heavy digging. Never know when you'll need to dig a mass grave for all those dead souls. A shame... yes, yes, my dove, we'll make sure to pile all the Mitrans in one deep hole and never let them out again. Oh, and Mr. Pilkington, the needle needs to be sterile."
Mr. Pilkington’s quill scratched away quietly in the neat but full office. Occasionally the man would flip open a book and scribble down a note in careful penmen-ship before sliding a tally across an abacus with a muted clack. He listens attentively to the Forsaken as they make their requests and when Barnabas provide the gold he carefully weighs each piece on a bronze scale to verify that none had been clipped. The man is the definition for meticulous.
Eventually he finishes scribing the requests for inventory into his ledger and he cross tallies the total before giving a decisive nod. Glancing up at Tiadora his face goes pale before quickly looking away and instead fixes his gaze on the Forsaken. Everything seems to be in order. He says in his reedy voice, while removing his spectacles and laying them on the table. As you can see Mr. Halancoun will be receiving a breastplate to his specifications. Mr. Wright will be issued new mace and a custom suit of studded leather. Mr. Tessarin will have a spellbook ordered for him along with the appropriate scrolls. Miss DiAmonicia, has requested a Chelish Crux. He pauses rubbing his chin thoughtful. Odd I suppose but the accounts make no mention of how the gold may be spent. Mr. Catesby and Acolyte Malkenkergh newly fitted chain shirts. And for Doctor Turrill a.. heavy digging shovel, an allotment of medical equipment and a mithral sewing needle. He states finally with a frown.
Closing the ledger the man carefully places it back upon a shelf the man gave a bland smile to Mikhail and Kaynen. Yes, I suppose we do Mr. Halancoun. The King is a fool. One cannot run a kingdom on words alone. Too often a ruler will say things to appease the masses and privately issue orders against the words they speak in public. How was I to know the man was genuine in his devotion? No orders were issued, no directions given. For the first time the meticulous demeanor falls away from Pilkington and an underlying visage of rage and frustration flashes before your eyes before he quickly squashes it. Regardless, I have found a new lord now, who appreciates my talents, as it seems you have as well. Mr. Catesby, feel free to visit during your free time, however I understand you have somewhere else you need to be now. Rising he gives a bow to the Forsaken, before Tiadora opens the door and leads them out of the office.
Moving through the main hallway the beautiful woman takes the Forsaken passed the cracked door of the study. Again as before gruff voices, accompanied by a woman’s laughter can be barely heard. Glancing back at the Forsaken, Tiadora smiles slightly. Other agents of the Cardinal. She states, smirking at Barnabas. Don’t worry dear, I’m sure you will meet them soon enough. Taking you back to the stairs that lead upto the second floor she instead stops at the landing and points to the stairs leading down. We are on the 1st floor now. This is where the kitchen, dining room, library, the Cardinals study, the music room the communal study and the sparing room can be found. You have already seen the 2nd floor. It contains the various bedrooms for the Cardinal and his guests. I am about to take you to the basement. There are two levels. The first houses Zargo’s workshop. There is also a chapel for our Darklord, a larder and the servants quarters located on that floor. We have also placed your minion on this level since he already destroyed the first room we gave him. The final floor is the training area. You are not to go to the training area, without permission, unless of course you wish to die. To say that the area is dangerous is an understatement. I understand that it is the nature of mortals to be presumptuous, but we lost half of the original Seventh Knot when they decided that the Cardinal must have been keeping something. No great loss, but then we also lost several servants trying to retrieve the bodies. I finally had to go in and do it myself. You may learn from their folly, or not, as you please. Also the Cardinals chambers and study are off limits unless you are summoned by him. Prince Charthagnion as leader of the group, if you wish to speak to Cardinal on behalf of your team, please inform me first and I will see to arraignments. In this house we follow order and rank, see to it your group does the same.
Gliding down the steps Tiadora takes you down a short stone passageway and leads you into wooden door. From behind the door strange smells emanate, acrid reeks and nose-wrinkling stenches. Behind this door is Zargo, he handling your fitting. Tiadora raises a hand to stall any questions. It will all be made clear shortly, go inside. Opening the door you emerge into a laboratory. Brightly colored liquids drip through glass tubes and bubble over flames. In a corner, a well decayed human corpse in a state of of partial dissection adds its own to the reek. There are stains that look disturbingly like blast marks on the ceiling, and stains that look disturbingly unlike anything you can think of on the floor. A great deal of broken glass has been swept into a large glittering pile in one corner. In another corner is an unmade bed with filthy sheets. The combination of stenches is almost overwhelming; you find yourself breathing through your mouth.
Tiadora pauses, then calls: Zargo! A few moments pass. Then, more loudly,
Wait a moment. Zargo the Alchemist? Zargo the Loathsome? Zargo who poisoned eighteen people living downwind from his unspeakable laboratory of evil in Daveryn? Zargo who then perished -- along with a royal inquisitor, a troop of Knights Alerion, and another dozen hapless civilian bystanders -- in the ensuing explosion when the forces of light and justice finally closed in on him? That Zargo?
Zargo announces with a grumble as he emerges with a scow from somewhere behind the tangle of benches and alchemical glassware. Running a blacken greasy hand that is covered with burn scars over is grey, ash tinged beard the dwarf peers through hissing test tube. His clothes are filthy and he wears a blacksmiths apron that is dotted with burn marks, likely from acid. His eyebrows and half his hair have also been burnt away from whatever it was that caused the burn marks on his hands, one of which is missing its pinky and third finger.
[biggerI Said, what? Oh, its you. Zargo scowl deepens as he looks at the Forsaken who are standing behind Tiadora. Who the hell are these now? I thought you were here for the potion. Why are these people here? I’m in the middle of a very delicate procedure. I don’t need any distractions!
Zargo's attitude towards Tiadora is weird. He won't meet her eyes, and is obviously frightened of her, but he keeps staring at various parts of her body when he thinks she isn't looking. Call it three parts cringing terror, one part surly defiance, one part lust.
Zargo. Tiadora's voice was as flat and cold as a sheet of ice. You will give me the new potion. You will examine these, our newly recruited agents, and you will measure them for their circlets. You will analyze whatever they offer you. And you will not threaten, insult or annoy them, upon pain of my displeasure.
Zargo cringed away from Tiadora and his face paled, the dwarf was clearly intimidated by the woman. Fine, fine, Whatever. You know me always happy to help. Looking around the group of Forsaken, his eyes settle on Kaynen. Either by luck or chance he thrusts the hissing vial of sulfurous yellow liquid towards the man. Here! Hold this, don’t let any get on you though.
Based on the smell as well as the faint heat that seems to radiate from the vial you suspect this is some form of highly toxic acid. The cyan coloring however seems odd; most acids are usually clear or slightly green in color. Most are also not warm to the touch, Perhaps it is some sort of experimental mixture that was just synthesized.
Moving glass containers away with the sound of glass clinking and liquid sloshing, the dwarf finds what he was looking for. It is a carefully sealed bottle of liquid that is a ridiculously bright, eye-hurting orange. This'll do it. Good for half an hour, maybe a bit more. Use it carefully. That's about the last we'll get out of the man.
Oh? Says Tiadora, not sounding very interested. Can you not keep him alive any longer?
I can keep him alive! He's alive! He'll be alive as long as I want him to be alive! He's just, Zargo wrinkles his nose and looks rather squirmy. He's just... not in such good condition any more.
___________________________
Drisella's entrance to Zargo's workshop is handled with much the same distance as the rest of her interactions typically are. The young woman's eyes are halfway-lidded, posture relaxed and pace slow. It is as if the girl is only partly aware of her surroundings, or in some sort of fugue-state, despite moments of lyrical clarity. Directly behind her, the Walker in Darkness is a constant shadow. An oily passenger slinking in the young woman's silhouette, lashing tail clicking against floor and walls as it walks in arhythmic beat with the clack of its claws.
Having been quiet while Tiadora and Zargo discussed business, Drisella instead took it upon herself to disregard any sense of personal space and privacy Zargo may have. She steps away from the forsaken, wandering towards one of the workbenches laden with tubes, vials and flasks strung together with delicate glass tubing like some sort of silicate spider's web. Gentle fingers brush along bottles and beakers, then withdraw and curl towards her palm as if unsure of what she just touched.
Walker's distance lengthens some, then the creature sinks into the shadows of the lab entirely as if made of nothing more than ink and oil. In the moments after walker's departure, Drisella feels a sudden and forceful hand on her shoulder, spinning her around. "You can't touch my experiments!" Zargo rattles the girl out of her demi-catatonia, and Drisella's eyes flick back and forth, searching Zargo's too-close face as the hair on the back of her neck stands up.
"I--" Drisella's words are interrupted in the same moment Zargo plunges a finger into her mouth and swabs his blackened digit across her teeth and gums. The young woman recoils, her hands pawing at Zargo's arm and then his face, trying to push him away. The alchemist does so of his own accord, right around the same time. He mutters something about adult teeth under his breath and wipes his hand off on his apron.
Incensed, Drisella stares wide-eyed at the alchemist, only realizing that he is coming back at her with some sort of wooden probe with a band of gauze wound round the end. She grabs his hand in an attempt to move it away from her face, but Zargo is stronger and sturdier than Drisella is. "Stop-- yer damned fussing. I need a bloody saliva sample." he reconsiders his wording. "Well, not bloody," comes as a mumble as he starts to push Drisella's mouth open, "that's just an idiom th--"
And she spits in his face.
Zargo relents, releasing Drisella's jaw and the young woman backs up right into the table behind her, rattling the glasses. Zargo dabs the swab across the spit on his cheek, then slides the probe into a vial. "I suppose that suffices," he admits, stoppering the bottle. "Hair and blood'r next. If you want to get a start extracting that yourself, I won't stop you."
Drisella watches Zargo with a fiery stare, then wipes the back of her hand across her mouth. "Do not," she states flatly, "do that," her hand comes away and as it does zargo feels the brush of a chitinous tail across the side of his neck. Glancing side-long over his shoulder, he can see the darkenes mass of the Walker hiding behind him in the shadows of the lab. "Ever again," Drisella finishes, and Walker's tail moves away from the alchemist's throat.
Zargo's lips quirk up into a smile, amused, and lays out a pair of stoppered vials with a clunk on the table beside Drisella. "I touch what I want," Zargo murmurs, looking Drisella up and down slowly. "Maybe the Cardinal doesn't require a more involved inspection. Maybe he does."
Threat softly delivered, Zargo turns to walk away from Drisella, and the young woman takes one of the vials and unstoppers it. With her free hand, she withdraws the knife that Barnabas had given her and starts to carve a few tiny geometric shapes into her forearm on the inside of her elbow. Blood drools down the side of her arm, and Drisella sheathes the knife to trade it out for the vial, filling it with a few fingers of blood before she bends her arm like a chicken-wing to put pressure on the injury.
Setting that vial aside, she watches Zargo ambling over to the others. A droplet of her blood falls on the floor from the tip of her elbow, and Walker's six eyes follow it on the way down. When the beast looks back up, Drisella has severed a lock of hair with Barnabas' knife and tucked it into the other vial. "He is imperfect," Drisella murmurs to Walker, her knife-wielding hand trembling, "flawed," she adds, wiping the knife off on her bare arm before tucking it away in its sheathe at her wrist.
"We will offer him perfection," Drisella promises to Walker as Zargo busies himself with the other Forsaken. "Long, sweet, perfection."
___________
THE Zargo the Loathsome?
Kaynen's eyes remained unblinking. His usual cocksure smile faded and his mouth hung agape.
THE Zargo the Loathsome, who's brilliant work expanding on Proust's equations and formulas has been squandered and hidden from aspiring academics such as myself?
Kaynen was unsure whether to shake the dwarf's hand or embrace him as a kindred spirit.
Curious this effect Tiadora has over him. She seems rather plain to me, far too ... human.
Bringing his attention back to the room and its legendary occupant, the half-elf was barely prepared when he was handed the yellow-blue liquid.
Feeling its warmth, he held the flask to the light as his eyes narrowed in concentration.
"Curious color. Monoprotic or polybasic? I detect something of a magical augmentation and the heat pouring off this - it's not organic in origin, is it?"
Wasting precious time, Kaynen strolled in among the laboratory equipment and began a search for appropriately-sized gloves.
"I assume either our new benefactor or the lovely Tiadora here has already provided you with our identities and skill sets?"
Kaynen's eyes began taking an inventory of the room with a level of detail unmatched by few others in the cardinal's complex save perhaps Pinkington.
Barnabas steps forward extending his hand, "Barnbas Wright. A pleasure Master Zargo." There's an awkward pause, as the Dwarf just stares at Barnabas' hand, making no move to clasp it, until he lets it fall back to his side.
"Well then, I guess the pleasure is all mine. Shall we get started? Oh and don't mind Drisella, she's not quite housebroken yet."
With a grunt of acknowledgement, Zargo gestures for Barnabas to bend down, so he can start his examination. Holding open Barnabas' eyelids, the dwarf peers eyeball to eyeball with the man, before muttering something to himself and stepping over to jot down some notes on a nearby scrap of parchment. Coming back over, he extends his mouth probing finger and says, "Open yer gob."
"I think not," Barnabas says, turning away. "I've seen where that finger has been recently and can only cringe in horror as to where it has been historically."
"I don't have time for this," Zargo growls, grabbing Barnabas' jaw and forcing his mouth open, only to be stopped short by the prick of steel in his ribs.
"Now why don't you take your grubby little mitts off of me before I collect my own blood sample." Barnabas increases the pressure of his dagger until Zargo lets go and steps back. "Good. Now go clean your hands and make sure whatever instruments you plan on using you collect your samples are also clean."
The dwarf's face flushes with anger, "You can't come in here and tell me what..."
"That's right," Barnabas interrupts, "I can't tell you, so I am asking you nicely. If you choose to refuse, well then I'll just have to ask Mistress Tiadora to tell you to do it. I don't imagine she'll be so nice about it."
Flashing a quick glance at Tiadora, who just smiles wickedly, Zargo stomps off to a washtub in a corner of his workshop and scrubs his hands. Grumbling under his breath the whole time, he scrounges around, returning with a small basin with a number of scalpels and syringes submerged in a clear liquid. The pungent smell of raw alcohol soon overpowers the general foulness of the room.
"Any more requests your highness, or can we get on with it?"
"No Master Zargo, this is most satisfactory."
Barnabas allows the irritable dwarf to finish his collections and measurements, though he can't help adding that he takes his smoking jacket in a 36 short.
Mikhail's attention is not on the tour or the workshop in the basement, though he does hear the warning regarding the training area and the Cardinal's chambers. While he chafes slightly at being told what to do and what not to do, Mikhail is willing to put up with the commands until he is in a stronger position. While he readily agreed the night before to follow Asmodeus and the Cardinal, he does not come naturally to a lower position in hierarchy. However, dozens of years of hiding and deception have kept him well-practiced in tamping down his pride and ego for the greater good of his schemes.
He is lost in thought when Tiadora introduces them to Zargo. The importance of the name and its sinister reputation is lost on him in his inattention, though Mikhail likely would not give it much thought. Of all the dangerous people in the manor, this vile man is amongst the least of them to Mikhail. He doesn't notice Zargo's eyes wandering upon Tiadora, though he does notice his mistreatment of Drisella.
When all the rest have had their samples and measurements taken, Mikhail steps forward for his own examination. "I insist on privacy," he says to the others. "Please await my return upstairs." He glances over at Tiadora, who seems to have a faint smile on her face; surely, she understands his intention. With a subtle nod, she leads the others out of the laboratory and leaves Mikhail alone with Zargo.
When the door shuts, Mikhail catches Zargo's eye. The dwarf looks at him defiantly and says, "Well? Let's get on it with it."
Mikhail smiles and makes no effort to hide his fangs. "Yes, let's."
The others don't see him for a quarter of an hour, at least. When he re-opens the door to the lab to exit, they don't see Zargo hunched in a corner in fear or his glazed-over eyes filled with terror and hate for Mikhail. He walks up the stairs and finds the others awaiting his return in the music room. He nods to Barnabas, giving him the subtle cue that Mikhail elaborated upon his earlier statements to Zargo. He finds Drisella, making sure to keep a fair distance from her and her shadowy pet. He leans over to the girl and whispers to her, "That one will not bother you again."
Ethaniel is in no hurry to get subjected to Zargo's examination, instead allowing the others to approach the dwarf first and waiting until he is one of the last remaining members of the group. As Drisella and Kaynen and Barnabas take turns talking and being more or less manhandled by the alchemist, the magus takes this chance to take a better look at the room, though he does make the effort to steer clear of the dying man, as he does feel some sadness and pity when he considers the poor soul's fate. He does not pay all that much attention to the others, though he is not oblivious to each Forsaken's different reactions when Zargo tries to not so gently extract what he needs. 'Blood, saliva and hair,' he ponders, at the same time looking around until he finds what he seeks. "Ah..."
Noticing that Mikhail too seems to prefer being one of the last, Ethaniel finally moves closer to the dwarf. "Now, let's take a look at y...," he starts in his gruff voice before abruptly stopping. "Huh?"
His usual crooked little smile on his lips once again, Ethaniel lifts his right hand to Zargo's eye level, three little glass vials resting on his palm. One contains a crimson liquid, the other a piece of wet gauze and the third a few strands of black hair. "Your laboratory is well stocked," he offers casually, "so it was hardly difficult to find what I needed."
As the alchemist takes the vials, muttering something undoubtedly unpleasant about Ethaniel's lineage, the magus sighs. "Unfortunately, we are not done though, are we? You have to take measurements," his words as much a question as a statement. "All I ask is that you be... professional about it. No... unnecessary roughness if you please?" His tone is conversational, polite even, though it does seem that for but a moment his eyes turn towards the sword sheathed by his left hip before they once again return to Zargo. Oddly enough, the smile is still there.
As the group enters the strange dwarf's lab, Oswald grows excited at all the bubbling fluids and the body laid out in dissection. He immediately moves over by the corpse and starts inspecting the rotting remains, "Yes, my dove, see the cuts here and here... yes, yes, the ones right above the pancreas. You can see what kind of person the deceased is by cutting there. The liver, the stomach, the kidneys, and even the heart, tell you so many wonderful things." While the doctor speaks to Rosaline, Zargo finishes up his examination with Ethaniel.
Oswald reaches inside the cadaver, searching for its gall bladder to show his poppet when he is yanked back away from the body by the coarse hand of the dwarven alchemist, who with an angry grumble berates the doctor, "Stop poking around where your fingers don't belong. I swear, you new bodies have been in my lab for all of five minutes and already you're acting like you run the place!" The mad doctor's face erupts in an odd grin as he extends his hand, the same that was deep in the corpse's innards moments ago, toward Zargo, "My apologizes, sir. I am quite taken with your décor and was excited to show my daughter what a dissection looks like in person. I've had to operate on my fair share of patients in the past and would be glad to show you some interesting techniques I've learned in regards to keeping the patient alive while opening them up. You can learn so much more from living tissue."
Zargo gives Oswald and his 'daughter' a strange look as he shakes his head and readies three vials for samples, "Fine. Techniques. Maybe another time, now I need hair, saliva, and blood. You going to cooperate or make me work for them?" With that, Oswald opens his mouth wide while plucking a few hairs from his scalp with one hand and holding the other out for the bloodletting. The dwarf grumbles under his breath as he prods a swab into the doctor's inner cheeks and collects the other samples in his vials. Oswald smacks his lips together afterward, "You'll be wanting my daughter's vitals as well, I'm sure." He picks up his doll from the table next to him as he holds her out toward Zargo.
The dwarf shakes his head in a mixture of disgust and pity for the mad man while he collects the rest of his tools for his examination of Oswald, "Your daughter, right... 'she' ain't got what I need right now, you do. So for now, shut up, sit up straight and don't wiggle. This should only take a moment."
The next half hour passes quickly. Tiadora leaves for a moment and after a few minutes’ returns with Grumblejack. Zarko then takes measurements of each of the forsaken, as if measuring them for clothes. He is brusk and no nonsense, treating the blackhearts more like a farrier examining a horse then a man examining a fellow human being. He looks in your mouths and eyes, thumps your chests, examines your teeth and nails, and takes blood, saliva and hair samples, which he mixes on the spot with various reagents. He taps and pokes you with various wand-like devices. It is not the most pleasant of experiences. He is fussy and rude. When Oswald takes an interest in the corpse he peers in closely, to his amazement the man despite all indications is still alive. He groans softly and seems to shiver. Taking a closer examination the unhinged doctor sees tubes running out of the man’s skull. The tubes carry with it a sickly orange substance of the exact same color and appearance as the potion he previously handed Tiadora. When it is Kaynen’s turn to be examined the dwarf nods at the half-elf’s words. His eyebrow rises slightly and he looks at the man in a new light before his terror temporarily fades. It’s a triprotic actually. He says studying the half-elf with keen interest. A mix of phosphoric with some citrate, it should be strong enough to eat through steel if properly applied. I haven’t had the chance to test it yet. Eyes carefully tracking the man, he watches during the exam as he handled bottle after bottle. Magnesium, phosphorus, different glycols, each are present in varying amounts. To a man like Kaynen the place is the equivalent of a candy store. When you have a run of the place come see me. I usually work alone, but I could use an assistant.
Throughout rest of this process, Zargo keeps glancing over at Tiadora and then quickly looking away. There are only two moments at which he briefly forgets to be terrified of the woman...
Comments by Zarko:
Barnabas Wright: Human male, standard, standard, standard. Nothing of interest.
Oswald Turrill: Human male, standard, standard, possible psychosis. Unable to determin at this time, neglagable for fitting.
Ethaniel Tessarin: Human male, standard, standard. Heightened reaction time.
Kergh: Human male, standard, standard, minor deformities and brain activity. Negligible for purpose of fitting.
Kaynen Catesby: Para-human male, standard, standard, standard. Nothing of interest.
Drisella DiAmonicia: Human... For the first time, Zargo forgets to be terrified. He stares openly at Drisella's chest, breathing heavily, for several seconds. human... female. First phase infernal influence, complicated by, unknown being. Type, uh, A. Likely Type A. Zargo is still breathing heavily and staring. precise nature of complication cannot be determined without closer...
"Zargo." Tiadora does not raise her voice, but Zargo cringes so hard he almost slams his chin on the ground. "human female, infernal coruption phase one. Standard, nonstandard, standard yes moving right along mistress yes yes"
Grumblejack: Para-ogre male, third phase demonic or daemonic influence. Type unclear, possibly E, G or H. Reaction times well above reported ogre racial mean. Non-rugose subdermal plates. No sign of neurological consequence.
Mikhail Halancoun: Human... male... For the second time Zargo seems to forget his terror for a few moments. Multiple anomalies include dentition, dermis, digestive, likely endocrine. Test positive for negative energy but not, repeat not, standard undead. Positive for all other life tests including heartbeat and breath. Etiology unclear. Precise status unclear. Zargo stares hungrily at Mikhail. "What are you? So many questions. Who were your parents? What were your parents? How old are you? What do you eat? Who do you like to have sex with? Do you like to have sex? I'd like to take a sample of your brain tissue --" Suddenly he glances over at Tiadora again and his terror returns. "clarification impossible without dissection not possible at this time standard nonstandard standard end report"
As Mikhail is the last to finish he ushers the rest out of the room. The remaining minutes are terse and when he leaves the crouched figure of Zargo can be seen in the corner. The man wears a visage of fear. His skin is pale and drawn. His hands seem to shake. Closing the door softly, Tiadora gives a hint of a smile. Your circlets will be ready tomorrow. Until then, you have leave of the manor. Dinner will be served in three hours. The Forsaken are startled. Less than a day ago you were locked in a cell... twelve hours ago you were fleeing through the mud of high-moors. It's hard to believe. Tiadora waves at the group in dismissal. If you require anything further, the servants are at your disposal. Feel free to make use of the manor. Rest, study, meet our other guests. Enjoy what free time you have before your training begins in earnest.
_____________________
Indeed? You wish to be.. the voice carrying with it an ethereal echo of muted suffering (Indeed? You wish to be..)
The air was stale, dry.. like a faraway desert. The Cardinal sat unmoving. This was not his place, not his moment, this was between Kergh and Dessiter.
Blink.
Mouths gnashing, head writhing. Flames flickering.
Blink..
Darkness closing in, the air torturously hot, Besital tongue lolling.
Blink...
Screams, moving shadows and the palpable sense of fear.
Blink....
Such gifts are possible young one. I will make the preparations. What you ask for is no small boon and shall take some time to prepare. There will of course be a price for this power. Running a hand along his chin (black curved talon dripping with crimson blood) the devil smiled (teeth sharp as razors, hungry and white). Murmuring softly to himself, the devil cocked his head to the right as if in thought. Three days. It said at last before turning back to the Cardinal. It shall have to be in the place most unholy.
Rising, the Cardinal gave a slight bow to the devil that the creature returned in kind. Very well, three days then. Abruptly the light flooded back the room and the creature was gone. Raising Kergh to his feet the Cardinal nodded to the man. I will send Tiadora to you later with a list of instructions. Follow them as if your life depended on it. For indeed it does so and I will not have you embarrassing me by failing. Turning back to Mikhail, the Cardinal walked over to his desk and withdrew a black red velvet bag that clinked softly. Handing it to the Prince the Cardinal nodded. You are now in my service. Wear these marks and never take them off. They will shield you from the gaze of those who are foolish enough to follow their rancid god of Light. Mikhail it falls on you to make sure each of group knows their place. Do not fail me in this manner. From today forward you shall be my ninth knot, the Nessian Knot. Sitting back in the chair, the Cardinal nods to the door. Go now and rest. Enjoy your reunion, and Kergh prepare yourself. You and the rest of the ninth will have long days ahead of you and once your training starts you will find me a hard master.
Walking out of the door Mikhail reaches into the bag. Inside are eight small metal ornaments. They could likely serve as either a brooch or pin and seem to be made of iron, in the shape of an ancient numeral:
There are nine layers to the realm known as Hell. The ninth is known as the Nessus. It is said that within Nessus is the heart of Hell and the palace of Asmodeus.
Sigil of the Ninth
Aura faint abjuration; CL 3rd
Slot neck or belt; Price 2,000 gp; Weight -
Description
Crafted from wrought iron that feels slightly warm in your hands, this brooch can be worn as either a clasp for a cloak or as a belt buckle.
By touching the Sigil of the Ninth and concentrating, the wearer can change its appearance to any common material used in the crafting of jewelry such as silver, gold, wood or mithril and it may be worked worked in any pattern. The only constant is that it cannot be made invisible by any means; it will still appear as either a brooch or a belt buckle though it can be disguised or non magically hidden.
When anyone attempts to cast a detection or divination spell on the wearer or any of wearers possessions they must make a DC 25 concentration check or the spell fails and instead reveals that you are of the diametrically opposed alignment. This power does not affect anyone who is wearing or holding one of the pins, so possessors of matching pins may still cast divinations on each other.
Construction
Requirements Craft Wondrous Item, nondetection; Cost 1,000 gp
Mikhail takes the velvet bag from the Cardinal with a slight bow of thanks. "I shall impart this requirement upon the others and tell them of your generous gift. May the will of Asmodeus be followed." He starts by pinning the brooch to his own shirt. He focuses for a moment, picturing a badge of office his "father" once wore showing his subservience to Cheliax, long before Markadian I betrayed their family name for his own glory and power. The brooch shimmers briefly, taking on a very similar appearance - though it is different enough that anyone looking upon it would think it a mere sentimental trinket unless they were intimately familiar with colonial politics of Cheliax prior to the ascendance of the House of Thrune. He hands the temporarily intelligent Kergh the second one of them without a word spoken between them; he finds himself liking the non-addled dwarf, as well as his trust and loyalty. He bows to the Cardinal as he takes his leave, ensuring that he will show him respect at all times.
Mikhail distributes the magical trinkets throughout the day, taking the time to sit down with each of his compatriots to explain its use and the importance of wearing it at all times. He also takes the time to learn more about each of them. He tells his own story in more detail to any of them who want to know - leaving out some critical and inconvenient details, like his accidental unleashing of Markadian IV's wrath upon the cults of Asmodeus. He is charming to the others, knowing what to say to flatter and inspire each of them in turn. He tries to get as much information from each of them as he passes along the magical items, learning their strengths and weaknesses along with their history. If he is to lead this Knot, he must know all that he can about his allies.
As evening arrives with the setting of the sun, Mikhail makes his way to his room. He knows that Selanna will be there, waiting for him, just as he knows that she will be as difficult to seduce as the first time they met. Their dance follows its same razor-sharp pattern of the last several decades, with each of them trying to one-up the other even as they work their separate and often-connected agendas. He opens the door silently, his eyes hitting the bed. In a moment of disappointment, he sees that it is empty. He removes his shirt and heads to the window, throwing aside the heavy curtain and looking into the new moonlight. He feels the cold metal of a sharp blade touch the back of his neck softly, and he smiles knowingly. "You may have heard, Selanna, but I have made some powerful friends in the last several days. I don't think it would make much sense to cut my throat now, would it?"
He turns with a smile, taking in the beautiful face of the only woman he has ever felt love for - besides some faint affection for his mother and genuine feeling for his son's daughter. In the long list of women that he has seduced, Selanna is the only one that has ever mattered. Her smile, challenging and mischeivous, maddening and intoxicating, shines more light than any sunlit day. Like with the sun, however, he must be careful with her. Still, in light of what has happened the last few days, he closes the distance between them in a flash. Her blade hits the floor with a thunk, imbedded in the expensive wood, as she drops it. He pulls her tight for a passionate embrace. This is one time that he controls his urge to bite - for now...
Barnabas tracks down Tiadora and flatters the thoroughly unimpressed woman outrageously until he finds out where Blackerly is currently being held. Information in hand, he then goes in search of Ethaniel.
"Blackerly is being held in a small stone room near the servants quarter. You wanted the opportunity to try obtain the information I desire from him by less gruesome means than I intend to use. If you still desire the chance, I will give you a day to try, but no more than that. Perhaps Kaynen may be of some use, he seems to have a way with people."
"The information I desire is who is Ventris and where he might be found. If you are no longer interested in trying, well I saw a very bored looking Oswald not too long ago. I'm sure we'll be able to come up with something.
Wandering around, poking his nose wherever he can get away with poking it, Barnabas stumbles across then empty shrine of Asmodeus. Peering into the hallway to see if anyone else is around, he ducks into the room. Self-consciously he kneels before the alter and lowers his head to the floor in supplication.
"Oh great Lord, hear my call. This unworthy one beseeches your aid, grant me the power to reclaim what is mine and I pledge myself your service. Guide my hand in seeking vengeance against those who have wronged me and I will see those who opposed your dominion put in chains. Aid me and my meagre soul is yours."
Barnabas continues his one sided bargaining and flattering with Asmodeus for an hour before leaving. He will repeat his devotions each day they are in the manor.
The others hadn't seen Mikhail for a quarter of an hour, at least. When he re-opens the door to the lab to exit, they don't see Zargo hunched in a corner in fear or his glazed-over eyes filled with terror and hate for Mikhail. He walks up the stairs and finds the others awaiting his return in the music room. He nods to Barnabas, giving him the subtle cue that Mikhail elaborated upon his earlier statements to Zargo. He finds Drisella, making sure to keep a fair distance from her and her shadowy pet. He leans over to the girl and whispers to her, "That one will not bother you again."
Drisella's eyes slowly lift to meet Mikhail's and there's a doe-eyed stare offered to the dhampir, one that lingers for a moment too long before anything is said to break the awkward silence between words. "He didn't," she implies, perhaps contrary to the repugnance and fear she showed earlier. But that is what Drisella is, proven by her distant stare and awkward silence. "Thank you."
She is contrary, she is strange, and she lives within those moments of awkward silence between words.
Rows upon rows of votive candles illuminate the shrine to Asmodeus within the manor. Darkly painted walls of rich umber are draped with sagging curtains of crushed velvet in deepest crimson. The hardwood floor is smooth under Drisella's feet as she walks in, and Walker in Darkness announces its presence with a click of claws with each step. Far from the entrance, a tiered alter laden with silken cloth in three shades of red is topped with an iron icon of a five-pointed star, beneath with a granite bowl has been placed.
Sitting cross-legged on the steps leading up to the altar, Tiadora looks relaxed, if not languid. Incense burns around her from concealed aspergillum in blind alcoves. "You look like you belong in here," she comments of the young woman, "but we both know you don't, do you?"
Leaning forward, Tiadora picks up a small object bundled in black satin from the step beside her. The older woman's stare meets Drisellas, and as the younger woman's pace picks up, Walkers slows down. Eventually, the usually protective beast settles down on its haunches, then lies down on the floor, chin on its crossed paws like some sort of grotesque hound.
Drisella's heart races in her chest when she sees the right angles and straight lines betraying the shape beneath the cloth where sharp corners below fabric draw taut. Tiadora glances to the concealed object, then sets it down in her lap. "When you arrived, I half expected to see you in a much less... whole condition."
The notion elicits a raised brow, but otherwise silence, from Drisella. Tiadora looks down to the cloth-wrapped object in her lap and continues. "I'm sure you've already been told that your soul is spoken for." She looks up to Drisella, who has come to sit beside her on the stairs, matching her posture and languid stance as if attempting to emulate "natural" behavior.
"Souls and strings, the ephemeral things, tie us all together," Drisella opines in a sing-song manner, weaving her fingers through the air as if a puppeteer controling a marionette. Tiadora lifts one brow, then takes a slow, patient breath.
"I believe what you encountered before your... arrest, was an Ostiarius." The last word, spoken by Tiadora, elicits movement from the Walker, and the creature now regards her with a turn of its head and all six glistening eyes. "The Ostiarius are Kyton, entities that we of the faith,' she motions to the iron star, "have a complicated relationship with."
Drisella's expression is one lacking in comprehension. Not of the basic concepts, but of the higher-order ones. Tiadora glances to Walker, then back to Drisella. "You don't even know what you experienced, do you?" It isn't so much indignation at Drisella's ignorance, but pity that Tiadora feels. "Much as I am owned by Asmodeus, you are claimed by a greater power. Some eremite force from the deepest shadows has chosen you for a purpose. One that I, and it seems you, are unaware of."
Rising to stand, Tiadora clutches the concealed object in her hands. "Your eidolon, the... Walker in Darkness?" Tiadora looks at the creature inspectingly, "it is a part of your very soul. However, when you had your encounter with the Ostiarius, it was changed. It reflects your soul, now, comingled with the essence of kyton logic and desire for perfection. It, like the powerful eremites, consumes the distinctive qualities of others to add to its own uniqueness and perfection... and therefore your own perfection."
Tiadora threads an errant lock of hair behind one ear, and regards Drisella with a halfway-idded stare. One hand rises, and she brushes her knuckles against Drisella's cheek. "I understand, now, what I did not when you arrived. Unlike other Kyton, who show their transformation on the outside... you express yours through Walker. Your transformation is taking place not here," she says with a gentle brush of her thumb across Drisella's lips, and then moving her hand down "but here," she taps her sternum.
"The heart yearns," Drisella whispers, looking at the covered object in Tiadora's hand. It directs the older woman's stare to the black satin, and then elicits her to remove the cloth covering, revealing an ornately fashioned wooden puzzlebox with brass fittings. She offers it out to Drisella, placing it in the girl's raised palms.
"This is not yours," Tiadora clarifies, "it belongs to the Cardinal. But," she withdraws her hand from the puzzlebox. "He has seen fit to allow you to use it. The device communicates across the vastness of the planes and can, for a time, link your mind with that of a kyton and allow you to learn from it."
Taking a step back, Tiadora looks to the Walker in Darkness, then up to Drisella. "When you are finished, return it to me." Tiadora needn't say what would happen if Drisella chose otherwise, even the implication of a threat isn't warranted here.
Neither shares a farewell to the other. Tiadora leaves within the awkward silence between words that Drisella lingers in, and when she shuts the door to the chapel, Drisella is cradling the puzzlebox to her chest as if reunited with a long-lost friend.
When the door clicks shut, Tiadora exhales a breath she had been holding in, and closes her eyes slowly.
Deep breaths.
From its position on the floor, the Walker in Darkness observes Drisella. The young woman is quick to settle on the floor, legs bent to the side and dress rumpled. The puzzlebox is laid out between the two of them, and Drisella works feverishly to align the configuration. It isn't a simple matter, and Tiadora hadn't given her the combination of panel movements and lock slides necessary. In a way, it is a learning exercise, a test in critical thinking.
It takes ten minutes for Drisella to configure the box in such a way that it opens, much like the Chelish Crux had, but instead of emptying out an extradimensional space, this one does... nothing.
Or seemingly nothing.
While Drisella waits, wide-eyed and expectant for some grandiose display of power from the magical device, she is wholly unaware of the silk curtains behind her moving with a semblance of life. They draw away from the wall, as if being pulled by some unseen force. The curtains wrap around a humanoid shape, like a loose robe around a regal Taldan senator. The shadows of the room grow darker, candles dim, and in the empty space where a body should be, swirling masses of smoky darkness take on the vague silhouette of limbs. The ends of the curtain remain anchored to rod and wall, pulled back and stretched taut.
"There is a secret song at the center of the world," a whispering of voices emanates from within the shadows, not merely one, but many. Drisella turns around sharply on hearing that sound, her eyes wide with fright. Her heart races, terror has come over her, and yet she smiles. "Its sound is like razors through flesh."
Licking at her lips, Drisella leans forward and stares at the creature's projection in wordless awe. It, too, stares into her with nonexistant eyes. A shaky, hoarse question slips past Drisella's lips. "How?"
"The box. You opened it. We came." The answers are terse, simple and efficient. It raises one smoke, ephemeral hand and directs a finger towards Drisella, indicating her guilt in the part of their arrival. Her breathing hastens, and as Drisella searches her mind for questions, the specter of kyton expression never looks away from her.
"She--" Drisella reconsiders, "Tiadora said you-- your relationship with her was complicated. Explain." Taking a tentative step forward, she watches the way the smoky shadows undulate and ripple when it speaks, as if it were vibrating with each sylable.
"We were once of Hell," the kyton expression whispers. "But my people seek to escape form, to escape prejudice, to escape all restrictions that wantonly encage us." It motions towards itself, many voices speaking as one to the needs of the many. "To this end, we voluntarily migrated to the one place in all existence where the body becomes muted, and voices, philosophies, and sensations are amplified. We are ascetics, the darkness our endless meditation. Hell could not contain our desires."
Drisella looks down to the floor, briefly, then back up to the expression of the kytons before her, taking another step closer. "When I met you," she presumes of the shadows, "you-- changed me. Tiadora didn't think anything bad of it, but the inquisitor who captured me... called me-- called you evil." Furrowing her brows, she tries to comprehend the moral construct of good versus evil. "Am I? Are-- are you?"
It tilts its head to the side, reiterating the word as if unfamiliar with it. "Evil?" There is no curiosity or amusement in its voice, however. "Such a small word to sum up our people, our culture, and our millennia-old ideals. We have little belief in the concept. We have seen holy men sacrifice innocents and be called saints. We have seen mothers who stole only to feed their children go to the gallows. We perceive evil to be an artificial construct, a mere description created by frightened clerks so they can determine whether one’s actions fall within or outside their narrow visions for what reality should be."
The kyton expression waves a hand through the air, flippantly, its voice always level and measured, always the hiss of wet wood on a fire, or silk sliding over stone. "Someone has told you that we are evil, and why wouldn't they? We seek to enlighten. To reveal secrets of reality, rebirth, immortality, and divinity that no creature that calls itself ‘good’ would wish to see revealed. Surely our words are heresy in every faith where the blind follow the sighted, for we promise to reveal wonders inherent in every worthy soul, wonders the deities claim are theirs alone."
"But are we evil? Are you? We believe in potential. We believe that some creatures are without significance and not worthy of our hand raised to save them. Conversely, we believe the multiverse blesses some beings with extraordinary traits, with the potential to do—to be—great things. The fact that we exist to seek out such potential and help it flourish means that regardless of what you believe about such small words like ‘good’ and ‘evil,’ inarguably the cosmos has guided me to you, and as we believe in the power of that cosmos." Then, more forcefully it states, "We believe in you."
With one hand cupped over her mouth, Drisella steps closer to the kyton. Her breaths are frantic and short, and she comes as close as she can to the expression of shadow and velvet without leaning against it. "Why me?" she whispers against the velvet.
The kyton rests one smoke hand against Drisella's shoulder and draws her closer. With the other, it lifts her chin up to look into its featureless face. "It is not hands that summon us," it whispers to her, lifting its hand to touch a fingertip to her brow, "It is desire."
Then, before Drisella can ask another question, she feel a sudden and sharp pain on her forehead. There, where her summoner's mark should appear when her eidolon is called, flesh begins to fissure. She flinches, first, then tenses and struggles.
Then, as she screams in agony, the kyton whispers reassurances to her.
"Oh, what wonders we have to show you."
____________
"It will take far less than that, Barnabas," Ethaniel reassures the man, "regardless of whether I succeed or not. But how will I know that he will be telling me the truth if he chooses to speak? Because my... way has a certain finality to it if he does answer my questions." He shrugs then. "Of course, if he does not talk after my little chat with him, you are free to try anything else you might have in mind."
"You are free to rescind your offer, by the way," the magus adds in a friendly enough tone. "I will not be offended."
Kaynen looks up from his notes and calculations at the magi's invitation and continues to look at him with an expressionless gaze as the numbers in his mind continue to tumble about in his thoughts like two donkey rats.
Finally he shakes himself out of his deep mental concentration and paints his self-sure smile back on his face like a mask.
"Certainly, I could use a distraction for a while, and this sounds like it could be both entertaining and enlightening..."
Standing from his desk, Kaynen smooths his clothes and follows Ethaniel to Blackerly's cell.
As they make their way to Blackerly's cell, Ethaniel turns to the smiling bard next to him. "You can make a person more open to seeing things our way, is that right? Well, I think it would be a good idea to put that magic to use before I make my proposal to the man. After all, considering what has been done to him, I doubt he will listen to what I have to say to him with an open mind, so to speak."
Once they finally reach the room where their former jailer is being held, the irony not lost on him, the magus pauses before opening the door, allowing himself a moment to gather his thoughts for the task of negotiating with a man who hates him and with just cause. Then, the moment gone, he breathes a soft sigh and opens the door, stepping inside and taking a good look at the pitiful man. "Greetings, Sergeant. I would have said good day, but there is no day for you now, is there? Only night," he says calmly, the tone behind his words not unkind. "I have come with a proposition, an... offer if you will."
He pauses then, but not to allow the prisoner to speak. Instead, he motions to Kaynen and waits for the bard to work his subtle magic. Once that is done, he continues, regardless of whether the magic takes hold or not.
"You know what awaits you. If you are lucky, death, but after considerable and unbearable torture, I am sure. If you are not, then something undoubtedly worse even than that," he sighs. He is not fond of the man, but he does not necessarily like what will probably be done to him. "This place is home to people and... well, not quite people that I would expect to not only be capable of such things, but rather talented at them." And then his next words are a simple statement. "You will talk."
"What I offer is simple enough," he says then, his tone perhaps slightly warmer. "Talk now. Speak the truth about who Ventris is and where he might be found and I will grant you the one thing that you could hope for under the circumstances."
"A quick death. Clean and painless."
The night grew late by the time dinner and pleasantries were done. The day had been a swirl of contracts, introductions, examinations, and exploration that seemed to drag on forever. Oswald shooed the last of the servants from his room with mild irritation as it was long past Rosaline’s bedtime. ”Come, my little dove, it is time for little girls to dream of rainbows and unicorns. Soon daddy will be very busy with the others learning how to bring the mean ol’ Mitrans down and you’ll need all your energy to cheer me on… Yes, my dear, I’ll sing you a lullaby so you can sleep,” the mad doctor tells his daughter as he gently lays her down on the large bed, tucking her in under the covers. He sits on the bed next to his poppet as a hoarse song slips forth from Oswald’s lips,
”Tick tock goes the clock,
And what now shall we play?
Tick tock goes the clock
Now summer’s gone away?
Tick tock goes the clock
And all the years they fly
Tick tock and all too soon
You and I must die.”
Lost in his own thoughts and the words of his song, Oswald does not notice the air of the room growing cooler. Frost begins to collect on the large vanity mirror on the room’s dresser, swirls like icy leaves forming on its reflective surface. A faint tink-tink-tink noise joins Oswald’s lyrics and it isn’t until the third iteration of the sound that the doctor’s lullaby trails off into silence.
Tink-tink-tink.
Oswald turns his head to look about the room for the source of the strange noise. He picks up his well-used prison billy-club and gets down on his knees and checks under the bed. Nothing but dust awaits him. As the doctor stands, he catches a faint glow coming from the frost-coated mirror. When he draws close, the glow clarifies into an ethereal figure floating in the reflection of his room. Oswald turns to glance over his shoulder but only sees the empty room. The figure places its hand on the other side of the mirror, sweeping away frost as her face draws closer and into full view.
The sound of a wooden club hitting ground and rolling away fills the air as Oswald struggles to find his voice. Words, as if pulled from some deep vault long buried, finally come in crackling wonderment, ”Penelope? Is that you, my dear?”
A bitter smile plays across Penelope’s face as she nods in acknowledgement. As if speaking from the bottom of a deep well, her voice echoes forth from the mirror, ”It is I, husband. Have you missed me after all these years?”
”Years? But it has only been a few days, dear wife. Years! Surely you jest with me. We were eating supper only a week past at our home. That is before the guards came and took you and the little ones from me. I was able to find and save Rosaline, you see?” Oswald motions toward the bed behind him, ”I should wake her. She will be thrilled to know you are alright. Then we can find Tomas and be a family again. Oh, that will be grand. We can find a quiet little house somewhere to live in peace, far from the machinations of hypocrites and charlatans. Don’t you-“
With a loud thump of her ghostly fist against the mirror that sends tremors radiating out into the wall behind it, Penelope cuts Oswald’s rambling off with a furrowed brow and anger in her voice, ”HUSBAND! Gather your wits about you and listen. I have little time these days to waste on mortal trivialities. Tomas is dead. I am dead. We did not survive the fever. But it was not the disease that killed us. The Mitrans murdered us. The priests of Mitra saw into the darkest crevasse of my soul and found the shackles that I willingly bore for the Master. As punishment for that perceived heresy, they withheld the healing touch of their god.”
”You are not dead. No, no, you and the little ones pulled through the fever. I saw it with my own eyes. It bankrupted me to find a suitable treatment but you survived! We lived happily next to the stone gardens, remember?”
”Enough, Oswald! You must stop living buried in the past. We are gone but not gone. The Master has loaned my contract to Thorn and with it my soul. I shall be here to watch and guide you as I am able. Death is not the end, husband, of all people you should know this. You are not alone; never alone. I will be with you for a long time. You owe me many vengeances upon this kingdom. We’ll have to plan something especially nasty for L’Trass. For now, sleep and remember that you live in the present, not the past.”
Oswald slumps to the floor in a quivering mess as he gazes at his wife’s face, ”No, not dead. No one died. We live a simple happy life. The children laugh and play while you cook dinner. I wash the dirt of a hard day off my hands. Happy, alive! Not dead!” The sound of cracking ice fills the room as Penelope reaches one ethereal hand through the glass of the mirror, sending a spider web of cracks racing across it. Her glowing blue-white hand reaches down to touch Oswald on the forehead as her voice fills the room, ”REMEMBER!”
An explosion of images and feelings pour into Oswald. All the hate and anger of his wife’s spirit floods across his mindscape. He feels adrift in a dark sea. The waves crash down over his head, pushing him deep into the black abyss before consciousness slips from him.
The flames cracked gloomily in communal library. Rather than creating light, it seemed to drink it in, casting shadows and giving sinister aura about the room. The room itself was well appointed. Like the rest of Horn Manor the room was walled with hardwoods and wainscoting. Floor to ceiling shelves flanked a massive granite fireplace. A pair of reading chairs sat to the left of the fireplace while a couch and two end tabled faced the fire. The room was pleasantly warm. Hanging above the mantle was a pastoral scene of villagers tending a field. Only at second glance does the painting carry with it like the rest of the house carry an undertone of malice. The faces of the villagers look meek and drawn and resting against a tree is a man who might be carrying a whip. Perhaps it is for the horses… or it could be for the villagers.
Glancing on the bottom left corner of the painting your able to make out the flowing script of the artists signature. The name read Schosibel. Eyes widening, you realize that you recognize this name. Schosibel was a very famous painter who enjoyed some renowned prior to the Asmodeus purges. He was famed for his subtle renditions of life under the rule of the Dark Prince. An original painting such as this would be enough for a peasant to live off of for years. You also know that the possession of a Schosibel would be enough to earn a visit from the inquisition.
As the Forsaken, or Ninth Knot enter into the room, they see sitting next to the fireplace on the right is a white haired beauty with austere features. A white raven perches on the edge of the chair back behind her and she is in the middle of a conversation with a large, brooding hulk of a man who stands in front of the fire. Seated on the couch are two men who share a similar likeness in features. With olive skin and dark brown hair like recently tilled soil as the men are likely brothers or cousins. One of the men wears a silver and carmine inverted pentagram around his neck. The younger of the two seems to be telling a joke of some kind to which the other laughs and slaps his knee.
The last member two members of the odd group are a large rotund man and a skinny lithe woman. The man has rippling folds of fat that wrinkle his arms and his massive girth is contained by a black robe. His forehead is sloped and the fat combined with the way his jowls move makes him resemble an anthropomorphic pig rather than a human. His left arm is covered with several leeches and just as the Forsaken walk into the room he is in the middle of plucking one off and dropping it into a glass jar. Where the man is fat, the woman in contrast is skinny, almost painfully so. She has emerald eyes and dark black hair. A brace of daggers are kept on a bandoleer at her side and she wears a silver ring on one hand. She seems light on her feet and has keen eyes. The only thing of note is what appears to be insect bites on her left and right arms.
One item of note is however clearly apparent. Each member of the group bears a belt buckle or brooch that bears a . Rising from her chair, the apparent leader glances at the new arrivals and coldly smiles. Her teeth are ivory white and she carries the gravitas of a glacier. Ah, I was told that others would be arriving. Gesturing to the others with an arrogant wave her hand, she glances back to her raven who ruffles its albino feathers. My name is Elise, and this is Dostan. She announces laying a hand on the large mans shoulder possessively while glancing coldly at Drisella. The brothers are Tallus and Titus and we have Vathan and Yaris. She stated matter-of-factly, pointing to the brother and then the large man and finally the woman. It seems we will be sharing this house for some time. Tell me, what are your name and what brings you here?
The accents from these men are clearly Galtan. You know that the nation has been locked in a set of continual revolutions for years. Each bloody revolution is eventually placed by another. How they came to be here might be of some interest. It is said that the only true authority that remains in revolution after revolution are the Grey Gardeners who oversee the use of the Final Blades; massive guillotines that are used as instruments of execution against the masses.
The white haired woman bears the likeness and accent of someone that likely grew up in Irrisen. Combined with her raven it’s possible she might have some ties to the Winter Witches. The large fur covered man on the other hand seems more to is perhaps Ulfen or Kellid. The accent sounds more Ulfen. Perhaps he is her protector?
Between the ruddy skin color as well as the inclusions of leeches it’s likely that this man is in some way tied to the Bloat Mages from Kaer Maga. It is said that the Bloat Mages believe that the magic that is contained in their blood and that their massive bulk allows them to gain more power. Some will even go to such lengths as harvesting their blood by leeches in order to use it later during their invocations.
Because of the lack of speech by the woman it is hard to place where she may be from. The multiple insect bites however are curious. Based on the redness of the bites they seem recent, and at a closer glance it appears that there are wasps, scorpion and centipede injures that have been sustained. You do know that each of these creatures often contain poison of one sort or another. Perhaps the woman is slowly trying to build immunities to these poisons?
Clad in a bloodied guardsman uniform, the limp figure of Tomas Blackerly huddled in a corner. In the time between the Forsaken and Blackerly had parted ways someone had taken the time to wrap bandages around the man's face. A normal person might have thought it was to lessen the pain or perhaps treat the man, but there were no normal people in the Horn Manor. The bandages were already stained red and tears of crimson were visible in the torchlight, having run down the man's face and dried. Oswalds neat scalpel cuts had also been wrapped, these too were stained.
The sight was tragic in its own way. Tomas Blackerly had never been a good man, but he had not been an evil one. Self serving and greedy, malicious towards his charges, but not evil. To have lost his vision and the ability to move was more than any man should have to bear.
The air in the room smelled rank. At some point the sergeant must have used the bathroom. He was a wretch, a broken destroyed man.
Hearing Ethaniel's words the man tried looking to the left and then to the right. He could see nothing, but he could focus on the sound. He didn't want to die, but the Forsaken had no idea what power Ventris held over him. He made a mewling sound, and then coughed. It sounded like death. Coughing again, Blackerly sighed. Water.. give me some water and a smoke. I'll be dammed if I die without a last request.
She moved like silk, gliding and flowing. The past few months had been harsh to Mikhail. He had been forced to do things that he had never considered before. In the hundred odd years of his life he had always depended on his words to see him through a situation. He had been like a spider in the web, maneuvering his pieces towards his end goal of the crown. But if Mikhail had been a spider, then she was a black widow.
Selana wiped the sweat off her forehead and laid her head on Mikhails chest. A surprisingly soft and submissive gesture for a woman who was usually so fierce and dominating. She shivered involuntarily, even now after the throws of passion Mikhail was cold, frightfully so. She sighed, enjoying the moment.
You are mine... She whispered, looking up into Mikhails eyes, while running a hand along his face with one sharp nail. As if to punctuated the whispered claim she dug the nail into his skin at the soft point of the pallet below his jaw. I found you first. The Cardinal may think he claims you, but you are not his.
Rising luxuriously she unabashedly walked to the small table and poured herself a glass of wine, and then thoughtfully poured a second for Mikhail. Sauntering back she crawled into bed and sipped at the crimson liquid slowly before handing the second goblet to the Dhampir. Glancing into his eyes. Selanna asked casually, So whatever shall we talk about. Wordlessly her eyes conveyed another message. Caution, remember what I said.
Mikhail greets the leader of the other group - their allies in the quest to liberate Talingarde and their rivals for the Cardinal's attention - with an icy smile. The witch may have ice running through her veins, but Mikhail's blood runs just as cold. "I am Mikhail Halancoun, leader of the Ninth Knot." He gestures to the clasp of his cloak, the "IX" readily apparent, to illustrate his point. He then gestures to each of his fellow Forsaken with an open hand of magnanimity. Where the frozen witch is dismissive towards the members of her group, he would be effusive in the praise of his. He takes pains, however, not to say too much about their specific talents, so as to not "This is Barnabas Wright, ruthless and imaginative in his pursuit of our goals. Here you have Kergh, blessed and beloved of Asmodeus. Ethanial Tessarin has a mind as focused and sharp as any blade. Kaynen Catesby here has a unique vision for this nation, one that we all share in. This is Drisella DiMonicia, powerful enough to bind an outsider at her tender age. Finally, Doctor Oswald Turrill, whose talent with the human body is truly unmatched. We are here for the same reasons that I suspect you are - to throw down the wretched cult of Mitra that pervades this nation and retards its progress."
Mikhail can see in the woman's eyes that she is not impressed with them. She likely sees Mikhail in the same light that he sees her - a useful tool, but ultimately a rival that would have to be taken care of. He is at least glad that there is no mistake between them as to their long-term goals. The Ninth Knot would be the premier agents of Asmodeus on Talingarde. As the future king of the island nation, he would not have it any other way. His words are too smooth to trigger an immediate outrage, for sure, but he knows that she will be no friend to him and his true allies.
Mikhail sits up in the bed, the delicate sheets wrapped around his thin waist. Bloody scratches run up and down his body, though not a single one of them was gained from his escape from Branderscar. He looks thinner and paler than usual, though he feels stronger and more capable than ever before. He takes the glass of wine and sips at it, frowning slightly. Normally, a glass of wine would be a welcome flavor - but it has lost a bit of its decadent luster compared to the feeling of power when feeling the last of someone's blood pumping into his mouth. "How long have you been back in Talingarde? For my vanity, I hope that you returned upon hearing of my misfortune. Surely you could not let decades of our plans go to waste."
He frowns deeply, looking down at the wine. "I fear that I made a miscalculation. Do you recall when I wore the guise of that Andoran dignitary, around thirty years ago?" She smiles faintly at the memory. She was the one that arranged for the dignitary to visit a brothel on the trip to Talingarde, an illicit visit that he would not return from. When he was to arrive by boat, she had arranged to smuggle Mikhail onto the ship so that he could claim the missing man's identity with no one on Talingarde the wiser. They had caused quite a bit of damage to the reputation of the rival nation of Cheliax, causing a series of minor scandals that undermined an alliance between the two nations. "I attended the ceremony of the dissolution of the Brotherhood of Marthanya, which my vile brother used to hunt me down. I grew arrogant and should have stayed in the shadows that day. I believe that the father of the man who betrayed me to the Knights of Alerion was in attendance that day, and that he saw through our disguise. I did not know that he was a member of the Brotherhood, and thus I discounted the possibility of it when Valerio Madouci came into my orbit. I moved too quickly, assembling allies and openly carrying out my plotting. I should have waited for you, as you would have dissuaded me from growing so reckless." He grows quiet. It is the first time in a long, long time that he had admitted his own culpability in his fall from grace.