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My earliest memories are dominated by pain. My eyes constantly burning from the uncaring Sun. My pale and sensitive skin aflamed from any exposure to that shared Orb. My heightened hearing bombarded by cruel voices; whispered wounding words spoken by those that view me. Aromatic scents confounding and smothering me, creating an overwhelming storm of sights, sounds, smells...,
Dorian pauses.
Tastes. Food and drink tasting like spoiled ash in my mouth. I hunkered for...more sustainable nourishment.
He continues.
But it wasn't any of the physical pain that would dominate my every waking hour. As I grew older, the physical limitations? Gifts? would be contained,over-comed endured. I would be given lessons in discipline to curtail my baser impulses: To resist my primal urge to feast on those that surrounds me!
I have plenty of learning, yet, to do!
Naferatu, blood-drinker, infant devourer, these names, burdens, accusations hound my very existence.People are cruel. People are merciless. People are blood-thirsty. Ironic, isn't it?
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The haunted youth sighs. He looks at his attentive audience with hope filled blue eyes. His pale skin contrasts sharply with his blue/black hair. His facial features seem chiseled from marble by a master sculptor. His body tense. Long-legged, muscular, and seemingly ready to spring away with a quickness and supernatural intuition, the wary youth is clearly exhausted. Simple garments of dyed sheep's wool; a blue long sleeved shirt with matching loose fitting pants, along with a humble opened white robe with the hood lazily draped on his back, appeared to have seen happier days. His only adornment hangs from his neck: a blue, open palm hand.
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I was abandoned at birth. My mother (a nobleman's daughter) hung herself from grief, terror, revulsion at her baby monster! I was unceremoniously tossed from a speeding carriage. My splintered crate trebucheted into a stand of trees at the base of the stairs of the temple of Irori. It was only by happenstance, a monk told me later, that I was recovered. The monks took me in; a malformed undead child, unwanted, shunned, casted away. They taught me order. Meditations to ease my urges. And, I, am trained in certain...ways of combat, although my training was only beginning.
The youth pauses for a full minute. He looks the gravel voice man in the eyes,
I am called Dorian.
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My life changed quite dramatically about a Ten day ago. I've spent my initial twelve years raised among the Order. I was relatively safe from every day persecution, although I have had my days of torment. Being...different...allows no rest from hurtful words, hurled stones, or hurricane forced brutality! Over-all, I led a solitary existence. I was granted shelter, clothing, nourishment.
Dorian's face colors slightly.
I do have urges. I can be sustained on mortal foods, even though the taste is horrible and without comfort. The blood lust beckons ever so persistently. It waxes and wants as the moon's above. The monks informed me that I am only half vampire. My human blood sustains, feeds my vampiric needs.
Argon looks at the book Wrathe shows him, and flips through the pages. He nods, accepting that it is interesting to some, then asks, "Do you have anything about swords? Or Falcatas?
Wrathe taps his chin, wending his way mentally through the book titles he had seen thus far, and then nods. He retrieves 'A Catalogue of Most Wicked Weaponry, Volume IV' and sets it in front of Argon.
Contentedly chewing on apple pieces, while sketching those around him, he flips back and forth between the racial phylogeny that was penned by D. H. Duvalle and Advanced Theories of Energy Manipulation, excitedly sharing the juiciest bits with Ssilax.
Fielding the old man's earlier comment about training he avows, "I am ready to learn what you have to show master Dainoth."
"An..., interesting tale. One that has the ring of truth to it, you don't have the scent of a liar about you," the gravel voiced man finally speaks after several long, silent minutes of uncomfortable staring at the half-living boy. Dorian's sharp eyes let him notice the black cloaked figure sliding a short, nasty looking knife back into a wrist sheath as he rises to his feet with a liquid grace.
For just the briefest of moments, Dorian happens to see a brief twin flicker of burning red eyes when the gravel voiced figure rises from the floor. It was so quick, the monk to be wasn't even sure if what he saw was real. With several noiseless footsteps the man wrapped in figures steps within three feet of Dorian. The young monkling notices that the figure is completely wrapped up from head to toe in leather armor, the cloak and cowl, all of a deep, light crushing black. Not a sliver of skin shows.
"On your feet," Gravel voice commands. "I'm taking you to someone that might be able to give you a degree of aid. You will undoubtedly be questioned about being half-dead, but you should not come under harm while your are his guest. Provided you don't do anything.., foolish that is." Hand blurring, he snaps out a kukri and slices through the ropes that bound Dorian's hands. Sheathing his blade as he turns towards the foor, his gravelly voice floats over his shoulder.
"Don't wander off on your own, and keep up with me if you want to survive. The shadow cloaked man says as he leaves the abandoned building. Without turning to see if Dorian follows.
Back in the Mage's home
Smiling when the devil-cursed boy thanks him for the gift, Danioth nods to Wrathe. The old man informs of what drawer the ink and short quill pens are located in the unlocked chest in the Alchemy chamber. Pretty much running to and from the chest, Wrathe returns to the table in a handful of heartbeats.
With a surprising degree of skill, the boy sketches out the scene. The old man lost in thought, smoking his pipe, his rat nibbling on a chunk of cheese and looking at the gathered children. The young dragon touched girl, trying to pass herself off as a boy, was traveling her memories. At the moment, her face was unguarded, strong, but pretty. The larger boy, closer to a man's height his carved features intent as he looks through a book on weapons. The dragonkin sitting in a chair, legs pulled up to his chest as he carefully trims his toe claws with a wickedly sharp looking knife. His own travel journal sitting neatly upon another book he had been sharing with Wrathe.
With am interesting touch, the viewing center of his main sketch seems to be floating a few feet above and behind Wrathe. He includes the back of his own head, hair akimbo, and shoulders.
At Wrathe's answer, the old man smiles faintly and chuckles. He listens to Ssilax and Wrathe discussing their thoughts on clearly very advanced topics. The expression on the wrinkled old man's leathery face was a mix of amusement and amazement.
Carefully trimming his toe claws with the borrowed knife, Ssilax was clearly impressed with how easily the blade cuts the tough claw. It doesn't take him long to preform necessary maintenance on all of his claws. Gathering up the trimmings on a small cloth, he walks them over to Dainoth and sets the knife besides them on the table.
Smiling shyly, the dragonkin thanks "Mister Dainoth" for the gift of the travel journal and letting him borrow the knife.
"And for having your relative heal me, and for, well everything," Ssilax's smiles again and sets a few golden scales on top of the claw trimmings. "These where loose scales, I thought you might be interested in them as well."
Going back over to Wrathe, he scoots his chair a little closer so that will have an easier time sharing books. Ssilax hand never tried to read two books at once, but it seemed worth a try. Wrathe seems to jump between several at once. Ssilax had always been more of a methodical reader, devouring written word.
Thinking back to just after the stalker had clawed her and focusing on just more then the fear that she had felt that night she says " He had no issue with carrying anyone and on top of that he moved quicker then anyone I have ever seen before. "
Wrathe settles into a comforting rhythm of research while scribbling notes in his very own journal. Any that walk by and glance see a strange mix of sketches, and notes written by a polyglot; a gibberish mix of multiple languages even on the same language.
Being in possession of the book was a death sentence for the dire crime of literacy, of that he was positive, but it was worth it...on his life. Being a non-human, and a wizard were two more death sentences, it was a wonder why anyone would choose this path.
The dragonkin was obviouslybrilliant, easily his equal in terms of raw intellect, he glances at him and becomes inquisitive, "What makes you want to be a mage Ssilax?"
He was so anxious to get his training started that his fidgeting was getting out of control.
Argon looks in wonder as Wrathe brings him a book about weaponry. He had not been expecting such books here. He thanks the strange boy profusely and looks it over, wondering where volumes I through III are.
Then he starts to read the book, at first flipping around between pages with diagrams and the table of contents, and then finally starting at the beginning and reading all the text. He his so focused that he is difficult to rouse from the tome, although periodically he can be seen making subtle motions with his hands, as if confirming how each weapon is used in real combat.
The young dragonkin slows to a stop when Wrathe asks him what made him want to be a mage. He sits for a few moments, staring at the tome in front of him without seeing it.
"It's what I was raised to be to be. I was told that those marked by the gods had a purpose, mine was to speak the word of Nethys. To teach both the arcane and divine. My mother was the head priestess of the temple in our town," Ssilax spins through memories, his voice becoming dead as he spoke memories bursting to flames behind his eyes. "Then the humans came and murdered everyone. I have not called upon Nethys since that day." The sound of claws digging valleys in the battered tabletop is heard as. Ssilax's hands had clenched into shaking fists, carving the table as he did so.
"I have to go check on lunch," the dragonkin boy quickly gets up and almost runs to the sleeping area. No where near the kitchen.
"Hmm, so, he carried you effortlessly, and was extremely fast. That lends some evidence towards him being something other than human. Of course, he could just be a powerful monk, or using magic to aid his actions," Dainoth says, thinking out loud after Daxniss had remembered a further tidbit and shared with him. "Red eyes, hmmmm." the old man takes a puff off his simple wooden pipe.
As the dragonkin leaves the room suddenly, Dainoth looks at Wrathe and arches a shaggy eyebrow. He opens his mouth to say something and then stops. An arthritic hand slips underneath his robe, near the neckline.
"Burning Hells, can't an old man get some peace," those at the table hear him muttering to himself. He seems to be listening intently to something no one else can hear.
"You WHAT?!" the old man suddenly exclaims, anger and annoyance visible upon his wrinkled face for several tense moments. He continues listens for several moments, brown eyes narrowing. The flush that had been working it's way up the old man's neck to his face begins to slowly retreat. "You and I are going to have a little chat about your experimentation methods when you get here. As in I am going to talk and you are going to shut your damn mouth and listen! Idiot!"
The Puddles District
Dorian keeps the cloaked man close within view, the monk to be was a bit astonished to note how quickly the man walked. His long legged stride devoured the distance to where ever the dhampire was being led too. His sharp eyes do catch sight of the man raising a hand to his neck to touch something. While Dorian is unable to make out words, he is positive that the cloaked man is conversing with someone.
At what Dorian guesses is the end of the conversation, the man in black jerks his hand away from his neckline as if a bee hand stung his hand. He notes the cowled head looking down an alleyway for a few moments. The quick pace that the cloaked man had set suddenly comes to a dead stop. There is a pair of skinned bodies hanging by the ankles from the side of the crumbling building. Although fresh, there is no sign of insects or scavengers.
"S*!*. So much for losing the Stalker," the shadow wrapped man says quietly, scanning the alleyway for further threats. His gaze shifts to the nearby rooftops. "It's time for us to be moving. Get ready to run like your life depends on it. Because it does. Follow!" the man in black suddenly begins to run up the street, away from the alleyway.
Meanwhile, in the Dock Ward
Staring down at the half rotten apple she had found, Lilith curses her fortunes once more. Lost in the major port city Caern, the last tendays had quite possibly been the worst of her century of life. It figures that the first time her people had allowed a small group to leave the hidden village this would happen. The friends and lover that had accompanied her where slain, or worse. Two other woman had survived the disaster as well. At least until they had washed up on shoreline of the city.
It took all of an hour for the three to be attack, the other two elven woman where captured, and at Lilith's last sight of the two, death would have been a merciful option. The sight of their torn clothes, the two elves disappearing within a gang of filthy homeless. The screams ripping past the lips of her childhood friends was one that would haunt her to the end of her days.
It was all that damn captains fault. At the last stop he had loaded up a large coffin, made of onyx with a gold trim. Storms followed the ship since that day, making the weeks of travel miserable. Everyone seemed angrier, more prone to outburst after that day. The night of the disaster, she remembers hearing the sound of an explosion, only deeper somehow. She vaguely remembers a dark figure rushing through sailors and passengers, blood spraying from rent bodies in it's passage. The claws where longer short blades, dripping gore, and the noise it made, a horrid screeching that filled the mind and bled the ears.
Looking up from her rotten apple, she notices that she was standing near a blood soaked alleyway. A number of covered corpses where being carted off by a pair of guardsmen. Aside from the sight of the slaughter, Lilith has been in the city long enough to realize that this was very unusual. In this district, bodies fell where they lay, at least until the scavengers showed up. But the guards cleaning up meant either they killed these people, or something worse happened. She could note that several of the corpse where indeed guardsmen, as well as street urchins, and dock workers. All had an expression of absolute horror forever etched upon cold skin.
A look Lilith had seen in the faces of those slaughtered by the monster with shining claws and horrid laughter. She reflexivly takes a few steps back bumping into someone who let out a "Oof, hey watch where your going."
Turning and looking up slightly, Lilith spots a the guardsman she had ran into. Handsome (for a human) the sandy haired man nods to the elf, glancing at the alleyway.
"You alright? You look to have seen a ghost," his eyes glance at the alleyway and the people who where just pointing and staring. Talking about the latest horrible thing. The human guardsmen openly wheres a small symbol of Nethys around his neck. The half white, half black mask symbol of the god of magic struck Lilith as a tad unusual.
"Have we met before? I would swear that I have seen you before. Yes, I remember seeing you with black runes of power drawn upon your skin," the guardsmen says looking at Lilith intently. She doesn't get the sense he is planning, or even thinking about causing her harm. Lilith knows that she has never seen this particular human before in her life.
Wrathe's mouth drops agape as he watches the dragonkin slither off, a flush crawling across his cheeks and stealing the joy from the moment. Setting the book down he excuses himself and pads off to apologize to Ssilax for the insensitivity of his query. He does so from the other side of the fabric barrier, his head low as he fidgets with his toes, to respect the other boy's privacy.
"Sorry Ssilax, I had not meant to hurt your feelings, or help hurts to resurface."
His feet whisper as he moves to the bookshelf and draws down another tome, flopping down to lean against the other books, as he doesn't want Ssilax to lose his spot in either book that they were reading together.
"...not your fault," come the dragonkin's mumbled response. "You didn't do anything wrong." There is the faint sound of sniffling. "I... just want to be left alone for a little bit. Please."
It's seemingly possible that the dragonkin is younger than what was first guessed.
Coming to a sliding halt in front of a decrepit old stone house, setting dangerously close to a pool of black water. A bit of a rooftop frame rises up from pool like skeletal fingers. The man in black wraps a quick seccession of taps upon the door and then whispers something. Red lines flicker across the door and it slides open silently.
"Inside, quickly boy!" the gravel voice man snaps. His cloaked head turns, looking at various rooftops. The door swings shut as silently as it opened, leaving the two standing in someones sparse living room. The only thing that stood out from the battered chairs, a small table, and a threadbare padded chair, the stuffing falling out, was an open trapdoor.
"Down the stairs," the gravely voiced instructions are somewhat unnecessary. It seemed unlikely they went through all that to stand in an empty room.
Traveling down the slightly damp stairs carved out of rockbed, which go much deeper than any basement, they come to another door. This one looking far more sturdy than the door to the home. Arcane marking can be seen on the iron bound door. It too swings open silently. The door opens up to a large chamber possibly over a hundred around. It was hard to tell to the chamber being sectioned off by wooded framed cloth screens, some plain, other painted with intricate foreign vistas.
What the two happened to be looking at are a group of children staring back at the two from a battered table covered with a scattering of books and plates from the morning meal. A perturbed looking older man is sitting at the head of the table. He looks ancient, his skin leathery and wrinkled, hands showing signs of the bone twist. White hair is chopped raggedly short. The old human wears a faded brown robe that drapes across his frame, almost swallowing him up. A grey furred rat with eerie blue eyes sits on the old man's right shoulder.
Glaring at the Cloaked man, the old man shifts his browned eyed gaze to the monk to be. He isn't treated to nearly the look of concentrated annoyance that the shadow cloaked man was. Dorian could have sworn it felt warmer when the man was glaring at his guide. The half living boy is treated to a look filled with a sense of academic interest. A genuine sense of curiosity.
"Well, don't just stand there, introduce yourself," the old man grumbles from around a pipe stem. Picking a small grape from his plate, he bounces it off of Argon's head to pull him from the text he was reading.
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Dorian skirts through the city, trailing after the gravel voice man.
I wonder just who he is? And if he is looking for an undead...ish apprentice?
Dorian studies the man's every move: the set of his feet, as he pivots around any obstacle;the way he fluidly glides over and around the frightened crowd;the timing of all his movements, as if everything else has--simply--stop!
I shall learn these talents!
Argon feels a slight tap on his head, his skin being deceptively thick and hard, though less so on his head. He finishes the paragraph he is engrossed in and the realizes there are more people here. He raises his head and sees Rygear has arrived with another child.
He stands and sees the others introducing themselves, and so does the same.
"Hello. I'm Argon."
Returning the book to its proper position, the young Xthian pads over beside the others.
Glints of dull sterling peer out from 'neath the depths of a simple burlap cowl. Tiny petals of light carve their way through the threadbare fabric revealing gaunt flesh riding over angular cheekbones. His arms remain behind his back as he stands and awaits his turn to introduce himself.
"I am Wrathe Jor Sepai. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."
Daxniss ponders what Dainoth had said about Gravel voice, although he was going to need a name of some kind, it was a thought for another time and place. Daxniss had cleared off a space on the table, shuffling her Harrow cards, trying to decide if she wanted to see what the fates had in store for the day. Hearing Dainoth speak out loud she wonders who else he was talking too, the amulet had to be magic of some kind.
Daxniss chuckles at the the sight of Dainoth doing something so normal as bouncing a piece of fruit off the boy's head and says " 'Ello I'm Daxniss Sassith." She finishes with a mirthful grin.
Lilith looks up at the strange human for a moment completely startled by his presence. Lilith's facial expression turned around and into a smile, although admittedly fake, after taking a moment to hear his words and recognize his mask.
'How do you know me, strange one?'
"Oh, yes sir. Well, no sir. Not a ghost. Just..." her voice was purposefully meek sheepish "Oh, I don't know what I've seen..."
Lilith sighed and took a deep breath almost as if she were holding back tears; even though she probably couldn't fake actual tears to save her life.
"Wha... Y-You've seen me?" she said a little less softly now as she bowed her head to look at her feet. Her extremely long black hair fell in front of her face hiding it from the man. Under this cover is when she started to grin.
"Tell me, what do you know about me?"
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Dorian descends down the trap door. He stares at the old human, before bowing from the waist.
I am called Dorian, Ser, and I thank yee for the hospitality!
He nods at each of the non-humans?! in the chamber.
A pleasure to meet you.
Dorian smiles with hope. Looking to the gravel voice man, he bows deeply.
I humbly thank yee, Ser.
Manor of the Great and Powerful Old Man
"It is a pleasure to met you as well, young Dorian. I've heard some interesting things about you from our cloaked associate here," the old man points an arthritic finger at the man in black. You. Sit there and don't speak. You have no comprehension of how annoyed I am with you at the moment." The cloaked figure actually seems to flinch under the old man's flinty gaze. Softening his glare, he turns his attentions back to the monk to be.
"I have a number of other guests as you can see. I am called Dainoth," the old man looks intently at the newcomer to his hidden basement for a time in silence. The elder's gaze seems to analyzing the monk in training. "Well, first off, lets see this bite wound. The Drowned Ones infectious bite is almost universally fatal within twenty four hours."
Slightly earlier in the Dock Ward
The human guard stares at the young elven girl for several more moments. He seems to be organizing his thoughts.
"I had a dream, a little over a tenday ago. I remember seeing you and several other elf's aboard a merchant vessel. The vessel had a black heart that exploded bring suffering and pain," the look in the mans eyes was an odd one. His eyes move about as if he was watching the events on the ship unfold. He suddenly smiles, looking a touch embarrassed. "Now that I have met you, I think perhaps it was less a dream, and more my Lord prodding me into action." The guardsmen touches the holy symbol at his neck. "The divine rarely just point out exactly what they want done. I'm sure there is a reason, just one that mortals will never understand," the human lets out an amused laugh.
"It wasn't a dark heart that exploded was it?" the curious guardsmen asks, his facial expressions hardening.
Dainoth's Bed and Breakfast for Freaks
Upon examining the bite wounds while puffing on a simple wooden pipe, Dainoth is careful to avoid touching the healing bite wound. He has no problems with the half-dead monk, moving his arm to get a better look at the supposedly lethal bite. Leaning back in his chair, the old man taps his chin, looking at the monkling.
"Ssilax! Fetch me the red pouch that's in the desk drawer of my Alchemy room. Wrathe, in the kitchen, fill up one of the pint sized mugs with water from the barrel." Waiting on his apprentices, the old man's eyes are lost in thought.
The man in black sits motionlessly, making a gargoyle look figity.
A small reptilian looking creature comes out from behind another sectioned room. The dragonkin is covered in platnium scales, there shine making the metal look dull. As if wearing armored boots and gauntlets, from his elbows and shins downwards where covered in a molten gold colored scale. A set of 4 ivory horns grow from his head, angled back. The larger pair growing from closer to the top of his head, the second pair a little behind the first pair.
The figure's tail is swishing back and forth as he moves to another room. Battered trousers held up by a piece of hemp rope, torn off at the knee are the only scraps of clothing currently covering the creature. Toe claws click faintly off of the stone floor as it hurriedly does what the old man had asked.
Within a few minutes, Ssilax had retrieve the pouch that Dainoth had asked for. Looking over as Wrathe returns, the dragonkin boy's muzzle curls up at along the sides as he smile at the other apprentice. Looking over at the newcomer, the dragonkin smiles shyly.
"Hello. I'm called Ssilax," the shy dragonkin says with a soft, sibilant voice. He looks at the half-dead monk several times with sapphire eyes, never making eye contact, or looking for to long.
Looking at the Harrow cards, Ssilax glances between the cards and the tomboy.
"What are those cards for?" shyly asks the dragonkin.
A nervous breath is released; he was worried about the dragonkin.
Wrathe absently spills half of the contents of the mug on his way back, his attention is everywhere at once. The deliver provides a premise to approach Dorian and get a better vantage on the mortal wound. Empathy softens his features and he winces imagining the discomfort the other boy must be in.
"Master Dainoth, should I make a bed up for Dorian?" With this he throws the other boy a wink, hoping that not only can the monk stay, but is expected to survive his garish injury.
Lilith's grin quickly faded. Her eyes quickly searched the ground as if she would find her thoughts there. Beyond the past days being what they were, suddenly she was thrust on a man who seemed to know more about those days prior than she did. Which was something she did not like. Especially after he referenced his god as rationale fr his knowledge.
"I think you'll find that divinity rarely gives answers." Lilith said sternly "Save the likelihood that it should ever actually point at anything."
She tilted her head back up at the guard, her cold eyes looking into his.
"I'm not sure I'm in much of a state to appraise the explosion of which you speak. Why don't you ask your god? I certainly don't know..." Lilith's voice almost began to slither as she continued her sentence into the last of her thought "... but I'd certainly like to know."
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Dorian allows the old man Master Dainoth? to treat the wound. He is as surprised, although pleasantly so, as the old man is about the relative minor wound. He actually doesn't feel anything wrong from the bite, save the initial pain!
Hello, Ssilax. I am honored to meet you.
Dorian is memorized by the majestic looking dragon-boy.
Drama unfolds in the Dock Ward
"Believe me miss, I'm well aware of the cryptic nature of the divine, " the guardsman says with a wry smile. "My apologies, I was attempting a bit of humor, as this is a little odd for me. I've had dreams, perhaps visions, that have hinted at something occurring. This is the first time, I've actually been bumped into by a figure from a dream."
"Allow me start over. I am Rygear, warrior-priest of Nethys, assigned to the Caern guards," He nods to the guards investigating the the aftermath of the night time slaughter. They do seem to be cut above the normal thugs in uniform. He pauses for a few seconds, looking at the scene of the slaughter. "Nobody else that was on the ship is alive. Bits of mast and decking washed a few days ago, along with the figure head of the ship, The Mermaid's Claw. That was the ship you sailed in on, correct?" the warrior priest looks at the elf intently. "I'm sorry, I don't remember anyone else features, just a sense that there where others on the ship. Hence, why I assumed you were the only survivor." Lilith notes that this Rygear's eyes are distant, recalling his "dream".
"I think whatever happened on the boat is linked to the Clawed monster that appeared in the Dock Ward under a tenday ago. I also get the sense that you are in danger. Something more than a physical threat," the warrior priests eyes are very distance, looking at her but no longer seeing the elf. There is a faint inner blue glow in the humans eyes for a few moments. "I think the creature is tracking your movements. I sense a tether of darkness touching your aura faintly, leading off into the Ether." Rygear shakes his head to clear . "Sorry about that, I have a tendancy to get lost in peoples..., well auras, for lack of a better word," he says with an almost embarrassed shrug of his shoulders.
"Look, I know you don't have any reason to trust me, but I think you might actually be in real danger from this Clawed monstrosity. Our best efforts have only let us banish it for a single day," Rygear pauses for a moments, looking sincerely concerned for Lilith's safety. "I know of someone who can offer you protection for a few days, under an Oath of Protection, so you'd be safe. I also want you to know I don't think your responsible, just linked somehow. You are certainly not under arrest. If you so choose, you are free to walk away and go about your day. I can't recommend that be your choice, but, it is your choice to make."
Over at Danioth's Seaside Resort
Cleaning off the rather nasty looking bite wound with a cloth smell of some strong alchemical concoction, Dainoth glances up looking at the apprentices. Snorting with amusement at the half full water mug, he has Wrathe go refill it, and tells him that the mug needs to be full of water. "The floor doesn't need any more water. Enough leaks in from the sunken ward I live in." the old man says with a amused snort. "After that, than yes, the two of you make up another cot. Spare cots are folded up in the second cabinet."
The two return to watch Dainoth clean out the last of the bite wounds, he checks them for debris. With a satisfied grunt, the wounds pass, cleaned by stinging cloth. Although, it was a bit curious he didn't rebandage the wounds.
Turning his attention to the newly filled mug and red pouch, Dainoth hums to himself. Pulling out a small, blood red ball the size of a humans thumbnail, Dainoth drops it into the mug of water with a plop.
Watching the water with keen interest as it bubbles, Dainoth waves his apprentices over to watch the transformation. With a span of a few minutes the water had turned into a thick, almost sludge like blood substance. The thick, coppery scent of blood rolls off the mug. With a self satisfied smirk, he pushes the mug over to the half-dead monk.
"Dorian is a very special young man. You see children, he is a half-breed of sorts. One of his parents was human, while the other was a vampire. I won't pry at the moment, but it is a tale I'm curious to hear," the old man looks at Dorian with both interest and sympathy. "That's a little something I picked up a few decades ago when Caern had a bit of a vampire.., problem. It should restore you and help to.., curb your hunger, if I made it correctly. If not, then it will probably put you into a coma for a few weeks. I'm pretty confident that it was made correctly though," Dainoth smiles good naturedly at the half-living boy.
"Well, drink up. No time like the present, it's not going to get any bloodier," he adds with a chuckle.
Smiling shyly at the newcomer once more, Ssilax watches Dainoth work with keen interest, taking note of how he worked with the wounds. The old man was careful to not reopen any of the ferocious bite wounds. Ssilax thought that they looked like they had been done with blunt teeth. The thought of that makes him shudder, scales clicking faintly down his back.
Quickly moving off to take care of sleeping arrangements, he had mostly finished by the time Wrathe joins him. A smile tugs at the edges of his muzzle as they finish up. He almost runs back to watch Dainoth once more.
Standing close to the bookshelf, he happens to see what Argon is engrossed in. Half turning, Ssilax splits his attention between the changing water, and locating a book. Having organized the book, he could almost find it by memory, but needed a few glances to be sure. Ssilax sets down the first of the three books of weapons down next to Argon and smiles shyly at him. He immediately goes back to Dainoth's to watch.
"Wow! That's just..., just..., wow," Ssilax looks between the blood mug and Dorian, almost speechless. He didn't really feel afraid, somewhat oddly enough. The dragonkin felt safe hidden down in the depths of the old man's basement. Besides, the thought of a person being made up the energy of the living and then the dark stuff of the undead was just to fascinating to the young dragonkin boy. 'Besides, Dorian seems like a nice person. He doesn't seem scary," Ssilax thinks to himself, his sapphire gaze shifts to the mug of bloody looking sludge.
"I bet it won't put you to sleep. Mister Dainoth's great at healing! You should have seen the wounds that Argon and Daxniss had!" Ssilax exclaims excitedly.
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Dorian exercises his breathing, allowing his battered body a pause. His heartbeat? slows
His muscles relax. His mind relaxes.
Opening his eyes, Dorian smiles down at everyone as they crowd the procedure.
I am as interested as all of you
I haven't been given too much information as has been revealed this ten day.
Dorian looks both fearfully and excitedly at the alchemical substance. He pauses, nods his head in trust, and takes the proffered mug. He tentatively takes sips for a few moments, before draining it all!
With an infectious grin, Dorian asks,
May I have another, please!
At the first few sips, the bloody sludge is easily the most delicious substance that has ever passed his lips. The sweet nectar slides down his throat in quick gulps. His stomach gurgles, feeling full, for perhaps the first time he could remember. The constant blood craving that gnawed at the back of his thoughts was sated, for the time being.
The bites that the dhampire had suffered begin to tingle and itch. Looking at the nasty bite wounds they knit close before everyone astonished eyes. Dainoth has a rather satisfied look on his wrinkled face.
"Well, looks like that worked better than I expected. How do you feel?" the old man asks the half living boy. He chuckles when the monkling asks for another. "I think one will be enough. We don't want to risk you building up a tolerance."
Glancing down at the trail of water, and the half-filled vessel, Wrathe fixes a frown at the betrayal of gravity's intervention in fascinating moments. Moving with a purpose he refills the mug and delivers it, uses a rag to sop up his spills, and then rushes to help prepare a bed for Dorian to lay upon.
Ssilax had beat him to the majority of the task, leaving only a bit of the final draping of the linens for him to help with.
Glancing up he smiles and whispers, "Well played my friend", in the sibilant draconic tongue.
Instead of a bed, perhaps a coffin would have been more apropos....or at the least half of one; they could call it a 'boffin'. Wrathe stifles a snort and giggle with a poorly-veiled cough.
He leans forward as the coppery mug is tilted back, his eyes wide with fascination, moving back to a more neutral position as the contents are emptied. His attention flits back and forth from Dorian to Dainoth and he only lets his breath out when it appears that no negative effects have been wrought upon the stoic young man.
A thousand questions come to mind about how often Dorian has to ingest blood, whether his heart beats, and so on, but he keeps his mouth shut. Instead he adds another thing to research to a list already groaning under the burden of so many interesting topics.
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Dorian glances at all around.
I have explained about myself to him out there.
Dorian nods over at the gravel voice man.
He then lowers his head.
Ten days ago, I succumbed to my primal urges. I was caught with one of the servants. The continuing call of her blood relentlessly pounded in my ears. The gnawing ache of an itch that I couldn't reach on my own was steadily dominating my acute senses. I had to have her!
A pink-tinged tear trickles triumphantly down Dorian's white statuesque check,displaying a sudden sadness.
By Irori's wisdom, I was caught before the final embrace. I was told to leave the monastery for my own safety, as well as others.
Looking at Dainoth, Dorian says
This drink is a blessing, master Dainoth, I have never felt like this!
Argon watches the proceedings and then goes back to his book on weaponry.
Burying his nose in it once more, he shuts out the world again. After a while he goes to look for the book on anatomy, to better direct his attacks against humanoids..
Daxniss pondered what the new arrival had ingusted, not to mentain the whole tablow. This had been more of what she almost wanted to call the normal. This was a new turn in her life, at the very least new tidings could be found, she wasn't certain if the events of the last day were the catyst or the non humans were.
It seemed that the small ragtag group had a hint of fate, at the very least it allowed Daxniss to learn more about Dainoth whom he speaks too.
Reaching forward, Dainoth brushes a pink hued tear from the cheek of the half-living boy. Rolling the fluid between two fingers, the old man looks at the dhampire tear. He looks over at the Man in Black.
"I believe that you know Sabavet? I think the young Dorian should be introduced," he says. The old man's tone was more of an order than a suggestion. "Once his wounds are healed, you will escort Dorian to met Sabavet. I will write a letter of introduction. I expect the boy to get there unharmed." Dainoth's brown eyes are hard as he looks at the cowled man.
"Of course, he will arrive undamaged and sound of mind, this I promise," comes the gravel filled voice from the depths of covered head. "While I am allowed to speak, I would like to point out that the Stalker did not follow me back to the Puddles. It's possible that it is still tracking the girl. I believe it is much more intelligent then previous reports. It clearly remembers that it hasn't completed it's hunt. The covered head shifts looking at Daxniss for a few moments.
Dainoth looks at the covered figure, puffing on his pipe. The old man's eyes catch the dim light of the ember in the pipe bowl. His irritation at the other man bleeds away at this news of the hunting fiend.
"That is less than ideal news. It seems that I will have to take further steps then," Dainoth says with a shake of his head. The old man sighs, slumping in his chair, looking older for a few moments. If I'm particularly lucky, I might be able to banish it." he mutters with a shake of his head. Looking over to Dorian, he nods at the boy.
"I'm sending you to see an acquaintance of mine. He's something of a recluse these days. In his younger days, he was a rather well regarded monk. Last I heard, Sabavet had gone into seclusion to further study mental disciples," Dainoth says, looking at the monkling. His expression is serious. "I believe that focusing your mind will allow you to keep your urges under control. Also, I have a theory concerning dhampire's. I believe that your unliving self feeds upon your living self in a sense. The fitter you are, the more well fed with normal foods in your system should help to alleviate some of the hunger." The old man pauses, taking a sip from his coffee mug. "I am loath to admit that it is only a theory. Your kind are extremely rare young man."
"The drink is a alchemical mixture that was made by a vampire that had moved into Caern a few decades ago. I found the formula in the aftermath, and made it, mostly on a whim years ago," Dainoth says with a faint smile. "It was made to sustain a full vampire for several days to a week. It should help to sustain you for much longer. At least that's my theory."
"Not a problem. Now that my hands work, I can actually do physical stuff once more," Ssilax had responded to Wrathe when they are setting up Dorian's cot. The boy had spoken in his natural Draconic. The two run back to watch Dainoth.
Sapphire eyes growing larger as he watches the bite wounds heal themselves. When Dorian finishes up the drink, the dragonkin catches sight of the dhampire's fangs before they shrank to slightly slightly elongated canines. Still fangs, however, they where much more intimidating when he was feeding.
Listening to Dainoth talk about the Stalker, a frown tugs at his muzzle. He looks over at Wrathe.
"What is this Stalker they are talking about?" Ssilax whispers to Wrathe.
Glancing over at Ssilax he was excited to have someone to practice his dragonspeak upon. It was a language he had picked up while feeding souls to the most vile dragons relegated to Hell's embrace.
"What other languages do you speak Ssilax?"
His head rocks back forth trying to follow the conversation with little in the way of context to tie the words together.
Wrathe shakes his head, happy to converse in the dragonkin's native tongue, "The list of questions I have is so long that people are tripping over it. I am hoping that patience will reward us with an explanation of the events that surround us."
The forked tongue they speak was so much more versatile than the Common one, but it was an apex predator's language, and not well equipped for soft feelings like confusion.
"I can speak and read my own tongue, common, celestial, infernal, dwarven, elven, and undercommon," Ssilax whispers to Wrathe. He when he mentions what languages the dragonkin can speak, he switches from tongue to tongue. What languages can you speak?" the dragonkin asks.
The draconic language certainly favors those with muzzles and long tongues. Wrathe speaks the language perfectly, but there is bit of a flatness in his tone. The difference lying in facial structure, the sibilant words having a richer tone coming from a creature with a muzzle.
Ssilax was just happy to hear draconic once more.
Feeling eyes upon him, the dragonkin looks over to see Dainoth looking at his two apprentices. The old man arches an eyebrow as he looks at the two.
"Don't mind me boys, continue with your discussion," Dainoth says with a chuckle.
Wrathe is equal to the challenge, moving from draconic to Common, to infernal, dwarven, elven and undercommon, then adds in a halfling and gnomish.
His eyes widen as the dragonkin speaks the sonorant celestial language, and his eyes merrily crinkle at their corners with the offer of a challenge. "How melodic that language is. What is it? Will you teach me?"
"Actually, since the odds of you all surviving is much higher if you work together, you should all have a chat and get to know each other a little better. After your wounds are healed up, it's unlikely you'll see each other for a time," Dainoth says looking at the gathered youths. "Unfortunately, the mindset towards non humans is going to work against the lot of you. Some of you will have an easier time than others." The old man says with a nod.
"Now, the two of us have to discuss the Stalker, and since I don't feel like answering a flood of questions, why don't the lot of you head over to the sleeping area and talk," the old man hold up a hand. "I'll answer some questions after that." Dainoth watches as they begin to shuffle out.
Sending an embarrassed smile Dainoth's way, Ssilax leads the way to the Sleeping Area, standing at the opening of the area.
"Celestial, it is the language of the Deva's and the divine." Ssilax says. "I'd be happy to teach it to you. If you want, I would like to learn Halfling from you." Ssilax asks of Wrathe.
Looking at the others walking in the corners of his muzzle slide upwards in a smile.
"Same with anybody else. Well, if we have the time. It sounds like we are all going to be busy with our apprenticeships," the dragonkin's tail twitches sharing in Ssilax's excitement.
"That would be wonderful to learn, and I would love to teach you the Halfling tongue."
Wrathe had been so enamoured by the conversation that he had not realized that their words were distracting. He grabs both expansive tomes, grunting under their weight, and moves to join the others in the sleeping area.
As they walk together he asks a tad sheepishly, "I hear there are magi that share their magical formulae with each other. I would be willing to share anything I learn with you Ssilax."
Dainoth's words were a surprise to the young Xthian, causing him to evaluate the others with new eyes. If the words were true than these individuals might be all that stands between living and digestion.
The prospect was exhilarating.
"Perhaps we should all learn an uncommonly-spoken language to permit us all to speak in the open without tipping off our foes."
At Wrathe mentioning he would be willing to teach the dragonkin a language he didn't know, the platinum and golden scaled Ssilax smiles. His black and white scaled face mask crinkles as his muzzle shifts.
"Sharing spell formula? That sounds like a good plan, I'll share whatever I learn with you as well," the dragonkin says with a grin.
"Everyone learning a language that we can share, that's not a bad idea. We should pick something vaguely humanish sounding. That way we could say it's a regional dialect," Ssilax's says after a few moments of thought.
Turning, Ssilax moves back to the battered table, picking up the tome he had been reading, his new journal. With an after thought, he snags his folded up robe and cloak and returns to the others.
Joining up with the others, Ssilax sets his stuff down on the cot in the corner of the screen walled room. Sitting down, he looks at the other cots that have been set up. There was enough room for everyone to walk around, but it was a bit tight with the five youths in the room.
With a snap of the fingers Wrathe offers, "Undercommon fits the criteria, and acts as a very useful trade language should we find ourselves within one of Sel Torin's 'deep holes'. It also has the advantage of being a tongue that both Ssilax and I speak, so there would be two of us teaching, and is a 'vaguely humanish sounding' language."
Turning to the others he asks, "What say you?"
"Heh, I was thinking the same language," Ssilax grins at the devil cursed boy. "It should be rare enough so that no one should be able to understand us when we talk with each other. Or if we need to talk around people that we don't know or trust." The dragonkin says, thinking out loud.
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Dorian straightens his body. He then--formally--bows at the waist at Dainoth.
I am blessed by Irori. Master, I shall be honored to accept this master.
Dorian backs away three steps, bows again to Dainoth, then the gravel voice man, before following the others into the sleeping area.
Once inside, Dorian looks at each of them: the lost, lonely, and forgotten. His peers.
I believe that Irori has provided us a chance!
Wrathe finds a seat and considers the others for a time before confessing, "I seek apprenticeship in the mystic arts, and intend to become magi." He pauses for a time, affording opportunity for comments or hateful words to be spit in his direction regarding the despicable nature of his chosen vocation.
"What training do each of you seek - and for what purpose?"
Michael New
Dorian "Grey"
