"Nah, I think you where just completely surprised by the sight of the thing that almost killed you. Rygear and Dainoth both mentioned that after you had been attacked and shouted out, saving the others, that was really brave. And I saw your wounds, those aren't scratches. Your lucky that thing didn't rip your spine out. If Rygear wouldn't have healed you, there is no question you would have bleed to death in a few moments time. They're really nasty cuts," Ssilax says, looking over his shoulder at Argon. "But there going to be really impressive looking scars to have earned at such a young age!" a half smile curls the side of his muzzle.
At the sound of Dainoth calling his name, Ssilax excuses himself and goes to see how he can help.
Wondering what was in the mysterious wooden box, the dragonkin couldn't help but wonder about the contents within. There was the faint sound of glass rattling in holders and the something metal clicking together.
Wrathe complies with old man's request and delivers the weapon to the table. He remains in close proximity, both in case he is needed and out of curiosity.
So many questions remained unanswered that he wouldn't even know where to start if afforded the opportunity to ask. The thoughts are made manifest a moment later as his tongue wags far too freely.
His words flow forth, seemingly as surprised as any, his voice barely a whisper and gaining confidence with each second that he is not laid low, "Master Dainoth, what is going on? Drowned Ones, Clawed One/Monster, Possessor Daemon, the Stalker?"
Uncontrollably he asks the man about the amulet of communication, how the old man survived in a world that despised magi, and why he lived in the slums of The Puddles.
Wrathe takes a steadying breath and then asks the questions that came from his time of listening in to conversations that he was not invited to overhear, "I apologize if this is considered rude, but you had mentioned trials, and those new recruits that had fallen, as well as an organizations you were part of. Please, I beg, tell us more."
Unconsciously he takes a step back, his eyes downcast, as he prepares for the old man's reprisal for the curse of insolence.
"Well, for starters, there is a demonic parasite feeding on that young lady's very soul. It's devouring her essence from within the inside, until it ends up with her dead shell under it's control. At which point it manifests as the creature that has been slicing through the night life for the past tenday. Only, it won't be restricted to night time, nor will banishment work, and it will quite possibly be almost immune to magic." The old man says as he repacks his pipe. Lighting with finger flame, he continues. "From the lore, it was bred to hunt elves by a force aiding the dwarves. Another little piece of evidence supporting my theory the war was orchestrated by both demonic and infernal forces." he adds with a chuckle.
"Currently, said, barely intelligent parasite," Dainoth says his voice dripping with contempt, "is listening to everything we say. Once young Lilith here drinks that halfing concoction, it's influence over her actions and thoughts will be greatly diminished. More importantly, it will not be able to hear us anymore."
There is the sound of glass breaking as the vial "happens" to slip from Lilith's hand finding a new home upon the floor. The thick scent of halfling weed fills the chamber for a few moments.
"Broke it? That's quite all right, I have lots more of it. Great for revealing pain from old joints as well," Dainoth says looking both at Lilith and through her at the same time. He slides another orange vial in front of her.
"Other answers will have to wait until deamonic ears are not listening."
Wrathe nods along, devouring all words with feverish intensity while observing the subtle effects that the possession was having upon the young elf. He empathized with her plight, as devil possession was something he had experienced on more than one occasion, but there was nothing he could do for her. Lilith did not give him the impression of being one that was open to being perceived as vulnerable, so he accepts the opportunity for distraction.
Nodding to Dainoth, accepting the wisdom of caution for the time being, he starts picking up shards of the glass phial and carefully mopping up the shattered contents with a rag. Though he feels safer here than any place in recent memory, he still keeps an eye on those closest to him as he toils.
Dainoth had mentioned his "tribe" earlier, which had greatly piqued his interest. Buoyed by the easy manner the elderly wizard had accepted his numerous questions, he decided to find a time to speak to the old man in private later.
Argon sits in the bath, scrubbing himself. He hears voices from the other side of the space, but can't make out the words.
He sincerely hopes that Elf girl can have that demon thing removed from her soul. He wonders if they can't, would they kill her? Or maybe just put her in a jail or something? Can the demon move to another person?
The cold hand of fear reaches for him. Suddenly, his bathwater is no longer warm. Fire is in his blood, but the water feels cold, and he immediately wants to clamber out of the tub. But he slips, and falls awkwardly, aggravating the slashes still decorating his back, and he hits the floor. Quickly but carefully, he gets up and dries himself off, looking for clean clothes. Finding none, he starts wandering naked over to where he thinks the clothes are kept. He moves quickly, for he wishes to join the others as soon as possible.
After some moment of pause, Lilith smiled and nodded while taking the vial from the man.
"I'm supposing my sudden urge to destroy the bottle was a result of what you tell me. Makes sense to me now."
She sniffed the liquid in the vial and, provided it matched the scent she expected from its description, she downed it in one gulp. Strangely quickly in fact.
"I'm glad you can still reason," Dainoth says to Lilith with a nod. "And yes, it is influencing your physical actions."
Looking over at Dorian, the old man looks at the half-living young monk. He smiles gently at the boy.
"I didn't mean to berate you young man, or frighten you. I just want you to understand your situation. Being an old man, I tend to be blunt. It saves time," The old man chuckles. "Plus, I have a history with vampires that isn't a pleasant one, it does tend to color my thoughts."
The vial indeed smells the same as the other. Lilith knocks it back like a professional pirate on leave. The effects take hold within a few moments. She hears/feels a snarl in her mind that begins to fade as a gentle euphoria settle in her thoughts. Colors seems more enhanced, lights shine like diamonds, and a smile fills her face. The others see her lips twitch, but that is about all the change of features on the young elf. Aside from her eyes slightly relaxing, a slight redness in her eyes.
Looking around the screened off Bathing chamber, Argon found it a little odd that he was having trouble hearing the conversation maybe 20-30 feet away. Perhaps the old magics user did something to muffle the noise. Looking, he sees a large cabinet with folding doors. Opening it up, he spies a several bathrobes of varying sizes.
"Now that the halfling extract has taken effect, I suppose a few answers are in order," the old man takes drink from his coffee mug, frowning at it's coldness. He sends Wrathe off to the kitchen to refill the mug from the brewer on the stove. The apprentice returns with the freshened coffee. "First off, what I am planning is to use a little bit of your blood to craft, well, a false you. The size isn't important , just the fact it will contain a bit of your essence. I should be able to shift the demon over to the container. And then destroy it if I can, imprison if I cannot. Somethings should not be allowed to exist. A creature that can wipe out an entire race of beings out is one of them."
With a few puffs from his pipe, the old man mulls over some of the questions fired off.
"Drowned Ones are more or less zombies with traces of the person soul trapped inside. They where caused from the earthquake when the Puddles dropped below sea level and flooded. They would have been wiped out, except for the fact their bite is both infectious and almost universally fatal," the old man explains. "The Clawed One is a name given to the form the Possessor Demon takes when it manifest on the Prime plane. It's claws are longer than shortswords, so it doesn't take much imagination to see where that name came from." The old man pauses, looking at Lilith's eyes, as if judging something.
"As to what the Possessor demon is, from what little I found on the subject, it is a parasite that was bred in the Abyss. It was designed to be undetectable and move from body to body. It doesn't fully exist on this plane. More the Astral plane. Now the Stalker, that's an excellent question. No one really knows what it is. It's been around for decades, and it hunts people and takes trophies. Skin, skulls, bones, for what we can assume are trophies from kills. There doesn't seem to be anything that links the victims together." Dainoth pauses for a few moments. "I am troubled by the fact that the Stalker has been more active in the last tenday then the last ten years. And that it is probably still waiting outside my home."
Opening up the mahogany box, several levels unfold as it opens. Small jars, tools, surgical equipment, the box was a well constructed mobile Wizard's laboratory. Selecting a syringe with a metal container, he selects a needle and threads it onto the instrument. Gently taking Lilith's arm, Dainoth speaks again.
"I'm going to take a little of your blood, you'll feel a little pinch, that's all. Nothing to be concerned with," the old mans says as he runs a calloused thumb over the inside of her elbow. With a forwarded pinch, the old man inserts the needle and slowly draws the plunger up. Almost a half pint low, Lilith feels a touch of dizziness, but is otherwise fine. Higher than a kite, but fine. A scrap of cloth and bend elbow stops the bleeding almost instantly. The dhampire doesn't even get a sniff of the sweet liquid he will always crave.
Turning back to the case, the old mage selects a shiny metal vial with a cork stopper and plunges the needle in to it. Pressing the plunger, he fills the metal vial. Selecting a small stand covered in runes, Dainoth places the vial just above it, where it floats a few inches above the runic metal stand. Brown eyes going over the contents of the box, Dainoth continues.
"The amulets are means of communication that we use, a hold over from my younger days." It's hard to imagine that the ancient looking man had been anything other than old. "They allow wearers to speak with each other as long as they are with a hundred miles of each other. As to how I've survived the last eight decades? Being smarter, more tenacious, faster, sometimes crueler than those that sought to kill me. The common folk are lead by there noses like castrated oxen, but can be a threat if one is foolish and shows off there power. The people that lead the herd are the dangerous ones. They're the magi that have taken control. Most Tyrants-Kings are powerful casters, or have the control over powerful casters. They control and suppress all knowledge, letting only what serves their agendas directly."
"Once, a long, long time ago, I worked with a group that worked to overthrow the oppressive tyrant-kings. A foolish thought then, and now. People prefer the yoke rather than free thought," Dainoth looks coldly at the black cloaked and cowled man. "The newest incarnation of said fools has little qualm about sending poorly trained youths to their deaths."
The man in black simply shrugs his shoulders.
"They thought that the recruits where ready, they had passed the requirement that you had left. Besides, they had volunteered, they made the choice," the gravel voiced man speaks. He doesn't sound concerned. Almost bored, if anything.
Dainoth bites off a retort and grumbles to himself. He pulls out several strips of yellowed paper with twisting runes burned upon them. He wraps them around the vial.
"Any other questions while the floor is open?" Dainoth asks, brown eyes glancing around.
Ssilax listens, his sapphire eyes wide as Dainoth works. The young dragonkin boy watches silently as the old man sets up various mage craft items. He wanted to know what each and everyone of the items is and what its function might be. Holding his tongue for the moment, he continues to watch.
Listening to the old human explain several things that Ssilax had overheard, he follows as best as he can. Some things, he didn't really understand fully, but made a mental note to find out later. Ssilax could't help but wonder a little more about this group that Dainoth mentions. He wasn't sure that sounded like a good idea, it was like throwing rocks at a hornets nest. Scales or not, eventually, the swarm will find flesh.
When Dainoth asks if there where any questions Ssilax shyly speaks up from behind the old mage.
"Mister Dainoth, do you know if there are any more of my people left alive? Everyone in the village thought we were the last." the dragonkin's sibilant voice is softer then usual, sapphire eyes glues to the floor. After a few moments of silence from Dainoth, Ssilax suddenly looks up and over at Rygear, as if just remembering something. "Mister Rygear, if you could, can you spare a Symbol of Nethys? And a Prayerbook if that's not too much to ask. I can pay, well sort of. I can scribe for you, or clean, or something." Ssilax looks back down at the floor.
Wrathe mulled over the words, questions opening up yet more questions and is mind. Not wanting to monopolize the old man's time he asks, "What wa...is this group called? What was your role in it Master Dainoth? Is it your intention for us to join their ranks? Is the current purpose of the organization the same - to overthrow the current order?"
The group was following Dainoth's criteria, so he imagined that the old man was high up in the agency.
Argon, now clothed in a bathrobe, is standing to the side. Wrathe and Ssilax had both asked questions along the lines he was going to ask.
But he has another. "The one who attacked me was one of those Clawed Ones, right? And if it comes back today, what are you.... or others.... going to do about it?"
Looking at the elf, who is not fully there at the moment, Argon says, "I'm Argon, by the way. I'll introduce myself again later if you forget this one."
Daxniss shakes her head, too astounded by Dainoth's tale, and the fact that the elven girl Lilith was hosting a 'possessor demon'. A few days ago Daxniss would have scarcely believed in demons, trying to keep herself focused on what Dainoth was doing.
Lilith didn't even wince at the prick in her arm. Some of the others may get the impression that she'd had that done in the past. Perhaps she's done it to herself.
"Excellent. This is a beautiful learning experience to me."
She looked over at Argon and her voice almost hissed at him for a moment.
"I am Lilith. I do not forget things. Do not forget that." a mere moment passed before she spoke again, her voice softer this time "My apologies. Perhaps the blood loss is making me a bit more hostile than usual. It has that effect on me."
She thought for a moment. Her mind raced and the blood loss made her woozy as she began to develop a slight headache. She decided it was better to ask her questions over time. This man seemed like one of action and she thought it was better to learn by experience whenever possible.
"I only meant you might be dozy because of the draught," says Argon, mopily.
Dainoth's brown eyes bore into Wrathe, smoke rolling out of his nostrils. There is a coldness in his eyes, a sliver of ice in the man's soul.
"Umbrae. I've retired from service after sacrificing most of my life and family for a cause that's a pointless waste of time and lives. At the same time I retired from service of the Ladyship of Caern. If you're foolish enough to want to throw your life away, you may be released from your apprenticeship to go and join their cause," Dainoth says flatly. "My intention was for you to learn magic from a former archmage, and the others to be trained by actual masters of their crafts. What you decide to do after your apprenticeships are over, is your own business. If you all decide you'd be better served by hedge-mages and people almost competent to use the weapons their holding, then that is your choice and you may leave once your wounds have healed. "
Rygear clears his throat after a uncomfortable silence settles over the room. The warrior priest maintains an air of innocence as he reaches for a cup of water.
For a few minutes, the old man works, selecting a few items from the box. Turning to the vial, he selects a small scroll of script. Chanting the twisting words he touches the vial with a glowing white-gold hand. Continuing the chant, Daionth places three fingers on Lilith's forehead. He finishes the chant and the small scroll vanishes in a puff of green smoke.
For a few moments, nothing seems to happen. Slowly a mass of shadowy tendrils separates from the young elf's head. For a moment, in hangs in mid-air, trying to pull itself away. The vial glows and the ghostly tendrils are pulled into the vial. The sense of malice that fills the air as it is absorbed. The chill that had filled the room at it's presence, slowly fades away as the ball of shadow tendrils. Tapping the metal stand a few times, it folds up upon itself, becoming a smooth metal box. Puffing his pipe, he picks up the extremely fine bladed.
Chanting, he touches the side of the blade to Lilith's temples. The blade glows green for a few moments. There is a smell of ozone in the air, and Dainoth sits back in his chair. The blade is gone.
"There. That should have pried the Possessor from your soul. Rygear will take care of the actual cleansing to makes sure your actually free." the old mage says.
Leaning back in his chair he continues to speak, falling in a tone used for lecturing.
"The Clawed One should not be coming back. If I or Rygear's church cannot destroy it, then once of us will seal it away. Once it doesn't have a host, it is unable to manifest itself on the this plane. And yes, the Clawed One was the one that attacked you," Dainoth explains. "The Stalker attacked young Daxniss here. From what I know, she is the only person to have survived a touch of the creature. Just like Argon was one of the only one to survive a blow from the poisoned claws of the Possessor."
Wrathe's vision had pulsed several times while the old man had worked. He was able to see traces of the magic in the air as Dainoth worked. Fortunately, he wasn't near blinded this time.
"I'll have to think one your question Ssilax, that's a difficult question to answer." Dainoth says, looking over at the young dragonkin. The old man looks drained, his hands shake as he takes a drink of his coffee."
"What tale where you referring to young Dorian? I need some time to recover from the magics I used, so a tale wouldn't be bad idea." The old man looks at the half-living boy.
"I trust you enough, Dainoth, to take your recommendation on my training. I trust you because you and Rygear have been nothing but up front about all the dangers we've faced. May still face. When I was younger, adults used to honey-coat the truth, to make it more bearable to young ears. Time on the street has changed that, but you are both taking care of us and scaring us shitless at the same time."
Argon takes a breath.
"And I think most of us here feel the same way I do."
"So, you want a story? I heard one, from an uncle a few years ago, and never forgot it. He wasn't really an uncle, more a close friend of my father's."
Nervously, he starts telling the story.
"There was this smith, you see, and his name was Smith, too. Smith was the finest craftsman in the land; he could make anything out of metal - iron, steel, bronze, silver and even gold. He was proud of himself, and he was also proud of his son, who was a budding warrior, and his daughter, who was very beautiful and smart."
"Smith lived in a land where the king was a tyrant. Everyone hated him, and he hated his subjects. He would do all kinds of nasty things to them, from imprisoning them, to having them killed. He would throw them into a fighting ring and have them fight giants and dragons and such. Like most others, Smith hated the king, especially after he had taken Smith's daughter and locked her in a dungeon."
"Smith the smith decided to do something about the king. He would create a great sword, with certain special features that were designed to take down the king. He spent day and night working on this sword, for many months. Eventually, it was finished. It had a great sharp blade of mithral and adamant. It had a pommel that could sense where the king's crown was. It had secret compartments, and one of these released a mechanical bird that could fly way up high, and spot the king. In another was a mechanical fish that could swim the moat and find a way into the castle. In yet another was a mechanical hammer that could knock off the horseshoes of the king's favourite steed."
"Smith gave the sword to his son, who was young and strong, and bid him slay the tyrant king and save his sister, the smith's daughter. And his son did that, though it took many months of uprisings and terrible battles. In the end, his son defeated the king and took the throne for himself. He rescued his sister, and in time she became a high priestess. He put the sword aside, for peace reigned in the land for a long time. He was called King Valiant."
"But the sword, put aside and forgotten about, eventually was passed or given or stolen or just discarded, into the hands of a brash young warrior. This young man wanted the throne for himself. The sword was still potent, and had all its special devices and powers. And thus it was that a new tyrant took power by defeating the good King Valiant, using his own forgotten weapon."
Finished, Argon sits and looks at the others.
Wrathe leans back against the wall and works to digest the information that he has received. Master Dainoth feels that the cause of throwing off the chains forged by the authority of the Tyrant-Kings was a waste of time.
He remains quiet and listens the words being bandied about as he considers the old man's position.
"A fine tale indeed young Argon. Many thanks for sharing a the story," Dainoth says, tapping his pipe on the table. Clapping hands and Bone Twist tend not to mix. Standing up with the sound of creaking joints, the old archmage picks up the metal box. "I'll return in a few minutes. I want to further secure this box of trouble." Walking over to the the panel near the bookcases, he slides a finger on one of the plain cloth panels and it slides out of the way. He disappears into his room, the panel sliding closed behind him.
Turning to look at the shy dragonkin, Rygear smiles.
"I think I'll be able to lay my hands on a holy symbol and prayerbook for you, Ssilax. The only payment I ask is for you to excel at your studies," the warrior priest says. Glancing at the panel, Rygear lowers his voice.
"Uncle was one of the key members that started up the Umbrae movement. Years before I was born, they worked to establish a network a spies among the Tyrant-Kings and people of influence. The network still stands to this day, although a number of changes have taken place," Rygear, looks at the other youths before continuing. "Setting up the network, helping mages, and trying to stop the slaughter of innocents, both human and none, cost my Uncle and the others. Entire families where wiped out. In my Uncles case, his prized pupil betrayed him and led soldiers to his home." The warrior priest sighs. "He lost everything that night. Most of the older order where slain that dark day. The masters that will be providing your training are survivors of the old order. There is no denying that they are the best."
"Despite what my Uncle says, he does believe in over throwing the tyrant-kings, not that he would admit it. He's just seen too many people thrown into what he calls the "Meat-Grinder" and doesn't want to see it any more," Rygear says. "Not that I can blame him. He and the others are held in very high regard, and are often asked for advice. The leader of the Caern cell is "The Huntress" Desia Hawthorn, who has a been given a rather vile reputation as a child-slaver. She actually funnels the children to safe families, not just human children either," Rygear nods at the children. "I'm sure, once your various apprenticeships are finished, you would be more then welcome. However, it is not my place to speak of it, I would not further disrespect my Uncle by speaking more. Perhaps, another time."
"Why stop now, you've covered most things," comes the gravelly voice of the man in black. He almost seems amused.
"Shut up." Rygear says in a rather off hand manner, glancing at the panel that lead to Dainoth's room.
Ssilax had been silently observing from near the bookshelf, trying to be invisible. The thought of being forced out had his heart pounding in his chest. He knew he'd be dead in a day or less out on his own. Dainoth clearly had strong feeling about this group, not all of them where good, either. Without a doubt in his mind, Ssilax wanted to stay here for as long as he was allowed. The thought of not being able to apprentice with the old human was stomach turning to the dragonkin. Dainoth was clearly skilled and well learned, decades of magical experience behind him.
When Argon begins to tell his story, Ssilax slowly began to relax. It was really interesting, he enjoyed it. Plus, it had an neat ending with the forgotten king slaying sword. The dragonkin enjoyed stories that made you think, or had interesting points to make.
When Rygear begins to speak, Ssilax's maw drops as he stares at the warrior priest. It gave him more to think about. The dragonkin could almost understand where Dainoth's mindset was. Seeing as his own people burnt to ash.
Relieved that Dainoth's moral code compass was in line with his own, Wrathe slides toward the bookshelf, his fingers dripping along the tomes, and his imagination far from this place.
Daxniss nods at Rygear's words as it would be extremely difficult to overthrow the rulers and foster a change in the population as most folk are dull in mind and spirit. Still hearing that there are different ways to help out the lost and forgotten was heartening, it showed that there was still some hope out there.
Daxniss gives a shudder at hearing that she was the only survivor of the Stalker, it seemed that someone had plans for the girl, although Daxniss thought it was just luck. Looking around at the others, Daxniss marvels at the what had just happened just today. The fact that two more non humans would have a part to play or at least a different fate then they were heading before the events of today.
The insight fades as she listened to Argon's story, she wonders how could one forget the lessons of the past, the man had after reaching the apex of where his power took him, wasted it by allowing his weapon and his wisdom to fade out of his hands.
"Thank you."
Lilith bowed her head in thanks to the man after he had completed the ritual. Perhaps she was too calm about the whole situation. Perhaps she was simply respecting the knowledge the man possessed, one of the few things Lilith truly respected.
Lilith sat back as the others speak and tell stories. Lilith listened more than she spoke, though she could hardly be described as a loner. Her aura was too sinister for her to be of any use at making allies and she was too blunt to be a skilled liar. No, she was interested in taking in everything and knowing more about others than they know about her. She had kept every relationship she'd had with anyone until this point as superficial as she could. Not a difficult task since she usually frightened people before too long.
She listened closely and took in every detail. It was going to be an interesting time that she had ahead of her. She thought she might as well do what she could to get these people to like her.
"Amusing story, Argon. I enjoyed it."
Time passes while they make small talk among themselves. Well, all for the Man in Black, he has fallen silent once more.
Perhaps a quarter of an hour passes before Dainoth returns. The old mage sets a small chest on the table with a grunt. Wrapping in strips of yellowed parchment, runes burnt into the surface of the paper, the small metal bound chest sits on the table. Wrathe's vision fills with strong colors almost blazing from some internal power source. Whatever magics he sealed the chest with where indeed powerful.
Which would explain why the old mage looks so drained of vitality at the moment. The previous casting had left him tired and shaking. Now, he looks like he had been run over by a carriage. Sitting in his chair with a grunt, he glances at Ssilax and then points to his cold coffee mug. The dragonkin snatches up the and runs off to make fresh coffee for the old man.
"So you want to hear about the vampire invasion do you? Can't say I blame you. It's all but been forgotten, aside to be used as a tale to frighten disobedient children," Dainoth pauses to repack his pipe. "It all started 35 years ago. A small cabal of powerful vampires infiltrated Caern."
Dainoth goes on to speak of how the vampires began to turn people of influence into their thralls. Not even the clergy where left safe, in fact, many churches had their top leaders turned. It had been a brilliant tactic, and they took their time. Rather then pick their prey off quickly, they waited months, possibly years. Eventually, the Umbrae began to take notice. One of their contacts had been turned, and the agent noticed something amiss. After some careful investigation they learned a glimpse of the horrid truth. At first they had thought it only a few turned nobles and merchants. The soul crushing truth was realized later. The vampires controlled over 3 quarters of the city by that time.
Umbrae launched a full on war from the shadows, and the vampires retaliated in kind. The rebels where keen to keep innocents out of the cross-fire, as surprisingly so where the vampires. They couldn't the masses to find out the truth, the people would have torn Caern apart. The undead couldn't risk the food supply becoming aware. The rumors where running wild in the streets. Of course, as the vampires thralls and agents where slain, the tale that a group of killers where targeting those looking out for the "well-being" of Caern.
This lead to the last great witch hunt within the city. A day recently celebrated, as it's name has changed to Goblin Burning Day. Not a great day for nonhumans within the poorer sections of the port city.
It took Umbrae and their allies the better part of five years, but they managed to wipe the vampire menace from Caern. The vampire cabal had been slain, purified by the cleanse rays of the morning sun.
While Dainoth is not a bard, he is an excellent story teller. When he describes often long dead friends, it is almost as if they are in the room. The way he paints with his words easily brings the images of places never seen be anyone at the table. By the time he finishes up his tale, several hours have passed. The Man in Black had left some time ago, no one really remembers when. Apparently, he wasn't frighten by the presence of the Stalker. If it was even present anymore.
"After that story, I think its time for some lunch," the old mage says with a faint smile. Ssilax is already moving to the kitchen now that he has been freed from the tale.
Rygear informs Lilith that there is no trace of the Demonic Parasite left within her aura. She is well and truly free of it.
Wrathe busies himself with the chores that had been provided to the two apprentices, as he had never made meal before, and figured he would be of limited use to Ssilax.
Daxniss starts to carry all of the old dishes to the kitchen sink, helping out Ssilax as much as she could, not really sure on where everything should go she gives a sheepish smile. The Wyrmtouched girl wondered briefly if how difficult it was going to be in the future and decides that she would consult with her cards later in the day.
Dainoth had told a wonderful story and there was more insights into the city itself, still with the Stalker out and about she wonders how besides the carnage the Stalker leaves behind, how to keep an eye out for it.
Much of the rest of the day is spent in tales and company. Eventually, the two young apprentices begin to teach the others the Undercommon tongue, so that they would have a shared language that they could speak among themselves. Ssilax shyly invites Lilith to sit in and learn the language with the others. The gravel-voiced man returns in the evening to confirm that the Stalker has left the area. He almost seemed annoyed by its absence.
Perhaps a week had passed, wounds fully healed, when the fledgling party is split by the demands of training. Wrathe, Ssilax, and Lilith stay behind. The two apprentices where a touch surprised to see the elf stay. Dainoth's knowledge of the Alchemical Arts was quite advanced, perhaps more so then her previous teacher. Although from some of the tales the old mage shared, necessity had drove him to uncover hidden secrets, rather then centuries of study and experimentation. The other youths are escorted to their new instructors.
The Man in Black returns to escort Dorian to Sabavet, a monk long thought deceased. The two descend into the Undercity, by a hidden path. While the journey is literally littered with danger, both hidden traps and strange mutated creatures roaming the darkness, the Man in Black keeps the promise that he gave to Dainoth. The monkling is unharmed in both body or mind on the journey. Aside from being both exhilarated and terrified at the same time. Once they reach the Undercity, Dorian is surprised to find himself in a colorful marketplace.
The smell of the different foods being cooked assaulted his nostrils, the cheerful dim of hundreds talking, singing, fighting, shouting rushed his ears. To say it was crowed was a bit of an understatement. There was a crush of every different race down here, for the most, getting alone just fine. Dorian notices that the humans here don't seem to be striken with the same arrogant manner as the surface dwellers. The half-living monk does notice that most of the stands seem to be ready to be broken down and moved at a moments notice. Everything here seems to have a very much ready to be moved at a moments notice quality to it.
Dorian is lead to a pavilion that seems to act as a local pub. Following the gravel voiced man, he stops as the cloaked individual speaks with the bartender. He leads Dorian to the back of the huge tent to screened off area acting as storage. Placing his hand on the rock floor near the wall, he mutters something. Silently, a piece of the wall slides, revealing a hidden pathway just large enough for them to walk single file.
"Sabavet was one of the most lethal monks of the time of the vampire scourge. He was said to be an unparalleled warrior, a wise tactician, and completely unrelenting. It was said he was able to destroy the undead with a touch," the gravel voiced man begins to speak to Dorian for the first time in there journey. "He was asked to start his own temple, so that his style would not be lost. There is where the trouble began. Aside from the other temple fighting the rise of what they saw as an upstart temple, Sabavet was a master of techniques forbidden by most monks. Nothing of the monk's teachings was of a nonlethal nature. An unpleasant surprise to those that desired his secrets. To make this a short story, the former hero was driven from the surface to the Undercity where he has all but vanished from both sight and memory."
The two walk down the carved pathway for almost an hour, the claustrophobic path opening up into what could only be a large mausoleum. The dimly lit chamber was easily hundreds of feet wide, at least a hundred feet to the craggy ceiling, dripping with shadows. There where numerous other smaller mausoleums with the chamber. It looked this was some sort of burial chamber used for hundreds of years. Large sticks of incense where stuck in pots at regular intervals, releasing streams of smoke to be eaten by the shadows clinging to the ceiling. At the center of the chamber was a large brazier. The smoldering coals released a dim red red.
Facing the two was a dried out corpse of a human, sitting in full lotus position. Prayer beads draped the figures folded hands. Moth eaten blue silken robes cover the corpse. Dust covers the figure, undisturbed for decades.
"Master Sabavet? At the request of Dainoth, I bring the dhampire Dorian, who seeks tutelage," the gravel voiced man says to the corpse, producing the scroll that Dainoth had given him.
"So my old friend draws breath still? That is indeed good news, warms my heart to hear this." come a ghostly voice. The dried out corpses eyes open, revealing milky white orbs. Dorian fills their crushing gaze upon him. He finds it difficult to breath as he is being observed. "So Dainoth thinks you fit enough to study with me, does he? Presumptuous as always, my old friend. And a half-breed vampire at that." It feels like a year passes as the being scrutinizes Dorian. "Very well, I am intrigued enough to see if this one will survive my training. Come boy, sit here in front of me and let us talk.." the voice dismisses the man in black and turns it attentions to Dorian.
Meanwhile
Rygear comes to collect both Argon and Daxniss, leading them out of the Puddles district into the relative safety of the Dock ward. He is met by two other guardsmen that seem to work for the warrior priest. They seem to respect his word a great deal. Argon judges them to be maybe a decade or so older than he is.
The group walks through the district, stopping for a brief lunch at an inn a little ways off of the main streets. It is quiet, dimly lit place where the few clientele seem content to ignore each other's existence completely. Rygear nods to the innkeeper, an elderly looking half-elf as they make there way to a corner both. It isn't long before a pretty human waitress comes over with a tray with several mugs of ale and two cups of spiced wine. A short time later she returns setting down plates of stew and bread. Curiously, she sets up a six plate before she leaves. The answers comes as a cloaked figure swaggers up to the table. Clearly female, the tight leather armor she wore fit like a second skin. Dressed in blacks and dark blues the woman chuckles at the sight of the guards. Sitting down and leaning back in her chair, booted feet on the table, the hood of her cloak falls back.
The half-orc woman was probably about middle aged or so, a hint of grey at the temples. Her short tusks glinted wetly in the dimly light.
"Howdy pretty boy. You rethink my offer to be my official bed warmer?" the woman says, her throaty voice was husky, an attribute from a long familiarity from whisky and smoke. The curved in all the right places woman winks at the younger two guardsmen, both have a redness in their cheeks.
"Sorry sweet Lia, I'm afraid I must decline, still tied up with duties of the church." Rygear says with a laugh. He hands the half-orc woman a small scroll that she causally reads while taken a drink from an ale mug.
"Well, I'll be damned," the half-orc's grey eyes look at Daxniss for a few moments. "Alright, what the hells, I owe the old geezer after all," Lia laughes with a shake of her head. "Alright Shiny Skin," Lia looks at Daxniss with a grin. "Wave goodbye to the boys, we're going to finish our lunch and have a little chat." As the four get up to leave, Lia smiles sweetly and gives one of the younger guardsmen's behind a pinch.
"Oh, and Ryger, be a dear and pay my tab," Lia smiles innocently at the warrior pries and then turns to Daxniss.
Saying his goodbyes to the young Wyrmtouched, Argon follows Rygear and the other two guards. Some small talk starts up between when the younger two ask about what Argon knows about weapons. They end up being rather impressed by what he knows, considering he looks like a cleaned up street urchin. The journey to the Eastgate district in uneventful, seeing as three of the four are guardsmen. There are a number of odd looks sent the groups way, an occasional curse, and a far number of thanks. It seems that the story of who slew the Clawed beast had begun to circulate. From what Argon could gather, it seemed like Rygear and his team of guards where being credited for slaying the beast.
Before to long, the small group reaches the training ground in Eastgate. The walk into an imposing looking stone building, reaching five stories tall, not including the towers on each corner of the walled in complex. They rose another three stories above the rest, given the those inside a near complete view. Guards walked the tops of walls at regular intervals. The sound of someone shouting can be faintly heard. They continue through the complex, Rygear being recognized by sight. He leads them towards the shouting.
Walking through the main building, they end up in the courtyard. The source of the shouting is a massive bald human, a robust black beard reaching halfway down his chest was berating a group of fairly inept looking youths. The mock polearms they carried trembled as they stood at attention. Sending the group off to run laps around the large courtyard, he turns to Rygear.
"Sergeant Torgrim, glad you could make the time to see us. I brought the recruit I mentioned," the warrior priest clasps forearms with the Sergeant.
"It be not a problem. From what you said, he sounds like he has the stones necessary. I'll be making sure he be confident with a blade the next time you see his scrawny hide." the big man turns to Argon. "Well, what in the hells are you waiting for?! The others are three laps ahead of you! Get moving!" Sergeant Torgrim shouts at the Slayer in training.
Four years pass, as they tend to. The time races by for the youths, as they train. They occasionally see each other during sporadic visits to Dainoth's, all but Dorian. He sends a brief letter from time to time, letting everyone know that he is still alive, and in control of himself. It is near the end of winter when the group happens upon a chance meeting with all of them in attendance. Dainoth lets it remain a surprise to Lilith and his apprentices that they others will be arriving all at once.
A slender figure draped in the white robes of a scholar stands before you. The light fails to reach the depths of his deep cowl, which shadows his face, revealing only the chaotic glint of pale silver eyes, glittering with cold fire, and pearl-white teeth revealed 'neath a smoulderingly crooked smile. Scars bedeck his body, especially the upside down pentagram that had been crudely carved into his left hand, act as the remembrances of the cursed nightmare of his birth and the price of insolence. It is a wound that will ever remain painful, and never fully heal. As fresh a torment years later as the moment it was burned into his flesh; a reminder made flesh.
Secretly the young man sought out word of the family that was stolen from him. None of this was shared with anyone, not a word was ever written, and all channels for the information were kept as vague as possible. Months of toil had provided him with the general location of his village located upon upper Aenghus. Wrathe vowed to return there one day and locate his family.
Weeks of study had been devoted to learning all he could about Alman, Dhampir, Dragonkin, Elves, Xthian, and Wyrmkin. Guided by what little was known of his own people he set about exploring the depths of the abilities that all Xthian were born with. For the better part of a day there was a haunted look in his argent eyes from the haunting knowledge of how low the candle of the cursed Xthian's life burns; he aged rapidly, and would be dead long before the others were comfortable in a human's middle years. It was master Dainoth that had offered him a possible mistake from the death sentence that awaited; a single passage written by an archmagus, who had discovered a cure from aging. Wrathe had devoted himself to master his art to stave off the spectre of death.
Spare time was rare under Master Dainoth, but what little time that was afforded him was spent in the company of the aged "Huntress". He had reached out and was immediately rebuffed, but if there was one attribute that Wrathe had in spades it was tenacity. He offers time and again to do whatever he might in order to aid the process of funnelling children to safe families.
Desia was in her early sixties with long white hair and slightly stooped shoulders that made her look much older. She had never been robust, had always preferred study to action. Raising a hand horribly gnarled with the bone twist, she brushes away a stray bit of hair from periwinkle eyes, surrounded by a maze of wrinkles.There is intense wisdom to those eyes, which seem to peer right through and take the measure of the very soul of those she meets.
She would, on occasion, have tea with the Xthian, and they would talk on many things, as he was introduced to dozens of the local prostitutes, that she had in her employ. It was one of these ladies of the small hours that first broke his heart. Phia had extremely pale complexion was enhanced by the skillful use of chalks, her eyelids were darkened with kohl, coral powder was rubbed on her lips to make them stand out in the flickering light of the candles of Desia's chamber. The young man's jaw had dropped agape, but his pursuit was for naught. Phia was not one to ever settle for one man, and would not give her heart away.
So many failures.
The first time he had successfully cast Prestidigitation he had fallen semi-conscious, and was barely coherent for the better part of 3 days. A tenday and more had been spent focusing his will before he felt the ecstasy associated with the stirrings of power. He had seen the cantrip performed numerous times with a tiny bit of energy invested by Master Dainoth, but once the spell flowed through him it was akin to an artery being split open and his life force being used to fuel the spell.
His focus and ambition were tinged with insatiable curiosity that made him often reckless as the thrill of testing himself pushed him to the very limits of his abilities.
It is as if no time has passed. Wrathe is still found with his nose buried in an ancient tome, making notes in his travel journal in his strange polyglot tongue interspaced with sketches.
Glancing up as the group reunites, he shows the spark of eager enthusiasm as greets the others.
The Wyrmtouched girl standing in the background still had her mult colored scarf, it seems that it had been repaired in her years as an apprentice to Lia and her guild. Her Emerald eyes seem to hold a mischievous gleam as she starts to scanning the shadows, looking for possible spots to lurk in. Her clothing appears to be rather plain for that was the point, the last thing that a rogue wanted was to look like she was up to no good. Daxniss hair is still cut short but it is even, along with a power that would help hide the coloring in her skin which, allowed her to pass better as a human. The ragged boots were replaced with a pair of simple ones with a low heel, as she seems to pad as quietly as possible, each step is starting to get measured out.
Lia had shown Daxniss how to move much more adeptly in the shadows, along a number of other small tricks, that Daxniss picked up rather easily. Languages were quickly learned by the girl as she seemed to pick them up in little time
Lia had different styles depending on the possible jobs, while picking pockets wasn't going to be Daxniss primary trade as a rogue, lying in wait to over hear the what was talked about in confidence. Still not everything turned up well, thanks to the Stalker event; animals would either bolt in terror from the girl and most dogs would growl and snap at her.
A scar on her left forearm showed that at least one animal had sunk it's teeth into her however, thanks to her scaly hide, she had suffered no loss of mobility in that arm.
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Dorian bows to each of his fellow fated youths.
Until Irori wills our meeting again.
Turning to Dainoth, he bows lower.
I shall make this gracious opportunity to my fullest. I thank yee, master Dainoth.
As Dorian and the man in black traverse the city, Dorian studies his every move. The lightness of his footfall, the turning of his body, the constant wary roaming of his eyes; always searching for danger burn into Dorian's mind.
As the drive deeper into the dark, Dorian smiles. He feels....at home. Watchful, wary, and without pause, he assist the man in black as best he can with the little training from his life in the monastery.
Arriving at the market, Dorian looks on with a stoic expression. He studies the layout. before following.
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Silently following the man in black, Dorian wills himself to study everything on their path. Once they enter the huge mausoleum, he bows his head as they approach the monk. He bows low at the man in black's appeal to the master.
Perfectly pleased by the proffered plea, Dorian turns to the man in black,
I thank yee for your tutelage, Ser.
Dorian then bows low to him before fully focusing on his future. He steps forward, bows, and copies the lotus position, awaiting his fate....
While the time flows at it normal, dignified pace, the four years seemed remarkably short to the young dragonkin. Occasional visits from the others stray youths help to mark the passing dates. For Ssilax, there was only study, split between the realm of the arcane and the mysteries of Nethys. In truth, the dragonkin throws himself into learning to escape from his reality. The more Ssilax focuses on his studies, the less he thinks about his own existence in a city filled with beings that would set him on fire or skin him.
Over the years, Ssilax locks his emotions down, allowing them few outlets other than study, or cooking. He builds strong mental walls to keep his memories locked down and far away from his conscious mind. They still find ways to manifest themselves, namely in nightmares. It is rare that the dragonkin doesn't find himself awake in his cot, heart pounding. At least he didn't scream much anymore. It is within this time period that Ssilax notices that there is something wrong with his shadow.
It is not his.
For the most part is does look like his, except the features are greatly exaggerated. Long horns, claws and teeth are spied, occasional he spies wings stretching out. The worst part is, his shadow always feels like it's watching. Not just Ssilax either, there are times the dragonkin could swear that it is staring at Wrathe and Lilith. It almost seems like it is judging them. Not sure what exactly is wrong, Ssilax tries to figure it out on his own. Feeling that it is his problem, the dragonkin doesn't mention it, rather then seek aid from Dainoth.
At one point, Wrathe offers to take Ssilax with him to the brothel, to have tea with his mysterious contact. The dragonkin had asked where Wrathe kept disappearing to on the rare days they had free time. Wrathe tells him in secret, the almost human didn't think that Dainoth would approve of the use of his free time. Plus, his friend had been slightly distracted from his studies. Ssilax had noticed Wrathe sketching a particular young lady with out any clothes on when his mind was wandering. After several years of not leaving the archmage's safehouse, Ssilax hesitantly agreed.
The young dragonkin had been surprised to met the "Huntress." He ended up speaking with the older woman at length after Wrathe had left to visit his female friend. Despite his reservations, he was curious to learn about the Umbrae. He didn't think the rest of his live was going to be lived out in Dainoth's basement. Asking to met his gaze, Ssilax had pulled off his hood, and lowers his cowl after a few moments of indecision. The old woman covers it up quickly, but not before Ssilax notices the look of surprise in her eyes. It didn't seem surprise that he was a nonhuman, more like she recognized something. And wasn't overly thrilled to see it.
Before long the conversation is turned to what the dragonkin is skilled at. At the mention of his novice healing skills, the old woman clicks her tongue and writes out a short note. She instructs him to give it to Dainoth. The note is from the head of the brothel, the old woman doesn't mention her name. It is for Ssilax to train, in his free time with a healer that she knows.
Later, when the young dragonkin gives the note to the old mage, he expects the old man to be angry the two had snuck out. Dainoth had laughed, figuring the two were at the about the right age to show a great deal of interest in a brothel. The joke, like many, sails over Ssilax's horned head. He arranges his schedule slightly so that the two had a few more free hours. Dainoth also points a few underground passages that lead into the city. They are much safer then the two traverse the Puddles by themselves.
Aside from learning more than he could from the few books on healing, Ssilax enjoys helping the soft spoken elven healer. He was amazed when he had first met Velinioas. The elf looked truly ancient, Ssilax could only guess how many centuries the ancient male had seen pass by. His reward in helping with the prostitutes aliments comes in the form of a rather surprising payment. After helping to deliver a baby, he is given a small white puppy by another of the working woman. The dragonkin has no resistance to the small fuzzy puppy, falling for the trick earliest that conquered early man. Puppy eyes.
It is a few weeks later that Ssilax finally succeeds in channeling the divine. His puppy, named Dog, for the animal hasn't told Ssilax his name yet, has a odd fetish for destroying Lilith's shoes or slippers. Much to the elf's annoyance. The first casting that succeeds drops him to the floor, a yipping Dog dancing over the boy's form. Dragging himself to his feet, he looks at the Mended slippers. Smiling, Ssilax had dragged himself over to Lilith to show her the repaired slippers. They returned to Dog destroying the repaired footwear. Ssilax was given plenty of practice over the next few weeks as he repaired the elf's surprising amount of foot coverings.
Ssilax isn't satisfied until he is able to do the same with his arcane magics. He felt the need to be stronger. Casting a cantrip or orision and then feeling so drained was..., unacceptable to the young dragonkin. He knew he had to push himself to his limits constantly. Ssilax knew he was going need much more strength to even have a chance at survival. That was even with his friends. On his own, he was nothing more than meat, the young dragonkin boy was all to aware of that fact.
At news that the others would all be arriving at once, the dragonkin's muzzle curls as he smiles. It was rare to see the boy actually happy, rather than just going through the motions of smiling without feeling it. Dog was also good for pulling him out the numbness that settles into the dragonkin.
Folding up the bulky black with its wide, deep blue trim, Ssilax unwraps his cowl. Another odd habit the dragonkin had taken to fairly recently was remaining garb in robe and black cowl. Setting his disguise on his cot, he rushes over to the kitchen, Dog at his scaled heels.
Now that he was only in his trousers and undershirt, ivory spikes had begun to grow from the base of his skull down the length of his tail. The ivory spikes where faintly diamond shaped. A series of small horns where starting to pierce the scaled eyebrow ridges. Four poked out from each eyeridge.
The smells beginning to trail out from the kitchen are approaching mouth watering. It seems if magic doesn't end up working out for Ssilax, he'll have a shot at being a cook.
Rust-stained spikes slowly push his cowl out as Wrathe momentarily assumes the form of a dragonkin (greater change shape) unconsciously. His extensive studies of those afflicted by his curse stole the mystery from the transformation, though he was far from being able to control it.
At least it was no longer knocking him senseless when his changes came on. That was progress of a sort.
The young man appears and at first is barely recognizable. It seems his face has started to grow into that of a man, with the start of moustachios appearing above his lip. But all recognize Argon's eyes, with their wide, brown oval irises; and his smile. His face is longer but leaner, and spotted with a few red marks you find out later he considers his enemies (pimples). His newfound height is impressive, as he is already taller than most women and some men. Wearing the garb of a merchant, you later see his old but well-maintained chain shirt hiding underneath. His hair is still that unusual red-brown color common in his people, but now it is tied back into what he calls a "warrior's tail".
"I'm sorry I've been out of touch lately, everyone. I hope my letters made up for that a bit." In truth the letters had been difficult to write, in secret, and to get delivered, so there had not been as many as he would have liked. But he had made the effort.
His training had kept him occupied, as it had the others. And his comrades in arms had become his new family. He spent his days concerned about weapons and armor, about entering a place and seeking his target unseen, but he lived and trained with these other boys, and their lives had quickly become his own. After four years, the group had become smaller due to various kinds of attrition, and the group had gotten that much closer. But Argon often thought about his week in this old wizard's basement, and the friends he made there.
Now he is here again, with them, wondering what the occasion is.
At Eastgate, if Torgrim had been impressed by Argon's speed, strength, or tough skin, he had not shown it. He treated all trainees the same - with a toughness that bordered on insane. The troop, as they called themselves, avoided him at all costs, lest they be tasked with washing walls, peeling potatoes, or sweeping out the huge training yard.
Still, one thing was obvious - Torgrim knew his stuff. He could tell what even the most creative trainees were going to do, as if by magic. Over time, it became clear that it was no magic, but instead observation and human nature. The troop was learning the art of war, true, but they were learning so much more as well. Infiltration, disguise, fieldcraft, patrolling, defence, coordination, signalling, tracking and following, first aid, health and hygiene and physical conditioning were all part of the curriculum. The intent was for the trainees to be able to enter a place, be it a building, city, or another country, find their target, and complete their stated mission. So much to learn, and practice. If ever Argon thought something was too hard, he only had to think of the Clawed One that had ripped apart those city guards and almost him, and he would be get back on track with the training.
In the limited time available for other pursuits, Argon had gone to find a place to work with metal. He fixed his own armor, and once tried to make a sword, though that had been a disaster. Still, he did not give up, and he toyed with metal bending, forging and attempting to make little devices. The road is long and uphill.
"Why are we all here?" He smiles as he sees all the others.
Dog eyed him warily, as it always had, never quite extending trust, but not fleeing in mortal fear like nearly all other animals did. Wrathe attributed it to the stain upon his soul, evinced by the seeping dark brand laid upon his flesh.
4 years had provided the burgeoning wizard with sufficient insight to understand just how atypical it was to find this many individuals that tolerated nonhumans within Caern. Even among nonhumans there were many that would sell out others of their perceived "ilk" to the human majority for little more than scraps from their table, or possibly more understandably to feel that they fit in, if only for a fleeting moment.
Here was a place where Wrathe fit in, and was accepted among peers that arrived with a shared experience.
It filled him with the warmth of companionship.
Setting down his reading he offers Argon the warmth of a smile and shrugs his shoulders and chuckles. "Trust in me, Master Dainoth is just as reticent to reveal the truth of things as he was upon our first meeting."
"Master Dainoth takes a strange enjoyment out of seeing us struggle for answers," Ssilax looks out from the kitchen area. He waves cheerfully at Argon. "Wow, you and Daxniss look a lot different, it's been a little over a year since I last saw you two." A midsized white dog gives a bark. Ssilax looks to a mixed breed of lab-husky-shepherd, clearly a street dog. One of it ears is always half-flopped over. The tips of the animal's ear were yellow, as well as a faint line of yellow down his back.
"This is Dog. He's a big baby. Don't worry, the only thing he loves to chew are Lilith's slippers," the dragonkin says about the almost grown puppy. He woofs at the newcomers, keeping a sharp eye on Daxniss. Ssilax taps Dog on the head to break his get the animals attention. "She's lurking in her room, the former closet." the dragonkin grins.
"Honestly, I haven't a clue as to why everyone is going to be here. Master told us yesterday that everyone was going to be here for the day. I'm not complaining, all of my friends. I don't get out that much, aside for my healer duties." Ssilax pauses for a moment. "And I take the Understreets to get there."
"You're doing it again," Ssilax whispers to Wrathe. He looks at the almost human for few moments. His muzzle curls as the dragonkin grins. "And your horns are too long."
Argon stares at Ssilax's 'brother' and realizes it is Wrathe. "You've been spending so much time together that you're starting to look like each other! Wrathe, are you a shape-changer now??"
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The hollow rap, tap, rap vibrates through the walls, ceiling, and floor of the underground chamber. A deep cough proceeds the appearance of a tall, lanky, pale skinned young gentleman. His well tailored garments from top hat to polished boots are the deepest black. A black that shifts to blue in the correct light or angle.Matching long locks that stealth out from under the hat, meander down a high forehead to applaud his ice-blue eyes.
Greetings, my friends.
Dorian smiles at those present, fangs proudly pointed.
Daxniss grins at Ssilax's words and says " Of course she would spend time away from the rest of us, if I had spent time as a host to something that was trying to chew through my soul I would value my alone time. Not that it was her fault of course she must want to prepare herself to adjust to more visitors. " she finishes with a laugh and a bow
The last few years had been difficult for the wrymtouched girl, as Lia had trained her to blend in socially as best as possible. If Daxniss had been born 'Vanilla' as the folks who were not human and in the guild.
Of course people paid money for those that could tell fortunes, and had little air of mystery. The last few years had hd Daxniss deal with her fear, which also had given Daxniss a hint of parnoria. The scars from the Stalker's claws stand out in stark relief if Daxniss had allowed anyone to see her shoulder.
Absently rubbing a partially-healed abrasion splayed across his right shin, Wrathe curses his lack of darkvision. Ssilax moved so confidently among the darkest reaches of the Understreets, and though the Xthian could shift into a creature with the ability to pierce the night, it was not something he could depend on maintaining for any length of time.
Wrathe had found sufficient resources to delve into the dark mysteries of harnessing the power of shadows to bolster his spellcasting, and it consumed him as of late, in no small part assisted by the freshness of his Phia-related heartache.
Glancing up, he seems as surprised as anyone that he had shifted into a different form. The changes were like second nature to him now. Sheepishly chuckling he good-naturedly accepts the aesthetic criticism from his fellow apprentice as he fields Argon's question, "I am a poor shadow of one, but it is a skill my people, the Xthian, have."
Surprised by the lack of judgement of his abilities, if truth be told he expected that others would think of him as more of a freak, he decides to show off with the sole form that he could consistently hold for a time.
Closing his eyes he falls into the very same concentration exercises that Master Dainoth had taught him to steady himself for his spellcasting. Those eyes open once more, but this time they are bulbous eyes that glare atop this creature's decidedly toad-like head. A multitude of warts and bumps decorate its greenish skin.
His voice comes out in a croak, "Good for swimming, and eating flies."
It was like relaxing a flexed muscle, and a moment later he is himself once more, though with beads of sweat upon his brow and a flush to his cheeks.
Scampering over to Daxniss, Argon and Dorian he throws hugs around their shoulders, just about bearing them to the ground with his enthusiasm.
"Dorian? I hardly recognized you. You look like your training is going well. You seem more confident about yourself than all that time ago," Ssilax greats the dhampire with a wave and a smile splitting his maw.
Watching as Wrathe changes his form to the ugly toad, Ssilax shakes his head.
"Show off," the dragonkin mutters with a grin. "Why did you have to pick the ugliest creatures as your practice forms?"
With a chuckle, Ssilax turns back to preparing the early lunch. Wrathe had just launched himself at the three to dispense hugs. Or just to knock them to the ground, it was hard to tell. The dragonkin vanishes behind the screens.
Argon stands firm as the slim Wrathe throws himself at him. "Your bull rush needs work, Froggy. Doesn't Dainoth teach you any real skills?"
He greets the others with hugs and handshakes too, careful not to knock them over, or get too close to Dorian's teeth.
When the pile of limbs separate from heartfelt hugging, the pungent aroma of Dainoth's blend of tobacco tickles the nostrils. The old man is calmly sitting at the head of the table, puffing on his pipe as he watches the youngsters. The old man in his faded brown looks pretty much the same as the last time he was seen. That is to say, Dainoth looks ancient, as though he had slipped Death a bribe to putter around for a while longer.
"I see Wrathe took care of the greeting," the old mage says dryly. The grey furred rat scampers down off of his left shoulder and runs the table leg. It makes a beeline for the kitchen. A sibilant curse floats in the air from the surprised dragonkin. He comes out carrying a mug of coffee. The rat was perched on Ssilax's head, standing on it's hind legs and holding on to the dragonkins larger set of horns.
"Your coffee and rat, Master Dainoth," the dragonkin apprentice says as he sets the coffee down. Picking the rat up by the scruff of his neck, Ssilax eyes the grey furred rodent with the faintest hint of annoyance. "Must you do that?" the dragonkin quietly asks the rodent. Gently, the platinum and golden scaled apprentice sets the familiar down on the table near Dainoth. Looking at the dragonkin with bright blue eyes, squeaks as if to laugh at the boy. The rodent runs up the old mage's arm to it's shoulder perch.
"Well, it seems that you are all doing well," Dainoth's brown eyes sweep over the gathered youths. He seems satisfied, apparanently spotting whatever he was looking for. "I am pleased to see that your instructors are living up to my expectations." The old man takes a drink of coffee and sighs contently.
"I did have a reason for asking you the lot of you to be excused from your studies. I have a task for you all to complete. I've found a chamber sunken nearby. It is rather heavily warded against detection, as well as warded to keep people out," Dainoth pauses for a few moments. "I have a way around the wards but the entrance is too small, and I am far to old to be crawling around on my hands and knees."
" Gak! Yes Wrathe I see you! You know have a way to surprise me, I takr it this is revenge for all the times I have snuck up on you. " Daxniss finished with a peal of laughter. Wiggling her way out of the hug, she finishes greeting the others.
Bowing to master Dainoth Daxniss says " Yes master Dainoth, I can understand that you have found a hidden tunnel and you desire to not to crawl into the tunnel's opening. Did you get a sense of dread from the tunnel? I only ask since you said there was powerful magicks from detection in the main entrance of the tunnel. ". Daxniss finishes with a smile, the thrill of a job that might revel something old, yet new.
Wrathe's mouth drops agog, hanging stupidly in the wind waiting for a bird to take perch there. Trust was something that he was glacially-slow to offer anyone, and Master Dainoth was one of those that he trusted implicitly, but even so he pauses to permit the archmagus to let them in on his little joke.
It dawns on him slowly.
Adventure!
He scrambles off to collect his travel gear, really consisting of only two or three items, whistling cheerfully to himself as he contentedly goes about the process of preparing for something that he was nearly oblivious about carrying out.
Argon warmly greets Dainoth after greeting all the others.
After the proposed task is mentioned, Argon asks, "If I understand this task, it is to crawl into the space you found, and then what - look around? What do you think is in it? How did you happen to find it, and why would you want to investigate inside? There must be something you were looking for, or a reason to think there may be something there..."