A chorus of children's screams reach out from the oppressive blackness that your eyes cannot pierce more than a foot or two. The animal part of your brain, the part that has become so pronounced in Bragh, warns you of the dangers beyond the black.
Ever in control, Jaevan removes his hand from the druid's wrist, an inscrutable mask playing across the stark lines of his face. While he does not explain himself, there is a level of pragmatic simplicity to his actions thus far that would make you doubt that he has not thought this through. He is garbed in a full set of ornate studded leather armour, dyed red with blood fading to the black of night, that he had stripped off of a daemon corpse in the hall.
Aryaa's single eyes flits back and forth among the group as they play leap frog for who gets the pleasure of cutting her down. Outside of her skin having been flayed by the caustic nature of the realm, her wounds look to have been inflicted by the same slashing weapon, with a heavily curved blade, over and over again. Either her attacker kept cutting her when she fell, or they moved so fast that it is almost not to be believed. Her rusted and pitted axe and plate armour lay not far away, amongst all the fallen creatures. They are worthless, which is confirmed as you realize that her axe head was in four pieces, and all the strapping for her armour was frayed and useless.
There is so much blood, she is all but swimming in it, which makes your pulse race, and its heady metallic taste fill your nostrils. All have seen a significant fading of their tattoos, but those who have faded the most are all but licking their lips at the offer of a sumptuous repast.
The battle continues unabated outside of the structure, though it is a pale reflection of the feral exchanges it once was.
"If it's someone you care about, then end their suffering quickly. However, if this is someone who can add us in closing the portal," the vampire looks at the flayed human. "We have the potions and I have spells to make this place more... tolerable. Not to mention their are plenty of weapons and armor from the fallen hosts of good and evil."
"Which is it to be?" Grendel asks, trying to be gentle, but he felt they didn't have much time. A slight wince finding purchase on his face a particularly painful pulse from the blade works its way up his arm.
The cries from behind the darkness sent cold chills up the undead druid's spine. Grendel was guessing the dreamers that had been talked about must be hidden within. Or the ancient horror took special delight in tormenting the children of the lifeforms it devoured.
Calvoric reveals the nature of the woman: Aryaa.
Once the decision is made to help her Jaevan pads towards the ancient arms and armour in search of a serviceable weapon to replace the woman's axe, and a set of plate that would fit her. He returns with ornate versions of both.
Magic is cast to help stave off and resist the bitter cold, and the application of a single potion makes all the difference in the world. A warm glow bathes her body as the healing magics flow over her like quicksilver, seeming to reverse time itself. You watch as green-black pus thickly crawls forth from their open wounds, punctures retreat from flesh, her eye re-inflates, and she dons a suit of skin. Aryaa expels a volume of her own blood over the course of the next few moments, before extending her gratitude.
She dresses with surprising modesty, considering the situation, stands with the assistance of the group, and puts her new axe through a few practice swings.
Aryaa looks upon the group for time, her eyes saddened. "Your sacrifice will never be forgotten. Which of my companions was successful in relaying the truth of this place to you?"
"Both Dimqu and Xelian told us what they were able, and the journal, as well as the gnome Pribi, and Bragh gave us the fastest path to undeath. We put the pieces together to learn what is happening. Becoming vampires wasn't ideal but," Grendel shrugs, with a glance at their surroundings, "we didn't exactly have a lot of time to be choosy." The vampiric druid says with a faint smile.
Retrieving his scimitar with a wince, Grendel points to the darkness. The flaming blade flashes with a sense of eagerness to right the wrong the ancient horror had brought about.
"I believe we have dreamers to wake and a portal to close." Grendel says. Star-Eater lets a ghostly "woof" of agreement.
Aryaa nods, her eyes lingering on Jaevan longer than the others, a slight frown tugs her mouth down. She shakes her head and looks back to Grendel with a look of solemnity cast upon her attractive blood-splattered face, "With the gift of hindsight I see that the curse of vampirism was the correct course of action. I was too blind, ignorant, or perhaps too proud to consider it for myself, which made me a liability as this realm's afflictions took hold immediately. It is only with the boon of one of the winged ones that kept me from a rapid death, and that was only as a means of protecting his wounded body for a time. Useless and foolhardy. "
It is a painful conversation, which is possibly why she changes the subject, "Those strange mighty beings, holy and nefarious alike, have the full attention of this place. We are beneath contempt." The lat sentence is delivered with pious levels of humility. "Our life forces are but candles next to the bonfires of those strange creatures outside."
As she mentions "nefarious" her eyes betray a slight movement to the rogue.
She stops stock still at the idea that they move along. Aryaa glances over the druid's shoulder, her meaning obvious: where are Bragh, Xelien and Dimqu?
She pales, seen all the clearer, despite the blood, by the proximity of the druid's flaming scimitar. "The..hey were injured so badly, Bragh most of all. They returned to let the word be known, and to get assistance."
Aryaa cannot bring herself to mention that they also had dragged Bragh away after he had attacked her.
Grendel shakes his head.
"Dimqu and Xelien's minds where broken when they fell out of this place. Bragh fell and became a vampire, unrestrained by the tattoo," Grendel says softly. "They where still able to give us enough aid to get us here. And they have all found peace." The vampiric druid was trying to be kind, he didn't feel that Aryaa needed the exact details of how her friends died.
Especially after what she had suffered through all ready. Grendel was impressed she was just standing there screaming in horror.
Skirmishes continue unabated from the space beyond the structure, but they are becoming much more infrequent.
One of the rags of the clothing she once wore is enlisted to wipe the bulk of the nearly-frozen gore from her face, neck, and hands. It leaves long lines of smears and reveals that her tattoo has all but faded.
Aryaa assures you that their minds were perfectly fine when she last spoke to them. Perhaps information of this place was never meant to reach the ears of man.
She considers the sea of bodies that surround them, little more than husks, people that she failed to protect.
Her next words slow your charge into the darkness, "I was cut down by one of the winged ones that call themselves arch angels. I had overheard that she is called Sanriel. She went into there." She points at the darkened hallway, enormous in scope.
Considering the wounds on the formidable paladin, and the pureness of the aura of the winged ones and the paladin, it is a confusing revelation.
" Most strange, good call Grendel, on the healing, a better choice then what I had in mind. Yes Bragh, had lost himself to the curse, that much is evident, still an arch angel striking you down, perhaps this arch angel went mad due to the exposure of this realm." Something felt off, still Cal kept watch, warning the other's when more of the shadow creatures came to help them avoid being touched. Still we have much to do and little time left to us, let us be off to close portals and save the world." Cal's caustic humor returns.
With a wry grin the vampire bard starts forward, trying to keep the other's spirits high as the only way that he knows how, making light of the this situation while he felt more like a page given full arms and armor and thrust into a combat he felt little prepared for.
Calvoric feels a slight resistance each time he crosses tens of thousands of soul tethers.
20 paces within the blackness, so thick that none of your can pierce even with magics or the angelic weaponry, you find Sanriel standing next to the chain and the bundle of threads of life that each trail off further into the darkness.
A young woman stands in a shaft of sunlight that has not source, the radiance of which reflects off of golden armour, bathed in the paladin’s blood, which has slits in its cuirass to accommodate her six black wings. Shining gold stretches forth across her eternal eyes, encompassing both orbs in their entirety. In her right hand is a sickle, which is not flaming. She is tragically beautiful.
She meets you calmly and the gentle rebuke to tragically beautiful gaze that inspires awe within your breast. This is a force of nature before you: impersonal, inhuman, implacable, and utterly beyond anything you can understand.
Her words throw you to your knees, "This will usher in a new age." Her words are such that you imagine that she's trying to talk herself into believing it.
Hundreds of dead children lay at her feet, all having been struck down by a single sickle blow across the throat. The intensity of their soul tendrils, stretching into the black, is many times as bright as any other he has seen, which includes angel and daemon.
As soon as it becomes obvious that Dandelion needs to see the invisible beings, he casts one of his most powerful magics, a spell to allow him to See True everything around him, including things unseen. He casts it once more before starting down the hallway.
He follows in a daze as the horror of this place occupies his mind, trying his best to keep it on the task at hand. He had mentioned to Aryaa that two of her friends had not succumbed to the evil forces they had invited into their very persons, and had remained true to their convictions even as they were broken. He had hoped that had set them better to rest, in her mind, at least.
Standing some distance from this angel of death, or so she would seem, and realizing there must be some disagreement about the methods required to rid the world of the affliction they had seen, he looks to the Paladin and hopes she does not try to take this Sanriel down. Not yet, at least. He looks at the angel, hoping to see the complete truth of her, and wonders if such terrible actions can effect such a solution as is required. Surely cutting down children must feed the evil, in some way?
Finally, he looks a the children, and their tendrils of light. Are they so bright due to their unsullied innocence, the sort that only children may possess? Or is there something else about them that is special, something unique and holy? He is unsure.
"How? How does all of this slaughter bring about a new age? How does the murder of goodly beings and children bring about a new age? The hosts of good and evil joining forces to combat a horror, sounds more like the destruction of Order and Balance to me," Grendel's eyes look at the soul tethers, bodies and final the supposed holy creature.
" All you are doing is ushering in an age were nothing lives, everything will be consumed to the Nemesis, all you are doing is feeding it and dooming everything to it's hunger. Demons and Angels are frighting together to avoid this, Awaken from it's servitude. The only order that you are imparting is where everything will be dead and it the nemesis will be the only thing that will be existing." Cal pauses for a moment.
" Nothing will grow, nothing will live expect it. You are damning everything to it." Cal says, his voice echoing in the strange place, hoping that for a moment that she might listen.
They sound so certain, but Dandelion is not so sure. He agrees with them, sure, but he wonders. Fighting evil with evil sounds wrong, but he has seen stranger things, and this is a time of strangeness.
A possible explanation, of why these tendrils of light are so bright. comes from something they had heard from Pribi and a few others, those that were taken were considered to be "special ones." Their strange abilities of mind magic makes them very powerful repositories of energy. Considering the number of dead it is likely that those with similar abilities have all been wiped out.
Jaevan holds a wicked-looking dagger rimmed with wisps of darkness, that looks to perfectly conform with his reverse grip.
It is interesting that only Calvoric could see these lines of soul energy outside of the utter blackness, while all but Jaevan, Aryaa, and Star-Eater can see the light within. They are almost painfully-bright to behold, but they cast no illumination. You each feel the resistance as you touch one of them, or pass through one, which is inevitable since they are so numerous. Each contact fill your minds with a cacophony of momentary perceptual stimulus, as you intensely "feel" their laughter, hugs, explorations, pains, and dreams. Each life that has been stolen becomes real and the scene becomes that much more horrifying.
Sanriel has a slightly sad look on her face, "You cannot possibly understand, for you are not even aware of the veil over your eyes." Creepily she runs her fingers gently down one of the soul threads, as if it is a physical thing. "Evil does not dwell here. It is a force beyond such paltry definitions. It is the bringer of the new age when it rises from aeons of slumber."
Aryaa raises up to only being on one knee, her axe upon the ground before her, as she offers prayers to mercy and justice for all those that have fallen. Her next prayer is that she has the strength for the trials to come. Aryaa flashes forward, rising from her knees and uncoiling her body bringing her axe, one that had been wielded by the archdevil Asmodeus, into the bottom of Sanriel's exposed neck with all of the power within her thews. The angelic enchanted axe, buries deep into her flesh.
Aryaa falls dead a single sickle strike to her heart, the arch angel takes a moment to catch her breath, then pulls the weapon forth from her neck. The frozen wound gapes wide open.
Sanriel bends down, seeming oblivious to what just happened, to gently run her fingers through the hair of a girl that cannot be more than 17 months old, ignoring the frozen blood that stains the girl's pretty little dress, "Such fragile things. You a born to die. Entropy and death are everywhere. Everything crumbles."
Her words start to flow forth to rebuke the bard, but it appears that she has no answer for how life will begin anew in a land scoured clean of all life. All she gets out is a pathetic, "Y..y..you cannot understand. Life will come again."
Perhaps she is insane.
Sanriel's alien eyes open wide and she turns her head, aware of something that none of you perceived.
The chain starts to silently move, thrashing back and forth, and you realize that it is attached to something impossibly massive in the dark.
"The ancient one awakens from the bonds of this prison of shadows."
" Life will not, if you truly thought that, others would not be fighting so much. Everything will be under it's shadow, other Angels would not have given up their essence to fight against this. Lady, it sounds more and more like you are trying to justify your current actions, and still somehow think that you are a holy being, would you brethren agree to serve your new master? Please lady, see the truth around you, I see only souls being consumed, their silver essence stolen from them. I can see their souls, their hopes, dreams, their laughter, everything." Cal finishes, hefting the longsword.
Glancing at the chains, Cal wonders if they could be severed, thus cutting off the creature from the plane of mortals it would be a choice to make.
Dandelion is not surprised by the slaying of the paladin, but it shocks him nonetheless, to see the brutal attack and equally brutal response. He speaks.
"Evil is not a side in a war or a game. It is not a sword or an axe. It is not a profane aura, to be read by those gifted and able to see such things. It's not a word you can just say to make it so, or unsay to make it disappear.
Evil is action. Killing children, causing suffering. Intentionally removing love.
Tell us, Sanriel, what will happen after the cleansing, when life will come again? Will it not contain good and evil? Same as before? What's to stop it? What will be different?"
Keeping his own sense of self was difficult, Grendel's mind was awash with other's life. Fractions of lives danced within his mind's eye, emotions whirled. Joy, anger, happiness, fear, rage, everything all at once. Entire lives lived out in his mind in a fraction of a moment. Grendel felt like a rock in a river as others lives flowed through the druid.
Grendel was slowly inching forward as Calvoric spoke, keeping his hunter's eyes on the Arch-Angel. The druid vampire looks at the horrible wound on the being's neck. Pressure was beginning to build under his canines, his fangs were eager to come out. If the druid felt that he had the chance, feeding off the angel might be an option. Grendel doubted the outcome would end to well for him though. Aside from falling to the curse, the angel's blood, if she had any, would probably be like drinking acid. But if it gave the others a chance. Besides, being undead, he oddly wasn't worried about being stabbed in the heart like poor Aryaa. It was an odd thing to be almost immortal.
"This thing you allied yourself with, after it strips life from the world, will just move onto the next. And the next, and the next. All it does is wipe out life. You. Us. Everything," Grendel stares at Sanriel. "All it does is annihilate life.
The stuff of souls is a bit more solid here than it was even a step before, though not tangible enough to grab hold of, or sever. Perhaps much closer to the monster of the black it is a thing one can lay a blade to...should you get enough time to do so.
Your whole body thrums in response to so many tendrils of souls flowing in such close proximity to you. You are inundated by millions of intense images, each of them single captured multi-sensory moments frozen in time, the kind of private moments that speak of the truth of the person.
There is something strange about the scene, though you are afforded little time to consider it.
Devoid of any real answers to the poignant arguments that are brought forth, she speaks in a voice that echoes for several seconds in the chamber, "I tire of your words."
Sanriel sweeps her hand across in front of her, moving close enough to you to burn your flesh with her aura of sunlight, channeling holy energy into her body and releasing a wave of explosive force that lays everyone low.
The flesh of all present, including those that cannot see, and Aryaa, are charred by the holy strike, leaving behind embers that burn for a time before disappearing. Smoke lazily rises from your forms.
You are all slain instantly.
...
Vampires are made of notoriously difficult to kill.
In a very short time your eyes flutter open, and you climb to your feet, glancing down at yourself to see your tattoo greatly faded. Your eyes have adjusted to the darkness, perhaps because you are closer to it; now you can see a few paces in all directions. It is a difficult scene to behold, with the dead paladin, and all the children releasing lines of the immortal parts of themselves.
Sanriel is gone. You hear her voice loudly chanting deeper in the darkness, perhaps as much as 200' away, and the souls are being fed into the creature faster. It is circle magic, fuelling a ritual far beyond the reckoning of any mortal.
You are a creature of the night, a supernatural predator feared by every culture that has ever encountered one, but that does not save you from nearly jumping out of you skin in the next few seconds. It is all you can do to clamp a hand over your mouth to not reveal your new unlife to Sanriel.
Aryaa sits up.
Blood no longer flows forth from her wound. Her head cocks to the side, listening to the spell being cast.
Her head cocks the other way, listening to sounds beyond the structure as well. Shaking her head she looks back and forth, then climbs to feet. "All have fallen outside. Creatures rush toward us even as we speak."
Before your eyes she becomes large, flame-enshrouded man with red skin, cloven hooves, and horns, surrounded by a pale flame nimbus. Moving forward he retrieves his axe, which changes immediately into a flaming axe. All over his body are a number of constantly bleeding wounds.
"I am Asmodeus, the Lord of Darkness, and I require your assistance mortals."
Unlife floods through Grendel, red eyes snapping open taking in his surroundings. His right eye was slightly darker than the other. The vampire actually feels a sense of relief that Sanriel is gone. The ease that she had killed them the first time was pretty damn disturbing. A glance at the tattoo reveals it's faded nature.
Grendel wasn't positive, but the faded tattoo looked similar to Bragh's. It's magic almost depleted, it was close to being an inky reminder of the protection it once offered. 'It got us this far, thanks Pribi,' the vampire thinks to himself, quickly rolling over and standing to a crouch. Looking around, he determines it to be safe enough to stand up.
The druid(?) almost jumps out of his cold skin when Aryaa sits back up. His eyes grow large as the paladin changes into a large flame covered almost human. He blinks a few times in surprise as his mind struggles to catch up to the sight before his eyes.
"If it evolves closing the portal so the thing can't come through; you've got mine. If we can all make it out of here alive, so much the better," the vampire druid says. "Well, alivish in our case," Grendel adds with a shrug of his shoulders.
The axe the paladin had wielded is obviously daemonic in origin, and if Jaevan could not wield a holy relic, you imagine that the paladin would have the same restriction with something festooned with horrible images. No tendril of soul energy had poured forth from the paladin's breast when she had fallen, like every other person that had died before you. You were led to Aryaa's side by a blood trail so overwhelming that is might as well have been a red carpet. Not to mention that she had survived for that many tendays in an alien realm, having picked that moment to linger until, in the cold, until you had arrived. She did not appear concerned that her companions had accounted themselves well. Even as a death strike it's unlikely that Aryaa could have taken an archangel by surprise, such a degree of power that it could lay everyone low with a single blow, let alone do so much damage.
It all makes sense in retrospect of the nature of the strangeness you had felt about the scene you just bore witness to.
Asmodeus' voice follows suit from his transformation to his natural form and deepens to something smokey and deep, though it remains low enough that it is doubtful that it will be easily overheard, "While I could fool a mortal forever, an archangel had to be distracted, Sanriel's madness provided me opportunities of overt obfuscation I could not otherwise exploit."
The self-proclaimed god Asmodeus softly taps his cloven hoof on the semi-solid ground, which releases a burst of channeled necromantic energy, anathema to the living, but a boon to the dead: all wounds are healed.
"With these you will be invulnerable for a time."
To each of you, save for Jaevan for some reason; the rogue's nostrils flare as he scowls at Asmodeus but he says nothing, Asmodeus offers an amulet forged in the heart of a collapsing dwarf star. Along its length is something that absorbs all darkness around it. The unfathomable power of the light-as-air magical items permits you to moves so fast that your movements are little more than blurs.
Three weapons draw in all of the darkness about you, permitting you to see back in the direction you came from.
You see outlined against the luminous aether of the shadow realm what could not be seen against the dusk of the corridor—a nightmare horde of rushing creatures; hate-distorted, grotesquely panoplied, half-transparent; fiends of a race no man might mistake— the crawling horrors of the nameless dimension.
This fiendish creature speaks with such brutal honesty that it sends a shudder up your spine, "I must awaken the spirits of the fallen, and banish Sanriel back to your plane before she can do anymore harm. This will leave you alone here, as all of my legions have fallen."
He lets this sink in before continuing, his voice grave, "I ask you the unaskable. Hold this corridor so that none may pass and I will close this doorway to your world. You will fall, trapped here in this lightless place forever. The denizens will feed on your bodies for eternity, leaving you screaming and cursing until centuries hence madness will steal your every waking thought."
Asmodeus turns to the others and awaits their answer.
" I always knew that it was going to come down to this, besides it's not as if you could chance leaving a way to get out of here. It would leave a way for the Nemesis to have another chance at coming back and try again. We could also get lucky and slay all of the creatures here and make our own way back." Cal says with a grin " I had a feeling that climbing up the chains was going to be a one way trip." Cal finishes while looking at the others.
Dandelion looks off in the direction of the hordes. He sighs, trying not to think of the future. This creature, this magnificent being, shakes Dandelion to his core. He cannot think straight - this powerful one wants something from them and his immediate reaction is to yell YES at the top of his lungs. He forces himself to remain quiet for a bit, to think about what was said.
Soon the truth of it hits him. The very future of the world is at stake, right now.
The devil is being sickeningly honest. But perhaps there is a chance....
He says, "I will agree, if you agree, after successfully closing off the realms, to do what you can to keep us from that eternity."
"I'll do it," Grendel the vampire says, looking at the charging horde. He spares a glance at the newest power player in their little saga of futility and hopelessness. "Still, I'm betting you've got a way out planned for yourself, since you didn't included yourself in the "going to be killed and tortured for all of eternity," so, if you have the chance to get us out, don't forget to take it. It would be most appreciative."
Looking back at the horde, Grendel feels a brush of shadow against his leg. Looking, he say the burst of Negative energy had restored Star-Eater as well. Kneeling down, he scratches the shadow wolf's ears. "You're job is to stay alive and remind me that I serve Nature," Grendel whispers to the wolf.
"Alright, my plan is for us to create as many spawn as we can, and have them fight for us. If what Calvoric said was correct, as long as we kill them with tooth and claw, or drain their blood, they'll rise as our pawns, like what Bragh had done," Grendel's mis-matched red eyes play over the charging horde. "Two of us focus on holding the portal, while the other concentrates on creating spawn, and we switch off when possible to keep fresh, as it were."
Quick as a thought Asmodeus slashes forward, snatching Jaevan up by the throat and holding the rogue several inches above the ground. The self-serving rogue had been skulking away using the distraction of the negotiation. "I curse you mortal. Jaevan Az' Thoh never shall you find rest. Never shall you find love, rest, or happiness again." His hand sinks into Jaevan's chest, rupturing skin and bone in the process, and draws forth the man's very soul, a wispy silver-white thing, then pushes it into the man's blackened and twisted hand, making a phylactery of something that was once a sentient extension of the man, but is now little more than charred meat.
Turning back Asmodeus' mouth twitches at the corners, endlessly entertained by the ritual of negotiation. He taps a talon against his canine as he considers the group's words. He appears completely ambivalent that each contemplative moment leaves the children's spirits in immortal agony; their piercing cries assailing your ears, the pestilence wrought by the chains despoiling more of your natural world; mortals dying in droves like fruit flies, silent monsters with maws full of angel and daemon blood covering distance to rip the unlife from your breast, and provide more time for the archangel to unmake everything.
In a space of a single breath he takes the group's measure. They had sacrificed everything that ever meant anything to them, crossed lines they had not even imagined, to be in this place and position to make a difference. They had nothing to barter with, and every second the negotiation took was painful to them. That being said, their spirited and determined courage had a value, dare one say a charm to it.
Asmodeus' maw cracks in a truly epic smile and a flick of his tail, "My price for your escape is your soul. This is a non-negotiable, and irrevocable agreement." Floating before each of you is a scroll, longer than you are tall, and a floating quill dripping with ink. You understand this to be a binding of sorts, a supernatural pact, and those that choose that path feel the intensity of the verbal contract throughout their entire body. "Death still awaits, but after serving me for 1000 years in Hell you will move on to whatever happy hunting grounds your existence is owed."
Without waiting to see who signs, and who does not, as the scrolls and quills will simply disappear in time, the Prince of Darkness turns on his hoof, and disappears into the blackness. Shortly thereafter you hear the two mighty beings enter into a combat so viciously legendary that it steals the breath. Sanriel flies past your heads, so fast it is almost incomprehensible, appearing in front of her is Asmodeus, They exchange heavy blows that you can feel even from a distance of hundreds of feet away. While locked close together, a painfully beautiful mix of two diametrically-opposed beings, the archdevil speaks a single word of magic, "Kharbdys" and they both simply disappear to crash into the oceans of man with meteoric force and continue a battle that will span decades.
The mad archangel's ritual has been broken.
And then the horde is upon you...
Wisps of the deeper darkness are drawn towards you, using your weapon as a conduit, the black infecting your weapon hand, flowing through your veins and sinews, spreading blackness to every subatomic part of you. Every part of you is raven black as the protective magics find purchase within you.
The three, for Jaevan is nowhere to be seen, stand strong holding the line against all matter of horrors, their backs pressed against the oppressive darkness behind them, feeling the window to the world they once knew slowly closing to them, inevitably understanding that it will leave them trapped there forever.
For now you are liquid fast and invulnerable.
The chorus of voices of hundreds of screaming children silence over the space of perhaps 40 breaths, severing access to soul energy. Soul tethers snap and disembodied spirits with empty stares simply fade away.
The entire realm shudders as the ancient, slithering evil rises from its aeons of slumber and moves towards you.
Dandelion has gone through his short life believing himself not overly smart. For the most part he has operated on charm, confidence and instinct. It must be this instinct that tells him signing such a document is almost certainly something he would regret. Then again, not signing it is also something he will regret, his intellect tells him. As usual his instinct wins.
He does not sign.
He fights.
He thinks of his father, and his adoptive mother.
Hungry things slithering forth, their maws awash with blood, their teeth impacted with angelic and daemonic flesh.
Your quicksilver-rapid movements are something breathtaking to behold as you flash from one creature to another, weapons and spells working in perfect synchronization.
Each of the monster's heavy blows takes its toll on the runic shadow that encompasses your undead flesh.
Your magical alacrity ends, as does the runic protection of the shadows, the indestructible amulet you were provided lays useless at the end of its chain, having been charred as it acted as a conduit for impossible magics. An upside down pentagram, the symbol of Asmodeus himself, has burned itself into the flesh of your chest: an indelible reminder of your time before the Ruler of Hell.
Damage mounts, and your tattoos fade even further, black partially-congealed blood oozes from so many wounds, hastening your descent into something far more feral and sinister.
Creatures, heavily-damaged by their earlier battles, die in droves, their corpses simply absorbed back into the realm itself.
The portal has closed.
Alone.
Your sacrifice had provided all immortal souls the opportunity to escape eternity in this chthonic realm.
Some time later the attack ends, there not being much to you left, and all of the creatures retreat. They stand, float, and fly in a silent half circle before you 4 deep. Each is perfectly still, unnaturally still, like a statue.
The odour arising is intolerable.
Something approaches, wriggling in the darkness before you.
Having signed the contract for a 1000 years of servitude, Grendel had fought with all of his might. Having something resembling an escape had been quite the boon for the vampire druid. While helping to save all life and their souls was all well and nice, but seriously lacked on the reward. An eternity of suffering and madness.
Grendel almost wanted to laugh when he had signed, the fact they had come so far, given up their mortality, and where going to effectively be destroyed. Some reward for saving all of creation. A, or perhaps, the Lord of Hell was the only chance of them surviving. What he had offered wasn't exactly ideal, but it was a chance. Which was a hell of a lot to better than they had before hand.
Only fragments of the fight where even remembered. The vampire had fought with magic and blade, fang and nail. They held the line, that much was certain. They had certainly gained the attention of the Prisoner of this prison realm. 'Lucky me,' Grendel thinks, his thoughts slow and distant. If anything, he was faintly impressed with how well his undead body had functioned during the battle. What remained of it was not pretty. Limbs shredded to bits of bone and wet, cold flesh in ragged tatters.
Now, captured (at least until he shifts to mist), Grendel waits to see what approaches.
Dandelion feels the approach of something, so he quickly casts the same spell to allow him to See True anything before him; since so many creatures here are invisible, it seems wise to ensure he sees the truth of what it is.
He is so tired, but he says to the others, "What is this, then? Is this something that will end our time here?"
From an empty darkness, so vast and terrible that it makes your lungs freeze, and locks your breath as a hostage in your throat, it greasily slithers. It comes slinking out of the depths, free of its aeons-long imprisonment, with hundreds of tentacles bulging with blackened veins, quivering with unnatural power and laced with tiny, scalpel-sharp talons. Its wet and bubbling body shows the languid arrhythmic pulsing of a corpse filled with maggots. A nimbus of vile energy flows forth, a reflection of ancient magics, as it lumbers slobberingly, gibberingly into sight and gropingly squeezes its gelatinous immensity forth.
Stories end as they begin, with each of you wide-eyed, panting and begging.
et in perpetuum, frater farewell
It's too bad that you won't have a chance to hear the rest of the tale. The story had become popular lately, although if you had the time, you would find it odd that you still haven't heard the end of the tale. Survival has been the first, second, and third thing filling your young mind. Pausing a goodly distance away from where you had been chased off while scrounging to catch your breathe, the stench of the Docks refreshes itself in your nostrils.
The sun was beginning to sink, not quite at the horizon, bathing the buildings in its warm, golden glow. The sight would do wonders to inspire an artist to create something wonderful. You've learned in the short time on your own that there was nothing warm about the light. It made it so much easier to pick out what made you different from the Chosen Ones. The Humans. The Rulers. Masters of all they could get their filthy hands upon.
The memory of the first few days was burnt into your brains, it had be "Goblin-Burning" day. Packs of goblin young had been released to be hunted down. And at the end of the day, they tossed the young onto a bonfire. The whole day is met with great cheer and merriment, lots of feasting and drinking, a great day. If you where human that is. Nonhumans are wise to hide on the day, its not unknown for "accidents" to happen.
As the light is beginning to fade, thoughts of finding a new shelter take place. Your last had been taken over by a few homeless humans that are bigger than you. Meaning its better than to run then try to fight over a few planks of wood leaning against a wall. Night itself didn't really cause much reason for concern. Well, at least the lack of light anyway. The predators, both two and four legged were much worrisome.
Most of the buildings in the docks are close together, creating tight alleyways, filled with refuse and dripping with shadows. Housing space was tight in the Dock ward, forcing buildings to be several stories in most areas that weren't dominated by massive warehouses. Looking up, you can't help but feel the pointed roofs almost look like claws reaching for the sky, trying to gut the clouds.
There are a few different places that you can attempt to find a new hide. You could try to find a new place in the Dock ward. There is also the place known as the Puddles and then there is the known as the Precipice. Both the Puddles and Precipice wards had been hit by a earthquake years back. Mages where still cursed for the disaster. The Puddles had sunk, and the once nice cliff side area became bay front property. Over half of the ward had snapped off and fell into the hungry depths. All three of the wards had their own unique opportunities and dangers.
Daxniss Sassith blinked the torpor from her eyes, the night before had been a difficult one mostly running and hiding from the humans. Never mind that the little girl was different, you only had to notice the small scales on her checks, silver in color, standing in stark contrast to her Alabaster skin.
The burning feeling of tears started behind her eyes, she wills herself to not shed the tears. After all, this world was cruel, and cared little for those that happened to be different from the 'norm'.
Hunger had demanded more important plans: survival first and foremost. Pushing her hair out of her eyes, the black locks plastered on her head due to the lack of being washed for a few days, just long enough to get in her eyes, but still erratically uneven due to the dull blade that she had used.
Wrapping her cloak around her, along with a moth eaten scarf, the multiple colors that had been crocheted muted by dirt. It covered the parts of her face that had the scales allowing a better chance at not being noticed right away as non human.
Daxniss' boots were worn, and having lost all of her supplies except for her mother's harrow cards, the only keepsake she had left from both of her parents, as father had been killed two years ago, as she still remembered his silver scales no longer gleaming, eyes that no longer held that spark of life...
Pushing off more bad memories, her emerald eyes gleaming with unshead tears, she makes her way to the docks. Plenty of places to hide and tell fortunes to the faithful... or at least the chance to roll drunks passed out in the alley if all elese failed. The trick was to get their before others had the chance, taking only one item and fleeing before the bigger toughs got a hold of you or the drunk.
The drive to survive kept one going no matter what, food, shelter, warmth, and breathing were the important things. That and not getting arrested, you might bet lucky with a beating or your coin taken away as "evidence". She had heard stories of worst things, and had seen some of the horrors from other urchins. Sticking to the edge of the crowd, and the shadows as best as she was able too, she keeps her eyes out for trouble coming her way.
The young man, no, boy, hangs onto the wall, some forty feet above the dark street. In the bell tower just above, an acolyte calls, "Hello? hello?" as he wonders who or what had made the bell ring a muffled clang a moment before. Not noticing that the pin holding the bell in place had been pulled half out, and seeing nothing else, the acolyte climbs back down the ladder and into the church, closing the trapdoor above him in case it rains.
The boy looks older than he is, for his kind grows fast, and by the age of nine, which he is, the boys are nearing five feet in height. This one, whose name is Argon, is no different. Tall and lanky for nine, his light redish-brown hair covering his eyes -- eyes which reveal the truth of his not-quite-human heritage. The irises of these eyes are wider than normal, and oval-shaped, telling of his Alman birthright.
Argon, much stronger than he looks, pulls himself quietly up to the bell tower again. He picks up the end of the rope he had taken off the pulley and left on the upper wooden floor of the tower. He takes the end and tosses it over the headstock beam that holds the bell; then he reaches up for the bell, and strings the end of the rope through the second hole in the top of the bell. Standing on his toes, he makes a special knot, pushing the other end of the rope into the mix so that the knot holds. Next, he holds the rope while he pulls the pin that keeps the bell in the headstock. The weight of the bell lifts him somewhat as its weight pulls the rope he is holding, but not enough to lift him off his feet; it is one of the smaller bells in the city. Halfway down the rope he ties a heavy lead weight he had taken off a ship of the docks.
Carefully, so carefully, he maneuvers the bell over to the wall; then he gingerly lowers the rope down the outside wall, ensuring the ball does not bounce around too much. The bell rests precariously on the wall. Now all he has to do is release the rope, by pulling on the second end, and the bell will fall to the ground below.
Suddenly, noise from below, inside the tower, makes Argon start. He hides behind where the trapdoor opens to, and watches as the acolyte climbs up. The young priest in training turns, and sees Argon, just in time to see a fist in his face, and as he falls Argon fails to catch him. The acolyte falls back down the hole with a loud crash.
With no time to spare, Argon kicks the trapdoor closed, jumps onto the wall and then clambers down the wall, feet bare, using the vines to help his descent. At the bottom, he reaches for the rope just as calls are coming from the bell tower above. One tug of the second end of the rope pulls it out of its place in the knot, freeing the bell from its ropes and letting it fall to the street below, grasping hands failing to save it. It is going to fall near where Argon had been standing. But he is no longer in that spot, as he darts down the dark street, surefooted in the inky blackness like only those with night vision can be, and faster than most can run.
The bell, hitting the ground below makes a loud clanging sound which awakens those nearby who happen to be sleeping.
Such is the prank of a night urchin of Caern, who steals away into the night, heading west for the city wall. The city had been more dangerous to him of late, and he had gone hungry so many times that he had decided to try his luck in the farmsteads outside the town. Now he runs, all he owns on his person - a pair of pantalons, recently taken off a clothing line; a silk shirt, formerly fine but now ripped and smelly, and too small for him; and a bronze and silver medallion with a likeness of his parents and himself at seven embossed on its grimy face.
Clutching tattered rags to a sickly-thin frame that was little more than skin, does little to ward off the early morning chill. He stifles a yawn, exhausted from running the streets in search of scraps, and avoiding the predators of the night. He was not a creature of the night, for he could not see in the dark, nor accustomed to a diurnal existence as Sol'Daemos' light was painfully bright to his sensitive eyes. He eked out an existence in the time in-between.
Frozen slivers of pure fire had burrowed under his flesh to mingle with the array of dull aches that had already taken up residence within the tiny child's battered and scarred body. Layer upon layer of deep bruises and lacerations, show different stages of healing, bedecked filthy flesh. A jagged rust rivulet, smeared in places, carves down to his chin from a deep forehead gash.
One pale silver orb is barely visible through the swelling from a recent beating. Fingers rub the bridge of his nose, as his strange eyes squint, blink, and water, as if uncomfortable with the fit of his eyes, and in need of adjustment from his eye merchant. From his rooftop hide, little more than a boards he had pulled free and bits of fabric he had stolen, he watches the brilliance of the coming dawn until it becomes too much for him and he is forced to retreat under the moth-eaten fabric he wraps over his head. During this time children come out for play, their shrill laughter reaching him and increase his longing to come splash in the half-submerged district. He had not lived on Sel Torin for long, and was still trying to understand social nuance, and though he was an impossibly-fast learner his few attempted interactions had ended poorly. He existed in between socially as well for the hue and intensity of his eyes were far too vibrant to any level of scrutiny to pass as human.
For almost a half tenday he had been following a bedraggled old man, clumsily slipping from shadow to shadow behind the man, watching his every move. His young mind had decided that this man was a wizard for the man looked different than all others; there was a strange aura about him, a nimbus of swirling purples and blues.
It was in following this man that had nearly found his end. The older boys backed him in a corner and set about kicking him to death. Heavy blows rained down, easily bypassing his futile attempts to shield his head with his arms, until he was dragged to the frigid waters and held under until he expired. He awoke to the youth's screams, his skin feeling strangely stretched, to the ministrations of a matronly-looking woman, with cold eyes and iron grey woven smoothly through her brown hair. Desia Hawthorn offered him kindness, filling his empty stomach, but it was little more than a ruse, the children of the streets called her "The Huntress" for she was considered to be the ravenous of sex traders, a disreputable smut peddler, continually acquiring young children for nefarious purposes. His escape was by the narrowest of margins.
The old man moved back to his hovel within The Puddles, and young Xthian moved to take refuge upon the man's rotten rooftop once again under some mouldering fabric, and a plank of malformed wood that he had prised free of one end of the roof. The man had books inside, and it was his intent to attempt to gain access to them, through the small hole he had created, the next time the man departed.
Many were turned away from magi due to the stories told of the despoliation that their magics caused, or their pacts with devils, their necromantic bindings, sacrifices and the like, but these things only piqued the boy curiosity much more.
No shelter, no warmth, no respite, no friends, no help, no family, no prospects, no hope, yet a dangerous little smile crookedly lifts the corner of his mouth as the indomitable child's fingers thoughtfully caress his sole possession with a hand bearing a wicked scar upon its palm.
Before the echoes of the fallen bell have finished bouncing off the walls of the surrounding building, a cry goes up from the vandalized church. His prank with the bell had gone off fairly well, aside for the appearance of the acolyte. Argon can barely catch the cries of "Murder!" and cries for the guard as he flees. Lanky legs carry the boy away towards a wall to food and freedom. At least so he hopes.
Hidden within his hole in the old man's roof, Wrathe eventually nods off. Watching an old man drink a cup of tea and stare into the fire was not the stimulating sight. A pounding noise startled the beaten youth in to full wakefulness. The faint light of a candle creeps up through the small hole. The grumbling old man is briefly seen and the sound of the door being unlatched comes a few moments later. A muffled conversation takes place, Wrathe would have to strain to hear what speak about, but it has the tone of being something serious.
Glancing across from where he lays, Wrathe catches sight of a large rat staring at him. It's bright blue eyes stare unblinkingly at the boy. The thought of fresh meat is a tempting one, but it would require him to move, risking the chance of being heard. Before he can commit to action, the big grey rat turns and scurries into a rat hole leading into the houses wall.
Several blocks before reaching the wall gives Argon a view of what he faces. Bonfires where set up on the wall, keeping shadows at bay, Guards keep watching pacing the distance. Being so close to the Umbral Lands, the Guard took no chances with some horror creeping into the city. Trying to sneak over the wall was starting to look like not so good idea. Argon hears the sound of metal scrapping slightly against stone behind him.
Daxniss happens to find herself standing in the mouth of a narrow, crooked alleyway. She had been walking past and was bumped into, narrowly avoiding the backhand sent out by one of several guards. The three guards were walking out of the alley, laughing about something. There is the faint sound of something dripping finds her ears from further down the alleyway, round the narrow corner.
Daxniss avoiding the backhand, stops moving willing herself to be silent, unseen waiting for the guards to leave knowing that going down the alley with the guards there would be foolhardy to say the least. Trying to think if there was another entrance to the alley, of course Daxniss was unsure, the last thing that she wanted was the guards to take an interest in her.
It takes a moment to wake from the nightmarish existence that haunted him each night. Beads of cold sweat sheathed his skin and further dampen the soiled rags draped over his tiny frame.
Wide eyes frantically seek out the source of the pounding until he was assured that it was not his own heart.
Hearing speech, he slides back his threadbare "blanket" from his head, slows his rapid breathing, and cocks his head to aid in picking out individual words. Perhaps it's a spell! The quest for the magic was all the sustenance he needed, the rat was safe for the time being, though he was not above pilfering foodstuffs from the old man.
A loose drainpipe provided easy access to the roof for one as light as he, but he intends to enter through the hole he had started, and climb down onto the chimney mantle using the rags as a makeshift rope.
Daxiness clings against the wall as the guards pass by, leaving the alley and moving into the flow of foot traffic. Peeking around the corner further into the alley way it appears to be empty. Still, the dripping noise was close by. And there was the little mystery of why the guards where in the alley way to begin with. From what she has seen in the last tenday, they were probably being bribed. Perhaps there was some coin the fallen upon the wet ground. A thick drop of water hits the top of her head with enough force to startle the young thief.
Wrathe can make out bits of what is actually a conversation. The old man and someone with a gravel filled voice are talking.
"...do you mean there gone?!" he catches the old mans voice.
"Unprepared for the trails....think they...and eaten," comes bits and pieces from gravel voice.
"So...sent them...into...Idiots."
"...humbly asks for.... expertise... locating new recruits."
There seems to be a long moment of uncomfortable silence.
"I... find replacements...for... cause." grumbles the old man.
The sound of two people moving reaches Wrathe's ears. It seems they were moving into another room, shutting the door to the living room. If he wants to follow the conversation, he would have to risk moving across the roof. All he can make out was that there conversation continues in the new room.
Argon sees the walls and recalls what his father had told him - farming outside them had been greatly diminished many years ago, and the city imported most of its food from outside. That meant it came on ships from the many lands away from Saevia. So, there would be no living on farms, or off the land, outside the city. He would have to remain inside the city, or find a way to get away.
Argon likes the city, but he has the things in it he doesn't like. More specifically, groups of people he doesn't like. One of them is a gang of criminals who probably killed his father. Another is the churches, every church. One priest had tried to get him to join, given him food and promises of glory to his god in this life and the next; but then that same priest had expected too much of him - the lessons were easy enough, and the work was boring but not hard; but he had come to his cot in the vestry as he slept one night, and asked him to do some horrible things. Argon had run off and never gone back, and had added all churches and priests to his list of people and places to avoid.
Now, realizing he must change his plan, he hears a scraping of metal behind him. He turns and looks, ready to run, or, if need be, to punch someone.
The Xthian pinches the corner of his mouth to stifle a little smile at the use of the word "idiots", as such disdain for those in authority was something he could fully empathize with. Power, or the perception of same, tended to be distributed a tad too liberally to those without the capacity for rational thought.
Wrathe cocks his head to the side and tries to piece the fragments of the conversation together. He could be wrong, as a missed word could change the entire context of the sentence, but it would act as a starting point; a starting point that he would adjust as new information was gleaned.
It appeared that previously acquired recruits of the organization, hierarchical it appeared, since the men were "sent", which suggested a power disparity, that these two men represented were moving through some creature's digestive tract, information that was upsetting to the old man, who felt that the decision was ill-advised, as those recruits were poorly equipped for the trials arrayed against them. The old man was a recruiter of sorts for this organization, one that appeared to be well-respected considering that they had sent the gravelly-voiced one to "humbly" request his assistance.
The boy was left to wonder if the old man was upset because of the lost potential talent, the sadness associated with the deaths, or the decision adding to the burden of the old man's workload.
Certainly this organization was not one that he would like ever to be employed by. By Torag's taut buttocks they weren't even positive of how their members had expired.
His curiosity was piqued: What trials? What cause? What expertise was required? What organization? It could not be one that provided much in the way of remuneration, considering the state of the old man's accommodations, though he might only work for them on occasion....unless its shabby appears was little more than a front...
Shivering the young boy holds his breath, drags the fabric over his entire body, and slowly crawls forth hoping to hear more and get a glimpse of the other speaker; he wondered if the other man also had the strange aura.
His eyes shone and mouth dropped agape in wonder of how alive he felt risking everything for the heady acquisition of knowledge.
Ever in his scarred hand, the amulet carried the warmth of his body for a time as his fingers absently traced over its many textures.
Crawling forward seems to go smoothly, breath stopping at the few creaks that the old wood let out in protest. While his weight is far from heavy, the old ceiling is almost struggling against anything more than a few rodents. From what Wrathe had noticed in his short time here, the old man's battered home was actually in good shape. For a home built within the Puddles district, that is.
The conversation appears to have continued while his attention was focused on moving silently across the old wood.
"There is the chance that they succeeded, and the outcome was not what was expected," says Gravel-voice. It didn't sound like he really believed what he had said.
"Don't be a fool. If it went cold after communication went dead, then they're dead," the old man says, voice sounding bitter.
A sudden creaking noise from underneath Wrathe grabbed all of the young humanoid's attention at once. The conversation below him stops suddenly.
Turning around, Argon's heart leaps into his throat at the sight that greats him. Perhaps over 7 feet tall, all to thin frame wrapped in tight, half rotten black leather. Claws the length of daggers, dripping with gore, where intentionally being scrapped against the stone wall. The alley seemed much more confined then it did when Argon entered it. Two burning pin pricks glowed where eyes should be, the rest of it's face was wrapped in leather strips the same as the rest of the body. It is clearly aware of you.
Argon can either attempt to run past it, or he can flee to his left or right. The left leads around the building and back into the torchlight and main street. The right leads further into the lightless maze of the alleyways.
Daxniss is hit in the head with another warm drop of heavy liquid.
Daxniss wipes the warm liquid, taking a step to the side she looks up, hoping yo not get hit by whatever was dripping on her. She also takes a look wondering if this was water, or worse case blood, she briefly hopes that it wasn't urine, still either way something was on the roof of the building.
No matter what, the roof held something of vast intetrest, a chance to get some coin or at the very least a new hidy hole, she steps into the alley allowing her vision focus for threats first, then a way go climb.
[Spoiler = perception check ] [/spoiler] Daxniss had found a number of things out in her ten day of bring in the city, guards being on bribed never surprised her. Still the alley might have dangers that would be terrible, but hopefully the alley would have a way to hide her. Not to mention that there would be a chance for a better climb out of sight, even with all of the torch light and fires.
Argon knows he can easily outrun most people -- but the vision before him is not a person, unless someone has made a very clever costume, complete with lights behind the eyes. He is not about to spend any time at all inspecting this thing.
If he goes toward the wall, with any luck the city guard would see this... whatever it is .... and raise an alarm. Perhaps Argon would get away in the confusion.
All this thought fights its way through his head, competing with the other thoughts: Run! Death! Monsters! It is enough, though. Combined with the instinct to run, he turns to the left and runs into the light, looking for the brightest spot.
Between the earthquake and the constant flooding it was amazing that the Puddles had any buildings left standing. Those that remained consisted of derelicts and slightly better, filling in the canvas around a cathedral and a few squalid bars. Puddles had been his home since arriving upon Saevia, and though he was well aware of some of the dangers that roamed the district, and was crafty far beyond his years, no small amount of blind luck had permitted him to continue breathing.
The rat had not come close, having stopped at the other end of the roof, nearly 15 paces away. This was not surprising, as all animals had shunned him after the flesh of his hand was scorched with the ungodly Asmodean mark. it was as if they could sense the impurity that had infected the child, which made hunting them, with the sea-rounded skipping stones he kept upon his person, all but impossible. His aim was generally good, but the distance was often insurmountable for his thin arms.
His eyes, perfectly suited to half-light, flit over to the area where the rat had disappeared. Depending on their thickness the walls might provide ingress, or at least a different point to surveil the old wizard. He files its location away for future consideration.
Wrathe slowly works his small frame along the roof trusses, not trusting the rot in between, careful to avoid rusted bits of jagged metal and they blood sickness they carried. He stops and holds his breath after each and every creak, hopeful that the sea wind, vermin, flooding, shifting, or whatever else one could imagine, could be blamed for the groaning of the old building, and certainly not associate it to a small boy listening in.
Their words were curiouser and curiouser. So many questions, and more with each heart's beat.
The last noise brings a sudden inhalation of fearful breath into him, as he fully expects to fall through the roof, or to have a sword plunge into his chest from below. That noise was far too conspicuous to ignore, of that he is positive.
His mind quickly sifts through his rapidly-diminishing options: he could run (always a choice for later, though his small stature made this an untenable option), remain stock still (the sword thrusting up through his guts was too clear in him mind to trust this), make his presence known and try to talk his way free (diplomacy was not his forte as a rule), or he could associate the sound with something mundane and harmless. The last was his chosen avenue and with that in mind he eyes the rat hole with a hand retrieving one of his skipping stones.
He needed the rats in the walls to throw up an awful racket, so he tries to remain as still as possible while lightly lobbing the small stone into their hole, and hopes the scared rats yodel their disdain at such ill treatment.
Argon sucks in his breathe as he dart away from the towering thing that held him in his gaze. The youth can feel the the rush of air that clipped the back of his neck hairs, from a missed claw swipe. Reaching his fleeing ears was the sound of stone be crushed underneath the the powerful blow. Argon's feet beat against the cobblestone as he tries to make it to the torchlight and salvation. There doesn't seem to be anyone in view, but Argon hasn't gotten out of the alleyway.
Daxniss looks up in time to catch the next drop of warm liquid right in the left eye. Sputtering and wiping her face clean, a drop ends up in her mouth. The thick, coppery taste of blood blossomed in her mouth. Clearing her eyes, and stepping to the side, Daxniss looks up once more. And wishes she had not. The skinless face looks back at her, a man's height above her. She can see the body was that of a woman. If Daxniss wants to know more she have to investigate a bit further.
Wrathe's plan had gone smoothly, right up until the small youth shifted his weight to lob the small stone. The shifting of his body turned out to be more than the rotten wood could handle. Part of Wrathe's mind filed that his throw was true and the stone bounced down the rat hole. The next thing that the boy realized is that he is on the floor, trying to remember how to get his lungs to work.
Gravel voice's body language was definitely one of surprise. Another clue was the short curved blades that were in his hands. Wrathe was pretty sure he was wearing leather of some sort, dyed black. His features where hidden by a deep cloak hood and scarf. The old man looked down at Wrathe, his shaggy left eyebrow arched up to his hairline. His frail looking frame was wrapped up in nondescript tattered robes. Of note, a familiar looking large rat with blue eyes was on his right shoulder.
A smirk quirks up the corner of the child's face as he watches his lob sail true, though all joy is devoured from the moment as the roof gives way under his nugatory mass. He splays out his arms, hoping to catch an edge, though the thought flashes through his agile mind a split second before the air is blasted from his chest and he is all but knocked senseless.
Blinking a few times he frowns up at the hole. He had been so careful to remain only upon the relative solidity of the roof trusses, as he had done for the last half tenday. He shrugs good-naturedly, ill-advised though it might be since it sends a wave of agony originating at his right shoulder, and pragmatically takes in the situation as the fates decreed.
Small hands raise up slowly to show they are empty of weaponry, and devoid of ill-intent. The hands are in the perfect position to wave away some of the descending particulates from the newly-fashioned skylight.
A glare is offered to the cobalt-eyed verminous operative, wrapped in a hint of a sneer, upon a pillow fashioned from the finest of frowns, for the rat's subterfuge. Then it dawns on him as he connects the pieces with the overly familiar way that the creature was interacting with the old man.
A familiar!
Slowly rising to a sitting position he asks in an accent unplaceable to any one region of Sel Torin, "If this is a bad time I could come back later, if that would be more convenient."
Mischievous smiles come easy to his lips, "I seek training in the mystic arts."
He glances up while rubbing his shoulder. "And possibly skulking about as well."
As much as Daxniss wanted to deny it, she shrieks while scooting away trying and falling to get her legs to allow her to stand up and run. Her voice after that scream, is hoarse and she manages to make it to a wall "Noskinnonononono skin." She manages to gasp out while quivering in terror.
Laughter bellows out of the old man for several long moments, before it stops suddenly. The Old Man's brown eyes are surprisingly clear for such an elderly man. His hands show signs of the Bone Twisting that strikes the old. The Old Man's skin is like old parchment wrapping loose looking bones. Head barely covered by wispy white hair, cut raggedly short.
"What makes you think that I know anything about the mystic arts, young urchin?" He holds Wrathe in his gaze like a serpent charming a mouse. The rat chitters into the man's ear.
Argon's world suddenly lifts and begins to spin. Four blazing lines of agony suddenly appear across Argon's back. His left shoulder to just underneath his right shoulder blade suddenly burn and freeze at the same time. The youth has time to notice this as he is flung forward from the blow. Slamming into a pile of a farmers bagged foodstuffs has saved Argon's life. Head swimming, breath coming erratically, pulse racing, he slowly realizes the blow had flung him out of the alleyway and across the street.
Screams suddenly light up on the street as the thing pulls himself out of the shadows of the alleyway. It throws its head back and roars, a horrible nails across blackboard sound that cuts the mind as well as the ears. Those closest to it actually drop to the ground, ears bleeding and bodies twitching. With sicking slowness, it reaches down and plunges it's claws into a nearby mans back. Screaming, arms and legs flailing, his screams raise several octaves. With a jerk of it arm, the mans scream ends as his spine and skull are ripped free from their fleshy housing, spraying blood and gore on the nearby building.
As it reaches over and begins to flay the another poor souls skin from there bones, a group of the local guard comes charging in to play at being heroes.
Scooting back out into the street, pointing and screaming, Daxniss can do little other than repeat "No skin" when strangers kneel down to investigate what is the matter. It isn't long before several brave souls go into the crooked alleyway. Several cries and screams later, only one of the four that entered comes staggering back out of the alleyway, blood dribbling down his chin. His mouth opening and closing, croaking noise coming from his mouth as he collapses to his knees. With a bone crunching thud, he lands on his face. Daxniss gets a remarkable view of the missing back of his head. The mans brain is missing, the only thing left in his skull is blood.
Michael New
Dorian "Grey"
