Paradigm Shifter
Antipeak.
Sensbane Manor.
The turbaned merchant quietly composed a business proposition to Estevan, the enigmatic leader of the Planar Trade Consortium. The scratching noise of his quill against the weathered parchment was interrupted periodically as he brought it to the corner of his mouth and ruminated upon the carefully worded document.
Looking out his second story window, he lengthily reflected upon the implications of brokering a deal with the Ogre-Mage – both business and otherwise. Being among the wealthiest and most influential bloods in the Cage, Jach knew that every move he made would be relentlessly scrutinized, analyzed, and politicized. Jink was therefore a minor consideration in any business deal.
His thoughts were interrupted by a particularly chilly gust of wind that barged its way into his room like an uninvited guest. The merchant arose to close the window and keep the unwanted air outside. It was too late, however: the goose bumps on his skin indicated that he had fallen victim to the current.
Ironically, the goose bumps became more apparent after he closed the window and reseated himself. It was only then that he realized what had just occurred. His first action was to instinctively clutch the emerald at the center of his pendant and transport his mindÂ’s eye into KalinaÂ’s room. A brief scrying revealed that his daughter was indeed safe and sleeping soundly, for now.
He then quietly stood up and moved his hand to one of the many hidden pockets of his magic vestments. He gazed furtively towards the now-closed window. The voice that escaped his lips was uncharacteristically cold and unforgiving:
“What are you doing?.... Dom and the guards can portal in here within five seconds and obliterate you. The magically binding truce may not allow me to harm you, but make no mistak---“
The response which interrupted the Merkhant came from behind. It was a perfect mixture of arrogance and loathing: “You don’t want to do that just yet, my Lord. A chilling laugh echoed off the marble walls of the estate. I have something you want. Something you’ll love.”
The voice sounded far more distant than was physically possible considering the figure's proximity. Jach turned around to behold a chilling sight: a tall, robed, nearly transparent figure dressed only in black. The hood of his robe was pulled above his face so that the merchant could not make out the featuresÂ… all he could see were shadows. Had the figure been wielding a scythe, he would have resembled Death itself.
Jach met him with a gaze of resolute hatred, determined to finish him – tonight. Nothing the hooded man could say or do at this point could possibly prevent his demise at the hands of Jach’s protectors.
Or was there?....
The voice continued in a measured, even tone, “I know how to bring him back. Restore him. Return him to you.”
Jach was confused, and very upset. “WHO?!” he roared.
“Sphinx.”
At that point, the Great Ring could have stopped turning and Jach wouldnÂ’t have been the wiser. Memories of a distant era raced wildly around his mind. Sphinx: JachÂ’s first apprenticeÂ… no not an apprentice; more a friend, more a son. Sphinx: the promising, though overconfident young mage who was consumed by madness after attempting a spell beyond his power. Sphinx: the same one who was felled by JachÂ’s own hand after a murderous rampage through the LadyÂ’s Ward in a paroxysm of rage.
The emotional wounds from that episode still lingered deep within the not-so-forgotten recesses of the merchant’s mind. He was haunted daily by the brief twinge of sorrow evident in Sphinx's eyes, seconds before his death. Jach did not quite know how to respond to this proposition, so he responded in the manner many do towards matters unknown: with anger and fear; “How..how DARE you mention his name?!” A tremble in his voice betrayed his apprehension.
“You don’t believe me my Lord?” The voice guessed correctly. “Of course not. Though you don’t have to repay me until I have revived him, I advise you to have the payment ready....because he will indeed return. Oh, and I assume you know well what I mean by 'payment.'
Mirthless laughter echoed once more throughout the chamber. With that, the figure left as abruptly as he had came. The window opened once more, and leaving the merchant looked outside. His eyes glimmered with confusion, sadness, and ....hope.
The confusion did not last long; Jach had promptly made his decision.
Raifael had indeed been correct in not trusting him.
Things had changed.
Tales From Around The Cage
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*Zadara
- Posts: 116
- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
Lamentation
The sorceress sat cross-legged in the dark, hemispherical chamber. The opening at the apex allowed light from the buildings on the opposite side of the Cage through, reflecting off her deathly-pale skin and creating the illusion of an unnatural glow emanating from her body.
She gently clasped a bright green gem in her palm, absentmindedly stroking the smooth, multi-faceted surface with her thumb. She had been scrying the paths of the other gems: None of them were without an owner. Visions of a Human male, female, and an Alu-Fiend seeped into the recesses of her dark mind like an enveloping mist.
Mortals were suchÂ…fascinating beings. They truly did not understand the meaning of eternity, yet so many longed to achieve it. Is this what the man-phantom wanted? To be fragmented and possessed by others? Would a proper death really have been worse?
She inhaled sharply and gripped the gem forcefully –brightening the white of her already pale knuckles. Memories, emotions, and events inundated her thoughts – to the point where she could merely experience parts of one before moving to another. For a lengthy moment, she closed her eyes and delved into his world, letting it take hold of her.
When she finally opened them and reemerged, a single teardrop ventured forth to slither down her angular cheek and fall into the depths of her bosom.
“Rest well, my darling.”
The sorceress sat cross-legged in the dark, hemispherical chamber. The opening at the apex allowed light from the buildings on the opposite side of the Cage through, reflecting off her deathly-pale skin and creating the illusion of an unnatural glow emanating from her body.
She gently clasped a bright green gem in her palm, absentmindedly stroking the smooth, multi-faceted surface with her thumb. She had been scrying the paths of the other gems: None of them were without an owner. Visions of a Human male, female, and an Alu-Fiend seeped into the recesses of her dark mind like an enveloping mist.
Mortals were suchÂ…fascinating beings. They truly did not understand the meaning of eternity, yet so many longed to achieve it. Is this what the man-phantom wanted? To be fragmented and possessed by others? Would a proper death really have been worse?
She inhaled sharply and gripped the gem forcefully –brightening the white of her already pale knuckles. Memories, emotions, and events inundated her thoughts – to the point where she could merely experience parts of one before moving to another. For a lengthy moment, she closed her eyes and delved into his world, letting it take hold of her.
When she finally opened them and reemerged, a single teardrop ventured forth to slither down her angular cheek and fall into the depths of her bosom.
“Rest well, my darling.”
-
*Zadara
- Posts: 116
- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
Back in Play - The Return
She was on the ground, looking up.
A rusted, inverted-triangle mask of cast iron covered the assailantÂ’s entire face save the eyes. She would never forget those piercing, emerald beads staring into the very depths of her soul. The essence of her entire being wasÂ….exposed before the weight of his gaze. She lifted a hand, and tried to say something, anything; she tried to scream.
She couldnÂ’t.
All she managed to do was raise and extend an arm that wasnÂ’t hers, in a pathetic attempt to resist. The gaps between her now-ebony fingers were too afraid to close. She could NOT look away!
It all happened within a matter of seconds – a few arcane syllables erupted from behind the iron mask, and everything became… pain. It felt as if she were being ripped from her body – every sinew, every fiber, every tendril of muscle dissociating from the bone, snapping free and upwards .. simultaneously.
She didnÂ’t even manage to scream as her spirit left the body, leaving behind the shell.. the Entropic Husk. With a bright flash of light, she was aroused from her respite, gasping for airÂ…even though she didnÂ’t need to breathe.
She wearily examined the emerald that was clutched tightly within the confines of her long, clawlike fingers. This recurring nightmare had been slowly eating away at the blurred edges of her thoughtsÂ… her sanity. Casting her gaze upon the many facets of the gem, she gasped.
“Why are you restless, my darling? Why do you continue to haunt me?”
She did not want to animate this gem, her only link to him, but it was the preferable alternative to losing her mind.
He had tricked her.
She was on the ground, looking up.
A rusted, inverted-triangle mask of cast iron covered the assailantÂ’s entire face save the eyes. She would never forget those piercing, emerald beads staring into the very depths of her soul. The essence of her entire being wasÂ….exposed before the weight of his gaze. She lifted a hand, and tried to say something, anything; she tried to scream.
She couldnÂ’t.
All she managed to do was raise and extend an arm that wasnÂ’t hers, in a pathetic attempt to resist. The gaps between her now-ebony fingers were too afraid to close. She could NOT look away!
It all happened within a matter of seconds – a few arcane syllables erupted from behind the iron mask, and everything became… pain. It felt as if she were being ripped from her body – every sinew, every fiber, every tendril of muscle dissociating from the bone, snapping free and upwards .. simultaneously.
She didnÂ’t even manage to scream as her spirit left the body, leaving behind the shell.. the Entropic Husk. With a bright flash of light, she was aroused from her respite, gasping for airÂ…even though she didnÂ’t need to breathe.
She wearily examined the emerald that was clutched tightly within the confines of her long, clawlike fingers. This recurring nightmare had been slowly eating away at the blurred edges of her thoughtsÂ… her sanity. Casting her gaze upon the many facets of the gem, she gasped.
“Why are you restless, my darling? Why do you continue to haunt me?”
She did not want to animate this gem, her only link to him, but it was the preferable alternative to losing her mind.
He had tricked her.
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*Zadara
- Posts: 116
- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
Moving the pieces
((continued from here))
The acrid smog assaulted his olfactory sinuses as he snuck out of the Great Foundry. He tightened his lips in a reactionary expression of distaste, exposing the increasingly prominent scowl lines on either side of his lips. Though they made him look older, they also made him look more handsome by adding definition to his already angular jaw-line. The scowl lines often emerged when he was deep in thought, so it was not surprising now that as they appeared, he was galvanized into contemplation.
The Master of the Game had always envisioned his life as a game of chess: The manipulation of people’s actions and situations were akin to moving the pieces upon the board. Of course, he was much too arrogant to NOT believe that he was indeed the one moving the pieces – as opposed to merely being a piece on someone else’s board.
He had assured Jach that he would discern the puppet masterÂ’s identity, the one orchestrating RaifaelÂ’s alleged attack. But he already knew who it was:
his Queen.
No better word than “Queen” could describe the most powerful, the most manipulative, and (at least, thus far) the most successful piece in play. And valuable. That could not be forgotten – she was precious to him in more ways than one. Though the queen may eventually have to be sacrificed in order to improve his position on the board, she was far too dear to him to surrender in exchange for mere Kalina.
His mind was made: he would protect the Queen, and her Knight. Lesser pieces would be sacrificed – but she would be the one left standing. She would be the one making the final capture.
((continued from here))
The acrid smog assaulted his olfactory sinuses as he snuck out of the Great Foundry. He tightened his lips in a reactionary expression of distaste, exposing the increasingly prominent scowl lines on either side of his lips. Though they made him look older, they also made him look more handsome by adding definition to his already angular jaw-line. The scowl lines often emerged when he was deep in thought, so it was not surprising now that as they appeared, he was galvanized into contemplation.
The Master of the Game had always envisioned his life as a game of chess: The manipulation of people’s actions and situations were akin to moving the pieces upon the board. Of course, he was much too arrogant to NOT believe that he was indeed the one moving the pieces – as opposed to merely being a piece on someone else’s board.
He had assured Jach that he would discern the puppet masterÂ’s identity, the one orchestrating RaifaelÂ’s alleged attack. But he already knew who it was:
his Queen.
No better word than “Queen” could describe the most powerful, the most manipulative, and (at least, thus far) the most successful piece in play. And valuable. That could not be forgotten – she was precious to him in more ways than one. Though the queen may eventually have to be sacrificed in order to improve his position on the board, she was far too dear to him to surrender in exchange for mere Kalina.
His mind was made: he would protect the Queen, and her Knight. Lesser pieces would be sacrificed – but she would be the one left standing. She would be the one making the final capture.
-
*Zadara
- Posts: 116
- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
Checkmate
Thoughts raced feverishly through Jach’s head as he paced within his modest-sized, makeshift room. He replayed the brief encounter with Roth over and over again in his mind: She seemed to be somehow “affected” by the touch of others… though not everyone, only a select few. Thoughts of warmth and safety came to mind as she held Jach’s hand… she had called him FATHER! He, of course, played the fool and waved her away dismissively during the encounter, but it was something that he was now devoting an intense amount of attention to.
The dark-skinned tiefling, on the other hand, rekindled in her memories of betrayal, fear, Â… WATER!!! After the encounter, Jach had ordered the assassin to remain watchful of Roth and report back to him.
Kalina’s experiences, memories, emotions seemed to be …trapped within this “living sensory stone,” as it were. Moreover, Kalina had been acting odd ever since her return. Jach didn’t think much of it then, but after a brief conversation with Animus and the encounter with Roth, something Kalina had spoken to him earlier stuck in his mind: “I love you, dad.” Dad?! Kalina had never called him that before! Jach had was not fond of the term “father,” as it always carried too formal a sound for his liking, but it was Kalina’s word... or at least it used to be. A few hours ago, Kalina had apparently run away from home with her belongings… in the middle of the night.
It was unbelievable. It was suspicious. It was terrifying.
The Merkhant summoned the ebony rogue, and had another task for him:
“I need to arrange a meeting with Roth… in private. And not here! “
The response was immediate, as if he was already expecting Jach to say what he did: “I shall bring Roth to you, My Lord.”
---
2 hours laterÂ…Â…
A scantily-clad drow female led Roth inside an unremarkable dwelling in the Hive Ward. She stopped in front of the door and turned back to the unattractive human.
Murmuring in a sweet, melodic voice: “Lord Sensbane thinks he can help you, Miss Roth! In here please!”
Roth followed the Drowess inside, to find herself in an old, musty house that had not been occupied for at least several months. As she scanned the lightless entrance, the door shut behind her and was locked promptly. Rather than turning around, she moved deeper into the room and set her gaze upon an oddly-shaped emerald shard that had been placed carefully in the center of the room.
It would be the last thing Roth would ever see.
An indescribable pain shot through her being as a long blade emerged from her neckÂ… then everything went dark.
The Drowess did not stop with the killing blow. After uttering an incantation she had memorized a long time ago, she sectioned, minced, mutilated, and magically immolated the corpse. As the very essence of RothÂ’s being emerged from the body, it gravitated towards the emerald like snow falling to the ground.
She quickly clasped the gem into her petite fingers, holding it strongly as it violently shook within her hand – the futile, initial attempts of a trapped soul to free itself. It would not struggle for long.
A few moments later, the Drowess smiled darkly as the last of the shaking had stopped. A dark smile crept its way onto her expression. A voice that was markedly different from the one Roth had heard, emerged from her delicate lips:
“Lord Sensbane was wrong, Miss Roth!”
---
1 Hour laterÂ….
The Merkhant’s torch dimmed considerably in the rain as he hastily strode across the bridge above the Ditch. Squalid tendrils of green fume assaulted his olfactory faculties and coaxed the tears out of his eyes – hindering his already compromised vision. He pulled the neckline of his robes over his nose to minimize inhalation of the noxious air.
It was dark and late. As he crossed a particularly dim section of the bridge near the middle, the shadows on the ground coalesced and rose to envelop him in darkness. JachÂ’s Torch of True Seeing was of no avail: these shadows were not magical.
The ambient temperature had fallen considerably. He shivered, then sneezed as he accidentally caught an unusually deep whiff of the fumes. When he opened his eyes, the darkness in his immediate vicinity had abruptly relented, and he was able to discern the familiar outline of a tall man with a feathered hat standing a short distance away.
Jach suddenly wished he had brought someone else along, but if he was truly afraid, he did not show it. Instead, his voice was loud, confident, and casual as he started to question the figure in front of him:
“Well, where is she?”
The Assassin casually unhooked a bag from his belt, and threw it to JachÂ’s feet. It landed with a soft thud. Jach looked down to notice it was open, but his gaze didnÂ’t linger and quickly returned to the figure. His expression promptly contorted into one of suspicion and anger. He asked much more threateningly this time:
“Where is she?!!!”
Yet the figure did not respond, it simply pointed to the bag.
Jach glanced down again, but not before wiping away drop of acidic rainwater that had found its way into his eyes. He squinted to get a better view of the open bag, and noticed for the first time that it was.. leaking redÂ… Upon further inspection, Jach realized that small chunks of meat had fallen out of the opening, onto his feet. The blood that spouted from the bag drained into the numerous crevices of the cobbled surface of the bridge, losing much of its hue by the time it reached JachÂ’s boots.
The figure finally spoke, its voice was as icy as heÂ’d ever heard it:
“I told you I’d bring her to you.”
JachÂ’s body stiffened violently as if heÂ’d been struck by lightning. It took him a few seconds to stomach what was occurring. Unfortunately for him, a few seconds was all that was needed. As the Merkhant began to mouth the beginnings of a defensive spell, his body stiffened again, though this time it was acted upon by an external force.
He let out a breathless, whimpering gasp. His body curved slightly backwards, towards the direction of the magical jolt. The blood vessels that were visible on his face and hands abruptly became distended – protruding in such a manner that gave the illusion of a thick spider web emerging from under his skin. Within seconds, his face turned blue as his entire body was deprived of blood.
He had been Avasculated.
Jach had joked with many people on many occasions about using this particular spellÂ…. No longer did those jokes seem funny.
And yet the tall assassin stood there and made no move towards Jach.. he couldn’t – as per the magically binding truce. He just watched.
Unable to move, unable to do anything, Jach remained dazed on the spot. Within seconds, the tip of a blade emerged from his neck, much as it had RothÂ’s, as he was impaled from behind. Unlike the blade that was used to murder Roth, however; this one was much shorter. His eyes rolled funnily towards the back of his head, and he fell forward slowly as the blade was retracted, landing atop the meat-filled bag near his feet with a dull, anticlimactic thud.
A dark smile found its way upon the Master of the Game’s lips, and his lavender eyes focused on the one who had finished the Merkhant. Emerging from behind the spot Lord Sensbane stood was another turbaned figure… though this one female. Her gentle expression betrayed neither pleasure nor disdain for the act. She instead moved her almond eyes up to the dark-skinned tiefling and offered him a polite nod of acknowledgement – nothing less, nothing more. The job was done efficiently, as was expected of her.
Jach Sensbane was gone.
Thoughts raced feverishly through Jach’s head as he paced within his modest-sized, makeshift room. He replayed the brief encounter with Roth over and over again in his mind: She seemed to be somehow “affected” by the touch of others… though not everyone, only a select few. Thoughts of warmth and safety came to mind as she held Jach’s hand… she had called him FATHER! He, of course, played the fool and waved her away dismissively during the encounter, but it was something that he was now devoting an intense amount of attention to.
The dark-skinned tiefling, on the other hand, rekindled in her memories of betrayal, fear, Â… WATER!!! After the encounter, Jach had ordered the assassin to remain watchful of Roth and report back to him.
Kalina’s experiences, memories, emotions seemed to be …trapped within this “living sensory stone,” as it were. Moreover, Kalina had been acting odd ever since her return. Jach didn’t think much of it then, but after a brief conversation with Animus and the encounter with Roth, something Kalina had spoken to him earlier stuck in his mind: “I love you, dad.” Dad?! Kalina had never called him that before! Jach had was not fond of the term “father,” as it always carried too formal a sound for his liking, but it was Kalina’s word... or at least it used to be. A few hours ago, Kalina had apparently run away from home with her belongings… in the middle of the night.
It was unbelievable. It was suspicious. It was terrifying.
The Merkhant summoned the ebony rogue, and had another task for him:
“I need to arrange a meeting with Roth… in private. And not here! “
The response was immediate, as if he was already expecting Jach to say what he did: “I shall bring Roth to you, My Lord.”
---
2 hours laterÂ…Â…
A scantily-clad drow female led Roth inside an unremarkable dwelling in the Hive Ward. She stopped in front of the door and turned back to the unattractive human.
Murmuring in a sweet, melodic voice: “Lord Sensbane thinks he can help you, Miss Roth! In here please!”
Roth followed the Drowess inside, to find herself in an old, musty house that had not been occupied for at least several months. As she scanned the lightless entrance, the door shut behind her and was locked promptly. Rather than turning around, she moved deeper into the room and set her gaze upon an oddly-shaped emerald shard that had been placed carefully in the center of the room.
It would be the last thing Roth would ever see.
An indescribable pain shot through her being as a long blade emerged from her neckÂ… then everything went dark.
The Drowess did not stop with the killing blow. After uttering an incantation she had memorized a long time ago, she sectioned, minced, mutilated, and magically immolated the corpse. As the very essence of RothÂ’s being emerged from the body, it gravitated towards the emerald like snow falling to the ground.
She quickly clasped the gem into her petite fingers, holding it strongly as it violently shook within her hand – the futile, initial attempts of a trapped soul to free itself. It would not struggle for long.
A few moments later, the Drowess smiled darkly as the last of the shaking had stopped. A dark smile crept its way onto her expression. A voice that was markedly different from the one Roth had heard, emerged from her delicate lips:
“Lord Sensbane was wrong, Miss Roth!”
---
1 Hour laterÂ….
The Merkhant’s torch dimmed considerably in the rain as he hastily strode across the bridge above the Ditch. Squalid tendrils of green fume assaulted his olfactory faculties and coaxed the tears out of his eyes – hindering his already compromised vision. He pulled the neckline of his robes over his nose to minimize inhalation of the noxious air.
It was dark and late. As he crossed a particularly dim section of the bridge near the middle, the shadows on the ground coalesced and rose to envelop him in darkness. JachÂ’s Torch of True Seeing was of no avail: these shadows were not magical.
The ambient temperature had fallen considerably. He shivered, then sneezed as he accidentally caught an unusually deep whiff of the fumes. When he opened his eyes, the darkness in his immediate vicinity had abruptly relented, and he was able to discern the familiar outline of a tall man with a feathered hat standing a short distance away.
Jach suddenly wished he had brought someone else along, but if he was truly afraid, he did not show it. Instead, his voice was loud, confident, and casual as he started to question the figure in front of him:
“Well, where is she?”
The Assassin casually unhooked a bag from his belt, and threw it to JachÂ’s feet. It landed with a soft thud. Jach looked down to notice it was open, but his gaze didnÂ’t linger and quickly returned to the figure. His expression promptly contorted into one of suspicion and anger. He asked much more threateningly this time:
“Where is she?!!!”
Yet the figure did not respond, it simply pointed to the bag.
Jach glanced down again, but not before wiping away drop of acidic rainwater that had found its way into his eyes. He squinted to get a better view of the open bag, and noticed for the first time that it was.. leaking redÂ… Upon further inspection, Jach realized that small chunks of meat had fallen out of the opening, onto his feet. The blood that spouted from the bag drained into the numerous crevices of the cobbled surface of the bridge, losing much of its hue by the time it reached JachÂ’s boots.
The figure finally spoke, its voice was as icy as heÂ’d ever heard it:
“I told you I’d bring her to you.”
JachÂ’s body stiffened violently as if heÂ’d been struck by lightning. It took him a few seconds to stomach what was occurring. Unfortunately for him, a few seconds was all that was needed. As the Merkhant began to mouth the beginnings of a defensive spell, his body stiffened again, though this time it was acted upon by an external force.
He let out a breathless, whimpering gasp. His body curved slightly backwards, towards the direction of the magical jolt. The blood vessels that were visible on his face and hands abruptly became distended – protruding in such a manner that gave the illusion of a thick spider web emerging from under his skin. Within seconds, his face turned blue as his entire body was deprived of blood.
He had been Avasculated.
Jach had joked with many people on many occasions about using this particular spellÂ…. No longer did those jokes seem funny.
And yet the tall assassin stood there and made no move towards Jach.. he couldn’t – as per the magically binding truce. He just watched.
Unable to move, unable to do anything, Jach remained dazed on the spot. Within seconds, the tip of a blade emerged from his neck, much as it had RothÂ’s, as he was impaled from behind. Unlike the blade that was used to murder Roth, however; this one was much shorter. His eyes rolled funnily towards the back of his head, and he fell forward slowly as the blade was retracted, landing atop the meat-filled bag near his feet with a dull, anticlimactic thud.
A dark smile found its way upon the Master of the Game’s lips, and his lavender eyes focused on the one who had finished the Merkhant. Emerging from behind the spot Lord Sensbane stood was another turbaned figure… though this one female. Her gentle expression betrayed neither pleasure nor disdain for the act. She instead moved her almond eyes up to the dark-skinned tiefling and offered him a polite nod of acknowledgement – nothing less, nothing more. The job was done efficiently, as was expected of her.
Jach Sensbane was gone.
-
*Zadara
- Posts: 116
- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
Zadara's Game
Zadara’s dark crimson lips curved into a gentle, genuine smile. Not many would have done so at the hideous spectacle which now reflected off the cool surface of her tranquil eyes: The half-orc orphan, Noit p’meder, had been badly abused by the other urchin-children during the course of his time as a vagrant… both physically as well as emotionally. As if the numerous burn-marks and scars peppering his disfigured visage weren’t enough, the child also suffered from more insidious varieties of trauma: anxieties and nightmares. No – most others would have smiled out of pity or guilt. Zadara smiled out of love.
His time at the orphanage had predictably mitigated his ills, yet he unarguably remained a disturbed child. At least Noit pÂ’meder was sleeping better. As he lazily looked upon Zadara with his pathetic single-eye, she became certain that he would succumb to the inevitable grip of yet another deep slumber. The warmth her beautiful face exuded was indeed soothing.
Within a few short moments, the child was gently snoring. She noiselessly closed the storybook and placed it at his bedside. Her usual veneer of formality had completely melted away. Rising out of the chair, she cast a furtive glance over to the doorway of the small chamber designated to Noit pÂ’meder. There were strict rules against employees and volunteers touching the children. Zadara did not care.
After ensuring there were no guards watching, she turned back to the sleeping child and bent down to meet his gaze. A single teardrop made its way down her cheek as she moved away a strand of coarse, black hair away from his face with her delicate fingers.
“Rest well, my darling.” She breathily exhaled after the teardrop had finished its course through her olive skin. With that, she planted the gentlest of kisses upon the wretch’s forehead and made her way out the door.
Noit pÂ’meder slept well that night.
***
One hour till Antipeak.
The Master of the Game crouched amongst a mist of shadow upon a rooftop in the bazaar. For whatever reason, he gazed down intently upon a poorly lit alley.
He couldn’t help but loose a chuckle – the sound of which carried odd intonations of arrogance, cruelty and…sensuality. Of course he was pleased. How could he not be after his scheming had come to such an …elegant fruition?
Sensbane was dead, and his loved ones had bought every single lie the phantom had fed them. In some ways, the dark-skinned tiefling had emerged the hero from the tale he had spun. It seemed almost “too” easy. Moreover, his precious Queen’s involvement in a related matter had remained secret. Finally, there was fear. Fear instilled in those who DARED to investigate the Merkhant’s death. It was delicious.
And for those who werenÂ’t yet afraid? Well then examples would have to be made, of course.
His attention switched to the present – where an extremely large Cornugon made his way through the alleyway. Razaaq had indeed transgressed, and for that he would pay…dearly. The phantom inaudibly descended from the rooftop to the ground. A flurry of motion was followed by the wet thuds of Cornugon meat falling upon the dirt ground. No screams, no witnesses, no definitive cause of death. It was ruthless and efficient. The remains were deposited in the basement of the Foul Olde Spirit Inn, and soon discovered.
The example had been made.
Zadara’s dark crimson lips curved into a gentle, genuine smile. Not many would have done so at the hideous spectacle which now reflected off the cool surface of her tranquil eyes: The half-orc orphan, Noit p’meder, had been badly abused by the other urchin-children during the course of his time as a vagrant… both physically as well as emotionally. As if the numerous burn-marks and scars peppering his disfigured visage weren’t enough, the child also suffered from more insidious varieties of trauma: anxieties and nightmares. No – most others would have smiled out of pity or guilt. Zadara smiled out of love.
His time at the orphanage had predictably mitigated his ills, yet he unarguably remained a disturbed child. At least Noit pÂ’meder was sleeping better. As he lazily looked upon Zadara with his pathetic single-eye, she became certain that he would succumb to the inevitable grip of yet another deep slumber. The warmth her beautiful face exuded was indeed soothing.
Within a few short moments, the child was gently snoring. She noiselessly closed the storybook and placed it at his bedside. Her usual veneer of formality had completely melted away. Rising out of the chair, she cast a furtive glance over to the doorway of the small chamber designated to Noit pÂ’meder. There were strict rules against employees and volunteers touching the children. Zadara did not care.
After ensuring there were no guards watching, she turned back to the sleeping child and bent down to meet his gaze. A single teardrop made its way down her cheek as she moved away a strand of coarse, black hair away from his face with her delicate fingers.
“Rest well, my darling.” She breathily exhaled after the teardrop had finished its course through her olive skin. With that, she planted the gentlest of kisses upon the wretch’s forehead and made her way out the door.
Noit pÂ’meder slept well that night.
***
One hour till Antipeak.
The Master of the Game crouched amongst a mist of shadow upon a rooftop in the bazaar. For whatever reason, he gazed down intently upon a poorly lit alley.
He couldn’t help but loose a chuckle – the sound of which carried odd intonations of arrogance, cruelty and…sensuality. Of course he was pleased. How could he not be after his scheming had come to such an …elegant fruition?
Sensbane was dead, and his loved ones had bought every single lie the phantom had fed them. In some ways, the dark-skinned tiefling had emerged the hero from the tale he had spun. It seemed almost “too” easy. Moreover, his precious Queen’s involvement in a related matter had remained secret. Finally, there was fear. Fear instilled in those who DARED to investigate the Merkhant’s death. It was delicious.
And for those who werenÂ’t yet afraid? Well then examples would have to be made, of course.
His attention switched to the present – where an extremely large Cornugon made his way through the alleyway. Razaaq had indeed transgressed, and for that he would pay…dearly. The phantom inaudibly descended from the rooftop to the ground. A flurry of motion was followed by the wet thuds of Cornugon meat falling upon the dirt ground. No screams, no witnesses, no definitive cause of death. It was ruthless and efficient. The remains were deposited in the basement of the Foul Olde Spirit Inn, and soon discovered.
The example had been made.
-
*Zadara
- Posts: 116
- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
Gathering the Shards
An oppressive mist of apprehension hung thick within the darkest caverns of Undersigil, the Realm Below. Zadara found herself skulking through a mausoleum so ancient, the spirits themselves had abandoned it. Her current garb was rather Â…distinct from the urbane outerwear she was known for sporting in the bazaar. A black leather body-suit tightly hugged her physique while a trio of rusted metal claws seemed to protrude from the back of her very hands. The ensemble had a rather feline appealÂ…
Upon scanning the area, she did not initially see the one she was to meet. Instead, Zadara first FELT the specterÂ’s presence in her mind. A gentle beckoning announced the arrival of the luminous apparition. The vision hovered not ten feet away from her- an oasis of light within the desert of shadowEven as the hovering spectacle circled her like a predator, clever Zadara retained her focus, her center. She knew it was all a game.
It began to question her, to infiltrate deeper into the olive-skinned womanÂ’s mindÂ… with little luck. Then it attempted to distract: sprouting menacing illusions of vermin meant to intimidate as well as poignant visions of the dark-skinned tiefling meant to evoke an emotional reaction or perhaps foster trust. Zadara had none of it. The ghost was unrelenting; however, and may have broken through her mental defenses were it not for a Â…trick the gray-eyed beauty had at the ready:
She moved a clawed hand to her impeccable, angular face, then pressed down hard. The cut was deep and the pain sharp but Zadara allowed it to take precedence in her mind, moving her private thoughts deeper inward – away from the prying mental grip of the one she faced. If she wasn’t the stronger willed, then at the very least, she was the more cunning of the two. Her intense gray eyes glimmered with triumph as she walked off…
…Only to be confronted by the puppet master – the one she had been told about - the Queen. The olive-skinned woman was needed for the moment, and her life accordingly spared. The puppet-master’s words were gentle and intoxicating, and clever Zadara allowed herself to succumb to the seduction. Much like the pain from her claws, the pleasure she felt was real – though also like the pain, it was merely a mental wall she used to safeguard the more private thoughts hidden away in the deep recesses of her mind: hidden thoughts Zadara had about murdering the seductress. Those thoughts would surface after she returned the shards to Zadara.
***
The seductress’s smooth, unmistakable voice now reverberated throughout the Phatom’s thoughts. He did not know what to make of it. Obsessed with the woman he was – there was no question – but was he also losing his grip on sanity?
He clasped his fingers around the stem of a rose, allowing the thorns to pierce deep within the musculature. Crimson blood oozed down his arm in slow, sanguine streams. Bringing the flower to his nose, he inhaled sharply. He held the breath for a time, allowing the scent to linger and seep before releasing it in a cool hiss from his pursed lips.
The momentary calm was again violated by that beckoning, longing voice. At first he fought back with anger, and confusion – but his will was no match for that of the Queen. Fearing for his sanity, he acquiesced to the commands and stalked Legault and an unknown woman into the depths of Undersigil.
The blonde led Legault to an unholy altar of sorts, with the dark skinned tiefling keeping a healthy distance. Like a black widow poised to stike, she began kissing and stroking – weaving the spell upon him like she had on countless before.
Legault sensed something was wrong. The shards in his possession allowed an affinity to the dark-skinned tiefling. Nonetheless, the Queen was persistent, lowering his every guard so that the phantom hidden in the back would make short work out of the superior fighter.
His palms quivered with the sheer anticipation of the kill as he lined up his favorite blade with Legault’s occipital lobe. The pressure of the moment could have indeed caused him to miss this overly-easy stirke – but the Master of the Game was supremely poised, efficiently impaling Legault’s skull, bringing him down for the quick kill…TOO quick for it to be truly satisfying.
He, of course, wasnÂ’t finished. Disobeying the QueenÂ’s orders to preserve the corpse, he succumbed to a paroxysm of rage - hacking the remains with a ferocity he had never before revealed. It was shocking, though not surprising to witness such hatred. Out of all his enemies (of which there were multitudes), the phantom despised Legault the most. Why? The Knight was pragmatic, cunning, and often arrogant. He hated Legault most of all, because he reminded him ofÂ…himself.
Mutilating the corpse as he always did, the Master of the Game burned the remains – leaving behind only a twisted heap of charred-golden armor and blackened, fragmented bones. He found not two, but THREE shards upon Legault’s corpse- one embedded into the very bone..how cunning of the Knight!!
At long last, all the shards had been gathered.
Soon, many would become one.
An oppressive mist of apprehension hung thick within the darkest caverns of Undersigil, the Realm Below. Zadara found herself skulking through a mausoleum so ancient, the spirits themselves had abandoned it. Her current garb was rather Â…distinct from the urbane outerwear she was known for sporting in the bazaar. A black leather body-suit tightly hugged her physique while a trio of rusted metal claws seemed to protrude from the back of her very hands. The ensemble had a rather feline appealÂ…
Upon scanning the area, she did not initially see the one she was to meet. Instead, Zadara first FELT the specterÂ’s presence in her mind. A gentle beckoning announced the arrival of the luminous apparition. The vision hovered not ten feet away from her- an oasis of light within the desert of shadowEven as the hovering spectacle circled her like a predator, clever Zadara retained her focus, her center. She knew it was all a game.
It began to question her, to infiltrate deeper into the olive-skinned womanÂ’s mindÂ… with little luck. Then it attempted to distract: sprouting menacing illusions of vermin meant to intimidate as well as poignant visions of the dark-skinned tiefling meant to evoke an emotional reaction or perhaps foster trust. Zadara had none of it. The ghost was unrelenting; however, and may have broken through her mental defenses were it not for a Â…trick the gray-eyed beauty had at the ready:
She moved a clawed hand to her impeccable, angular face, then pressed down hard. The cut was deep and the pain sharp but Zadara allowed it to take precedence in her mind, moving her private thoughts deeper inward – away from the prying mental grip of the one she faced. If she wasn’t the stronger willed, then at the very least, she was the more cunning of the two. Her intense gray eyes glimmered with triumph as she walked off…
…Only to be confronted by the puppet master – the one she had been told about - the Queen. The olive-skinned woman was needed for the moment, and her life accordingly spared. The puppet-master’s words were gentle and intoxicating, and clever Zadara allowed herself to succumb to the seduction. Much like the pain from her claws, the pleasure she felt was real – though also like the pain, it was merely a mental wall she used to safeguard the more private thoughts hidden away in the deep recesses of her mind: hidden thoughts Zadara had about murdering the seductress. Those thoughts would surface after she returned the shards to Zadara.
***
The seductress’s smooth, unmistakable voice now reverberated throughout the Phatom’s thoughts. He did not know what to make of it. Obsessed with the woman he was – there was no question – but was he also losing his grip on sanity?
He clasped his fingers around the stem of a rose, allowing the thorns to pierce deep within the musculature. Crimson blood oozed down his arm in slow, sanguine streams. Bringing the flower to his nose, he inhaled sharply. He held the breath for a time, allowing the scent to linger and seep before releasing it in a cool hiss from his pursed lips.
The momentary calm was again violated by that beckoning, longing voice. At first he fought back with anger, and confusion – but his will was no match for that of the Queen. Fearing for his sanity, he acquiesced to the commands and stalked Legault and an unknown woman into the depths of Undersigil.
The blonde led Legault to an unholy altar of sorts, with the dark skinned tiefling keeping a healthy distance. Like a black widow poised to stike, she began kissing and stroking – weaving the spell upon him like she had on countless before.
Legault sensed something was wrong. The shards in his possession allowed an affinity to the dark-skinned tiefling. Nonetheless, the Queen was persistent, lowering his every guard so that the phantom hidden in the back would make short work out of the superior fighter.
His palms quivered with the sheer anticipation of the kill as he lined up his favorite blade with Legault’s occipital lobe. The pressure of the moment could have indeed caused him to miss this overly-easy stirke – but the Master of the Game was supremely poised, efficiently impaling Legault’s skull, bringing him down for the quick kill…TOO quick for it to be truly satisfying.
He, of course, wasnÂ’t finished. Disobeying the QueenÂ’s orders to preserve the corpse, he succumbed to a paroxysm of rage - hacking the remains with a ferocity he had never before revealed. It was shocking, though not surprising to witness such hatred. Out of all his enemies (of which there were multitudes), the phantom despised Legault the most. Why? The Knight was pragmatic, cunning, and often arrogant. He hated Legault most of all, because he reminded him ofÂ…himself.
Mutilating the corpse as he always did, the Master of the Game burned the remains – leaving behind only a twisted heap of charred-golden armor and blackened, fragmented bones. He found not two, but THREE shards upon Legault’s corpse- one embedded into the very bone..how cunning of the Knight!!
At long last, all the shards had been gathered.
Soon, many would become one.
-
*Zadara
- Posts: 116
- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
Preparing for Battle
In the darkest crevices of a forgotten village buried deep within the Cage, the Phantom and the Fiend came together to consummate their dark alliance. The ritual would be performed the very next turn.
***
Meanwhile, Zadara had locked herself in Room Five of the Inn for three consecutive days. The almond-eyed beauty grew increasingly disturbed about a number of things: first Razaaq's murder, then the fact that she had been betrayed by either Saiph or Raelin - two she thought could be trusted with the burden of her dark secrets- and finally the upcoming confrontation.
She didn't yet have a plan, nor any who would join her side to stand against her foe. It was likely that she would be killed in the encounter. But strong, passionate Zadara would never go down without a fight.
-
*Zadara
- Posts: 116
- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
Eight Hours after Antipeak-
Half asleep, Zadara rolled over on the bed to lazily drape her arm around the humanoid form adjacent to her. After a few moments of gentle palpation, the gray-eyed beauty realized that the form was not warm to the touch- a pillow. It was only then that Zadara cracked open her eyes to find that she was alone. Inhaling deeply, she shook the sleep off herself to come to her senses. It was unhead of for Raelin to stay out all night without advance notice. Was it due to work? No.. no it couldn’t have been – the redhead would have simply resumed whatever pending orders she had the very next turn. It was likely due to trouble. Disquieting thoughts and images reverberated through the twisting crevices of her mind like screams echoing through the coarse, winding walls of a tortuous cave. Trouble.
She concluded that Raelin had been arrested again. Dysphoria clung to her body, weighing her down as she rose out of bed. It seemed that Zadara would be paying a visit to the barracks today after she had finished up at the Orphanage. After preening and dressing herself, she opened the door of her chamber to depart, only to find the box addressed to her.
A gentle smile painted itself across her face and her worries began to ease.
Raelin had undoubtedly left the package as part of some unknown game. A treasure hunt?! Her smile widened as she bent down to dismantle the cover. As her eyes touched upon the contents, her expression shifted from amused to perplexed to grave all within the span of a second. Semi-dried patches of crimson speckled the silver body of the amulet as well as the diamond-shaped black opal in the center. The same necklace she had given Raelin had been carelessly tossed inside. The redhead always..ALWAYS wore that necklace.. even when sleeping. Tremors coursed through her entire frame as she tightly wrapped her palm around the returned gift.
The fears she harbored before paled in comparison to those which haunted her now.
**
Two hours after Peak, after Zadara was privy to certain darks –
Zadara had not gone to the Orphanage today, instead – she found herself sulking in the catacombs buried deep within Undersigil: The Realm Below. She was here for a resurrection. . . though not Raelin’s. She entered a clearing within a mausoleum long-forgotten. The darkness was absolute, though Zadara was no stranger to shadow. She could make out a single coffin laying above ground – unremarkable, unadorned, and unchanged from when she last saw it.
She grunted heavily as her palms, imbued with a feral strength managed to grip onto the massive stone lid, and slide it off to the side half way. Dust and cobwebs took flight unnoticed.
Spikes.
Lying within the ancient above-ground coffin was a hollowed shell of crimson armor adorned heavily with spikes and a menacing insignia of a winged snake centered on the chest and lateral aspects of the shoulder pauldrons. Zadara had last been here after an execution. It was an unlawful execution for which no decree was handed down by the Guvners. After regretting her actions, she had suspended herself of her own accord, burying the spiked plate away with the past – leaving it frozen in time. She had promised herself, as well as Animus that she wouldn’t ever “punish” someone in the way she had before. Things had changed. Raelin had been…taken from her. Principle, Promises, and Procedure all seemed trivial at this point. The only thing that mattered now was Justice.
Zadara lifted a box-metal helmet out of the coffin which was adorned in the same menacing pattern of spikes as the rest of the plate armor. She brought her hands to her visage, and the custom-fitted helm slipped easily over her head and face. Behind the spiked-helm, Zadara closed her eyes and inhaled deeply as she resolutely made herself a new promise:
There would be no mercy.
Half asleep, Zadara rolled over on the bed to lazily drape her arm around the humanoid form adjacent to her. After a few moments of gentle palpation, the gray-eyed beauty realized that the form was not warm to the touch- a pillow. It was only then that Zadara cracked open her eyes to find that she was alone. Inhaling deeply, she shook the sleep off herself to come to her senses. It was unhead of for Raelin to stay out all night without advance notice. Was it due to work? No.. no it couldn’t have been – the redhead would have simply resumed whatever pending orders she had the very next turn. It was likely due to trouble. Disquieting thoughts and images reverberated through the twisting crevices of her mind like screams echoing through the coarse, winding walls of a tortuous cave. Trouble.
She concluded that Raelin had been arrested again. Dysphoria clung to her body, weighing her down as she rose out of bed. It seemed that Zadara would be paying a visit to the barracks today after she had finished up at the Orphanage. After preening and dressing herself, she opened the door of her chamber to depart, only to find the box addressed to her.
A gentle smile painted itself across her face and her worries began to ease.
Raelin had undoubtedly left the package as part of some unknown game. A treasure hunt?! Her smile widened as she bent down to dismantle the cover. As her eyes touched upon the contents, her expression shifted from amused to perplexed to grave all within the span of a second. Semi-dried patches of crimson speckled the silver body of the amulet as well as the diamond-shaped black opal in the center. The same necklace she had given Raelin had been carelessly tossed inside. The redhead always..ALWAYS wore that necklace.. even when sleeping. Tremors coursed through her entire frame as she tightly wrapped her palm around the returned gift.
The fears she harbored before paled in comparison to those which haunted her now.
**
Two hours after Peak, after Zadara was privy to certain darks –
Zadara had not gone to the Orphanage today, instead – she found herself sulking in the catacombs buried deep within Undersigil: The Realm Below. She was here for a resurrection. . . though not Raelin’s. She entered a clearing within a mausoleum long-forgotten. The darkness was absolute, though Zadara was no stranger to shadow. She could make out a single coffin laying above ground – unremarkable, unadorned, and unchanged from when she last saw it.
She grunted heavily as her palms, imbued with a feral strength managed to grip onto the massive stone lid, and slide it off to the side half way. Dust and cobwebs took flight unnoticed.
Spikes.
Lying within the ancient above-ground coffin was a hollowed shell of crimson armor adorned heavily with spikes and a menacing insignia of a winged snake centered on the chest and lateral aspects of the shoulder pauldrons. Zadara had last been here after an execution. It was an unlawful execution for which no decree was handed down by the Guvners. After regretting her actions, she had suspended herself of her own accord, burying the spiked plate away with the past – leaving it frozen in time. She had promised herself, as well as Animus that she wouldn’t ever “punish” someone in the way she had before. Things had changed. Raelin had been…taken from her. Principle, Promises, and Procedure all seemed trivial at this point. The only thing that mattered now was Justice.
Zadara lifted a box-metal helmet out of the coffin which was adorned in the same menacing pattern of spikes as the rest of the plate armor. She brought her hands to her visage, and the custom-fitted helm slipped easily over her head and face. Behind the spiked-helm, Zadara closed her eyes and inhaled deeply as she resolutely made herself a new promise:
There would be no mercy.