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RE: When Heroes Fail

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1/23/2016 0:11:43   
Vanir
Member

Flannagon was disappointed by the optimistic response he received. “We are at the bottom of a long and dark well. Our only option is to look at the light above, and climb, no?” But the Light has forsaken us. She will see, in time. They will listen to my words, they’ll have to. They have no idea.

The elf took the opportunity to point out the growing congregation of spiders scurrying around on the ceiling. Flannagon was disappointed in himself for not noticing sooner. He then threatened to leave, and the blind man thought it was a splendid idea, except for one thing. To whom shall we go? To close, the elf introduced himself as Hendrik Songblade. Flannagon hoped to recognize the elf’s name, given his gaudy display of gold, but the name meant nothing to him, meaning he could not have been from the city, which supported his sea dog outfit. He meant to respond to the elf’s tongue-in-cheek ‘compliment,’ but became distracted by the latest arrival.

Standing in the doorway was, hmph, another woman. She appeared a bit older than most of the other women in the room, which was a comfort to the blind man. Most striking was her height. The other girls were dwarfed by her great stature. Flannagon considered she may even be taller than him, though it had been becoming increasingly easier to misjudge spatial boundaries. His Sight had been in a very slow but steady decline ever since the fire. The headaches came quicker and with them came the darkness.

The priestess of Greva spoke to him. Her talk of knowledge made it obvious that she still associated with the order of Greva, and had not just worn their robes for disguise.

Flannagon’s thoughts of response were interrupted by the hooded woman rising from her seat, sword out, staring intently at the woman in the doorway. Ooo. Bad blood between these two. I’ll watch, and perhaps their identities will be revealed.

But their identities were shrouded once more as a spectral chuckle made the blind man shiver. “Ah, but of course I am sure you all have so many questions.”

He’s here. Flannagon hated the Magister. This one man, If he even is a man, wielded so much power over blind Flannagon, it made him feel like a child in his presence. Do I have him to blame for this curse? All those years, just for this? A fairy tale? I have questions indeed!

Before any of his questions would be heard, the so-called Recluse felt the need to assert herself into the spotlight again. A few parts were particularly ignorant and pretentious.

“I only know what type of spider they are because they make great house guests.” You take us for fools? Try one trick on me with those devils and I’ll see you burn. All of your little friends can join you in the crematorium.

“kindly leave me out of your death wish.” Listen to me next time; you’ve misunderstood in your vanity. I do not wish to die, but to dust we all shall return.

“That's fine with me, since I'm using him as well.” You dress like a fool, and you prove it with your lips. It’s not a two way road. No one uses the Magister. We’ll get our due process. A gift from the Magister is not free.

“I want to change the world,” But you of all should know, you’re but a spider hiding in the shadows. Waiting for a meal, or perhaps, to be smashed by a valiant patriarch. Spiders cannot move the world. How many years do you have left? None will be enough.

“You all are way too eager to judge without looking at yourself.” This was the final one and Flannagon could no longer contain himself. He laughed. He laughed heartily, genuinely. He laughed harder than he had in a decade, but it was slightly muffled underneath his bandages and emerged ruffled and distorted. It no longer matter that the Magister was no among them. It no longer mattered that others were conversing in the room. This wench was asking for it, and all that mattered at the moment was delivering. He tried earnestly to regain the serious tone he held the last time he spoke, but it was difficult to grasp between laughs.

“You ought to learn some respect, girl!” He mocking imitated her tone, his shrill falsetto cutting in and out, “I’m sorry Magister, I know you called us here for something very important, but what I have to say is more important.”

Returning to his normal voice, but it remained filled with confounded disgust, “And did you hear this tart? Talking about how we are too eager to judge. Why, I don’t think your mouth has ever stopped flopping since I came in. Let me remind you, insolence isn’t a virtue. And why shouldn’t we judge? If you look to the heavens for judgement instead you’ll find far less mercy than here in this room. Vanity of vanities! All is vanity. You want to change the world, hah! A generation goes, and a generation comes, but the earth remains forever.”

A cough. His temperature began to rise. A fire has started.

“Oh, no, you think I should look at myself first before judging. A good laugh. I’d spent twenty years looking at myself before you were born, girl. Then I found the cleansing light, and served it well too.” Now he began to unwrap the bandages covering his face. “I threw away everything. I was good then. Humble and pious. I said the prayers; I did the work. You might have liked me better than, hah, I left the judging to Baan. Yes. I was so good he decides to give me a little gift. He decides to give me this!” Flannagon tore the last bandage from his face revealing his horrible disfigurement.

There was not a single square inch of unscarred tissue covering his face, it was a complete mountain landscape full of ridges and pits. Even after many years, it still glowed red like the coals of a dwindling fire. The skin was tight and constricted movement of his jaw and facial muscles. His ears, small charred crisps, clung to his skull and glued down by the formation of scar tissue. His face was barren of hair, the follicles on his chin and brow were long ago smoked out of their porous crevices. The expression that donned the wretched face, was pained and full of hate.

A cough. A wisp of smoke escaped. The fire rises.

“How does the good life taste, Black Recluse? A name you gave yourself? You have yet to fit the description. Please feel free to slink away to seclusion at any time. So you sell poisons? Trade a few silver coins for a life? Sure you may not pour the cup, but you commit the murder yourself. Be sure Baan is filling up your cup with wrath.”

A cough. A ravaging inferno now.

And the sermon continued, “You know nothing. Imagine trying to live with this visage. My brothers threw me out, beat me. They took everything from me and left me alone to starvation and sickness. You think I haven’t looked at myself! What else is there to do when you’re stuck in the pits of despair? Do not tell about looking at myself. You hypocrite! Who do you think you are, commanding us with your flippant tongue? Do not pretend to be any better than I. Your face may still shine, but we bare the same burn on our hand. We do not, however, share any suffering. And if you suppose that yours is any greater than mine, I will burn it away before we meet that wyrm.”
MQ AQW Epic  Post #: 26
1/23/2016 1:33:59   
Draycos777
Member

As the blind man spoke, Selene's smirk grew into a grin. Looking at the blind man's face, Selene's face stood un-wavered.

“You know nothing. Imagine trying to live with this visage. My brothers threw me out, beat me. They took everything from me and left me alone to starvation and sickness. You think I haven’t looked at myself! What else is there to do when you’re stuck in the pits of despair? Do not tell about looking at myself. You hypocrite! Who do you think you are, commanding us with your flippant tongue? Do not pretend to be any better than I. Your face may still shine, but we bare the same burn on our hand. We do not, however, share any suffering. And if you suppose that yours is any greater than mine, I will burn it away before we meet that wyrm.”

"you're a fool." Selene chastised the man with a glint in her eye, that was a mix somewhere between pity and insanity; "Again you judge me without knowing anything yourself. All is vanity? Let me remind you that ignorance and arrogance aren't virtues either. Ha, why should I respect you? Respect is not giving but earned, and so far, no one in this room has done anything that would call for them to earn my respect. You act as though your life is the hardest, and everyone else is sunshine and rainbows."

"Ha, he misunderstands the meaning of your title. You should show this old fool. He's looking for the light anyways, lead him to it!"

A cold sweat ran down the right side of Selene's face as she slow raised her right hand to cover her face.

"Shut it." Selene whispered to herself; "End him!" "Quiet.."

Selene took her hand off her face and resumed her lecture.

"Humph. We're all here because we failed in one way or another. Forgiven me if my punishment was lighter on my person than in other areas. We can't change things? Generation go by? Maybe, but tell me this. How many generations do you know that have gotten a chance like our's. hmm? Also, here's a fun fact, my name was giving to me by the one's that I came across outside the city. I have no family, and never knew my parents. I'm a witch and hated for what I am. I was ran out of my shop and the city, when I received my curse. Otherwise I would have died. Yet I still have the self-respect and esteem, to keep chasing my goals. I continue to wear this witch's garb because it reminds me of those goals and of the only family that I knew and lost. So take that bitterness and horseshte, and save it for someone who cares, because I do not. As you can see, I don't know what the good life is, and I doubt it would have liked you in the past or now. Like I told the warrior, I nether care who you are or were. The fact that you lost everything, is no fault of anyone's here but your own. You gave everything, so you lost everything when you fell. It only makes sense, but you seems to want someone else to blame."

Selene's grin grew wicked and malevolent now, as the glint in her eye grew more and more to insanity as she spoke.

"What is there to do? Crawl yourself back up of course! No one said that this would be easy, but if you have no hope of doing so then why are you here? It was because of said hope that you entered this room was it not! Then don't spout your self serving bull! No one can command you, but yourself. However, it seems you still don't understand this. You're still wanting on someone else to save you. Saying that you can't go against this punishment Baan put on you. Hahahaha! Whether you realize it or not, you still serve Baan like a faithful saint..."

Selene got off of her broom and leaned against the wall. Her right hand holding her face again.

"See? He's just like that other man. He doubts you, doubts your magic. Kill him, show him, show them all! This room is your's already anyways. Wrap him up and feed that running, crying mouth of his one of your toxics."

"Shut up!"

Selene looked a the blind man from the crack of her fingers.

"Do not talk to me about your woes. For one that claims they can still see, you are still just as blind. All you can see is the outside of somebody, but oddly enough, in your blindness, that is all you can focus on now, and you fail to see the inside. Also, a tip. Do not threaten someone simply because they do not agree with you. That is a good way to get one's self in more trouble than they asked for."




< Message edited by Draycos777 -- 1/23/2016 1:37:12 >
AQ  Post #: 27
1/23/2016 3:37:21   
Remaint
Member

The Lost Witch’s expression was still no less of shocked when a warped laugh began to echo within the backroom. She turned her head toward the source, the raggedy old man, and calmed her eyes as he began rebuking Recluse. His laugh was disfigured as his crippled appearance, partly due to the bandages around his mouth, and was filled with a furious strife, as if Recluse had stated the most outrageous things possible. To be fair, her statements had not been deprived of pretentiousness, and really, could be the definition of vanity. Certain phrases still rang in Seiserna’s ears.

“Sorry do I sound too much like a stereotype? I'll leave it at that then."

“I want to change the world.”

“You all are way too eager to judge without looking at yourself.”

While the sorceress was by no means supportive of the diseased man, she found herself smirking at his imitative mockery of the witch. It was quite the silly action and unbefitting of an old leper, but its criticism was true. For one named Recluse, she had quite the habit of establishing herself as the centre of attention. Not that Seiserna should be remarking on the subject, of course.

What she could remark upon, was that the temperature had been steadily increasing since the leper had took to anger. A faint magic was initialising, and the sorceress detected a potence like that of a furnace radiating from the old man. He continued returning venom against the witch while revealing a past filled with servitude toward the divine. The tale was tragic, but Seiserna couldn’t spare too much sympathy. What can I say? Come too close to the light, and you get burnt.

The moment the old man unraveled his bandages, Seiserna had to turn away. His face was horrendously maimed, and was dreadful to look upon. The Lost Witch felt a hint of bile at the back of her mouth and moved a hand to her lips. Point made, Old Man, you can rewrap those bandages back on your face now!

Whatever were the proper witch’s words of defective reasoning, they in the least, were accompanied by some of sound inference littered here and there.

“Respect is not given but earned.”

“You gave everything, so you lost everything when you fell.”

"What is there to do? Crawl yourself back up of course!...It was because of said hope that you entered this room was it not!”

Yet with those statements of clear thinking, Recluse’s gestures became further and further perplexing. She had raised a hand to her face, but Seiserna suspected it wasn’t because the witch was sparing herself of the leper’s hideous appearance. She occasionally commanded another to be silenced when it was only herself speaking, and her face became manic in its expression. If there was one thing that remained within the realm of expectation about the spiderwitch, was that she sent a threat toward the old man.

Once more, the Lost Witch laid focus to the ceiling, the arachnids above. She wasn’t sure what the Magister would do if Recluse pulled an attack or if the leper returned fire -perhaps literally- but Seiserna kept a sharp concentration, ready to draw upon mystical power to ensure her own safety. She placed the hand from her mouth to the direction of the ground and shifted her other hand to her hip, adopting a pose that told of simple leisure.

“Can you two wait until we’re clear of Palora’s walls before attempting to murder one another? If the Third Burning becomes the Fourth Burning, you can be assured that the Saints won’t hesitate to relieve you bunch of all opportunities to redeem yourselves.” You bunch and only you bunch. I’m pretty sure I can escape alive if that were to occur. Still, would be a chore to have you all dying before I turn Baan’s baleful eye away from myself.

< Message edited by Remaint -- 1/23/2016 5:09:03 >
AQW  Post #: 28
1/23/2016 16:21:18   
Ryu Viranesh
Member

It took every effort for Jana to keep her jaw affixed to the rest of her face, the harsh cacophony of discontent that had taken root in that small back room proving almost enough to rattle even her sturdy constitution. Though her better instincts were screaming for her to retreat and reconsider what she’d gotten herself into, the girl stood firm and stared out onto the battlefield beyond, watching words wage war on words and personalities clash on the most elemental of levels. A witchy woman argued with what appeared to be a blind beggar about the level of respect they each felt they were entitled to; another pythoness called angrily after a man of the sea whose skin was as weathered and worn as Jana’s own. As the pirate slipped past, he bid her to take his place at the gathering. Judging by the look on his face, it seemed that he had seen enough of this ragtag group of misfits and outcasts.

Blackguard indeed.

Still, all of this was nothing more than window dressing compared to the concentrated contempt that was being directed her way courtesy of the tall woman that had caught her eye on the way in. Now it seemed that this mercenary only had eyes for her, the woman’s gaze rooted to Jana’s form even as madness took hold around them. Maybe she’d already surrendered to that particular siren’s song, if the naked blade and the clenched fist were any indications.

Jana frowned as she twisted toward her counterpart, a stray hand drifting in the direction of the dagger she’d stowed beneath her clothes. At the same time, she seized on that feeling of familiarity that had haunted her thoughts moments before, tumbling and wrestling it to the ground as she struggled to remember. There was something about this woman… something about her bearing, or maybe her stance…

The image that came unbidden to Jana’s mind was of Palora’s walls, her face cast up at the battlements as a tenebrous figure sparred… no, fought with another. The wraith’s sword shoots forward with lightning speed, quicker than the girl she’d been then would have thought possible, and then just as quickly resumes its proper position, pointing towards her with lethal intent. Jana blinked, her expression clouding as her memories merged with reality, filling in the missing pieces to the puzzle that stood before her.

It’s her.

She’d cut her hair, dyed it too; if anything she looked even thinner than she’d been the day she fled the city, leaving all of her family behind. Still, there was no mistaking that footing; the way she held her sword; the unconscious swagger that she displayed even in the midst of her rage. It could only be her. And Jana laughed, the discordant, cynical chuckle right at home amidst the chaos that now held sway. I should have guessed; this is just like Strasna. Always reaching for things that are far beyond her grasp.

Once she finally regained control of herself, the well-built woman turned to consider the Magister, eyeing the man and the murk that surrounded him with a look firm enough to make most wither before her.

“No questions – all I want is an explanation, or I’ll be joining the seafarer on his way out. I don’t know what kind of sick game it is that you’re playing, Magister, but you have to know that nothing good can come of bringing the two of us,” she drew a line between herself and her cousin, “together. Nothing.”

< Message edited by Ryu Viranesh -- 1/23/2016 16:29:58 >
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 29
1/23/2016 18:42:24   
Bastet
Member

Nilch’i turned to observe the Magister as he made his second appearance. He, assuming a gender could be assigned to him, remained a large question mark despite all the sources of information that had been previously available to the priestess. Despite having made the research of knowledge her profession, she probably knew as much as the next person in the room about the mysterious figure that promised to give them all a shot at redemption. Assuming she returned to man her post, the girl was reassured by the thought that her little adventure would give her very, very valuable information about the forces that worked from the shadows of Palora.

As the bandaged insulter moved over to other subjects, Nilch’i returned to contemplating the flame of the inn. She had many questions to ask the Magister, but she didn’t need the years of experience she had in assisting her adopter to understand that whatever information provided her by the figure would come in the form of contrived riddles that she had little hope of solving. Considering that she wasn’t ruling out the possibility this opportunity being a trap or a fluke yet, she felt better off listening for dangers and letting the more loquacious members of the group do the threatening. Between burnt lepers and psychotic witches, she really didn’t have anything else to add of her own.

Even as the tall woman complained at the Magister for being put together with another member of the forming band, Nilch’i couldn’t do much but sit at her place. Nothing she could say or do would improve the situation without putting herself at risk, which is something she would’ve rather not done when she was finding herself in the back room of a dangerous inn with no idea of the true intentions of the people around her. To say that she had put herself in a risky situation would be a gigantic understatement, but it was the only way forward. The one thought that kept resurfacing in her mind was that, in the eventuality that everything worked out with the removal of the mark and her survival, she had a lot to gain from the journey.

Despite her apparent isolationism, though, Nilch’i didn’t fail to notice that some of the marked appeared to be smarter than others. She would’ve put the hardened elf that threatened to leave at the top of that list, but the option of backing out of the deal wasn’t available when that path simply led to the life of an exile. All things considered, it wouldn’t have been worth it to just abandon the prospecting ordeal and accept the consequences of being permanently shunned. The telekinetic girl, smirking at the thought, realized that this was one of the few occasions where taking the path of glory was the most helpful choice. Finding an ally amongst this mess seemed unlikely, but there were few people in the room that had behaved intelligently enough not to immediately escalate the situation into rampant conflict. Having made her choice, Nilch’i hoped that she could break up further conflict or find someone she could trust before a full-scale brawl occurred. The words that the muscular woman pronounced didn’t escape her, and the priestess understood that she was talking about the one who had previously insulted their ability to kill their way out of a brothel.

Standing up and immediately regretting it because of how quickly the heat of the fireplace left her body again, Nilch’i took a few steps towards that same warrior with dull and frazzled red hair. Her main objective was to stop the onset of yet another verbal duel that would likely end in lethal physical injuries for at least one of the parties involved. Stopping close enough to start the first few steps of mutual trust, Nilch’i cleared her throat and lent her hand to the ragged fighter. She wasn’t entirely expecting her to return the gestures in a handshake, but trying didn’t hurt.

“My name is Nilch’i, priestess of Greva. I believe we have been called here for the same purpose, but do not mistake me for someone who is entirely extraneous to combat. I might not fight directly as you do, but it is an act of.. aggression that brought me here. However, I see that starting a conflict between the Marked is not the best way to carry our task to its end. I offer you my allegiance…

Nilch’i then turned her head to the woman of Amazonian proportions, who seemed rather.. indisposed in the regards of the person she had just offered her help to. She was seeking to bring both of the fighters on her side if they were willing to trust her, and she would’ve liked to avoid alienating one because she chose to approach the other first.

...and to you too, though I may be extraneous to the conflict that seems to run between you two. We are here for one purpose, and I believe that needless infighting will do naught but stop us from reaching our objectives. I need someone I can rely on, and I assure you you can expect me to help you two the same way if you accept, whether you’re willing to cooperate with each other or not.”
Post #: 30
1/23/2016 23:15:13   
Apocalypse
Member

Of course it had been the beautiful lass who had called after him. Hendrik guessed the instances where men turned her down were few and far in-between. Shock or desperation or some combination of both filled her voice as the elf strode to the door. As fortune would have it, she was the sole one to protest his leave. The standing warrior made no effort to stop him through word or sword. He was glad on that part as turning down the one kissed by violet had been difficult enough; had she given him a sly smile, he might have returned to the table of his own accord. Alas, she was not privy to his pitfalls, and she would not be.

The elf paused with one hand on the door frame and looked over his shoulder. "Too many winds tear the sail, love," Hendrik said as the cripple began to laugh. He gave a glance to the bandaged man before returning his gaze to the lass. "And the number of cards in your hand don't matter if you can't take the trick." With that the scourge faced front, knocked thrice on the frame, and stepped forward. He closed the door behind him with some care, muffling the heightening voices inside. A small smile twitched at the corners of his lips. This had been the right choice. A life of exile was still better than a life in forfeit.

Nonetheless, the seaman's boots fell like lead as he made his way back down the hallway. An anchor lay resting at the bottom of his gut, growing heavier with every step away from that little room. Despite this uncomfortable weight, Hendrik trudged on until he reached the bar. Taking his leave of the Magister and his misfits had left him with Jeb's Jitters - a ailment typical of beginner privateers when they were forced to turn down a deal, but could shake up even seasoned veterans who chose to walk away from bountiful yet suicidal ventures. More than one fool had made the mistake of going back on their initial instinct, losing everything for their reversed decision. The elf pulled up a stool and pulled out his purse as he flagged down the barkeep. In all his travels Hendrik had found naught but one solution to soothe the illness: a large round of something strong.

The barkeep made eye contact but there was a definite moment of hesitation before he made his way over to the pirate. "A pint of that cider, if you will," Hendrik said as he drew out his payment. The scourge placed an extra copper on the counter before pushing it towards the man as an apology for the funny business with the wooden coin. Some barkeeps could appreciate a joke now and again, but in the end they were hard and under-appreciated workers who catered to drunks and the other dregs of society on a daily basis. They deserved a little respect and some extra coin every now and again.

So with all of this in mind, Hendrik was quite surprising that this barkeep neglected to pick up the extra coin and plopped the pint down without a word. The two had shared a little back-and-forth before, and the elf was curious as to what had occurred to warrant such a reaction. The scourge pondered this thought as he took a sip of his brew.
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 31
1/23/2016 23:43:04   
Kellehendros
Eternal Wanderer


 “Whatcha gonna do?”

“Do?” The barman scowled at the man who asked the question, scooping up the Magister’s gold and pocketing it. He plunked a pair of silvers on the scarred wood of the bar and grabbed a pint, filling it slowly from a tap nearby. Depositing the foamy brew and the coins in front of the questioner, the tavern keeper shook his head. “Gonna do what he said. Think I’m fer defyin’ his Magister-ship? Now you drink that slow like, then you go find the Saints. And the rest of ye,” the barman’s voice rose over the eddies of whispered conversation, “can get yer sorry arses out of here, and I dun wanna hear yer bellyachin’. Out! If there’s ter be a brawl in here twixt his Magister-ship’s lot and the Saints, none a ye wanna be ‘round ter see it.”


The Magister smiled. It was a singularly unpleasant expression, visible as a baring of the teeth more than any expression that might be associated with mirth, or at the least, with any expression of mirth such as a normal person might show forth. On the Magister’s face the grin was eye-popping, manic, a sparkle of cerulean off ivory, highlighted by the glow of lambent eyes.

That blue and glowing gaze swiveled slowly to Marisa as the sickly girl gave voice to her questions. The Magister’s shoulders twitched, heaving in a way almost suggestive of suppressed amusement, though he had no time to make an answer to her queries, for Hendrik rose and made his way to the door. Upon the Magister’s face the grin soured, and he rasped a curt answer in tones of faint disgust. “Seats are for masters, not servants. Think thou I plan amiss?” In a moment the smile was back, spreading slowly across the strange man’s face like an oil slick across the surface of a pool of water. “But should thou wish to cry off, far be it from I to stop thee.” Moving aside the Magister motioned to the door with over-elaborate courtesy and then turned his attention to the room at large as the elf exited and shut the door behind himself.

A giggle slipped furtively from the depths of the man’s cowl as his eyes flickered away from Hendrik, landing on Sieserna and then leaping to Flannagon. The rictus expression stretched wider as the argument between the burned man and the shopkeeper flared up. Azure eyes skipped back and forth between the two, taking in the exchange with avid interest. He snickered, glancing at Seiserna again before approaching the table.


Cendra stared at Jana; her mind worked feverishly, struggling to process the woman’s presence here, to assemble a pattern, a chain of events that had resulted in her descent to this place. On the heels of that shock came anger, a hot and passionate tide as the dam within her threatened to burst.

Was it not enough that she was here, that she had been subjected to this, that her name was a byword for treachery and deception? But no, Jana had followed in her footsteps, only to hurl herself from the same precipice that Cendra herself had toppled over.

She drew breath to speak, to say something, perhaps in rebuke, perhaps in acceptance. Cendra herself was uncertain what it would be. She was unbalanced by Jana’s appearance, by the sheer fact of her presence in this place. But there was no time for the exile to speak, for she was interrupted by the sound of a woman clearing her throat a few steps away.

Cendra drew in a breath, holding it, and then exhaling long and slow, tearing her eyes away from Jana and looking at the woman who identified herself as a priestess of Greva. She had her doubts about the woman’s supposed ordination, but then again, Cendra was all the proof that was necessary that those held in the favor and regard of the commons could fall as easily as any other into disgrace and error.

The exile’s free hand uncurled, going down to the sheath at her waist and gripping it. Cendra drew in another breath and let it out slowly, returning the weapon to its scabbard. Whispering something inaudible to herself, she turned and clasped hands with the golden-robed priestess before looking back at Jana. “What comes next will be hard enough.”

If that comment was directed to Jana or Nilch’i was open to speculation, but Cendra said nothing further, walking to the fireplace and staring down into the flames.


In the silence after the exile’s words was another titter of amusement, and then upon the table before the Magister was a book. The tome was old, bound in a green and textured leather worn to smooth black shininess in places with age and handling. With one gloved hand the man opened the tome and, disregarding the room’s occupants, began to read...

“And they say that Agemon is the greatest hero that ever was or ever will be, for by his hand was ended the Eternal Blight.

But it is not so.

Agemon approached the wyrm and saw that it lay as one deeply asleep atop the piled treasures plundered from the temples and fine dwelling places of Palora. The acolyte crept forth, lifted his spear, and essayed to slay the vile beast with a single thrust.

But Vermonox was old and sly, and only feigned to sleep, having scented the acolyte’s approach. He opened one eye, and from it stared the malice and daunting darkness of the wyrm’s black heart. Agemon, grown bold and fearless by his close approach unespied, met the wyrm’s gaze. Long the two strove, one against the other, but deep within the acolyte’s heart a darkness lingered, as it does in all men. And for Vermonox, Eternal Blight, birthed from the Blackest Pit, it was enough. And lo, each time Agemon struck down the wyrm it rose again, feeding from the darkness within him.

Agemon’s spear was shivered by the battle, and he despaired, but crying out to Baan he thrust the haft of his weapon into a rent torn into Vermonox’s hide by the fight. Once more Baan heard the acolyte’s cry, and the thrust went deep, piercing even the wyrm’s heart. Black blood and ichor burst forth in a searing stream, coating Agemon’s left hand, even to the elbow. The acolyte swooned, for the blood of the wyrm was as a fire whose bite wracked him with pain, but it was enough, for the wyrm’s strength was exhausted and it rose no more.

But Vermonox was not slain, merely vanquished. Agemon awoke and the wyrm was gone, and the people of Palora, Deposed Queen of Cities, crept back into the ruins and hailed him Paladin, city-savior and protector, though there was no body to testify to his victory. Surely, the people said, the Eternal Blight had been consumed, rotted away by the foulness it carried within itself, but Agemon went ever after more reserved than had been his wont, and the pain of his left hand troubled him all the days of his life.

In his heart of hearts he knew that the wyrm would come again, and again, for Vermonox thrived upon the darkness that men hid within themselves, and to slay the beast would take a confluence of events beyond his sight.

The Magister sighed with soft and satisfied appreciation, closing the tome and resting his hand upon it. “Ah, the Book of the Wyrm. Truth always sets my heart at ease.”

Grinning, the cowled man raked his gaze over the room, sapphire eyes settling on Marisa as he at last deigned to answer her questions. “My dear Marisa, you already know all that is required for you to know, but since you have asked so politely, my generous nature is spurred to provide you further guidance.” The Magister shuddered, chuckling, and then throwing back his head and positively cackling. Swiping at his eyes in mirth, the man shook his head. “If you wish to find the wyrm, why you must simply go north. All know that the Desolation is a breeding ground of all that is foul and heinous.”

The Magister tapped his forefinger upon the cover of the tome slowly. “But should you earnestly wish to prepare for your meeting with the Eternal Blight, I would suggest you venture into the Spearforge first.”


The elven pirate emerged from the back room, drawing looks of surprise from the few patrons yet lingering within the tavern. At the counter the messenger inhaled sharply upon his brew in his shock, descending into a fit of hacking and coughing. For his part the bartender shot the messenger a worried glance before seeing to the privateer’s need and venturing with forced good cheer, “Anythin’ the matter in there?”
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 32
1/24/2016 21:28:57   
Remaint
Member

The unnatural blue gaze of the magister swept over Seiserna and she involuntarily quivered. His leer passed over her once more, accompanied by a soft, crawling chuckle. The Magister’s antics, maybe even taunts, were subtle, but they were akin to having a thousand spiders climb one’s legs. The sorceress’ nerves were standing on their ends and her fingers couldn’t stop twitching. Stop looking at us like that! Hell, stop being all creepy!

Thankfully, a soft and formal voice distracted the unnerved witch and she gratefully clung to it.

“I offer you my allegiance… “

“We are here for one purpose, and I believe that needless infighting will do naught but stop us from reaching our objectives.”

The Grevan priestess, introducing herself as Nilch’i, was conscious of the divided spirit within the group of Blighted, but was apparent in reinforcing the division given that she explicitly offered an allegiance.

“Scholar of Greva, is there really a need to verbally ally yourself? You sound as though we are inevitably going to oppose one another...which, admittedly, seems to be the case about now.”

The witch looked toward the other witch and leper, toward the two taller warriors.

“Okay. Nilch’i, you’ll have my support. Name's Seiserna. Being an outcast sorceress doesn’t lend much to having many sources of information, and I would appreciate it if I could learn a thing or two from you.”

Not long after, the Magister began to read from a tome he produced. The tale told was all too familiar, one about the saviour whose name nobody’s ears have not caught. It was the story of Agemon, Slayer of the Eternal Blight. A story no child of Paloria has not heard. At least, that’s how it began. The longer the shadow-cloaked figure read, the further the details deviated from the standard story, until one piece of information contradicted all known records, to the point of possible blasphemy. According to the Magister's book, Agemon, the legendary paladin, was Blighted himself.

The book’s very title was in fact heretical. Seiserna could remember an instance from when she was still a Saint recruit; her instructor of arms had mentioned the name in forboding tones. Ever the rebel she was back then, and probably now, Seiserna boldly asked as to where she may read its contents. Consequently, that lead to the Master of Arms backhanding her face.

Unconsciously, the sorceress held a hand to her cheek. Master Winters had struck her hard and Seiserna could remember actually flying off her feet from the simple slap.

As the Magister unraveled his tale, the witch could not help but to try and discern what he looked like under those omnipresent robes of darkness. Furthermore, she could not resist thinking that his incomparably azure stare was artificial, and that the Magister was using some form of sorcery to wield such a blood-chilling gaze.

With every passing sentence, the Lost Witch inched ever nearer to the Magister. By the time he uttered what may actually be called advice, Seiserna had positioned herself directly behind his back. A grin found itself forming on the sorceress’ lips as she eagerly pondered her next action.

Hands as light and dexterous as an excellent thief, and truth be told, Seiserna was an excellent thief, she pulled downward on the black cowl of the Magister.


< Message edited by Remaint -- 1/24/2016 22:19:09 >
AQW  Post #: 33
1/26/2016 1:49:46   
Caststarter
Member

No no no. Look at those two go. Witch vs Pretender. The man sounded like he is trying to be wise yet his pessimism only clouds his own thinking, where the pretentious optimism clouds the witch’s thinking. Very much opposites. Yet as an exasperated sign came from me, the man unraveled all of his bandages to reveal the truth, if not was not already obvious before. His face was simply visual chaos. And that… insane laughter. Truly not capable of logical judgment. Yet it also explained his mind. A mind that has suffered for a long time to the point that it is pessimistic about everything. No wonder why he is utterly against the witch that has no sense of trying to hide her profession.

Disregarding this, I looked at the Magister to await answers. Yet he has hesitated in answering my questions. Why…? Oh… the seafarer had left the room. Great. Like we cared anyway. Though now the most recent woman dares leave the room herself, if the Magister does not offer an explanation on why… someone is in here. Yet who? The woman simply stared at the Magister. This woman certainly stood out with that stare. I seen worse though.

Oh, will one look at that. The masked one has attempted forge relations between the warrior woman and… the mercenary. That answered that last question. Though Nilch’i… priestess of Greva? Hmph. At least she tried to quell the tension that will surely destroy us soon. Doubt it worked though, as the mercenary went up to and stared at the fireplace. Shame. Will be important to note the division between the mercenary and warrior. It will be hard to make them come together.

Though perhaps… just perhaps I should attempt to “ally” with Nilch’i? Despite being a former priestess, I need others… there is no way I could do this by myself. Where she seems to be the most likely to at least tolerate me. Yet only if we decide to split from here. I breathed slowly, ever so disappointed by the very high chance the mentioned scenario will happen though.

Wait… my questions were still not answered… why…?

Oh.

The Magister was reading. Reading what? If he read aloud, then he only muttered for I could not tell from my position. Afterwards, he closed the book, noted that it was the Book of the Wyrm and commented how it told the truth. Yet what truth? It was obvious what the subject was… I was familiar with the title and the word “wyrm” alone would reveal what it was about.

Afterwards, he looked directly at me and answered all three questions, with his distinct chuckle and cackle. They were… highly sardonic. I could tell. I could tell! Why… you…! My hands clutched and my breath grew heavier as my inner fury’s desire to be let out grew. Fine, say I need to go to the Spearforge where you do not say or what it…? My eyes quickly caught his finger tapping at the book. Hints…? I leaned towards it and hovered my hand over it. “May I?” I stared contently at him, in a way to show I know what he was hinting at. Then my eyes quaked and blinked rapidly as I noted that the distinct, purple-haired woman stood right behind the Magister. Then, her hands reached for the Magister’s cowl. “What are you doing, you fool!?” What was she doing? This is utterly foolish and childish!
DF  Post #: 34
1/29/2016 0:02:46   
Kellehendros
Eternal Wanderer


 The Magister waited, finger tapping lightly upon the cover of the tome. Beneath his hood the mysterious man smiled his chilling smile, and his sapphire eyes flickered over each of the room’s occupants in turn before settling on Marisa. Giggling, the cowled figure caressed a hand lovingly over the book’s surface in a gesture that was almost obscene in its possessiveness. “May you? Nay, I say thou mayst not. For within this book are contained words too heavy for thy slender shoulders.”

His fingers curled about the tome, scooping it up even as Marisa cried out. Upon his head the cowl slid back beneath Seiserna’s grasping fingers but a fraction of an inch. For a terrifying moment, to the sickly former Saint the Magister’s ephemeral visage vanished, replaced by a grinning skull with will o’ wisp eyes of blazing blue. It is the vision of a moment though, gone in less than a blink, and from his hand the book was gone as well, vanished back into the air from which the specter had conjured it forth.


Somehow, the Magister managed to slip from Seiserna’s grip before she could jerk the cowl down to reveal him to the room. His hands rose, tugging the concealing garment back into place as he turned with slow and glacial menace towards the woman. Yet, for all air of wrath about the cloaked man, the sound that emerged from beneath his hood was a snigger of amusement.

“Ah, darling, didn’t anyone ever tell you that curiosity killed the cat?” Snickering darkly, the Magister shook his head. “But there is always one. One who simply must know. And who am I to deny so ardent a wish? Pay attention now; watch closely.”

Hands like long and pale spiders went again to the hood, drawing the shielding cloth away slowly. Beneath the grey and faded fabric was chitinous plates of iridescent black, a face that was thin and angular, surmounted by a shock of bristly hair from which a pair of twitching antenna rose. Its mouth was a toothy maw framed by twitching mandibles, but it was the creature’s eyes that commanded attention.

From deep within the sockets stared the manic gaze of two glittering, multi-faceted sapphire eyes upon whose planes Seiserna could see herself reflected over and over again. A dozen Seiserna’s, more, stared back at the lost woman, and yet the most horrible thing was that each of them was her, and yet was not. For each pane of the gem-like surfaces showed a Seiserna that might have been. From the left eye, images of horror and darkness: Seisernas that reveled in death and destruction; from the right eye, somehow worse, images of glory and light: Seisernas exalted and uplifted, making again and again the choice that she had faced and failed.

With a swift hand the hood was drawn up again, leaving behind only the knowing leer of lambent eyes.


The Magister lifted a swift admonitory finger to his lips, giving the softest hiss of warning. “Now, now, my dear, that was strictly between you and me, yes? So let’s not be telling…” He winked slyly, and then turned his attention to the room at large.

A hand slid into his robe, drawing forth the strangely rune-graven pendant of gold. Opening the device, the hooded man consulted it a moment before snapping it shut and returning it to its place. “Now then, who wishes to ask the next obvious question?”
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 35
1/30/2016 1:30:12   
Vanir
Member

Besides irritating, another word to describe the witch’s rebuttal to Flannagon’s attack was disappointing. It seemed nothing he said or did made an impact on her. It was as if she was blind to his condition of despair, his hardships, and his hard earned wisdom. He expected an apology, or at the very least an acknowledgement of his superiority in some form. He received the words, “You’re a fool,” and they hardened his heart more than the flame which raged within him had already charred.

He remained quiet during the rebuttal, content to comment on her arguments within the gallery of memories and tomes in his head. Here follows a brief list of grievances:

"Again you judge me without knowing anything yourself.” Has anything I said penetrated those worthless ears? Here am I. I have given my qualifications, and I know myself well. You are the fool here.

“Let me remind you that ignorance and arrogance aren't virtues either.” Hah, and your supposed guile is?

“You act as though your life is the hardest” Flannagon’s eyes glanced around the figures in the room, and briefly compared their faces with his own. I’ve only spoken the truth.

Then, in a whisper, “Shut it.” He did not think he had said anything aloud. I do not even have to say anything to be hushed. I suppose that could be a power.

“How many generations do you know that have gotten a chance like our's. hmm?” She almost had a valid point there, but the blind man would not admit it. He could not think of one to answer her. The Histories record the events, not the people. There is no remembrance of men of old, and even those who are yet to come will not be remembered by those who follow.

“I have no family, and never knew my parents.” I’ve heard that story before. He had known many forgotten, bastard children in the Southern Quarter before being ostracized by them too. His mother would take them all up in her arms, and give away her own little cup of soup to their peeping mouths. Starving herself for a couple orphans. She was a righteous woman. He considered her for a moment, and then shook himself to refocus on the present argument.

“I'm a witch and hated for what I am.” Rightly so. Flannagon tried to remember a usage of the term “witch” that was good. He could not.

“Yet I still have the self-respect and esteem, to keep chasing my goals.” This resonated a different tone within his shell. It reminded him of something he once said many years ago. The rest of the witch’s words faded away into the present, as the past surfaced.

A young boy was standing as tall as his youthful legs could stretch in the doorway of his family’s earnest flat. His mother stood near him beaming, but with the glitter of a tear beginning to form. The boy spoke first, “I have to go, Momma. Like you told me, I’m going to keep chasing my goals. I’m going to provide for you and Pa. I heard from the men of a planter out there who would hire me. I told you I would go with them. And Pa says I’m the man of the house, and a man’s gotta work. Don’t worry Momma, once I get everything out there you won’t have to work anymore.”

The crystal tear had formed at the corner of the woman’s eye. She spoke next, her voice was soft and melodic, and had always been full of restitution, “I know. But my own Flagon, leaving his mother. And after all I’ve done for you too! Well… I’m proud of you.” The tear cascaded down her face and plunged into Flannagon’s raging fire, dousing it. She continued, “If only your father could see you off. You know I tried to wake him.”

The boy looked down and said sadly, “I talked to him yesterday. He said he was glad I wasn’t growing up to be like him." Then, after a long pause filled only with their silent love, "I need to go."

“Through this town by yourself? Not while your Momma’s around you ain’t.” The boy smiled and they walked together, hand in hand, to the Ram’s Gate.

The present rushed back to Flannagon’s senses as the witch gave her closing remarks. Flannagon was already rewrapping his head with his bandages. He had plenty to say in response, but the moment had passed. The embers where no longer fueled for a lecture. He mumbled aloud to no one in particular as he sat down in his chair, “What is twisted cannot be straightened.”

One of the other women asked Flannagon and the Recluse to delay fighting until they had left the city. He nodded in affirmation, but was quiet, melancholy in the sea of nostalgia. He observed the others passively, still pondering his mother in his heart. The tallest one asked for an explanation and referred to the obvious bad blood across the room. The priestess of Greva pledged allegiance to the two angry warriors, an act at which Flannagon scoffed. To the blind man’s surprise the elf actually followed through with his earlier words and left the party. Flannagon scoffed again, and audibly, “Like the fool, the wise man too must die.”

Then the Magister spoke. I may be older than everyone here, but I’m not old enough for my memory to fail. Did he walk in with that book? The words that came from the Magister diffused into Flannagon’s being. They were familiar and yet distant. At the end of his tale, the Magister revealed the title. The Book of the Wyrm!

Flannagon had heard of the work, but, of course, he had never read it. It was strictly forbidden. He was curious about it during his freshmen days at the Temple. There were no copies in Baan’s royal library, nor in Greva’s. He felt hostile eyes on him from all corners of the Temple for a month after asking one of the sages about it. The sage simply said, “Base lies,” and gave Flannagon a cold stare. It never came up again. None of the other students would talk about it either. Whenever it was mentioned, the speaker looked over their shoulder and conversation ceased. But now, this book could be his redemption. If the truth is in there, I must have that book.

The girl asked for it, and was denied. But perhaps my shoulders? Then, in a moment the Magister’s hood was grabbed from behind. The Magister immediately stopped it, but something had been exposed. It was too fast for Flannagon to find see anything other than paleness, and those eyes. Those very blue eyes, fiercer than before, glowed with fury as he pulled the hood over again. In that flash, they seemed like terminals of flame, focusing their heat at the tip, and burning. Had they always burned like that?
MQ AQW Epic  Post #: 36
1/30/2016 9:01:46   
Draycos777
Member

Selene, for her part, kept mostly silent throughout the Magister's book reading. She was all too grateful to the blind for dropping the foolish argument then and there. Selene saw the other magic user walk towards the Magister's back. She didn't really pay attention to this or way happened afterwards, as she had other things that demanded her attention.

"You aren't going to get rid of him?"

"Quiet, what purpose would killing him serve?"

"The same purpose that killing that other man severed. Removing his kind's blight of prejudice from this world."

"And you mean for me to start a fight in this room? Idiot, that'd only lead to an early death."

"Then why not just wait til we're out of the city, like that overly eager mage suggested?

"I'm not looking to killing my own teammates. That won't help me complete this mission, or get rid of you for that matter."

"Eh, you think that I'll go away just cause you got rid of that mark? I'm here to stay."

"You aren't real, just go away already."

"Sigh, you can continue to deny it, but I am a part of you. You can't run from me. Well, whatever, I'll be back later I'm sure."

In the silence left over, the words: "You're nothing like me." Were barely spoken or heard.

“Now then, who wishes to ask the next obvious question?”

The Magister's word brought Selene back to the world of the living.

"I'll let the other's ask away first."

For now Selene was going to wait, watch and listen, while her mind 'recovered' so to speak. Besides, something felt off, but Selene couldn't put her finger on just what gave her a bad feeling.
AQ  Post #: 37
1/30/2016 21:54:43   
Apocalypse
Member

At last the barkeep found his tongue and made an inquiry about the the events in the back room. Hendrik shook his head as his mouth curved into a slight grin. "Oh, just the bickering of children and the haughty. Nothing to miss." He raised the pint to his lips as his thoughts went back to the alluring figure of the violet one, the hardened beauty hidden beneath grime in the dyed one, and the unexpected winsome appearance of the sick little bird. He took a sip as the familiarity of the drink and thoughts at-hand relaxed him. "Well, your ears missed nothing. Your eyes? That's another matter."

A noise that was the lovechild of a grunt and a scoff escaped from the barkeep. Perhaps unusual in tone, but anyone would have recognized it as the very sound of disapproval. Hendrik kept his face blank at the man's reaction. Something was off. The elf took another swig as he tried to put a face to the abnormality. If only that fool would cease sputtering on his pint...

...and the last piece fell into place. Hendrik jolted in his seat, sloshing some of the pale cider onto the countertop. Stormy eyes swept across the room. Empty. The pub had been lively not too long ago; too lively to have died down at such a rapid pace. He flicked his gaze to the coughing patron, fear as plain as the froth on his face, and to the barkeep, his body holding the rigid form one does when it no longer remembers how to hold itself without conscious effort. Stillness hung in the air like a haze. It was broken as the Blighted sprung into action, his movements fluid and quick. A deft hand unsheathed the cutlass as the scourge leapt to his feet, leveling the blade at the barkeep's throat. Stiff arms rose to either side of the barman's head, open palms facing towards the unsatisfied customer.The blood drained from the patron's face.

"Pray tell, just what is the game you're playing?" Songblade said through clenched teeth. "Because this piece is a bit tired of being treated as a pawn."

The barkeep and patron shared a glance before the latter made a break for it. Hendrik tucked his free hand in his vest to grasp a dart. "Suresh ethne-", he began before finishing the incantation with a swear. The fool would be out the door long before the act was completed. The scourge vaulted over the nearest stool and winded his arm back. His feet had only graced the floor when he let the metallic missile loose. Even on a bad day, the pirate was a decent shot. But it was clear as day that this day was, without a doubt, a bad day. And fear made for a powerful motivator. The dart only caught the fool in the back of his shoulder. It had not even caught him deep as a brush against the door frame knocked it clean off. The patron was not even slowed as he made his escape. Hendrik began cursing everything he could bring to mind under his breath as he retrieved the small projectile. A flick of the hand sent a spray of warm blood droplets across the threshold. The barkeep had remained frozen throughout the deal, only opening his mouth as the elf approached him. The fury of the hurricane hung in his eyes, and the floor seemed to buckle underneath the intensity of his steps. Whatever words the barkeep had been trying to say were lost when the hilt of the cutlass struck him across the temple.

"Sod off", Songblade said as the barkeep crumpled in a heap. The scourge pocketed the dart and swiped his pint off the table, drinking deep from it as he continued towards the back room without losing stride. The Saints would arrive any moment, but an injured innocent might delay them by a few precious heartbeats. The pleasantry of giving the scourge something to direct his rage at was but icing on the cake.

Finished with his drink, Hendrik hurled the pint aside where it landed with a crash. "All right, let's start this party."
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 38
1/31/2016 16:08:33   
Bastet
Member

“What comes next will be hard enough.”

Nilch’i was glad that her offer was accepted by the warrior. Without external aid, she couldn’t hope to undertake the path to redemption and carry it out to the end with success. A cohesive group would have improved her chances significantly, but a small allegiance would have to do for the moment: it was already enough of a small miracle that she managed what she had. Without even knowing the name of the one she had asked to be protected by, Nilch’i watched her walk towards the fireplace with her last comment before turning to listen to another who wanted to speak to her.

“Scholar of Greva, is there really a need to verbally ally yourself? You sound as though we are inevitably going to oppose one another...which, admittedly, seems to be the case about now. Okay. Nilch’i, you’ll have my support. Name's Seiserna. Being an outcast sorceress doesn’t lend much to having many sources of information, and I would appreciate it if I could learn a thing or two from you.”

The priestess hadn’t expected another to join her conversation, considering that they could have accepted it as an attempt by her to further fragment the group that the Magister had been attempting to round up inside the Third Burning. Nilch’i nodded politely towards the one who had introduced herself as “Seiserna”, and was about to answer herself before she decided to move towards the Magister with less-than-good intentions. The telekinetic understood the witch’s desire before she had even made the gesture to pull at the figure’s hood: after all, worship of Greva included satisfying one’s curiosities in the pursuit of knowledge. With a small smile on her face, the masked one watched the admittedly attractive woman inch closer to her objective.

What was even more relevant to her interests is that the Magister was currently reading a book, an object whose company and ready accessibility Nilch’i missed in her life as an exile. The sight of such a marvellous well of knowledge made her sigh in regret, though she knew she couldn’t have stopped herself. Having listened to the previous lecture of the mysterious man, the ex-librarian had no doubts about the title of the scripture. There really couldn’t have been any other choices.

The Book of the Wyrm, isn’t it? The Church of Baan always tried to convince that it was just a myth, but I knew that the speculations had to find their origin somewhere. Too fleeting to actually search for, and yet I find it in the same room I am occupying… if only I could get my hands on it…

If what had been read was the original writing, it had an immeasurable value for those who followed Greva and even those who didn’t. Even though not many seemed to acknowledge it, they were in the presence of a legendary artifact. Nilch’i almost caught herself salivating at the thought of acquiring such an important well of knowledge, proving its existence even, and she definitely hadn’t needed a confirmation from the Magister himself about the name of the book. Without even removing the mark, coming into possession of the book itself might have been enough of a trial for the priestess to be accepted back into Greva’s fold. She had never left, technically, because no part of the teachings of the goddess meant that she had to leave her worship because of a mark, but she couldn’t resume her life until her name was cleared.

Shaking herself back into reality, Nilch’i noticed that the witch had apparently failed in her purpose of uncovering the figure’s identity. She could tell he was saying something about not revealing anything, but the priestess hadn’t seen the Magister reveal any parts of his alien visage. The priestess was about to sit back down before an unspeakable feeling of dread set upon her. Something was about to go terribly wrong, but she couldn’t pinpoint why. The sensation was strong, but it didn’t stop her from walking close to the fireplace to seek the heat she had abandoned to ally with the couple of warrior women. Nilch’i hoped that the fire of the room would soothe her, but the pleasant feeling of warm that came to her wouldn’t do anything to replace the worry that she was feeling. Even the lust to put her hands on the book that she so desired momentarily abandoned her as the Magister asked for ulterior questions and fiddled with a mysterious circular object.
Post #: 39
1/31/2016 16:41:34   
Kellehendros
Eternal Wanderer


 (Submitted on behalf of Ryu)
Jana was well aware of just how frightening her gaze could be. Early in her stint with the Saints, a few of her squad-mates had attempted to nickname her “Glare Girl”. A quick yet scathing demonstration of her talent had proven enough to quash such foolishness, the rapid changes in her physique thereafter preventing such a suggestion from ever being raised again. Still, the severe nature of her stare became a shibboleth that stuck with her long after her time with Palora’s guardians was past, even serving to earn her a unique reputation among Kingsport’s infamous guards-for-hire. After all, it wasn’t often that a female bodyguard was able to circumvent trouble by dint of naught else but her eyes.

Yet in the moment the Magister’s stare slid over her, the well-built woman would have liked to imagine she knew exactly what it felt like to be on the receiving end of such an intense level of scrutiny. Completely and utterly unnerving. Jana suppressed a shiver as the mage’s manic mien moved to focus upon several of the other entities that inhabited the room, her concerns ignored without even a second thought. She’d have opened her mouth to protest, but found herself pipped to the post when a new figure – a priestess by her own words – stepped forward to pledge allegiance to both herself and her cousin, the significance of the gesture not lost upon the younger Bhayan.

Jana had to swallow another laugh, the resulting sound caught somewhere between a cough and a grunt. If only you knew who you were offering yourself to, girl, then maybe you wouldn’t be so eager to sell- Strasna took the priestess’ hand and turned to face Jana’s formidable face once more, her cousin’s azure eyes one of the only natural pairs she knew that were able match her own. The words that left the woman’s lips were undeniably true, though admitting that left a bitter taste in her mouth; what was she attempting to accomplish here? What was her purpose in accepting an offer of alliance from someone she probably didn’t know much more about than Jana herself did?

Realizing that her ruminations had probably kept the priestess waiting for what might be an uncomfortable amount of time, the tall girl swallowed sharply before finally raising her left arm and mimicked the motion of grasping another’s hand.

“I once looked to Greva for guidance in days that are now long gone – out of respect for that time, consider your offer accepted.” For now. Jana at last made to move from the doorway and leave it open once more, situating herself against a nearby wall while her eyes flicked from one person to another before at last alighting de novo on the priestess. Nilch’i, she was called. Jana wasn’t sure whether she could invest any amount of trust in this woman, and hell, didn’t even intend to. Still. Someone was going to have to watch her back, or her misplaced trust was going to get her killed.

The Magister’s tale served to finally quiet the obstreperous arguments that had dominated the space, everyone giving their attention to the shaded figure as he unraveled all of the lies they had been fed during their lifetime. The Book of the Wyrm might well be a heretical text, yet a single line from its faded pages rang truer than any Jana had seen in the far holier books paraded around by Palora’s elite. She’d known one too many fallen heroes to believe that Agemon was resistant to the curse that appeared to beset that entire class of individuals. He was just another to add to the list.

This time it was screams that brought her forth from her deliberations, the warrior’s eyes snapping up just in time to catch the pythoness from earlier grasping at the Magister’s hood. Jana remained still in the awkward moment that followed, clearing her throat and crossing her arms only as the Magister turned his attention away from the mischief maker.

“I suppose that I will, then. So armed with this knowledge that you’ve given us, why do you expect this group to be able to do what it seems so many have been unable to?”


Cendra watched the flames flicker in silence, slowing her breathing, reinforcing the dam. She could not afford to be reckless now. She could not afford to be hasty. She could not afford to let her temper speak for her. Jana was here, much like the exile herself, for her own reasons. Whatever had happened was past, done, finished. Before this was over there would be… words. Cendra assured herself of that. She would find out what Jana had done.

But the time for that was not now. Behind her, near the table, the Magister was speaking. No, the cadence of the words was not quite right for speaking... Reading. He was reading from a book.

Blue eyes narrowed as Cendra turned toward the hooded man; her expression dimmed as he closed his tome, settling a hand upon it possessively. The Book of the Wyrm. She was familiar enough with the title, if not the contents. The exile had, after all, been one of those who had searched for copies of the heretical text in her previous life to see them destroyed.

Almost she objected; almost she spoke out against the poisoned words that tainted innocent paper, but her left hand twitched and Cendra tightened it into a fist, grimacing and holding her silence.


The Magister stood, waiting in an almost contented silence; unnatural eyes moving slowly over the room’s occupants as he waited for the inevitable question. For a moment his head tilted fractionally to one side, giving the cowled man the air of one listening to something just out of audible hearing.

Whatever it was, it must have struck him funny, for the Magister chuckled, his hand going once more into his robe and producing the golden device. With a click the rune-graven cover opened and again the odd man devoted himself to the study of whatever it was that was shown upon the object’s inner face. Seemingly satisfied by whatever revelation the device contained, the Magister snapped it closed and tucked the item away, catching Jana’s curious glance and giving her a sly wink in return. “We’ve as yet a few minutes before we are interrupted.” He giggled. “And if you truly wish to know, I expect you succeed because you will have what others have lacked: a very vauntedly valuable Spear.” A beat, and then he continued with a sardonic smile, motioning in the exile’s direction. “But who shall deliver? Ah, are you unaware that you are in the presence of-”

“Cendra,” the woman cut across the Magister’s speech scathingly, “my name is Cendra.” She glanced around the room slowly, whetting her lips. “I was…” Lie. Remember what happened last time. Remember the Sparrows. “I was a Saint, assigned to the detachment in the Temple of Baan. I’ve heard things, rumors, stories. I just happen to know that they are true. The Spearforge is real. It is below the Temple. The weapon in the Temple vault is a fake, a reproduction. The true Spear of Agemon rests in the Spearforge.”

< Message edited by Kellehendros -- 1/31/2016 20:17:59 >
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 40
2/2/2016 19:48:20   
Caststarter
Member

Lucky woman... she should be lucky for not getting kicked out for a stunt like that. In fact, she probably now has her curiosity satisfied. Lucky lucky indeed... though other than that, it has been, thankfully, rather quiet. The witch and pretender have not went at it for quite a bit. The mercenary and soldier have not went at it yet. Perhaps things will get done... Wheezes. Bah.

After a small amount of time passed, something to have struck the Magister's fancy as he chuckled once more to essentially nothing. As his hand slid into his robe however, he produced an object that could only be described as aristocratic. Of course. "We've as yet a few minutes before we're interrupted." Interrupted? What could you possibly mean? No. No no no no. I paused and froze at the thoughts that has circulated through my mind. Is this a set-up to distract us? There is a difference between waiting for someone... and being interrupted. Such a word only implies something bad is about to happen. Yet if he is as intelligent as he tries to appear as, why would he give such an obvious clue away? Along with saying about a spear? Something is wrong.

Yet before he was about to reveal who we are with, the mercenary spoke out. Cendra? What timing. You just brought my suspicion levels up. Saints, where you hesitated a bit there? Just so happen to know they were true all along? There is no doubt that the spear on display is fake. Why would it not? Such a valuable artifact would not be in such an obvious location. One of the finer kinds of strategy is deception. Yet saying you know where it was the entire time would imply two things. You are a liar and cheat. Or you have to had a rather high-rank in order to even know about it. Yet did Logre know about it? He certainly did not seem to have known about it from past interactions. You are definitely withholding information.

Yet now is not the time for that. We might have hostile visitors some time soon. “Regarding with what the Magister has said… I will wait out by the door, waiting for you all to be done.” Quickly snatching a few pieces of food for later in the meantime, I snapped to the door and left the room. There could be no doubt that staying in there when trouble arrives is certain doom. In any case...


< Message edited by Caststarter -- 2/2/2016 21:29:25 >
DF  Post #: 41
2/2/2016 21:29:16   
Remaint
Member

Into the eyes of the inhumane, and assuredly now inhuman, Magister, Seiserna peered and had her curiousity quenched. No, not merely quenched, but swamped, flooded, the Lost Witch was drowning in the detail she so yearned to indulge in.

She saw many visages of the same woman with dark violet hair, and Seiserna did not want to think of them as herself. Their deeds were terrible, they had done things far beyond what the sorceress was ever capable of. At least, that’s what she told herself as the women committed their flesh-rending tasks over and over.

What have you done…!

My son! My son! Why would you do this...!

Take my life, but I beg of you, don’t hurt my daughters...No...No! You can’t...!

Soldiers and civilians. Fathers and mothers. Young and old. No one was spared from the heinous acts of the many Lost Witches. There was once a shining sun over great Palora; now there only hovered blackened clouds that poured death into the land. Seiserna saw, Seiserna continued seeing, and not once did she stop repeating denials that those blood-garbed harbingers of murder were anything less than impossible. I could never have done that, that’s not me!...that’s not me...

More than simple, even if gruesome bloodshed were to be gleaned from those ghostly shines of cobalt pain, however. For every violence obsessed Witch gleaned from a single eye of the Magister, there was another Witch...No, not Witch, but Priestess, raised to the highest achievements Seiserna ever envisioned herself as. Within the Magister’s right eye Seiserna saw herself in the crimson robes of Vos, empowered not by dark sorcery, but holy and luminous arcane power. Just as she could not say that the visions of the left eye were herself, however, the Lost Witch could not say those of the right eye were herself either.

These Seisernas displayed none of the rebellious and mischievous traits so typical to the existing sorceress. They did not steal, did not hex, and their robes weren’t intentionally provocative. They had the support of allies, friends, comrades. They even commanded bands of Saints, although this was one detail that Seiserna came to dread.

Just as those years ago the Roshons struck from ambush. Just as those years ago her comrades stood no fighting chance. They were all falling, decapitated or incapacitated in short seconds. Seiserna saw the Roshons close ever quickly, cutting, amputating. Blood splattered ever closer, and once more she saw herself raising a desperate hand cloaked in black curses. I had no choice! There was no other way, I was going to die!...I didn’t know you would survive...I never wanted to hurt you…

Once more the sorceress could hear the agonizing screeches directed toward the murderous Seisernas of the left eye...but the screams were now louder, and felt as though they are addressing her now, in the present.

Witch! Criminal Sorceress!

Thief! Murderer!

Slayer of children! Defiler of Palora!

Seiserna wanted to shout, that she wasn’t any of that, that it was one mere accident that begun it all. But the matter was, Seiserna was truly an outlaw. She had killed on multiple occasions and regularly stole without remorse. Even before fleeing Palora, Seiserna had an unapologetic mind to loose havoc on any who she disliked, and take what wasn’t hers. From her very core, the sorceress was a parasite to society, simply dysnomiac. And so, she inwardly wept.

Sorry… I’m sorry…

In that moment, the Magister finally spared her of his harrowing countenance. Quick hands swept over, and obscured his outright alien head with the familiar hood of black. In creeping and cautionary tone, the Magister hushed Seiserna to keep their little ordeal covert.

“...y-yes sir…” A mere whisper came to the voice of Seiserna. There was no strength to it, not even a pretense of dignity. Her back touched the aging walls, and she fell to a little heap, head upon knees and with closed, tearful eyes.

...I’m so sorry...

< Message edited by Remaint -- 2/2/2016 22:41:24 >
AQW  Post #: 42
2/5/2016 23:30:48   
Apocalypse
Member

Before Hendrik could make it back to his fellow Blighted, he was was stopped at the sight of Marisa...something-or-another. The grin on his face hid the racing thoughts in his head. What was she doing in the hallway? Had enough of the bickering of the others, or perhaps here to lead the incoming Saints right to the gathering of untouchables? The elf disregarded the thought of her treachery; she would have cut him off earlier if he had been a threat to her plans of betrayal. Still, that left either one of the six or the Magister himself as the puppeteer. Hendrik did not know which possibility was more foreboding.

The scourge gave a whistle and stretched his arms as if to welcome the poor wretch into an embrace. "Ah, little bird, who let you out of your cage?" A wetness on his fingers caused Hendrik to look down. The cutlass' hilt carried a blotch of the barkeep's blood which had just now dripped onto his knuckles. He made a noise of disapproval. "Sloppy," the elf said to himself as he raised the hilt in front of his face, eyes examining his handiwork.

Movement caught his attention, and Hendrik turned his gaze to see Marisa holding up her cursed hand. When she began to speak, the sailor learned that this little bird did not chirp.

She sung.

"Look, I have freewill but looking at your hilt...do you not realize that you will have the Saints now track us down for what you have done?" Hendrik resumed his walk, approaching the impoverished one with calculated steps. A smile was splayed across his face. "You may think that your escape will be made easier yet you would make things harder for all of us!" He halted a pace from the little bird, just within reach of his cutlass. The pause was brief, and he continued on his way in a half-circle around Marisa, his front displayed to her the entire way. "Even then, why are you here still? You said you would leave and if now you did, you would have gone free!"

Once positioned between her and the back room, Hendrik let silence hang in the air. He took a couple slow steps backwards, their pace matching the rhythm of his heart. His words were almost a song as they split the silence. "Saints were already on their way, love." The elf began turning away from the little bird. "Best ready your wings."

With that he strode to the back room and opened it with a flourish. One hand clung to the frame while the other held the handle, allowing his body to swing with the door. "Saints en route!" the scourge called out as he hung in the portal. His teeth flashed white in his slasher smile. "And one of you is a treacherous little thing."
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 43
2/5/2016 23:55:42   
Caststarter
Member

Should we question Cendra more when we start to leave? I rather have the full amount of information possible. That warrior seemed to know some things however. If I can get her alone, then there should be no threat of asking. Interesting though, the inn has gotten much quieter. They must know what is going on, otherwise they would not have left. There is no other reason not to... they have their buddies to look out. "Ah, little bird, who let you out of your cage?" Shut it! The familiar seafarer's voice broke the silence with his arms wide-out. He said he would have left...! Is he in with the Magister? Just to make sure no one leaves? No... the Magister looked disappointed when this one left. Unless that is another ploy. As I approached with my hand next to my szabla, the seafarer seemed to have noticed something on him. His hilt was bloodied. Did he murder anyone? Yet if he was a proper criminal, he would have tried to get me to make sure no one knows. Except... that would still mean that the Saints could be notified of an incident here and track him, in turn us, down! We would have an entire platoon on us!

I raised my left hand to receive his attention. "Look, I have freewill but looking at your hilt... do you not realize that we will have the Saints now track us down for what you done? You may think that your escape will be made easier yet you would made things harder for all of us!" Such a simpleton, he is. "Even then, why are you here still? You said you would leave and if now you did, you would have gone free!" As I said that, that might mean he has one thing... a conscious. He would have felt guilt in the end. Need to take note of this... better not be arrogant about "saving" us though since I know you did not say something just to be all high and mighty in the end.

All the while, he stepped forth, circled around, and blindly stepped back to the door that I just came out of. "Saints were already on their way, love." I am not your...! Ugh. My face contorted in disgust. You might think your wings are readied yet have they been flight-tested by your mother? Probably not.

"Such a simpleton," I retorted, barely audible. I revealed my swordbreaker and raised my scabbard and girding. "If you are ready... take out both of your weapons and get ready for a potential skirmish by the city's most ardent defenders." Where you may doom us all in the process. "If it is one of their greatest captains... flee. Do not fight." Never was a true fighter, was I? Can barely win a duel due to lack of proper experience. What have I gotten myself into? No matter, I can do more than that.
DF  Post #: 44
2/6/2016 17:39:59   
Vanir
Member

If even Agemon, the greatest of us, was afflicted. How can there be any hope for us? Agemon was remembered, but we are forsaken. Agemon, the hero of Palora. Agemon, the unshakeable. Agemon, the unassailable. But Baan was no friend to me. In the place of judgment – wickedness was there. In the place of justice – wickedness was there. If Agemon did not slay the wyrm, how could we?

“We’ve as yet a few minutes before we are interrupted.” Flannagon grew alert, and sat up in his chair. As the Magister said a few more sentences and the hooded mercenary cut him off, Quick to interrupt, Flannagon pulled his extra bandages out of his backpack. He unwrapped a piece of stale bread and threw it on the table, replacing it with a fresh roll from the spread. He also took a chunk of cheese and a generous slice of meat, wrapped them, and placed them into his bag. Be prepared.

He was listening to Cendra? with great curiosity. A Saint in the Temple of Baan? The Spearforge? Under the Temple? A Fake? Flannagon revered the Spear in the Temple. It had been his link to the past, a real remnant of Agemon. It was to him as if Agemon, after rising up to live in the glory of the gods, departed his spirit on the Spear, and dwelt forever among his people. It had become a symbol of his great faith and reverence for Baan, praying each day for the strength to take up the Spear as Agemon the unshakeable had done and plunge it through the heart of darkness. Although his Temple of Admiration crumbled years ago and a great Temple of Doubt was erected in its place, he struggled to doubt the Spear. But then he remembered that day he returned to the Temple limping, bleeding, burning, dying. Groaning in pain all the way from Kingsport to the heart of Palora with red and searing skin, with empty and blind eyes, with a broken and agonizing leg. He came to them, looking for the love of his brothers and the cleansing light of Baan. He whispered, Father, I have sinned. At first they rushed to him with open arms, and began to treat his wounds. Until they saw it. After washing him, a small black stain remained on his left hand. They threw him out and beat him. Betrayed by his god and his family, Flannagon’s heart hardened as it was now. Because now, he doubted even the Spear.

Then who was this Cendra? As a priest at the Temple, Flannagon barely knew anything about the Spearforge, certainly not its location. And no standard Saint guarding the Temple would know if the Spear they had was fake. Click. Flannagon knew why she looked so familiar. The Quisling. It made sense, Paladin Bhayan betrayed her people and was awarded the Blight. That’s justice. He had been among the hopeful when she became Paladin. He could not remember if there were any other Paladins dedicated to Illyra recorded in the Histories. It was going to be a new generation of prosperity for the impoverished. Then it was discovered she had not been fighting for Palora. Flannagon held all worshippers of Illyra accountable, he never trusted them again. He has never accepted any charity from the church of Illyra since.

Looking at the exiled Paladin now, the disgust he felt a decade ago returned. He had never been in her direct presence before or during the war, though he had seen her during public appearances and at occasions at the Temple. Now he was just feet away from the most hated woman in the civilized world. He stood to speak, but could not. What would he say? He thought about revealing her true identity to the room. Though it was clear by the tall woman’s aggression that she must know her, would anyone else? Probably not, she had done well disguising herself, and age had a way of distorting appearance. No, he could not reveal it. Stransa Bhayan. That name held a power, and it was power Flannagon could have if only he knew it. He could use it to extort her. Yes. But she will have to know that I know. I’ll have to be careful.

He looked at Cendra and found words, “I was a priest at the Temple. Your façade,” as he spoke he ran his wrapped left hand down his cheek in reference to her scar, “does not hide you from me.” He looked out among the group, “Although I have my doubts about the integrity of the Spear, I cannot confirm nor deny what she has said,” and his gaze rested on the priestess of Greva who had offered her allegiance to the scarred snake, “but I warn you against trusting her.”

The elf was back in the doorway, “Saints en route! And one of you is a treacherous little thing.”

Flannagon responded reached down for his backpack and slung it over his shoulders, and then hopped to meet the elf at the door, “Da mihi oculos meos ne videant. Omnis enim lux manifestat.” He looked beyond the elf and his eyes, previously empty, flashed with an orange flame. His vision brightened as if he stood on the surface of the sun. The elf fell away from view and Flanngon saw for a moment the empty tavern and the barkeeper limp on the floor. Then darkness. He leaned on his staff for a few seconds as his mind filled with his hazy blue vision. He nodded to the elf and turned back to face the rest of the Blighted, “Aye, the barman sleeps in blood. This meeting is over. Where shall we go?”
MQ AQW Epic  Post #: 45
2/6/2016 21:09:12   
Draycos777
Member

Selene recovered enough to once again follow the conversation. It had seemed as if the former priestess had taken it upon herself to try and gain her own allies in this group of their's. Not as though it really mattered to begin with. Their goals were all the same after all.

“We’ve as yet a few minutes before we are interrupted. And if you truly wish to know, I expect you succeed because you will have what others have lacked: a very vauntedly valuable Spear.”

The Magister's words made Selene raise an eyebrow. For what reason, would they be interrupted? This didn't seem right; and the pirate had the nerve to say that she was in the wrong for planning ahead huh?

The little girl then huffed some words herself.

“Regarding with what the Magister has said… I will wait out by the door, waiting for you all to be done."

She then left, stomping out of the room.

"Sigh, it'd look better if you'd stop trying to act older than you really are. Right now you just look silly."

It wasn't like before the false blind spoke up after hearing the warrior's speech.

“I was a priest at the Temple. Your façade, does not hide you from me."

"My goodness," Selene rolled her eyes inwardly; "Does this guy ever stop talking about others?"

“Although I have my doubts about the integrity of the Spear, I cannot confirm nor deny what she has said, but I warn you against trusting her.”

Something interesting happened next. The short elf returned, with a less than interesting report.

“Saints en route! And one of you is a treacherous little thing.”

Selene gave a sight smirk and spoke up, aiming to annoying the charred, old man and try to find out more information on the situation.

"Well then, if the Saints really are coming, I think I'll throw in my lot with Cendra. If that's even her actual name."

Selene shrugged and continued.

"I'd rather have someone of skill on my side and one that has none. Like I said before, I could care less about who you people are or were, and that matters is what we do after we step outside of this room." Selene turned her head to the pirate; "And speaking of outside this room, how do you know the saints are coming in the first place? Seems a little odd that the one speaking of treason, is the one that left first. What was it that you said before? Do not play me as a fool?"

Selene was leaning on one of her fine threads, that lead to the ceiling, and in turn the rest of the spider threads, if this man was just pretending to be one of them, he was going to be in for a rough time. She had no interest in being double-crossed by those with a known history of it.
AQ  Post #: 46
2/9/2016 11:40:56   
Remaint
Member

Words of urgency were hurled through the air, like tell-tale javelins hurled at the start of battle. There will be imminent danger, and the time to act was at hand. The Magister had hinted at peril, the scourge had returned, delivering solid, but grim substance to said peril, and there was yet a proper method planned to execute. In similar tone, key information had been offered by the Magister, substantial information, about a mighty relic and its location. The time to act was nigh, if not to pursue a forlorn hope, but at least to save one’s hide. Danger was a rabid dog biting at the heels of rationality, threatening to pounce and tear through its neck. It was time to move.

But Seiserna wasn’t moving. She was quietly weeping into her knees, wallowing. Let them come. Let them come, and slay me. I feed off Palora, as if a leech, and bring no benefits. It would be better if I existed no more. I am, afterall, Blighted. Palora is a great crop that bares many fruits; it is not deserving of any accursed blights.

…

…

Abruptly, the Lost Witch stood. She began rushing about in a hurried manner, throwing on her cloak and invoking dark energies to toss some foodstuffs into a black portal. With a smooth motion accompanied by the distinct sound of steel sliding off wood, her longsword was drawn.

C’mon ‘Serna, self-pity doesn’t suit you! Who cares if you’re some thieving nobody now, you’re going save Palora. You’re going to kill a wyrm, bring peace to the cities, and you’re going to be awarded so much, you’ll have no room for sorrow! Once they see you drag the head of some fire-breathing beast, no one’s going to bother you; you might not even have to steal for a living!....but you’re probably going to do so anyways, and you’re going to do it with grandeur! You’re going to have so much rich stuff, even Songblade’s going to envy you!....

And so came a train of thought doubtless silly. Certainly silly, so silly as to be stupid. But it was this silly foolishness that had drove Seiserna forward all those years, when no one cared, when everyone disdained her, when the only reason anyone bothered to speak to her was to offer her a position as some dirty hore.

The sorceress turned toward the spiderwitch.

“I don’t think our little elf can be accused of treachery, Recluse. It could merely be a matter of peering out the streets, and staring upon the searching heads of one Saint or another. Perhaps a bar patron loosed a key word or two.”

She then addressed the scourge with a coy smile.

“Now Hendrik; there may be enough winds in the sail, dear, but there is too little crew in this ship. Join us not out of immediate necessity, but with the intention to complete our long voyage. As for cards, I don’t play cards, but let me try a metaphor: there is but one card that will allow us to obtain that trick we seek, and though the deck may be thick, I’m not afraid to draw.”

< Message edited by Remaint -- 2/9/2016 11:48:47 >
AQW  Post #: 47
2/9/2016 11:51:39   
Kellehendros
Eternal Wanderer


 Cendra glanced in Jana’s direction. She could not stop herself from the action, a nervous, instinctive check after giving the group her assumed name. All the woman had to do was contradict her, reveal Cendra’s true name, and things would take a very ugly turn indeed. But for whatever reason, the exile’s relation seemed disinclined to pursue the matter. That was fine with Cendra. Whether or not Jana realized it, the party, if there was truly going to be a party, fractious though it might be, would come to a point at which they could no longer turn back. If the exile could keep her true identity hidden until then…

That line of consideration was broken as Marisa hurried out of the back room and into the tavern proper. Spooks easily. Then again, the Magister was hardly one to inspire confidence, and he did not precisely exude integrity. There was something so blase about the man’s attitude, a carelessness about his approach to the matter. It was almost as if… As if to the Magister this was nothing more than a diversion, a hobby with which to pass the time. There was something staggering about that thought.

Cendra pushed that thought away. It was almost too horrifying to contemplate, and there were far more important problems to deal with just now. Don’t borrow trouble. The world provides it free.

And speaking of trouble... Hendrik was back, standing in the door with a manic smile. The exile grimaced. The Saint’s response time in the poorer districts of the Southern Quarter had been abysmal once. She and the Supplicant had opened half a dozen new guard posts in some of the worst parts of the city. If the Saints were coming, they did not have much time.

Before she could speak though, the Magister began to giggle, then to chuckle, his shoulders twitching convulsively. The hooded man seemed unable to contain his mirth, however, and he threw back his head and positively howled with laughter, pounding a hand against his thigh as his entire body shook with paroxysms of glee. “Ye gods, I love my job!” Straightening, the Magister flashed a lupine grin over the room. “The path is before you. You require only the strength to follow where it leads.” The cowled figure raised a hand in benediction, or was it condemnation? And then he was quite simply gone.

For a shocked and breathless moment Cendra stared at the place the Magister had been, struggling with what had just happened, with the idea that the enigmatic man who had brought them together meant for them to walk this path alone.

But Cendra had always been fast, and there was no simply no time for this reflection. The exile turned, foot rising and knocking the flue on the fireplace chimney closed. Blue eyes flashed over the room swiftly as smoke began to back up and spill into the room. Her voice was calm, far calmer than she felt, but backed with the steady edge of one used to giving commands and having them obeyed. “We make for the Temple. Jana, get the old man on his feet. Hendrick, you made this mess, so you will help clean it up; get the bartender. We’ll dump him somewhere after we leave. Nilch’i, Recluse, help Marisa barricade the door. We need to delay them as long a possible.”

Cendra turned her gaze to Seiserna. “Welcome back. Find us a backdoor. We’re leaving.”

< Message edited by Kellehendros -- 2/9/2016 21:54:01 >
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 48
2/9/2016 21:54:16   
Ryu Viranesh
Member

More than most believe, moments can be stretched and strung out to last far longer than whatever space in time they occupy. Of course, this moment is still that moment, inextricably bound to its whilom position in the world in spite of the years that can elapse on the inside of one’s mind; years which can be boiled down to a few seconds on the hands of a clock. To Jana, it felt as though several of these instants had been tacked together, so great was the number of possibilities that rushed through her head. All of them focused on a single person – a single word. Cendra.

This was the alias that her cousin had chosen for herself, her only shield from the scorn and savagery that would greet her should she slip up and reveal her real identity. The option was available; Jana could have raised her voice and forced Strasna to face who she was. Yet the young woman chose to hold her tongue, her eyes observing her cousin carefully as she spoke, but otherwise allowing the moment to slip by.

I won’t be like her.

For all the sins that Jana had committed, and certainly the number was far from small, she refused to hang a family member out to dry. Even if that family member was the Quisling, a Bhayan deserved better than to be torn apart by society’s dregs. If Strasna was going to face punishment, she wanted to be sure that it meant something. It had to, after all that she’d done. So the girl stayed silent, crossing her arms while the former Paladin regaled them with tales of a spear – Agemon’s true spear – that lay beneath Baan’s temple, hidden somewhere in the confines of the ‘Spearforge’. It matched with the answer that the Magister had given to her query, so it appeared that was where they were going to need to go. Jana snorted. Easier said than done.

Fortunately for the amazon, her unseemly gesture was masked by the return of the sun-touched elf from earlier, the pirate’s frame dominating the doorway as he called out a warning. A warning and an accusation. In that instant the room seemed to freeze, time truly grinding to a halt as his words sunk in; the girl was unable to stop her gaze from rising to meet Strasna’s, the two sharing an uncomfortable stare before all attention was stolen away by the Magister’s laughter. One second the faint figure was caught in the throes of uncontrollable amusement, the next he was gone, taking with him the last vestiges of jocundity that had once occupied the room.

In the moments that followed, those feverish, frantic moments when all threatened to fall apart, Strasna took charge. Jana’s ears perked up unbidden as the exile called her name, directing her to a task as she set to restore order to the space and coordinate their escape from this hellhole. The tall woman grit her teeth, her face reddening just a touch, but she beat down the urge to reject the rescript and instead barked back a response that would make any Saint proud.

“Understood.”

Jana pushed off from the wall and approached the argumentative old man, extending her free hand toward him as she leaned forward and forced a smile onto her face.

“You heard the lady, I’m sure. Let’s get you out of here.”
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 49
2/10/2016 12:07:11   
Bastet
Member

Nilch’i was about to reply with her thanks to the other warrior for accepting her pledge of allegiance in the name of the respect she once had for Greva, which the priestess still retained in her exile, but she was quickly flooded with a vast array of hurrying news. The Magister spoke about the fact that they were going to be interrupted, utilizing a vocabulary that let the Blighted know that something was about to go very, very wrong. Barely left with any time to metabolize what she had just heard before being told that the Spear of Agemon was a fake by Cendra, the first fighter to accept her offer of friendship, something that she had always suspected. Regardless, there were so many rumors in all of Palora that she couldn’t simply tell if that woman had spoken the truth or not until she was to find the “true” Spear, or confirm that the one so often put on display was a fake.

It was rather obvious that she wasn’t the only one who thought that the whole ordeal they had been put through to get to the Third Burning could be nothing more than a simple trap, mostly because one of the women that were already present grabbed some of the food still left on the table and made a hasty exit with a simple excuse. In the time that she was given after that, Nilch’i began to plan her exit also, but leaving the back room that they currently occupied would mean moving closer to the front door, from which the Saints were most likely to make an appearance. If they had been tipped off, the priestess’ disguise wouldn’t work either, because it would be rather easy for them to identify her as a marked one if only they checked her hands. Her only hope was that she would have enough time to figure something out before Baan’s armed enforcers arrived, and either arrested or cut down the Blighted where they stood.

“Saints en route!”

No, it definitely was too late. As the image of the Elvish pirate appeared once again on the portal that led to the back room, Nilch’i knew that she would be in the same boat as those who had also been hired by the Magister on his suicide quest, assuming that he didn’t simply want them all dead. Who else could have betrayed the group? Assuming they had been all approached the same way, they couldn’t have reasonably warned the Saints unless they wanted themselves dead or merely pretended to be one of the Marked. Even then, how could they have known where to find all of them, and how many there were? The only one who seemed to possess such knowledge could have been the Magister.

Before she could begin to make plans proper, the bandaged man who had insulted her earlier spoke. He sounded truthful, because she doubted one would speak so sincerely after talking ill of those who occupied the same room as him. He warned Nilch’i against trusting Cendra as if he already knew her, but there were too many unknowns for the priestess to make any sense of what was happening around her. Could she trust a man who had spoken out so aggressively in his opinions, even when it made sense to? Would she betray someone as soon as they accepted her offer of allegiance? Was the Spear actually a fake? Was this all just a trap?

Time would tell, but for the moment Nilch’i decided to act as if the man had not spoken. She would only find out the truth by persevering in her journey, remaining clueless for the moment, a feeling that, as a priestess of Greva, she didn’t appreciate. Then, he worked some type of incantation that made him determine that the barkeep had been slaughtered. At this point, Nilch’i was speechless as she observed the events that laid out before her. What had she gotten into? The Magister eventually disappeared cackling about how much he loved his job, but by that point the man’s preferences were the least of the telekinetic’s problems.

Nilch’i was shaken from her dreams and thoughts when Cendra spoke once again, with the voice of someone who appeared to be used to handing out commands and having them immediately executed. With the warrior’s command being her only way out of that situation, unless there was another that the priestess simply couldn’t see, she began moving towards the main entrance of the tavern to do as she had been told to. The only way out for the Blighted was to cooperate.

Finding the tavern mostly in disarray after it was abandoned, and its owner murdered, Nilch’i wasted no time in using her own physical strength to move the objects around the room. It was far too soon for her to remove her mask, and that would’ve robbed her of her precision, meaning that she began levitating the tables one by one and stacking them in a way that would block the main portal that led into the building. Hoping that the others would also swiftly move to help her, Nilch’i relaxed herself against the bar’s counter while she struggled mentally to move all the objects that could help barricade the door.
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