SUMMER

Angkar: Wet season. Precipitation is common during the late afternoon and evening hours. Vegetation grows significantly during the summer, but flooding is a danger due to the monsoons that ravage the country. The rainforest sees evenly distributed rainfall throughout the season.

Ashoka: Desert: Extremely hot and dry. Violent, heavy downpours following long dryspells. Jungle: Hot and humid with frequent, violent rainstorms.

Morrim: Relatively hot and dry, but with a chance of thunderstorms from time to time. The heat may cause forest fires.

Soto: Hot and humid, tree cover is dense while ground growth is restricted. Thunderstorms see the most amount of rainfall during the season, and it can be very windy. On occasion, there are flash floods that can destroy homes and farms built on flood plains.

ANNOUNCEMENTS

March 30th, 2018 As you might have noticed, Elenlond has changed hands and is now under new management! If you have any questions, please direct them to DaringRaven! As for the rest of the announcements, including a season change, you can find them over here at the following link!

January 16, 2018 As you might have noticed, Elenlond has a new skin, all thanks to Mel! Don't forget to check out the new OTMs as well!

December 2, 2017 Winter has settled on Elenlond, bringing sleep for some and new life for others.

September 26, 2017 With the belated arrival of autumn come some interesting developments: new OTMs, a Town Crier and the release of the Elly Awards winners!

July 14, 2017 After a bit of forum clean-up, Elly Awards season has arrived! Head on over to make your nominations!

May 31, 2017 Summer has arrived and so has activity check! That's not all though – we also have some new OTMs for you and some staff changes!


WHAT IS ELENLOND?

Elenlond is an original free-form medieval fantasy RPG set on the continent of Soare and the Scattered Isles, which are located to the south in the Sea of Diverging Waters. The four chief nations of the western side of the world—Ashoka in northern Soare, Soto in western Soare, Morrim in eastern Soare, and Angkar, the largest of the Scattered Isles—continue to experience growth and prosperity since the fall of the Mianorite gods, although power struggles within the countries—or outside of them—continue to ensue.


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    Ashoka: In an otherwise peaceful times, Ashokans are beset with the relatively minor inconveniences of wandering undead and occasionally-aggressive giant rock worms. There has also been some controversy over the recent re-legalisation of human sacrifice.

    Morrim: Rumour has it that Emperor Leofric de Hollemark is mustering forces for a war. Though the threat from Soto’s forests has passed, the forces previously employed in watching the forest now linger at the border. Rumours also circulate of a small group that has been dispatched to make contact with the tribes of the Do’suul Mountains.

    Soto: The Sotoans have defeated the fey and liberated themselves from Méadaigh’s oppression! Preliminary efforts have been made at rebuilding the city of Madrid, which had been captured at the beginning of the war. However, the Sotoans are hindered from recovery famine. Méadaigh’s magic caused summer to persist in the Erth’netora Forest through the winter. Her power has been withdrawn and the plants die as if preparing for winter – even though it is now summer. The Sotoans must sustain off what food they can get, what creatures they can kill and what can be imported into the city from Morrim and Angkar.

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    Your life was worth 'this' much!; Andromalius
    Topic Started: Nov 3 2011, 02:27 PM (484 Views)
    Shrista
    Member Avatar
    Pariah, Apostate, Heretic

    The afternoon had drawn to a close, and early evening had begun, the shadows lengthening and pooling as lanterns were lit in the street outside, not that it changed the dim smoky interior of the tavern. It took a special kind of person to frequent a place like this, a Hell they called it. Screaming, spitting, cursing, that was allowed. Fighting too, if you were quiet about it. The liquor wasn't half bad either, if you didn't mind the fact it was cheap, and could generally knock a horse off its feet after a bottle. How such a place existed in Madrid was anyone's guess, but you couldn't expect a beautiful city not to have its rather uglier, darker side. They all did, usually in the slums or the poorer quarters.
    The only thing that changed were the patrons. People clocking off from work, shady characters who settled down by the hearth to gamble over dice or cards, to exchange news, information, deals, just about anything. For a price.
    One of the tables against the wall hosted one such shady character, dusty boots resting on the table, one bone heel tapping slightly with impatience as half-lidded silver eyes, faintly luminous, scanned the room, keeping tabs. She was apparently lounging, the chair tilted back and leaning against the wall, one hand on her knee, the other cupping a mug on her lap, from which she sipped from time to time.
    To say Shrista was in a foul mood was to be putting it mildly. The contact she'd agreed to meet earlier that afternoon hadn't showed up yet, and he was now a good four hours late. Her brow wrinkled as she scowled at a man passing the table. Filthy surfacers couldn't even keep to their own deals up here. Her grip tightened on the mug and she raised it to her lips, barely tasting the stinging liquid as the man, undeterred by her glare leaned on the table and produced a row of mismatched teeth in what he probably thought was a charming smile, but came out as a leer.
    "'Ow much?"
    A languid smile passed over the Drow's lips and leaned forwards, chair thudding on the hard wood floor as the legs came down level.
    "Piss off. Before I introduce my boot to your arse."
    Grumbling he stumbled away towards the bar in the growing evening crowd, and she relaxed again, releasing the hilt of the knife concealed in her boot as she swung her legs off the table.

    Why is it, every damned monkey that can earn a coin thinks any woman proud of her body is selling? I swear the next time that happens I'll put a damned slaved collar on them.

    Her attention was caught by one of the men entering, and her fleeting smile returned with just a touch of maliciousness to it. Scum, no doubts about that, but she didn't exactly have morals about who she was working for. Coin was coin, and she needed it if she were to make a place for herself. To be honest, she needed it simply to keep eating these days.
    Grabbing a loosely woven burlap sack from beneath the table she stood and began pushing through the crowd, elbowing and occasionally whipping at the more resilient who refused to move with her air magic. For the short yelps it returned, it was certainly worth it.
    "Calith."
    The man turned, scratching one unshaven cheek and grinned.
    "Well if it isn't the nice lady. Fancy meeting you here!"
    "Cut the crap, Rivvil. I did your dirty work, the least you could do, is show up on time. Hand over my coin so I can be gone."
    "Easy now girl, did you find him then?"
    He began rooting in his pockets while she stood by, eyes narrowed to mere slits in her foxish face, untying the sack and exposing it to him. They took a step back at the sweet stink of blood and decay before she retied the neck and offered the bag to him, claiming the purse as reward.
    "This is only half the pay you promised."
    "No, I'm sure we agreed, thirty-five silver bits, it's all there."
    Shrista grinned, running her tongue over her lower lip.
    "You pay up now, or I'm going to feed you your own innards while you sit by and watch."
    He of course, reached for the blade at his belt, in which moment she stepped forward, close enough that their chests brushed, and bought her knee up hard into his groin, producing a gasping wheeze before he collapsed. There wasn't time however to do more than that as a bar stool smashed over her shoulders, the force causing her to stagger and gasp as pain exploded across her back.
    Swinging around, she bought her fist up and caught the lower side of the man's jaw with a crack that made her knuckles ache, and all hell broke loose as the brawl began to spread through the bar.
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    Andromalius
    Member Avatar


    Having spent the entire day training Ahrimann how to interact (or not) with people, the two landed on a couple of stools against the bar of this seedy tavern. The dead dragon was more than happy to collapse somewhere. The sorcerer beside him hadn't allowed for a break since being summoned this morning, and his bipedal legs were sore. Having his feet stuffed into boots had been insufferable, until midday when everything below his ankles had gone numb.

    After settling, Andromalius folded his arms over the counter and leaned in on his appendages with some fatigue of his own. When he lifted his head to survey the bar scene, he noticed a sparse few were staring, but not at him. Glancing back at Ahrimann, the beast was casually drawing a slab of metal with the handle of a greatsword, as tall as he stood, off his back and setting it beside him, between his seat and the vacant one to his right. He would continue to draw attention until Andromalius helped him to refine his wild ways. It was a process.

    “Cover that with your cloak,” the Banshee nodded at the massive sword. No sheath could hold it. It was only attached to his back, when traveling, by a small leather apparatus which held the blade's bottom and its hilt in place. Ahrimann obeyed, but drew the article from his shoulders and tossed it over in a quizzical manner. So, his master explained, “Sotoans aren't very keen on big, obvious weaponry. Best to pretend it is something else.”

    “Because we don't want any unnecessary attention,” echoed the dragon - in his deep, gravely dragon voice - after hearing this said to him throughout the day. The tone in which he spoke sounded like fire splitting wood.

    “Mm, yes. Excellent work. And as a reward for the trouble I've put you through, I am going to get you drunk for the first time, ever.”

    “Must I? It smells like piss.”

    “It does, yet everyone here is imbibing, and there are many more you do not see. There must be a reason.” A lazy smile began to consume the phantom's face.

    “...I suppose... that makes sense...”

    Andromalius laughed hysterically at his first honest attempt. Ahrimann had little experience with his fingers, and he didn't have any lips, so he'd had to sort of toss as much as he could between his teeth. Then he made the mistake of tasting it, and then it was all over the counter. His master taught him to hold his nose and take a deep breath. Three tiny glasses of something very strong later, and the fourth was refused. Unfortunately, he was convinced up to a sixth before the beast put his foot down, “No more! Please! I feel sick...” His body was large and tolerant, though his tolerance to alcohol was low. Not to mention, this was the first thing Ahrimann had consumed in months.

    The sorcerer gave his pet a brotherly hard pat on his shoulder, chuckling in delight. Ahrimann just wobbled. Otherwise, he looked perturbed, and a little sleepy.

    Just then, a guttural noise sounded from the edge of the room. There was a frenzy of motion which drew the eye, and the shattering of a stool. It spread like a virus, as if all anyone had been doing here was waiting for this. It wasn't wholly unexpected, but Andromalius decided it would have to stop before others came – the sort that might recognize his facial structure from 'wanted' posters. Oh, no, who was he kidding? He just wanted to kick some ass too.

    “Go help the Drow.” Telling him not to kill was still too complex a task, particularly if he was drunk and queasy. At least Andromalius could make it so that no one would see whose massacre this was. The dragon sloughed himself off the stool, grabbed the handle of his colossal blade through the cloak which covered it, and stalked off towards the side of the room to do his master's bidding. Meanwhile Andromalius was on the move, yanking up his hood to hide at least half of his face, as he dashed to the doorway, dodging every random punch or thrown mug along the way. What looked like black feathers began to blossom from his shoulder blades, trailing longer and longer until, as he turned to face the entire room, his eclipsing wings spread across the four walls and surrounded all within. The lights flickered and died, leaving the chaos in an impregnable darkness.

    Screams of horror replaced the general noise of grunts and growls. The sound of something large and metal cut the air before liquid warmth began to spray up here and there. It was no longer a harmless brawl, but a silencing...
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    Shrista
    Member Avatar
    Pariah, Apostate, Heretic

    Ducking a punch from her left she threw herself towards the attacker, elbow crunching into his ribs as the brawl began to spread, feeling hands shoving, elbows and knees, heavy boots, all poking and prodding, kicking and punching. Well. Not that she hadn't expected something like this, just not quite so quickly, or so violent. And the proprietor hadn't made an issue of throwing them out this time either, which was unusual in itself. Ramming the heel of her palm hard into someone's chest, she crouched down and began searching among scuffling feet for her client, lying in a crumpled and battered heap. Removing his purse was a small affair, drawing the knife from her boot she merely cut the strings and stuffed it inside one of the many little pockets sewn inside her cloak.
    Getting back up would be a more difficult affair, at least, getting back up without being clobbered at any rate.
    That problem seemed to solve itself however, when an absolute giant of a man stepped into the fray, wielding the largest sword she had ever seen.
    "This isn't going to end well." She muttered grimly, and scurried away from him back into the now panicking throng. She had her pay, and she was leaving, now, before she ended up impaled on that thing, or worse, in several pieces scattered around the bar. Heading in the general direction of the door was easy, several people were already pressing through towards it, away from the upturned tables where cool evening air wafted in, fresh and mild. Much better than the stink of vomit, sweat and stale beer to her nose.
    Freedom seemed to be short lived as the room began to grow darker by the second, like a curtain from the void stretching over the room. Shrista felt as though her insides were constricting with sudden fear. Dark magic, meaning a powerful sorcerer was in the room. Broken glass crunched beneath her boots as the shrieks and wails began, the stench of fear so very palpable, with the heavy tread of boots. No doubt the giant...

    Have to get out, now, before we join them! Damned if I'm walking over the edge of Oblivion over thirty-five silver bits and a bar stool!

    Clutching her knife in a white-knuckled grip, she turned her head towards the door, now closed, comforted in the hard leather grip pressing tightly against her palm. It might not be much use against magic but she wasn't about to go down without a fight, if she couldn't escape first that is. The darkness was obviously of some magical nature, as he low-light vision wasn't helping much, and stumbling over both furniture and bodies, she slunk warily towards the exit. A miracle she hadn't already been made into mincedmeat really. The soft whisper of air as a blade whipped past inches from her nose, followed by a warm mist nearly made her gag. The last thing she wanted, aside from her own death, was the taste of someone else's on her tongue.
    Free hand closed around the iron handle of the door, which seemed stuck. She hoped it was just stuck. The Drow slammed the butt of her knife on the latch, snapping it clean, and tugged, to no avail, bracing one foot against the wall, and yanking desperately until the handle came free of the wood.
    "Well bugger."
    Shrista pressed her back to the wall, unnerved by the sudden hush, the only sound her own breath.
    The silence was...deafening.
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    Andromalius
    Member Avatar


    Even if the handle of the door hadn't broken, the Drow would have run right into a wall of enchanted feathers, born to withstand godly amounts of force. This maneuver isolated the area it encompassed to the point of existing in a separate plane of reality. It was learned, then fine-tuned, to control small fields of battle and minimize collateral damage, but could also be used to control small swarms of people from the inside.

    When the hollering subsided and there was nothing left to signify life within the tavern, the sound of shifting clothes and the dragging of bodies became apparent. Andromalius had been between watching the female attempt to escape and Ahrimann's impressive sword strokes while intoxicated, in the dark. When he was sure the survivors wouldn't interrupt him, he moved away from his place beside the door, towards the center of the room. The dragon was making a meat pile. When most of the dead had been gathered, the Banshee laid his hand upon the top. Rot and decay spread rapidly with his touch, and made quick work of disintegrating the evidence. When the lanterns began to glow again and the feathers began to fall, disappearing in puffs of smoke upon contact with the ground, there appeared to be a large pile of ashes where the two stood: the sorcerer and the nightmarish swordsman.

    Several others, alive but terrified, were crammed into the corners. The bar tender had remained exactly where he'd been standing all along: behind the counter, no worse for ware compared to the others, but also drenched by a good amount of bodily fluids. You see, he'd been standing in a bad spot to remain clean.

    Ahrimann wobbled like a tipsy adolescent, managing to clumsily slide his weapon back into its holster, on his back. Andromalius took the pet's cloak and made him turn, in order to wipe the blood off that metal slab. “Well, looks like we'll both need some new clothes.” Thankfully, his own had been mostly protected. Their outer layers would have to be disposed of.

    The sorcerer drew back his hood and pulled his cloak off. What he revealed himself to be was handsome, to say the least. Long golden-blonde hair fell in waves to his waist, the locks themselves appearing to be painstakingly groomed. His complexion was light and creamy without any obvious flaws (unnaturally so). But of course, the items which distinguished him most were his eyes and their striking cerulean color. One could even see it when he looked down – slivers of unforgettable blues.

    Both cloaks became ashes and joined the collection. Ahrimann tried to wipe the blood spatter from his face. After a satisfied sigh, Andromalius turned to a corner to address survivors, “Well? On your way!” He continued to stare at them as they shuffled past, towards the door, then stop when some realized the handle was broken. One turned to explain. The sorcerer performed a subtle gesture for his beast to remedy the problem. Obeying, he trudged to the door, waited politely for everyone to move, and then smashed the door down with a single fist.
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    Shrista
    Member Avatar
    Pariah, Apostate, Heretic

    Well, at least she wasn't the only one to have witnessed that. Whatever that was.
    Shrista swallowed, the stink of decay catching in the back of her throat, burning as she felt her gorge rise, and the memory of something else that stank like that with it.
    Undead. Not that they were uncommon in the Underdark, but she'd never claimed to be friend to them, nor master. She felt vile, filthy and tainted after that, her eyes lingering on the figure as he wiped the giant's weapon clean and simply destroyed their cloaks.

    The simple base female in her admired his appearance, before she caught herself, flicking her eyes between them. Odd couple. Especially to simply..massacre half a bar like that. Turning her head she numbered the bare few who had survived the ordeal, crowded together and bleating at the door like frightened sheep. Shrista felt her lip curl with disgust before she could stop herself. She had been ready to fight for her life, while they just cowered together, ready for a slaughtering. How merciful then, this sorcerer and his pet, to spare a few witnesses. What he expected other than terror to spread through the city now, she didn't know. Or care. Getting out was for the best. Alive and preferably in one piece.
    A touch of sympathy for the barkeep, still standing in apparent shock, with a fine dousing of...everything. Her tongue flicked across her painted lower lip slowly, pausing at the corner of her mouth before vanishing again. Slowly the Drow slipped the knife into the sheath hidden in the top of her boot, licked a little blood from the back of her hand and stood aside as the door was forcibly smashed to splinters. She wasn't about to stand beside the commoners as they were, still staring fearfully at the sorcerer.
    Shrista smirked, eyeing him once more from head to toe, and clearly enjoying it, arms folded beneath her breasts, feet apart firmly rooted to the floor. Forget that a few moments before she was so far up on her toes she might've been hanging by her neck from the ceiling, it was done now. Panic over, magic gone, calm restored. Sort of.

    Shame. Might've been a fine catch for an evening before all the shit went in the air. Mm. Mighty fine.

    Dragging her eyes away and frowning she watched the herd leave, still bleating and wild eyed with fear. She spat into the rush strewn and now, blood splattered floor, then swaggered towards the open air with her hip-rolling gait, heels clicking dully on the floor. An oddly empty echoing sound now there was barely anyone here.

    I suppose it's one way to stop the city guard cracking down on you for a little fun after hours. At least we won't be hungry for a few days.

    Mind wandering, Shrista glanced up at the Giant as she moved to pass him only briefly, not honestly wanting to meet his eyes.

    By Mephistopheles' arse, no wonder they were practically shitting bricks, look at his eyes! No wait, don't look! Don't! No reasons for him to cut you one as well.

    She glanced up, ever so briefly, snapping eyes with the dragon, before pulling her own gaze to the night outside just as quickly.

    Fuck.

    Why is it, when you try so hard not to do something, you just do it anyway. Like not thinking of the illithid in the little pink number waiting at the bar offering you a drink.
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    Andromalius
    Member Avatar


    Half of a bar at night in Madrid was nothing. She should see what he could do with an army or three. There was a reason mothers had begun to tell their children that The Banshee King would come for them if they weren't good children. His complacent grin, right now, as he stared at the tender was absolutely horrifying, given the circumstances. After a moment, while Ahrimann broke the exit, the blonde, armored stranger approached the counter slowly. He placed his hands on the counter and learned forward, locking eyes with the stunned man on the other side. The man looked back. That was all Andromalius needed to ensure whoever comes here looking for answers received nothing.

    “This was the result of a violent bar fight. Afterwards, everyone fled. You will clean up the ashes, dispose of them in a manner of which they cannot be recovered, and you will never know what truly happened tonight. You never saw me, and you never saw my friend with the sword. Nod if you understand.”

    The bartender nodded like a zombie, then began walking around to proceed with the cleaning process. When the sorcerer turned to face the door, his attention landed on the Drow without searching for her first, as though he'd never lost track. She was on her way out, swinging her hips like a damned tigress. Her confidence was showing, and in light of the events, he couldn't say it wasn't intriguing. He saw that confidence flutter, though, when she dared to look up at Ahrimann.

    Ahrimann noticed the motion of her head, and even though she didn't smile at him, he tried to grin pleasantly at her, the skin at the sides of his maw sort of peeling back grotesquely. For good measure, he gave her a shy little wave on her way out. He was a simple brute. After she cleared the way, the dragon moved outside as well, but kept to the wall. Andromalius was close behind. If he lingered, the bartender would register his appearance again.

    “Master,” Ahrimann fell into step beside him. “Why didn't I kill the others?”

    “Because their words carry little weight, and I took care of the staff. They will report a disguise, they will report obscured happenings, and anybody who's smart enough to figure it out from all of that nonsense, I plan to tell immediately of my arrival. They will look to the people's best interest and decide not to announce our presence, regardless of this small, one-sided tussle.” His voice was higher in its pitch than one might think, but the words he spoke were formed as elegantly as poetry. The Banshee was perfectly articulate, clear as crystal, and his intelligence was apparent only after a few sentences.

    “Uhm,” his companion, on the other hand, seemed to trip and bumble quite often. “...Yes, but... Why didn't I kill them?”

    The sorcerer's eyes shifted to their corners, slowly, to stare blankly at Ahrimann. A moment of silence passed, and then his head turned to the lingering female, seemingly appreciating the fresh air... He began to consider her then, taking his chin into a hand with a thoughtful expression crossing his angelic features. “You realize we could end you as easily as you step on crickets,” he raised his voice a bit so that she could hear. She ought to be moving on from this place before anyone else tries to have a drink. She should scatter, like the others.

    “Come on,” his eyes remained on the female, but grew unfocused as he lifted his knuckles to tap behind him, where the dragon's wide chest lingered. “We need to leave.” Here, he bowed his head down and briskly started walking towards the outskirts of the city.
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    Shrista
    Member Avatar
    Pariah, Apostate, Heretic

    The smile was certainly unnerving, but the way he lifted his hand and waved almost made her laugh, the corners of her mouth quirking up in a smirk. At least he hadn't made any move to separate her limbs, that in itself was relieving. She didn't wave back, merely murmured "Later, handsome." Rather ironic considering he appeared to be missing half his face. Didn't detract from the fact he was almost literally a wall of muscle however, and tall besides.

    Quelling the laugh that tickled at her throat she flexed her shoulders, rolling them back and stretching in the waning light, wincing as the bruised muscles moved. Her favourite time of the day, perfect lighting conditions without making her eyes water, now the sun was swallowed by the rooftops, leaving the pale gold of twilight behind. Beckoning those who performed their dark deeds to begin their own day, now the streets were almost clear, empty of the colorful people that showed themselves in the sunny hours.
    Shrista wasn't sure what to do now. Her evening had more or less been ruined. No punch up, no tumbling in the stables, and certainly no tequila.

    Actually that last one was a lie, there was the customary half-bottle stashed in her cloak, and after a quick check to make sure it wasn't broken, she sighed, drawing the cloak about her shoulders, loosely holding it shut with one hand. It wasn't cold enough that she felt the need to hold it closed as she walked, yet not warm enough to discard it entirely.

    Her ears pricked, and she turned at the voice, the sorcerer, his cold eyes on her, calculating, studying. As if he could just drink in everything about her from a glance. Her eyes narrowed and she released the cloak, letting it drift back over her shoulders as she set her feet wide, fists planted on her curvaceous hips.

    Bloody cheek!

    "Well sweetheart, you've managed to destroy my evening quite thoroughly before it even began, if you changed your mind about the leavers, it wouldn't exactly surprise me."

    Her eyebrow twitched up, the hint of a smile hovering around the corners of her mouth. The psychotic and plain malicious were two-a-penny from what she'd seen, and usually lurked around the dirty underbelly of the sprawling chaotic cities they called civilization up here. To be fair, she quite enjoyed this chaos. Before it had been rules and bound to one place, always itching to do something. Now she was a part of which her kind fought so hard to reclaim, she wasn't sure she cared to go back. It was freedom, and she wasn't about to let some china-faced, stick-up-his-arse male take what little she had managed to grasp, away from her.

    Using her thumb to lever the cork from the bottle, she turned away from the stranger's back and lifted it to her lips, relishing the burn as the liquor slipped down her throat. Corking it again the woman slid it back into the pocket, and shoulders hunched started in the opposite direction, heels clicking hollowly on the cobblestones. Drinking holes were common enough but finding a good one would take time, she'd have to start now if she expected to find a decent perch before the dark really set in. The last thing she wanted was to be walking the streets after dark, not through any real fear of what lurked out there, but unless she was spoiling for a fight it seemed a pointless affair. When you refused to pay protection money, you seemed to get an awful lot of stalkers after whatever you might have, however meager.
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    Andromalius
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    “I think she likes me,” Ahrimann remained put where he was, staring after her firm rear end. Alcohol was strange. Occupying a human body was strange. Things had begun to appeal to him in a way he would've considered abominable, were he the same as ten years ago. Andromalius had opened up a whole new world to he and his sister, which was why the twins had requested to remain by the master's side. He could never have experienced this as a wild animal. He could never have gotten this close to a city, let alone meet so many others and actually share a conversation. Of course, most of this idea's details alluded Ahrimann. He only knew what his instincts told him, outside of Andromalius' instructions.

    When the sorcerer realized his bodyguard wasn't with him, he stopped and turned, calling his name angrily. The beast rolled his head around, stretching his neck, then turned and stepped off with a low, prolonged growl.

    “It isn't that at all, Dear,” said the phantom quietly, his voice sounding as though he stood right beside the Drow while she began walking off. He was slowly walking backwards, still facing her, many feet away now, and he wore a most charming grin. His brows lifted to express a light-heartedness in his statements. “I only need to find the will to stop talking to you now, before you learn any dirty little secrets...”

    Yes, that was flirting. She had a great body, her overconfidence was endearing, and the fact she'd started the bar fight, which led to an opening to slaughter half the tavern, was enough to peak his interest. If she turned out to have half a brain, then she's likely his type. Add to this combination the fact he hadn't been with a woman in what was, to him, three years.

    If she responded to his teasing, or decided to turn around and follow him, he might not tell her to mind her own business. If she kept walking in the opposite direction though, he'd leave it be.
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    Shrista
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    Pariah, Apostate, Heretic

    She'd only taken a bare few steps when his voice caught up to her, bringing her to a halt. Half turning, a sultry smile stole its way across her face, emitting her soft throaty purr of a laugh. She had been expecting an attack, not this, of all things. Not that she wanted to be a fine collection of charred pieces littering the street.

    Thoughts seem to be leaning so morbid this evening.

    Shrista folded her arms, fingers tapping lightly on her elbow as she found herself once again admiring the stranger. Even from this distance she found that gaze, so cold and empty, mysterious and alluring, that smile, attractive, almost beckoning. And dangerous. Thrillingly so. Because it just wasn't fun if there wasn't the slightest chance of real trouble.

    "Everyone has at least one..."

    Care to guess mine?

    Her smile grew a fraction, gaze flicking over him again from head to foot. Charming fellow, seemed to have a cheerful attitude after that at least. As long as it wasn't pinned on her, she didn't give a rats ass. Protecting the weak wasn't her priority, only self preservation, and coming out top over the competition. They hadn't been quick enough, and now they were dead. She was not, so, in a sense, she had won. At least, that round.

    "I expect your dirty little secrets aren't as simple as rutting with a whore in a back alley while your wife believes you're performing state business...you don't seem the type. Neither does your...friend."
    She laughed again, shifting from foot to foot, but unwilling to pursue him. Caution first.
    "No...I can see it's much sweeter than that."

    Much darker. If I could read auras, I bet it'd be like a night-flower display all around his head. Trouble, and lots of it.
    Edited by Shrista, Nov 7 2011, 04:24 PM.
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    Andromalius
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    The female stopped, technically saving her from outright loosing his attention. His eyes narrowed severely, the same as though he'd been insulted. Not so was the cause, however. He simply had expected her to run off into the night, like the others. What he had on his hands here may be more of a risk-taker. The phantom liked to categorize those sorts as the kind to put events into motion. To what extent, was now the question.

    “Yes...” his boots became squared with his shoulders and he also halted, for a moment. His expression grew serene and contented, and his head curiously tilted to the side where rolling locks of blonde could spill down his chest. “...Well, I believe most would consider what my friend and I did in there,” he gave a jerky little nod at the broken tavern door, “already exceeds adultery.”

    “Master, they will be here soon,” Ahrimann was still swaying with intoxication, but he was also staring at the Drow's chest like he could will them hither if he concentrated hard enough. Yet, he was only partially aware of what he was doing.

    “Indeed, we've reached the limit of our allotted time.” The sorcerer returned to the dragon, turning his back to Shrista. “Come along if curiosity compels you. Otherwise, we must be going now. It's been a pleasure.” He acknowledged her lastly with a civil nod from over his shoulder. Then, reached up and tugged playfully on one of Ahrimann's horns to direct him around the corner, and into the labyrinthine city streets. Perhaps they could go find some music or back-alley chance games before settling down for the night at the most humble inn.
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    Shrista
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    Pariah, Apostate, Heretic

    Shrista tapped her finger on her chin for a moment. If her curiosity compelled her? There wasn't an if about it.

    What part of me doesn't say I'm attracted to crazy? I wonder what brand he is. Still, if he wanted me dead he'd have already done it. I have nothing better to do I suppose...except find another bar, start another fight, get seriously pissed and pass out in one of those cramped little boxes they call a room.
    What the hell, it might actually be fun.


    She did find it a little disconcerting how hard the big one was staring at her breasts, like they had suddenly become the most amazing thing in the world and possessed divine powers or something. The thought made her chuckle softly to herself, glancing only momentarily down at them as she walked. Maybe that was why.

    It took but a few seconds to catch them up, her clicking heels slowing to match their pace once she drew alongside, tilting her head just so, that might catch a better look now she was close enough that they were almost brushing shoulders, her fox-face bright with curiosity.
    "Curiosity most definitely compels me." She purred, her gaze shifting between the two of them, wondering what exactly the relation was. They behaved more like a parent with an unruly child than anything else, and the big one didn't seem inclined to do anything without the pale one's say-so. Her curiosity extended so far that she wondered what else they had planned for the evening, and whether it would be as exciting as that last stunt.
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    Andromalius
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    Andromalius heard the sound of her heels on the cobbled path, but neither him, nor his companion, even so much as slowed their pace. At least this will make for a good distraction, he thought. She seemed easy to handle, but perhaps she was just on good behavior until she could be sure he was no longer a threat. If that was what the woman was waiting for, then she'd be waiting forever. There were none in all of existence that could claim, absolutely, The Banshee King would never hurt them. Ruin followed in his wake like his shadow. Suffering blossomed around him like the spring, and everything he touched withered and died. It was the nature of his unnatural being. The frustration of this curse, if anything, is what drove him to live with a shattered psyche. These were the days he slithered around in his terrible infamy. The saddest part was that he hated himself. For everything.

    So then, why didn't he return to Death's peaceful rivers? Well, because he'd been. He'd floated around as nothing but spiritual essence for a little while, but his soul was rather knotted. In death, he was subjected to a strangeness between complete isolation and the weight of his guilt – his own personal hell, by his own fashioning. He wasn't leaving again until that place no longer awaited him. Even the material world was better. At least, here, they had pretty distractions.

    “My name is Andromalius,” he quietly whispered when the Drow nestled between them. “That's Ahrimann. He's my bodyguard and general method of transportation.”

    The big one raised his eyes finally and tried to smile. “I'm a dragon. But I'm dead.”

    “Neither is he the brightest. He is useful, though.” The phantom smelled like the outdoors – spring water – and old books. “I would appreciate,” he smiled gently, “if you didn't shout my name, however. Soto and I have a bit of a grudge. Perhaps you know of it.” And there was a good chance she was well aware of his crimes. For a blissful, short while, there's wasn't a one who did not shudder at the utterance of what he was called. He'd managed to snake his way into the lives of every surface-dweller. The only ones unaffected were the remotely-located, self-sufficient hermits far to the south. Yes, even a child of the wandering tribes of the Ashokan desert had a father die in the war, and a mother forced to feed her children less due to interrupted trade with the capital. Even the useless servant girl of Castle Evermore was subjected to the threat of siege. Even the beloved feline pet of a wealthy Sotoan disappeared, running scared from sensing the encroaching pulse of death radiating from the eastern coast of Morrim. The entire world was after this man.

    Yet, it was better than that place.

    “Who are you? What's your story?” Andromalius kept his eyes forward, lazily searching for where the lanterns glowed brightest.
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    Shrista
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    Pariah, Apostate, Heretic

    Andromalius. He spoke as if the name should mean something, that she should recognize it. She probably should, but it meant little to her, she was no study in history, unless it came to good spirits perhaps. Or how to make a man scream. The bad kind of way, that is.

    "Pretty name for a pretty face."

    Ah, so he wanted to keep a low profile? Well she wasn't about to go shouting from the rooftops she'd walked down the street with the Banshee King. She probably wouldn't be able to stand up there more than a couple of seconds anyway, rooftops were damned slippery. Deceptively so, so pretty in the moonlight all edged with silver and one loose tile and you were nursing a broken everything on the cobbles twenty feet below.

    "How adorable! You don't look that dead to me, sunshine."

    Shrista patted Ahrimann's cheek, chuckling gently and keeping pace with the pair easily, one to either side. They made her feel a little small between them even with the heels but she didn't really mind that, they kept some of the wind off, and being close enough that they occasionally brushed shoulders didn't bother her. She brushed shoulders, and fists, with worse types before. At least this Andromalius didn't stink of commoner-face-down-in-their-own-vomit. A nice change then, to encounter someone who was aware of hygiene.
    A scent that reminded her of reading in her own personal garden, the star-lanterns gently pulsating their soft ever-present glow and delicate perfume. Fresh, calm. A little contrary to what she might have expected considering the bar. He seemed spotless despite the carnage anyway, and she found herself admiring the play of the light on his strong jaw, mingling with the shadows at the corner of his mouth when he smiled. Delightful.

    Herself? She couldn't smell much of her own aroma except for the sweet metallic tang of blood overlaying the wood smoke, spirits and spiced oils. She'd not found much on her, just a spray up one of her arms. Nothing a damp cloth couldn't clean from the leather. Still, it made her want to bathe again. Blood by itself wasn't distressing, she saw plenty enough on a regular basis, even dealt with it in her magic. It simply felt dirty coming from the filth that inhabited these areas.

    "Shrista Ssapavin Barriurden, High Priestess of Lolth. Or I was."
    There was nothing more to it than that, it was in the past and she'd already left her anger at the banishment behind, no remorse, nothing. Not even a lust for vengeance remained. Once she had wished that they'd simply killed her, given her the option at least but the Matron had agreed to rescind the right. Perhaps it was more of a mercy back then, but now, she wasn't so sure. There didn't seem to be any real code of honor or shame up here, and she liked that just fine. No one honestly cared if you were nobility resorted to picking pockets to survive, and children that lived and grew up on the street could rise to be great heroes. Here, children who lived on the street could die, uncared for by anyone.
    In her home society it was not so, everyone was cared for. More or less. Even being a slave was better than being cast out of your House. Here, it was every man for himself. It was fair.

    In a sense.

    "I killed, I tortured, I worshipped, I sacrificed and danced to my heathen god with demons from the very bowels of the earth. Is that enough information, or do you require something...more?"
    The woman smiled faintly before she let it slip from her face back into shadows, a walking monochrome. She was black, the moon was white. Just the way the world should be, if it wasn't for those delicious silver tones that lurked between. Grey areas they called them. Seemed up here, you killed for ritual it was black. Down there, it was grey, or even white. Seemed to her, that way of thinking was all bullshit, based on circumstance and opinion. Still, she wondered how Andromalius considered his own actions. Not that it was her business, but she'd dare to poke her nose in at risk of getting bitten if it meant learning.
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    Andromalius
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    It was evident that this woman didn't know of his infamy by the way she complimented the sound of his name. This caused the Banshee to turn his head and stare down at her, trying to read whether it was a clever ruse or truth. He couldn't rightly say for sure, but logic supported both sides. As a part-time scholar, Andromalius had read of Drows, but the specifics were always vague. Also, he'd only had the pleasure of seeing a handful of them out and about. They supposedly lived very far underground in isolated cultures. This was the first to share a conversation with him. Then again, he didn't have a clue for how long she'd been running around above ground. Since he couldn't decipher if it was the truth or a lie, he'd just have to proceed with caution.

    Ahrimann shut one eye with a delayed, subtle surprise when he felt warm pressure on his cheek. He made a brief, thrumming noise as the path he walked swerved marginally closer and closer to Shrista. Andromalius had to reach around behind her head and give him a shove in the other direction, lest he come crashing down on everyone in his drunkenness.

    “High Priestess of Lolth, huh?” He was about to ask her to expand on that when she listed her former day-to-day routine of rituals, sacrifices, and demons. He would have scoffed and rolled his eyes, were he not trying to be more accommodating company. That stuff was a bunch of hog swill. After he'd met with material “gods” of all sorts, it was evident to the Banshee that there was no such real thing, and no good reason to worship anyone without first receiving the same level of respect or having some sort of strong, intimate personal relationship. What the world widely seemed to consider a deity was usually naught more to him than powerful entities (usually magical in essence or inheritance), who possessed egos too large for themselves, alone, to support. Well, if that was how it is, then they ought to be calling him a god! After all, he'd managed to dominate two out of the three fallen ones he'd encountered here in Elenlond. What else could qualify him? Omnipotence? If so, he could probably at least convince enough people to start a cult...

    “Little has been archived regarding your kind. Perhaps later in the evening, if you're still around, you could shed some light on a few myths.” He returned to staring ahead. “I'd like to know what demons your people claim to worship.” Yeah, so he can keep an eye out for them and then bash their heads in for more street credit. That is, if they weren't figments of warped imaginations.

    “Hm, pardon me for a moment,” the sorcerer came to a casual stop, scanning the scene of a square which had four optional paths. Lines thrown across balconies overhead supported paper lanterns, casting thick shadows all around. As far as he could see up those roads, it was evident that his skills in Umbramancy, shadow magics, would be at their sharpest. He wanted to find somewhere to be, quickly, and he could move much faster without these two slowing him down. The mage decided he would make a quick sweep down each road, and try to listen for music.

    The Banshee turned his face to the lanterns. His long hair gently fell away from his face and past his eyes, growing darker and darker until rivers of black began streaking through the sclera, ultimately blotting out the white and blues. Meanwhile, his boots had become tangled in tendrils of shade, as they'd stretched from their corners to consume him. And then he was gone, eaten away, melted down until nothing but his own tilted shadow remained around Shrista's feet. There was a faint glint where his head may have been, from the light catching his abyssal gaze. Then, like a viper, his shadow shot off into the night as an incomprehensible blurr.

    Ahrimann was unphased, having seen this done several times and perfectly knowledgeable of what it meant the master was doing. So he explained, “He is cutting down on our travel time. We don't really know where we're going.” The dead reptile raised a taloned hand to the back of his neck and gave it an absent rub. “I mean, we were probably going to go find somewhere to sleep, but then you'd be bored. Don't worry. He'll be back very soon.”
    Edited by Andromalius, Nov 12 2011, 07:29 PM.
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    Shrista
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    Pariah, Apostate, Heretic

    She loosed a low throaty purr as Andromalius had to right his companion, wondering briefly just how much alcohol he'd poured into him. He obviously wasn't used to it, swerving all over the cobbles like that.

    "Easy, Sunshine, you'll put yourself out if you're not careful."

    Shrista rolled her eyes as she caught Andromalius staring at her, seemingly, he'd missed the fact that she wasn't serious. Still, she didn't mind, it might give her the chance to tweak his nose a little, lift that stern demeanor some. He wasn't the first who'd cast a sceptical or condescending eye on her when she'd mentioned her deity, and wouldn't be the last. Of course, she wasn't about to expand on the fact that her own faith had near trickled to a halt, like a dried spring still leaking from a crack in the earth. She'd stayed faithful enough in her time below ground, but after being exiled, she'd pondered long on whether she'd simply been cast out because she was no longer favored, or whether there was some other purpose. She'd long since given up caring anymore. If there had been a purpose, she'd have been sent something as a sign to tell her so, and since she hadn't even thought once of praying in nearly two years now, she might as well be faithless entirely.
    But, there was still hope. She couldn't entirely cast off everything she'd been raised on just like that, and so she kept it, squirreled away, hidden. Something for later perhaps.

    "I will remain so long as the company is interesting..." she drawled, finishing with a sigh.

    Not that you'll find any up here. Too much color for their sort.

    She watched, fascinated as the Phantom seemed to melt into the shadows, leaving only the tantalizing hint of his scent on the breeze.

    Interesting. Very interesting.

    "Oh, well, if it's sleep you're after, don't let me delay you. I'm sure I can find company just as dangerously attractive elsewhere."
    She stood cupping one elbow, her chin resting on her knuckles, foot tapping lightly on the stone as her pale eyes scanned the area, running over the paper lanterns and the shadowed balconies, the gaping darkened streets like hungry mouths, waiting.
    Worried..why would she be worried? Only that he was running off to have fun without them, but if that was the case, he wouldn't leave Ahrimann here with her. The slightest movement caught her eye, and casually so as not to alert her big friend, she slipped one of her knives from her boot, apparently examining it in the dim light. She wanted this one to herself.
    "Oops...silly me, seems I've gone and cut myself."
    Blood welled up from the narrow opening on her hand and with a sly glance behind them, she wove a thread of sorcery, clenching her fist tight then cocking her head on one side, listening.
    There was a wheezing noise, and a thud, the light tinkle of metal hitting the cobbles.
    Shrista positively purred, like a cat that's found the cream, and slunk away from the dragon towards the noise, still opening and closing her fist.

    "Well well. I was aware the city had rats, but not quite this big."
    The man writhed, gasping and clutching at his chest as she allowed the pressure to constrict and release, stressing his heart. Casually she kicked the blade away from his hand into the gutter, and made a disgusted noise.
    "Did Calith send you to tie off his loose ends? No matter. You should have turned him down, boy."
    His eyes widened as a fiendish leer split her face, sputtering and trying to scoot backwards the way he'd come.
    "Please, I just did it for the money! I have a family!"
    "Correction..." she chuckled, "you had a family."
    Her knife slashed quickly and neatly, slitting his throat and bleeding him into the street. Glancing at Ahrimann she shrugged, and placed her foot on him, rolling the corpse into the gutter.
    "I don't like being followed. It's rather...inconvenient."
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    Andromalius
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    The beast laughed shortly in his deep, inhuman voice. His head tilted to the side and his arms slid behind his back. “No, that's not an option anymore. He's curious about you, which means the time to run has passed. Even if you wanted to get away now...” She would be followed until the sun rose. The Drow would, however, still get to decide if the hunt would be a nightmare or a dream. The dragon's fiery eyes amidst the surrounding pools of black were purely predatory by the time she began to draw a knife from her boot. He was a dumb animal, but his instinct was sharp. If she thought he'd miss anything she did, then she was fooling herself.

    He did nothing but stand like a sentry and watch her until he also registered the noise of haggard breath. Ahrimann followed Shrista to the fallen man. While her back was turned, he nearly collapsed when he stumbled over the stone path, but he'd righted himself before she addressed the other one. The scene which played out afterward was, he thought, nothing if not a reasonable course of action. So, the beast shrugged back in the end. “I guess he really liked money.” How silly. People were ridiculous, to enslave themselves to such insignificant little tokens. Shiny, certainly, but to put one's own kin before items was beyond comprehension.

    Just then, something moved down in the gutter. It might have been the corpse in its death-rattles, but on closer inspection, its wasn't the body at all. It was its shadow. The dark mark slid away and moved in a long line like a large serpent up the wall, and spilled across the ground into complete abstraction. From it, Andromalius re-emerged. The blackness peeled away and, for a moment, the former priestess could have caught a glimpse at his true colors, before his disguise of a blonde man with tanned skin returned. He'd been as white as a ghost for a few split seconds.

    “Right. There is an after-wedding celebration up the hill, a special on drinks at a crowded tavern to the east, music and a large fire to the west, and not much else. I didn't go far into the highlands, though. Aristocracy usually has something happening, if none of that sounds appealing.” The phantom didn't mention her kill. Such a thing was a waste of time to spend a moment's thought. It was far too common for him to pay that much attention to a murder.

    “No more drinks,” Ahrimann emitted a low growl, then hiccuped.
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    Shrista
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    Pariah, Apostate, Heretic

    The drow was a little irritated, wiping her blade on the corpse's clothing before twirling it neatly and shoving it back into the sheath hidden inside her boot. It was inconvenient only in the fact that she didn't like people following her when they obviously meant to try and drag her into a shady doorway or alley and split her like a fishwife's purse. Well, more inconvenient for them than for her, usually.

    So, that's it then? The choice is out of my hands regardless? It all seems so...innocent, so normal, at the moment, and yet he's made it out to be menacing, when it only seems like a nice little jaunt through town...

    She scowled, a little uncomfortable with the thought that it might be a boring evening after all and she'd be stuck with it anyway, probably teaching Ahrimann how to play dice or something equally ridiculous that he'd have no use for. She was just about to open her mouth and ask when the Phantom would return when she noticed the shadow flicker and pool near her feet, materializing into the tale male once again, though he seemed drained of color, cold and impassive. For some reason that attracted her more, intrigued her, though once she blinked, he seemed as he had been before leaving.

    Am I imagining things again? It wouldn't be the first time.

    Shrista folded her arms, tearing her eyes away and tapping her lips with the knuckles of one hand, a languid smile tilting the corner of her mouth up slyly.
    "Dear me, and I thought as a dragon you'd have a higher capacity for alcohol." She sighed, turning her face towards Andromalius, though her eyes continued to rove the surrounding buildings in a bored fashion.
    "I'm just here for the ride, apparently, so it's your call, Handsome."

    (Sorry for the shortness, I'll add more if you need, just a bit burnt out right now, need refueling XD)
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    Andromalius
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    It was unnerving not to see the future when a situation was potentially fatal. Many developed delusions, borne of their arrogance, that they can find some certainty based on probability and educated guesses. The worst thing that Shrista could possibly do right now, unfortunately, was take those guesses. When one ventured about with the phantom sorcerer - the Monarch of Mortality, the Banshee King - the most effective way to survive is to simply... try to survive. His will was whimsical, and the fuel for his soul were the last sorts of things most would imagine when they met him. This made him unpredictable, indeed, and the consequences of making a big mistake were seemingly immense.

    Yet, if one were to make a true friend of him, know and understand him, then they would be playing an entirely different game. As of now, this game with the Drow was growing dull, and his frustration rose with her indecision. What a vapid little waste. The way she flowed when she walked, the things she said, and the way she dismissed the passing of life unceremoniously like a common cutthroat were irritating. Her confidence was irritating!

    And the more he daydreamed about it, the more he desired to know she was afraid of him. He thought, if he'd brought her along, he should have fun with her. It'd been a long time since he'd had any fun - all work, lately. And so the sorcerer folded his arms, mimicking the Drow, and split a wide, wicked grin. His features sharpened, and his eyes bored straight through her in their intensity. He took a step forward.

    “Very well. My call. Ahrimann, catch me.” The dragon dashed forward as the Banshee's eyes closed. He began to fall, but as he did, a blue ethereal light flashed between Shrista and him. Ahrimann caught his master's body in one arm before he hit the ground, then slowly raised his eyes to the woman, knowing...

    The ex-priestess would feel it immediately, and perhaps she'd felt it before as a past professional. There was too much inside her, unfamiliar things like impulses and subconscious motivations. It would feel cramped and uncomfortable, like her skin was too tight for her organs. The sensation would be bizarre. Her vision would crumble in with darkness creeping from her peripherals as she would fall further into herself so that someone else could take her place in the forefront. Everything smelled of fresh water, outdoors, and ancient books.

    Now you can say you really know what it is to be nothing but a passenger. It was his voice, softly and in every direction, inside her ears. Then suddenly, whether she condoned it or not, her legs began to take her somewhere... Ahrimann appeared beside her, at the end of the dark tunnel, with the body of his master hanging over his shoulder. They all ventured further out together, back towards the outskirts of the city.

    You aren't the type to want for much, are you? There it was again.


    (( The ability, as it is written officially, for your convenience:
    [[Possession]] - Our Banshee possesses the racial, ghostly skill of being able to leave his body for a limited amount of time and steal someone else's to use as a vessel. This has the capability of lasting five to ten posts for PCs. A great drawback is that when he leaves his body, it renders it extremely vulnerable as he will not know what is being done to it without him. Andromalius no longer is exhausted after the initial possession, and may bounce from body to body for up to five times before tiring. He also may now use his own spells up to the intermediate level. He may possess people who are not in his line of sight, but they must at least be standing in the same country. When possessed, a target may be completely conscious, but will forget most of what happened after being vacated, as if it had been a dream. ))
    Edited by Andromalius, Nov 21 2011, 12:17 PM.
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    Shrista
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    Pariah, Apostate, Heretic

    Shrista realized what had been niggling at her since he'd appeared, the fact that with her life detection, she couldn't find it in him. For all his deliciously tanned skin and radiant blue eyes, it was likely the ghostly color-leeched apparition she'd seen had been more akin to what was really here standing now before her. Which of course, barely gave her a split second to react as that disturbing smile worked its way onto his face. She took a half step back, one arm raising to shield herself as he suddenly toppled, and the world blurred.

    Her vision wavered and seemed to crack like an old mirror, and suddenly she was losing control, helpless to stop the sensation of being drawn away, sucked down, sinking with her own vision closing like water over her head.
    For a moment the nightmare flickered back, recurring, breath too short and cold burning into her bones as she was dragged helplessly down into the depths, absolute terror threatening to consume, so that she could almost taste the saltwater. His voice however dispelled it, caused it to flee to the darker reaches as icy cold fury began to claw its way through her spirit, consuming her wholly until she positively resonated with anger.

    How dare you steal my body without permission?!

    If she could have lashed out, she would have, instead she had to settle for being a backseat driver, watching as he sauntered away casually enough, her..no, his heels clicking loudly.

    I desire many things Gul, having my legs snatched from me is not one of them!

    If it were possible, she grew angrier, burning out her own curiosity to know where he was taking her, and what his intentions were, pushing at the boundaries of herself, trying to break out that she might try to attack his body, vacated as it was.

    T'zarreth resk'afar! Sut uns'aa a h'uena! Belbau uns'aa rath ussta khel!
    No, I don't want for much, just a drink and a good fuck of an evening, anything else I ought to let you in on? As if it wasn't obvious! You have no right, I belong to no one but myself! Fa'la zatoast!


    She finally receded into hissing her curses, fatigued with the outburst and the sudden rage, still buzzing persistently with it in the back of her own mind.
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    Andromalius
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    He felt her anger. He blissfully melted away in it like a salamander above a steel furnace. It was a warm bath to his frigid bones, an elixir of youth for his wariness. Yes, something was waking inside him. Perhaps she could feel the presence of this looming, shadowy behemoth. It pulsed like the pounding of drums on the heart of the shared vessel, causing a chemical rush of adrenaline. However, Andromalius also felt her steely spiritual strength. She was fighting him like a shark out of water, but she would not yet be able to break through the darkness. The sorcerer, for the time being, had her held fast.

    Laughter welled up from far away, in her ears, and everywhere in between. A faint background of inhuman shrieking sounded like an ominous alarm. What a fighter you are! Haha! That's more like it... he hissed. The laughter died away, save for a lingering chuckle of delight. Her head was turning forward, revealing a distorted panorama of the city outskirts. The buildings were made of cheap material, and their numbers were dwindling where the street, itself, grew wider. The trees were thickening, and the outer gate of Madrid was in sight. He was leading her into desolation.

    I suppose you enjoy having control of yourself, if that is the case. Do you know how many people just use it as an excuse? Most accounts of possession are fabrications. ...Have you ever considered why it is that you are fighting? Just a drink and a good fuck, was it? Why should you belong to yourself, if you won't do anything worthy of the physical means you've been given? Why don't you give yourself to someone who can make you something much greater than what you are (which is apparently a slut and a drunkard)?

    The sorcerer bent her body to his whim. He forced the palms of her hands down her sides, gliding sensually over her own hips and taking his time as he shot little cracks of red electricity from her fingertips, back into her body. It felt like searing needle pricks, and lit up any nerve to fall beneath the static. They both felt it. Andromalius enjoyed it. Immensely.

    ...Is it fear? Do you lack ambition because you've been met with disappointment? Come now, that cannot be the extent of your desires. What is holding you back from being magnificent, mmm? Why aren't people worshiping you, former priestess? The singular, encompassing tone he used now practically purred. With a body like this, the artisans would adore carving your altars.
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    Shrista
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    Pariah, Apostate, Heretic

    If Shrista had had teeth to grind right then, she would have, his taunting digging at her like tiny hot knives, more than just touching a nerve but strumming it like a bard playing his favorite instrument. Her anger crackled through her again, feeding the flames and she hammered at the boundaries, trying to break loose, that insidious laughter working its way into her like a disease.

    I am no slut!

    She wasn't about to deny being a drunkard, that was mostly true, though it was rare she'd bothered seeking an inferior partner for a good tumble, and she guessed he probably knew this as well, was simply using it to bait her. It was working however, and she found herself fuming at the inability to either escape, or do something about his cursed voice.

    Give myself to someone? I am not an object to be mastered and controlled! Who I choose to follow is my decision, and I certainly have nothing to suggest that any of these low life surfacers have anything superior about them, let alone anything worth following!
    She hissed and spat, buzzing around the inside of herself,.
    And what would you have me do, Gul? Give myself to you? I have more control than a simple butcherer of peasants. If I am to be feared, then I shall choose the method, not resort to something so basic as murder!

    Shrista hissed again, her voice practically dripping with venom and scorn, embracing the pain, as it was, granting both a minor agony and pleasure in one.

    I am only mortal, not a god!

    The slight niggling sensation prodded at her, the devil on her shoulder, whispering in her ear. She could, if she wanted. Did she want to? Why hadn't she, the torturer, simply done just that, and made them fear her? They were inferior, they needed a true purpose. She could enlighten them, open the way for her kin, or turn on them and crush them like ants...

    Stop it with your mind tricks!

    On a whim, she battered into the consciousness that was Andromalius, trying to latch herself on to him, with hopes of forcing him out, feeding from the darkness that he was attempting to seed in her, or was it grow? Her anger fluttered like a flame in a strong wind, desperately trying not to think of what that might mean.
    She would not doubt that she could be as cruel and callous as he, perhaps in her own way, nor that she commit acts of atrocity, if she so chose, but the question plaguing her now was whittled down to not so much as why hadn't she, but what was stopping her.

    I have no purpose. Slaughtering sheep will not grant me that.
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    Andromalius
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    What are you raving about? No, I wouldn't want you. You're far too delicate and naïve to survive the journey. The bounty hunters, the fallen heroes of revenge, the dynamic way Andromalius invited world-bending catastrophe, not to mention all the secrets... He'd give her a week before she was dead in a ditch like the pig she slaughtered moments ago. You think stealing bodies and tavern massacres are my only talents? Oh, child. You do not know with whom you are speaking.

    Having to wrestle her feisty spirit was tiresome while it was fun. In another minute or so, he will have spent himself. Then, he would be forcefully ejected. If he could distract her, he may be able to keep her contained for longer. No, the meaningless slaughter of sheep does not grant validation for all. Why do you think you're still alive?

    “Ahrimann,” said Andromalius, as Shrista. While he used her vocal chords, he had her voice. “Remember the game fetch? The one we played before?”

    “Yes... You mean when I-” The dragon lit up with focus, and turned his head to look at the two of them.

    “We need to get over the wall without drawing too much attention. Can you do it?”

    Because it was a challenge, Ahrimann could not refuse. His eyes, like smoldering coals, locked onto the lower part of the city wall as they walked up to it. Both bodies looked left and right, to be sure none were watching. The outskirts were far less populated, and the trees were dense where Madrid met the Erth'netora. This was do-able. So the beast bent down, far enough so that Shrista's body could climb onto his broad back, and he pulled the body of his master down from over his shoulder. Here, he bit down on the back of Andromalius' shirt. The strength of his jaws held the empty vessel, and all of its weight, dangling above the ground.

    “Ready,” the sorcerer said femininely, and pressed her knees together in an attempt to hold on as tightly as she could. The word was hardly out of her mouth before Ahrimann took a grand leap skywards. Just about when gravity should have brought them back down, a pair of large wings, constructed from bones and held together by a thin, leathery and tattered membrane, extended from the dragon's back at either side, around where her chest pressed into him. He gave them a powerful flap as his body grew. The threads of his clothing gave out with a soft ripping sound, and Andromalius brought up Shrista's legs to begin to accommodate the change.

    Ahrimann's black hair receded, and his flesh hardened as it distorted. His skull elongated and grew, and a long tail shot out from the base of his spine. Before another moment passed, Shrista was gliding over the wall on a skeletal dragon, and diving into the obfuscating green of the forest.

    On the inside, the alien pulse shuddered and broke a bit to the power of the Drow's fighting spirit. He was weakening, and she would be able to notice. The Banshee was content, though. Unless she could also fly, she would have no place to go once she regained control. The mount was on the smaller side of the dragon kind, so he was able to dart through the trees rather effectively, but he had to stay low until they were out of sight of the guard towers.

    Anyways... Godliness is a ruse. All there is out there are massively powerful entities with a plethora of understanding for how the world turns, and the spirit of the arcane. Just because you happen across a Wizard on the road, or a scholar or a fine warrior, it doesn't mean you have to swear fealty because you think they are better than you. You can become a God. Anyone can. All you need are some fancy illusions and some of those sheep to spread your word. All that lacks is ambition. Just look at Vespasian. He was nothing but a man until he gave the world a story. Same as I. Of course, that is where the similarities end. He was a hero. I was a villain. If you are interested, I do very much enjoy talking about myself. It would be a pleasure to enlighten you.
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    Shrista
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    Pariah, Apostate, Heretic

    I am not delicate!

    She buzzed with anger again, radiating fury at that last little snip, though it faded, overwhelmed by curiosity when he began to speak about Gods.
    Was it true? Could she be one of them? It seemed a little far fetched, her people had been worshiping hers for as long as any could record, though none of them had personally met Lolth than any might ever remember. Usually coming face to face with something of that scale, you didn't come back from the journey. But then how did they know about her, how had the word spread to become a following that crawled out into the Underdark, drawing them together to form her web?

    She didn't know who this Vespasian was, nor his deeds, but the way the Banshee spoke of him, it was as if he were assuming she did, common knowledge. The same way he spoke of himself being a villain, and both of them known, famous, or infamous in his case.

    Her interest piqued again she stopped her persistent aggression at Andromalius, and would have settled back with a blank look had she the features to express it.

    I don't know this Vespasian is. Or who you are, though from the way you speak, I get the impression that I should. Very well...I do hope it's entertaining, and you have an attractive voice. I'll count that as a plus.

    She instead turned her attention now to what she could see dimly, trees whipping past beneath a darkened sky, the ground just a blur over the dead dragon's wings and her own knees.
    Once again, drawn away from civilization out to the wilderness. She found herself wondering where exactly they were going, but as there was nothing to be done until he released her, she was left to stew in her own irritation and impatience.
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    Andromalius
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    His amused little chuckle quietly rolled in the back of her head in response to her initial offense. She was indeed a delicate thing, if it was so easy to anger her or tie strings to her limbs and puppet her about. Of course, such opinions did rest on the matter of perspective, and if you compared almost anyone to the sorcerer, they would be regarded as weak. That didn't mean he didn't have vulnerabilities, the most prevalent of which being a pretty face and an exciting conversation.

    Hmmm, he purred. Well, thank you. Banshees ought to have stirring voices, eh? You should hear what I can do with a pair of filled lungs. The Drow was pacifying herself, accepting his occupation, and it became increasingly less fun to be squeezed into such a tight space. It was time to release her. He had her where he wanted her, without a means of escape. Even the most moronic would understand how stupid it'd be to try and attack him on the back of his own dragon, lest they could also fly.

    It'd be like a thorn pulled from her side, or a great sensation of relief and mental space where her thoughts once again belonged only to her. The blue energy that acted as the physical representation of his soul began seeping out from her pores, then darted away in beautiful glowing streams until it all circled around Ahrimann's teeth and vanished.

    “Story time!” called Andromalius from within the dragon's skull. His fangs parted enough to allow the Banshee passage, having returned to his own physical vessel. He levitated away, but kept pace, and floated up and around until he landed, standing, on Ahrimann's exposed vertebrae, just about where his throat would've been. Here, he bent down on one knee before Shrista, partially ready to catch her if she swooned and fell from the rush of the release. Andromalius didn't assume she knew how to ride a dragon, let alone do this while combating cerebral changes and visual obscurity. The again, he'd only have to help her if she were that delicate.

    “I gave you my name, but not my titles. I am a Grandmaster of dark sorcery, also called Andromalius the Wicked, or Banshee King. That is because, you see, I was a king, and my reign lasted as long as I wanted it to. I am an unstoppable force on the face of this world. With the exception of newborns, and apparently subterranean cultures,” here, he raised a brow at her and shifted so that his arm hung from his knee, “there isn't a life I have not influenced.”

    “When I began, I had nothing. I'd spent three-hundred years imprisoned in my own tower for past crimes against Elenlond. Before long, however, I had my conjurations bring me information about the age in which I awoke. There was peace and it was all ripe for the plucking, so I started with Morrim. Two weeks.” He held up his middle and index finger. “It took two weeks for Empress Amiel to drop her guard, so that I could possess her – just as I did to you – and force her hand to sign her empire away. I'd managed to slither my way onto her council of advisers, and made sure there were witnesses present, so minimal suspicion aroused when I posed as a throne-sitter. Meanwhile, the empress mysteriously disappeared. She wasn't gone, of course. She was in my tower: chained to the wall on the top floor. I did enjoy torturing her...”

    Andromalius sighed dreamily, and his bright blue eyes drifted away towards the sky, “Her little fingers bloodied from clawing at the floor... How you could see the bones of her spine popping from her back... The way she refused to scream, but couldn't keep the terror out of her eyes... Mm, just thinking about it...” The phantom's mouth split into a wide and wicked grin. “I kept her there as I assimilated Morrim's army and gathered allies. I arranged deals with many of the tribal leaders of Ashoka, and when I had more firepower than I needed, I unleashed it all on Eldahar. By the setting of the sun, their Moghul had been slaughtered, their city reduced to ruins, and the nation was under my control. Now I claimed half of Soare, and put into position a governor to maintain control of Ashoka in my absence: Orion de Lacey, the current Moghul of the north. I think I chose well, considering he seems to have amassed quite a ferocious army in my most recent absence.”

    “Just after Ashoka was conquered, I let the world stew in its fear. Soto and Angkar both knew I was coming. A resistance was rising, but could not organize in time. Then, I did what the world has come to know me for best. In my possession was an artifact left to me by my former master called The Eye of Zanna. Before the gods of Mianor fell, the last known deity of Death was Zanna. Her eye had the capability to send out pulses of pure decay, somewhat slowly, but with an exponential, limitless range. The Empress finally died when her heart was torn out, and her soul was used to power the eye. After that, it was time to move on to Soto. I was leaving Angkar for last, see. While its military wasn't substantially threatening, its defenses in Ildri are likely the greatest in the world. I wanted to completely crush it, so I was going to wait until I had Soto in my collection.”

    “Things were going quite well. Soto was already frantic, what with all that'd happened around them, and then their resources took a major hit once the Eye of Zanna reached the Erth'netora. I made a secret deal with a mage guild, and they further fueled the paranoia by creating 'natural' disasters around populated areas. All that was left to do was kill a guild leader, frame another one for it, and slip in my own shadow politician who can claim to fix all the problems. Of course, I was the problem. The fellow would've worked for me, so they would come to trust him when everything magically stopped. After we had our hands deep into the economy, we would've had complete control. Only then would I reveal what they did not know – that I already ruled them.”

    Every word had been paced and well pronounced, but now came a bit of a lull. Towards the end, his tense changed. He spoke as though the last few plans had not been achieved. His gaze feel, he bit at the inside of his cheek, then returned his attention back to Shrista. “I was young and impetuous. I didn't know what I wanted, and I ran my conquest blindly. Destruction and misery on a massive scale is my talent, so I imagine I merely gravitated towards doing what was most comfortable. Something happened to me just after my men successfully killed a Sotoan council member, which caused me to abandon my throne.”
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    Shrista
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    Pariah, Apostate, Heretic

    As she felt him leave her body, and her own soul seeped back into her flesh, control returned in both a rush and a slow sluggish stream, slumping forwards slightly, one hand fluttering to her head and trying to shield her eyes from the sudden view, unfocused and bleeding colors into her. Moving caused a faint dizziness, the world lurching and spinning as she jolted, her legs pulled up awkwardly over the dragon's decaying flesh. Groggily she straightened herself up again, one hand gripping the exposed vertebrae of Ahrimann's back and supporting herself, without really thinking at all, just base actions without a conscious thought to guide it.

    "Mmm...you know...you could have just bloody well asked me to come out here."
    Her voice sounded distant to her own ears, but perhaps that was her own grasp on herself, though it had sounded calm enough and free of shakiness, if a little monotonous, still holding that slight snap to it. Her grip strengthened until it was fierce, white-knuckled, adjusting her legs to a more comfortable state and with some sluggishness, raised an eyebrow at the Banshee as if his sudden gentlemanliness was completely out of character for what she'd expected.

    Shrista snorted as he began to speak, shaking her head, finally coming back to herself and watching him with a sceptical expression on her foxish face. The way he spoke was so...full of himself, she felt amusement bubbling up within her, a sudden ridiculous outburst that was barely quelled, though a slight smile twitched onto her lips, mottled tongue running over her full lower one, the stud glinting for a bare second before it was gone, vanishing behind her teeth, bared in a fiendish grin.
    "You know, you're pretty full of yourself for a man that had everything and threw it away again. The key word here being had."

    Settling back, it didn't seem there was much she could do for the time being but listen, the part about his torturing the empress catching her attention briefly, though she gradually subsided back into a more nonchalant, bored air again, listening more to the sound of his voice than his actual words. When he finished she glanced up, one eyebrow raised as the expectant silence dragged out into the awkward zone, then stretched, watching him with one eye as she closed the other and squinted, yawning.
    "Well, wasn't that lovely."
    She slowly got to her feet on the creature's back, flexing her legs and making sure they worked, if a little stiff, and flashed him a broad smile.
    "Well, charming as this has been, I tire of this, and I'm not exactly providing you with the greatest audience either. To be honest...I'm a bit bored. I'm sure you'll find some squirrels or something out there who'll make better company. Ta-ta~!"

    With that she stepped off of the dragon's back and fell several feet as they continued speeding on their way, the air hardening beneath her into an invisible platform as she landed catlike on it, and began an easy descent on her invisible staircase, the air solidifying as her foot came down, and vanishing once she stopped making contact with it, swinging her arms cheerfully as she pranced down to the forest floor, boots crunching softly as they crushed drying dead leaves and twigs making a thick carpet beneath the trees.
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