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| Topic Started: Feb 2 2014, 01:53 PM (1,869 Views) | |
| Phaedrus | Mar 19 2014, 04:23 PM Post #26 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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What a perfectly awkward situation. Funny, how earlier in the day he'd had the passing fancy of ending up in a whorehouse. Little did he suspect it'd end up like… this. He hoped his companion's mood would lighten -- his disdainful frown and glare was something of a joy-killer, even with the courtesan dancing playfully in his lap. He looks like he's at a funeral, not a brothel. Then again, that had been the mage's expression for much of the day, spare for the rare, polite smiles that looked out of place on his features. Was he so starved for company that he was desperate to spend his days with a man caught in the midst of a hundred grimaces? Perhaps it was the Sickness waving so distinctly over their form, the boiling portent of the Gate so near them at all times. Phaedrus leaned back with half-lidded eyes, feeling reluctance as the courtesan slipped off him to fulfill his order and took all her warmth with, chiming merrily out the door. The necromancer spent some moments sprawled there, looking vaguely bored as his gaze followed Gale from his chair to the cabinet. Still, the man refused to utter a word, and silence weighed heavily in the room, a maggot that gnawed at his guts. Silence was depressing. Led to miserable thoughts, lent the mind too much time to reflect. Some Gates were absolute silence, and those were the worst. The ones with no screams, no whispers, no clawing hands or inhuman shrieks -- just Death, as most people imagined it. Still. Blank. Endless, suffocating in its absence of sound. There is nothing worse than having only your thoughts to keep you company. Gates, Gates -- why did his mind always come back to Gates? The necromancer shook his head, curls bouncing, wondering if the air and his companion's sour mood took their toll on him. "Is that husk?" He ventured, taking a tentative jab at the wall of silence that had sprung up between them. "I do not smoke often." A jaunty smile hung on his lips, like a creaking sign ready to swing off with a bad wind and shatter on the floor at any moment. With a grunt, Phaedrus swung to his feet, wondering at the effort needed to pry oneself from the deep, plush cushions. I bet there's a corpse of the previous sitter lodged somewhere in there, and no one has even noticed. Phaedrus watched the mage expertly tip the drug into the pipe, observing his practiced movements. Well-acquainted with it, are we? He hadn't taken the sorcerer to be a smoker, but then, he hadn't expected a lot of things. Still waters, strange habits? Shrugging, the necromancer helped himself, albeit putting a more modest amount into the pipe, tamping it down with an amateur finger. "I prefer wine, I confess, it tastes better…" Like talking to a wall. He might as well have locked himself inside a room and spent hours tittering at a desk. Surely the wood would make more facial expressions. Humming, the sorcerer put it to his lips and lit the pipe with a small flame of his own conjuring, and inhaled. He immediately regretted it, nearly dropped the wood in a hacking cough, and composed himself, swallowing down the taste of smoke. Rank. Barbaric. Whatever it was, he hoped it'd do its job swiftly. Phaedrus flopped back into the chair, sucking at the pipe for want of something better to do, and ignored the curling heat that choked his lungs and throat. The necromancer leaned his head back and puffed out, looking like an exceptionally bored dragon. No doubt his attempts to lance away the silence would only annoy his companion, make him clam up further -- he seemed like one of those types. Resigning himself to the awkward quiet, Phaedrus closed his eyes, eagerly anticipating the click and chime that would herald the arrival of the courtesans. He never stayed sober for long in brothels. Couldn't stand it, in truth. It was impossible to delude himself that they actually enjoyed their job when his head was clear. Even harder to let go of the mocking voice in the back of his mind that reminded him of what a farce it all was. Another deep drag, and his head felt like one of those… curious hot-air contraptions he'd seen once at a Wizard's Faire. Swelling up before it floated away, caught in the ceiling beams. A relaxed tingling went down his arms, to the tips of his fingers, warming them pleasantly. Seven hells. He felt like he sunk even further into the cushions, no longer entirely sure where they began and where his sleeves ended -- but the necromancer didn't feel like mustering the energy to extricate himself, content to just… lie there, somewhat. Thoughts still buzzed unpleasantly around the inside of his skull, though they'd slowed with the husk, like bees to smoke. ' I apologize for the trouble. ' The voice sprung from nowhere, pierced his mind with a delayed, tinny echo. I, I, I…. Phaedrus started somewhat, pipe dangling loosely from his fingers, mouth halfway open. For a horrifying moment, he didn't recognize it, didn't know it as anything besides a clawing intrusion into his consciousness, a memory of a snake's rattle, shivering deep in his skull and down his spine. The necromancer's eyes snapped open, swiveled on Galeas, and the world suddenly snapped back together again, the origin of the voice clicking like a neat puzzle, fit back into recent events. Oh. He let out the breath he was not even aware of holding. Devils, right, what am I thinking… Phaedrus abandoned the pipe for a moment, waved a hand through the haze of smoke. "…Oh. It is no trouble." A rather unexpected apology, but appreciated nonetheless. He forced a titter off his lips. "It is not often…" I have company? I call people friends? His head spun like a child's toy, made his words into taffy. "…I go with company, of course, but this was an exception. If we were going to be fucked, then, well." He tittered suddenly, more uncontrollably, terrifically pleased with his own cleverness. "We might as well get fucked." Phaedrus twirled the pipe around, gesturing aimlessly at the murky ceiling, and watched as some ash trickled down, spinning wildly in the air before alighting on his pants. He felt a strange mix of heavy warmth edged with the slightest paranoia. Taut and relaxed at once. He wasn't sure if he liked it, gave a suspicious look at the pipe before he tapped it absently against an ash tray. Perhaps I just need a few drinks. He always needed a few drinks. Being sober was a nightmare of obligation and painful awareness, pinging around from distraction to distraction until he collapsed into bed. And sometimes bed was a hellish experience of night sweats and terrors and screaming, unless someone occupied it. Not that they stayed long. Where was the wine, dammit? The necromancer perked as the door opened again, led by the woman with raven hair--the brunette followed, giggling as she towed along an effeminate man, dressed in nothing but a jingling thong that… well. Oh. Phaedrus averted to his eyes to the goddess that approached with a tray of wine, the only thing he wanted in his moment of existence. If there is a god, I must thank them for women and wine. A smile warmed his face as she resumed her place on his lap, uncorking it with a satisfying pop and flourish, her silks trailing as she expertly poured a glass. "Oh, perfect," the necromancer sighed, taking the fine glass. It flashed with gold leaf embroidery, far too pretty to drink out of, for his tastes--but wine was wine. "My thanks. But it's no fun to drink alone. Do have some." She flashed a smile as she put the tray on the desk, tossing her rippling hair behind her, then slowly danced down, taking a playful sip from his glass. Phaedrus grinned, not protesting when she teased the glass from his hands and put its stem between her breasts, keeping it in place with little but cleavage and the scant, gauzy cloth that flowed over them. Good god. "Your turn," she giggled, trailing her finger down his lips where they hung open in delight. He scarcely needed much prompting, leaning forward while she tipped a prodigious amount into his mouth, laughing all the while. After a deep draught, the man's head bounced up, a grin on his features. "What a marvelous talent you have," he praised, a titter nearly off his lips while his emboldened hand trailed up her back and into her hair. He'd just prepared to steal a kiss before another damn distortion rippled through the aether, and the intrusive voice stabbed a hole through his questionable thoughts, making the necromancer's head snap around. Seven hells, what now? Annoyance flared in his face as he stared at the mage, eyes narrowed. Ill-will? After all I've done? "My mistake," Phaedrus hissed, then bit his tongue, reining back his temper. "I was simply trying to make you happy. I see my guess was incorrect." But no, of course it is ill-will, because I am a necromancer, am I not? I am positively dripping with malice, after saving you from hanging in the name of the Moghul. He almost rolled his eyes, settled instead upon flopping his head back and calming himself with a view of the most magnificent breasts he had ever seen. "Please, don't be shy about speaking up if something is not to your liking." The sorcerer tossed one hand sourly for emphasis, hoping the mage would get the damned point, voice tense. He didn't like people trampling on his mind like that -- it was understandable for the purposes of stealth or planning, like in the tavern, but now? Shut up, shut up, shut up. Don't think about… him. You are mad. The drug has gotten to you. Look, look at the tits, damn you. The courtesan put on a sad pout, handing him the glass and tangling her fingers in his hair. "You look so tense," she cooed, moving so her silks grazed his chest and neck. "Do you need a massage?" Her thumbs traced circles on his neck, hands moving to fan out on his shoulders and rub them, breasts bouncing all the while. He watched them, dispelling all thought of the mage and Alloces in the meantime, draining most of his wine glass in one sip. he necromancer immediately reached for the bottle, tittering lightly. "Well." He smiled behind the spout of red. "How could I refuse?" The courtesan giggled, her laugh like a wind chime, and he closed his eyes as the woman kneaded at his shoulders, making him feel somewhat better. A second pair of hands worked at his belt, and he presumed it was the second woman, until they trailed up his shirt. What big han-- Phaedrus snapped his eyes open, couldn't contain a surprised yelp. "No," he almost yelled, spilling his wine. The male courtesan looked up in surprise. "No, no, no." His rejection became more vehement, anger rolling across his commanding tone, apparently unable to think of anything else to say. The raven-haired woman paused what she was doing, hands off his chest, much to his annoyance. "No," the necromancer repeated one more time before he calmed himself, one hand clawing at the chair. "None of that. Not today." A sharp titter pierced the room. His eyes flicked over to Galeas, narrowing. "I am not into men, though I'm sure it was not meant in ill will." A smile as treacherous as a double-bladed knife opened up his lips. The poor courtesan looked like a punchline to a bad joke, his headpiece chiming as he looked from Galeas to Phaedrus with increasing puzzlement. The necromancer waved him over, smiled into his ear. "My mistake. Perhaps he needs some convincing." The necromancer winked. "I think a drinking game is in order, perhaps, to lighten moods. Bring an entire bottle of your strongest liquor," Phaedrus breezed, reclining into the cushions. "And please do continue," he nodded to the raven-haired girl, who graced him with her deft hands again. Nodding, the male courtesan left the room, jingling all the way. Phaedrus rolled his head back into the pillows, shooting a brief glare at Galeas that looked like the very portent of Death. His chilly eyes left the mage to travel up to the woman again, warming to a hazy, swimming blue. Edited by Phaedrus, Mar 19 2014, 04:23 PM.
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| Galeas | Mar 20 2014, 04:36 PM Post #27 |
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// What she plaid. Derp. // What a lovely reaction. And still, he wouldn't say a word. Not out loud at least. Just grunt, as the other hissed how they had just wanted to please him, their glare making him sense a type of bitterness. Sure would've been a lot more happier if you didn't try such a thing in the first place... He couldn't really remember when he had felt truly happy the last time, but it didn't matter. Maybe his feelings had died along with those dearest to him, but he wouldn't allow himself to go into it really, work on the problem. No, he shoved it aside, busying his thought with the research that gave him a purpose. He had lived like this for the past years, might as well keep to it until the end of his days, which shouldn't be too far away if he encountered any more of the likes of Phaedrus. If he did, he could just hope the Gods would bless him with a stroke that relieved his caged Soul from their presence. And the very pointlesness of Life, not that he took it for a struggle that needed to reach eternal closure yet. Every day was a gift, in a sense, letting him finish another sentence in the thicket of lines that marked achievements in the fields he studied, yet reaching nothing that mattered. Having it all End by one's own hand and choice was out of the question however, no matter how wasted the last decades would be, for doing so would've made him no better than the person he denied ever excisted. Who had caused it all, made him like... this. He stood still, face blank, cyan eyes observing as the Boy rolled up slowly, obedient to what he had told them. It wasn't his way to shove a problem into other's lap, pass it on, but being somewhat tipsy and on drugs before the dusk had even considered settling - some called it dinnertime - wasn't really his usual routine either. Guess he could forgive himself the words of mischief, just this once. Maybe? His look traced the movement that plaid before him like a poorly written piece of stage artistry, it's events being highly predictable and involving quite the bit of cleavage as the main focus. Yet, the script held a part that was left blank, room for improvisation from the Necromancer's side, something he awaited. They seemed to be too occupied by the female to notice the male courtesan approach at all, which made a smirk creep into his face. Why was he watching this again? It was wrong, making a terrible feeling travel down his spine over the sight he might witness, something that he didn't feel was meant for his eyes at all. Thus, he turned his look away, only for it to meet the one of the lady from before. They flicked their shades of bark, a light and chiming step carrying the petite figure to his side. And then they stared up, Depths linked to those of his. Were they looking for something? Expecting a request? Too bad he had none. The girl gave him a push on the chest with the tips of their fingers, it being somewhat unpleasantly forceful against his sternum, making him take a step back. His heel collided with the chair and after giving it an alerted look he saw the girl was gesturing him to take a seat. Wonder if they were planning something, since he seemed to not be the only silent one in the room. Were they mute? All he had heard from them so far was giggle. If they weren't and held their tongue by choice, well... Guess he wasn't that much better, since even with his ability to speak being on the level of a normal person he had not uttered anything at all for the past hour or so. In slight confusement he grabbed the armrests and levered himself down, sliding to sit deep on the cushioned seat whilst his look traced that of the girl who went for the tall closet next to him. Then Phaedrus spilled their wine, along with their temper, making his hues dart at them. And five times No, said the Necromancer. Had they ran out of witty words? How unfortunate. He hadn't assumed the hateful smolder that was thrown at him would have been this satisfying. Truly. A smirk creeped over his features as they explained how they neither were into Boys and the like, but he would do nothing but stare, his brows knitting just a bit to make his smile a tad bit malevolent. A feeling was grasping his insides, but this time it wasn't pain. His grip distanced the pipe from his lips just a bit. DO. NOT. LA- Decency, now is not the time. We are intoxicated. Being unable to restrain himself, or maybe just given up, he bursted out into something that was in the middle of loud chuckle and contained laughter, not having a tone in particular. It certainly wasn't mocking, but neither was it pure Joy. An in-between, unrecognizable and completely out of place when executed in the voice he harnessed. After just a few seconds it made him cough, hacking to that, as if he was punished for his savage manners by expressing amusement towards someone's... 'misfortune'. He leaned forward, grasping his chest as if he was currently having a heart attack, a set of invisible claws having just dug in to play with his lungs. Gods, this is what one gets for smoking...And drinking... And running. Dammit, if I die now, the Necromancer is going to be the last one to laugh after all. As the reaction slowly died out he cleared his throat, slinging himself against the back of the chair. A faint hum muttered behind his teeth and he heard the brunette giggle too, their form being hidden behind the open door of the mahogany closet. If it was addressed to him or the Necromancer, he couldn't decide, but it mattered little. Could've been both. As Phaedrus summoned the boy back to their direction and tittered something in their ear, he couldn't help wondering what they might be planning now. I swear, if he tries to bounce that confused youngling back at me... I will freeze the insides of his pants solid. May the Gods smite me, I am done playing games. Upon the announcement of Phaedrus' yet another marvelous idea, his own plotting was halted and he exhaled sharply, the fresh blueprints inside his head vanishing. A drinking game with strongest liquor? Someone was on a rush. Couldn't really say No to that, just hope it didn't involve groping and the like - he traced as the male courtesan left the room - or throwing wine across the room at targets, something he remembered from his youth. Oh, those times had been too wild... And furniture and carpet defiling. Wonder how he had survived all that, back in the day, having angered quite a few with the other youngsters of the neighbourhood by plaguing the area. Yelling, laughing... Damn, if he had come across a gang like that now, he would have planted a well aimed bolt in all of their heads... Should they had trespassed his yard. Thus why he lived in the woods, only being bothered by a twelve year old at times. And their goats. How the hell had his trail of thought returned to that one again... Better dismiss it, this is hardly the place to memorize such things, along with wondering how the Garden was doing... Hope it had not burnt down... Or gotten eaten by those blasted animals. His searching look shifted to the lady's direction from that of his accomplice and as the girl withdrew from examining the shelves he arched his brows a bit. They were holding an instrument, a violin to be exact. He exhaled, staring as their delicate feet took them through the mist to stand before him, then turning on their heel in a rustle of their almost transparent attire before lowering to sit on his lap. Alright then, just this once. It was not like they had an agenda he would disapprove with, since music was hardly so. ' Any requests? ' A voice echoed in the walls of his skull. It felt warm, even if it had infiltrated his Mind unexpectedly, having the softness of summer rain and cutting through his conciousness like a knife that was so sharp one was able to feel hardly nothing. His frown returned and he looked around for a familiar figure. Can't be Her, how did she find me, crap... He rolled the pipe in his hand. Sure it must be a hallucination, She has been gone for decades, not even sure if that was Her voice... The courtesan noticed his disoriented look and his sudden flinch, reaching a hand to stroke his bearded chin. What on... The girl smiled, tapping the violin markingly. Another telepath? This was just getting better and better... What an interesting multitalent they held. Wonder why their aura had not signaled anything before. As they laid themselves sideways on his lap, feet dangling over the armrest whilst their head rested against the other, he shook his head. No, play whatever you want for all I care. He brought the bit to his mouth again, shifting to look into the distance. ' Where are you from, Mister? ' The voice sang again and the lady closed her eyes, bringing the instrument against her chin and laying the bow on the strings delicately. ' I don't see how that is relevant... ' He responded, giving them a tired glance. She giggled out loud. ' May I guess...? ' ' Don't let me stop you... ' ' I say you are Sotoan, Mister. You have the looks and manners of a Cumulonimbus, guided by cold Wind and followed by Darkness and Rain. A Grim path. ' ' I don't strike Lightning... ' ' That is not relevant, Mister. ' Her voice teased, like she had snapped him on the wrist in return by his own words. How annoyingly witty. He grunted, trying to dismiss the playfulness that was getting to his nerves. She shook her head, earrings whipping her cheeks as she took a better grip of the bow and the neck of the violin, rolling her elbows upon taking a better position whilst laying down. Then she brough the hairs of a grey stallion down on the strings, playing the first notes. The melody was familiar, yet not one he thought of fondly. Or held too close to be able to remember all of it, just faint parts that crawled into the surface of his Mind from somewhere deep. Forgotten tunes. Her approach was a practiced one, the strokes accurate and swift, small fingers dancing on the narrow ebony stage in fine artistry. ' Why are you like that? This is supposed to be a happy occasion... ' She probed him amidst playing, tone a bit flattened, eyes glimmering in the candlelight. ' So many questions. I have one too, actually. How does a skillful telepath like you end up in a place like this? Such waste... ' He leaned back heavily, his voice crumbling a distant disappointment. ' Oh, my talent is not by choice, Mister... ' She answered and as his hues moved down, she sticked out her tongue. Or what was left of it. I see... His irritated expression softened some and he looked away. ' Forgive me for the tactless qu- ' ' Don't worry about it. The one who did it has now suffered in return... ' A disturbing smile. More vengeful women, what next. He felt like rolling his eyes, just his luck, but kept from such disrespect and ended up letting out a nod instead. Her gaze returned to look at him a few more times, but he wouldn't answer the look. Instead he listened, letting the tune flow and busy his Mind, keep it in the moment. Even with the flashing images of fields of snow and pine forests the music was pleasing, not loud enough to disturb those outside the room whilst keeping it's brightness and slight depth. As she nibbled the last notes with her fingertips, an approaching presence disturbed his psychic radar. It surprised him somewhat that he was able to sense it, even with everything he had recently consumed, but guess it was a talent that would never be fully disabled. Unfortunately. The door opened shortly after. The girl giggled and flipped herself to sitting, then bouncing up in a loud clink of her bracelets and ridding their grip from the violin, putting it to rest against the closet. She gestured briefly to the boy that had returned with the requested liquor, then swinging her hues down at the Scholar, putting her palms on his knees and leaning over. A bit too close to his liking, since her face drew so near she might as well have gone all the way. Still, he wouldn't move. Not that he could've, having submerged to his seating. ' Play with us, Mister Dark Skies. ' Her voice chirped. By the tone and the mischievous look that stared from under carefully formed brows he could tell it wasn't really a suggestion, more of an order. Thus why she didn't wait for an answer and took his hand, pulling him up to his feet in quite a bit of force, her step dancing, almost afloat. These people, no patience whatsoever... The boy had set a round end table to the middle of the room, pouring glassfuls for four. He glanced absently at the Necromancer, something he regretted right away. Someone would have to interrupt them and it sure wasn't going to be him, in the name of all the Gods, old and new. Disapproving chill went down his spine and he picked up his chair by the back with his free hand, swinging it to it's new spot around the table. Seems they had placed one of the candles on the middle of it. Delightful, would have been such a shame to not be able to see the faces of the small company that surrounded him. He put down the pipe and relieved himself from the sudden urge to cough once again, doing so against his fist whilst sitting down. The lady jumped to his side, chiming happily and sliding to sit on the arm of the chair, feet resting against his thigh and supporting her somewhat interesting choice of residence. And then she picked up his headpiece from the back spire of the seat, slipping it over her features in a bit of a struggle - ' How the hell are you able to wear this daily? ' - and grinning at him. You better give that back later... And stop staring, it is disturbing. A thoughtful hum escaped her throat, signaling she wasn't done yet, her slender digits reaching to snatch the smoking instrument from his loose grip. The scholar leaned to the side, opposite from her, tapping his chin. She pouted playfully, smile sprouting in her eyes like a shy Dawn. Why can't this day be over already... " We are going to play a game of Rhymes and Riddles. I'll narrate. My gents, ladies, have one for starters. " The male courtesan announced in a velvety voice, sitting on a stool, legs crossed, on the other side of the table. The mute next to the Scholar raised a shot glass, the hood almost slipping into her eyes. ' Fuck...You have a big head. ' He gave her a short glare. No swearing into my head. Nevertheless, he picked up his drink and about mid way the girl dipped to clink - how cheerful, considering we are all in drugs up to our necks and it is about to get worse - and he nodded, downing it the same time with the newfound telepath. This might get interesting... Wonder if stutter emitted through psionic abilities... Riddles? He had heard many during his lifetime, but guess such things didn't matter now. It wasn't the point, since there was only one goal behind the whole game. Play, until you forgot about it and were too deep in the liquor to be able to utter your thoughts out loud. Or in an understandable sense. He mused that if the rest of the party in the room was even close to the level of delusional as he was, this game might end a lot sooner than any of them expected. In his part, to say the least, since Phaedrus' alcohol tolerance hardly was his concern. Or was, in a sense, since one never knew what a Necromancer went around doing in the dark when everyone else's lights had been extinguished, but he was yet to make up a solid opinion on them. So far, they had seemed like setting men's pants on fire was their side occupation. And enjoyed life by the code of hedonism. To the fullest, as they called it. Wonder if it meant only their stomach, or did it have something else to it, he wouldn't know. Again, one more thing he didn't want to ponder on. " Stealthy as a shadow in the dead of night. Cunning but affectionate if given a bite. Never owned but often loved. At my sport considered cruel. But that's because you never know me at all. What am I? " Phaedrus? Sure looked snarky and about to get bitten. No, better not look into their direction at all, spare himself from a couple of nightmares. The riddle was first passed on to the other participants, the boy pouring down the next round whilst the other's were fabricating an answer. Should they not know it, they were made to drink. |
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| Phaedrus | Mar 29 2014, 05:09 PM Post #28 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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He laughed. The necromancer stared at him, half indignant, half amazed. What he might have normally taken as an act of malice, he took as a miracle. Brow quirked, Phaedrus watched the mage chuckle in a rich baritone, sounding strange and out of place on his features. The universe promptly punished him for expressing any joy, though, for the next moment he clutched his chest like he was dying. Phaedrus sat up in his chair, leaning forward with the expectation the sorcerer would keel over -- but it fizzled into a hacking cough. How anticlimactic. He felt glad the mage hadn't died -- what a mess that'd have been -- but couldn't control a curl of his lip, pale fingers drumming the chair. A titter floated from his lips, bubbling in an unbroken stream until it reached a high-pitched chime. Devils, why was that so amusing? Partly the drug, partly how sourly the situation could have gone, and the fact he'd managed to make the sorcerer laugh at all -- granted, on his expense, but he understood the delight in that kind of humor. Maybe that's why he's so sordid. If he laughs, he'll rupture something. He laughed far past the point it should have been funny -- couldn't stop, tittering at the fact he was still chuckling, sinking further into the cushions, until the malice drained from his giggle and became pure intoxication. The courtesan had joined in, making a chorus of laughter and chiming bracelets, gracing the ears like the sound of bells. Whatever malice curled at the foot of his heart had slunk off, shooed by the warmth of the courtesan and the taste of wine. Forget, forget, forget. How easy to, in warm arms and a hazed mind, a body sinking into a cloud of cushions, a view of… endowment. The first inklings of peace. Not that it would last long. But cold reality misted away, burnt out by the distraction before him. Galeas might as well have not existed at all -- the tension of the day drained under the courtesan's touch, the world shrinking to his glass and her body, adorned by so much gauze, clinking with chains and headpieces. He didn't remember when his hand found its way to her bottom, but it was there now, and quite resolutely refused to leave. Her giggle made him smile, made him stare right up into her mischievous grin. "Why so quiet?" The courtesan murmured, twirling his dark hair in her fingers. Indeed, the room had become some kind of tomb, spare for the clink of jewelry, as the mage had gone deathly silent. Mercifully, the sound of a violin picked up, and Phaedrus flicked his eyes over to note the brunette playing gracefully, a smile at his lips. "Why." A titter, punctuated by a sip of wine. "Because I am happy, of course." "You were so lively earlier," the woman whispered into his ear. Not the most seductive thing to hear, perhaps, but a shiver went down his spine nonetheless. He purposefully crossed his legs, hurriedly adjusting his tunic. "I like the sound of your voice." Her finger followed the slope of his jaw. "Where are you from?" "Madrid." A chime of a laugh. "But it is far too cold there. Ashoka is much more inviting." Indeed, it has better whores. He squeezed her bottom, beyond caring if the mage saw -- perhaps he needed a tutorial, at this rate. The courtesan gave a happy sigh, sinking against him and plucking at the strings of his tunic. "Madrid. I've always wanted to see Madrid. Tell me. Is it as beautiful as they say?" She fixed him with those dark eyes, like an unlit desert sky, a smile tugging her full lips. Is it? He thought on the snow-covered houses, white flakes falling in a silent world, over the decayed beds of flowers and cobblestones, the deathly quiet of the forests. Thought on the sun breaking through the boughs, red turning the slush to a lurid scene, his hands numb, fumbling with nightshade. Thought on the strange girl he'd met, the gleaming fabrics of the Councillors, the lazy summer drone of bees and the freshness of wine. All beautiful, and wonderful, lush, and yet -- not his home. He had no ties there, no familiarity. The desert held memory for him, the violent sun stirred him into awareness -- the bitter, blackened castles and snapping winds, the barren dunes. That was his home. How to explain. "Yes," he tittered, one hand reaching up to trace her jaw, stroke it there, gently. "The city is full of such wonderful gardens. And in the spring, when all the flowers bloom, it's easy to spent hours simply wandering about… to take boats upon the rivers, and drink wine as the trees shed their leaves…" was he rambling? He was sort of rambling, glazing over, his mouth moving of its own accord, verging on the frightening leap to poetry. He let himself be swept by the music, felt himself hinging on every note, his mood moving with its melancholy. He felt content to fall silent, merely listen, mind rolling. "Such talent," the necromancer murmured, opening his eyes to see the woman atop him giggle. "What's yours?" The necromancer smiled, and her lips opened into a mischievous smirk, finger trailing down his tunic. "It's of an entirely different sort," she giggled into his ear, repositioning herself so her face was inches from his own. A moment later, she'd sealed off any response with a kiss, obliterating any thought of the mage or the other courtesan. He didn't hear the door chime open, or see the boy stroll in with the liquor in hand -- he was occupied by something far more pleasant, namely the feeling of ass in one hand, the cold clink of a wineglass in the other, and a face full of lips. And tongue. Too soon, it was over -- she broke away laughingly, leaving him dazed, her hair bouncing around her chest as she swept up, cupping his face with her hands. "Come on, my poet. Are you half as clever with riddles as you are with words? Let's play a game." A game? His mind struggled to put itself together, irritated at the sudden absence of her kiss. Who had ordered a-- oh. Devils, right. With reluctance, he drained the rest of his glass and let her tug him up, slipping off his lap and laughing like a dancing nymph. The necromancer swung to his feet, realizing with a sudden start how the floor reeled and the room wiggled before fitting back together again. Oh… gods… He was high. Terribly, horribly, wonderfully high, that sort of moment where it all slammed together, and he was still sober enough to realize. She led him to a different chair, one near a table, and flounced back onto his lap as soon as he sunk into it. "I love this game," the courtesan whispered into his ear, every giggle and wiggle and movement an endless distraction. "Riddles are my favorite." Phaedrus tittered uncontrollably, muffling it only when he put a delicate hand to his lips. "…So the losers drink, and the winner stays sober? That's no fun. I will be nursing your hangovers, at that rate." Arrogant, perhaps, but was truth really arrogance? Heavens, there was no game better tailored to his skills. It was like asking him to eat a pie for money. The courtesan had settled into a comfortable position, twirling his hair again, and her lips pursed in contemplation as the man began with a riddle. Stealthy as a shadow in the dead of night. Cunning but affectionate if given a bite. Never owned but often loved. A smile spread across Phaedrus' face as the male went on. By the end, it had curled into a twisted little smirk, eyelids lowered in lazy thought. A chuckle broke the stumped silence that followed, for an answer had immediately leapt to mind. "Why. That is easy. A cat, of course." Perhaps he recognized it because he owned… oh, say, half a dozen at any given time, though -- as the riddle aptly put it -- "owned" was a tenuous term. More like entertained. They came and went, though there was one that felt a particular fondness for the indoors. And a fondness for him, for she had the tendency to leave him… presents, and curl upon his chest in the dead of night. The male courtesan chimed as he nodded, brandishing the shot. "That's right," he laughed in a purring ripple, shrugging. He slammed back the liquor, and the woman atop Phaedrus' lap followed suit after a delighted clap and giggle. The necromancer lifted the dainty glass and swallowed it with a flourish, grimacing past the bitter bite and burn of the alcohol. Well. Not his favorite, but it would get the job done. He tittered, shifted as the courtesan curled to a more comfortable position-- much like a cat herself --and thought on a riddle, twirling the glass in his fingers. "Hmm." The necromancer smiled, wondered just what to say. Cats, cats… He thought suddenly on his favorite visitor, her tail curled on his counter, finding her nibbling on a salmon he'd planned to prepare for dinner. Wretched, and wonderful things. It sparked an idea, and he set the glass down as the raven-haired courtesan refilled both of theirs, handing the bottle to the others. "...I've got one. Alive without breath. As cold as death; never thirsty, ever drinking. All in mail, never clinking." He flashed a mischievous grin. "What am I?" |
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| Galeas | Apr 13 2014, 11:29 AM Post #29 |
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- I will be nursing your hangovers... Lovely twist of arrogance their voice held, yet he wouldn't take it as a meaningless chime of words. Maybe they were good with riddles, for they sure knew their route around by the use of cryptic articulation. And more or less amusing circumlocution. Hadn't taken them for a competitious one however, maybe he had been mistaken about their type of intellect. Winning and losing was all a matter of perspective, in this case he thought he would be more than Eligible to execute the latter. Since having been Happy to do something wasn't really part of his views. There were only goals and neccessities in which acts were plaid, was not a question of one's need to feel better about themselves or achieve Joy. Thus, his aim being that of blurring out the circumstances, including the whole past day and preferably his vision, it required a few crucial essentials to be filled. Might have to bend a few variables... As for the nursing, for the ladies' part he didn't really put much thought -take them all for all I care-, but the Necromancer better keep themselves outside his circle. Had enough invaders already, one of which was currently playing with the pipe whilst wiggling their bare toes on his person. The chill of his hues glanced down, at the restless feet and the numerous golden anklets that just... kept chiming. This is starting to give me a headache, drugs or not. He didn't have to say anything, for his wandering look made the disturbance stop miraculously, as usual. Smart woman, what a positive surprise. Letting out a sharp hum in the back of his throat, subtly, he shifted his stare at Phaedrus. According to the most delightful seconds of half-lidded silence they seemed to be conjuring an answer. Which they most likely knew, for they had been smirking like a loose screw during the verses, the disturbing expression -when on their dignified face in particular- deepening after each one. For a part he blamed the drug, otherwise he might have taken them for a half-wit with their surfaced amusement over so little. A cat. Marvelous. When was it that those vicious creatures didn't fill in some blanks of his day. He had received the exact hunch of the answer, but only as it was said out loud by an obvious Cat Lover -they were like their own race- if one was to judge the grin, it really hit him how much he disliked all felines. Sneaky, cowardly, ungrateful. And loud, if not by their step, then their rough tongues. Well, as the saying went, one either loves or hates them. He wouldn't call it hate, for it would have implied he had a type of feeling towards them, thus it was more of calm ignorance. He staid off their chaotic trails and if they brushed close by accident -or deliberately, for they were malicious by default- he took a few more steps away. A most successful tactic, so far. The mute on the armrest formed an entertained smile and sounded out a contained applause at the correct answer, her bracelets clinking like the shoes of an apocalyptic steed, drumming the insides of his skull. Stop moving, heavens above. Why can't everyone just. Sit still, for ten minutes. Was too much to ask in this company, for the longest immobility of all had been... What. Five seconds? This game might take too long for my nerves... After a fleeting moment of desicionmaking he reached for his filled glass absent-mindedly, almost as if by a habit and as he drew it closer he felt a few pairs of eyes questioning him. His elbow hoisted to the table, leaning against the sturdy surface. Was better to take support from the one thing that was sure to keep standing straight, for he might have spilled something otherwise. Why was the world spinning all of a sudden? Quick inhale. Lowering the glass, he explained. " In where I am from, another's correct answer counts as 'Losing'. " Upon the last word his look visited Phaedrus markingly, the rest of him blank so to not portray his means further. They were the one on a rush to begin with, maybe his addition to the regulations was to be welcomed. None surely would turn them down, should his recent observations still be intact and correct, too fresh on the log of events in his memory. Not awaiting for approval or anything of the contrary, he flashed a smirk and downed the drink. The day had been so terrible he was to cut himself some slack this once. Shrugging, the courtesan next to him followed the example in understanding. Their emptied glasses were reunited with the table at the same time in a dual clink, lovely accuracy in mimicking from her part. She shoved a grin at him before twirling herself off the seat, the cheerfulness of her features not flattening by the glower that met them for a brief moment. Or maybe she just didn't see the smolder that poured from under his brows, for the oversized hood was constantly hindering her vision. The smoke had ended its vapor from the instrument's chamber, seemed to be the reason for her sudden stroll to the familiar cabinet. Won't deny them from that. The lady took her time and meanwhile around the table a certain quietness ruled the air, falling heavy and thick, quite pleasing to that. Just a distant, ponderant hum of the Necromancer reached, making him muse what was it they were scribbling in their opaque mind. Maybe they had nothing at all unwinding in their head, just a ball of yarn being rolled against the round walls in utter pointle- Neow. His gaze shifted rapidly for he thought he had heard a distant meow, what an oblivious timing. As he searched about the corners of the room for the villain he realized it had been just the door of the cabinet creaking upon being closed. Damn hallucinations... As she returned, armed with a fresh ember and a generic smile, another riddle was uttered, this time in the multitones of Phaedrus' tittering vocals. The lady settled into the edge of the battlefield, reclaiming her previous spot and observing from her slightly higher seat like a bird of paradise with the piercing gaze of a falcon. The enigma had already gained a solution in his thought, for it was one of the classics, thus maybe a bit of a disappointment. Yet, all this was nothing, but understandable. Wasn't really the point to his or anyone's stay in this house to be challenging, productive or constructive. In intellectual fields anyway. The pipe appeared before his look that stared down at the glasses currently being filled, his stream of thought having slipped into a distracted fjord, slow to recover from the captivating swirl of what was being poured, the shapes it made. His brows arched in sudden awakening and he accepted the pipe with a nod, shooting a glance at the Necromancer upon taking a soothing drag. " I'd assume a Fish. " The Scholar opened, leaning back on his seating. The girl next to him inclined her head in approval, bobbing up and down in her place. Her smile widening, she hoisted her flat hand up cheerfully for a high five, but something seemed to change her mind mid-way and only in slight pause of her movement her arm arched to bring the digits to correct the hood again, what a marvelous masking of purpose. Didn't go unnoticed from him, thus he took her for a thoughtful learner. Was correct, he was not one to express success with... hitting hands together. Knowing a riddle didn't even count as an accomplishment, was just something that might keep him conscious for a tad bit longer. Taking what surrounded him, it was an achievement on the negative side. No offence meant to those in the room, more towards the whole consept of him being in the type of establishment as this. If only his Mind would have been able to escape, the unresting chiming having locked it out of his reach behind the iron doors of irritation. The boy across the table bobbed their head in a faint jingle, confirming that the game would move on. For some reason they gestured at him, throwing him the offer of chanting some twisted words and double meanings. Before he could shake his head the mute clapped in excitement, leaning her chin against her palm in anticipation. Pfff. Fine. He had one in store anyway, for he had learnt to expect something like this. It was not that he actually liked riddles, they were a meaningless past-time of some, questions that laid an answer within itself, alike to mathematics, so offering nothing new. If not a few fancy words. Alasia had been enthusiastic about such games however, already before she had been able to read. Thus why he knew a few, having browsed through them in the darkening evenings before her bedtime. The cyan glided over to Phaedrus, probingly for he didn't want to witness anything suspicious from their direction. " The army's approach can be heard from afar, all run from it when it reaches. The spears and swords of its soldiers strike and leave everything beaten. From those fallen, new sprouts. What is It? " Upon finishing his sentence, the Scholar let his look drift off to staring at the items on the table through foggy air, inhaling a cloud once in a while. His partner in her part had done the contrary and fixed at the Necromancer, eyes glimmering as she measured them up and down. |
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| Phaedrus | Apr 30 2014, 11:58 PM Post #30 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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Seems like the woman had the right idea. When the mute got up to refill the pipe, the dark-haired courtesan tittered, sweeping off his lap with a chime. Phaedrus opened his eyes more fully, suddenly aware of how empty his lap felt, and just how difficult it had become to… focus, really. He squinted a little, following her swaying hips to where she stopped by the cabinet, tapping some fresh herb into her pipe and chiming back over. She moved in a dazzling array of color, wreathed in a hazy smoke as she lit the device, a smile spreading across her full lips. In a smooth movement, she draped herself across him again, puffing a ring of smoke in his face, and extended the pipe, lips curved dangerously. Phaedrus blinked, trying to hold it in his watery vision -- it swam to and fro, and her chiming giggle had dulled, sounded far away. Against his better judgment, he took it delicately between two fingers, twirling it over. "Well, then." His tongue felt thick as honey, melting in his mouth, a pleasant tingling going up his cheeks. For some reason, it seemed awfully funny, and a stupid grin stretched across his features, imagining the courtesan to be something of a big cat. The way she curled about him, her hair tickling his neck, the way she wiggled ever so… as he stuck the pipe in his mouth, the necromancer gave her an admiring look, filling his lungs with a deep puff. And it was just as stinging and acrid as before -- though he coughed less as he exhaled, watching the smoke twist and curl like lost spirits, reaching up to the ceiling only to dissipate. He could taste the sweet burning in the back of his throat, lifting his head off its neck and up to the red drapes, where the rest of it had gone. A low buzzing had started between his ears, made him feel pleasantly mute for a few moments, content to watch as the courtesan took it back between her expert fingers, blowing out happy rings of smoke. She swayed a little, giggling, tilting her head back as they drifted outward and danced in a still breeze -- Phaedrus craned his head as well, so distracted by the little smoke nymphs that he almost forgot the mage had answered. Fish? …Fish. A high-pitched titter left him, smothered by his delicate hand. He couldn't quite form words in that moment, reduced to a sort of breathless laugh in the back of his throat. Instead, the necromancer clapped, making a sharp noise in the midst of that smoky, comfortable silence -- the courtesan tipped her head back in a deep, rolling laugh, waving her dark hand through the musk that had rolled like fog, dimming the room into a forest of impressions and voices that called through the mist. The room spun if he moved too quickly, making him sink back into the cushions, head lolling to stare at Shelfslayer. The doubles of the man oozed together slowly, like taffy, leaving him one wavering, gaunt-looking figure. "Well done." Whether his enthusiasm was genuine or mocking was hard to tell. To his contented sigh, the courtesan had started running her hands up his chest, emboldened by the smoke -- was the mage saying something…? Ahh-hhh. Phaedrus cracked his eyes open, hearing Galeas' words swim in the air. Yes, that felt excellent…. armies…. spears and swords will be in abundance if you keep doing that… An inappropriate srnk hooked his mouth into a smirk, hand roaming somewhere that earned a delighted squeak from the courtesan atop him, barely focusing on Galeas. Riddles, riddles… A sudden answer jumped in his mind, and he laughed aloud. "Devils. An orgasm?" Phaedrus shot jokingly, to the continued titter and occasional sharp noises of the raven-haired woman. "That's a sort of rain, is it not?" Wait… did he say that aloud? He was vaguely aware of his lips moving, his tongue curling and flapping into shapes, the sound of his voice upon the air-- but it all felt so terribly detached somehow; the mute's eyes were fixed on him, making him feel as though he'd spoken some other impulsive thought, but… had he? The room was suddenly confusing; was there something about fish earlier? His mind felt like an unraveling thread, his tongue unwinding spool, twisting on the floor in pretty colors. She was certainly staring, wasn't she… A devilish smile came to his face as he returned her look, albeit slightly spoilt by the clearly intoxicated look of his eyes. "A drink!" The woman clapped her hands sharply, laughing, and swept up the two shot glasses with a merry clinking; next, she slammed one back, placing the next on a silver tray with a mischievous glint in her eye. "But you mustn't use your hands. Just your mouth." A sly laugh escaped her as she shot a look at the other woman and two men, weighing if they'd participate in the little test of skills. Likely it would end in a weaving, thoroughly high group of people slopping liquor all over themselves, but… Very well. Rolling his shoulder in a shrug, Phaedrus looped his arms contentedly behind his head, squinting carefully at the shot glass. Don't miss, don't… He dipped forward, his nose nearly poking the liquid and inhaling it -- by some mercy, he skirted the glass, nearly knocking it over in his ill state, and saved himself by clinking it between his teeth; the necromancer threw his head back, keeping the glass stable with a near-inhuman flick of the tongue, forgetting himself for a moment. The liquid drained, he replaced it on the tray, lips curled. "Good?" Something almost devious skirted his tone, peeled off its honey layer, made it a touch sinister. The moment quickly fled, though, the darkness whipping back into its proper place, a smile at his lips. The courtesan seemed not to notice, swaying slightly atop him instead, and teased away the tray, rewarding him with a kiss. "How very deft." She broke off with a laugh, reaching for the pipe again, and frowned suddenly when she saw the light had extinguished to a curling smolder, giving the smoke an ashy tinge. "Oh, seven hells," she murmured, making a notion to get up again. Phaedrus put a gentle hand on her arm, tugging her gently down with a stifled giggle. "Oh, no need." He made a careful motion with his fingertips, squinting at the head of the pipe. "Watch, here," the necromancer purred, snapping them. A tiny flame leapt to life, a glowing, merry heart in the chamber of the pipe, causing the sickly-sweet smell of the herb to burn again. "Oh!" The courtesan blinked in some surprise as the ember jumped and spun. "You're a mage?" "Of sorts," Phaedrus purred, forgetting the game in favor of watching the delight play across her pretty features, the curiosity smoldering in those great, dark eyes. "I know a few tricks here and there." A mischievous titter left him as he resumed twirling her hair. "But my partner here--Shelfslayer, ahhh, he has the proper hat for it. I am not fond of storybook robes, I confess." His tongue would not stop moving faster than his better sense -- he found himself quite beyond the realm of caring if Galeas took offense or not; he did not even notice that he used the private nickname he'd decided for the mage. "Shelfslayer?" Her bell-clear laugh rang across the room, a delight to his ears, ringing and odd-feeling as they were. "What a valiant name. And what's yours?" Her devilish eyes fixed his, making his lips curve into a sly smile, a moment of comfortable contemplation stretching between them. "…Arsebane," Phaedrus decided, swirling the words in his mouth with a fiendish grin. His eyes glittered. "But shall we keep this a secret, then? I would hate to be run out from such lovely company." He tugged gently on the elaborate tassels and chains that draped her chest, so her grin was inches from his own. "Nothing's taboo here." A wicked smile graced her tan face. An approving laugh bubbled up from the male courtesan, who swirled another round of the liquor, smiling jauntily. "Lady Sigvard loves the unusual. The exotic," she purred directly into his ear, making a shiver go down his spine. Aaand I must adjust my tunic, it seems. She laughed, trailing a slender finger down his jaw, and he saw the pupils of her eyes had gone to slits, a strange amber around her iris, a sudden catlike sinuousness to her motions. After a moment, they darkened back to black, a stray hint of long canines flashing in her smile. A shifter? He stared with a mix of awe and interest. Or am I seeing things? Hardly time to ponder, for she'd pinned him to his seat like a jaguar and its prey. "So," she began laughingly, sliding against what absolutely, with no question in seven hells, needed to be adjusted. "What tricks do you have up your sleeve, Shelfslayer--" She tossed her head to the side, a ripple of ebony hair following, earrings clinking merrily. Her eyes flashed before she returned her stare to Phaedrus, wide and twinkling with curiosity. "--and Arsebane?" Edited by Phaedrus, May 1 2014, 02:00 PM.
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| Galeas | May 1 2014, 03:26 PM Post #31 |
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- That's a sort of rain, is it not? Good grief. All behold! The hour of sex jokes and puns had dawned, presented to you by no other but the Master Pervert, no-last-names-just-Phaedrus. Why, oh why? Was nothing funny about them whatsoever, no matter how mu- Then why was a smirk creeping onto his face... Ah, damn, announce your goodbyes to Dignity, for such a character seemed to just have drifted out the door for good. Well, as long as he wasn't laughing at that, there might be some hope left in the grounds of not submerging to the fellow sorcerer's level. The evening was still young though, opposing a bit of a challenge on that should it stay on its respected course. Which for now was doomed to remain as such for the captain Reasonable of the vessel seemed to have fallen asleep and caused the first mate Merry Lecher to take over the helm. Since when had that titter been so contagious... Mutiny, mutiny! When he sat there, on a surprisingly comfortable chair with all the cushions that one could fall deep into, his Mind glided to float somewhere above. He was in a way present, yet was not part of what took place, an outsider. The voices that stabbed through the blurring mist hardly caught his attention on the external, leaving his figure immobile and staring at the candle even if his person was somewhat aware of what was said. - A drink! Laughter and a diabolicly distorted clap reached from the Necromancer's direction, causing his unintentionally narrowed gaze to shift into investigating the disturbance. What exactly were they doing? His vision had fallen into state where everyone might as well have been a bunch of formless blobs, but for what he could make up the Necromancer was currently executing a peculiar way of downing their drink. The mute tugged his shoulder, holding a could-be-glass-of-liqour before him in assumed anticipation, her face framed by greyish blue fog. Is that...Why are you wearing my hat again...? After a short, half-lidded and distantly confused pause he waved his hand in refusal, the pipe dangling between his lips absently when he shook his head in further comfirmation. No way, still got enough sense left to not get involved in such a garment-defiling game. ' Damn, you are one bore... ' The chirping voice poked him, a pout taking over the courtesan's features for a fleeting moment. To further portray her disappointment, her digits reached to grab his chin and turn his head to face the piercing gaze. In contrary, his hues were somewhat disoriented, brows arching for a second in surprise. ' Well thank you, I've worked hard on that... ' His unrestrained thought blurted out in answer, accompanied by a light chuckle on the surface. Hah, indeed... The lingering hum of intoxicated amusement was halted when the Lady released him and leaned in closer, sliding to sit on his lap whilst her hands crossed behind his neck. A frown overlaid in protest. He felt like pushing her away, bumping the chiming figure off from the distance that had gotten a tad bit too intimate for his liking, but for a reason beyond obvious he felt too weakened to do so. Thus, a staring contest took place, cold and serious against warm and playful. Could you... Disperse? By any chance. Out of some twisted God's grace the duel was halted by an excited shout, it capturing the looks of both him and his opponent. Heads turned, his expression flickering in relief whilst the Lady's was that of disappointed towards the interruption. The question that followed made his pleased smirk vanish as fast as it had appeared. - You're a mage? For crying out loud, what had the Necromancer done now to demonstrate their questionable skills. He had not seen any obviously magical activity take place - apart from Phaedrus' having kept their dignified pants on against all odds - so he mused it must have been some type of a subtle trick. Or was his arse on fire and he had not managed to notice it yet. A brief examination inclined not, delightful. Maybe the Necromancer had a type of self control. Anyhow, the word Mage had managed to raise a questioning atmosphere all of a sudden, but against the tireing raise-your-hands-above-your-head-and-dont-you-dare-try-any-foul-witchery-or-you-will-be-executed that usually surfaced it was that of curious. A lovely surprise, but condemned to have many questions and suggestions to follow. Hopefully Phaedrus was the one to provide, for he was way too busy. With... stuff. Something. - Of sorts... More correct than you might think. So vague all of a sudden, Phaedrus? You sure you don't want to announce yet again that you indeed are an infamous Necromancer, with a specialty degree on arse-enlightment? I am sure you could turn it into another perverted joke.He almost started a chuckle over his thoughts, look fixed on the swirly symbols the smoke formed on its way toward the ceiling. To his dismay was not long until the conversation came to concern him as well, in a way that was far from flattering. Shelfslayer? The nickname took him for a pause, that of pondering over the origin. Wait... What... The images flashed backwards for a moment. Oh. Was the product of an early event from today, that which had intiated a few more of the unfortunate kind. Was creative, he had to give them that, but he wasn't deep enough on the drug to actually give it the merit it deserved. A wavering glare was thrown at the tittering speaker, a deep inhale amidst the ponder over what would be the best way to shut up an overly open Necromancer. If their locks caught flame, how long would it take them to notice? The courtesan, all brushed up against his chest like some overly attached domestic feline, let out a giggle along with the rest of the absurd collective and shook him back from the vengeful thoughs. No, he was above such barbaric acts. For now. Besides, Phaedrus was not even near of being done with their blabber. Damn right I have a proper hat. Or had, since it is now in the posession of another. He didn't really understand the joke over his choice of attire, for he had worn the type of garments all his life. Was not like he actually had to hide his talents, them being the more acceptable kind than those of our flowery Necromancer and so not causing dismay if mentioned. Had he not gotten laughed at before for the robes, he could have been offended, but in truth he had also grown numb when it came to Phaedrus' language that liked to twist things back and forth, making fun of anything that crossed their line of sight. Thus, he didn't take it personally. Bet they were just jealous for his professional appearance, of which he was fully aware of. Yes. Must have been that. Arsebane... A calling more valiant than the one before, with the similarity in disturbing accuracy. A grin took to the corners of his features, completely dismissing the unacceptance from before. Maybe it was for the best, be the honourary duet Shelfslayer and Arsebane, rather than something far more recognizable and way too official. After all, this was an occasion for which he hardly wanted to be remembered for, nor hear names to be exchanged in. Not if he could avoid it, in all honesty. What could not be diverted in such a fashion were the questions on the mage-subject though, being addressed both to him and... Arsebane, as was their noble status as of late. He had never though of his casting as mere tricks, thus why the words were a bit offensive in a sense. His talents were also the invisible kind for the most part, if one didn't count turning things into blocks of ice and levitating an object or two. I'll show you tricks, dammit. The one laying on him shifted a bit, the movement reminding him of the lingering intruder. The gloved digits went to give the top of his head a sweep in slight exhaustion, cyan hues visiting those that stared up at him. What? You expecting a show of my magnificent skills? Obviously this was the case, for a probing smile crept on the girl's lips, slender fingers tapping his shoulders in anticipation. " Apart from Shelfslaying? " His gaze fixed on the candle flame absently, voice muttering from between his teeth in similar fashion. " I don't have much up my sleeve at all. The honourary Arsebane has a academic award in sleight of hand however, of which he is happy to give a demonstration. " The Scholar announced, look turning slowly and markingly to Phaedrus as if he was opposing a challenge. Go on. Grace us with some of that exceptional and utterly hatless talent you have. If all goes according to the day so far, you can add a smoldering brothel into your resume. In personal closure he rid his vision from the Necromancer in a sustained and a tad bit pleased smirk, not noticing the mute's glower upon him. ' Why the evasion, Mister... Shelfslayer? ' The familiar voice asked, chiming index drawing circles on his robes absently. He wouldn't return their look, rather ignore it and take a dismissing drag of the pipe. ' Of casting? Well. Lets say I am above that. ' ' Really now... Do I need to make you? ' A malevolent, somewhat trickstery tone. He chuckled out loud mockingly in response. ' There is nothing you could possibl- ' His irritated uttering came to a sudden end when the Lady straightened up from their relaxed position, moved the pipe aside from his mouth and captured him into a most unexpected kiss. Amidst the distantly violent embrace he also noticed a jeweled hand sliding down along his figure, dangerously low. Even in such a blurred state of mind he recoiled quite fast, grabbing the girl's wrist. Stop that! At the same time all the light in the room disappeared, the candle on the table fusing out in an unattended counter-reaction. Like that wasn't enough, a crackle reached simultaneously in announcement of something having turned to shards of frost, quite violently to that. Shortly an unfitting giggle reached out in the pitch dark, someone across the table stumbling for the sound of it. Well, at least the problem with witnessing general groping was now disabled. He exhaled loudly in mixed thoughts, releasing the courtesan that muffled their laughter against his chest. Yet another mystery solved, the lack of tongue doesn't mean one couldn't express Joy in the form of hysterical laughter. " Good job, Arsebane. " He said unceremoniously through the blackened veil, pinning the blame over the Darkness and slaying of a bottle of booze -he assumed it having been the source of the shattering glass -on Phaedrus. To further his false appreciation, he gave out a a brief applause. |
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| Phaedrus | May 18 2014, 11:24 PM Post #32 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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How very evasive. Nothing at all? That table and shelf you massacred beg to differ. Still, he had to admit, the sorcerer gave him lovely headway into another joke, a dirty grin curling over his features. “Perfectly happy,” he announced cheerily, head tipped back to beam at the courtesan atop him. “I think sleights of hand will be appreciated here.” The words were draining away from him quite fast, world shrinking to the raven-haired woman and something far more lecherous than scholarly intent. And up, up—his hand disappeared into her skirts, damning whatever that old prune might think or judge; she seemed to agree, given her startled laugh and squirming. He'd just begun murmuring something into her ear with a wicked grin when the lights snuffed out—pitch darkness swallowed the room, followed by a crystalline crrrraack. Before he could blink, the bottle next to them shattered violently, drenching them both in wine; the courtesan gave a surprised little shriek, ankles kicking—little hails of glass followed, shivering down his tunic and pricking his face, and the necromancer jerked, accidentally knocking the woman off-balance. Phaedrus scrabbled after, but she slipped off, flailing, and hit the ground with a surprised gasp—too late, the necromancer clutched for her, reeling. The chair scraped back with a screech, and he all but fell on his face, seizing the wooden arm of it and swaying. “What the devil?” He shouted to the pitch blackness, throwing a violent look in the direction of the clapping. His eye stung quite horribly now, twitching and fluttering at being unceremoniously drenched in wine. His mind spun, making the darkness into a treacherous, spinning realm without floor or walls; he suddenly felt as though he was floating, boots slipping on the alcohol still pattering to the floor. His hair clung to his face, plastered heavily against one cheek, thick curls dripping onto his now-ruined cloak and tunic. Phaedrus braced himself against the chair again in sudden panic, mind swinging, stomach flipping on itself. “Don't blame this as my doing. What kind of mumbling animal wastes perfectly good wine?” A sneer carved up his features, invisible in the darkness. “Perhaps a second name is in order. Shelfslayer Winescourge, First of his Name, ruiner of linens...” A crack of his fingers sang in the air, and the candle licked to life again, flickering weakly. The courtesan on the ground had forced a giggle, regaining her composure as she sat up with a melody of chimes. The male had sprung nimbly to his feet and flit to and fro from the candles and lanterns with a lighting-stick, till the room glowed again with warm hues. Swaying, Phaedrus extended a hand to the courtesan, even though she eyed it warily, preferring to lever herself up rather than rely on the unstable necromancer. Her slim fingers clutched his own so not to offend him, and she finally stood, the reds of her skirt soiled purple, wine dripping from her carefully done-up hair, smearing her dark makeup. The room still felt fuzzy, he reflected – something awful and shaky had lanced up his spine at that moment, made it hard to forget the feeling of suspension and weightlessness earlier, bringing vile memories of... of.... He looked to his hand, saw it dripping red, red, horribly red – and felt the air punch from his gut, fingers trembling. I OnLy DiD whAT hAd To bE dOnE. The chilly voice snapped, unwanted, from the sepulcher of his memory – rattled into his ear, all spit and gristle, freezing him to the spot. The courtesan's warm laugh suddenly bubbled away, clipped short—her round eyes fixed him curiously, wondering at the sudden silence. “Mister... Arsebane?” The name suddenly sounded ridiculous, gross and incongruent, tapping far-away on the glass of his mind, pecking somewhere outside himself. “Are you...” Her sudden touch made him jolt, flung back into reality with a wild-eyed stare. Phaedrus suddenly felt her hand cupping his cheek, fixed with a start on the strange look on her face, her full lips parted just so. Drip, drip. “...Alright?” He stared at her for a moment while his mind weaved back together, feeling the irritation mount to an all-out searing in his eye; Devils, what in seven hells! The necromancer grimaced, clenching his hand into a fist and putting it behind his back. “Get me a towel,” he said shortly, flatly, his good mood shattered by Alloces' slithering memory, his awful voice, the bone-deep coldness that followed each syllable. The courtesan drew back, nodding at the male—who scampered over to the cabinet—and inclined her head, tucking back a lock of wet hair. She then picked at his dripping tunic with a sly smile, looping her finger in the cloth. “Why, we'll never get clean in these clothes. Perhaps we should take a bath...” For all the disasters that'd happened in the short span of the night, she was quick to bounce back to what Lady Sigvard would expect; her slender hand trailed up his cheek, to the matted hair, and began to brush it out of his eye with a low purr. “Get comforta--” Her murmur was cut off by a muffled shriek, however, and the dark-haired woman forced herself to cup her mouth, flinching back from Phaedrus. The necromancer looked alarmed, brows shot up, lips hanging open ever slightly. “Wha— what—” “Your eye,” she managed, blurting it out in a muffled gasp, her gaze wide. “Your—oh gods, someone get—” Her free dainty hand flapped ineffectually, the other cupping his cheek as though it were about to fall off. Phaedrus knit his brows, aggravated eyelid twitching and flapping. He shook his head, trying to tear away from the courtesan's touch and confused by her look of increasing horror. “What? It simply stings a bit—it's just the wine,” he very nearly rolled his eyes, if it hadn't hurt so much. Infuriatingly, his covered eye hadn't focused yet, still swimming and welling with tears, flushing out the alcohol. “Relax, you sound like I've been impaled—” a mocking titter nearly flitted off his lips, till he reached up a finger to dab tentatively under his eye. It came back sticky, chilly—pitch black, running with darkness. The necromancer paused, gut suddenly going cold, and pushed the courtesan aside, seizing a bronze pot polished to a high shine. Oh devils below. Oh, let it not be. Swaying, Phaedrus held it closer to his face to see, stomach flipping at his reflection. A fine piece of glass had embedded itself into his eye, which was currently weeping a black, ichorous fluid—it had poured halfway down his cheek, mingling grotesquely with the wine and giving the appearance his socket had been gouged out. A thunderous bang rang across the room as Phaedrus dropped the pot, throwing out a curse in old Ashokan; it rolled on its side for a few feet as he backed away, slumping back into his chair and waving his hands violently to deter the courtesan from coming any closer. “It's fine,” he slurred, to no avail, for she still seemed quite panicked. Another vile spurt of sludge oozed down his eye, to which she whimpered a scream. “It's fine! No need to be alarmed. Just get me some tweezers, a mirror, and a shot of whatever that fool exploded. I swear it,” the necromancer raised his voice, as the courtesan began scrambling for the door. “I've had worse,” Phaedrus scoffed after her in annoyance, throwing up his hands. |
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| Galeas | Jun 8 2014, 03:14 PM Post #33 |
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Alerted screams in the dark, scattered movement on broken glass, dazed words and thoughts that barely slurred through veils of intoxication, all brought together under his applause. It was type of Music, misty and distorted noise that accompanied his amusement that was now growing in the back of his throat malevolently to further portray how he felt for the situation. Or did he really feel anything in particular right now? Heck, for all he knew he had just gained a terrible urge to laugh. At everything and everyone, if not for their misfortune then for the stupidity of the holy entirety of it all. Thus, when his hands were done illustrating a popularity of sorts, they lowered and twirled the bit of the pipe between his teeth with haste. As calculated, it was enough to muffle his dumb and utterly light-headed chuckle that had begun to sprout in shameful joy, silencing it into a bouncing hum that occasionally took from between his wide grin. - ...ruiner of linens... He wouldn't note their witty insult in the slightest, just toss a hand at them absently whilst smirking to himself. Was when the light returned to the room, by Phaedrus' flashy magic no doubt, and he ended up blinking for a moment at the brightness of it that was disturbingly blinding. His hand slinged to rub his eyes in annoyance and after getting his sight sorted out he threw the necromancer a half-lidded glare. Good grief, couldn't you light that candle... Slower? A brief examination of the room made it apparent that he had destroyed a whole lot of things, not admitting anything of course, the shattered crystal bottle of liquor being only the tip of the iceberg. For the sound and look of it, the Necromancer and their companion had gotten their attire soaked, with heavens know what, and were currently trying to get up from the floor. Or the Lady was, the fellow sorcerer's state being closer to a scattered pile of limp limbs that hardly offered the woman any aid. His free hand went to dab his chest, all intact and surprisingly unsoaked it seemed, and as the mute straightened from her curled up state on his lap she caught his look for a momement in a giggle. He grunted in response, letting his head fall backwards to hang over the back of the chair in apparent exhaustion. Sure she must have been aware this was all her fault. In sustained cheerfulness she corrected the headpiece away from hindering her vision, then sliding off from him with the smooth moves of a snake and taking a probing footing on the floor that crackled under her bare feet. She shot him another look that didn't receive an answer, turning slowly on her heel and bolting to help her brother in trade with the cabinet. The ordering words rung over and he exhaled in contemplation, hearing the tone that had taken a twist to a less tittery. Had a miracle happened? Phaedrus had stopped tittering. Or was it due to some- His head returned up from its rest to brief the man with a glance, this time his brows knitting to a frown in ponder. No, something didn't seem right... There were no such things as miracles. He blew out a could of sweet smoke, observing through the veil of almost disabled insight and blurred sight. Damn, had he known this drug also made him blind as a bat, he would have not had any of it. Trying to narrow his eyes to enchance his gaze he stared at the Necromancer, distant chirps of the courtesan stabbing through the thick air. They were offering baths. Well, now you don't need an excuse to take your clothes off, don't you Phaedrus. Maybe you should thank me. His Mind swirled the annoyance around, the nature of his passive glower being similar to the smolder in his pipe. He partially awaited the Necromancer to throw themselves at the courtesan and titter at their suggestion, but for some reason none of that took place. Just a- shriek. What in the honest hell was going on now? Had Phaedrus been impaled? On some level he sure hoped they had, but in a way he thought of them as one of those lucky bastards that always survived no matter what. The type that got away from trouble with their arse always most unginited whilst laughing over the whole ruckus. For now, the laughter seemed to have left their essence, filling the room with cold, uninviting words instead that attempted to push everyone away. A brief, hurried hastle that followed ended up in a loud clang, that of the pot hitting the floor and it made him snarl just a bit. First you light the room like a beacon and now you grace us with some of that infamous noise. What next, you strip and bless us with a show of that superior manhood? I'd rather die. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, partially due to the sound, but mostly because of the sudden hissing attitude that reached from the Necromancer, tossing orders. In restrained silence he let his look return to their direction, the image this time being clear as day. His dark brows sunk and he bit the pipe between his teeth sturdily. Damn, they really had gotten the one thing that had been coming for them all day. The raven woman was currently doing as told and in a bit of a delay the other two courtesans went in their wake. One lingered at the door though, the form of the mute that gave him a confused look. As expected, they brought their questioning to his knowledge, the probing song creeping to the aching realm of his head. ' What... Is wrong with your friend, Mister Shel- ' The girl started, their voice timid against the glare that he gave them in return. ' Nothing. Get out. ' His answer was stern and had no sign of the previous tiredness and passiveness he had held, making sure it was delivered as an order, not a suggestion. ' But- ' She tried in return, but was soon enough interrupted by his somewhat forceful counter-reaction, it taking place in the physical dimension since the one given in the psionic realm seemingly had no effect on the stubborn girl. " Get out! " He bolted up and flipped the table on his way, the big candle atop it fusing out into an unhazardouz state when it came in contact with the wall across the room. That seemed to get the message to her thick skull, for now she bowed her head obediently and left, closing the door behind her as silently as she could. Standing there he felt his world shake and all the lights went into one swaying blob all of a sudden, forcing him to fall back to his seat. Was it wrong of him to tell her off in such a manner? Or that he didn't really desire the conversation over Phaedrus' otherwordly, quite oozing and hideous being of a necromancer that mostly kept hidden under a curtain of joyful sentences and gestures. No, was better for a time out. Maybe the man would then have time to... conjure another eye? Or something of the sort to keep the women from questioning and staring. He took a moment to pull his thoughts together, then throwing his exhausted hues towards the Necromancer in question. The Dark Colour made sense now. More than he had expected, for what he could tell they indeed were nothing but a hollow core of their previous shelf, in case they weren't purely of Necromantic conjuration completely. A some kind of living dead? On some disturbing fields he saw it terribly fascinating, how they had not even noticed a shard of glass poking out of their eye, the lack of pain and awareness they had when brought to the otherwise deceivingly lively vessel. Guess the drug had detached his Judgement completely, for he now chose to blurt out a series of questions about the subject. Or then he indeed was a bit of a fool. One point for Phaedrus, for they had been correct on at least one thing during the evening. " Is this another wonder of your Necromancy? " The Scholar muttered then, his voice stabbing the serene, flickering silence that had taken over the room. His tone didn't suggest mock, but neither was it amused. It was rather measuring. The cyan glided off to stare at a distant flame when he paused to enjoy the smoke, for he felt the injured one would rather have their shredded appearance unattended by his look. " I did assume something as of this due to your Colour. You are not exactly alive, are you, Phaedrus? " The blank voice continued from under his absent frown, gloved digits twirling the smoking instrument. " I am not one to make conclusions of your state, but the amount of time it took you to react into an injury as severe as yours, I can't but wonder if there indeed is truth to my suspicion. " His head inclined a bit to offer the other an assuring glance, a bit consipiring sort to that if one was to trust the little smirk that crept to overlay his features. As if trying to gather his remaining strength he inhaled, then concentrating in levering himself up from the seat on which he had quite comfortably submerged into. It took him a moment to keep a footing on the floor that kept swaying, but after his gravity settled he carefully reached to pick up the table that had swinged on its side to the floor under his rage. Upon getting it up he picked up a cotton towel that had been left behind by the fleeing figures, placing it on the table as it was brought to its feet. A headache and nausea were returning to give their contribution over his mood and stature, the sudden weak feeling forcing him to grasp the edges of the table for support. Collapsing was out of question. " Well. Are you going to... Get that sorted on your own? Or do we need to search you a physician? " He smoothed his hair with a sweep over his head, tired gaze browsing for that of the Necromancer when he gestured at their soaked being vaguely. He was quite sure they were able to pop out a new eye in no time, taking how they had handled the matter with the courtesans, but he figured it was polite to ask anyway. Even if Politess was far gone from the face of this day. " You might want to clean up your features a bit, even if most of the mess is beyond repair by the tools given. " His hand traveled to toss the towel at the fellow sorcerer, after which he cleared his throat against his fist in attempt of dismissing the terrible taste in his throat. In a bit of delay he regained his posture, then slinging himself back to his seat, for if he had stood any longer his legs would have failed him. The pipe had fused out quietly and in a grunt he laid it on the table, then withdrawing to sit in the back of his chair. Galeas' tried to keep from paying the other too much mind, but the cyan of his eyes did take to them once in a while amidst his dazed ponder that was just about ready to zone off. |
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| Phaedrus | Jun 10 2014, 03:20 PM Post #34 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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He tried desperately to cover his eye, shirk from the sight of the horrified courtesans. Black liquid dribbled between his fingers, searing cold. Phaedrus' stomach flipped—something caught in his throat, soured the brothel's air and chimes, the taste of liquor replaced by bile, no longer interested in any touch or whispered word. The raven-haired woman's scream had caught in his head, echoing endlessly, till it filled his mind and dimmed all else. A scream like so many others, the only answer people had for what he was—the thing he hid behind false smiles and laughter, buried in wine and japes. A thunderous crash sounded. Phaedrus had bent, clutching his eye, world spinning through the slit of his remaining vision. Get out. Galeas' voice rumbled, suddenly untethered from its deep pitch, climbing higher and higher till it was the shrill scream of a woman in his memory. Get out! The pale face of a blonde, her sweet features contorted with horror and anger, slim fingers clutching a goblet. But please, his quavering voice begged in memory, his hands splayed before him, feet scuffing the tile. Please—this doesn't change anything, this doesn't mean I am not— Glass exploded by his ear, and he flinched, clutching his head, his bare shoulder brushing the white washed wall. Get out! She was crying, the sobs building deep in her throat, throwing a sheet across herself in horror, as if she could not bear the thought of such a thing having seen her, having touched her, having ever felt a fondness for; the fabric bunched in her trembling hands, chalk-white, and she found a silver idol. She held it before her, shaking in her grasp, as a hysterical prayer spilt from her lips. It hurt—carved a hole in his chest, that she thought him so unholy only God could save her from him, a blighted demon to be cast away. Please just listen— Out! The hysteria that tore her throat brooked no argument. She clutched her blonde curls, sank against the wall, eyes rimmed red, breath huffing in her throat. You demon—you abomination— If he'd a heart, it'd had stopped at those words—he'd have slid till the earth swallowed him, and hellfire licked his heels; instead, his only protest choked, died in his throat; trembling, he clutched the wall, trembling, he wrenched the doorknob, fled down the hallway of the inn that had been his home, the company of his only friend, the pain so wretched he could not breathe, could not think; he'd thrown his meager belongings in his trunk, door ajar, moving in a whirl as the other guests stirred—he'd cast one last look at the dark man staring at him from the mirror, the Ashokan features, hair wild, something shattered in his eyes. I will be someone else. He hated that reflection, felt ashamed of it, could not stand to see the falsehood stare from its prison, pretending at humanity, pretending at anything other than the void existing beneath it. Anyone—anyone else, but this. Glass shattered. In their rush to get out, a courtesan had bumped the remaining shot glass off the table, and it burst across the floor, jarring him out of the horrific memory. The door clicked, and but for the dancing flames, there was absolute silence and stillness, a small mercy in the rush of pain that engulfed the throbbing of his eye. Phaedrus sat hunched a few moments, mind swirling, a sick anger blooming in his chest, a familiar self-loathing. He'd have spent the rest of the night frozen, mired in a hidden shame, hearing the tap-tap of his ichor patter onto his open palm. Instead, the sorcerer spoke, his voice like the bellows—the necromancer started with the sudden remembrance Galeas still sat there, watching. Hatred coiled in his gut, lashed at his tongue—snapping his head around, Phaedrus narrowed his remaining eye to a slit. “A wonder?” All the mirth had drained from his voice, leaving it putrid, bitter. Black trickled through his fingers, ran like spilt ink down his hand. Perhaps the sorcerer did not mean to be mocking, in his words—but the necromancer felt a sting nonetheless, the breath driven from his throat at that accusation. You are not exactly alive, are you, Phaedrus? Memory of the woman's kiss, her soft touch, drawing her head to his chest, feeling whole, feeling complete—until the hideous screech had rent the room, shattered the illusion of happiness, aborted every sweetness between them. The hands that struck him, pushed him to topple off in a tangle of limbs, mouthing why. “How observant of you,” Phaedrus hissed, tearing the silver platter from the table beside him; a shower of glass and slopping wine hit the floor, turned it into a blood-slick mirror showing the horror of his face. Disgusted, the necromancer dug his fingers into the slop of his eye—cast out the shard so it skittered across the floor, away from his wrath; a second later, the platter followed it, clattering where it hit the wall and crashed to the ground. His fingers trembled, slipped over each other, palms pressed over the aching pain of his socket. The drug and drink had dulled it to a pulsing throb, and he grit his teeth, half his face chilled to the bone. “Yes, I am dead.” He'd meant to snarl it mockingly, but instead his voice cracked, wavered, throat tight with the pain of it. Phaedrus struggled to swallow, burning with an anger he could not control in his current state. A long moment passed where the necromancer fell silent, clutching his hair and bent forward. It seemed he would not speak again, but the words prized from his numb lips, growing more and more into a chilly hiss. “Something... between. I am not wholly dead, but I am not human, anymore. I did not ask for this. I did not choose this.” His lips peeled off his teeth; he sat upright again, a scowl twisting his features, a hideous wrath brimming under his face. This was his fault. Had the damn glass not broken... was he testing his theory? Did he think to do this to me? Phaedrus lifted his head, turning to stare at Galeas. One half of his face was human, untouched—the other eye looked gouged to a pit, black as pitch, his cheek and jaw slick with ichor. He resented the sorcerer, inexplicably, though he'd shown him kindness by tossing out the courtesans and averting his eye—he hated something other than Galeas, something in the darkness slicking his fingers and staining his sleeves, hated something in the coldness, something that could not be reached or hurt or sworn at. He summoned a chilly control over his own voice, locked every syllable in an iron cage, ready to rip the bars asunder and tear into their listener. “Will you run and scream, like all the others?” His remaining eye danced, danced, watched the sorcerer like a jaguar pinning prey, his voice too steady. “Will you call me a demon? Write me off as a monster?” A vile sneer ripped up his uninjured cheek, teeth grit too tightly together. “I wonder, what will you do, Galeas Winterbringer?” Something white rolled in the pit of his eye, slithered out of the darkness. A fetid thing weaved out of the black gore, an iris pushing out of its center. It sprouted like a dandelion in a grave, pupil opening, focusing on the blur of the sorcerer. A mismatched stare regarded Galeas cooly from the end of the room, one eye blue, the other burning sulfur. Phaedrus drummed his bloodied hand on the arm of his chair, blinking away the remaining ichor, eyelid shivering and fluttering over his stinging eye. It still wept black, chilling fluid, oozing from its corners. “A physician?” A sudden peal of laughter screeched off his lips—high pitched like a woman's, utterly void of mirth. “They will burn me at a stake, and gather Eldahar to watch. No, it's best no one sees. I will—” Live was not the right word. “—survive.” He turned his head away from Galeas then, staring at the doorway as though in fear a sudden priest might appear, ushered by three frightened courtesans; his throat tightened, fingernails digging into the wood of the chair, scrabbling at it. All the safety had drained away—the thought of spending a night in utter debauchery, forgetting all that troubled him; it had only surfaced with liquor and strange company, bringing him back to square one. Wanting to get too drunk to remember anything at all... Something soft plopped into his lap. With delay, he realized it was a towel, squinting up blearily at the only source it could have come from—Galeas weaved and blurred in his vision, reduced to twin sparks of eyes, his glasses reflecting the glint of firelight. A confusion of words jumped to his mouth, tangled in his throat like snakes—Phaedrus dug his fingers into the fluffy fabric, raising it to his face. “Thank you,” he remarked stiffly, pressing it onto his eye. Its immaculate white swiftly became tainted, blotted irrevocably with black; he held it there till at last it stopped oozing, the final sinews and muscles solidifying, his torn lids smoothed back into place. It hurt... far more than it should have. It was a delayed ache, deep in his chest, a vacuous pit in his body, making him want to clutch the towel as though it were his cat, imagine himself in his little home in Soto, chopping garlic, hearing the soothing sizzle of something cooking, the warm smell of rising pastries. Phaedrus' fingers tangled in the white threads, imagining it to be fur for a blurred moment—to his frustration, the searing cold rimmed his injured eye again, and the other had begun oozing... Deep shame struck him. He felt grateful the sorcerer could not see, for the towel hid his face, drank the foul imitation of tears, the sour wine and ichor upon his cheek. Phaedrus fell silent, blotting his face, turning the towel over and over till the thing had become sullied, cold and damp in his grip. His cheek had mostly cleared, face still dirtied, like ink one couldn't quite scrub off. He bunched his hands in the fabric, trying with no avail to wipe it from his palms, and grew defeated, fisting the cloth instead. The silence opened like a grave, and he didn't feel quite inclined to break it. All of the words had drained out of him, bled into the darkness and quiet that suffocated the room. “What now?” Phaedrus croaked, after a stretch, twisting the towel in his hand. An honest question. He'd run out of ideas, places to hide—his head buzzed, his tongue loose and sour, limbs floating far away. Running felt out of the question, no matter how much he wanted to. |
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| Galeas | Jun 11 2014, 03:27 PM Post #35 |
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The amount of emotion that had suddenly burst from the Necromancer's direction, more or less overlaid by the venomous hate that ruled their features and gestures, shook his senses. Negatively, for all that emotion was somewhat overloading, his expressionless being not fully understanding the fullest meaning behind the weighted words and ringing sarcasm. He was used to getting this treatment however, for the questions asked were often the type that stomped on people's toes, too intrusive, calculating... Judgemental? In his place, he stared somewhere to the distance, maybe at yet another flickering light in the far away corner of the room, or then the shadow that it cast to dance on the crimson curtains, edges blurred but somehow imitating the real forms it evaded. They called themselves a monster, but he saw contrast rather than pure evil that often associated with the term. He had witnessed the strands of silver amidst inky swirls, the dim Light searching for understanding and embrace whilst the overpowering Darkness was lost in its search for an encouraging appearance, a face to call its own and into which seal the intimidating and endless fathoms. Their tone was enough to deliver the self-loathing and supressed hatred, but only when they voiced his name did he turn his half-lidded hues to actually stare at those feelings in the eye, even if just for a second. The negative thoughts of oneself were the worst leeches of the Mind, sucking it dry from all reason and infecting it with destructive intentions, both direct and indirect towards the person holding them. Somehow the merry facade that had only recently been breached made all the sense in the universe, as of now, it being a way for them to forget. To overcome. The mocking overtones were just an understandable addition, a sign of protest over the subject. - I wonder, what will you do, Galeas Winterbringer? He was not sure whether it had been a retoric question or not, but he had a whole set of things he could've mentioned. Being not a character of compassion and encouraging words, he chose to keep the patronizing to the minimum. He doubted the Necromancer, as a man of intellectual talents and thoughts, would welcome his pity, not that he planned to signal such in the slightest. When the target of his musing fell silent, he let his look visit them again, investigate the figure that calmly tried to brush off the aftermath of the recent incident. For the first time during the almost whole day he had now been in the immediate presence of the Necromancer, did they take on an extended mute period. There was something disturbingly serene about it, yet an eerie vibe creeped up his neck. He was partially awaiting them to peel the rest of their face into the towel, rather than clean it, just to snap him on the wrist one last time. The visual image of the mentioned scene that morphed into the back of his Mind made him turn his attention away once more, just in case. " I can not scribe an opinion on you that would be any different from the impression I had an hour ago. Foremost, I am not One to run, not that my current condition would really allow me to do so either. " An inhale, during which the shed a glance above the towelfondling being. " The only one in this room, if not the whole world, that thinks of you as a literal eldrich monster, is yourself. Self-loathing is a cell, a place from which one can't be freed by an outsider due to the gate already being unlocked, the captivity a reluctant choice rather than a your true chain. The judge, the torturer and the prisoner are all one, the sentence a wavering concept that the majority ends up serving for an eternity. " He begun, the words flowing transparent to the smoky air, if not holding a subtle weariness somewhere behind the masked content. " Oftenly enough, the crime behind such judgement is not our own, the blame misplaced to shield a broken spirit from greater harm. The time must be suffered, but mostly it is done by a false convict. The true accused and cause lies no longer present to carry the burden, their distant shape nothing more but a tainted, painful sequence that keeps up the smolder behind One's eyes, darkening the surfaces around the distant harbours of our memory. " There was no one to be punished, thus the only way out of it was to forgive. Or forget, as he had tried, since She didn't deserve to be forgiven. Oblivion however, as comfortable as it might have sounded, was a sword of twin edges. Once the hate was channeled elsewhere, forgettance taking over the so far precious and hurtful past... One could notice themselves becoming another type of creature, drained of purpose that for so long had, indeed, been the said hate. It had not only dominated one's deeds, but other aspects and feelings of the Mind, supressing them to an unrecognizable bulb. In the end, at the brink of freedom, there was nothing of the sort achieved after all. The days melted together, along with the different shades of the once lively personality, it all becoming a monochrome of a decade. Or had it been two? Amidst an endless downpour and greyness, one hardly remembered to keep track of time obsessively. He had been about to continue once again, the area of discussion-gone-monolog too familiar, but the carefully formed letters in his textbook of a Mind suddenly scattered alike to a subconscious objection. The throat that was for long speeches filled with sand, the cyan lakes of his eyes reflecting none of the uneasiness caused by the lack of closure and unvoiced ideas, something greater halting his chant. Everything that had been said and all that had been about to be, was just a chime of empty and vague words, akin to archaic mutterings written in stone. There maybe had been a noble thought and cause behind them once, but the time had sliced off the liveliness of the language and made it a harsh interpretation of the original, terribly simplified and narrowminded image. A metaphoric collection, no part of it new or eligible for making some type of a sick difference. Having fallen into a sudden state of yet another inner struggle, his gloved hand hoisted upwards, its elbow resting on the arm of the chair heavily. The leathercoated digits chanted in their flying gestures, a cold conjuration taking place amidst the movement. When their faces are nothing but shapes in the mist and the memory no longer aches, then the heart is truly broken. There was a void. The images of ablaze houses no longer awakened anything, neither did the biting wind of Winter. One could notice themselves warming their hands in the fresh ashes of recent homes, struck down under the new pointless wars of mankind, without a disturbing context to that one past morning. The Night had gone quiet twenty moons ago too, no longer whispering comforting and doubtful thoughts amidst the empty silence, only broken by the sustained hiss of a fireplace. In Phaedrus he saw humanity, the weak chime of sarcasm, the grieving hate, all the questions that had no answers, a collection of attributes that hardly appeared in mindless abominations. He, a preacher of Wisdom and Logic, was just as less of a person as that undead man with the Darkest of Crafts, if one was to browse deep enough. - What now? The disturbance tore his hues from their glazed state, his head turning slowly to face Phaedrus' general direction. Seemed their face was whole again, against all odds, a most pleasant surprise through and through. His unattended frown softened some and he tried to arrange a friendly face, it coming out more like he was mocking. " It amuses that you choose to ask me, for I thought you were the mastermind in this respected criminal duet of arseignites and tableflips. " Wonder if he should've said a word or two in regard for the mess. Something between the lines of ' Sorry for the disorder that has emerged and the damage it caused to your eye, but there was a woman violating my personal space. ' or ' Have some understanding, my manhood was under a significant hazard back there. ' Rah, better just give up on the explanations, for if he was to voice one Phaedrus would probably make up yet another title for his honourary person. Unable to compress his message into something that wouldn't have made him sound like a greater fool than he already most likely did, The Scholar chose to stay silent a while longer. The shard of compressed Winter hovered atop his fingertips and he stared at it as if he was plotting, conjuring some plan how to best spend the rest of the evening. In truth, he had no idea. A contemplating hum escaped him. Probingly, his arm threw to extend before him, wrist arching to release the conjured from his grasp mid-motion. The icicle slinked through the air, hitting the painting across the room in a loud thud. His hues narrowed in investigation and a drugged smirk deepened his shadows, the frozen shard having hit the portrait of a red headed Lady in the eye. Not by intention, but to him it seemed like a terribly funny coincidence. Hopefully the Necromancer wasn't to take it as a... hint of some sort. He would hate to freeze their breeches as self defense. A chuckle crumbling behind his teeth he raised his tall figure from the seat, with the significant aid of both of his arms, a muffled entertainment playing with his disoriented thought process. Upon gaining a decently sturdy posture above his two feet, he gestured around in newfound, yet gracefully contained enthusiasm. Compelled by the magician's ethereal talents, the reasonably sized and sharpest shards of crystal levitated around him in a faint crackle and as he was content with the amount he let his arm sweep before him in contained momentum, the continued gesture collecting the pieces to hover around his hand in a circling pattern. He glanced at the Necromancer in closure. " Whilst we wait for the noble Ladyfolk to fetch you those unneccessary pliers and a revolutional bath... " Galeas muttered, one of the clear glass shards settling between the grasp of his index and thumb markingly. " How about a game of Darts? " He challenged finally, turning on his heel slowly so to prevent himself from stumbling as he took to grace the portrait with one of the homemade instruments of violent gaming, the bladelike item cutting through the smoke like a bolt. Just to point out what he meant. And that it had been no joke, such descipable chime of words being just a squander to the lungs. |
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| Phaedrus | Jun 17 2014, 03:00 AM Post #36 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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He'd meant it rhetorically. Not something worth a response at all—had expected nothing but disapproving silence, or something else to further glut his misery, embellish the old, familiar place. Roam the cage of it and gild it with words and memories, an inner nest of contempt furnished with experience after experience. A cornice of screams and curses, chandeliers chiming with every foul word and fouler deed—portraits of banishments and hatred, every injury marked and catalogued. The only one in this room, if not the whole world, that thinks of you as a literal eldrich monster, is yourself. Another shrill laugh almost escaped him—wanted to crack the ice of the room, let it shatter and shiver across the floor. He had no idea. He wished to snarl it, curl his lip and let it all slough off, just so the damned fool could see—tempted to let the flesh slither into snapping darkness, howling with the cold of the Gates, let him stare, let him feast his accursed eyes on what he truly spoke to, what... Phaedrus' fingernails dug into the arms of the chair, lips peeled back in a feral snarl. There was no humanity in his eyes anymore, the blue burned out to a vile yellow, face twitching. It rippled in places, as if maggots crawled under the skin, some force of darkness writhing in him, readying to throw itself off a precipice—his fingers curled; his teeth gnashed. I have tried, he wished to screech. Do you not think I have not tried? To live normally, to forget what I am, to absolve myself? “It is the rest of the world that does not forget,” he snapped suddenly, rising a few inches in his chair. The drug made his head spin, shot his reason full of holes, opened the floodgates. The iron grate screeched off his tongue, let the sewage pass. “Every acquaintanceship—every friendship—every lover—” He spat the word like poison, an unnatural echo slithering after his words, brushing with the oiliness of Death. A foul laugh dripped from his lips, building in his chest, shrieking to a hideous staccato. “You saw how eager that barkeep was to kill us—but what do you imagine you would feel if your friend was the one at the trigger? Your wife?” He snapped his head at Galeas, eyes flashing a vile yellow. “Come back to me then, and tell me who the torturer and judge are.” He hissed, a cold rattle between his teeth, slithering into the air. The candleflames jumped, nearly guttered—he'd left gouge marks in the wood, and his teeth slid over each other, flesh quivering, smoothing. A blackness had settled around his eyes, leaving them sunken, hollow, as if they wished to collapse to pits in his face. Galeas' next words rung a hard truth, made him taste bile—The true accused and cause lies no longer present to carry the burden. The truly accused no longer live to suffer my wrath, have escaped into Death while I bear their foul dabblings—they rest while I remember, walking unpunished after they have robbed me. In the beginning, his mind had wandered to violent avenues, thinking on all the things he would have done, had Alloces still walked this earth; could taste the metallic tang of blood, the heady sickness of bindings, the fell chants dropping from his teeth, see the soul cowed and broken, twisted in his grasp. He saw himself letting his master live through a thousand deaths, a thousand pains, and yet it would not be enough; never enough, for what he'd done to him, what he'd taken from him, the betrayal almost worse than all else. To serve—to bend, at every beck and call, to care so for the Art, to bow in loyalty, and yet find himself chained, murdered without closure, without answer. Left bereft, with no home, no family, no face and memory to call his own. Empty, bitter—oh, familiar bitterness!—seeking everything, finding nothing, his friends as sand between fingers, time eroding the bridge between him and any family he might have had; gone, gone! Decaying in the wind, robbing him of purpose he so feebly tried to construct. There was only hatred, the cold ebb of the Gates, a fruitless quest for closure. He knew, deeply, he would never find his body again, never live; he would never feel the warmth of life in his veins, feel his heart flutter at the touch of another person, watching all else die as he shifted from skin to skin, feigning age and place and purpose. Perhaps Galeas had meant a jest, an attempt at a smile looking foreign upon his features—but the necromancer's throat had turned to sand, and his fingers drummed dangerously upon the wood, lips ironed to a line. The sudden snap of cold launched him back into reality. He sensed, rather than saw, the ice shard forming in Galeas' hand. Phaedrus' eyes flicked to the glittering shard, the moment suspended in his vision. The sorcerer was staring at it, no doubt contemplating how best to kill him. He's just like all the rest. The necromancer shot to his feet, feeling the bolt through his chest before it came—it was the violent stab of betrayal, a long-familiar pain, striking him across the face for ever believing differently; ever trusting! He was ready to shout a casting, tear the shreds of reality and pluck Death from its unraveling fabric—but the ice shard found its target with a thunk, biting deeply into a painting. The words died on Phaedrus' lips, the adrenaline pouring out of his limbs, loosening them to jelly—the necromancer braced himself against the chair, staring as though an assassin had handed him a knife instead of plunging it through his chest. It was then he noticed the subject of impalement—a redheaded woman. His stomach leapt to his throat again, old anger rekindling; he felt his emotions plunge underwater and back up again, only to have them held beneath a sea—he could see Galeas lurch to his feet, room swimming from the weak light of the candles, the smoke that had rolled into a choking, heady fog. The floor was unsteady beneath him, rocking under his heels, while the painting blurred, the sorcerer sharpening through the haze. Phaedrus saw the glint in his eyes, the cold ice of each pupil, felt the magic crackle in the air, freezing it to winter. A swallow caught in his throat as he saw the shards swirl, wickedly sharp, around Galeas' fingers, ice daggers... He splayed one hand, not entirely sure what he was doing—the other was braced against the chair, keeping his legs from collapsing under him. The first mutterings of a ward left his lips, his slurring, slopping mind—he felt the canker of Death in him, leeching the heat from his chest, filling his veins with its ice. The sorcerer split into two, wavered, but the ice danced, danced, sparkling with cold fire—damn you, Galeas, damn you! I should have known— But he did not fire. The ice did not slash through his clothes, pinning him to the chair like a dissected beast. Galeas' words left his mouth, filled his ears, but did not make sense—the fear and loathing struggled for purchase, robbed of direction; he suddenly felt terribly, terribly foolish, his hand chill with the clammy grasp at a Gate, words of power teetering dangerously off his lips. ...A game? Of... darts? The strength left his limbs—as if the action had been sucked from his body, left him a crumpling shell; Phaedrus stumbled, falling heavily backwards into the chair, his face slack with confusion and disbelief. The fire that burned in his eyes had guttered, smoldered instead to distrust and inner struggle, mouth sagging open. He did not allow himself to feel relief, yet—a marsh of emotion had bubbled, mired, left him fighting to move any which way; instead, he simply lolled back into the chair, staring at Galeas as though he'd suddenly grown another head. “D—” His first attempt at speech was a weak, incredulous breath. “Wh—” The world stopped making sense for a long, crawling moment, brain struggling to mash everything together. His hand flicked up carelessly, flopped after a listless moment, stare following the swirling ice. After a dumbstruck moment, Phaedrus pressed his palms against his eyes, leaning back into the chair. The world needed to stop for half a bloody second—he wanted to snarl at the sorcerer to leave the damn room himself, get out of his sight. He'd almost forgotten about the courtesans; the entire brothel had left him in that moment, memory of where he was, what he'd been doing... all that mattered was the space in his mind, the chains of recollection. Slowly, his palms slid down his face, till they went lifeless in his lap, and the necromancer squinted almost hatefully at the sorcerer, still not quite registering what he was seeing. He supposed, in a way, he should have been... relieved? Reassured? And yet the fresh reminder of his hated state made him feel vulnerable, naked, unable to stop watching the crystals dance around the sorcerer's fingers. He could not quite find the words. Instead, one eye narrowed more than the other, and Galeas weaved in his vision, blurring, sliding. A low, shuddering sort of huff had started in his chest and climbed to his throat, where it came forth as half-mad laughter; it climbed and climbed in pitch, till it'd become a noblewoman's shrill chime, and yet he could not quite control it, not when the situation was so absurd—when he'd thought—but—gods damn it, darts? He no longer sounded male, shrieking out some hideous, inhuman laugh, head thrown back deep into the cushions. The plushness felt like it melted around his head, sucking him backwards, snaring around his leaden legs. At last, the horrible noise tapered into a fiendish giggle, capering around his tongue, till at last it exhausted itself, running off his lips as a quiet titter. Phaedrus saw the second shard sail through the air, quivering in its new target, and watched it with interest. He does not jest? Still, he didn't quite trust him yet, finger tapping against the chair as he struggled to keep his head up. “I have hideous aim,” he finally admitted to the awkward silence, trying to get up and failing. The cushions held him tight, legs tangling, moving like clubs, and he fell backwards. “Oh, bother,” the necromancer hissed, not eager to leave his chair, regardless. He surveyed Galeas like a lazy cat, fingers drumming, splayed like he personally owned the furniture. “Pray... I hope you do not mind if I have a friend assist me.” Somehow, in the blighted corner of his mind—perhaps the chill of his fingertips—he snatched at the connection to Death, thought it a good idea; it made him feel more secure, somehow, to have something he understood and controlled around him, something to call upon should anything grow vile. His mind was not on the courtesans, or Galeas, or his sensibilities—only on the chill seeping up his arm, in his chest, rolling his eyes back to the whites. For a moment, he sat stock-still, utterly silent; the next, the candlelight flapped violently, and one of them extinguished; a cold seeped into the room, ate into the bones of the furniture and the planks around Gale's feet, wrapping its chill around his legs. In the darkness, the Shade could not be seen, but could be felt—cold, writhing, twisting itself into a man's form as it wrenched itself from between the wood flooring, fingers stretching into bone-thin tips. It freed itself, stepping into the shore of Life, a floating portent that immediately drifted by the necromancer. Phaedrus' eyes were still rolled to the whites, but a hideous grin crept across his face. The thing's shadowy head tore open, twisting into a rudimentary mouth—it spoke with a putrid, croaking voice, syllables rasping. “Well,” it and Phaedrus spoke in unison, a velvet purr and hellish slither twining sinuously around the other. “Who shall move first?” |
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| Galeas | Jun 17 2014, 08:18 PM Post #37 |
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- Your wife? Whilst he awaited some type of an answer, the lyrics of Phaedrus' exceedingly hostile sentences rung displeasingly in the back of his head, on repeat. Don't make me recall. Resistance was useless, the strands of moonlit hair and eyes shadowed by loss and unknown foul thoughts having returned to the reflect from somewhere beyond. Seemed the sides had changed, the Necromancer having taken over the pedestal that held all the venomous words and personal truths formed by a long and tormented past. Not that he had really thought of himself as even half of the moodruiner as they were now. Only an occasional, somewhat polite glance had been enough to imform him of the seriousness behind it all, the justified poison seeping through the opalescent of his blurred talents. For a while he awaited them to burst into hellfire and burn him alive like the inconsiderate excuse of a sorcerer he was, but instead it took a turn to... Well, not necessarily better. The growing anticipation over an early cremation was to be broken once again, this time by... Laughter? Uncontrolled, spontaneous, horribly dazed and leaping forth in shrieking loudness and mental overtones. He met it with an openly offended frown, the belt of shards around his hand slowing their orbit in a frozen chime. Well, had he been able to think clearly he might have noticed the previous suggestion to have been utterly out of place, a violently anomalous setting amidst the conversation stained by hate and bitter realms. But since he was currently inside a barrier of misunderstandings and disabled reason, all he was able to feel was disappointment towards their obnoxious behaviour. What a twisted portrayal of Joy they made, if not having been it from the very start, for they indeed had eyed him across the street with that omnious sneer of theirs at an early basis. Should've known better, yet I did not. Not counting the laughter, a weirdly strong hesitation hung in the chunk of an atmosphere. They were doubting him? Neither his talents nor the Mind leaning on them drunkenly was able to make up why, since by his Reason he had not done anything assaulting as of late. In silence filled by lurking annoyance he let his gaze leave their horribly frank person, the cyan hues returning to measure the so-called darts and their target. Was it because he was currently holding a shimmering bunch of impaling agents, or the fact that he had shot one of them at an honourary piece of painterly Art. If an image of a noblewoman blessed with generous and ginger features could have been called as such. - I have hideous aim. Could've meant both terriffic and terrible, taking all the aspects of such an adjective, but Galeas figured it had to be the latter. If their aim had been even close to precise to begin with, they would've hit all those people fataly with fire or some Necromantic blasphemy, rather than leaving them with just smoldering trousers. Or then they had some vicious fixation for searing backsides. Mmh, must have been that, knowing their suspected preferences. His fingers clenched in ponder that drifted to loom above misty shores, sight absent and hearing unexistent. The distant candleflame drew into a beacon, something keeping him barely aware of where he was in the sea of wavering shades. The light stumble made his head turn in a sluggish pace, the eyes shadowed by his lightly knit brows. Disobedient feet, Phaedrus? No matter, for I too am unable to stand, on more than one dimension. His eyes staid dreamy in their half-liddedness, a false sigh of amusement reaching from somewhere deep whilst the hand free from chanting reached to rub the nape of his neck. When they spoke of a Friend, he shook his head lightly to express a given permission, even if it was most likely to pass unnoted and uncared for by the questioner. The one that was to participate in their place was uncertain to him, but he expected a lady -or a boy- from before to take part in the immobile Necromancer's part. Which meant they were to wait for them, the assumption disappointing him just slightly, if not remarkably due to the fact that he had gained the urge to fall into eternal slumber just then. His arm that channeled the unseen talents felt heavy, the force more draining than usual and in attempt to stay present he hoisted its counterpart to pass the held shatters back and forth in the universal shape of infinity, akin to the wings of a hummingbird. In his creeping exhaustion he had been about to take a seat, the heel of his boot mid-step towards the cushions he had inhabited, but a disturbance made him halt everything. The sweeping sharps around and between his hands froze their movement, akin to his very breath. What exactly do you think you are-? He was hasty to fabricate a demanding, mute question, but it dropped from actually stabbing the recipients Mind when his hues shot to meet theirs. Or what was on the turnside of them, as it seemed. In sustained confusion his stern features sunk to new depths, tall stature literally frozen, the ethereal internal only able to observe. There was a foreign craft at work, its conjuration crawling from below and everywhere at the same time, branches of deathly ice grasping the ankles whilst an otherwordly darkness strangled like smoke, trapping within. His vision registered nothing, senses noting no additionals, but still the presence of Necromantic powers and their minion was strikingly evident. They had drawn something to the room and he sure as heck didn't like it one bit. Nevertheless, he wouldn't let himself feel fear. Darn, he was way too drugged to even consider such, the reckless unconsiderment mixed with confusement overlaying all that was of him. The staring contest resumed once again, the cyan amidst dark versus ghastly flipped whites, a silence ruling over the space between the two differing schools and their crafty representatives. Not even bothering to clear his throat in opening, the Scholar chose to brief the opponent with yet another selection of obviousities. So to break the... Ice? " Well. Aren't you chilly tonight. " He begun with sloppy confidence probingly, the circles of glass above his digits resuming the peaceful drift when some tension left him by fragment. Was probably wrong to loosen up in the slightest, with the dangerously grinning and chanting Necromancer just a few feet away, but he wasn't really one to have reasonable thoughts at that point. It was as if he had completely dismissed the last words they had directed towards him, even if in truth they had just... Slipped behind some type of oblivious mist. All he could fable was the wild stream that just had taken a twist to stupidity and unattended creativiness, the inpractical and self-destructive kind. " Reminds me of a song. " The blackened tone chuckled faintly in some kind of stranded continuation, the bright of his eyes closing behind lids that veiled the surrounding from him, Mind readying to adjust the reality. Some images, dominated by muted blues and pure whites, sailed to his psychic vision in preparation, the internal completely qlueless of the burden placed atop already swaying stack of previous ones. The vessel was numb, unable to signal its weariness, closed up inside a gauze of relieving attributes. The Southern Wind blows Strips the Mind of its Clothes The shards of Despair make a mirror And there lays your mute picture, in cold terror That grave witness once more Everything condemns into worthless chore It was a song, but he wasn't one to chant akin to vocal artists. Instead, it all was spoken, in the calm voice that was made for nothing but. In the middle of the sections, the walls could be seen taking wavy shapes akin to a mirage. The one in the portrait morphed, their face becoming slim and refined, flaming curls replaced by locks of weaved winter, the stare shaping to a serene sapphire. A newly awakened hate roared within, it slipping into few first syllables of the next verse. Matters not what you plan, The Air slices against When with arms open, You hope for the best Then one Dawn, arrives to the reach A Gate, holding an empty search The wall on his left ripped open, as if blasted away by a voiceless oceanic storm gale, leaving only the door standing amidst the landscape that had revealed from behind it. In that false world the Night had taken over, a heavy snowfall and an untouched field reflecting the faint moonlight, the only darkness found as the edge of a pine forest in the distance. Dang, it would've made a perfect post card of Reine at its most beautiful season. The streams freeze, to stone Still surfaces reflect only the endless dark And the figure strays, alone Cold on its own, down a sudden stark The invisible, untouchable breeze swept over the opening, bringing some of the frozen flakes indoors through the enormous gateway in simulated realism, the floor next to the Caster rippling with remnants of unreal drifts, their corners slipping over his boots. To fruther the design, the air around him sunk in temperature, deepening the frozen state of the already crackling items that floated around his hands like a formation of lazy sealife. If we are to give the cold shoulder, might as well do it with proper theatrics and effects. Is it Hopes and Dreams, Or Magic and Secrets, that push your momentum Who will you listen, if not a child of this conundrum Is your Justice cruel, a haze Eyes halting the flight of their gaze At the brink of last words his look returned from its contemplation and tinkering, shedding a glimpse over the man that shared the room. Lately he had done nothing but grinned akin to some lowly peasant, but in that fleeting moment his features were as blank as usual, a distant pain piercing from behind the eyes. He shook his head and tried a smile to dismiss everything that had just been uttered, a cough escaping him and masked into just a mere clearing of one's throat. " Hell, a whole load of horsecrap if you ask me... " A most noble conclusion, including a bit more emotion and denial than he had meant, but he figured none would ever remember them anyway. Or at least write them in some record, disgracing him for such misuse of unrefined language. His digits waved and amidst the chiming the shards took another appearance, that of truthful darts, silvery spikes adorned by black and white tails, a pleasing monochrome and contrast amidst an evening of similar qualities. " Hah, I can't claim my aim too pristine either... " The Scholar stated, hovering a set of five morphed gaming items towards Phaedrus and whatever shadowy creatures loomed there with them. " As an honourary opponent, you, or whomever takes your throws, shall go first. " In confirmation, his hands gestured towards the inviting portrait above a light bow of some feigned politess. Falling silent, he stepped aside, for even if he might have been many things at that time he sure wasn't suicidal enought to remain standing at the range of fire. Was the target to be the portrait at all, he wouldn't know, but at least they both were armed as of now. Should they choose a different direction than settled, they would have themselves a massacre unbeneficial to both sides. " Eyes give you the most points, should I recall right from past rounds. " For real there were no past occasions as of this, he had never been out of his Mind this much to actually begin a game of canvas impalement, but for now such a rule in the unwritten book had felt like a good idea. That gaze wasn't meant to radiate upon anyone anymore. Then there was a click of the doorhandle. The darts dropped from his unseen grasp in reflex, some hitting the floor dangerously close to his feet and piercing the planks of the expensive floor, when his full force oriented towards the polished gateway, it still sitting alone and stubborn amidst a harsh landscape. The carefully formed image swayed a little out of his disoriented state, but was quick to regain its fullest contribution as an illusion when his eyes fixed on the door, palm flat in the air at the compelled, providing the door with a counterforce. " Not now. " He called out, suspecting it to be the obedient employees of the establishment from before, his head too shaken and stirred to be able to make up whom it was in truth. It was a strong assumption however, if he was to say one thing. There was no resisting those that crashed in thought, the brass hinges of the door giving in under the demanding weight of a bunch when his talents failed, weak under the sustained pressure and split orientation. His arm dropped down to rest when the channeling seazed, as if being cast aside, and his brows arched in surprise and bewilderment, the chill of his glare visiting those of an utterly confused trio. " What the hell is goin' on in here!? " A shrieking yell reached from the pile of people, amidst the violent rustle of them all getting up in a mildly comical mixture of waving limbs and investigative heads. The shout made him snarl just a bit in disagreement over the loudness, his form stumbling away, withdrawing and falling to sit back to where he had for the most of tonight, the whole of his vessel taken over by an ache that was to rip it apart. A defeated grunt left him, all of his conjurations and crafts fading away from around and within, snows melting and shimmering items regaining their demolished forms. Let it be over. Forever. |
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| Phaedrus | Jun 18 2014, 11:31 PM Post #38 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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The Shade hovered by his head, chilling the surrounding air—breath smoked from his curled lips, wafting in the unnatural cold. He felt the thing tethered to himself, an extension as natural as breathing, walking; even in his dulled state, he clung to it like a comfort, a long-reliable friend. The haziness of his mind manifested in its shape—the shadowed thing bulged and contorted, shrinking till it assumed the rough form of a feline, its tail whisking behind like a smoky comet. The deathly thing spread like ink, twisting around the seated necromancer in a mockery of a housecat, its mouth bleeding black shapes. Phaedrus gave a brittle smile as his hand drifted down the conjuration's spine, chilling him to the knuckles; the Shade's flesh moved like silk around his fingers, entwining them. He closed his eyes, mouth twisting at the sorcerer's words—a song? “Wine and a song?” The Shade snaked around his arm, tail brushing under his chin. “Are you wooing me, Galeas... Winterbring...” The mockery in his voice fell flat as he reopened his eyes, choked to silence by the shimmering, drifting room. The walls danced, opalescent in hues of white and blue—Phaedrus' nails dug into the chair, and the Shade flooded outward like ink, suspended of form. The sorcerer's voice fell like a tired dirge, a liturgy for things long-past, long-dead. The Southern Wind blows Strips the Mind of its Clothes The shards of Despair make a mirror And there lays your mute picture, in cold terror That grave witness once more Everything condemns into worthless chore Perhaps they'd once held some music in them—but it had frozen over in Galeas' recitation, each lyric bending and twisting the room. Phaedrus' eyes slid across the room, mind racing, surging. He saw the ginger morph into a snowy woman, her hair moonlight, eyelashes frost—heard the poison seeping into the sorcerer's words, cracking his careful composure. The fractures ran, zigzagged through the room, till they shattered the wall like a great blast; the necromancer flinched instinctively, arms flinging to shield his face—but the shards flapped, twisted, became howling snow. Matters not what you plan, The Air slices against When with arms open, You hope for the best Then one Dawn, arrives to the reach A Gate, holding an empty search The smoking darkness around his form sealed the chill of winter, dripping like oil down to the floor where the Shade lay dormant. The necromancer had lost concentration, fixed entirely on the morphing room—he felt sick, his stomach flopping every which way, head spinning with the gusts of wind. The wall had been swallowed by a great field of white and the tangled boughs of trees, stark black against a pristine world. The last line of the stanza floated out to him—in the blankness of the horizon, a suspension of life swallowed by the dark sky, mixing in a grey haze; he saw a Gate, felt its numb cold, swallowed by its silence. A plane stretching endlessly away, void of time, of space; moved and yet did not, navigating that blank womb without sound to keep him sane. No, no... The sorcerer still spoke, his words droning, narrating the illusion. The streams freeze, to stone Still surfaces reflect only the endless dark And the figure strays, alone Cold on its own, down a sudden stark Snow whirled through the room, made him squint against the swirl that clung to his clothes and lashes, dissipating instantly. The little pinpricks of cold smattered his face, made him inhale sharply and shrink further into the chair. The world had stopped making sense—his drug-hazed mind struggled to put it together, suddenly launched from the warm, exotic brothel and swept up in Winter's claw. What in seven hells— Images of a lone traveler, buffeted against eternity, stooped in a howling wind; dead eyes, misted like pools, sealed forever from the world of the living. Ice parched his throat, made him sure the wine in his cloak would crackle at any moment, that he'd move and a rime of frost would shiver off his stunned face. The portrait's burning eyes dimmed, and the woman's hair howled in a blizzard, whipping around her slim shoulders. Who is...? Who— His question was whisked away by another stanza, the voice like a persistent drum, the tired march of a beaten army. Is it Hopes and Dreams, Or Magic and Secrets, that push your momentum Who will you listen, if not a child of this conundrum Is your Justice cruel, a haze Eyes halting the flight of their gaze There was a long moment of silence, where the false wind whistled, and snowflakes flitted into the room like frightened birds. Phaedrus' mouth hung open in slack surprise, eyes screwed up to a squint, one hand snatching disbelievingly at the snow; it vanished in his palm, making his stomach give a lurch, a small panic that things did not behave as they should in the mortal realm. Part of him knew it to be an illusion, but the suddenness of it had given him no time to react—the Shade quivered by his feet, half-forgotten, though it still tugged upon his soul like an insistent leash, reminding him of his role as a master. Gradually, with the slowness of a glacier, his head moved ponderously upon his neck, and he stared at Galeas, long and hard. The last stanza was a twisted echo, a mocking question he could not answer. Is your Justice cruel, a haze? Uncomfortably relatable, surfacing images he did not care for; lonely images, long treks through unseen worlds, answers crumbled to dust in Death. Hate was what kept him anchored, kept him going—he did not have the luxury of second-guessing it, of thinking on the righteousness of his motivation; he lashed it away, kicked the thought like a beaten dog, eyes gleaming with newfound interest, hunger. And I thought you a bore, stuffed in a silly hat. A long, slow clap broke the silence, voicing his appreciation without having to force actual praise from his twisted lips. “Brav-o. I did not take you for a poet,” Phaedrus remarked, his mockery falling short from his remaining surprise, the small part that awed at such a display. And... there was something in the sorcerer's eyes, something he latched onto greedily, the familiar sight of grief, suffering; he sunk his teeth into it, longed to pry further, knew that look of pain. The woman hazed into his vision, peering sadly from her stolen picture frame; one eye still impaled, the other looking dolefully outward. “You knew her?” He asked quietly, intrusively perhaps, spreading his legs and lifting up one knee. Through his messily arranged posture, he narrowed his eyes at Galeas, hand drifting over the side of his chair—at once the Shade slunk up again, a half-glimpsed shadow twisting and jerking to Phaedrus' command. “Who was she? Someone worthy of impalement?” A sneer dragged jaggedly up his cheek, perhaps inhumanly far, but he was slipping, slipping—did not care, now that the ichor had gurgled down his ruined eye, and the shore of Death lent him a companion. Galeas had seen the foul Art; an unhinged sneer was nothing. “Hnf.” At Galeas' insistence, the necromancer splayed his fingers, jerking them as one would command a marionette; the Shade bent and twisted, assumed the rough form of a biped once again. Phaedrus' eyes narrowed to slits, lips thinned petulantly, kicking his foot upon the table with a clink of glass. Clever. I've half a mind to impale your eye in turn; tit for tat, as the saying goes. He wasn't sure if he voiced that comment in drunken foolishness, shrugging instead and throwing his head back into the cushions. “Very well. Let arses be ten points, and hats thirty.” A ghostly titter fouled his lips. “Ugly hats shall be worth forty.” The necromancer rose his arm as if readying to pluck a dart from the air. The Shade burst forward, its smoky chill enveloping one of the illusioned conjurings. Phaedrus drew a deep breath, hand bent back, and— Click. The door handle jiggled, and the dart sailed violently through the air, punching through an expensive lamp and ripping the curtain; it smashed to pieces in the wall behind it, bringing a shatter of hard ice and glass hardly heard over the commotion. Phaedrus cursed, hand balling into a fist—his vile eyes glared into the doorway, and he kicked over the small table with a hiss, uncaring as it crashed to the ground. “Go away,” he half shouted, half-slurred; unthinkingly, he tossed his hand in the direction of the knocking. The Shade bloomed forward, its shadowy chest opening like a bulb, an unseen wind whipping its frightful body. By some miracle, the door had stayed locked—or something; he thought only on how didn't wish to see anyone, resenting their interruption. Go lose yourself in one of the seven hells— The door suddenly gave way. A tangle of limbs and frightened faces burst through, struggling on the floor. The fear in their features and shriek suddenly ignited a fury in him, made Phaedrus' hands curl on the wood. He levered himself up like some drunken king, glowering down at them in judgment, ugly words readied like a rapier. The pleasant chiming had suddenly become unbearable, the smeared makeup and lipstick gaudy; it was then that the illusions extinguished like a candle, all the bright snow and scenery swallowed by the dark, broken room. One of the courtesans was making panicked noises; wine slopped across the floor, paintings ruined, curtains slashed, floors punctured and glass lining everything like shattered ice. Something wormed in the back of his consciousness. A sore, itching, cold, infected to a deep wound—the unmistakeable chill of Death, the first Gate reaching its clammy fingers into the living world. Alarmed, Phaedrus jerked his head to look at Galeas—he slumped, arm limp, looking like he'd drifted to sleep... but the necromancer knew better. He shot up in his chair, world swirling with it—one of the courtesans had finally untangled, and his lute of a voice shouted some protest; Phaedrus threw out his hand, face ironed of mirth, eyes like scorching pits. “Get out,” he and the Shade commanded in unison, twin voices chill with malice, low and warped; the necromancer's palm thrust out, and the shadow burst forward, engulfing them in a vicious chill—screaming, one woman tumbled backward; the male courtesan flew back in fear, his heart pounding in his throat, and with a sobbing tangle of limbs, they toppled outside. A shriek pierced the hallway as one of them ran out—the door slammed shut in a hellish whirl, light from beyond muffled by the Shade's oily darkness; it jammed itself into the lock, frosting it solid. Phaedrus reeled forward, stumbling out of his chair and hit the ground. Glass crunched under his palms, biting the flesh, but the necromancer crawled forward, grasping and scrabbling at furniture as he went. “You cannot die,” he screeched, outrageously offended at the notion—it felt like a personal backstabbing, a savage backhand. To have done all this, and die in a brothel, still unfucked! He seized something soft, ripped a decorative sleeve off a low couch. Gasping and hissing, the necromancer snatched until his hand hit Gale's chair, and he dragged himself forward, bracing himself against the wood; he managed to lever himself enough to be half-atop the sorcerer, one clammy hand raised shakily. “Up, up, you insufferable ass!” He struck the old man's cheek, to no effect—still, the Gate pulled, fighting to snatch the weary spirit from its tired shell. “At least die with a woman on your cock, you fool!” Some panicked part of him did not want the sorcerer to die, screamed to snatch him back, pull him roughly into Life; gloated at the ease of inverting nature's sentence, spitting in the eye of Death—his mind spun, sloshing within his skull, but he willed it to be still. You cannot leave me here! Idiot! The singular offense repeated itself, picked up volume, became a cry of outrage. You cannot leave me! Now he was inches from the sorcerer's face, quite overbalanced; his hands braced against the wooden arms of the chair, and he loomed like he was about to perform some life-saving kiss. Scowling, the necromancer clapped his hands to Galeas' fading cheeks, fingernails digging into the flesh, and felt the soul slip between his fingers, well on its way to leaping across the threshold to Death. Panicked footsteps thumped outside—but he had no time, no time! Eyes squinted, Phaedrus grit his teeth and focused on the chilly presence in the room, the wandering spirit, so weary, so weary... not in seven hells, you arse, we still have to play darts. He did not care on Galeas, or the natural order of things, immersed purely in some insane self-righteousness—Phaedrus closed his eyes and found the roar of the Gate, feeling his own spirit untether, flung wildly and easily into the wastes; his physical body went limp, and he flopped against Galeas—the chair groaned and teetered back violently in protest, hitting the floor for the second time in the night. Then—c-r-r-aaack! A leg snapped, crying out against their combined weight, and splinters bloomed from the wound. Phaedrus' body jarred lifelessly atop Galeas, his icy hands still clutched his face, head limp against the sorcerer; his eyes, behind the half-lids, were rolled to the whites again, spirit far elsewhere. ((nyerrrr lemme know if i need to change anything; i feel like i kinda god modded in the end and didn't leave you with much option. HAVE FUN IN A GATE, GALE.)) |
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| Galeas | Jun 19 2014, 10:21 PM Post #39 |
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In his prolonging silence, he realised he had crossed the limit, overburdened the incarnation that had held him back ever since the past incident, weakened by a flaw that had not been completely his own doing. Whomever had caused that ruin, collapsed the building, had done the greatest damage of all by not taking it to the end and killing him. Instead they had left him half of the sorcerer he had been, stripped from his powers and hindered by the forever creeping sickness, never again able to harness the lost potential. An excuse, a disgrace, a faint reflection of something that had once been mighty. The ethereal around his fingertips withdrew in a tingling crackle back to where it once came, collapsing along with everything that was of him. The head that was meant to be held high was forced into a bow, whilst the arms of a channeler hung now powerless over the edges of his seat, the noise around unnoted by internal as nothing more than a distant echo. His observance wavered, gaze directed to somewhere through the floor from under heavy lids, the vessel he had known for over five decades feeling foreign and strained by the pain that reached from somewhere within, unending. He let his weary breath escape him in a muffled sigh and was about to take another to replace it, but something strangled the attempt and left the lungs empty, the external entirety gaining an immobile conclusion. Hell, from all the possible ways and places to perish, this had been the least expected combination. Slowly, the surrounding vanished. First blurry, but soon nonexistent. The dark had opened, left him floating above the view one had just before falling asleep, amidst nothingness. There was no floor, no walls, nothing to stand on or lean onto, no strings or signs to follow. He looked back, as if searching for that which he had entered from, but all the gates and paths had disappeared. If they had been there to begin with. All he could hear was a distant hum, almost like a breeze or draft, only broken by an occasional, timid whisper that reached from the blackness. It seemed as if the environment was moving, misty shapes shaking the curtain of ink and reaching with smokelike hands, yet he saw no one, unable to pinpoint the sources of momentum and voices. It could've been an intimidating situation and environment, horribly uncertain and doubtful, but he didn't feel frightened by it. Was not his part, to have negative thoughts and sensations, for none mattered anymore. He was dead. *** The piercing morning light stabbed through the sliver of unveiled window, the late Summer looming somewhere outside and sounding the distorted noise of its restless nature through the wooden walls. The cold of his eyes browsed around in a dazed awakening, letting him become aware of his unsurprising place of residence. Seemed he had spent the night at his study once again, akin to the weeks and weeks before, the intensity of his research holding him captive through the Nights. His arms extended into a careful stretch along the rests of his comfortable seat during a deep inhale, neck twisting to the side in similar purpose. There was a foreign weight on his lap, a form way smaller that flinched and rolled absently due to his movement, still deep in slumber. Noting them, he muffled the pace of his gestures, reaching to remove the spectacles from before his vision and placing them on the nearby table as quietly as he could. He did the same to the tome that was held between young hands, its cover exhausted from the enthusiasm of its now sleeping owner who changed their dreaming position upon being parted from their favourite reading. In a careful inhale he corrected the child's position and picked them up to be held against his chest sturdily, their short arms looping around his neck almost like out of a reflex when he straightened up to standing. They yawned, expression folded inside a velvety haze of dreaming, whilst his own was that of the familiar unreflectiveness. The Night into white silk binds The passed words and times Both overused and drained, worn Hiding in the shattered morning mist, torn And the flowers on your window sill Are of joyful thoughts from the deep When the song of grief grows still Just before you fall asleep From behind the door, across the murky room reached a distant cheer in a song, towards which he now took his contained step. One hand went for the silvery handle whilst the other took care of carrying his offspring and in a creak of hinges the two passed through to a welcoming brightness, alerting another from their chores and verses. A shiver of pale locks went when the familiar figure faced him, a serene gaze directing in unsurprised silence upon his appearance. - Did you two stay up all night again? She asked in a smile during her approach, extending the slender arms for the daughter he held. In mute comfirmation he nod his head and passed on the requested figure, giving the small head a stroke when it met with the shoulder of the mother. - I hope she didn't hinder your work too much, you know how curiou- The calm voice begun again, the apologetic sentence interrupted when the taller one before her bowed down, landing a kiss on her forehead. After the brief demonstration of affection, he turned on his heel and took his bearing back to where he had come from, staying as wordless as ever. - You should rest. The wife probed in suggestion with a bit of delay at his back, to which he answered by throwing a glance and an unexplanatory set of words, none of him flickering. - I can't. And without another word, he returned to the Study and closed to door behind him, shutting out all else and falling to the distant state he held amongst all, even his closest family. *** Many things remained the same over the years and wars, the extent of his research being one of the said sort along with the surrounding he kept most of the time. The walls of his study were unchanging and forever present, words written keeping a reasonable course and purpose, not even close to the nature of those that shared his house. There was a distant disturbance, yells and loud footsteps entering through the front door and to the corridor that led across the building. Dea's startled shriek reached upon the newcomer's loud passing, the nearing commotion scattering his thoughts and drawing his attention from the letters before him. - Alasia, you are bringing snow indoors! - I'll clean it up later! - Alasia! - This is urgent! And then the door to his solitude slinged open with the full force of uncontrolled excitement, letting out a loud bang when it collided with the wall. His look shifted slowly to stare over his glasses in questioning towards the young soldier that had stormed in, her overly joyful carriage taking to lean over his desk. He had been about to voice some dismay over the defiant behaviour, but the daughter was hasty to bring out their cause in a most surprising form. - Father, I am getting married! His brows arched in confused silence and he was made to lean back on his chair in fullest withdrawal from the parchment before him. The two staid staring at each other for a moment, she uncertain how to continue whilst he tried to process the information and conjure a reaction that was not too doubtful or harsh. In attempt to break the weirdly pleasing quiet and anticipation, he cleared his throat against his fist. - With whom, exactly? - Balder Hagios. - That Sellsword from Kinaldi? - He is not just a sellsword, he is also a poet. You should read his work, it is quite amazing. - So, he is not only a fightful spirit of war, but a light-headed artist above such. I can't really decide which alone would've been worse. - Don't be like that. I love him, he is handsome and our children will be beautiful. - Thank the Gods. If they inherit even half of his intellect, they will need those looks. - Hah! We'll hold the wedding after Midsummer this year, you better take time off from your... Her hand waved in contemplation, tongue searching for a suitable word. ...thing. - I will be there. Away from my Thing. Even if it will be an attendance of great reluctance, for I'd rather not witness my daugter being surrended to a half-wit. To which she just laughed in response and tossed her hand dismissingly, turning in a clink of armour and vanishing as rapidly as she had appeared. He stared at her wake for a moment before trying to get back to his writing, to no avail. The day had been ruined, the stream of his thought cut by the dreaded intelligence that had now been delivered in the utmost manner of his outspoken daughter. And there, he shook his head in some sort of weak protest and disappointment upon levering himself to his feet, the chilly look drifting, all the way from the Winter behind the window to the fireplace that had fused out some time ago. Only now, violently detached from his mesmerizing lines, did he notice the room having gained an edge of cold, the frozen air from outside creeping through the walls and garments, and in continuation to such notion he took to the ashes. A few logs were stacked over the dead smolder, a brief gesture then bringing it back to life, with almost invisible effort that conjured the flame. His bare palm reached above the blaze as he stared at its flicker, the round lenses reflecting the destructive force that after a while seemed as if it had gained a look of its very own. Of course, he figured such must have been just a figment of his exhausted mind, easily ignored and in a weary inhale he turned his back to the Fire, about to return to his desk. But, then It spoke. - What Do You Think You Are Doing? The hiss and crackle asked, tone hateful and crumbling from amidst the searing logs. It forced him to halt, drew him back to just staring, brows sinking into a frown of confusion. - You Can't Stay. WE, Can't Stay. For If You Are Dead, So Am I, And I Can't Let That Happen. You Have No Idea What It Is Like In Hell, The Place I Am Going. Hate Has No Other Destination In Afterlife. There was a good five minutes ruled by silence in between the furious words, but before he had enough time to think on the absurdity of their content or ask a single question, the Fire continued once again. - Do I Really Need To Explain This To You? It looked like it rolled its eyes then, in a somewhat stupified sigh, the type one makes when they realize someone is a total moron and hardly worth their time in the slightest. - None Of This Is Real. You Died, My Friend, And This All Is But An Alternative Reality. After Which You Will Pass On Even Further. - That is a lie. - Oh? I Can Prove To You I Am Right. Let Me Burn This House. In a devastated pause, his look shot around, as if he was looking for a reason to deny the suggestion. The ponder made a circle, not coming to any sort of conclusion. He had never been superstitious and some part of him was certain the whole fiery creature was just as unreal as they claimed his surrounding to be, but in a way the being had managed to plant doubt into his Mind. The hum grew in intensity and the demon reached higher, sizing up significantly and intimidatingly. - We Have No Time To Think Nor Hesitate Here, Soon We Will Be Out Of Reach! Off My Way! The abomination of a voice shouted in order, then bursting out into an all-consuming hellfire, rivers of flaming essence coursing past his frozen figure, searing limbs crawling along the floor and walls, setting everything ablaze as they went on. It felt burning against his skin, yet it didn't devour him akin to the real fire he knew, due to which he could do nothing but stand on his two feet and watch when everything around him vanished. Unlike in the scenario he had expected, there were no ashes left behind, no screams of those dear to him, only a surrounding whiteness that exposed when the fabric of his personal universe was destroyed. The Light blinded him, made the lids fall before the vision that was not sure what it saw, whilst his legs gave away in mixed thoughts and let him fall to his knees in that fleeting moment. The muttering silence took over and the horrid Truth that stained the past years of a false reality turned his Reason into solid frost. Absently, his hand reached to cover his shut hues, to shield them from showing an overtaking display of grief. What had just... What. Why. When he returned, the environment had changed once again, into a complete opposite of what it had been just a few moments ago. It was now dark, whole world turned into a coal shimmer, it weighing over like a cloak of lead. The materialized Fury was still there, hovering in his eye level and slowly drawing near. - I Told You. It said victoriously, in what sounded like a twisted snicker. In lingering, aghast muteness he stood up, a tired glare investigating the small flame that was nothing but a remnant of its previous appearance, easily extinguishable. But, what would that have achieved, only left him in the dark more alone than he already was. They had been right in one thing, maybe they would know the way that for now seemed terribly invisible, the endless emptiness giving little direction. Guess it would've been too easy to have the Gates spell out signs that said 'The Way Out', along with a guiding arrow. What was the excitement over being lost beyond Death in that. - Don't Give Me That Face, You Should Thank Me. The Thing stated, its contained essence crawling across what seemed like a floor of smoke, then climbing up his leg in a swirling manner of a wine before spreading out to multiple stems, surrounding his whole vessel, becoming like a coating, a part of the sorcerer that had once created it. In dumbfound calmness he hoisted his hands and examined the searing appearance he had gained, then letting out his first words in what had felt like a decade, his own voice ringing foreign and with a strange depth. - What now. - I Thought You Had An Idea How To Return From The First Gate... - I do not. - Well, You Better Start Conjuring Some Multidimensional Ladder Then, For We Can't Linger. I Brought Us Back To Here, You Better Do Your Part, Genius. The tense and comically qlueless discussion was soon halted by a disturbing approach, it straying nigh from all around. Of all his observant senses only the hearing registered something, a chaos of whispers and screams in several directions, the whirlwind of tormented and horrid sounds that combined into an apocalyptic choir. Then, there was the Sight, compressing from a cloud of Night, becoming a maelstrom of tortured limbs and inhuman faces, its being entwining around him with branches that shouted in horror all the while. - Who The Hell Is This? The demonic snakelike murmur asked next to his ear, with some amusement over the word Hell. - I am not sure, but I believe they are to take us back. - No, Not Us, You. Whatever Their Reason Is Thought, Them Being Here Means That There Is Another Corpse Left Unattended... He felt his legs being swept from under him during the heavy plotting of which he was unaware of, for all he knew he had just been awakened into some sort of nightmare from a completely pleasing... afterlife? And all his existence he had believed there was no such thing. - See You On The Other Side, For Soon Enough I Will Have My Very Own Carnal Body. The last thing he heard was a diabolical and mocking laughter when the otherwordly roar swallowed him, the whole of him submerging into a sea of weaved inky hands that clawed and dragged him, into all bearings yet none. A destination waved below, its presence being more of a feeling than something that the vision could wrap around, unfabricated and almost nonexistent. But in his deepest he knew he was going somewhere. *** Pain. It was all he felt, it hitting him like an anvil from the sky, the ache residing both outside and inside, its intensity varying all over. After the first hasty and forceful inhale that announced his newfound breath and most pleasing arrival to the books of the living, he chose to grace the realm with a little inspection. The cyan unveiled in terrible uncertainty and noticed soon enough that it was staring up at a.. ceiling? Or was it the floor? Hell, both looked the same with their plank completion, and for some reason he wouldn't have been too surprised if it indeed had been the latter, having apparently just come back from the dead. Even with all the pain he currently was in he was able to notice that there was something itching his face. His numb hand reached to move a lock of curly hair aside and during such action he also came aware of the crushing weight that was resting on his person, their form terribly lifeless. Had he killed someone? Damn, a murderer and resurected, what next? Unable to move with a limp, maybe-perished person atop him, he let his look travel from side to side, the demolished state of an overly decorated room traveling to his awareness. The confusing view was overlaid by a fog of sweet smoke and a coating of glass shards, the polished gears of his Mind trying to make some sense of it, searching for even the littlest strand of reason in the scene that had ended with him dying, along with the other person. Had he dueled this person in some... Drunken, opiumheaded combat of not-necessarily magelike feats. He sure hoped not, even if it would've been encouraging to have beaten someone in a fair fight of sorcerous nature. He shifted in attempt of relieving his back from the wooden rim of the chair that was digging into his spine, not able to feel his feet that probably dangled somewhere over the edge of the seat, most of his view blocked by the unfamiliar that was slowly suffocating him with their weight. Would've been funny if he had died again out of being indirectly strangled, wonder if it was possible to come back more than once. Should something as of that had happened, that demon might have given him a bit more than just a piece of their Mind. They had seemed... Terribly confident and anxious in getting out of the afterlife. Or whatever it had been, something as false as that couldn't really be called Life at all. Then, all of a sudden, there was sluggish movement. His look bolted towards that which laid over, staring as if he had just seen a ghost. A disturbing one to that, maybe one of those that drifted around without a head, howling. Recalling the voices in the darkness from a bit ago, he came to the conclusion that he'd rather have the real owner of the Curly's vessel to return, rather than have it taken over by that... Fire abomination. Along with blessing him with most likely less murderous company, they might be able to grace him with an explanation over what in the frozen hell had happened. " Evening? " He tried, the first word that escaped him being but a horrible, rough crumble that reached from a throat that was like a desert, ending up with him bursting out into a cough that he was hasty to muffle against the back of his gloved palm. Why was he wearing gloves indoors anyway? And where the darn was his headwear? |
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| Phaedrus | Jun 22 2014, 12:42 AM Post #40 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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The First Gate howled. Warmth bled away, all color drained to the grey of a corpse. An unheard wind whipped at the formless black of his spirit, let it boil in the wastes. A thousand voices whispered on the edges of his consciousness, mutters climbing to screams, the occasional shriek piercing the mad susurrus. Shapes rose and dispersed in the same instant, the shades of women collapsing into darkness, a man's screaming face blown away in the thoughtless gale. Among them, only Phaedrus stayed still, feeling the warmth of Life drain away, lingering on the back of his neck in a tremulous plea. Come back. Its voice was weak against the current, the unseen force tugging at every spirit. The roar rose to a deafening crescendo—then crashed under like a wave, swallowed in absolute silence. Things shimmered and moved in the mist, stretching into the grey horizon, a vastness without end. Curse you, Shelfslayer. The necromancer let the violent storms of voices pass, paying no mind to the ones shrieking over some impossible distance. Young, old, tongues that spoke Common and Ashokan, gurgled out with lungs full of blood, drowned voices, burnt voices, all departed. Help me—help me— Is that you? I don't want to die—please, I don't want to die, have mercy— Come back—please, come back, don't leave me here, don't leave me— A woman's bloodcurdling shriek pierced the air, torn from a throat long-dead, and something burst out of the mist. Its bodiless form flapped past him, deafening him in a cacophony of howling, and then it vanished, sucked further into the Gate. Unshaken, Phaedrus waded further into the greyness, fighting the familiar tug. Most spirits were not aware of his presence, for he was just as dead as they, drained of warmth and promise—a thing that did not truly live and so could not properly die, not imprisoned in personal memory. If anything, he was more akin to the Interlopers and planar beings, things that clawed their way back into Life. Vile creatures, crackling with magic and acting as parasites. If they were powerful enough, they could defy the current, feeding on freshly Dead until they reached the border. He'd walked the First Gate so many times, his sight and footing no longer stumbled—it was like reentering an old, hated house, or wading through a swamp visited since childhood. Still dangerous—every Gate was dangerous, and only dead fools thought otherwise—but it held a gruesome familiarity, almost a triteness in the things the spirits screamed. Very few times had he been unsettled by their words. It was the Memory Eaters that frightened him, had almost cost him his footing and thrown him reeling into Death. Most did not wander out of the Second Gate, and for that he felt grateful. Curse you, old man. Do not go there. The sorcerer had not fought the current, and so been far-flung despite his recent entry; hissing in an echo of tones, Phaedrus pressed forward, his inhuman form lashing and whipping in the frail mists. He thought on Galeas, on the corpse left sprawled behind—focused on the tether that still existed, the peculiar soul it belonged to. The other distractions rolled away like fog, opening a hazy path. His instincts twinged—Phaedrus veered, letting it call him. A gout of flame exploded in the darkness. Trails of his spirit shivered behind him, dissipating like ink dropped in water. Phaedrus froze, hit with the unmistakeable tang of interloper magic; it was a blinding flash in a dead world, coming directly from where the sorcerer's soul beckoned—damn it all! A hiss escaped him, turned quickly into a ward—black shapes writhed from the darkness, grasping with smoking hands. Up ahead, the mists burnt away, revealing a soul ensnared by fiery coils. They turned to look as though in a dream, hazy outlines shimmering and melting into Death. “Galeas Winterbringer,” his awful voice hissed, wretched, inhuman, scraping like fingernails on the wall of a cell—a chorus of words whispered and screamed at once, gurgling out of mouths that tore open and submerged even as he spoke. Who knew how much time had passed in the spirit's mind—how many years spent in the grey wastes, erasing his memory with sweet poison. Again, he said his name, to jar him awake, remind him of who he was. “Shelfslayer. Winterbringer! You owe me a game of darts.” The chilly hiss echoed, swallowed by the roar of the Gate. He did not like the look of it; cursed the interloper attached like a parasite to Galeas. Without warning, dozens of hands shot from the boiling mists, seizing the sorcerer. Phaedrus followed in kind, closing over the demon—he heard a far off wail, felt the warmth of Life on the back of his neck... And it closed behind him, sealed like a tomb. Phaedrus howled a curse, still entangled with the fiery demon; tongues of flame shot over his ward, sent it rippling. The Border shimmered, bulged into Life, its watery curtain giving way to brilliant white. No! We are too close! “Try another body, demon,” the necromancer howled, hands bursting forth to seize the vile interloper. His jawless face peeled into a croaking snarl, black flesh whipping and roiling; a thousand eyes bulged out of the waste and subsumed, blazed every color, in every shape and human form. The interloper burned through his hands even as others rose to replace them; there was no time to utter a binding, for the Border fluttered like a curtain, ready to whisk them into Life. With vicious effort, Phaedrus summoned a host of hands, screeching a hideous laugh and dragging the demon under the current—but something else howled past them, bursting into the necromancer and throwing him asunder. There was a violent roar as he and the demon were sucked under the crashing waves of the First Gate, flung by the current and deep back into Death. * * * It knew hunger. It knew craving. It knew it craved the warmth of Life, the pulsing heartbeat it carried, the freedom from that darkness—to move, to feed, breaking the reins that kept dragging it further into that grey prison; remembered how blood ran from its teeth, how the red flower of hearts tasted. In Death, it had withered to bones and skin, a jaw that slavered and trailed to the floor when it cast its head down. And then the light had opened—the curtain had been ripped asunder, promising Life. Promising freedom. The interloper wrenched its weak body out of Death, cracked nails scrabbling against wood—it howled, wheezed, its bloated tongue lolling out of a decayed mouth. One shoulder poked free, then the other—it emerged into Life like something sharpening out of a mist, dragging its spasming, withered legs behind it. Its rotten head lolled, neck heavy with mottled flesh, gums black and barbed with needles that curved in wicked directions. It had no eyes, but it could smell, nostrils quivering, flaring and closing to slits in a featureless face. Breath rasped and scraped out of its desiccated lungs, and it was cold—cold as Death and its mists, chilling the room with its entry. Desperately, slaveringly, it scrabbled forward, the click-click of its nails the only sound in the darkness—it sensed blood. It sensed Life. Glass dug into its palms, but it did not feel it—the hunger burned out all else, opened a vacuous pit. Evening? Its head snapped around to the sound—breath snorted from the bloodied slits upon its decayed face, and the creature loped forward, loosing a hideous howl. It had found its first victim. ((i felt kinda weird controlling the npc, since i didn't wanna mess up any plotty stuff you might have in mind. xD anyhow, feel free to kick phae's soul in the ass. and if you want, control his body. maybe part of the fire demon slipped past him, or attached to gale or somethin, and can weakly control phae's body in Life. up to you. much spooky! such wow!)) |
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| Galeas | Jul 28 2014, 02:17 PM Post #41 |
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Funny enough, his clumsy greeting gained no answer. An exhale of both disappointment and relief left him, head returning to rest against the floor in a faint thud. He stared at the wavering ceiling idly, the one persistent flame in the room forming shapes which he attached into. Throught the whispers and hum of the fire, he recalled a voice. It had mentioned his name, the truthful one accompanied by a few that had sounded like some lousy bynames, the tone having been that of a most unpleasant. It had hissed with an unrecognizable dissonance from that maelstorm of black smoke and unspoken pits, smolders resembling eyes being the only life it had held. The image replayed, whispers echoed, the mention of a forgotten game of darts creeping a little more confusion to his reasoning. Darts, darts, darts... What in the name of... A deep inhale from somewhere beyond his own weary lungs cut the string of his thought. He glanced first at the one of curly locks, but as they had again fallen into immobility, his look was quick to shoot to the right, cheek turning to meet a collection of glass shards whilst the chilly gaze wandered the field of crystal. He could not investigate much from his position, sweeping only along the surface of the floor, but to his horror he was still able to see that which moved. Or tried to move, its decayed limbs searching, blackened form crawling and discharging the withering essence it had tried to grasp. It had no eyes, but he could feel its eldritch stare upon him, invisible eyes glaring like Night that crept in the dark corners of the room akin to some sentient blackness. It seemed hungry. The next few seconds drifted along, his brows knitting above the flickering glower, Mind busying itself with conjuring an escape. For if he knew anything at all, the freshly spawned abomination was not on the side of friendly. Should his expectation surface as false however, he would be informed of it soon enough by the creature offering him tea instead of slaughter, in which case he owed their Hideousness an apology. But, he thought it a greater shame to drop dead twice during the same evening than showing some prejudice towards a summoned monster from the Underworld and thus, quite abruptly, he pulled the strength in his numb vessel together and pushed the curlyheaded body aside. With a lot of struggle in fact, his forceful talents being on the psychic realm rather than weightlifting, not to mention the excess heaviness a completely limp corpse caused in its state. Nevertheless, he managed to break free, the lifeless form from atop letting out a crackle when it shifted to its side on the floor. Grunting, he scattered to his tingling feet, ending up back against the wall in disoriented withdrawal when he faced his foe. His legs quickly disagreed with his will to stand, one gloved hand browsing the wall for support whilst he felt himself sliding down along the smooth surface of the handpainted tapestry, slowly forced to seating. Hell, like coming back with an amnesia hadn't been enough. The thing across the room struggled as well, if not way greatly than he did, every inhale that filled its wreched lungs reaching to keep it alive for another moment. It was not right, it was not supposed to breathe. It was against the laws of everything he knew to be true. Die already, collapse into your own impossibility, wither away for all I care. - What...Is...heeeeergh.... This...? He had thought of it for a mindless demonspawn, something that had slipped through the open Gates by accident, all up to the moment it voiced questioning amidst its wheezing battle over forced existence. Words of wonder, coming from a mouth that was not meant to speak, rotten tongue blurring out the tone that was on the side of angry. It took him for a pause and his brow arched out of sincere amazement. A summoning of Necromantic nature that was verbally expressing itself? How delightful. - Not... Right... Not What I... Wanted... It seemed awestruck to some extent, head turning in the end of a broken spine, hateful pits searching. To his relief it had stopped advancing at him, charred body laying on the floor as if defeated by the swift retreat of its prey, nails scraping the floor in contained wrath. He sensed it measuring, pulling a weak thought together between breaths, locking upon the third in the room as if submerged to ponder. For a moment it seemed as if the being was smiling in some twisted realization, if not only halfly due to the hanging of its dislocated jaw. - That... One... Pulling itself forward with the two functional limbs it shifted in the murk, cumbersome movement directing towards his late supposingly-drinking-and-fighting-buddy. He had not been able to do anything but observe until now, chained from uttering any of the questions that haunted him, petrified by the sight. His gaze hardened a tad bit, gained an edge of curiousity, when the crawling movement shifted towards the mysterious mister -or lady- Curly, arms dark as coal reaching a climb over their chest. The disfigured face leaned close to examine the features, as if it was picking a juicy piece of meat from a butcher's counter. - Kghaha. So... This...Is Your... Necromancer Friend... Its head turned at him then, pointing out well enough whom it was addressing. The notion conjured a frown to shade his eyes that narrowed simultaneously. " Absurd, I don't 'hang' with those of the Dark Arts... " The Scholar started in protest, voice dry and heavy. The thing ignored him however, neck cracking when its visible attention returned to the task at hand. A hunch of what the creature was about to do to the corpse had crept to his Mind, waded through all the denial towards the situation he had found himself in and made his confusement fade in compare to the boil that rose from within. No, he would not witness it consume another, not ever, such a thing was terribly injust even in the weirdly wrecked environment he currently was in. Besides the dead guy needed a proper burial, no matter how horrible enemies he might have been with them. And with them being a Necromancer and all that, thus not worthy of any postmortum honour. His gloved fingers clicked, producing a flame in a hiss. " Don't you dare... " A coughing laughter broke from the underworly spawn then, mocking the blaze that hovered above his palm, slowly gaining intensity by his rage. The newfound power overshone the lone candle, illuminating the room in greater extent and sharpening details. It also allowed him to see the threat better, exposing the full range of its multidimensional hideousness that now splayed over its victim. In reaction to the risen level of light -or the hum of the fire-, the abomination shared a look with him once more. The eyesockets that had held nothing so far, only hollow blackness, had lit up. Literally. - Fool... You can't... Kill Fire with Fire. // Hit me up if I controlled Phae too much by writing he was... unconscious/taking a nap all the while. // |
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| Phaedrus | Jul 28 2014, 06:52 PM Post #42 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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The waters roared. They poured into his mouth, froze his insides, would have choked his lungs solid had he not been spirit-flesh; he felt the demon disentangle, fleeing back towards Life, and loosed a screech, swiping at nothing. The current of hands seized and pulled him, icy-grey, snatching with misty fingers; a thousand voices sobbed and whispered to him, confused and angry, plunging him under the ocean of their thoughts. He could not tell which way was up or down; everything blurred into a seething eternity, an abyss of millions of Dead, their jaws unhinging to scream, faces obliterating to dust. Markus you cannot Markus please-- It's not my time, I can't go-- Why did they kill her? Why did they? My baby--they killed my baby-- Disgusted, Phaedrus tried to writhe away from them. Terror bloomed inside him as the roaring became louder, unbearable, filling his head and blotting out all thought. Not the Second Gate. No, no, no-- The grey shimmered, turned reflective, like an endless span of mirrors. He saw a thousand fractured screams in them, hands, arms, torsos rippling and decaying in the current of the First Gate. No, no, no, no-- The necromancer scrabbled wildly, clawed for purchase, seized a soul and flung it, screaming, behind him. Mist churned and lapped around his bodiless form as he forced himself upwards, straining against the current. A terrible, weak panting came from his throat--a dozen grey hands still snatched at the rippling black of his flesh, pried it away in their dead fingers. Take me, Ma'at, take me, send me away from this place-- Nailah have mercy, Nailah have mercy, have mercy, please-- With a howl, Phaedrus wrenched free, bursting from the river of spirits; their arms slithered back into the depths, and he stood atop the mists again, frozen in the midst of muttering, senseless shapes, Shades brushing by, recently Dead wandering the waters with anguished howls. The necromancer trembled, and looked behind him. There, too painful to look at, was the Second Gate. A wall of shimmering facets like crystal, a sheer face thrust out of the grey wastes and stretching upwards into eternity. Souls were wandering blindly into it, distorting as soon as they brushed it; it bulged, rippling upon their entry, and swallowed them into complete obliteration. Phaedrus broke into a run towards the border to Life, and did not look back. * * * All the while, he cursed himself. The drugs, the drink, the demon, the thrice-damned sorcerer--all for getting him into this mess. (Of course, he did not stop to think that--given the way things had panned out--he had played a fair hand in the wretched outcome. He would not think it.) Phaedrus followed the tether of his body tugging at his spirit--beckoning to be joined as whole again, the tar of his soul in the blackened chamber of his limbs. He half-expected to have to fight for it; to have to claw the demon out of his corpse and reoccupy it, but nothing blocked him from the shimmering ripple of the Border. He ran through its diaphanous curtain, feeling the chill snap at his heels, whispers suddenly thundering into silence--the blessed warmth of Life trickled upon his face, spread through his cheeks, gave voice to a shivering, rasping breath in his lungs. Noises and scuffles sounded from far-away, a voice heard through an echoing tunnel--…can't… kill Fire.. with Fire…--and a weight dug into his chest, sharp claws pricking his collarbone, a fetid breath near his mouth… The necromancer snapped his eyes open. Atop him loomed a hideous Thing, the creature that had flung him under the river and let the demon escape. Its mottled skin hung down like a turkey's neck, nearly brushing his face--it reeked of burnt flesh, choking him with the stench of decay. Flames licked its empty sockets, hungry, burning. Deep anger boiled inside him, disgust that such a thing dared touch him, hungered for his Life, for his body--it burnt through the fog of waking, sent wrath surging through his numb limbs. Phaedrus' hand shot out, seizing a bronze candlestick. And crunch--it whistled through the air, caving in the Thing's skull with a murderous bang. Flames shot from the wound, revealing the demon's nature; the black flesh belched to the air like ash, and the necromancer rolled, glass crunching under his back--he tried to throw the blighted Thing off, kicking, gnashing, cursing in Old Ashokan. People were pounding on the wood and shouting-- a confused muffle of voices sprung from outside. "…Let us in!" "...What's going on?" And then, shrieked loudly: "Lady Sigvard! Lady Sigvard!" The doorknob rattled and ice shivered off it, lock frozen and brittle. Somewhere in the room, the Shade twitched, still wedged in the handle of the door. It struggled against each successive thud, waning in the world of the Living. Phaedrus lurched to his feet, reeled--in Death, he'd forgotten that he was drunker than a fly drowned in rum, stumbling with legs that did not obey. The necromancer flung out a hand, clutching a curtain that half-snapped with three great pops; reeling, he barely hung on to the red fabric fisted in his hand. Snarling, Phaedrus dragged himself upward, leaning uncertainly against the wall; his eyes found another bright flame, saw Galeas' severe face lit by shivering fire. A mixture of relief and urgency shot up inside him. He couldn't tell if the man's memories had been erased, or how much of Shelfslayer still rattled in his skull after the mists of the First Gate. Still, he was standing, and had a fire at the ready. Surely he had some cognizance! "Not fire!" The necromancer slurred, raising one hand in a summoning gesture. His eyes shot to the demon, burning a hateful yellow. Remember, Shelfslayer, remember who I am, what you are doing. "Ice! Destroy its shell--it cannot live without it. Go on, Galeas, you did owe me a game of darts." Outside, the pounding grew louder, more violent. A deep, gruff voice snarled from beyond. "Open the door, damn you! Before I kick it down! You have five seconds!" Phaedrus bared his teeth, ignoring it to the best of his ability--the Shade strained, writhed, ice cracking and shivering to the floor. "One!" Pounding. The necromancer focused on the demon, trying to summon hands, Shades, anything… "Two!" You thrice-damned fool, he wanted to shriek, of half a mind to send the darkness flying into the man's face. But focus, focus, he had to… "Three!" The door boomed outward, jumping on its hinges. Phaedrus spread his legs apart, willing himself to be calm. "Four!" He closed his eyes, fingers clenched. Again, Phaedrus felt the coldness bleed through his spirit--trail to his hands, jerking them like marionettes; shadows whipped around the demon, writhing into grasping claws. They shot forward, seeking to tear at the Thing's borrowed flesh, pin it down, rend and destroy. "Five!" The Shade flickered, vanishing--it was sucked into the shores of Death, and the necromancer felt it leave, rattling away like a dying gasp. The door flew open, and light poured into the room, illuminating the ghastly scene. [[lemme know if i need to change anything! c: ]] Edited by Phaedrus, Jul 28 2014, 06:57 PM.
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| Galeas | Aug 13 2014, 03:02 PM Post #43 |
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During the seconds of silence, another signaled their arrival from the nether, an oddly familiar presence puncturing the borders and creeping to be sensed by his talents. A returning soul, somewhat lost but still determinate on their return. The frown upon him faded slightly, from both confusement and anticipation, whilst his similarly rounded hues shifted towards the face of the deceased, searching and expecting a certain sign. The Demon took his change of expression and loosened stature as a reflection of defeat, thus sounding out crackling laughter. - That's The Spirit... Heeeeegh... Now... What Do We Ha- Both his and the Demon's brows shot up when the recently late opened their eyes in announcement of their waking. Adrupt and newfound anger coursed from their aware Mind, flushing over the entirety and drowning all else, pouring through the gateways that stared back at the flaming sockets of their assaultant. Well I'll be damned... He staid still, leaning heavily against the wall in a muffled recoil whilst witnessing an unceremonious physical offence as the candlestick made contact with the decayed face in a bronze flash, the hit delivering its purpose by slinging the abomination off the freshly ressurrected. It hissed in a serpentine manner, the blaze within its now split skull roaring to the open when it clawed the crystalline floor, head turning slowly upwards to seek the Necromancer. A seared hand reached, snapping the hanging jaw back to its place, corroded teeth bare in an assymmetric snarl. In its struggling inhale, it also released a couple of words, the heart of the fire in its sockets gaining a bluish hue. - You... Will Pay. In mute ashtonishment the Scholar traced the Necromancer's movement, their stumble in great contrast against the peaceful hum of his conjuration, adding both noise and misplacement in enhancement to the almost destroyed environment. The silence was furtherly broken by the yelling from beyond the door, the banging echoing in its intensity and giving him the urge to rip the whole thing clean off. Just so there would be no more knocking. He figured that might have given a short-tempered image to his newfound companion though, thus forcing himself to resist the destructive desire. - Ice! The order backhanded the rest of the dreamlike haze from his state, a knowing voice calling a solution that included his bravura. And those blasted darts again. The shades of sulphur in the urgent gaze reminded him of something, letting him become convinced he had seen the look before, more or less attached to the same face. Guess he had been acquainted with them better than he had come to understand -or was ready to admit, taking their craft -, a few miscellaneous fragments floating in the back of his consciousness, whispering a broken conversation. A sneer from across the street, distorted and foggy, approaching. ...You may call me Phaedrus.... Golden liquid swirling somewhere under, surrounded by crystal, tables flipping, curtains ablaze. ...Goats!... Memorizing, abort. Not now. He shook his head dismissively, hues detaching from their blank stare and taking the Demon as the acute target. The hand holding the flame clenched in a bit of delay like out of some confused obedience, the digits closing around the light and suffocating it the same instant. He stuggled in levering himself to his feet, back supported against the wall, gloved hands gesturing in preparation of the requested deed. The next breath was deep and hummed deep in his ears, closing out the commotion from the corridors outside. He was certain there was no way for him to turn the whole Thing into a block of ice, in his current weakened state at least, thus his look submerged to sweep the floor that crackled under his feet faintly. Darts... That might do. - You have five seconds! The shout broke his concentration for a split of a second, reminding of an urgency. They were sure to end up in trouble, if not only for demolishing a piece of an establishment, then in addition for summoning some dark powers into it. Was best to get rid of the Being at haste, at least the part that kept it talking if dispersing the whole body wasn't possible. He doubted the given time was to be enough for it all. His hands brought together in a half of a clap, then extending towards the floor in channeling, fingers gesturing a grasping motion when the Magician hoisted all of the shattered glass in the room. The air chilled some, out of the collaboration of both elemental and necromantic arts, an otherwordly cold wrapping around the mirrorlike fragments. - Four! He felt a tide of ethereal winter flush in from all around, an absent glance throwing at the Necromancer once more, as if looking for a signal. As suspected, they had harnessed their own powers, seeping blackened and tainted essence that was readying to assist him. Another vision hammered from behind his amnesia then. A thousand titters. Shiny fork twirling in the air across the table, muffled sounds of a tavern, looks changing their colours, all movement leaving a blurred trail, something sliding over to him. ...Eating might be wise... The Pie. Ah, hell... ENOUGH! His frown returned, look shooting to the Demon in uncontrolled wrath. A collection of grips launched towards the shrieking Demon in a silent explosion like shadowy javelins from the Necromancer's direction, at which point he released his own instruments of a more material kind. The last candle fused out in the storm of glass and blackness, only the agonized figure of the tormented Being bursting flame from its wounds. - Five! The room had gone dark, the screaming had stopped, only a series of clinks reaching from the murk when he withdrew, letting the wildly orbiting and ripping miniature daggers return to their rest on the floor. Let them come. The silence was short-lived, shattered by the door that was kicked open the next moment when a threat was fulfilled, a beam of light shedding over the mirthless scenery. His drained observance was quick to find that which had once been his Demon, its form nothing but a pile of smoldering ash, resembling distantly the disfigured body it had once been. Hopefully they would mistake it for a drunken-campfire-gone-wrong rather than an actual being that had only recently seized to excist. That was if he and his accomplice wished to be spared a public decapitation. Or burning, wasn't that what they did to treacherous witches? - GODS BELOW! A broad stature blocked out the light upon entering, a pair of heavily questioning eyes stabbing him and the Necromancer in turn, hands gesturing around markingly and very... very angrily. At the ceiling, furniture, floor... Everything. To his misfortune he was closer to them at this point, due to which they unleashed their aggression towards him, an arm extending to grasp him by the chest of his robes. Why this seemed so familiar too... Hell, better he didn't know. - EXPLAIN! They barked, to which he answered by just glaring back at the equally annoyed smolder. A bit down, as usual, for the man was a bit shorter than him. In a halting manner he raised a hand, then wrapping his grasp around the man's wrist and wrenching their grip off his person in a barely contained wrath, slinging their limb to the side. No one... approaches me without prio introduction in such a blaming manner. No one. He straightened up swiftly when the man understood to withdraw, giving his sleeves a little sweep in adjustment. At this distance he was able to make up the emblems upon the man, their whites and shining details being more than obvious portrayal of their means. Their hand brought to the hilt of their sword, whilst a dark boot knocked against the floor expectingly, look harassing the Necromancer at this point. He figured his honourary accomplice might already have made up the severity of the situation and the identity of the offender, but chose to stab their Mind nevertheless. ' This man is a guard. Run for your life. ' And then, quite swiftly -taking his state-, his hands slinged together in a clap and he dispersed, teleporting to the corridor and living to his own suggestion. The Pride of a Sorcerer was screaming from under the rubble that had collapsed over it the moment he fled, but Reason made sure to muffle its protest. As he halfly ran, partially teleported through the empty hall, trying to remember the path out, he yelled out something in announcement of his departure. " Put the damage on my tab! " Or the Necromancer's for all I care. I won't be back. |
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