SUMMER

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

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

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

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

ANNOUNCEMENTS

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

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

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

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

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

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


WHAT IS ELENLOND?

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


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    Rosenrot; Jhaereth! <3
    Topic Started: Apr 30 2015, 11:06 AM (494 Views)
    Ylsa
    Member Avatar
    For as long as space endures/ For as long as living beings remain/ Until then may I too abide/ To dispel the misery of the world...

    "It's been a month."

    They had been in the Naumenko family's sitting room: they had refused to cover Olga's pictures, not in denial, but because they didn't want to be reminded of the loss at every turn. The house would be happy again -- it would just take some time.

    Yuri had been taking it well, considering. Roman barely left his brother's side, and sat with him now as he talked with Ylsa. She had been a friend of the family's for a very long time, and was one of the few visitors the youngest brother felt comfortable around, and so naturally she had spent a great deal of time here since Olga's passing. Olaf, of course, tried to remain a rock about it, and Ylsa was helping him as best she could with directing household affairs that his late wife normally did. He wanted her to direct her counselling to his sons and the house staff, but she had made time for him too. Her tiredness only showed in the circles under her eyes: her smile was as patient as ever, though Yuri had been urging her to get some rest, in that particular melancholy-maverick way of his. He had always got along with her best. She had often thought if he wasn't so strictly monogamous she might have made a pass or two at him a long time ago. They had been talking about his brothers, and now, naturally, Nakara's name had come up, and while otherwise Roman had been taking the loss the hardest, all of them were most concerned about her. It was the first time they had talked about it properly. His letter just said that she had run off, and while Ylsa was prepared to drop everything and come to help the family they had asked her to wait in case Nakara came to her, but she hadn't.

    "And nothing?" Ylsa asked. "Not even a letter?"

    Yuri shook his head slightly. "She usually writes twice a month."

    "Do you know where she might have gone?"

    "No." Yuri leaned forward and ran his hands through his fiery hair, the only indication of stress Ylsa had seen him make. "She literally ran off without a word, like she was terrified of me."

    "Maybe it's the grief. Perhaps she was so stricken..."

    "I don't think so... It was definitely something else. It was like...." He sighed in frustration. Ylsa laid a hand on his arm. "It was the look on her face, I've seen it before but I don't remember where or when."

    "When she first got here." Yuri and Ylsa looked toward Roman sharply: the boy was usually near-silent and was thought to have some sort of mental dysfunction, but whenever he said something everyone listened. He did not look up from his teacup, but Yuri nodded.

    "That's it: when she first came here, years ago. After..."

    He didn't need to finish the sentence. Ylsa was still watching Roman, and after a moment she stood and went over to sit by him.

    "Do you know why she left, or where she may have gone?" Roman stayed silent long enough that they both thought perhaps he didn't have anything more to say on the matter, but then finally, he nodded. "Will you tell us?"

    There was a shorter pause, then Roman -- who rarely, if ever looked anyone in right in the face, caught their eyes inquisitively. "Didn't you look?"

    Yuri leaned forward. "Where..?"

    "At the anteroom where they put mother."

    Both Ylsa and Yuri exchanged glances. Roman tried again, as though it were obvious. "On the ceiling."

    "What was it?"

    Roman took a deep breath, and lowered his head, brow furrowing. "A big ugly eye."

    Ylsa stood and touched her fingertips together in a swift prayer, and whispered: "Oh Nakara, sweetheart..."

    "What? What the hell is it?"

    "That's her family's symbol."

    The silence that hung was heavy, before Yuri spoke up. "So they have something to do with mother's death..?"

    "That may be why she took off the way she did. Perhaps she somehow felt responsible, by association."

    "Look," Yuri stood and began pacing moodily. "I don't really care why she might have left so much as where she is now. She needs to come home."

    Ylsa, meanwhile, was lost in thought. If Nakara had seen that symbol in her state of shock and grief, she would have dropped any defendes she may have put up: they had worked a very long time to get her out of the bottle, even though Ylsa suspected she had been lying most times when she had said she was no longer drinking, and that crutch had been replaced by sheer willpower and psychic defense mechanisms. She would be fair game for Vannevar, and whatever or whoever else he may have desired to invite. She had to be found, as soon as possible.

    "I don't know where she might be," Ylsa said at last. "But I think I know where to start looking."

    --------------------

    Now she traveled on a long and lonely road with Ashcombe looming just on the horizon. The pre-spring air was cold and forbidding, and it would be colder by the house. Ylsa burrowed a little deeper into her coat, her satchel with all her tools inside swinging gently by her side, but no amount of tools would fix what was wrong at the apparently-crumbling estate. It wasn't much, but it was a start: here perhaps she could figure out if Brennia had indeed come to life again, so to speak. Her ultimate goal, however, was to find something in Nakara's room, something of hers that Ylsa could use to locate her through remote viewing. It sounded simple, but she was admittedly a bit afraid. She had only been in the cannibal-house once and she almost didn't get out.

    The feeling of anxiety became steadily more prevalent the closer she got to the property, and soon she was at the gates. Behind them she could see the grand circular carriage-drive, and the fountain in the middle, with a cherub that looked like it was in pain. A bit of tattered cloth fluttered feebly in the still air from a lamp post beneath the south wing -- apparently long ago someone had tried to brave the house for a night, no doubt for some petty monetary award. They didn't last, instead ended up setting themselves on fire and jumping out a window, impaling themselves on the post. One of many.

    Ylsa squinted slightly as the gate opened itself, welcoming her in (never a good sign): someone was standing in front of the heavy oak doors at the other end of the drive. They made no move for the handle, but stood with their back to her. She picked her way quietly to the fountain, and hazarded a hail. No one should enter the place unless they had to.

    "Hello? It isn't safe here, you should l--" The figure turned their head and looked at her: she recognized the eyes, the hair, the pasty skin. She did not recognize the expression.

    "Nakara?!"

    Nakara didn't answer. She fixed Ylsa with a cold stare the mystic had never seen her make. Her features were dark, hateful, even cruel, and for a scant moment she was the spitting image of Brennia. Then she silently turned away and opened the door, disappearing inside before Ylsa could catch up.

    "Nakara!" She tried the handle, but it was locked, and hammered on the door instead. "Please, open the door! Come out! You hate this place, remember?"

    It was a straw she had to grasp at. Nakara would never forget how much she hated this house, but Vannevar did not care. This was, after all, the place he had first been summoned to mundus, and hers was the first vessel he had obtained, and if Ylsa's fears were realized then it would also be the last before he obtained freedom.

    Ylsa's trivial trepidation was forgotten: she had to find a way in, even if it killed her.
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    Jhaereth
    Member Avatar
    Simply Fabulous

    Nobody would have suspected that the fabulous Explorer was not quite so much in it for the 'making my mark by discovering the world.' He even went so far to carry a notebook with meticulous recordings in it. it was even slightly interesting to travel around the surface world and actually learn something of its strange vegetation, most of which was more or less harmless. He wouldn't have gone so far to say that he was woodsy but ever since he'd had his encounter with the jungle elf, he'd felt the need to educate himself somewhat.

    Not like he was doing it to impress her, he just wanted to stay ahead of his game. Couldn't end up walking into a sinkhole or something or having the sky come crashing on his head without an idea of shelter.

    Being able to walk a hundred or so miles a day was also a bonus. He could move much farther than others and as such, wasn't really having any problems until he realized he'd managed to cross the border again. There was never really any doubt that the Guild would have accepted him anyway, friends in high places, or in his case, low places. Seemed that the light fingered little tealeaf he'd once attempted to turn into a Lady had skills in some areas anyway...and one could always use a good forger as a contact.

    He was resting somewhat, making his way at a sedate pace down a beaten road he'd not traveled before when the house loomed up, like some overgrown giant that had lain down from a nap never to rise. Only...it didn't look asleep, if a house could look like it was sleeping. No it was more as if it was a wakened predator, merely biding its time, crouched low in the brush.

    A chill played across his spine at the thought, not fear precisely but an odd sort of anticipation, such as one expecting a full out attack.

    His lip curled as he sauntered rakishly past, his pace slowing as he examined the fat winged human babe that appeared to be a once richly flowing fountain. Now it just looked like it had stepped in a turd, pudgy lips pursed in a harsh pucker of dismay, or perhaps pain. Creepers choked the railings, had them in a fierce stranglehold, the garden gone absolutely wild.
    His eyes skimmed past all that though, fixed the figure banging their palms on the door, silent from this distance.

    How stupid, locking themselves out...or maybe it was a little dispute, a minor domestic with the residents...

    He squinted, shading his eyes from the blighted sunlight with his hand.

    Wait...

    The way her hair moved, almost agitated...it wasn't particularly windy...

    The decision made, he took several steps forward, the grounds blurring nauseatingly around him for a second, before he was standing a couple of yards behind her. Automatically one elegant hand held low and ready to bring his blade to bear, but instead of that, a smile twisted his serpentine features.
    "Ylsa?"
    Yes, he was sure. She'd been oddly kind and expected nothing when she'd taken them in after the little..mishap, in Madrid. To find her all the way out here was a mystery but it wasn't as if people didn't travel. To be alone in such a distinctly unfriendly place however...

    Jhaereth stepped up onto the porch, and for a second he could have sworn he felt as if the entire structure breathed, stood just a little taller, like a tentative creature inhaling a scent, savoring it. There were places in Chaulssin like that, he thought idly. They seemed to beckon invitingly, the shadows swirling to create half formed images of seduction to the eye, masking the horrors that lay waiting just beyond the veil. And with the city slipping further into Shadow all the time, it was not uncommon for a house to be there one decade and gone the next, only to reappear a century, or a second later. Whenever they returned, they were never quite the same. Not quite alive...but not dead stone either.

    It didn't make him afraid, he was beyond feeling that. It did, however, give him the tiniest flicker of unease and suspicion as to what the serene pale woman with hair like spider's silk, and skin the unhealthy pallor of a mushroom, was doing out here.
    "You seem awfully distressed. Perhaps we ought to take a step back and talk about how I can assist you? I owe you at least that much for your...helping me and my friend in Madrid."
    And a debt was a debt. For all that a drow was probably considered the stereotypical backstabber, they did hold to their debts. There was no point doublecrossing someone unless the offer was very good, because there was no point. Nobody would do business with you if it was made apparent that your word wasn't worth a rothé's shit.
    "Come, let me...help..you."
    Gods but if that word didn't stick in his craw though.
    Edited by Jhaereth, Apr 30 2015, 06:23 PM.
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    Ylsa
    Member Avatar
    For as long as space endures/ For as long as living beings remain/ Until then may I too abide/ To dispel the misery of the world...

    She gave up on the door and had decided to go around to the greenhouse, bust the sliding glass doors there if she had to, when a voice caught her attention.

    "Ylsa?"

    At once she turned, prepared to tell them not to come here, but her voice stopped short. Recognition dawned over her features. In spite of the situation she smiled. She remembered from last time in Madrid, there'd been some scuffle, someone ended up dead who wouldn't be at all missed, and dear Captain Roswell trying to squeeze names and places out of her through sheer superiority complex.

    "Jhaereth!" She remembered his name (just barely), but her delight at seeing the amoral sweet-talker was cut short. What could he be doing out here..? Certainly he didn't have plans to go inside this awful place! Of course, he would be bringing his own evil in with him, and she wasn't sure that the house wouldn't be totally confused by his apparent androgyny and spit him out, but that was all besides the point. "What on earth are you doing all the way out here?" Her voice turned as stern as it could, though not enough to be taken seriously. "You had best not be planning to spend a night in here: this place is bad news."

    Silence from within. On the other side of the door Nakara listened to their conversation, her eyes blank and horrible, but soon turned uninterested and walked through the dusty, massive foyer. The old crystal-drop chandelier tinkled and moved a little as if in a breeze, but she paid it no mind. Instead of going up the stairs, she moved to a heavy black curtain that hung beneath the double-curved staircase and disappeared behind it.

    Somewhere, the sound of hammers and woodsaws started.
    Edited by Ylsa, May 1 2015, 02:42 PM.
    (OFFLINE) PROFILE QUOTE GO TO TOP
     
    Jhaereth
    Member Avatar
    Simply Fabulous

    For a moment he was taken aback at the stern tone the woman adopted, a small frown wrinkling his forehead. How dare she talk to him like that? Like he was deliberately creeping around the countryside just looking for trouble! ...Not that he wasn't, that was part of exploring, wasn't it? Or was it? Hard to tell when your other Guild often overlapped with the whole 'discovering new places' thing.

    Still...he wasn't exactly used to be questioned. And not by women either, for all that it seemed a common thing in the majority of cities where he was from. Chaulssin was...different. He found that unsurprisingly, he didn't like being spoken to in a way that made him feel small and as though he ought to be offering an explanation.

    The drow curbed his acid tongue for the moment though. He might have been mistaken, and she wasn't that pleased to see him...maybe she was the one up to suspicious activites! Well best not give the game away, play along and all that...

    The rakish elf adopted his most charming smile and gestured at the house as he spoke;
    "Well I could ask the same of you. This setting leaves much to the imagination. I recently joined the National Survey Guild."
    The book came out of his breast pocket and he waved it about freely, even going so far as to open it and rifle the pages, revealing a mass of elaborate curling script and carefully drawn plants and other various features. Nevermind that a good chunk of them were medicinal, or poisonous. Or both. Most medicines were poisonous anyway, if you took enough of them.

    "No..no, I was just passing by when I saw you..."
    He flapped his hand at the doors to indicate her distressing situation. It was always a bit upsetting when you left your keys and couldn't remember which rock the spare was under.
    "What is this place? It almost seems alive...like it's watching us. And overgrown besides. I don't go much on the choice of horticulture. Do you live here? I thought you lived in Madrid. Or are you..hm...shall we say, exploring?"
    He'd never have thought her to be the type that would need to break into someone else's house but then he wasn't exactly highly thought of when it came to the morals. It was simply amusing to think they might even share the same sort of...profession.

    Assuming she didn't have a key, he skipped up the steps and folded at the waist to get at a better level to see the lock. The doors were tighter than a nun's purse unfortunately, but again that anticipatory...shudder, was all he could think of. Not the house itself, but some indescribable force that made his hair want to stand up. Not unlike the radiation of the underdark, which had so changed him int he first place.
    "Curious."
    Cautiously he pressed himself against the door, ran one hand down the jamb and listened.
    "Someone's in there making a lot of noise..."
    He slid a simple throwing knife from one sleeve, good and flat enough to pop the lock if he could tease it in there, using it to slowly run the length of the doors union, a soft chuckle rolling from his lips.
    "Now now sweet thing, I'll be gentle. We wouldn't want to cause any damage to such fine woodwork, would we? Ah yes, there we are."
    The blade slid into the narrowest of cracks, then refused to move, as if the door had just...allowed it in, and then held it fast. He jiggled it a moment, then gave up with a slight pout.
    "No need to be so eager. Should I rattle your knocker first? Lift your tumblers? Or should we both just come inside? Don't leave us in the cold, it's lonely out he-"
    The doors swung abruptly inwards with a sigh of wood, the faint rattle of locks drawing, and deposited him face down onto a floor thick with dust. The knife clattered onto the steps beside him. Quickly he pushed himself up on his palms and blinked, bewildered. A single track of prints lead away across the grand hall, strangely lonely in that vast expanse.
    "Well."
    Jhaereth got to his feet and dusted himself off as best he could with a mournful sigh. How did this keep happening? His clothes, his hair, it always ended up ruined, pitifully and inexplicably ruined.
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    Ylsa
    Member Avatar
    For as long as space endures/ For as long as living beings remain/ Until then may I too abide/ To dispel the misery of the world...

    A book was waved about and flipped open, and although she was concerned and a little bit anxious she was also curious about its contents. Ylsa leaned in a little to get a better look at the pages and was duly impressed by his script and painstakingly accurate diagrams. "Nice penmanship." She commented helplessly. While everyone else these days seemed to be going bonkers for the printing press, Ylsa was still a bit old-fashioned and appreciated the aesthetic of handwriting to a point where she sometimes rewrote some of her books on her many shelves at home. A lot of money on a lot of ink. However she also rather liked the convenience of a printing press, and either way old books still smelled pleasantly old and dusty after a few years -- she only hoped that there wouldn't come a day when that too was overlooked and undervalued.

    "Actually," She turned to sigh at the door again. "A friend and client of mine just went in. I'd like her to come out.

    This is Ashcombe. It used to belong to an old Morrimian family... but they went rather off the beaten track and... well a thing happened that messed the place up." For a moment she paused and regarded the upper windows, like so many eyes that had long since caved in to rotting death. "I used to think it was just haunted, but something is possessing this place. I'm not sure what it is... My client, I've been looking for her and now she's in there somewhere. She's not well, and her family wants her to come home."

    There: that explained things without delving into too much detail. Client privacy was capital to Ylsa, but even more so was the little dignity her friend wanted to keep.

    She stepped back and watched Jhaereth curiously while he listened at the door and fiddled with a knife and the lock. His speech was like that of a lover, all but seducing the heavy oaken slabs to part themselves and allow them entry. Somewhere in Jool's spirit Owen O'Zilia began to grin, but Ylsa was much better at keeping a straight face than Owen ever had. All the same the corners of her mouth tugged upwards and she bit on the inside of each cheek to stop herself.

    While she struggled against a lewd snigger, Ashcombe seemed to be debating some decision, and another idea emerged: the manor had likely never had such sweet-talk from visitors. Probably just frantic beatings upon its entrances, maybe the occasional egging, and all sorts of vandalism. What if it responded to kindness, however thinly veiled? Unsure now and still amused by the suggestiveness of Jhaereth's skilled probings, Ylsa extended a hand -- then two -- and stroked the door's surface.

    Whether by their efforts or because it felt like it, Ashcombe finally opened. With some misgivings Ylsa took a step inside, and it waited until Jhaereth entered before the doors swung shut behind them. "Typical," Ylsa half-scoffed. Doors in haunted houses nearly always shut people in. They obviously didn't coordinate their parties properly because they all did the same thing.

    But of course this was different, because shutting people in was only one of the things this house did. Curiously, all the furniture in the foyer was still covered but there wasn't a speck of dust on the shining, silvery marble floor. It looked rather the way ballrooms did just a couple of hours before it had guests, or a plate that had been cleaned and set up for near-future use. She shuddered involuntarily.

    "Well, this is it." The chandelier tinkled above them, spinning slowly but lazily as a child on a merry-go-round in summer heat. Chairs lurked beneath their pristine white sheets, the very bottoms of their legs peeking threateningly from beneath. Watching.

    Come, sit down.

    Her eyes were drawn across the hall to the black curtain beneath the stairs. It shifted slightly

    stay a while

    in an invisible breeze. The hammering and sawing continued off in the distance.

    Her shoes clacked dully on the floor, their sound swallowed up by a great unseen something as they crossed. Ylsa had never seen that curtain before, but the trail of foul-looking ethereal smoke that followed in Vannevar's wake, mingled only very slightly with Nakara's violet aura, led right behind it. She closed the distance, rifling through her bag as she went for her prayer slips. With one in hand, she raised the other and pushed the velvet aside, and stood staring dumbly at what was behind it.

    A stone slab of a door, just slightly ajar. A bas-relief was carved into its surface: three women of diminishing sizes, the rear and largest with her arms raised, one palm with an eye staring from it exposed to the viewer, the other holding a wicked scimitar in poised threat; another, smaller, in front of her, arms slightly lowered, with an arc of lightning in one hand and a mace in the other; and a third, the smallest, holding an upside-down, bleeding male infant. All three had the same brutal face, devoid of all warm feeling.

    "Well." Ylsa said as-a-matter-of-factly. "This wasn't here last time." She looked around to Jhaereth. The heavy perfume of decay reached them from the other side. "Care to go on an adventure with me, from which we may never return?"
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    Jhaereth
    Member Avatar
    Simply Fabulous

    "Thank you."
    It was said with only a hint of a leer in his obvious pride for the thing. Alright so maybe it wasn't entirely for keeping up appearances for the guild. But for the most part, as long as they were happy that he was making some sort of personal study and effort to adjust to his new...well he wouldn't say home but environment might fit better, then what did it really matter?
    He did enjoy it though. Just sitting and scribbling about things or drawing them, one could get lost in the simplicity of it. It demanded a lot of focus, sort of like magic. Well not really. But he enjoyed it anyway! Maybe he was a scribe or something in a former life.

    A really dirty scribe, penning shitty penny romance novellas if his actions with the door said anything.

    Really it had turned into some kind of game, he wasn't so much worried about the person who'd gone in now as just to open the damned thing up and see what was inside. Curiosity had gotten the better of him, and like the saying would probably strangle him. Curiosity strangled the cat? No? Well whatever! His grasp on common was not, apparently, infallible. Not everything translated well. Hells he'd only discovered what a cat was, and the saying, a couple of years ago.
    "Well, whatever it is, we'll get her out. Or we won't. I'd like to think we'll come out mostly intact either way. Things have a way of working out for the better, I think."
    He smiled jubilantly, though where the hell that came from he couldn't really point a finger to. He was mostly an upbeat sort of person, he supposed, with the odd explosion of vitriol when things didn't go his way.

    He blinked, blinked again, unsure what he was seeing. A moment ago he'd been under the distinct impression that nobody had inhabited this mansion in years, dark and full of decay, the corpses of furniture in their death shrouds lurking like spectres, watching with knotted eyes. Now though, all seemed inviting. He might have said his mind was playing tricks on him, if he hadn't walked in Shadow before.
    Still, he wasn't strong enough to tear it apart anymore, destroyed by faerzress and the black curses of a laughing pack of humans.

    Fuckers.

    No, no, he oughtn't think about that, lest he lose his temper. You never knew what sort of things could happen in a place that had a mind of its own. It might enjoy the sight of a mortal's feeble frustrations and set to providing more distractions to do just that.

    Jhaereth stopped fussing with a lamenting foppish sigh and followed after Ylsa, quickly returning to her side with his smooth gait. The sound of his heeled boots clock clocking on the floor so hollowly was a little disconcerting, but that was, he told himself, the effect of being so quiet all the time. To make any noise at all was a shock, and he wondered what sort of place it was that it ignored his enchantments of silence.
    It also made him very aware that for one who relied on their ability to creep and stalk like a predator, with the house knowing he was there, it sort of made him into a useless accessory.

    He really should have thought this through.

    The painting wasn't what he'd expected of a probably-human dwelling, and struck a jarring chord in him. It was he thought, just like home. Except that paintings were generally considered inferior to sculpture...well the relation was obvious between them. It didn't bother him in the slightest that male children were often sacrificed or discarded, and why should it, when his own home city was the exact opposite?
    "Charming. I almost feel homesick."
    His nose wrinkled at the sickeningly sweet stench of rot emanating from the slab, or beyond, canting his head at Ylsa.
    "Well, I've next to nothing to lose. Why not?"
    He flashed her a wicked grin, one arm snaking out to bar her way, the other prying at the cold stone, surprised to find it feeling almost greasy under his fingers.
    "Please. It would be unseemly to make a Lady go first. A place as enchanting as this ought to let the inferior male become the meatshield, hm?" The last was said with more than a touch of wryness, pandering just a little to the house. For all he knew, he was wrong, and his gut feeling that it leaned towards the feminine was utterly stupid. No doubt the house knew he was indeed male, and for all that his mannerism was effete, did not completely perfect the girlish image.

    He took a breath, and passed into the darkness.
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    Ylsa
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    For as long as space endures/ For as long as living beings remain/ Until then may I too abide/ To dispel the misery of the world...

    The bowels of Ashcombe welcomed its heiress with their customary coldness, a coldness she had not felt since that day all those years ago when she had been made to whip her brother in the ritual chambers beneath the rest of the house. The place where, in fact, she was headed right now.

    But Ashcombe was not an unintelligent estate, and it had cleverly rearranged itself to make it more difficult for strangers to find the chamber -- the heart of the house. Although she had not ventured this far beneath the estate before she seemed to know where she was going. The smell of rot would have surprised her, as well as the odd placement of furniture and decorations that the house seemed to have thrown into these halls almost as an afterthought.

    She passed by a mirror and paused at her reflection. The hollowed-out face, the pale peircing eyes, the thin line of a mouth... and the wisps of dark hair falling all around, skin the sickly pallor of the jaundiced dead. The corner of her mouth twitched in dissatisfaction. An ugly face, for an ugly girl.

    "Mother!"

    Nakara reached up with hands that were only half in her own control and took the mirror carefully down from the wall. She held it and looked down at the face she had hated so much as a child because it was her mother's, and had grown to hate even more now because it was hers.

    "Mother!"

    In arc after arc the axe plowed through the heavy wooden door to her mother's chambers, and Nakara was running on fumes and anger and fear. She was the only person in the house who hadn't gone missing or turned up dead yet. The silence was deafening. A pall of darkness had descended on the estate, unlike any of the darkness that had come before it, and the halls she had once known so well now seemed utterly foreign to her: too long, too dark, too narrow. The rooms were now too large and empty.

    All except one.

    The blade broke through the door and Nakara's shaking hand groped through it for the bolt on the other side. In a moment it swung open, and she saw now where everyone had disappeared to. Suddenly all her reasoning fled her, all of her fear and anger vanished in a cloud of empty shock and hollow horror.

    Bodies. Everywhere.

    All of the servants, the staff, her brothers, were crowded into Lady Brennia's spacious chambers, littering the floor, hung up on the walls, covering her bed, all missing most of their flesh, and the smell was one Nakara would never forget, that would haunt her every time she passed by the butcher or tried to gut and skin an animal or eat anything
    red. A metallic, rotting, bloody smell. A dead smell. Her eyes, wide and open, drifted numbly over the scene, and her exhausted brain half-thought, prayed, that it might be dreaming again. She didn't want to go inside, but stood in the doorway trying not to throw up or faint, watching one lone figure amongst all the still ones, hunched over one of the bodies, and she became aware of a terrible squelching sound.

    "....mother...?"

    The figured stilled its movements, and it seemed like an eternity that she stood there watching Brennia slowly turn her head. Her hands and face were stained a garish maroon color, her eyes bloodshot, her clothes filthy and gritty with gore. Her gaze was as commanding as ever. she slurped back some of her youngest son's skin and grinned a terrible razorblade smile, putting down the unfinished limb and standing up. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. Nakara suddenly felt very small and unbalanced, and shrank away from the spectre wearing her mother's body.

    "Come, child..." Brennia breathed hoarsely, and stretched her red hands forth as if to take her daughter's. Nakara whimpered and shook her head, backing up out of the room. Her mother followed like a claret phantom, and never ever before had she looked more horrible, more evil, more
    demonic, than she did right now.

    "Come, come..." She continued, her tone deceptively gentle. "No need to be afraid... we're going to be the most powerful women in the world... they will all remember our names for
    centuries, they will tremble at our approach..."

    Nakara's back hit the far wall of the hallway. She clutched the heavy ornamental axe close to her chest. Brennia came closer and while her daughter was frozen in fear she extended a hand and caressed her face, smearing it with blood and bits of old dead flesh. Nakara let loose a barely-perceptible sob.

    "And our family... our family will no longer be the running joke it has become," She spat. "People will remember the greatness of the Besschentyil family -- the world could be ours! But
    he must feed... he must gain back what strength he has lost since those days long since passed... and when he does, he shall be our Champion! We shall become legends!"

    Something in the desperate, trancelike quality of her mother's voice pulled Nakara from her fugue of terror. Her voice, small and trembling, made a venture of its own. "...you really are crazy..." Brennia seemed to return to herself, and she scowled meanly. Her reddened teeth were bared like fangs.

    "I see you still harbour these foolish sentiments of your deadbeat father. I suppose he told your traitor brother, and your traitor brother told you." Her scowl turned to a look of such sadness -- but it was empty and insincere. "Where did I go wrong? Did I not indulge you? Did I not groom you for greatness? Are you not grateful for my favor?"

    "Grateful?" Nakara couldn't believe her ears. "Indulged me?!"

    "Yes!" The spiteful edge in Brennia's voice made her flinch again. "I gave you everything that was mine, I have been patient with your stupid sentimental nature -- and you would throw my favor away for that of your idiot brother and father--!"

    At long last, something in Nakara snapped. She snarled, an expression that matched that of her mother's more perfectly than she would have liked, and a silver arc cut through the air and silenced the voice of the Matron of Ashcombe forever. Brennia faltered and looked down in stupid disbelief at the blade of the axe that had buried itself shaft-deep in her chest.

    "SHUT UP!" Shrieked her daughter, planting her foot on her mother's hip as leverage to wrench the axe from her cleaved bones. Brennia dropped to her knees, and the blade came down again, this time on her head.

    "I..!" Again she yanked the weapon free, and again in came down, nearly severing an arm from its shoulder.

    "NEVER!"

    Again. Again, and again, and again.

    "WANTED!"

    Brennia Besschentyil was as dead as the bodies crowding her chambers.

    "YOUR!"

    But it would never be enough.

    "FAVOR!"

    It was full minutes after the initial blow that Nakara continued to butcher her mother's body, and when she could no longer hold the axe for exhaustion, she took up the woman's severed head by the hair and slammed it on the floor as many times as she could, and by the time her wrath was finished the corpse was no longer recognizable by any accounts. There simply weren't enough words, not enough vengeance, that could ever fix what Brennia had broken or restore the dignity and lives of all those she had destroyed. Her very touch was poison -- and the slaughter in the hallway that day was indicative of how fully she had poisoned her daughter.


    Poison.

    Poison is queen.

    In the reflection she saw her upper lip curl into a hateful snarl, and it looked even more like mother.

    "We can kill her!"

    "No! If we do that, we
    will be like her."

    She really was like Brennia.

    The mirror came up in a flash of silver, meeting her hideous face and shattering into hundreds of pieces. Tiny cuts appeared on her skin and bled in tiny runlets but she couldn't see it, and that was fine with her, and she dropped the frame carelessly on the ground. Her boots crunched through the broken glass and she continued her journey.

    ------------------------------------

    "Oh, hey now," Ylsa began, intending to defend his gender, but then she remembered what Ashcombe was like, and stopped short. "Well... it probably would think something like that. But, that's why a girl should go first, she's less likely to... meet an unfortunate end..."

    Her voice trailed off into an uncharacteristically meek mumble. That probably wasn't the best thing to say to a man in a house that ate men for breakfast. But, she followed close behind him, clutching her satchel of supplies in case they needed a quick ward or a nice pungent incense to repel all the wicked spirits that no doubt lingered here. Normally the mystic was very cool, confident, and calculated in her work, but Ashcombe had the habit of making her feel very small and powerless.

    The darkness was emcompassing. Torches were occasionally lit in their sconces on the naked stone walls, but it seemed to swallow whatever excess light they gave off, leaving the two unlikely adventurers in an unnatural night so complete that only those who could already see in the dark would be able to navigate. Ylsa, for her part, was mostly blind in this place. She took a torch from its sconce on the wall but made certain to keep close to Jhaereth to avoid getting separated from him. As the tunnels progressed the smell of decay grew stronger, and soon the hallway opened up into a series of rather larger passages, the walls of which were carved out into long, narrow shelves. On each shelf there was a stone coffin.

    "I didn't realize they interred their dead here, too..." Her voice was quiet. Her superstitions prevented her from approaching the coffins to examine them, but she peered at them as they walked. The silence was complete, broken only every so often by a weird creaking sound -- the sound of the boughs of a dead tree being disturbed by wind. Or of old bones stretching themselves out. Almost unconsciously Ylsa reached into her satchel and procured a prayer slip. Just in case.

    "Yes..." A hollow, powerful voice assaulted them from everywhere at once. Ylsa jumped, startled. "Come in, come in. Lady. Male," The voice turned disgusted when addressing Jhaereth. "Come, and die for your efforts."

    The creaking sound grew louder, closer. Ylsa held the torch aloft and it shone on the rotted faces of what could only be assumed as dead women. Their jaws hung half-attached from their faces, the flesh only barely clinging to their old bones. Ritualistic daggers, long, wicked and strangely new-looking, were clutched in their emaciated hands. Ylsa blinked. "Well that's different."

    One of them groaned hatefully, and stepped forth with intent to carve one of them up -- fortunately for Jhaereth and Ylsa, they were old and as slow as their forms would suggest. Ylsa steeled her will and her hair uncoiled from her scalp, stretching out to seize the dead woman by the wrist. She jerked her head slightly, and the tendrils of living hair snapped back and, with a dull crunch, the arm was pulled from its socket. Not the dramatic result Ylsa had been going for.

    The zombie stared stupidly at her empty shoulder socket. Quickly, it turned its rotted eyes back to the duo in rage. All at once, the others advanced on them with intent to kill.
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    Jhaereth
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    Simply Fabulous

    "Maybe it'll change its mind. We got the doors open, right?"
    Ever optimistic, he thought. It sounded a lot more cheerful coming out of his mouth than he expected of himself at any rate. Really now, he was in his element. Dark? Check. Hostility towards him based on gender? Check. High risk of death? Check.

    Yup, just like home.

    He offered a benign smile, sauntering a step ahead of the diminutive woman, his eyes skirting away from the odd lit torch here and there, so as not to render himself completely night blind. For that at least, he was rather glad that he'd chosen to go with a typically elven form better suited to the dark places, than to take a more human appearance. It didn't help much when it came to blending in, but then why would anyone want to do that when they could be fabulous instead?

    All the same, Jhaereth was distinctly glad that the hallway was wide enough that they needn't touch the shelves with their heavy stone boxes and the occupants resting within. What a strange practice, to bury and keep the dead...were they thinking of raising them later as thralls, or into a fresh army to strike down their enemies?
    He'd never really been that fond of the dead to be honest. It was nothing personal, but after a while you noticed the smell, and they had a tendency to leave bits of themselves behind if they touched you. It was awfully difficult to get the stains of bodily fluids out of one's silks and velvets, or so he understood. It wasn't as though he'd sully his own hands doing laundry now, was it?

    He thought for a moment of offering his arm to the lady, then thought better of it. If anything decided to pull some kind of nasty surprise out for them, it was better that they both have their hands free. His boots made no sound on the carpet, thankfully, though the dust alone would have deadened the noise anyway. His nose wrinkled as the torch lit an oversized cobweb, all too happy to remind him of his female counterparts and their love of spiders. He had no such qualms when it came to blaspheming and destroying their signs, personally. Even took some small sadistic pleasure in making sure that he did it where they saw, just to get their underwear in a twist.

    A wide smile split his features when the voice sounded, his feet stopping of their own accord for all of a second before he forged on with new determination.

    Yep, just like home...

    The dark elf recoiled quite suddenly, backtracked into Ylsa and set the torch to sputtering, not wanting to literally walk into the approaching mass of rotting flesh. He flourished a handkerchief, pressed it to his nose with a moue of disgust, one hand fumbling with the snakeskin gloves in his pocket, slipped it on, exchanged hands and did the other.
    "Ladies...I must say you're looking terribly well for your age."
    His mouth popped open in surprise as Ylsa's hair snatched at the aged bones, positively alive. And he thought his updo was glorious...now if he could do that...
    "You simply must tell me what soaps you use..." he murmured, stepping aside as she wrenched the thing's arm right out of the socket. Flexible and tough, he'd really have to make a point of talking shop with her if they lived through this.
    A laugh burst bright and flowery from his chest at her expression, as though they were having no more of a bad day than a shit joke told at a sub-par picnic.

    Straightening to his full height which remained unimpressive, Jhaereth tucked the scrap of silk back into his pocket, tugged his gloves on more neatly, and lifted his hand, crooking his fingers into the gesture of the spell, the taste of raw magic fizzing on his tongue.
    The darkness creeping at the edges of their circle of torchlight boiled, rolled inwards like so much smoke, hissed forth, barely stirring his clothes, coalesced, the word dripping from his lips almost lovingly.
    He spread his spidery digits, thrust his palm forward as the blade arced toward them, and flew from the dead witch's hand as the great spectral fist mimicked his action and slammed into her, kept going, collecting and carrying those that got in the way, bowling over those lucky enough not to be directly in the path of it's surging force.

    "This is probably the part where we run."
    And now he did offer her his hand, the air chilling around him as thick spears of ice crystallized overhead, hung a glittering mantle around his shoulders.

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    Ylsa
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    For as long as space endures/ For as long as living beings remain/ Until then may I too abide/ To dispel the misery of the world...

    That magic…. That magic he used was so cool! Clearly, the two of them had some secrets to share, but now was not the time to think of such things. The first of the horde was pushed back, and Ylsa did not waste time in following Jhaereth. She took the offered hand, and they ran.

    They passed by others that were only just rising, but stopping to fight every single one was something only a proper warrior would do, and they both appeared to be magic-users -- besides, Ylsa had a terrible feeling about what Nakara might be doing further down the tunnels.

    Ashcombe stirred. Behind them doors slammed shut, ahead of them corridors shifted, intent on trapping the two. There was rumbling as the house above them settled and resettled. Ylsa released Jhaereth's hand as they went and withdrew several prayer slips. One by one they fluttered to the ground or were slapped onto the surface of the mausoleum stone as she ran.

    The Matron laughed. "Fools! You cannot stop me, nor bind me to your wills."

    "We weren't looking for victory," Ylsa huffed grimly. Behind them, she could hear one or two roars of pain as the prayer slips set various parts of the zombies behind them on fire on contact. More of the fallen warriors of the Besschentyil clan rose to meet them, but fortunately, being dead and dessicated as they were, they could not move very fast.

    "Ah," Brennia then said, sounding far too relaxed and far too pleased. "Good. I will be meeting you both personally soon enough."

    Ylsa stopped dead in her tracks, panting heavily, and looked upwards as though she could have seen the source of the voice. "Wait-- what? ...What do you mean?!" No answer came, and the catacombs around them fell quiet all at once. The silence was almost worse than the noise. "...what do you... suppose... she meant... by that..?"

    Ashcombe was no longer attacking. They certainly hadn't beaten it -- in fact, between the running and the drain on her reserves from the prayer slips, Ylsa was very nearly at the end of her rope for physical exertion.

    Broken glass crunched beneath their feet. There were no windows around -- the mystic knelt down, the action stoking the fire in her leg muscles. She picked up a shard between her thumb and forefinger, and Nakara's turbulent memories were still attached to it.

    Her face. It had been a mirror of sorts, and she had smashed it against her face. The physical world swam in and out. She was going... going to find... Ylsa squeezed her eyes shut, and gripped the shard tighter as though she could force the memories out. Chaotically, she began to see things the woman had seen or thought about at some time or another: about dead-eating vermin, endless rows of bottles just waiting to be opened, her brother reading in the gardens, the taste of human flesh, her adopted brothers daring each other to skinny-dip in the pond in the dead of winter, a grey cat, a gentle-faced nobleman from Soto, a broken hand, a poor battered dog in Ashoka, a cold dark room with an altar...

    The ritual chamber.

    The shard clinked to the floor, falling out from between Ylsa's now-bleeding fingers. She took Jhaereth's hand again and pulled him along, heart hammering with fear.

    "I know what she's doing!" She called out. Her usually calm voice was slightly panicked. Oh Gods Nakara, please don't have started already...

    As though invited, the ritual chamber made itself known to them fairly quickly, and the tunnels opened up very suddenly to reveal a cold stone room so large that the edges of it were obscured in darkness. There was only one lamp in the room and it illuminated a small space, but only really served to make the room look more foreboding. This one lamp sat upon a stone altar in the middle of the room, an altar carved with symbols and more of the woman from the bas-relief earlier. In front of the lamp and upon the altar sat another: dark of hair, long and lanky but strong of build, her sallow chin resting on the tip of a curved, blackened-silver dagger.

    "NAKARA!" Ylsa called out to get her attention. At first there was no reaction -- but slowly Nakara turned to look at them.

    Her face was hideous. The skin appeared to be slightly blackened and shot through with garish spider-web veins, eyes glowing alternately between orange and violet, and her lips were peeled back from her teeth in a death grimace. Her teeth and mouth were shining with blood: there was a small chunk of flesh missing from the back of one of her arms. It must have been the offering, Ylsa pondered, though now frightened for her friend. Brennia grinned from within Nakara's body.

    "You cannot stop what has begun.

    "Kill her if you dare. It is too late. The mistress is rising."


    Slowly, then, the spirits sharing Nakara's body stood, knife in hand, the beginnings of her frozen-fire sword appearing in the hooked claw of the other. The doorway behind them was suddenly blocked off by the purple fire. The eyes, torn between Brennia and Vannevar, rolled and focused on Jhaereth first. The grin somehow, impossibly, grew wider. Blood trickled from the corners as the skin split.

    "Men first."

    She was fast, and came at him, fire-clothed fist brandished with the intent to knock him down and perhaps daze him. Brennia and Vannevar did not intend to be merciful, but to kill the two of them as slowly as possible.
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    Jhaereth
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    Simply Fabulous

    The rest of the corridor appeared to be clear, though he was aware of more of the walking corpses clawing their way up and out of side halls as they belted further into the darkness. Despite the danger, and the obvious threat of imminent death, the drow felt his teeth bare themselves in a grim smile. Every cord and sinew of him was singing, alive with purpose as it hadn't been for some time. This was what he was born to do, and much as he hated them in general, he could respect adventurers as those that did this on a regular basis.

    Once he glanced back, curiosity piqued as Ylsa slapped some scrap of paper down, jumping a little in horror as some dark shape stepped down on it and went up in a pillar of flame, writhing incandescent, hurling lurid shadows at the walls.

    Couldn't say he envied that one. Better to press on, much as his calves were protesting the sudden flight.

    Something desiccated and stinking loomed up to their left as they careened around a corner, portraits and empty doorways flashing past, little more than brief impressions. One of the lances of ice shot forward, crackling into the warrior's chest and throwing it off its unsteady feet. How many more of these blasted thing were there? Clearly the House's history stretched back centuries, as venerable as anything he'd expected from beneath the surface.

    "Stay close."
    Jhaereth snapped his fingers, the spears hanging above his head reorienting themselves and beginning to spin around the pair, spinning unevenly like a dropped penny, if a penny was made of razors.
    He shook his head, lips moving silently as the air grew cold, coalesced and replaced the missing spear.
    "Nothing good, undoubtedly."

    He glanced down as Ylsa stooped to collect something, frowned at the mess of silver shards littering the carpeting.
    "What a waste..."
    He'd grown up knowing that mirrors were exceptionally valuable and hard to come by, to see one destroyed in what looked like a fit of maniacal fury was...a little distressing. And surprising to find he felt that way, not just for vanity. Half a hundred green eyes peered back at him, shivered and became half a hundred purple ones instead, the vision swimming muddily and becoming something else. Someone else.

    Perhaps he should have been worried. Ylsa certainly seemed to be. All he could do was be there, now. Sometimes that was enough, but it usually wasn't. If nothing else he supposed she could use him as bait, the house already seemed to hate his guts, so that was nothing new.

    How delightfully grisly.

    Jhaereth could safely say he had no idea what was going on but it looked like a ritual if ever he saw one. And the best course then, would be to stop the person casting it. The blades of ice slowed their dizzying rotation, and formed a halo around his shoulders once more, aimed directly at Nakara. She didn't appear to be armored more than the ordinary person. Good, that would make this easy.

    But...he glanced towards the woman at his elbow a moment. She'd probably not take it too well if he just killed the person they'd come to find...not if there was some alternative to that. When he looked back she was on him, the pair of them colliding. Her fist hit his face like a sack of wet pudding, cracking his head off the wall as he staggered back, barely missing the flaming door.
    His fingers curled at her collar, gripping and holding on fiercely. The least he could do then, was to buy the pale woman some time to do whatever it was she was going to.

    He grappled with her, a drunken crazy dance that had the pair of them reeling away across the room. The ice shards fell to shatter on the ground, useless as anything less than lethal right now. And he was losing, she was bigger than him, stronger, almost laughably so, but still he clung to her, growling through his teeth as he sought to use his skinny frame as some kind of barrier. He slapped one hand on her face, fingers seeking her nostrils and pulling her head away from him in a most distracting and intrusive display that was...how did he put it...not fit for social application.

    With his other hand, he crooked his fingers awkwardly into the gesture, and slapped his palm against the wall behind him. Shadows billowed like smoke from the contact, engulfing the pair of them in their quarter, and stopping a little way off as though there were an invisible wall they could not pass.

    Good. Now all he had to do was not die.

    Easier said than done. At least Ylsa wouldn't have to see the moment of indignity.

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    Ylsa
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    For as long as space endures/ For as long as living beings remain/ Until then may I too abide/ To dispel the misery of the world...

    Nakara took Jhaereth for a ride, using his hold on her to pull him off balance as they reeled, occasionally slashing him in the leg and arm with the knife, taking her time. Ylsa’s first instinct kicked in and, unwisely, her hair flew forth to seize the woman’s knife-wrist, barbs cutting into flesh. Unperturbed, Nakara looked her way with the same flesh-eating grin, pinwheeled her arm and wrapped the hair around it. Too late the mystic realized her mistake. With a sharp yank, she went sailing back-first into the wall behind the two and landed, her lungs paralyzed, insides quivering in shock. With another wheel and twist, the knife swivelled and cut the hair holding it. Dark blood spurted from the flailing tendrils, and Ylsa found enough breath to let out an ungodly shriek of agony as her body convulsed and her nervous function was disrupted.

    In a moment the hair stopped bleeding and re-grew, but the loaded heiress continued her rampage on Jhaereth. There was a strange rumbling sound around them, as though the house above it was shifting in glee. Ylsa rolled onto her stomach, still twitching, tasting copper but muttering a blood-wet prayer.

    ”I need help.”

    Nearby Nakara had switched to systematically slamming the blunt hilt of the knife into Jhaereth’s ribs, not enough to break but enough to cause pain – when suddenly the drow’s fingers were deep in her nose. She could feel his manicured nails cutting into the sensitive flesh and blood trying to flow, but being blocked. There was an unhealthy crack when Brennia jerked her daughter’s head away at an unnatural angle – then Vannevar twisted it further and bit into the offending hand, holding it fast, slurping at the blood that flowed. He held still when the shadows concealed them.

    Nearby, Ylsa stood shakily, dizzy. Another prayer slip was drawn from her sleeve and she held it in-between her folded hands, raising it to her forehead and daring to close her eyes in focus. She wasn’t sure if this would work, but… it was all she had.

    If this doesn’t work, She thought, frightened, I am so sorry, Jhaereth Valatar. Please forgive me.

    But within the circle of shadows, help had already arrived.

    She had slashed his back and released his hand, and had now settled for cutting off his air for a few seconds, loosening her grip, and tightening again, intent that he wouldn’t pass out. On the six or seventh stranglehold, however, she suddenly froze. There was a hissing sound beneath them and along the wall they fought against. Brennia scowled and raised the knife-hand, illuminating the space with brilliant violet flame.

    Something was crawling in the crevices of the stones. Then, suddenly, millions of long black strands of hair, each tipped with a deadly hook, lashed out and wrapped themselves around the woman’s limbs.

    She slashed at them with one hand while continuing to hold her quarry in the other, but the black hair did not bleed like Ylsa’s did and was not deterred, but simply replaced the lost lengths as quickly as it lost them. The hooks dug into the flesh like countless thousands of stinging nettles, and the force around the wrist that held the drow was enough to loosen her grip, and he was freed.

    The hair wrapped itself around her face next. In a horrible nightmarish display, the hairs found their way inside her clothes, in her nose, her mouth, her ears. It was enough to startle the real Nakara into awareness and she gagged frantically, terrified, trying to pull them out of her throat. The knife clattered to the floor and she was open, vulnerable, while Ylsa continued her focus close by.
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    Jhaereth
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    Simply Fabulous

    He'd always been one to strike from the shadows, a quick punch and thrust and it was over. Not to say that there hadn't been fights...like this...but he'd been stronger, fitter, and generally not cursed and next to powerless. He wasn't a man of iron, couldn't lift more than his own weight or perform miraculous feats of strength. He wasn't even very big by the standards of most humans.

    And battle wasn't exactly...pretty...whatever they said in the songs and poems. You went in expecting it to all be grace and finesse and really, what it boiled down to was this. Two hissing, growling savages, trying to dismember the other without becoming less attached to their own necessary limbs.

    He felt the blade snicking through the cloth of his coat, cold steel biting into flesh. Funny how it was cold when it went in, hot when it came out, all of it agony. he felt the strength began to bleed out of his arm, quite literally, weak and shaking as he clung to her face, digging with his finger viciously. he could hear someone screaming, wasn't sure if it was Ylsa, or himself. Breath wheezed in his throat as the pommel of her knife drove into his ribs again and again but he held fast, refused to let go now.

    Horrifyingly, the woman turned her head unnaturally, kept going, going, made the blood drain from his face, ice gripping his guts. He'd seen some shit but that...that took the biscuit.

    And then she bit him. Like an animal.

    "If I get rabies I'm sending you the bill!"
    He balled his fist and lashed out blindly, about as capable of sight as she was, felt his knuckles crackle in protest as they struck something fleshy. He hoped it was her face and not the wall. Struck again, again, anywhere, anything.

    Air!

    Her hand had closed over his throat, violet flame banishing the darkness within their tiny circle and casting her face in vile glee, more demonic than before. Her grin seemed to stretch unnaturally, fiendish and hungry. Jhaereth tried to draw a breath, wet eyes staring hate, fingers scrabbling madly at her as he tried to pry her grip off him, legs kicking to dislodge her.

    She released just long enough for him to draw a blessed breath, before the vice snapped shut again, again, again, drawing it out over and over til black and silver spots swam across his visions, lights popping in the back of his head. He thought for a moment, that it wouldn't end. She'd keep going til he blacked out, and after, would keep squeezing til he never woke up. It didn't seem to matter how much he fought her, and the inevitability almost choked him as much as the hand on his throat.

    Cold rage trickled through his guts at the thought of having that choice, the real option to do something about the situation just taken away from him, as a child is helpless when faced with the wrath of a parent. He'd have screeched about fairness, if he believed in it.

    He stopped punching Nakara in the tits and scrabbling at her hands long enough to grope at himself instead, dragged his stiletto from inside his coat with painful slowness, fingers trembling with weakness. The room grew darker around the edges, everything too bright, too loud...

    Jhaereth coughed, gasped, his lungs laboring to drag in another breath as she leaned back off him, snarling and hacking at something coming out of the walls. String? Snaking over her, binding her fast, creeping under clothes, into her mouth and ears-

    No no no no nooo no no-

    He might have sympathized if she hadn't been throttling him a second ago. How many times had the wind blown hair into his mouth? It was enough to make him gag, though that might have been the bruising on his neck and the rising nausea, the euphoric rush of blood to the brain as he heaved another breath.

    Now, now while she was distracted.

    He intended to pin her down, but it ended up in more of a flop, his hands shoving her shoulders back and following over with her. Moving his injured leg was like trying to swim through molasses, pressed it down on her chest, fumbled the stiletto from his coat and pressed the flat of the narrow blade against her neck.
    "Ylsa. Ylsa!" He croaked, gestured for the spell to disperse, the darkness shredding away and leaving them both there, bared like lovers caught in the act. If they were into bondage by wall-demons and knifeplay, maybe.
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    Ylsa
    Member Avatar
    For as long as space endures/ For as long as living beings remain/ Until then may I too abide/ To dispel the misery of the world...

    The hairs were leaving the delicate places, and Nakara was suddenly aware of all the pains in all the places. Time whirled in a confused blur while three souls fought for control over the battered body. While she was writhing and snarling in different voices and tearing at her face, something hit her and knocked her off kilter, but it caused her to be torn between fighting him, and continuing to fight herself. Brennia in particular was furious at having been taken down by a tiny male and it appeared she would win the battle for control. She wrenched her daughter’s arms, tearing the last hairs binding them, but Nakara wrenched back.

    ”Ylsa. Ylsa!”

    The voice reached the exorcist’s ears just as stray black tendrils caressed her face delicately. Her eyes opened, coming out of the state of meditation, and beheld the grisly picture lit gaudily by the flickering lantern on the altar.

    Dear god…

    She ran to them as fast as she was able with her limbs still tingling and buzzing, dropping carelessly to her knees in a flurry of sleeves and drifting hair, and pressed the slip to Nakara’s forehead.

    There was a great shaking. The violet flames at the door roared to life and lashed about, and some loose stones fell from the ceiling. A sudden cacophony of voices rang out deafeningly as all the spirits that had ever been trapped in the house rioted against their captor all at once.

    Upstairs, in the Hall of Portraits, the images in the paintings began to melt.

    In the main hall, the chandelier stretched down like a glob of spit, hissing and spitting.

    The statues in the statuary outside began to crumble away.

    The pained-looking cherubs in the fountain began to crack, and leak black ooze from within.

    Plants in the greenhouse shook violently as though jostled by a powerful wind.

    The gates began to open and slam, until one flew completely off its hinges and slammed into the fountain, shattering it completely. Windows all around the manor began to explode outwards and doors were ripped from their frames, slamming against opposing walls, crackling them and sending wood bits and plaster raining down from the ceiling.

    And in the chamber beneath it all, three voices screamed in a hellish harmony, but Brennia was screaming the most.

    Then, the altar cracked loudly right through the center, and everything fell suddenly still and quiet, except for a soft sobbing beneath the two.

    ”I’m sorryyyyy….”

    Panting, still recovering from the violent reaction, Ylsa looked down. Like a child, Nakara wept quietly, in pain, afraid, but mostly in guilt: the tips of her fingers rested on top of Jhaereth’s stiletto-hand as though wanting to cling to it in apology, but too ashamed to do so fully. The other was held near Ylsa’s shoulder, shaking.

    She looked to Jhaereth next, and was heartbroken to see him in such a horrible state of injury. The sight, combined with the sound of Nakara’s sobbing, was too much. She reached out and with one hand pushed the hair gently back from the woman’s bleeding face, and carefully rested the other on the back of the drow’s neck in reassurance.

    “It’s all right,” She said, trying not to cry herself. “…everything’s going to be all right.

    “Rest a minute,” She then urged Jhaereth. “She’s safe now. Will you be all right? What can I do?”
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    Jhaereth
    Member Avatar
    Simply Fabulous

    He didn't understand the significance of these little scraps of paper and their markings, only that the House hated it. It felt as though the earth was moving above them, the ceiling heaving and shedding loose stone and mortar.

    Well at least if we're going to die they won't need to bury us...

    The second thoughts about the undead swarming the corridors behind them made him grimace in distaste. No of course, they'd probably just join the family. Except him being male, he'd probably be eaten or something. By rotten teeth. It would take a long time.

    He looked to Ylsa, a little wild around the eyes and coated with a fine layer of dust, but the ceiling appeared to be holding...for now.

    A snappy retort sprung to the tip of his tongue, something along the lines of 'sorry never fixes anything.' The dark elf clamped his teeth down on his tongue to stop himself. Now really wasn't the time for a little cattiness. Besides the fact the woman looked so miserable she was beginning to make him feel...he could only call it guilt, for kneeling on her with a knife at her neck. How curiously human.

    Her eyes did seem...more normal, though. Clearer.

    He jumped a little at a touch on the back of his neck, startled as a stray cat. Why was she looking at him like that? With the quivering voice and...she wasn't crying over him surely..? Maybe because he'd thumped the possessed woman a few times but they'd mend, all of them. It was....disconcerting to say the least. He wasn't sure how to deal with it. What was it you were supposed to do when someone was upset? Fix them a..hot beverage...and...well the beverage wasn't forthcoming.

    "There there." His hand lifted, hovered uncertainly, then patted her on the head.

    Probably for the best that Nakara had smashed the mirrors, covered in dirt and blood, torn and battered, he might have shrieked worse than being stabbed. How awful, how uncivi-

    I don't care. I don't have the energy for this right now.

    Carefully he removed the blade from Nakara's throat, got unsteadily to his feet, favoring his good leg.
    "I think..." he spoke thickly, choosing his words carefully around the swelling side of his mouth, "we should just....go home." He paused, unsure what else to do in light of the situation, and ran a hand through his disheveled hair, then wished he hadn't. The memory of those fine strands of hair rushing out of the wall made his stomach do a backflip, and not in the good way.

    Everything hurt, and resting his good hand on the wall and leaning his weight there, he couldn't really think of a good way for them to leave too. Not unmolested anyway, and with their new charge.

    Well, must stay positive. If I die here eaten alive by the shambling dead, at least they'll say, he died with a smile on his face, not screaming in agony. Died doing what he loved best? Being eaten alive?

    A scowl furrowed his brow, half hidden beneath his hair, still falling out of his pony.
    "You know, I don't bloody well feel like dying. We're getting out of here."
    Jhaereth turned and limped towards Nakara, hooking his hand under her armpit and attempting to drag her upright, easily dashing the tears from her face with his thumb.
    "Enough of that. You are a strong, independent woman, and you don't need no possession." He sighed a touch theatrically. "We could all use a hot beverage...and a generous helping of brandy. Now come on. All aboard the creepy ghost-hand."
    It took some manipulating but he got his bitten hand into the gesture and summoned the spell. Wasn't much worse than casting it with his feet. A damn sight better, actually. He held his hand level, cupped slightly, and the shadowy replica mimicked the action.

    He spared a watery smile for Ylsa, then waved at the hand and regretted it as the hand itself swept sideways and smashed into the broken altar, throwing the lantern over.
    "Oh, bollocks."
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    Ylsa
    Member Avatar
    For as long as space endures/ For as long as living beings remain/ Until then may I too abide/ To dispel the misery of the world...

    There was a collective flinch with the altar cracked again, but nothing came of it. The flames at the door had died down and disappeared, and everything felt curiously…. Normal. Nakara sat up a little unsteadily, suddenly aware of a fresh throbbing agony in her left arm. She looked down and saw the bite-sized chunk of flesh missing, and felt sick. Determined not to throw up all over herself, she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to think of something, anything else.

    She did not accept help from either of them but she did stop crying, though now she looked horribly tired and depressed. Silently and firmly, but not unkindly, she supported Jhaereth’s injured side, determined to stand up straight and strong. The skin on her forehead, though unmarked, burned, her head throbbed, and there was a new grinding feeling in her neck when she turned her head, but Vannevar had fully retreated and Brennia was nowhere to be felt or heard.

    But this had been the worst episode she had ever had. Never before had she actually tortured someone while out of control, and she couldn’t shake the unmistakably awful feeling of having known her mother inside and out for even that brief time. Suddenly, she felt thirty years older.

    The three of them climbed exhausted into the hand (later Ylsa would make a joke about hand-chairs and revolving beds), but as they went to leave the room there was suddenly two small, pale figures in their path in the doorway. Ylsa blinked – but Nakara’s stoicity crumbled. Her eyes went wide, and she sat forward.

    “…Gregor…? Georg…?”

    Her voice was small, as though speaking too loudly would break whatever spell had brought them. Her two little brothers, the ones who had gone missing from her care after their mother had lost her mind completely, were free from the deformities that plagued them in life. Without a word, they turned and led the hand down the hall.

    The risen dead were still walking, but did not dare approach the hand or the two tiny ghosts, contenting themselves instead to watch with hateful glowing eyes, their hordes parting as they passed and rejoining behind them. The trip through the catacombs was smooth and uneventful, though Ylsa insisted on fussing over Jhaereth in the meantime, staunching his bleeding wounds with her bunched-up sleeves. There was a distinct feeling of…. Deadness to the walls around them. When they emerged from the catacombs and turned the bends into the main hall, they saw why.

    Ylsa watched in amazement, and Nakara slipped off the hand altogether, stepping out after her brothers and halting in tired disbelief.

    Hundreds of transparent figures were descending the stairs, coming out from the hallways, through the walls – and leaving Ashcombe. Strangers and old servants alike: she recognized many of the faces as the staff that had taken care of the manor and family in its prime. They were finally free, passing through the doors and disappearing as they left the shattered gates.

    Gregor and Georg turned around to look back at their older sister, who sank to her knees, face crumbling into tears again.

    “I’m sorry,” She choked, fumbling, trying to reach out and touch them, to pull them closer, and touching only coldness. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry for everything… I really loved you both, you know… I’m sorry I never told you….”

    The boys only smiled at her, then each other. Their hands linked, and they looked back to her: We’re okay now.

    Then, they turned around, and joined the others. Then, they left Ashcombe forever.

    Nakara sat where she was for a bit, hands twisting at her tattered clothes, weeping harder than she’d done since Olga died. They were gone, and they were free – but she wanted them back, wanted those years back where she should have been taking care of them, protect them from the awful fate that had befallen them. But she’d been powerless to do anything back then.

    Going back was never an option, She told herself harshly, but it didn’t cut the sting. Finally she pushed herself up and went back to the hand, face wet but a little calmer.

    “I guess everything’s back to normal now,” She croaked, taking her place again. “Can you get this thing to go over there behind the staircase? There’s an alchemy lab, it should still have good potions and supplies you can use. If it doesn’t, I’ll make you whatever you need.”
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    Jhaereth
    Member Avatar
    Simply Fabulous

    It was a strange party that left that broken room behind, the three of them huddled on the monstrous clawed hand, two pale, one dark. Jhaereth wrapped his injured arm around the forefinger and concentrated on simply getting them out, fully expecting to go hurtling down the corridor, scattering the dead like bowling pins. They should have done that the first time, but you know, hindsight is 20/20.

    In fact it was nothing like that, the grim silence that clung to them like a shroud, seemingly apt. His breath caught as the apparitions manifested before them, fully prepared to blast them with his meager abilities, children or no. Thankfully they didn't attack, appearing, he supposed, for the benefit of the woman they'd come to steal. Or rescue. Maybe both.

    He said nothing as they sailed on past those hateful hungry faces, though his grip tightened on the claw, and it was an effort not to clench his hand and accidentally squash them all. There was little to complain about with a pretty woman fussing over his injuries, despite him fluttering his free hand at her as if to say 'please don't, you know blood is incredibly hard to get out of silk.'

    They waited as Nakara climbed down from her perch, his gaze wandering over the tide of souls calmly leaving the building. It felt so...different, to when they first stepped over the threshold. Now, it was just a building. There was none of that built up, seething hatred, the malevolence, the spite. It just felt empty, lacking even the atmosphere an old tomb might have. Neither comforting, nor unsettling...just...hollow. As if everything it had to give was gone with those that had resided here. He remained respectfully silent throughout the ordeal, though it was not a bad silence. Merely thoughtful, and tired.

    He patted Ylsa's hand once distractedly, offered her a wry smirk in what he hoped was somewhat companionable and not snide. He was never very good at appearing totally friendly, he just had one of those faces.

    "Yes, of course."
    His voice was low and rough from her grappling, his face neutral. Difficult to not have feelings of mistrust after the way they'd battered at each other but it was quite clear that whatever had been in her body wasn't entirely...her. Wearily he just decided to put it behind him and try to deal with the now. Feelings just complicated matters at the best of times.
    At least he sounded a little more masculine now, he supposed. Even if it was a 'I've been smoking for twenty years' sort of gravelly accompaniment.

    Ridiculously he thought of a stupid joke he'd only just grasped about horses, and chuckled. It wasn't even that funny now he got it, but laughing felt good, it eased the tension a little and just...everything felt like it would be alright.
    "Ah, I finally get it now..." He grinned, and croaked away as the hand slid towards the back of the stairs; "A pony seeks out a physician, and says 'Please, I have this terrible cough...' and the physician says...'Oh that's alright, you're just a little horse.' Because...yes. Um."
    He lapsed into silence before the chuckles started again, then slid off the hand as it stopped. Once everyone had departed, he snapped his fingers, the great shadow mimicking for a second, then bursting into a mass of strangely flat particles that turned...and were gone.

    "So...here?"
    He pushed the door, thinking how glad he'd be to have that hot drink if it was on offer now. Between the slashed leg, arm, back, the bitten hand, the bruised ribs and the throttled neck, he thought he had enough for everyone.
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