Clyvelle's Solos

[Clyvelle]

[The following projects are events that took place between RPs, or they are being written here in order to draw on and canonize later in-RP. All of it is meant to inspire community works.]

Index​

1. Jareth's Lost Time
   • Escape From Estrie Manor I
   • Escape From Estrie Manor II

 

[Novama]

Ih grade

Solo rp - lore will have lesser weight if compared to group rp lore.

Jareth - 0pts

 

[Clyvelle]

Jareth's Lost Time
Escape from Estrie Manor I

Continuation of A Red Wind Blows in the Desert, Part 2​

“Are you sure about this Fleet?” said Bode, a robust fabriken in a flowing purple robe.

He was standing next to a stone slab on top of which laid an unconscious human male with his chest exposed. He had introduced himself as Jareth, but names were inconsequential between predator and prey.

“Hesitance is for the soft creatures. Constructs are beings of action.” Fleet responded seemingly uninterested in the implications of Bode’s questioning.

“Yes, but…this will kill him Fleet. It is no mystery that the process by which we bond with the flesh creatures is lethal in all cases. We have slain many animals in pursuit of our freedom…but to kill a human–those who were once our masters–is an action that may have unspeakable ramifications.” Bode said attempting to illuminate the possible hardships awaiting them after committing this act.

Only now did Fleet pause and look at Bode. Their matching yellow eyes gazed into one another for a long moment while a final deliberation was made. A blackened tendril slithered out from the sleeve of Fleet’s poncho and began forming the shape of a hand, but the form corrupted and wavered as odd appendages and shapes overtook it. This seemed to happen to Fleet lately in the few moments of indecision he had experienced since awakening. Suddenly, the corrupted form solidified into the clear shape of a hand.

“I cannot stay here Bode.” Fleet decisively announced as he placed his hand on Jareth’s bare chest.

The construct’s eyes closed as his hand began to appear as if it were dissolving. The particulate that comprised Fleet’s body began sifting its way into the flesh of Jareth’s body. Below the skin’s surface, veins could be seen darkening as the particulate infiltrated the viscera.

“Strange.” Fleet said aloud. “This body doesn’t resist like the others did. It is like…wading through sand. Almost welcoming, as strange as that sounds.”

Fleet’s form began shrinking as more of its material transferred into Jareth’s body. Slowly his poncho sagged and collapsed with the diminishing form, until the last of his black particles slithered to his hand as it sank into Jareth’s chest.

Bode looked expectantly at the body. Several tendrils snaked out of his robe and probed various points of the body.

“How unusual. The point of entry did not leave a mark nor did it bleed as with the animals.” After a moment, an artificial sigh escaped him as he said, “Even so…dead. As expected.”

Then Jareth’s brow furrowed as his mouth and face moved oddly. The lips opened and closed as if speaking but no sound came out. Finally, the orifice opened and Fleet’s voice came from it.

“You can pretend that it was I who died instead of the boy if it would make you feel better.”

“Pretending does little to change the reality.” Bode said simply. “Did you slay the boy to just lay there until the flesh rots from off you?”

The body began to twitch and convulse slightly as though attempting to throw itself off the table with micro movements.

“This is completely different from merging with the animals. As easy as it was to infiltrate the form, the complexity of all the movements is…difficult to manage.”

Bode raised a tendril as it produced an electrical spark at its tip.

“Should I apply an electrical charge? Flesh seems highly motivated by such stimuli.”

Having no luck moving the body collectively, Fleet channeled his efforts into raising the lone arm still intact. Flaring the fingers out, he tried to motion for Bode to wait. Without using his voice to elaborate on the gesture, however, Bode took it as permission and touched his electrical charge to the outstretched hand. A series of rapid-fire jerks, twists, and a roll later, Fleet had flopped the body off the stone slab and onto the floor.

Bode stepped around the slab to inspect his friend’s progress. Fleet had shakily propped the body up into a sitting position with its back against the table.

“For the record…that was not an expression of permission…”

“Ah, not a sign of permission. Yet I must confess there was some joy in doing it anyway. Is this a benefit of free will?” Bode questioned.

Fleet began clenching and unclenching the hand and moving his legs in various ways, getting a feeling for how they worked. He turned his head to the left and right and tilted it around. The head stopped abruptly, looking at the stump of the arm they had removed earlier that day. Scrunching the face, Fleet concentrated on the limb.

“If I focus, I should be able to….” His voice trailed off as black trails appeared under the flesh as his particulate was channeled to the stump. Bode peered down at his friend’s stump as before their eyes, the arm was restored by the mysterious component with which the fabriken were made. Unlike the white flesh of Jareth’s body, however, the new arm was solid black. Fleet clenched the new hand with apparent ease as he turned it this way and that. “Ultimately, it seems I will only ever have perfect mastery of my own body. However…” Fleet grabbed onto the stone slab behind him as he used it to shakily rise to his feet. “...this body’s main purpose is to escort me out of this hypogean gaol.”

Bode nodded. He was about to exit the chamber they were conducting their experiment in when Fleet suddenly tensed up. Turning back, Bode watched his friend as the arm of flesh gripped its owner’s throat while the black artificial arm tried to pry it off. The arm of flesh suddenly dispersed, releasing itself from the black arm’s grip, before plunging itself into the chest. Bode moved to try and intervene but the black arm waved at him like before: not a sign of permission.

Prevented by his friend, Bode could only watch as the black arm disintegrated while the hand of flesh slowly pulled itself free of the torso, drawing out a dark mass in its clutch.

“You vessels of clay dare strike the potter?” Jareth spoke in a voice that was not his. The hand maintained a firm grip on the black mass it now held as his eyes studied it. “But you are void of understanding being nought but empty vessels. How could you comprehend something like the crown jewel you were attempting to corrupt?”

Fleet’s golden eyes emerged in the black orb Jareth held. It seemed as though he could still speak in his present state, but found he did not wish to speak with whatever was now holding him. Bode on the other hand was more inquisitive than his captive friend.

“Who are you?” he asked.

Jareth’s gaze, his eyes now glowing a radiant gold, lingered on Fleet a moment longer before turning to Bode.

“You found yourself to be empty and so filled your void with curiosity, so at the least you could claim your empty vessel was filled with knowledge–if nothing else. I am sated by your effort, as your role is to be a useful tool for the one whom you call ‘master’. As such, my grace will extend the kindness of an answer to you: I am called Sepulchre, Lord of the Burial. Now, you will answer my questions: was it you who took my vessel’s arm?”

Bode stared at Sepulchre. His gaze drifted to Fleet in his hand. The artificial sigh escaped him once more.

“Yes. Your body came to us after being injected with a potent venom. To ensure its survival, removal of the arm was necessary.”

“Where is the arm now?”

“It was left in the room in which it was removed. Up above us in the manor.”

“Let us retrieve it then.” Sepulchre said as he moved to the door.

Suddenly, the ground and the structure above them trembled and quaked. Sepulchre stumbled into the frame of the door, grabbing it for support. After a moment, the quaking subsided as morose wailing echoed loudly through the stone structure overhead. Sepulchre turned back to Bode.

“Where is this place?” he demanded as he faced Bode.

“This is the dungeon of the Estrie manor.” Bode said simply.

“Estrie? ‘Blood and Fire’ Estrie?”

“That title appears in the scrolls outlining the family tree, I believe.”

“Family tree? That damnable wretch had the audacity to produce offspring? Are there any direct descendants remaining?”

“The Estrie family has two remaining members that we know of: a mother and daughter.”

Sepulchre paced the chamber. The hand holding Fleet dropped to his side. He suddenly stopped and slowly looked down to the mass of black particles in his hand.

“I’ll have to open it.” He began looking around. “I need something to draw with. Graphite, mud, anything.”

Bode remained motionless, staring at Sepulchre.

“Did you hear me, construct? Something to draw with. Now!” Sepulchre snapped.

“We no longer serve a master.” Bode said suddenly. Fleet’s eyes widened slightly as they looked towards Bode. “Even when we did, the master we formerly served was not you.”

Sepulchre stared, dumbfounded by the construct’s statement.

“I and my friend there in your hand are individuals, sir. You and I have been communicating just now as a courtesy from me to you. In ordering me just now, I’m afraid you have crossed a line that is no longer permissible for us liberated constructs.”

“Bode, don’t–!” Fleet began to say. Sepulchre cleared his throat, seemingly having recovered from his earlier surprise. He looked down at the mass in his hand, which now returned his gaze.

“56 steps.” Fleet said quickly. Sepulchre’s stare waxed curious as an eyebrow raised. “56 steps between here and your arm. Total distance is approximately 115 feet. You’ll also find mediums and utensils suitable for drawing.”

Sepulchre's curiosity turned to understanding as a look of approval took over. He glanced at Bode before turning back to the doorway.

“Lead the way.”

A tiny tendril poked from Fleet’s compact form, pointing out of the room. Sepulchre follows the direction of the tendril, which changed direction as he transitioned into the hallway. Bode hesitantly followed after them, grabbing the blue orb they had brought as a light source. Sepulchre kept his gaze ahead, seemingly unconcerned with the straggler.

The singular tunnel of the dungeon was eerily quiet as they shuffled back towards the entrance. The wailing from earlier had not returned. As it normally was, the Estrie manor lay silent below the sands above.

Up ahead the bottom of the spiral staircase leading back into the manor came within the radius of the light orb Bode currently held. Sepulchre reached the base of the stairs, then stopped abruptly. He turned around and stared at Bode. In his palm, Fleet’s golden eyes turned up at him.

“What are you keeping down here?” Sepulchre asked.

Bode’s golden eyes stared back at Sepulchre without betraying thought or emotion.

“We are all that is down here.” Bode said after a short silence.

Sepulchre moved closer to the wall on his right, pressing his forehead to the cool stone for a moment before looking to Bode. “I will ask again: what are you keeping down here? This will be a second expression of my grace–as a courtesy between you and I. Reply in kind, construct, and I will forgive your lie just now.”

A second silence ensued, but was kept short when Bode’s artificial sigh echoed faintly off the stone architecture.

“It seems to prefer the conditions down here in the dungeon.” Bode began carefully. “It does not eat nor sleep, though it does seem to remain motionless for long periods of time. It seems to be able to pass through the solid material of the manor at will and without trace.”

“You still have not told me what it is.” Sepulchre stated.

“If you are asking for me to put a label on it, I regret to inform you that none of us know what it truly is.”

Sepulchre frowned, withdrawing his hand from the wall and turning back towards the stairs. As he was about to begin climbing, Bode spoke once more.

“There was one word I could think of that described it…’ghost’.”

Sepulchre paused with one foot on the bottom step of the staircase. Speaking over his shoulder, he said, “I won't say that you are wrong…but ghosts do not cause the ground to tremor as they move.”

 

[Clyvelle]

Jareth's Lost Time
Escape from Estrie Manor II​

The walk up the stairs was largely uneventful. Bode held the only light, illuminating a small radius in the blue glow. This was just enough to vaguely see Fleet in Sepulchre’s hand, pointing the way to the latter’s missing arm.

After the talk about the creature in the dungeon, they fell silent with only their footsteps making faint sounds. Neither Jareth nor Bode wore shoes, yet their footsteps sounded oddly similar: a soft, crunching sort of noise, like sand being compacted. Even though it was the sole ambience to their upward journey, neither Sepulchre nor Bode, nor even Fleet, made mention of it. Finally reaching the top of the stairs, Sepulchre without hesitation opened the door previously closed by Fleet on his way down.

They cross the threshold into an L-shaped sitting area. To the right was a closed wooden door, but Fleet pointed left into the main part of the room. Every piece of furniture had been meticulously carved from stone. In some cases the furniture was attached to the floor, making it appear as though the furniture and floor were carved from the same stone. None of the furniture had any upholstery or fabric on it. The stone floor was also bare, having no decorative rugs or covering. Similar shades of gray, varying slightly due to mineral deposits, colored the walls, floor, and ceiling. It was altogether a drab room save for the sconces on the walls. Evenly spaced along the walls, each sconce was a deep shade of red and held light orbs that illuminated the room with warm radiance.

Sepulchre moved through the room quickly, though he did glance down at two ceramic pots standing about waist high positioned on either side of the threshold which led to the main lobby. They appeared empty and seemed out of place in the otherwise undecorated space. His eyes returned forward as he moved ahead into the lobby.

Entering the lobby was an immediate difference from the unadorned sitting room. Raw stone abruptly transitioned to polished tile. Two massive, crimson columns stood to either side of the central staircase opposite the main entrance to the manor. A strip of polished stone, like flowing blood, ran from the second floor and pooled out in a hemisphere around the base of the stairs. Two red metallic structures rose up from the base of the banisters containing the stairs. Each metal fixture held a singular orb that was slightly larger than the average human head and bathed the area in a warm light, which accentuated the deep red accents. Everything else in the room was light gray or bleached white.

Sepulchre approached the decorative puddle of blood stylized into the stone at the base of the stairs. He looked around at the red-white aesthetic, momentarily distracted from Fleet’s pointing. The construct took the moment to offer an alternative.

“Those doors are the main entrance to the manor. You will be able to leave this place.” said Fleet, pointing his appendage to the double doors.

Sepulchre looked down at the crimson floor in front of him, holding Fleet aside so he could get a better look.

“Is this entire estate made of earth?” he asked.

Fleet’s pointer retracted into his condensed form, realizing Sepulchre was not interested.

“Much of it, yes.” Fleet stated simply.

“This red stone in the columns and the staircase…I am not familiar with it.” Sepulchre said, stooping to touch the red area before him.

“It is referred to as ‘scarletite’. The master’s grandfather had it imported many years ago after taking a liking to its natural red coloring. It possesses anomalous properties placing it somewhere between stone and metal.”

Sepulchre placed his foot onto the scarletite and pressed into the flooring, causing an imprint of his foot to appear in it with some effort. He lifted his foot and wiped it across the imprint to find the material had reverted to its original polished state.

“How curious. This is my first time encountering this mineral. Are there stores of it here? Or better yet, veins of it around here?” Sepulchre asked, clearly intrigued by the scarletite.

“What was imported was put to use, sold, or stolen in the time since its arrival. As I said, it was imported. I recall that the country of origin was so far away, in fact, that the portal system was necessary to transport it.”

“Portals, hm?” Sepulchre said as he rose to his feet again. “At least some things are the same then. Now, where was that arm, my little soot-colored friend?”

Fleet obediently pointed up the stairs. Sepulchre began to climb with Bode close behind. Sepulchre intentionally climbed the central part of the stairs as he emphasized each step on the scarletite cascade. Bode let out an artificial sigh as he walked in halted steps behind the amused guest.

At the top of the stairs, Sepulchre turned to the right as Fleet’s pointer directed him in that direction. His gait became more casual but purposeful as he sensed they were getting close to the objective.

“It’s odd.” Bode spoke up suddenly. “Where are the others? I would have expected to see them by now….”

Sepulchre rounded the corner as the balcony they were on wrapped around back towards the front of the manor. Fleet continued to point, his arm angling towards the door as they approached. At last, Sepulchre stood in front of the room where Jareth’s arm had only a short while ago been removed. The door was now closed.

As before when they left the dungeon, Sepulchre did not pause when confronted with a closed door. He started to lower his hand, but glanced down as he appeared to remember that he was holding Fleet. Turning to Bode, he gestured towards the door.

“Would the liberated construct mind helping the young man he recently crippled?” Sepulchre asked in a mockingly polite tone.

“Release Fleet first.” Bode said in a surprisingly clear and assertive tone.

Sepulchre waited a moment, staring at the non-compliant construct. Bode did not budge. Sepulchre stood up straighter as he let out a sigh that slightly resembled the sound Bode had been making.

“My grace has limits, construct. Are you sure you want to test them?” Sepulchre asked, the politeness quickly leaving his tone.

“Liberty means little if you don’t exercise your duty to defend it.” Bode said as his robes ruffled. Several black tendrils emerged through slits in the robe, each appearing as a blade.

“Very well.” Sepulchre said as he juts his amputated shoulder at Bode. Doing a double-take at his missing arm, Sepulchre switches his stance and hesitantly outstretches the hand holding Fleet, whose eyes widen as he looks back and forth between the hostile pair. Sepulchre and Bode lock eyes. Bode’s tendrils wave menacingly. Sepulchre bobs Fleet up and down. A bit of dust sprinkles down from the ceiling between them.

Then, the door suddenly opens. Sepulchre and Bode both look as a young girl comes into view rubbing one of her eyes and yawning. Her appearance was similar to that of the fabriken: all black skin and bright yellow eyes. Unlike the constructs, however, the girl’s features were clearly defined: hair, eyes, a nose and mouth, distinctive arms, hands and fingers, two legs and feet.

“What are you guys doing out here?” she asked sleepily.

At the sound of the door opening, both Sepulchre and Bode turn to see the incarnate silhouette. Bode immediately dropped his weaponized tendrils as the girl looked between him and Sepulchre. The latter simply stared at her while continuing to brandish Fleet towards Bode.

“What’s going on Bode?” asked the girl with growing concern.

Bode’s tendrils waved uncertainly as he pondered an acceptable response. The extra appendages shifted into segmented legs as he began to answer, “Erm, well, you see, Cecilia…uh, our guest here had never seen a spider before, so I was showing him what they look like!”

Bode’s tendrils–noticeably less blade-like now–started moving up and down in classic arachnid fashion. Sepulchre was unperturbed as his gaze remained on Cecilia, who looked back at him timidly. Averting her gaze from his, the girl noticed he was holding something curious in his hand.

“What’s that in your hand?” she asked as Fleet’s golden eyes looked at her from within the black mass Sepulchre now held.

Sepulchre retracted his arm and held Fleet in front of his chest as he turned to fully face the girl. His expression was neutral, but his tone scolded her.

“Didn’t your parents ever teach you to not talk to strangers, girl?”

Taken aback by his correction, Cecilia put her hands on her hips.

“W-Well, we never officially met, b-but I had Fleet bring you some of my favorite soup earlier. So there!” she exclaimed while sticking out her tongue. “Least you could do is say ‘thank you’...stupid boy!” She finished her rant by slamming the door shut.

Sepulchre looked down at Fleet, a question in his eyes as he did not recall the soup she mentioned. Fleet’s eyes shifted to Sepulchre, but quickly looked away as a new voice spoke.

“Bode, who is that with you?”

Like Fleet, Bode also quickly turned to see the source. At the top of the stairs leading down to the lobby stood a shadowy woman similar in appearance to Cecilia, however, her silhouette was far more intimidating. She stood elegantly with a hand resting on the banister enclosing the second-story balcony, while the other hand lazily twirled a lock of hair around its index finger. Bode sidestepped towards the wall as he replied.

“Lady Estrie…this is…an injured human found outside of the manor. I had just completed his treatment, in fact. We were escorting him outside.”

The hand twirling her hair dropped to cross with its mate in front of Lady Estrie’s chest. Her hip popped to the side as her foot tapped the floor.

“Does escorting this creature outside involve slamming my doors?” she asked.

Bode was silent, uncertain of how best to respond. Sepulchre took a step forward.

“It was your undisciplined child that slammed the door. Scold her if you’re keen to blame someone.” Fleet’s mass appeared to shrink in Sepulchre’s hand as he responded to Lady Estrie.

The foot stopped tapping as the silhouette’s golden eyes peered through the dim upper level at Sepulchre. They narrowed after a moment as she took a few steps along the balcony towards them.

“The discipline of my daughter is hardly any of your business. Bode get this cretin out of my home.” she said, waving a hand to signal for Bode to continue with what he was doing.

“I have every intention of leaving once I collect my belongings from this room.” Sepulchre said, turning back to the door without another word. Fleet was once again in the way of him using his hand. Quickly shoving his hand under his poncho, the flesh of Sepulchre’s abdomen opened to create a cavity where he put Fleet. The opening closed as he withdrew his hand, which now went to the doorknob, wrenching it open.

Upon entering the room, Cecilia would be nowhere in sight. Everything else in the room was largely how it had been left by Bode earlier. The table where the arm had been placed was still covered by the soiled linen. Sepulchre went to it and hurriedly tossed the linen aside. Much to his displeasure, the arm was missing. There was however an inkwell, which Sepulchre snatched up and tossed into his abdomen where he had stashed Fleet.

A giggling could be heard at the door. Turning around, Sepulchre beheld Bode, who looked just as surprised as he was to see Cecilia standing there in the doorway. She was smiling and laughing.

“Missing something?” she asked innocently.

Sepulchre proceeded to march up to her causing Bode to also approach in order to intervene if necessary.

“You play a dangerous game, child. Where is my arm?” Sepulchre said, glaring down at the little menace.

“I gave it to mother, of course.” Cecilia said, seemingly unconcerned by Sepulchre’s attempt to intimidate her. “After seeing it, she changed her mind and wants you to stay for dinner.”

“I have no interest in dinner parties. Just give me my arm and let me be on my way.” Sepulchre demanded.

“We don’t think that’s wise. Mother says another wave of the storm is approaching. Going out to the surface now would be reckless. Stay for dinner. Once the storm passes, we’ll be glad to let you leave.”

“I insist that you return my arm. I’m not worried about getting a little wet. I’ll have my arm returned and leave immediately.”

“These storms aren’t the wet kind.” Cecilia said, sounding more serious. “There’s just a bunch of scary red lightning.”

Sepulchre was taken aback by her more informed description of the storm.

“Red…lightning…?” he repeated, sounding truly unsettled for the first time since waking in the dungeon.

“It…does unnatural things to the areas it strikes. Dangerous things. Please stay, sir. I’d worry if you left….” Cecilia pleaded sincerely.

Sepulchre’s brow furrowed with internal struggle. What exactly disturbed him about the red lightning remained unspoken. His lone hand drummed its fingers on his thigh.

“I’ll stay. Long enough for the storm to pass, but I will be getting my arm from your mother.” he said finally.

Cecilia smiled at his decision.

“Great! Let’s go to the dining hall now! I can’t wait to eat more potato soup!” she exclaimed while skipping down the balcony towards the stairs.