Melpomene
Writer of Tragedy|Art by ROYTHEART|
Last edited:
-
This section is for roleplays only.
ALL interest checks/recruiting threads must go in the Recruit Here section.
Please remember to credit artists when using works not your own.
Fantasy The Kingdom of Shadows
- Thread starter Melpomene
- Start date
-
- Tags
- action adventure dark fantasy
Melpomene
Writer of Tragedy|Art by ROYTHEART|
Maedor Taellaris
Corpses hanged from the trees. Many of the bodies were charred and burned to the point of being unrecognizable. Others were piled at the side of the road, the only difference between them being those who died of the plague and those who died for what curse they were born with. The sight was unseemly, yet people walked past it as though it was only natural for it to stand stark over civilization. The celebration of barbarism was lost upon Maedor. The active decision to remain ignorant and helpless was what brought them to such a state of unrest, and yet the perpetuated it more. It was magic that brought the plague, it was the end of magic that would protect them from it.
A fire burned not far from him, the smoke undulating in the sky, as though the souls which had once lived in those bodies had fought against the current of death. They could not, for it took every man no matter how hard they fought. Every house would one day burn and every man’s soul would one day leave his body to continue on into whatever afterlife may exist.
Death surrounded him and it always did. Though did Maedor choose to surround himself with death, or did death choose him? It was hard to know, for destiny seemed to have chosen for him. The King upon the throne seemed to have chosen it for him. And his creator had placed him into this nightmare, but for what purpose?
An end to death was the only logical conclusion to come to.
He opened his journal as they rode, not even bothering to look at the servant that sat with her head bowed low, her fair hair blocking her face from view. He wished to read of the woman he had seen before he left.
The woman had died of unnatural causes. Her organs were blackened to the point of nearly being unrecognizable. Her eyes were missing, her fingernails were bent and broken, teeth missing from her mouth. According to her brother, she had once been a beautiful young woman. Anteaisa ze Leamnar from the line of Karth. A Lady of high class, one which was taken from the world tragically early. She was to be married to a handsome young man, one which held land over the Qarthina mountains, thus it would have been a prosperous marriage that would bear powerful and quite beautiful children.
But she was laying upon the hard bed of stone, prepped for burial with flowers woven through her thick blonde hair, though chunks of it were missing.
Maedor closed his journal, the ink had already smudged enough, coming off on to his pale fingers. It was the final case he had examined before the letter had come to him. The family had been surprised to find it was addressed to him of all people in the household of Taellaris. Very few people sought him over the years, often it was Maedor begging to be let in by others, begging for them to allow him to look over the bodies that lied within their homes, taken by the plague. In a twisted fate, his own business had only improved when the plague had reached its height, taking victims without discretion. In desperation, they had opened their home to him, in desperation because most healers refused to see them.
But it had not been the plague which had taken Anteaisa ze Leamnar. It was an unnatural death. The effects either took place on her body post-mortem or right before her death. But it did not gradually build as the plague was wont to. No, she was attacked, though none knew by what. She was only found drowned in the river, barely recognizable as they pulled her from the frigid waters.
They had practically tossed her body to him when he had asked to see her. A damned soul falling straight to hell for daring to take her own life. She was a sinner who caught the plague as punishment, and in her grief and guilt had thrown herself into the river to take her own life. The people could not dare find a reason to respect her.
Unfortunately, what was poor for the girl was good for him. It brought Maedor only one step closer to understanding, it brought Maedor closer only one step to proving that a cure exist, for if there was a catalyst to this flow of death then simply to cut that off would slow the flow to a trickle and then eventually to an end. It was unfortunate that her family had not allowed him to keep her body any longer. To grieve they had taken it back, disturbed by the excitement he had shown upon opening her as he rapidly began to write in his journal, carefully drawing all that he could examine.
“Master Taellaris?” he looked up from his musings, pushing golden locks from his brow before noticing the horses had stopped moving, and now the servant stood, her cheeks lightly dusted pink as she held the door open for him. He looked up, his brows furrowed in disgust as he looked upon the drab town he had been taken into. The skies were overcast, a light drizzle falling over them. He pulled his fur cloak tighter around his body before he took his pack from beside him, holding his notes and medical gear. He could only assume the reason he was brought all this way was for the knowledge that rattled within his head.
He stepped out, the ground muddy beneath his boots. His hair was instantly dampened by the rain which drizzled down.
Maedor was a tall man, towering above most and often referred to as a giant in his town. He grew taller than his father, even, though he was not nearly as broad. While tall, he leaned himself towards being lankier than anything, though thanks to the constant physical training his father put him through, his arms remained well-muscled, enough so that he could pull a bow. Blond hair fell over on to his brow, lying limp after the extended travel, barely falling into large amber eyes set into a pale face.
He was dressed well, in the finest of silks and furs. His boots were not well-worn whatsoever, rather obviously knew and well shined. His posture was stiff, straight-backed with lips twisted into a bitter scowl. He would think the man who wrote would know better than to put a Taellaris in such a broken place. But he bit his tongue, for the servant girl would not even listen to his despair, and he only talked to himself when he was alone.
“I was told to tell you, she will meet you here.”
“Who?”
“I cannot say.”
“Cannot or will not?” Meador asked, his hands wringing together for a moment, his eyes narrowed. The place was shabby, nearly looking abandoned, but it was large and far off from the town they had crossed through. Whoever this was, he did not find himself feeling they were trustworthy.
However, he could think of no reason someone would want to kill him, or even blackmail him. If they wished to blackmail, they would steal the eldest daughter of the family, as anyone with eyes would know he was not wanted. If they wished to assassinate him, that was a different story. It would be smart. If there was any reason to assassinate Meador, he would have wondered if such was the case. But no matter how loud he could be, he was not a troublemaker in a way someone would care for. Someone brushed off and ignored, no matter what he said no one would take such lengths to silence him. He did not even know anything of merit.
“Please, sire, step in.” Meador stood stark in his spot. He thought to turn. He thought to leave the premises on foot and leave it behind despite having no way to get home.
“Sire--”
“Then get my bags, girl, I wish to be settled.” he stepped forward, the weight of his journal weighing heavily against his breast.
A twisted part of him hoped it was yet another that wished to find the cure to the plague, another that suffered and was growing sick of hearing all others say it was impossible. They would call upon the one man that would claim it to be possible in anything other than prayer and repentance.
Or perhaps it was a secret admirer that simply wished to hold him for tea. It mattered not, the risk was low and the payment could be high.
“This is as far as I’ll go,” the servant girl hung her head low, her cheeks were flushed pink. Before another word could be spoken, she had darted off, and with her, the carriage went. Maedor looked up and tiredly looked upon his surroundings, dusky and bleak. Someone had not cleaned within years.
‘It once belonged to a sorcerer.’ Every town had hanging trees, he had come to learn. It was lucky this house had not been burned to the ground and left to smolder in its former glory. That did not matter. He took the canteen from his hip and pressed it to his lips, letting the flavor of rum fall over his tongue. He wrinkled his nose but sat on the dusty old chair that had caught his eye and let his back rest against it as he closed his eyes.
‘Let them come’
Esadora de Levoran
Esadora leaned against the window, the blood running down her hand as she stared unflinchingly down upon the land below. The cut on the back of her hand was deep, narrowly had the knife escaped scraping the bone. She held it, painfully, in her other hand, though her face was one of serenity. Despite her being nude, she hardly seemed to notice the man who wielded the knife only a few paces from her, his chest heaving as he looked upon her, his gaze filled with emotions that conjoined as much as they conflicted. Like only friends turned enemies, he stared with rage and lust at the same time. With every beat of his heart, there was a threat of his continued rage. Perhaps he thought he could strike her dead here and now.
Her lips were turned in a pout, as she continued to stare out the window. Not too far away, corpses hanged from the trees.
It was a fight to keep the pout upon her lips. A fight to keep it from turning into the endless bitter rage which was lit within her bosom. It was a hot fury that burned and never would it leave her, as it had been placed deep within her body long before she had even experienced her first moon’s blood. It was always to be hidden away, kept from others or else it could spill to the innocent and they would feel the pain that was striking her heart with every moment that she took in a breath.
He had begun to step forward again, his knife rising from his hip. She did not move, continuing to stare out that foggy window. It was an interesting sight. A new sight. They rarely left their little home in the city of Pretyn. They had come late, leaving no time for exploration.
“Look at me when I kill you, witch!”
“I would prefer not to…” She could feel his breath on her shoulder as she crossed her arm over her breasts, eyes narrowed at the window as a man stopped and stared through it, no doubt wishing to ogle what it was that he could see. She smirked, no matter where she went, men were the same. And for some odd reason, thought her to be just as stupid.
“Bitch!” His hands had buried in her hair, wrenching her to look up at him. She winced in pain, but she still did not move away from him.
“One more movement and I swear you shall find yourself regretting what you have come to do so far. You have been kind enough--”
He moved his knife before she could finish. With a sigh, she murmured spell, his body froze as his eyes widened. His mouth fell open, though no sound escaped it. She could see his eyes grow glassy as the grip on her hair slowly loosened until there was none there. She slowly raised on her toes, her lips hovering close to his. Her fingers brushed his brow.
“You really did not come prepared to battle a sorceress, did you?” she smiled, her teeth displayed bright and white before him. Her voice descended into a giggle as she turned on her heel, taking the knife from his hand and feeling it in her own palm. “Had you stopped I may have let us finish for the night, I was fearing that I would be dreadfully bored, and then you came by-- I knew your intentions were bad, but I was hoping you would be waiting until after tonight.” Her lips turned into a pout once again as she hopped up, sitting on her bed with crossed legs, turning her eyes up to the ceiling.
“I did not want to bed him today, but if I must…” The man had pressed his hands to his neck. He was attempting to breathe only to feel his lungs actively rejecting any air he tried to suck in. Esadora crossed her legs, toying with the knife more. The spell was simple, but power. Enough that she felt her energy drain already, the pain in her hand becoming more apparent. It was quite lucky he did not sever anything, her hands were as important as her voice. But not so important that she could not manage to see it to the end.
He was blue now, struggling upon the ground. He would be begging if he could, she knew. Just as he wished to hear her beg. Then he would have slit her throat, happily watching the blood fall over her pale skin and drip to the ground. And happily, she would be hanged from one of the trees. She felt something bubble within her, as she watched him. The bitter rage and hatred had returned. The want to see him burned and cut to pieces. The want to bind him to a pole and break his fingers to splinters. However, there would be no point in that anymore, for he was dead.
Esadora fell back on the bed, her arms outspread as she let out a sigh.
He had been so charming when the met at the tavern. So much so she had brought him into the carriage, let him sit next to her so she could feel his warmth as they rode. The guard had stood silent before them both, already used to her many decisions and wiles whenever they were anywhere but inside the master’s manor. But she could tell by his demeanor he hid something. The questions he chose to ask, as though she were stupid. That was what made her so unrepentant in his death. To dare think she was looking to service him and was stupid enough to believe she was so blinded by her lust for him that she could not find his ulterior motives.
But he was handsome and she was lonely. Even if he would kill her, he was someone. Someone who wished to run his hands through her hair and call her beautiful as they slept in the moonlight. And in her childish heart, she had hoped him to run his fingers across her hip, to press kisses to her lips and look into her pale face, finding her face to be that of a human no matter how many times so many told him it was the face of a rat. And once he looked into that face, once he recognized it as human, he would take her to him into a true embrace, he would abandon his knife and lie with her as man lied with a woman rather than as a man lied with a dog.
But he didn’t. And now he was dead.
“Petyr!” she called after a few moments, letting the dizziness calm down so she could stand once again. The guard came in, his eyes shifting around the room for only a moment before they fell to the body by her feet. The sight of her nude had, luckily, become a normal one for him. He sighed.
“I tell you, you must be more careful with those you let in.”
“I must pick them out with a better hand. I should have known this one to be foolish. He could have at least made it hard for me to defend myself.” she pouted again as she fell back on to her bed, crossing one leg over the other. “Why are men everywhere so stupid, Petyr? He could have had a fine night, but he decided to forsake it for what? Glory? I am a beautiful woman, Petyr, am I not?”
“Perhaps he liked men.” She snorted.
“Oh, perhaps. But I think not. Hm. Take him out, dispose of him however you will. Oh, we should pay you more, you are so good to us. Bring home a nice woman sometime while we stay here, would you? I cannot stand to see you stuck at my door or side the entire time.” she ran her hand through her hair as she heard the sound of the body scraping against the wooden floor. It was not fair. But she still said nothing.
When she went exploring the next day, perhaps she could find a new man. A better man.
“How long should we be saying, exactly, my Lady?”
“Is that not a question for the master?” she asked playfully, only to be met with a soft chuckle. “By the way-- send him up, will you not? He need not sleep on his own tonight, it seems.” she sighed. He was older, but he stayed handsome as she liked.
“Yes, my Lady. I will send him right up to you.” She closed her eyes again as she let her head rest upon a pillow. Her pale body sat in a stark contrast to the dark sheets. Her hair was black as night, flowing over the pillow in thick waves. She barely took up any space, she was so short, though curvaceous. She kept her figure, always wishing to entice the men she passed by. And entice them she did, as one sultry look from her violet eyes, and men often fell at her feet despite who and what she was.
“Esadora?” a soft voice came from the door. She looked up, a smile on her lips as Master Gregor stepped in. At the very least, the night could only get better.
Javax
The Shadow
The door slammed behind her with a reverberating thud! The paintings on the wall quivered in response, and embers from the dying fire in the hearth fluttered from the sudden draft, dancing briefly before settling within the dying fire again. Despite the anger bubbling within her, her boots were silent against the maple flooring of the suite—an expensive trait that she had happily paid extra for. The sconces flickered in fear as she swiftly strode towards the desk in the middle of the study, her shadows threatening the flames with suffocation. If she lost any more control on her magic, then the room would've been plunged into darkness the moment she stepped through. Not like it would have made her journey to her desk any more difficult.
Roxii rounded her desk and, after aggressively pushing the chair out of her way, stood over her desk with her hands braced against the edges. Her shadows passed over the stacks of paper laid neatly upon its surface, her fuming ceasing for just a moment as she focused on the task at hand. Once her darkness found their target, she grabbed the corner of a seemingly nondescript page out of the stack and, with expert grace, yanked the page out of the middle of the stack. The rest of the pages remained untouched and unmoved, despite the disruption. Laying the chosen page upon the desk in front of her, the blind assassin allowed her shadows to travel across the page, feeling the ink ridges across the page with her magic. This particular letter requested her assistance in taking out an unremarkable shopkeeper. Perhaps the man angered the customer in some way—maybe raised his prices or swindled them out of some prized possession. Either way, it wasn't her place to ask questions. She was just supposed to receive the request, complete it, and get paid.
But she couldn't complete her mission if her targets kept going missing! This was the fifth target to go missing in the past two weeks! Whisked away on a silent wind with only a mocking calling card left behind: "Better luck next time" it read. No signature, no name, nothing save for a stamp of an oddly familiar symbol at the bottom. She'd attempted to gather information on the cryptic person or persons that have been deliberately ruining her business, but she couldn't get much further beyond rumors. A mystery that had been terrorizing some of the best freelancer thieves, mercenaries, and assassins for a while now. Whatever they were trying to accomplish, they were selective in who they targeted. Perhaps they were Hunters, trying to lure her out into the open? It was no secret that the assassin openly used her magic to complete requests; after all, it helped her see. But whether or not it were Hunters or some competition that rolled into town, she wasn't sure. She couldn't exactly go out and ask her previous targets because, unfortunately for her, they just up and disappeared.
Anger began bubbling up inside her again. Her shadows thrashed violently out from her, and her knuckles turned white from the harsh grip she had upon the desk. Her lips locked into a fine line until an animalistic snarl ripped from her and her fingers viciously ripped the assassination request to shreds. How dare these strangers mock her so! A stab at her pride, her reputation. Each of these unfulfilled requests were failures, ones that wounded her killing streak. Humiliating!
Roxii released a slow, calming breath. The assassin's fingers drummed against the solid cedar in a steady rhythm as she turned a thought over in her head a few times, tasting the sour plan in her mouth. It'd be risky, but she could perhaps find out who had been destroying her career. After all, they were directly affecting her income, and that did not sit well with the L'yrathi whatsoever. One of her wolf ears twitched in irritation at the thought. She definitely possessed enough coins to allow her to sit comfortably for a couple years, but the lack of steady income, the lack of growing closer to being considered "wealthy" was bothersome. If she was to go back to completing assassination requests unhindered, then she needed to neutralize the threat. Immediately.
Nodding to herself, the wolf-elf picked a random request out of her "incomplete" stack and set out. The target was another unremarkable civilian: a 41-year-old botanist named Milris Parieth. No reasoning behind the request whatsoever, but that was fine. It wasn't like she was going to have a chance to complete the mission anyways. As long as she could find her target quickly, Roxii could be able to put an end to all this troublesome nonsense.
It took some time and some... questionable methods, but the hybrid was able to track down Parieth quickly enough to watch her get taken away by a hooded figure. The stranger was hushed as they spoke to the middle-aged human botanist, explaining the situation and hurriedly wrapping her in a similar cloak to keep her out of sight. They traveled by cart out of the city and down the main road for quite a while before splitting off onto a hardly noticeable path. They were silent the entire time, even as they approached a wooden cabin that looked to have been abandoned for years. The duo disappeared inside and all was silent for a while.
Roxii waited outside the cabin for some time before moving in closer. Her footfalls were silent as she crept towards the decrepit building, allowing her to listen carefully for anyone inside or outside it who might betray or discover her presence. However, she couldn't hear anyone whatsoever. She hesitantly reached out with her shadows, searching for any souls while being careful to not alert anyone with an affinity for magic. Her magic touched no one. Her brow furrowed slightly in confusion. It was as if they had disappeared into thin air.
Once she was at the entrance of the dilapidated building, she slowly pushed the door open, hoping that the hinges wouldn't creak. The gods seemed to be merciful today. She sent out a pulse of darkness throughout the rooms of the cabin, but her magic touched no one. It was vacant, the only trace of their presence being their lingering scents. She bit her lip thoughtfully. An old cabin like this ought to have some sort of wine cellar. Her shadows spread out across the floor of the cabin, searching for any drafts between the cracks and an empty space of some sort. It wasn't difficult for her to find it. Peeling back the rug the door was hidden under, Roxii gripped the handle and hefted the cellar door open. She was met with the thick, damp air of the cellar, and she suppressed the desire to cough.
The assassin tread down the steps carefully and slowly, keeping her shadows reined in just in case these mystery people could detect her darkness. However, she kept her ears up and attentive, listening for any telltale signs of her mystery targets. All she could hear, though, was the steady drip of water falling from the cave ceiling. The drips echoed throughout the cavern, making it difficult for the wolf-elf to pinpoint her own location. Not to mention that the air here was thicker than tar, and despite the humidity it scratched against her throat. Deciding that it may be better for the assassin to risk her location by being able to see, she sent out a soft, short pulse of darkness.
It revealed to her the lone person standing before her, watching her with mixed interest like a master studying a prospective animal. "It's about time you arrived," he mocked. Before the wolf-elf could react, another person seemingly appeared out of thin air behind her, and she was violently struck in the back of the head. And for once in her life, the darkness was not so comforting.
She had no idea how much time had passed before she regained consciousness. Her head spun like a dancer, and she could feel the familiar trickle of blood sliding down the nape of her neck. Roxii allowed herself only a moment to gather herself before she realized the potential danger she was in. The hybrid scanned the room, searching for the threats and their locations around her. She had been transported somewhere else, but it was not to where she expected. She was now sitting on a rather comfortable couch with a wooden coffee table between her and another couch. The rogue noted the luxurious nature of the room they were in; expensive paintings adorned the walls and prized statues accented the room where paintings could not do justice. A wooden desk sat against the far wall, facing towards her and the exit door. At the desk, watching her carefully, was the stranger.
Her attention fixated upon the man that had spoken to her before. Roxii noted that no one else was in the room with her and the stranger. Bracing herself for a fight, she quickly reached for an arrow as she materialized her bow of shadows. However, before she could even finish materializing the bow, she was met with a heart-stopping shock. The electricity flowed through her body as easily as her blood, and her expression relayed the shock as plainly as the sun on a cloudless day. She opened her mouth to scream in pain, but she couldn't find her breath. So she stayed there, still as a statue, as the electricity ravaged her body.
It really only lasted for about five seconds, but it felt like a lifetime before the electricity ebbed. Shaking violently, Roxii collapsed into the couch again as she desperately gulped down air. Her fingers slowly traveled up to her neck where the electricity seemed to originate. Only then did she realize that there was a steel collar there, clamped tightly around her neck. Focusing upon it, she could practically hear the dormant electricity flowing through the collar. How it worked, she wasn't sure, but she didn't want to keep it around any longer to find out more about it. She pried at the collar, but it wouldn't budge. She couldn't even find a seam or a latch in the metalwork. It was as if it was forged around her neck. The L'yrathi rasped, "What is this?"
The cloaked man at the desk ignored her question and rested his chin upon his interlaced hands. "Roxii Dae Sicarius, it is nice to see you again." He cocked his head to one side like an intrigued dog. "How have you been, mia daja? It sure has been an awfully long time since we last spoke."
The hybrid's brow furrowed in confusion. She couldn't get her shadows close enough to this man to identify him. An odd shield-like bubble surrounded him, masking his features and physical characteristics. His magic was very similar to hers, if not identical. But his scent, his voice, his demeanor... Why was it so familiar? How did he know her name? "Who are you?" she asked hesitantly.
The stranger sighed as if disappointed. "I would have hoped you had recognized me a little quicker." His masking shield dropped slowly, allowing her magic to discern the male's facial features. No. It couldn't be– "Perhaps you remember me by the name of Master Damaer?"
A knot formed in her throat, and she felt the blood leave her face, leaving her ghostly pale. She couldn't tell if the emotions that ravaged her were from the pain that enveloped her just moments ago or from the fear that her old master was standing before her. She recognized the room now; it was the Master Study within the Crimson Shadow's manor. She was almost positive that there were two assassin's waiting outside the door, ready to take her down if she were uncooperative and tried to run. Though with her current predicament, she would be foolish to try and run from Master Falaern Damaer.
It took her a moment to find her voice and her anger. How dare he kidnap one of his previous students for his own personal gain! She snarled, "You snake. You think you ca–"
Another jolt of electricity shot through her body, quick and painful enough to stop her in her tracks. Despite her blindness, stars danced across her vision, and she gulped down air once she regained control of her lungs. "What is this?" Roxii repeated, each word forced between labored breaths.
"Do you like it? It's of my own design." Falaern grinned smugly, and she wanted to punch the grin right off his face. "It's controlled remotely, and it releases a jarring amount of electricity into the wearer's body in real time."
A silence settled in the room as the hybrid calmed her racing heart and processed the assassin leader's explanation. Realizing that she couldn't win here, Roxii relented to listen to the man. "Well, you have me here." She leaned back into the couch and crossed her arms over her chest. The edge had returned to her voice. "What do you want from me, Falaern?"
Roxii didn't need her sight nor her magic to feel the knowing smirk he gave her. "I have a job for you."
The assassin growled, "I don't work for you anymore."
"The mark still upon your skin says otherwise."
Irritation contorted her face as the mark on her neck burned fiercely. "That mark means nothing to me anymore." Venom dripped from each word.
Falaern stood from his desk and tsked. "Wrong answer." Just then, another jolt of electricity ravaged the assassin's body. Falaern began making his way over to her, and she convulsed for a moment as the electricity gorged itself upon her. This shock was shorter, but it was still as effective in silencing her. "You see, you don't have a choice in this, my dear etriel. You disobey me, and I destroy your body from the inside out. You do as I say, and I will release you from your torture when your task is completed." He stopped before her, peering down at her like she were the scum of the land. "Do you understand?"
Roxii grit her teeth, and her fingers dug into cloth of the couch. "Go to hell."
Falaern sighed and the assassin braced herself for the inevitable shock. Unfortunately, it still wasn't enough. The electricity flowed angrily, and this time was more powerful than the previous times. She shook violently at the increased amount of voltage in her body, and the air was knocked out of her in the form of a blood-curdling scream. The shock was about as long as the first, only a few seconds, but it left the hybrid in a heap on the couch once it subsided. The tips of her fingers tickled from the remainder of the electricity. Falaern waited a moment before repeating slowly, "Do you understand?"
This time, the wolf-elf stayed silent.
"Excellent!" Falaern clasped his hands together in front of him. "You are under my stead once again, Sicarius. As such, you will refer to me as Master. Is that understood?" He gazed at the assassin expectantly.
She was half-tempted to spit in his face, to choke him out and leave him to rot, but the cool band around her neck reminded her of her current circumstances, forcing her to reconsider. "Yes... Master." The title was forced through gritted teeth, but she knew the consequences of her disobedience.
Master Damaer lifted his chin in approval. "Your target is the Prime Ruler of Thiyalia."
Roxii's started at the absurd request. "Are you mad?!" she exclaimed. "The Prime Ruler is surrounded by guards all the time. The castle is a fortress that the most skilled thief couldn't even dream of breaking into. There are rumors that magical traps line the corridors, and that the Prime Ruler himself is powerful in the ways of magic. If I get even 50 feet within the Prime Ruler, I will be walking into a warzone."
"Then it is good that you are no unskilled thief." Master Damaer studied the blind assassin in silence. "Perhaps you have lost your touch. Killing royals must be outside your line of work."
The L'yrathi seemed to growl in disdain. "You know I am the best there is for this line of work. But this job... This is suicide."
"That is why you will not be alone." Her brow furrowed, and he answered her question before she could ask them. "A healer will accompany you, one who could prove useful in the future. You will allow him to aid you in this endeavor."
"And what if he refuses?"
"He will not," he countered confidently.
He stooped down to be level with the assassin. His eyes traveled over her face, occasionally stopping at the blindfold wrapped around her head. He reached out a hand and gingerly lifted her chin, making sure that she was listening. Roxii fought back the urge to flinch away from his touch, making sure to not give him another reason to electrocute her. "I trust you will do this for me, my etriel. Else..." His finger tapped the steel collar menacingly, his fingernail clinking against the cool metal. This time, she couldn't resist pulling back from him.
Falaern suddenly straightened and walked away, waving a hand dismissively as he made his way to the door. "Don't let me down, Roxii Dae Sicarius," he called over his shoulder. "And remember: I am always watching." A beat later, the wolf-elf was struck in the head once again, this time much harder than before. She crumpled to the ground like a ragdoll, and she embraced the safety of the darkness that enveloped her.
Roxii awoke hours later to the moonlight filtering in through her window. She groaned as she sat up, her mattress mirroring her discomfort as she moved. A hand went to her head, hoping to steady the spinning. She pulled her fingers away and found them dry; in fact, there was no blood on her. The assassin gingerly prodded the back of her head. The split was still there, but the blood had been cleaned before Falaern and his assassins deposited her at her home. She moved her attention to the collar still clamped around her neck. The metal was cool to the touch despite the raging heat and energy contained within. Oddly enough she detected no magical aura from the device. It was not magically oriented, which made her all the more anxious. She shivered, remembering the volts that devastated her body just hours before. She knew Falaern. He was a madman who took calculated risks, but he was no idiot. She knew there was little to no way out of this.
She was trapped.
Master Damaer had set up the meeting in advance, which only told her that she had no choice in the matter from the very beginning. She was to meet with a doctor by the name of Maedor Taellaris. The last name was one she wasn't familiar with, so she wondered where Falaern had found the man. If he were a doctor, then he was more than likely of noble blood. Reading and schooling were not common among the commonfolk, and most peasants grew up to follow in their parents' footsteps as farmers and servants. Even the middle class, though small in size, was not the most literate. Merchants, smiths, jewelers, and alchemists were a bit more knowledgeable than the lower class, but it was not always through the use of books; more often than not, it was due to the teachings of a mentor and trial and error.
This doctor was to meet her in an abandoned town, long since forgotten. Only a few scattered buildings made up the entirety of the town, centered around a well that had definitely seen better days. The sign denoting the town name had been lost, and now it was just known as a ghost town. Most people avoided it because of the dirty atmosphere, the increased risk of disease, and how suitable it was for bandits to hide out and wait for travelers. There were even some rumors that the abandoned town was haunted, which was the reason why it was barren now. Roxii wasn't sure if she believed in ghosts or spirits; it was more likely that the town had been taken by the plague or found harboring a magic-user.
But she didn't care much about who was here before. Right now, she needed to survey her surroundings and learn about the other attendee. Master Damaer didn't give her much to go on beyond the man's name and profession. What did he look like? Where did he come from? Was he proficient in combat, or was he more akin to a helpless healer? Did he harbor any sort of magic, and would that pose a threat to her mission? These were questions she needed answered in some form or fashion, which was why she arrived at the small decrepit town before the rendezvous time.
She stayed in the shadows of a collapsed building across the way, thankful for the remainder of the roof that still stood and protected her from the drizzle that had been falling all day. The assassin was careful to keep the mental clock going since she couldn't feel the warmth of the sun past the clouds. Gloves fingers drummed against a fallen beam as she waited, listening carefully to her surroundings. The clanking of wheels could be heard in the distance, growing closer with each passing minute. It was possible that it was the medic, but she couldn't be sure until they came closer. It may just be a traveling merchant trying to get to the next inhabited town by nightfall.
It wasn't long before the cart rolled into the abandoned site. Roxii half expected the cart to keep rolling, to find out that the doctor realized that the risk was too great and he's rather stay alive a while longer. But no; the cart stopped, and a young girl stepped out, leading a tall man out of the carriage. His boots squelched in the mud, and the wolf-elf didn't need her sight to see the disgust twist his features. He was not the slightest bit pleased with their rendezvous point, but he had come all the same. Whatever Master Damaer promised him, it must be worth it.
She waited a bit longer as the girl jumped back into the carriage and raced away, and the man, whom she assumed to be Maedor, retreated into the safety of a mostly-still-standing house. It was the largest of the buildings in the town. Though part of the roof had caved in, a majority of the building was still rather structurally sound. Though the L'yrathi didn't doubt that leaning on a post would bring the whole building crashing down within minutes.
It was only when a silence had fallen over the abandoned home that Roxii left her spot. The rain pattered lightly against her hood, and the cloth didn't do much to keep her hair from getting damp. She could feel the rain dampening her blindfold too, sticking to her cheeks. She brought her fingers underneath the edge of the bound cloth, peeling it away from her sweaty skin. Her feet were silent against the mud as she crossed towards the home, the tightly woven boots keeping her feet dry whilst providing her the quality that separated good thieves and assassins from bad ones: Silence.
The wolf-elf was slow to open the door to the home, casting her shadows into the room and observing the area. When she deemed no threats were present, Roxii entered the building. Meador was sitting in a chair, rather comfortably. A canteen with something stronger than water was held within his grasp and his eyes were closed. She wondered if he were naive, trusting the situation he was in. What if she were sent to kill him? Would he put up much of a fight, or would he be surprised that someone would dare lay a finger on him? Perhaps he found himself unworthy of being on the receiving end of an assassination contract or trap.
The assassin allowed her shadows to pass over the man, surveying his equipment, his threat potential. After a moment of silence, she decided to make herself known. She closed the door softly behind her, blocking out the drizzle and low roll of thunder that followed. Though she was silent before, her feet slightly scuffed against the wood flooring as she approached as close as she dared to the doctor. She didn't want to startle the man and end up having to harm a potential accomplice, though forced.
"You must be Maedor," she spoke simply, quietly yet confidently. Each word was clear and crisp, but it held an edge that only a select few could decipher.
Roxii rounded her desk and, after aggressively pushing the chair out of her way, stood over her desk with her hands braced against the edges. Her shadows passed over the stacks of paper laid neatly upon its surface, her fuming ceasing for just a moment as she focused on the task at hand. Once her darkness found their target, she grabbed the corner of a seemingly nondescript page out of the stack and, with expert grace, yanked the page out of the middle of the stack. The rest of the pages remained untouched and unmoved, despite the disruption. Laying the chosen page upon the desk in front of her, the blind assassin allowed her shadows to travel across the page, feeling the ink ridges across the page with her magic. This particular letter requested her assistance in taking out an unremarkable shopkeeper. Perhaps the man angered the customer in some way—maybe raised his prices or swindled them out of some prized possession. Either way, it wasn't her place to ask questions. She was just supposed to receive the request, complete it, and get paid.
But she couldn't complete her mission if her targets kept going missing! This was the fifth target to go missing in the past two weeks! Whisked away on a silent wind with only a mocking calling card left behind: "Better luck next time" it read. No signature, no name, nothing save for a stamp of an oddly familiar symbol at the bottom. She'd attempted to gather information on the cryptic person or persons that have been deliberately ruining her business, but she couldn't get much further beyond rumors. A mystery that had been terrorizing some of the best freelancer thieves, mercenaries, and assassins for a while now. Whatever they were trying to accomplish, they were selective in who they targeted. Perhaps they were Hunters, trying to lure her out into the open? It was no secret that the assassin openly used her magic to complete requests; after all, it helped her see. But whether or not it were Hunters or some competition that rolled into town, she wasn't sure. She couldn't exactly go out and ask her previous targets because, unfortunately for her, they just up and disappeared.
Anger began bubbling up inside her again. Her shadows thrashed violently out from her, and her knuckles turned white from the harsh grip she had upon the desk. Her lips locked into a fine line until an animalistic snarl ripped from her and her fingers viciously ripped the assassination request to shreds. How dare these strangers mock her so! A stab at her pride, her reputation. Each of these unfulfilled requests were failures, ones that wounded her killing streak. Humiliating!
Roxii released a slow, calming breath. The assassin's fingers drummed against the solid cedar in a steady rhythm as she turned a thought over in her head a few times, tasting the sour plan in her mouth. It'd be risky, but she could perhaps find out who had been destroying her career. After all, they were directly affecting her income, and that did not sit well with the L'yrathi whatsoever. One of her wolf ears twitched in irritation at the thought. She definitely possessed enough coins to allow her to sit comfortably for a couple years, but the lack of steady income, the lack of growing closer to being considered "wealthy" was bothersome. If she was to go back to completing assassination requests unhindered, then she needed to neutralize the threat. Immediately.
Nodding to herself, the wolf-elf picked a random request out of her "incomplete" stack and set out. The target was another unremarkable civilian: a 41-year-old botanist named Milris Parieth. No reasoning behind the request whatsoever, but that was fine. It wasn't like she was going to have a chance to complete the mission anyways. As long as she could find her target quickly, Roxii could be able to put an end to all this troublesome nonsense.
⟡ ⟡ ⟡
It took some time and some... questionable methods, but the hybrid was able to track down Parieth quickly enough to watch her get taken away by a hooded figure. The stranger was hushed as they spoke to the middle-aged human botanist, explaining the situation and hurriedly wrapping her in a similar cloak to keep her out of sight. They traveled by cart out of the city and down the main road for quite a while before splitting off onto a hardly noticeable path. They were silent the entire time, even as they approached a wooden cabin that looked to have been abandoned for years. The duo disappeared inside and all was silent for a while.
Roxii waited outside the cabin for some time before moving in closer. Her footfalls were silent as she crept towards the decrepit building, allowing her to listen carefully for anyone inside or outside it who might betray or discover her presence. However, she couldn't hear anyone whatsoever. She hesitantly reached out with her shadows, searching for any souls while being careful to not alert anyone with an affinity for magic. Her magic touched no one. Her brow furrowed slightly in confusion. It was as if they had disappeared into thin air.
Once she was at the entrance of the dilapidated building, she slowly pushed the door open, hoping that the hinges wouldn't creak. The gods seemed to be merciful today. She sent out a pulse of darkness throughout the rooms of the cabin, but her magic touched no one. It was vacant, the only trace of their presence being their lingering scents. She bit her lip thoughtfully. An old cabin like this ought to have some sort of wine cellar. Her shadows spread out across the floor of the cabin, searching for any drafts between the cracks and an empty space of some sort. It wasn't difficult for her to find it. Peeling back the rug the door was hidden under, Roxii gripped the handle and hefted the cellar door open. She was met with the thick, damp air of the cellar, and she suppressed the desire to cough.
The assassin tread down the steps carefully and slowly, keeping her shadows reined in just in case these mystery people could detect her darkness. However, she kept her ears up and attentive, listening for any telltale signs of her mystery targets. All she could hear, though, was the steady drip of water falling from the cave ceiling. The drips echoed throughout the cavern, making it difficult for the wolf-elf to pinpoint her own location. Not to mention that the air here was thicker than tar, and despite the humidity it scratched against her throat. Deciding that it may be better for the assassin to risk her location by being able to see, she sent out a soft, short pulse of darkness.
It revealed to her the lone person standing before her, watching her with mixed interest like a master studying a prospective animal. "It's about time you arrived," he mocked. Before the wolf-elf could react, another person seemingly appeared out of thin air behind her, and she was violently struck in the back of the head. And for once in her life, the darkness was not so comforting.
⟡ ⟡ ⟡
She had no idea how much time had passed before she regained consciousness. Her head spun like a dancer, and she could feel the familiar trickle of blood sliding down the nape of her neck. Roxii allowed herself only a moment to gather herself before she realized the potential danger she was in. The hybrid scanned the room, searching for the threats and their locations around her. She had been transported somewhere else, but it was not to where she expected. She was now sitting on a rather comfortable couch with a wooden coffee table between her and another couch. The rogue noted the luxurious nature of the room they were in; expensive paintings adorned the walls and prized statues accented the room where paintings could not do justice. A wooden desk sat against the far wall, facing towards her and the exit door. At the desk, watching her carefully, was the stranger.
Her attention fixated upon the man that had spoken to her before. Roxii noted that no one else was in the room with her and the stranger. Bracing herself for a fight, she quickly reached for an arrow as she materialized her bow of shadows. However, before she could even finish materializing the bow, she was met with a heart-stopping shock. The electricity flowed through her body as easily as her blood, and her expression relayed the shock as plainly as the sun on a cloudless day. She opened her mouth to scream in pain, but she couldn't find her breath. So she stayed there, still as a statue, as the electricity ravaged her body.
It really only lasted for about five seconds, but it felt like a lifetime before the electricity ebbed. Shaking violently, Roxii collapsed into the couch again as she desperately gulped down air. Her fingers slowly traveled up to her neck where the electricity seemed to originate. Only then did she realize that there was a steel collar there, clamped tightly around her neck. Focusing upon it, she could practically hear the dormant electricity flowing through the collar. How it worked, she wasn't sure, but she didn't want to keep it around any longer to find out more about it. She pried at the collar, but it wouldn't budge. She couldn't even find a seam or a latch in the metalwork. It was as if it was forged around her neck. The L'yrathi rasped, "What is this?"
The cloaked man at the desk ignored her question and rested his chin upon his interlaced hands. "Roxii Dae Sicarius, it is nice to see you again." He cocked his head to one side like an intrigued dog. "How have you been, mia daja? It sure has been an awfully long time since we last spoke."
The hybrid's brow furrowed in confusion. She couldn't get her shadows close enough to this man to identify him. An odd shield-like bubble surrounded him, masking his features and physical characteristics. His magic was very similar to hers, if not identical. But his scent, his voice, his demeanor... Why was it so familiar? How did he know her name? "Who are you?" she asked hesitantly.
The stranger sighed as if disappointed. "I would have hoped you had recognized me a little quicker." His masking shield dropped slowly, allowing her magic to discern the male's facial features. No. It couldn't be– "Perhaps you remember me by the name of Master Damaer?"
A knot formed in her throat, and she felt the blood leave her face, leaving her ghostly pale. She couldn't tell if the emotions that ravaged her were from the pain that enveloped her just moments ago or from the fear that her old master was standing before her. She recognized the room now; it was the Master Study within the Crimson Shadow's manor. She was almost positive that there were two assassin's waiting outside the door, ready to take her down if she were uncooperative and tried to run. Though with her current predicament, she would be foolish to try and run from Master Falaern Damaer.
It took her a moment to find her voice and her anger. How dare he kidnap one of his previous students for his own personal gain! She snarled, "You snake. You think you ca–"
Another jolt of electricity shot through her body, quick and painful enough to stop her in her tracks. Despite her blindness, stars danced across her vision, and she gulped down air once she regained control of her lungs. "What is this?" Roxii repeated, each word forced between labored breaths.
"Do you like it? It's of my own design." Falaern grinned smugly, and she wanted to punch the grin right off his face. "It's controlled remotely, and it releases a jarring amount of electricity into the wearer's body in real time."
A silence settled in the room as the hybrid calmed her racing heart and processed the assassin leader's explanation. Realizing that she couldn't win here, Roxii relented to listen to the man. "Well, you have me here." She leaned back into the couch and crossed her arms over her chest. The edge had returned to her voice. "What do you want from me, Falaern?"
Roxii didn't need her sight nor her magic to feel the knowing smirk he gave her. "I have a job for you."
The assassin growled, "I don't work for you anymore."
"The mark still upon your skin says otherwise."
Irritation contorted her face as the mark on her neck burned fiercely. "That mark means nothing to me anymore." Venom dripped from each word.
Falaern stood from his desk and tsked. "Wrong answer." Just then, another jolt of electricity ravaged the assassin's body. Falaern began making his way over to her, and she convulsed for a moment as the electricity gorged itself upon her. This shock was shorter, but it was still as effective in silencing her. "You see, you don't have a choice in this, my dear etriel. You disobey me, and I destroy your body from the inside out. You do as I say, and I will release you from your torture when your task is completed." He stopped before her, peering down at her like she were the scum of the land. "Do you understand?"
Roxii grit her teeth, and her fingers dug into cloth of the couch. "Go to hell."
Falaern sighed and the assassin braced herself for the inevitable shock. Unfortunately, it still wasn't enough. The electricity flowed angrily, and this time was more powerful than the previous times. She shook violently at the increased amount of voltage in her body, and the air was knocked out of her in the form of a blood-curdling scream. The shock was about as long as the first, only a few seconds, but it left the hybrid in a heap on the couch once it subsided. The tips of her fingers tickled from the remainder of the electricity. Falaern waited a moment before repeating slowly, "Do you understand?"
This time, the wolf-elf stayed silent.
"Excellent!" Falaern clasped his hands together in front of him. "You are under my stead once again, Sicarius. As such, you will refer to me as Master. Is that understood?" He gazed at the assassin expectantly.
She was half-tempted to spit in his face, to choke him out and leave him to rot, but the cool band around her neck reminded her of her current circumstances, forcing her to reconsider. "Yes... Master." The title was forced through gritted teeth, but she knew the consequences of her disobedience.
Master Damaer lifted his chin in approval. "Your target is the Prime Ruler of Thiyalia."
Roxii's started at the absurd request. "Are you mad?!" she exclaimed. "The Prime Ruler is surrounded by guards all the time. The castle is a fortress that the most skilled thief couldn't even dream of breaking into. There are rumors that magical traps line the corridors, and that the Prime Ruler himself is powerful in the ways of magic. If I get even 50 feet within the Prime Ruler, I will be walking into a warzone."
"Then it is good that you are no unskilled thief." Master Damaer studied the blind assassin in silence. "Perhaps you have lost your touch. Killing royals must be outside your line of work."
The L'yrathi seemed to growl in disdain. "You know I am the best there is for this line of work. But this job... This is suicide."
"That is why you will not be alone." Her brow furrowed, and he answered her question before she could ask them. "A healer will accompany you, one who could prove useful in the future. You will allow him to aid you in this endeavor."
"And what if he refuses?"
"He will not," he countered confidently.
He stooped down to be level with the assassin. His eyes traveled over her face, occasionally stopping at the blindfold wrapped around her head. He reached out a hand and gingerly lifted her chin, making sure that she was listening. Roxii fought back the urge to flinch away from his touch, making sure to not give him another reason to electrocute her. "I trust you will do this for me, my etriel. Else..." His finger tapped the steel collar menacingly, his fingernail clinking against the cool metal. This time, she couldn't resist pulling back from him.
Falaern suddenly straightened and walked away, waving a hand dismissively as he made his way to the door. "Don't let me down, Roxii Dae Sicarius," he called over his shoulder. "And remember: I am always watching." A beat later, the wolf-elf was struck in the head once again, this time much harder than before. She crumpled to the ground like a ragdoll, and she embraced the safety of the darkness that enveloped her.
⟡ ⟡ ⟡
Roxii awoke hours later to the moonlight filtering in through her window. She groaned as she sat up, her mattress mirroring her discomfort as she moved. A hand went to her head, hoping to steady the spinning. She pulled her fingers away and found them dry; in fact, there was no blood on her. The assassin gingerly prodded the back of her head. The split was still there, but the blood had been cleaned before Falaern and his assassins deposited her at her home. She moved her attention to the collar still clamped around her neck. The metal was cool to the touch despite the raging heat and energy contained within. Oddly enough she detected no magical aura from the device. It was not magically oriented, which made her all the more anxious. She shivered, remembering the volts that devastated her body just hours before. She knew Falaern. He was a madman who took calculated risks, but he was no idiot. She knew there was little to no way out of this.
She was trapped.
⟡ ⟡ ⟡
Master Damaer had set up the meeting in advance, which only told her that she had no choice in the matter from the very beginning. She was to meet with a doctor by the name of Maedor Taellaris. The last name was one she wasn't familiar with, so she wondered where Falaern had found the man. If he were a doctor, then he was more than likely of noble blood. Reading and schooling were not common among the commonfolk, and most peasants grew up to follow in their parents' footsteps as farmers and servants. Even the middle class, though small in size, was not the most literate. Merchants, smiths, jewelers, and alchemists were a bit more knowledgeable than the lower class, but it was not always through the use of books; more often than not, it was due to the teachings of a mentor and trial and error.
This doctor was to meet her in an abandoned town, long since forgotten. Only a few scattered buildings made up the entirety of the town, centered around a well that had definitely seen better days. The sign denoting the town name had been lost, and now it was just known as a ghost town. Most people avoided it because of the dirty atmosphere, the increased risk of disease, and how suitable it was for bandits to hide out and wait for travelers. There were even some rumors that the abandoned town was haunted, which was the reason why it was barren now. Roxii wasn't sure if she believed in ghosts or spirits; it was more likely that the town had been taken by the plague or found harboring a magic-user.
But she didn't care much about who was here before. Right now, she needed to survey her surroundings and learn about the other attendee. Master Damaer didn't give her much to go on beyond the man's name and profession. What did he look like? Where did he come from? Was he proficient in combat, or was he more akin to a helpless healer? Did he harbor any sort of magic, and would that pose a threat to her mission? These were questions she needed answered in some form or fashion, which was why she arrived at the small decrepit town before the rendezvous time.
She stayed in the shadows of a collapsed building across the way, thankful for the remainder of the roof that still stood and protected her from the drizzle that had been falling all day. The assassin was careful to keep the mental clock going since she couldn't feel the warmth of the sun past the clouds. Gloves fingers drummed against a fallen beam as she waited, listening carefully to her surroundings. The clanking of wheels could be heard in the distance, growing closer with each passing minute. It was possible that it was the medic, but she couldn't be sure until they came closer. It may just be a traveling merchant trying to get to the next inhabited town by nightfall.
It wasn't long before the cart rolled into the abandoned site. Roxii half expected the cart to keep rolling, to find out that the doctor realized that the risk was too great and he's rather stay alive a while longer. But no; the cart stopped, and a young girl stepped out, leading a tall man out of the carriage. His boots squelched in the mud, and the wolf-elf didn't need her sight to see the disgust twist his features. He was not the slightest bit pleased with their rendezvous point, but he had come all the same. Whatever Master Damaer promised him, it must be worth it.
She waited a bit longer as the girl jumped back into the carriage and raced away, and the man, whom she assumed to be Maedor, retreated into the safety of a mostly-still-standing house. It was the largest of the buildings in the town. Though part of the roof had caved in, a majority of the building was still rather structurally sound. Though the L'yrathi didn't doubt that leaning on a post would bring the whole building crashing down within minutes.
It was only when a silence had fallen over the abandoned home that Roxii left her spot. The rain pattered lightly against her hood, and the cloth didn't do much to keep her hair from getting damp. She could feel the rain dampening her blindfold too, sticking to her cheeks. She brought her fingers underneath the edge of the bound cloth, peeling it away from her sweaty skin. Her feet were silent against the mud as she crossed towards the home, the tightly woven boots keeping her feet dry whilst providing her the quality that separated good thieves and assassins from bad ones: Silence.
The wolf-elf was slow to open the door to the home, casting her shadows into the room and observing the area. When she deemed no threats were present, Roxii entered the building. Meador was sitting in a chair, rather comfortably. A canteen with something stronger than water was held within his grasp and his eyes were closed. She wondered if he were naive, trusting the situation he was in. What if she were sent to kill him? Would he put up much of a fight, or would he be surprised that someone would dare lay a finger on him? Perhaps he found himself unworthy of being on the receiving end of an assassination contract or trap.
The assassin allowed her shadows to pass over the man, surveying his equipment, his threat potential. After a moment of silence, she decided to make herself known. She closed the door softly behind her, blocking out the drizzle and low roll of thunder that followed. Though she was silent before, her feet slightly scuffed against the wood flooring as she approached as close as she dared to the doctor. She didn't want to startle the man and end up having to harm a potential accomplice, though forced.
"You must be Maedor," she spoke simply, quietly yet confidently. Each word was clear and crisp, but it held an edge that only a select few could decipher.
"She is still alive."
Aerendal stood before the queen alone. His body was rigid, at attention, and his hands were laced behind his back. A loose thread of silver from his tunic was caught between his thumb and forefinger, and he thoughtlessly twirled the thread as he stared up at the dark-haired woman. Her black hair fell in loose curls over her slender shoulders, framing her oval-shaped face. Naturally pink Cupid's bow lips were set in a pout, wrinkling her small nose. Her eyes were hooded as she stared off in space. Her striking silver eyes matched the silver thread that detailed her royal blue gown. It glittered in the sunlight that poured in from the windows high above in the throne room, but it was no match for the sparkling diadem that rested on the queen's brow.
He'd left his armor back at his quarters, but an odd feeling weighed down on him, heavier than any armor he'd ever worn. A silence had fallen between them as the High Commander attempted to discern who exactly she was speaking about. He had a sneaking suspicion, but he had to make sure. "Who, Your Majesty?"
One of Queen Alannis' black wolf ears twitched in annoyance. "You know who," she seethed.
So it was.
"Are you sure, Your Majesty?" The queen had sent for him while he was overseeing the knights-in-training. it was not something that he could put off; the messenger claimed that it was urgent. He had raced to the throne room as soon as he could, and it was only when she had sent the rest of the council out of the room and set a magical shield preventing eavesdropping around them that he realized it was more serious than he expected. "It is quite possible that someone made a mista–"
"Do you doubt my power, Aerendal?" The question sounded innocent on her lips, but he could discern the threat that hid beneath the words. Her silver eyes slid to his blue ones, and he felt the silver thread come undone from another loop. When he didn't respond, she continued, "I don't need spies to find her. They've proved useless over the years, anyways... No, I can feel her. Her incessant existence still gnaws at mine."
The half-elf never did understand the bond that twins shared. How they seemed to know when one or the other was in danger or feeling some sort of elation. How, though their magic could be different, that the properties would be relatively the same, the skill similar. How they, if they allow each other, would be able to form a two-way path between one another, sharing conscious visions and thoughts over a distance. It was a phenomenon that was rare due to the complications that came with a twin birth, but, according to Queen Alannis, it was possible. Though she couldn't reach her full potential due to the opposition present between her and her apparently still alive sister.
A jewel reflected into Aerendal's eye as her head tilted, examining the knight. He couldn't help but compare her to a curious dog. "I am sending you away," she finally spoke.
The High Commander blinked. "But Your Majesty, I mustn't leave your side–"
"Sir Nesterin will take your place while you are gone." She waved her hand at the knight dismissively.
Aerendal reigned in his remaining counters and excuses. They would do no good in this situation; Alannis was stubborn, even more so than he, and he knew from experience that when she set her mind on something, it was that or her wrath. He knew better than to defy her. So instead, he inquired, "What am I to do, Your Majesty?"
The knight didn't miss the pleased smirk that adorned her face. "It is time to bring my sister to justice, Sir Aerendal." The Queen of Felnethyr arose from her throne and approached the High Commander. "You are to leave this castle in search for my traitorous sister. You will scour this world for her. From Vemulur to Valpache, you will search Thiyalia. I don't care if you have to search the wastelands on the other side of the Scarlet Heights or travel to foreign lands. You will find my sister, and you will not return until you have her solidly in your grasp." The dark-haired woman stopped just inches before the blue-eyed knight. "Do I make myself clear?"
Aeren dropped to one knee before the queen and bowed before her. "Yes, Your Majesty."
"Then get out of my sight," she snarled, turning on her heel. The privacy shield dropped as she began leaving the throne room, and Aerendal himself arose and went the other way. Her clicking heels contrasted the booms of his boots, echoing throughout the high-ceiling room. He'd barely made it to the large oak doors when Queen Alannis' voice called out. He halted and turned towards the woman.
A sinister look glinted in her eyes, piercing right through Aerendal. "Make sure you bring her to me alive." She left the throne room, but Aeren could still feel the coldness of her words. He couldn't tell if the chill that ran down his spine was from the Felnethyr snows or the unspoken madness that shrouded the Queen of Felnethyr's words.
Aerendal knew he wouldn't be able to find her alone. He'd grown up with her; she was cunning, intelligent, and very good at staying hidden. He would need help to find the woman, but no ordinary help. No, he needed someone who knew nearly every face and name within the confines of Thiyalia. If she happened to be on a different continent, then he would leave. But for now, he needed to rule out Thiyalia, whether that meant finding her and capturing her or finding out she'd left years ago. But Thiyalia was a big place, which was why he planned on speaking to the person who would easily be able to find anyone throughout the continent: the Shadow of Thiyalia.
The assassin, however, would not be easy to contact. They would never agree to meet at the High Commander's behest. Even if they did, they would require a hefty reward for their aid, especially for a job so difficult. It was highly unlikely that they would meet with a knight, anyways. They would think he was trying to arrest or expose them. It simply would not do. He would have to find someone who the assassin could trust, someone who wasn't on the other end of the law. Perhaps someone who could even find or contact the masked assassin.
He'd heard of a sorceress nearby with a strong connection to magic. Men rumored that she was a beauty to behold but held the power to turn a man inside out with just a flick of her wrist. The image made his stomach churn, but he needed to find this sorceress. Rumors never really came out of nowhere without some sort of basis to found them on. If this sorceress was only a fraction as powerful as the passing locals claimed, then he would need to find her and hope he helped her.
He just had to find her.
In his experience, beautiful witches and sorceresses who sought out men generally found drunken targets who would be easily subdued. An inn or tavern would be a good place to start. If anything, he could at least ask the local patrons regarding a sorceress and hope that someone had some information.
Which was why he was now standing in the doorway of the Bent Sword, a popular tavern for many of the local citizens that weren't suffering from the plague or being hunted by Hunters. The smell of spiced meats and rich alcohols smacked him in the face like a wave. Boisterous laughter and yelling filled his ears, and he could see some of the human patrons glare at the armored commander after catching a glimpse of his pointed ears. Aerendal ignored them and instead took a seat at the bar. He ordered a shot of whiskey and carefully surveyed his surroundings.
He tapped his glass for another shot and stopped the bartender before he could serve another customer. "Do you happen to know of any sorceresses in the area?"
The bartender eyed the commander up and down and scoffed. "Fer what? Ya gonna burn 'er at the stake?" He walked away from the High Commander before he could deny the accusation. Aeren sighed. This would be a long and arduous task.
Aerendal stood before the queen alone. His body was rigid, at attention, and his hands were laced behind his back. A loose thread of silver from his tunic was caught between his thumb and forefinger, and he thoughtlessly twirled the thread as he stared up at the dark-haired woman. Her black hair fell in loose curls over her slender shoulders, framing her oval-shaped face. Naturally pink Cupid's bow lips were set in a pout, wrinkling her small nose. Her eyes were hooded as she stared off in space. Her striking silver eyes matched the silver thread that detailed her royal blue gown. It glittered in the sunlight that poured in from the windows high above in the throne room, but it was no match for the sparkling diadem that rested on the queen's brow.
He'd left his armor back at his quarters, but an odd feeling weighed down on him, heavier than any armor he'd ever worn. A silence had fallen between them as the High Commander attempted to discern who exactly she was speaking about. He had a sneaking suspicion, but he had to make sure. "Who, Your Majesty?"
One of Queen Alannis' black wolf ears twitched in annoyance. "You know who," she seethed.
So it was.
"Are you sure, Your Majesty?" The queen had sent for him while he was overseeing the knights-in-training. it was not something that he could put off; the messenger claimed that it was urgent. He had raced to the throne room as soon as he could, and it was only when she had sent the rest of the council out of the room and set a magical shield preventing eavesdropping around them that he realized it was more serious than he expected. "It is quite possible that someone made a mista–"
"Do you doubt my power, Aerendal?" The question sounded innocent on her lips, but he could discern the threat that hid beneath the words. Her silver eyes slid to his blue ones, and he felt the silver thread come undone from another loop. When he didn't respond, she continued, "I don't need spies to find her. They've proved useless over the years, anyways... No, I can feel her. Her incessant existence still gnaws at mine."
The half-elf never did understand the bond that twins shared. How they seemed to know when one or the other was in danger or feeling some sort of elation. How, though their magic could be different, that the properties would be relatively the same, the skill similar. How they, if they allow each other, would be able to form a two-way path between one another, sharing conscious visions and thoughts over a distance. It was a phenomenon that was rare due to the complications that came with a twin birth, but, according to Queen Alannis, it was possible. Though she couldn't reach her full potential due to the opposition present between her and her apparently still alive sister.
A jewel reflected into Aerendal's eye as her head tilted, examining the knight. He couldn't help but compare her to a curious dog. "I am sending you away," she finally spoke.
The High Commander blinked. "But Your Majesty, I mustn't leave your side–"
"Sir Nesterin will take your place while you are gone." She waved her hand at the knight dismissively.
Aerendal reigned in his remaining counters and excuses. They would do no good in this situation; Alannis was stubborn, even more so than he, and he knew from experience that when she set her mind on something, it was that or her wrath. He knew better than to defy her. So instead, he inquired, "What am I to do, Your Majesty?"
The knight didn't miss the pleased smirk that adorned her face. "It is time to bring my sister to justice, Sir Aerendal." The Queen of Felnethyr arose from her throne and approached the High Commander. "You are to leave this castle in search for my traitorous sister. You will scour this world for her. From Vemulur to Valpache, you will search Thiyalia. I don't care if you have to search the wastelands on the other side of the Scarlet Heights or travel to foreign lands. You will find my sister, and you will not return until you have her solidly in your grasp." The dark-haired woman stopped just inches before the blue-eyed knight. "Do I make myself clear?"
Aeren dropped to one knee before the queen and bowed before her. "Yes, Your Majesty."
"Then get out of my sight," she snarled, turning on her heel. The privacy shield dropped as she began leaving the throne room, and Aerendal himself arose and went the other way. Her clicking heels contrasted the booms of his boots, echoing throughout the high-ceiling room. He'd barely made it to the large oak doors when Queen Alannis' voice called out. He halted and turned towards the woman.
A sinister look glinted in her eyes, piercing right through Aerendal. "Make sure you bring her to me alive." She left the throne room, but Aeren could still feel the coldness of her words. He couldn't tell if the chill that ran down his spine was from the Felnethyr snows or the unspoken madness that shrouded the Queen of Felnethyr's words.
⟡ ⟡ ⟡
Aerendal knew he wouldn't be able to find her alone. He'd grown up with her; she was cunning, intelligent, and very good at staying hidden. He would need help to find the woman, but no ordinary help. No, he needed someone who knew nearly every face and name within the confines of Thiyalia. If she happened to be on a different continent, then he would leave. But for now, he needed to rule out Thiyalia, whether that meant finding her and capturing her or finding out she'd left years ago. But Thiyalia was a big place, which was why he planned on speaking to the person who would easily be able to find anyone throughout the continent: the Shadow of Thiyalia.
The assassin, however, would not be easy to contact. They would never agree to meet at the High Commander's behest. Even if they did, they would require a hefty reward for their aid, especially for a job so difficult. It was highly unlikely that they would meet with a knight, anyways. They would think he was trying to arrest or expose them. It simply would not do. He would have to find someone who the assassin could trust, someone who wasn't on the other end of the law. Perhaps someone who could even find or contact the masked assassin.
He'd heard of a sorceress nearby with a strong connection to magic. Men rumored that she was a beauty to behold but held the power to turn a man inside out with just a flick of her wrist. The image made his stomach churn, but he needed to find this sorceress. Rumors never really came out of nowhere without some sort of basis to found them on. If this sorceress was only a fraction as powerful as the passing locals claimed, then he would need to find her and hope he helped her.
He just had to find her.
In his experience, beautiful witches and sorceresses who sought out men generally found drunken targets who would be easily subdued. An inn or tavern would be a good place to start. If anything, he could at least ask the local patrons regarding a sorceress and hope that someone had some information.
Which was why he was now standing in the doorway of the Bent Sword, a popular tavern for many of the local citizens that weren't suffering from the plague or being hunted by Hunters. The smell of spiced meats and rich alcohols smacked him in the face like a wave. Boisterous laughter and yelling filled his ears, and he could see some of the human patrons glare at the armored commander after catching a glimpse of his pointed ears. Aerendal ignored them and instead took a seat at the bar. He ordered a shot of whiskey and carefully surveyed his surroundings.
He tapped his glass for another shot and stopped the bartender before he could serve another customer. "Do you happen to know of any sorceresses in the area?"
The bartender eyed the commander up and down and scoffed. "Fer what? Ya gonna burn 'er at the stake?" He walked away from the High Commander before he could deny the accusation. Aeren sighed. This would be a long and arduous task.
Last edited:
Melpomene
Writer of Tragedy|Art by ROYTHEART|
Maedor Taellaris
It was unknown what exactly Maedor expected to find within the house. He could not say what it was that he was waiting for. However, he had turned the moment the scuffling of feet touched his ears, and the woman he looked upon was not at all what he had expected to see. He had stood the moment he heard her, slipping his canteen back into his pocket after it had been properly closed.
She was no human.
That was more than obvious the moment she stepped into view. Although he towered over her, he had no doubt she could kill him in a matter of seconds. Every inch of her body told of the danger he was in simply being in her vicinity. But he was fairly certain that she meant no harm to come his way. At the very least, not yet. If it was to assassinate him, then she was doing a shit job already by bringing her presence to his attention. The only assassin with the intention to kill that would do such a thing would be incredibly stupid or incredibly cocky. More than likely, both. He was not dead yet, so he took solace in that and simply studied the woman that stood before him now.
Though she was short, she seemed to exude a certain aura he was not willing to study any further. The way the blindfold wrapped about her eyes, it was almost enough to elicit sympathy if she did not seem so sure-footed. He could hardly make out any true details of her face, as most of it was covered. The ears which protruded from her hair told of her heritage.
A L’yrathi.
He had never seen one anywhere other than drawings. They were spoken of in the books that he read but never had he thought to venture out to meet one of them. It seemed pointless, and he doubted they were interested in knowing of him. Even this one, he doubted was interested in knowing beyond what he could provide for her.
“I am Maedor, yes,” he offered a simple bow at the waist before he stepped closer to her, though he was sure to maintain a respectable and safe distance. Not only because he was taught to do such a thing whenever conversing with a Lady, but also because he knew that though he had built enough strength to handle himself in a simple brawl, he certainly did not have enough strength to combat her. For all he knew, she was an assassin. But he knew no assassin by face, and there was a reason for it.
“I suppose you are the mysterious benefactor that has brought me out on this day. Well, then I am at the service of you and your family.” He decided against kissing her hand, he felt she would not appreciate it.
He rubbed his hands together, the gloves still remained on his hands. He had only come in moments before she entered. She must have been watching beforehand. Perhaps she was an assassin. That did not matter quite yet.
“I must ask now, why was I brought to this…” he glanced around, his lip wrinkling. “Lovely estate to speak? The letter made it sound quite impertinent. If someone must be healed I shall work to the best of my abilities, but I must be told of the symptoms now.”
At the very least, he truly hoped that he was brought in for the sake of healing someone. Or else, he was frightened and unsure. And the longer he stared at this dark and mysterious woman, the more unsure he became.
Esadora de Levoran
The Bent Sword was bustling with energy. It was a place where men and women could let their troubles remain hidden within their bosom and be washed away entirely with a gulp of ale. They teetered and danced as fools did. But they had fun, not having to let the responsibilities of their day lives get in the way of their time in the night. It was, in truth, an ideal to be able to act as though that could be their lives every night.
A man leaned over at the bar, lightly slapping Aeren on the shoulder as he let out a deep chuckle. He had dark hair, though it was well greyed now. The lines around his mouth and eyes belied his age, but he still sat straight and had the gaze of a young man. “Yer lookin’ fer the sorceress, eh? You ain’t the first man comin’ ‘ere in search of ‘er. And ya probably won’t be the last, I say. Ever since that little vixen arrived she’s ‘ad men searchin’. Can’t say I blame them if I was young’un myself I may have tried my chance.” He let out another chuckle before he took a deep drink.
“But, I am assumin’ ya ain’t stupid enough to think you can just waltz in ‘ere and burn our witch at the stake. Because that would take a suicidal man as well as a stupid one. She ain’t one to be messed with. But, I have seen ‘er enough. And… Oh you lucky bastard, today may be your lucky day. Destiny some would call this. Pure and unaltered destiny. The Gods must wish for you to succeed.”
Some patrons fell silent as the doors to the inn were pushed open. First came in a man with a hood that obscured his face. He stood tall and broad, packed with muscle with sword and knife all at his hip. He stepped heavily and gloomily through the tavern, head lowered to keep his identity concealed. However, many eyes shifted to who stood behind him. Esadora walked, sure-footed in her heeled shoes. A fur pelt covered her pale shoulders, though it was quickly shed and tossed to the guard that caught it despite her silently throwing it behind him.
She revealed a gossamer dress of deep purple. Her shoulders remained exposed to the heated tavern air and she tossed her head back, moving the hair from her shoulders as she tossed her hand up in the air.
“Why is there no music ringing in my ear? Do my senses deceive me?” she asked as she cupped her hand to her ear, looking for any semblance of melody. “Oh? I should turn the whole lot of you into toads!” laughter rang out through the tavern, a broad smile came to her lips as she tossed her hair back again, spinning her hand towards her guard. From beneath his cloak, he produced her lute for her. She took it into her nimble fingers, strumming the first few notes to a song.
“I say, I say, if you want something done right, you must do it yourself, hm?” she asked as she stepped up and on to a table. She was light enough, she did not worry of it breaking. “Such a boring lot you are, such a boring lot!” she continued on playfully. “How am I supposed to forget my troubles now?”
“Sing us a song!” called a woman from the back. Esadora did not need to be told twice. Before long, she was spinning into a song, hopping from foot to foot as she jumped into a dance, her fingers plucking at the lute all the while. And then the tavern erupted into song, their feet beating the ground with the beat of the music. Her voice was melodious and charming as she hopping from table to table, beating her heels to the beat of the song, not worrying over falling despite her likely needing to.
“Destiny,” the man said as he looked at Aeren with a smile upon his face. Then his lips turned into a frown. “But do not be fooled. As I said, she ain’t to be messed with. So enjoy the song and dance while you think about why you need ‘er.” By then, she was upon the bar, the song was nearing its end as she danced past all the patrons. As it wound down, she let another flourish of the song escape the lute, and the bowed. It truly was the highlight of her night to do things such as this. She stepped off of the bar, stumbling and falling through the air before her trusty guard caught her. She giggled as though she was in no danger.
Her skin was flushed and her hair had come unkempt, however she still looked over to the pair she had noticed on the bar earlier that night. A devious smile came to her lips as she looked towards them.
“Look alive, son. I think she’s noticed you. It is your lucky day indeed, elfling. Your lucky day indeed.”
“Have you boys been talking about me, it is quite rude to do that behind a Lady’s back,” she turned her lips into a pout as she fluttered her lashes at the men, though her eyes were drawn towards the elf, perhaps? Though she could not know. He seemed rather human in other features. Handsome, quite so. But also a guard. And that intrigued her greatly.
She hopped up and on to a chair, her feet dangling, though she paid it no heed.
“Make up for it, would you? Buy me something to quench my thirst. Singing like that causes me to become awfully tired. Or at the very least tell me what someone like you is doing in this tavern, you’re not a home, eh?” She smiled, her teeth displayed as she rested her cheek on her fist, her elbow placed on the lacquered surface of the bar. No matter how this night went, with the arrival of this newcomer, she was sure it would be fun.
Javax
The Shadow
Roxii had never been a sociable person. An introvert at heart, intentionally going out to meet people was something that she hated and was never really good at, if one could believe the great assassin to be bad at something. Having to present herself in a respectable manner, choosing her words carefully, being on high alert while maintaining a faux composure. It was just too much work on her part, especially with so many after her head. It was much easier to reduce to a comfortable silence and allow her weapons to do the talking, to not have to worry about carrying a conversation. At least her weapons always made sure the conversation went her way.
But there were times—times like this—when she felt a sort of satisfaction in meeting new people. The way they seemed uncomfortable in her presence, most likely due to the fact that she was highly aware of her surroundings despite her handicap. The way their heartbeat hammered against their chest, their muscles tensed, prepared for a fight or flight response. The fear and unease that gripped people when they met her, a small woman who, realistically, could be easily subdued by a large enough individual. It was complacency and pride that tugged at the corner of her lips, forcing them into a smug smile. But the smile was always wiped away before someone would notice.
Maedor was nervous in her presence; it was no secret. He knew the potential danger he was in, and it delighted her that she didn't even need to threaten him for him to realize that she was better than him in many aspects. Though she would admit that his knowledge of medicine and healing was more than likely much more advanced than her's. Which was why Master Damaer had chosen this man as her accomplice. She could do the fighting—which would inevitably occur—and if she were to get injured, which was highly possible, he would be able to keep her alive. He was built enough such that he could handle himself if he ever got into trouble, which would take some of the strain off of her. However, he doubted he was as skilled in combat as she was, so she'd have to keep an eye on him.
The wolf-elf realized that Master Damaer hadn't told him anything. He was clueless as to who he was speaking to, which was expected. Falaern wouldn't so easily give away their names to a stranger that still had the choice to refuse the request. However, Master Damaer also failed to share the details of the contract with the doctor. The wolf-elf sighed and mentally strangled the Crimson Shadow velahr. Whatever the man promised Maedor, it better be enough for the doctor to still accept.
Roxii mulled over her response, wondering how to best relay the details of the contract without scaring him away. Master Damaer wouldn't be pleased if the meeting he arranged turned out to be fruitless. "No one is... sick, per say."
Ar vell mellyrnra, mannel sa dross.
The blind assassin continued, "My name is Roxii Sicarius, the Shadow of Thiyalia, and I have been contracted to assassinate the Prime Ruler of Thiyalia." She allowed the gravity of the situation to settle upon the lorethven before revealing the truth behind his summoning. "And I..." The L'yrathi woman bit back her pride. "I need your help."
But there were times—times like this—when she felt a sort of satisfaction in meeting new people. The way they seemed uncomfortable in her presence, most likely due to the fact that she was highly aware of her surroundings despite her handicap. The way their heartbeat hammered against their chest, their muscles tensed, prepared for a fight or flight response. The fear and unease that gripped people when they met her, a small woman who, realistically, could be easily subdued by a large enough individual. It was complacency and pride that tugged at the corner of her lips, forcing them into a smug smile. But the smile was always wiped away before someone would notice.
Maedor was nervous in her presence; it was no secret. He knew the potential danger he was in, and it delighted her that she didn't even need to threaten him for him to realize that she was better than him in many aspects. Though she would admit that his knowledge of medicine and healing was more than likely much more advanced than her's. Which was why Master Damaer had chosen this man as her accomplice. She could do the fighting—which would inevitably occur—and if she were to get injured, which was highly possible, he would be able to keep her alive. He was built enough such that he could handle himself if he ever got into trouble, which would take some of the strain off of her. However, he doubted he was as skilled in combat as she was, so she'd have to keep an eye on him.
The wolf-elf realized that Master Damaer hadn't told him anything. He was clueless as to who he was speaking to, which was expected. Falaern wouldn't so easily give away their names to a stranger that still had the choice to refuse the request. However, Master Damaer also failed to share the details of the contract with the doctor. The wolf-elf sighed and mentally strangled the Crimson Shadow velahr. Whatever the man promised Maedor, it better be enough for the doctor to still accept.
Roxii mulled over her response, wondering how to best relay the details of the contract without scaring him away. Master Damaer wouldn't be pleased if the meeting he arranged turned out to be fruitless. "No one is... sick, per say."
Ar vell mellyrnra, mannel sa dross.
The blind assassin continued, "My name is Roxii Sicarius, the Shadow of Thiyalia, and I have been contracted to assassinate the Prime Ruler of Thiyalia." She allowed the gravity of the situation to settle upon the lorethven before revealing the truth behind his summoning. "And I..." The L'yrathi woman bit back her pride. "I need your help."
Aerendal listened to the words of the man with intrigue. He noted how the man claimed that the sorceress was "their witch" and not just a pest that had moved in overnight. What spell she cast over the locals, it was strong and intoxicating, one that the knight didn't want to be caught under. He'd heard the stories of witches using men to their advantage, sucking them dry until they were only a husk of their former selves. Sorcerers and witches were selfish and evil, and he wanted nothing to do with them if he could help it. But this was his only choice, and if fulfilling his duty meant requesting the aid of those he despised, then so be it.
The High Commander followed the old man's gaze towards the entrance of the tavern where Aeren had been just minutes ago. His icy blue eyes surveyed the man who came in first. Large and burly, definitely able to start a fight and win it. Aerendal wouldn't want to get on his bad side, because he was certain that he wouldn't be able to subdue the guardsman. Perhaps he could outwit him or slip out of his grasp, but he would certainly need his abilities to win said fight. The dark-haired soldier would prefer to refrain from using his magic for as long as possible. The citizens of Thiyalia wouldn't be pleased with his ability to use his magic without repercussions. He needed to stay relatively unseen; if word got out that Felnethyr's High Commander was searching Thiyalia, then the Vaneiros sister would definitely get wind of his intentions and disappear even further down into concealment.
Even if the man hadn't revealed who the sorceress was, Aerendal could've guessed. The raven-haired beauty that followed after the large guard was exactly as he'd expected. Sorceresses and witches had a tendency to make themselves the most beautiful in the land, as long as they had the power to do so. Whether the woman's beauty was natural or fabricated was difficult to tell, and he doubted he'd ever find out. Not like it mattered much to him or the other patrons. They took most things at face value; as long as they got a good night's rest with a woman of her standards, they were content.
The sorceress, upset with the silence that had befallen the tavern, began her song and dance. And once again, the man beside Aeren spoke of Destiny. He never did decide if he believed in Destiny or some other all-knowing force. At times, it sounded like some sort of fairytale, something to give the commonfolk hope and a threat to keep the wealthy in line. But then there were times like now when it seemed like the gods were trying to influence the world. It didn't feel like a coincidence that the very woman he sought just so happened to find him instead. There was something at larger at work here, and he wondered what the gods wanted in return.
The beautiful woman noticed the duo and their one-sided conversation. Perfect. He didn't need to try and get her attention and, as a result, cause a scene. Her movements were fluid as she fell into the arms of her trusty guard and turned her attention fully towards the men. As she sat upon the chair beside the knight, the older man turned away, realizing that his turn to speak to the elven male had ended. It was the beautiful sorceress' turn, and it was obvious she always got what she wanted.
He carefully examined the woman now that she was still and a mere foot away. Her skin was fair and, from what he could tell, held no blemishes. Her raven hair, though messy from her musical fiasco, fell beautiful around her shoulders and framed her face. Violet eyes stared back at him, and an uneasiness settled within the High Commander. She was beautiful—perfect, if someone could achieve such a standard—but what she was kept him grounded. The older man to the other side of him didn't warn him of the power of the sorceress for no reason. She was as dangerous as she was beautiful, that was certain.
Despite the disdain he harbored for ones of her likeness, Aerendal kept his body lax and his face unreadable. Instead, he relayed an expression of intrigue, which wasn't forced. The elven knight signaled the bartender over—who gave him a dirty glare—and ordered he and the lady a mug of beer each. "You must be the sorceress I've heard so much about," he greeted simply, taking a sip of his own beer. He decided to get right to the point; his job would already take him some time, which meant he didn't feel like spending time chatting and dawdling. "I actually came here to speak to you, in fact. Though..." His voice trailed as his gaze shifted towards the rest of the tavern. "It is not something of which I can speak freely."
The High Commander followed the old man's gaze towards the entrance of the tavern where Aeren had been just minutes ago. His icy blue eyes surveyed the man who came in first. Large and burly, definitely able to start a fight and win it. Aerendal wouldn't want to get on his bad side, because he was certain that he wouldn't be able to subdue the guardsman. Perhaps he could outwit him or slip out of his grasp, but he would certainly need his abilities to win said fight. The dark-haired soldier would prefer to refrain from using his magic for as long as possible. The citizens of Thiyalia wouldn't be pleased with his ability to use his magic without repercussions. He needed to stay relatively unseen; if word got out that Felnethyr's High Commander was searching Thiyalia, then the Vaneiros sister would definitely get wind of his intentions and disappear even further down into concealment.
Even if the man hadn't revealed who the sorceress was, Aerendal could've guessed. The raven-haired beauty that followed after the large guard was exactly as he'd expected. Sorceresses and witches had a tendency to make themselves the most beautiful in the land, as long as they had the power to do so. Whether the woman's beauty was natural or fabricated was difficult to tell, and he doubted he'd ever find out. Not like it mattered much to him or the other patrons. They took most things at face value; as long as they got a good night's rest with a woman of her standards, they were content.
The sorceress, upset with the silence that had befallen the tavern, began her song and dance. And once again, the man beside Aeren spoke of Destiny. He never did decide if he believed in Destiny or some other all-knowing force. At times, it sounded like some sort of fairytale, something to give the commonfolk hope and a threat to keep the wealthy in line. But then there were times like now when it seemed like the gods were trying to influence the world. It didn't feel like a coincidence that the very woman he sought just so happened to find him instead. There was something at larger at work here, and he wondered what the gods wanted in return.
The beautiful woman noticed the duo and their one-sided conversation. Perfect. He didn't need to try and get her attention and, as a result, cause a scene. Her movements were fluid as she fell into the arms of her trusty guard and turned her attention fully towards the men. As she sat upon the chair beside the knight, the older man turned away, realizing that his turn to speak to the elven male had ended. It was the beautiful sorceress' turn, and it was obvious she always got what she wanted.
He carefully examined the woman now that she was still and a mere foot away. Her skin was fair and, from what he could tell, held no blemishes. Her raven hair, though messy from her musical fiasco, fell beautiful around her shoulders and framed her face. Violet eyes stared back at him, and an uneasiness settled within the High Commander. She was beautiful—perfect, if someone could achieve such a standard—but what she was kept him grounded. The older man to the other side of him didn't warn him of the power of the sorceress for no reason. She was as dangerous as she was beautiful, that was certain.
Despite the disdain he harbored for ones of her likeness, Aerendal kept his body lax and his face unreadable. Instead, he relayed an expression of intrigue, which wasn't forced. The elven knight signaled the bartender over—who gave him a dirty glare—and ordered he and the lady a mug of beer each. "You must be the sorceress I've heard so much about," he greeted simply, taking a sip of his own beer. He decided to get right to the point; his job would already take him some time, which meant he didn't feel like spending time chatting and dawdling. "I actually came here to speak to you, in fact. Though..." His voice trailed as his gaze shifted towards the rest of the tavern. "It is not something of which I can speak freely."
Last edited:
Melpomene
Writer of Tragedy|Art by ROYTHEART|
Maedor Taellaris
Maedor had met many exceptional people in his days as a healer. It was quite amazing who would call upon him because he was known to be one of the few that would come running for any type of ache and pain. Nobles who were too proud to state that they were having bowel problems and in need of a quicky remedy before their stomach ruptured, or perhaps it was a simple woman that was frightened of the pregnancy which had taken her before her and her sweetheart had a chance to elope, and now she had to pretend to continue acting the part of the proper lady in society. Of all the people he had met, none were impressive as the woman that stood before him right now. As, while he was never in need of such services, he had always heard of the talk, the whispers when no one thought he was listening and he instead sat with his head bent over whatever body was in need of being seen to or ducked behind a tree attempting to get the last ingredient to his new medicine. The Shadow of Thyalia.
If he were not so frightened, he would have been impressed. He hid his fright well, yet his unease continued to be written plainly across his posture and features. Because anyone in his position would feel this disgusting weight which had suddenly landed on his back. He was supposed to be a healer, coming in to save the sick and helpless with his knowledge. However she had come to him now, the great Shadow, an assassin he had heard so much about, and she came and asked him for his help? And in all things, to kill the most influential and powerful man in the entire land. Maedor felt his lips turn into a frown as he clenched his fist.
"You wish for me to help you assassinate the prime ruler?!" He asked, his mouth was slightly agape. He had thought nothing would surprise him anymore. "By the Gods... Am I being played?" he could have laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. But the feeling which swelled up his chest was far from mirth. He shoved a hand hard into his hair, gripping it for a moment. Perhaps this was a whole prolonged assassination. It made no sense, no matter how he turned it. Her wanting his help, a great assassin. Nay, the greatest assassin of their age. He was in the presence of the greatest assassin of their age and being asked to help her. In a way, it was honoring.
"I am a healer. I-- I do the exact opposite of what you are asking." She knew that as well as he did. It was against everything he knew to agree to this. To bring death and pain to someone went directly against the creed of the healer. But, the offer of the cure still teetered on the table. One life for millions. One life, one life that was not doing as much good as it was evil, to save those innocent and undeserving of the plague.
It was the only reason why he did not leave the house immediately.
"What exactly would it entail for me to do?" Though he could already guess. "I suppose I am better suited to actually talking to those closest to him without raising suspicion," he said with a raised brow. Because she certainly exuded suspicion if nothing else. "And I would guess you would like to utilize my healer's capabilities?"
Esadora de Levoran
The smile never left Esadora's lips. Her brow rose. It was a wonder that a man of such high standings had come to a drabby tavern. He had come for a purpose, she knew that the moment she had set her eyes on him. Esadora had not made the assumption that it was her he wished to see, for it could have been a midnight lover he was frightened of being found for all she knew. In fact, for all she knew that was exactly why he was here still, it was only chance that she was the one chosen to help him with whatever trial or tribulation which caused him so much trouble. Esadora took the beer into her nimble fingers and lifted it to her lips, the taste was awful. Any type of alcohol had never been a favorite, however, it was common among the people and in a tavern, it was hard to get anything else. While her face twisted into one of disgust as she sat it back down, her thirst was quenched and she was not quite so demanding to make the owner find a drink specifically for her. Especially when she had something far more intriguing sitting before her right here and now. It was very rarely that she felt so intrigued by a man, but his reasoning for wanting to see her. If it was not to bed her, she often could guess within the first few minutes, or they would downright tell her. But this one had a secret he did not want to be shared with the rest of the tavern.
Curious indeed.
"Mm. Heard so much about, I am interested in exactly what these rumors may say. If it is the one about me having fangs, then I swear on my life it is not true. You can check for yourself." she giggled, taking another sip of beer. It still tasted awful. He seemed to not be the type to play. That was certainly boring, as she did enjoy toying with men before taking it any further. But, if he wished for her to be a professional, she could be to the best of her abilities. However, that did not mean he could not endure some of her teasings. He was an outsider, and thus an unknown force. Not only that, but he was on the other side of the law. In truth, it was worrisome. Had he brought a fleet of men, she would have been fleeing. And there was still a chance he would bring them once all was said and done.
She would not kill him for no reason.l That was not only cruel, but it would also damage a reputation which, while solid in this town, in the world at large it was fragile. She did not wish to end up as Franchesca Auler de Fritz, forced into hiding and away from society. He was a boring man, but still a dangerous one. But if he needed her, he needed her. And thus, he was not dangerous to her until his needs were met. And if he was like most men, he would have the decency to leave her be after that.
"Oh... Well, I demand to know a man's name before I take him to... speak with me privately. Oh! I cannot scold you, where is my decency?" she held out a hand for him, to shake if he wished though she obviously expected him to kiss her knuckles as he would a princess'. "I am Esadora de Levoran. At the service of you and your family. And I am happily at your service. Tell me your name and we can get right to it, provided that you are not here to burn me at the stake." Her eyes hardened for a brief moment, her smile turning dangerous. "Because that would end very badly for you, I must say. Very badly."
Her normal smile returned quickly.
"I will get us a private room upstairs," he was not being taken back to her manor. Not yet. "We can have a nice meal there and discuss, how does that sound?"
Javax
The Shadow
A silence passed between the two. It was short—only a couple seconds—as the man allowed the information to process in his mind. Though short in reality, it felt long and drawn out to the wolf-elf. If Maedor looked close enough, he'd see the same discomfort in the woman. Her weight slightly shifted from one foot to the other, keeping her moving. Her knuckles turned white from clenching her fists before she forced herself to cross her arms instead. Lips pressed into a flat line of irritation, creating lines of tension throughout her face. Small things of note, but they betrayed the great killer's vexation towards the circumstances.
And then he spoke. Shock. Skepticism. Consternation. They were all evident in his tone alone. It was almost as if she'd told him that cows were falling from the sky, or that she'd decided to change her ways and leave behind her life as a killer. Absurdity was what made him question her, and she didn't blame him. If the roles were switched, she'd have laughed him out of the house and went on her merry way. But they weren't, and this conversation was happening.
The worst part of it all was that she knew he was right. A velglorn and a lorethven working on a job together? It was preposterous, unheard of. Doctors, medics, healers—whatever they wished to be called—sat on the sidelines, prepared to heal and save the ones on the front lines. They were not meant to be in the thick of battle, to endanger their own lives. Though she didn't care particularly about this male specifically, she did care about healers. They stitched the world together when it was about to fall apart. They were a foundational piece to making sure life continued on. They were not meant to kill or maim; they were meant to mend and save.
Yet here she was, standing before a very uncomfortable, very surprised doctor, requesting that he accompany her on a mission that they may very well not walk away from. It wasn't her fault though, right? She was suddenly very aware of the steel sadisla encircling her neck, and she forced herself to keep her fingers away from it, from prying at the metalwork. Master Damaer forced her to do this, to ask this poor man to do the unthinkable, and for what? Gold? Fame? Glory? Information? What could possibly entice the clueless man before her enough so that he accepted the suicide mission she presented before him?
"What exactly would it entail for me to do?" A question she did not expect nor have a definite answer for. Roxii expected the man to tell her to "Fuck off" and find someone else or go it alone. A sensible man would deny the request, to damn her to hell and hope she is killed by her target or her hunters. What exactly was he expected to do? He was proficient in the ways of healing, yes, so he could keep the hybrid alive if the job ever called for it. But Shalafi Damaer never relayed any plans to her in regards to hiring a doctor, of all people. It wouldn't be the first time she'd have to work from scratch; perhaps he could be useful in gaining information like he proposed, getting close to the target without comprising the mission.
Roxii opened her mouth to speak.
"You will keep my assassin alive, yes." Falaern had appeared, nearly out of thin air. She didn't even hear him enter the building, much less approach it. He reminded her of an apparition. There were times when she'd questioned her sanity, wondering if the man were even real. But he was, and the injuries he'd inflicted upon her were proof of that.
Master Damaer strode past the wolf-elf with his hands laced behind his back. He was straight-backed, confident, as he stopped only a step ahead of the blind assassin. He didn't even cast a glance towards the L'yrathi, but she knew he didn't miss the slight dip of her chin at his presence. She wasn't afraid of many things—and for a while, was afraid of nothing—until he'd forced himself back into her life, back in the reins. He was unpredictable, powerful, terrifying, and she didn't know how to deal with the newfound feeling that made her unable to speak to him, to tell him she had the situation under control.
The assassin leader studied the doctor before him with golden eyes that seemed to glow. He was taller than the blind archer by almost a foot, though slightly shorter than the medic. A scar cut over his right eye, severing his eyebrow in two, but the injury had healed over long ago leaving a glistening strip of skin in its wake. It was impossible to decipher the man's age; he could be anywhere from his late 20s to his 50s. Despite the scar, his tanned skin was fair and smooth, save for the full, cleanly cut beard that framed his oval-shaped face. His shoulder-length hair was straight and loose, dark brown to match his facial hair. He wore a black, handmade tunic with gold thread intricately embroidered throughout the chest, matching his eyes. Black breeches and boots accompanied the top, and a belt held his scimitar. Another display of gold was evident on man's sheath.
A smile tugged at the man's lips, though it was impossible to tell if it was genuine or not. "It is good to meet you, Mr. Taellaris. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Master Falaern Damaer, the author of the letter that found you and, subsequently, the handler of payment." He bowed respectfully before the doctor and straightened. "I see you have met my sajorte." His gaze flicked towards the assassin, looking upon the scowl that twisted her features. "She is rather unskilled when it comes to asking for help. Far too blunt, not charismatic at all. I should've known that I would have to do it myself." The scowl deepened but silence reigned.
His attention returned to the doctor, chin lifted slightly. "Your concerns are well met, my friend," he continued. "But do not be afraid. Your job, as you've guessed, is to gather information. For you see, there have been rumors that the plague has infiltrated the castle walls." Master Damaer's hands moved to clasp together in front of him. "You are not obligated to accept—nay, I do not expect you to. But payment will not be given for a job not taken. You must understand, yes?" Despite the chivalrous nature of his demeanor, there was a devilish glint in those irises of gold.
Roxii knew what he was doing. Playing the kind-hearted soul, though one to be feared. Exercising his power over the L'yrathi to demonstrate that she was not the one to be feared, to be crossed. The mark behind her ear burned, reminding her of the threat that was pressed against her bare skin. He was playing them both like pawns, and there was nothing she could do about it. Just like he had trapped her, he would ensnare this poor healer in his plan, having others carry out his dirty work.
But this time was different. In the past, the contracts she'd fulfilled were taken in by the assassin leader, not given by him. She'd been turning the contract over in her head ever since he'd laid it on her shoulders. What could the Crimson Shadow leader possibly gain from the assassination of the Prime Ruler? They held no personal bonds nor political connections. As far as she knew, the King knew nothing of the Crimson Shadow and their leader. Master Damaer would not gain silence nor immunity from his death. So what was he hiding? What did Master Damaer want?
Her shadows relayed to her the doctor's every movement. She waited impatiently for his response. She had no idea how he would respond, but what would happen if he refused? Did he even have a choice here? Or was he set in a trap the moment he opened the letter? It would be easy for Master Damaer to have him killed, especially since he now held incriminating information in his head regarding the Crimson Shadow leader and its Shadow. Would he have the L'ythari do it, or would he do it himself?
Whatever his decision, she hoped he made it quickly. Every moment was precious, and the hidden collar around her throat was a constant reminder that she'd been bested. She couldn't allow anyone to see her like this; it would ruin her pride and reputation, and all the time she'd have spent building it would be wasted. The sooner she completed this suicide mission, the sooner she'd either have the terrible ring of steel removed or not have to worry about it anymore altogether.
And then he spoke. Shock. Skepticism. Consternation. They were all evident in his tone alone. It was almost as if she'd told him that cows were falling from the sky, or that she'd decided to change her ways and leave behind her life as a killer. Absurdity was what made him question her, and she didn't blame him. If the roles were switched, she'd have laughed him out of the house and went on her merry way. But they weren't, and this conversation was happening.
The worst part of it all was that she knew he was right. A velglorn and a lorethven working on a job together? It was preposterous, unheard of. Doctors, medics, healers—whatever they wished to be called—sat on the sidelines, prepared to heal and save the ones on the front lines. They were not meant to be in the thick of battle, to endanger their own lives. Though she didn't care particularly about this male specifically, she did care about healers. They stitched the world together when it was about to fall apart. They were a foundational piece to making sure life continued on. They were not meant to kill or maim; they were meant to mend and save.
Yet here she was, standing before a very uncomfortable, very surprised doctor, requesting that he accompany her on a mission that they may very well not walk away from. It wasn't her fault though, right? She was suddenly very aware of the steel sadisla encircling her neck, and she forced herself to keep her fingers away from it, from prying at the metalwork. Master Damaer forced her to do this, to ask this poor man to do the unthinkable, and for what? Gold? Fame? Glory? Information? What could possibly entice the clueless man before her enough so that he accepted the suicide mission she presented before him?
"What exactly would it entail for me to do?" A question she did not expect nor have a definite answer for. Roxii expected the man to tell her to "Fuck off" and find someone else or go it alone. A sensible man would deny the request, to damn her to hell and hope she is killed by her target or her hunters. What exactly was he expected to do? He was proficient in the ways of healing, yes, so he could keep the hybrid alive if the job ever called for it. But Shalafi Damaer never relayed any plans to her in regards to hiring a doctor, of all people. It wouldn't be the first time she'd have to work from scratch; perhaps he could be useful in gaining information like he proposed, getting close to the target without comprising the mission.
Roxii opened her mouth to speak.
"You will keep my assassin alive, yes." Falaern had appeared, nearly out of thin air. She didn't even hear him enter the building, much less approach it. He reminded her of an apparition. There were times when she'd questioned her sanity, wondering if the man were even real. But he was, and the injuries he'd inflicted upon her were proof of that.
Master Damaer strode past the wolf-elf with his hands laced behind his back. He was straight-backed, confident, as he stopped only a step ahead of the blind assassin. He didn't even cast a glance towards the L'yrathi, but she knew he didn't miss the slight dip of her chin at his presence. She wasn't afraid of many things—and for a while, was afraid of nothing—until he'd forced himself back into her life, back in the reins. He was unpredictable, powerful, terrifying, and she didn't know how to deal with the newfound feeling that made her unable to speak to him, to tell him she had the situation under control.
The assassin leader studied the doctor before him with golden eyes that seemed to glow. He was taller than the blind archer by almost a foot, though slightly shorter than the medic. A scar cut over his right eye, severing his eyebrow in two, but the injury had healed over long ago leaving a glistening strip of skin in its wake. It was impossible to decipher the man's age; he could be anywhere from his late 20s to his 50s. Despite the scar, his tanned skin was fair and smooth, save for the full, cleanly cut beard that framed his oval-shaped face. His shoulder-length hair was straight and loose, dark brown to match his facial hair. He wore a black, handmade tunic with gold thread intricately embroidered throughout the chest, matching his eyes. Black breeches and boots accompanied the top, and a belt held his scimitar. Another display of gold was evident on man's sheath.
A smile tugged at the man's lips, though it was impossible to tell if it was genuine or not. "It is good to meet you, Mr. Taellaris. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Master Falaern Damaer, the author of the letter that found you and, subsequently, the handler of payment." He bowed respectfully before the doctor and straightened. "I see you have met my sajorte." His gaze flicked towards the assassin, looking upon the scowl that twisted her features. "She is rather unskilled when it comes to asking for help. Far too blunt, not charismatic at all. I should've known that I would have to do it myself." The scowl deepened but silence reigned.
His attention returned to the doctor, chin lifted slightly. "Your concerns are well met, my friend," he continued. "But do not be afraid. Your job, as you've guessed, is to gather information. For you see, there have been rumors that the plague has infiltrated the castle walls." Master Damaer's hands moved to clasp together in front of him. "You are not obligated to accept—nay, I do not expect you to. But payment will not be given for a job not taken. You must understand, yes?" Despite the chivalrous nature of his demeanor, there was a devilish glint in those irises of gold.
Roxii knew what he was doing. Playing the kind-hearted soul, though one to be feared. Exercising his power over the L'yrathi to demonstrate that she was not the one to be feared, to be crossed. The mark behind her ear burned, reminding her of the threat that was pressed against her bare skin. He was playing them both like pawns, and there was nothing she could do about it. Just like he had trapped her, he would ensnare this poor healer in his plan, having others carry out his dirty work.
But this time was different. In the past, the contracts she'd fulfilled were taken in by the assassin leader, not given by him. She'd been turning the contract over in her head ever since he'd laid it on her shoulders. What could the Crimson Shadow leader possibly gain from the assassination of the Prime Ruler? They held no personal bonds nor political connections. As far as she knew, the King knew nothing of the Crimson Shadow and their leader. Master Damaer would not gain silence nor immunity from his death. So what was he hiding? What did Master Damaer want?
Her shadows relayed to her the doctor's every movement. She waited impatiently for his response. She had no idea how he would respond, but what would happen if he refused? Did he even have a choice here? Or was he set in a trap the moment he opened the letter? It would be easy for Master Damaer to have him killed, especially since he now held incriminating information in his head regarding the Crimson Shadow leader and its Shadow. Would he have the L'ythari do it, or would he do it himself?
Whatever his decision, she hoped he made it quickly. Every moment was precious, and the hidden collar around her throat was a constant reminder that she'd been bested. She couldn't allow anyone to see her like this; it would ruin her pride and reputation, and all the time she'd have spent building it would be wasted. The sooner she completed this suicide mission, the sooner she'd either have the terrible ring of steel removed or not have to worry about it anymore altogether.
He knew she wouldn't like the beer. Hell, even Aerendal didn't like the piss-water they considered an alcohol. But he hadn't come here to drink his problems away, and he needed this woman to be sober. He'd already loosened himself up with the shots, but he could still string together a stream of conscious thoughts. There was no telling where this sorceress' limit was. Despite her line of work, he didn't feel it would be right to get her intoxicated before requesting her assistance. That wouldn't be very gentlemanly of him.
Yet, as her eyes bore into him, those pools of indigo piercing his very soul, he wished he'd gotten her a glass of whiskey instead. She was aware of everything that went on around her, which meant that she could use her magic at any point to subdue him. An unpredictable, untrustworthy type from his experience, but he had a job to do, and he needed her help, no matter how he felt.
Despite her playful demeanor, she seemed to understand the seriousness in his tone. Whether or not she understood the gravity of the situation was a different story. It was possible she thought he needed help with some personal matter. He wondered how she'd react to the truth, that he needed her to find and contact a killer-for-hire for him. With how the conversation was going, he supposed he'd find out soon.
She tried to harden her tone, to take a stronger hold of the reins of the conversation, but she failed. An amused smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, and an eyebrow arched as she held out her hand, palm downwards, knuckles up. A discrete demand to treat her like a lady. He held no liking for witches or sorceresses, but he was no barbarian. A lady was a lady, and he would treat her as such. As she introduced herself, he took hold of her hand and kissed it gently. She continued her subtle teasings, and though he wished for her to act professional, he knew it would be useless. So he supposed he ought to humor the raven-haired woman.
"Burning you would be inauspicious for us both, I'm afraid," he mused. "You may call me Aeren, and yes, a private room would be ideal."
A smirk still adorned his features, and though he portrayed an unmindful attitude, his mind was still working like one of a soldier. Monitoring the other inhabitants of the establishment, establishing escape routes if necessary, noting weapons and items, studying and memorizing faces. If things went wrong with this conversation, then he needed to make sure he could survive. He didn't want to fail his mission this early on just because he asked the wrong person for help.
Yet, as her eyes bore into him, those pools of indigo piercing his very soul, he wished he'd gotten her a glass of whiskey instead. She was aware of everything that went on around her, which meant that she could use her magic at any point to subdue him. An unpredictable, untrustworthy type from his experience, but he had a job to do, and he needed her help, no matter how he felt.
Despite her playful demeanor, she seemed to understand the seriousness in his tone. Whether or not she understood the gravity of the situation was a different story. It was possible she thought he needed help with some personal matter. He wondered how she'd react to the truth, that he needed her to find and contact a killer-for-hire for him. With how the conversation was going, he supposed he'd find out soon.
She tried to harden her tone, to take a stronger hold of the reins of the conversation, but she failed. An amused smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, and an eyebrow arched as she held out her hand, palm downwards, knuckles up. A discrete demand to treat her like a lady. He held no liking for witches or sorceresses, but he was no barbarian. A lady was a lady, and he would treat her as such. As she introduced herself, he took hold of her hand and kissed it gently. She continued her subtle teasings, and though he wished for her to act professional, he knew it would be useless. So he supposed he ought to humor the raven-haired woman.
"Burning you would be inauspicious for us both, I'm afraid," he mused. "You may call me Aeren, and yes, a private room would be ideal."
A smirk still adorned his features, and though he portrayed an unmindful attitude, his mind was still working like one of a soldier. Monitoring the other inhabitants of the establishment, establishing escape routes if necessary, noting weapons and items, studying and memorizing faces. If things went wrong with this conversation, then he needed to make sure he could survive. He didn't want to fail his mission this early on just because he asked the wrong person for help.
Last edited:
Melpomene
Writer of Tragedy|Art by ROYTHEART|
Maedor Taellaris
"You will keep my assassin alive, yes." Maedor's wide-eyed gaze was forced to turn from the woman, the assassin, before him to the man that had materialized and talked as though he had been there since the very beginning. Maedor kept his features poised as he watched as the image floated across the floor. It was uncanny. There was no doubt that something beyond his understanding was happening now. Curiosity struck him, though he knew how dangerous it could be if he dared allow that curiosity to take the full reins. He looked upon an assassin and her master. It did not matter what their relationship entailed, what mattered was that he had been called upon. Suddenly, Maedor felt trapped. It was an undisputed fact that he stood at a disadvantage. The abilities that the man held were unknown but likely great if he had such a well-known assassin beneath his wing. And while Roxii'a abilities were unknown as well, he at least knew the blindfold caused her no hindrance and he could easily be killed on the spot. Maedor was a healer, so he was very good at thinking on his feet. It had become second nature to him. One wrong move could always mean the difference between life and death, though he often had looked at it in regards to others' lives and never his own. Never had his own been in peril quite as it was now. Not even the lessons in sword fighting could help him now. He doubted his master or his sister were talented enough to stand toe to toe with the both of them.
A cold bead of sweat rolled down the back of Maedor's neck. He was well aware that he was trapped. Even if the door only stood a few paces away, even if he could run from this room and flee into the freedom of the chilled rain before running from town until his lungs were aflame and his cheeks reddened. He could do that but still, be caught in the chains which were likely laid down the moment he opened the letter. Damaer may have been playing kind, but in Maedor's lifetime, he had come to know that those who act the kindness often had the most hidden beneath their smile. And few people that stood so close to assassins had good intentions in their hearts. It was a true game of predator versus the prey. Cat and mouse, with him, most certainly being the fat and slow mouse.
What did a mouse, caught in the jaws of the cat, do in such a situation? The cat would always play with the mouse for many moments longer. Injuring it and forcing it to subdue to its very whims. Even a cat that was well fed would feel inclined to play with the mouse that had so wantonly presented itself. Every time he attempted to escape would bring annoyance at best and amusement at worst. He was one of many. It was sheer luck that out of all the mice to play with, he was the one chosen.
No, it was not luck. It was the fact that out of all the healers, there was a possibility he had the most on the line to lose.
So he forced a smile on to his lips as he bowed before the man, legs crossed in a formal fashion before he stood up straight once again, forcing the smile to remain on his lips. To show his fear and pain would be detrimental. But luckily, he was a healer. Fear and pain were exactly what he dealt in.
"Master Damaer, the pleasure is all mine. I am quite pleased you deigned to speak with me, though the arrangements could have been more accommodating." He smoothed down the front of his tunic. There was a knife in his boot. There were other pieces of equipment in his bag that could very easily be used as weapons. But he knew they likely already noticed that. So he forced his hands to remain in front of him, his fingertips pressed together, but otherwise, they hung, resting, as though nothing could bring him harm. "You brought me along because I am the exact opposite of your assassin, I can see that now. I heal and she brings harm. I shall be the charisma and she shall be the fear. Ultimately, you believe we shall be the perfect combination to commit the impossible crime. I must commend you for your abilities to bring something almost poetic to the table. It truly is impressive, Master Damaer. I nearly find myself lost in its contents."
He studied the man for a few moments longer. Maedor felt naked being scrutinized by that gaze.
"But payment will not be given for a job not taken."
'May the Gods damn him to hell.'
"I understand, Master Damaer. But I do not like being lied to. I suspect you already know my answer, yes?" Maedor asked, his head dipping forward as he closed his eyes. No. Maedor must have been a very purposeful find. It was easy to trap him, knowing the weakness he possessed. He found a man who was desperate. Because he knew desperate men never said no. That was the only thing Maedor could think of.
"You have quite the mind, Master Damaer. And now you have quite the medic on your side." For the sake of his sister, he would have quite the medic until the bitter end.
Esadora de Levoran
It was delightful the moment the soldier began to play her game. It was begrudgingly, she had no doubt. That was how it was with soldiers. They blindly pulled and walked for the person they called their leader, knowing no other life other than following. If they were told to hate someone, they would without question. If they were told to act loyal, they would without question. He likely wished to get what he needed and the leave, but that was not her way. He was not like other clients, he would not leave if she played with him for a while longer. He needed her. It was always delightful when she was needed. It often meant that things would go her way without much of a need to battle against them. Whether it was in the payment or in the process of how she got things done, as there was never anything quite as dreadful as those people that acted as though they knew better than her at things she was a dedicated expert of.
Esadora raised her fingers, twitching them ever so slightly. The bartender looked up, smiling at the customer he was currently serving before making his way back to the two of them. He smiled, though his teeth were yellow his smile was genuine. Esadora offered a hand, and it was quickly taken, a chaste kiss applied to her knuckles before she leaned forward, allowing him to see down the front of her dress. The position was purposeful, though unnecessary. The bartender was one of the first in the town that she had won over, helping him with a rat problem, both animal and human. But it never hurt to keep him very interested. It was why she often ensured her smell lingered as did every touch. Besides, the never saw a problem with giving an honest man who had been nothing but good to her a fine show.
"Oh, you have always been so attentive, Scarlzen" she purred as her fingers came to gently stroke across his cheek. His cheeks reddened and his smile broadened as he nodded.
"I could not think of being anything but." A soft chuckle escaped Esadora's mouth before she gestured towards the ceiling with a fast movement of her fingers.
"Could you please get me and Aeren here a room? We must discuss business matters and I would like to provide him with a meal while I am here." The Scarlzen looked up, his brow furrowing for a moment as he caught Aeren's eye. A sneer came to his lips before he turned back to Esadora, who simply placed a slender finger against her mouth and tapped it twice. Her other hand came up, placing several gold coins on to the table. Scarlzen rolled his shoulders back and then let out a soft breath through his nose, taking the coins up before moving his head.
"Same room as always. I'll have them bring you two pheasant and stew." Esadora smiled and then blew a kiss towards the bartender before she hopped off of the chair, standing before the guard she knew that, especially in comparison to him, she was quite short. Even with her heels on. She beckoned for Aeren to follow her as she walked towards the stairs. Her guard would be unfazed, she did this often. Though others often looked on with interest at whoever followed at her heels. If it was ailment, they silently questioned what caused them so much trouble they had to seek someone so powerful for help. And if it was to bring her harm, then they would eventually glower with hatred. A ban on magic or not, once someone managed to integrate themselves into the heart of any town, they became connected and bound in a way that unified the people.
But, Esadora was confident this man had no intention to bring her harm, so she walked without fear.
The room that was saved for Esadora was nothing spectacular, as it was a simple inn, however, it was still nice. A fire already burned, warming the entire room up and making it quite hospitable. A bear pelt was thrown onto the ground, and upon it, there was a simple mahogany table with two large and cushioned chairs around it. Fine wine and ail sat on a smaller table at the edge of the room, which was proof that it was Esadora's special room, as no other had such things. She knew well that he charged extra for patrons to stay there when she was not in need of it. A large bed was on the other side, covered in ermine blankets that would keep anyone warm throughout the night, though Esadora used that bed for professional purposes only. She was no whore. If she wished to bed a man, then it would be in her own bed and none other.
"Come, come," she gestured towards a chair for Aeren. The room was dimly lit by firelight and the silver rays of the moon that managed to shine through the small window. "We shall be alone here, and you can discuss what matters have brought you here to me. What ails you? Is it impotence? You men always feel so shy about such things." she poured him ale, turning her back towards him without care. She was confident he would not attack. Then she came back, placing a cup before him and taking one into her own hands. It was not ale, but rather wine. She found that slightly more palatable. "Or is it something else that plagues you so? Tell me. I shall see what I can do about your needs. We will speak payment afterwards."
(Note: I thought Aeren' s part was great! And I had a lot of fun writing Maedor's part this post ^^)
Javax
The Shadow
Maedor knew his way around a conversation. Both she and the assassin leader knew the smile was fake, forced, but it mattered none to Master Damaer. He was returning the same faux hospitality, playing the part he was given. The healer was twisted around the man's finger from the very beginning, and now he was sitting in Falaern's palm, gripped within his clutches. Maedor may be able to know how to save his skin by saying the right things, but it was obvious that his charisma and wits would not allow him to walk away. He'd lost, and everyone in the room was aware of it.
"And what if he refuses?"
"He will not."
Master Damaer wasn't wrong, which wasn't entirely surprising to the wolf-elf. He always got what he wanted, either through intelligence, trickery, or force, and sometimes a mixture of the three. And if someone denied him of what he desired, then he made sure to find someone who would give it to him. Like the doctor before them, the assassin leader knew his way around conversations and people, knew how to get under their skin, to push the right buttons, to pull the right strings. Falaern Damaer was a puppet-master, and he was a skilled one at that.
So when Maedor accepted—more like relented—and offered his services to the Shalafi, Roxii wasn't shocked. The taller male was aware of his choices, both of which were unpleasant. She wondered what exactly Master Damaer offered the healer in return for his services. Doctors were few and far between, which meant that they were paid handsomely for their time and knowledge. The poor couldn't afford them, so their clients were among the wealthy citizens. Generally, when someone practiced an expensive profession for long enough, they became greedy, forming a love for the compensation they received. Some allowed it to go too far, swindling others out of their life savings or accepting risks that weren't worth it.
But from what the L'yrathi's learned so far, studying Maedor's body language, his tone and diction, monetary compensation was more than likely not what the healer sought. Additionally, glory and fame would not be enticing enough to the lorethven either. She would've guessed it was because someone he held dear was being held hostage, but the assassin velahr was not the type to kidnap people for ransom. He refused to stoop as low as common bandits. But perhaps Master Damaer held something else hostage, something that the healer strongly wanted or needed: Information.
What could Falaern possibly know that Maedor would want? Falaern was a well of information, that much was certain, but of a specific kind. As far as she knew, the man wasn't knowledgeable in the arts of healing and saving. Like she, he was a harbinger of death and fear. If he held some sort of information, it was either unconfirmed, recently discovered yet not shared, or it was lost and recently found, and he held the only piece. It was quite possible that the information Maedor sought after didn't even exist, but that wouldn't make sense. Roxii knew from experience that, though Master Damaer was a cruel and malicious man, he was honest and a man of his word. Whatever the Crimson Shadow leader promised, the doctor would see it as long as Master Damaer's terms were met.
The mysterious man's brow lifted slightly, as if surprised by the healer's decision, but the wolf-elf's shadows could see the subtle smirk that said only one phrase: I have won. "It is good to hear that you will be taking on this responsibility, Mr. Taellaris. I think you will find that I am a man worth working for, for I am a man of my word."
His hands moved to clasp behind his back once again as the kindness was dropped and replaced with a more serious tone. "You will work closely with my Shadow over the course of this contract. Not a word of this will be spoken to anyone outside of this room. If I find that you have betrayed my trust, the contract will be void and I will do as I please. And more importantly, you will not fail." Demands, not suggestions. Each and every one.
His head turned to look upon the small L'yrathi. "I will not require proof," he spoke plainly. "News will spread like the plague when you succeed." When. They were not allowed to fail for any reason whatsoever, even for death. She wondered if he'd go as far as to bring them back to life if they died. She wouldn't doubt it; the man possessed a large amount of knowledge in that mysterious mind of his. She wouldn't be surprised if he knew how to create life from nothing or manipulate the sky.
Falaern continued to gaze expectantly at the blind archer, waiting. On her, she knew. Roxii bit her tongue, fighting the urge to ban him to hell. "I understand, Master."
"Good." He turned back towards Maedor, the seriousness of his tone having ebbed slightly. "I will see you again when the contract has been completed." And with that, Master Damaer turned on his heel and left the decrepit building, his magic with him. It was only when he'd left the abandoned house and disappeared on a phantom wind that the velglorn realized the suffocating darkness that surrounded the room and their conversation. More than likely to mask their secrets from prying ears and eyes.
Roxii waited a few moments in the silence that followed Master Damaer's departure. Only the light drizzle and occasional growl of thunder could be heard, filling in the tension that was revealed by the absence of the assassin velahr's magic. The mark's burning had reduced down to a tingle until it finally stopped altogether. Maedor and Roxii were alone once again, but where a sheet of tension and awkwardness was, now a thick blanket had been thrown over the room. It was a different kind of suffocating, but at least her magic wasn't battling an unseen foe.
The hybrid sighed. "This is no place to continue our discussion," she finally spoke, voice quiet. "I don't know about you, but I could use a drink. And we could perhaps gather more information regarding the rumor, especially since it is the only lead we have." Her arms dropped to her sides, the tension beginning to leave her body, but her hands were still poised to react at a moment's notice. She wanted to get this over with. The sooner they completed their end of the deal, the sooner they could go back to doing what they were before.
"And what if he refuses?"
"He will not."
Master Damaer wasn't wrong, which wasn't entirely surprising to the wolf-elf. He always got what he wanted, either through intelligence, trickery, or force, and sometimes a mixture of the three. And if someone denied him of what he desired, then he made sure to find someone who would give it to him. Like the doctor before them, the assassin leader knew his way around conversations and people, knew how to get under their skin, to push the right buttons, to pull the right strings. Falaern Damaer was a puppet-master, and he was a skilled one at that.
So when Maedor accepted—more like relented—and offered his services to the Shalafi, Roxii wasn't shocked. The taller male was aware of his choices, both of which were unpleasant. She wondered what exactly Master Damaer offered the healer in return for his services. Doctors were few and far between, which meant that they were paid handsomely for their time and knowledge. The poor couldn't afford them, so their clients were among the wealthy citizens. Generally, when someone practiced an expensive profession for long enough, they became greedy, forming a love for the compensation they received. Some allowed it to go too far, swindling others out of their life savings or accepting risks that weren't worth it.
But from what the L'yrathi's learned so far, studying Maedor's body language, his tone and diction, monetary compensation was more than likely not what the healer sought. Additionally, glory and fame would not be enticing enough to the lorethven either. She would've guessed it was because someone he held dear was being held hostage, but the assassin velahr was not the type to kidnap people for ransom. He refused to stoop as low as common bandits. But perhaps Master Damaer held something else hostage, something that the healer strongly wanted or needed: Information.
What could Falaern possibly know that Maedor would want? Falaern was a well of information, that much was certain, but of a specific kind. As far as she knew, the man wasn't knowledgeable in the arts of healing and saving. Like she, he was a harbinger of death and fear. If he held some sort of information, it was either unconfirmed, recently discovered yet not shared, or it was lost and recently found, and he held the only piece. It was quite possible that the information Maedor sought after didn't even exist, but that wouldn't make sense. Roxii knew from experience that, though Master Damaer was a cruel and malicious man, he was honest and a man of his word. Whatever the Crimson Shadow leader promised, the doctor would see it as long as Master Damaer's terms were met.
The mysterious man's brow lifted slightly, as if surprised by the healer's decision, but the wolf-elf's shadows could see the subtle smirk that said only one phrase: I have won. "It is good to hear that you will be taking on this responsibility, Mr. Taellaris. I think you will find that I am a man worth working for, for I am a man of my word."
His hands moved to clasp behind his back once again as the kindness was dropped and replaced with a more serious tone. "You will work closely with my Shadow over the course of this contract. Not a word of this will be spoken to anyone outside of this room. If I find that you have betrayed my trust, the contract will be void and I will do as I please. And more importantly, you will not fail." Demands, not suggestions. Each and every one.
His head turned to look upon the small L'yrathi. "I will not require proof," he spoke plainly. "News will spread like the plague when you succeed." When. They were not allowed to fail for any reason whatsoever, even for death. She wondered if he'd go as far as to bring them back to life if they died. She wouldn't doubt it; the man possessed a large amount of knowledge in that mysterious mind of his. She wouldn't be surprised if he knew how to create life from nothing or manipulate the sky.
Falaern continued to gaze expectantly at the blind archer, waiting. On her, she knew. Roxii bit her tongue, fighting the urge to ban him to hell. "I understand, Master."
"Good." He turned back towards Maedor, the seriousness of his tone having ebbed slightly. "I will see you again when the contract has been completed." And with that, Master Damaer turned on his heel and left the decrepit building, his magic with him. It was only when he'd left the abandoned house and disappeared on a phantom wind that the velglorn realized the suffocating darkness that surrounded the room and their conversation. More than likely to mask their secrets from prying ears and eyes.
Roxii waited a few moments in the silence that followed Master Damaer's departure. Only the light drizzle and occasional growl of thunder could be heard, filling in the tension that was revealed by the absence of the assassin velahr's magic. The mark's burning had reduced down to a tingle until it finally stopped altogether. Maedor and Roxii were alone once again, but where a sheet of tension and awkwardness was, now a thick blanket had been thrown over the room. It was a different kind of suffocating, but at least her magic wasn't battling an unseen foe.
The hybrid sighed. "This is no place to continue our discussion," she finally spoke, voice quiet. "I don't know about you, but I could use a drink. And we could perhaps gather more information regarding the rumor, especially since it is the only lead we have." Her arms dropped to her sides, the tension beginning to leave her body, but her hands were still poised to react at a moment's notice. She wanted to get this over with. The sooner they completed their end of the deal, the sooner they could go back to doing what they were before.
He monitored the sorceress with attentive eyes, though maintaining the negligent attitude. He noticed how she beckoned the bartender over with the subtlest of motions; proof that she had the man wrapped tightly around her finger such that he always kept an eye on her so that he could tend to her every whim. He noticed how she displayed her hand to him the same way she did to Aeren, and how the bartender—Scarlzen, he'd learned his name to be—took it without hesitation. He noticed the slight dip of her shoulders, her chest, as she allowed him a look at the woman's bosom, keeping the man interested. Now that he had met her, was studying her movements and language, Aerendal questioned whether Esadora enslaved this town through the use of a magical spell, one she hadn't yet cast on him, or if she simply used her beauty to capture their attention and distract them from what she was. Likely a mixture of both, he decided.
After her persuasive efforts, the High Commander followed after Esadora as she led him to a lone room upstairs. He could feel the tavern's eyes on him; some looked on with intrigue and confusion whilst others sneered at him with gazes of suspicion and irritation. They didn't trust him, what with being a knight and one of elven blood at that. He silently promised them that he would not kill this witch without proper cause, but he could not uphold his mental promise if his life were put in danger. He may not like witches and sorceress with their unnatural attunement to magic, but he was no murderer; he would not lift a finger against the woman unless she raised her's first.
Though he supposed if she raised her finger first, he'd be dead before he could retaliate.
The sounds of the tavern dissipated as they entered the room she'd bought for them. It was comfortable, that much was certain. It was not to the league of a nobleman's chambers or any of the rooms in the castle, but it was fit for a woman of her standards in an inn. They'd done their best to make sure she was satisfied with the best that they could offer. Judging by the fact that this was not the first time she'd brought someone to this room, he supposed she was content with their efforts.
The first thing he noticed was the bed. He wondered what sort of business she conducted in this room; it inevitably strayed towards the common idea. He felt something akin to disgust build within his gut, but he suppressed it as he studied the room. Simple chairs and tables, a fire to keep the inhabitants warm, a bottle of red wine that he wasn't familiar with and a pale ale; simple, yet more care had been put into the room than any other inn he'd stayed at. But it was not for him.
He took a seat at the table as she brought him a glass of ale. His face wrinkled at what she expected from him; did other men go to such lengths to regain their manhood? He supposed he wouldn't let anything stand in his way if he were in the position. But no, that was not what he was here for. He again wondered how she'd take his request. Hopefully he had come to the right place, the right person. He held no understanding of the ways of sorceresses, so he had no idea if they even harbored the ability to do what he required.
"That is... That is not what I am here for," he started, gaze averting towards the flames. His brow furrowed as he pondered his words, opting to choose the best ones. He could not, however, betray the reasoning; that much was true. "I am unfamiliar with the capabilities of ones of your... likeness." He took a swig of the ale, hoping it would calm the anxiety that gnawed at his mind. He was usually confident and strong-willed in these types of conversations, but there was something about this woman, about the hidden dangers surrounding her, that made him overly cautious. "I need to contact someone, find someone. I need to know if you can do that much." His eyes slid back towards Esadora, waiting expectantly, hoping he wasn't wasting his time.
After her persuasive efforts, the High Commander followed after Esadora as she led him to a lone room upstairs. He could feel the tavern's eyes on him; some looked on with intrigue and confusion whilst others sneered at him with gazes of suspicion and irritation. They didn't trust him, what with being a knight and one of elven blood at that. He silently promised them that he would not kill this witch without proper cause, but he could not uphold his mental promise if his life were put in danger. He may not like witches and sorceress with their unnatural attunement to magic, but he was no murderer; he would not lift a finger against the woman unless she raised her's first.
Though he supposed if she raised her finger first, he'd be dead before he could retaliate.
The sounds of the tavern dissipated as they entered the room she'd bought for them. It was comfortable, that much was certain. It was not to the league of a nobleman's chambers or any of the rooms in the castle, but it was fit for a woman of her standards in an inn. They'd done their best to make sure she was satisfied with the best that they could offer. Judging by the fact that this was not the first time she'd brought someone to this room, he supposed she was content with their efforts.
The first thing he noticed was the bed. He wondered what sort of business she conducted in this room; it inevitably strayed towards the common idea. He felt something akin to disgust build within his gut, but he suppressed it as he studied the room. Simple chairs and tables, a fire to keep the inhabitants warm, a bottle of red wine that he wasn't familiar with and a pale ale; simple, yet more care had been put into the room than any other inn he'd stayed at. But it was not for him.
He took a seat at the table as she brought him a glass of ale. His face wrinkled at what she expected from him; did other men go to such lengths to regain their manhood? He supposed he wouldn't let anything stand in his way if he were in the position. But no, that was not what he was here for. He again wondered how she'd take his request. Hopefully he had come to the right place, the right person. He held no understanding of the ways of sorceresses, so he had no idea if they even harbored the ability to do what he required.
"That is... That is not what I am here for," he started, gaze averting towards the flames. His brow furrowed as he pondered his words, opting to choose the best ones. He could not, however, betray the reasoning; that much was true. "I am unfamiliar with the capabilities of ones of your... likeness." He took a swig of the ale, hoping it would calm the anxiety that gnawed at his mind. He was usually confident and strong-willed in these types of conversations, but there was something about this woman, about the hidden dangers surrounding her, that made him overly cautious. "I need to contact someone, find someone. I need to know if you can do that much." His eyes slid back towards Esadora, waiting expectantly, hoping he wasn't wasting his time.
Last edited:
Melpomene
Writer of Tragedy|Art by ROYTHEART|
Maedor Taellaris
Maedor let his smile drop the moment Master Damaer left them.He had known from the moment the letter had reached him that this was an offer that was far too good to be true. The fact that no details of the predicament were disclosed should have been enough to tell him that he was facing an enemy whom he did not desire to be part of a dance with. The scales were very much tipped against him, and now his hands were bound to a new fate which he could not fight against. It was truly an unfortunate event. Maedor still struggled to understand what exactly had conspired, his heart still hammering against his ribcage, each thrum ringing powerfully in his ears. He could not will it to calm down, his body still shook. Many warriors called it the rush of battle, but he had felt something similar when he had been in long and painful medical procedures, whether he was bleeding someone or mixing an elixir, it was painful, but at the very least it was fruitful.
This, however, would bear him no fruits of labor. Or not enough to match the payment which he was being given. Instead, it may just leave him in a more painful position than he had originally been in.
Maedor said nothing for several long moments, instead he only pinched his nose and looked down, attempting to calm himself down. He was a doctor, a healer. A medicine man which provided herbs and other things to cure ailments. Never in his right mind would he have agreed to go on an assassination mission, much more than that, one which seemed to be nigh impossible with a woman who was known as the best in her class.
'What the fuck has happened?!' He finally managed to look up at the woman, his hand had fallen down to his side before he shook his head. In truth, he would like to think that all that had happened had been a wild ploy by the Gods to test his sanity. Perhaps he was like those patients he met who saw visions or heard things whispered in their ears despite them being all alone. He thought it was folly, curses which played tricks on the mind, yet now he was presented with an event which was so reaching, so groundbreaking that it seemed there was no way for it to exist in the realm of reality.
The plague ...
The entire reason he was there. If it had infiltrated the castle walls, then they had a chance, a certain hell of a chance. And if he had any chance to look far more closely at this calamity that had taken the kingdom, he would.
"Your master is a man that always gets what he wants," Maedor said as he took his flask out, taking a drink before they even went anywhere. He would be happily drinking much more after this night, however. He ran his hand through his hair. "Maybe some cad will be dripping with information, they all talk too much," he said as he slipped the flask back into his breast pocket. It was beginning to empty anyways, and now it was adding to the disappointment of the overall night. "We'll need to find a place that isn't abandoned. Mm... Let us go, do you know the closest town to here? Preferably one with a decent pub."
Esadora de Levoran
Esadora's eyebrow raised. She crossed one leg over the other, leaning her elbow against the armrest, her glass of wine sitting precariously between her fingers. In truth, it did surprise her, however, it was not something which she had not seen before. Certainly, she was the most popular with men when it came to impotence problems. Often times, people only came to her out of desperation. If it was not death, which she could not help with at all, it was often something which a medic could not do themselves. Esadora was more than happy to bring her expertise in to help. Women were not much different, though many of the richer ones came for cosmetic issues, hoping she could alter their appearance in the ways which they pleased. Those, she got in droves. However, the wish to find a missing person was something that came up less so.
Perhaps the person he wished to find was not even missing, however. There were many people that remained hidden within the confines of the shadows, never once showing their face to anyone who would report to a man such as he. That was the problem with so proudly wearing the badge of honor that was the armor of the crown guard, those who were not in a position of power could possibly hope to get the honest word of a man who feared him.
She tilted her head. Because now her night was getting to be far more fun. For who was it that this guard was so desperate to find that he was willing to come to a sorceress to do such a thing? He was not the first soldier, though others had been from far off lands. Soldiers, still, nonetheless, all knowing that it was against the law to communicate with a sorceress such as Aeren was doing now. Esadora took a long sip from her wine cup, once against recoiling at the taste but finding it much more palatable. It seemed to make her more respectable when she drank some form of alcohol versus the times in which she did not.
Esadora tapped her finger against her chin before she smiled. "It all depends, who is it that you have me looking for? If I deem them to be a real person, then likely I can find them. However, I shall not be chasing any figments or enigmas. For your sake as much as mine. So if you ask me to find the Monster of Thalonan Bay then I must decline because that is only a myth and it was nothing more than a large fish that has since been caught. However, I assume that you are a reasonable man and have come to me with a reasonable request which I can work with. Assuming that is the case, then I can say, with certainty, that I can find this person. Teleportation and location are some of my specialties." She leaned back in her chair and pursed her lips.
"But of course then there comes the question of will I. Which depends on who you are looking for. A fugitive who has committed many acts of murder? A kidnapped woman in need of her savior of a knight? I shall help you. But I am not a woman without integrity, and I will not help you simply harass and terrorize people for your own amusement. A woman who simply wished to live her life away from your friend or yourself? Some poor soul that has done nothing to earn your disrespect? I shall not. And then, of course, I suspect you already know who it is you wish to find and you already know whether I intend to take it or not. So, then comes the factor of payment. Do be sure to detail how you shall do such a thing, and then we can see how exactly I can go about locating your dear person."
(Note: I am sure to read everything ^^ and if you would like, you can take Roxii and Maedor to another location since it seems they are pretty much done with this one.)
Javax
The Shadow
The wolf-elf seethed at the healer's first words that filled the silence. Your master. The words did not sit well with the L'yrathi woman, and it angered her that Damaer had manipulated the situation to have the man believe that she was not her own master. Years of hard work, of building up her reputation by besting all who stood in her way, had just been whisked away by the wave of a hand. And here she was, standing before a relative stranger who believed that she was not the author of her own story, instead being ordered and pulled around like a puppet on strings. That she was under a master.
But was he wrong to believe as much? Master Damaer held the reins of the entire situation, including the mission placed before them. He'd ensnared the Shadow of Thiyalia, and now he held the lorethven's life in his hands as well. He'd strolled in, took everything that he wanted, and made sure everything went exactly as he wanted it to. Not to mention that he went to great lengths to make the velglorn look small beside him. Maedor believed Master Damaer owned the woman because of the facts presented before him. And it irritated her that there was nothing she could do about it, to disprove the man's notions regarding their relationship.
Roxii let out a slow breath before responding, "Thrakeld is not a far walk from here. The Spicy Frog sits on its main road, and it stands to be the only reason the small village has any population at all." The wassik-kesir turned on her heel and began leaving the abandoned home. "I suggest we get started right away," she called over her shoulder. If Maedor listened, he'd be able to hear the dissatisfied growl in her tone.
As the L'yrathi said, the walk to Thrakeld was not a long one. It was only an hour's trek from their meeting location, and the drizzle had steadily strengthened into a downpour that soaked the duo. Thunder rumbled above threateningly as they walked, filling the silence that passed between them. Despite the storm, the people of Thrakeld were still spending time outside. The blacksmith continued to hammer away at his anvil, the ringing of metal on metal battling the cracks of thunder that filled the sky. A trio of women stood on the porch of one of the houses, gossiping with each other as they wove together varying strands of thread. Two drunkards were interlocked, arm over the other's shoulder, as they bellowed some vulgar ballad. Children ran about carelessly, chasing each other and sparring with sticks like wannabe warriors.
She could feel a few pairs of eyes flick towards her as they approached, but none acted upon the curiosity that grew within them. They were not used to travelers, much less ones that looked at dark and suspicious as her, but they either noted the presence of the healer and deemed her harmless or were smart enough to not start a fight with a woman who bore numerous weapons.
Roxii and Maedor stepped around the singing drunks and entered the tavern finally, escaping the pouring rain that drenched them. Heads turned towards them when they entered, and their attention lingered longer than usual when they realized that the arrivals were strangers to Thrakeld. Though they soon returned to their conversations and drinks, she could still feel the inhabitants keep a close eye on them.
Only when they were in the safety of the building did the wolf-elf remove the hood upon her head. The cloth accessory did nothing to protect her from the rain, and her pitch black hair had been matted down by the water, making it impossible to see the natural waves and curls that her hair was normally styled. The fur on her wolfish ears stuck together in small clumps, and it made her half-torn ear look especially odd. She shook her head akin to that of a dog, flinging small droplets of rainwater.
The velglorn made her way to an empty table and sat down. A waitress immediately made her way over, after taking the order of the wolf-elf and the healer (if applicable), returned with a glass of whiskey and whatever the man ordered, if anything. She brought the glass to her lips and tossed her head back, allowing the alcohol to burn her throat as it went down. She grimaced at the pain, but it was a welcome one. As the waitress brought over another glass of whiskey, two sets of fingers pressed into Roxii's temples, trying to relieve the slight headache that pounded in her head. The encounter with Master Damaer rattled her, and the situation still didn't sit well with the rogue.
The blind assassin downed the next glass of whiskey similarly to the first and sent out a pulse of darkness. Her xiadin revealed to her the layout of the tavern and the current patrons. She whispered a spell as she sent out her magic, the simple utterance of "Shaur" that allowed her hearing to be amplified, strengthened by her shadow magic. If anyone began speaking about the rumors or something similar, she'd be able to hear it, even if it were in another room or just outside the tavern.
But was he wrong to believe as much? Master Damaer held the reins of the entire situation, including the mission placed before them. He'd ensnared the Shadow of Thiyalia, and now he held the lorethven's life in his hands as well. He'd strolled in, took everything that he wanted, and made sure everything went exactly as he wanted it to. Not to mention that he went to great lengths to make the velglorn look small beside him. Maedor believed Master Damaer owned the woman because of the facts presented before him. And it irritated her that there was nothing she could do about it, to disprove the man's notions regarding their relationship.
Roxii let out a slow breath before responding, "Thrakeld is not a far walk from here. The Spicy Frog sits on its main road, and it stands to be the only reason the small village has any population at all." The wassik-kesir turned on her heel and began leaving the abandoned home. "I suggest we get started right away," she called over her shoulder. If Maedor listened, he'd be able to hear the dissatisfied growl in her tone.
⟡ ⟡ ⟡
As the L'yrathi said, the walk to Thrakeld was not a long one. It was only an hour's trek from their meeting location, and the drizzle had steadily strengthened into a downpour that soaked the duo. Thunder rumbled above threateningly as they walked, filling the silence that passed between them. Despite the storm, the people of Thrakeld were still spending time outside. The blacksmith continued to hammer away at his anvil, the ringing of metal on metal battling the cracks of thunder that filled the sky. A trio of women stood on the porch of one of the houses, gossiping with each other as they wove together varying strands of thread. Two drunkards were interlocked, arm over the other's shoulder, as they bellowed some vulgar ballad. Children ran about carelessly, chasing each other and sparring with sticks like wannabe warriors.
She could feel a few pairs of eyes flick towards her as they approached, but none acted upon the curiosity that grew within them. They were not used to travelers, much less ones that looked at dark and suspicious as her, but they either noted the presence of the healer and deemed her harmless or were smart enough to not start a fight with a woman who bore numerous weapons.
Roxii and Maedor stepped around the singing drunks and entered the tavern finally, escaping the pouring rain that drenched them. Heads turned towards them when they entered, and their attention lingered longer than usual when they realized that the arrivals were strangers to Thrakeld. Though they soon returned to their conversations and drinks, she could still feel the inhabitants keep a close eye on them.
Only when they were in the safety of the building did the wolf-elf remove the hood upon her head. The cloth accessory did nothing to protect her from the rain, and her pitch black hair had been matted down by the water, making it impossible to see the natural waves and curls that her hair was normally styled. The fur on her wolfish ears stuck together in small clumps, and it made her half-torn ear look especially odd. She shook her head akin to that of a dog, flinging small droplets of rainwater.
The velglorn made her way to an empty table and sat down. A waitress immediately made her way over, after taking the order of the wolf-elf and the healer (if applicable), returned with a glass of whiskey and whatever the man ordered, if anything. She brought the glass to her lips and tossed her head back, allowing the alcohol to burn her throat as it went down. She grimaced at the pain, but it was a welcome one. As the waitress brought over another glass of whiskey, two sets of fingers pressed into Roxii's temples, trying to relieve the slight headache that pounded in her head. The encounter with Master Damaer rattled her, and the situation still didn't sit well with the rogue.
The blind assassin downed the next glass of whiskey similarly to the first and sent out a pulse of darkness. Her xiadin revealed to her the layout of the tavern and the current patrons. She whispered a spell as she sent out her magic, the simple utterance of "Shaur" that allowed her hearing to be amplified, strengthened by her shadow magic. If anyone began speaking about the rumors or something similar, she'd be able to hear it, even if it were in another room or just outside the tavern.
"You will receive supple payment for your time, don't you worry." He was relieved that she harbored the capabilities to contact and find people. Whether she'd be able to find the assassin was still unknown, but he was at least getting somewhere. The possibility of getting further in his mission was enough for him.
The knight pondered the possibility of finding Alannis' sister directly rather than going through the assassin, but he dismissed the idea almost immediately. Alannis' sister, he knew, was especially attuned to magic much like the Queen of Felnethyr. If the sorceress' spells even got close to the sister's own magic, she'd disappear further into solitude. Then it would be much more difficult to find the young woman. Queen Alannis didn't give him a set amount of time to complete his task, but she didn't need to. He knew that he didn't have all the time in the world to track the Vaneiros sister down and take her into custody.
"Your payment will consist of 400 golden talons, and in exchange..." He allowed himself to think over the request one more time, silently wondering if this would be worth the coin he'd be spending. The half-elf knew the queen would not be paying him back. Aerendal continued, "I ask that you help me find and contact the Shadow of Thiyalia." With the truth of his seeking Esadora out in the open, the High Commander had tensed slightly with something akin to anxiety, awaiting the sorceress' response to his request.
The knight pondered the possibility of finding Alannis' sister directly rather than going through the assassin, but he dismissed the idea almost immediately. Alannis' sister, he knew, was especially attuned to magic much like the Queen of Felnethyr. If the sorceress' spells even got close to the sister's own magic, she'd disappear further into solitude. Then it would be much more difficult to find the young woman. Queen Alannis didn't give him a set amount of time to complete his task, but she didn't need to. He knew that he didn't have all the time in the world to track the Vaneiros sister down and take her into custody.
"Your payment will consist of 400 golden talons, and in exchange..." He allowed himself to think over the request one more time, silently wondering if this would be worth the coin he'd be spending. The half-elf knew the queen would not be paying him back. Aerendal continued, "I ask that you help me find and contact the Shadow of Thiyalia." With the truth of his seeking Esadora out in the open, the High Commander had tensed slightly with something akin to anxiety, awaiting the sorceress' response to his request.
Last edited:
Melpomene
Writer of Tragedy|Art by ROYTHEART|
Maedor Taellaris
It was not a far walk, however, Maedor was not happy with the way the events had transpired, and the walk seemed to add insult to injury. He was a nobleman, a doctor, he did not walk through mud and filth, pushing himself through rain and bitter coldness just so that he was able to be warmed in the small confines of a tavern. In fact, he rarely found himself in pubs and taverns, preferring to stay in the homes of other nobleman or drink within his own home. It was truly an insult to his character to be found in such a place. But he could think of nowhere else to go now. But he sat down nonetheless, having the waitress bring him ale while he waited. He chose to slowly sip at his beverage as he watched the tavern with hooded lids. It was more common folk, of course, but they would have a better idea about the spread of the plague. No doubt, the assassin was attempting to figure out information in her own way, he decided to take a more direct approach and then see what their combined information could parse out together.
It began by him straining his ears. There were whispers of the plague, of course, but it was a rather grim subject to touch on when people were attempting to remain happy and ignorant to the world about them through their alcohol.
As the waitress came by again, he looked and offered a smile. “If it is not too much of a bother, I must ask you a question.”
The waitress visibly tenses, her eyes narrowed as she placed her fists on her hips, likely awaiting a lewd comment to be made. “Ye?”
“I am a healer, wiseman if you will, and I have come here because I heard there may be a problem with illness?” Maedor raised his brow as he leaned towards her. “I am not looking to make coin off of these people, miss, so do not worry about that. But I need a lead and I find it quite hard to simply walk up to people and ask and with you being who you are I figured you must have met plenty of people..”
The waitress’ shoulders drooped as she glanced around, first biting her lip and then dipping her head into a nod. “I have met plenty o’ people, yer right about that doctor. But I ain’t an expert in medicine or nothin’, so I can’t say a lot. But… Jenia has not been looking too well lately and them rumors of the other towns--”
Maedor raised his brows. “Does Jenia work here? Is she here now?” he asked.
The waitress grimaced and shook her head. “I… She hasn’t been showing up.” she admitted. “It worries me… It was after she decided to let that man touch her. I told her not to service ‘im but-- She ain’t a whore so don’t go decidin’ she just--”
“A woman does what she must, I get that.” Maedor conceded as he sat up, rubbing his chin. “Can you tell me anything about this man?”
“Can’t tell ya where he is from, I don’ know meself. But, he seemed rich. One of those pompous types.” Maedor pressed his fingers to his lips and then nodded, before he offered her a polite nod of the head and took out a few golden coins to hand to her.
“Mm. And do you mind telling me of all you hear about any… sickness?” She happily took the coins and nodded.
“I’ll do much more for ya for this type of coin, Master healer!.” He raised his hand.
“I only ask you tell me anything you know. And ask the cook to bring me the best stew he has.”
“Comin’ right up, master, I will keep ya informed.”
Maedor watched her leave before he turned back towards the assassin. “What of you? Anything?” he asked quietly.
Esadora de Levoran
Esadora rubbed her chin, her brows arching when the name was finally presented to her. The Shadow of Thiyalia. Very few had ever come to her with a request as bold as that. However, she was able to verify that the assassin certainly existed, while she was still only a simple servant of Master Gregor she had heard whispers of the woman. The woman was not cheap, nor was she easy to find if she did not wish to be. She was the greatest assassin that had emerged and many were even frightened to ask for her service. Esadora tapped her fingers against her thigh before she shrugged her fingers.
“You may be the strangest guard I have ever met in my life, Aeren. But if this is what you wish for then it is what you shall get. I would like a quarter of the earnings upfront, if you will, and the rest can come afterwards.” 400 golden talons was a good amount, even for a task such as this. Especially seeing as this would certainly be a lengthy search.
“I do hope you understand that this will not be something which is done… instantly, hm? Tracking someone such as her is much harder than most would know, as assassins tend to like to stay hidden. Without anything which belongs to her, it is hard for me to pinpoint exactly where she could be, but I can begin our search and I shall swear to stay on your side until the end of this search, as we may need to leave the town to do so. My only question to you, my dear guardsman, is if you are prepared to spend your next few months with a witch.” she leaned back, her hands resting in her lap, but her eyes were narrowed. She held no look of amusement on her face.
“I ask because I know even if you are desperate, that may be too much to ask of you. If it would trouble you to know I will be so close for the following months, then I recommend you walk through the doors now. And if you make any attempt on my life… well… that can be a discussion between you are your Gods as to why you are attempting to harm a woman who is helping you. Now, tell me, are you still interested in my help?”
Javax
The Shadow
"Is thatta L'yrathi?"
"What's that doin' 'ere?"
"They's nothin' but trouble."
Her uninjured ear twitched at the whispered insults but made no move to silence them. Roxii had grown used to the mutterings. Her race was few and far between, so being out in the open brought about unwanted attention. A select few were intrigued by the rare elvish anthropomorph, but most looked down on her with disdain. She was different, unusual, unnatural—she was comprised of muddied blood, and even humans considered her impure. A L'yrathi was not meant to be free, much less live freely in their own kingdom; no, she was meant to be in chains, catering to a master or laboring in a field with no rights nor freedoms.
But she ignored these hushed voices. They were afraid of the L'yrathi—their customs, their secrets, a living mystery. They were unusual, for they were not as barbaric as the humans nor as sophisticated as the elves nor as crafty as the dwarves. The L'yrathi were warriors and archers, but they were not militaristic. The L'yrathi were civilized, but they were not considered high society. The L'yrathi were blacksmiths and armorers, but they were not master forgers. They were artists. They were protectors. They were people. But, even now, not everyone agreed.
"I thought they all died?"
"Pests, they are. Still crawlin' outta the woodworks."
"Shouldn't be welcome 'ere."
The assassin pulled the hood back over her head and thought about the doctor sitting across from her. What did he think of her and her race? Was he in the majority, looking down upon her kind with disgust? Or was he included in the small few who only wished to learn more? It was difficult to tell. When she'd introduced herself to Maedor, he had no time to react to her appearance before he realized he was in a dangerous predicament, being approached by the Shadow of Thiyalia herself. Perhaps she'd learn sooner than later what he thought of her kind.
"No wonder the sickness is spreadin' 'ere."
"Shouldn't be lettin' strangers in 'ere no mo'."
"Them's the reason we're sufferin'."
A crease deepened across her forehead as her brow furrowed. The sickness... There was no doubt they were talking about the plague. It seemed that it had spread to their poor village, and judging by the hatred in their tone, a few of their own had already fallen ill. And as Maedor spoke to the waitress, the wolf-elf's suspicions were confirmed. The people of Thrakeld were protective of their small village from traveling strangers not only because of their close-mindedness, but because a recent visitor had brought pain to their small family. They were afraid that someone was out to destroy their village via an unseen weapon. They were cautious, and the velglorn could not blame them.
Maedor turned towards her after his direct approach towards acquiring information. They had not learned much, but it was a start towards something much larger. What was a nobleman doing in a shithole like this? Was he stopping while on a journey? Was he simply traveling and taking in the sights? Was he trying to find pleasure in secret? Roxii was irritated that no one bothered to find out who the stranger was, but there was something larger at work here.
"Nothing," she responded quietly. "Though this Jenia could have more information about this pompous stranger. Perhaps we can check in on the dear waitress' friend."
"What's that doin' 'ere?"
"They's nothin' but trouble."
Her uninjured ear twitched at the whispered insults but made no move to silence them. Roxii had grown used to the mutterings. Her race was few and far between, so being out in the open brought about unwanted attention. A select few were intrigued by the rare elvish anthropomorph, but most looked down on her with disdain. She was different, unusual, unnatural—she was comprised of muddied blood, and even humans considered her impure. A L'yrathi was not meant to be free, much less live freely in their own kingdom; no, she was meant to be in chains, catering to a master or laboring in a field with no rights nor freedoms.
But she ignored these hushed voices. They were afraid of the L'yrathi—their customs, their secrets, a living mystery. They were unusual, for they were not as barbaric as the humans nor as sophisticated as the elves nor as crafty as the dwarves. The L'yrathi were warriors and archers, but they were not militaristic. The L'yrathi were civilized, but they were not considered high society. The L'yrathi were blacksmiths and armorers, but they were not master forgers. They were artists. They were protectors. They were people. But, even now, not everyone agreed.
"I thought they all died?"
"Pests, they are. Still crawlin' outta the woodworks."
"Shouldn't be welcome 'ere."
The assassin pulled the hood back over her head and thought about the doctor sitting across from her. What did he think of her and her race? Was he in the majority, looking down upon her kind with disgust? Or was he included in the small few who only wished to learn more? It was difficult to tell. When she'd introduced herself to Maedor, he had no time to react to her appearance before he realized he was in a dangerous predicament, being approached by the Shadow of Thiyalia herself. Perhaps she'd learn sooner than later what he thought of her kind.
"No wonder the sickness is spreadin' 'ere."
"Shouldn't be lettin' strangers in 'ere no mo'."
"Them's the reason we're sufferin'."
A crease deepened across her forehead as her brow furrowed. The sickness... There was no doubt they were talking about the plague. It seemed that it had spread to their poor village, and judging by the hatred in their tone, a few of their own had already fallen ill. And as Maedor spoke to the waitress, the wolf-elf's suspicions were confirmed. The people of Thrakeld were protective of their small village from traveling strangers not only because of their close-mindedness, but because a recent visitor had brought pain to their small family. They were afraid that someone was out to destroy their village via an unseen weapon. They were cautious, and the velglorn could not blame them.
Maedor turned towards her after his direct approach towards acquiring information. They had not learned much, but it was a start towards something much larger. What was a nobleman doing in a shithole like this? Was he stopping while on a journey? Was he simply traveling and taking in the sights? Was he trying to find pleasure in secret? Roxii was irritated that no one bothered to find out who the stranger was, but there was something larger at work here.
"Nothing," she responded quietly. "Though this Jenia could have more information about this pompous stranger. Perhaps we can check in on the dear waitress' friend."
The elven commander allowed the corners of his mouth to curve upwards into an amused smirk. He was sure it was an interesting conversation thus far: an ornately decorated knight, though unnamed, coming willingly to a sorceress of all people to request her aid in finding a deadly assassin. There was no doubt she wondered who he wanted assassinated, for why else would he want to get in touch with a killer-for-hire? But he held no desire to share his plans with this woman. Once she led him to the Shadow, she would be given her payment and could do with what she willed. Far away from him, hopefully.
His amused smirk faltered at her explanation. Aerendal didn't expect the sorceress to be able to find the assassin immediately but months? He hoped she was planning for the worst case scenario and not that it would be a few months at the minimum. If this search for the assassin would take such a long time, how much longer before the Shadow found the woman? The High Commander did not want to know what Queen Alannis would say when he told her it would be a few more months before he would be able to bring her the traitorous Vaneiros sister. Perhaps he should ask Esadora to find the woman directly...
Aeren mirrored the sorceress' narrowed gaze as she stated the obvious. He would have to be by her side throughout the course of this search, that much he knew, but now that he knew it would be so long, he was questioning his longterm sanity. Would he be able to endure the woman's presence for such a prolonged period of time? He supposed he would have to; he'd been subjected to worse situations. Sorceresses and witches were not his allies, but he feared the wrath of Queen Alannis far more than the silver-tongued woman sitting before him.
The knight let out a soft sigh and fished for his coin pouch. He leaned forward and set the pouch upon the table, the coins clinking together and singing a song no one could resist. His answer. "I will give you 150 now," he spoke coolly. "I've no notion of the complications, but if you happen to speed up the process, you will receive a bonus. Otherwise, you will receive the original amount." He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. "I am afraid that time is rather precious to me."
His amused smirk faltered at her explanation. Aerendal didn't expect the sorceress to be able to find the assassin immediately but months? He hoped she was planning for the worst case scenario and not that it would be a few months at the minimum. If this search for the assassin would take such a long time, how much longer before the Shadow found the woman? The High Commander did not want to know what Queen Alannis would say when he told her it would be a few more months before he would be able to bring her the traitorous Vaneiros sister. Perhaps he should ask Esadora to find the woman directly...
Aeren mirrored the sorceress' narrowed gaze as she stated the obvious. He would have to be by her side throughout the course of this search, that much he knew, but now that he knew it would be so long, he was questioning his longterm sanity. Would he be able to endure the woman's presence for such a prolonged period of time? He supposed he would have to; he'd been subjected to worse situations. Sorceresses and witches were not his allies, but he feared the wrath of Queen Alannis far more than the silver-tongued woman sitting before him.
The knight let out a soft sigh and fished for his coin pouch. He leaned forward and set the pouch upon the table, the coins clinking together and singing a song no one could resist. His answer. "I will give you 150 now," he spoke coolly. "I've no notion of the complications, but if you happen to speed up the process, you will receive a bonus. Otherwise, you will receive the original amount." He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. "I am afraid that time is rather precious to me."
Last edited:
Melpomene
Writer of Tragedy|Art by ROYTHEART|
Maedor Taellaris
Maedor crossed his arms as he chanced a look around the tavern, his mouth on the lip of his cup. It was hard to discern if anyone among them suffered from the plague. Especially if it had only just been introduced. The symptoms came hard and fast when they showed, but before then from what Maedor had seen they showed themselves almost randomly. For all they knew they could be stewing in it at that very moment. Maedor took a sip of his drink before he leaned back and crossed his arms. It would be a long night, that much was for certain. He turned back to the woman sitting across from him. A L'yrathi, he came to realize once again. His musings would do him no good now. Though he felt a certain interest and want to study such a creature, the scholar he was, but for now he knew it was far from the time to begin grilling her with questions that would likely come across as far too personal. If she killed him for a slight then it would certainly be a bitter end for him to endure."Jenia certainly should..." If she was ill then it was to their benefit to find her quickly. The plague struck in mysterious ways. For all they knew she could be walking on the brink of death now. Maedor frowned deeply. "He shouldn't have been anywhere if he carried the plague with him. It would have been getting difficult to even move unless he simply wanted to spread it out of spite alone. I wouldn't put it past some of the people I know to do that, I have to admit." What he did not wish to do was scare her with their presence, however, because that could end up doing more harm than good.
He turned back to the L'yrathi, his mouth curved into a frown.
No matter how he looked at it, she was truly quite frightening. With her hood up she reminded him of the depictions of death. Even if she was small in stature, there was something about her that made it all the more unpleasant. More than just being a L'yrathi, she was an assassin and the air around her seemed to all but confirm that face. She could drive him through with a sword in a moment's notice and he would be helpless to stop it from happening. He doubted he was the only one who felt it. Most were unnerved by the fact she was not human or elvish or dwarf but rather a muddied mixture. Adding her appearance, adding the fact none could see her eyes, it just made for all the more pain.
"I don't think fear will get the responses we want from her. I want to keep her lucid. I want to try to heal her and lessen the pain she is in. I can speak to her while I do that. Leave that part to me. The man she had seen, well... I doubt he will be swayed by good intentions. But her, leave her to me. I would even ask if you could keep to the shadows when I speak to her? You are a bit... eh... I don't wish to sound rude, but you are a bit frightening and I would like her to not be unnerved even more than she likely already is."
He steepled his fingers together. "In the end, however, I would say we should tread lightly. Perhaps no one questioned him, but I have a feeling he is an individual that does not wish to be trifled with. This entire occurrence is odd enough already, I feel his motives behind his stop must be equally as odd. Would you agree?"
Esadora de Levoran
Esadora did not touch the coin pouch yet. Her eyes remained locked on the commander that sat across from her. She crossed her arms solidly over her chest as she regarded him with a soft frown that would not leave her lips. In truth, she was beginning to doubt the idea that he could possibly hold out with her for so long. Perhaps that was why he demanded she speeds up her process. He could not possibly remain in such close contact with a witch for so long without feeling the unbridled urge to drag her by the hair to a stake and tie her up before setting it aflame. If he could do that, perhaps he would. Esadora crossed her arms tighter over her chest. And he would likely go as far to burn down any place that dared to house her, and anyone that dared to speak to her. That would be his wish if he was able to. But he needed her, and more than that, Esadora was no longer a little girl who would be generously awaiting for him to drag her away. And luckily he knew that."I can make the attempt, Aeren," Esadora finally said. "But you must know that magic is an art form. It cannot be rushed lest you end up with tarnishes in the spell. I am going with no connection, no clue, nothing to find someone who may not want to be found. It is a process, I assure you. These months should not be spent in the same place, I will lead you to this shadow the best I can, but the thread which I shall forge to get there will be weak and hard to maintain. I implore you to understand that I shall be working my best to find the Shadow, but I do need you to be patient while I do so."
Esadora brought her hand to her hair and gently pushed it off her neck. It was beginning to grow too heated in the room for her. "I must also mention the offering of money will not make me work faster. I will already be working as quickly as I can, to think I am so in need of money that I would purposely hold back is quite the insult." she narrowed her eyes. "I am an artists, a magician, not a whore. Jingling coins before my eyes is not necessary." Then she took the pouch into her hands and placed it at her hip before nodding to him. "So, let us keep this professional, hm? I charge a set amount, should I reach complications they will be my problem and not yours, keep your money. You'll need it when we find this elusive shadow anyways-- they do not offer their services for cheap from what I have heard."
Then finally Esadora offered her usual smile. "Until then, I invite you to stay in my manor." Technically it was Master Gregor's, but he always relented in letting her bring guests over, especially if they were clients. "We have a nice guest room which I think you will find most welcoming. I like to keep my clients close for things like this in case I need more information or believe we must move as quickly as possible so I don't have to waste time and energy attempting to find you. You shall be treated as an honorable guest in my home until we have to leave, which will likely be tomorrow on the morn, I admit, to begin going towards this shadow."
Last edited:
Javax
The Shadow
The wolf-elf hummed in slight satisfaction at the healer's words. "You are a bit frightening..." The man's reluctant confession made a familiar sense of pride build up within her. The air of death surrounding her was not something she'd acquired in a day. Her armor and concealments were expensive, forged by skilled armorers and smiths with plenty to keep in mind. Combining qualities that offered stealth and protection was something that was far from easy, and thus the price was high. It took many contracts before she could afford even the breeches. Not to mention the fact that the disguised cane in her grip was worth nearly her weight in gold by itself. Exquisite craftsmanship that came from the most skilled blacksmith in the land, a Thiyalian that had been unusually difficult to find even with her vast knowledge.
And then there came the topic of her reputation. Having proven to be a child prodigy at the ripe age of twelve summers old, it did not take long for the people to give a name to their fears: a skilled killer that was—and is—as untraceable and elusive as a shadow. Roxii has expanded upon this discovery, building upon her reputation as a formidable foe for the past fourteen years. Her prestige as a successful assassin was a hard-earned title, and it made her feel delighted when all that hard work paid off.
Yet now it worked against her. Maedor was right; the ill woman would clam up the moment she set eyes on the blind L'yrathi, and they would not be able to extract any sort of information from her. For their benefit, she would have to let the lorethven take the reins. Perhaps if they found the passing stranger, Roxii could take hold of the situation and employ her own tactics, but until then she'd have to trust that Maedor would be able to secure results.
"Mm..." Though she was skeptical to allow this man she'd just met a little over an hour ago to dive head first into attaining more information, the velglorn knew that he was their best bet. However, she'd be lying if she said she wasn't wary about the man. She'd just have to hope that he valued his life enough to not compromise their mission. "Very well, Maedor. I trust you are more fitted to tackle this opportunity."
She leaned back into her own chair as he spoke of the stranger. Indeed, there was something odd about his visit to the middle-of-nowhere village. A carrier of the sickness should've been quarantined or put to death, if necessary. It was unlikely the stranger didn't know what he carried. There were too many questions to be answered before deciding what the stranger's motives were. But they would find out soon enough. "It is indeed odd," she answered. "The stranger will be mine when we find him."
And then there came the topic of her reputation. Having proven to be a child prodigy at the ripe age of twelve summers old, it did not take long for the people to give a name to their fears: a skilled killer that was—and is—as untraceable and elusive as a shadow. Roxii has expanded upon this discovery, building upon her reputation as a formidable foe for the past fourteen years. Her prestige as a successful assassin was a hard-earned title, and it made her feel delighted when all that hard work paid off.
Yet now it worked against her. Maedor was right; the ill woman would clam up the moment she set eyes on the blind L'yrathi, and they would not be able to extract any sort of information from her. For their benefit, she would have to let the lorethven take the reins. Perhaps if they found the passing stranger, Roxii could take hold of the situation and employ her own tactics, but until then she'd have to trust that Maedor would be able to secure results.
"Mm..." Though she was skeptical to allow this man she'd just met a little over an hour ago to dive head first into attaining more information, the velglorn knew that he was their best bet. However, she'd be lying if she said she wasn't wary about the man. She'd just have to hope that he valued his life enough to not compromise their mission. "Very well, Maedor. I trust you are more fitted to tackle this opportunity."
She leaned back into her own chair as he spoke of the stranger. Indeed, there was something odd about his visit to the middle-of-nowhere village. A carrier of the sickness should've been quarantined or put to death, if necessary. It was unlikely the stranger didn't know what he carried. There were too many questions to be answered before deciding what the stranger's motives were. But they would find out soon enough. "It is indeed odd," she answered. "The stranger will be mine when we find him."
Though her words were smooth, there was a certain venom in Esadora's words that made the hairs on his arms stand on end. He'd struck a nerve, and though any other time would've brought a particular satisfaction to him, this was not one of those times. Angering and insulting those of her nature was something he'd done in the past to test the waters, to evaluate their mental weak points to figure out how to best bring them to justice. It was what he did as a loyal knight to the crown. But he needed this witch, no matter how terrible the words tasted on his tongue. He needed her help, and there was no way he could hope to accomplish his task in a timely manner on his own.
Aerendal kept his facial features lax, thankful that she hadn't lost her temper with his unmannerly behavior and told him to shove it. She remained calm and cordial, the behavior of a Lady, which made him question the woman's origin. Where exactly did she come from to be so formal, so in control of the conversation? Was she a noble? A high-born? Was she a peasant who used her powers to her advantage, the culture of nobility having rubbed off on her over the years? How old was she, and how much did she know?
"I invite you to stay in my manor." He managed to prevent any sort of disgust from twisting his features. The High Commander listened to her reasoning and deemed it necessary. This would be the first step to spending time with this witch. If he could not endure being in close proximity to her in her own home, albeit in a separate quarters from her altogether, then he could not hope to travel with her for the duration of their mission. The knight would have to deal with the situation. No matter how much he hated the truth, the fact that he was putting aside his knightly duties—more than that, he was going against them—, they were all for a good cause: to serve his Queen, Her Majesty.
He would endure this for her and for the task that she bestowed upon him.
Aeren allowed a kind smile to grace his lips and bowed his head thoughtfully. "Your hospitality is greatly appreciated, m'Lady Esadora. I apologize if seemed... forward. The road has been long and hard, and time is not on my side." It was not a complete lie. Time was of the essence, and every second wasted was a lost opportunity. But he also couldn't tell her that he hated her, hated her kind, hated the unnaturalness of her power. It still made his skin crawl, but he maintained the kind smile and soft features of a tired knight, one who simply needed help from a generous sorceress.
Aerendal kept his facial features lax, thankful that she hadn't lost her temper with his unmannerly behavior and told him to shove it. She remained calm and cordial, the behavior of a Lady, which made him question the woman's origin. Where exactly did she come from to be so formal, so in control of the conversation? Was she a noble? A high-born? Was she a peasant who used her powers to her advantage, the culture of nobility having rubbed off on her over the years? How old was she, and how much did she know?
"I invite you to stay in my manor." He managed to prevent any sort of disgust from twisting his features. The High Commander listened to her reasoning and deemed it necessary. This would be the first step to spending time with this witch. If he could not endure being in close proximity to her in her own home, albeit in a separate quarters from her altogether, then he could not hope to travel with her for the duration of their mission. The knight would have to deal with the situation. No matter how much he hated the truth, the fact that he was putting aside his knightly duties—more than that, he was going against them—, they were all for a good cause: to serve his Queen, Her Majesty.
He would endure this for her and for the task that she bestowed upon him.
Aeren allowed a kind smile to grace his lips and bowed his head thoughtfully. "Your hospitality is greatly appreciated, m'Lady Esadora. I apologize if seemed... forward. The road has been long and hard, and time is not on my side." It was not a complete lie. Time was of the essence, and every second wasted was a lost opportunity. But he also couldn't tell her that he hated her, hated her kind, hated the unnaturalness of her power. It still made his skin crawl, but he maintained the kind smile and soft features of a tired knight, one who simply needed help from a generous sorceress.
Last edited:
Melpomene
Writer of Tragedy|Art by ROYTHEART|
Maedor Taellaris
Maedor let out a soft sigh of relief upon hearing that she would be fine with holding back while he talked, it would simply be better. Maedor has spent most of his life engaging with both the healthy and the sick from all walks of life. A barmaid, especially one which may act as a prostitute as well in order to make ends meet tended to be cautious and suspicious of everyone they come across. Which made it all the more suspicious that this man had come into the town and had been so easily taken in by this woman. If anything, he must have been a persuasive individual. And dangerous, if he was not already dead, that was. The plague tended to move fast, taking someone's life swiftly, though not cleanly. The fact he had the strength to walk through towns either was an ode to his own willpower or to his ability to ward off the sickness. It was, perhaps, that he was one of the ones that slowly beat it. It was an odd case, he found, that those who had fallen ill to the plague before seemed to be unable to get it again, however, he was unsure exactly how it spread. The religious claimed it was due to sin and uncleanliness of the soul. It was a harbinger of the demon being locked away in someone's body. Perhaps the plague was caused by some form of uncleanliness, he did find it quite disgusting the few baths some people would take and the lack of boiled water. The plague followed by dysentery was one of the worst things he had to treat.
"You can have him..." Maedor said quietly. "Assuming his soul has not left his stench yet. However, I am sure if it hasn't you shall make him wish it." He felt his lip slightly twitch up. Perhaps he would like to watch her deal with such a man that would be so uncaring that he would bring the plague unto this town. As that was all he could think, as there seemed no point to do it out of malice, so he could have only done it out of a lack of care. Which, in Maedor's opinion, was worse. "Let us pay a visit to Jenia," he said as he tossed some coins on to the table and waved the barmaid over once again. He knew the woman would be willing, knowing that her friend's life was on the line.
After he put a few more coins on the table he stood, luckily the stew had kept the alcohol form going to his head, leaving him perfectly ready to perform any medical procedure on the poor girl that awaited them. It was not long before they stood before an ill-constructed cottage, it seemed to be ready to collapse the moment the wind blew the wrong way. Maedor pressed his lips together, but he soon rapped his knuckles against the rough wood as a cat mewed before hopping from the window sill. It was yellow and mangy flicking its tail in the air, likely covered in flees.
It took a few moments, but eventually, the door creaked open and a dark haired woman poked her head out of the door, her bright green eyes seemed to have too much of a shine too them as she darted her gaze around before her eyes finally landed on Maedor. For a moment she looked like she was going to pull herself back in.
"I'm a doctor-- a healer. I heard you have been ill," Maedor said quickly as he continued to keep his distance, simply bowing his head. "It would be no cost to you, I have just come to help."
She looked suspicious. Or rather dazed, her thin and cracked lips opening and closing incomprehensibly as her body shook with efford.
She bit her lip. Her face looked gaunt and the fingers which gripped her door so harshly looked frail. Her fingernails had been broken and fractured in so many places that it seemed an animal had bitten at them. Perhaps one of the mice had, for all Maedor knew. He stepped closer, but before he could do anything she had slipped forward. It was lucky that he had caught her before she hit the ground. Her pallor was grey, though Maedor could tell she was usually fair. She looked thin and as though she could barely keep herself up doing so little. Patches of her hair had fallen out and scabs and sores had opened on her skin and face. The puss-filled pockets on her flesh were painful, he knew. It was aggressive in her.
"Shit," he grunted as he pulled her close to him. If he was going to get the plague he would have already been suffering from it now. So he held her close as he walked her back into her house. It was a quaint place, small, a single hearth in the middle, a bed on the side with a singular chair as the only other furniture. There were certainly mice, Maedor could see that much. He wrinkled his nose as he brought her to her bed and pushed her into it, simply turning back to check his jacket and bag for his medical supplies. "She doesn't have much time." he pulled his herbs out and began to pour them into a cup before he looked up. "Heat my tools in the fire, will you? Keep them there until they are piping hot," He asked the Shadow, not paying enough attention to feel tension at ordering the well-known assassin
All he knew was this woman was in need of help.
Esadora de Levoran
Esadora felt her lip twitch up into a smirk as she leaned back. His apology was warranted, and she especially loved seeing people like him eventually capitulate to her. She could not deny that his being a knight, a commander, it made him a target for her in a near unfair way. It did not matter what he came to her for now, she knew he probably felt some burning hatred for her, some type of twisted perversion which would bring him to see the intense pleasure in watching her body get mangled and burned upon the stake. He was the type of man who would look at her now, would see her beauty and her and her elegance and they would feel the stir within their bodies and their chest and then they would come back and they would get rid of it by burning the cause of their unnatural urges by destroying the unnatural power which was created. Esadora tilted her head back, bringing her chin up as she shook the thought from her head. He was in her clutches now. He was walking in the palm of her hand no matter what he wanted. "Good," she murmured as she stood, carefully tossing her black hair off of her pale shoulder as she carefully smoothed down the creases in her dress. She stepped forward beckoning him to stand as well before she turned to the door. "Now, I believe we should go back to my manor before the it gets too late. The night here is dark and I think you'll find my manor much more welcoming than an Inn. Come, I will make sure the guest room is up to standards for you." She was thankful she had convinced Master Gregor to get the manor with three bedrooms rather than only two. She could still sleep in peace.
"Petyr!" she called. Her guard opened the door, his bulking body partially in the room as he looked upon the both of them. Upon seeing there was no trouble, he simply nodded his head in acknowledgment. "This strapping young man shall be coming back with us--"
Petyr let out a grunt of discontent as he narrowed his eyes. But he then nodded. Esadora smiled and she began to walk.
Her manor was large. Though, it was technically in the name of Master Gregor. But all the servants, in truth, knew that it was only Esadora that could give the orders, and if Esadora wished something to be stopped then it would be. It was only Esadora who would deal punishments, and it was only Esadora who could truly reward. They prefered her, anyways. She was less heavy-handed and did not give out beatings. She did not need to give out beatings to make people respect her, unlike Master Gregor.
It was a large estate, coming to two stories with a large garden in front. The foliage was dense, flowers and bushes lining the cobblestone walkway. Most of the lights were off except for one. The walls were made out of fine white marble and the door of fine mahogany. It was only the best. Esadora stepped forward, as she sighed, pushing the door open. The inside was just as rich, leading them into a large room with a fireplace which was already lit, and large chairs sat around it. On the ground laid a bearskin rug. In one of the chairs was an older man, his dark hair beginning to grey and his body wrapped in a fine silk robe. He looked up the moment they entered.
"Esadora?" he asked quietly, then his eyes switched to Aeren as he frowned. Though he soon stood. His face was clean-shaven, though it was obvious he was not the young man he had once been. "Who is this?"
"A client," Esadora said shortly as she waved Aeren in. "One which you shall not bother--"
"I believe I can bother whoever is in my estate as much as I wish to." Esadora rolled her eyes as she slipped her feet from her heels, setting them to the side and turned to Aeren.
"Set your boots there, dear, someone will polish them before--"
"Who--?"
"Calm down, Gregor," she said as she ran her fingers over his chest, smiling as she let her fingers trace up to his neck and then his chin, tickling him beneath it. "He is just a client, you know my favorite time is spent with you," she murmured. "Just let me show him to his room."
Gregor seemed calmed, enraptured once again as he brushed his finger over her cheek. He would be fine until they left, Esadora knew. As long as she let him come to her room every once and awhile to calm his nerves. "Tonight?" he asked quietly.
"Of course," she purred. "Now Aeren, come here. Let's see your room, hm? It's just up stairs. Would you like us to bring you any food or drink while you stay?" Esadora said as she began walking up the stairs, briefly stopping. "Even new clothes, we can get you anything you may need."
Javax
The Shadow
She didn't miss the smirk that tugged at Maedor's lips. No doubt due to the sadistic thoughts that ran through his mind. She'd seen many with that same look, on both the murderers and the avengers, the "good" and the "evil." Everyone found some sort of comfort in bringing pain to others, whether they deserved it or not. It mattered not, since they always thought the receiver deserved the pain they received. That was why Roxii didn't believe in such uniform ideas of "good" or "evil." Everyone walked a gray area; some just happened to be toeing the edge of insanity whilst others stretched out for holy halos that would never be theirs. That was why Roxii felt no remorse for ripping the lives from nobles and their guardsmen and, on occasion, simple civilians.
The velglorn took the third glass of whiskey that she'd neglected and tossed it back. After setting the glass down and her own payment for her drinks, Roxii stood with the man. It wasn't until she'd fully rose that she felt the effects of the alcohol in her system. A lightweight at heart, she knew, but it never stopped her. Even without her eyesight, her mind swayed. But a frequent visitor of inns and bars and taverns such as she had grown accustomed to the effects of alcohol. So much so that she'd become a master of suppressing the disorienting effects. She was still able to stand up and walk in a straight line, and it was difficult to discern whether the rogue had drank anything at all. Though her senses had been dulled, she made sure to be aware of their surroundings. She still allowed it to numb her anxieties and anger towards the present situation. A welcome anesthetic.
When they'd arrived at Jenia's home, Roxii made good on her word. She stepped to the side, leaning against the side of the house away from the window and door. If Jenia or anyone else peered outside, they would not be able to see the shadowy assassin, and that would be how it'd stay unless the the situation called for her. As she waited for someone to answer the healer's rapping, Roxii mused whether she'd be able to knock the house down if she pushed hard enough. She dared not try, however, in case her musings became reality.
And then the door opened. The L'yrathi was taken aback by how vicious the sickness was in this woman. She'd kept her distance from those who were positive or even questionable cases for fear of contracting the illness herself. As such, she'd never seen the symptoms up close before. The wolf-elf had seen many disturbing things—from scattered, disembodied parts to decomposing corpses—and it was no secret that she was the cause of a number of them. But there was something nauseating about the numerous open wounds on a woman who was still breathing. It was like watching the process of decay whilst the person was still conscious. A chill swept through the assassin.
Roxii followed the lorethven inside, deciding that this was a situation that called for her. If anything, Jenia wouldn't be conscious enough to know who the woman was anyways, if she ever opened her eyes again. The wassik-kesir kept her distance as she monitored Maedor's actions. He held the girl close, and a thought hit her. This man was in nearly constant contact with those carrying the plague. It was highly contagious, thus why those who'd contracted the illness were actively avoided. So why did this doctor, this strange man that Master Damaer had selectively picked, not contract the sickness already? What was so special about him that the plague could not infect him as it did others?
The blind woman was broken out of her thoughts by the healer's orders. Though any other time she would've snapped at the man, the alcohol from earlier and the present circumstances had blown any attitude she'd had out the window. There was a familiar sense of anger in the pit of her stomach, but it wasn't enough to act upon. So instead, she nodded and rummaged through his belongings until she'd found his tools. Deft fingers worked at the hearth as she brought the dying embers backs to a dancing fire. She held them over the flames and sent out some of her shadows. Some of them wrapped themselves around the tools, feeling the heat to let her know when they were "piping hot" as the lorethven requested. The others watched Maedor as he worked, allowing Roxii the watch the man work his magic. Some of the tendrils she sent out collided with small rodents, scurrying through the shadows. Her darkness prodded them with their cold fingers and guided the rats where she wanted them, forcing them through the holes they'd emerged from until they were out of the house entirely. No need to have them disturb their efforts and the dying woman.
Saving a woman she didn't know was rather odd for the shadowy assassin. Though she supposed she wasn't exactly the one doing the saving, she was still helping this man. It still felt weird, working alongside someone whose goals strongly differed from her own. She wondered if it was just an effect of the alcohol; perhaps it had softened her emotions. Or perhaps it was just the fact that the woman held information—information that was dear to them, that would aid them in completing their mission so that they could part ways sooner. She settled on the latter possibility.
Once the metal had heated enough, Roxii brought the tools over the Maedor. She waited patiently, curious to see how skilled this man actually was in the arts of medicine.
The velglorn took the third glass of whiskey that she'd neglected and tossed it back. After setting the glass down and her own payment for her drinks, Roxii stood with the man. It wasn't until she'd fully rose that she felt the effects of the alcohol in her system. A lightweight at heart, she knew, but it never stopped her. Even without her eyesight, her mind swayed. But a frequent visitor of inns and bars and taverns such as she had grown accustomed to the effects of alcohol. So much so that she'd become a master of suppressing the disorienting effects. She was still able to stand up and walk in a straight line, and it was difficult to discern whether the rogue had drank anything at all. Though her senses had been dulled, she made sure to be aware of their surroundings. She still allowed it to numb her anxieties and anger towards the present situation. A welcome anesthetic.
When they'd arrived at Jenia's home, Roxii made good on her word. She stepped to the side, leaning against the side of the house away from the window and door. If Jenia or anyone else peered outside, they would not be able to see the shadowy assassin, and that would be how it'd stay unless the the situation called for her. As she waited for someone to answer the healer's rapping, Roxii mused whether she'd be able to knock the house down if she pushed hard enough. She dared not try, however, in case her musings became reality.
And then the door opened. The L'yrathi was taken aback by how vicious the sickness was in this woman. She'd kept her distance from those who were positive or even questionable cases for fear of contracting the illness herself. As such, she'd never seen the symptoms up close before. The wolf-elf had seen many disturbing things—from scattered, disembodied parts to decomposing corpses—and it was no secret that she was the cause of a number of them. But there was something nauseating about the numerous open wounds on a woman who was still breathing. It was like watching the process of decay whilst the person was still conscious. A chill swept through the assassin.
Roxii followed the lorethven inside, deciding that this was a situation that called for her. If anything, Jenia wouldn't be conscious enough to know who the woman was anyways, if she ever opened her eyes again. The wassik-kesir kept her distance as she monitored Maedor's actions. He held the girl close, and a thought hit her. This man was in nearly constant contact with those carrying the plague. It was highly contagious, thus why those who'd contracted the illness were actively avoided. So why did this doctor, this strange man that Master Damaer had selectively picked, not contract the sickness already? What was so special about him that the plague could not infect him as it did others?
The blind woman was broken out of her thoughts by the healer's orders. Though any other time she would've snapped at the man, the alcohol from earlier and the present circumstances had blown any attitude she'd had out the window. There was a familiar sense of anger in the pit of her stomach, but it wasn't enough to act upon. So instead, she nodded and rummaged through his belongings until she'd found his tools. Deft fingers worked at the hearth as she brought the dying embers backs to a dancing fire. She held them over the flames and sent out some of her shadows. Some of them wrapped themselves around the tools, feeling the heat to let her know when they were "piping hot" as the lorethven requested. The others watched Maedor as he worked, allowing Roxii the watch the man work his magic. Some of the tendrils she sent out collided with small rodents, scurrying through the shadows. Her darkness prodded them with their cold fingers and guided the rats where she wanted them, forcing them through the holes they'd emerged from until they were out of the house entirely. No need to have them disturb their efforts and the dying woman.
Saving a woman she didn't know was rather odd for the shadowy assassin. Though she supposed she wasn't exactly the one doing the saving, she was still helping this man. It still felt weird, working alongside someone whose goals strongly differed from her own. She wondered if it was just an effect of the alcohol; perhaps it had softened her emotions. Or perhaps it was just the fact that the woman held information—information that was dear to them, that would aid them in completing their mission so that they could part ways sooner. She settled on the latter possibility.
Once the metal had heated enough, Roxii brought the tools over the Maedor. She waited patiently, curious to see how skilled this man actually was in the arts of medicine.
There was something predatory about the smirk that adorned her lips and the gaze that pierced through him. It reminded him of a panther stalking its prey, playing with its food before killing it so as to get some sort of enjoyment out of the day. His icy blue eyes felt like nothing compared to the violet ones that gazed back.
He stood and followed the sorceress, watching her guard—Petyr, he'd learned his name to be—with a wary gaze. They led him away, and he took note of the many hateful glares that were cast his way from the left-behind patrons. But they were forgotten when he set eyes on the woman's manor. He hadn't expected such an exquisite home. It was nothing compared to the beauty of the castle in Felnethyr, but it had a certain elegance that made him form some semblance of respect for the sorceress. Aerendal knew that he was being led to a manor of some kind, but he'd expected something much more... modest from a woman of her kind. He wondered if it was something she'd earned, or if it were something that she'd acquired through more questionable means.
When they stepped inside, he immediately took note of the other inhabitant. An older gentleman, gray hairs beginning to outnumber the darker ones. As the man gave Aeren a frown and displeased glare, the High Commander came to realize that this manor was not Esadora's at all. Not by right, at least. The man, Gregor, was obviously a nobleman, and he was definitely under the spell of the de Levoran woman's charm. He tried to excise his power over his household and Esadora, but Aeren didn't need to see much more to know that it was the raven-haired woman who ran things. The knight was all for powerful women ruling—the sole ruler of Felnethyr was a woman, after all—but it was fairly uncommon. To see a female ruling over the manor was somewhat unsettling, and he had no idea how to come to terms with this information.
The tension between the angry Gregor and the dismissive Esadora made Aeren... uncomfortable. He felt like a child who'd visited a friend's home unannounced, feeling the parent's indirect anger pierce through him. Though the situation wasn't exactly the same—Esadora definitely wasn't a friend, and Gregor didn't share her qualities to be her parent—he was hesitant in his actions so as not to anger the man further. Though the sorceress seemed to have control over the home, Gregor was technically the head of the manor. As such, Aerendal was obligated to respect the man.
But Esadora regained control of the man with a simple touch. He visibly calmed, and Aeren remembered how powerful this woman he'd hired actually was. He also remembered who he should fear. The knight removed his boots, setting them neatly next to the door before following the violet-eyed woman. She inquired of any needs he may have, and though he hadn't eaten anything, there were too many anxieties within him to keep anything down. So he settled for something that would soothe him instead. "Some water would be appreciated." If anything, practicing his hold on his magic whilst in the privacy of the manor's guest bedroom would ease his nerves. He couldn't freely use his abilities in public, but there was something calming about the free-flowing liquid that would bend to his will.
And water was good for you, I guess.
He stood and followed the sorceress, watching her guard—Petyr, he'd learned his name to be—with a wary gaze. They led him away, and he took note of the many hateful glares that were cast his way from the left-behind patrons. But they were forgotten when he set eyes on the woman's manor. He hadn't expected such an exquisite home. It was nothing compared to the beauty of the castle in Felnethyr, but it had a certain elegance that made him form some semblance of respect for the sorceress. Aerendal knew that he was being led to a manor of some kind, but he'd expected something much more... modest from a woman of her kind. He wondered if it was something she'd earned, or if it were something that she'd acquired through more questionable means.
When they stepped inside, he immediately took note of the other inhabitant. An older gentleman, gray hairs beginning to outnumber the darker ones. As the man gave Aeren a frown and displeased glare, the High Commander came to realize that this manor was not Esadora's at all. Not by right, at least. The man, Gregor, was obviously a nobleman, and he was definitely under the spell of the de Levoran woman's charm. He tried to excise his power over his household and Esadora, but Aeren didn't need to see much more to know that it was the raven-haired woman who ran things. The knight was all for powerful women ruling—the sole ruler of Felnethyr was a woman, after all—but it was fairly uncommon. To see a female ruling over the manor was somewhat unsettling, and he had no idea how to come to terms with this information.
The tension between the angry Gregor and the dismissive Esadora made Aeren... uncomfortable. He felt like a child who'd visited a friend's home unannounced, feeling the parent's indirect anger pierce through him. Though the situation wasn't exactly the same—Esadora definitely wasn't a friend, and Gregor didn't share her qualities to be her parent—he was hesitant in his actions so as not to anger the man further. Though the sorceress seemed to have control over the home, Gregor was technically the head of the manor. As such, Aerendal was obligated to respect the man.
But Esadora regained control of the man with a simple touch. He visibly calmed, and Aeren remembered how powerful this woman he'd hired actually was. He also remembered who he should fear. The knight removed his boots, setting them neatly next to the door before following the violet-eyed woman. She inquired of any needs he may have, and though he hadn't eaten anything, there were too many anxieties within him to keep anything down. So he settled for something that would soothe him instead. "Some water would be appreciated." If anything, practicing his hold on his magic whilst in the privacy of the manor's guest bedroom would ease his nerves. He couldn't freely use his abilities in public, but there was something calming about the free-flowing liquid that would bend to his will.
And water was good for you, I guess.
Last edited:
Melpomene
Writer of Tragedy|Art by ROYTHEART|
Maedor Taellaris
Maedor was unsure what had happened in his life which had kept him from ever coming down with the sickness. He was a normal man. Many people had questioned him over how he had managed to not come down with the plague, claiming that he must have bought a hex or a protective spell or potion which he did not share with anyone else in order to keep himself healthy. How they thought he had managed to do that, Maedor was unsure. It would have costed a hefty amount, and at the moment he was not getting much compensation running from one place to another, trying to figure out a way to bring this plague to an end right in its tracks. His own mother would no longer be sick if he could afford something which could bring her to safety, yet apparently he had slowly been manipulating others into thinking he was a virtuous doctor while having the cure the entire time.
Maedor sighed, as it there was truly no point in thinking of such things now. Jenia let out a soft groan as she struggled in his arms, seeming to partially wake up already, though she did not open her eyes. Such a thing was good, as he did not need her attempting to get up and walk while he was trying to treat her. Nothing was more difficult to deal with than the patient that decides to raise themselves from his attempts to bring them to safety. He took her pillow, wrinkling his nose, knowing he would probably have to burn it soon after all this was over if she was going to live. As with all her sheets and clothes, it was hazardous and he found that the best way to keep the sickness from spreading was getting rid of anything that the person who had been sick had once sullied.
The religious men believed that it was because they had brought their sin unto those items, into the world and refused to repent. But, Maedor could not fall into that mindset. It was not sin being burned. Maedor did not know what it was, all he could think was that it was the sickness itself. He noticed many things, such as that heated tools would not infect like cold ones would, even if they would cause more pain. He noticed that sharing a tool between a sullied person and an unsullied one caused the spread. He noticed that being in presence with one another caused it to move faster. Distancing the sick helped, but it was not the end all be all, as one could not expect people to never touch. The only thing Maedor did not understand was when perfectly healthy people would fall ill despite only being around other healthy people.
It was odd, far too odd for Maedor to comprehend.
"Mm," Jenia shook her head, then she coughed, a bit of blood, letting the droplets fall on her lips. Maedor took out a handkerchief, there was a reason he had many and carefully dabbed the blood away before he turned and took the tools from the assassin, nodding in thanks but saying nothing more as he suddenly balled up the handkerchief and shoved it in Jenia's mouth, effectively gagging her. The medicine was already beginning to stew at the very least.
"This is the hardest part," Maedor muttered as he threw his leg around so that it was pressed down on her chest, he used one hand to keep her head shoved down, then with the knife he began to drain the puss-filled pockets, wiping away the blood-filled fluid as he went. Maedor grunted as Jenia suddenly woke fully letting out a shout as she attempted to struggle against him. To make sure he did not take out an eye, he shoved her head down more solidly, making sure she did not squirm too much by leaning down with his leg further. She was not taking kindly to it, making him lean harder on her as he attempted to keep his precision, he only liked going deep enough and large enough to drain it, not wanting to leave too many marks on their skin that was already going to be very scarred by the end of it.
He leaned back the moment he had finished, wiping the sweat on his brow with the back of his sleeve. It was a tedious process but tended to make the person feel better. More than anything he wanted to disinfect these wounds. He dipped another handkerchief in one of his bowls of herbs and water, covering it thoroughly before sighing, letting himself rest for a moment knowing she would struggle again because of how awful the sting would be, then shoved it over the marks on her face, pressing it hard as she once again tried to fight against him.
"She is fine," he said quickly to the assassin he knew was still close by. "She is fine, right now at least," he grunted as she finally began to settle down. He knew that usually did not make people feel better, and he had been thrown off many patients because of this.
"Well... As fine as she can be." he took the towel from her face and from her mouth, letting her gasp and squirm, though not well as the pain had sent her back partially into unconsciousness. He took the handkerchiefs and threw them into the fire. Then he came back, frowning as he leaned down and took the tea which had been made, cradling her head in one hand so she could sit up and then carefully letting her drink it down. the sores were too small, unfortunately, for him to stitch it. She drank it easily, luckily, despite the taste he knew was awful. She let out small gasps as he stood, stretching out his back, it cracked loudly and he shook his head as he gathered his tools.
"She'll wake up in a bit, probably, and we can ask her then. She still has a fighting chance," he murmured as he stepped over her to his bag, rifling through it for something to begin easing the pain. "The fever should be dulled and she will be more aware. And then we can question her." He wiped his brow again, dusting off the front of his trousers. "I was hoping she would be less far along. It moved fast in her. But... It could also be that his moved fast as well." he brushed his hand over his chin. "Sometimes... sometimes I have heard of people never once interacting with someone who was not infected and they still somehow got ill. He is likely an odd case, to be so able bodied." he dipped his fingers in the water to rinse them, washing them thouroughly despite how it stung his hands. "We still don't understand how it spreads but... unless you know you are immune, I recommend you keep your distance. I would prefer this not be something I have to repeat on you as well."
Esadora de Levaron
Esadora did not like to have to deal with Master Gregor at any point, but she especially did not like to deal with him when there was a client. She was a businesswoman before anything else and having him there reminding her of the fact she could not exist without him, it was not how she liked to end her night. Despite the fact, she ran the household. Despite the fact there was no one else who could possibly take the position that she had made for herself, she did not care. Even though he was practically wrapped around her finger, ready to come at every beck and call only to please her and earn her promises and coos of kindness whenever he managed to be a half-decent man for only a moment. It was honestly amazing the things he managed to be proud of. He was a baby, a child despite being over twenty years her senior. She forced herself to calm down. A guest was here. A guest that likely sat there thinking of her being burnt at the stake, watching her as she did what he wanted, performed services which he needed. She nearly scoffed. That was all that knights were. They were glorified arses that were too big for their own armor, believing they were the last say in law and order, thinking that his own law of morality was better than anyone elses. But he was under her roof now, where she could keep an eye on him. In a house where servants could watch and ensure he was not going to set fire to it and send her running out without a place to go.
So she could not manage to bring a warm smile to her lips, but she did smile back at him as she dipped her head forward, her black hair falling over her shoulders, staining her pale skin as it went. She turned to a servant a motioned for them to fulfill his commands before she turned on her heel and began leading him further up the stairs, turning to look over her shoulder as she came fully up the stairs and took them to the back room.
"You'll be staying in the guest room, I do hope it is to your liking," she said. The hallway was well furnished with paintings of the Gregor line hanging from the walls, each of them painted perfectly and telling of the wealth which was passed through this family. Candles protruded, lighting the dark path as she stopped and pointed to a room across from his own. "That is my study. Likely that is where you will be finding me in the following days if you wish to check on my progress or simply need me for something, though I doubt you'll want to bring me out any more than necessary," she said with a cold smile. Then she pointed behind them at two other rooms. "The middle one is Master Gregors, do not disturb him. Ever. He is a bit... testy. And the other is mine, I recommend not disturbing me in case he is there, otherwise, I will not be bringing any other... guests while I work on what you need."
"But I shall not bother you unless you are needed or until I am ready to go, likewise," she said as she stepped to the door of his room and opened it up, stepping inside and bowing her head. It was a large room with a bed against the far wall. It was not as large as Esadora's own, which could fit four people for her own reasons. His could only fit two, though there were several fluffy pillows and a thick ermine lined blanket thrown on it. On the floor was a bearskin rug and a hearth was lit warming the room up. A desk was set up as well, a fine mahoghany chair set up with it, on it was a few pages and an inkwell. A servant came up, a pitcher filled with water in hand and cup.
Esadora bowed her head. "Is it to your liking? We will not be here long, I am afraid. But, you will be fully accommodated."
Javax
The Shadow
She'd never seen a healing session that made her stomach churn until today.
Roxii had seen many healing sessions in her lifetime. She'd seen field medics stitch soldiers back together in an effort to get them back out on the battlefield as quickly as possible. She'd seen doctors and healers tend to the more broken ones, reattaching limbs and manipulating bones. She'd seen allies get put back together after a contract gone wrong. Udun, she'd been in numerous healing sessions herself. She'd been dragged to the Crimson Shadow healers on more than one occasion. More oft than not, it was after a merciless beating from Master Damaer. She remembered how it felt, to have no dwale, alcohol, or other anesthetic as they cleared the blood within her lungs, stitched together tissue and muscle, pushed around and reformed broken bones, and closed lacerations. She was meant to endure it all; she was not allowed to go unconscious during the procedures. She was meant to feel everything.
But the process Maedor employed to heal Jenia... She nearly retched as the tip of his blade lanced the pockets and boils, blood and pus spilling out in waves. The precision at which he maneuvered the blade and handled the screaming woman told the assassin that this wasn't the first time he'd done this. How could he endure this day in and day out? She could handle death, but sickness was a whole other enemy. She was glad that people existed to handle that enemy. At some point, she'd stopped sending out her pulses of darkness, relishing in the serenity of not being able to see the gruesome sight. She could still hear the tearing of flesh past the woman's screams, however.
A short silence passed before the lorethven continued his healing efforts. She recognized the scent of some of the healing herbs present. A sort of disinfectant, she presumed, as she'd used similar methods during bouts of desperation. Roxii maintained her silence as he tended to the aftermath of his healing efforts, assuring the assassin that she was fine. The velglorn scrunched her face up momentarily but said nothing. She had a sneaking suspicion that the reassurance wasn't just for her.
The wolf-elf took an involuntary step back from the man when he'd finished. If the plague incapacitated this woman so easily and so quickly, how did the stranger happen to make it all the way out here? Her attention averted to the tall male. Perhaps... Perhaps the stranger didn't know he carried it? Perhaps he could not contract it himself and instead spread the disease to other parts of the world. But then... What about where he came from? Did he leave a trail of destruction in his wake? Was he too ignorant, too oblivious to see the death he carried? There were too many questions that needed answering, and even more were surfacing by the minute.
Roxii crossed her arms defensively and was silent for a moment. The Lythari finally sent out a pulse of shadows, and they trailed over the unconscious woman. Her heartbeat continued to hammer against her chest, still energized by the pain she endured. But she was alive. She wondered for how long. "I would prefer to not endure that as well," she responded quietly.
The Shadow moved to sit by the wall, leaned up against the old wood. Her fingers found their way to her hip flask and easily popped the top off. The bottle was brought to her lips, and she was met with warm whiskey which slid down her throat in the form of fire. It was a stronger version than that of what the tavern offered, and it was a welcome distraction from what she'd just witnessed. She shook her head when she'd finished the first swig, getting used to the strength of the alcoholic beverage. She usually only drank from it when she felt the situation warranted a strong enough distraction. A second swig followed before she relented and put the whiskey away.
The velglorn's cane laid across her lap, and she drummed her left-hand fingers against the shaft. There was an odd break between the drumming as her phantom finger made no contact with the wood. Even now, she found it difficult to get used to the missing digit. It was four, maybe five years ago now? She'd forced herself to learn how to wield a weapon in the injured hand, learning that a different grip was required in each hand. Yet she still struggled to adjust the rhythm of her fingers. It would perhaps be a while before she did.
Her brow furrowed slightly. "How many times?" Her voice was quieter than she'd intended. She attributed it to the burning in her throat and cleared it before clarifying. "How many times have you had to do..." A pause, unsure of what to call it. "...That?"
Roxii had seen many healing sessions in her lifetime. She'd seen field medics stitch soldiers back together in an effort to get them back out on the battlefield as quickly as possible. She'd seen doctors and healers tend to the more broken ones, reattaching limbs and manipulating bones. She'd seen allies get put back together after a contract gone wrong. Udun, she'd been in numerous healing sessions herself. She'd been dragged to the Crimson Shadow healers on more than one occasion. More oft than not, it was after a merciless beating from Master Damaer. She remembered how it felt, to have no dwale, alcohol, or other anesthetic as they cleared the blood within her lungs, stitched together tissue and muscle, pushed around and reformed broken bones, and closed lacerations. She was meant to endure it all; she was not allowed to go unconscious during the procedures. She was meant to feel everything.
But the process Maedor employed to heal Jenia... She nearly retched as the tip of his blade lanced the pockets and boils, blood and pus spilling out in waves. The precision at which he maneuvered the blade and handled the screaming woman told the assassin that this wasn't the first time he'd done this. How could he endure this day in and day out? She could handle death, but sickness was a whole other enemy. She was glad that people existed to handle that enemy. At some point, she'd stopped sending out her pulses of darkness, relishing in the serenity of not being able to see the gruesome sight. She could still hear the tearing of flesh past the woman's screams, however.
A short silence passed before the lorethven continued his healing efforts. She recognized the scent of some of the healing herbs present. A sort of disinfectant, she presumed, as she'd used similar methods during bouts of desperation. Roxii maintained her silence as he tended to the aftermath of his healing efforts, assuring the assassin that she was fine. The velglorn scrunched her face up momentarily but said nothing. She had a sneaking suspicion that the reassurance wasn't just for her.
The wolf-elf took an involuntary step back from the man when he'd finished. If the plague incapacitated this woman so easily and so quickly, how did the stranger happen to make it all the way out here? Her attention averted to the tall male. Perhaps... Perhaps the stranger didn't know he carried it? Perhaps he could not contract it himself and instead spread the disease to other parts of the world. But then... What about where he came from? Did he leave a trail of destruction in his wake? Was he too ignorant, too oblivious to see the death he carried? There were too many questions that needed answering, and even more were surfacing by the minute.
Roxii crossed her arms defensively and was silent for a moment. The Lythari finally sent out a pulse of shadows, and they trailed over the unconscious woman. Her heartbeat continued to hammer against her chest, still energized by the pain she endured. But she was alive. She wondered for how long. "I would prefer to not endure that as well," she responded quietly.
The Shadow moved to sit by the wall, leaned up against the old wood. Her fingers found their way to her hip flask and easily popped the top off. The bottle was brought to her lips, and she was met with warm whiskey which slid down her throat in the form of fire. It was a stronger version than that of what the tavern offered, and it was a welcome distraction from what she'd just witnessed. She shook her head when she'd finished the first swig, getting used to the strength of the alcoholic beverage. She usually only drank from it when she felt the situation warranted a strong enough distraction. A second swig followed before she relented and put the whiskey away.
The velglorn's cane laid across her lap, and she drummed her left-hand fingers against the shaft. There was an odd break between the drumming as her phantom finger made no contact with the wood. Even now, she found it difficult to get used to the missing digit. It was four, maybe five years ago now? She'd forced herself to learn how to wield a weapon in the injured hand, learning that a different grip was required in each hand. Yet she still struggled to adjust the rhythm of her fingers. It would perhaps be a while before she did.
Her brow furrowed slightly. "How many times?" Her voice was quieter than she'd intended. She attributed it to the burning in her throat and cleared it before clarifying. "How many times have you had to do..." A pause, unsure of what to call it. "...That?"
Aeren's eyes wandered as Esadora explained his temporary living accommodations. The exquisite style of which the manor was built and decorated aptly displayed the wealth they harbored. It reminded him of the castle, though it wasn't at the same grandeur that could be found in the home of Queen Alannis. His gaze especially lingered on the portraits, hung similarly to those portraying the Vaneiros family line back in the castle. Master Gregor had a long, prosperous line, which only alluded to his wealth and success. Any family who could ensure the survival of their lineage for as many generations as his had the necessary resources. The knight silently wondered where their wealth originated from.
Aerendal followed her hand as she pointed out the study and couldn't help but wonder if it were actually her study or if it were Master Gregor's and she simply used it. Regardless, it was not his to contemplate. Whether it was Gregor's or Esadora's mattered not; it was not his home all the same. So instead, he wondered what sort of knowledge the study contained. What sort of tools and resources did sorceresses use to fulfill their needs? Books and tomes? Odd trinkets? Tools born of witchcraft? Sigils and runes? He knew nothing of their unnatural use of magic, and though it made a queasy feeling rise in his chest, a sort of curiosity arose with it.
His curiosity was a dangerous trait, he knew. All throughout his life, his superiors and mentors had lectured him on keeping his mind in check, but even now he battled it. It was the cause of many careless injuries he'd sustained as a child. One such time he'd snuck into the kitchens to discover what smelled so fantastic, unable to wait for dinner. He'd startled one of the maids who knocked into one of the cooks who, in turn, tripped and dropped the boiling pot of soup onto the young boy. He'd had first degree burns that took far too long to heal, and many of the women teased him for it, which was more of a punishment than the beating he'd received from Uncle Rychell. It was a miracle he made his way to the title of High Commander at all.
The half-elf flinched inwardly. He knew he did not deserve the title. He did not deserve the title of knight at all. It was not earned in good faith, nor did he achieve the proper requirements and perform the rituals. It was his life-long dream to be a knight, to wear the crest of honor and valor and wield the sword of bravery against the evils of the world. But he did not meet the qualifications to be a knight, much less the High Commander of the Queen's Guard. Though he'd never admit it out loud, he was a fraud, and he and Her Majesty, the Queen knew that.
For he was a coward.
His cowardice was just as troublesome as his curiosity. His curiosity led him to the abhorrent creature lurking in the cellars one night, and his cowardice sent him sprinting back to his chambers despite the danger that now had access to the castle halls. His curiosity led him to the small crowd in the lower district, finding a group taunting and abusing a young L'yrathi, and his cowardice ignored their racism and kept walking. His curiosity led him to follow the smoke of a burning village where local bandits had captured the women and killed everyone else, and his cowardice made him turn a blind eye, continuing on his way.
His curiosity led him to the fight of his twin cousins where treasonous actions were occurring, and his cowardice sent him running away from them, afraid for his own life.
And his curiosity led him, a fugitive, to the new Queen Alannis on his knees, and his cowardice accepted her bribery and promises to protect his life and reputation.
Aerendal stepped into the guest room after Esadora and examined the living quarters, shaking away the memories. It was modest in regards to the rest of the manor, but it was a large step up from any inn or peasant's home. Comfortable was the first word that came to mind. He was distracted by the servant entering with the pitcher of water, however, and he remembered who exactly was providing these temporary lodgings.
He bowed his head respectfully, though it did not reach his eyes. "This will do just fine,my Lady Esadora. I thank you for your kind hospitality."
Aerendal followed her hand as she pointed out the study and couldn't help but wonder if it were actually her study or if it were Master Gregor's and she simply used it. Regardless, it was not his to contemplate. Whether it was Gregor's or Esadora's mattered not; it was not his home all the same. So instead, he wondered what sort of knowledge the study contained. What sort of tools and resources did sorceresses use to fulfill their needs? Books and tomes? Odd trinkets? Tools born of witchcraft? Sigils and runes? He knew nothing of their unnatural use of magic, and though it made a queasy feeling rise in his chest, a sort of curiosity arose with it.
His curiosity was a dangerous trait, he knew. All throughout his life, his superiors and mentors had lectured him on keeping his mind in check, but even now he battled it. It was the cause of many careless injuries he'd sustained as a child. One such time he'd snuck into the kitchens to discover what smelled so fantastic, unable to wait for dinner. He'd startled one of the maids who knocked into one of the cooks who, in turn, tripped and dropped the boiling pot of soup onto the young boy. He'd had first degree burns that took far too long to heal, and many of the women teased him for it, which was more of a punishment than the beating he'd received from Uncle Rychell. It was a miracle he made his way to the title of High Commander at all.
The half-elf flinched inwardly. He knew he did not deserve the title. He did not deserve the title of knight at all. It was not earned in good faith, nor did he achieve the proper requirements and perform the rituals. It was his life-long dream to be a knight, to wear the crest of honor and valor and wield the sword of bravery against the evils of the world. But he did not meet the qualifications to be a knight, much less the High Commander of the Queen's Guard. Though he'd never admit it out loud, he was a fraud, and he and Her Majesty, the Queen knew that.
For he was a coward.
His cowardice was just as troublesome as his curiosity. His curiosity led him to the abhorrent creature lurking in the cellars one night, and his cowardice sent him sprinting back to his chambers despite the danger that now had access to the castle halls. His curiosity led him to the small crowd in the lower district, finding a group taunting and abusing a young L'yrathi, and his cowardice ignored their racism and kept walking. His curiosity led him to follow the smoke of a burning village where local bandits had captured the women and killed everyone else, and his cowardice made him turn a blind eye, continuing on his way.
His curiosity led him to the fight of his twin cousins where treasonous actions were occurring, and his cowardice sent him running away from them, afraid for his own life.
And his curiosity led him, a fugitive, to the new Queen Alannis on his knees, and his cowardice accepted her bribery and promises to protect his life and reputation.
Aerendal stepped into the guest room after Esadora and examined the living quarters, shaking away the memories. It was modest in regards to the rest of the manor, but it was a large step up from any inn or peasant's home. Comfortable was the first word that came to mind. He was distracted by the servant entering with the pitcher of water, however, and he remembered who exactly was providing these temporary lodgings.
He bowed his head respectfully, though it did not reach his eyes. "This will do just fine,my Lady Esadora. I thank you for your kind hospitality."
Last edited:
Melpomene
Writer of Tragedy|Art by ROYTHEART|
Maedor Taellaris
It was not the longest night Maedor had been forced to endure. It certainly was not the worse of the sickness he had been told to handle before. He was a doctor, a healer, in the middle of one of the worst plagues he had read about in the books his headmaster had laid out. It had come seemingly out of nowhere, striking down all in its path and leaving nothing but destruction in its wake. Someone was healthy, and the next moment they were sick. It was speculated it had been started in a Kingdom up North, having festered among them before someone had been stupid enough to travel South and must have talked to someone down South. Or bedded them, or anything which would have brought them into close contact with someone healthy, and suddenly the spread had started among them as well.
It was, perhaps, a curse that was sent by an angry God. But that did not change the fact it spread like any other illness. Somehow, touching someone could easily, not all the time, cause a healthy person to become addled with illness. And after that, most of what they seemed to be able to do was wait. Disinfect, remove the infected portions of the person, burn, cut, but never heal. They never could heal. He could cure so much, constipation, infertility, ulcers, contraceptives, Maedor could gather herbs and mix them in just the right way, yet this plague was proving to drive him to his wits end.
Master Warold, even, his most trusted mentor, he had been at a loss. Maedor could remember his face, ashen pale the moment he was forced to look upon their first victim, seeing the way her skin seemed to peel from her very body, her hair had fallen out and the plague eating her from the inside out. Blood had been on her lips, as though her insides had been torn to shreds and were attempting to escape their captivity in the only way they could. She had been the mother of four, yet still too young to have met a bitter end, the youngest only a babe who had been coughing harshly.
Warold had been a war doctor, in a tent on battlefields, he would watch man after man being brought into his tent, and he would get them to the point they would live. He had seen bones protruding through the skin, men whose arms had been ripped off, the swords having torn through metal and flesh all the same. Warold had not blinked an eye when they came across a prostitute who had been attacked by a customer, her lower half in shreds, not even to a man whose gut had been exposed by a bull.
But this woman, Maedor had never seen Warold make such a face. Maedor had never seen the man so flustered. And it had always been that if Warold could look straight, could keep a logical eye so could he. But Warold could not, and for the first time, Maedor was unable to do so as well.
Maedor sighed, wiping his face with his sleeve before pulling out two pins and carefully pushing his bangs from his forehead and eyes. It was a bit late to do such a think, but he had grown so heated and hated the feeling of hair stuck to his skin. The woman would need resting before she was able to talk, so Maedor chose to take a seat, his back on the opposite wall.
'Perhaps between the two of us, we can keep the house standing,' he mused as he leaned his head back, pulling a pipe from his pocket and a few leaves to fill it. His gaze flicked over to the assassin briefly when she asked her question. Maedor frowned around the pipe between his lips. He leaned over, lighting the end of a small stick before sticking it into his pipe, waiting for it to softly glow before taking a deep inhale and then turning to the side and blowing the smoke from between his lips in a thin line. It was a ritual for him, something would calm his nerves after any intense session, which seemed he was doing more and more of lately.
"In truth? I don't know," he said, taking the pipe from his mouth. "How many jobs have you taken?" he asked. Then he quickly held a hand up. Because now he did remember she was an assassin, and while he was not opposed to causing others to dislike him, he also did enjoy life and being free of pain.
"I don't mean that to sound flippant, but I truly believe neither of us can precisely say how much death we have seen." Maedor paused, he took another puff from his pipe. "When this all started, I was a much younger man. I still had a Master that I had to report to and he-- He was a war doctor and he was dumbfounded. And after he passed away, I was one of the only doctors still willing to come close to anyone with the Crimson Death." Perhaps dumbly, but Maedor could not bring himself to care. "Used to keep count, stopped at around fifty." he looked up, taking another puff.
He could not tell if she asked out of simple curiosity because he was the first healer she knew had done it that she felt she could speak to or because it was the first time she had seen it. Either way, it was gruesome. He looked down at Jenia, she was sweating, but her breathing seemed even.
"She's still in a lot of pain," he sighed. "Despite what that looked like, I didn't do much. At most, I may have slowed its spread." At worst, he didn't and had just put the woman through for nothing. His hand twitched. He could give her the Lethrial a simple drug. Enough of it and someone would drift to death painlessly. That was the hardest part. Knowing who was a lost cause, and who still had a chance. Perhaps his sister was a lost cause, having contracted not so long ago. It could have raged through her as it did for this woman, she could be dead now, unable to move while he was on this chase across the land. He tightened his hold on his pipe.
"Roxii..." he said, her name sounded odd, almost as though it should not have been spoken. Something far too familiar for him to use, but he did not know what else to call her. Assassin seemed too informal as did Shadow, L'yrathi was plain derogatory, not to mention she may hurt him for that, and she was no Lady, so Lady Sicarius just did not seem right. Roxii, while too informal, was the most fitting, and if she corrected him then so be it. "I have mended her enough so that she can wake, she can speak with a clear mind, but she still may not live. The chances of recovering after this stage are less than ten percent. Furthermore, she is, or was, a barmaid. She will have scars on her face which others shall say make her ugly. She cannot work as a barmaid after that, and likely very few will want to marry her, she may grow to be an old spinster, alone with only her cats and rats to keep her company even if she survives. But she will have her life. I tell you this because I can either let her live after we leave or I can give her a painless death now. I know you likely don't wish to be asked such questions while here, but, well, you are the only person I have around." And perhaps simply did not wish to burden it on his conscience. It was never easy, no matter how many times he did it. It somehow never got easier.
Esadora de Levoran
Esadora only looked upon the knight for a moment more before she dipped her head into a nod. "Then I will leave you to prepare for bed in peace. I am sure you are quite tired already." She turned from him, stepping towards the door to disappear through, leaving him on his lonesome. That was dangerous, she knew. A wanton knight, to a witch, was like a burning torch hanging precariously over dried wool rugs. He could not hurt her if it was just him, that much was for certain. Esadora was not to be trifled with. She was a woman grown now, and no longer a little girl who had to lean on her master in order to live. She was no longer going through countless hours of training only to be told she was not up to standards. No, she was a sorceress now, one which was loved and feared alike. This was not even the same manor that she had grown in. She left the place behind. She did, not Master Gregor, but Esadora herself. Esadora was the master now, having taken Gregor by the throat, throwing him beneath her the moment she had beaten him at his own game, making him her puppet through a few touches and a smattering of kisses and private nights. He was her servant now. He only grew volatile when she did not pay attention to him for too long. And even then, it was more like a petulant child demanding the girl he liked to see him, exposing Gregor for what he truly was.
The knight should not have brought her to such unease. But it did, and as she turned she bowed her head once more. "Don't burn my house down," she said, just lightly enough for Aeren to be able to perceive it as a joke, but there was a cold edge to it which she could not let go. Then she closed the door, stepping away before she let out a soft sigh through her nose. It seemed it would be just as challenging to spend time around him. A knight. An Elvish knight at that. Usually, elves did not bother her. However, of all the knights she knew, it may have been Elvish ones that she liked the least. Then again, not many knights nor elves were vying to meet her. Not many humans, for that matter, when they recognized what she was. It always took a while to build a foothold. This town, these people, they had accepted her into their community only because the elders were able to see her hand could be as gentle as it could be filled with iron. She could help as much as she could hurt.
"Darling?" Esadora looked up, Gregor stood in the doorframe, seeming almost shy. In moments such as these, she almost forgot what a tyrant he had been to her as she grew up. How disgusting it was that he still wished to bed her after having seen her raised from so young to now. She nearly forgot that he had been the reason behind so much death in her life. Nearly. But even so, she smiled up at him, she came close and took him by the hand. And he wondered why when she got into such volatile moods, he was the first person she threw anything at. The only reason he was around was that any manor directly belonging to a witch, anything of such high standings, it would get noticed by some royal guard and taken away while she was dragged to be burned at the stake, or escaping with less than she started with. No, she would find some other when Gregor got too old. With a bit of her help, he had never given birth to any legitimate heir. She simply had to convince him to name a man of her choosing as one, and the cycle could begin anew.
But perhaps she could be nicer to that next man. She would be. He would be of her choosing, after all. And he, at the very least, would have had nothing to do with the death of her mother, or her brothers. Yes, she would be able to look at that man's face in the night without wanting to claw his eyes from his skull or see his thick throat throttled.
For now, she did go to bed with him, and she pretended she liked it to keep him subdued even through her outbreaks of anger. Which, luckily for him, it seemed he would not be there for the next one she had.
And luckily for him, Esadora did not pay attention to him to grow angry at anything, as she was far too busy in the study attempting to make some thread, any thread, in order to connect it to this Shadow that Aeren wished her to find. It was something far more complex than she was usually asked for. Most of the time she had some sort of connection to go off of, a hair, a nail, occasionally, and in truth preferably, even blood. All of those made any type of tracking far easier. Tracking was, in short, mind magic. It was Esadora attempting to latch on to a physical being with her own mind and nothing else, creating an invisible thread to follow. Now all she had was a name, a thought. Blood made for a strong thread, it allowed the compass to turn toward the only person whom that blood could ever belong, though once she did have a problem with twins.
But if it worked correctly, it would hone in on the person she was supposed to 'attach' the thread to, creating a straighter line. Though the looser the line, the more likely it could be trapped connected to an "essence" a person left behind, or even an aura.
This was why Esadora had risen early, leaving the bed to begin in her study, having skipped breaking her fast, though she knew her servants would care for her guest and Master Gregor. She had books of the Arcane open. Symbols were etched into them, all of them written in an ancient language no longer taught to men. They spoke of bringing the dead back to life, conquering a succubus and a demon, all the way to even turning fire into nothing more than a breath of wind the moment it went through a certain rune. They were dangerous but useful.
Currently, the study was closed up, the blinds closed, blocking out the sun from entering. A faint blue glow could be seen from beneath the door crack from the magical torture she had lit. The study was large, with a mahogany desk in the middle, which was constantly covered in papers and books. Against all the wall there were massive bookshelves holding the knowledge of the arcane. Though now, a simple large cauldron stood in the middle. Esadora was aware it was horribly cliche, but the spell worked best with a compass having been made. A needle and cork was floating in the midst of the water that filled the large pot, runes were drawn on it in dried ink. It would be a long and tedious process. But a process nonetheless.
Javax
The Shadow
"How many jobs have you taken?"
She wanted to be angry with him, to snarl at his disrespect towards her and tell him to watch his tongue. She wanted to be insulted by his lack of boundaries, asking the great Shadow of Thiyalia such a personal question, one that could jeopardize her career. She wanted to snap at him, to tell him to mind his own business.
And she did feel some semblance of anger, but it was overshadowed by a twisting in her gut. It felt as though a knife had been thrust in between her ribs, twisting and slicing at her insides. She did not know what the feeling was, the emotion that gripped her by the throat and threatened to choke the life from her. A shadow of recognition passed by her mind, but it was fleeting and she was left with only an unnamed feeling that left a knot in her throat and that terrible twisting in her gut.
Roxii noted his sudden remembrance of whom he accompanied, and a specific sort of pride arose within her again, though it did not wash away the irritation and that dreadful unnamed feeling. She listened absentmindedly to his answer, having not asked her question for no reason. She truly wanted to know. The wolf-elf had met a myriad of doctors and healers, and though they tended to illnesses alongside injuries, most of them never spoke about plagues such as this. It was an unspoken thing, and she'd never thought to pry into something as trivial as tending to plagued individuals. She'd always thought that it was something not worth speaking about, something not worth her time. Only now did she understand: that the process and the plague itself was so gruesome that they did not want to remember what they had to do, both during and after.
But her mind kept drawing itself back to his counter-question, especially after he answered her own with the best response he could offer.
"How many jobs have you taken?"
How many jobs had she taken? She honestly had no idea. She never bothered to keep count; the lives she took were not worth the effort. Her targets were greedy and self-absorbed. Her targets were slavers and smugglers, thieves and swindlers, politicians and noblemen. Her targets deserved the marks of death that clients dished out, paying high prices to have their blood spilled. She tried to reduce the body count whilst on missions, using stealth to her advantage so as to not be caught by local guards. There were times that she had to fight her way out of situations, and at those times she'd left a trail of destruction. She knew not all of them deserved it—they were just doing their jobs—but she'd be damned if she were to be caught because she held back. They were doing their job, yes, but they made their choice.
She never got a choice.
A hand instinctively went to the cool band circling her neck, but she made it look as though she were massaging the back of her neck after she remembered the man sitting across from her. Her fingers brushed against the cold metal, and a shiver ran through her. It was hard to believe that such a deadly energy was trapped within that ring of ice. The assassin swore she could hear the electricity buzzing within, but it was difficult to tell if it were real or just a figment of her imagination, of her paranoia. Gooseflesh prickled along her arms at the renewed fear that she would do something Master Damaer wouldn't like, and that he would decide to dole out punishment.
Her lips tugged into a slight frown. When she was younger, she'd believed that Master Damaer held her best interests at heart. She'd believed he cared for her because he had scooped her off her tired feet and brought her to his manor. He'd nursed her back to health and helped her cope with her newfound handicap. He'd taught her how to use her abilities, to use his Xiad Oban technique. He'd taught her how to protect herself, how to fight, how to tend to her wounds with the materials readily available to her. He'd taught her how to live again, just when her life had fallen apart. He'd given her purpose.
But looking back she realized that it was all a lie. He never cared for her, not in the sense that she believed. He found her collapsed upon the road and saw an opportunity. He harbored no pity for the young child, covered in cuts and bruises and fumbling around in an endless darkness. He healed her and taught her techniques and lessons that would make her into a terrifying killer. He taught her how to be self-sufficient, intelligent, and deadly. He taught her how to kill. He taught her how to make him money and bring fear to the Crimson Shadow name. Master Damaer had always made it seem like she had a choice, that she didn't have to become an assassin, but now she knew that she never had a choice in the matter. No matter which way she looked at it, she'd been ensnared in his trap since he'd laid eyes on her.
"How many jobs have you taken?"
Too many.
The L'yrathi's ears swiveled towards Maedor as he addressed her directly. It was weird to hear her name spoken on lips that did not belong to Master Damaer or other members of the Crimson Shadow. There were hardly any commoners that knew her by name, save for a few tavern owners and mercenaries. All in all, it was rare for someone to call her by name whilst knowing what she did for a living. More oft than not, a target recognized her having seen her as just another patron in the local bar, but they were never able to utter her name before she'd slit their throat.
Roxii mulled over the words he spoke, the pros and cons of allowing Jenia a peaceful end. They could allow her a chance, to see what she could glean from a life that she'd almost lost. If she survived the night, then she could have a chance at building a new life for herself. Work would be difficult, but she could perhaps have a chance at getting out of the collapsing building she called home. It was a small chance, but a chance nonetheless.
But life would be very hard for her. Not only would it be highly unlikely that she would survive in the first place—the blind rogue opted to take Maedor's word for it—Jenia would not be able to continue living how she is currently. It was improbable that she would be able to build up from this misery. The velglorn pushed herself off the floor and approached the resting woman, head spinning from the sudden movement. Her shadows traveled over her body, strengthened in concentration to allow the wolf-elf a more sensitive look as to what lay before her. The stench of the plague still lingered and intertwined with the herbs rubbed within her injuries. The pockets the lorethven had lanced were deep, and Roxii knew from enough experience that they would never heal, not completely. The scars would be clearly visible, lightened leathery skin dotting her complexion. A skilled healer or sorceress would be able to ease the appearance of the scars, but no one would be willing to do it for free. Cosmetic alterations tended to drive a high price, and judging from this woman's living conditions, she was not and would never be in a position to spend money on something as trivial as scar removal.
Her frown deepened. Maedor was right: she would be unappealing to nearly all who laid eyes on her. Other women would sneer at her and men would be repulsed by her appearance. They would laugh at her, mock her, force her to hide her face. Business owners would be inclined to deny her because of her terrible looks, no matter how skilled or charismatic she was. She would never marry, much less enjoy herself and be bedded. She would be ignored and abandoned, tossed aside like a dirtied, used rag. She would be completely and utterly alone for the rest of her days, and there was a chance she would fall into a depressive spell and never come out of it.
Roxii found her fingers prodding at her own unsightly scar, the only remains of the life she'd left behind. The unnatural flames that licked at her flesh, the acid-like burn that seeped into her skin... It had left the upper half of her face unattractive and repulsive. It had improved from a disgusting red and yellow to a soft white over the years, but the skin never healed over, leaving her face two-toned and the scar leathery and smooth to the touch. She liked to think that she was beautiful before, even for such a young child, but it had been ripped away from her. Any chance at a normal, happy life was taken out from under her.
"The chances are far too low to justify allowing her to live," she finally answered, avoiding referring to Jenia by name. It was easier to make decisions when no name or other defining features were given. "She will most likely not survive; you said so yourself. I trust you understand the possibilities better than I." The blind assassin was silent for a moment, tossing the decision around in her head a bit longer. It was not the first time she'd been the final say in someone's life. If one looked at it a certain way, it was her job to be the final say. "Do not allow her to suffer." Her voice had quieted to just above a whisper, as if speaking too loud would wake the woman or blow the house down. "Not as I have."
She wanted to be angry with him, to snarl at his disrespect towards her and tell him to watch his tongue. She wanted to be insulted by his lack of boundaries, asking the great Shadow of Thiyalia such a personal question, one that could jeopardize her career. She wanted to snap at him, to tell him to mind his own business.
And she did feel some semblance of anger, but it was overshadowed by a twisting in her gut. It felt as though a knife had been thrust in between her ribs, twisting and slicing at her insides. She did not know what the feeling was, the emotion that gripped her by the throat and threatened to choke the life from her. A shadow of recognition passed by her mind, but it was fleeting and she was left with only an unnamed feeling that left a knot in her throat and that terrible twisting in her gut.
Roxii noted his sudden remembrance of whom he accompanied, and a specific sort of pride arose within her again, though it did not wash away the irritation and that dreadful unnamed feeling. She listened absentmindedly to his answer, having not asked her question for no reason. She truly wanted to know. The wolf-elf had met a myriad of doctors and healers, and though they tended to illnesses alongside injuries, most of them never spoke about plagues such as this. It was an unspoken thing, and she'd never thought to pry into something as trivial as tending to plagued individuals. She'd always thought that it was something not worth speaking about, something not worth her time. Only now did she understand: that the process and the plague itself was so gruesome that they did not want to remember what they had to do, both during and after.
But her mind kept drawing itself back to his counter-question, especially after he answered her own with the best response he could offer.
"How many jobs have you taken?"
How many jobs had she taken? She honestly had no idea. She never bothered to keep count; the lives she took were not worth the effort. Her targets were greedy and self-absorbed. Her targets were slavers and smugglers, thieves and swindlers, politicians and noblemen. Her targets deserved the marks of death that clients dished out, paying high prices to have their blood spilled. She tried to reduce the body count whilst on missions, using stealth to her advantage so as to not be caught by local guards. There were times that she had to fight her way out of situations, and at those times she'd left a trail of destruction. She knew not all of them deserved it—they were just doing their jobs—but she'd be damned if she were to be caught because she held back. They were doing their job, yes, but they made their choice.
She never got a choice.
A hand instinctively went to the cool band circling her neck, but she made it look as though she were massaging the back of her neck after she remembered the man sitting across from her. Her fingers brushed against the cold metal, and a shiver ran through her. It was hard to believe that such a deadly energy was trapped within that ring of ice. The assassin swore she could hear the electricity buzzing within, but it was difficult to tell if it were real or just a figment of her imagination, of her paranoia. Gooseflesh prickled along her arms at the renewed fear that she would do something Master Damaer wouldn't like, and that he would decide to dole out punishment.
Her lips tugged into a slight frown. When she was younger, she'd believed that Master Damaer held her best interests at heart. She'd believed he cared for her because he had scooped her off her tired feet and brought her to his manor. He'd nursed her back to health and helped her cope with her newfound handicap. He'd taught her how to use her abilities, to use his Xiad Oban technique. He'd taught her how to protect herself, how to fight, how to tend to her wounds with the materials readily available to her. He'd taught her how to live again, just when her life had fallen apart. He'd given her purpose.
But looking back she realized that it was all a lie. He never cared for her, not in the sense that she believed. He found her collapsed upon the road and saw an opportunity. He harbored no pity for the young child, covered in cuts and bruises and fumbling around in an endless darkness. He healed her and taught her techniques and lessons that would make her into a terrifying killer. He taught her how to be self-sufficient, intelligent, and deadly. He taught her how to kill. He taught her how to make him money and bring fear to the Crimson Shadow name. Master Damaer had always made it seem like she had a choice, that she didn't have to become an assassin, but now she knew that she never had a choice in the matter. No matter which way she looked at it, she'd been ensnared in his trap since he'd laid eyes on her.
"How many jobs have you taken?"
Too many.
The L'yrathi's ears swiveled towards Maedor as he addressed her directly. It was weird to hear her name spoken on lips that did not belong to Master Damaer or other members of the Crimson Shadow. There were hardly any commoners that knew her by name, save for a few tavern owners and mercenaries. All in all, it was rare for someone to call her by name whilst knowing what she did for a living. More oft than not, a target recognized her having seen her as just another patron in the local bar, but they were never able to utter her name before she'd slit their throat.
Roxii mulled over the words he spoke, the pros and cons of allowing Jenia a peaceful end. They could allow her a chance, to see what she could glean from a life that she'd almost lost. If she survived the night, then she could have a chance at building a new life for herself. Work would be difficult, but she could perhaps have a chance at getting out of the collapsing building she called home. It was a small chance, but a chance nonetheless.
But life would be very hard for her. Not only would it be highly unlikely that she would survive in the first place—the blind rogue opted to take Maedor's word for it—Jenia would not be able to continue living how she is currently. It was improbable that she would be able to build up from this misery. The velglorn pushed herself off the floor and approached the resting woman, head spinning from the sudden movement. Her shadows traveled over her body, strengthened in concentration to allow the wolf-elf a more sensitive look as to what lay before her. The stench of the plague still lingered and intertwined with the herbs rubbed within her injuries. The pockets the lorethven had lanced were deep, and Roxii knew from enough experience that they would never heal, not completely. The scars would be clearly visible, lightened leathery skin dotting her complexion. A skilled healer or sorceress would be able to ease the appearance of the scars, but no one would be willing to do it for free. Cosmetic alterations tended to drive a high price, and judging from this woman's living conditions, she was not and would never be in a position to spend money on something as trivial as scar removal.
Her frown deepened. Maedor was right: she would be unappealing to nearly all who laid eyes on her. Other women would sneer at her and men would be repulsed by her appearance. They would laugh at her, mock her, force her to hide her face. Business owners would be inclined to deny her because of her terrible looks, no matter how skilled or charismatic she was. She would never marry, much less enjoy herself and be bedded. She would be ignored and abandoned, tossed aside like a dirtied, used rag. She would be completely and utterly alone for the rest of her days, and there was a chance she would fall into a depressive spell and never come out of it.
Roxii found her fingers prodding at her own unsightly scar, the only remains of the life she'd left behind. The unnatural flames that licked at her flesh, the acid-like burn that seeped into her skin... It had left the upper half of her face unattractive and repulsive. It had improved from a disgusting red and yellow to a soft white over the years, but the skin never healed over, leaving her face two-toned and the scar leathery and smooth to the touch. She liked to think that she was beautiful before, even for such a young child, but it had been ripped away from her. Any chance at a normal, happy life was taken out from under her.
"The chances are far too low to justify allowing her to live," she finally answered, avoiding referring to Jenia by name. It was easier to make decisions when no name or other defining features were given. "She will most likely not survive; you said so yourself. I trust you understand the possibilities better than I." The blind assassin was silent for a moment, tossing the decision around in her head a bit longer. It was not the first time she'd been the final say in someone's life. If one looked at it a certain way, it was her job to be the final say. "Do not allow her to suffer." Her voice had quieted to just above a whisper, as if speaking too loud would wake the woman or blow the house down. "Not as I have."
The half-elf had spent his entire life around noblemen, politicians and royalty, so he knew how to recognize underlying tones and ulterior motives. So when the sorceress bid him farewell by requesting he not set her manor alight, Aerendal caught the cold truth that laced her words. She knew he hated her, and, for her own reasons unbeknownst to him, she hated him. There was a certain malicious tension that tugged and knotted between them, and it wasn't until she'd left that he realized how thick their aversion towards each other actually was. It was nearly suffocating, and though an uneasiness still settled within him, the fact that he was resting within the bear's den, he allowed a soft sigh to escape his lips once he was alone.
The High Commander surveyed the room a bit more closely now that he had the freedom to do so. The bed looked comfortable, comparable to his own in his personal chambers. Expensive linens and plushy things covered the mattress, and he could tell from afar that the bed itself was perhaps the most expensive item in the room. Comfort never came cheaply, which was why a majority of people slept on homemade bedrolls stuffed with wool or straw or, in some cases, they simply laid on the floor, content with having a roof over their head. He wondered how many others slept in that bed, one that probably was worth more than any of the guests she'd brought home.
Aeren moved towards the desk, his gaze observing the view through the window as he passed. Darkness had fallen quickly, and now the blackened sky was dotted with stars that blinked and flickered. They were no longer on the ground level, the guest room some distance up from the ground. A thought passed, wondering if he could survive the fall relatively unharmed if he needed to bail quickly. At best, he would have a few scrapes and bruises. At worst... He shook the thoughts away and sat at the desk, eyeing the quill and paper and pitcher of water respectively. His gaze lingered on the pitcher for a moment before he reached forward and poured himself a cup.
He continued to look out the window as he sipped at the water. Would Esadora be able to find the assassin? He'd heard tales of the killer's skill and mercilessness, and he'd thought them a myth or rumor for the longest time. But he couldn't argue against the fact that people in different areas of Thiyalia had encountered the Shadow, either by catching glimpses of the famed murderer or having been related in some way to the victim. He held a sort of guilt for asking this sorceress to find someone who didn't want to be found; he didn't even know what they looked like! For all he knew, it could be someone he was already acquainted with.
The Elvish knight swirled the remaining water around in the cup a few times before setting the cup down. His eyes squinted slightly as he glared at the lip of the cup. A hand went over the opening and a flick of the wrist had the water coming out in a steady stream. He flipped his hand over, palm upwards, and the water stream glided around his hand and hovered over his palm in the shape of a relative ball. He wiggled his fingers, and the ball of water mirrored his movements. Aerendal watched the water for a moment before switching hands, the liquid stream transferring over to his left. He thinned out the stream and allowed the water to weave between his fingers in a smooth rhythm.
How would the Shadow react to his calling? Surely there would be no kindness or hospitality as the sorceress was giving. Perhaps they would laugh at him, thinking his request silly. Would any amount of money in the world convince them to take on his job? Money may not appeal to the lady sorceress, but it should have a greater effect on someone who made being a killer-for-hire their livelihood. And what of after? If they accept the job, would they allow him to walk away? He would know who they were, what they looked like. Would they accept his vow of secrecy? A chill swept through him at the thought.
It sickened him to be working on the other side of the law. Though he used magic himself, practicing witchcraft and sorcery was a choice, not in-borne. Ignoring the blatant fact that Esadora used these banished, illegal methods made a sick feeling settle within him. He reasoned that it was for the good of the Crown, but it still bothered him. If anything, perhaps he could bring a legion of his guards and track down the sorceress once it was all over.
And then there was the assassin. Murder bothered him just as much as sorcery, especially mercenary and assassin work. It told him that they held no morals, no care for others but themselves and their love of money. If the Shadow didn't kill him immediately after finding the Vaneiros sister, then he would make whatever promises necessary to walk away and gather his men to take down the wanted killer. The idea made him feel a bit better; capturing one of the most wanted criminals in Thiyalia would be an incredible boost for his reputation and name.
He just needed to survive.
The half-elf sighed and guided the water back to the cup before drinking the rest of it; no use in wasting it. He pushed himself away from the desk and made his way to the bed. It took only a few minutes for him to remove his weapons, belts, armor, and unnecessary garments, leaving him in just his braies. And then he was laying down, situating his sword to lean close enough to grab in a moment's notice. It wasn't until he'd laid down fully that he realized how tired he was, having journeyed tirelessly to find the sorceress, and he could already feel sleep's fingers taking hold. He barely had a moment to contemplate whether it were a spell or not before he was thrust into the comfort of slumber.
The rays of sunlight were what stirred him awake. He blocked the rays with his hand, trying to force his eyes open and to stir his mind into working again. Judging by the brightness, he'd slept in longer than he'd meant to. The smell of fresh foods averted his attention to a platter laid out on the desk's surface. He almost didn't want to get up, but then he remembered where he was and whose company he was in. Aeren swung himself into a sitting position, feet pressed against the floor, and stretched his arms upwards. His back and shoulders popped and cracked, and a sense of relief washed over him. Within a few minutes, he'd dressed himself in his breeches and shirt and was eyeing the food the servant had brought him. He picked up a piece of bread and poured himself some wine before leaning against the wall next to the window, gazing outside.
The sunlight was warm against his skin, but he could still feel the chill in the air from outside. Autumn had blown in not long ago, and though it was still warm enough to go outside without furs here, snow was already beginning to settle over Felnethyr. Come winter, the kingdom would be blanketed with at least two feet of snow for months on end. The cold had always been brutal in Felnethyr, but it seemed to only get worse in recent years. Snow was falling in larger increments, blizzards were more common, and an avalanche had buried the northeastern point of the kingdom at least twice. He wondered how much longer the land would be habitable, before the castle crumbled under the weight of ice and snow.
Once he'd finished, he grabbed an apple on the way out the door and stopped before Esadora's study. He studied the odd glow that crept through the cracks around the door. It flickered occasionally as something—the sorceress, more than likely—passed in front of the source of the glow. The High Commander wondered what sort of process she employed to complete a task such as this. Though he wanted nothing more than to leave the woman to her work and enjoy his time away from her, he couldn't keep himself from approaching the door. He crunched into the apple as he gripped the handle and slowly pushed open the door. He peered inside cautiously, hoping that he wasn't interrupting something that he wasn't supposed to see.
Aerendal stepped inside once the opening was large enough and observed the study. It was like any other study he'd encountered: a desk with papers strewn across it, bookshelves filled to the point of overflowing, plenty of room to pace and bring out tools. He cocked a brow at the cauldron in the middle of the room, however. He'd heard tales of witches and sorcerers using the large bowls, but he'd always thought they were just used in the stories for lack of a better tool. Never would he have guessed the cauldron to be used in this sense.
When she notices his presence and turns towards him, (Unless she doesn't. Lmk and I'll edit lol) he dips his head respectfully. "Good morn, Lady Esadora," he greets. "I hope I'm not interrupting. I am rather curious, and, if you don't mind, I would like to observe your process."
The High Commander surveyed the room a bit more closely now that he had the freedom to do so. The bed looked comfortable, comparable to his own in his personal chambers. Expensive linens and plushy things covered the mattress, and he could tell from afar that the bed itself was perhaps the most expensive item in the room. Comfort never came cheaply, which was why a majority of people slept on homemade bedrolls stuffed with wool or straw or, in some cases, they simply laid on the floor, content with having a roof over their head. He wondered how many others slept in that bed, one that probably was worth more than any of the guests she'd brought home.
Aeren moved towards the desk, his gaze observing the view through the window as he passed. Darkness had fallen quickly, and now the blackened sky was dotted with stars that blinked and flickered. They were no longer on the ground level, the guest room some distance up from the ground. A thought passed, wondering if he could survive the fall relatively unharmed if he needed to bail quickly. At best, he would have a few scrapes and bruises. At worst... He shook the thoughts away and sat at the desk, eyeing the quill and paper and pitcher of water respectively. His gaze lingered on the pitcher for a moment before he reached forward and poured himself a cup.
He continued to look out the window as he sipped at the water. Would Esadora be able to find the assassin? He'd heard tales of the killer's skill and mercilessness, and he'd thought them a myth or rumor for the longest time. But he couldn't argue against the fact that people in different areas of Thiyalia had encountered the Shadow, either by catching glimpses of the famed murderer or having been related in some way to the victim. He held a sort of guilt for asking this sorceress to find someone who didn't want to be found; he didn't even know what they looked like! For all he knew, it could be someone he was already acquainted with.
The Elvish knight swirled the remaining water around in the cup a few times before setting the cup down. His eyes squinted slightly as he glared at the lip of the cup. A hand went over the opening and a flick of the wrist had the water coming out in a steady stream. He flipped his hand over, palm upwards, and the water stream glided around his hand and hovered over his palm in the shape of a relative ball. He wiggled his fingers, and the ball of water mirrored his movements. Aerendal watched the water for a moment before switching hands, the liquid stream transferring over to his left. He thinned out the stream and allowed the water to weave between his fingers in a smooth rhythm.
How would the Shadow react to his calling? Surely there would be no kindness or hospitality as the sorceress was giving. Perhaps they would laugh at him, thinking his request silly. Would any amount of money in the world convince them to take on his job? Money may not appeal to the lady sorceress, but it should have a greater effect on someone who made being a killer-for-hire their livelihood. And what of after? If they accept the job, would they allow him to walk away? He would know who they were, what they looked like. Would they accept his vow of secrecy? A chill swept through him at the thought.
It sickened him to be working on the other side of the law. Though he used magic himself, practicing witchcraft and sorcery was a choice, not in-borne. Ignoring the blatant fact that Esadora used these banished, illegal methods made a sick feeling settle within him. He reasoned that it was for the good of the Crown, but it still bothered him. If anything, perhaps he could bring a legion of his guards and track down the sorceress once it was all over.
And then there was the assassin. Murder bothered him just as much as sorcery, especially mercenary and assassin work. It told him that they held no morals, no care for others but themselves and their love of money. If the Shadow didn't kill him immediately after finding the Vaneiros sister, then he would make whatever promises necessary to walk away and gather his men to take down the wanted killer. The idea made him feel a bit better; capturing one of the most wanted criminals in Thiyalia would be an incredible boost for his reputation and name.
He just needed to survive.
The half-elf sighed and guided the water back to the cup before drinking the rest of it; no use in wasting it. He pushed himself away from the desk and made his way to the bed. It took only a few minutes for him to remove his weapons, belts, armor, and unnecessary garments, leaving him in just his braies. And then he was laying down, situating his sword to lean close enough to grab in a moment's notice. It wasn't until he'd laid down fully that he realized how tired he was, having journeyed tirelessly to find the sorceress, and he could already feel sleep's fingers taking hold. He barely had a moment to contemplate whether it were a spell or not before he was thrust into the comfort of slumber.
⟡ ⟡ ⟡
The rays of sunlight were what stirred him awake. He blocked the rays with his hand, trying to force his eyes open and to stir his mind into working again. Judging by the brightness, he'd slept in longer than he'd meant to. The smell of fresh foods averted his attention to a platter laid out on the desk's surface. He almost didn't want to get up, but then he remembered where he was and whose company he was in. Aeren swung himself into a sitting position, feet pressed against the floor, and stretched his arms upwards. His back and shoulders popped and cracked, and a sense of relief washed over him. Within a few minutes, he'd dressed himself in his breeches and shirt and was eyeing the food the servant had brought him. He picked up a piece of bread and poured himself some wine before leaning against the wall next to the window, gazing outside.
The sunlight was warm against his skin, but he could still feel the chill in the air from outside. Autumn had blown in not long ago, and though it was still warm enough to go outside without furs here, snow was already beginning to settle over Felnethyr. Come winter, the kingdom would be blanketed with at least two feet of snow for months on end. The cold had always been brutal in Felnethyr, but it seemed to only get worse in recent years. Snow was falling in larger increments, blizzards were more common, and an avalanche had buried the northeastern point of the kingdom at least twice. He wondered how much longer the land would be habitable, before the castle crumbled under the weight of ice and snow.
Once he'd finished, he grabbed an apple on the way out the door and stopped before Esadora's study. He studied the odd glow that crept through the cracks around the door. It flickered occasionally as something—the sorceress, more than likely—passed in front of the source of the glow. The High Commander wondered what sort of process she employed to complete a task such as this. Though he wanted nothing more than to leave the woman to her work and enjoy his time away from her, he couldn't keep himself from approaching the door. He crunched into the apple as he gripped the handle and slowly pushed open the door. He peered inside cautiously, hoping that he wasn't interrupting something that he wasn't supposed to see.
Aerendal stepped inside once the opening was large enough and observed the study. It was like any other study he'd encountered: a desk with papers strewn across it, bookshelves filled to the point of overflowing, plenty of room to pace and bring out tools. He cocked a brow at the cauldron in the middle of the room, however. He'd heard tales of witches and sorcerers using the large bowls, but he'd always thought they were just used in the stories for lack of a better tool. Never would he have guessed the cauldron to be used in this sense.
When she notices his presence and turns towards him, (Unless she doesn't. Lmk and I'll edit lol) he dips his head respectfully. "Good morn, Lady Esadora," he greets. "I hope I'm not interrupting. I am rather curious, and, if you don't mind, I would like to observe your process."
Last edited:
Melpomene
Writer of Tragedy|Art by ROYTHEART|
Maedor Taellaris
It moved along the wall, oblivious, just an arachnid with no sense of being. A thing that could not know the suffering that it saw. Perhaps it only knew of another victim. Maedor looked up abruptly when he heard the yowl of a cat outside, the sound seeming to snap him from his thoughts. He took the pipe from his lips and forced himself to concentrate on Roxii once again. He blinked away the haze that had begun to settle over his mind, settling into the feeling of ease as he let out another breath. Her face, or what he could see of it, was becoming clearer, though his brows furrowed as he concentrated.
The mixture of herbs was not strong, at least not in this case. He had made sure he had something, though he did not like to take from the pleasure plant, he liked to have something that calmed his nerves after any intense battle against an illness. Whether it be the complicated pregnancy of a woman, the removal of a limb from a dying soldier, the draining of a wound in an old Lord that has lived past his prime. The herbs were good. They calmed his nerves, and left him in a state of, not quite bliss, but close enough, as close as he could possibly get. And it was the best state for him to think, as so many things seemed to simply come together while it swirled about in his head and his lungs. Drinking may have loosened him, calmed him, made it easier for him feel joy and social situations, but this was what bliss felt like.
"Yes," he said, nearly wistfully. He cleared his throat, wiping his mouth. "Yes," he said more solidly this time. "I believe I agree with you." he sighed, putting his pipe aside for only a moment as he took his flask out again, and once again took a deep drink. It warmed him from the inside out. He slipped his flask back into his pocket, his pipe was quickly put into the corner of his lips as he spotted Jenia begin to move. He patted the air before him, signaling for Roxii to drop their conversation, as he slowly began to rise, he stepped closer to the sickly woman that still writhed in her place. It did relieve him, somewhat, to know that the assassin had the compassion to know that suffering was no way to live, and she did not give him the flippant answer he had truthfully been expecting. He knew many in the field who would first demand to know why they should care of such a thing, acting as though they had no heart, no empathy and say to do whatever he pleased.
But at the very least, in truth, he was glad that the person across from him did not think him a monster for that simple thought crossing his mind.
"Jenia," he said as he knelt down next to her, watching as her glassy gaze caught on to his own. Her eyes widened for a moment, her hand reached out. Maedor took it into his own larger one, gently squeezing her small hand in his. "Jenia?" he said again.
"Karlson?" she murmured beneath her breath, blinking away a mist. She took his hand closer to her, he could feel her fevered breath against his knuckles before her eyes seemed to clear. She suddenly jerked back, as though she was going to lift. Before she could, Maedor placed a hand on her shoulder.
"I'm a doctor!" he said quickly. "A healer! I was told you were sick." She did not seem to calm, though her body slowly lost its tension as she fell back to the ground, likely out of energy.
"Doc... tor?" she asked quietly, then she tightened her hold on his hand, shaking her head sharply. "Oh! How did I end up like this, my face-- Oh, can you fix it?"
"Your face is fine," he lied smoothly. "You are a beautiful woman, no? Why are you worried of such things?"
She went quiet for a moment, closing her eyes tightly as a faint pink blush came to her cheeks, but she said nothing. Her other hand came up to her brow, though she refused to let go of Maedor's hand. She did not open her eyes again, but once again she spoke. "Doctor?" she asked weakly.
"I'm here."
"Where is Karlson?" she asked quietly. "Did he-- Did I scare him off? Did he send you? Oh, he told me we could-- He told me I would be his wife,"
"He sent me," Maedor said with a nod. "He said he had something to do. He wanted to make sure you were alright. He was in a hurry so he did not tell me much about where he was going..." Maedor started off. "But if you have any idea, I would like to find him again."
"Mm... Oh yes, of course. He wouldn't abandon me. Oh... I was being silly..." she muttered. "Doctor, oh... He said he was going to the next town over... mm... just past the Breava River. I think it was Kerth? Yes... Kerth... he said he would find me a brooch... he would be my husband."
"Kerth... Hm." Maedor said flicking his eyes up to Roxii for a moment. It would be a journey, the Breava River was wide and unyielding, it was hell to find a ferry in a quick amount of time, but it seemed he had to be there. "Kerth... I shall find him then." At the very least, that was not a lie as he tightened the hold on the woman's hand, his brows furrowing further. What was the point of giving this woman such false hope? Maedor clenched his pipe between his teeth as he glanced up at Roxii again, not expecting to be able to read her at all, but almost just to recognize her as another who knew of the treachery that must have happened in the room. Maedor took another breath full of his pipe and then let it out. It was far too much, he could feel something twist in his stomach.
He would need far more herbs to handle this journey. Far more.
Esadora de Levoran
Solitude had always been something that Esadora cherished. Even when she was a girl, in a house filled with brothers, a lady needed her time of peace no matter how much she loved them. Now, as an adult, she often had that solitude. Save for the times Gregor regained his confidence and chose to strut before her like a man rather than a dog, slamming his foot down and demanding she bend the knee and treat him like a slave would treat a master. His tone usually quickly fled the moment he saw the quiet rage build within her violet eyes, or the way magic seemed to spark in the air around them as her anger grew and his face paled. It was usually not until several days later that he would seek her out again, meek once again, practically bending his head to her. But every once and awhile, he gained the confidence to disturb her in her study. To walk in as he knew she was performing her magic. To attempt to touch her and bring her back to bed, wishing to tell her what to do when and where. And as the door opened and the footsteps fell in, she whirled with a look of cold rage on her face to see the assailant. It did slowly smooth when she saw Aeren standing the place of Gregor, though it only smoothed a bit. Only because she had told him he was free to enter, while that was more or less to be hospitable, she did open the door and as a woman of her word, she did not see it fit to close it.
"Oh, Aeren," she said with a bow of her head as she willed a visage of serenity to wash over her, a tight smile returning to her lips. "I apologize, I was lost in my own musings," she said as she absently wiped the blood from her fingers on a cloth. "Don't worry, it's all mine," she said before he could question, or before his mind could linger, as she knew the minds of knights and the like well. A witch is a witch.
She frowned for a moment before placing a finger to her brow. "Oh bother... Don't think all witches use cauldrons of the like. It just happened to be useful for this particular spell and the way I plan on doing it. I do prefer to be less pretentious," she let out a breath. The magician danced around the cauldron, touching the water with her still bleeding finger and allowing her blood to begin to pervade hot liquid. She tossed hair from her shoulders as she let out a soft breath, a few words in the arcane language escaping her lips as she reached back, touching her spine and feeling the runes light up beneath her dress, beginning to set fire to her spine.
"My process," she said as she switched to the common tongue. "Is sometimes not easy for people to watch. For a more complex spell such as this..." She shook her head. "But you're such a bold knight, I am sure nothing of the sort would bother you," she said as she reached back and unlaced her dress, partially. She wore a shift beneath her, covering her nudity, but it left her back bare, revealing the etchings that now had a faint blue glow to them. She rubbed her bared arms, feeling the chill the crossed them as goosebumps rose on her skin. The arcane language began to fall from her lips again as she returned to the cauldron, feeling herself slowly becoming lost in the spell.
Very rarely did Esadora let others listen to her work, yet at the same time, she felt compelled to let the knight watch. Let him see what she was capable of as she slowly tightened her fist together, plunging them both in the water that had begun to boil, barely feeling the heat as she encased her hands around the compass, tightening her hold on it as she felt her body tremble for only a moment, then steady itself. Sweat had begun to break out on her brow as she bit her lip. No good witch would let anyone see the pain displayed on their face so easily, and Esadora always prided herself as a good witch. Not even a sound escaped her for a moment as she found her center, the hot water licking at her skin. To get she had to give, and she gave the spell her blood, and as she stood firmly on the ground, she took from the energy beneath her as well. A sweet smell filled her nostrils, and as she blinked open her eyes again. She had returned to her home.
It was odd, the realm of magic, like that. Reaching deep within one's soul, finding the dreams they had pushed away and forgotten. Attempting to rekindle that fire that had left. Esadora squinted her eyes against it, searching for the thread. Attempting to ignore the send of warmly baked bread and the soft Jasmine that always covered her mother. She ignored the sight of black hair crouched before a stove, pulling from it a meal that would be able to feed several hungry men. Her father walking in with the wood in his hands, letting it fall. Esadora closed her eyes, shaking her head, willing it to set alight about her, searching instead for that thread.
She could feel her arms burning. She could feel the way her skin screamed for a release. The boiling water did that. The pain reminded her of where she was, how to keep her grounded. It was easy to get lost in a dream which one so desperately wanted to be real. To separate fiction and reality was one of the things a witch must understand above all else, or else she would be lost forever in the realm of mystics, her body left to whither away, as other sorcerers had something else to do, and anyone, not a sorcerer would not care to help them.
So Esadora turned away, her face pale as she instead thought hard on the idea of the Shadow of Thiayla. The elusive shadow, the assassin that walked across the land bringing death in their wake. What was their face? Esadora could just barely see a trace of it. Like a memory of an outline, it would not come clearly. But she had a thread. A single thread which she lunged for, grabbing hard and feeling her arms sink farther into the boiling water as her knees buckled in the realm of reality. The compass was caught in her hands, and Esadora carefully attached the thread to the needle of the compass feeling the otherworldly sensation of the Realm of Mystics and Reality merged once more. As her glassy eyes opened again to look upon the water she could see blood flowing freely from her nose and eyes, clouding the water below her that began to slowly ebb, the healing properties of it slowly soothing her near cooked flesh. She let out a sigh. It was enchanted water, she was no fool. It hurt, but her skin would be fine.
She stepped back, taking a handkerchief and gently wiping her face. How long she was there? Aeren would know better than she. Perhaps half an hour too much longer. She could not be sure. But the water began to ebb, and a faint glow came to the compass in her hand. She was dizzy, her hands and legs felt shaky as though she could collapse at any moment, yet she still stood up straight, refusing to show such weakness before this knight.
A smile came to her lips despite herself. Possibly one of the first genuine ones the Knight would ever see on her. She presented the compass before him. "It shall tell us her direction. It is weak, the spell will not hold forever and I will have to replenish it every now and then, but it shall begin to show us where she has been and where she has gone." And if they found any personal belonging to her, it would truly not need to be strengthened again, that would permanently tie it until Esadora released the spell.
"This, however, will do."
Javax
The Shadow
The Shadow had allowed herself to slip into a grim thoughtfulness as Maedor brought himself out of his own thoughts. Her thoughts lingered on memories of old, of the pain that she'd endured as a child, betrayed by the world and left to rot. Familiar emotions bubbled within her: a pang of sadness, the burn of anger, and the wont for revenge. Memories long suppressed rose to the surface and the echos of pain with them, thrusting her out of the cloud that had shrouded her mind since their visit at the tavern. And as quickly as it came, the memories were swept away as Jenia twitched, the telltale signs of awakening.
Roxii backed away as Maedor approached, being sure to stay within the shadows that she'd come to familiarize herself with. While the man eased her panic, the L'yrathi took the time to search through the small home. She moved slowly and silently, being sure to not draw the attention of the woman. The shadows shifted with her, moving subtly like oil on water and keeping her obscured from the woman's gaze. A simple tactic that she'd used countless times to get information or get close to a target, but she'd never quite used it for this purpose. It worked all the same, however.
As she looked around the home for traces of the mysterious man, the wolf-elf listened to the snippets of information Jenia shared with the lorethven—though she also noted the ease of which he lied to the poor woman. Karlson... There was no shortage of Karlsons in Thiyalia, both in given and surnames. It didn't quite narrow down who they were searching for. Most Karlsons were of noble blood, such as the Montcroix and Lockridge Houses. But then there was the Karlson House down near Koln. No matter how she turned the name around in her mind, no revelations arose with it. Instead, there was only frustration. There was no telling who they were going in search for. For all they knew, Karlson was a made up name, an alias to protect his true identity. Roxii knew how beneficial a fake name could prove to be.
Something odd prodded at her magic. It wasn't quite a disturbance or another's magic; it felt different, something unnatural. It felt as though someone poked at her magic, but the source was not of this world. The blind rogue hardly noticed the otherworldly energy because of how minuscule and faint it was, but she made a mental note of it. It could perhaps be linked to the stranger they were searching for.
The velglorn stooped to allow her shadows to travel over a slight disruption in the dust that settled over the floorboards. It was such a small detail, a lack of literal dust particles, that she'd nearly missed it. She concentrated to give herself a clearer image of what lay before her: it was not the footprint of the healer, as the size was too small to be him whereas it was too large for the wolf-elf's or Jenia's feet. So this Karlson was actually here and not just a figment of the woman's imagination. From what she could tell, the man would be slightly smaller than Maedor, but it was difficult to tell beyond that. She guessed that he had a heavy step based on the slight scuff following the print, but a print in the dirt or mud would've been easier to decipher. Unfortunately, the storm had more than likely washed away any traces of the man. Even his scent—a muskiness of oak and steel—was faint and fleeting, washed away by time and the cleansing rains.
An ear flicked at the mention of Kerth. She hadn't visited the town often enough to know much about it, but from what she could remember it was one that provided not much interest. Her contracts rarely led her to the town, which made her wonder why. A lack of money on the payer's part? A lack of interest or need? Perhaps a mixture of reasons, but it still left an odd feeling in her gut. There was something about the seemingly harmless town that made her hair stand on end. There was more to Karlson's visit to Jenia than they could find, and judging by Maedor's worried glance and tensed fingers, Roxii could tell that he thought the same. There was no viable reason for the man to infect this poor woman, instill her with false confidence, and then leave to his next destination. Perhaps he wished to spread the plague everywhere he could, but why? Why didn't he just infect the drinking waters instead of targeting a lone villager? What would be the motive behind sentencing strangers across Thiyalia to their slow and agonizing demise? None of it made sense.
Roxii straightened, her furrowed brow and pursed lips the only signs of her irritation and confusion. This was not exactly a part of their original mission, but... Perhaps they could use the information from this mystery in completing their overall task. Whatever the stranger used to infect his victims without falling ill himself somewhat piqued her interest. Did he find a way to protect himself from the plague, an antidote of some kind? How did he carry something that the world could not see? If they could answer these questions, then perhaps the wolf-elf wouldn't need to get up close and personal with the Prime Ruler to be able to carry out the contract so unceremoniously thrown upon her shoulders.
But it didn't quite address the rumor surrounding the Prime Ruler's castle, that the plague had infiltrated it. Could the unaffected carrier be connected to the rumor? Did he bring the plague to the Prime Ruler's home? Were there others like Karlson, wreaking havoc upon the land? Or did these immune strangers originate from the castle? More questions...
The hybrid moved to wait by the door; they had not much time to waste if they were to catch Karlson before he departed from Kerth, if he hadn't already. Judging by the quality of the print she'd found, it had been a day or so since he'd left. If they were lucky, they'd catch him in Kerth if he didn't leave immediately and if he indeed went to Kerth like he'd told the dying woman. With any luck, she'd be able to pick up tracks or some sort of scent by the time they got to the town. She just had to wait for Maedor to do his part and end the woman's suffering so that they could uncover the mystery thrown before them.
Roxii backed away as Maedor approached, being sure to stay within the shadows that she'd come to familiarize herself with. While the man eased her panic, the L'yrathi took the time to search through the small home. She moved slowly and silently, being sure to not draw the attention of the woman. The shadows shifted with her, moving subtly like oil on water and keeping her obscured from the woman's gaze. A simple tactic that she'd used countless times to get information or get close to a target, but she'd never quite used it for this purpose. It worked all the same, however.
As she looked around the home for traces of the mysterious man, the wolf-elf listened to the snippets of information Jenia shared with the lorethven—though she also noted the ease of which he lied to the poor woman. Karlson... There was no shortage of Karlsons in Thiyalia, both in given and surnames. It didn't quite narrow down who they were searching for. Most Karlsons were of noble blood, such as the Montcroix and Lockridge Houses. But then there was the Karlson House down near Koln. No matter how she turned the name around in her mind, no revelations arose with it. Instead, there was only frustration. There was no telling who they were going in search for. For all they knew, Karlson was a made up name, an alias to protect his true identity. Roxii knew how beneficial a fake name could prove to be.
Something odd prodded at her magic. It wasn't quite a disturbance or another's magic; it felt different, something unnatural. It felt as though someone poked at her magic, but the source was not of this world. The blind rogue hardly noticed the otherworldly energy because of how minuscule and faint it was, but she made a mental note of it. It could perhaps be linked to the stranger they were searching for.
The velglorn stooped to allow her shadows to travel over a slight disruption in the dust that settled over the floorboards. It was such a small detail, a lack of literal dust particles, that she'd nearly missed it. She concentrated to give herself a clearer image of what lay before her: it was not the footprint of the healer, as the size was too small to be him whereas it was too large for the wolf-elf's or Jenia's feet. So this Karlson was actually here and not just a figment of the woman's imagination. From what she could tell, the man would be slightly smaller than Maedor, but it was difficult to tell beyond that. She guessed that he had a heavy step based on the slight scuff following the print, but a print in the dirt or mud would've been easier to decipher. Unfortunately, the storm had more than likely washed away any traces of the man. Even his scent—a muskiness of oak and steel—was faint and fleeting, washed away by time and the cleansing rains.
An ear flicked at the mention of Kerth. She hadn't visited the town often enough to know much about it, but from what she could remember it was one that provided not much interest. Her contracts rarely led her to the town, which made her wonder why. A lack of money on the payer's part? A lack of interest or need? Perhaps a mixture of reasons, but it still left an odd feeling in her gut. There was something about the seemingly harmless town that made her hair stand on end. There was more to Karlson's visit to Jenia than they could find, and judging by Maedor's worried glance and tensed fingers, Roxii could tell that he thought the same. There was no viable reason for the man to infect this poor woman, instill her with false confidence, and then leave to his next destination. Perhaps he wished to spread the plague everywhere he could, but why? Why didn't he just infect the drinking waters instead of targeting a lone villager? What would be the motive behind sentencing strangers across Thiyalia to their slow and agonizing demise? None of it made sense.
Roxii straightened, her furrowed brow and pursed lips the only signs of her irritation and confusion. This was not exactly a part of their original mission, but... Perhaps they could use the information from this mystery in completing their overall task. Whatever the stranger used to infect his victims without falling ill himself somewhat piqued her interest. Did he find a way to protect himself from the plague, an antidote of some kind? How did he carry something that the world could not see? If they could answer these questions, then perhaps the wolf-elf wouldn't need to get up close and personal with the Prime Ruler to be able to carry out the contract so unceremoniously thrown upon her shoulders.
But it didn't quite address the rumor surrounding the Prime Ruler's castle, that the plague had infiltrated it. Could the unaffected carrier be connected to the rumor? Did he bring the plague to the Prime Ruler's home? Were there others like Karlson, wreaking havoc upon the land? Or did these immune strangers originate from the castle? More questions...
The hybrid moved to wait by the door; they had not much time to waste if they were to catch Karlson before he departed from Kerth, if he hadn't already. Judging by the quality of the print she'd found, it had been a day or so since he'd left. If they were lucky, they'd catch him in Kerth if he didn't leave immediately and if he indeed went to Kerth like he'd told the dying woman. With any luck, she'd be able to pick up tracks or some sort of scent by the time they got to the town. She just had to wait for Maedor to do his part and end the woman's suffering so that they could uncover the mystery thrown before them.
The malicious glare she'd given him when she whirled on him stuck in his mind, and though her features softened when she realized it was he who stood in the doorway, he knew that the hatred for him lingered. And when his gaze flickered to the blood on her hands, a newfound fear arose within him. He'd forgotten how vicious sorcery could be, and it was odd to see such a beautiful woman performing such barbaric acts. And the reassurance that it was only her blood didn't ease his worries. Instead, his anxieties only worsened.
The High Commander watched and listened carefully as the sorceress addressed his interruption. They way she effortlessly began the ritual and allowed that fowl language roll off her tongue made the hairs on his arms stand on end. He caught the sarcasm that laced her words as she revealed the glowing runes trailing down her spine. This was not an exhibition of her process at his behest; this was a display of her power for him to witness, something to remind him of who he'd be traveling with for the coming weeks. A pit of dread grew within him as he watched those unknown words escape her lips again and her hands plunge into the boiling waters of the cauldron.
Aerendal stood rooted to his spot as he watched the woman search for the Shadow without moving from the cauldron's side. An odd energy filled the room, something otherworldly, and he recognized it as the woman's unnatural source of energy. It was not the first time he'd been in the company of a sorcerer or witch, and the abnormal magic that was sorcery always made his stomach churn. His own magic, though weak compared to some, seemed to suffocate in the presence of her immense power, and gooseflesh prickled along his arms.
The time seemed to pass by slowly and all at once at the same time. It must've been an hour or so at least, and Aeren had moved himself from his spot sometime around the half hour mark. He browsed the books and tomes in the study, keeping a watchful eye on the motionless sorceress as she worked. There were some titles of interest, but he made no move to touch her belongings for fear of being berated for looking through her stuff. Instead, he'd moved himself over to the desk situated within the center of the study, lightly browsing the papers and books splayed out upon the surface.
And then Esadora's eyes opened, glassy and unfocused at first before clarity returned. The half-elf rose from the chair as she pulled back carefully, holding what looked like a compass in her hand. He could smell her flesh taking over the air, boiled like a chicken stew but not quite as appetizing. She seemed to be standing up straight, but he could see the faintest wobble in her knees. She was strong, that much was certain, but there was no denying that the ritual she'd performed was taxing on her physical and mental prowess, and even he, one who wasn't attuned to the ways of sorcerer's magic, could sense this.
Aerendal approached the woman cautiously as she held out the object. A compass as he'd suspected, but it was imbued with energy and gave off a faint glow, similar to that of the glow he saw underneath the door and upon her back. Despite the jostling she gave it, the slightest shakes of her hand as she raised the compass to him, the needle stayed true, pointing in a determined direction. As Esadora explained what she'd accomplished, the knight wondered if she'd have to do the same ritual over and over again to keep the thread in tact or if there was a simpler method now that she'd done the hard part. He figured he'd not press her about it; she'd tell him when—or if—she was ready.
"I'm impressed," he finally spoke, and it was not forced, much like the woman's genuine smile. "I do not wish to push you, especially after that..." His gaze trailed towards the cauldron for a moment before returning to Esadora. "...spectacle. But when do you believe we can leave? Today? Or do you need more rest?" He had no idea how sorcery worked in terms of its toll on the body. There were times he'd exhausted himself to the point of unconsciousness, and he'd slept for two days. But the tactic she'd employed... Would she be able to travel in her current state? How quickly could she recover from something like that? Though he wanted to get going as soon as possible, he did not wish to push the sorceress, especially since she made it very clear who the more powerful one was.
But then he paused. "Wait." His brow furrowed. "She? The Shadow is a woman?" The question came out a bit snarkier than he'd meant it to, but he was surprised. Judging by the success of the assassin and the fear surrounding them, he'd just assumed it would be a male. But a female... He held no qualms against woman in power, as he'd mentioned before, but there was something about a woman assassin that made him uneasy. "Are you sure you got the right person?"
The High Commander watched and listened carefully as the sorceress addressed his interruption. They way she effortlessly began the ritual and allowed that fowl language roll off her tongue made the hairs on his arms stand on end. He caught the sarcasm that laced her words as she revealed the glowing runes trailing down her spine. This was not an exhibition of her process at his behest; this was a display of her power for him to witness, something to remind him of who he'd be traveling with for the coming weeks. A pit of dread grew within him as he watched those unknown words escape her lips again and her hands plunge into the boiling waters of the cauldron.
Aerendal stood rooted to his spot as he watched the woman search for the Shadow without moving from the cauldron's side. An odd energy filled the room, something otherworldly, and he recognized it as the woman's unnatural source of energy. It was not the first time he'd been in the company of a sorcerer or witch, and the abnormal magic that was sorcery always made his stomach churn. His own magic, though weak compared to some, seemed to suffocate in the presence of her immense power, and gooseflesh prickled along his arms.
The time seemed to pass by slowly and all at once at the same time. It must've been an hour or so at least, and Aeren had moved himself from his spot sometime around the half hour mark. He browsed the books and tomes in the study, keeping a watchful eye on the motionless sorceress as she worked. There were some titles of interest, but he made no move to touch her belongings for fear of being berated for looking through her stuff. Instead, he'd moved himself over to the desk situated within the center of the study, lightly browsing the papers and books splayed out upon the surface.
And then Esadora's eyes opened, glassy and unfocused at first before clarity returned. The half-elf rose from the chair as she pulled back carefully, holding what looked like a compass in her hand. He could smell her flesh taking over the air, boiled like a chicken stew but not quite as appetizing. She seemed to be standing up straight, but he could see the faintest wobble in her knees. She was strong, that much was certain, but there was no denying that the ritual she'd performed was taxing on her physical and mental prowess, and even he, one who wasn't attuned to the ways of sorcerer's magic, could sense this.
Aerendal approached the woman cautiously as she held out the object. A compass as he'd suspected, but it was imbued with energy and gave off a faint glow, similar to that of the glow he saw underneath the door and upon her back. Despite the jostling she gave it, the slightest shakes of her hand as she raised the compass to him, the needle stayed true, pointing in a determined direction. As Esadora explained what she'd accomplished, the knight wondered if she'd have to do the same ritual over and over again to keep the thread in tact or if there was a simpler method now that she'd done the hard part. He figured he'd not press her about it; she'd tell him when—or if—she was ready.
"I'm impressed," he finally spoke, and it was not forced, much like the woman's genuine smile. "I do not wish to push you, especially after that..." His gaze trailed towards the cauldron for a moment before returning to Esadora. "...spectacle. But when do you believe we can leave? Today? Or do you need more rest?" He had no idea how sorcery worked in terms of its toll on the body. There were times he'd exhausted himself to the point of unconsciousness, and he'd slept for two days. But the tactic she'd employed... Would she be able to travel in her current state? How quickly could she recover from something like that? Though he wanted to get going as soon as possible, he did not wish to push the sorceress, especially since she made it very clear who the more powerful one was.
But then he paused. "Wait." His brow furrowed. "She? The Shadow is a woman?" The question came out a bit snarkier than he'd meant it to, but he was surprised. Judging by the success of the assassin and the fear surrounding them, he'd just assumed it would be a male. But a female... He held no qualms against woman in power, as he'd mentioned before, but there was something about a woman assassin that made him uneasy. "Are you sure you got the right person?"
Last edited:
Melpomene
Writer of Tragedy|Art by ROYTHEART|
Maedor Taellaris
Jenia looked to be shifting in and out of consciousness once again. Maedor was only half aware of Roxii's movements as he hovered over the woman on the floor, keeping her hand in his as she stared up at the ceiling with unfocused eyes. She was still feverish, the medicine unable to take that away, and it seemed the fever was influencing her capacity to think. Her grip on his hand was surprisingly tight, as though she was relying on him to keep herself grounded now that this sickness was burning its way through her body. Thin and pale, just by looking at her profile, Maedor could tell she was once an attractive young maiden, likely charming everyone around her. Charmed by this man who then brought this sickness down upon her, in one swoop he had ruined her life and in one swoop he had left, just like that, likely ready to leave her suffering and gasping alone in this cabin until she met her death. Whether he meant to or not, and Maedor was inclined to mean the former.
"Doctor?" she asked, he could see her glassy eyes were swimming with tears. She turned a red-rimmed dark gaze to him, her pale fingers were shaking. Her lips quaked. She let out a soft groan of pain as she brought his hand to her lips. "Doctor am I dying?" it must have been a moment of clarity. It was odd to see, in the midst of madness and reality-bending fevers a person to suddenly stop and look at him with profound clarity and state the words of a Wiseman that had been looking at the events of life with a sober perspective that put all around him to shame. She had, briefly, seen through the ruse of sickness and lies and understood her own pain, her own condition.
Maedor smiled. "No," he said. "You're not dying. When you wake up tomorrow morning you should be better." He turned and took out a vial. It seemed he was being forced to use it more and more often than he had wanted. When he had become a doctor with the childish hope and bright eyes that every patient would kiss his hand after he had healed them like some sort of messiah having been sent by the Gods he had refused to do such a thing. He scoffed at his teachers, his mentors that would slip the vial of Pleasure's Nectar into his palm, telling him to put them out of their misery, let them die. And he, in his youthful arrogance, had let so many suffer because he believed that he would be that one doctor that would fix them. That would bring them to prosperity and let them live a happy life when, in fact, he had simply prolonged their suffering.
'You'll never be able to save them all.' Maedor smiled down at Jenia, his lids lowering. Despite her grey pallor, he could see a soft blush touch her cheeks as she met his gaze. He was told he had an effect on some women back at home, handsome enough for a smile to make a young woman blush. "Has anyone ever told you how absolutely beautiful you are?" he asked, letting a flirtatious lilt take his words. She blushed more deeply as she turned her eyes away.
"Oh doctor..." she said, her lips turned into a slight smile. He slipped his arms beneath her as he lifted her from the ground. She was light. Much like his sister was. It moved slowly in her, but for how long? He took Jenia to her bed, setting her down in it. She may as well be as comfortable as possible. He took the vial into his hands, his teeth easing into the cork before it popped open. It never felt right. Even if he knew she would suffer. She may not even survive the night and without medical treatment, he was unsure she would survive the week even if she managed to get pass the evening. He never liked it. He never wanted to administrator it. He would shiver and act like a coward when he was younger, making his mentors have to step in, intervene and make the final call for their selfish student that was unwilling to put someone out of their misery because of his desperate want to be the best doctor, to prove he could save everyone.
'Sometimes, you can only save them from pain and suffering, and as a doctor, that is your job.'
"This will help you sleep." He brought the vial to her lips, he inclined her head so it was easier for her to drink. If she was going to die, there was no point in making her last few moments painful. Let her think her handsome young Karlson was going to return to her. Let her think she would be his wife and they would live happily ever after. "Just dream of your life as Karlson's wife," Maedor said as he took back the empty vial. He would brew more some other night. A look of serenity began to come over Jenia's features. Then, she quieted, letting go of Maedor's hand. Maedor stood, smoothing out his vest his bowls and put his tools back into the proper places along with his herbs, gathering everything together before he turned to Roxii and nodded.
"Kerth," he said, placing more herbs into his pipe and taking a deep drag to once again calm himself. "Haven't been there myself, but I know of it. Don't know many Karlsons either." He stepped out and closed the door behind him to leave Jenia in her peaceful death. "How about you? What do you know of it?" he asked Roxii.
Esadora de Levoran
Esadora felt her eyes come alight as the knight admitted how impressed he was with her display. It was not surprising, but to have her power recognized, and perhaps feared, was a thing of beauty all the same. For years it was that fear which had driven Esadora into being a pawn, nothing more than a plaything for the likes of Gregor and she had been forced to bow her head because no one would accept a young witch into their hearts or homes in fear of what she would do to them, believing her existence in itself was a sin against the creators. That power which she had been so desperate to hide she now openly displayed before men like Aeren in hopes of bringing that fear, lighting it within them, only to show them she was not that weak little girl that they could scare with threats to burn her alive, but instead a powerful woman that would burn them if they stepped the wrong way.
The euphoria helped her stay poised, though she had briefly turned, sat in a chair, and taken a silver mirror from her desk along with a handkerchief to begin dabbing the sweat and blood from her pale face. It was unbecoming for one of her status to look like anything other than absolute perfection. It was the only thing she hated about such spells, they took much out of her and often ruined her image.
"I shall be ready to leave this afternoon, after lunch and you may join me for breakfast, I will sleep between then and now. My servants will ready a carriage for us." Esadora hummed as she began to paint her lips red. If they traveled by carriage, she could continue resting until tomorrow, she was not completely worn out and already felt herself bouncing back, though there would be no large acts of magic today, only small displays if anything. There would be no big acts of magic until then, however. Usually, simple tracking spells did not take so much out of her, however, this time she had absolutely nothing to go off of and practically had to wade through every string of existence until she was lead to the right one, and even now it was faint. Despite that, Esadora was in a good mood as she began to brush the kohl on her eyes, knowing how to sleep to ensure her makeup would not get smudged by her nap. She was in a good mood and was about to bid Aeren a good breakfast before he said what he did next.
'A woman?'
As though that was the most absurd thing he had ever heard. The change in air was palpable. Despite the display, she could feel the crackle of magic at the tips of her fingers. It was her fault for thinking, perhaps, this man was not a complete pig. She had picked up her powder brush, about to swipe it over her cheeks. It was slowly lowered back to the desk along with her mirror. The only thing in the knight's sights was her black hair, he knew.
"You doubt me?" she asked coldly. Then she stood, turning on her heel to face him, she took several deliberate steps his way until she was right before him and said lowly, "Is it because I am but a lowly woman that you doubt me, Aeren?" she asked.
"Should I drop and begin massaging your feet? " she asked as she stepped closer, looking up into his eyes, unafraid. "Is that why you cannot stand being in the presence of a witch? Is that why you would like to see me burned? Because I am acting so unnatural for a woman. I am sorry I am more of than a breeding cow Aeren, but I do have to say when you had to go crawling for the help of a woman, you should not question that, perhaps, you may need to crawl to another. Does that just hurt your fragile ego that another woman chose to be something more powerful than you are and now you must ask her for help as you have asked me?" Men like him had walked on Esadora her entire life, believing she was nothing better than a common whore, a thing of beauty to be used for whatever they wished. Gregor had been put in his place, so had every man that dared to treat her in such a way after him.
But for a man that came to her, needed her, to act in the same fashion? Hubris at its finest, she knew. She brought a hand up, whispering a spell and held a single finger up to him, it should have made it harder for him to breathe, though not impossible. "I recommend you remember who you speak to and who this shadow is, as I doubt she will appreciate your insinuations any more than I. I have dealt with men like you my entire life, Aeren, men who could not suffer a witch to live because they were cowards that could not handle a woman more powerful than they were. Do not make the same mistakes as they made, and for your sake, watch your tongue when we find the shadow."
She dropped her spell and turned to walk back to her room so she may change into a proper dress for breakfast. "You are still invited to breakfast, Aeren," she said over her shoulder. "Consider it a professional courtesy."
Then she turned her head forward and headed into her room to prepare herself for the day.
Javax
The Shadow
The ease at which Maedor lied to the dying woman created an uneasiness within the wolf-elf. Each reply was smooth and effortless, each question answered without hesitation. When faced with Master Damaer, the doctor had lied his way into keeping his head upon his shoulders, just as any intelligent man would do. But here, he was not saving his skin; he was comforting the woman as she faced an inevitable end. It was a selfless act, to draw Jenia's attention away from the death looming over her and have her hope for a better life that would never come. There was a certain anger that made her chest tighten, though not without a sense of understanding; Maedor was trying to best to ease her pain and suffering, but to give her the false hope that she'd live happily ever after, just as Karlson had done? It didn't settle well with the blind assassin.
It especially made her wonder more about the lorethven. If the expensive clothing wasn't any indication to the wealth he and his family harbored, his mannerisms and the way he carried himself spoke of his noble blood. If he was anything like the other nobles—and herself—, he was taught how to maneuver a conversation and wield it to his advantage at a young age. His smooth words of comfort and flirtatious comments alluded to his manipulative behavior, and it reminded the velkyn edaina of who exactly she was being forced to work with. Though she'd be lying if she said that he was as greedy and self-absorbed as others, she couldn't dismiss the fact that he was skilled in the ways of charisma. He knew how to lie, and though she could pick out most lies, she was not perfect; he could easily lead her astray, much to her displeasure. She hoped he wouldn't, for his own sake.
Roxii's shadows revealed to her Maedor as he helped the poison slide down the woman's throat before beginning to gather his tools and equipment. As he gathered himself, she began to wonder what it was like: to be oblivious to all that was occurring around you, to think that the liquid sliding down your throat was a sleeping aid rather than a silent killer, to slip into a slumber that you'd never wake from. Did it hurt? Was there a moment of realization, of fear just before death took hold? As she listened to Jenia's heart slow to a gradual stop, the L'yrathi hoped she'd never discover the answers to these questions.
She followed after the healer as he stepped outside. The rain from before had lightened to an irritating sprinkle, the clouds parting slightly to allow rays of sunlight to filter through in patches. Roxii always liked the smell after a storm; it was as if the very air had been cleansed of any stench of death and deception. She knew it didn't wash away the piles of bodies on the side of the road or bury the corpses hanging from the trees some ways away, but for the time being, it was as if none of those existed. It was only the clean air and the low rumble of thunder as the clouds passed by.
"I know not much about it," she admitted. Roxii began walking down the road back towards Thradkeld's center as she continued speaking. "But I do know that Kerth is a sizable riverside town a few miles east of here. Across the Breava River, as Jenia stated. They use the Breava River to ship supplies to other towns. Last time I was there, it wasn't run by any ealdorman or mayor; just one of the townsmen. Teveall, I believe his name was." She paused before speaking again, her voice having grown softer and an edge lacing her words. "The town does not sit well with me. My work does not lead me to Kerth; I find it rather disconcerting."
She led Maedor to the end of the main road that ran through Thrakeld where a small stable stood. "I have grown rather tired of walking today," she explained simply, approaching the stables. It was a small building, only four or five stalls within. It was a one-man operation, and he'd already noticed that they were approaching, his gaze especially lingering on the surefooted blind woman in confusion. Meanwhile, Roxii was already allowing her shadows to reveal to her her choices, making her decision before she'd even gotten close. "Shall we purchase some transportation?" she asked the tall male.
It especially made her wonder more about the lorethven. If the expensive clothing wasn't any indication to the wealth he and his family harbored, his mannerisms and the way he carried himself spoke of his noble blood. If he was anything like the other nobles—and herself—, he was taught how to maneuver a conversation and wield it to his advantage at a young age. His smooth words of comfort and flirtatious comments alluded to his manipulative behavior, and it reminded the velkyn edaina of who exactly she was being forced to work with. Though she'd be lying if she said that he was as greedy and self-absorbed as others, she couldn't dismiss the fact that he was skilled in the ways of charisma. He knew how to lie, and though she could pick out most lies, she was not perfect; he could easily lead her astray, much to her displeasure. She hoped he wouldn't, for his own sake.
Roxii's shadows revealed to her Maedor as he helped the poison slide down the woman's throat before beginning to gather his tools and equipment. As he gathered himself, she began to wonder what it was like: to be oblivious to all that was occurring around you, to think that the liquid sliding down your throat was a sleeping aid rather than a silent killer, to slip into a slumber that you'd never wake from. Did it hurt? Was there a moment of realization, of fear just before death took hold? As she listened to Jenia's heart slow to a gradual stop, the L'yrathi hoped she'd never discover the answers to these questions.
She followed after the healer as he stepped outside. The rain from before had lightened to an irritating sprinkle, the clouds parting slightly to allow rays of sunlight to filter through in patches. Roxii always liked the smell after a storm; it was as if the very air had been cleansed of any stench of death and deception. She knew it didn't wash away the piles of bodies on the side of the road or bury the corpses hanging from the trees some ways away, but for the time being, it was as if none of those existed. It was only the clean air and the low rumble of thunder as the clouds passed by.
"I know not much about it," she admitted. Roxii began walking down the road back towards Thradkeld's center as she continued speaking. "But I do know that Kerth is a sizable riverside town a few miles east of here. Across the Breava River, as Jenia stated. They use the Breava River to ship supplies to other towns. Last time I was there, it wasn't run by any ealdorman or mayor; just one of the townsmen. Teveall, I believe his name was." She paused before speaking again, her voice having grown softer and an edge lacing her words. "The town does not sit well with me. My work does not lead me to Kerth; I find it rather disconcerting."
She led Maedor to the end of the main road that ran through Thrakeld where a small stable stood. "I have grown rather tired of walking today," she explained simply, approaching the stables. It was a small building, only four or five stalls within. It was a one-man operation, and he'd already noticed that they were approaching, his gaze especially lingering on the surefooted blind woman in confusion. Meanwhile, Roxii was already allowing her shadows to reveal to her her choices, making her decision before she'd even gotten close. "Shall we purchase some transportation?" she asked the tall male.
He fucked up.
He knew he'd messed up the moment the words left his mouth, but he couldn't stop them. Just like his curiosity, holding his tongue was something he had a hard time controlling and he knew would one day get him into trouble or worse, killed. And when those first words left the sorceress' lips, the ferocity of it slamming into his chest like a punch, the knight knew that he had already stepped across the line. He absentmindedly sent up a prayer to whatever gods were still looking over him, to protect him from the wrath of the hotheaded woman before him.
And then she whirled on him, and he saw the malice in her eyes, a raging fire that would not be doused by any amount of water. A hand instinctively went to his side where his sword should've been, strapped to his belt and in its sheath, as she stomped towards him, but then he remembered his sword was leaned against the wall in the guest chamber near the bed. The same sword that had been passed down through Vaneiros generations, an old inscription engraved into the blade by some far off uncle of his, the language forgotten over time and the inscription now undecipherable. The sword flashed in his mind as he realized that he was going to die without that weapon by his side, the sword that had been gifted to him by the new Queen Alannis after his cousin had escaped Felnethyr. He, a knight, was going to die by the hand of a sorceress without a sword in hand; what a pitiful end. If Faelyn were here, she'd laugh at him for his foolishness.
The verbal lashing Esadora gave him made his heart hammer against his chest, and he subconsciously took a step back from the woman as she stepped closer. Her words cut at him, like a small knife barely slicing open skin, just enough to draw blood. He hadn't meant to insult her nor the assassin; it was just an observation that he was not prepared for. He opened his mouth to apologize, to soothe the anger radiating off her in thick waves, but she only continued her rant, leaving him opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water.
And then a darkness crossed her gaze, and Aeren hardly had a chance to act before the spell was spoken. Immediately, his breathing constricted against his will. It felt as though a hand had wrapped around his throat or that the air in the room was being sucked out by an invisible force. But he knew it originated from the seething woman before him. He tried not to panic, to keep his breathing steady despite the lack of air making its way to his lungs, but he could still hear his heart hammer against his chest. He wondered if she could hear it, that aggressive beating that sounded like a gong in his ears.
And then she dropped the spell. He stumbled backwards a step, bringing a hand to his throat as he gasped. Esadora did not wait to see the effect she had on him as she left, and though she assured him that her invitation to join her for breakfast still stood, he knew from experience that he ought to not pursue an angry woman. He would allow her to calm, to let the fire of her anger reduce to just cinders. Aerendal knew that seeing his face would only prolong her anger towards him. He wished to keep his head on his shoulders, so he opted to retreat to the guest chamber.
The knight finished his breakfast in solitude before strapping the sword on his person. He would not make the same mistake twice; the sword would remain by his side at all times, then at least he could have a fighting chance. The High Commander sat on the bed and pulled the weapon out of its sheath, lying it across his legs. The blade glinted in the light filtering in through the windows, accentuating the inscription within the metal. He had no clue what the old writing said, much less what the language even was. It did not have the same fluidity of elvish, nor the harsh lines of dwarvish. He'd wondered about the history of the engraving many a night, but he had a sneaking suspicion he'd never find out what it said. So instead, he ran his fingers along the light grooves, following the lines as he once again committed the message to memory.
His mind wandered as he sat there, staring at that blade that did not belong to him. His chest tightened as an unwarranted memory crossed his mind.
He dipped backwards and parried her attack, going in for a jab at her abdomen. But she had already begun dodging the attack, twirling around him like a dancer. Her dulled blade dropped down into the bend of his arm, forcing his arm to falter, and she stopped only when she was behind him and holding the blade at his throat. A victorious smirk broke out upon her face, contrasting the defeated frown on his own.
“Defeated once again,” she announced haughtily. “Do I need to go easier on you, Aeren?”
He scowled and pushed himself away from the young woman, but the glint in his eyes betrayed their childish amusement. “I was going easy on you.” The scowl transitioned into a playful smirk. “A gentlemanly knight knows that he must always let the lady win.”
She rolled her eyes and sheathed the sparring sword. “Regardless of what you think, O’ Gentlemanly Knight, I have beaten you seven to two.”
“One more round?”
Her face fell at the request. “I cannot,” she answered. “It is late, and I am to attend an important meeting at first light.”
Despite the lack of light from the moons, Aerendal could still see the dejected expression upon her face, thanks to his elvish heritage. A quirky half smile adorned his face in response. “No worries. I’ll beat you again tomorrow.”
He missed those days. Everything was much simpler, as it always was when one was a child. Things are much more black and white; no gray areas of morality and ethics, no betrayal or deceit. It hurt him to think of her; they were best friends back then. But things had to change, as they always do. He wondered what had happened to her since. He supposed he'd find out soon enough. He just needed to not anger the sorceress further and not anger the assassin at all. Not only would he risk losing his head, but he'd never find Alannis' sister. Though if he failed this, he had no doubts that Her Majesty wouldn't dispose of him. A chill swept through him at the thought. It seemed he was absolutely surrounded by powerful women who could kill him whenever they wanted to. He'd rather not fall prey to any of these woman; he would succeed in finding the Vaneiros sister and bringing her back to Felnethyr. He had to.
He just needed to hold his damn tongue.
He knew he'd messed up the moment the words left his mouth, but he couldn't stop them. Just like his curiosity, holding his tongue was something he had a hard time controlling and he knew would one day get him into trouble or worse, killed. And when those first words left the sorceress' lips, the ferocity of it slamming into his chest like a punch, the knight knew that he had already stepped across the line. He absentmindedly sent up a prayer to whatever gods were still looking over him, to protect him from the wrath of the hotheaded woman before him.
And then she whirled on him, and he saw the malice in her eyes, a raging fire that would not be doused by any amount of water. A hand instinctively went to his side where his sword should've been, strapped to his belt and in its sheath, as she stomped towards him, but then he remembered his sword was leaned against the wall in the guest chamber near the bed. The same sword that had been passed down through Vaneiros generations, an old inscription engraved into the blade by some far off uncle of his, the language forgotten over time and the inscription now undecipherable. The sword flashed in his mind as he realized that he was going to die without that weapon by his side, the sword that had been gifted to him by the new Queen Alannis after his cousin had escaped Felnethyr. He, a knight, was going to die by the hand of a sorceress without a sword in hand; what a pitiful end. If Faelyn were here, she'd laugh at him for his foolishness.
The verbal lashing Esadora gave him made his heart hammer against his chest, and he subconsciously took a step back from the woman as she stepped closer. Her words cut at him, like a small knife barely slicing open skin, just enough to draw blood. He hadn't meant to insult her nor the assassin; it was just an observation that he was not prepared for. He opened his mouth to apologize, to soothe the anger radiating off her in thick waves, but she only continued her rant, leaving him opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water.
And then a darkness crossed her gaze, and Aeren hardly had a chance to act before the spell was spoken. Immediately, his breathing constricted against his will. It felt as though a hand had wrapped around his throat or that the air in the room was being sucked out by an invisible force. But he knew it originated from the seething woman before him. He tried not to panic, to keep his breathing steady despite the lack of air making its way to his lungs, but he could still hear his heart hammer against his chest. He wondered if she could hear it, that aggressive beating that sounded like a gong in his ears.
And then she dropped the spell. He stumbled backwards a step, bringing a hand to his throat as he gasped. Esadora did not wait to see the effect she had on him as she left, and though she assured him that her invitation to join her for breakfast still stood, he knew from experience that he ought to not pursue an angry woman. He would allow her to calm, to let the fire of her anger reduce to just cinders. Aerendal knew that seeing his face would only prolong her anger towards him. He wished to keep his head on his shoulders, so he opted to retreat to the guest chamber.
The knight finished his breakfast in solitude before strapping the sword on his person. He would not make the same mistake twice; the sword would remain by his side at all times, then at least he could have a fighting chance. The High Commander sat on the bed and pulled the weapon out of its sheath, lying it across his legs. The blade glinted in the light filtering in through the windows, accentuating the inscription within the metal. He had no clue what the old writing said, much less what the language even was. It did not have the same fluidity of elvish, nor the harsh lines of dwarvish. He'd wondered about the history of the engraving many a night, but he had a sneaking suspicion he'd never find out what it said. So instead, he ran his fingers along the light grooves, following the lines as he once again committed the message to memory.
His mind wandered as he sat there, staring at that blade that did not belong to him. His chest tightened as an unwarranted memory crossed his mind.
⟡ ⟡ ⟡
He dipped backwards and parried her attack, going in for a jab at her abdomen. But she had already begun dodging the attack, twirling around him like a dancer. Her dulled blade dropped down into the bend of his arm, forcing his arm to falter, and she stopped only when she was behind him and holding the blade at his throat. A victorious smirk broke out upon her face, contrasting the defeated frown on his own.
“Defeated once again,” she announced haughtily. “Do I need to go easier on you, Aeren?”
He scowled and pushed himself away from the young woman, but the glint in his eyes betrayed their childish amusement. “I was going easy on you.” The scowl transitioned into a playful smirk. “A gentlemanly knight knows that he must always let the lady win.”
She rolled her eyes and sheathed the sparring sword. “Regardless of what you think, O’ Gentlemanly Knight, I have beaten you seven to two.”
“One more round?”
Her face fell at the request. “I cannot,” she answered. “It is late, and I am to attend an important meeting at first light.”
Despite the lack of light from the moons, Aerendal could still see the dejected expression upon her face, thanks to his elvish heritage. A quirky half smile adorned his face in response. “No worries. I’ll beat you again tomorrow.”
⟡ ⟡ ⟡
He missed those days. Everything was much simpler, as it always was when one was a child. Things are much more black and white; no gray areas of morality and ethics, no betrayal or deceit. It hurt him to think of her; they were best friends back then. But things had to change, as they always do. He wondered what had happened to her since. He supposed he'd find out soon enough. He just needed to not anger the sorceress further and not anger the assassin at all. Not only would he risk losing his head, but he'd never find Alannis' sister. Though if he failed this, he had no doubts that Her Majesty wouldn't dispose of him. A chill swept through him at the thought. It seemed he was absolutely surrounded by powerful women who could kill him whenever they wanted to. He'd rather not fall prey to any of these woman; he would succeed in finding the Vaneiros sister and bringing her back to Felnethyr. He had to.
He just needed to hold his damn tongue.
Last edited:
