RP:A Bird's Dark Whisper

Part of the Rest in Pieces: Vailkrin! Arc

Summary: Larewen sits in the Hanging Corpse, scouring war documents when she's approached by a beautiful, darkly clad avian male. He brings information of a noble whose life is soon to end when suddenly there's an explosion. Killed by the explosion, Larewen raises the avian, Grimsfeather, as a sentient undead in order to gather more information. Delighted with what she hears, and lamenting the damage done to Vailkrin in the blast, the necromancer goes to seek out Scandal.

OOC: Grimsfeather is NPCed by Scandal.

The Hanging Corpse

Larewen sits at one of the tables, this time graciously free of her obstinate guards—somewhat. The pair are amongst those within the Corpse, mingling with the patrons and ever watchful of their mistress. Dressed in verdant finery, the woman sits with a glass of wine in hand. Her body is marred with blackened, necromantic runes that give off a faint, ethereal glow of a deep green hue. The only part visible and not scarred is the right side of her face. In her other hand, she holds a cigarette, which she puffs from time to time. Her gaze is fixed on a scroll before her.

Grimsfeather, as he was known as strode in from the dark night, a smile on his face. Though it wasn't really a smile, the skin torn up his cheeks from a self inflicted incision he had made upon himself some years before. He wore a dark trench coat, and dark pants his ghostly white chest exposed as his dark wings of black leather, was it perhaps. His face was aside from the scar was handsome but ghastly all that same time, with his eyes shrouded in shadow from a very wide brimmed hat of similar dark color. His voice shrill and yet smooth, like somone of sadistic mind. He slipped his hat off exposing his dark black that fell over his shoulders. He was suprisingly tall, though not unnaturally so, but frame made him appear as if he were a skeletal of avian, rather than robust bird he might have been, all these traits seemingly self inflicted. He pressed his hat to his chest and said with a bow. "It would seem that it is all over for his Lord ship Shenorath," He smiled with his scar maginifying his evil glint in his eyes. "I just saw necromancer and a dragon like man take to his Lands nay more than 10 mins ago. "

Larewen arches her brow, attention drawn toward Grimsfeather. Her head lifts, eyes visible beneath the brim of her fedora and obscured only by a thin black veil. The left eye is a twinkling emerald whilst the other is a deep brown. Studying the avian, the necromancer’s head tilts back slightly, lips pursing into a thin line. She knows this is not her own work; she knows that it is a potential ally, if she plays her cards right. Her lips twitch slightly before she says, “Is that so?”

Grimsfeather delighted to see he had the audience and withdrew a cane from his sleeve, pulling the hook of it over a undead drinking at the bar, he pulled the dead back and with a pair his fingers plucked out and eye, and stuck it through the umbrella of the dead un's hard spirit. Taking a sip he took a seat, next to the vampire. "Indeed, I wonder if Lord Shenorath, is planning to suck that draconian dry for his blood for some poisioning, or perhaps to liquidate some rivals, whatever the case, his reputation for purcahsing is extremely high. I wonder when his debts will catch up with him." He looked at her his pupils unshifting like a man who had lost all of his sanity. His teeth seemed to have been chiseled into sharp points. Upon closer examination he had violent scars around his eyes in some horrendous ornamantal display. "But then, with what war is going on, whose to know if he be the one to last, or his supplier." He said as he bit into the eyeball.

Larewen tenses, though the tightening of her muscles is near imperceptible. The woman and dragon’s blood don’t mix well, if her scars are anything to go by. With his closer inspection, Grimsfeather might notice the ‘Y’ incision across her chest. The elf has experience with being bled, with being flayed. Amusement curls her lip at his words and she lets him continue to speak. When his words have met a conclusion, the elf raises her glass to her lips and sips from it. The wheels in her mind are already turning, but she does nothing to outwardly show her pattern of thought. “Fascinating, I’m sure. Which of the dragons, praytell?”

Grimsfeather stopped for a moment, and thought about it. "He was an odd one, in fact he didn't look like most dragons, not you know, what the word be on the tip of my tongue if i had one, that is." He opened his mouth reveal a split tongue, "He was black, and red, and he was, he looked like best of both worlds of the two dragon breeds, and yet strangely he was different but not in any first glance sort of way. Hmm, I should very much like to meet him, again, get under his skin."

Larewen watches as the avian’s mouth opens, gaze dropping to his split tongue. Her own presses against the tip of one of her fangs. Some things could be said about Grimsfeather’s appearance too, but the elf doesn’t go there. Instead, her gaze raises to his once more. “Interesting. I don’t think I’ve seen that one before. I’ll have to keep an eye out.” She brings her cigarette to her mouth and draws a breath inward, savoring the taste of the tobacco before lowering it. “And you said a necromancer was with him?”

Grimsfeather nodded about to say something. "Ye..." But turns as a brilliant harsh green light illuminated the back wall of the the tavern and soon fills the entire room, blinding grimsfeather. As he exclaims, "What the-" Then an immense bang far louder than thunder hits the room, and the ground quakes shaking the tavern. Glass breaks, tables over turns windows smash in, and the entire area rises in temperture by about 70 degrees. The taste of metal is upon every mouth. As the light begins to fade, and sight is restored Grimsfeather, clutches his throat, which has been partially severed by flying glass. "Delightful..." Before toppling over. Outside for those who walk out see over some mountains a glowing cloud of fire rising over the cliffs, and continues to rise. The destination confirmed in an instant to those who have the intel that it was Lord Shenorath's residence of where this explosion seemed to rise from.

Larewen seems unbothered by the explosion that rocks the city; in fact, the elf appears more perturbed by the fact some of her wine sloshes over the edge of her fluted glass. Scowling, she lowers it to the table and looks beyond Grimsfeather and to the door. Her mind is placing the location of the blast when the avian crumbles before her and a frown weighs her lips downward. “What a shame,” she laments, rising from her seat and kneeling down beside Grimsfeather. Her gloved fingers move to his throat, pulling free the deadly shard of glass and casting it to the side. “I always warn the living about coming here, and yet I’m the bad guy. Tch,” she muses to herself, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Straightening up, the woman begins to speak in a dark, archaic tongue. The energies of the rom shift toward the negative, but not so much so as to enact the wards of the Corpse: after all, she’s not doing harmful magic. She only has the best of intents. After a few moments of this, movement returns to the avian, then comes senses and speech. “Better.”

Grimsfeather smiled broadly. "You have no idea, mistress." He cackles. "My my my, what a mess has come about this old place," He says rising, as his blood has left him, peeks his head out a window. "Phew, wow, If thats the dragon's doing then I hate to see what he..." Large stones white hot and glistening fall to the street drowning out his words as they crashed. When one can hear him he says. "To bad, that was his only target, Imagine how many heads could roll with a dragon like that could provide as an ally."

“Perhaps,” the elf agreed, her attention turning toward the nearest window. With each crash, she visibly flinches. Not from fear, but from concern for the city itself. “Though I’d certainly prefer Vailkrin remain a bit more whole. There’s definitely a benefit to be had.” Her attention returns to the avian. “Do you know anything about this dragon?”

Grimsfeather turns his head from the window a near and unnerving 180 degrees, "Why yes, yes I do, he has a habit of talking with an avian political philosopher in Schezerade from time to time," He turns his body towards his mistress. "In fact, I hear he lives in Venturil north of the Rolling plains, supposedly get this," He says leaning on the chair so heavily he might have fallen if so much as a speck dust tipped him off balance. "Its in by far one the largest buildings this land, may know, supposedly designed to house dragons at full size."

Larewen makes note of the directions given, committing them to her memory. A brow arches once again toward the end of his words. “That must be one expansive house,” she remarks. A single finger taps against her chin thoughtfully. “I’ll have to seek him out. Hopefully this is the extent of the damage he’ll be doing here tonight—I’d hate to see more of my city laid to waste.”

Grimsfeather, "I wonder whose idea was it to convince Shenorath to build a castle outside of the city anyhow, had he been here, I doubt we'd be alive...heh. To talk about it." He started to giggle at that, then it became a little less controlled.

Larewen nods to Grimsfeather, amused by his behavior. A few more words correct it--or worsen it, who knows. The necromancer doesn't stick around to find out. Leaving the reanimated avian to his own devices, the woman slips out of the establishment.