RP:A Tipping of Scales

Part of the Rest in Pieces: Vailkrin! Arc

Summary: Maddened by the Shade's influence and still leaking blood from the night before, Larewen enters the Hanging Corpse and discovers her two favorite ghouls lounging around. One's studying and the other is watching. At the sight of her tattered state, Trajek becomes enraged: another mess for him to clean up. Larewen attempts to reveal Goren's use to Trajek, but his anger drives him out of the tavern, leaving her to follow after him.

The Hanging Corpse

There was nothing out of the ordinary about dead in Vailkrin. The dead rose, the dead walked, the dead drank blood. Death was as common as life, and just as unexceptional. What was abuzz from slack jaw to decomposing ear was the place of it: tens upon tens found in the abandoned slave market, chained as though they were slaves, their heads piled high in a mound in the middle of the market. Abandoned no longer, it would seem. The Ghoul had spent the morning lounging in the Tavern, a poor, sickly beggar sitting by the fire. How he saw from under his low hanging hood was anyone's guess, but from the first rays of the dreaded sun, the kneeling figure was a fixture, and he became an ignored and overlooked fixture of the room.

Goren probably hadn't moved himself from the spot he was in since the past day, since, of course, he had no desires or needs beyond memories, and after months of feast, he could probably sustain himself for weeks without having to move, his hands gaunt and leathered from years of torment lighting brushing across the surface of the tome that he had left in his hand, a slight glance given to the newcomer before he returned himself to his study, a small notebook besides him being use to take the notes of what was to become his new body, designs and templates as well as questions and improvements. He'd had to steal some of these books, but it was rapidly becoming worth it, his desicated body covered in little more than the large red cloak that he kept on himself, wearing it like a blanket over most of his form save his forearms, and thus, it would of probably remained that way for most of the morning until the lady herself arrived.

Larewen is the newcomer this time, it seems. The two ghouls are little more than furniture for how long they've been seated within the establishment when the Lady Dragana finally crosses the Corpse's threshold. She is a terrible sight to behold and is largely responsible for the deaths of the slaves that signal the grand re-opening of the Vailkrinian slave market: dried blood cakes her chin and mingles with the scars that mar her visible skin. Between her breasts, the cloth of her gown is torn and a gaping hole allows one to see right through her. Gory vessels hang limply within, spewing a black ichor. She is bleeding and madness dances in the depths of her mismatched eyes. Larewen looks between both of them, debating which to approach: her student or her twisted savior?

Trajek sensed the tempest that entered the Tavern before she actually did. How could he not? It was his hand that had caused the great wound in her chest. It was his blade's humors that mixed with her blood, that tainted her energies, that set each ruin upon her flesh, both visible and hidden, to burning a hot viridian. She was a sight to behold to those with eyes and senses, and it was that brazenness, that unabashed, shameless showing of power and guilt, that had the Ghoul rising to his feet. He crossed paths and gazes, attentions and comments, to stand before the necromancer. "Arrogant." He spat the word, and the hand that gripped his throat struggled to keep his anger from crushing his own shredded neck. "You. Wear. It. Like. Shit. On. Your. Cloak."

Goren didn't really look up at the arrival of the woman, she was, afterall, keeping him alive at this stage. Her very approach made his body surge with energy, so his natural assumption was to wait for her to address him, though when Trajek begun to speak he perked up a bit, looking at them both with those flaming blue hues, the light in his sockets flickering between the two as he waited for someone to deal the first blow, if there was a blow to be dealt, it was not his place to intrude on matters that were not of direct significance to him after all, and if the woman had no threat posed to her, he doubted his intervention was needed, though he did perk up at the other undead's comment, "You do look like crap." He gestured to her ruined clothes, "Had a rough night?"

Larewen doesn't have to decide it seems, for Trajek has approached her by the time her bloodied lips can part to call greeting to Goren. The fury that twists the death knight's face brings a special brand of delight to the necromancer. A wicked sneer curls her lips. Her actions, her failure to discreetly return home and clean up, mean more work for Trajek. It serves a dual purpose: punishment and a test. Larewen breathes inward, the movement of her chest spraying more dark ichor down the front of her dress; the elf is caught somewhere between vampire and undead. She lifts a hand upward suddenly, the scarred and glowing appendage reaching outward toward Trajek's neck. Her other follows suit and her movement is quick as she tugs his hand away one one and then presses the palm of the other against the hole in his throat. Necromantic energies surge in the establishment, allowed by the wards because its intent is not to harm... but rather, to mend: the gore of his throat begins to knit itself back together unless otherwise stopped. When she speaks, her words are directed at Goren. Trajek does not yet merit a verbal acknowledgment. "I figured I'd grab a drink on my way home," she explains.

Trajek could feel her necromantic energies begin to mend his undead flesh. It was a warm and welcome thing, but with each muscle that was knit the Shade's energy unknit it...with each part of the wound that was made whole, the shade's energy unmade it. It was a battle of Master and former Mistress, and the Shade's power willed the Ghoul's throat to remain a gaping, shredded mess. But it was not her attempt to heal him that had his forearm coming down hard upon her wrist to knock it away. It was the optics. Too many eyes, too many -enemies-, now saw how the Mad Queen of House Dragana attempted to heal the poor, sickly, dying beggar; he would have to change his attire, change his disguise, to remain out in the open. He growled lowly, though it sounded more like a person drowning in their own blood. "Foolish." He breached the conversation he was not invited to, and his empty eyesocket gaze turned to Goren. His assessment was quick. "Foolish."

Goren looks at Trajek and then to Larewen, the undead sighing softly as he looks between them, "You know, usually people want to get the blood off them before they go out to party." He gazes over the other and hums softly as he strokes at his exposed jaw, scratching at the exposed bone through the flaps of skin while he thought for a moment, his peeled back mouth exposing his yellowed and aged teeth, he was truely an undead, that much was not up for debate, looking more like he walked out of the tomb 200 years too late, quickly pacing around the other male and getting a good assessment before looking at Larewen again for confirmation, "Not a very nice companion you have here, I'd even go so far as to say rude." Goren's arms rose above his head, those long shackles attached to his wrists sliding from his sleeves and falling with a clatter as each link bounced and rolled off themselves in the air, creating more than a little ruccus while the yellowed runes upon the binds begun to glow, "Would you like me to assist ma'am?" He waits, it wasn't like either of the two were in a state to fight, so he assumed, if he needed to, it would be a rather easy process to take the other down and extract what he needed.

Larewen grins at Trajek, the expression wide and disturbing. That madness that lingers at the edges of her mind is more deeply seated at this moment. Trajek's blade fed into that darkness and now... now the best place for the elf is at home while that dose of death settles. The Shade's undoing of her magic is seen, noted, and because that is what toys with her madness, accepted. For the moment, anyway. Goren's approach and lift of his hands is met with a raise of her right one, palm facing toward him. "There is no need. This one is mine and mine alone to..." she trails off, letting the options simply exist in the mind. To Trajek, she says simply, "This is Goren." His calling her a fool is also unacknowledged.

Trajek paid little attention to the ghoul who walked around him, and even less when he spoke of rudeness and threats. His mind was already working out all he would have to do to settle the matter at which he glared. Most wouldn't care about a mad vampire no matter what her standing. Others would have some inkling of the worth of such information; those would have to be dealt with in time. But then there was House Mahara and their dogs. He could already sense the informants in the room gathering their information, etching it into their minds, and thinking of the best way to return to Vailkrin's current rulers. Those would need to be dispatched; the Ghoul's day would be a long one indeed. "Let. You. Fall." He whispered to Larewen, the question as heated as it was rhetorical. He looked at Goren, then, but only to push past him on his way to the door.

Goren pauses as he was shoved, his light form easily staggering backwards as he fell into a seat position on the table, though he made no effort to retaliate. It wasn't the first time he'd been shoved, and he was certain it wasn't going to be the last, looking towards the necromancer and leaning across the table on his elbow, relaxing quietly while his leg swings back and forth in the air, "You sure do make some interesting friends." A slight chuckle signalling the amusement at his own joke as he waved a hand over his own sternum, "But yeah, you got a little something right here. Want to fix that up sometime soon? The stench must be awful."

Larewen feels no fear in the veiled threat that Trajek utters as he shoves past Goren. Instead, she glances over her shoulder at the departing death knight. "It is not possible, as long as the basilisk blade exists," she says, and then with pointed intent, her voice raises a small volume. "Goren, why don't you ask my 'friend' to bring you a snack when he returns? I think that will suffice as an apology for his rudeness." The words are meant to draw Trajek's attention back toward his former mistress and her latest supporter. Goren is the third purpose in her antics this day: a gift for her future commander. "Tell him what it is you prefer to feast on."

Trajek doesn't break his stride when Larewen mentions his favored weapon. He is out the door before he could take Goren's order.

Goren looks as he goes, "Well, what a dick." He looks back to Larewen and continues to kick his leg back and forth against the table, "You keep strange company ma'am." he flicks the chain out towards his notepad, wrapping the iron around the leather and flicking it back into his hand, catching it and opening it back up to his former page, "But I could kill for some fresh minds. Something young perhaps? Maybe a mage. The old ones forget the interesting stuff."

Larewen becomes cross as Trajek leaves anyway, her lips pressing into a thin line. With his departure and the fading of his influence, the Shade's grip loosens enough that the madness slowly begins to subside. Temporarily at least. "I will see what he can find; he will know your value to the Throne soon enough," she whispers sharply. Whether it is more to Goren or herself is difficult to tell. Instead, her mismatched stare returns to the remaining ghoul. "Find the corpses from the Slave Market. Their minds are still fresh enough to feast upon. I have some things I need to take care of, some matters that need handling." It's more a command than a suggestion and soon the necromancer is turning to follow after that damned death knight.

Goren flicks two fingers off his forehead, "You got it ma'am."