RP:An Earnest Encounter
Part of the Lies Within Us Arc
This is a Mage's Guild RP.
Priapede was not having a good day. Really, it had all started to go downhill -hours- ago, when he'd managed to melt yet another fuel chamber. The problem there had been threefold, given that not only was it an expensive component- the ensuing explosion and rapidly expanding fire had made a mess of his lab. To the point that he'd been effectively evicted from it for the foreseeable future, left to mill about the tower with little more than his research notes for company. Fretting over the current state of his notes. At least, until the mountainous crash which had served to not only arrest his attention, but to herald the absolutely cataclysmic din that accompanied the mountain shelf crashing against the Mage Tower's shield, and the ensuing sounds of battle that had filtered up from the Entrance Hall.
All of a sudden, the surviving dissidents were no longer a nebulous concept to be dealt with -later-, after he'd had time to pore over his research. They were here, scrambling to find purchase within these halls despite the hostile reception waiting for them. And for every word of allegiance, he'd offered to their erstwhile leader, and to the Ossian Order at large- Priapedes was anything but eager. There was a part of his mind that roared at him to stand tall, to swell up in the face of their heresy and spew vitriol and vengeance alike upon them.
But he was almost certain that voice emanated from the soul-cage at his side, Pelenus' intensity leaking over through their connection. And not even that volcanic rage could quell the tremors coursing through him, or force him to stand rigid once he heard footsteps ascending up towards him. Faced with the imminence of newcomers rising up to face him, Priapedes begins to run, words escaping beneath his breath in a cowardly combination of a desperate plea and spellwork.
-- Ernest may not have been high enough rank with the necromancer's guild to get access to the phobomancy books, but ever since Khitti had mentioned to him in passing that it was a possibility at all he'd started doing some experiments on his own. He had a curse that could instill fear in a target, and he'd figured out how to generate actual fire from his messing around with shadow fire. So he figured that messing around with fear magic from a base of fear curses was similar, and what better place to test out his new cantrips than a battlefield, where nobody from his guild would notice that he was messing with magic beyond what he was supposed to be learning about?
Not that he needed it. He'd been rolling casually through the battle like a spectre of death, using a mixture of shadow magic, aeromancy cantrips, mundane pyrotechnics and Tyrant's Dissent curses mounted to crossbow bolts to sow confusion and despair as he walked, shutting down any uppity wizard who had even a moment's distraction and barely even slowing his walk. He had a target, and he was going to get to that target. As he ascended the staircase and heard someone running from him already, he grinned maliciously. Time to turn that fear up to eleven.
The shadows lengthened around poor Priapede as ethereal hands reached out from any dark place to try and claw at him. The faint sound of organ music could be heard approaching, and the sounds of footsteps deepened, joined with ominous clinking, perhaps of chains. As Ernest rose into view, his longcoat and hat billowed with black fog even as they glowed a faint spectral blue and his baritone voice drawled out lyrics to an old war-hymn. "Hear the devil callin'." He reached out with his experimental fear magic, drawing on all of the terrifying effects he had in place and amplifying them to new heights. "Hear the devil callin'?" A crossbow spun idly on a finger. It might not have been there a second ago.
"Well, I hear the devil callin', gotta pay him what he's due; I can't stop," he levelled the weapon at Priapede's head and cocked both his own head and the crossbow, "the dogs of war."
Priapede's cantrip nearly caught in his throat at the first dissonant click of metal- the hackles on his neck prickling up uncomfortably. In fact, there's almost a relief to be found in the screams and shouts that emerged from the floor below- if only because it meant he wasn't alone in the seemingly hellish environment the tower had descended into. That said, whatever twisted solace was to be found in that idea was altogether short-lived, given those translucent hands reaching out all around himself. Between those and the lack-a-daisy voice calling out, the last iota of caution flees from the Magus- serving to trigger the spell he'd had prepared.
And let it not be said that Priapedes wasn't talented, even before he'd acquired a soul cage- as not only did his spellwork send out a concussive wave of wind magic, it's sculpted in such a way as to send him hurtling up towards the next landing of the Atrium. Straight towards it. Really, by any account, he's essentially all but poised to snap his neck against the ceiling
But then, The Ossian Mage isn't quite alone, is he? It's the unspoken Spell originating from the Soul cage that provides the most visibly devastating effect, conjuring up a condensed lense of super-heated matter that heralds the mage's ascent, reducing the Atriums floor to a molten film that parts beneath the sheer force of his gusting field, only to splash back down through the gaping hole leading to both Ernest- and anyone else unfortunate enough to be following along behind him.
Priapedes, frankly, isn't going to be taking the time to gauge his handiwork, however. He barely allows himself the time to gulp in a few desperate breaths upon the relative safety of the unstable atrium landing, before his legs begin to wobble their way over to the next set of spiral staircases.
Ernest clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, or at least imitated a clicking sound of that kind in some way as the man turned and fled upward immediately. It was a little hard to tell whether or not this was the man's natural cowardice, or the mummy's fear magic at play, which made things annoying. Maybe he'd have to interrogate the man directly before disabling him aaaaand now the ceiling was falling. Ernest snapped the fingers of his free hand and the black fog around him immediately coalesced into protective runes, then froze themselves into the floor around him as he energized the circle into a protective dome. He still felt the heat of the slag--fortunately, his longcoat was lined with other runes to protect him from those damaging effects--but the barrier dome allowed him to deflect the actual falling bits without much more than having to crouch to avoid getting caught halfway inside his own defenses. He shut off energy to the dome and stood up, peering upward into the dripping hole as the icy runes rearranged themselves. "Cain't run ferever," he called up, then reenergized the magic circle. This time, it wasn't a barrier that would stop anything physical, but it was a barrier that would catch a spell--and redirect it, amplifying it against itself with a feedback loop. Ernest didn't have a whole lot of actual power as such behind his spells most of the time, but when he needed that bit of extra oomph he found ways to get it. He flicked an aeromancy spell into the dome--the same sort of one Priapedes had just used to launch himself upwards, as it happened--and waited a moment for the charge to build up. Releasing the dome allowed the undead to hurl himself skyward in much the same way that the other caster had done, and he didn't even need to bother with opening another hole in the stairs since there was a ready-made one already.
Ernest gauged the distance with the same eye he used to aim his crossbows, and launched himself just far enough upwards to alight perfectly on the edge, as though he'd taken an elevator through the hole, and continued striding forward as though he hadn't even been slowed down. "I ain't gonna stop ya from makin' it easier ta go up th' tower, though," he called again, taunting the cowardly little mage. "If yer gonna pave my way straight ta Salad Of Ours or whatever his name is, I may even let you live!"
Priapedes isn't the bravest sort to begin with- given that he'd essentially settled upon the idea of retrieving his research papers and hiding the moment things had begun to go -this- south. Which is to say, He's -entirely- fine with seeing if he can run forever, and allow a far more zealous loyalist to take his place in trying to hold off the interlopers. That said, he is still possessed of a certain awareness- that if it doesn't look like he's doing something to slow down the individuals behind him, he's just as likely to meet his ends at an 'allies' hand, then one of his foes. Thus, as Ernest is in the process of building up his shield so that he can rise up, the Ossian mage turns his attention towards this particular level of the Atrium. A combination of spells ensues, one from the soul cage, and one uttered from his lips- conjuring up a glob of superheated plasma, if only to stretch the mass out and send it globbing out towards the supports and stairwells on that floor. Really, it's a hasty job at best, but there's a key element. It doesn't really end there. Even as Ernest is in the process of rising up, potentially accompanied by the ominous clink of phantasmal chains- his quarry is already bounding over towards one of the weakening stairwells leading up, the motion facilitated by a second smaller burst of air. And as for the mummies taunt? Well, that mostly just earns a rather apologetic (and mostly terrified), "Sorry." In part, because the manner in which his arm grows molten hot, and then proceeds to carve right through the upper support of the stairwell he's on doesn't quite align with the idea of 'Things that convince a murderous pursuer to take you alive'. Especially given that the angle of said 'cut', in tandem with the early spray of magical plasma aimed at the base of the stairwell is enough to start it teetering towards the landing.
Frankly, Priapedes quite nearly loses his balance, only barely managing to grab hold of the way leading up Atriums third and final level. A scramble made slightly more desperate by the manner in which his fingers don't quite cool down immediately, eroding away a part of his handhold for a moment. For a moment, it looks like he'll drop- a fact made all the more terrifying by the simple amount of mass moving to collide into the landing, given that with its supports weakened, it's liable to collapse and begin plummeting down to the landing below, and the one after it.
It's another desperate puff of wind magic that saves the day, sufficing to push him just over the edge of the stairwell and onto the Atriums third landing- so that he can partially crumple in an undignified and partly sobbing heap. The way out was so close, and yet- a part of him just wanted to find a hole or shadow to crawl into and hide.
Perhaps then he might be able to gather his bearings, and to tune out the clamour that was only marginally less horrifying than the din that accompanied Ernest. For his soul caged Partner, Pelenus, knew only a rage- deep, primal, and -vital-.
===
Where before Ernest felt just fine protecting only himself from the falling slag, this situation seemed to warrant a bit more drastic action. If he didn't do something about that falling staircase, it might crush quite a few of his allies. (Maybe some of their enemies, too, but something told him that such an attitude might earn him a yelling-at by somebody and that wasn't worth it.) As such, it was time to get serious. He stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled--and every pocket on his longcoat became a gateway, through which every Helpin' Hand he'd ever constructed emerged, wreathed in cold shadow, and latched onto the teetering staircase, pushing it hard back into place and swarming over the supports. Their master, feeling mildly dizzy from the rush of commanding so many, wasn't done yet. He pointed at the support and shouted a command word--more out of habit and as a focus than the word actually meaning anything--and a pair of magic circles planted themselves into the broken halves of the support, each one forming a force barrier. Barriers that Ernest shaped into more hands, which grabbed onto each other desperately. The strain this put on that barrier was immense, and the hobbyist wizard could feel the bottom of his mana pool, as the majority of it was now being tied up maintaining part of the architecture. Arcane and shadow magic wouldn't be much help to him now--all he had left were the curses he'd placed on his ammunition.
Well, that and his flair for the dramatic. He replaced his crossbow and pulled out two of his fireworks. Swearing a blue streak as he charged up the stairs, he lit the fuses against the still-glowing part of the support beam, cooked them briefly, then chucked them ahead of himself. The first device had been laced with magnesium dust, a material which the dwarves had assured him would produce a really bright flash and loud bang when it went off. Perfect for celebrations, they'd said. Ernest had other uses for it, like blinding and/or disrupting the concentration of uppity wizards. The second one was a smoke bomb, the kind he'd used before. It sprayed a thick, foul-smelling, choking smoke into the air and would continue to do so for about a minute, making dispelling it with aeromancy cantrips difficult. The two of them together meant that anyone at the top of the stairs was going to have a hard time seeing Ernest bounding up to their level, crossbows back in his hands. He'd have used Tyrant's Dissent on himself at this point, except for the fact that he needed to be able to magic later on in the fight, after he'd gotten a boost from someone or dismissed his horde of flying hands. There was no taunting, no singing, no banter. The undead's face had gone from a malicious grin to a curled lip and a squint. Priapedes was in for a bad time.
Priapedes expression is of stark terror and shock when the room erupts into a blinding flash of light, and drowned in an incessant ringing which only seems to grow in tempo, even after the initial bangs subsided. His mouth gapes, opening and closing meaninglessly as he tries to process what's happening, but even that fails him in the wake of the cloying smoke that pours into the air. -Let Me Out-. There's a fury in the words that resound in his head, that issue out from the cage. And it's warranted, really. Pelenus, after all, is perhaps the only Ossian Mage who found himself 'volunteered' as the subject for a soul cage- his uncontrollable temper and penchant for violence having made him an untenable liability. That it had gone unnoticed for so long- Priapedes finds it almost unfathomable, with the way that rage now swells against his brain. -Let Me Out-. He drowns in it, to the point that he no longer fears or even feels his surroundings- instead doing his utmost to curl up in some deep part of himself to will everything away like it's a bad day.
"Let Me- " There's a startled pause as the voice that wheezes out from Priapedes body doesn't quite match the man's desperate blubbering, in tandem with a grim sense of satisfaction. Even blind, and deafened- there's a savage joy to be found for Pelenus, having used the very soul cage that imprisoned him to temporarily trap his 'partners' consciousness. Whether it was the ragged burn of the smoke in his lungs, or the pulse of adrenaline in his temples- The mage could -feel- something beyond the dull void of the cage. "- Ah."
And yet, he wasn't quite free yet. Pelenus doesn't even pause for a moment to take hold of Priapedes wailing Psyche, a faint pulse of wind gusting through the room- not to clear the still culminating clouds- but to push out and find points of resistance. And more notably, to pinpoint the relative location of their pursuer.
Barely a moment after comes an unpleasant clack of teeth, the ossian mage's jaw flexing and contorting in altogether unfamiliar ways. The words are wheezed out, foreign and furious- and with no heed given to the way the rapidly building swell of heat begins to scorch the Inside of the host body.
It's well-being, after all, is secondary. It's a vehicle with no real tie to his soul- which means he can cast without a single thought put toward limitation or safety. Something that becomes grossly apparent when the gout of condensed flame tears out from his mouth in a concentrated stream that sees his teeth blacken and his lips char. The stream comes wide at first, meant to cover whatever other alchemical surprises might still be in the room or freshly added- but it soon tightens, portions of the landing into a cracked and glowing hellscape. -- Ernest's first instinct as the dragon's breath blasted towards him was his longcoat--after all, it had exactly the runes he needed to avoid fire damage and he'd worn it for so long that it was basically a reflex at this point. The problem was that his mana pool was dry and didn't have much juice to spare on rune activation at the moment. Really, if he'd had more magic available to him there were any number of ways he could evade this attack. As it was, Ernest realized just a split-second too late that he was rather more flammable than usual. He'd already shifted his weight forward as if to brace. As such, he really only had one recourse and dove diagonally, through the thinnest part of the cone and out of the line of fire, using the sensory distractions of the smoke and flashblindness to escape getting immediately torched. His duster was made from thick, quality Kreekitaka-brand leather, but his hat didn't fare as well. He'd used it to shield his face from the flames--and as such, the poor garment had caught some of said flames.
It was fortunate that the enemy mage's ears were still ringing because otherwise they'd have heard some extremely angry words as the undead drew twin beads on his target immediately after his dodge roll and fired, both shots enchanted with Tyrant's Dissent antimagic curses. One crossbow was tossed upward, spinning, and his free hand swept his hat off his head and tossed it to the ground, then flicked a flask from some hidden pocket somewhere and emptied its contents of water over the burning garment. Before the crossbow he'd tossed could come back down, he'd cocked and fired the second crossbow again, just to be certain, and flicked it into the air as well to free up his hand to catch the first one. From there, he unleashed a steady torrent of crossbow bolts, juggling and swearing while he stamped out the flames before they consumed his beloved hat more than they already had. -- Pelenus' sputters out one last hateful hork of heat- enough that the very ground he'd torched begins to soften, before his head tilts in Ernests direction. It's an approximation, really, enabled by Priapedes affinity with aeromancy being applied to the disturbances in the rooms air currents. That said, whilst it can enable a decent idea of the mummys position, it doesn't enable much in the way to a proper reaction towards his offense. As the bolts are loosed towards the Ossian mage's stolen body- Pelenus' draws his right arm up in front of himself- meant partly to cover his vitals, and partly to incant a gust of wind. That said- between cloying fumes, and their sheer inability to effect anti-magic enchanted bolts- this results in little more than his arm becoming properly riddled- the bolts shearing through muscle, shattering bone, and ultimately dislocating the limb. Even as it hung there, awkwardly pinned to his upper shoulder. The biggest insult of all, however- is the peculiar numbness that encompasses him. It's far worse than the blare of pain that had emerged moments prior, or the acrid tightness in his lungs. It was an all-too-familiar sense of isolation, a physical disconnect that threatened to overtake him- the Anti-magics striving to shunt him back into the soul cage that served as prison. "No." It hurt to breathe, but even that was a reminder he still had a hold.
And so long as he had a hold, he could push this vessel until it broke. And perhaps, even, that partial numbness could almost be considered a blessing- because it enables him to pry the body's shattered right arm from his chest, leaving it to hang limply at his side- before then drawing up his left hand. The assumptions simple enough- whatever form of anti-magic was at play was likely sourced in that arnament, and meant to spread. And that meant nipping it in the bud. Prying them free of the limb was wholly unfeasible- which only left-
Pelenus left hand blazes, before it's promptly swung down towards his right shoulder. The gesture is nigh identical to the one that had served to sever the stairwell, reducing flesh to ash with little resistance, and leaving a trail of scorched meat roughly hewn at the mages shoulder. Priapedes, trapped and insensate within the soul cage, still can't quell the dull feeling of horror that ripples through him at the secondary awareness of what's being done- nor the manner in which Pelenus' inhumanely obliges him to hasten the destruction of his own body, wind magics being used to contort his body at brusque peculiar angles to throw off Ernests shots.
It's a harsh measure, and one that becomes increasingly untenable as the brush with anti-magic fades and pain begins to flood back in- but it buys Pelenus' time to take hold of the residual magic contained within his left limb. With a brilliant flare that would rival even the flashbang Ernest had tossed into the room, Pelenus -ignites- every ounce of magic that's left between himself and Priapedes, the blaze around his arm condensing into his palm- in order to become an impromptu propulsion system. One that's poised to send The ossian Mage hurtling across the room at breakneck speeds- more specifically to deliver a bone-shattering and arcanely enhanced punch into the Crossbow Slingers chest.
And sure, Pelenus/Priapede's body isn't apt to survive whether due to the manner in which his very body begins to catch fire from convection, nor the sheer kinetic force behind the hit. But so much the better- as the bodys' demise will leave Priapedes soul slingshotting back into the ruined husk of his body, and Pelenus to return to his soulcage, as yet another 'victim' of the Ossian Mages to be rescued later. With the added bonus of being the sole inheritor of Priapedes research notes.
Ernest was in a bit of a bind. While his initial shots seemed to go well, his target had promptly amputated the limb he'd hit and proceeded to horrifically puppeteer himself out of the way of his others. This was annoying, but not debilitating--as long as he could keep the man off-balance, maybe he could spare a Helpin' Hand to try and slap him and distract him enough to get a more central shot in. Before he could get one over, however, his sense for the magical tingled. The man was building up for something big, and while the Hands were dexterous, they didn't travel fast enough to get from under the stairs to here, at least not in time to mess with Flamepants McGee over here. And his own balance was kinda off, in between stomping out his hat and juggling his crossbows. So dodging it was going to be difficult. And without enough mana to erect a barrier, it was looking like his luck was running out.
That was when he spotted the charred pile of bones and burned flesh that was left of Priapedes' arm, and the plan came together in an instant. Without a second to lose, he dropped his flask and snapped his fingers. Two things happened in very rapid succession. First, one of the skeletal hands holding up the stairs promptly lost its wreath of shadow and fell apart into various finger bones that rained down onto a very confused Ossian mage. Second, Priapedes' own skeletal right arm leaped up out of whatever seared flesh was lying around it and punched his left wrist upward, right as that massive ball of mana was condensed and detonated, changing the angle of his propulsion from forward to down and forward and hopefully sending the man faceplanting straight into the flagstone floor and riding his nose and/or cheek like a sled until he slid to a halt at Ernest's feet, at which point the undead would raise his spurred boot and literally curb stomp the man's head. Ain't nobody touches that hat and gets away with it.
=
Pelenus' murderous confidence falters, the macabre sight of his own re-animated limb impacting into his arm a grotesque insult he had not fathomed possible until a moment ago. He can feel his arm shift, the impact already beginning to twist his momentum downwards- and yet, due to the animated limbs lack of mass, the shift in angle it's quite as abrupt as the Ossian mage feared, nor the mummy hoped. In fact, there's just enough time for him to hatefully echo out. "Accendo." - only to be followed by the wet sound of flesh shearing away as his body impacts into the stone floor. Skin and muscle shears away with grotesque ease as he smears a gruesome path to the mummy. And the rest of his flesh is faring little better, swelling pustules full of boiling pus forming up alongside his back. Nor is it Pelenus' who is left to contemplate these grotesque sensations, the mage's consciousness snapping back into the soul cage that houses him. Priapedes is the one who bears the full weight of the other Ossians last spiteful spell, the sparse moments it takes for Ernests foot to descend into his skull seeming to stretch endlessly- fueled by the ghastly manner in which his internal energies have been invoked to turn his insides into the equivalent of an organic napalm. As a primal scream rips through Priapedes throat, the only expression he can mutter for his pursuer is a silent plea for mercy. One granted as the mummys foot caves through the mans skull like butter- triggering the ensuing explosion of molten mage across the room, and most likely, the bowslinger. Worse, still, is the way the landing begins to fracture- as the combination of dragons breath, molten entrail place fresh stress upon the platform- threatening to pancake it against the already damaged lower floors.
Really, the only silver lining to any of this, is the manner in which a humble object akin to a scroll casing rolls away from Priapedes remains- looking all but poised to roll straight into the heated debris. Sure, Pelenus' soul cage is based around his Ossian companions experiments with metal made to withstand bursts of Plasma- but, potentially getting buried in debris, and later thrown out like trash, seems suitably karmic.
===
Ernest's cussing reaches a new height as molten chunks of flesh start to burn their way through his clothing and the violent rupture starts to destabilize the landing. This was an entirely new level of bad. This was "if I don't use all my resources right now this idjit might actually get the last laugh" bad. The Helpin' Hands shivered and the staircase lurched briefly as their dark aura tinted blue. Bones began to rain downward as the energy that bound them together was recycled into a new evocation. In various taverns and seedy establishments where Ernest had left small cursed tokens intended to gather up negative energy for use in creating curses later on, the atmosphere briefly felt extremely wrong before suddenly lightening back up to a much happier sort of feeling than it was before as the undead tapped into his connection with those pools of energy as well.
Every bit of magic that Ernest had stored up in various projects returned to him, and at first it felt as though he was going to burst, with black fog pouring out of his eyes and mouth--and even the holes in his body where the molten liquid had burned into his leather hide. And then, instead of allowing it to consume him, he mastered it, focusing the whole thing into a shadowy replica of the first elemental magic he'd ever learned: ice. The temperature around him plummeted as he bent his aura to his will. The forcefield hands that held the stairs in place crystallized, the free-floating shadows that had been Helpin' Hands froze into frosty fingers that anchored the steps in place, and the burning flesh that bubbled all around him hissed and steamed for a moment before flash-freezing, sealing the breakages in the landing in a tiny makeshift glacier. Sure, a more experienced cryomancer would have had a much easier time of doing that than Ernest, and they could have done it more efficiently. But the important thing was, he was alive--and while the stairs were certainly going to fall sometime, they weren't doing so now. Ernest breathed a sigh of relief, and went to pick up his hat--only to find that the blast of molten magus had burned it near-entirely, leaving a charred mess instead. "Son of a--" He took a moment and composed himself, then shouted down the stairs towards his employer. "ODHRANOS! YOU OWE ME A NEW HAT!" Whether he was actually heard or not was anyone's guess.
Ernest took a step forward--and slipped on his new icy landing, and fell on his butt. Turns out his riding boots don't have very good traction on slick surfaces. Silently thankful that nobody else was around to watch this, he was just about to scoot his way across the ice patch in order to stand up when he noticed that a particular object seemed to have escaped the melted puddle of Priapedes. "Well, hello," he said, reaching over and grabbing it, then holding it up and examining it. "I think you an' I are gonna have a long chat once this is over..."