RP:Back to Black

This is a Healer's Guild RP.

Summary: Night has embraced the whole of Frostmaw, when Genevieve stumbles into Thamalys - the former looking for some shelter, the latter seeking for some shiny pebbles. The Faux Twilight Cavern sets the scene for a fairly tense discussion - the Avian cannot really tolerate evil auras, and the Necromancer reeks of darkness... - at the end of which, strikingly enough, the two depart on relatively good terms. Thing is, Genevieve may have an idea about how to deal with a particularly nasty curse still affecting the Blue...

Frostmaw: Faux Twilight Cavern

Thamalys kneeled once more, this time soon after a long sigh managed to escape those broken, grey lips. Entirely clad in black, a long robe embroidered with shiny blue flames and stars, the huge shapes of the Blue would have resulted as almost entirely invisible - were if not for the faint gleam of the massive wings, silvery monuments, albeit neatly furled, casting ominous reverberations across the ample space. For the Winged Beast was crouched on the shore of the lake, its impossibly frosty water caressing the feet of the Avian - barefooted as always, he did not really seem to care, intent as it was in trying to do… well, the Wind only knew what. In utter silence, the only sound to be heard would have been the rummaging of the Healer’s bony fingers through the coarse sand. Above him, the glimmering enchantment of the cavern tried its best to make that genuinely creepy vision just a little less bleak.

Genevieve , whose teeth are currently threatening to chip from their uncontrollable chattering, can’t help but be drawn to the cavern on instinct alone — even in the freezing tundra, half-mad, she could sense the faint pulse of arcane energy rolling from its mouth. She shakes the snow from her arctic garb at the entrance, stamping her feet and muttering complaints under her breath; she’s pretty sure she’s alone. A hood is removed to reveal long, limp tresses of brown hair, damp from the precipitation. Her hands trace the walls, tired eyes peering into the darkness as hot breath fogs her glasses. She’s entranced, curious, listless, perhaps a bit delusional from hunger. It’s all the same at this point. Any refuge from the biting chill of Frostmaw’s boreal is more than welcome, but this little hospice in particular is of intense interest to her. The glossy walls, the kaleidoscopic faux-stars, the silent murmurings of enchantments that flow through its breadth. The necromancer can tell that this wonder is obviously man-made, the work of some great magical entity, and the investigative side of her is keen on getting to the bottom of it. First, though — -rest-. At least, that’s what she thinks until her gaze falls on the strangest sight. Genevieve being Genevieve, she talks before thinking. “W-w-who’s there?” A step closer. She remembers hearing about these people before. Avians, was it? The winged race? “A-a-are, you, um, do you… are those… wings? Wait, um, I should ask, a-are you alright…?” Her voice echoes in the chamber, not swallowed by the sky as she’d hope. A blush rises to her face and she silently admonishes herself, more for speaking the obvious than being a nuisance. She’s tempted to just run out and face the cold again, but something stops her.

Thamalys had definitely not anticipated any interruption. In fact, he never witnessed a single soul approaching the lake, chiefly because most creatures naturally found the whole place quite disturbing - to put it mildly. Abruptly taken from his endeavour, whatever that was, the Blue thus raised in a split second on his feet, turning at the same time on his heels to face the onlooker. The net result? A cascade of blackish pebbles and a few arched gushes of icy water. “Who goes there?” sort of yelled the Spellblade in a rather flat voice, notwithstanding echoing on the ridiculously high ceiling. He would have hinted a few, long - if quite careful - steps, then, to minimise the distance separating him from somebody he couldn’t quite make sense of. Not very useful to have an incredibly keen eyesight if immersed in such a pitch black environment, in fact, so that a single droplet of liquid blue fire would have leaked from the fingertip of the right hand of the Winged Best, immediately inflating to form a rough globe of flames, apparently directed swiftly enough toward the intruder. In the meantime, the Blue would have advanced a little, possibly aided by said flames, hopefully shedding some light onto the features of the shadowy figure nearby. “This is Thamalys, here on behalf of the Healer’s Guild…” he begun the Avian, quite nervously though looking at a small, leathery pouch presently hanging from his left hand. “And yes, these - are - wings, and I -am - perfectly fine. And who would - you - be, wondering down the lake at night…” sort of pondered loudly the Spellblade, the moment before the aura of the Necromancer hit him like a kick in the teeth. || Oh, this looks promising…|| silently chuckled the Ageless Black into the barren realm of the Blue’s mind, eager to taste some more of that darkness.

|| Genevieve || A gloved hand covers her mouth to muffle what -would- be quite the yell, but it returns to her cloak as it fumbles to grip her staff. (As if she’d fight rather than flee.) There were quite a few things she was foreseeing with her approach, but a ball of blue fire bursting from this stranger’s hand is definitely not on the list. Genevieve is startled by the display, to put it mildly; as the Avian approaches her with measured steps, she stumbles backwards, leather boots threatening to slip on the moisture-slick floor. The blush fades as her face turns pale, though it’s difficult to make out even with the strange blue light illuminating her wide eyes and slack jaw. With the flame as a beacon, Genevieve realises she’s dwarfed by him — this intimidating stranger, his skin laced with glowing blue ivy, possessing alabaster wings longer than her entire body. A bird of prey. She curses to herself and her poor luck. There’s little way of escape if the man can -fly-. Still, thoughts of outpacing him swim through her frantic mind as she attempts to reply. Her voice is high, lilted, quick to stutter. “Uh-uh-um, my name is G-G-Genevieve Crane, I-I-I-I’m f-f-from Kelay, and, um, I’msorryIjust, I didn’t really, well, I’ve never seen… an Avian before…” her pauses are punctuated by breaths, attempting to calm her frantic heart. “I, just, you know, the temperature around here i-i-is a bit, um, cooler than what I’m acclimated to, and, ah, this cavern just s-seemed… neat…? I t-thought it’d be warmer, you know?” Her posture straightens slightly as she meticulously adjusts her glasses, trying to look calm. Any signs of a skirmish and she’ll sprint. “L-listen, I-I’ll leave if I have to, just, don’t, um, throwthatatmeplease.” Her eye is focused on the flame even as the harsh light sears her retinas. It’s hard to look away, equally menacing and gorgeous.

Thamalys stopped at a few steps only from the mage, quite unsure about how to proceed. That tiny, apparently innocent ad polite creature reeked of evil - that hard evidence alone would have called for a much more important flaming display than a merrily burning sphere. And yet, the Blue knew better than try to incinerate an odd stranger. “No, of course not… apologies…” noted the Avian in a voice that meant none at all, nonetheless sending with a swooping motion of his entire right arm the shiny globe up high in the air, where the thing silently - if swiftly - melted into a dozen different birds of prey, all of them made of the purest blue fire, all of them circling around Healer and Necromancer as if studying the odd duo. In all fairness, that was the true intent of the Winged Beast. “This cavern is exquisite indeed…” begun the Blue in a perhaps softer voice, casually pointing to the enchanted ceiling above, “… but an exceedingly powerful presence dwells beyond these waters - a being which most prefer to avoid, consciously or not. But not you, Miss Crane…”. In the dim light provided by the blue birds, the equally solid blue eyes of the Spellblade would have been at this stage nailed exclusively upon the shapes of Necromancer, trying to see through. The huge mass of the untied dreadlocks falling from head and shoulders of the Avian swayed with the cranium of the latter like a drunken wave of ivory-white rain. He could not tell. How exactly did the Healer manage not to even hear about such a shadowy mage simply wondering into Frostmaw? Not a good sign indeed, so on he pressed. “…you seem absolutely unfazed. In fact, you yourself seem to boast quite a… interesting, shall we say, aura. A dark one. A strong one. Which makes me wonder…” would have continued the Blue , meanwhile carefully tucking the tiny purse still in his left hand into a particular fold of his robe - as if fearing to be caught red-handed, “… am I really looking at a shadowy girl simply seeking for a somehow warmer shelter, or should I be worried a being such as yourself managed to enter the Frosty City without nobody noticing? Speaking of which: what brings you to Frostmaw exactly? Is anyone aware of your presence within the City?” and with that, the Avian would have resorted to the awful skills of the Dragon harboured within him, thrusting a long-forgotten spell upon the Necromancer - with the only intent to probe whether the latter was sporting a different form altogether with respect to their real one. Appearances - such a silly things. No, he wanted some more clarity. A decent spell, cast from an ageless dragon - nothing that a decently skilled mage could have tried to dodge or indeed oppose, though…

Genevieve feels her muscles un-tense very slightly as the ball of flame melds into birds; it’s an enticing display of magical prowess, one that she’ll have to inquire about if she ever gains the courage. The stranger’s remarks about the presence in the lake only serve to further whet her curiosity, but as her attention is turned to herself, she quickly becomes withdrawn. Her paranoia is alive and well, something she can measure by how twitchy and frantic her aura seems. “Oh… you noticed it, right?” She lets out a defeated, almost weary sigh, and rubs the back of her neck, shameful. Though she’s come to expect the unease that she carries with her, a part of her does wish she could be treated a bit more -normally-. Though the piercing gaze of the Avian bores into her, her own eyes are firmly fixed away, moving from the sphere of flame to the pitch-black ground. “I c-call it my ‘presence’ or ‘dark field’. It’s a bit of a, uh, frivolous name. Not a misnomer, b-b-but — well, my body just produces too much dark magic, and it sort of surrounds me, like an aura. I-I’m a necromancer, if that didn’t make it obvious.” She lets out a timid laugh, swallowing hard, hoping that reveal didn’t make her seem even more suspicious. It probably did. His further questions are met with brief silence. Genevieve doesn’t really want to explain that her travels lead her here because it’s easier to preserve bodies in the snow. For experimentation purposes, obviously, and none that she killed by her own hands. She’s also hesitant to explain that she’s a recluse who can barely walk down a deserted street. “I’m traveling here o-on research. Y-You needn’t worry about me visiting the city. Rest assured, I don’t have any associates.” Or anyone, actually. “I g-g-generally don’t, um, venture into civilisation -because- of my aura — I’m quite content w-wandering the woods, as, um, ridiculous and foolish it may seem. Frostmaw… suits me.” Cold, quiet, perfect for hiding in a cave and practicing, unburdened by company or the prying eyes of those who wish to persecute her. Kelay is too close to home, Xalious too populated. Genevieve, entirely too focused on herself and her word choice, doesn’t notice the probing spell that the Avian appears to have cast. Hopefully whatever he sees won’t make him more suspicious… “Um, m-may I ask you your name?” Her innocent questions punctures the murky darkness, caught unawares.

Thamalys was, at this stage, quite inclined to entertain the possibility of at least getting to know a bit better what sort of creature he was presently facing. Much to the Blue’s surprise, the spell of Korkhoran did not meet any sort of resistance - perhaps the Dragon was that good… - but even more unexpectedly, the enchantment revealed… nothing. That was her, apparently for real. “Thamalys. My name is Thamalys…” conceded the Blue, slowly but steadily seating on the murky soil, crossing those incredibly long legs a split second after. “I appreciate you cannot possibly be at ease around people, but then again, that applies to many. Research, aye?” asked, largely to himself, the Spellblade, not necessarily keen to dwell too much into what sort of research the girl was referring to. “Perhaps the Royal Library, here in Frostmaw, could help? I have been given access myself to that not too long ago… if you’d be interested in a particular subject, I’d be happy to fetch some material for you…” offered the Winged Beast, not a hint of a smile on that pale face still. Matter of fact, as a Healer he did not really like the idea of a Necromancer in Frostmaw. By the Wind, he did not like the idea of a Necromancer at -all -, but perhaps there was something to be learned in all that. And, he did want to stall her, at least for as long he needed to flag that sinister presence to whom it may concern (he had a few names in mind…). Taking action, perhaps? Hard to tell, he had other, more pressing affairs elsewhere to be taken care of… but. Let us not forget about the Wooden Puppet’s curse. “Well then, perhaps a professional opinion, in the meantime…” he added, casually undoing the lacing of its robe to reveal his left shoulder and arm as well. Both of those, as opposed to the rest of him, were greenish, bloated, unnaturally shaped as a mass of vines and murky organic matter - the stuff of nightmares, pulsating with a ominous gleam. A curse, whereby a splinter of an enchanted dead vine was embedded into the flesh of the Blue, growing, mauling, transforming the arm into something awful and terrible. The eyes of the Winged Beast were waiting for a reaction of sort - that was some material for a dark magician to set their eyes upon…

Genevieve repeats the name under her breath, intoning each syllable with precision. The last thing she wants to do is butcher it with her stutter which, at this point, could be stemming from either her anxiety or the bitter cold. Probably both. She shakes her head at Thamalys’s advice — while appreciated, the thought of venturing into Frostmaw, even for her studies, makes her shiver more than the chill in the air. Going to the Mage’s Tower was bad enough, but that time she was lucky enough to make a friend. (Cela — would she like it here?) “No, no, I-I promise, I’m much better off by myself. I m-may not look it, but, um, I’m fairly self-sufficient. And I wouldn’t want to, you know, frighten anybody.” The more likely case is that somebody else would frighten her. The “City of War” is a moniker that Genevieve, as a born coward, takes very seriously. She can tell from his tone and a few brief glances at his expression that Thamalys if not quite trusting of her — this is unsurprising, and she doesn’t trust him either, but it does spur another pang of anxiety. There’s a still silence that envelops them as Thamalys reveals the curse from his robe, soon ended by a surprised gasp that escapes the necromancer. Her mood suddenly shifts from reticence to exuberance, taking a few hasty steps forward. “This, this is — why, it’s utterly fascinating!” Genevieve exclaims, the lilt in her voice turning from sullen and timid to unabashedly curious. She has to stand on her toes to get a good view of his affliction, her single black eye taking in the full view of the curse. It looked as if he had dipped his arm in a bog and carried it off with him, vines pulsating sickly across the length of his bicep; she’d only seen maladies like this before in her books. “M-may I ask where this originated, Thamalys? I -may- be able to help. Actually, I-I’m helping you — this is positively intriguing!” The necromancer was proud to admit that her coursework had gotten much better after studying with Celaeno; she has no qualms about dealing with an affliction like this, so long as she can receive guidance from her tomes. Yes, this is something she can handle. Searching through the contents of her satchel, she manages to procure the spell book of curses she “borrowed” from the Mage’s Library, taking cursory flips through the pages. “There’s a few options here… undoing a curse is certainly feasible, so long as we can identify the source and unravel it from the inside out…” she mutters to herself, hoping that her newfound patient can provide her with details.

Thamalys’s eyes never left the Necromancer, avidly adsorbing any detail of her body language. As a start, her curiosity with respect Chisel’s Gift seemed certainly genuine. And yet, her presence was quite difficult for the Blue to withstand at all. The Spellblade tried not to give that evidence away, though, just limiting himself instead to clutching his jaws and try to ignore the constant humming of The Black at the back of his thoughts. Given the short distance between Avian and Mage, the latter could have perhaps picked up that something dark was harbouring into the Winged Beast himself. “The Guardian of Sage, Chisel, did this to me - and for a good reason, albeit it was a necessary evil…” commented the Blue, actually closing his eyes as the mere recollection of that dire day costed him quite an effort. Much as he learnt to live with that constant pain, the thought of the Lantern Bearer thrashing his arm was still quite something to deal with. “This curse has been inflicted to me by what is probably the most powerful Druid in the whole of Litrydhel - there is no cure. Believe it or not, I am a Healer myself, and none within the entire Guild has managed to deal with this horror - yet. Emilia keeps me alive and well via blood transfusions… her magic and her Genasi blood do wonders, but as you can see, only a few days away from her bring me back to square one…” added the Avian, sort of slowly twisting the cursed arm to reveal the full extent of the sickness. “Removing the original splinter is not an option - I would die in the process, Chisel herself told me. At least we thought so. Do you have anything specific in mind?” he concluded with what for the very first time that night seemed to sound like genuine concern.

|| Genevieve || The hint of something -off- emanates from Thamalys, an offness she can’t quite pin down. Despite its faintness, it’s definitely more fearsome than her; it pricks her senses with something unearthly and her face twitches involuntarily. The backstory he gives regarding the curse immediately brings her back to reality, though, and she takes it in with nods and mumbles that form as queries. She’d never encountered Chisel during her time in Kelay — perhaps she was simply lucky in that regard, considering the number the druid did on him. Genevieve is unsurprised that Thamalys reveals himself as a healer. Someone inherently divine, sanctified compared to here. Eugh. Now she has a reason to be suspicious of him… not that she’ll refuse treatment. This curse is -far- too interesting to not work with. She continues to graze the book’s contents, skimming. “Hm… there’s a possibility…” Her countenance lights up; she may have found something. “W-well, one option is of -nullifying- the curse rather than breaking it. Th-there’s a difference.” She holds back her words, choosing them with care, making sure not to inundate him with details he likely cares little for. It’s a bad habit. “Curses generally originate from malice, s-so, they can be counteracted through malice as well. Healing magic doesn’t always work — l-like on me, for example. Due to my presence, it’s just ineffective.” It feels weird to admit it to him, like she’s committing a sin. Hurriedly, she returns the book to her satchel, figuring that she has a good grasp on the solution now. “W-what I think we could do is perform a curse -on- the source of the curse — the splinter. It won’t remove it, -b-b-but- I postulate that it will neutralise its effects, and then the rest of your arm will heal over time, perhaps with magical intervention. I’ll just need your cooperation with this.” She pauses. “It may be painful.” What a delightful premonition, Genevieve. Her gaze flits to meet his before abruptly returning to his malady. At least she tried to make eye contact, right?

Thamalys raised a single eyebrow - the right one, if you must know - into a rare display of ill-concealed surprise. “Cursing the source…” muttered in an undertone the Blue, contemplating the possibility. “That - is - an interesting take, assuming the source has not be considered - ultimately - as Chisel herself. I guess there would be only one way to know… very well, then.” He concluded with a sigh, raising to his feet while moving away a couple of steps from her. “In two-weeks time, you will find me in here again - only this time, together with another Healer. There is a chance your hypothesis would work… and in that case, I would be in your debt. Here, as a token…” would have added the Spellblade, forcing himself a step closer to the Necromancer, and producing from the hidden leathery pouch a small pebble, more black than the night itself, glossy, cold as death. “This is Black Fluorite. With some patience and a lot of time, you could manage to find some more on the shores of the lake, albeit I would not recommend it…. not even to you. It is a rare substance… for instance, mixed with wyvern blood and lobelia flower produces a powerful poison - or a marvellous emetic, depending on the dosage. You can choose to sell it…” he noted, hopefully at this stage landing the small crystal into her hand, “or to come back in two weeks time. The choice is yours. My heart tells me I should gut you and throw you in the lake still breathing…” uttered with a grin that very little had of human, a cruel thing painted on a tattooed face, golden streaks building in his eyes, a faint gleam of piping hot blue hovering on the whole of his skin, eager to get rid of whatever darkness she carried with her, “… but my head knows better, there is some… curiosity in you, that as a Healer I cannot ignore. Something pure, perhaps, not even tainted by what you have to carry with you. I don’t know. Perhaps I never will. But my arm has been torturing me for months, and if in order to save it I would have to resort to a Necromancer… so be it. Enjoy the rest of the evening, Miss Crane - and for the love of the Wind, don’t try to get across the lake…” and with that, the Blue would have circled carefully the presence of the Necromancer to disappear into the Frostmawian darkness ahead, a silvery shade soon lost into pure black.

Genevieve studies the healer intently as he speaks, her eyes still tracing his curse with an almost unhinged curiosity. She’ll have to sojourn to Kelay soon — find this Chisel, ask her about her abilities, how she could create such a deadly affliction. The circumstances regarding the curse is another question she wants to ask, but Thamalys, so she thinks, isn’t much for talking. Especially not with a dreaded necromancer like her. “Two weeks, yes?” She’ll still be around Frostmaw by then. Frozen, maybe, but around. A gloved hand takes the token tenderly, with a certain gratitude she doesn’t expect to feel. It looks similar enough to the walls that surround them but possesses a heaviness that makes it almost sacred. The conversation quickly changes, though; as he alludes to killing her — flashing blue, that cursory amber glint in his eyes — she takes a step back, hitching her breath, another plead almost escaping her lips. But he doesn’t, and for that, she’s eternally thankful… if frightened out of her mind. She nods, hands clasped in front of her. “We’ll be able to get rid of it, n-no doubt. I’ll see you soon. Good night, Thamalys.” A sudden gust of wind, a feeling of departure. She watches him circle above and disappear, shadowlike, fleeting but with a lingering presence. Genevieve turns her back to the lake. But she’ll stay a while; there’s too many curiosities here that she can’t leave unperturbed. “Two weeks,” she mumbles to herself, pocketing the black fluorite. “Two weeks…”

This RP is linked to: RP:Bloody Cocktails