RP:Can You Hear Me Now?
This is a Necromancer's Guild RP.
Summary: Larewen enchants rodent skulls, binding souls to them and enabling communication between the devices to be given to her allies. Trajek and Aerlithe receive the first of these trinkets before tension escalates between the ghoul and his former master.
House Dragana
Larewen sits within her library, seated behind her desk with an array of blackened rodent skulls laying before her. She is casting, her lips moving in a quiet, unholy cadence as they call upon the souls of the departed, as they call upon something not of this world. Darkness oozes from her fingertips, dripping atop the small craniums and crawling into the empty orbital sockets. There, it materializes into emeralds, a soft eldritch glow emanating from them. When she is done, those skulls bear glittering eyes. It's a spell she's used before, but it has been some time. Her lips are twisted into a dark grin.
Trajek sat in one of the seats away from the desk, perhaps sent to his own corner to sulk for his transgressions. He had let one of Larewen's allies get the better of him, stealing her ring and being bested by her wiles and roguely contraptions. He was not alone, though; his bone-thin hand stroked the fair cheek of the elvish maid who knelt by his chair. Her eyes were on the eldritch display, her mouth agape, her mind now coming to realize that her fate had been sealed the moment Trajek's gold fell in the palm of the masked figure. The ghoul spent more of his time dotting on his meat on the hoof than watching his former mistress. She commanded death to depart, whereas he would deliver death to his meal in short order.
Aerlithe now returns to the library, desiring to study now that her off-grounds training had concluded for the day. When now Larewen and Trajek are both seen, the ashen skinned woman promptly greets the necromancer with reverence,for now unworried about the blood and gore which stained both her skin and clothes, all while she grins in a deranged manner. While then waiting to be acknowledged, she does play with the knife being held, not a word said even now.
Larewen lifts mismatched eyes to where the ghoul and his slave sit, fixing him with a stare. "If you are going to linger here, make yourself useful," the necromancer snaps coldly. She is bitter, of that there is no doubt to be had. Her attempt at unmaking the death knight was as successful as her ability to wield a sword - that is to say, it wasn't. She reaches for one of the rodent skulls, curling pale and scarred fingers around it and hurling the trinket at Trajek. It is at this moment that Aerlithe enters, and Larewen becomes aware of her presence simply by the smell of the other. Her gaze lifts to the gore-covered woman and for the briefest of moments, an approving smile caresses her lips. "Ah, love," she says. A glance is cast toward Trajek, then back to Aerlithe. "Trajek, I would like you to meet my daughter. Aerlithe." The witch is the newest to be brought into House Dragana, and while at first Larewen was largely displeased, the shift in her appearance since her re-siring seems to have pleased the necromancer.
Trajek caught the trinket in mid arc, though his attention remained on his slave. He was butchering her with hit eyes; the cheek, the haunches, the elven bacon he would cut from her stomach. The more the maiden winced, the more she whined, the more she trembled in fear, the sooner she would find her throat slit and her life draining with each frightened pump. Only when Arelithe arrived did the ghoul turn his attention from his hunger, though his gaze never once crossed to the perturbed necromancer. "Weak. Breeds. Weak." His words came as wind through his shredded throat.
Aerlithe makes a point of not acknowledging Trajek until such a time as Larewen has made an introduction, even if she was observing the individual for any vulnerablilities. The moment she's heard the introduction, this changes and she now speaks. "Hello, Mother," is what the witch says, before again going quiet with those three words spoken. There is no reaction good or bad, nor does she retort, much as she'd like to see how much of the ghoul could be carved away without it ceasing to function. She knew better, after all.
Larewen clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, seemingly oblivious to the dysfunctional family that this scene alludes to, even as her ire rises. Her attention remains on Trajek, mismatched eyes fixed into a glare. "Then why do you remain, ghoul?" she hisses, the words barely more than a rasping wind. She selects another of the rat skulls and this time, she tosses it in Aerlithe's direction. "Or do you stay to gather information for the Nasar sireling?" There is no trust to be had betwixt the pair that were formally master and servant. Her lips curl. "Unless you intend to prove that your loyalty remains to me."
Trajek knew when Larewen was glaring at him because he knew what raised her ire. He knew what made her feel low, what made her feel small, what made her feel defeated. Just as she had pulled the necromantic strings within him when he was first raised, he, too, stroked taut strings to sing whatever song he wished. "See. Fate." He spoke to his slave, forcing her teary eyes to look dead into the necromancer's. "She. Hungers. She. -Needs.-" He was up to his boots while the slave was on her heels; he drug her to the library desk by the nape of her neck. "Remain. Pay. Tribute."
Aerlithe continues to abstain from speaking, with no concern shown even with the brutal treatment of the enslaved elf, while the conversation continues still. Reacting with haste, the skull is then grabbed with her free hand, the object now looked at while the unhinged grin returned, proving there were plans to practice her corrupted magic upon it. With it now secured in her belt pouch, the witch then resumes focusing only on Larewen, until such time that the meeting concluded.
Larewen cast her gaze down toward Trajek as he offers the slave and her nostrils flare. Elven blood is her favorite, a fact that has not been missed each time the ghoul has attempted to feed her. She does not yet succumb to that desire to feast upon the girl, though. Instead, her gaze rises to Aerlithe. "The skulls have been enchanted to communicate with one another. Whatever you speak into it, it will be received by one or more of the corresponding ones that I have also crafted. I imagine it will be useful," she says before reaching for a third. This one, too, is held out to Trajek. "You can give this one to your newest toy." There is a seething hatred in the way Larewen refers to Talene. Returning her attention to Aerlithe, the necromancer smiles a bit too sweetly. "There is a seamstress here with ambitions. I intend to hide her to craft you a set of leathers that will not only allow you to move with ease, but will also help you to store magic within it. A siphon, if you will, from which you can tap into." Undoubtedly, she has an idea in mind for a few dresses of her own. Such runes, such jewelry, will make it easier on the necromancer's body to truly unleash her magic.
Trajek took the third trinket, and without much of a response, he turned his back to the necromancer. He challenged her in many ways, some more brazen and others quite a bit more subtle; his silent walk away from her was both. He stopped when he drew close to Aerlithe, near enough that he could smell the rot of the corpse that was held back by her vampirism. What came from his shredded throat was something akin to a purr, and unless he was stopped, the same knuckle that stroked the cheek of the slave would reach for Aerlithe's.
Aerlithe is a bit disappointed she wasn't being given something to practice with, but it was a fleeting reaction given the abundant wildlife she could experiment upon when not studying. To answer Larewen, "I will confer with her and make sure that she can measure me, and a proper design agreed upon, Mother," is said, while Trajek now draws close to her. With the closeness, and seeing the hand being raised, she only retorts, "You can touch my face, but I sever your hand in exchange. Deal?" as the witch's smile grew more pronounced.
Larewen shakes her head at Aerlithe's response. "No need. I have a few things I'd like to discuss with her, if she's truly a master of her craft," she begins. The elf is about to divulge more upon her idea when Trajek lifts his hand toward Aerlithe's cheek. Even as the witch voices her threat, the necromancer becomes a blur of verdant darkness. A low growl bubbles from her throat, territorial instincts taking hold of her twofold. One, Trajek is too near her newest daughter. Two, there exists between ghoul and vampire a tension that the latter prefers to deny exists. She barrels into the male, shoving her body against him hard as the fingers of one hand shoot upward, grasping his chin tightly. "Keep pushing, and even the Shade cannot save you, wretch."
Trajek held his ground when the diminutive necromancer barreled into him. It would take her own strength, both martial and magical, to push him from his feet. He gave her the barest of gifts, though; his chin did not fight against her cold grip. He reveled in how angry she had become, how her threat revealed more of her weaknesses than her intimidating strength. He held up the hand that had offended Larewen so, and with his eyes turned to the younger, thinner woman, he pulled a dagger from his belt. The blade flashed in the bright hatred within Larewen's eyes before it was coated dark in the black sludge that coursed through the ghoul's veins. Both black muck and the severed hand fell upon Larewen's shoulder, bounced off her body, and settled at Aerlithe's feet. Only then did the ghoul look into Larewen's mismatched gaze. Only then did he free himself from her grip and mark his move to the door with thick blobs of mire.
Aerlithe isn't prepanared for the reaction from Larewen, so with her attention on Trajek, the witch is slow to notice the growl let loose. By the time it is acknowledged, she's caught off guard, forced to step back hastily to avoid being knocked aside as well, while the ghoul is assaulted. When finally the confrontation ended, and she's seen the appendage being severed, there's an attempt made to claim the hand, briefly anyway. This is ceased as soon as it began, just to ensure Larewen decided what would be done with it.
Hatred blackens the elf's mismatched eyes, her fingers digging into his chin still as his severed hand falls, bounces, and then lands nearer to Aerlithe than herself. Larewen feels the dark ichor as it oozes down her shoulder, staining the verdant strap of her gown. When he pulls away, the necromancer's ire is immediately redirected. Aerlithe's choice to allow Larewen the decision of the fate of Trajek's hand proves to be a wise one, for suddenly necromantic energies born of hatred sizzle in the dark atmosphere of the manse. The hand is reanimated, taking to life once more as it crawls quickly after Trajek with the intent of scaling his leg, his side, his arm, until it has reached its place once more. From there, Larewen's magic begins to work once more as the detached appendage attempts to affix itself once more to its stump. If successful, the necromancer's magic, like a disease, will again attempt to seed itself in his flesh.
Trajek paused when he felt the energies ignite within the room, his back to the gathered and the eerie appendage that raced across the room and gave him a shiver up his leg. he waited until it was upon his stump, when it began the necromantic roots began to burrow within his corpseflesh. But like that moment so long ago when he ripped the tendrils of Larewen's magic from his body, his good hand pulled the offending hand. Its roots, like the arms of octopus, flayed wildly, searching for anything they could sink into to. Black ichor seeped from beneath his nails, from his pores, from each empty hair follicle; power gifted to him from the Shade, the liquid stilled the wildly gesticulating appendage. Dead in his hand for the second time, what magic of Larewen's fleeing through the room and back to its Mistress', he tore into the black hand with his teeth, consuming the new undead flesh the necromancer had just created.
Aerlithe is relieved inwardly, even if only her eyes would reflect that to be so. Quietly, with Larewen's next action being carried out, the witch only watches as necromancy is employed so the hand could pursue Trajek and return to the ghoul from which it had been severed. With the countering of the magick, wisely deciding that it might be a bit dangerous, the younger of the two women says, "I will go and seek out that seamstress so she can measure me," so that Larewen would be able to subdue Trajek without worrying about holding back.
In that moment, Aerlithe's decision is best, for as Trajek consumes the reanimated hand, the necromancer's temper flares free of its hold. Just as the woman reaches the door, another burst of dark magic fills the room and this time, the shadows come to life. Black tendrils reach outward, seeking to curl their limbs around the ghoul and bind him as she stalks after him. Pure malice has joined with that hatred as she approaches the death knight. She reaches out for him, fingers curled like claws. "Is -this- what you want, Trajek? To give me reason to cast you out?"
Trajek stands where he is held, as defiant as he was silent. His own temper did not flare, nor did he hold any anger in the void-filled eyesockets. He listened and he watched. "I...would...still...not be your enemy," He retorted, his throat fortified by his iron grip upon it. He had not called to his blade, nor did he summon more of the powers he had. He could extract himself from her feeble shadows if he so choose, but he kept his focus upon the necromancer. "Chase. Your. Ghosts. Not. Your. Ghoul."
Aerlithe is out the door before the conversation resumes. With that, and purposely focusing on noises not coming from the library, the back and forth is unheard!
Larewen does not release him. Not immediately, at least. There is conflict within her, a desire to draw nearer to the ghoul that almost succeeds in surfacing. A step is taken toward him, then she stops and with a wave of her hand, the bindings loosen. “Get out of my sight, Trajek,” she whispers quietly, coolly. Her lips quiver slightly and there is the faintest glow of verdant brilliance upon her scars. She hungers for the ghoul that stands before her, though her heart is held by another. “Go.”
Trajek looks past Larewen to the elf maiden slave sobbing silently on her desk. "Kill. It." He commands with a nod to desk, as well as a quick look to where here heart settles before he departed.