RP:Enter The Dragon

Background

This is part of the Kurgan's Run story arc.

Jolie and Colton enter the Fortress, and soon run into trouble - of a comparatively mundane kind.

Later, At The Dark Fortress

Jolie had at length caught up to the conjurer, the stallion's pace naturally faster than her smaller mare. He'd see her approach at a canter, not a gallop - her gaze was fixed on that cyclopean structure, far larger than it may have appeared from the distance. Oddly, a little larger than it'd seemed just a short time prior, when they'd ridden Colton's roan here and stopped in this same place, near a clump of remnant, warped trees that had defied whatever healing magics had soothed the terrible scorch of chaos from the land. "My sister..." she said, the grey halting beside the stallion, its nostrils flaring in a welcome sniff at the roan's thick neck. ".. trailed me, from the pub. And one of those creepy monks, too." Leifong's presence had not escaped her, being a tell-tale prickle at her nape. Her gaze was set upon the awkward, in places impossible, angle of the fortress, its abominable spires and turrets. "You ought not come in there, Colton," she added, softly. "It's.. well, we spoke of it. It's my burden, not yours."

They rode in silence. It was atypical only in that she had scarcely spoken and left the only accompaniment to the thudding of his horse's hooves stand as the slowly swelling sensation of foreboding. They'd tracked miles of dusty road and beaten ground before that feeling manifested on the horizon, a looming and chaotic collection of architecture that defied every categorization he attempted to place on it. The man known as Black bent over his powerful animal's neck and ignored the feeling of its mane against his stubble-clad jawline to stare openly. His jaw knit in consternation as knots forged themselves within his belly. A hundred, thousand, different sensations arcing their way across his skin and slithering down like raindrops. It swelled inside him. That darkness. It was as though every dark place in the world had come to meet upon the ground that rose up before him and it twisted sharply throughout the corners and dark places within him. The feeling was comparable to only one thing, though he would never speak of it. He felt as though he was running beyond capacity, beyond control. It was as though every synapse of his body was screaming, steadily louder, until full amplitude was a memory and he'd stretched far beyond it. "I'm going inside." He said. Because she, of course, knew that already. Because she, of course, had brought him here knowing full well what it could possibly have meant. In his many years the man known as Black, the Dragon, the conjurer, had never seen such a thing. He had only felt this unbridled a scant few times. It surged through him as he urged his horse on, past hers, riding towards the beacon she had provided. The consequences were never given a moment's thought.

She knew. And spoke not again until they came before the gaping archway that peaked high overhead. No locks, no door at all, as if the thing was lying in wait for hapless prey. Tenebrae – she felt that name a better fit lately, moreso with every passing day – chased the thought from her mind by finding a suitable place to tether her mare, whose eyes rolled white and whose flanks shivered in the abruptly cold shadow of the fortress, a sharp contrast to the yellow warmth of the day. If the necromancer too felt that uncanny surge, or sensed it in Colton Black, she said nothing about it, though he might catch a look in her eyes that briefly spoke of lusts he had not yet seen in her, a hungry glint that went with the arrogant tilt of her chin. “There’s a monster inside.” She loosed the girth of the grey’s saddle, wished she’d brought water. Her pack was unloaded from the saddlerings and slung over one shoulder, its weight dropping her down for a moment, until she adjusted her balance for it. “I’m going to kill it.” It was sheer bravado that he’d see then, spreading a grin to her lips. “I suppose you can tag along. Just.. don’t get in my way, hm?” The smile would fade when she turned back to face the arch, its interior strangely murky, considering the bright hour - nothing could be seen beyond its lip.

In the shadow of her toy, her creation, there lay two distinct and noticeable realizations waiting for him. The first was that she had not been joking about the monster. It had been his first assumption that she was toying with him. The liquid-quick lash of her wit sometimes eluded him when he was not altogether himself. It was beyond his own limited capacity for humor and too striking, too blindingly sharp, for him to catch it at all times. When he finally looked back to her, however, to catch the vision of her graceful dismount it was immediately clear to him that she was deadly serious in her own way. The second realization lay in her eyes. Those green, pale eyes. In their short time together and the unique nature of their arrangements he had seen predation only a handful of times. It had grown from the dying embers, a shadow itself of what had been something greater, to the flicker sparks of promise. Tenebrae, for to him there was no other name for her, was steeled in her determination. It was as solid as the strange walls that lay beyond, more so, and flinty in its certainty. To all of this, of course, he said nothing. She had arranged this moment so that it had taken the exact shape she required. They functioned because she did not have to pretend otherwise. They functioned because it was distinct and clear to them both that it was her ambitions they were serving and his appetite for all things unknown that was being fed. Instead, from the woolen folds of his coat, the conjurer produced a solitary cigar and the dagger with which he clipped it. In a moment it was lit and the stink of sulfur and tobacco surrounded him. Her monster lay beyond.

It was oddly comforting, that acrid smoke, something of the tavern in it, of home and hearth. His presence, too, was a comfort, though it had little to do with having extra muscle closeby. If pressed to name the reason, she couldn’t have given it beyond a vague nod to a feeling of –rightness- and belonging. The smoke did much to bolster her courage, and the Darkness hurried to unbuckle the final piece of equipment – a long sheath, the elaborate hilt of the sword within glinting steely, despite the pall of the structure’s murk. Had Colton known her longer, he might’ve been surprised to see Tenebrae with such a weapon; her tastes for killing ranged from the poisoned tip of a knife, to the cruel twist of wire that would cut a throat like a wedge of cheese, though it was plain the sword was an ill fit for her, too long by a foot. With her gaze set on the impossibly-angled turrets, the many-sided stones stacked together, mortarless and without a razor’s width between the joints, the necromancer stalked forward, and into that cyclopean hall, where the murk thinned to the eye and revealed was a vaulted ceiling for some warped cathedral, a vast room that was utterly empty but for three stone arches set on its far end. Before these, she paused, looking from one to the other. Again, these arches were filled with darkness; though her intuition immediately urged her toward the middle path she would halt after a single step toward that gloomy aperture.

Jolie said, "Something's different."

Colton knew no better. Ignorant of the dangers, he walked on beside her. Here, she hesitated. Wary, perhaps. It was impossible to say. The embers of his cigar flared and cast their reddish glow, briefly lighting the wolfish cast of his face as his eyes cut their way throughout the room's interior. Different, she had said, and while ignorant he was not foolish or beyond perception. The ease of which he set his will to the shadows was gone here. They fought his control. It were as though, instead of dipping his hand in ink, he was suddenly dipping his hand in tar. The effort was immense and he did not waste his strength here, did not test his own limits within this first hall. Instead, he abandoned his otherwise constant companions for the palpable comfort of his cigar. The press of his strong hand at the small of her back, seeping warmth through the fabric that bound her slender form, leant as assurance enough. "You did not bring me here to turn around."

Her tone was sharper than she’d meant it to be. “I’m not turning anywhere.” The fierce glitter in her gaze abated somewhat, and she turned her head away, adjusting the strap of that too-long sword. “It just… feels different, is all. Stronger. But at the same time..” and there, she could find no words for the feeling and abandoned the attempt. A faint clank as the sword’s sheath hit a buckle on her boot by her knee when she stepped forward, her chin lifted in that defiant expression with which Colton would already be familiar. “It’s all illusion, in there. You’re going to forget so, probably. But that’s what it is.” Not –all- it was, but the tale was too long and convoluted for the telling, and there were many chapters he’d simply rather forget. “The building is alive, in its way. It rarely kills. But it does take its pound of flesh.” Or sanity, whatever. No further preamble she walked through the central arch. Before her stretched not the mind-boggling maze she’d expected, but a simple, very straight path that stretched off into the fortress’ interior night. “Different,” she grunted, and strode on.

It was not lost on him. The distinct changes in her manner read telling under his amber-flecked stare. She spoke and he listened, aware that she did not expect or ask him to truly understand what she was saying. The message that she'd meant to convey was that he was to respect this place or get swallowed by it and he knew enough by now to read it in her tone and beneath the tempo of her words. Despite it all, despite his desire to run down that corridor with mallet in hand, he lingered at her side and slightly behind her. She had meant this to be hers. It was her purpose that had brought them here. The cigar bobbed between the clench of his pale teeth, lit in an almost ghoulish smile from the scant light of the cherry-red embers at its end.

Different, yes. But in many ways the same. That corridor would seem to stretch for miles, long and empty, uneventful. After a time, Tenebrae broke their silence, “It wants us to be off guard. To be lured by the tedium, lose our edge before we get too far in.” She did not whisper, as the place almost commanded, and her voice echoed softly. “It is the servant of a master who is insane, a broken thing, very powerful. Its heart, perilous.” That this is where they were headed did not need saying. “It feeds on desires… less the obvious ones, than the ones we hide even from ourselves; f on what it can wring from those, darkness and joy, alike.” Her speech almost matched tempo with their regular footfalls. After a few more steps, she looked aside again, to the man named Black. “Where are you from?” It was the first such intrusion she’d made on him, and it felt, even as she spoke it, somewhat as though she was standing on the brink of another kind of void.

"The west, beyond the mountain." It was not an intentionally vague answer. The cold truth was that Colton’s home had been a series of cottages and manors. The memories of those days had not faded, only tarnished, as though time had steadily leaked the grime of retrospect upon them. It was not a place he visited in thoughts frequently. She'd find, should she press further, that the answers he gave her came without discomfort or resentment. It was a suitable means to ease their growing tensions. Still, despite the madness she spoke of, Colton Black found himself more intrigued then wary. It was a consequence of his nature. It filled him even as that unfamiliar, edgy feeling crept its way across his black heart. "My family was inordinately wealthy."

Somehow, that didn’t surprise her. He had a taste for the finer things, in a sullied and jaded sort of way – she’d seen his type, in that regard at least, among the dilettante youth of Vailkrin’s own uppercrust, mostly from a distance when she was still a human child, unless she was cutting their throats or purse-strings. Later on, they’d made for easy prey. Once more, green eyes that reflected the light with no discernible source flickered his way. “You’re interesting,” she mused, half to herself. “Not the average rich man’s son.” It was half a tease, but only half. Her own unease was growing by the moment, the fine hairs on her nape prickling. The jest did nothing to offer it levity. “He knows we’re coming.” This time she did lower her voice, though it wouldn’t matter that she had. “And he’s making this too easy.”

Interesting. It was a word that he had not often been told. The whores had never used it. In fact, they had seldom made observations of his nature. It'd been in their best occupational interest to keep to what he had paid them for. Still, Tenebrae was unique in her own right. She had, after all, coaxed from him dialogue that most others could not and had managed to find in him the few pleasantries that lingered beneath the stinking dark of his innumerable sins. It was as though, together, they were their own creeping shadow. Her unease reflected itself upon him, shining through his own enthusiasm to birth itself in his manner as well. The great folds of his coat, long and elegant, were folded back to reveal the intricate belt lined with tools. Concealed still, however, were the modifications he had made to the woman's gift. The interior was lined in a leather harness of sorts, filled with various tools of various trades. All of them stained with dried blood. All of them menacing in their own, particular way.

Jolie managed a laugh, albeit it short and dark, over his casually threatening display of the tools of his ‘trade’. “Nice work,” she said, meaning the extra lining, but eyed the blood. And wondered what brand of monster she walked beside, the answer provided for her by her own thoughts, immediately: one that was on her side, and she could suppose then that specifics weren’t all that important right now. She was about to ask him another question, pertaining to how he made his choices, when a soft, sibilant sound hissed in her lycanthropine ears, which while humanistic and only a little pointed, still were sharper than any human’s. “Here we go,” said her look, and her fingers wrapped to the sword’s hilt, not yet sliding the blade free. The hiss sounded again, louder, and the necromancer darted her gaze left and right – there were only walls – and ahead – only distance and darkness. But still it came, whatever it was, a leathery noise, a heavy presence, the scree of claws, scraping. She’d already let the sword make its own metallic hiss, when a black, reptilian head plunged out of the path’s obscurity, a hot and meaty roar blasting from its deep-fanged and open maw.

Colton was not laughing. The tension had grown thick enough that he was again reminded of tar, black as pitch, fighting the beckon of his fingers and spreading a brand of warmth that could only be tied to death across his flesh. She'd gone rigid first, laid the first claims upon danger. He was soon to follow. This time, however, it was not the mallet that was drawn free. The size of whatever was near lay revealed in depth of its small sounds and how they seemed to come from filled spaces. Instead, he revealed a sailor's dock hook. Fifteen inches of branded steel, blackened and curved in a malicious, barbed hook that filled his left hand. A dagger, eight inches of notched iron, filled his right. The creature moved for Tenebrae first, typical, if not entirely prophetic. Colton Black did not take an elegant path toward it but instead charged, coat flying against his sides, attempting to overcome his sudden fear and hook the creature through its lidless eye.

The beast screeched and tore its head about in sweeping snaps of its scaled neck, the hook having found its mark, and Jolie found herself suddenly wet with a hot spray of loosed ocular fluid as she ran toward the conjurer. The sword she held was not yet blooded, not entirely comfortable in her hands, she was light enough to have to wield it two-handed to manage its balance, though she was strong enough to bear its weight. Whether Colton did or didn’t still have hold of that hook, she would dance back from a lunging snap of teeth the size and shape of steak knives, the beast still twisting in agonised half-blindness. It was well-armoured, few places to run it through, but if it was like any other of its breed it’d have a softer belly. Only, it wasn’t exactly belly-up. Her attention was consumed in finding a weak place, one not also occupied by a raking claw or gashing mouth. “This is no illusion,” was her thought as she spotted paler scales, a sickly grey, in the thing’s under-chin. No swordswoman, she took the chance at that unguarded place and jabbed the blade toward it, her weight set to push the sting in hard.

Colton was a rag doll. A kicking, clinging rag doll as the great beast of a thing shook its tremendous head. He did not relieve it of his weight but clung, white-knuckled, to the hook buried in the soft socket of its eye. It bleed and it soaked his hand, made them feel hot and tacky. The slash of its jaws threatened his legs, to take them off. His boots lifted and punched out, striking the side of the creature's massive face in order to kick off of its scaled head and avoid the lunge of its jaws. It was one of these lunges, angry and reflexive, that denied Tenebrae's blade its home. It, instead, glanced off hard scales along its flank and recoiled. The sound was of steel striking stone, unyielding, and provoked Colton's attention to cut to the petite-bodied killer long enough to understand her intent. And so, pulling hard, he managed a half-desperate mounting of the creature's face. It recoiled, shaking, attempting to rid itself of its rider. Colton Black, in answer, abandoned the dagger to the cold floor below and wrenched back on the hook with both hands, tearing at the socket. The creature, with a sudden cry of agony, reared up. The conjurer simply held on.

It was something she’d likely laugh about later, the beast’s underside offered up to her like one of his grisly severed heads, with Colton himself aloft and kicking. Given that chance free and clear, with the reptile sightless by virtue both of its wound and the terrible drag of the hook, its claws flailing in rage rather than by any design, Jolie repeated her lunge. This time, apart from a rapid drop and duck to avoid being scalped by a swipe of the beast’s taloned paw, she had no impediment to the blade’s mark, and with both hands on the hilt drove it hard through ashen-hued, softer plates, hearing the pop of the tip breaking through, feeling the slide of the weapon sinking in, bumping against bone. She did not let go then, but tore her weight aside, dragging the blade with her so a thick arterial jet hit her face-on. Only then did she tug the weapon free and draw back, her feet awash in gouts of sanguine, her blood-blurred gaze lifting to the fate of the conjurer.

For a moment the creature bucked and heaved, shuddered. The organic, savage movements were not telegraphed. They were not the result of coiled tension and intent. They were death throes, savage and unmistakable. The man known as Black did what he could to ride them, to feel them out until at last he felt his grip begin to weaken and his arms burn at the sockets as he was jerked this way and that. He released when he was being arced towards the middle of the corridor, felt nothing but air beneath him, and for a moment thought the dismount might be between comfortable and not. Then he struck, solidly, on his ass and skidded across the ground with such an intensity that he saw spectral shades of color flicker in his vision. Eventually, he ended up face down, rolled that way across the stone. The creature had slumped forward and gone still, blood spreading rapidly from its corpse, and the conjurer afforded nothing to Tenebrae save the slow crawl up to his hands and knees. He was alive. The pain made that fact undeniable.

The great, heavy head, its one good eye rolling, fell with a thud in a puddle of its own gore and past it, once she’d smeared the spray from her eyes more properly with the back of her sleeve, Tene witnessed Colton’s attempt to rise. She leapt a still-jerking forelimb to seek his side, dropping to her heels. “Are you wounded?” she asked, dipping her head, peering at as yet unsourced patches of grue. “Hurt? Colton?” Her own face was a mask of blood, her silken hair a wet, black tangle.

For a long moment he did not answer her. In that silence there was only the slowly dying sounds of a twitching corpse. He had, in his experience, witnessed a body move nearly a half-hour after the life had gone from it. "My feckin' arse!" He said suddenly, breathlessly. The absolute absence of air in his harsh words could not entirely conceal his laughter. "That fecking hurts." He rose then, aware and not aware of her concern. She was offered one last assurance, his strong hand's grip upon her lean forearm, before he walked beyond her to stiffly bend and claim his abandoned dagger. It was stowed away, somewhere within the harness his coat concealed, before he made his way towards the finally still monstrosity and began jerking crudely at the hook lodged in the socket of its eye.

Jolie’s teeth looked whiter for the dark stains of gore on her face. She shook her head in mild disbelief mingled with mirth, and followed the conjurer. “That was no shadow,” she observed redundantly, kick at the thing’s tail, a hasty retreat made when spasming nerves caused a jerky lash of scales. The sword had been dragged along with her, almost carelessly, and only now did she really notice that it was still gripped in her hand. “And.. thanks.” Not for the help, but for the kill, she hoped he understood. While Colton un-gouged his own weapon, she peered down the corridor. “Few creatures find this place appealing. I guess that one did.”

"Yeah." It was strange of her to thank him. Around them there was absolute quiet. It loomed, far taller than the corridor's ceilings, as an unnerving reminder of where they were. Strange, unnatural angles of stone construction, and that un-abiding shadow. Still, Colton’s eyes cut towards her in the same moment his hook tore free, spraying chunks of gore across the floor at her feet. "Lead."