RP:Episodes

Part of the Venturil's Bane Arc

The Grand Temple of Vakmatharas, Vailkrin

In another sort of temple (and wearing very different sort of outfit..) Tenebrae might be mistaken for a particularly devout nun; she was kneeling by the altar-of-skulls, hands clasped, her head bowed in reverent prayer. The necromancer’s lips were moving slightly with soundless words and while it seemed she may be reciting some sort of litany to the God of Death, now and then she would pause and nod, or tilt her head as if listening to some inaudible conversation. She was in red, her armour slung to her back like the limp carapace it was presently, no need for its vigilance here in the house of Vakmatharas. On her brow, bereft of its metal setting now, was perched a dull grey gem, which was not merely lacking shine - it was as though the stone, like a blind third eye, refused to reflect any light at all, even the sacrificial flames which forever flicker here, filling the air with char and the smoke of god-food.

Tiphareth stalks into the temple, ever the devout pupil to his most honored god as he prepares for a night of devotional practices. Gliding footfalls carry him halfway through the room before he finally recognizes the visage, and energy, of the master necromancer. The lichdrow could sense her near-tangible bond with the deity inside this unholy shrine and pauses to allow her unuttered conversation to finish. The patron finally finishes his approach, bringing him some five paces behind Lady Tenebrae before he speaks, “Greetings Lady Tenebrae... I trust I am not disturbing you. I've merely come here for my regular meditations.”

Few indeed were the beings on this planet to whom the Lady Darkness would ever bow to with respect, and fewer still those with whom she’d actually mean it. There was nothing but the raw simplicity of truth in her manner as she turned, and dipped her head to the Drowlich. “Tiphareth. It’s been an age.” Raising her pale green gaze to him, she shook her head. “And of course you are not disturbing me. Our god has countless ears.” She swept a fond glance toward the altar. “And as many eyes as stars are in the sky. In fact,” she stood now, smoothing the drow-made bit of silk she wore, “..the stars have told me things, lately, Patron. So many things. You might find some them of interest.”

Tiphareth gives an interested nod at the double entendre of Tenebrae's reference to 'eyes', still readily aware of the powerful artifact they discussed at their last encounter. “Indeed he does... indeed he does.” The Patron continues on his path toward the bloodstained altar, stopping for a moment to unpack a variety of religious accoutrement from his satchel, placing each one neatly upon the floor in front of him. “You had mentioned various visions when we spoke previously, I assume these sights have continued... What have you been witness to in these past many months?”

A slight frown dipped the gem on her brow, at that question. Tenebrae thought for a moment, and replied: "Perhaps the thing of most interest to you, Tiphareth, is the very thing of which I can see the least." She sat down again on the wide lower step of the altar, legs stretched out and crossing at her ankles. The necromancer seemed slightly weary, above and beyond that caused by her excesses with Kuzial. "The stars whisper of war, Patron." Her voice lowered in tone and volume, sounded distant now, as if she was reciting some ancient and near-forgotten lore. "Our god hungers, as he always hungers - no more, no less. But Fate is preparing him a great feast, indeed. The threads are already in the loom -- but not yet woven. I cannot see the tapestry." There might be more to this, said the weight of her pause to follow, but for the moment she fell silent.

Tiphareth proceeded with the prelude to his intended ritual, pouring a small vial of blood into a skull-shaped vessel, likely from some unsuspecting victim of Tiphareth's secretive evil deeds. Shallow eldritch verses spill forth from the Archmage as he gives an introductory offering to Vakmatharas, though the ritual will last for quite some time, and the lich is in no hurry to finish just yet; his patience having grown long as he's acclimated to undeath. “War, you say. It seems in this land war is almost always on the doorstep of war; is there something unique about the impending conflict that you've seen or otherwise sensed... I imagine so for you to mention it specifically.”

Tene nodded. It seemed she too was in no hurry, having fallen to silent rumination while the drowlich performed his duties. Now she continued, in that same soft-toned voice. "When I say 'war', I do not mean the petty sort of skirmishes with which this world is so regularly bombarded. You're quite right, there, Patron. What I have sensed in the weave of fate is something more..." She chose her words carefully now, never a good sign. "And in that weave, my own thread, like a ribbon of dark blood. But as I said, I cannot glimpse the whole of it. Only a presage of doom.. Useless, really. But it might provide warning that we should all hone ourselves, in preparation." The woman rubbed at the gem, as though it irritated her. "The stars also say I am to return here, Tiphareth. Though I cannot imagine how or why. For what is there here for me, anymore." Except the portals leading down and up that provided her access to the only other of her kind.. but she wouldn't mention this aloud. "Our god has plans for me, I fear. Probably for both of us, seeing as that we are.. closer to him, than many. I only prate at you now, so you may know his will is sharpening, and we shall be the whetstones more than likely."

Tiphareth closes his eyes and begins a hum like internal chant, seeming virtually lost in meditation as Tenebrae speaks; though his consciousness remains ever mindful of her words, the disembodied soul which is tied to this body seems nearly freed from the mortal flesh as he enters to depths of his devotional practices. Swirls of thick odorous smoke surround the lichdrow's form as deep resounding chants begin emanating throughout the venue, reverberating with overtones of death. The tumultuous fog begins a slow transition into the solid shape of an offering bowl, formulating as if from thin air within the outstretched grasp of Tiphareth's ebon digits. Finally solidifying into form, the bowl starts to fill with a thick ichorous substance, sloshing into the bowl as if poured from an unseen ladle. Tiphareth turns the bowl upward, pouring the entirety of it's mysterious contents into his mouth before quietly and casually wiping away the arcane substance. “You believe the God's plans will bring about your own end? Or is this doom merely metaphorical for the death of your current plans and path, to be reborn upon a new and more focused one? I shall take heed of your warning, and 'hone' myself, so to speak. As you know I always remain vigilant and at the ready, both in my Arcane undertakings and as Patron of my people, though extra effort can always be made... and I shall.”

Tenebrae made a small sound of assent to the wisdom of that. "I don't presume my own role to be such great import, Tiphareth, in that particular vision. Nevertheless, I am part of it, and that is all I know. The fabric of my own small fate is...." here, the necromancer's body spasmed, as if suffering a sudden fit. It rose, in a single fluid but wholly unnatural motion that made her appear a doll lifted by an invisible hand. She moved -- not as any being of solid matter ought to, but with the tips of her toes dragging on the temple's dark floor, toward the drow. Her green gaze was literally empty - eyes rolled back to white. The woman neared Tiphareth, and he too would be caught up by the power working through her. The very air seemed paralysed, the temple vanished and the two figures were merely dust motes among the stars. The gem on the woman's brow came alive, first as a terrible red slit in its center that widened in increments as though indeed it were an eye, and that eye was now opening. There were no words, for here they had no import at all. Instead, only a knowing that would descend on the drowlich as dark descends on day: ~~As a vessel, the necromancer is perfection. But she is an inadequate sword.~~ Neither was there time, but if it must be said to pass, it was less than a fraction of a second later that the drow's perceptions were wrenched back to the world at large and Tenebrae was merely a crumpled, pale thing over which her armour seethed, fulfilling its sole reason for existence in protecting her.

Tiphareth falls likewise with a slump upon the floor, the unholy energy having been seemingly drained from his being by the divine artifact. The shared experience left the Lich in a state one could only describe as breathless... if he'd any breath to take. Carefully, the patron lifts himself back upon his feet, quickly refueling upon the necrotic energies which so permeate this venue. “Is that happening to you... regularly?” Tiphareth could only imagine the experience of being linked so fundamentally with the Death God on a regular basis; he'd established an unbreakable bond with Vakmatharas upon achieving his Lichdom that dwarfs that of what most devout priests would ever experience... but the mind shattering union with the unholy Deity allowed by the 'eye' was unfathomable. The Archmage was unsure if -he- was to be this sword, or another; but was certain time would 'weave that tapestry' so to speak. “I see what you mean, regarding the visions... piecemeal, a taste so to speak of Vakmatharas' grand banquet.”

Tenebrae's mind had come to cope with its present burden in much the same way it tended to deal with lesser ones which proved impossible to fight - she simply blocked it from her perceptions, until such time as it should pass. So she was groggy, blinking eyes that were once more irised in green, frowning at Lich and her armour, and her own prone form in turn. "Hm?" And a moment later, pushed herself up of the ground, slapping at her guardian garment for being so rude as to manifest itself so, here, before the Lich. "Pardon me," she muttered, "I have not refuelled myself this day. I think I got a bit faint." Clearly, the Lady Darkness was mortified at having displayed such weakness. Gathering herself, she admitted in a very small voice, "I have been having .. episodes. During some, I hear the stars talking. Sometimes, all is darkness and I..." the necromancer glanced down at herself, flipping a white hand at the dried blood particles adhering to her garb. "Well. It's like this."

Tiphareth nods as the Lady Darkness speaks, not making any mention to her desire to feed. “I understand... And you spoke of returning, as in to Vailkrin? To me it is like you never left, for this shall always be your home in my mind; it would not be what it is without your past efforts. Have you already returned here for good, or is the transition in flux?” The patron seemed full of questions, but perhaps his mind was just reeling from the unearthly experience he'd just been witness to. “Forgive me, you spoke of needing a bit of 'refreshment'... perhaps we could continue this another time when you've been able to sate your fundamental desires.”

Tenebrae only nodded again, while she continued struggling to gather her momentarily scattered wits. At length she said, "Perhaps that would be for the best, Patron. I am so.. tired, of late. And hungry, with it." She provided no reply to his former questions, which were all a-tangle in her head, mixed up with little galaxies of lights that blinked and winked and swirled in clockwork patterns. "Perhaps I shall find you again, when I'm.. " she managed a faint smile. "Less indisposed."