RP:Freedoms

From HollowWiki

Part of the Venturil's Bane Arc


This is a Necromancer's Guild RP.


On a Cliffside Near Xalious

Tenebrae lay where Eboric had left her – on a cliffside, battered and unconscious. While it might seem the woman was completely out cold, the deepest parts of her awareness, still trapped in a fugue-like state, were active and now there was a war raging within – the grip on her mind taken by the avatar possessing her was shaken loose by that nearly skull-splitting blow, and the deep soporific Daisy had given her was wearing off… But outwardly, she was just a crumpled body, bereft of its armour, lying on a cliff-side with only a chill wind for company.


But she would perhaps not be alone for long. In its pursuit of the necromancer who’d been so swiftly borne by Eboric far from shattered Venturil, the thing had crushed and torn and seeped it way steadily east, a hill-sized mass of dark proto-flesh with innumerable legs and pincers, a thousand odd protuberances which passed for sucker-mouths and eyes. It flattened itself thin where it needed to wedge itself through cracks, then expanded, splitting rock. What it could not split, it smashed. What it couldn’t smash, it groped its way around or under.. As it slithered and crawled toward the bearer of the Eye of Darkness, its interior limbs kept tight hold on the Eye of Blood, the sceptre-set, red companion to the black gem on Tenebrae’s brow. It wasn’t smart enough to know not to take a beeline, rather than following the longer but less direct route Eboric had taken. All it knew was the Eye it wanted was that-a-way, so that was the way it travelled. Solid masses of stone prevented it tunnelling directly through the last mountain separating it from upper Sage, so it dug its way under, invading ancient and disused mines wrought by the dwarves, eventually discovering tunnels carved out by the duergar in an old bid to invade Craughmoyle. Following this path, driven by a kind of homing instinct its eons of possession of the god-relic has bestowed on it, the Burrower came for Tenebrae.. Any moment, the remaining duergar inhabiting the tower they’d built in Sage were in for a very nasty surprise indeed…


Tiphareth had felt the arcane forces being drawn and wielded through use of the two relics of Vakmatharas, a deep compulsion growing within the Archmage to narrow in upon the location of such epic energies. Slinking his way through the tunnels, aged as they may be and now sizably larger thanks to the creature's stalking pathway toward the master necromancer, Tiphareth finally closes distance on the massive beast. No description or mental imagery could have prepared him for the sight he beheld, it's hulking form and oozing necrotic energies quite palpable within the dank subterranean air. The Scepter deep within its form caught the Lichdrow off guard, he'd felt the energies before, though this one was certainly akin to those unfathomable impressions left upon Tiphareth by Tenebrae's adornments, it was also decidedly different, unique. The compulsion within the Patron grew into obsession as the companion eye burrowed deep into Tiphareth's heart, almost calling to the undead creature from within the burrower's grasp. Was this the fate that he'd been shown by Vakmatharas... was this the opportunity to become the 'sword'...


The protoplasmic horror did not sense Tiphareth immediately. It was hungry – for though it sucked Venturil’s blood for centuries, leeching all goodness from the land in its near-endless slumber, it was awake now, as alert as its dull wits could make it, and that hunger which had made of the western land such a pale echo was a hundredfold. The drow Patron did not smell of life, but only necrosis, too close to its own state to stand out, and the beast was too stupid to distinguish any power from the power it cradled within. So Tiphareth was left to follow in its wake, while it gnawed its way through the final tunnels, many collapsed for millennia, toward the tower and the feast which awaited within. Perhaps the first deep-dwarves would sense it coming as a fell rumble under their feet. Perhaps their mages would feel, as shivers up their spines, the power the thing bore but could not wield… In any case, all would hear the shriek of stone breaking, and hear the screams of the ones on the tower’s lowest levels, as the Child of Aranoch the Damned forced its way in.


Meanwhile, on the cliff-edge, Tenebrae’s fugue-dreams grew feverish. She was fighting some unseen force, for something very important… Clawing her way, slowly, back to her own awareness, she was actually fending off the mental hooks and barbs of the entity possessing her, and which would seek to enslave her first, before it took the sceptre for itself and then.. oh then.. But the woman was no soft mark, her mind was a welter of steel traps, all going off at once. In her subconscious, she grappled for her own mind and, so far, it seemed she may win.


Tiphareth began losing himself with each passing moment, the obsession for obtaining the scepter permeating the entirety of his being as he grows nearer the unnatural beast. The Lichdrow starts to withdraw from the mortal form in which he inhabits, growing closer to his patron God... the very being that made Tiphareth's immortal existence possible. Without warning, the Scepter's eye cracks open, shining with a negative light upon the very being it controls. A union takes place within the aether as the Eye speaks directly into Tiphareth's soul, death radiating outward through entire tunnel like an unholy wave as the power of the Eye latches onto the Lichdrow. The Patron suddenly snaps back into his body, a striking clarity driving him to acquire his target once and for all. The full compliment of power within the Lichdrow had not yet been fully drawn or wielded since the being's inception, though at this moment the Archmage held nothing back. Deep chants reverberate through the tunnels, shaking the aggregate walls with a force even the protoplasmic creature would notice... though it would matter little as the spell being crafted within Tiphareth's being bursts forth into fruition. The two-fold effect takes place within mere moments as a sphere of utter destruction swirls around the Archmage's form and he suddenly blinks out of view. A mere fraction of a second would pass before the teleportational magics would place him within the creature itself, within immediate grasp of the divine scepter of Vakmatharas. Carving out a void from within the creature, the turbulent storm of necrotic destruction surrounding Tiphareth disintegrates everything within the sphere's confines... all except the implement he desires. Elongated ebon digits reach outward and take grasp upon the scepter; and with a blink he is gone... back to his previous location some hundred meters behind the hulking beast. Power courses through the Archmage, both residual from his previous spell, and intensified ten fold by the newfound link to his patron god.... The burrower stops, its link to the eye now fully broken as it embodies Tiphareth's form; though this pause lasts only a moment as the desire to bring about death and destruction causes the lichdrow to impart the full compliment of his influence upon the beast's dim will... pushing him forward toward the duergar tunnels he'd been previously approaching.


Tenebrae’s own struggle, at this point, was a deadlock between the possessing entity and the necromancer, for control of her mind – and thus the Eye of Darkness. But as Tiphareth seized control of that artefact’s twin, the abandoned avatar convulsed – its grip on Tenebrae loosened – it was foiled! In this weak state, it needed the necromancer’s power as fuel for its own, it need access to one Eye to influence the other… and now it had lost the advantage the Burrower gave it, that creature’s lack of intelligence and guile. And it had lost the scepter! For the one held that power now was no weakling – the Patron’s will was strong as iron. Wailing soundlessly, the rebellious god-remnant’s grip on Tene, and thus the world, was slipping, and Vakmatharas himself was now working his true will through the faithful Drow-Lich, As the avatar’s power ebbed, so Tenebrae came closer to rising from her enforced sleep, with her own wits firmly in her own hands, so to speak. Her eyelids fluttered, and her much-abused body twitched…Aha! In her dreams, she’d found the Eye and was holding onto it for all she was worth. Tiphareth would find himself drawn to her, as she sensed him on the other end of this strange, new connection.


The duergar were scattering, fleeing to the tower-tops or into the forest, leaving the shattered bodies of their brothers to the Burrower’s appetite. It was angry – some part of it knew it had lost something precious – but in a way this was also a relief, for the stupid creature was not equipped for the power of an Eye. Suddenly released from this burden, it sucked a few more dwarves dry before growing still.. All those aeons ago, it was created for one task alone – to keep the god-formed gem safe. It wasn’t so big back then, and it had been a lot smarter before its master left it alone to devolve and slumber and feed… Its appetite would never end, but in this brief time it had no impetus to act at all, beyond the destruction Tiphareth urged it to. It was slow in the .. well, it didn’t have a head. It was just slow, and it had no purpose left….


Tiphareth , as much as he desired to witness the death and destruction of his blood foes, had now become preoccupied with the sudden and newly developed connection which invariably linked him to the Lady Darkness. The Lichdrow could sense her weakened state, and some feeling... normal beings might describe it as worry... washed over the Archmage. The draw toward his newfound partner, and their common deity made the following actions almost instinctual as he began a second dual action spell. Archaic formulae pour out of the Archmage as he targets both himself and Tenebrae, their two forms surrounded by an azure hue before being transferred from their existing locations to the Supreme Temple of Vakmatharas within Vailkrin.

Temple of Vakmatharas, Vailkrin

Tenebrae felt like she was swimming upward from the bottom of a very chasm in the sea, when abruptly she sensed that she was safe, that somebody had come to lead her back the right way, and then – the world around her wrenched, and the necromancer was back in Vailkrin. If she still had a mortal-style stomach, she may have been sick on Tiphareth’s feet, but at least she was awake. Her gasps of unnecessary breath were purely a reflex that calmed her mind and nerves – nothing made sense. Last she knew, she was sipping something Daisy made her. Red-rimmed eyes peered up at Tiphareth from her battered face, and her voice came as a dry wheeze: “Wh… what.. “ The gem in her head though was black once more, and gleaming, refusing to reflect light it was the idea of darkness itself made manifest. Suddenly, though in no rational way, Tene understood: “You have it, don’t you? The other Eye?” Her head felt like it had a massive crack in it, through which flooded all the pain in the world. And that was almost true..


Tiphareth looked down upon Tenebrae's form, the eye crowned upon her visage matching likewise tone of the scepter within Tiphareth's grasp. “Indeed... I do.” Though before we delve to deeply into that... you appear to be in need of aid.” The patron digs into the satchel at his side and rapidly retrieves a small vial, it's contents a rather unique formula of restorative unlife gleaned from the esoteric pages of the Forsaken Book. “Drink this, I believe you will find it rather helpful.” The Lichdrow appears rather lucid at the moment, despite the striking power of divine energy which now fills this room, perhaps the dual wielding of these ancient artifacts has somehow balanced their energies into some manageable form... or perhaps the voice of Vakmatharas is merely silent at the moment.


Tenebrae the vessel, Tiphareth the sword - they were the present embodiment of a very old plan, but this was a matter for them to discover and explore at some future time. Right now, Tene just wanted the hurting to stop… she shouldn’t even be feeling this much pain. So she gulped the liquid – the taste was oddly familiar – and muttered thanks to Tiphareth. Maybe when she’s regained her faculties, much more will be revealed. Maybe she’ll remember that the Burrower was still out there… But for now, she was as silent as their fell god, while Tiphareth’s presence and power helped the last of the avatar’s hold slip away.. forever.


Tene Wakes, Still in the Temple

From the moment of her birth as a sin-eater, always dedicated to the God of Death. Whether she embraced this fact or rejected it utterly, both of which she’d done plenty of during her centuries of existence, it was always toward Death and its many manifestations that her loyalties leaned. Right now, she cannot possess a single shred of doubt that all this was meant to be, written down aeons ago in Vakmatharas’ cosmic ledger.. For in the silence in which the Lich-drow and the Empusai presently sat, the artifacts they possess were aligning after their long separation and in the hands (or forehead..) of two who are eminently worthy to wield them. Both eyes open now, one black as the deeps of starless space, one red as all the blood which has ever flowed… Only for a moment, do they refuse to shine on this world, but rather rob it of light. In that scant space, there will come an understanding to Tenebrae – that all is, indeed, as the God wills it. Here and now, in this Temple, the necromancer knows that her purpose has shifted, that she is now a defender of the God’s will in this plane… As the eyes close again – thankfully, for their see-ing is horrendous, and hard on mind and body both – she looks to Tiphareth, bearer of the Eye of Blood. High priest of Vakmatharas, as she is His priestess. Words, barely making sense to her, spill over her lips, as a sudden realisation breaks to her befuddled awareness. “The Burrower…” it was still out there, somewhere… Doing something.. on its own. No-one guiding it. Oh dear.


Tiphareth nods toward the Thanatos Domina with a gentle reassurance... "The burrower is fine, it was left to ravage a raucous lot of duergar somewhere in the depths beneath the Xalious/Kelay border... if my subterranean navigations are correct anyway. Besides, it will merely bring death, as our God has ordained." The Lichdrow is rather calm, perhaps even unnervingly so, given the recent events regarding these two ancient artifacts of divine origin. He has not felt so much 'himself' in more centuries than he can recall. "When you have gathered all necessary strength, and are ready to proceed with further plans, we can work to engage in directing the beast through out combined wills... it should no longer be hunting you; now that I have the scepter."


Tenebrae’s features set in a wry sort of expression. “That’s half my concern, Patron. It is feral protoflesh now, free from all restraints and purpose. It may ravage a good deal more than the duergar before it’s done – and those tunnels.. I hear tell there’s an opening to the Underdark there.” Considering Stavret owes her new armour and has not yet paid up, she spares a malicious moment to thoughts of the Burrower paying him a visit, but it passes quickly, as her spite usually does.. not. “However, if you sense no urgency about it, “ and Tene had cause to trust Tiphareth’s word and judgement moreso than she ever has before, now, “Then perhaps I will rest here a time, and you are welcome to keep me company. I have been.. instructed to come home, as you know. And there’s much to do, for I will build the guild hall….” She paused, her face displaying shock, like she’s been struck by a bolt. Or Lich-breath. “Protoflesh,” she breathed, her gaze intent on Tiphareth.


Tiphareth 's quasi-immortality as a Lich has indeed altered his perception of 'urgency', though he did keep an ever watchful eye upon the lands of Trist'oth. Feeling rather secure in the fact that this burrower, as they've called it, was no imminent threat there, he continued on with the discussion. "There are indeed openings to the Underdark... in fact he is in the shallowest regions of what would be considered to be the Underdark as we speak; though he is considerably distance from any Drow land I'd be concerned with. For now, you can rest; you've certainly been through a lot." The patron stops for a moment to contemplate the word Tenebrae had stuck upon. "What of this 'protoflesh', I've seen mention of it in the Forsaken Book and brief passages of reference in a few ancient tomes, but very little in depth knowledge."


Tenebrae nodded emphatically, an action she had immediate cause to regret as her right eye leaked black ichor, joining all her various other wounds and scrapes that wept blood which was no longer rightly to be called ‘blood’. “Aye,” she winced, steeling herself against the various agons her lack of armour was causing. “The Book contains a little information, a few formulas.. Though all would fail, horribly, since they’re merely the recorded attempts of others mimic a process they knew little to nothing about, just guesswork and warnings. I myself gathered all the Aranochian Fragments, on my return from..” she coughs, not sure how much to say about where she’d been before her most recent re-emergence. After a pause, she continues, “When the dark magics blend with certain aspects of alchemy in extremely precise ways, undead flesh can gain a mockery of true life.. and it can be bent to the will of one strong and skilled enough to master it. In ancient days, the masters of deathly arts even sought to wear it, as flesh of their own.” She raises one bare foot, torn to shreds on the rocks she’d been dragged over in past days. Its pale skin was ragged, but below it writhed black tendrils, like tiny dark eels, weaving together. “Like this,” she said, allowing Tiphareth time to observe it. “In the distant place where Aranoch himself lies dreaming, I have seen such things, Patron, of which I had not dared to dream. Vast black spires that fork toward the grim sky like accusing fingers, the dwellers within…” she realises it will take a long time to speak of those, so continues, “.. anyway, the spires are built of proto-flesh, willed into shape and then into a truer kind of death, so the stupid beings from the spires are made will harden, and become part of the structure.” Perhaps he’d see where she was going with this.


Tiphareth bobs his head to the slow cadence of Tenebrae's words, "If I understand the direction of your thought process, you would intend to mimic such flesh architecture for the new hall of the Necromancer's Guild? Do you have the requisite expertise to create, manipulate and, in the end -set- such flesh in the quantities necessary for such an undertaking? I can surely assist you with the feat if you can provide me with a fundamental run down of the arcane formulae." The Eldermage had indeed reached an previously unknown potential for comprehension of arcane theory after obtaining the 'Compendium of the Archmage' kept within Mage's Guild inside the sacred office so delineated to that title. "We must also take into account longevity, as the Guild Hall should be a beacon of the Dark God's glory for untold millenia to come. Will this protoflesh maintain a strong and usable structure for the foreseeable future?"


Tenebrae gathered herself, and that familiar aspect of arrogant pride returned to her posture and pale green eyes, both. “I have such mastery.” She hoped. The necromancer had resurrected a race long centuries dead in its infant grave, had she not? But the slender worms of doubt did not wriggle to the surface of her speech, nor her aspect. “And I can share with you the cantas which command the Burrower’s form and rob it of plasticity. Once it is set in place so, it will not burn lest a thousand dragons of hoary age breathe fire on it. It will not crack nor crumble, should the very world under it fall away. Only the intent of one with mastery can manipulate its matter, from thereon. It is not a thing to be done lightly, for the spells are delicate, Patron, and the magical backlash immense. I have not seen it for myself except the merest glimpse,” she shudders, this Lady of Darkness, at the memory, “But if I fear anything, it is what happens to beings like myself, should they fail in such endeavours. The horrors are surpassed only by what happens when non-Empusai try and do not succeed.”


Tiphareth lifts a sleeve, peering at the drow flesh beneath... a mere host for his corrupt and relocated soul to inhabit. "The energies within your form are certainly far different from any other life form I've encountered, seemingly primitive and advanced at the same time... I am unsure if I can mimic such energies with the necessary accuracy to wield the eldritch forces in the 'delicate' way of which you speak. Would it be possible to perhaps integrate some portion of this 'protoflesh' into my being, so as to more closely align myself with the requisite energy signature such material embodies?" The Lichdrow stops for a moment, contemplating the words before he continues. "I understand there are risks, though this corpse is merely a shell anyway, should your Empusai flesh begin to overtake the body, I could merely forgo use of this husk for another." The patron does not mention that he's grown somewhat attached to the striking youthful appearance of Keter, but such thoughts are not healthy for an immortal creature such as himself... such attachment should be beneath him.


Tenebrae is already as pale as pale gets, but she went near-transparent when the Drow-Lich spoke his desire and her attempts to reply fell into a garble of words he could just ignore, until she managed to get her head around it. “Empusai…. “ she gasped, at length, able to form a whole sentence, “You know not what you ask, Tiphareth. For it is more than merely a state of flesh, it is .. a way of being.” But her lips cannot help the grin that splits them, and her forked tongue lashes out in excitement. “There is.. one other, of my kind, in this world – presently. We have a pact, to confer before making any other.. “ she frowns, then. “I must say here, that if you do not wish to join my race, I am limited severely in what I can achieve, for it is the power of commanding the flesh which is sought by becoming such as I. Perhaps I could harden the bones.. “ Despite her weariness, after playing sock-puppet to vast energies this day, she is suddenly jovial. “If you wish to remain pretty, Tiphareth, then you’ll likely have to pass through my vats.”

(to be continued..)