RP:Kahran and Orra
Part of the Vakmatharas' Jar Arc
Part of the What You Leave Behind Arc
This sky rise business on the clouds is home to politician Vermillion Draft and the first two floors are occupied by shops, kiosks, and local businesses; what we would consider a mall. The third floor offers a very posh, reservation only, five star restaurant where Mr Draft enjoys most of his meals. Above the restaurant is two floors of hotel rooms where a lot of his employees reside and close friends come to visit, but rumor has it those rooms have a high turnover rate for some odd reason or another. The top floor is a large penthouse that only the elite of the elite would be able to grace Vermillion's private home.
Vermillion Draft and his daughter where in the restaurant a few floors below their home after a long day of filibustering with the public and badmouthing his opponent. A few of his bodyguards are in the restaurant disguised as normal patrons while his twelve year old daughter sits across from him looking rather bored, but he looks about the same so maybe it’s just their company that they mutually don’t like. She probably asks where her mom is, but gets some ‘don’t worry your pretty little head about it’ type answer which elicits a severe eye roll from the preteen. He tries to fill the silence with talk about how well his campaign is going, but as soon as he opens his mouth about that his daughter seems really interested in something else all of the sudden… Typical. The avian shifts his wings to fold tightly to his lanky frame and relaxes back into his chair with his overly expensive avian wine after muttering under his breath, “brat.”
The Shadow Plane’s distorted Schezerade turns an impressively industrious avian city into a post-apocalyptic prison. The sky is blood red and uninvitingly hazy to any avian glider. The buildings, impossibly tall by any surface-dweller’s perception, are cracked open on every floor and wrought with decades or even centuries of decay. Wisps of smoke snake their way throughout the zone, obscuring vision until the bones of the dead are cracking beneath one’s feet. Kahran’s boots crunch the bones as he takes one final step and raises his skeletal hand into the musty air. Green streaks of teleportation magic part the smoke in their wake and surround him until he is taken through their planar path and deposited in the world that Vermillion Draft and his daughter would label ‘reality’. Avians going about their business hardly notice him in the halls of an upper-story office space; he’s taken great care, after all, to cast a suitable illusion for this mission. His scarred and burned face is cast in spells to make it look vital and young. He’s kept his inquisitive sky blue eyes as-is; they match such a face so neatly, after all. He’s kept his imposing shoulder span, too, all the better to maintain a commanding presence, but his thin frame has been filled out a little and the hands that were just moments ago old and slight like a ghoul’s are now perfectly presentable. Perhaps the most striking thing about Kahran’s illusory transformation is that his dark robes have been replaced with a suede business button-up and khaki slacks. He is the picture of professionalism. He allows himself a small smile. Three nights ago, this man brought massacre to Cenril numbering in the thousands. Today, he will order the ham-and-cheese special. “Please have a seat and we’ll bring it to you when it’s ready, sir,” the host suggests once Kahran has reached the restaurant Vermillion Draft has selected. “I will,” Kahran answers. His tone is decisive enough that the host chuckles awkwardly and nods. Avians, Kahran reflects in silence, have never known their place. He’ll enjoy crisping their wings and feeding them to his manufactured orcs. But for now, Kahran sits, at a table not far from Vermillion. He grabs today’s paper and reads between sips of black coffee.
Vermillion sighs heavily while blank emerald eyes scan about, but stops on someone that looks human. He waves a waiter down, “excuse me.” Long slender fingers wave them down and once they are close enough he motions towards the stranger with a nod, “who let him in?” The waiter hastily apologized and excuses himself to quickly get the hostess. They are having some hushed argument and the wings give away the agitation they are feeling because the hostess doesn’t seem to remember offering the man a seat. What trickery?! Mr Draft seems uneasy himself and his knee was bobbing up and down under the cover of the table cloth. A slight twitch of the angular jaw as he was trying to keep… something at bay. “Ungrateful little bitch, just go to the penthouse, then.” His daughter shrugs and slips from the table without a word… That seems to be a common occurrence as her expression didn’t change, her wings didn’t shift in unease and she didn’t scurry away from him like some scared child. That seems to get under his skin even more, his twelve year old little daughter, not even scared of him. Now there is some human trash trying to enjoy some awful meal in his restaurant… Then it happened again, everything went black and he will not be remembering whatever happens in the moments to come as Orra was taking over. The ancient necromancer reminding himself to stay cool this time as to not draw attention of this fowl’s encourage this time. The gaze of the avian seemed deeper in hue, like a forest green and his hands slipped the spectacles from his pointy nose. When he stands he gives a little stretch and because the necromancer is not used to wings he knocks his chair back by accident, but doesn’t seem too worried and makes his way over to Kahran. A darker and slightly sinister timbre takes over Vermillion's high society air, “one of these things is not like the other…” A smirk stretching across sharp features, “you are?”
Kahran doesn't flinch when the chair crashes down on the floor. Nor does he turn when Orra takes his host’s body for a stroll. Kahran has not seemed the least bit troubled by any of the things which have occurred since he showed up disguised with a still-unwelcome face. The worry lines in frowns as avians struggle to make sense of his service are an added amusement. But the real reason for his presence is upon him now. Slowly, methodically, the man tucks a corner of his paper beneath his fingertips to acknowledge the fellow the question that's been posed to him. Crumpled up but still barely legible near the corner of the outer page is an article on the developing story of a tragedy in Cenril. He takes a sip of his coffee and then gently places the saucer down in the space between the two men. “I'm just a worldly traveler on my way to bigger and brighter things,” he says through a smile. Kahran’s sky blue eyes seem to search Orra’s countenance with an abundance of curiosity. “As it happens, I have almost arrived upon one of those things. Tell me, friend: might you spare a moment to see it?” Reality shifts. The restaurant swirls and swirls and swirls some more, green magical streaks stirring it about. Kahran’s coffee cup emulates this, the liquid reflecting the swirling and great green tendrils rolling through and boiling the beverage. The swirling is all that they can see now but the hints and traces of the waiter and the host and other customers doesn't suggest any concern or injury for any of them. It is as if they are not at all fazed by this spell, which, with a loud and echoing click, bids farewell to the restaurant and finds both Orra and his strange new conversation partner in a tiny village with thatched roofs and a redstone cathedral. Women chattering away midday whilst carrying buckets gathering wash water from a well do not notice them at all. But they do notice the orcs, too large for their race and even fiercer in their crude black plate mail. And they notice the two drow leading those arcs, too, with elegant long silver hair and unsuppressed enthusiasm for their trade. Their trade is death; the orcs descend on the women, they descend on the screaming denizens who rush from their houses too late to aid them, they descend on the thatched-roof houses with torches for the burning. The drow step foot inside the redstone cathedral, as casually as though they live here and they've come to pray. When the drow step out moments later, their hands and mouths are covered in blood, and a noise books from inside the structure. The village distorts, swirling like the restaurant before it, and in a matter of six seconds the both of them are right back where they started. Kahran sets his paper down and finishes the remainder of his still-boiling coffee in a gulp. “Forgive my manners. I am Kahran. Tell me, friend, who might you be?”
Vermillion’s body gives a shrug when the stranger asks him to see something. Seeing the scene shift around them, possibly in this illusion or vision, Kahran may be able to see a faint overlay of Orra’s face resting within Vermillion’s making it evident he is possessed. If it were Vermillion looking upon the scene, he probably wouldn’t care much about the it either as, being avian, he looks upon those who worship and believe in deities as weak. So, meh. Orra crosses his arms and his stance becomes broad as his grin dwindles down when Kahran brings them back into the reality he is familiar with. The hostess comes up to who she thinks is Vermillion and starts apologizing before asking Kahran to leave the establishment for this table was reserved for a well known celebrity, but when Orra looks down at the young avian he goans. “Why don’t you mind your own business you insignificant little twerp.” There were no inflections in his timbre and he actually sounded bored with this drama and the girl skittered off holding back tears. Dark eyes slowly travel back to the seated Kahran, “Orra, supreme priest of Vakmatharas. I think you know by now, this is not my body. Of which is long gone to decay after Vakmatharas welcomed me.” His way of speaking was very matter of fact and anticlimactic. Placing a hand between the buttons of his blazer he asks, “so. Is what you’ve showed me one of those bigger and brighter things you plan to bring unto Lithrydel?” He takes a morsel of the man’s food as it arrived and took a bite, but this wasn’t because he was hungry or for the taste. It was a test.
Kahran watches Orra swallow the bite of food thoughtfully. “In a manner of speaking.” He taps his fingertips across the edge of the table. “All tainted things must be burned-out in the creation of a better world. Would you not agree that there is much taint in our world, priest? Does Vakmatharas not specialize in death, and is not death a mandatory phase in creation? As my forces finish the work dead masters started, purging the realm of its failures, so too do I wave my hand and see to the kindling of a better world -- a brighter world. A world felled of fools, drowned of all but our most absolute desires.” He wraps his hand around the sandwich, but then it molts and turns to worms and ashes in his grip. It falls into wispy black nothingness upon the plate. “I hope you have a strong stomach.” Kahran makes a passing wave to Orra’s abdomen. “I am carving a bloody canvas across Lithrydel. In my wake, the world shall be reborn, as Khasad and Elazul nearly achieved before me. Do you know of them?” He cackles despite himself. “It matters not. I am not they; I am only their…” His lips twist into a sneer. “...supreme priest.” A pause. “Those who prove worthy shall own this new world utterly. Does that interest you, Orra? Or are you such a fan of the world you live in now that you would blindly defy my faith?”
Vermillion | Orra sneers down at Kahran, “I am not a being of this world anymore. My service will always be to Vakmatharas and death for we are all just a shell until he welcomes us once more.” A bored sigh when his arms crossed over his chest, “all of this sounds lovely, desirable, should be exciting for you.” A tilt of his head at those before and a shrug as they join in agreement on that point, “that’s right. It matters not.” Orra’s dark gaze lazily drifts over the idle patrons of the lavish restaurant, “oh. I won’t be able to reap any rewards from what you aim for, Kahran. I am merely here because of Raven. Because of the maestro of chaos. Chaos that shall be exacted because of me and because of Vakmatharas. Once my job is completed I will be returned to the god of death.” His grin turns back down to Kahran, “that being said I plan to see forth as much destruction as possible. Whatever you need you should let me know,” meaning he’s on board and he awaits any further instruction or suggestion from Kahran before nodding to one of his body guards, then nodding to the hostess from before. “So it is easier for you to have access to this Vermillion shell, I must ruse his campaign manager and say you are some political advisor, but worry not if Vermillion if you need a word - all you must do is show your face for I can feel your presence like a pressure in the negative space. Now… if you'll excuse me, she must answer for her insolence.” A wicked grin flashed to Kahran in a slight bow of departure while the bodyguard he nodded to was escorting the hostess to the staircase that only goes up labelled ‘Level 6 Clearance’.