RP:Lieutenant Trajek

Part of the Agitation Arc

Summary: Deriin and Trajek take the measure of each other. Deriin recruits Trajek as a servant of Vakmatharas and everything dark and deathly, including Alithyk Caluss.

Cenril

Chaos. That was Cenril's true name. The lawless and the lycan. The corrupt and the incorrigible. The city can't even keep its criminals from escaping! Chaotic, lawless, and corrupt---what a city to be a tender to the dead! It was at the entrance to the guard post that the lowly undertaker sat. He was robed from head to foot, his face just as hidden and veiled, though it was not hard to see his make. Thin and sickly, his limbs but bones with little corporeality. His visage was no better when the foul winds blew the veil against it; it fell within each sunken eye and clung to the hollows of his cheek. He wore his work as uneasily as he wore his rags, with the scent of death and decay a rancid cloud that kept even the flies at bay, muchless anyone else. By all accounts he could very well be dead, for there was little movement and even fewer rises and falls from his bony chest. But he burst to life when a pair of guards dragged an unfortunate third between them to the guard post---and the old man was up and upon them with an astonishing alacrity. "Dead. This man is dead. Long dead," Robbed Trajek said, his words little more than airy, phlegmatic coughs. "Place him on the ground. Place him now. I will tend to him here before the rot sets in."

Deriin was travelling, having recently come from the mountains, back through sage only to have his venture unfortunately interrupted by a warrior of Venturil, and then came here after a stop with a healer. He was a man in an oversized robe that draped beyond the reach of his hands, and hung heavy over his head casting a thick shadow over his face that concealed his features. The only thing decipherable about him was that he was of average height for a man, and his robes bore the marks of Vakmatharas all over. From his sleeves dropped thick chains that slid across the ground dragged at the collar which sat around the necks of his two large wargs: Fenrir and Anfauglir. They stood as tall as Deriin on all fours and carried the bulk of a bear, though appeared to be a mix of that and a wolf, thick hide and coarse hair but probably the most unsettling of features would be the unusual intellect burning in their eyes as they guided their master, scanning their surroundings while inahling deeply every few steps to get a grasp on the environment and maintaining it. They knew what was around them, and through subtle movements, a nudge or a rub of their hip on their master's shoulder or a low grunt would relay information to the beastmaster about danger. As the guards passed by the wargs paid them no mind, and their master didn't even lift his head, no he remained quiet and stared at who knows what as his beasts led him through the streets, until they halted momentarily at the stench that struck their noses. They were too smart to know it was the corpse, this was something far older than a recently deceased, and far less preserved. Deriin could smell it too but he did not care either way, all surfacewalkers were filth that he was not to be bothered with, though the wargs stayed for a few moments longer to assess the situation.

The pair of guards were too engaged with their fallen comrade, or perhaps too crooked to care, about the thoroughly deadly beastmaster that walked their streets. No one would give their life to protect this cesspool, most assuredly not the armed and armored men and women who would earn their keep dolling out death. "No, no, old man. He's not dead," One of the guards said, his words sputtered in a failed attempt to not breath in the foul air. The other corroborated with a nod. "Well, then put him down and go fetch a healer...Go!" They were as happy to leave their fallen comrade as they were to be out of the cloud of decay. Trajek was quick to drop to his bony knees, his skeletal hands pushing beneath armor and fabric to find the wounds. They touched the guard's side, and he winced, but his hands continued. They crawled up over his garments, they slithered up to his neck, and they were around the man's throat. Before the guard's own post he strangled the wounded man, his grip strengthened by the blackness that seeped from his hands, that entwined each finger, that blotched flesh the shade of a bruise. The robed man was silent but for the slops of smacking lips.

Deriin stayed where he was, several yards from where this was happening while his wargs watched on. Fenrir dipped back a bit, and nudged on his master's left shoulder with his snout, sniffling while letting out several small huffs which were meant as a sort of communication. When Fenrir took his post back level with his brother Anfauglir the necromancer tilted his head up and allowed his amber hues to take in the sight before him in silence. After but a few moments he stepped forward just as quietly with his beasts matching his pace until he stood roughly ten feet from the ghoul, and his beasts had moved to stand more behind their master, their heads about even with Deriin's own. "Filth. Your existence is blasphemous to Vakmatharas' will." Each word was spat out with a fury unparallelled, though is features still were entirely cloaked in shadow so his face was impossible to see unless the creature before him had sight that could pierce such shadow cast by his hood. (No its not magical, just really dark haha)

Trajek luxuriated in the feel of the guard's strangulation. With every breath that caught at his hands, with every ruptured blood vessel in his eyes, the robed man visibly shuttered. But it was not the killing that so aroused him, nor was it when he released the neck so the last of the man's life puffed from blood stained lips. His greatest joy came when he lifted veil from his face, when those dead eyes looked upon the blackened throat and his throat, the opened wound that wheezed each breath through slashed meat, was bent with his head. He tore from the dead man's throat all that he himself had lost, his jaws working furiously to chew both gristle, fat, and muscle. His meal fell through the gaping hole in his throat and sloshed upon the feasted upon corpse. He looked up at Derrin, more ghoul than man, as he shoved the chewed bits of meat down into his bottom throat. The hand was held there, gripping his own throat with the same strength that was used to take the poor sap's life. "Hard words...from...the bitch...of the pack." Each word was airy with most of their strength and tone leaking through his gore stained hands.

Deriin if he were visible would be seen with upper lip curled in a snarl while his face twisted with even more rage than before. The blasphemy dared to insult him, let alone speak. He was above dealing with such despicable pestilent existences. First thing was that he spat on the ground near the ghoul before dropping the chains of his beasts, freeing them from his magical control and leaving them under the command of their expert training since pups at their master's hand. They were too intelligent and well trained to fall for foolish tricks and ploys of the enemy, and worked as brothers, maneuvering with what could be perceived as perfected synchronicity. Stepping away from their master they moved further away but remained to either side of him: Fenrir to the left, and Anfauglir to the right with both of them baring their ferocious looking maws which gobs of saliva dripping to pool on the ground. Slipping his hands from the sleeves of his robe it was to be noted he had the pale skin of a drow, but he did not look frail, in fact with the meat and musculature visible he was fit, healthy. In a moment he had withdrawn a book from a fold in his robe which had emblazoned upon its cover the mark of Vakmatharas and with that single hand he flipped it open to a random page. "Swear your allegiance to the God of Death, or be returned to his realm dispatched by my own hand."

Trajek watched the beasts for the briefest moment, and he looked up at Derrin for even less. Long had he waited for this meal. He had planned, prepared, and more importantly, he -hungered-. Hand after hand, clutch after clutch, it was a continuous loop of torn viscera from body to his throat, and choke after choke of more of the meat pushed into his body. He kept his eyes on Derrin as he spoke and he fed, and what were hollow were soon filled with eyes. His skin grew warm with life, and both cheek and limb fattened with muscle and vitality. The more he consumed, the more his death, his ghoulish demeanor, was shed from his body. It was an older man who looked up at Derrin, and he greeted the demand for indenture with a disrespectful gesture from a calloused hand. The offending hand reached for his throat again---it was the only part of him that did not enjoy such a revitalization. "Death...held no claim...on me. Death has...no claim on me."

Deriin had no intention of furthering a dialogue with the blasphemous abomination that walked the surface among the living. His left hand ignited in green flame but then a flash came over his vision, an image in his mind of the great otherworldy Shade creature which had appointed him as a general, an apostle to find more for his army. He did not want to admit it at all but this ghoul which had the power to regenerate through the devouring of other dead was intriguing and could definitely be useful. "Declare allegiance, and I will tolerate your existence. I know something that could use your help." each word was a struggle, his pride making him want to gag at the niceties presented when he put away his book and abolished that rancid smelling flame. "Can make you more powerful. More food, more death. Just say it, and I will help you, as a Necromancer of Vakmatharas."

Trajek narrowed his eyes at the viridian flames and he laughed a reedy, mirthless laugh. His own hand moved, but it was blood and gore that erupted from it as he plunged it into the dead guard's chest. Blackness, an inky darkness that looked even more foul, even more -wrong- when it seethed from the wound and caught what little light was left of the day, drew the life from his features and his vitality from his face. When he stood he was the ghoul again, but the body corpse rose with him, attached to his forearm like a shield. Pitch ran through veins and capillaries that had once carried blood, it ossified flesh and calcified bones. It was corpse, that was to be sure, but with his hand around its spine, it was held like a macabre tower shield. "I am...no slave." Without the reinforcement of his grip, his words were more gurgles than language.

Deriin didn't bother to sigh at the failure. Negotiation had failed and the creature appeared hostile and ready to fight. His pets tensed up as they sensed a threat but with a raised hand they halted and backed off for the necromancer had every belief that this creature could be handled without them. Their assistance would probably prove to be too much for the abomination anyways when the intent was to subdue if possible, destroy if necessary. With ease Deriin slid from his robe and cast it aside to reveal a muscled drow carrying the many scars of his upbringing, while his face held the stress of a militaristic upbringing, and the wisdom of half a life, for humans two lifetimes of studying the dark arts. He wore a leather harness on his upper body and a utility belt around his hips which held many things from his daggers to multiple jars and component pouches. Unscrewing the jars which could be seen as holding still beating hearts he reached into a pouch and withdrew a handful of ash. Crushing the flakes into a fine powder a bit was sprinkled onto each heart, "Time to awaken my cinderflames." Upon contact with the ash the hearts went into overdrive, spewing plumes of hot ash and smoke as they blasted up from their bottles only to come back down and hover a couple feet above the ground, three in total while the other two hearts went untouched. The plumes formed stick like legs, arms and angular heads around the hearts, assembling the semi-solid bodies of the cinderflame sprites which were only parts of a greater whole which the necromancer felt was unnecessary at the moment. With a raise of his hand to point at the ghoul the cinderflame sprites which had took up a triangle formation in front of their creator flung out their arms in front and fired each a single bolt of choking ash and cinder which upon contact would burn and form a searing, choking smokescreen.

Trajek had prepared for the fight as best he could. He was weaponless, but with each moment that passed more of his life-revitalizing magics ripped the vitality from his body and filled the now defensively manned corpse. He could do nothing but prepare for the melee---he brought the still blackening corpse-shield before him, and held it firm with his other hand. What the trio of bolts of fire and ash hit was the fortified body, though the connection sent Trajek's boots to scraping back upon the stone. Fire seared flesh, and the ash, riddled with grit from whatever was burnt, scoured the dead body's back. Blackened flesh fell in globs of burning fat, still afire when they landed on the gore soaked stone, and muscle and ligaments were ripped from bone. A waste of a meal was what Trajek lamented as he held firm, as he allowed his shield to be shredded into pieces that burned where they collected. He breathed only to speak, and a single rose above the pops and sizzles of cooking meat. "Serve."

Deriin watched with no expression the results of his attack on the meat shield, though in his head he had absolute confidence in his victory. He had two more hearts he could call upon, and in an instant he knew he could merge them into the greater and considerably more powerful Cinderflame necromental. With apprehension he stepped towards the monster, though his cinderflame sprites were at the ready, and all their creator had to do was appear to be in danger and they would unleash a hailstorm of ash and fire upon the ghoul while the wargs would step in to take their master to safety. Alone Deriin was nearly nothing but a physically adept spellcaster, but as a beastmaster he was far more formidable, his creations and pets serving as his sword and shield. There was a reason he was not to be taken on one-on-one after all and perhaps this creature could see it now. "Accepted. You, like me, exist to serve Vakmatharas, and with your servitude, comes power. We will improve you. If you are truly capable of assimilating the dead for various uses." the way that the corpse was turned into a shield, joined with the body was to the drow impressive, though he would never state or show any indication that he had any manner of approval for this blasphemous being. "Come, to the forest, and we will fine tune you." with that he turned, and expected the monster to follow.

Trajek was wise enough to know when he had been bested, so it was with little remorse that he released his grip from the body's spine. It fell into a bloody, lifeless, burning heap, and what was left of his magic stained the tips of his fingers black. He would bend his knee and dip his head for the collar to be placed upon his neck...for the time being. he threw back his cowl, hunched his shoulders, and save for the copious amounts of blood and gore that stained his ill-fitting robes, he assumed his previous role. But this was Cenril, and for all of those who knew, he was the local grave digger---both the city and his station were easy enough explanations for his current, stained appearance.

Deriin had no intention of placing a collar on the creature, "Stand up. You are your own existence, you are a voice that speaks to the God of Death. Worship him in your actions. You kill, and use the dead to spread more. We are all servants to the God of Death, however it is only when we honor him and accept our lives as his servants, do we begin to hear his voice, and feel him. We will make you better."

Trajek dipped his head when Derrin spoke. Not all collars were objects. Some were bowed heads, stilled tongues, and acquiescence. He followed the Drow where he led.