RP:More Than a Dream is Shattered

Part of the Venturil's Bane Arc

This is a Necromancer's Guild RP.

Vailkrin City Road

Kuzial stalks into Vailkrin from the west, his single eye a mere slit that glows with scarlet light. The city is dim, but it means nothing to a drow of Trist'Oth. He sees here better than most would in the clearest sunlight. Yet, he does not come to visit any of the deceased of this foul city. Instead, various spies had spoken of dark necromantic rituals that were cast in the city, and the powerful patron of House Stavret had an idea what it was for. After the visions from Maladroit, he was nervous, but he wanted to end it before she could be brought back. So he stalks in, stopping only when he is in the middle of the city, before screaming into the perpetually dark skies, "Necromancers! Come!" He draws Shattered Dream from its sheathe, the sword once owned by the leader of Vailkrin herself, and stands still - all senses attuned to any changes in his environment. 

Leifong had been flitting around Vailkrin all night, waiting for those he knew would come with the rumors now echoing through the dark city. It was all going so splendidly that he could hardly be prouder of his own genius. From across town he could hear the call, a challenge, and though he truly despised the notion of being summoned, it would be rude not to show himself after waiting so long. From nothingness the Haruspex coalesces into existence before Kuzial only a foot or two out of reach from the Arrogant drow's blade. "Who are you to call us here?" he questions in a more amused than challenging tone as several other necromancers make themselves seen coming around corners into the square. 

Kuzial is quickly becoming largely outnumbered by the appearing necromancers, but it is clear by the dark look upon his ebon face that he simply doesn't care. Whether he believes he can kill them all, or whether he doesn't cherish life... this ins't clear. But the words that come in the silence which followed Leifong's own speech are crystal. "Who am I? I am the one who freed this forsaken city from the clutches of a pixie. I am the one who tore apart Cornelius, leaving him dead in the streets. I am Kuzial Stavret, Patron of House Stavret, and you... necromancer..." he almost spits the title, "...will bring about more than your own death if you persist in what you do... I have seen..." He falls silent then, failing to hide a shudder, "much... too much. Do not doom us all with your foolish ambition." 

Leifong looses a disgusting squelch of laughter from the rotting holes where his lungs had once been, yet when he speaks his voice betrays no sign of degradation. "That's why you looked familiar, then. I commend you Drow, the dandy was a disgrace to us all." His robes of shadow ripple as the wind picks up, the stench of maggots and rot billowing out from under them. "I was there that day, you know. I probably should have remembered your face at least, but what's the difference, hmm? All you miscegenated elves look the same." 

Kuzial shakes his head quickly, "I care nothing for your commendations, foolish necromancer... You hear my words but you do not listen... you will damn us... I hate this world, more than you could comprehend... but when it is nothing more than ash and blood, it will be my brand and my blade which destroyed it... not yours and certainly not hers!" With a vicious snarl Kuzial hurls Shattered Dream high into the air. With a languid fluidity that speaks of countless hours of practice, Kuzial draws forth the E' et-Nilah Blade - the sinister sword once owned by Trist'Oth's own Patron, the drow lord, Keter. In one motion it clears its sheathe as the drow spins in a quick circle around, before he forces all his momentum into one vicious swipe of his forsaken blade into the falling katana. Corrupted adamantite meets illusionary steel with a dull ring, before the blade lives up to its name and shatters into many small pieces. Kuzial immediately crosses his hands before his face and enacts the enchantment on a small ring he has. It is a ring of protection and it casts a shield that doesn't save him from being horrendously injured as he hurls backwards, towards the entrance to the city. But it does save his life and more importantly his sanity. For the magics unleashed by the powerful sword are many and strong. Potent illusionary strength erupts out with the force of a vicious explosion, before the energies attempt to weave into the minds of all around. Corrupting them, torturing them; giving life to an infinite amount of illusions in one mere moment that would drive sanity from their minds quicker than morning sun melts mist. Even far away Kuzial feels the horrendous magics seeking his mind, making mockery of his minor protections. He cannot face it. He turns and flees, back through the portal that leads to the dark forest, seeking sanctuary in the trees. In his wake, he can only hope he killed or ruined enough necromancers in the city to stop the dark magicks he heard were being cast and just perhaps... save us all. 

Valentin was in Vailkrin on his Mistress' business. The bloody woman wanted steel vats, as if that was a common on-the-shelf kind of item. But he'd just been from a metalworker with a reasonable quote agreed on, and had been heading to the Hanging Corpse for a quiet drop of elven blood. Of course there'd be a drow blockin' his way with his knickers all in a blimmin' twist. Add to the party his lunatic mentor Leifong, and this was a recipe for feckin' disaster. "What in th'blazes is goin' on here. There's folks around wi'dishonest business to attend to." Come to think of it, this was the same drow Tysinni had pickpocketed. Now that had been a right bloodfest, an' all. Valentin recalled receiving some nasty holes in his body, and having delivered the same - the drow was a fast bastard, he remembered. Best be careful, then. But before he could say or do more, the drow was fleeing some dark energies of his own conjuring. 

Leifong releases a roar of rage and anguish so hellish and unnatural that if anyone could hear it over the blast they would have no choice but believe that the Magister Letum of the necromancer's guild truly was spawned from the devils of old. In a flash the lives of those other necromancers gathered are extinguished, tortured souls sent back to the one they serve without mercy. Yet even as Leifong takes the full brunt of Kuzial's attack, his body engulfed in the fury of that explosion and reduced to little more than a tower of standing cinders, something remains. It had been a long time since the soul inhabiting that twisted shell was entirely dependent on physical existence. For a moment there is nothing but blatant confusion, but as the smoke of that blast clears, the screams from civilians near enough to be preyed upon by corrupted illusions ringing through the streets, Leifong retreats disembodied, meditating on the torture he would inflict upon Kuzual Stavret. 

Valentin was about to turn to Leifong then when the flying shards of shattered steel hit. Although partially shielded by Leifong, once again, the damn drow Kuzial had rent his flesh. But before he could comment on that the sorcerous accompaniment to the blade's destruction took hold. It was strong, perhaps on a par with the Chest of Torment discovered below venturil. But Valentin had not spent months acclimatising himself to the worst fear magics the art and Chest could offer for nothing. An eternity of pain and torment? This had been inflicted on him nightly until he'd finally learned how to harness the dark energies, loop them around and twist them in upon themselves. But he had succeeded, proven this to the Magister Letum of the Necromancer's Guild, and now was on the verge of being able to create those energies himself. Valentin clenched his teeth as he summoned his own talent for phobomancy, and twisted the images of torment so that he was the tormentor, and the world his victim, and so broke its hold upon him. Immediately, the hint of a minor magical migraine started to swell from the effort "What in th'blimmin' hells were that?!" 

Kuzial heard the cry beneath an ocean of confusion that seeks to drown his mind in tortured images of death and decay. Perhaps the magic was further corrupted by Vailkrin's own perpetual state of undeath, or perhaps even Valentin's mastery of the magic assaulting him corrupted it. But the lingering darkness; shadows in the trees that appear now like clawed hands coming for him; the quiet noises of nocturnal hunters.. all these things now have turned the powerful patron from eternal hunter to little more than prey... And so he clutches in a hand that pours blood onto the ground his sword, the E' et-Nilah Blade. He lets it malignant energy in; no longer holding it at bay with a psychotic rage of his own that the ancient sword could not match... now it could, though, and the fear... the horror... it is burned away in a wave of such hatred and darkness that the dark elf cannot help but stop and scream his own cry into the forest's night. No longer in control of himself, a slave to the sword he carries and the lingering torment Shattered Dream did birth, he doesn't head back to Trist'Oth... instead he stalks deeper into the forest.. seeking.. searching.. for soft flesh to feed his insatiable hunger for death... 

Tenebrae arrived in time to see only fleeing citizens and wrinkle her nose at an appalling, acrid stench that clouded her already-cloudy senses. Chaos in Vailkrin.. how unusual. Such were her dry thoughts as she trod the road the road from the direction of the Blood Fountain. One of those fleeing villagers would scream, having had the misfortune of bumping into the necromancer on his flight from nightmares of various sources, only to find his last such bad dream was to be sliced to ribbons by the Shadowside-wrought wargauntlet Tenebrae wore. "Pardon me," she said, quietly to the man's writhing remains, and then the Hanging Corpse was in sight, and the smell only got worse. She paused in the middle of the road, ostentatiously armoured but still that small, dark-haired woman she'd always been. At least, she was for the moment. Nose wrinkling again, she peered through whatever miasma lingered. 

With Leifong disembodied, Kuzial off sociopathically frolicking in the trees, and most of the forms around him dead, that left Valentin as probably the only person left standing outside the Hanging Corpse. Growling with pain, the butcher carefully and delicately started the process of removing bits of Shattered Dream from his undead flesh, and slipped them into a pocket. Hints of the magics may linger, and prove worthy of study. At the very least provide a souvenir. "Whatever happened to a quiet pint being blimmin' quiet?" the butcher grumbled. He had yet to notice Tenebrae. 

Tenebrae muttered, "I dare say that none of this concerns the whereabouts af a decent barrel-wright.." mostly to her herself, as the cause of the commotion became at least partially clear, and her gaze fell upon Valentin. Though it would shift the retreating figure she'd glimpsed heading for the forest, one dark brow rising as a minute genuflection on its familiarity to her. "I've quite given up on the issue... Say..." she peered, then, at a glob of matter on the walkway. "Is that.. Leifong?" 

Valentin turns at the sound of his Mistress' peevish and grating voice. Peevish and grating in the mind of the harried Butcher, at anyrate. Best to head her off at the pass, as it were. Valentin approached and said "I blimmin' well hope so. Anyway, you don't go to barrel-wrights for a metal vat, mistress. You go to a blimmin' metalworkin' establishment, which is where I have just been. They have th'facilities an metal t'make three brewery-sized vats in th'space of a week. Sooner if we pay more, I would suggest." Valentin knew the way of tradesmen well, being one himself. 

Tenebrae raised the hand that wasn't covered in a blood-drenched encasing of razored pseudo-chitin, and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Does it occur to you, at all, that I may also be in need of barrels.. Scleratus?" His title was spoken like a none too gentle reminder of its inferiority to her own. The pinching ceased, and she frowned at the lump of meat again. "Or is.. that him, over there? Vats, you say?" Here, she looked up at Valentin, the Butcher towering in comparison. "A week? A week is... Well, I suppose it must do." 

Tenebrae muttered, "I could swear I scented Leifong here. Distinctive odor.. " 

Valentin wasn't going to argue. If she had forgotten the art of delegating all of her chores to him and the other subordinates, then thank the dark gods, he thought. "Fair point, mistress. Most likely spot t'have a barrel-wright what hasn't been burnt out or plundered t'hell an' back is goin' to be Larket. Cenril's gone t'muck, and Rynvale too. Most wood's used in rebuildin', not barrels, at present time. Anyway, regardin' the metal vats, they're on order in a foundry on the southern edge o'Vailkrin. Near Alfredo's where the lads get t'gether for their weekly night-time scrapes. As to Leifong, he got exploded by some drow named Kuzial. 'E 'ad some sword infused wi'fear magics, and shattered th'damn thing. Leifong caught the bulk of it" Valentin continues pulling shards of steel out of his face and body. "Well, that's m'report on the day's efforts. I'd best be gettin' back to work." The age-old statement used by the working class to get out of difficult scenarios, used now by Valentin as he sees his chance of a quiet pint dwindling to nothing very rapidly - at least until he got back to Cenril and his personal store. 

Leifong suddenly appears back in the square in a far less subtle manner than he usually might, exploding into existence with a great crack of displaced space that shatters the stone underfoot. The Haruspex had already been preparing this body for months now, and even though it was still missing some pieces, it was functional enough to rend a drow limb from limb, which was his intention. Yet engulfed in the storm of rage as he was, Leifong hadn't bothered to pull a cloak from the shadows to hide the perversion he'd become. After many physical reincarnations, this was the first which lacked a single piece of the necromancer's original body. Eight hairy legs, some pieced together from more than one specimen carry aloft the muscled tree trunk of a torso and arms he'd liberated from it's prior avian owner. A bulging, powerful serpentine neck and head has been grafted onto the shoulders so precisely that it's nearly impossible to tell where the two pieces would have ended, the powerful jaws crinked open to hiss and spit venom as his multiple spider eyes search the area for his prey. 

Tenebrae was nodding at Valentin, her former lack of ability to find a barrelmaker in Cenril, of all places, suddenly making a lot sense. And the shreds of Leifong-odoured bits of meat lying all about, as well. "Soon, we must sit to talk, you and I...." she toed a glob at her feet, as though to include Leifong in the conversation, "I have much to show you. The things I have learned..." But of course, whatever discourse was to ensue was interrupted by stone exploding ,, again.. shrapnel of which pinged off her armours and against which she raised her gauntlet, finger fanning so its razors shielded her face. And lowering it, she would betray her surprise by only a tiny lift of dark brows. Perhaps her voice was a tad les dulcet, when she spoke: "Ah, Magister Letum.. there you.. are." With a wan sort of smile. 

Valentin maintains his taciturn expression as bits of stone thud into him. The Haruspex seemed t'get uglier the further 'e slipped into insanity. The butcher took a moment to imagine what would happen if Leifong hired a tailor to attire hid current form in a formal suit. Valentin heroically managed to keep a smile from tugging at his lips. "Well, guv. I see you got better right quick." Valentin plucks out some more sword shards, this time from his scarred and sigil-covered arms. His pocket was beginning to clink a bit from his collection. The butcher nods acquiescence to Tenebrae "Any time, Mistress." It sounded as fun as being pulled over a spiked rack. 

Leifong rages for a minute, finding the Drow gone, but when his mistress speaks the creature he now was halts and snaps it's head around, staring blankly. Of a sudden waves of darkness seem to be pulled from the night, spun like cloth to form a shroud for the Haruspex who paradoxically shrinks into the guise and within moments looks no different than he ever had. "Drow are always the most frustrating." He says, the same voice he always had ringing out clear from somewhere within those robes. "I'll eat his heart" 

Tenebrae pursed her lips. "Patch yourself up, Leifong.And do -try- to resist the urge to lollygag about, when there's much larger things afoot." The wargauntlet was waved, to indicate both men.. so to speak.. present. "We need to have a chat." Peridot eyes lifted toward the east, "But first, I might go hunting. If only I had my warbeast..." she sighed, forcing air into her lungs purely for effect. "All in good time, as they say.. Think you could scrounge us up a few living bodies, Magister?" It was less a question than a command, and then the woman in spiny, black armour walked off on them, toward that forest... 

Valentin grunted acknowledgement of Tenebrae's directive. Back t'the old chores, just as he knew would happen. He was half tempted to find himself a mirror for a therapeutic bout of 'I Told You So!'. He was going to have to figure out what went wrong. At least Tenebrae was as unhappy with being back as he was unhappy to have her back. Made the prospects of assisting her in magically feckin' off back where she came from less fraught with potential immolation. The butcher turned to Leifong and commented noncommitally "Business as blimmin' usual I take it, guv. I'll head off an' get busy wi'some of the tasks I been set." 

Leifong almost made several of the more rude comments that he had in mind, but didn't. He didn't say anything in fact, just steamed with the disappointment he felt for this whole situation. Suddenly deflated, the Haruspex dissolves back into the shadows to sulk. 

Valentin takes the Haruspex' egress as a 'Yes', and decides against productivity in favour of a pint. The butcher heads into the Hanging Corpse to recover from the day's excitement.