RP:Opus
Part of the Vakmatharas' Jar Arc
Summary: Trajek comes across a Jar and is shown a memory in the past and once he realized what this jar does he discovers where he must bring it, who he must gift it to.
OOC Note: Lyrics are from Lies by Evanescence
Left Tomb
This area of the necropolis holds only one grave, made of black rock. Behind the sarcophagus stands a large statue made purely of onyx. The statue is of a large being in full armor and a helmet with a visor, keeping his face hidden. Spread from the statue's back are massive angelic wings, and within the hands of the statue is a book. As you study the work of art, you feel it is not just a statue but holds some magical purpose as well, perhaps you should leave it be and be on your way. The only place to go is to the east.
On such a quiet night, a rare few might hear the distant hum of singing, but that isn’t too uncommon in the graveyard with hauntings and all that… It would only grow louder once nearer to the Left Tomb and if someone came within the resting place they would find the singing growing louder, but still muffled somehow. Nothing looks out of place and the odd magical energy coming from the statue it would be easy to assume it was coming from that for some reason. Investigating further would prove that to be false as the humming was coming from a low place on the floor and maybe one day someone will find the jar. No ordinary jar, as it is made of black marble, large and accented with platinum and gold. Anyone could open it to only find an ossified larynx and nothing would happen for it is waiting, unknown as to how long, for a bard to do so…
Trajek | It was a solemn occasion when someone passed. It was even worse when that someone was young; youth plucked from the world far before their time. The family, the priest, the wailers had filed out of the tomb, leaving only the bone thin figure covered in head to toe in a stained, ratty robe. The elderly figure looked as though he belonged in the crypt; perhaps he was a keeper, a paid watcher to hold vigil over the young departed, or just an old beggar who had lost his way. But when his boney hand pushed back his cowl, when the empty orbs gazed down at the corpse and the macabre gurgles and gargles of an open throat echoed through the silent tomb…when the ghoul threw himself onto the body, tearing through death shroud and garb meant to hide the decomposition from the Gods’ and Goddess’ eyes? Trajek fed on the dead, tearing handfuls, ripping mouthfuls, stuffing meat down his throat that fell out through his ripped open throat, until the front of his robe was slick, dark with a fresh paint of stain.
Perhaps it was the feeding that kept the ghoul from hearing the muffled singing outright; the ghoul was ruled by his unquenchable need to consume the dead. Perhaps it was because the singing was faint and from a far distant tomb. It was not the voice that drew him to the tomb, step by slow, methodical step. It was neither the gold nor the platinum that had his hand reaching for the jar. The necromantic energies that saturated the area around the jar were deep, all consuming, and immense; the larynx that had ossified, that soft tissue had turned to bone, was a fountain of dark, unholy magic – and Trajek hungered.
And when his hand grabbed the artifact, the world around him disassembled.
Gone was the roof of the necropolis, as well as its walls. All that stood were the foundations of such things, the finished entity little more than an image in a single mind that compelled those lower than it to build it. Many slaves had already been lost to the builder’s haste to see this portion of the immense task to be completed. That haste, the loss, had dragged a trio of slaves from their cots in the dead of night. That haste, the loss, is what had the young woman of better stock than could ever hope to be bound and gagged at their feet. And it was the threat of their own deaths that had the trio of servants to the God of Death beseeching protection from Elder God.
The Oldest | “We come here tonight not to ask for our deaths to be forgotten…only postponed. We bring you a sacrifice…a woman whose voice will please you for eternity…” The oldest looked to his two compatriots giving each a nod to the bound woman and the blade beside her. “Let her sing before we kill her.”
Orra | Names muffled in the unimportance of who they are in this set time, but one could make out this necromancer's name is Orra. Now this gentleman seems tediously neat, he wears muted dark red gloves and an unimpressive outfit to match. “Certainly,” his dry cold voice replies to The Oldest as he lowers next to the young woman upon her knees. She was scared, shaking and pleading through the cloth muffling her voice. When he knelt down beside her he looked her dead in those deep brown eyes and conjured up some sickeningly nice timbre to his voice which made her sort of hypnotized to stop her sobbing, “sweetie, he was only kidding. We won’t be killing you… We just want to hear that golden voice of yours so we can finish here… It will all be over soon, but not unless you don't sing.” He stands after loosening the cloth around her head and looks to the third necromancer, “is the circle ready?”
The Third | While Orra moved to calm the girl, the third necromancer moved to her task: readying the circle. She was covered in a hooded, dark robe, the only thing giving away gender was the rope belt tied at her waist, giving a hint to her shape. That was neither here nor there as she moved away from the others to gather her needed supplies. A bowl is gathered from her bag, followed by a large, sharp dagger, and the final thing wrestled from her bag, which had been twitching and moving on her hip this whole time, was a live and bound rabbit. Holding the rodent over the bowl, the necromancer then uses the dagger to slice down the rabbits front, ending the innocent creature's life and filling the basin with it's pure, red life force. The corpse is shoved into a separate pocket of the bag then before she removed a paintbrush instead. The tip is dipped into the blood and from there the necromance begins her true job. A series of complicated symbols, clearly that of a spell, are drawn on the floor in a circle around the small group. Ancient and dark sounding words are uttered with each symbol as it is drawn, the necromancer's voice a hauntingly beautiful sound. This is why she was chosen for the task, her writing was the neatest so there was no confusion or mix-up with the symbols, and her voice fit the task at hand. With the circle complete she approaches the girl instead, painting one final symbol on the girl's throat. Most of this necromancer's face was hidden, but the bound girl would be able to see the bottom half, and the evil, twisted grin that plays on her lips then. "Sing, song bird." Her voice was low, her accent thick, the common obviously difficult for her, but she was deliberate with her words, wanting to be understood. She retreats then, moving to stand in the shadow of the oldest, her task complete, a quick and low confirmation offered to him in her native tongue.
The Oldest kept his eyes to the ground, his vision to the trampled earth compacted by boot and foot, and his mind to the numerous dead within. Those who died were not taken from the field and thrown into graves; their bones became mortar, their blood and pulverized viscera the bonding liquid, and in their death they became one with the stone and cement that was used to build the tomb. “Not us…” The Oldest whispered, first low and servile, but the words were said again with feverish intensity as he turned to the whimpering captive. He was not as kind as Orra–the bound girl was dragged by hair to the rim of the circle, and she was lifted by the hair and thrown into the center so as to not break the exquisitely drawn ring. Nor was he as skillful as the third necromancer in his machinations– the girl’s head was wrenched up, the symbol on her throat held open for all eyes to see. “You will sing.” The Oldest barked, though the only song that came from her mouth was her cries, and the only melody that filled the air was the beating of her hands upon his wrist and forearm. “Listen, my sweet,” The Oldest bent low, his soft words a counterpoise to the hard twist of her neck. “You are going to die. You will meet Death. There is no disputing this. I cannot promise that you will find peace, but pleasing Death with your beautiful voice may sway his judgement. Now sing.”
Orra continued his smirk as the leather of his gloves creaked under the pressure of his clenched fists. A mumble of a spell as his hands stroked down the shaft of his black and gold walking stick so it revealed a true necromancers staff which was also black with a gold engraved orb levitating and spinning lazily within the clawed tip of the staff. He gently takes The Third by her hand and guides her to one side of the circle that she would be standing. Orra looking and acting quite the gentleman and so well kempt, one might take him as some politician. He continues to make his way in his black snake skin shoes until he is a fifth of the way around the circle and flicks a motion in the air with his free hand as four other hooded necromancers take their positions at each tip of the symbol painted in the ground. “Enough with the dramatics…” his sickeningly nice timbre hits the Bard’s ears and she stops immediately. “Sing.” It was a simple command and there she hung in The Oldest’s grasp with tears stealing through the hint of dirt on her cheeks and at first soft trembling hums vibrate between her chapped lips. Orra closed his eyes with that grin on his face as if he were listening to some opera music and enjoying it. Eventually the bard accepts her fate through the tears she sings. A haunting song of foreboding and igniting on the listeners’ greatest insecurities… only if they have them.
Bound at every limb by my shackles of fear
Sealed with lies through so many tears
Lost from within, pursuing the end
I fight for the chance to be lied to again
You never were strong enough
You you never were good enough
You were never conceived in love
You will not rise above
They'll never see
I'll never be
I'll struggle on and on to feed this hunger
Burning deep inside of me
But through my tears breaks a blinding light
Birthing a dawn to this endless night
Arms outstretched, awaiting me
An open embrace upon a bleeding tree
They'll never see
I'll never be
I'll struggle on and on to feed this hunger
Burning deep inside of me
The Oldest waited for the Bard to begin her death knell, to commune with Death itself to commute the three's death sentence within the unbuilt tomb. Death was the Oldest's greatest fear; dying before his self-allotted time. Dying before he was able to subdue the Necromancer, the Vampire, and the Undead. Dying before he had found every lost page to every lost tome that would give him the power to bring both Living and Dead to their knees. No. He was not meant to die like this. He was not meant to die before he could eclipse Death Himself... The song worked every fear he had ever had, twisting every insecurity he had known. He feared the Bard, the song, more than breaking the spell and ending the sacrifice before it was completed. Skin and muscle fused upon his hand, and both pulled tight upon his bones. His spell was quick, erupting from his lips upon his free hand, welding flesh, muscle, and bone into one – and his hand lunged for the Bard’s throat. Digits pierced her skin. They pushed through muscle and cartilage. And when he gripped her vocal cords, they sheared through connective tissue that held her larynx in place. Her song ended with a growl, a gurgle, and the sickening splash of blood and viscera to the ground. He held the larynx above the center of the circle, above where the gasping bard bled out, and he marveled at his own strength. He had conquered his enemy as he would conquer Death. Soon, the larynx would grow cold. Soon, it would stop pulsing. Soon…it would be as dead as its former owner. But moments passed into minutes, and blood still flowed through severed vessels…air still passed through the crushed esophagus. “Dis…pleased…” The voice that whispered from it was unearthly. It was soft, weak, yet those who practiced the necromantic arts, those who worshipped the God of Death, would know from whom it came. “Sac…rifice…” The Oldest, his eyes wide from fear at the command, looked from his two compatriots. Fear bonded to rage. Fury rose from his trembling voice. “I will kill you both.”
“Kill…Him…Now.”
Orra didn't seem surprised in the least at the command. Sure, goosebumps rose on his porcelain skin when he heard Death itself speak as he reveled in the power, but Orra was not worried of death as much a The Oldest is and when it is his own final day he will greet Death as a friend. “Certainly m’lord,” he said with the calm of a loyal servant and the smirk of a confidant. The Third became giddy, in a way, at the command and almost manic with a grin from ear to ear as she melted into the shadows to appear and stand in The Oldest’s own shadow. She uses the shadows to hold The Oldest in his place in trapping his legs and feet where they stand and shadows raise up to chain his wrists to the ground in order to slowly drag him down to his knees. “Thank you love,” Orra regards The Third in her assistance while he was closing the distance between himself and The Oldest on the front. “But I don't think he would run from us… We are his friends,” that sickeningly fake-nice coo is turned on The Oldest now as he's never had to use it on him before. Those deep brown eyes locking to the old man’s and he would realize the power of persuasion that Orra has. The Oldest would become trapped in his own body even though his body didn't will him to move and he would feel an unease in an odd calm that isn't easily shaken off. Orra knelt down before the trapped Oldest One, “please me with a smile,” is a simple demand given and even if The Oldest fought with all his mental might he would feel his muscles contract into the biggest brightest smile. During which, Orra was working at something around the edges of his hairline as if unhinging it and soon his vicade was peeling off to reveal how monstrous his face really is underneath. White fleshy parts of tissue and some of his face only merely looked boiled and burned while the rest looked as if it were ripped free of skin. More of the perfect white teeth being impossible to ignore now as he seems to be grinning, but no one can really tell at this point. He tilts his head one way and then the other to release the tightness in his neck giving audible popping noises into the very quiet air while he stood upright once more. Not wasting another second he took up the sacrificial dagger while The Third forces the shadows to make The Oldest hang his head and Orra set the tip of the dagger at the occipital point of The Oldest’s skull. Tapping the hilt of the dagger with the end of his staff and using just enough force to slowly drive the tool into the skull of The Oldest in order to ensure he feels the excruciating pain bit by bit. Surely the old man has let the lynx go and this is when Orra fetches the large and ornate onyx stone jar which is accented in platinum and gold. Placing a seal upon the jar so only a powerful bard just like the one they sacrificed could open the evil building inside and only upon a lunar eclipse.
The Oldest would have fought back. He would've called forth great magic to rip apart the two treacherous compatriots. He would've ripped their hearts out with his own hands. But when he tried to speak, he had no voice. When he tried to let go of the larynx to use his hand, it held the quivering organ still. His voice came from it, his spells casts only in sound so he could hear the futility of his actions. His powers were leeched from his body through his arm, through his hand, into the larynx. And when he died, when the dagger was driven into his temple and his body succumbed to the damage, the last bit of his life fled into the undead organ. Two lives remained within the organ, two histories, and twice the energies to fuel the necromancy that it imbibed. It was...blessed.
Trajek | Blessed. That was what Trajek knew when his mind returned from the artifact’s history. Blessed by death to wreak havoc across the land if it were to come into the right person’s hands. It took him only a moment to recall the bard he had met before. She had been kind and thoughtful. She did not deserve the burden he was about to lay upon her shoulders. The end of the world… It took him days to find his way back to her castle, but find it he did, and he placed the wrapped package at the door. Upon it was its only command written in the Ghoul’s hand. For the Mistress. Thunderous booms rocked the large wooden doors, his announcement a resounding thud throughout the entire castle itself. He was gone before anyone arrived.