RP:Said The Spider To The Fly

Part of the Two If By Sea Arc

Synopsis: Zirael basks upon the beachfront and is spotted by Dagon. Rather than slink back into the ocean, the mermaid lets him chat to her for a time though she doesn't seem overly pleased by the conversation. Krystan returns and informs his new master that he has completed the task she set him and now wears a mermaid scale around his neck with pride. The former general of Arrecation, Xersom, also engages the mermaid in some conversation; seeming amused by her determination to destroy Cenril yet intrigued by her overall.

Sandy Beach

Dagon walks along the beach quietly. The mage's hood down and his mind clearly deep in thought. He pauses for a moment and turns to look out to the water. The high elf lifts a hand to move a strand of hair from his forehead and tucks it back behind his ear.

Zirael was basking on the shorefront, enjoying the waves that crashed against her resplendent body. The powerful waves might have swept away or overcame other, but they did not bother the mermaid who basked freely and unabashedly. She cared not for any who might spy her bare form, vanity was a weakness in mermaids and she knew herself to be beautiful. The mermaid scooped up some sand in her hand, rubbing it against her arms, neck and belly to smooth her skin and improve her beauty.

Dagon turns his head looking at the mermaid, he tilts his head having never seen one. "So, is your mom the fish or is your dad the fish?"

Zirael did not turn her head to look at Dagon. He was a land-dweller. He wasn’t worth her full attention. “If it breathes under water, is it a fish? If yes, then that would make the two of them fish. Not that it’s your business.”

Dagon turns his gaze back to the water "There are many that can breath underwater that aren't, I was simply commenting on your tail. and well your... well, your other half. Didn't think the humans were breading with other species."

Zirael’s white gold tail rose up and then slapped against the water as he pointed it out, “Do you think I’m beautiful?” the question was melodic as it left the mermaid, much like a siren’s song. “But no, I am a mermaid. Surely you’ve heard about those?” If he hasn’t, it’ll really hurt her ego.

Dagon shakes his head to answer the first question. "You're a human, A tainted one at that. Even more beastly then your kin." he listens as she describes what she is "A mermaid? So what, you clean mer? Didn't think you'd get much metal out here in the ocean. Do the ship companies hire you to clean the bottom of the boats?"

Zirael scowled at his reply. Was the man really so dense? “I’m not human. A mermaid. Seaborn. A siren.” Did he really not know what she was? “I don’t clean ships, I sink them!”

Dagon grins at her scowl. "Then maybe there is some use out of you. Keep up the good work and sink more of them."

Zirael finally shifted slightly to get a better look at Dagon. Why would he, a two-legged person, want her to continue sinking ships or attacking them? “I intend to do more than sink ships.” It was a dark and foreboding promise. But one she fully intended to keep. “But why do you, a two-legger, want me to sink ships? Don’t you weep for your fellow man and all that?”

Dagon kept his stare into the water "The humans are disgraceful, they do nothing but destroy and claim things they have no claim to. They are an infant race trying to play war with the adults. And as such they need to learn war ends in casualties. Those elves that want to aid them are just as bad. The dark skinned ones are tainted as well, their own skin shows the taint they have brought upon this world.

Zirael laughed melodically at his reasoning. Oh, she liked him. He had that murderous, genocidal thought process that she had. “What is your name?”

Dagon 's arms cross in front of his chest " My name is Fire Sage Dragon. And yours?" he asks coldly, odd given his chosen field.

Zirael blinked at the name, but did not seem off-put by it. Maybe his name wasn’t all that odd amongst the two-legged people. “I am Zirael,” soon to be she-who-drowns-all if she got her own way. Every word that left her was lyrical and every word was a lure to weaker souls. But Dagon hadn’t seem bothered by it so far.

Dagon "Zirael" he repeated he gave her a smile with a nod "And how do you sink ships, do you burn them, puncture them? Do you stab command the fishes and other things to barrage them?"

Krystan stalks the shoreline in the manner for which his new master has titled him, a hunter. Within moments the assassin is drawn towards the seaborn, pulled forth in his search by the compelling power of the pendant he now wears. He finds the siren-like woman next to another, but isn't fazed to make his appearence known. He appears as a black mass at first, the black cloak he wears seeming more like living shadow than any normal material. His presence brings with it an odd sense of dread, a chill that only an artisian of death can bring about. His features hidden behind the high collar of his cloak, the servant to the Mermaid stands now by her side, his piercing gaze, the icy-blue eyes of the assassin, trained upon the one she speaks with as his words are directed to her, and her alone. " I have completed the task, master."

Zirael, throughout this entire conversation, has been quite generously scooping up sand and applying it to her skin to smooth and soften it as sand was a naturally exfoliating substance and mermaids were notoriously vain. “Oh, now, that would be telling,” why give away these secrets anyway? What if Dagon was working with these human types and was conspiring against her? Yet those fears subside a little as the artisan of death makes his way to her and speaks only to her. “Then come closer, my Hunter. Let me see you and see that you wear my token.”

Dagon shrugs and was about to answer before the assassin made himself visible a nod is given to him and then was evaluated Looking from the boots up to his cloaked figures. A look is given to the fish person and he raises his eyebrows, waiting for the reply having nothing to say for himself.

Xersom generally avoided Cenril; it was a place of dual meanings for the ancient. One of these was that the realm of Hell and the many tombs and cages of his former masters geographically lied leagues beneath the city. The second of these meanings was his primary purpose for the creation of his initial incarnation, as the final key to allowing the Nameless King entry into Lithrydel, which would bring forth Tiaren, and the two Immortals would fight with such power that the fabric of existence itself would be torn asunder, and all life as it was known would end. It didn't matter that the first was cast out by the gods to never again be reached by anything in the mortal plane of existence, or that the latter could not be achieved at all with the destruction of the first seven 'keys', their demonic forms having long been destroyed and wiped from the world; it was the sentimental memories and nightmarish reveries that kept the former General of Arrecation from returning to the accursed city. Today was not entirely different; he lingered south of the community proper and along the sandy shore that separated land from water, water from land, not quite having crossed his self-imposed boundaries and into the governing lands of the corrupt, yet wealthy city. Clad in old, fraying, light and faded gray robes more akin to a wandering hermit or roving madman in claim of prophetic direction, the man ambled with a distinctly hobbled -and very faux -gait that was aided in both sale of the deception as well as support by a weathered and gnarled cane. Striking black hair was offset by intense, vivid, and almost luminous green eyes, but what was curious was that closer inspection might betray that his face, eyes, and hair all were not actually what they seemed; it was fake. Fleshy and realistic, but that face was not his own, those eyes were not what he saw from, and that hair never grew. Aside from the surface of that 'flesh', any other visible part of skin was covered in scars of carvings of ancient, arcane words of sacriledge, both dark and twisted, as if merely gazing upon them was both blasphemous and sinful. But it was Zirael's voice that garnered the attention of the man in passing, and his steps quite some distance removed from the gathered party of three waned, ebbed, and came to a cease as he turned to face the trio. His eyes narrowed to more keenly cut the salty air and better scrutinize the group, and, shamelessly, the ancient listened.

Krystan is not some ancient being of former untold power, now reincarnated to serve some unknown purpose that can be either for good or evil, depending upon the mood of things. He is a man, born in this very city as a matter of fact. His mother a tavern bar-wench, his father never known to him. Sold at a young age to pay off debts that were left by the man she claimed to be his father, Krystan's mother was never seen again. While hell itself is unfathomable to the mortal mind, the younger years of the killer's life were in his own way hell on earth. It was within that time he found it, his calling. He found death, and he embraced it lovingly. He welcomed an end to what his life was, but when it was denied to him time and time again, he became enraged. And it was a night so long forgotten that he saw death in a new light, when he killed for the first time in an ally not very far from here. It was in that moment of ecstasy he knew. To find death he would master its many ways, and serve her so that he may find the everlasting emptiness he so longed for. So he became what he is, spending years learning and studying the many ways to bring death about. And soon, it became a passion of his, almost his own art. Now, he after serving various crime lords in their own petty sqaubbles with one another, Krystan has found a new master who promises death on a scale he has longed to help bring about. So, when he is beckoned forth by the seaborn, the man steps towards the siren-queen and displays the pendant he was ordered to find. He had solved the riddle of the map, traveled a great distanced and tracked down the one who knew of it, and even now he has about him the blessing of the goddess. If he was one to do so, he may have smirked, but as always no emotion shows through those lifeless eyes as he says. " What task do you have of me next, my master?"

Zirael grinned as Krystan stepped closer and displayed the pendant she had ordered him to find. Wearing it was almost like a symbol of devotion, a symbol of adoration. It was like worship to a god, it empowered her though not quite literally. The mermaid’s white gold tail slapped the water again, casting the cool ocean water up onto her bare chest and to splash briefly against her face as if to cool her skin and hydrate that which was not touched by the water. “I would have us begin preparations for our war. I cannot reach inland just yet, I cannot wander far, but you… you can,” the mermaid told him, every word like a seductive lyric that would beckon the weak-willed closer to their deaths and would even make the strong-willed question their desire towards the mermaid. She was seduction and desire personified, vanity itself as she sat there combing her hair and casually chatting about her desire to kill. “This one is asking me how I sink ships, though I dare not tell him. What if he tries to stop me, my Hunter? Would you kill him for me? Would you kill any who dared to get in my way?” Emerald eyes moved from Krystan to Dagon and then to Xersom. Ancient as he was, the mermaid knew he was something altogether different from this lot.

Xersom was ancient, but he was not impervious to the lyrical allure that attempted to pick and pluck at the strings of his desire and he could quite literally feel the inherent magic of the mermaid as every syllable flowed so fluidly and entrancing from her lips. Will aside, the firsthand experience of the vocals gave the former demon general a very distinct clarification and theory to the old legends of sailors and shore-dwellers wandering off into the sea or diving overboard never to be seen again. Even this being, manifested and then reborn with darkness as its very foundation, where the core of the creature was not divine life as the gods had created in the natural order of things, but the unnatural abomination as created by the Dark Immortals, -desired- to moved toward this peculiar and teasingly enthralling gem of a female; it was not his own desire, but it was a desire that he felt nonetheless. Yet, his origins were a double-edged weapon; as apparent and present as the desire was, so too came the duality of a different desire; with the want to heed the beckoning voice came the want to damage, to break, to forever mutilate that beautiful sound by the sheer construct of his being. It made him hate, just as it made him love. With age on his side, both of these emotions were able to be calmly and collectedly placed under inward scrutiny, as the man with an infernal litany carved into his flesh contemplatively clicked his tongue against the ceiling of his mouth. Then, his own voice called -did he get closer? Or was he always a handful of paces from the dominant and subordinate duo?- to reveal his own voice; it was neither beckoning nor seductive like Zirael's, but it was beautiful in its own, dangerous way, "A war? For what purpose? To drown the world? What of the skies?" It was a voice that was sinister and soothing, like poisoned wine; it held the comforting tones so easy on the ears, so tantalizing and beautiful -not as allurement, but aesthetic grace- and simultaneously interwoven in those comforting tones was the sound of deceit, of sin, of darkness and terror. It was remarkably reminiscent of the old phrase, 'said the Spider to the Fly'.

Krystan follows the ever so sweet tones of his master to the highborn elf who stood across from her. As she speaks of removing anyone who stands in her way, dark thoughts begin to formulate in his cunning and devious mind as he replies to Zirael's question of him killing her enemies with a simple. " They will fall to your might, my master. " And as his own icy-gaze locks upon the robed spellcaster, he says to the mermaid in a calm tone that spoke more of a promise than anything else. " This one would fall before he could utter a single syllable of any spell." Magic users of various kinds have been targets before, and each presented a challenge in their own right. But each had fallen to his martial prowess, his sinister cunning and the assassin's abilities to adapt and overcome most any situation presented to him. Zirael herself recently saw what can become of him having some time to prepare, even if such an encounter ended in their newfound partnership. But it was in these next moments, when the assassin was going to ask for another task, that a new voice enters the fray. Turning to face the newcomer, Krystan can see that the elderly one speaks to the mermaid. It is perhaps because of his experience in dealing with variouys sorts of prey that an educated guess leads to a speculation that there is more to this one, something to not be taken lightly. He is dark. He is doom. A killer can always recognize another killer. And then the elderly wanderer speaks so coy of war and destruction, of how Zirael seems shortsided in her views. " To drawn the land and burn the skies, it would be a sight to see." Comes his own reply, and greeting, to the old hermit. He'd leave Zirael and this one to chat, and act as sentinel in case aggression ensues.

Zirael grinned like the cat who got the cream as Krystan declared how he would dispose of any who stood in her way. She so dearly liked this man already and his dedication to her cause, his dedication to her plan to drown the world and wipe away the stain that was the human race. Yet as Xersom spoke of her intention to drown the world and what she might do to the skies, she lay down on her side for a moment before propping up on an elbow. White gold tail flapped gently against the water and the sand, her sharp and piercing fingernails reaching up to touch her white gold hair and twine it round her finger as she listened to him speak. With her position, all of her was bare for the crowd to see and it didn’t bother her at all. She oozed desire: the look in her eye was sheer promiscuity, the smirk on her face promised a thousand unspoken deeds that a lesser man would mistake for gratification. Murder was her promise, blood was her pact. “I will drown this world to reclaim what has been taken from my people. I will drown your women and your children and feast upon their men. The sea devours all, does it not? You can only fight the sea for so long before you just… give in.”

Xersom 's laughter was a terrible thing; it resonated in an echo despite the ambient noise of the sea, squaking avian life, and the distant sound of harbor workers unloading their catches. But simply that it echoed was not what made it so foreboding; the reason that the sound was terrible was because there was a -second- voice's laughter just so slightly askew from being entirely overlapped and hidden by meshing with the more 'normal' mirth of the ancient, which distorted the echo in a manner that was notably not natural. And as he laughed, his gaze roamed the bare figure of the mermaid with that duality of desires; promiscuous touch of flesh coupled not with murder and blood, but destruction and an apocalyptic, biblical finality as opposed to the 'end' as it pertained to death. The mirth, teasing and taunting as if just inviting the mermaid to indulge her promise and pact (almost eerily specific in such), fluidly shifted into more words, "My women? -My- children? Ambitious little siren; your people, -these- people, are like warring schools of minnows. Invested in such a small limited mindset with no knowledge of the places where the sea is devoured whole and the skies bleed with hatred for the earth, the skies, the water and all that inhabits it. Until both those schools are swallowed whole by a whale." His faux lips cracked as if chapped as they spread into a smile that didn't exactly look... correct, not anymore. Hands scarred with verses upon verses of tiny and sacriledgeous script both rested upon one another atop the apex of his cane, "-My- people do not drown. They do not eat, they do not take, and they certainly do not give in; they destroy. -Your- people, -these- people, all exist because -my- people have allowed it. And regardless of what you take, whom you kill, you -and- them will be made extinct and forgotten when -my- people demand it. And your war will mean nothing." A long, silent moment existed, before one shoulder casually lifted and fell, "So I suppose in the grand scheme of things, whether the world is drowned or not is hardly even... notable, isn't it?"

Zirael’s emerald eyes remained upon Xersom as Krystan reached down to ask his mistress a question. No doubt, the assassin was eager to be set to work. Her long fingers touched his black clad arm and her eyes did not leave Xersom as she whispered what could only be instructions to her assassin. Quiet yet no doubt lyrical words uttered and the man was off on his business, leaving the mermaid alone with Xersom. “Every people suffers the existence of another. It’s the way of the world, isn’t it? Big fish eats the little fish, bigger fish eats that fish, the cycle repeats.” White gold hair curled around her finger once again as she spoke to him, “I won’t drown the world,” not yet, “but I will have this city. I will drown all of Cenril to reclaim what was stolen from my kin. What was besmirched.” The mermaid sat upright and with a flick of her head she whipped her hair back and away from her features. Sharp, angular, symmetrical and perfection itself. She was an apex predator: luring in those with her looks and consuming those who realised the danger far too late. “Do you think I’m pretty?” the mermaid asked the immortal general, her words laced with tempting tunes. Regardless of his answer, the mermaid would only grin and slink back into the water only to disappear into its ever welcoming depths.

Xersom tilted his head wryly, the spread lips curved into a smirk at the question; she was an apex predator, certainly, in her environment. The ancient, however, had his own history and despite the attempt to rile the anger forth from the mermaid (which didn't seem to succeed), truly feared little if anything in this world. "I met one prettier." He was married, after all! "Good luck on drowning that city. I'm interested to see if you manage it or not," was offered simultaneous to the departure of the mermaid. It was an amusing notion, after all, and the consequences could be... useful. Quite the mermaid; he'd have to remember her face, she was quite the enigmatic thing.