RP:Shadow of Death
Lyros skirts behind the crest of a dune, crouching low, an arrow held between his teeth and a bow in his right hand, kept down by his side. It's a worn old thing, something he scavenged from a woodsman's hut a few days ago, but it's served him well enough so far. Amber eyes glance quickly up — then back down just as quickly; damn, that hurts — to note the position of the sun before the drow creeps closer to the oasis. Below him, a desert hare bounds to the waters' edge to take a quick drink, before it takes note of the woman on the far side of the water and freezes absolutely still. This is the chance Lyros has been waiting for. He takes his stance at the very top of the dune, nocking the arrow and drawing it back...then stumbles forward as the sand beneath his foot slips under his weight. Unfortunately, 'forward' means straight down the dune, and down the dark elf goes, tumbling to land in a cloud of sand and dust at the foot of the hill as the startled hare takes off at breakneck pace, swiftly vanishing into the desert. Lyros leaps to his feet almost immediately, quite acrobatic - but he's stuck in his cloak, which wrapped itself around him in the fall. He struggles, muffled curses escaping from beneath the cover of the tattered cloak. He's quite a sight.
Amabella only raised a brow in reaction to seeing the tumbling, then fumbling, dark elf. The display was rather comical (to say the least); however, Amabella only managed a dry, almost inaudible chuckle. "Flailing just makes it worse, you know," she calls across to Lyros. After a few moments pass of watching the man lose his battle with the cloth entangled around him, Amabella places her hands on her knees and quite literally forces herself to a standing position. The cracking noises are obnoxiously loud despite how thin her frame is. Amabella shuffles over to Lyros, dragging her leather bag lazily behind her through the sand. "You didn't sprain anything, did you? I might have something to help, if you did."
Lyros, who might have been heard hissing various curses about sand and its deceptive properties, goes completely still upon hearing another voice - rather unintentionally, he's pulling off a good impersonation of the hare he was hunting. Now he isn't thrashing, the cloak can slip enough that he's able to start unwinding it, roughly tugging the material away from his face as the unfamiliar woman moves closer. Lyros eyes her warily, but he cannot see any kind of weapon in her hands or murderous intent in his eyes. Somehow, it doesn't help him feel much better about the situation. From a distance, he looks almost like your typical drow, but on closer inspection his eyes look a little nearer to orange than red, and his face (the only visible skin) is mottled with white streaks of skin across the right side of his face. He blinks once then scowls at her. "I'm fine." Successfully untangled, Lyros bends to pick up his hunting bow and promptly falls over again when his left leg crumples under his weight. He's lucky he only sprained that ankle, really. "Less fine. It's nothing." He makes no move to get up though.
Amabella placed a palm to her forehead and let out an unnaturally-long sigh. There seems to be a common theme with people injuring themselves doing something without much thought put into it in these lands. Lyros' features didn't seem to gain any open attention from the woman aside from the intense stare she was giving him, but that was basically how she always looked: awkwardly wide-eyed and absent of almost all expression. Her own eyes had a bit of red to them, but more so because of how blood-shot they were. Even if he claims to be fine, it'd be hard to fool someone used to treating other's wounds-- and down he goes... Amabella's gaze darts about the dark elf as he falls, sneaking in a more detailed inspection seeing how the cloak was no longer concealing half of Lyros's body. Her expression cracked into something somewhat more sinister, but flattened once again by the time Lyros was able to see. Amabella collapsed herself, then pushed herself into a kneeling position as opposed to trying to bend her knees manually. A few small clay jars were retrieved from her bag and settled between them with a small brush stuck in the sand beside the jars. "You should undress the area so I can get to work. You probably wouldn't want me pulling on anything, myself; I tend not to handle my own strength well..." Amabella trailed off. Having too much control over one's body combined with general numbness was never fun for anyone involved.
Lyros snorts, annoyed. The anger is mostly directed at himself but the scowl is a bit off-putting, albeit entirely natural for a drow. He knows he should have noticed the weakness in his ankle before bending over and subsequently making a fool of himself. Ideally, he should have been more careful up on that dune...then he would not be in this mess in the first place, stuck in the middle of the desert with an injured leg and a woman he does not even know. His eyes flick to the jars she withdraws from her bag. "What's in those, first? I want to know what you'd be putting on me." It's natural to be suspicious, but at least Lyros hasn't tried to stab her. Rather than that, he seems more worried she might be the one to pull a knife on him.
Amabella had a knife, but this was hardly the place for a ritual sacrifice; that was further north, in the shrine to the god of death she worshipped. She rubbed her chin while casually looking Lyros' leg over to see if there were any malformation or bone sticking out. "Hmmhmmhmm... It's too hot to bother, and carrying you would be..." Amabella was muttering to herself between hummings. A glance north, then south; she probably was talking about taking him to safety or proper shelter to work under. Probably. When queried about the contents of her jars she meerly shrugged. "What do you think, poisons? Even with you, shanking would be easier if I wanted a cadaver," she paused, a worrying look of consideration briefly forming. "No, I have no reason to harm you; though, I probably shouldn't bother medicating you seeing how likely you are to injure yourself by just... existing..." Amabella laughed (sounded more like wheezing) out the last few words in thought of what other kinds of trouble Lyros might find himself in.
Lyros, admittedly, is not hugely comforted by...any of that, really. Already clearly wary and suspicious in general, his mind instantly went to bad places when she mentioned carrying him - to where, for what, and where is she looking, has she some hidden lair nearby where she drags lost souls who come to this oasis seeking shelter and water? Does she eat them?! He leans over a little bit, subtly trying to get a glimpse of her teeth as she speaks. "Trying to shank a drow would just be a death wish. Attack me and this will be your last day alive, I assure you." Oh, Lyros. Still, he sets the bow to one side to yank off a boot and start removing the plate greaves protecting his left leg; his eyes have not left Amabella, however. While watching her like a hawk, the drow deftly unbuckles his armour, drops it by his leg, and rolls up his trousers to the mid-point of his calf. Oddly, the majority of his leg is completely white, dotted with darker, drow skin. Lyros' lip curls a little more at the sight of it. "If you try to drug me, you will regret it. Just get it done." Manners are not his strong point, unfortunately.
Amabella couldn't help but giggle. 'Death wish,' he says. 'Last day alive,' he says. Given the glance, Lyros would notice that all of her incisors were replaced with canines of varying sizes, yet still fit together like a odd bony, jagged puzzle. Despite the lack of need to eat (and possibly the inability to) Amabella had a rather sizeable set of chompers. "Haa... Comedy. I thought any kind of elf was allergic to it." Amabella jests, taking the brush out of the sand and poking it at Lyros' injured leg before moving to uncover the clay jars before them. This wonderful bedside manner wouldn't be received well, but that was beyond her care. Amabella dipped the pointed brush into the smallest clay pot, then quickly removed it and stirred around the contents of one of the larger containers. A trail of a foul-smelling ooze was left across the sand, which would only be magnified from the humidity near the oasis. To one familiar with the Underdark, it is reminiscent of illithid mucus, an unidentifiable fungus, and sulfur. It might not be as alluring as home cooking, but it definitely had the odour of strong medicine. Amabella paused mixing for just a moment, taking a tactless stare at Lyros' abnormal skin, before moving to paint whatever bizarre mixture she had over the man's ankle. At first, cold-- then burning, then frigid... it seemed to have trouble deciding how it would feel. One moment it was soothing, another it felt like needles were shooting through Lyros' bones. The formula was translucent and colourless when applied, but slowly changed to a myriad of colours before it was absorbed into the flesh. It squirmed right before vanishing, seemingly with its own life. Despite the inconsistent and generally painful process, Lyros would notice that his injury was mended. Now he has to worry about smelling like an octopus monster with a moldy cold.
Lyros keeps watching intently, offering no response to the woman other than what might have been a sneer, but it falls short when he becomes distracted by the movement of the brush— and it prodding against his injured leg. His brows burrow, but that's about the extent of his reaction, despite the fact that his ankle is clearly swelling and should be quite painful. But even the small portion of his leg on display is riddled with scars large and small, and they seem to extend further up; it's not too far-fetched to assume the marks continue across the majority of his body and, in that case, Lyros is likely quite used to pain. Amber eyes follow the movement of brush through the noxious mixtures — with a quick glare at Amabella when he realises she's staring at his skin — and he visibly tenses when it's swept across his leg, coating his ankle. He relaxes after a moment but when the soothing sensation of cool medicine abruptly transforms to a horrible pain, the drow's expression twists into a grimace to match it. But he does not cry out; a vaguely uncomfortable grunt is the only sound to escape him. When the vibrant ooze is finished absorbing through his skin, Lyros squints and pokes at his leg, but he can find no trace of it...save the smell. It is putrid, but luckily there's a pool of water nearby. Somewhat gingerly he pushes himself to his feet, testing his ankle and finding it to be as good as new, if still a little swollen. That'll go down. Lyros makes for the watering hole and flops back down under the much-appreciated shadow of a leaning palm tree, dipping his leg into the water with a sigh. He looks to Amabella after a few moments, remarking, "You seem to be quite skilled." That's as close to a 'thank you' as he can manage, apparently.
Amabella was rather pleased not to have a patient that writhed in agony when in her care. If someone can handle broken bones or horrific gashes without much reaction, then they could also take their medicine just as easily. Even if the cure is worse than the plague or injury... Amabella allowed herself a wider, satisfied smile after seeing Lyros move around. She shortly joined him by the pool to resume her herb and flower collecting. The clay pots were left behind rather carelessly, but the leather bag dragged ever behind Amabella. It was almost the size of her (which isn't that large to begin with) with numerous bulging compartments. The main flap was open, leaving whatever plants collected exposed to the sun. If Lyros bothered to inspect it he would notice that the contents were tossed in haphazardly. Even someone not schooled in alchemy or botany would probably figure how poor of an idea that was, and warrant some distance made from the herbal time-bomb of sorts. Amabella hummed to herself while working, eventually deciding to respond, "Yes, usually... That was experimental, honestly. You definitely made better off than the last sod-- you caught me on a good mood, too. Such things lose me favour with... Hmmm... Well, let's leave it at that it's good to keep you alive." Such ominous words! Amabella's tone was rather casual, if not disarmingly cheerful.
Lyros is no master alchemist - he knows enough to facilitate his need for the various quick poisons and medicines he keeps in his own satchel, but even he is very much aware of the importance of keeping ingredients separate. So the open back and its haphazardly stored contents are eyed warily, with Lyros shuffling just another inch or two away from it and, equally, from Amabella. He certainly knows how to be polite. "I hate to think what happened to the last one." There's a small smile at her rather ominous words, slightly jagged and not exactly pleasant. "It is good to keep me alive, yes. The wrath you would face from my House if..." Lyros falters, trailing off, and with a frown falls quiet. They sounded a little like words of habit, those, the kind of thing he'd say without thinking. With a sour look on his face, Lyros starts recovering his leg, pulling on his boot and strapping the plate metal back on over it, then reaches into his bag. He pulls out a journal after a bit of rifling around, which contains some loose papers folded and tucked between the pages - maps of the land that Lyros is now studying intently. The lack of detail in the region is annoying, but he can tell this much: "I've strayed too far," he grumbles to himself, resigning himself to the likelihood of spending at least a night in the desert.
Amabella had a dreamy look on her face, "I wouldn't hate to..." A large glob of drool dripped down from her slack grin. It was wiped away after a few moments since Amabella wasn't completely mannerless. More comedic talk from the dark elf, without fail. Amabella just gave him a mocking giggle in response, which repeated after watching Lyros struggle with his map. "Such a strange place to 'stray', yes? This might be a little ignorant of me, but doesn't your folk tend to stay in cave networks and such? Ah, never been down on the holes myself- I have always had supplies retrieved for me from there from other idio-.. er, charitable souls." Too much emphasis was placed on the last two words and with an unnerving enjoyment.
Lyros heaves a sigh at the small section of map dedicated to the desert. Small -and- depressingly empty of landmarks, although there is an oasis marked and he assumes it to be the one he's sitting at right now. Amabella gets a dubious look: Lyros is still not certain she's safe to be around. "I was hunting, but I didn't realise I'd come this far. And yes." The maps are folded, the journal closed, and he taps the claw of his gauntlet against the cover, a faraway look crossing his features as he speaks, "Normally, drow won't leave the Underdark for any huge length of time. But I left." The reason is not given, although Lyros does pause for a moment as though he was considering saying it. "I've been here — on the surface — for a week or so, now. Perhaps not the best time to be wandering as a lone drow, all these wars I've heard of with the elves and such. It's comparatively safer here, though." He snorts, his tone derisive. "Funny, that."
Amabella was definitely not safe to be around, but that never seemed to stop anyone. She sighs, "How do you lose track of such a scenery change? Oh, no matter..." A pause to allow Lyros to continue speaking. Amabella has had a somewhat decent poker face (discounting laughing at Lyros' pain and misfortune) until now, but she let her curiosity show in her expression. Too little was adding up for the liking of one so travelled. The 'healer' was at least attempting a comforting grin after Lyros finished speaking. "Funny? But of course you're safer here. With me. Because you're with me, actually."
Lyros, careful not to gouge an eye out on his claws, rubs at his face to wipe away some sand lingering from his fall. He holds up his bow, lazily. "I was focused. First on a deer, then the hare." There's a hint there: he failed to catch the deer. While having clearly seen a lot of use, the bow is in good shape - that is to say...any fault in his hunting is down to Lyros' ineptitude, though he would likely blame that on being unused to the movements of surface creatures. His gaze shifts back to Amabella at her attempted comfort, and the drow shifts slightly against the tree so he can face her properly. "You seem a bit strange, really. I'm not sure what to think of you." At least he's thinking about it.
Amabella casually takes a few assorted petals from her bag and tosses them in her mouth to munch on. Each chewing motion was interrupted by a quick twitch. Normally doing something like that would be considered suicide, but mostly-deadened nerves tend to need a little bit more of a kick. It might as well have been gum for all she cared. Lyros' inability to adjust to the surface, let alone function properly as a ranger in general, was noted shortly after the beginning of their meeting. The other reinforcing evidence was just... delicious. Drool began to trail down again but was quickly wiped away, easily passed off as the paralyzing effects of one of the herbs. "Mmm, I can't remember how long it's been since I've had either of those. I'd die just to taste a good stew again!" She paused to tastelessly laugh at her own humour. Amabella shook her head at the thought of eating either animal. Such pleasantries were long lost to her, and hanging on missing them was beyond ill advised for any undead. It took the woman longer than it should have to properly respond to Lyros' last statements. "I'm strange? This is like me visiting a neighbour's pool. I guess most anything would be to you if you're hardly used to the sun. You, sir or madame, are strange." You never know. Amabella trails off, then quickly picks up after catching her verbal slip. "Hm... I'd like to get a better l-... Ah, I'd like to get to know you better. Drow are hardly friendly, but hardly anyone is in these times. At least seeing 'zombies' isn't such an unwelcome sight anymore!" Amabella sounded probably too cheery about that last bit as she limply waved her hand around. There was stitching tearing somewhere further up her forearm, and she probably did that for emphasis. Probably.
Lyros grimaces at her callous disregard for the herbs - who knew what she'd just crammed into her mouth, because he hadn't caught sight of the petals and leaves and she certainly hadn't taken the time to look. The drool, he writes off as an unfortunate after-effect of eating questionable medicinal ingredients, though how much she's staring at him while drooling is something he finds rather unsettling. "Can you actually...eat food, or..." he offers half-heartedly, ignoring the way his stomach grumbles slightly at the sound of, 'stew.' Wouldn't that be nice...if only sand wasn't such a bitch to move on. Lyros has never met an undead of Amabella's calibre although he has some knowledge of the necromantic arts - any of the shambling corpses he's dealt with are the kind that lack any soul or free will, or were in pieces. Mother kept nice pets around the house, you see. "Sir," he corrects hurriedly. "I am no woman." There's a weight to that last word and he sounds distinctly bitter again, but he's soon distracted from whatever gave him reason to scowl by her remarks of, 'getting to know him better,' to which Lyros responds with an owlish blink; no one wants to get to know a drow. "...There's nothing to know," the mage says. "I'm a mage wandering the surface alone, and I should be getting back before it gets late." To where? He has no home to return to. Lyros scrunches his nose up, stuffs the journal back into his bag, and rises to his feet. He's not sure if it's his unease pushing him to leave or his lack of knowledge and experience on 'getting to know' people, but for now he's going to pin it on the former.
Amabella shrugged to the limp half-question. "Probably. I have no bodily need to, nor can I taste... s-sadly. There are ways I can get a similar enjoyment, but they are hardly comparable experiences." No further elaboration was given. Not on the first date. Maybe next episode. Amabella was at least aware of how drow society worked, thus the distaste Lyros had for the opposite sex was hardly surprising. Such things mattered not Amabella anymore. Most anything concerning the living didn't matter to her. "Hmm... Could have used magic to stop any of your game. Though it isn't like reminding you of such a thing helps. Or overly-burnt meat, I guess." She wasn't completely inconsiderate, apparently. "You'd have better chances heading north, or spending the evening in shifts with someone else," Amabella explains. Her gaze turns to linger north again for a much longer period than before. "I wouldn't recommend the former. Either way you'd have me as company, though..." she trailed off, not entirely sure what kind of tone to settle on. It did seem that she knew more about this desert than people normally would, and these wastes were hardly safe to brave alone at night.
Lyros can only manage an, "Oh," in response to the first words and figures it best not to enquire further. The matters of the dead do not concern him, honestly. Her comments on his magic are definitely not appreciated and Lyros levels her with a glower - but it's not her fault, really. He did, after all, just inform her he's a mage so of course she would assume... "I can't. It's a waste of magic." Something about the way he says it doesn't sound right, and the two statements do not quite fit together, but as usual he's going to be vague and leave the truth unsaid. A drow does not admit his weaknesses...or his strengths. Retrieving a compass from his pocket, Lyros turns to the direction of north and hums to himself, thoughtful. He's quick to snap out of whatever he's thinking, however, when Amabella mentions company. "Are you planning on following me?" The dangers do not bother him - he is drow, he has lived through worse. Probably.
Amabella is rather uncomfortable with being in a position which forces any form of solid honesty from her. There wasn't much dodging the question or rewording the answer in any pleasant way. Whatever Amabella was gnawing on was finally spit aside. The various goops hissed as they moved through the air in one trail of liquid towards the nearby palm tree, which then fell over as the base of its trunk was quickly eroded away. Quite a result was shocking even to her, and Amabella was counting whatever sort of blessings she had that the tree didn't fall in their direction. The whole spectacle made answering even more awkward for her. "Well... Yes? No, I'm not going to follow you, specifically. Ahem. I'd rather not run into giant lizards, scorpions, or... other things" she visibly shuddered with the words, "so I would at least like to spend the night with some form of safety. If you head north, that is also in the direction of a... safer location. Possibly. I need to go that way, regardless." For once Amabella was avoiding eye contact despite being able to freeze any part of her body motionlessly still. It was probably a bad idea to go that way, and just about anyone would see that.
Amabella is verily sure he has not lived through worse.
Lyros is already stepping backwards by the time the gooey mess Amabella spits hits the tree, just in case it decides to explode everywhere. He's not sure if the falling tree is worse or not, but is quietly grateful it didn't tip in their direction - he flinches when it lands all the same, dust and sand fanning out around the great trunk. His journal is retrieved again and Lyros studies the map a second time, waving his free hand to keep the dust out of his eyes. "Well...north is where I need to be going, anyway." The map does not show the entirety of the desert; he has no knowledge of what lies in the other directions. It does not matter if he has to walk through the night, as Lyros' eyesight is actually better past nightfall, and he'd rather get out of this desert and away from sand as soon as possible. "Anything tries to stop me, giant lizard, scorpion, or anything else, I will kill it." That includes Amabella by default, but Lyros leaves that unsaid as he begins to walk into the shifting sands, leaving the desert oasis behind him.
Lyros has been struggling against the sand for the better part of an hour, clawed gauntlets grasping at ground that slips through his fingers and shifts beneath his feet, making him a little less graceful than he might normally be. He hates it. Every now and then, the drow has paused on the ridge of some high dune he spent the last 10 minutes crawling up to survey the land ahead, ever hopeful that he might spy greener pastures — maybe even forests! — far in the distance. With night falling fast and the sun dipping beyond the horizon, Lyros' eyes no longer have to suffer the light of day and his vision has greatly improved, allowing him to gaze for miles across this strange, ever-changing surface land. He spends just as much time looking over his shoulder, however, trying to keep track of Amabella's current location, trying to stay a little bit ahead. He's still uneasy. He'd offer little in the way of conversation should she attempt it, focusing on making his way northward, with no idea of what might lie between him and the plains of Milous. Eventually, he crests a particularly troublesome dune and comes to a halt again, blinking. He yanks out his map and inspects it for the third time, but he cannot find a trace of the massive black obelisk. "You'd think they'd mark that," he comments, mostly to himself.
Amabella hardly had any of the trouble Lyros was having navigating the desert. It was like the woman just glided across the sands whenever the footing was notably awful. Not a word was spoken during their journey across the wastes as either a reprieve from earlier's shenanigans, or foreboding for what was yet to come. When the odd pair came upon the obsidian obelisk Amabella started visibly twitching-- hopefully delayed side effects from irresponsible 'tasting'. Such a place of 'worship'. "H-home..." the woman barely did more than breathe the words. "We should not dally. I... feel a storm." If there was a god of irony, they must have heard her seeing how the wind was starting to notably pick up. Amabella's eyes fluctuated in their otherworldly glow for a few moments before ushering the drow forward.
Lyros glances sidelong at Amabella and once again cannot take comfort in her...anything. The twitching, the stuttered murmurs, the sense of unease he's experienced ever since meeting her; he spends a moment wondering if it might not be better to just take on the giant lizards and go that way. Still, here he is, and Lyros is not about to show any hint of fear or discomfort. Instead he asks, partly to distract, "There are storms in deserts?" He took her words literally, unfortunately. With the sky darkening and the wind picking up, tossing sand higher into the sky, Lyros covers his face slips down the far side of the dune, headed toward the foreboding shadow of the obelisk. Luckily, he doesn't fall flat on his face this time. As they near the structure, though, the drow falters in his steps for a few moments when a very familiar scent reaches his nose - he cannot see the source yet, but it's clear it resides in the building. A very faint shiver courses the length of his spine. Blood.
Thump went the corpse. The sound drew the priest's attention, and the sight pulled him over. Inspection was made, wounds were found, but the cause was not. Ayras had already fled outside, the brewing storm calling him from the interior confines. Flash-flash-BOOM! cried the sky, the sound lifting Ayras' gaze to the heavens. He didn't care that the lightning was likely caused by the heat, didn't care that it wasn't the tempests he so adored. A grin spread across his blood-slicked face, his stained fangs bared for the world to see as a laugh ripped itself from his throat. "Who's out there?!" Ayras heard from behind him, from inside the obelisk. The vampire turned, staring in at the priest as another flash of lightning illuminated the sky, silhouetting him for the priest to finally see. "Who are you? Did you see who killed this man?" Ayras faced the priest.
Amabella was rather too eager to approach a place she considered as much of home as the grave itself. While her senses were as dull and basic as any other human's, Amabella was rather sensitive to the pull of Death on the physical plane. There was something amiss at the shrine, but probably for the best. An offering was made already it seems, regardless of how intentional... The small woman kept unnervingly close to Lyros, but refused to utter a word. One could assume she was scared, if she was a normal young girl stuck out in the wastes with a stranger during a sandstorm in the middle of the night... but her face was still frozen in its usual emotionless state.
Lyros pulls off the part of the handsome saviour surprisingly well, up until that first flash of lightning arcs across the sky and the drow jumps, having not expected it at all. Perhaps he should have - the air tastes like ozone, static, and the metal tones of blood but Lyros is fixated on only one of those, and he figured the goose-bumps prickling on his skin were due to the horrific atmosphere that this place bathes in. Lyros has no real talent for necromancy but even he can sense the ugly scar that has been left around these grounds by a thousand years of terror, pain, and death. It reminds him a little of home, and that is why he cannot stand it. He quickly stops again upon spotting a figure exit the obelisk and, rather than attempt to fight it, immediately drops to a crouch to hide behind some dead shrubbery, maybe attempting to drag Amabella out of sight with him. From his hiding place, the drow watches the scene before him unfold. He should have headed west.
Ayras began to laugh. "Yes, I know who killed the man," the vampire taunted as he sauntered back into the obelisk. "Who wa-...who was..." The priest's eyes widened as he saw the blood upon Ayras' person, saw the fangs in that grin of his. "Come, death priest!" Ayras called, spreading his arms wide. "This is what you worship, isn't it? Let its embrace enfold you!" He lunged forward, and the priest was simply too dumbfounded, too frightened, to move. Ayras had the man in seconds, laughter still rumbled from his body, still echoed out of the obelisk. The priest took the moment to slip from the vampire's grasp, fled out of the shrine. Lightning flashed out in the sandstorm. Lightning flashed out from the obelisk.
Amabella was careful not to drool this time; sand is a pain to clean out of anywhere, especially for the dearly-formerly-departed. Amabella was easily pulled aside by Lyros' after-thought of an attempt to hide the two of them due to the trance she was falling into. It was hard to fight under normal circum stances when around any of Vakmatharas' shrines, and the taste of death on the air made the prospect so much more appealing... Bright white arched across the sky like a fissure yet again, though from the obsidian monument as well. The combined booming crackling shook Amabella fully from her trance, assuming the brilliant display itself did not. "We should probably think of leaving-- or you should!" she tactlessly called over the roaring winds to her companion mere inches away from her. They should have head west, indeed. There were even free drinks, too.
Lyros' sharp eyes narrow; from this distance he cannot make out all of the figure's words, but he certainly picks up, 'death priest,' in the brief lull between crashing thunder and lightning. It is around this time that Lyros comes to realise this must be some sort of temple to Vakmatharas, and his is a name he knows well. "Of course," he snorts. It will follow him everywhere, eve to this accursed surface. He turns to Amabella, and it is lucky he does because right then, a burst of lightning erupts from within the obelisk, and it surely would have blinded the drow had he still been looking right at the temple. In this case, the flash of light earns a hiss and a scowl, spots of white flickering momentarily across his vision. "Isn't this your home? Hell knows why." He gives her a pointed look. But...places like this, they might contain... Lyros glances at the black obelisk again, brows furrowing before he slips out from behind his cover and races for the side of the building, skidding to hide in its shadow, pressed against the outer wall. He'll leave Amabella to her own devices behind the dead bush as he inches toward the wide open doorway, but maybe if he can chase this stranger out, he can pass this off as a debt fulfilled to Amabella and explore the temple's library, if it has one...
Ayras departs in a flash of lightning. Or something.
Amabella sighs a mixture of disappointment and relief, unable to decide which to settle on. Yet another habit in the attempt to keep whatever she could call a shred of sanity. The irony was that Death's name has been following Lyros for quite a few hours without his knowing, and here he walks right into one of its many maws... Not one to be left out of anything death-cult-related, Amabella was rather quick to follow the drow to the desert shrine she occasionally attended. There was something foul on the air to her that would probably be lost to Lyros. "There was an abomination here..." Amabella almost groaned. She casually glided past Lyros without any sign of fear or concern despite her words. "Something fouler than I-- and look how messy..! Gah!" The woman was clearly upset about at least one thing, maybe both: the carpeting was now blood-stained in areas away from the offering chambers, and there a few corpses around. One was notably charred, which Amabella seemed to ignore when entering. She was quick to replace a few black candles around Vakmatharas' beautiful statue, lighting them with just a brush of finger. Amabella walked from one black candle to another as ghastly black and sapphire flames lapped up at the priestess' hands as she passed by. After the service was done she went about gathering the bodies with relative ease despite her size. This left a trail of blood behind her as she went deeper into the shrine to deposit the bodies into the main ritual chamber. The entryway to the room slid closed behind her, as if the doorway didn't exist in the first place.
Lyros, by the time he pokes his head around the doorway, finds the shrine all but empty and littered with corpses and smouldering in the aftermath of an indoor lightning storm. Amabella is actually the first to enter, gliding by him without a hint of caution. "An abomination..." He steps into the shrine apprehensively, lingering by its exit in case he needs to make a sudden escape - he catches sight of puncture wounds and tears in the neck of a nearby corpse and grimaces. "Ah. I see." Warily, the drow watches as Amabella wanders around relighting the candles, his eyes narrowing at the unholy flames' flickering light illuminate the massive statue of the God of Death. Yep, feels like home. When Amabella begins picking up the bodies left over from Ayras' carnage, Lyros decides it is time to make that quit exit and begins inching backward. "So you seem to be busy and I'll just..." She isn't listening to him. "I'll just..." He doesn't finish. He simply turns tail and runs; a wholly un-drow thing to do but as he races northward across the blue, nightlit sands, Lyros finds he doesn't care, so long as it puts distance between him and anything that reminds him of home.