RP:The House of Angrad
Background
There is a rumour of a draconian who joined the Larket rangers, then vanished.
Known to some as 'Sygian', the man has been missing for months, and none know of his location.
An old crumbling mansion houses a secret history, one the ranger sought to penetrate.
This is part of Sygian's untold story.
The House of Angrad
The mansion walls seethe with Angrad's rage. Trapped within the crude lattice of wood and stone he feels somehow larger than he was, and yet diminished in the prison which was once his mansion. Weeks pass, and months. Angrad screams constantly with silent futility within his walls, and those who consider purchase of the property walk away, finding the place too uncomfortable for them, not worth the effort of repair. Years later, and the remote section of Larket in which Angrad's house remains finds itself more and more shunned by citizens of common sense, leaving those of lower class to reside in the less desirable real estate of the area.
Time oozes in unpredictable fashion for Angrad. A day seems like a week, but some months pass in mere days to his slowly-warping awareness of the world around him. Stairwell banisters rattle, doors clatter, and a rat quivers in a corner, staring at something that only it and Angrad can see. A week passes, and there is a new rat, quivering next to its cousin. It too stares into the corner, unmindful of the writhing white fur on its predecessor where maggots enjoy their feast. That rat died of hunger. This rat's heart gives out. The air is heavy with Angrad's hatred and frustration, but the rattle of a windowsill signifies his satisfaction at the success of his efforts. Time skips along with childish laughter, mocking the howls which manifest themselves in the rustling of curtains untouched by any breeze. The rats are long gone, replaced now by a stray dog which strayed too far in the name of hunger. The wretched hound is hanging in midair, paws barely brushing the floorboards. Foam coats its jaws as it makes choked whimpering noises of abject terror. It is still alive when it drops to the floor. Angrad's attention diverted elsewhere, the dog claws its way doorwards.
It is dark now. Local residents know to stay inside. Outsiders don't bother visiting at this hour - at least, not usually. In the stillness of the evening an owl screams, and Angrad screams with it, a still-silent voice of anguish and hatred well-suited to a choir of owls hunting. The dog crawls frantically through the rotten boarding at the base of the door, and makes its way to the property entrance before its heart gives out, overcome by the pressure of fear. Any who pass at this moment would see but a large, decaying mansion, a derelict pathway, and a dog expired at the front gate. Another night in the city.
Whispers in the dark - Sygian suffers Angrad's embrace
Sygian is garbed, as always, in white, the soft leather of his attire whispering in silent malice as he patrols the town's outskirts - just the same as any night, stillness and quiet, peace and tranquility. Tranquility soon usurped. The dying bay of the languished hound catch now the deft ears of the half Elf and with an abrupt change of pace sets to a sprint toward the mansion. Arrival comes in a flash of honed muscle and soft steps, adrenaline coursing through the Ranger's veins as his preternatural instincts become aroused. The dead hound receives a brief glance, a snarl twisting his lips from 'neath the shadow of his heavy cowl. Dogs may be man's best friend but they certainly weren't his. "Good riddance." At length he studies the building before taking one long, smooth step inside.
Angrad becomes aware of something new within him: a two-legged tumour entering his bowels, invading his very being. The house goes silent - nothing moves - even the insects are stilled by his will. The interloper is different to the wretched people he has howled away in the past. Angrad is not so far gone as to treat this one as he had the dog, for success was not guaranteed in such a direct approach. Angrad's malevolent smile curls into the crackling of old wallpaper, a crumbled and unpracticed expression, weak in its portrayal. He would not suffer any to trespass within him. He would let them gaze into his abyss, and to be sure, he would meet that gaze and acid-score his mark onto their very soul. With the interlopers first footsteps he gathers his will, squeezes his thoughts into tight focus, and the mansion drops a couple of degrees in temperature as he spreads his mind all through his mansion body. From a distant room can be heard the sound of a plate smashing against the floor.
The ranger's hackles rise as the temperature falls, one gloved hand sweeping along his forearm as it does so. The plate smash echoes throughout the stillness of the house and pounds hard above the pulsing of blood within his ears. Down of heel and quick to the chase a sun-kissed palm snakes around the hilt of Isolde, ripping it free of the leather holster between his tunic and waistline. "Larketian Rangers. Who goes there?" The building to his nostrils smelled of damp, rot and neglect which didn't add up. As stupid as they are why would the dog hang around a house with no source of food? And so it is into the blackness of the mansion that he calls out once more, "Hello, anyone?"
Silence greets the Ranger's call - but in the stillness may be heard a slight shuffling sound in the aftermath of the fallen plate, a soft echo from the same room whose opening crescendo has welcomed the elf to this grim and decrepit old house.
Sygian continues his probing advance, free hand slipping to his hip to free the serrated, short blade of its sheath. With both arms extended in front of him, the Isolde wielding hand crossed over the knife-clutching, the half-Elf continues, coming flush to corners and whatever objects can conceal his form, in case of attack. Eyes keen as a hawks fail to see the source of the shuffling though something deeper and bestial within him remains very much on edge. "Show yourself, I'm not here to hurt you. We'll get you a proper bed and some food for the night."
As the walking cancer dares to bring the sound of a living voice to his corridors, Angrad hisses in hatred - and rats dance to his sibilance. Three mice, blind to reality, if not blind in reality, patter unevenly onto the cracked and dirty kitchen floor. With a vicious growl, Angrad grinds his teeth, and the rats tear each other's throats out, leaving a pool of blood by the broken plate. With a shake of his head the mice, sans blood, are temporarily withdrawn to the mansion's depths. By the time the carefully-moving white-clad elf arrives at the source of the initial sounds, all he finds is an empty, mould-conquered kitchen - the only sign of non-vegetable life being a fresh pool of blood by a broken plate. The pooled blood, by fortune or design, has a vaguely bipedal appearance, as of a man being shredded by shards of plate. Or then again, it might look like a misshapen cabbage. Any musings on the blood are interrupted, though, by the sound of footsteps on the floor above. The intruder at this point may remember a flight of stairs two rooms back - and in a mansion of this size, there would no doubt be other stairwells for the inhabitants of this forsaken place to ascend to its crumbled heights.
Sygian is starting to get a little freaked out, the shattered plate, the pool of blood and the footsteps of what caused it all just above him provided a macrame of impending sinister intent. Forsaking now the clandestine approach the Elf hastens his pace to bring himself further into the house's depths in search of another stairwell. If and when it is found the ascent will come swiftly, the expedience of Tahl's actions increasing in time with the rising anxiety he found himself succumbing to.
Angrad grimaces with each step, and each grimace is a loud creak of floorboards beneath lightly-stepping elven feet. Mouldy velvet hangers still line some of the hallways, the rotten and pungent remnants of a once-refined taste. As the elf catches sight of another stairwell, and hastens towards it, a spider drops from one of the many shadowy sections of the ceiling, and is on course to land on the elf's shoulder. Should it land, it would quickly crawl towards the elf's neck, perhaps to then climb for higher ground, or perhaps to bite.
Sygian continues his relentless onslaught of the decrepit household, running his fingertips along the mould-ridden material that lines the walls and windows. The spider lands; Tahl explodes into action, pirouetting around on one foot to face, what he had assumed to be, the hairy hand of his assailant. Nothing, no one, Gods save him he hated this place. Again the spider moves, finding itself unconsciously dislodged as the ranger peers into the murky depths of the mansion. Archaic revolver in one hand and knife in the other Tahl ventures toward where last he heard footsteps.
Angrad giggles as the elf responds, warped pleasure playing out as every spider in the room the elf now approaches parachutes down on strands of silk. The strands sway, swinging back and forth as if to an ever-changing wind, although the air is as still as the dust which lines the floor in a thick film. He raises his arms with a distant rattle of windows, hands outspread like a deranged puppetmaster, and the spidersilk responds to his command. Perhaps someone would mistake the spiders dangling at all heights for a bead curtain - but even the most obtuse of intruders would realise something was amiss as the curtain swings forward to intercept their advance in a wave of clinging silk and crawling legs
Sygian's keen senses are assailed by the silent crescendo of skitterish arachnids, the spiraling creatures sweeping down around him in a grizzly horror scene. His blade lashes out in intricate designs and angles, lacerating the cohesive web before him - opalescent spindles sashaying into the air in the aftermath of his strikes. Panic rises up within him, coaxing at the well of focus and concentration that he tries so hard to maintain. Spiders propel themselves to and fro, scurrying about his feet and over the threads of his attire. Panic is as panic does and the sudden frantic demeanour to his movements aids somewhat in dislodging the pests from his person but as the Elf kicks into something of a canter their bulbous bodies still swarm and probe his form.
Angrad's cackles are the scuttling legs of retreating spiders, dying off into the sound of something being knocked over somewhere in the rooms above. Suddenly the elf is free of spiders, and only a few strands of silk clinging to his garb serve to remind of the assault. The elf's dash brings him into a room with stairs leading up. The stairwell does not beckon, does not invite. It is a rickety thing now, the wood uncleaned for years: left for the damp, the mould, and whatever burrowing insects found it a convenient residence. Still, to the light-footed, agile step of an elf, it should prove no great task to ascend to the halfway platform - although the wood will creak dangerously to the scattered accompaniment of rotten fragments dropping to the floor underneath. Angrad watches with malicious interest, even as he turns his attention to another room for a moment, and if the elf's speed is great, a wooden step shall crumble beneath his advance as he approaches the summit, risking a fall from grace for the ranger.
Sygian accepts and ascends, illuminating the rickety stairwell with his ivory garb; the Elf a pallid pariah in a world of darkness. Dredged steps continue with that Elfin alacrity, the pained cries of the buckled 'case ignored for the most part as Tahl plots his next move once he reaches the to-. The world reels and his legs lose all purchase on the floor as it gives way beneath him; it is only quick reactions and the departure of his trusted full-iron knife from his grasp that allows him to catch ahold of the story above. Somewhere below his blade sings in lonely dismay, crashing against the stillness of the once more sober household. From parched lips a cry of exertion seeps as he pulls himself up and to his knees - prone now Isolde, still retained, is held before him, one anxious quiver riddling his composure before he makes to stand; the encroaching hallway of this floor offering little respite for the ailing Ranger.
Where there is a wall, there is a will - and there, too, is a way
The waiting room at the top of the staircase is illuminated by the rays of Hollow's two moons through a couple of grimy half-broken skylights. It has a number of aging chairs set around small tables: wooden legs home to lichen and the velvet cushions a mess of rot and insects - and yet the paintings lining the walls seem untouched by time, their ebony frames as polished and lustrous as the day they were made. Angrad narrows his eyes as the elf succeeds in reaching the room, and the elf can feel the gaze of many upon him. The portraits on the wall are all of dour-faced old men, painted with the pursuant gaze, so that each one of their grim countenances seems to glare at the ranger, following his every move with evil intent. Out of the corner of one eye, one of the paintings seems to twist its lips into a cruel smile. If the elf investigates, though, he shall have cause to doubt his senses - the painting is as still as a painting can be. Angrad's smile remains, though, as the sound of something being knocked over can be heard in a nearby room somewhere to the elf's right.
Sygian takes a moment, drinking in the cold clarity of a brief respite granted. It is in these quiet seconds that the auspicious feeling of being observed settles down across his shoulders adding a weight that his mind has to drag. "What the fuck is going on in this house, Sven strike me down." Circumnavigating the room each picture is inspected with a hesitant caution, he could have sworn one of them had moved. More sounds of his would-be target perforate the calm of his inspection. Irritation over-rides the anxiety that swarmed over him like a tropical storm, hot rage about being toyed with relighting the flame of his determination with an effervescence bordering on bestial. Somewhere deep within Sygian stirs, baying at the bars of his mental prison: pleading for freedom to become the hunter as opposed the hunted.
At the far corner of the room is a darkened doorway, potentially leading in the direction of the latest sound to startle the silence of this unwelcoming mansion. As tension starts to emanate from the intruder, Angrad starts up his silent howling again, cannot contain it as it rushes out of him in a wave of hatred and despair - and with it all the windows on the outside of the building rattle and shudder as if under the assault of some great wind. The sound lasts for half a minute before dying off, echoed then only by the sound of the elf's own breathing and movements. Should the elf approach the doorway in the direction of his prey's movements, it shall seem as if the paintings behind him are opening mouths wide into raucous laughter - movements which again would not be supported by closer inspection. The doorway itself leads into a darkened corridor lined with shuttered windows and several doors.
Sygian comes to a statuette like stillness once more as Angrad voices his displeasure, the physical manifestation of his hatred sending the Elf into a crouched position flush against a wall to his right. All around him the portraits dance in their mocking facades. Disgruntled and quite frankly tired of being on the back foot the Larketian ranger reaches up and tears the painting, and it's frame, from the chipped wallpaper. Resolutely he now stands, lurching toward the opposite picture to rend it from its residence. The chase had to stop sometime.
The sound of the fallen frame clatters around the room even as the windows in the distance cease rattling. The ranger's hand grasps the frame of another painting, and it too falls to the floor, clunking loudly in protest. It is as if the paintings are mocking him now, goading him on with their grotesque smirking faces, the eyes ever staring at him disdainfully, derisively. Soon the room is filled with the sounds of wood shattering, canvas ripping. For the elf, the room becomes a kaleidoscope of scattered wood and canvas, and with every step another painting hits the ground. Minutes pass, and the ranger's sense of his surrounding contracts, condenses, as if the world consists of just himself and these sneering portraits - and painting after painting is thrown down to be destroyed. The ranger steps, and another painting is crushed beneath bootheel, the next one smashed against the wall. Around and around the room he goes, painting after painting after painting falls, until something trickles through his subconsciousness to create a conscious thought: there is magic here. And with a shake of the head the ranger might look around the room again, eyes cleared of the glamour they had been under: rotten, mouldy walls are scored and abraded from the ranger's efforts, his hands blemished and streaked with grime and slimy mould. There are no paintings, no chairs, and no tables - just some piles of broken wood and tattered material. The doorway, though, is still there.
Sygian starts into realisation, running his hand across his features and usurping the cowl from his head; his sun-kissed facade revealed for the first time in a long, long time. Air is propelled upward through his lungs and bursts forth from his lips in a long sigh, "Cire save me, I'm in over my head." Taking a breath to collect himself, the ammo within Isolde is checked and counted, Risende touched briefly as reassurance and forthwith his path is set -- with his mind entirely focused on tracing the source of the noise and nothing else that seeks to interfere.
Angrad growls deeply in his throat where only the rats, plentiful in this place, can hear him. They march silently to his order once again, a verminous flood of fur and whiskers pressganged into service. With uncanny speed his will is done: several rats enter a room somewhere in the mansion and approach a shard from a broken mirror. With coerced precision they run their throats across the sharp edges, and as their blood pools, more rats join in on the efforts. Angrad then musters his own will to drag the dead rats en masse, creating a pattern much like that caused by a dead body pulled along the ground. With a violent motion of his arm, the rats are then squeezed, exsanguinated to completion like fleshy towels wrung dry. He closes his fist, and the rats and their entrails are whisked away through a small hole in the floor where even now some of the pooling blood drips down. As the ranger approaches the doorway, pale features sketched by the moonlight into a subtle chiaroscuro portrait of determination, he can see a corridor with shuttered windows to the left, looking out over an overrun arborium, and four doors to the right. The dust lies thick here too, and the night air seems to have become even colder.
Sygian's footsteps, though soft, thread ornate patterns through the dust packed thoroughfare of the hallway. Each step a sibilant hiss of his surreptitious malice, each pace gained leaving a haze of dust motes descending once more to their resting spot, perforated by stray light peeking through the cracks of the shutters. 'Bam', wooden splinters shower every surface as Tahl's boot meets the first door on the right hand side. Groping for his knife he sweeps inside, "Damn." With just Isolde in tow for now he covets the door's frame, braced for whatever is to come.
The elf has entered what resembles a doctor's waiting room. Here there are some plain wooden chairs lined against the wall, a small wooden desk at the end of the room, and a side-door lying slightly ajar. The spacing of the doors in the corridor suggests that the attached room is not accessible from the corridor. There is a sharp, tangy smell of iron in the air - senses sharp enough may pinpoint the smell as coming from the side door. Angrad stills himself, wills himself into careful concentration, and completes his preparations. There is a sound from the adjacent room, of something being dragged across carpet.
Sygian enters the room with a keen sense of caution, subjecting the dingy office to a complete scrutiny before pushing further inside. One of the chairs that lines the wall is set against the door of entry, a safety catch for his ears to catch should this bizarre house decide to close him in. All that remains is the partly opened portal from where the acrid smell seeps, as ever trusty Isolde is at the ready. One swift kick later the door is sent reeling and what lies ahead for Tahl is laid bare.
The door buckles from the impact of the elf's boot, a fine cloud of grey dust filling the air, eyes, and nostrils. Despite the force of the kick, the door then proceeds to swing open slowly with a loud, drawn out creaking sound, as if the elf was merely opening it by hand. The side room may once have been a neat haven for paperwork and analysis, but no more. The desk is cluttered with papers, the bookshelf filled with medical tomes, the sofa a mangy wreck of mildew, mould, and placid insects. The carpet may have once been a rich shagpile, but now is a dusty morass of moth-bitten material, punctuated by a thick trail of blood where something large has been dragged along the floor through an adjoining doorway. Some papers on the desk rustle loudly.
Sygian picks up the pace of his probing movements amidst a storm of sneezes and hacking coughs, Elves weren't built for this sort of work, oh no. The bookcase is surveyed briefly as he sashays on by, a book or two spotted and a mental note to rescue them at a later date made. The proverbial crimson-brick road looms and Tahl was off to see this particular wizard of Odd, Angrad. Surely he had to be getting close.
As the elf stops sneezing and regains his composure, the room falls quiet. The elf's footsteps make no noise as he enters what used to be some kind of medical examining room. Around the walls are benches and shelves, covered in dust and broken glass. Still intact are some strangely shaped beakers and bottles, connected by glass tubing. Pipettes and syringes are also scattered around the benches. The room's centrepiece, enshrouded in shadow, is the examining table to which the blood trail leads. From the door's entrance it seems as if something has been laid across the table.
Sygian wastes no time in closing the gap betwixt the table and he, Isolde directed toward the shrouded focal point of the room. A sun-kissed digit shakes in wanton rhapsody as tension rises to a near unbearable level for the Elf. With a movement so quick the human eye would struggle to catch it the shroud is removed and with a shaky-handed flourish it is sent to the floor to reveal what lay beneath.
Angrad's focused stillness comes to an end in a gurgling, spiraling peal of insane silent laughter. The shroud, hovering as it was above the table, is cast aside to reveal more blood pooling on the table. It splashes upwards, a fountain of gore which then falls down in slow-motion a foot to the side of the elf, washing and running in chaotic patterns downwards as it forms the rough suspended outline of a man in midair. The glass retorts and alembics on the benches start to rattle, even as the dark splotches of blood hanging in the air give the form a hideous approximation of a face - which opens its mouth into a silent scream.
The fate of Sygian remains unknown.