RP:Trespassers Will Be Persecuted

From HollowWiki

Part of the Venturil's Bane Arc


This is a Necromancer's Guild RP.


The Thorne Estate, Vailkrin

Wrapped in its cloak of eternal darkness, Vailkrin was home to many strange denizens, but none were stranger than the creatures inhabiting the tall manse set back a ways from the bustle of Hemlock Way.. The path leading to it owned a darkness all of its own, one that defied even the milky moonlight to penetrate it. At the end of the path, a pair of stern and foreboding gates were sentinel to the expanse of an oddly fruitful garden, in which grew a bewildering number of poisonous or otherwise deadly plants. Shadows prowl the yard, some more substantial than others, but the only creature visible in the reddish glow that passed for light streaming from the manse's windows was what would appear to be some kind of mangy, enormous horse.


Beyond the gate, the grand house itself, its wide double entry doors firmly closed. That red glow from the windows now and then took a greenish cast that flickered as if toxic lightning struck from within. All in all, it was not a terribly welcoming place... The gates alone would prevent any interloper from gaining access, usually. But on this night, they were wracked with nerves and jittery, and so now and then would swing open with a loud iron scream, in response to one of those glowering flashes of magical excess flooding the yard.


Sczaan stares at the house in complete fascination, "So beautiful," he mutters, "Yet terrifying." The young half elf begins to approach the gates slowly and cautiously, his steps never faltering though the young necromancer knew fully that almost anything he would encounter here would be fully beyond his power. As he draws nearer he begins to try to find a way to time the swinging of the foreboding gates. There it was - flash of light - count of five - swing open - count of three - shut again. Taking a deep steadying breath the necromancer readies himself. The light flashed, he barked a word; his magic, somewhat like the shadow teleport yet not fully perfected, only managed to make him lighter. He then rushed the gates, hoping to Vakmatharas that he would make it through before they slammed shut.


The gates did, indeed, slam shut – but to their vast chagrin, managed only to snare the hem of Sczaan's uppermost garment as the hopeful lad slipped deftly through. With no hands, of course, to reel the half-elf in, the scrollworked guardians simply clamped that cloth between their metal lips and held him fast. From the murky depths of that garden of poisonous delights slithered a bevy of shadows, and from its place on the lawn the formerly motionless barrow-wight (which only looked like a horse from a respectable, sensible distance) ambled toward the hapless captive. Sczaan would find himself sniffed and prodded, drooled upon and even nibbled at a little bit, as the creatures Tenebrae employed as guardians for this outermost portion of her sanctum became judges, jury – and, very possibly, executioners – of the one who dared set foot on this most unhallowed ground. After what was probably a most uncomfortable period of time, the shades slithered back again, or stalked away on spiny limbs, leaving only Tinker, the Arch-Necromancer’s horrible mount, eyeballing Sczaan with the slushy red orbs that served for its eyes. The dark beast drew back its rotty lips in a sharp-toothed sneer and bit through the cloth binding Sczaan to the gates. The it too, withdrew – but in the direction of the manse. Almost as thought it was leading the man to his doom. Or, you know… the front door.


Sczaan curses as the gates catch his robes but instantly stills as the nightmarish creatures approach him. Holding perfectly still the half elf focuses on his power, ready to unleash a powerful blast of magic should he need to attempt to escape - key word...attempt. Seeing the shadows withdraw he lets out a sigh of relief, his respect for Tenebrae growing by the second. After the wight frees him he takes a moment to gather his composure before following his escort towards the manse, staying a couple of steps respectfully behind.


Tinker plodded a slow path to the porch, where it gazed upon Sczaan redly for a moment as though deciding whether to eat him then and there. But, for whatever reason, the wight simply ambled off to its sentry-point on the lawn, leaving the half-elf alone before the doors.


Sczaan bows after the creature and knocks, just to be polite really; from the flashes of light and size of the manse he wasn't expecting anyone to come to the door. After waiting an appropriate few minutes if the door is not opened the young necromancer would open it and take a few cautious steps inside, pausing in the entryway to survey his surroundings and try to decide whether he should call for the Mistress of the house or not.


Of course, the manse had allowed the half-elf entry to this point. Else, he'd have become a shiny new doormat, or worse.. But it seemed that the mechanisms set in place to protect the house had gleaned that Sczaan was here on a mission that may well serve its Mistress, and so he'd avoid such an ignominious fate. For now. Another creature, disturbingly more substantial and visible than those which guarded outside, skittered along the ceiling and dropped to the boards in front of Sczaan. It may have been a spider, once. A really, really, big one. Though its many eyes peered out of a horribly human-like head that extended from equally humanoid torso. Again, Sczaan would find himself sniffed at and prodded, before this new horror rudely snatched him up in its four upper arms and skittered up the wall, ignoring any protests or magical blasts in its mission to deliver the lad to its Mistress. Upside down, mostly on the ceiling, the odd pair would pass through an elegant hall and the door to a pleasant-seeming parlour, to the rear of the building’s first floor and a steep stone stairwell leading down. The spider-thing didn’t bother with the steps, but lowered itself and Sczaan to the cellar’s floor via a thick and sturdy strand of webbing shot from the rear of its bulbous abdomen. Meantime, those flashes of illumination broke the dark and gusts of foul magics battered the very air. The cellar resembled nothing more than a mad scientist’s laboratory, and among the tons of copper piping, steel vats, benches laden with alchemical devices and glowering runes pasted and carved upon almost every surface – there, at last was Tenebrae. She was very small, and – at the moment – very beautiful. And was presently and madly chanting a ritual intonation in syllables which defied the mind and tongue both to comprehend, while grappling a loose bit of tubing from which plumed a bitter-scented steam. Something on a bench nearby randomly caught fire.


The arachnotaur put Sczaan down, none too gently. Tenebrae would appear not to have noticed their arrival.


Sczaan is hardly surprised when another monster rises before him, the things appearance does make him blink in slight surprise but he had already come to terms with the fact that he would see many things beyond normal ken in the Arch-necromancer's domicile. He does struggle a bit when the thing grabs him, however he resigns himself to his fate and allows himself to be carried through the manor, even slightly enjoying it, dreaming of the day that he has this power.

Upon touching down he gazes around the room; his gaze, hidden by his mask, scours the room hungrily finally alighting on the small woman. As she casts he basks in the sound of her chanting, reveling in the foul words the threaten to warp his mind.


Tenebrae could not pause in her chanting, for it was a critical point for the transformations occurring in one of those sealed, steel vats. One corner of the vast cellar was taken up by a hastily constructed altar (which may or may not have once been a card table) and after slapping that small blaze on the bench out with one hand, and finally managing to secure the steaming pipe back into place with the other, she'd offer Sczaan a hasty, narrow look and beckon him, even as those unholy prayers lit up chains of sigils across the walls in new and more awful configurations, toward the skull-strewn table. Censers coughed clouds of smoke, two bloody knives lay on a platter amid them, and candles made of greasy tallow (humanoid, by the odor) guttered a sickly glow across the whole arrangement. Kneeling there, the woman shuddered - her feminine frame, clad in scarlet, wrenched suddenly into a shape that was not womanly at all, and back again. The stomach-churning phrases she uttered might burn a bit, by the time she incanted the last word. Only then did she rise and turn to stare at the stranger. "The hell are you?" Her green eyes were two suspicious slits, her fists planted to her shapely hips.


Sczaan watches in silence, not daring to utter a single sound and risk disrupting the woman's work. At her motion he moves to the table and waits patiently. "The name is Sczaan," he offers with a slight inclination of his head, "Magister Templi Svilfon sent me to you to gain admittance into the Mage's and Necromancer's Guild." He explains simply, feeling that direct answers would please this woman more than flowery speeches.


Tenebrae proved that feeling correct, via her curt nod of approval and the fact she did not strike the man dead where he stood. Her gaze narrowed again at mention of the wizard, but her rosy lips betrayed only a hint of amusement as she spoke: "I see. Well, you must not be entirely useless, if you made it this far." She paused to light a pair of fresh candles on the altar, and utter a short, ugly prayer. Then continued: "What use do you think you'll be to my guild then? And what do you hope to achieve?"


Sczaan breathes a slight sigh of relief at her nod of approval. "To be perfectly frank milady, I want power and knowledge, in short I want to be on par with you eventually and make a name. As to what I can bring, a new set of hands to assist in your workings and those of the Guild and another source of energy to be funneled into large spells." The young Half Elf stands confidently and stares calmly at the woman.


Tenebrae stared right back, with one slender, black eyebrow raised high above its green eye, the expression clearly carrying the meaning: "Oh really, now." But what she said was: "On par. With me." That the very idea of it amused her was evident in the way her lips curled, as if the woman were restraining laughter. Which.. she was. "Ambition, indeed. If you survive being a Novus Morior, then you have a long road ahead of you, lad." Were she not so frighteningly busy at this time, perhaps Tene would've showed Sczaan precisely what it was he'd have to strive toward, to become her equal. But busy she was and, barely waiting for his reply, sufficed to give the hopeful necromancer a display of very white, very sharp rows of teeth and the flash of a forked tongue, this being the laugh she could no longer hold back. Then the Thanatos Domina barked, "You can start by making this altar a little more presentable, and offering your most humble prayer to the God of Death that I don't kill you for your arrogance. Then you may get out of my home, and come to see me in seven days precisely. I shall test you then for suitability in the Guild. You can use the time to hone your skills for the tests." The woman frowned, "Be aware that those deemed -too- ambitious to become Novus Morior generally do not succeed.." and with that, she trod back to the pair of covered vats nearby, to fuss and fret over the tubing that funnelled fresh gallons of fluid into each and drained the waste liquid away.


Sczaan nods his head, moving towards the altar he kneels before it and begins the basic prayer to Vakmatharas, one that he knew like the back of his hand, and begins going through motions of setting the altar correctly as he had as a young boy. The prayer changes to a more complex one, another that the young Necromancer knew by heart. This prayer is more or less asking for guidance away from the suicidal thoughts that had drifted into his mind.


Tenebrae would offer the lad's progress at the altar only a few cursory glances as she went about the momentous tasks before her. Nothing was certain, here, and failure would be beyond disastrous for all involved. Two great tasks were being accomplished at once, in this cellar, either of which was likely to contribute to the rise or fall of nations. Armed with an eye-dropper, she lifted the lid off one vat and with infinite care dripped three drops precisely into it. Whatever the liquid was, it was enough to make even Tenebrae hold her breath until she saw that its use had not proven destructive. She closed the lid again, and peered briefly into the next vat, frowning. The frown was still there when she eventually wandered over to the altar, and Szcaan again. "Are you still here?" she asked him, peering at the table he'd tidied and put in order. And had done a good job, she had to admit... "Seven days. I wish to see your best work, when we do meet. And by best work, I mean controlled skill. Gods one and all help you, if you think undisciplined and showy magic is going to impress me."


Sczaan nods and rises to his feet. Offering a quick bow he takes a few steps towards the cellar's exit. "Milady," he says pausing at the steps, "should you require any assistance do not hesitate to call on me." He casts one look around, dying to either push his luck and be cocky or to beg to stay.


Tenebrae's chilly stare was all the reply Sczaan would get, and as if silently summoned by that eyeballing she gave the lad, the arachnotaur once more appeared to escort him off the Estate.


Sczaan shudders slightly and moves to follow the arachnotaur.


Once he'd reached the outer grounds of the Thorne Estate, Sczaan might have reason to shudder again - or possibly hit the ground, when suddenly another vast flash of greenish demi-light pulsed through the house, simultaneously shattering every window pane in the place, blowing glass shards out like crystalline shrapnel. The gates, shocked, once more stood agape. How long they'd stay that way was anyone's guess.


Sczaan sighs and yet again threw himself into a run and barely making it through the gates. Breathing hard the. young half elf stares longingly at the manse.

.