RP:Valrae Who?
Summary: Trying to reverse a curse won’t be that easy.
Hanging Corpse Tavern
This once-timber tavern has been rebuilt in sturdily vitrified blackstone and imbued with powerful protective magics that prevent occult fire and several other potentially harmful spells being cast within its walls. No effort has been spared to make what might otherwise be a bleak interior comfortable. The bar is made of polished stone with an oaken inlay, the space behind filled with a bustle of attractive barmaids, sundry barrels and a dazzling array of coloured bottles that glint in the light cast by a large wrought-iron candelabrum suspended from the ceiling overhead. Here, the one-eyed Steadman stands, ready to take orders for food or drink. Beyond the bar, stout tables are firmly bolted to the floor, though the high-backed chairs are freestanding. The hearth is a true feature, seeming to be cast from black lava into the shape of a colossal, laughing goblin's head, its maw gaping wide and deep, usually containing a merrily crackling fire. A delicious scent of roasting meats drifts in from the kitchens and a winding staircase leads to rooms upstairs. To the south are set cellar doors, usually kept locked unless a special event is taking place. The walls are hung with thick, richly woven tapestries depicting persons and events in the history of Vailkrin and the Vampiric race. There's also a notice-board near the entrance, where one may leave messages. Unobtrusive but ever-present are the security staff, staunch fighters ever ready to toss troublemakers out.
Irenic stumbles into the establishment adorned in all black which is only offset by an emerald and black diagonally striped tie with cufflinks to match. Formal black boots take long strides towards the bar as he ignores the flirtatious wave from a waitress, ‘ah, so I have been here before’ he thinks to himself under his usual stoic slash brooding expression. Yes, hes been here and quite frequently, but his curse his tearing his mind apart. Time of day probably doesn’t matter in the void, but most would consider it daytime and his desire to drink whiskey, “Une bouteille de votre whisky le plus fort, s'il vous plaît.” He slips the knot of the tie down some so he can unbutton his formal black button down shirt as mismatched and bloodshot eyes scan the tavern a bit more. The only indication that this man is Avian anymore is the height, tattoos, ears, and smell causing any vampires’ mouth to water near him… Wings lacking.
Larewen sits at the bar, toying with a glass of vodka. At first, she doesn’t think twice of Irenic’s presence, though when he speaks and the familiar cadence of his voice meets her ears, she studies him more closely. This leads to her frowning, especially given the fact that his wings are…. gone? Mismatched eyes meet their twins as she stars at the well-dressed male. Then, Emrith’s smell permeates her sense of smell and she becomes certain of his identity. “…Irenic?” she asks, cautiously.
Irenic sort of grumbles hearing ‘Irenic’ before mismatched eyes meet their pair and he slowly eases his six foot eleven self onto the barstool sort of near her. A tumbler filled with their finest whisky was slid to him an aggravated sigh given, it’s obvious that with some of his prickly memories and lack of sleep make him a bit much to deal with. A subtle shake of the head given to the barkeep as he’s trying to communicate, ‘Nooo A bottle of it! Not this pansy thing! A bottle! Bottle…’ which sounds like, “Non Une bouteille de celui-ci! Pas cette chose de pensée! Une bouteille! Bouteille…” while pointing at the entire bottle of whiskey. The barkeep gets the hint, but if Larewen concentrated hard enough on what her subordinate was trying to say she might be able to hear the fact that he is trying to speak common even though it’s coming out as Veretian. Eventually his mismatched eyes travel back to the woman next to him and just stares for a long moment, declining to speak first.
Larewen’s brow furrows, watching in prolonged silence after her initial greeting. When no recognition crosses his features, the elf feels a pang in her chest. She responds by withdrawing a cigarette and drawing it to her mouth. Lighting in, she inhales deeply before speaks again. “Irenic,” she repeats, this time her voice is more stern.
Irenic’s time of silence was spent sifting through memories, “Oh! Vous êtes celui qui a coupé mon membre.” Again she may get a whisper of what he was trying to say as, ‘Oh! You are the one who cut my member off.’ His devilish smirk proved he didn’t say it in an angered manor, but he seemed to have found it humorous when he raised his glass(bottle) to her. He continues, “Eh bien, vous aviez raison. Je n'aurais pas dû me distraire,” or (what almost every woman loves to hear when they are right,) ‘Well, you were right. I shouldn't have gotten distracted.’ Then the Avian drank deeply from his bottle as if it were water and she might feel the pain goes a little deeper than a scorned love, but the death of a young orphan as well. A defeated sigh escapes him now when his bottle lands heavily on the bartop and his gaze finds her once more, “Joyeux rencontre, Madame Dragana.” or ‘merry meet, lady Dragana.’
Larewen is perplexed by his words and it takes her longer than she should to figure out what he means. When she finally does, she diverts her gaze from the male and takes another drag from her cigarette. “Perhaps, to a degree,” she says quietly. Her gaze fixes on her glass and she drains it a moment later. “But I could have been wrong, too. Talk to me, my little bird.” She doesn’t think that this might be a sore spot, given his lack of wings.
Irenic drinks some more as if it’s nothing. “Well… An unknown amount of years being cursed which was apparently only activated the moment I truly loved someone and in the moment they love me.” Of course all of this is spoken in his native tongue and said a little slowly so she can understand, but also because he’s getting a little blitzed. “Turns out I’m not the only one, I saw them kiss, and I’m just too damn old to play in some pissing match game over a woman,” his mismatched gaze rests on his bottle. “So, I am currently stuck like this… If only I can forget her all together. It might reverse it.” He eyes her cigarette with a point. “Do you have an extra?”
Larewen procures another cigarette and holds it out to Irenic. “I can make you forget, if that is what you wish,” the elf says quietly, shoving her empty glass toward Steadmen. While he refills it, she finishes her own cigarette and crushes it in an obsidian ashtray.
Irenic was quiet for a long moment peering into his bottle before finally meeting her gaze, “I do wish it. Haven’t I asked you enough? Haven’t I caused you enough trouble?” It was quite the question as he’s slowly starting to remember that two people have come to Larewen to bid for Irenic’s memories or freedom. “What will you have me do? Or what do you want in return… Mistress?” His low gruff tone usually resonating in menace, but with the Veretian words it sort of cushions it.
Larewen turns upon her barstool to face Irenic, pale and scarred hands reaching upward to cup his face. “For you to return to me, my little bird,” the elf says softly, her voice a haunting melody within the establishment. “You have caused me no trouble, dear heart. You only have to say the words, tell me that this what you want, and I will take it from you.” Her gaze remains fixed on his mirroring ones, searching his eyes for any sign of doubt.
Irenic proves that within their matching eyes she would only find pain, “Lady Dragana… There are things I need to remember so this doesn’t happen again.” His hand reached into the tight fit of his black slacks to take out a long lock of wavy golden blonde hair belonging to Valrae, “only take all of the memories that Valrae has given me… Nothing more, nothing less because I think I can be of more use to you that way. And tomorrow I will resign from the Queen of Larket as one of her royal details…. Not like she could understand what I say, anyway.” He would hand over the witch’s lone and stolen lock of hair to Larewen. “I’ll be your bird.”
Larewen lowers only one hand from the avian’s face to touch the golden tresses. She folds her fingers around it and there is a small burst of dark energy as the necromancer’s magic reaches into the faint essence of the witch’s. Finding it, her lips press into a thin line before she lets the locks of hair fall from her grip. That hand returns to Irenic’s face, the caress surprisingly gentle. “Then I will do it, my darling bird,” she whispers, her words hardly more than a breath. No sooner has that final breath left her lips than she is whispering familiar words, words she has spoken to him before on another occasion. The avian will feel her magic probing into his mind, seeking those memories of Valrae ever so carefully. He might even feel her magic curling around them, gripping them more and more tightly. It might even feel suffocating to a degree, but it would last for only a moment before the necromancer’s magic is suddenly pulls back, receding and pulling with it every memory of the woman.
Emrith | It is misty without, cool and dreary, perfectly suited to Emrith's contemplative, almost melancholy mooe. He steps through the front door of the Corpse from an ocean of fog, where no one would have noticed the contrast of white on white. For some reason known only to himself, Emrith appears to have died his naturally sable cloak of concealment, and he floats like a wraith across the common room, eyes locked on the one important person to him within these walls, rapt upon Larewen's face. He notes, too, the avian standing before her, and his proximity brings Emrith the scent of the vampiress more strongly than otherwise. The elf smiles then, a slow, confident expression, and makes his way past Irenic, almost past Larewen as well, nodding to them both but not speaking. He takes his place next to the necromancer, still quiet, still watchful, but still smiling. Despite the nearness of the pair, Emrith Kohl will not permit jealousy or suspicion into his heart. Not yet. Not without greater reason. There may be questions, but he has no doubt that Larewen will be both able and willing to answer to his satisfaction.
Irenic felt too warm all of the sudden, especially where the crest of the orphanage he belonged to long ago was burned into him as a child. He remained calm as this is nothing compared to what he goes through every sunrise and every lunar rise as his own hand gently wrapped around her whole of her arm with long digits. He didn’t even notice the newcomer as his mismatched, matching only his owner’s, are closed in surrender to Larewen. Slowly he felt suffocated, but like a weight was being lifted from his chest and even though it was only half of his current pain it felt worlds better already. Only indicator would be when those mismatched eyes opened once more to only see Larewen before him with that familiar devious smirk and that way he used to look at her, like she was only to be desired from afar by him. He softly spoke to her in his native tongue, “Votre oiseau je resterai. Ma dame Dragana. Belle maîtresse.” He’s still cursed and even worse now, he doesn’t even know why. Only that it sucks… His hand drops from it’s hold on her’s in order to reclaim his whiskey.
Larewen withdraws her hands from Irenic’s face, frowning. She had not been watching for Emrith, and with the avian’s extremely close proximity, the elf had already smelled her lover. She takes note of the lessening of his pain and exhales slowly before turning back toward the bar. When her gaze drifts toward Emrith, she is quite clearly startled by his appearance. Her eyes widen slightly, and if Emrith were to look to the avian, he would see Larewen’s other eye in the socket of Irenic’s left. By this time, her drink has been refilled and without so much as a single word of greeting, she downs it quickly and her features… flush? Yes, suddenly the necromancer appears exceedingly awkward.
Irenic has no sense of time in Vailkrin so it was hard to tell that night was approaching so fast and his hand clutched to his chest, in pain. “Merde!” He quickly stood from the barstool and turned from Larewen while slipping his tie from around his neck. He was trying to slip out of his boots quickly for some reason while taking slow steps toward the door, but he would be able to move faster if he’d been consuming anything other than liquor lately. His breathing quickens while he was stifling groans and the bouncers try to escort him out as he was giving off vibes of being some sort of junkie. Succeeding in slipping from his shoes it would be obvious why he was trying to escape the tavern as a low guttural yell vibrates the air within the tavern coming from Irenic. A fall to his knees before he crumbles unto himself and his fists bury in his hair to grip at it with a scream. The sounds of torture are hard to hear by some, but in Vailkrin they’ve seen it all, no? The yelling might be tolerable, but the sounds of bones breaking and flesh tearing cause a few idle patrons to exit when the tall handsome man starts to sprout ivory feathers through tawny skin. All the while he was unbuttoning his shirt to only rid of it at the last second when massive velvety ivory wings rip through the red welts on his back in a matter of seconds and the once booted feet were now bare talons of a bird. Once the shift was over he remains for a moment knelt upon the floor of the tavern, seething, and covering his face with his feathery black clawed hands. It’s obvious as to how this Avian was slowly losing his mind.