RP: Wrath, Murder, and Liar - Sins of the Past
Date of RP: 11/20/20
Story Arc: Sin's Resurgence
Setting: The Abandon Slave Market in Valkrin
Prelude Post:
The Old Slave Market of Valkrin: The very personification of people’s internalized Sin. For since the dawn of man, places such as this organized and defined the economic value of one’s own life. A place where snobbish higher ups decided who is deemed worthy of freedom and liberty while simultaneously declaring other races as filth. Through these societal norms, the upper echelon of civilization dictates who would pave their roads, fight their battles, and whom would be discarded like trash. Like a rich aristocrat bored of their shiny toy, a servant could effortlessly be replaced with another flavor of slave. When you bring your spoiled child to the market for a brand-new pet, do you tell your child their old pet ran away, or that you slaughtered it like a worthless cattle who’s meager life had little value? Mesdoram grows weary of being lectured as if he created these corrupt arbitrary rules of morality. ‘Sin’ is not here to terrorize Hollow with brand new atrocities; instead, ‘Sin’ simply will flip the hypocritical finger wagging back at them. With any luck, the drow’s true intention is to see these hypocrites’ precious points of view shatter and reveal who the true monsters are in these lands.
Upon orders from Mesdoram, Nariv creates and distributes letters to all inhabitants of Hollow to join what should be a memorable performance.
Letter from Nariv
*Upon searching your belongings, you see an enclosed envelope that was not there the day before. Rummaging through your bag, you retrieve the mystery mail and thoroughly inspect the name written across the face of the paper – ‘Nariv’ written in what appears to be blood. The envelope is sealed with a simple stamp, embroidered in the design of ‘SIN’’s logo. An unsettling feeling overcomes you as you open the envelope with care – which you find a festive-looking invitation resting inside. You discard the empty package to now read the poster’s content*
“Humble inhabitants of Hollow,
You are cordially invited to my master’s rendition of ‘Wrath, Murder, and Liar – Sins of the Past’ this (insert date of RP). We think you will be pleasantly satisfied with the food and drink provided at no cost to you, plus several forms of entertainment will be provided free of charge as well. My master has gone through great lengths to ensure your night is filled with excitement and delight. Please come to the Abandoned Slave Market in Valkrin north of the Blood Fountain at your earliest convenience.
If inconvenient, come all the same.”
- Signed plainly, Nariv
Act 1 - The Old Slave Market Festival
Kiosks proudly stand throughout this abandoned market with some fresh crude carpentry restorations. Upon arrival, you see several ethereal sellers of shady repute operating their cuisine and booze stands; the flooring is lacking as the occasional miniature gust dusts up the gritty sandy grains from the hard forgotten floors; scattered throughout the facility are crude signs posted on top of many of the venues – their words ranging from ‘Murder,’ ‘Wrath,’ and ‘Liar’ with wooden arrows pointing to the Abandoned Auction stage used to showcase slaves of the past. Other entertainment is offered as well in this dreadful fanfare: two separate ‘petting’ zoo’s filled with dead fish, decomposing cattle, and other unusual deceased creatures highlight the displays; a creepy apparition is leering from his stand who can correctly predict when your next sin will be committed; and what might be the most unnerving spectacle are ghostly slaves stationed throughout the area – chained, dressed in rags, and only offering expressions of dismay to onlookers. Magical astral projections of children run rampant though the crowds laughing at the guests as the past by – though completely ethereal and unable to interact with the physical world, the ghostly figures add another eerie element and fills most surface dwelling-people with dismay.
Presiding as the main feature of this festival is the former Auction Block which has now been repaired – unlike the other mock venues, meticulous care went into the stage’s renovations: the wooden floors and steps have been replaced with strong oak, recently mounted railings and banisters secure the performers from falling off, and two pillars firmly hold a newly installed purple curtain that drapes across the structure. If one did not know any better, onlookers would suspect the previous tenants were restoring the area to revive the slave trade; little did they know that the premises is under new management. Littering the stage are many forms of currency commonly exchanged with the inhabitants: gold, copper, silver, as well as earthly materials of value – glowing stones, platinum chucks, and other items found in the mines of Hollow. Mysteriously absent from the crowds is the orchestrator himself, Mesdoram, who is waiting for the play to start before making his big reveal – though his physical presence is missing, he is quite content observing from an unknown nearby location as he gauges the growing tension rise amongst his guests.
Caltarok while returning from Venturil couldn't curve the urge to know who this Nariv is, their master was, or how in the bloody world they could slip the letter in his belongings during one of his hunts for food from the wildlife. He didn't carry much in the way of bags. Just his quiver, a small sack thrown over his back and a few pouches as he was always traveling and easier to carry light. But this Nariv had gotten close enough to plant the letter… no the blasted invitation to whatever this was… it was grating on his nerves for he knew that whomever they were that they could just as easily slipped some bloody blade in him and be gone. No… he just had to get to the bottom of it and figure out how to protect himself from such things again. Entering the slave market fully cloaked with the hood pulled forward to hide his features as he came to this party guised as one of the human race. Weary from the long journey he kept to the outskirts of the festival in order to properly study the strange sights around him. He was glad of the darkness his hood casted over his face as it hid the disgust that comes across his face from revelations over what he was seeing. Unable to stand the gruesome sights any longer, he turns his attention to take in the reactions of those around him as well and to take stock of the situation. In these tight quarters, he knew his bow would be useless but as the vile/tension rose in the gathering, he kept his left hand resting on the pummel of his short sword staying on guard from the uncertainty of where he found himself this time. Although the blade wouldn't quickly be unsheathed from this stance, he could quickly release it and the scabbard from his belt to bring it to bear for defense. The stage being the only place unoccupied, Caltarok tried to keep close account on it on the account that it might prove to be the swiftest escape from this nightmarish scene if things went sideways due to the crowd of people.
Vexar || Lejiath lurks amongst the crowd. It is easy to hide in plain sight when your like has not been seen in the living realm for centuries, yet still he is careful. His massive form sulks beneath the weight of bulky layers of robes and hood, hunching so drastically some might suppose him disfigured. The hunchback’s purpose, for now, is simple reconnaissance. He may be the only soul in attendance, save Mesdoram, who is truly primed and excited for the evening’s entertainment schedule. Everything must go according to plan. As such, he peruses the attendees and vendors, measures their comfort, perhaps even secretly attends to their needs. In passing a rebuilt concession booth, the curiously cloaked man notices a rusty nail protruding from the wooden frame dangerously close to passerby’s. He lifts an unusually large hand from beneath his garbs and presses his thumb to the bulky nail head. With a firm press, the nail is driven home and the show-goers are safe again. No trouble at all. A young lad who witnesses the absurdly casual display of strength simply stares, jaw agape. Lejiath notices the youth and raises a single finger to the hooded shade where his lips should be, the universal signal for “don’t tell”.
Mathollak approaches the apparition who guesses when he will commit his next sin. “Alright,” Mathollak says, daring, “Gimme a hint.” The apparition’s wispy form billows in place a pace more rapidly for a moment, and though it has no recognizable face, Mathollak recognizes it to be thinking. It casts its guess in a hushed whisper. “3…!” it says as a partier bumps into Mathollak, a much bigger man, who’s mass easily displaces Mathollak from his spot. “2…!” Counts the apparition as Mathollak sizes the big hooded man up and asks him what’s his problem. “1…!” And Mathollak winds up a fist, and throws a wild punch up at the random stranger who nudged him. This apparition was a deadeye in his future vision.
Gevurah was not surprised to discover Nariv’s note in her boudoir. Mesdoram was a former member of House D’Artes, after all, and likely still had a few connections within the largest estate in Trist’oth. Nonetheless, it perturbed the matron and she felt the need to impress upon him her displeasure. And so she attended with two motives: to intimidate an uppity drow, and to keep tabs on what the former D’Artes drow has planned on the surface. The matron arrives in full power-drow, noble regalia: enchanted piwafwi, full skirt, corset, jewelry, a diadem, a choker with the insignia of D’Artes, a 7-headed viper whip (live and writhing), heeled boots, and a permanent scowl. She moves through the undead with a little unease, given recent events propelled by the God of Undeath, but is much more comfortable among the slaves. The drow have no qualms with slavery, in fact it’s quite the enterprise in the under dark. Her glowing red stare searches for Mesdoram, settingly on Caltarok briefly before alighting to Mathollak and moving on.
Act 2 - Setting the 'Stage'
In the midst of the happenings, the spirit of the former auctioneer materializes on the stage, unbeknownst to the guests. This was the ghost of one of the many auctioneers that in years past would entice aristocrats into bidding wars for the purchase of drow, elves, and any poor lost souls unfortunate enough to be born into servitude. In the present day, the haunt adjusts his otherworldly tie and hat, stomps his feet 3 times on stage (though no sound resonates as he cannot interact with the physical world), clears his throat and proudly strides toward the newly installed banisters to address the crowd. “Dearly beloved guests, slaves, and general participants of debauchery! I, on behalf of Vailkrin, welcome you to Sin’s very first entertainment production! I hope that the food and entertainment thus far have sated and primed your twisted thoughts and primal desires!” The ghostly man now strides east and west on the stage to further entice excitement from the crowd. Though many look confused and uneasy, the apparitions of the children seem to gleefully hang on every word. “Now, in mere moments, these miniature helpers will ask you all to come near the stage – even in death, the children are still perfectly obedient, right kids?!” The school of youth spirits laugh in dutiful reply; however, the tone of the collective laughter is not one of harmonious joy. Instead, an unnerving, monotone sound escapes the ghosts’ mouths – increasing in volume and filling the air with uncomfortable sensation. In relief, the auctioneer’s voice cuts through and mutes the spine-tingling sounds. “Very good! We will be back shortly!” With that said, the ghoul-of-auctions-past claps his hands together once – at the conclusion of his incorporeal clap, he and all the spirit children dissipate instantly, leaving the living crowd with an anxious feeling of trepidation, unsure of what’s to come.
A slight greenish mist begins to form above the stage’s floor, hovering like a light fog over swamps in the early morning. From the vexing vapor materializes the crowd of children who roamed the festival earlier. Their cheerful demeanor is now replaced with blank stares, gazing meaninglessly out into the crowd of the living. In one singular tone, the children speak in unison. “Please make your way to the stage as the show will begin shortly.” The curt statement seems to be more demand than request. The children do not disappear this time; instead, they linger in their misty forms as the guests slowly, tepidly, make their way to main attraction.
Caltarok blinks seeing the lady with a writing viper whip with seven heads no less and catching of someone punching another person for what seem to be no reason. Caltarok muttered to himself, "Not only have I been invited by some stranger to this horrorific.. Party; but there seems to be some powerful folks as…" He cuts off as the auctioneer appears on the stage and begins speaking. A cold chill runs down Caltarok's back and causes him to debate slightly on casting magic to change his form to something closer to his natural form. A second glance at the others around gives him pause at such a thing. He has spent several weeks now cultivating himself as a human and to expose himself freely as something more with this gathering… no it just wouldn't do. A human he would remain no matter how powerless this form made him feel in the presence of such dark magic. He was glad that he had eaten before venturing in though at the mention of the provisions provided as this gathering would have robbed him of any desire to eat. As the green mist appears, Caltarok steels himself to move forward to the stage slowly trying to keep to the back of the crowd as much as possible.
Gevurah , paranoid to a fault, whispers a quick protection spell when the ghost appears on the stage. Translucent gray runes in ancient drow briefly appear over her skin then melt into it and disappear. When the fog appears and touches the runes, they briefly glow silver to keep the fog at bay. In the crowd, the matron stands near Mathollak and Caltarok, at least an arm’s length away from each, without knowing who they are. She stares at Caltarok, suspicious of something she sees there but unsure of why. Something in her gut doesn’t sit right, but she cannot quite place the feeling. The drow then looks at Mathollak and quickly identifies him as a servant of Delisha, and her posture relaxes a little. Delisha worshippers tend to be alright, in her book. Their self interest is easy to understand and predict.
Vexar || Lejiath notes the cue for the production to begin and makes for the main stage himself. His presence is needed stage-side. As such, the man is a bit more brash as he wades through the dense crowd, easily displacing those that might impede his path with a forearm push or a lowered shoulder. He is apologetic, of course… “So sorry…Please excuse me, madam…My apologies…” Kind words stay any Mathollak-like adverse responses, though the depth of his voice is unsettling. As the throng thickens nearer the stage, Lejiath begins to escape his hunch, standing more upright and, before long, towering over most in attendance. He finally crests through the waves of onlookers and, upon breaching the restricted area adjacent the main stage, tosses his robes behind. Time itself crawls as the garments are gracefully discarded, the entire act appearing to transpire in slow motion as the man reveals his total self. It is so transcendent that a flock of birds lifts from the canopy of a nearby pine and flies away in protest. Lejiath is a colossus. More ‘ender of worlds’ than ‘crippled custodian’, it is now abundantly clear that this man, if nothing else, is skilled in disguise. He is decorated from head to toe in heavy, black armor; almost knightly in its pristineness, if not for the jagged spikes jutting from shoulder, wrist, and knees. Atop the beast’s almost disfigured bald skull is an onyx crown of sorts, with jet-black ram horns on either side. His skin is pale, as though this very day is the first its seen of the sun in decades; his eyes, a fiery red. Completing the ensemble, and not to be missed, is a mammoth sword strapped taught to Lejiath’s back, so complete in its enormity that the tip of the blade nearly drags the earth behind him. The brand is jagged, curved, and sinister in every way; even the steel is burnt, engulfed in black to match the rest of the attire. The goliath proceeds halfway up the stage-right steps, oaken boards groaning beneath his weight, before turning to gaze upon the awed-ience. With arms folded in front, every bit of the man emits authority. His purpose could not be more clear if there were a banner strapped to his chest reading “Please do not attempt to approach the performers”.
Mathollak didn’t have to finish the fight he started. He’s become far too famous! Now he has people for this, an entourage. As soon as he threw that punch, the guy he punched became agitated, and seemed like he was ready to assault Mathollak. About five of his, let’s call them minions, stepped in the guy’s way and discouraged him. And these weren’t just people, they were armored like knights. Chivalrous to a fault in honoring their code. But the code was money and Mathollak was the one who had it. The guy walked away with a grudge that he would probably forget. Meanwhile, here was Gevurah next to him. He couldn’t read her mind, but he knew she liked what she saw. “Oh I’m not for sale at this auction. Not that you could afford me,” he says to the drow matron. If only he knew her name.
Act 3 - Mesdoram Sets the Stakes
After allowing adequate time for guest to gather round, the gaseous forms of the children dissipate one by one back to their basic cloudy shape. With instantaneous speed, the collection of vapors propels towards the stage and creates a massive smokey barrier up to the peaks of the pillars. The wispy wall swirls into mini-hurricane pattens seemingly at random; however, keen eyes can occasionally see that the smoke spells out the sinister themes: ‘Sin,’ ‘Wrath’, ‘Murder,’ and ‘Liar.’ The uneasy calm of this otherworldly theatre strikes terror in those with weaker constitutions, while possibly not impressing those experienced with arcane projections…yet. Now, a more disturbing scene manifests within the wall and a more personal performance begins taking shape: for within the misty wall forms the disfigured faces of loved ones of the audience – people who may be dead, people who are still with us, but people, nevertheless, having a meaningful impact in their lives. The uncomfortable mosaic of faces and the words fading in and out would making even the more magically inclined practitioners mildly worrisome.
Suddenly, the smokey curtain parts sideways from the middle to introduce the shocking prologue for this wicked presentation. Revealed to the audience are four figures: three people chained by their wrists and ankles in a way that forces them to their knees, dressed in the same ragged slave attire that would have been used to clothe the merchandise from auctions long ago. Their faces are covered in burlaps sacks with words written in illuminating lettering – ‘Wrath’ on the audience’s far left, ‘Liar’ in the middle, and ‘Murder’ on the audience’s far right. Unlike the ethereal actors used thus far, these slaves are real flesh and bone – actively struggling to break free from their bondage, breathing heavily from the physical exertions. Though hard to distinguish beneath their masks, the skin tone appears to be of the Elven breed. Standing in front of these poor creatures is the man of the hour: adorning his newly acquired piwafwi draped to his ankles, armor-less, his arsenal of weapons secured around his waist, and wearing a common surface dwellers outfit – Mesdoram smiles out into the crowd. The drow proudly steps to and fro as he observes the expressions his theatrics have stirred thus far. Feeling quite content with himself, Mesdoram strolls across the stage to further gauge the reactions of his invited guests – dawning an uncharacteristic cheerful demeanor on his face, much in contrast to the majority of the audience.
Mesdoram Shouts Good Evening, Ladies and Gentlemen of Hollow! I am your ringleader today. Your host. Your inciter! Your… campaigner and deliverer from Sin! I am Mesdoram… leader and liberator of righteousness, leader and cofounder of the alliance known as ‘Sin,’ and THIS! *waves his hands all over the stage to annunciate with his hands* IS! OUR! REVALATION! OUR MASTERPIECE! OUR… ‘awakening.’
Mesdoram’s tone with ‘awakening’ shifts dramatically into a sinister vibe, enough to send an uneasy quiver creeping through those with weaker composures. The drow momentarily gets lost in the twisted game he has devised as he coldly glares malice into the crowd. Quickly though, he quirks his head sideways as though physically snapping out of his haze. Not remembering how long he was comatose, the drow flashes a reassuring smile to his spectators. “But you did not come for me! You came for a performance of ‘Liar, Wrath, and Murder – Sins of the Past!’ Tonight, we will plunge into sins from the past as well as the Sins of those present in this very room! We will delve into the wickedness of Hollow…” a moment of the drow’s more diabolically natured being seeps through the façade again; this ‘play’ is becoming ever-increasingly personal, “… then, I will sacrifice two of these slaves… so brave…thus absolving them, and everyone gathered, of their sins of Wrath, Murder… and Liar…” Mesdoram puts extra distain into ‘Liar’ as he once again loses himself in his own madness – the drow’s tone shifts to a dark foreboding voice as he points to a random audience member (in this case, Caltarok) “… and one of you, by the end of the night, will commit all three Sins on this very stage.” He peers over his shoulder to look at the three slaves once more, trying to predict along with the unnerved audience the order in which they will be disposed. After lingering for what seems like an eternity, Mesdoram gleefully looks back at the crowd “… NOW! For the safety of our performers, I ask that you do not approach the stage for any reason. We would not want those who will be sacrificed for you to come to unnecessary harm, would we? So please, enjoy the show, and remember to embrace your loved ones while you can… before they become Sin’s next victim…” With that said, Mesdoram bows theatrically to the crowd and proceeds backstage to enjoy the fruits of his labor.
Gevurah chuckles dryly at Mathollak’s presumed joke. She assumes he knows her name. Who doesn’t? Only simpletons don’t know who she is. She’s about to reply to him when the show begins. In the misty faces she sees her father, Keter. His face sets her blood cold and face tight. What is this? The show continues and Mesdoram reveals himself, a sinister drow charlatan on a surface stage. She crosses her arms before her chest as she watches her former ally, judgment and impatience radiating off her figure.
Leoxander wasn’t exactly punctual for showing up on time. There could be certain advantages to arriving on the scene with action and distraction already taking place. It wasn’t the lure of entertainment or free food that caught his interest, and Vailkrin definitely wasn’t a haunt he enjoyed visiting, but crowds like this tended to provide intel and opportunity valuable to someone in his line of ‘work’. Paired with a partner equally dressed in mourning (not morning) color, a black mask and concealing hood gave away little of his features, while a worn, particular, shadow-laced cloak further muddled details that might easily reveal his identity. Assuming in an open invitation gala and event such as this that doors would be left open, he paused and stood in the doorway until his matched female companion joined his side, a sweeping look taking in surroundings, particularly when the center stage ghost and host seemed to want his living audience to collect closer to that suspicious green vapor pouring forth. Lingering at the back with a clear view of the performance and the crowd, his own back found the wall for a lean to look fairly casual despite the horrifying display that couldn’t be seen to phase him, much. The pirate didn’t need phantom magic to see the faces of murdered souls in his past. Arms folded across his chest as he took note of details that might be of use to him; exit points, familiar faces, numbers of patrons existing in the crowd, any other particular persons lurking in the shadows. The display of slaves did cause Leo to take a moment to give Eleanor a sidelong glance from the edge of his hood, a subtle motion of bandaged hand given for no obvious reason.
Mathollak sees the faces of of people who seem vaguely familiar. Human faces who look upon him lovingly, and there’s some part of him that wants to reach out and he’s uncertain about why. Suddenly he becomes aware of a certain hole, and he moves toward filling it.
Vexar || Lejiath smirks as the nature of the crowd turns a bit tempestuous in response to the opening monologue. They intended to eat, drink, and be merry in the midst of an economic revitalization. The realization of witnessing a performance perhaps inconsistent with that offered in the invitation does not sit well. Several disgruntled play-goers even pack their effects and make for the exit, willing to take part in no portion of the improvised program. Their egress, however, is short lived. For from the rear of the collective arena amasses a line of security, composed almost entirely of undead entities. Skeletal ushers which, with ridiculously sarcastic smiles lifting their decomposed cheeks, ‘encourage’ the audience to stay for the entirety of the show. Any attempt to bypass this zombie team of herders results in a swift blockade; those in attendance, it appears, will be here for the final act.
Mathollak creates a platter of delicious foods to share with no one, and his entourage does the same. “Who did you say the playwright was?” He says to one of his minions/friends/agent. This performance was so edgy and realistic, Mathollak was clearly a connoisseur of culture to be here.
Caltarok looks at Gevurah and Mathollak with concern briefly unsure what to make of either of them initially. But thought for them is quickly replaced when the colossus appears near the stage and moves to climb the steps. Instinct flared up in Caltarok at the sight of the display… though he couldn't make out the arcane words written with his human eyes. He saw only one loved one show up in the following aftereffects of the person that tried to raise him for a few years after his brood had been murdered. Sure other faces showed up, but none stroke a chord with him or raised his emotions like that one face had. Marissa… the human that had died from old age. A primordial growl deeper escapes from his throat much deeper than anything any normal human could have caused. When Mesdoram had directed a finger at Caltarok and made the statement of all three sins being committed, Caltarok narrowed his eyes wondering what was going on. He tried to focus on the sacrifices this drow made mention of… Caltarok was no hero… but life was precious and sacred. If he could, he was going to do his best to protect those poor souls. He was about to make a move despite the warning when the undead began filing into the place. "Just great Cal…. Just bloody great…. Look what your stupid curiosity got you into… what to do. What to do," muttering to himself, he quickly begins scanning around him to consider the options that may be available to him and what risks he dared to take with the undead in the room.
Act 4 - The Play of Wrath, Featuring Karasu
|| ‘Wrath’ begins - A smokey amalgamation on the audience’s far left starts ascending from the stage floor. Covering much of the stage, the massive collection of smog begins to resemble the Larket Gladiatorial Arena where the annual Hero of Freedom games were held. Loud and boisterous crowd noises emphatically fill the atmosphere as loud, thunderous crackles of exploding earth echo within the arena, causing the illusion of the Arena to flux in tempo with the seismic shakes – certainly, a spectacular contest is being witnessed from the skillful combatants. After several minutes of crowd noises and rambunctious rhetoric, the ghostly Arena dissolves and reshapes into the combatants from the duel. The first figure formed resembles the half-feline Karasu, the victor of this battle of proficient spell blades. She is standing triumphantly over her weakened and defeated foe. The vanquished competitor is Mesdoram, kneeling at Karasu’s feet. Mesdoram’s essence appears anxious as his form sinks down closer to the Larket Arena’s flooring. Bloodied, bruised, and broken in spirit, the drow looks petrified as he pleads pathetically, “Please, Karasu… you have already beaten me… why must you do this?”
Suddenly, Karasu’s battle boot kicks Mesdoram in the chest, upheaving the drow from his knelt position onto his back – the half feline advances further and forcefully cements her foot onto Mesdoram’s throat. The drow apparition has no strength to resist, leaving his body to involuntary flail in response to this painful maneuver. Upon seeing the man’s struggle for his life, a creepy grin forms Karasu’s essence. “Because, you wretched creature...” She says, lifting her foot off Mesdoram’s throat to allow him a desperately inhaled breath. “I want to carve something horrid into a poor, innocent creature. Just to see how I like it.” With that said, Karau’s projection kneels violently downward unto Mesdoram’s stomach – all of the air in the drow is expelled in a desperate cough. The face of Karasu begins to twist into a terrible scowl as she inscribes her name upon Mesdoram’s chest. Every rough, handwritten stroke from Karasu’s blade causes the drow to scream uncontrollably; though, with no air left in his lungs to scream, the muffled shrieks of horror look more like uncontrollable convulsions. The ghostly weapon Karasu uses begins to glow red, almost otherworldly, as the blade bathes in Mesdoram’s blood. Though not visible to the audience, laughter and cheers from the Larket Arena crowd complete the twisted ambience – the encouragement from the cheers apparently sends Karasu into a blood-thirsty frenzy as she wreaks havoc on Mesdoram’s body. With a final exclamation mark, a decisive upward stroke renders the drow’s chest raw. Karasu’s projection theatrically turns her back to the pitiful drow and offers a parting shot before both forms start to dissipate – “… Feels good, doesn’t it?” The two spirits disseminate back into the massive smokey collection hovering over the stage. The last image to fade from the audience is Karasu’s satisfied smirk as she savors her ‘Wrath…’
Mathollak doesn't remember Karasu being this mean holy smokes.
Eleanor lingered at Leo's side, pale eyes soaking in the unsettling scene. Her brows wrinkled, and hiding under cowl and shadow, the spellrogue's gem pulsed; whether disturbed by the display or hungry for it, the line of her crimson lips wouldn't tell. A low growl rumbled in her throat as her gaze drifted past the sort of memories that already plagued her nights and focused on the three slaves, and at her side, her gloved hands balled into fists. The shadow-laced woman drew in a deep breath, however, and angling her chin downward to further obscure her features, she ventured deeper into the mysterious gloam. Flexing her left hand, she drew it under the folds of her cloak, reaching for the misplaced security of her wand. She chanced a furtive glance over her shoulder as the other patrons of this macabre festival sought to flee. Thereafter, her shrewd gaze yielded to Leo, ducked under flaxen bangs. "I's nae right," she hissed, diverting his attention toward the 'security' pressing in on them from the exits. Concern over her own escape route wasn't on her mind, and her eyes returned to the apparent captives. Her tall boots carried her a step deeper into the dubious fog, and her hand tightened around a cursed stick of wood. Sin was her trade as much as the wolf at her side's, but slavery ... that was another thing altogether. Her stomach twisted with possible outcomes and even more memories she planned to drown out later with a lot of alcohol. "Daingead." Everything was too much; she couldn't. She could take on each title bequeathed the victims of the night's charade and has spilled plenty of blood this week alone. And yet ... She pivoted, a ghost of panic within the pace of her heart. Saying nothing more to Leo, she was ready to wrap herself in shadow and fade into the night. The souls here were already lost.
Gevurah had missed Mesdoram’s humiliation at the hands (paws?) of a feline on the surface. The matron recognizes Karasu, whom she largely dislikes for petty and personal reasons (aka drow reasons). But as the smokey replay continues and the violence escalates, the priestess smiles a little as she watches Mesdoram brought low. She shouts in drow, loud enough for Mesdoram to hear, “Pathetic!” That’s what happens to fool who leave D’Artes. Hah. Hah. Hah. She allows herself a celebratory drink, just one glass of dark wine.
Caltarok watching the show with something that others would call faint interest. His left hand moves from the pummel of his sword to one of the pouches hidden from view under the cloak. He wasn't sure what was going on when the new apparition appeared on the stage and the duel appeared and disappeared in the fashion that it had. He began calling out to his sprites while preparing for action.
Vexar || Lejiath breathes deeply. To watch him, one might imagine he were soaking in an Offenbach ballad, just enraptured by the beautiful theatre. An ecstatic sigh escapes the beast as Karasu's projection rips an uppercut of flesh and blood through Mesdoram's image. Of course, he does not get too lost in the majesty. There are security measures to uphold, and a particular faction of his band of mutant ushers has become so enthralled with a passing opossum that they've allowed a guest to slip through their confine. Two servants are quick to sweep up the escapee upon detection, though, and Lejiath promptly resumes his air maestro-ing of the music-less play. As he conducts nothing in particular, his eyes snap to Eleanor; particularly, to the spot at which she clutches her wand. Lejiath hopes she notices his piercing gaze...wonders how he can detect her meaning...and thus, becomes paralyzed by fear.
Act 5 - The Play of Murder, Featuring Vexar and Quintessa's Bounty
‘Murder’ begins - The smokey amalgamation on the audience’s far left starts ascending from the stage floor. Covering much of the stage now, the massive collection of smog begins to resemble the Undark’s Trist’oth Tavern. Though the surface dwellers may find such a realm literally and figuratively ‘beneath’ them, the audience certainly aren’t naive enough to overlook the Undark’s existence. The mixture of swirling vapors continue their shape shifting performance and begin creating five separate entities. First to form are three fearfully timid drow slaves, all trembling below the second apparition: a massive man, towering over them. The drow are bound with chains around their ankle. The colossal hooded figure holds an imposing blood-stained glaive, pointing his weapon precariously at the cowering creatures as the last essence appears: Mesdoram, standing in the middle of a seemingly hostile confrontation. Mesdoram speaks to the enormous figure. “Brother, there must be another way. Surely you can be reasoned with, Vexar?” A deep, bellowing laugh escapes Vexar’s mouth as he peels back his hood with his vacant hand. “These drow are not our kin! They are simply coin – worth no more than the 1000 gold per head my master Quintessa has offered!” Upon hearing the worth of their lives, the drow slaves panic and attempt to scatter across the stage – though their uncoordinated effort causes them to trip onto the floor as they forget the chained tether which binds them. With a panicked glance over his shoulder, phantasmal-Mesdoram instinctually holds out his hand at Vexar in a ‘Stop’ gesture – “Vexar, no!”
Apparently it is no use. Without hesitation, Vexar’s essence powerfully heaves his chaos weapon past Mesdoram’s right ear into the collection of drows. To Mesdoram’s horror, he turns back to view a gruesome, devastating massacre; two of the drow slaves have been shish-kabobbed, skewered together like a roasting venison rotating over a campfire. Fastening the couplet together like a skillful seamstress, Vexar’s javelin has pierced the front drow through her chest, the tattered clothes she wears providing little resistance to the inevitable slow death. Fortunately for her fellow slave, the male drow behind her endured a swifter demise as the weapon pierced clean through the first victim and into the latter male’s forehead. Ethereal fluids mimicking large amounts of blood begin creating shallow pools that surround the deceased drow. Still standing between that last remaining drow and his brother, Mesdoram’s essence looks toward Vexar with fear and betrayal on his face. “Brother… Vex… why… why would you do this to my kind!?” With the same sinister smile Kararu’s ghost had, indeed almost as though it were transposed onto faux-Vexar’s facade, the vampire addresses Mesdoram. “Much has changed in your absence, Mesdoram.” Frantically, the lone surviving drow tries to flee for his life; however, his fallen brethren anchor him firmly in place – in a truly gruesome error, the failed escape causes the drow slave to snap his chained ankle in two as the bone snapping and painful screams resonance through the stage. Seeing his prey served up on a platter, Vexar points his index finger directly at Mesdoram’s forehead. “I will give you a head start, brother… for when I’m done with the last drow, I will slaughter you next.” The smokey illusions begin to slowly fade away as before in the ‘Wrath’ play: the last images the audience can perceive is a defeated Mesdoram walking past a cackling Vexar to escape his brother’s vindictive malice. A lone tear is theatrically highlighted as falling from Mesdoram’s left check, betrayal incarnate; as the last mist breaks the illusion, the final drow is still screaming – undoubtedly Vexar’s next ‘Murder’…
Leoxander ’s own jaw tightened at El’s words, eyes narrowed upon the theatrical scene. But when the woman turned with intentions of leaving, the pirate caught her arm to stop her and nudged his chin toward the crowd, noticing the expression on Caltarok’s when he turned for that brief moment. The spellrogue wasn’t the only one disappointed with the theme and Mesdoram’s plans for the evening. “Don’t buckle on me…” He told her low and under his breath before he let her go - if she truly needed to leave, she could try and likely succeed in getting passed those undead bouncers. But he started to walk forward, albeit his path was around the perimeter and away from the audience, recalling previous words from the perished drow that someone would commit the sins displayed by the end of the night. He hadn’t come intending to be a volunteer, but it was just another night in the life of a man whose hands were already stained heavily with blood.
Gevurah scowls at the Trist’oth Tavern scene, but spares no tears for weak drow so easily slaughtered like cattle. Survival of the fittest.
Caltarok begins to wonder something and whispers while mentally requesting of the wind sprite to not only amplify his whispered words but to have them sound as if coming from somewhere else in the area. This way he can see what reaction he gets from their 'hosts' and to check the security details. "Is this a show? Or are you trying to convince us on how bad your life has been drow?" After the speaking is finished, Caltarok has the sprite bend the air directly in front of his eyes to cause the bindings of the 'sacrifices' to come into stark relief as he plans his next move.
|| Lejiath does not watch ‘Murder’. He knows the plot; he was part of it. And the entity flailing within him did not need reminding of the events that night. So he simply fires his glare across the gathered whilst bolstering his brigade of undead troops. Act the third would require undivided attention, and there was no room for comedic relief. The veritable army of corpses quit their smiles, and locked arms. A valiant “harumph” echoes across the grounds and off the stage back, signaling the start of the final act. Now, Lejiath can return his attention to the stage; the real show is beginning.
Act 6 - 'Liar' - Mesdoram Proves He is not
‘Liar’ commences in a drastically different way from the previous performances - If the audience is expecting another mirage of smoke and mirrors, then they will surely be disappointed… or terrified at the radical shift of theatrics. The lingering mist seeps and disappears through the spaces of the oak stage as a very life-like, and enraged Mesdoram takes its place on stage. Mesdoram strides across the platform and stands behind the slave representing ‘Liar’, kicking aside the myriad of platinum chucks and other terrestrial minerals scattered across the stage. During his hastened walk, several members of the audience will notice Mesdoram’s hands gripping their own unique and gruesome items respectfully: in Mesodram’s right hand is his earthly enchanted broad sword; the left hand clutches the head of a drow dangling by blood-stained, snowy white locks. Affixed to the head are two copies of Quintessa’s bounty note, nailed firmly in place where the ears used to be. Coming to a standstill behind ‘Liar’, Mesdoram frigidly glares out into the crowd - his emotionless gaze casting rampant disdain upon his invited guests. Without warning, Mesdoram buries his weapon deep into the burlap sack of ‘Liar.’ A skull crackling, guttural noise resounds as the sword swiftly and smoothly stabs through the covered head completely. Sinew, brain, and blood drip from the blade’s tongue as the sword showcases a disgusting display for everyone to observe. After lingering for a few seconds, Mesdoram vehemently kicks the back of the dead slave and the pressure grossly glides the limp body off his weapon. With a deadened thud, the body of ‘Liar’ now lies lifelessly on the oak – very real blood staining the stage and saturating the burlap sack. Mesdoram’s irate glare fixates on the crowd as he lifts the severed head of Vexar’s victim from the Underdark Tavern. With a single rotation, the drow twirls the head like a sling and throws it into the audience where it lands harshly nearby several audience members to further study the carnage. As the head comes to a rest, Mesdoram furiously makes his way over to the ‘Wrath’ slave while ripping his own shirt completely off to reveal the ‘Karasu’ inscription on his chest - all the while shouting violently at the crowd.
Mesdoram shouts: Cast not the first stone, you hypocrites! I am not the Liar in this group of maniacs, murderers, and thieves! Is it not MY flesh which is permanently marked as Karasu’s property? Look upon the head of Vexar’s needless killing and read the disdainful letter written by that greedy cynical sow Quintessa – read and absorb the hatred infecting you! Was it I who committed these atrocious acts of violence against the innocent? Did I slay my own race for profit and annihilation? I am not the ‘Liar’ here – you surface dwelling dolts are! I did not make the rules for venues such as the slave trade – YOU DID! You are NOT the innocent, purveyors of peace you pretend to be. You are the most guilty of Sin, and feigning ignorance of these barbaric rituals does NOT relieve you of responsibility! You are not the deciders of life, and ALL WHO HAVE PARTIPATED in these falsehoods will not be slain, but MADE Examples… make examples…
Mesdoram, pausing in his rage-filled righteous rant, is now standing behind the ‘Wrath’ slave. The chained slave quivers in fear, frightened by the boisterous projecting in Mesdoram’s voice as the drow travelled across the stage. The panic-induced shivering forces the chains to jingle dull metallic clangs as the links bang rhythmically against the wooden stage. It is not the first time such a melody has rung from these grounds. For a moment, Mesdoram appears to feel sorrow for this creature – his showmanship was not intended to fill the slave with unnecessary anxiety. Oddly flustered, the drow collects himself by inhaling a deep breath and wiping away the tension from his face with his vacant hand – his occupied hand still gripping the freshly blood-painted weapon. Feeling like he has found his center again, Mesdoram places a hand on the ‘Wrath’’s shoulder and squeezes gingerly in what appears to be a comforting, genuine moment of compassion. “Listen and listen carefully inhabitants of Hollow…” Mesdoram releases his embrace of ‘Wrath’ as he addresses the crowd once more. “… I don’t want to kill any of you.” Mesdoram grips the hilt of his weapon with both hands and angles the tip directly towards ‘Wrath’s’ neck; with a strong downwards thrust, the earthly brand slams through ‘Wrath’ and severs brain stem from spinal column – assassinating the slave instantly (perhaps a small mercy from Mesdoram). The length of the blade is sufficient enough to pierce through the chest of the ‘Wrath’ slave and embed its tip in the stage; miniature rivers of the crimson liquid trickle down the iron at random and drizzle droplets onto the cursed stage. The slave’s body is now propped up by the spell blade’s favorite brand, acting as the new backbone for the lifeless elf. Mesdoram leaves his elemental sword in the ‘Wrath’ slave and begins walking to the last remaining slave, ‘Murder,’ at a more relaxed pace – perhaps lingering on purpose for the crowd to grasp the gruesome twist in his perilous playwright.
Gevurah side steps away from the decapitated drow head on the floor just a few feet away from her. These boots are new. Unmoved to save anyone, uncaring even for her own kind, the matron begins to move towards the back of the crowd, away from the agitators rushing the front of the stage to try and stop Mesdoram from taking more lives. The drow has seen enough. Mesdoram’s just having fun, and she won’t begrudge him that.
Vexar || Lejiath’s chest jumps into a chuckling frenzy as the first sacrifice is made. The terror that instantly saturates the gathered crowd ignites within him a particular ecstasy he’d not felt in some time. Yet still, he is even more pleased to see the cawing necks, the prying eyes, the insatiable curiosity as almost every member of the audience could not help but to watch the inevitable demise of the second slave. One brave soul, perhaps a family member of ‘Wrath’, shook his petrification and attempted to rush the stage in protest. His chest instantly met the sole of Lejiath’s massive leather boot, leading him to weep, clutching at his collapsed rib cage in the orchestral pit. The Hell-beast looks up from his victim, as though tempting another to take their shot.
Leoxander voiced no emotional outburst as others had. Only when the cryptic lighting within caught a certain angle of his shadowed eyes did they flash, with the predatory reflection of rusty green and gold like a wolf spotted in the night with a hand lamp. He checked another look at the woman he’d come with as bodies began to fall and blood spilled across the stage, uncertain how the unpredictable temper of his partner in crime would bring about a reaction. In that glance noticing the drow Gevurah making her way toward the door. Damn spider-matin’ dar-... well, he’d save that dislike for another day.
Act 7 - Setting the Trap
Mesdoram resumes his speech to a traumatized audience. He is pleading to them. “I want you to atone from your ‘Sin.’ You CAN’T ATONE if I kill you, now can you?” Concluding his righteous drivel, Mesdoram reaches ‘Murder’ and removes the bag covering her head – revealing Mesdoram’s personal slave, and more familiar, Nariv: chained, bound, mouth suppressed with a simple cloth wrapping, appearing physically exhausted, beaten, and mentally drained. Though no fresh bruises cover her body, her eyes convey defeat; almost embracing her approaching death as a comforting alternative to Mesdoram’s servitude. The now docile drow meets Nariv’s depressing stare with his own sympathetic gaze and tosses the brown sack into the audience. With one hand, Mesdoram produces one of Keter’s elemental daggers, given to him by Thea many moons ago; the other hand, the drow places atop of Nariv’s head in a sincere loving gesture. Upon feeling Mesdoram’s grip, Nariv closes her eyes and squeezes out two tears that drip down her pale skin and fall below to the floor –if these tears could communicate to the crowd, they would tell the audience of the relief Nariv feels that her torment is almost over. Mesdoram sympathizes, “I am sorry, Nariv. Truly I am…” and releases his gentle hold of her head. Uncharacteristically, the twisted master of ceremonies looks out into the audience and points his dagger randomly into the crowd – the tip of the knife slowly sways across the people as if to address everyone. “This night does not have to end in this creature’s demise…” Mesdoram begins. “I would be no better than you if I killed Nariv without properly conveying my message.” Taking his eyes off the crowd for a moment to look back to Nariv, Mesdoram continues. “For what it is worth, I do care for my slave… even if people do not understand my mannerisms… I am not the mindless monster you see me as… cruel, yes. But not without heart…” The sudden tone shift confuses most in the audience; the drow and other Underdark creatures in attendance look visibly disgusted with Mesdoram now. “So, to prove I am no heretic, I offer this – if anyone were to purchase Nariv from me, I will allow her to be free tonight…” With that said, the drow walks over to Nariv and wipes away one of the watery streams her tears created. “Would anyone be willing to buy Nariv’s freedom?” As Mesdoram completes his offer to the crowd, he and Nariv patiently await the response from anyone willing to save Nariv from Mesdoram’s servitude.
Caltarok watches the first two sacrifices with clear disgust of the pointless ending of a life. The undead goon squad mattered not at this point. He noticed the other onlookers already heading for the stage. In the turmoil, Caltarok tried to move closer out of the sight of the skeleton's, the hulking brute that just kicked one onlooker trying to get to the stage and the apparent person trying to deal his pity vengeance on folks that may not have been directly involved in the horrors he endured. Caltarok never could understand why the lesser creatures always thought vengeance on others whether it be innocence of those completely uninvolved or the loved ones that were weaker. Why couldn't they just take the pain out on the ones that actually dealt it to them… or better yet figure how to move pass the pain. Upon hearing the request, he raises his hand, "What is it that you seek in payment for this drow's life?"
Mathollak now realized these were real people being murdered. This wasn’t just a performance, it was a rallying cry! Against injustice! Hypocrisy! Things that Mathollak himself was guilty of no doubt...but that passion. So compelling! Mathollak was well and truly invested. Even more so when Nariv was revealed. He didn’t know her, but suddenly he wanted her to live! Her life had meaning, didn’t it!? “I will! I’ll pay for her freedom!” He cries, without knowing how much it’ll cost.
Vexar || Lejiath smirks as the sheep beneath his feet respond in perfect accordance. Now favorably distracted, he lifts his gauntleted hand and snaps two metal-clad fingers in a muted ‘ting’. His undead warriors collapse on the spot, thus freeing the audience from their confine. Very few actually flee, now too fixated on the conclusion of the performance to mind their own safety. As for Lejiath, he sinks into the shadows, apparently relinquishing the stage and those upon it to whatever fate might come. Was he abandoning his partner already? Such would be expected of a general from Hell. Can't be trusted.
Act 8 - Encore - 'Greed'
Mesdoram, upon hearing the two inquires for Nariv’s sovereignty, begins forming a villainous sneer and sinister snickering escapes his mouth. The drow momentarily gets lost in his basic biological and primal demeanor as the wicked laughing grows louder in volume; Mesdoram starts sarcastically clapping his hands together while shaking his head in a mocking manner at the crowd. Simultaneously, Nariv’s body language tenses with every menacing laugh and clap from Mesdoram; her eyes convey certain death, heavy breathing intensifies, body trembling with terror. “Oh, you sorry lot of hypocrites…” Mesdoram begins, one of the plot twists in his productions. “… I want to thank each and every one of you for your participation in my play! For you see, the true Liars… are you!” Palms face upwards, Mesdoram theatrically spreads his hands east and west to signify the audience participation of Act 3 – Liar. “For a lot who seemingly detests the drow and their treatment of slaves, you throw ALL your preconceived man-made sense of moralities out the window…” With his empty hand, Mesdoram grabs a handful of Nariv’s sandy blonde hair and brutally jerks upwards – this causes not only a tremendous amount of pain, but forces Nariv’s body to jolt upright as far as her chains allowed. Panic spreads throughout Nariv’s body, and a powerful scream is heard even through the muffling cloth rag covering her mouth. “… and quickly AND effortlessly participate in the very practice you say you despise… placing value on someone’s life…” Mesdoram’s hold of Nariv tightens as he now sways her form, left and right, inviting the audience to bathe in their hypocrisy. “Ha...and THAT concludes the Liar portion of our performance…” with that said, Mesdoram bows graciously to the crowd and puppeteers Nariv’s head into a sarcastic nod to the audience as she still cries out in pain to her master pulling her strings…
Mesdoram still bowing to the crowd, catches a glimpse of the drow’s severed head laying lifeless on the market’s dust floor. A terrible scowl forms on his face as the sight of his fallen brethren triggers a sinister switch of Mesdoram’s psyche. Quintessa’s bounty replays in Mesdoram’s mind as the drow’s biological countenance and primal deposition penetrates his playful demeanor. Rage rushes through his tiny frame, blood pressure spikes, and his muscle fibers tense immensely the longer he stares at head of Vexar’s victim; consequently, Mesdoram’s terrible grasp of Nariv intensifies, causing the poor elf to yell another muffled scream in agony. After lingering for quite some time, Mesdoram stands upright fully which lifts Nariv several more inches off the ground – as far as her chained tether will allow with the couplings halting her progress. “So, without further delay…” Mesdoram energetically addressing the crowd as he casually points his dagger to random audience members. “… I welcome you to the ‘Encore’ of tonight’s performance of ‘Greed’” The devilish drow points his deadly weapon into the crowd again. “In honor of Quintessa’s Sin … I say we have an auction for Nariv’s freedom then.” Mesdoram lifts Nariv as high as he possibly can and presses his blade against her face, testing the boundaries of her tethered chains. The dirk’s tongue facing upwards just below Nariv’s jawline. “Honoring Quintessa’s original rate, let’s start with Nariv’s ears, for the ‘great value’ of…” The tone in ‘great value’ sarcastically mocking Quintessa’s original phrasing in her bounty. After allotting a dramatic pause, Mesdoram vehemently slides his blade across Nariv’s head in a powerful uppercut – in a blink of an eye, Nariv’s ear is severed from her head. Nariv’s shrieks horribly through her gag as her body convulses with the sudden surge of anguish streaming through her body; her extremities flailing uncontrollably as the chains erratically bang on the oak stage. Always one for flair, Mesdoram tracks the flight of Nariv’s ear; as soon as the lone appendage lands on the stage, the drow simultaneously throws Nariv back onto stage. “500 gold for each ear!! “That’s 1000 gold for her head!” Mesdoram proclaims proudly as he continues to mock Quintessa’s outdated proposal. As Nariv’s persistently squirms to accommodate her pain threshold, Mesdoram coldly glares at the audience… reminiscing all his brethren slain due to the genocidal reward. Creating distance from him and Nariv, Mesdoram begins traveling to the middle of stage seemingly locking eyes onto someone randomly in the crowd. Distracted and lost in his twisted entertainment, Mesodram fixates himself on Gevurah and remembers her remarks from earlier calling him pathetic. Dropping his guard dramatically, Mesdoram kneels down to more effectively cast his malevolent stare at Gevurah and shouts loud enough for everyone to hear. “The only thing pathetic is your father Keter not keeping his sanity, stupid girl.” Providing what seems to be an ill-gotten window of opportunity, Mesdoram remains kneeling for anyone with the stones to end this cruel charade from continuing.
Act 9 - Eleanor's and Calthrok's spring into action, Gevurah's had enough of Mesdoram
Eleanor turned a heavy eye up toward Leoxander, and her gem seemed to look at him, too. Her hand felt clammy, curled around that cursed wand. Colder than she could remember it feeling before. But whatever fragile doubts she had over it was dismissed as she watched more sacrificial lambs slaughtered in a gruesome production. Each slave she could feel as though they were sister and brother, and she pulled away from Leo in another staggering step. "Nae," she breathed, as much to herself as anyone keen enough to hear. She could feel bile rising up, and years suddenly stripped away until all that was left was a frightened child, borne into a lifeless existence, shackles both physical and metaphorical pulling her forward. Lifting her attention back to the stage, she settled her distant sights on Nariv and melted into the shadows. Long tendrils of darkness surged forward in a painful storm, breaching the stage without issue and leaving a spellrogue in its wake, quivering with fury. Her hand gripped the wand down at her side, knuckles bone-white beneath her glove, and at their cuff, an inky black stain crept up her wrist to disappear behind her sleeve. "Chan e do pheacaidhean a th' annta." The D'Vainese was quickly spat in anger as much as sorrow. On the last exhale, she thrust the simple-looking stick at the subjected slave, intending to finish her suffering in a fell swoop. However, the cursed wand had other plans, and hell came out of its tip instead to seize its victim in agony.
Caltarok listens to the rattling of the mad drow. He had actually left it to the drow to set the price for his demand to free the drow. But hearing Mathollak's statement and the response given to both by Mesdoram, Caltarok jumps onto the stage, "I have a better id…." Seeing another figure appear suddenly and to cause more agony was too much to bear. Caltarok tossed the smoke pellets to the ground to create a non-magical smoke around himself as he began casting wind spells to bend the air and light around him to conceal him as he went to Nariv's side. Caltarok didn't know any healing spells but he called upon the two sprites to begin heating and chilling the chains binding Nariv. He hopes the smoke is enough to give him a few desperate moments to break the chains and to try and rescue the poor drow. He was finding it very hard as the disregard for life around this place and couldn't begin to understand the reasoning. He would whisper to Nariv, "Be no fraid of me… I will get you out of here, if I can. Your life belongs to you alone. If you rather die now, I can stop but I rather you lived."
Gevurah was leaving the auction house when Mesdoram dares sling his insult on her family. She shouts back in the drow tongue, “Come say it to my face, you coward!” She pulls a coil of silver wire from the bottomless satchel tucked beneath her piwafwi and throws it towards Mesdoram as she levitates into the air. The wires extend as they are thrown, wrapping themselves around Gevurah’s extended arm and aiming for Mesdoram’s throat to leash him to her. If successful, the wires will coil quickly around his forearm like a bangle as they bring her prey towards her. “You pathetic cur!”
Mathollak finds his hopes crushed when his hypocrisy is revealed to him. It was true wasn’t it? He was about to agree to a price on a person’s head! Then again he sold his own body out to the highest bidder as well. As a mercenary! As a mercenary, obviously. He put his life and body on the line for gold every day. Well before he became rich and sponsored that is. This post is brought to you by Dandycoats Capes and Cloaks. Perfect, trendy, all season shoulder-wear to shield you from the weather and keep you looking fresh!
Mathollak protests the earcutting while showing off his bright red cape with gold frilly trim, and a big 'DC' embroidered onto a giant bleeding heart.
Leoxander witnessed many things in just a few moments. Eleanor’s vanishing act being the one that triggered a mental curse and a shrug of cloak back away from the right side of his body. The two vying for the victim servant’s life only to trigger new anger, new plans, and the loss of an ear, apparently. The insult thrown across the large room for the sure-of-herself drow, and another on the ground due to Lejiath’s cruelty in tears. That tension was in the air like a storm, and Leo anticipated lightning to strike any second, now. He moved from the wall quickly and tried to catch the leader of rogues as she revealed herself appropriately with a spell. But he couldn’t get through that crowd fast enough to tear her aim off, and it wasn’t until the cursed wand’s eruption met it’s mark that he would nearly tackle Eleanor aside, catching her on her feet in his arms instead of waiting for other hands to find her first.
Vexar: Lejiath is in place beyond the stage, readied with two undead stallions to receive a near-dead Nariv and earless Mesdoram. Their retreat must not be impeded by do-gooders. However, as great plans are oft to do, the gambit is put at risk by Gevurah’s temper. Having much earlier pinned the matron as a subject of interest, Lejiath is more than keen to intercept her flailing whip. The cord finds a mark; though drastically different from its intent. The precious metal wire wraps about Lejiath’s forearm as he throws himself into its path, linking wrist to wrist. He smiles broadly at their temporary connection before lashing down, the sheer power of his thrust bound to either snap the twine or send Gevurah tumbling back to Hollow. He had no intention to confront the Matron tonight...but this brief introduction would suffice.
Gevurah ‘s eyes widen in alarm as the colossus intercepts her attack. Lejiath whips Gevurah onto the ground and she hisses a sharp exhale. She dispels the wires from both their wrists as she leaps onto her feet. Her interest in fighting a colossus wanes as she loses sight of Mesdoram in the crowd. The matron leaves Lejiath for another day as she disappears into the dark, aided by the powerful enchantments of her piwafwi which drape her in the illusion of shadows.
Act 10 - Naivity Nearly Kills Nariv
|| And just like that, every illusions instantly evaporates: all ethereal actors close their eyes and fade back to the otherworld, ghostly shop owners disappear back into the ground, and any evidence of mist, vapors, and smokey amalgamations dissipate as ‘Mesdoram’ leaps in the path of the Eleanor’s magically onslaught to protect ‘Nariv’. The struggling drow is consumed in the horrible shadow attack which pins and constricts the tiny man and forces him to focus moreso on his life rather than astral projections. As he is trapped in the entanglement, the layers of manipulation and mischief peel away as reality creeps back into existence. What remains standing from this horror show are the corpses of the two slaves ‘Liar’ and ‘Wrath,’ the now empty venues and cuisine stations, and Nariv and Mesdoram on the stage… but with a deviant and devastating twist. As efficient at scheming and plotting he is, Mesdoram does not possess archaic or otherworldly capabilities. The drow lacks the mental prowess to conjure illusions, focus to maintain fantastic phantasmatic projections under pressure, and certainly cannot create considerable chaos from nothing… but Nariv can. Under strict orders from her master, the elven slave had conjure every incorporeal figure, controlled the supernatural displays, and most cunning of all transfigured her and Mesdoram to masquerade as each - slave pretending to be master, and master pretending to be slave. Little by little, the details begin adding up to the most astute observers: when ‘Mesdoram’ seemed to struggle to dispose of the slaves, when ‘Mesdoram’ persona started appearing weak, when ‘Mesdoram’ looked to feel remorse… it was Nariv rebelling and resisting her programming. Nevertheless, the truth starts to reveal itself. Faux-pax ‘Mesdoram’s’ snowy white hair turns to blonde, ebony skin fades to pale white elven flesh, and devilish dark orbs turn into blue eyes of shock looking back at Eleanor, who’s downward strike from spewing dark malice would almost certainly end her life. Now able to concentrate solely on protecting herself, the real Nariv sinks down upon the stage as the last bits of physical and mental fortitude is concentrating on shielding Eleanor’s wicked assault – as she struggles, she takes a quick glances toward her ‘doubleganger’ looking for help…
Mesdoram, having effortlessly freed himself from his counterfeit chains, strolls over to his wounded slave at a slow methodical pace. With a majority of eyes focused on the struggling Nariv, many audience members would be forgiven if they missed the real Mesdoram’s metamorphosis back into his true self: his fake slave attire have been replaced with Mesdoram’s normal battle attire, weaponless as Nariv truly possessed his weaponry, and absent from his head is indeed Mesdoram’s right ear as that was no illusion. A small sacrifice to endure an incredible amount of pain to illustrate Hollow’s hypocrisy even further. Would the crowd who screamed in outrage when they thought Nariv lost her ear now find some solace and pleasure that Mesdoram does not escape his treachery unscathed? Or is this consultation prize meaningless now that Eleanor’s assault of Nariv will leave the slave her mortally wounded at best if not attended to soon? Either way, Mesdoram makes his way to Eleanor and stalks the brazen fool like a vulture. Completing a calculated circle, a genuinely terrifying glare sets upon mage – an intimating scowl only the real Mesdoram can create. The drow briefly glances down at Nariv to assess the damage to his property which amplifies his vindictive temperament twofold. As he resets his vicious glare back upon Eleanor, the drow extends his hand closest to the deceased ‘Wrath’ slave. Faithful as ever, his earthly terrestrial blade slices through the corpse as the weapon makes a direct path to its master’s hand – the remaining fluids, body parts, and organs from the ‘Wrath’ slave spill messily upon the stage. Fully grasping his weapon, the drippings of sinew and visceral chunks cascade downwards creating an unrhythmic dripping sounds below on the wooden floor. Lingering to create tension, Mesdoram parts his lips and begins speaking in a hushed tone for only Eleanor to hear – Eleanor still looking to mistakenly end Nariv’s life.
Mesdoram whispered something to Eleanor.
Caltarok blinks as the spells end and shows him trying to save the wrong person. But neither does he care or feel duped, this show had been trying to show one's weakness in themselves. However, Caltarok had already faced those demons and was true to himself in attempting to rescue the Nariv, now Mesdoram from chains and further torture. He stands slowly and still under the casting of his wind spell moves to check on Nariv before getting off the stage and towards the exit. He takes great care not to bump into anyone and to extricate himself from this horrible show. If Mesdoram would notice, a hastily written note be found leaving a poor review on the true Nariv's body for this show without a name being left to it. He wonders though as he passes thru how he is ever going to understand the other races whose beliefs are truly so foreign… slavery… unwanton killing not just of the wildlife but each other.
Eleanor 's features twisted amidst a derisive scoff, watching Nariv herself crumple before her. It may not have been a direct path, but things have a way of working themselves out in the end, curses willing. As she allowed Leoxander to pull her away from the scene of her crimes, at least one thing was clear: the show was over. Her pale eyes glowed under the shadows of her hood, and she glowered at Mesdoram. She didn't need to be "asked" twice. "Ge' me outta haur," she told the wolf. The wand's tip still wanted to suck the life out of its intended victim, and her arm was stiff at her side to keep it angled down safely. Her fingers still trembled, and the black of glove blended into her sleeve. El had done precisely what she'd been told not to do and then some. Still, she went willingly with Leo into an expeditious retreat.
Leoxander clutched the sinner in his arms as the stage revealed Mesdoram’s prediction, with a plot twist. A lie in appearance met with a hand of wrath, resulting in murder of an innocent. His fingers unintentionally, or perhaps intentionally, gripped hard through layers of shadow-laced fabric and leather. “So much for the after party…” He growled through his teeth near her ear, unaware she was hearing another voice in the other. All those carelessly thrown valuables on stage amidst a few bodies and not a one pocketed, as (attempted) homicide outweighed greed in priority, tonight. Deciding retreat was their best bet in the midst of chaos and confusion, he’d haul the woman over his shoulder if he had to in order to get her out of that mess, not interested in being the last to escape that bleeding theater. Fortunately that was not the case as she complied, and with a twinned steel blade in grip of one hand and flat against his forearm, he ushered her out, willing to issue a stomach wound or sliced hamstring (or let’s face it, a dagger sized hole to a zombie temple) to accomplish that.
Conclusion - Mesdoram leaves with Nariv - Lejiath's protection
Mesdoram, after successfully conveying his message, sheathes his weapon into his sturdy utility belt. Kneeling to collect Nariv, Mesdoram gingerly lifts his slave and cradles her in his arms carefully; in one upright motion, the drow lifts Nariv to carry her off the stage. Mesdoram did not get the name of the foolish assailant but can now identify her when their paths cross again. Paying no more attention to where Eleanor travelled to, he begins his descent down the steps leading down into the audience. Coincidentally, one Caltarok’s note pins itself betwixt one of Mesdoram’s forearm and Nariv’s back – another lesson to be taught should Caltarok signed his name for Mesdoram to find. Arriving at ground level, the drow begins issuing his final parting shots to his respected guests. “Consider this your wake up call, you damned accursed creatures – for your way of life is forever changed. For my next lesson will not be as kind as that woman’s treatment of Nariv.” Upon hearing her name called, Nariv groans from her injury. This sends Mesdoram into a fit. “She was the true personification of every Sin highlighted tonight I foretold of. Consider how her Wrath will likely lead to the Murder of my slave’s life.” Further twisting and manipulating his wording, Mesdoram lays out his last ominous warning. “Her way of life is forfeited, and soon that sow will face a reckoning for her action against Nariv.” Before travelling through the crowd, Mesdoram addresses his Lejiath in a loud and boisterous command. “Lejiath, kill anyone who has the audacity to stand in my way and prevent Nariv from being mended.” Not waiting for his brother in ‘Sin’s Resurgence’ to acknowledge him, Mesdoram’s pace quickens as he navigates through the crowd – leaving manufactured chaos from his playwright to fester within everyone in attendance.
Aftermath
- Firstly, Karasu and Mesdoram had a clear pact - no harm will be done to Nariv after their duel. How will this clear breach of contract propel their story? Will Mesdoram deceive Karasu to attack Eleanor? Or will this prompt another bout between Mesdoram and Karasu with... deadlier stakes?
And if Nariv were to die, what then?
- Mesdoram has appeared to partnered with a General from Hell identifying himself as Lejiath - is the colossusal figure the first to join Vexar and Mesdoram in 'Sin's Resurgance?' Or is something more sinister brewing?
- Gossip and rumors spread throughout the Hollow to the events that transpired. Like a long game of telephone, the rumors become more extravegent as they reach the people of the surface. Will the ones who know Vexar, Karasu, and Quintessa explain their unexpected and unknowingly involovement in Mesdoram's twisted playright? Time will tell.
- Mesdoram has managed to piss off all races, including his former House - Gevurah certainly wouldn't mind disposing of Mesdoram after his insult of Keter's suicide.
- Will his play be enough to entice the chaos Mesdoram seeks, or will a bolder claim have to be ushered?