Malice: Histories are written by war, and told by the tongues that survive them.
For as long as anyone could remember, there had always been a Tavern at the crossroads, always been a place to drown their day and temper their troubles with copious amounts of mead. When the door groaned then, and swung inward as if their town were now a western, not a single soul stirred from their revelry; for travellers were as frequent here, as the clouds that perpetually seemed to smother the sun. A rhythmic tapping sound heralded the stranger's arrival, as a cane slowly navigated the labyrinth of tables and legs; propelling the weary features of its owner not toward the bar, but instead the source of the commotion that now infested the room's interior. A raucous youth, draped in a melodramatic cape and surrounded by a host of his peers, was already mid-boast when the old man entered, and as he neared, he discerned the closing statements of, what had undoubtedly been a far longer claim. “I was there when the towers fell, their nine spires turned to shards, and dust. I fought alongside giants, like Delioncourt, and Darkness, whose armies tore these lands apart, and struck terror into the hearts of their foes."
Edging ever closer, like a boat born toward the shore, the stranger allowed himself a smile, a brief and ugly thing upon cankered lips such as his; as names older than the books that held them danced anew within the air, evoking awe for one brilliant fleeting moment, before they were lost again amongst the pages of time. Fortunately though, one of the more astute of the youth's admirers dared to voice the nagging question that had suddenly sprung up within his mind “But those battles happened thousands of years ago, how could anyone still be alive from those days?”, a valid question, whose answer the stranger had long known, before ever he had entered the establishment. The youth, however, seemed excited by the prospect of someone challenging his tale, almost as if he'd been eagerly anticipating its arrival; and with an exaggerated flourish of his cloak, he flashed his fangs and announced “Ah ha, well you see, I am a vampire!”. This revelation, the stranger realized, was the highlight of the creature's performance, because even as surprise coursed like a wave across the onlookers' faces, so too did human curiosity keep them strapped to their seats; allowing the vampire to continue its seductive story, and in doing so, secure their next meal when the evening waned.
For as long as anyone could remember, there had always been a Tavern at the crossroads, always been a place to drown their day and temper their troubles with copious amounts of mead. When the door groaned then, and swung inward as if their town were now a western, not a single soul stirred from their revelry; for travellers were as frequent here, as the clouds that perpetually seemed to smother the sun. A rhythmic tapping sound heralded the stranger's arrival, as a cane slowly navigated the labyrinth of tables and legs; propelling the weary features of its owner not toward the bar, but instead the source of the commotion that now infested the room's interior. A raucous youth, draped in a melodramatic cape and surrounded by a host of his peers, was already mid-boast when the old man entered, and as he neared, he discerned the closing statements of, what had undoubtedly been a far longer claim. “I was there when the towers fell, their nine spires turned to shards, and dust. I fought alongside giants, like Delioncourt, and Darkness, whose armies tore these lands apart, and struck terror into the hearts of their foes."
Edging ever closer, like a boat born toward the shore, the stranger allowed himself a smile, a brief and ugly thing upon cankered lips such as his; as names older than the books that held them danced anew within the air, evoking awe for one brilliant fleeting moment, before they were lost again amongst the pages of time. Fortunately though, one of the more astute of the youth's admirers dared to voice the nagging question that had suddenly sprung up within his mind “But those battles happened thousands of years ago, how could anyone still be alive from those days?”, a valid question, whose answer the stranger had long known, before ever he had entered the establishment. The youth, however, seemed excited by the prospect of someone challenging his tale, almost as if he'd been eagerly anticipating its arrival; and with an exaggerated flourish of his cloak, he flashed his fangs and announced “Ah ha, well you see, I am a vampire!”. This revelation, the stranger realized, was the highlight of the creature's performance, because even as surprise coursed like a wave across the onlookers' faces, so too did human curiosity keep them strapped to their seats; allowing the vampire to continue its seductive story, and in doing so, secure their next meal when the evening waned.
The stranger too stayed as the tale unfolded, spinning incredible scenes, each more fanciful than the next, as the vampire told his audience of men made of metal, and an influx of animals that could talk! It wasn't until the more inquisitive of them spoke once more though, that the kindred was finally silenced, asking their host a burning query, which had suddenly slithered inside his skull, as if by magic. “If this land was once so incredible, then whatever happened to the Gods?”, they inquired, wondering why, in all their bluster, the vampire had made no mention of the statues that lined every temple from here to the Castle. Before they could answer though, a shrill scream echoed throughout the edifice, a noise that the vampire discovered was emanating from their own pale lips; for just as he had prepared to answer, he had glanced across the crowd to where the stranger stood, and found ancient horror waiting in his stare. In place of eyes, there were two vast and bottomless pits set into the old man's face, holes that seemed to suck the light from the room and the warmth from the air. More disturbing still, was where he had last witnessed such a ghastly sight, there upon the slopes of slaughter, those many millennia before.
A sound came then, a thing so unearthly deep that it more closely resembled thunder, than any mortal voice, and yet the words it wove were as harrowing a reply as any he, or any of the other patrons could have ever dreamt. “Why, we never left”, and with that the old man's skin began to split, unveiling a mammoth bulk beneath it, as the sorcery that bound the disguise dispersed, shattering every window the establishment owned; leaving the occupants scared and slick, as plates of armour glinted menacingly through the newly-forming gaps in the stranger's flesh. Advancing upon the vampire with slow and measured strides, as they began to fumble hurriedly for the blade at their belt, the beast that once was man continued to grow in size and strength, until a veritable juggernaut stood towering over the youth at an imposing six foot eight, uttering a single sentence before they clasped the creature's head in one massive gauntlet, and crushed their skull like an overripe melon. “You ran from me at the battle of the Nine Towers leechling, but even time cannot shield you from my wrath”.
Satrina:
."Our blood is swayed by sunken moons".
Perhaps too, that it had not been by chance that another presence darkened the hues of hyacinthine gloaming and the cool miasma of chilly air. It had been long since she had graced these primal shores with a cruel beauty none could deny, save for those whom had fallen to the gauntlet of high hopes and wishful thinking. However, it was past icons like Atra’Lamia who rose from the darkness of obscurity, however no longer did a personification given by Pandora rule the face, only that of true appellation, Satrina Kiri. Burnt celestial eyes glimpsing over these lands with a lack for nostalgia that was anything but, impervious to content. No virtue and vice- rising with temptation only to take back into the darkness those poor screaming souls, dragging at the moist earth, captured in the captivation of such tormented beauties; paled in comparison to this coquettish ‘Sovereign of Ayenee’ ... would she even dare claim such a thing? Did she even care? It wasn’t like civilization was anything more than what her eyes had already seen a thousand times before, it was all too languid now, maybe it was more enriching to enjoy even the simplistic of pleasures such as moonlight and glittering stars. Of crimson ichors pouring from a delicate incision across the throat, or the anathema of poison slowly coursing through the veins while the body convulsed and relieved itself of caustic fluids in emesis accolades?.
With a lure of disruption, a calming terror that beauty brings forth from the shadows of the most common myth- perpetuated and habituated by man. There was no need to rise from the tide of the swooping darkness as it blanketed the land in its cold silence. A creature of these elements should not have to rise either from earth or crypt like a dirty secret waiting to be scratched out from beneath the surface of societies crust-- like a tick burrowing beneath the skin of a giant. To bleed every sin out only to imbibe it with Satrina’s ravenous tongue... even though the fetish of it was promised upon the rim of the crystalline glass, where, a single satirical fingernail traced the burnished images casting reflections upon the surface. There Satrina sat, a slender leg crossing the other- exposing just enough of her translucent flesh to capture the eye, but, also adding to the mystery of her status- or familiarity to these lands and the elegance of her swords. Twin Femtomechnical Sentient Scimitars suspended from either side of hip, both had been forged and cooled in sacrificial blood, highly decorative, bound by necromantic rites and tempered to a muttering of lethal runes, and inscribed afterward with primal death spells. Varloornian-Black 'true' silver blade and hilt of ivory and black gold embellishments accompanied by a scabbard of black embossed leather—(Overall length: 91 cm. (35.7 inches); blade length: 76.5 cm. (30 inches). Her gaze lost in the opalesque furls of her own hair. There she sat, regally poised aesthetically in an open space of the tavern filled with acrid scents and senses that were anything but natural. Stale alcohol, sweat and cheap perfumes- such unnatural smells were the easiest to find in the wilderness. Both within and without walls; that it made her stomach lurch and crawl as she tried to look away- look outside of this strange humanoid little world, and see something beyond the stone and glass, devils and dust, to find one, something familiar to all of creation.
It was then that she heard a voice, one husky and deep with intoxication "How are you this evening?" Satrina did not need to look upon stubble face to know an artificial smile was planted; a mask of attraction, infatuation or compassion to her glory. She just was not interested, in that of man or over-ride the infection of indifference to anything that fell outside of those imaginary lines that humanity placed between themselves. She could, however, smell something from deeper below the masks which made her smile- only in that those reactions for which he had no control were, indeed, wholly common to all creatures. "It doesn't really matter, now does it?" a sarcastic voice... cold and empty... her head cocked to the side... ravenesque hair parted in a fashion that they might, for the first time, actually see eye to eye. "Little does it matter to how I may feel, I am sure you shall claim to possess some miracle elixir to soothe away my troubles?" Words dripped with cynic amusement and sarcasm; even if those venoms were coveted behind the mellifluous sensuality of those dulcet timbres. Honeyed, even angelic in lilt- before he managed to discover a retort in that copious empty skull where usually for most, a brain actually sat. With this one, Satrina had many doubts. "I reckon, that I could scratch all your itches, sweet one." A wink demonstrated while his wondering eyes danced over her svelte frame, lingering over those feminine curves idyllic of Darkness and Aphrodite. How ludicrous could one morsel of flesh be, jumping from one extreme to another and deserved only the response Satrina deemed worthy of his comical performance. She laughed darkly, tossing her head back and staring up at the marks on the ceiling that had been left by moisture. All things die... eventually.
The stout man must have been surprised at the fast riposte of her reaction, she must have wounded the beasts pride, for no sooner had the laugh echoed through the tavern his left fist had furled and headed straight towards her right cheek. This was what entertained Satrina the most in a mortals wounded pride. Already he was at a disadvantage, inflicted with the effects of a strong days worth of drinking; clumsy and off balance. The other was the fact; he had greatly underestimated his chosen victim for the evening. He was no hunter; in fact he was fast on his way to becoming the prey, for he was not as quick as what he had wished. No sooner had the strike instigated its flow of motion she had ushered hers. Waiting for just the precise moment his fist would be only but breath of air- the palm of her right hand instantly coming up to encompass his left. First with the palm of her hand. Elongated fingernails smothering over his clenched fist; fingers of knives perforated deeply into the tight flesh of his beefy hand that had been so hungry with eagerness to strike her. Skin splitting, crimson ribbons trickling over his olive complexion and stunned amazement where he cringed in agony. Doubling over as he was forced to stoop down to the level where her eyes would be the directive in proving her point. No man had yet the skill to strike her, and it certainly would not be this cretin trying to find him a cheap fancy for the night.
The smirk conversing over her opulent rubicund apertures were both devious and infectious "Silly cli'cha!" Satrina mocked "You have only seen the first shore, and already it leaves you weak and tired; a longing for some other place that you know must be very far away from here. One that you shall never find, an eternity you shall never know!!" Stated while arching her back and forced him down upon his knees by the painful grasp of her assault. The air from her lungs blowing hot over his creeping canvas trembling with a fear it had never experienced, until now, a heel coming to impress to the center of his forehead. "I can take this away from you... but, what would you ever give me in exchange for such a... gift?" His subservient begging was all the body language she required to perceive, Satrina did not need or desire his words- for that was all words were; empty and soulless poetry. He wanted the pain to be vanquished, but one should always be dubious of what they wish for, no sooner had his eyes pleaded for mercy, her left hand had delved beneath the matricide of raven lace and leather. In the tourniquet of mesh of hilt, her beloved ‘Umbra'Mucro’|Shadow Dagger producing it out and in the same motion of retrieval an angular slash was directed against the surface of his throat. Splitting his Adam’s Apple like a cherry twixt the teeth, while tongue delved deep to just how sweet its flavour would be. He wanted that pain gone, and now he had been given what he craved most, liberation. Something she knew, she would never have.
Right hand releasing the slumping arch of his limb, as his body melted to the hardness of the dirty floor beneath her stiletto crowned feet, submissive like any slave or puppet should be. Smouldering dusky flambeaus glancing over the patrons who may have witnessed the events of her favourite hobby; a playful, yet also cruel, sort of expression made her face seem to exceptionally beautiful... seduction of all evils. Coy with a hint of feigned innocence glinting in the devilish pits of those persuasive orbs as cadmium sienna apertures pursed to speak to those still watching her and the body now lifeless. "Now-now, boys... do not think ill of me. I only did what you were all thinking." A chuckle escaping past those pursed lips designed for death before attentions re-examined the empty glass..."I used to think of the glass somewhat half empty... now indeed I see the glass half full... " Contemplating something refined, something like absinthe and belladonna-- the phantasms of dreams. Listening to these tales, uttered from rum-parched lips and glories of horrors so bravely spoken, yet none seemed true-- at least not how SHE had remembered them. Speaking through the tiers of ivories, where their fine points sat barely covered on the orchid blooms of Satrina’s apertures, "Charming..." spoken in dissonance with raspy unsympathetic tones, enough of wistfulness had been seen this evening, and yet, to return here where it all began... with a dead body on the floor at her feet, boot heel rising to rest on the pinnacle of forehead while the blood flowed like the Trichodesmium rivers. Even as patrons scuffled to move chairs away from the svelte woman... midnight eyes resting on the elderly man, before the words resounded “Why, we never left!” as flesh began to rot, and tendon parted to reveal the beast beneath.
In the elucidation of her mind’s eye, she witnessed the deeds and the unfolding of Malice, her glib-tongue licking across the lower arch of strawberry hued pillow, plump and voluptuous as perfect ivories can to pinch the sweet flesh between them, meditatively. Something of arrogant inattentiveness. Chin rising with that famous notorious haughty fashion well acclaimed for; lambency bejeweled by ophidian jet slithers beaming heinously from behind lustrous lashes, malevolence so unspeakable. A gaze intractably abysmal; void as if her soul was nothing but the horrors from her interior trying to claw their way out, or the plagues that ravished her flesh from the touch of her beloved. At least a score of a few hundred years had passed by, was he still a loyal comrade or had he turned his black allegiance yet? In full stride; eager pursuit of some lowly vampire, only to crush its skull as if it was a mere grape twixt a giant’s fingers, "Time is mortal, time is ever fleet, even though some of its sonnets, have been sweet!" the softest aroma of perfume would exhume from her, subtle, alluring, seductive fragrances of orient orchids and black aromatic roses. "We have no more need of feeble Kings, too high on themselves they cannot see where they walk...perhaps now is the time we burn them to the ground?" A sly and confident smirk rising over those lips of lustre Dark-liquored eyes beaming with a vehemence that could only be described as enchanting and spell-binding, the very amber-fused overtures dancing across eclipsed pall, exuberating in the horror of a body crushed of all life and its soul struggling for liberation, along with those who scrambled away quickly into the night—thinking that refuge in the darkness would be discovered and sweet solace found there in the bitterest of today’s and tomorrows. Satrina wouldn't tally here for any length of time, but certainly long enough to share a ‘drink’ with an ‘old’ friend... already she had been gone long enough from Koshiro.
."The poison hurts, but pain will soon abate, and fear will pass away, so choose!".
Malice: Distance weighs as heavily on the mind, as the feet that create it.
Terror, it was a delicious emotion, a thing so thickly formed it became almost palpable upon the tongue; and yet as the veil of skin was sundered, its potency but grew, sending stunned patrons scattering like sheep before the vehemence of his visage. Despite the gore that graced his features, however, the pallid slopes of his face lay immaculate beneath its stain, a countenance that belied the many centuries spent upon the field of war. This was the legacy of the immortal though, the blessing of being born beyond mortal means; but when a familiar figure turned from her chiding, her presence affected the Warlord more deeply than he could have imagined. Certainly, somewhere in the back of his mind he had felt her, much like a lover could their liege; but their reunion was different this time, muted somehow, almost as if he had deliberately disguised her proximity from preternatural sense, so that when she announced herself, his heart experienced a surprising twinge.
Whisking a dagger across her aggressor's throat, Atra unleashed a veritable torrent of blood, though curiously as it began to pool upon the tabletop, an advancing river of red, the juggernaut halted in his gait; allowing several souls to survive his onslaught and flee the tavern's confines, as he stood transfixed, a sailor slain at sea by the song of this siren. Alluring emanations filled his nostrils, as pheromones sought to cloud his mind, but it was another haze that tangled his thoughts in its web, a sensation that pounded in his head until it seemed as if it would explode. It had been many moons since he had seen her, at least in person, many fleeting glimpses from across the planes, and yet this encounter seemed to stir something within him he had long believed buried; affording one sly soldier the chance to swing their sword at him. Off duty as they were, their inebriation had given them a form of courage that their measly pay would never have entertained, at least under normal circumstances, but tonight they were Sigor the strong, and their brave blade would slay the monster that had attacked this night!
Reacting as if encumbered by some great burden, Malice's movements were sluggish suddenly, barely eluding the arc of the weapon, and suffering a small gash upon his angelic cheek as a consequence; a thing that Sigor cheered, even as the pain of it thrust the beast's consciousness from the present, and many leagues into the past.
Five hundred years ago, when the legion last rode, he had been a giant, an indomitable battering ram set to break the gates of a kingdom asunder; and yet upon the cusp of their glory, when ten thousand jaws lay poised to swallow the land whole, something had happened to deter their march, an event as unexpected as it was devastating, Atra had found love. In all the time he had known her, from the days of Darkbane and beyond, Malice had never seen her falter so for another, had never seen her abandon a campaign so readily and leave to scratch a path across the stars. In the wake of her absence then, he was a warrior without a war, a man without a mistress, and in the century and a half that elapsed between that moment, and her marriage, he had lost the surety that drove him, he had lost his purpose.
Bred for battle, he had been lost without the comfort its conflict offered, as if a storm had smothered the stars, and now he was forced to navigate uncharted waters; whilst his Queen plied her politics amongst the depths of space, and rose to rule nations far removed from familiar shores. He didn't remember much of that time now, didn't recall the trauma his devolution had wrought upon his memory, but wandering the wastes between one realm and the next, he knew he had tread them as a man, and in doing so, sought oblivion at the hands of any that crossed his path. His skill, much like his savagery, however, would not relinquish him to this fate, and his quest had ended with him knee-deep in the dead, a human ringed by corpses, who leant exhausted upon the hilt of their sword. Eventually, though the years wore on, his life had yet to leave him; for he had found no foe formidable enough to best him with a blade, and so his feet had lead him to haunt ancient trails, leading him inexorably toward the place his legacy had been born, to the place where it had all began, Ayenee.
Snapped back into the present, more by his muscle memory than the realisation that he was still under attack, Malice caught the soldier's wrist as their arm began to draw back for another assault and, without even consciously contemplating his actions, the Warlord struck Sigor straight in the face. The first blow was powerful enough to shatter the man's nose, breaking bone with a sickening cracking sound, but it was the succession of ensuing strikes that slew them, as his gauntlet was driven, brutally and relentlessly, deeper and deeper into the man's skull; punching so ferociously that he continued to do so, even when the man's limbs had long gone limp. When the pause that followed was broken by the renewed screams of patrons though, Malice shook himself from this revelry, flinging the body from his fist, as if it were a child's discarded doll.
“Yes...let's burn it all”, he said, in simple response to Atra's joint statement and query, affectionately brushing the hilt of his longsword, as a thirst for destruction burned anew within the depths of his pitch-black eyes.
Terror, it was a delicious emotion, a thing so thickly formed it became almost palpable upon the tongue; and yet as the veil of skin was sundered, its potency but grew, sending stunned patrons scattering like sheep before the vehemence of his visage. Despite the gore that graced his features, however, the pallid slopes of his face lay immaculate beneath its stain, a countenance that belied the many centuries spent upon the field of war. This was the legacy of the immortal though, the blessing of being born beyond mortal means; but when a familiar figure turned from her chiding, her presence affected the Warlord more deeply than he could have imagined. Certainly, somewhere in the back of his mind he had felt her, much like a lover could their liege; but their reunion was different this time, muted somehow, almost as if he had deliberately disguised her proximity from preternatural sense, so that when she announced herself, his heart experienced a surprising twinge.
Whisking a dagger across her aggressor's throat, Atra unleashed a veritable torrent of blood, though curiously as it began to pool upon the tabletop, an advancing river of red, the juggernaut halted in his gait; allowing several souls to survive his onslaught and flee the tavern's confines, as he stood transfixed, a sailor slain at sea by the song of this siren. Alluring emanations filled his nostrils, as pheromones sought to cloud his mind, but it was another haze that tangled his thoughts in its web, a sensation that pounded in his head until it seemed as if it would explode. It had been many moons since he had seen her, at least in person, many fleeting glimpses from across the planes, and yet this encounter seemed to stir something within him he had long believed buried; affording one sly soldier the chance to swing their sword at him. Off duty as they were, their inebriation had given them a form of courage that their measly pay would never have entertained, at least under normal circumstances, but tonight they were Sigor the strong, and their brave blade would slay the monster that had attacked this night!
Reacting as if encumbered by some great burden, Malice's movements were sluggish suddenly, barely eluding the arc of the weapon, and suffering a small gash upon his angelic cheek as a consequence; a thing that Sigor cheered, even as the pain of it thrust the beast's consciousness from the present, and many leagues into the past.
Five hundred years ago, when the legion last rode, he had been a giant, an indomitable battering ram set to break the gates of a kingdom asunder; and yet upon the cusp of their glory, when ten thousand jaws lay poised to swallow the land whole, something had happened to deter their march, an event as unexpected as it was devastating, Atra had found love. In all the time he had known her, from the days of Darkbane and beyond, Malice had never seen her falter so for another, had never seen her abandon a campaign so readily and leave to scratch a path across the stars. In the wake of her absence then, he was a warrior without a war, a man without a mistress, and in the century and a half that elapsed between that moment, and her marriage, he had lost the surety that drove him, he had lost his purpose.
Bred for battle, he had been lost without the comfort its conflict offered, as if a storm had smothered the stars, and now he was forced to navigate uncharted waters; whilst his Queen plied her politics amongst the depths of space, and rose to rule nations far removed from familiar shores. He didn't remember much of that time now, didn't recall the trauma his devolution had wrought upon his memory, but wandering the wastes between one realm and the next, he knew he had tread them as a man, and in doing so, sought oblivion at the hands of any that crossed his path. His skill, much like his savagery, however, would not relinquish him to this fate, and his quest had ended with him knee-deep in the dead, a human ringed by corpses, who leant exhausted upon the hilt of their sword. Eventually, though the years wore on, his life had yet to leave him; for he had found no foe formidable enough to best him with a blade, and so his feet had lead him to haunt ancient trails, leading him inexorably toward the place his legacy had been born, to the place where it had all began, Ayenee.
Snapped back into the present, more by his muscle memory than the realisation that he was still under attack, Malice caught the soldier's wrist as their arm began to draw back for another assault and, without even consciously contemplating his actions, the Warlord struck Sigor straight in the face. The first blow was powerful enough to shatter the man's nose, breaking bone with a sickening cracking sound, but it was the succession of ensuing strikes that slew them, as his gauntlet was driven, brutally and relentlessly, deeper and deeper into the man's skull; punching so ferociously that he continued to do so, even when the man's limbs had long gone limp. When the pause that followed was broken by the renewed screams of patrons though, Malice shook himself from this revelry, flinging the body from his fist, as if it were a child's discarded doll.
“Yes...let's burn it all”, he said, in simple response to Atra's joint statement and query, affectionately brushing the hilt of his longsword, as a thirst for destruction burned anew within the depths of his pitch-black eyes.
Satrina:
As to make sweet, once more, what death made sour,
To call back time, and make a moment flower...
To call back time, and make a moment flower...
...in much the same manner as themselves, all things dwell in their own heavens or their hells.
The elder deities had vanished it was true - at least where science and theology agreed. But the moon and the ocean continue in their eternal cycle, and the golden violets of spring and the fiery hues of autumnal leaves, and ardour with its desolation and delight. Sweet, unendurable sagacity, such a brevity in the return or remain of their existence-- between the sunlight and the moist earth. It is from these, and from other representations of a like loveliness or pathos that the mellow, reflective and often profoundly touching magic of such realization is derived. And whereas these possessions endure, and although there are hearts to heed and the wings of Eros unfurl to grant the benedictions of starlight or moonlight, and while there is still the scarlet embers of the shiraz moon above the seasonal fields at evening, and the sapphire flame of Sirius over the winter wood, it seemed impossible that such visions of old such as hers would not always have its gods, hellions, glories, lovers, heroes or villains.
Was it a meeting of consequence or chance? Or that which was nothing at all other than fateful closures and goodbyes? It tugged upon the memory strings, almost like one who plucked the strings of a violin; the tune almost chaotic yet bearing the semblance of the 'astrals? But, there were other presences conflicting that of the other, the high-pitched sequences ringing through her mind in sharp pitches and variations of musical tones. It was mildly amusing for she thought most of the colliding of spheres that sung throughout the lands of Ayenee, of the many ghosts of hordes that had fallen by her blades, and yet here she sat in a tavern bemused by the lowest of forms residing within these lands like maggots to the corpse. There had been numerous other clams of who sought a pair of angel wings to decorate their mantles-- but the 'familiarity of the choirs' could never be mistaken. So what was this profundity of praxis? An eidolon of bequeathed promises—but then any promise can be broken, it is only a metaphor of imprudent avows and the heartless, conceivably misconstrued or arrogantly woven to crossroads and crucifixes.
A benediction of jest crossed her lethal apertures, expression fluid in both its poisons as it was with its sweetness "It seems I have stirred the astrals or some paradoxical void that had been locked, by the keys of time, spaces, stars and galaxies? It is intriguing how intricacies of epochs bring history to repeat itself, the serpent circling back to engorge upon the bittersweet to speak of cinders and burnings? Perhaps because things need to be placed into sequence of what is right or needed to be done for old times’ sake?" The final syllable of melodious pitch drifted; seductive accent fading to the silence that rose to smother it in pitiless hands. Abysmal depths glimmered, analogous to horned crescents of gibbous moon, narrowed slits of pure obsidian. Energies swirling from the miasma of Satrina’s mind, this quintessence obvious... for there were no other that could possibly be marked with such similarity to bring cause for such an error or assumption.
"Teloc torzv! Oiad gigipah ol malpirg!" Obtruding outwards from the broken remains of the offensive leech...a gargantuan shadow that was not fashioned by any eclipsed shape within in the room. It filled the tavern from side to side, towering above the lintel — and then, suddenly, it became more than a shadow: it was a mass of darkness, black and incomprehensible, somehow blinding the eyes with a strange astonishment. Seemingly consuming the flame from the copper urns and drowning the vestibules with an impression of frostiness of death and voidness. Its structure was that of a larva -contorted obelisk, its additional helix still gushing outwards from the gloom of the portals; mutating from one passing moment to the next, swirling and spinning as if alive with vortical quintessences of dark aeons. Briefly it took the semblance of some voluminous ebony fog; and then, creeping steadily across the tavern floor before ascending to Satrina’s right (power) hand and the ornate ring on the index middle finger—the midnight quartz like rhombus set into the filigree of black gold with a peculiar damascene effect that continuously changed in the angles of natural light and overture.
Surely there was no bitterness shared from a soul betwixt fiends? Such a thing of her design and creation, forged from the skills of alchemy and necromancy, always compelled the dead to return to ‘old’ loved ones. Wandering spirits, devouring wraiths, phantoms of the murdered and executed and even slain vampires. Psychopomps that reveal ‘ALL’ things of ‘creation and oblivion’, the harbingers of truth regardless of how hidden or obscured to lore and arcanes. When desiring esoteric answers, the only action required was to burn the ring over soft sardonyx. Far less ghoulish of other practises using corpses, anthropomancy (divination/oracular augury of human entrails, viscera and evisceration) all tools that were adept in delicate hand twisting the stiletto dagger with graceful precision. Boot hell rising to rest against the edge of the wooden chair in front. “Just like old times... huh... the only thing is, there should be much more screaming, don’t you think? These fools wish to speak of old memories, yet here we are and there they still sit... something wrong with this picture, don’t you think, Malice?”
Head tilting to the side tumbles of black falling to caress the curvatures of waist... armoured talons tapping on the surface of the table in rhythmic sequence. Voice loud enough to be heard, it bore nothing of beautiful tones or choirs, only the coldness of bitter winds and necrotic murmurs... “You know, I don’t think I like this place very much, memories are fickle, they serve me no purpose.” Reclining back into the comfort of the chair, knowing in former glories this place has been claimed and seen as quite the asset to Pandora and the clan known as Darkbane. They had patrolled these parts with a territorial vehemence, a thirst unmatched by these later generations of weaker bloods and breeds. What better place to start here... where it all began, so many moons.... so many lifetimes ago. "Satrina is the name... Atra no longer dwells here." there was something more macabre in the lilt of her tones, hidden beneath the poisonous lilies of perfumed speech and fragrant deceptions no longer doting with the pitiful hearts, such as nostalgia.
Thy heart is fed with murmurs and music of the dead...
The Dweller: It had taken years, slowly reforming becoming humanoid again away from the remnant of wolf he had fallen to after the last battle with the Lords of Starside. His flesh had been so badly burned so destroyed even with the protective measures taken to keep the suns destruction off him that his leech had only just managed to keep him alive reverting to the original host of the wolf that had altered him. Now however that was over and while his mind was still an almost clean slate he had again been able to access the continuum instinctively perhaps but the continuum itself had given him a considerable gift.
Thought had weight within the darkened hallway, it existed independently of its thinker, how Descartes would have loved to discover his philosophical theorem was proven in this place and that not only could man create the thought, but in a place where thought was matter, then thought could create the man... Indeed it had for once in the continuum his memories had almost leaped upon him filling his mind, leaving him screaming, shaken as every moment of raw agony, every second of previous life had ripped into him filling him so that again he became himself to the highest degree. Yet he was changed, no longer the pure one who fought the Wamphyr for such high and generous purpose, now the leech ascended not completely for his mind was incredibly strong, but higher then e’er before...
He stood before the lifelines, the glowing miasma of blue, gold and the rare incurrance of red flowing, woven among them studying a lifeline of vast indeterminate age, one that he recognised from Starside, one that was so much more then simply Wampyhri. The one whom could have changed that world and altered the course of existence itself whom had left Starside after a twisted interaction with a denizen unworthy of her attentions, but then again weren’t all the Lords unworthy, the thought crossing his mind. After all he still existed and the others apart from one or two of the most pathetic still in existence and she did after all deserve the strongest.
Perhaps one of those she played with still existed, but no longer a threat after appearing to have ran away, survival of the fittest having no part of it, more likely survival of the coward... He who hides or runs away shall live to hide another day... What was his name again, Rad... Rad something ahhhhhh... Radu that was it. He chuckled mirthlessly to himself as his eyes traced the reddened line of life that was hers noting where she was and deciding that perhaps it was time to join her for one thing he had learned was where she existed, there was always opportunity of chaos.
A thought and the calculations rolling like a projectionists screen behind his eyes, the mathematics flowing twisting time and space to open a door revealing the swords she had left on Starside, three of them bound in tainted flesh, classic flesh crafting, mutated perversion of what had once been a living breathing human female, now he smirked wrapped to protect the weapons beneath. A touch less personal then the usual weapon of his kind, the gauntlet being much favoured as one could get truly close against their victim something that to the Wamphyr was almost a sexual thing. He lifted them then the calculations flowing again as he stepped back into the darkness before opening a door into the tavern where now she was located. He didn’t step through nor would it be visible to any whom knew not the continuum but she should be able to perceive him for she had the mathematical ability unless... he had found her before he had known her. *Chuckling to himself for such paradox was not impossible he waited to see if she noticed.
Thought had weight within the darkened hallway, it existed independently of its thinker, how Descartes would have loved to discover his philosophical theorem was proven in this place and that not only could man create the thought, but in a place where thought was matter, then thought could create the man... Indeed it had for once in the continuum his memories had almost leaped upon him filling his mind, leaving him screaming, shaken as every moment of raw agony, every second of previous life had ripped into him filling him so that again he became himself to the highest degree. Yet he was changed, no longer the pure one who fought the Wamphyr for such high and generous purpose, now the leech ascended not completely for his mind was incredibly strong, but higher then e’er before...
He stood before the lifelines, the glowing miasma of blue, gold and the rare incurrance of red flowing, woven among them studying a lifeline of vast indeterminate age, one that he recognised from Starside, one that was so much more then simply Wampyhri. The one whom could have changed that world and altered the course of existence itself whom had left Starside after a twisted interaction with a denizen unworthy of her attentions, but then again weren’t all the Lords unworthy, the thought crossing his mind. After all he still existed and the others apart from one or two of the most pathetic still in existence and she did after all deserve the strongest.
Perhaps one of those she played with still existed, but no longer a threat after appearing to have ran away, survival of the fittest having no part of it, more likely survival of the coward... He who hides or runs away shall live to hide another day... What was his name again, Rad... Rad something ahhhhhh... Radu that was it. He chuckled mirthlessly to himself as his eyes traced the reddened line of life that was hers noting where she was and deciding that perhaps it was time to join her for one thing he had learned was where she existed, there was always opportunity of chaos.
A thought and the calculations rolling like a projectionists screen behind his eyes, the mathematics flowing twisting time and space to open a door revealing the swords she had left on Starside, three of them bound in tainted flesh, classic flesh crafting, mutated perversion of what had once been a living breathing human female, now he smirked wrapped to protect the weapons beneath. A touch less personal then the usual weapon of his kind, the gauntlet being much favoured as one could get truly close against their victim something that to the Wamphyr was almost a sexual thing. He lifted them then the calculations flowing again as he stepped back into the darkness before opening a door into the tavern where now she was located. He didn’t step through nor would it be visible to any whom knew not the continuum but she should be able to perceive him for she had the mathematical ability unless... he had found her before he had known her. *Chuckling to himself for such paradox was not impossible he waited to see if she noticed.
Satrina: The necromancer has the ability to converse with ‘all’ things beyond life and undeath, speaking with the dead from their graves; for in death, those long passed still toiled with the burdens, and continued doing what they did in life—sequences, equations and arcane mathematics still existing, being woven into the very fabrics of creation, destruction and oblivion. Satrina was an especially ‘gifted’ with her ‘unique’ abilities, forcefully able to commune and raise death into pseudolife... not having to learn their secrets by means of torture, ripping their bodies apart to find information in their flesh and fluids and gases, even sometimes cannibalism. Not requiring such primal and barbaric measures; generally instead the dead revered Satrina like a messiah and tended to her requests as diligently they would they Queen. [nekrós manteía]In fact, most of the throngs of her legions were undead—warriors of boundless potency, unfettered by the weaknesses of flesh, imbued with a necromantic life. Her Necro-soldiers and Warbeasts were machines of war, tireless, immune to pain, unfazed by mortal wounds and loyal without question.
Unlike the more ‘common’ and ‘lowly’ vampire, rather predictable in their weak romanticisms, basic in their treachery and singular desires. Trusting a Wamphyri—especially a true Wampyhri was a dangerous gamble, especially if one did not have a reputation to throw down upon the table like a gauntlet, or to fall back on; it was unwise to approach with an ego unlearnt by merit or by deeds left unseen by their smouldering hellish eyes. The Wamphyri are treacherous by nature, territorial and egotistical... always having a hidden agenda, so it paid to move your way in the world with wise steps. A parasite from the alien Starside, which lies beyond the perschoch gate—only able to be passed one of several ways, the leech attaching itself to the spine and as it matures the parasite imbue the host with great strength and tenacity, enhancing their psychic potential, magnifying their senses and passions, and utterly corrupting them. Gradually the leech extrudes a network of neurones throughout the host, totally subjugating and remodelling appearances from the exceptionally beautiful to the grotesque and ugly.
In quantum mechanics a particle has no definite position, energy, momentum or time. Cosmological view s of the universe time and space consider both of these, intricately linked together in a continuum. Through various manipulations and equations it can be used in a most unique and scrupulous manner: the Mobius Equation. The Mobius Equation/Continuum—a metaphysical dimension that permits one to teleport from one place to another [faster than the speed of light – travel at the speed of thought!] It is the nothingness between places that permits those with the intuition to instantly transport themselves through space and time. Through future and past space-time doors, one is able to track the history of Mankind through their blue life threads. Able to trap a soul in a time loop and perform all kinds of evils from insanity to non-existence.... undoubtedly one of the most formidable weapons against the Wamphyri but one that shouldn’t be used so frivolously.
Time elapses in the folds and creases of space, continuum exists where momentum ebbs and flows like the tides of C’nachla. Of all places who would have thought their paths would once again cross by fate or misconceptions misguided fortune; to darken this doorstep once more. There was only one being who could send such mechanical devices in which to pluck unsuspecting information about those who were thieves and marauders of these lands whether by nomadic natures or commitment to their beloved sovereignty. Everyone had their puppets to use and abuse in every context of the word – Satrina was no different, far surpassing the masses with her cunning wit and subtle manipulation. Why had she even come here? It was pure and simple… to establish her influence into new found soils with the intent of colonization of the Systems Republic nations and conquest; after all, it was in her disposition to devour anything and everything in her path. Self preservation and survival being two of the most tangible obsessions to any war-monger incited species.
Then, definitely the natural instinct to obliterate worlds had been one of those most favoured agendas—if that wasn’t enough of a reason to investigate the prosperity of future tidings, perhaps that of old scores were? “All is well that ends well” the only words uttered from lips that dripped with sardonic venoms, yet the sweetness of the most potent nectars. A voice rich in the ‘Old Tongue’ of the Darkside mixed with the unmistakable alluring accent, exciting the senses of ‘Saatthan’ [Latin x Romanesque]—deep and sultry. Extending through the crimson mists of psychic connections, parting the mindfog effortlessly as a scalpel would through cartilage or sinew... however or whatever ‘The Dweller’ thought of a ‘past’ companion meant little to nothing, it didn’t even cause the flux of heartburn towards that nostalgia, or the flutter of sign to escape over tongue and twixt teeth. Alas, Radu was just another cohort who ran off like the rest of the curr—their heads ‘visually’ placed on the wall of shame alongside the others thus marked and labelled-- seen as nothing but insignificant setbacks and mistakes, and certainly far less painful to mind than blunt trauma to the cranium.
Whenever he was ready to cease with the hide and seek games, or pinning the noose around his own throat like the village idiot, perhaps Satrina would begin to take him seriously other than shaking her head and a rather dismal expression of disappointment blemishing flawless features. Dialogue extending towards his person, acknowledging the presence hiding behind the smoke screens of doors and vortexes... “Oh my dear, dear boy! Harry... that is your name, isn't it? My brain digests everything that surrounds unseen or seen, it perceives all, absorbing the useful, and discarding the useless. You'll have to try a bit harder if you don't want to end up as discarded crap! You may as well come out now...” Snickering to herself, eyes glaring from one patron to the next, while words continued through the cracks of the continuum and the swirling mists where ‘The Dweller’ did what he did best... dwelled.
Unlike the more ‘common’ and ‘lowly’ vampire, rather predictable in their weak romanticisms, basic in their treachery and singular desires. Trusting a Wamphyri—especially a true Wampyhri was a dangerous gamble, especially if one did not have a reputation to throw down upon the table like a gauntlet, or to fall back on; it was unwise to approach with an ego unlearnt by merit or by deeds left unseen by their smouldering hellish eyes. The Wamphyri are treacherous by nature, territorial and egotistical... always having a hidden agenda, so it paid to move your way in the world with wise steps. A parasite from the alien Starside, which lies beyond the perschoch gate—only able to be passed one of several ways, the leech attaching itself to the spine and as it matures the parasite imbue the host with great strength and tenacity, enhancing their psychic potential, magnifying their senses and passions, and utterly corrupting them. Gradually the leech extrudes a network of neurones throughout the host, totally subjugating and remodelling appearances from the exceptionally beautiful to the grotesque and ugly.
In quantum mechanics a particle has no definite position, energy, momentum or time. Cosmological view s of the universe time and space consider both of these, intricately linked together in a continuum. Through various manipulations and equations it can be used in a most unique and scrupulous manner: the Mobius Equation. The Mobius Equation/Continuum—a metaphysical dimension that permits one to teleport from one place to another [faster than the speed of light – travel at the speed of thought!] It is the nothingness between places that permits those with the intuition to instantly transport themselves through space and time. Through future and past space-time doors, one is able to track the history of Mankind through their blue life threads. Able to trap a soul in a time loop and perform all kinds of evils from insanity to non-existence.... undoubtedly one of the most formidable weapons against the Wamphyri but one that shouldn’t be used so frivolously.
Time elapses in the folds and creases of space, continuum exists where momentum ebbs and flows like the tides of C’nachla. Of all places who would have thought their paths would once again cross by fate or misconceptions misguided fortune; to darken this doorstep once more. There was only one being who could send such mechanical devices in which to pluck unsuspecting information about those who were thieves and marauders of these lands whether by nomadic natures or commitment to their beloved sovereignty. Everyone had their puppets to use and abuse in every context of the word – Satrina was no different, far surpassing the masses with her cunning wit and subtle manipulation. Why had she even come here? It was pure and simple… to establish her influence into new found soils with the intent of colonization of the Systems Republic nations and conquest; after all, it was in her disposition to devour anything and everything in her path. Self preservation and survival being two of the most tangible obsessions to any war-monger incited species.
Then, definitely the natural instinct to obliterate worlds had been one of those most favoured agendas—if that wasn’t enough of a reason to investigate the prosperity of future tidings, perhaps that of old scores were? “All is well that ends well” the only words uttered from lips that dripped with sardonic venoms, yet the sweetness of the most potent nectars. A voice rich in the ‘Old Tongue’ of the Darkside mixed with the unmistakable alluring accent, exciting the senses of ‘Saatthan’ [Latin x Romanesque]—deep and sultry. Extending through the crimson mists of psychic connections, parting the mindfog effortlessly as a scalpel would through cartilage or sinew... however or whatever ‘The Dweller’ thought of a ‘past’ companion meant little to nothing, it didn’t even cause the flux of heartburn towards that nostalgia, or the flutter of sign to escape over tongue and twixt teeth. Alas, Radu was just another cohort who ran off like the rest of the curr—their heads ‘visually’ placed on the wall of shame alongside the others thus marked and labelled-- seen as nothing but insignificant setbacks and mistakes, and certainly far less painful to mind than blunt trauma to the cranium.
Whenever he was ready to cease with the hide and seek games, or pinning the noose around his own throat like the village idiot, perhaps Satrina would begin to take him seriously other than shaking her head and a rather dismal expression of disappointment blemishing flawless features. Dialogue extending towards his person, acknowledging the presence hiding behind the smoke screens of doors and vortexes... “Oh my dear, dear boy! Harry... that is your name, isn't it? My brain digests everything that surrounds unseen or seen, it perceives all, absorbing the useful, and discarding the useless. You'll have to try a bit harder if you don't want to end up as discarded crap! You may as well come out now...” Snickering to herself, eyes glaring from one patron to the next, while words continued through the cracks of the continuum and the swirling mists where ‘The Dweller’ did what he did best... dwelled.
The Dweller: Standing in silence watching studying the patrons of the ‘vampire’ tavern, chuckling a moment at the audacity of the lesser ones who thought they knew all there was to know of bloodsucking. A weak and flaccid race by comparison bound unto death and cursed to feed and eternal hunger gaining nothing yet the Wampyhri a strong passionate breed, admittedly just as accursed but at least they didn’t have to die to live. He held his theories on this to himself for he had seen such manifestation to believe that perhaps the vampire had grown from a thralls doom and the pitiful ones had developed into what now existed on so many worlds. Not fully Wamphyr but related in the twisted pathways of genetic evolution.
A subtle rise of the left corner of narrowed lips, a smirk for she had noticed his presence and in her usual pointed fashion she announced her awareness. He had deliberately stood back inside the doorway to watch for the lifeline that bore her stamp had shown alteration in recent times, a twist in the weave indicative of a corrupting effulgence. Laughing now for what was more corrupting then the effects of the leech yet it had still held him wary. Nodding to himself for she was truly whom he thought swords held in left hand elongated via the transmutational properties of mutated flesh, right hand sliding into the pouch on his hip to fill the gauntlet, the favoured weapon of his breed as he stepped out to face her directly.
Head nodding in respectful acknowledgement for while his leech had claimed more of his nature shifting him further to the darker nature inherent within he was still the son of Harry Keogh and still had a mind stronger then any damned leech could ever hope for. Placing her weapons down, ignoring the one she was with for now, the leech’s aspirations guilty for that slight, for her companion was not of kind, hence unworthy of notice such was the arrogance within the Wampyhri.
Musculature and bone altering as jaw popped and crunched elongating to reveal a maw of vicious extremity, a shark would be jealous of the savage rending row upon row of teeth. Body shuddering as his height altered bringing him to a heavy set seven foot, arms lengthening and left hand becoming a savage clawed club, the nails diamond hard daggers of flesh ripping savagery. Face splitting in a parody of a grin reminiscent of the look on Freddie Krueger’s face when he thought he was getting sex, a frightening envisagement of hunger and doom, then the rasping words emerging from deep within his throat more a growl then speech “Lady... might I join your little entertainment, I find it... appealing to my... nature” the last syllable trailing off into guttural rasps.
A subtle rise of the left corner of narrowed lips, a smirk for she had noticed his presence and in her usual pointed fashion she announced her awareness. He had deliberately stood back inside the doorway to watch for the lifeline that bore her stamp had shown alteration in recent times, a twist in the weave indicative of a corrupting effulgence. Laughing now for what was more corrupting then the effects of the leech yet it had still held him wary. Nodding to himself for she was truly whom he thought swords held in left hand elongated via the transmutational properties of mutated flesh, right hand sliding into the pouch on his hip to fill the gauntlet, the favoured weapon of his breed as he stepped out to face her directly.
Head nodding in respectful acknowledgement for while his leech had claimed more of his nature shifting him further to the darker nature inherent within he was still the son of Harry Keogh and still had a mind stronger then any damned leech could ever hope for. Placing her weapons down, ignoring the one she was with for now, the leech’s aspirations guilty for that slight, for her companion was not of kind, hence unworthy of notice such was the arrogance within the Wampyhri.
Musculature and bone altering as jaw popped and crunched elongating to reveal a maw of vicious extremity, a shark would be jealous of the savage rending row upon row of teeth. Body shuddering as his height altered bringing him to a heavy set seven foot, arms lengthening and left hand becoming a savage clawed club, the nails diamond hard daggers of flesh ripping savagery. Face splitting in a parody of a grin reminiscent of the look on Freddie Krueger’s face when he thought he was getting sex, a frightening envisagement of hunger and doom, then the rasping words emerging from deep within his throat more a growl then speech “Lady... might I join your little entertainment, I find it... appealing to my... nature” the last syllable trailing off into guttural rasps.
Malice: Fleeting as a wistful smile, it is titles that give life its worth.
So many souls crawled through this existence, like children whose innocence yet lay intact; and though their contentment was genuine, it was also a hollow and flimsy thing, a device dependant upon the names that others awarded them, instead of those they earned. All it took was a fumbling of sheets and a man became a god, and their partner a vessel, a creature of creation that ushered warmth into flesh that, otherwise, would lay slick and sticky upon their legs. It was ironic, perhaps, that so many words held meaning and defined those that dwelt within Ayenee's borders, phrases like parent, and progeny, like lover and mother. These were the things that shaped their songs, that tied their tales together and, inevitably, gave birth to what scholars scribed as 'history'; and just as infants were offered infamy through the ones that had unleashed them, so too were mantles taken, like conqueror, and king.
Malice reflected upon these things, at least in part, whilst patrons either scattered to the wind like cinders in a storm, or stared aghast at his companion, for her beauty was beyond compare; though as the weight of their attention threatened to linger upon her, nightmare swarmed fierce and gigantic from the ruin the Warlord's hand had wrought. Conjured forth from the bowels of his barbarism, their union of swordsman and sorceress was unveiled anew, a symbiotic relationship that had endured the long aeons of their absence and now curled, horrific in its necromantic glory about the hand of his Queen. The spectre that haunted them, however, was not one that the onlookers could truly comprehend, and so in their ignorance they allowed their fears to manifest, eliciting a crying choir from pliant vocal-cords, while the armoured juggernaut remained impassive, an immobile rock upon the cusp of a ravenous whirlpool. Whilst he could have been graven from stone in that instant, a sculpture both beautiful and terrible to behold, there was another presence that stirred then, as Atra's shadow rose to prominence, a faint and innocuous thing that, for the briefest of moments, ceased skirting the edges of reality and gazed curiously toward its master.
The threat that she posed her champion, was both as imagined by Malice's minion, as it was welcomed by the monster himself then; for the loyalty that yet lay branded upon the warrior's chest was as eternal now, as it had been upon the day he had carved it upon his breast with his blade. Ever had she held his fate within her hand, though space and star had separated them, and now it seemed, much like the alchemic Uroborous, their paths had converged once more to swallow each other's story and stitch something new upon the skin of Ayenee. Covered in resolute and unyielding plate, it was mysteriously the skulls upon his shoulders that betrayed his eventual movement, when Atra revealed her new moniker; an announcement that caused the Warlord to cock his head thoughtfully to one side, as if regarding her from a different angle would shed some light upon the situation. In reality, the bond they shared transcended tongues; an understanding formed when first she had summoned his primordial essence, and ushered it unknowing from the void malign, unto these very shores Millennia ago.
“Then it too, shall be whispered with dread”, he promised, responding as succinctly as ever and tracing the hilt of his longsword with longing; as he waited for her will to be made manifest by his merciless hands. Before she could impart her Delphine damned wisdom, however, something appeared to distract her, a distortion within the very fabric of reality that Malice couldn't necessarily see, simply sense through his inhuman attunement to the planes. Piercing the veil between one place and the next, through psionic potency alone, Atra, or indeed Satrina as she had now dubbed herself, proceeded to communicate with this stranger, a feat that allowed Malice in turn to trace the signal and discern its point of origin. Rather than betray this new-found knowledge though, he merely graced his liege with a smile, a subtle hint that he understood they were no longer alone, and then returned to waiting patiently, wondering what fresh excitement this night of nights would yield.
So many souls crawled through this existence, like children whose innocence yet lay intact; and though their contentment was genuine, it was also a hollow and flimsy thing, a device dependant upon the names that others awarded them, instead of those they earned. All it took was a fumbling of sheets and a man became a god, and their partner a vessel, a creature of creation that ushered warmth into flesh that, otherwise, would lay slick and sticky upon their legs. It was ironic, perhaps, that so many words held meaning and defined those that dwelt within Ayenee's borders, phrases like parent, and progeny, like lover and mother. These were the things that shaped their songs, that tied their tales together and, inevitably, gave birth to what scholars scribed as 'history'; and just as infants were offered infamy through the ones that had unleashed them, so too were mantles taken, like conqueror, and king.
Malice reflected upon these things, at least in part, whilst patrons either scattered to the wind like cinders in a storm, or stared aghast at his companion, for her beauty was beyond compare; though as the weight of their attention threatened to linger upon her, nightmare swarmed fierce and gigantic from the ruin the Warlord's hand had wrought. Conjured forth from the bowels of his barbarism, their union of swordsman and sorceress was unveiled anew, a symbiotic relationship that had endured the long aeons of their absence and now curled, horrific in its necromantic glory about the hand of his Queen. The spectre that haunted them, however, was not one that the onlookers could truly comprehend, and so in their ignorance they allowed their fears to manifest, eliciting a crying choir from pliant vocal-cords, while the armoured juggernaut remained impassive, an immobile rock upon the cusp of a ravenous whirlpool. Whilst he could have been graven from stone in that instant, a sculpture both beautiful and terrible to behold, there was another presence that stirred then, as Atra's shadow rose to prominence, a faint and innocuous thing that, for the briefest of moments, ceased skirting the edges of reality and gazed curiously toward its master.
The threat that she posed her champion, was both as imagined by Malice's minion, as it was welcomed by the monster himself then; for the loyalty that yet lay branded upon the warrior's chest was as eternal now, as it had been upon the day he had carved it upon his breast with his blade. Ever had she held his fate within her hand, though space and star had separated them, and now it seemed, much like the alchemic Uroborous, their paths had converged once more to swallow each other's story and stitch something new upon the skin of Ayenee. Covered in resolute and unyielding plate, it was mysteriously the skulls upon his shoulders that betrayed his eventual movement, when Atra revealed her new moniker; an announcement that caused the Warlord to cock his head thoughtfully to one side, as if regarding her from a different angle would shed some light upon the situation. In reality, the bond they shared transcended tongues; an understanding formed when first she had summoned his primordial essence, and ushered it unknowing from the void malign, unto these very shores Millennia ago.
“Then it too, shall be whispered with dread”, he promised, responding as succinctly as ever and tracing the hilt of his longsword with longing; as he waited for her will to be made manifest by his merciless hands. Before she could impart her Delphine damned wisdom, however, something appeared to distract her, a distortion within the very fabric of reality that Malice couldn't necessarily see, simply sense through his inhuman attunement to the planes. Piercing the veil between one place and the next, through psionic potency alone, Atra, or indeed Satrina as she had now dubbed herself, proceeded to communicate with this stranger, a feat that allowed Malice in turn to trace the signal and discern its point of origin. Rather than betray this new-found knowledge though, he merely graced his liege with a smile, a subtle hint that he understood they were no longer alone, and then returned to waiting patiently, wondering what fresh excitement this night of nights would yield.
Satrina: "That it shall be, in both agony and rapture....??"
It was always exquisite upon waking, in a sense of bygones that feel more like a rapid decline, falling with the burning flowers and ash of existence; promises and lies. The real world and the universe created merging violently into one solitary moment, where any shred of self control was reflecting back against evolution to show just how unsightly the artistry really was; truism the hardest form of self-criticism. Reason and clarity had transformed to madness, left shattered and solitary on soils of unfamiliar terrains--- an accompaniment to the desolate worlds traversed. A discordant wake, resembling that of a funeral, where bereavement sends off with resentful adieus misted in the seductive allure of her veils where blackness hides her beauty well, and the sound akin to razors upon weeping strings of cured flesh escorts the symphonies of life to their guttural endings. . "At times I wonder, Malice, if the regrets and pain of banality live through each and every one of us, vicariously. Our existences are marred with tragedy and hurt, incomparable and inferior to that of others. If so, are these vivid spoils nought but a catalyst for the never-constant state that we aspire to, that we perceive as contentment? For I assure... I am far from... satisfied!” Stifling a feigned yawn at the patronage and ‘immediate’ company, of those close to her proximity, in a rather churlish fashion-- it was something Satrina didn’t expect these insects to comprehend, in a place amongst the paper angels and synthetic devils, all whispering how they could wipe the sins away with a striking smile, or lurid gesture. Oh, how the devils watch and wait expecting naked flesh for the fancy of wretched promises of power and glory... their psyche preoccupied with imaginations, of infernal fires and wicked designs, flies and banal covetousness.
Castigation of lust, in crude devices or wanton erotic pleasures from virgin vines; and yet, most in blatant de rigueur had to stand skyclad within a triangle, with a trumpeting bellow from all tri-formed heads depicting monstrous beasts, while masturbating, to be taken seriously. Fear caused the heart to beat faster, the circulation coursing like the tidal surges of tsunami’s as they collide with the mortal shore... the blood rushing in concerto of perils strings. A subtle build of exuberance and ... musing, what gulf-ascended hand was it, which grappled now for their thirsty throats; dragging their souls from dehydrated husk, theirs spirit enraptured with chains, bound where darkness waits with wide, expectant lips? Night-born menace and the fear confound in the disembodied murmurings of haunting cadence, distorted as they interwove with the fragments of antagonistic ambiance. "Save for the burning static within my heart, I remain unaffected. Maybe that is the great delusion; a recess from what they are about to face, for which unlike them so trapped in routine... I am fully well prepared despite my unconcerned demeanour and relative confidence. All will be laid out before the banquet to entertain the comedic mercilessness of veracity. Let them hope this is not real, all but a nightmare caught in their palm like a lone teardrop... it just makes my influences all the more, enticing.” The zones of low darkness infested with nameless horror, the distortion of features from the soft to the sharper. Streams of phantasmal emanations streamed from Satrina’s form, the storms of ashes that fall upon fair meadows-- the beckoning avenues that lead to the horror of hellish dimensions.
Even the bifurcation of personalities remained in the Inner Dimensions, never completely dispersed or banished to the crypts of succession, in fact they had augmented, absorbed and fermented into a different set of characteristics. Setting her gaze upon Malice, allowing the black orbs to gaze leisurely, whilst words designed to stir drifted, “You do nothing unless it benefits you, that much is true... but I don’t believe for a second that you do not reside here and further bloodshed hasn’t crossed your mind. Why cease the dance just because the music has changed….” Deathly orchids twisting into a cynical leer at the last lingering pronunciation of rolled letters and thrown words, perhaps to most seemingly careless—as all words were thrown against the cautions of the howling winds that shrieked of ill-omens and woeful tidings... such a pity the weaker of the fools didn’t obey. Smirking wider as a few of the patrons scattered at the visual prestige of the Wamphyri, and right they should scatter for a best that could easily outmatch most demanded recognition. So, the shark endeavours to circle his prey, but was he the predator? Surely his own cautions should be singing their melodies of forewarnings, it is inevitable to know that the hunter can become the hunted and whereas the old Atra would have circled with him in this elaborate dance. However, this wasn’t Atra his dealings would approach this time, whereas Atra would have immediately attempted to intimidate, Satrina sat perfectly still seemingly ignorant and indifferent to his mechanisms ”If that is was you seek this dark eve, to delve in the entertainments of the dead and the yet to be.” Boot resting on the chair pushed it outwards abruptly in gesture for his to sit, and it wasn’t a request. “Quid pro quo…” salacious timbre oozing with acidic cadence while her own presence made itself known, rippling through the void-imbued ambiance, an omnipotence that could not be mistaken and certainly instilled fear in those of lesser status for it wasn’t just a Wamphyri that had befouled this night. And their battle of intellect was yet to begin....
"So, what stirs you to these shores, Harry? Surely not just the return of beloved weapons?" Ebony gaze moving to the weapons wrapped in the pelts of the fallen, scorched black from the ages The air, steadily congealing and curdling with an unseen fear, the shadows trembling where they stood along the walls-- their stillness more terrible than if they had rendered these somnolent drinkers limb from limb for it wasn’t their shadows depicted on the walls, instead twisted and contorted forms yet shapeless in their classification; somewhat terrestrial to any physical presence within the tavern. Strange voices in the wind; and the structure of the building quivered with a thin veil of black breath as if the very abyss itself was yawning in its ravenous tedium. “... and try not to be bumptious; we both know what happened to that leery leech, Thibor, for far lesser credence than what I should have granted, but I shall inform that these days... I am even less tolerant.” The swords were not about ‘weapon of choice’ they were esteemed vessels of triumphs and honour, crafted and unique artefacts none would ever see the likes of again—arms had turned to less conventional means and the ‘deathbringers’ of old were all but a dying, fading memory. Gesturing towards the keep to bring forth a bottle of vintage red, boring perhaps, but somewhat traditional-- many these harkening days appeared to have forgotten what tradition was all about, seeking changes merely to suit themself without knowing just because they wanted it, didn't mean it was good for them or they should have it. Sadistically grinning as the barkeep quickly filled the glass and leaving the bottle on the table, then leaving in less than a few rapid steps. "They are too skittish these days, Harry." Tones ushered at the pronunciation of his name, mockingly to the sounds of such a common name to a rather dark individual, but he had not always been as such.
Right hand extended, moving to acquire the crystalline glass of champagne that sparkled in the effervescent sporadic flashes. Tapered slender digits furling around the elegant stem of the glass then bringing it towards her opulent embouchements, as if desirous for the taste they blossomed to imbibe the piquant saccharine sharpness of flavours with strawberry undertones. Twisting slightly at the waist so that her beauteous face looked more upon both Malice and 'The Dweller' (as he was also known) directly and not from the askance view of daggered glance, perhaps he felt uneasy in her presence? Then again, perhaps he should feel great disquieting in her close company and then again, perhaps not. The wars had ravaged the majority of the Wampyhri Lords into extinction, and sure her silver had stricken a few from existence into the savage crimson mists and scourged the spore-infested swamps with the conflagrations of fire... such was a scorned woman; or one that simply enjoyed the demise more than creation. Forever planning ten steps ahead... for the future beheld many possibilities.
It was always exquisite upon waking, in a sense of bygones that feel more like a rapid decline, falling with the burning flowers and ash of existence; promises and lies. The real world and the universe created merging violently into one solitary moment, where any shred of self control was reflecting back against evolution to show just how unsightly the artistry really was; truism the hardest form of self-criticism. Reason and clarity had transformed to madness, left shattered and solitary on soils of unfamiliar terrains--- an accompaniment to the desolate worlds traversed. A discordant wake, resembling that of a funeral, where bereavement sends off with resentful adieus misted in the seductive allure of her veils where blackness hides her beauty well, and the sound akin to razors upon weeping strings of cured flesh escorts the symphonies of life to their guttural endings. . "At times I wonder, Malice, if the regrets and pain of banality live through each and every one of us, vicariously. Our existences are marred with tragedy and hurt, incomparable and inferior to that of others. If so, are these vivid spoils nought but a catalyst for the never-constant state that we aspire to, that we perceive as contentment? For I assure... I am far from... satisfied!” Stifling a feigned yawn at the patronage and ‘immediate’ company, of those close to her proximity, in a rather churlish fashion-- it was something Satrina didn’t expect these insects to comprehend, in a place amongst the paper angels and synthetic devils, all whispering how they could wipe the sins away with a striking smile, or lurid gesture. Oh, how the devils watch and wait expecting naked flesh for the fancy of wretched promises of power and glory... their psyche preoccupied with imaginations, of infernal fires and wicked designs, flies and banal covetousness.
Castigation of lust, in crude devices or wanton erotic pleasures from virgin vines; and yet, most in blatant de rigueur had to stand skyclad within a triangle, with a trumpeting bellow from all tri-formed heads depicting monstrous beasts, while masturbating, to be taken seriously. Fear caused the heart to beat faster, the circulation coursing like the tidal surges of tsunami’s as they collide with the mortal shore... the blood rushing in concerto of perils strings. A subtle build of exuberance and ... musing, what gulf-ascended hand was it, which grappled now for their thirsty throats; dragging their souls from dehydrated husk, theirs spirit enraptured with chains, bound where darkness waits with wide, expectant lips? Night-born menace and the fear confound in the disembodied murmurings of haunting cadence, distorted as they interwove with the fragments of antagonistic ambiance. "Save for the burning static within my heart, I remain unaffected. Maybe that is the great delusion; a recess from what they are about to face, for which unlike them so trapped in routine... I am fully well prepared despite my unconcerned demeanour and relative confidence. All will be laid out before the banquet to entertain the comedic mercilessness of veracity. Let them hope this is not real, all but a nightmare caught in their palm like a lone teardrop... it just makes my influences all the more, enticing.” The zones of low darkness infested with nameless horror, the distortion of features from the soft to the sharper. Streams of phantasmal emanations streamed from Satrina’s form, the storms of ashes that fall upon fair meadows-- the beckoning avenues that lead to the horror of hellish dimensions.
Even the bifurcation of personalities remained in the Inner Dimensions, never completely dispersed or banished to the crypts of succession, in fact they had augmented, absorbed and fermented into a different set of characteristics. Setting her gaze upon Malice, allowing the black orbs to gaze leisurely, whilst words designed to stir drifted, “You do nothing unless it benefits you, that much is true... but I don’t believe for a second that you do not reside here and further bloodshed hasn’t crossed your mind. Why cease the dance just because the music has changed….” Deathly orchids twisting into a cynical leer at the last lingering pronunciation of rolled letters and thrown words, perhaps to most seemingly careless—as all words were thrown against the cautions of the howling winds that shrieked of ill-omens and woeful tidings... such a pity the weaker of the fools didn’t obey. Smirking wider as a few of the patrons scattered at the visual prestige of the Wamphyri, and right they should scatter for a best that could easily outmatch most demanded recognition. So, the shark endeavours to circle his prey, but was he the predator? Surely his own cautions should be singing their melodies of forewarnings, it is inevitable to know that the hunter can become the hunted and whereas the old Atra would have circled with him in this elaborate dance. However, this wasn’t Atra his dealings would approach this time, whereas Atra would have immediately attempted to intimidate, Satrina sat perfectly still seemingly ignorant and indifferent to his mechanisms ”If that is was you seek this dark eve, to delve in the entertainments of the dead and the yet to be.” Boot resting on the chair pushed it outwards abruptly in gesture for his to sit, and it wasn’t a request. “Quid pro quo…” salacious timbre oozing with acidic cadence while her own presence made itself known, rippling through the void-imbued ambiance, an omnipotence that could not be mistaken and certainly instilled fear in those of lesser status for it wasn’t just a Wamphyri that had befouled this night. And their battle of intellect was yet to begin....
"So, what stirs you to these shores, Harry? Surely not just the return of beloved weapons?" Ebony gaze moving to the weapons wrapped in the pelts of the fallen, scorched black from the ages The air, steadily congealing and curdling with an unseen fear, the shadows trembling where they stood along the walls-- their stillness more terrible than if they had rendered these somnolent drinkers limb from limb for it wasn’t their shadows depicted on the walls, instead twisted and contorted forms yet shapeless in their classification; somewhat terrestrial to any physical presence within the tavern. Strange voices in the wind; and the structure of the building quivered with a thin veil of black breath as if the very abyss itself was yawning in its ravenous tedium. “... and try not to be bumptious; we both know what happened to that leery leech, Thibor, for far lesser credence than what I should have granted, but I shall inform that these days... I am even less tolerant.” The swords were not about ‘weapon of choice’ they were esteemed vessels of triumphs and honour, crafted and unique artefacts none would ever see the likes of again—arms had turned to less conventional means and the ‘deathbringers’ of old were all but a dying, fading memory. Gesturing towards the keep to bring forth a bottle of vintage red, boring perhaps, but somewhat traditional-- many these harkening days appeared to have forgotten what tradition was all about, seeking changes merely to suit themself without knowing just because they wanted it, didn't mean it was good for them or they should have it. Sadistically grinning as the barkeep quickly filled the glass and leaving the bottle on the table, then leaving in less than a few rapid steps. "They are too skittish these days, Harry." Tones ushered at the pronunciation of his name, mockingly to the sounds of such a common name to a rather dark individual, but he had not always been as such.
Right hand extended, moving to acquire the crystalline glass of champagne that sparkled in the effervescent sporadic flashes. Tapered slender digits furling around the elegant stem of the glass then bringing it towards her opulent embouchements, as if desirous for the taste they blossomed to imbibe the piquant saccharine sharpness of flavours with strawberry undertones. Twisting slightly at the waist so that her beauteous face looked more upon both Malice and 'The Dweller' (as he was also known) directly and not from the askance view of daggered glance, perhaps he felt uneasy in her presence? Then again, perhaps he should feel great disquieting in her close company and then again, perhaps not. The wars had ravaged the majority of the Wampyhri Lords into extinction, and sure her silver had stricken a few from existence into the savage crimson mists and scourged the spore-infested swamps with the conflagrations of fire... such was a scorned woman; or one that simply enjoyed the demise more than creation. Forever planning ten steps ahead... for the future beheld many possibilities.
The Dweller: While it seemed to those whom would see him standing in all the majesty of the true Wampyhri there still remained more humanity buried within Harry Jr then would ever be revealed... But he knew what he had seen, had recognised within the confines of the continuum which had led him to this place, this point in the multiverses, this moment where she was. He had seen the changes wrought within her life line, the change from the one he had known, to the one standing here now, for the line had not as such broken...
But he had also looked too far ahead and seen something, something that perhaps he should not of, or perhaps it was the design of that which existed beyond the lifelines. All he knew was the lifelines themselves had drawn his attention and instinct had sent him searching for the swords then to seek her out and hand them over. He knew not if the future may change by this action of respect and remembrance. Harry Jr had originally met her on Starside when that crusted leech Thibor had tried to seduce her with his lies, yet another who in their twisted psyche had never recognised the potence, the sheer strength hidden behind the facade of petite femme fatale.
For now at least his humanity ascended and the leech’s malefic influence was pushed asunder and turning his head he nodded to the other one in acknowledgement (Malice)for this one seemed to be thus far in her service then turned his head back to face her as he pondered an answer then his voice filled with the gravel of ages and already he had lived far beyond what a man might consider a normal life “Tolerant... even less...” he chuckled a sound of sinister amusement “How is that possible for if recollection serves me well, your tolerance” here he paused for effect “was of miniscule consequence when last we danced or perhaps that was the influence of Thibor’s exquisite courtesy.”
The leech momentarily ascended and he snarled “It would seem that you still enjoy the company of defectives, of lesser beings who walk their own direction and ignore what you have always been... little children whom are so busy playing with their egos that they forget to see reality... Our kind may have egos, but ours are at least of substance, those pissants are simply... pathetic and undeserving of your attention”... Shaking himself sheer force of will regaining control then “No apology I make Lady, you know what I am... I saw the lifelines within the continuum and a divergence sent me forth to find your swords, to bring them to you out of respect for one who above all others... deserves it”... He reached down to where he placed the swords hefted them then placed them into her hands giving a deep bow of respect.
“Know this Lady” the numbers rolling like a screen within his mind as the calculations opened a doorway behind him and he stepped backwards into the ever flowing continuum, vanishing to all but her.... “There will always be a place where you belong, and no matter what one will always remember you with nothing but... Respect” With that the door closed behind him and he was gone, if ever she would seek him, she would find him for she to knew the continuum but if what the lifelines had shown him were true, this would never happen. Pausing to again stare at the glowing lifelines studying hers, his eyes not moving as he simply sat and watched the inevitable...
But he had also looked too far ahead and seen something, something that perhaps he should not of, or perhaps it was the design of that which existed beyond the lifelines. All he knew was the lifelines themselves had drawn his attention and instinct had sent him searching for the swords then to seek her out and hand them over. He knew not if the future may change by this action of respect and remembrance. Harry Jr had originally met her on Starside when that crusted leech Thibor had tried to seduce her with his lies, yet another who in their twisted psyche had never recognised the potence, the sheer strength hidden behind the facade of petite femme fatale.
For now at least his humanity ascended and the leech’s malefic influence was pushed asunder and turning his head he nodded to the other one in acknowledgement (Malice)for this one seemed to be thus far in her service then turned his head back to face her as he pondered an answer then his voice filled with the gravel of ages and already he had lived far beyond what a man might consider a normal life “Tolerant... even less...” he chuckled a sound of sinister amusement “How is that possible for if recollection serves me well, your tolerance” here he paused for effect “was of miniscule consequence when last we danced or perhaps that was the influence of Thibor’s exquisite courtesy.”
The leech momentarily ascended and he snarled “It would seem that you still enjoy the company of defectives, of lesser beings who walk their own direction and ignore what you have always been... little children whom are so busy playing with their egos that they forget to see reality... Our kind may have egos, but ours are at least of substance, those pissants are simply... pathetic and undeserving of your attention”... Shaking himself sheer force of will regaining control then “No apology I make Lady, you know what I am... I saw the lifelines within the continuum and a divergence sent me forth to find your swords, to bring them to you out of respect for one who above all others... deserves it”... He reached down to where he placed the swords hefted them then placed them into her hands giving a deep bow of respect.
“Know this Lady” the numbers rolling like a screen within his mind as the calculations opened a doorway behind him and he stepped backwards into the ever flowing continuum, vanishing to all but her.... “There will always be a place where you belong, and no matter what one will always remember you with nothing but... Respect” With that the door closed behind him and he was gone, if ever she would seek him, she would find him for she to knew the continuum but if what the lifelines had shown him were true, this would never happen. Pausing to again stare at the glowing lifelines studying hers, his eyes not moving as he simply sat and watched the inevitable...
Satrina: The house of cards, where reason is bound and cast into this tempest to toss the trumps of spades and hearts, like leaves to the tempers of the Fall. Why do you refrain from my presence, my touch, my deathless gaze... and yet forever ask for its affection by the taking of death's cold clammy hand?
Beads of rain luminous, like black jewels darker than the blackest of Acheron’s rivers as the sky above opened and the fugitive rain poured down to relieve the street in arabesques of steam and vapours. Its precipitation frantically upon the dirty paved chromatic street and like a menacing spell fashioned a quagmire of halo-rimmed portals for the lone soul to travel. In the distance rolling thunder echoed in ear-splitting crescendos crashing down hump-backed Alps and reverberating from valley and vale like the accoutrements of the Ayenee Valley’s. Pulled in by unseen forces, lightning lashed the great pile again and even the people who had been walking in street ducked for cover beneath the awnings. Satrina had not moved, apart from the manner of how she sat, turned slightly in towards him—Erzulie-like in the pallid light between the sporadic flashes of lightening. Eyes like black vast abysses locked gazed down on the human-pelts that adorned the majesty of those ancient weapons. The last of a legacy swathed in the remains of fallen foes—the blackness of age, where hieroglyphics adorned in hues of gold and elaborate symbols marking their power... to contain ‘them’ from the eyes of a sinful world.
Ebon hair falling over one clad shoulder and down, down beyond the constructs of bio-synthetic fabrics. In a throaty, haunted, other-worldly voice she spoke. The only of ineffable thing about Satina’s demeanour were the golden glyphs and silver sigils forming intricate patterns across limbs, entwining beneath the tautness of attire. Elaborate cuneiform inscriptions elusive, an elusive light reminiscent of the waning moon, or the phantasmal phosphorescence of the dead. Faint at first, the flickering of flames [Flame of Samael— Sanctus Incendia], dancing along the tapered limbs, the hues of frost and moonlight with the dim spectral blue. Insidious but indistinct waves of heat rippled outwards from her form, though features or the hint of expression gave away nothing of any intention or cause. Lips of sculpted rubies that soon bore the smile of jest, before speech flowed as wine or the sanguine raptures of her victim’s throat, “The litanies of darkness, where dead mouths mutter not in sleep, but fom the feeble fluttering of dust-winged moths, as a necromancer speaks”. What was this, a spell of some arcane tryst or riddle? Or merely words evolved from her salacious mouth where nightshade lingered to the hymn of some bitter lament.
“They all speak of this name, Atra... so long dead it rattles in my ears like bones. They hang onto it like an effigy of remembrance, bitterly and regretfully, cannot forget. For unseen is she by the eyes of light and fires of life, only that which is now ushered from the shadows of darkness like the frightened curr. Still they concern themselves with her, and not the ways of one woman trying to mark on deeds worthy now of remembrance. Come they do, like dogs, sheep and cattle... while trifling insult and obscene gestures of veneration. Shall I tell... so too does the darkness speak of loves and hatreds... and then in reprise utter words of peace and the end of bloodshed. So which am I, a destroyer, a creatrix, a seer of peace... or is that just the twisted tongue of your endemic speaking is the order of law, to subterfuge what is lacking? Or... have I evolved too far beyond your understandings? What say you.” Already knowing the answers, tugging on the gilded cerulean strands of essence and life—where even the crimson veins of lifeblood flowed like the tides only to recede to that inner thirst of destruction; one this time not for worlds, civilizations or cities... this is far more personal. “Time only scratches the scabs of nostalgia just enough for us to reminisce, bleed and alter some ways, lest we be led once again along our repetitious paths of delight and pain. Neither one is forsaken or permanent. Sunk back into the wells of primal fear and lust like bare, empty sockets of priceless ivory, they are.” Drawing her eyes to his, there was nothing of weakness in the design of stature or grandeur, nothing to hint towards any decline of her characteristics only that to tribute of evolution where pride sing loudly in the waltzing reflections of overture and nebulous illuminations that from time to time flickered at the axis of those voidic portals.
“We possess eyes without sight, tender and frail nerves. Mine are evolved, attuned to sensory art. Akin to perpetual theatres that have seen the past, but too can foresee the future, I do not need strings and webs to see where the story ends or where it begins. I have seen creatures of faith and faithlessness, that are never absolute on what faith is and what conviction is, thsu torn to their own purpose, confused and bedazzled. Eyes that see, and yet they do not comprehend the smallest or simplest of things such as the mite that crawls beneath the itch in tragic serenade and scarlet fever; the mite that buries deeper, despite the soothing gossamer-membrane, often seen as healed, but only hiding what is hidden in order to breed more frailty into an already frail species. Its own existence entrusted to faith or lack thereof, strangely, they betray themself.”And like a nemesis, his visage shone back towards him, a dark creeping sensation that rippled across her seated form—a conflict of essence? Matter and energy that is wholly diverse from all subterranean, celestial and terrestrial states and forms. Images and visions of planets and dimensions, the transmuted negative power, amplified by countless folds (a paradox) by the dynamos of continuum-- one that could remove most from this planar realm and hurl them towards an incalculable distance from contemporary time and space. Effect that effortlessly could cause an instant projection across the temporal stream that enfolds the entire cosmos in its endless, equal flowing and to the very darkness he so affectionately referred. There emanated the visible and invisible agencies of annihilation; slowly at first, and then with cyclonic acceleration.
Leaning forwards more, digits furling around the width of wrapped arms, the energies continued to uncoil in a labyrinthine whorl of luminosity and engulfed shadow, equation upon equation till they weaved an unmistakeable sequence. With televisic clarity, there grew in her mind, visually programming the globe with destination and co-ordinates, with the glaring perspectives of remote. Black unearthly lands, the mightily swarming piles of inhuman cities, lying beneath an incandescent of some waning, dying star, not worthy of the fruitless soil beneath their constructs. Apertures rolled into a macabre smile, whirling and falling emptiness, continuation of out-poured energies, and obviously ‘evident’. Blurring the exterior world from sight, feeling the immeasurable eddying of the further voids, the frozen entropy of its carnivorous caress. Tempest-impel, wind- gnarled embrace of such a cold revelation, a corpse wind trapped in death throes assailed the exteriors of the building signifying that a storm was on the approach, or the obsidian wings of all unutterable horrors conjured by hateful and scorned minds. Tilting her head, so that the lengths of ravenesque silk covered the left eye behind its veils... “Adding insult to your own injury, I see Harry... not the best of ways or wiles! But I shall permit your opinions and gestures of not knowing that in which you speak of the companies that I keep, for I assure you, that is merely foolish assumption. However, I shall allow that indiscretion for the privy of your own natures but also remaining true to that of my own.”
Smiling and nodding in his final courtesy, something that others could learned from respects and honours thus bestowed not because one demanded, but because one had deserved it not from past deeds, but those of present deeds and those yet to be done, and sealed as true fate; many from the past thinking themselves superior behaved nothing but subhuman, bestial or the one-track minded.. “I have my place, Harry—but you know what is to be done and where the keys are to forever lock those ‘doors’ should Starside ever come to see the last stars decline.” Already the moon was retreating behind a wreath of oily-rag, where rapidly the skies succumb to the swarming abyss. “We disembark unprepared, ill-assorted to the task, and honour falls to the last grain of sand. Mercy, a dried flower in a shadowbox, hope lies fallow by shunned houses. We recoil, resisting the urge, the inner tug to attempt another move as if one could decide their life, their heart's course. We hold out, digging in, wishing for time to erase this intensity wrenching the soul.” Either way, if ‘The Dweller’ had already vanished behind the portals of equations and the continuum—Satrina’s words would still be heard through the scarlet mists of thought transference.
“ We have shifted, hours into days, into weeks, into months, and quickly into years and our foolish hearts may turn to other things--other things less futile. Will I be more wary of the swine and their desire to mutilate me? I walk on past the acrid emptiness of burning wastelands of disorder; one more distraction waits just ahead for the endless games of sublimation. Still I know a part of me will always love purely those ones who stand silently waiting in the places of subjugated passion. Quietly beckoning me from behind gelid waterfalls of ancient snow-melt upon the mountains of madness, they are lost in the mists of my past. Only there... shall they mourn, or in the reflections of the black mirrors when they finally realize their loss in the treachery of my smile.” Only then would Satrina permit the silence of his passing from the planar thresholds to that of the millions of threads that formed the elaborate webs of all things connected and all things interconnected that held life in any shape or substance— or plucked at the strings like a harpist in far sweeter symphonies. Fingers grasping the swords to lift them from the table, and then respectfully placing lengthwise across the swathed platform of her lap... lips quietly counting the short-lived moments.
Malice: Opportunity is seldom seized, yet ever present if one but looks hard enough.
Slick and icy, like a salmon snatched from freezing water, rain burst from heaven's belly, smothering the region in a storm and, in doing so, exasperated the journey of a lone messenger, a paige whose grudging steps lead him out of the Castle's warmth, and into the cold beyond. When Malice had first scattered the patrons like skittles, word of his deed had spread to the local garrison and, eventually, the duke himself, whose demesne had never been so blighted as tonight; for he had heard tell of the Warlord, and so rather than sending a squad of soldiers to the slaughter, he decided to try a different approach entirely. That was how the young Ricket, thirteen with dreams of knighthood, had found himself frequenting the roughest part of town he'd ever set foot in; clutching a satchel in tiny, terrified hands, and heading to meet the infamous warrior who, rumour had it, had never known defeat.
Within the tavern, however, Malice too allowed his gaze to wander briefly over the exquisite weapons of his companion, discerning with a glance what a talented blacksmith would have taken minutes to muster. Understanding their composition, from molecular material, to magical might, the truth of them was lain bare before his black and hungry eyes; reminding him of the fearsome FiendWrath, and the day he had forged the sword and made a thousand throats weep. His blade too was an unnatural thing, a prison that held a ravenous beast bound within its folds, which could cleave a foe asunder, be they man or monster, demon or deity, due to the reality-rending nature of its edge. The obsidian lips of the juggernaut, which were a stark contrast compared to the purple hair that framed his face, wavered at Satrina's words suddenly, though his eyes remained momentarily fixed upon her swords; and as their jest struck a chord within him, they broadened into an amused smile, whilst he replied. “The song never stops, for ever is it sung within here”, he said, pausing to gesture toward his head, before calmly taking the seat that was offered, and regarding her once more from his new vantage point.
The conversation that coursed between Satrina and the 'Dweller' ebbed and flowed, as though it were a river rushing between two separate mouths; an exchange that Malice made no move to impede, because whilst he fought with flesh, his Queen often warred with words, and so he allowed the elegance of her art to flourish, without the gravelly avalanche of his voice. The cut upon his cheek had long healed by the time respect was afforded him and, compelled by courtesy, his head too moved to acknowledge the stranger in return, listening in silence once more. It would have surprised people, perhaps, to know that those same soft tiers, which Satrina used to weave such poetry, commanded the brutality of his blade just as readily; and so, had they witnessed the Darkbane's bond before, they may have realized Malice would have buried that same blade in this 'Dweller', had she but willed it. That was the nature of their relationship though, the duality of their existence; for whilst she sowed spells as easily as farmers would seeds, he wrought havoc with his hands, and carved a bloody path through any that sought to oppose their designs.
Trudging through the vicious hail outside, his hair whipped awkwardly about by the wind that bore it aloft, Ricket had finally managed to reach the watering hole, by the time the 'Dweller' decided to depart; vanishing, he believed, from sight, but he hadn't counted on how far Malice's vision extended, for those bottomless pits within his skull could pierce the planes themselves. Whilst they might have been watching then, so too was he, and there was little the future could hold for Satrina, that he wouldn't subvert, should the need arise. Ricket, on the other hand, had no desire for the future beyond getting himself dry, and promptly hurried into the establishment through the main door, heedless of the debris, and the blood, until he had charged into its welcoming interior. The Warlord's attention shifted at this interruption, moving from wherever the 'Dweller' dwelt, to the handsome lad, whose thoughts of warmth had been forgotten, now he was surrounded by screaming townspeople, and the bodies of the slain. Feeling an unpleasant lurch within his gut, the boy forced himself to look around and, noticing Malice, managed to stumble over and deposit the satchel at his feet, before he lurched away and violently vomited; decorating the already dirty floorboards with the contents of his stomach. Laughing heartily at Ricket's squeamishness, Malice scooped the satchel up in one massive gauntlet and, from its depths plucked a hurriedly scribbled note, stamped with the Duke's seal. Scrolling his eyes over the sentence, he smiled and decided to spare the boy, remarking simply “Tell him yes”, before dismissing the paige and turning to Satrina once more “It seems my presence is requested at the Duke's castle, do you fancy a bit of a feast?”.
Slick and icy, like a salmon snatched from freezing water, rain burst from heaven's belly, smothering the region in a storm and, in doing so, exasperated the journey of a lone messenger, a paige whose grudging steps lead him out of the Castle's warmth, and into the cold beyond. When Malice had first scattered the patrons like skittles, word of his deed had spread to the local garrison and, eventually, the duke himself, whose demesne had never been so blighted as tonight; for he had heard tell of the Warlord, and so rather than sending a squad of soldiers to the slaughter, he decided to try a different approach entirely. That was how the young Ricket, thirteen with dreams of knighthood, had found himself frequenting the roughest part of town he'd ever set foot in; clutching a satchel in tiny, terrified hands, and heading to meet the infamous warrior who, rumour had it, had never known defeat.
Within the tavern, however, Malice too allowed his gaze to wander briefly over the exquisite weapons of his companion, discerning with a glance what a talented blacksmith would have taken minutes to muster. Understanding their composition, from molecular material, to magical might, the truth of them was lain bare before his black and hungry eyes; reminding him of the fearsome FiendWrath, and the day he had forged the sword and made a thousand throats weep. His blade too was an unnatural thing, a prison that held a ravenous beast bound within its folds, which could cleave a foe asunder, be they man or monster, demon or deity, due to the reality-rending nature of its edge. The obsidian lips of the juggernaut, which were a stark contrast compared to the purple hair that framed his face, wavered at Satrina's words suddenly, though his eyes remained momentarily fixed upon her swords; and as their jest struck a chord within him, they broadened into an amused smile, whilst he replied. “The song never stops, for ever is it sung within here”, he said, pausing to gesture toward his head, before calmly taking the seat that was offered, and regarding her once more from his new vantage point.
The conversation that coursed between Satrina and the 'Dweller' ebbed and flowed, as though it were a river rushing between two separate mouths; an exchange that Malice made no move to impede, because whilst he fought with flesh, his Queen often warred with words, and so he allowed the elegance of her art to flourish, without the gravelly avalanche of his voice. The cut upon his cheek had long healed by the time respect was afforded him and, compelled by courtesy, his head too moved to acknowledge the stranger in return, listening in silence once more. It would have surprised people, perhaps, to know that those same soft tiers, which Satrina used to weave such poetry, commanded the brutality of his blade just as readily; and so, had they witnessed the Darkbane's bond before, they may have realized Malice would have buried that same blade in this 'Dweller', had she but willed it. That was the nature of their relationship though, the duality of their existence; for whilst she sowed spells as easily as farmers would seeds, he wrought havoc with his hands, and carved a bloody path through any that sought to oppose their designs.
Trudging through the vicious hail outside, his hair whipped awkwardly about by the wind that bore it aloft, Ricket had finally managed to reach the watering hole, by the time the 'Dweller' decided to depart; vanishing, he believed, from sight, but he hadn't counted on how far Malice's vision extended, for those bottomless pits within his skull could pierce the planes themselves. Whilst they might have been watching then, so too was he, and there was little the future could hold for Satrina, that he wouldn't subvert, should the need arise. Ricket, on the other hand, had no desire for the future beyond getting himself dry, and promptly hurried into the establishment through the main door, heedless of the debris, and the blood, until he had charged into its welcoming interior. The Warlord's attention shifted at this interruption, moving from wherever the 'Dweller' dwelt, to the handsome lad, whose thoughts of warmth had been forgotten, now he was surrounded by screaming townspeople, and the bodies of the slain. Feeling an unpleasant lurch within his gut, the boy forced himself to look around and, noticing Malice, managed to stumble over and deposit the satchel at his feet, before he lurched away and violently vomited; decorating the already dirty floorboards with the contents of his stomach. Laughing heartily at Ricket's squeamishness, Malice scooped the satchel up in one massive gauntlet and, from its depths plucked a hurriedly scribbled note, stamped with the Duke's seal. Scrolling his eyes over the sentence, he smiled and decided to spare the boy, remarking simply “Tell him yes”, before dismissing the paige and turning to Satrina once more “It seems my presence is requested at the Duke's castle, do you fancy a bit of a feast?”.
Satrina: Wanderlust can be just as poisonous as the viper that lay in sand-scorched wait for a thirsting shred of destiny. Between the two lies the great Chasm, an open wound of the real. The idealist's blind-spot, cob-webbed and sold as dangerous confection to blind acolytes that see not their souls in the shallow-- it shall become as Hell if allowed to bloom just so. Traversed, loved and nurtured, it attains the most wonderful geometry, sacred and perfect to the savage gardens, the wastelands of chaos. Perhaps they shouldn’t be so afraid of the beast that springs forth from the salted wounds of nostalgia, for she is your worldly answer to cosmic fear. A romantic ossuary in the unknown dark. Over the walls and webs of a meandering Hell, watching in elegant patience, there stirring only to collect her gentle debt of secrets, like ethereal butterflies on the wing. Secrets of failure, love, delight and sorrow, born unto her callous maw...graceful and silently she feeds, gilded in throes of writhing, entombed souls, draped across the carcasses of those long spent offerings.
Such an ‘acclaimed’ passionate Love, despite the seeming grotesquery which many had attributed her toward—not so versed in the words of war before, speeches usually lacked the grace and flair granted to her tongue these days. One could not expect when sitting in the courts of one of the most powerful universal federations and not learn a thing or two. Most certainly now, she could incite war or bring forth peace with the elegance of intellect and honeyed tones purring twixt those apertures. Not ‘just’ a woman of word but also the blades that had for long clashed with some of the mightiest lord and whose gauntlet had eviscerated many to the tides of the fallen skulls that ‘had’ piled at her feet, Pandora, Spectre and Ballathor amongst her most prized ‘Darkbane’ trophies displayed-- for she had severed its legacy, its hopes and nightmarish dreams of continuance. Were those in company now so attuned to primal customs, they failed to see the boredom of its presence in the blackness of her eyes?
Fingers tipped like furian claws, plucking back the softened parched flesh, and then the black silks-- revealing the beauty of those weapons unseen by the mortal and immortal eye till the time of judgment. ‘Venenum ab Ater Abyssus’ or also known as the ‘Poison of the Black Abyss’ adorned with mysterious sigils and glyphs unknown to any outside of the 7th and 5th Heavens and Hells that Samael had since the first spark of adversary ruled, these specific runes summoned the essences of both shadow and malady; poisonous. Branded with the 15 glyphs of death and entropy, able to extract her opponents physical and metaphysical energies for the blade possessed an intelligence of its own and by command of its prestige considering the hand that yielded it, was also the hand that forged it. Psychic vampirism, necrotic sovereignty and diablerie, especially lethal to creatures of darker spheres and chthonic entities for the opponent may not absorb/regenerate lethal damage.
This unique weapon is an anathema to the undead or (holy or unholy) immortal alike giving them the irrevocable benediction of banishment. The cursed blade responded to her touch, a tingling sensation crept across the palm of her hand as palm swept over the flat structure of the blade as fingers closed around it, slowly withdrawing the blade from its place of slumber. Extracting it unhurriedly, the smooth silver apex jutting out from the black mithril scabbard, as the blade was exposed, revealing the ten jagged teeth of the outer limb of the sword only to watch it curve to a finely honed precision. The cutting edge razor-sharp and smiling impishly as the reflection of light skimmed over its surface provoking a evanescent flash of brilliant illumination demanding recognition. Hand trenchantly gripping the hilt, listening to the musical cacophony of metal scrapping against the lip of carapace in reminiscence of those who did dwell between the stars whom had forged such magnificent blades as these—no longer existing... long gone.
These were only just some of the traits of the ’Venenum ab Ater Abyssus’ to taste metallic ichors spilling over its fangs with vengeful fury. The other two blades remained concealed, wrapped back beneath the cloaks in which they had been given. Warded and diffused of prying eyes even though from them, the gentle songs of darkness procured, schismatic and fervent, tremors of expectancy whisper throughout the tavern making the other occupants rather... unsettled. The Lady of the blood-stained rose, darker than the grave placing blade to its sheath, almost sexual in that very rite before fastening it to the lithe structure of outer left thigh – “I leave behind the ashes of my girdle: a token of every enemy I did ever defeat. For the pride of mortals and immortals alike that ever seek to crush the enemies without, but forget about destroying those enemies that lurk within!” With that, slowly Satrina stood, pushing back the chair so that its legs scraped shrilly across the stone flooring, like the sound of diamonds cutting glass, or the last scream of a soul torn from its earthbound urn of flesh and vanity.
“Nothing holds me back, since Fate herself has disrobed me of all insecurity I ever clung to. For the souls of mortals and again immortal alike clothe themselves in many disempowering threads of finery and armours of self-narcissism and war, leading them far from my Throne of Death and Rebirth! Perhaps, you should consider the same? But it seems 'love' suits me rather well....” A burning geyser, her own dark sorcery evoked, while ecstasies swilled on the tongue—eyes drifting over towards the messenger, an elegant brow arching at the state of not just the discomfort at the presence of gore and blood... invitation seal plucked at the seams by carnal claw to reveal that agenda’s or political structures of conquest lay hidden, scribed on the virgin parchment in elaborate calligraphy. Smirking at the mention of feasts, whilst looking from one patron to the next, having quite the disdain for such ordinary and unrefined things such as vampires... the lowest of the food chain next to all the cli’cha of this world. “I concur... we leave no parasite... standing” right hand gesturing with a single sweep towards those who turned at the reference to ‘parasite’... seemed they took offense to being more or less measured to the genus of bacteria and smegma.
It was hardly unmistakable as to what was being suggested while within right hand that traced across the concave of abdomen. Hand furling around hilt as weapon was extracted. Hardly the action of a said Atra’Lamia, who was in the ‘past’ extremely fond bloodsuckers-- they made easy pets and simple puppets to their basic instincts to drink and act like the devil’s whores; tugging at the chains, fodder to the flames. The larvae, keen to join the ranks of a clan far removed from her flesh, replaced with markings attributed to her honour and evolutions. It was then, that another voice sung through the corridors of Satrina’s mind, barely audible through the multitudes of the choirs that resonated to a deafening roar since her return to Ayenee... this one bore no real distinction but its words carried their weight of ill-omens yet to come....
“The stars will navigate your path; the keys will turn the lock. “
Such an ‘acclaimed’ passionate Love, despite the seeming grotesquery which many had attributed her toward—not so versed in the words of war before, speeches usually lacked the grace and flair granted to her tongue these days. One could not expect when sitting in the courts of one of the most powerful universal federations and not learn a thing or two. Most certainly now, she could incite war or bring forth peace with the elegance of intellect and honeyed tones purring twixt those apertures. Not ‘just’ a woman of word but also the blades that had for long clashed with some of the mightiest lord and whose gauntlet had eviscerated many to the tides of the fallen skulls that ‘had’ piled at her feet, Pandora, Spectre and Ballathor amongst her most prized ‘Darkbane’ trophies displayed-- for she had severed its legacy, its hopes and nightmarish dreams of continuance. Were those in company now so attuned to primal customs, they failed to see the boredom of its presence in the blackness of her eyes?
Fingers tipped like furian claws, plucking back the softened parched flesh, and then the black silks-- revealing the beauty of those weapons unseen by the mortal and immortal eye till the time of judgment. ‘Venenum ab Ater Abyssus’ or also known as the ‘Poison of the Black Abyss’ adorned with mysterious sigils and glyphs unknown to any outside of the 7th and 5th Heavens and Hells that Samael had since the first spark of adversary ruled, these specific runes summoned the essences of both shadow and malady; poisonous. Branded with the 15 glyphs of death and entropy, able to extract her opponents physical and metaphysical energies for the blade possessed an intelligence of its own and by command of its prestige considering the hand that yielded it, was also the hand that forged it. Psychic vampirism, necrotic sovereignty and diablerie, especially lethal to creatures of darker spheres and chthonic entities for the opponent may not absorb/regenerate lethal damage.
This unique weapon is an anathema to the undead or (holy or unholy) immortal alike giving them the irrevocable benediction of banishment. The cursed blade responded to her touch, a tingling sensation crept across the palm of her hand as palm swept over the flat structure of the blade as fingers closed around it, slowly withdrawing the blade from its place of slumber. Extracting it unhurriedly, the smooth silver apex jutting out from the black mithril scabbard, as the blade was exposed, revealing the ten jagged teeth of the outer limb of the sword only to watch it curve to a finely honed precision. The cutting edge razor-sharp and smiling impishly as the reflection of light skimmed over its surface provoking a evanescent flash of brilliant illumination demanding recognition. Hand trenchantly gripping the hilt, listening to the musical cacophony of metal scrapping against the lip of carapace in reminiscence of those who did dwell between the stars whom had forged such magnificent blades as these—no longer existing... long gone.
These were only just some of the traits of the ’Venenum ab Ater Abyssus’ to taste metallic ichors spilling over its fangs with vengeful fury. The other two blades remained concealed, wrapped back beneath the cloaks in which they had been given. Warded and diffused of prying eyes even though from them, the gentle songs of darkness procured, schismatic and fervent, tremors of expectancy whisper throughout the tavern making the other occupants rather... unsettled. The Lady of the blood-stained rose, darker than the grave placing blade to its sheath, almost sexual in that very rite before fastening it to the lithe structure of outer left thigh – “I leave behind the ashes of my girdle: a token of every enemy I did ever defeat. For the pride of mortals and immortals alike that ever seek to crush the enemies without, but forget about destroying those enemies that lurk within!” With that, slowly Satrina stood, pushing back the chair so that its legs scraped shrilly across the stone flooring, like the sound of diamonds cutting glass, or the last scream of a soul torn from its earthbound urn of flesh and vanity.
“Nothing holds me back, since Fate herself has disrobed me of all insecurity I ever clung to. For the souls of mortals and again immortal alike clothe themselves in many disempowering threads of finery and armours of self-narcissism and war, leading them far from my Throne of Death and Rebirth! Perhaps, you should consider the same? But it seems 'love' suits me rather well....” A burning geyser, her own dark sorcery evoked, while ecstasies swilled on the tongue—eyes drifting over towards the messenger, an elegant brow arching at the state of not just the discomfort at the presence of gore and blood... invitation seal plucked at the seams by carnal claw to reveal that agenda’s or political structures of conquest lay hidden, scribed on the virgin parchment in elaborate calligraphy. Smirking at the mention of feasts, whilst looking from one patron to the next, having quite the disdain for such ordinary and unrefined things such as vampires... the lowest of the food chain next to all the cli’cha of this world. “I concur... we leave no parasite... standing” right hand gesturing with a single sweep towards those who turned at the reference to ‘parasite’... seemed they took offense to being more or less measured to the genus of bacteria and smegma.
It was hardly unmistakable as to what was being suggested while within right hand that traced across the concave of abdomen. Hand furling around hilt as weapon was extracted. Hardly the action of a said Atra’Lamia, who was in the ‘past’ extremely fond bloodsuckers-- they made easy pets and simple puppets to their basic instincts to drink and act like the devil’s whores; tugging at the chains, fodder to the flames. The larvae, keen to join the ranks of a clan far removed from her flesh, replaced with markings attributed to her honour and evolutions. It was then, that another voice sung through the corridors of Satrina’s mind, barely audible through the multitudes of the choirs that resonated to a deafening roar since her return to Ayenee... this one bore no real distinction but its words carried their weight of ill-omens yet to come....
“The stars will navigate your path; the keys will turn the lock. “
Adrin Eitan: History is a tricky whore, she often screws men into idle
As if there was insult to be had to injury, the words of Satrina in regards to the 'parasites' of the world played a hand of epic concordance. The little reunion was interrupted by the resounding bang of a tumbler glass upon the tabletop of one of the tables in the corner, it was a thunderous crack against the wood - surprisingly not smashing the glass into pieces How long he had been there was questionable, and for the most part irrelevant. The long slender tips of pointed ears twitched within a mess of dirty blond strands. "All of them parasites, they must die." the familiar voice of the once tyrant, chancellor and aestaesys, Adrin Eitan rang out through the tavern. Of course, it was not him, well - not entirely. The tension of the strings was light, one of the Kelitha puppeteers that surveyed the worlds of his Master as part of gubernatorial duty in his 'occupied' state. Memories, persona, all things easily accessible within the mind-hives of sentient computers.
"Malice must be off to dine with the Duke -- some unnamed man who has declared himself something among that which is left of nothing." A creak of the floor joist obvious as he rose from his seat." Maybe at the banquet, you can sit here mourning the past a little further. I'm actually almost surprised, I would of thought such reunions would be met with more energy. Reminds me of a dying carp, flopping upon the deck of a fishing trolley Suffocating, gracious...such travesty." He grabbed one of the bottles off the bar-top and sat a fair distance away from the two, not out of fear - a hundred more of him could be made if it suited the purpose.
The tumbler was filled again, the contents didn't matter much it was merely for aesthetic purpose. "Fancy-tongues, speaking in fables and riddles trying to find reason within evolution. Songs of those attached to the nipples of battles that have past so long ago that even the battlefields no longer hold signs of their fury - I know, a nice little tulip garden sits upon one, blood and flesh makes the soil good." He took a sip of the wine that was poured, some kind of sour vintage that really had no place upon the palettes of anything short of a pig. "It is like a funeral really, you sitting here mourning your Queen as you think of pathetic little sayings to insult her ascension. Where you see weakness, the universe sees greatness." Adrin smiled and then reached for another bottle, this a high proof of whiskey.
He laughed a bit as he looked at the bottle, "Now this might be some strong stuff, it tends to...burn the whole way down." His words held meanings beyond the scope of jovial drinking. A slight flick of his wrist sent the bottle smashing into the raging hearth of the Tavern, sending reddish flames licking up the stone only to catch and begin smouldering upon hung tapestries. "Let us all join in the tantrum! We all want our Queen! Let her arise!" his laughter was almost haunting in nature, the tapestries just sizzled for now, red embers merely gaining a start upon the threads. "I don't know how you sit through this lovely lady." The likeness of the former consort to the Queen spoke in now an almost empathic tone, descended from the laughter and taunts of madness that had come forth before. "Everyone wanting you to relive the past, trying to deprive you of your lavish future, a ruler among the seas of the stars!" He smiled, reaching for another bottle of the whiskey. "Looks like the only real parasite people need to worry about is the one that makes you fixated on the past." He smiled, holding the bottle in a precarious manner, obviously ready to throw it to join the other burning mess.
As if there was insult to be had to injury, the words of Satrina in regards to the 'parasites' of the world played a hand of epic concordance. The little reunion was interrupted by the resounding bang of a tumbler glass upon the tabletop of one of the tables in the corner, it was a thunderous crack against the wood - surprisingly not smashing the glass into pieces How long he had been there was questionable, and for the most part irrelevant. The long slender tips of pointed ears twitched within a mess of dirty blond strands. "All of them parasites, they must die." the familiar voice of the once tyrant, chancellor and aestaesys, Adrin Eitan rang out through the tavern. Of course, it was not him, well - not entirely. The tension of the strings was light, one of the Kelitha puppeteers that surveyed the worlds of his Master as part of gubernatorial duty in his 'occupied' state. Memories, persona, all things easily accessible within the mind-hives of sentient computers.
"Malice must be off to dine with the Duke -- some unnamed man who has declared himself something among that which is left of nothing." A creak of the floor joist obvious as he rose from his seat." Maybe at the banquet, you can sit here mourning the past a little further. I'm actually almost surprised, I would of thought such reunions would be met with more energy. Reminds me of a dying carp, flopping upon the deck of a fishing trolley Suffocating, gracious...such travesty." He grabbed one of the bottles off the bar-top and sat a fair distance away from the two, not out of fear - a hundred more of him could be made if it suited the purpose.
The tumbler was filled again, the contents didn't matter much it was merely for aesthetic purpose. "Fancy-tongues, speaking in fables and riddles trying to find reason within evolution. Songs of those attached to the nipples of battles that have past so long ago that even the battlefields no longer hold signs of their fury - I know, a nice little tulip garden sits upon one, blood and flesh makes the soil good." He took a sip of the wine that was poured, some kind of sour vintage that really had no place upon the palettes of anything short of a pig. "It is like a funeral really, you sitting here mourning your Queen as you think of pathetic little sayings to insult her ascension. Where you see weakness, the universe sees greatness." Adrin smiled and then reached for another bottle, this a high proof of whiskey.
He laughed a bit as he looked at the bottle, "Now this might be some strong stuff, it tends to...burn the whole way down." His words held meanings beyond the scope of jovial drinking. A slight flick of his wrist sent the bottle smashing into the raging hearth of the Tavern, sending reddish flames licking up the stone only to catch and begin smouldering upon hung tapestries. "Let us all join in the tantrum! We all want our Queen! Let her arise!" his laughter was almost haunting in nature, the tapestries just sizzled for now, red embers merely gaining a start upon the threads. "I don't know how you sit through this lovely lady." The likeness of the former consort to the Queen spoke in now an almost empathic tone, descended from the laughter and taunts of madness that had come forth before. "Everyone wanting you to relive the past, trying to deprive you of your lavish future, a ruler among the seas of the stars!" He smiled, reaching for another bottle of the whiskey. "Looks like the only real parasite people need to worry about is the one that makes you fixated on the past." He smiled, holding the bottle in a precarious manner, obviously ready to throw it to join the other burning mess.
OOC Note:
Obviously this is not actually Adrin, rather one of the puppets run by the Kelitha
Obviously this is not actually Adrin, rather one of the puppets run by the Kelitha
Malice: To presume was to invite ignorance, where once wisdom bloomed.
There was something to be said for loyalty, something that transcended sense and, at times, even reason; for just as Ricket had stumbled blindly into their midst, so too had the Warlord's appreciation of Satrina endured. Through long years of suffering, of war, he had never wavered from her cause, never betrayed the name they once venerated in unison; and yet, even as Ricket left, the poignancy of her words resounded within his black heart, and caused a brief interlude in the unfolding of their tale. Pounding upon the tavern's ramshackle roof, the rain that continued to assail the region sounded as if the very land itself were in turmoil; almost as if, rather than lamenting the past, it was the future that it dreaded, the return of star-kissed soldiers, whose path had inexorably brought them together once more, to inflict their savagery upon a realm grown so gentle, and ripe.
Accentuating his features, with the sharpness of its contours, the grin that met Satrina's next statement was unmistakable; for even as the sultry syllables lay dying upon her sumptuous lips, Malice's hand had tightened, allowing him to unsheathe his blade with such fervour that it veritably swept from its scabbard. Attuning himself to their environment, and the places people inhibited within it, was but one ability any seasoned warrior practised; and so he hadn't even had to look, before employing a technique that resembled ancient Battojutsu, decapitating the nearest vampire in the same motion with which he drew his sword, wielding his weapon with a grace that surpassed anything mortal men could have hoped to muster. Cleaving through corded sinew, like a scythe reaping corn, the passage of his blade was inhumanly hastened, leaving patrons speechless in disbelief, as the behemoth had risen and then turned to face them, blood marring his face and painting a portrait that was truly daemonic to behold. It was as he towered above them, however, right gauntlet grasping FiendWrath in a balanced yet firm grip, that another's voice parted the silence that had ensued in the gesture's wake, a familiar drawl which reeked of hubris, and the folly it bred.
Malice found it amusing that here, in their old stomping ground, another would announce their presence, someone whose ambition was exceeded, if the tales were true, only by their inability to achieve them. Certainly, their judgements were based upon the same shoddy foundations as a sand-sculpted castle; for in their absence life, it seemed, moved on regardless; and so whilst 'Adrin' had been sojourning among the corners of space, peasants had been governed by hands other than his own. Studying the appearance of the interloper, with those merciless ebony eyes of his, the Warlord easily discovered the nature of the beast, responding once before his interest, much as the respect he once held for them, dissipated to focus upon things that held true importance that night. “ Your words ring as hollow as the titles you once lorded, oh Chancellor; for even now you cower behind shadows, and the strings that make them dance. Had your convictions actually held any weight behind them then surely, you would have graced us with your presence, and yet here you remain, naught but an echo, a ghost of grandeur long past, whose tongue betrays the deeds that left them meaningless, and forgotten. “
Mysteriously, though the monster's missive had been expressed in his rumbling baritone, it had been the skulls upon his shoulders that had conferred it; leaving the warrior himself free to observe the establishment itself, whilst the armour about his left arm rippled and squirmed, as though it were a second skin, and something sinister slithered beneath its surface. The seething mass coalesced, almost instantaneously about his arm, rapidly solidifying into a structure that resembled a circular shield, a daunting bulwark with which to break his foes upon, like water upon the hungry teeth of rocks. Armed by necessity then, and aroused by the devilish intent of his companion, the juggernaut stood ready for battle; though he doubted Adrin's puppet would prove more than a laughable distraction, given the circumstances, and so prepared to ravage the remainder of vampires within the building, before the floorboards ran red with their bounty, and he departed with Satrina to forge their names anew within the annuals of Ayenee.
There was something to be said for loyalty, something that transcended sense and, at times, even reason; for just as Ricket had stumbled blindly into their midst, so too had the Warlord's appreciation of Satrina endured. Through long years of suffering, of war, he had never wavered from her cause, never betrayed the name they once venerated in unison; and yet, even as Ricket left, the poignancy of her words resounded within his black heart, and caused a brief interlude in the unfolding of their tale. Pounding upon the tavern's ramshackle roof, the rain that continued to assail the region sounded as if the very land itself were in turmoil; almost as if, rather than lamenting the past, it was the future that it dreaded, the return of star-kissed soldiers, whose path had inexorably brought them together once more, to inflict their savagery upon a realm grown so gentle, and ripe.
Accentuating his features, with the sharpness of its contours, the grin that met Satrina's next statement was unmistakable; for even as the sultry syllables lay dying upon her sumptuous lips, Malice's hand had tightened, allowing him to unsheathe his blade with such fervour that it veritably swept from its scabbard. Attuning himself to their environment, and the places people inhibited within it, was but one ability any seasoned warrior practised; and so he hadn't even had to look, before employing a technique that resembled ancient Battojutsu, decapitating the nearest vampire in the same motion with which he drew his sword, wielding his weapon with a grace that surpassed anything mortal men could have hoped to muster. Cleaving through corded sinew, like a scythe reaping corn, the passage of his blade was inhumanly hastened, leaving patrons speechless in disbelief, as the behemoth had risen and then turned to face them, blood marring his face and painting a portrait that was truly daemonic to behold. It was as he towered above them, however, right gauntlet grasping FiendWrath in a balanced yet firm grip, that another's voice parted the silence that had ensued in the gesture's wake, a familiar drawl which reeked of hubris, and the folly it bred.
Malice found it amusing that here, in their old stomping ground, another would announce their presence, someone whose ambition was exceeded, if the tales were true, only by their inability to achieve them. Certainly, their judgements were based upon the same shoddy foundations as a sand-sculpted castle; for in their absence life, it seemed, moved on regardless; and so whilst 'Adrin' had been sojourning among the corners of space, peasants had been governed by hands other than his own. Studying the appearance of the interloper, with those merciless ebony eyes of his, the Warlord easily discovered the nature of the beast, responding once before his interest, much as the respect he once held for them, dissipated to focus upon things that held true importance that night. “ Your words ring as hollow as the titles you once lorded, oh Chancellor; for even now you cower behind shadows, and the strings that make them dance. Had your convictions actually held any weight behind them then surely, you would have graced us with your presence, and yet here you remain, naught but an echo, a ghost of grandeur long past, whose tongue betrays the deeds that left them meaningless, and forgotten. “
Mysteriously, though the monster's missive had been expressed in his rumbling baritone, it had been the skulls upon his shoulders that had conferred it; leaving the warrior himself free to observe the establishment itself, whilst the armour about his left arm rippled and squirmed, as though it were a second skin, and something sinister slithered beneath its surface. The seething mass coalesced, almost instantaneously about his arm, rapidly solidifying into a structure that resembled a circular shield, a daunting bulwark with which to break his foes upon, like water upon the hungry teeth of rocks. Armed by necessity then, and aroused by the devilish intent of his companion, the juggernaut stood ready for battle; though he doubted Adrin's puppet would prove more than a laughable distraction, given the circumstances, and so prepared to ravage the remainder of vampires within the building, before the floorboards ran red with their bounty, and he departed with Satrina to forge their names anew within the annuals of Ayenee.
Satrina: In individual logic, it had been a measly axiom to speak about the evocative influence of speech, or simple thought of reflection. The bygone efficiency of delicately woven mantra and cantrip had been there all along, whispered over sanguine lips. Fluency in motion, of alchemical formulas, equation manipulations and arcane invocation-- long had they become a fabled metaphor. Dreadful realism inspired and may still motivate such concepts of fear and dread, seemingly forgotten to these thralls of the fang... comfortable in the purpose of their beliefs and art?
If they truly had the faith their dry and dusty hearts believed, surely in the face of adversary, their faith would bring them, home? Purely metaphoric, in order to instil a sense of emotion or reaction within these servants of the damned... {veneration}... {pain}... {love}... {terror}. The nigromantia-tongue of expression was far more than just an allegory of old ghosts and hapless wraiths: there had always been a higher design behind the reason. Permanent markings along the length of her arms were symbols which no one could possibly regard as being just a figurative speech or faith-symbolic fanaticism. Not solely for metaphysical purpose, or the tribute to some god's divinity or unholy revelation- ungodliness nor blasphemous. Each symbol, a complex mechanism in its own right placed into tactical synchronization, strategic sorcery.
Even religion here had become mechanical, where the sheep were led by the bell-wether to the slaughterhouse; so listlessly they fell to death-kneel before dead Gods or those who deemed themselves to be gods due to narcissism, self-delusion or they possessed the ability to tug at the strings of fools. That did not make them gods, only the consort to sanctified massacre- how intricately both were dishevelled. And in those dead-adorned moments that surrounded her, Satrina saw the implications of faith; the equal pastiness of brow and cheek, the same semi-morbid opal patina of eyes, like the louche of absinthe. She saw the same bloodless lips that appeared to be carved from a marble that had also been chiselled for the never-ending hollow eyelids, in cryptal- immobilization.
The only difference which separated her from the later, was the passionate devotion held secretly within; one never ignorant to the inevitable fatality of her own being and choices. Never the puppet for another wants of apocryphatic hedonism and emissary disguises and would they in turn be prepared to suffer? Their grave-bound congregations nothing but blood and dust, an absolute ignorance to not question what they should have held sacrosanct? No creature here had ever been a true believer, doubt sat shamelessly upon their crown, even when they declared it through beloved boons, pacts and oaths... uttered during the second of the ‘quickening’, wrapped in the shroud of night. Her answer was there, unearthed in the coppery-incense of demise; spicy as frankincense and sweeter then myrrh.
Of course Adrin’s power had been vast. But he too had been a man whose glories had been misconstrued, the influence, transformed it into something vain, and that any genuine power had been smothered by the untutored clouds of egocentric ceremony or error. Ultimately, it all lead towards the downward spirals. It had been all too easy to play the primitive apprentice, and the Devil’s accomplice... and how easily ‘all’ had fallen to the rose, to her beauty and charisma. The rise of the victor in all her sublimity, ascended like the bleeding dawn of a birthed star illuminating ‘many’ lifetimes of darkness, from the mask to truth.
Necrotic words of an unknown tongue were whispered with eerie intonation, devoid of all breath, grating against the echoes rising within the tavern accompanied by a rumble reverberating throughout the entirety of the building. From the bowels of the lower depths beneath the floor where Satrina sat, calm in her poise while the very quakes threatened to be shake the earth and heavens off their axis. She would bestow upon them an eternal peace... not the grasping drenched depths of purgatory or undead torments beguiling the mockery of life. Accompanying lachrymose breath, responding to Adrin’s declared presence, words spoken causing a single brow to arch high, and a smirk lusted with wine for the returned response of the Darkbane warlord—for a moment engrossed in repartee, that too spoke of untruths.
Animatronic wasn’t the obvious play, of the puppeteer leading the soul astray; it moved off that wheel in silence. Provocation of smashing glass stirred the hornet’s nest, just as her ravenesque tresses were caught in some ‘unknown’ zephyr-- stroking back the rivulets from monochromatic features as the dramatic fires reflected in those ebonized mirrors, of conquest and diabolism... “You’d be surprised as to what I have listened to, though sometimes the passing of bovine gas has had more to declare in sound than any congress of man I have escorted.” Betrayals were forever the sweet elixirs of loathing; eternally encompassing the heart and soul with bitter regrets and sorrowful pangs. Useless. A promise broken just like the bottle which had smashed igniting the fires while the ‘larvae’ scuttled to avoid its hungers-- but like them, time only briefly escapes.
Brief was the glitch in the halls of black oblivion, for some a short period subject to their life span and for others a prolonged torment. So predictable were these parasites, knowing how to steal life. Failing to guard their own schemes as one attacked clumsily and blinding, yet no movement was granted by Satrina at least not until weapon swooped attempting to contact its mark. Right hand ‘unseen’, defying natural moment as it sunk beneath the fabrics to grasp hilt. Withdrawing the concealed szabla, swift in motion, expedition was diagonally unleashed. No sooner than his blade sung shrilly through the air, Satrina’s momentum swiftly leapt into action. Right wrist snapping upwards 'en guard' defense, parrying the weapon with directive force; repositioning the slicing edge of blade then stroked it along the inside of the ‘maggots’ blade, with cold affection.
And thus, then did she rise... taking a step closer, bringing argent-arm vertically, wrapping sharp edges around HIS weapon, followed by forcefully directing the tip of HERS aggressively downwards towards the outside of blade so that it slid efficiently along the outer edge to mid-blade. In addition to rapidly jerking against the cutlass, vampiric weapon compelled, forced from his hands and landed a few feet away. Moving askance to stand between commoner and weapon, a cruel sarcastic smirk slid across apertures, a conquering libation though he was hardly worth the celebration of glory. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind to run, she assailed him, a harbinger of death to which moments before nostalgia had swooned... blade hungrily pierced abdomen. Using weight and impetus against action, then forcing this pathetic male rearward-- a tottered trophy amongst the temples of Mars- a dead Goliath amongst the stars.
Boot heel pinned against torso applying pressure to crushing feats, whilst sword teased the weather-beaten leather tunic of his attire. Leisurely Satrina sunk the blade in deep, akin to the rape of virginal walls where effluvia greeted the palate with vermillion vintages. Right hand unhurriedly twisting, missing the vital organs, purposefully, pinning the ‘mosquito’ to the floor encouraging the screams to rupture the disquiet with electrifying sequence. “Animus ut est phasmatis , est non vomica ut fio humus vel pulvis; portatur habito in cruor! Tamen est nex quisnam vindicatum panton , pro est a lex , non ultio ultionis... morior tamen unus ut totus vir mos sapor.” ["The soul that is spirit is not cursed to become dirt or dust; it is carried to dwell in the blood! But it is death who claims everything, for it is a law, nor punishment, to die... but one that all men will taste..."]
A sinister smile portraying over those treacherous lips, stiletto heel rising to impress its stature between the legs of the fallen, head tilting to observe and relish in the fear and pain disinter through secreted tear ducts in droplets of crimson from the corners of sulfur-tarnished eyes. “Tears are such a waste of good suffering.” Acerbically haughty in taunts mixed with embellished confidence, as svelte form lowered down and knee found its place against the firmness of chest. One ‘single’ strike of left silver-adorned hand, in a claw-like fashion of armoured fingers, perforating the area between the rib cages. Sadistically seeking the parched heart that only pulsed with the life it had taken from victim’s throat earlier in the evening. Taking pleasure in witnessing how the waves of blood rose like waves from the throat, voluminous like the red sea...
Expression of surprised dismay —the foreboding feeling of absolute death... frozen in seizure. Scarlet embouchements moving towards blackened lips, bestowing the metallic sweetness with a kiss offered from rubiescent apertures... only to inhale deeply, though the act was sensual in itself. Inhalation vacuumed as if crafted by the void itself with endeavors to devour him whole, instead breath imbibed the phantomorphic essence of his very soul and every other taken—tongue flicking over to taste those crimson tides, for the cup was certainly, ever... flowing. “Even the dead have their stories to tell.” Spoken just as nigrescent eyes, look upwards towards the ‘effigy’ of Adrin Eitan.
If they truly had the faith their dry and dusty hearts believed, surely in the face of adversary, their faith would bring them, home? Purely metaphoric, in order to instil a sense of emotion or reaction within these servants of the damned... {veneration}... {pain}... {love}... {terror}. The nigromantia-tongue of expression was far more than just an allegory of old ghosts and hapless wraiths: there had always been a higher design behind the reason. Permanent markings along the length of her arms were symbols which no one could possibly regard as being just a figurative speech or faith-symbolic fanaticism. Not solely for metaphysical purpose, or the tribute to some god's divinity or unholy revelation- ungodliness nor blasphemous. Each symbol, a complex mechanism in its own right placed into tactical synchronization, strategic sorcery.
Even religion here had become mechanical, where the sheep were led by the bell-wether to the slaughterhouse; so listlessly they fell to death-kneel before dead Gods or those who deemed themselves to be gods due to narcissism, self-delusion or they possessed the ability to tug at the strings of fools. That did not make them gods, only the consort to sanctified massacre- how intricately both were dishevelled. And in those dead-adorned moments that surrounded her, Satrina saw the implications of faith; the equal pastiness of brow and cheek, the same semi-morbid opal patina of eyes, like the louche of absinthe. She saw the same bloodless lips that appeared to be carved from a marble that had also been chiselled for the never-ending hollow eyelids, in cryptal- immobilization.
The only difference which separated her from the later, was the passionate devotion held secretly within; one never ignorant to the inevitable fatality of her own being and choices. Never the puppet for another wants of apocryphatic hedonism and emissary disguises and would they in turn be prepared to suffer? Their grave-bound congregations nothing but blood and dust, an absolute ignorance to not question what they should have held sacrosanct? No creature here had ever been a true believer, doubt sat shamelessly upon their crown, even when they declared it through beloved boons, pacts and oaths... uttered during the second of the ‘quickening’, wrapped in the shroud of night. Her answer was there, unearthed in the coppery-incense of demise; spicy as frankincense and sweeter then myrrh.
Of course Adrin’s power had been vast. But he too had been a man whose glories had been misconstrued, the influence, transformed it into something vain, and that any genuine power had been smothered by the untutored clouds of egocentric ceremony or error. Ultimately, it all lead towards the downward spirals. It had been all too easy to play the primitive apprentice, and the Devil’s accomplice... and how easily ‘all’ had fallen to the rose, to her beauty and charisma. The rise of the victor in all her sublimity, ascended like the bleeding dawn of a birthed star illuminating ‘many’ lifetimes of darkness, from the mask to truth.
Necrotic words of an unknown tongue were whispered with eerie intonation, devoid of all breath, grating against the echoes rising within the tavern accompanied by a rumble reverberating throughout the entirety of the building. From the bowels of the lower depths beneath the floor where Satrina sat, calm in her poise while the very quakes threatened to be shake the earth and heavens off their axis. She would bestow upon them an eternal peace... not the grasping drenched depths of purgatory or undead torments beguiling the mockery of life. Accompanying lachrymose breath, responding to Adrin’s declared presence, words spoken causing a single brow to arch high, and a smirk lusted with wine for the returned response of the Darkbane warlord—for a moment engrossed in repartee, that too spoke of untruths.
Animatronic wasn’t the obvious play, of the puppeteer leading the soul astray; it moved off that wheel in silence. Provocation of smashing glass stirred the hornet’s nest, just as her ravenesque tresses were caught in some ‘unknown’ zephyr-- stroking back the rivulets from monochromatic features as the dramatic fires reflected in those ebonized mirrors, of conquest and diabolism... “You’d be surprised as to what I have listened to, though sometimes the passing of bovine gas has had more to declare in sound than any congress of man I have escorted.” Betrayals were forever the sweet elixirs of loathing; eternally encompassing the heart and soul with bitter regrets and sorrowful pangs. Useless. A promise broken just like the bottle which had smashed igniting the fires while the ‘larvae’ scuttled to avoid its hungers-- but like them, time only briefly escapes.
Brief was the glitch in the halls of black oblivion, for some a short period subject to their life span and for others a prolonged torment. So predictable were these parasites, knowing how to steal life. Failing to guard their own schemes as one attacked clumsily and blinding, yet no movement was granted by Satrina at least not until weapon swooped attempting to contact its mark. Right hand ‘unseen’, defying natural moment as it sunk beneath the fabrics to grasp hilt. Withdrawing the concealed szabla, swift in motion, expedition was diagonally unleashed. No sooner than his blade sung shrilly through the air, Satrina’s momentum swiftly leapt into action. Right wrist snapping upwards 'en guard' defense, parrying the weapon with directive force; repositioning the slicing edge of blade then stroked it along the inside of the ‘maggots’ blade, with cold affection.
And thus, then did she rise... taking a step closer, bringing argent-arm vertically, wrapping sharp edges around HIS weapon, followed by forcefully directing the tip of HERS aggressively downwards towards the outside of blade so that it slid efficiently along the outer edge to mid-blade. In addition to rapidly jerking against the cutlass, vampiric weapon compelled, forced from his hands and landed a few feet away. Moving askance to stand between commoner and weapon, a cruel sarcastic smirk slid across apertures, a conquering libation though he was hardly worth the celebration of glory. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind to run, she assailed him, a harbinger of death to which moments before nostalgia had swooned... blade hungrily pierced abdomen. Using weight and impetus against action, then forcing this pathetic male rearward-- a tottered trophy amongst the temples of Mars- a dead Goliath amongst the stars.
Boot heel pinned against torso applying pressure to crushing feats, whilst sword teased the weather-beaten leather tunic of his attire. Leisurely Satrina sunk the blade in deep, akin to the rape of virginal walls where effluvia greeted the palate with vermillion vintages. Right hand unhurriedly twisting, missing the vital organs, purposefully, pinning the ‘mosquito’ to the floor encouraging the screams to rupture the disquiet with electrifying sequence. “Animus ut est phasmatis , est non vomica ut fio humus vel pulvis; portatur habito in cruor! Tamen est nex quisnam vindicatum panton , pro est a lex , non ultio ultionis... morior tamen unus ut totus vir mos sapor.” ["The soul that is spirit is not cursed to become dirt or dust; it is carried to dwell in the blood! But it is death who claims everything, for it is a law, nor punishment, to die... but one that all men will taste..."]
A sinister smile portraying over those treacherous lips, stiletto heel rising to impress its stature between the legs of the fallen, head tilting to observe and relish in the fear and pain disinter through secreted tear ducts in droplets of crimson from the corners of sulfur-tarnished eyes. “Tears are such a waste of good suffering.” Acerbically haughty in taunts mixed with embellished confidence, as svelte form lowered down and knee found its place against the firmness of chest. One ‘single’ strike of left silver-adorned hand, in a claw-like fashion of armoured fingers, perforating the area between the rib cages. Sadistically seeking the parched heart that only pulsed with the life it had taken from victim’s throat earlier in the evening. Taking pleasure in witnessing how the waves of blood rose like waves from the throat, voluminous like the red sea...
Expression of surprised dismay —the foreboding feeling of absolute death... frozen in seizure. Scarlet embouchements moving towards blackened lips, bestowing the metallic sweetness with a kiss offered from rubiescent apertures... only to inhale deeply, though the act was sensual in itself. Inhalation vacuumed as if crafted by the void itself with endeavors to devour him whole, instead breath imbibed the phantomorphic essence of his very soul and every other taken—tongue flicking over to taste those crimson tides, for the cup was certainly, ever... flowing. “Even the dead have their stories to tell.” Spoken just as nigrescent eyes, look upwards towards the ‘effigy’ of Adrin Eitan.
Adrin Eitan: The old war horse, Malice, prepared himself for battle and it indeed displayed a grandeur that was hail worthy. It was misplaced however, the setting but a rickety old Tavern filled with blood sucking monstrosities that could only be filed within a neat classification of taboo. Vampires beheld themselves within their structured clans and ruckus stirred them so easily especially when within the territorial grounds of their residence. Calamity arose and with it the sweet flavours of battle spilled forth, and if it brought 'death' further upon Adrin Eitan it only served the purposes of those upon the other end of the strings. The words spoken fell short within that regards, for there was no cowardice upon the other end of the strings - only a humble servant within amassed combines who owed it's entire life to the one whose will it imparted. The only lacking within it's presence attributed to the sweet courses of breeding and troublesome sensor nets cast by Citadels that hopefully would soon fall dark. In the meantime the congress would play with what was allotted to them, the toys of leviathan carried monstrosities and the expeditionary groups of a massive militarized arm of the will itself.
"Oh my soul, great warlord astounding saviour!" Adrin raised in passion, "My cowardice enlightened and your assumptions lay wasted, it is I upon this end of the string which is a testimony of even greater dishonour than can be imagined. My defeat documented, my true-born self eviscerated." His words then directed upon Satrina, "My purpose was played the second I arrived, my presence marked with simple tidings of greetings and reverent commons." The words held truth. We're here. The puppet idly tossed the whiskey bottle in another direction, it smashing against one of the support pillars that beheld a torch, sending a bathing wash of flaming liquid over one of the approaching vampires, the searing pop and hiss of burning undead flesh to join the more nostalgic ambience of the tavern.
Even toys came well packaged, especially now that the dolls had grown tiresome to higher handlers of the strings, features were more than adequate to summon a reasonable defence. [WIDOWER] Lower weaponization was common, especially since this particular puppet who served to deliver a message of utmost importance. The game was nearly over, the hour was later than could be imagined and the final stages of victory in a war far more important than a Tavern brawl were about to unfold. Smaller sentient mindhives embedded within the parasitic subservient that served as the connection points activated the WIDOWER, although primitive in comparison to WASP it provided a variety of useful implements. [WIDOWER-Armour] Segmented leg like structures, one, two, three and four curled outwards from around the puppet's back and around it's body; five and six over it's shoulders, excreting a black silky tar that quickly harded (and would continue to improve it's complexity in time) into a chitinous carapace, with softer webbed layers over the joints, and extended to the terminus of appendages.The surging xenovitae would serve as nourishment and a self-annealing repair agent as it gurgled through labyrinths of capillaries. [WIDOWER-Puppet Dance] The neural cluster uplink to the handler increased as to assist with handling in combat. [WIDOWER-Lancelets] The Widower upon the puppet's back engorged as it's activation pulled it's sentience from stasis induced slumber. From spiracle-like holes within its back tendrils whipped forth, eight in total each engorging and elongating within their own right surfaces blistering and popping as pearly femtomechancially impregnated fluid strung from them to the floor revealing hypodermic spines (a-LTX as a toxin).
[WIDOWER-Tendril Package] The eight tendrils varied in length according to purpose, air whistling around them as they whipped through the air. [WIDOWER-Tendril Package - Stinging Impalers] The four longest ones (8ft) rippled, flesh rolling back to reveal segmentation that worked towards a long barbed stinger that dripped with a caustic apitoxin, the right of which zipped through the air almost upon birth jamming on an upwards angle beneath the chin of one of the approaching blood suckers and emerging through the top of it's skull, the caustic toxin while not effective in it's toxicity in this application, bubbled and boiled the vampire's flesh evolving a steam of the most abhorrent odours as it broke down the flesh into it's most basic of components. The others whipped up and back, held within a scorpion-like poise above the puppet's head. [WIDOWER-Tendril Package - Digestion] The two next longest tendrils (7ft) were thicker, their forms widening at the ends to reveal gluttonous toothed mouths that dripped with a bright green digestive slurry of acid and enzyme. The displaced air within the undulating tubes made a low groaning noise as they lazily washed through the air. [WIDOWER-Tendril Package - Impregnators] The shortest members of the tendril package (6ft) bore a strange hypodermic delivery barb at the end, the base of the barb was held erect upon these near-held tendrils with swollen sacs of sex fluids bearing both ovum and sperm. The body cavities of the living or dead made no difference as that gestation was ensured as the cocktail delivered contained sweet honey-like nourishment for the quick maturing creatures they would create (given the right amount of time, varying between five and ten minutes) a lower insectoid called a Cthanyandar would emerge, reminiscent of the scarab it sought to devour flesh and continue it's life cycle which bore several more opportunities for parasitic occupation via flesh burrowing and impregnation.
The smouldering frame of dried and old unappreciated wood quickly began to produce clouds of odoriferous smoke. The battle ready warlord made no difference within the scope of the controlling Kelitha, the puppet was expendable, but the revered recipient of the encrypted message was not. For the sake of entertainment, it was hoped that the local vampire population would be more of a giving contributor to the games at hand, for slaughtering them held a certain entertainment - like a video game. The obvious message was the presence of the puppet, the announcing of the presence within the Elysium, the more underlying encryption was a call to action, the notion that the hour was to be at hand and the final pieces of the puzzle were to be put into place. The puppet had two lesser accessory packages as well that were not yet activated, Myothe-Lite which served for electrogravitic deployment and the final Tamper-tempest which would abort it should it be compromised.
"Oh my soul, great warlord astounding saviour!" Adrin raised in passion, "My cowardice enlightened and your assumptions lay wasted, it is I upon this end of the string which is a testimony of even greater dishonour than can be imagined. My defeat documented, my true-born self eviscerated." His words then directed upon Satrina, "My purpose was played the second I arrived, my presence marked with simple tidings of greetings and reverent commons." The words held truth. We're here. The puppet idly tossed the whiskey bottle in another direction, it smashing against one of the support pillars that beheld a torch, sending a bathing wash of flaming liquid over one of the approaching vampires, the searing pop and hiss of burning undead flesh to join the more nostalgic ambience of the tavern.
Even toys came well packaged, especially now that the dolls had grown tiresome to higher handlers of the strings, features were more than adequate to summon a reasonable defence. [WIDOWER] Lower weaponization was common, especially since this particular puppet who served to deliver a message of utmost importance. The game was nearly over, the hour was later than could be imagined and the final stages of victory in a war far more important than a Tavern brawl were about to unfold. Smaller sentient mindhives embedded within the parasitic subservient that served as the connection points activated the WIDOWER, although primitive in comparison to WASP it provided a variety of useful implements. [WIDOWER-Armour] Segmented leg like structures, one, two, three and four curled outwards from around the puppet's back and around it's body; five and six over it's shoulders, excreting a black silky tar that quickly harded (and would continue to improve it's complexity in time) into a chitinous carapace, with softer webbed layers over the joints, and extended to the terminus of appendages.The surging xenovitae would serve as nourishment and a self-annealing repair agent as it gurgled through labyrinths of capillaries. [WIDOWER-Puppet Dance] The neural cluster uplink to the handler increased as to assist with handling in combat. [WIDOWER-Lancelets] The Widower upon the puppet's back engorged as it's activation pulled it's sentience from stasis induced slumber. From spiracle-like holes within its back tendrils whipped forth, eight in total each engorging and elongating within their own right surfaces blistering and popping as pearly femtomechancially impregnated fluid strung from them to the floor revealing hypodermic spines (a-LTX as a toxin).
[WIDOWER-Tendril Package] The eight tendrils varied in length according to purpose, air whistling around them as they whipped through the air. [WIDOWER-Tendril Package - Stinging Impalers] The four longest ones (8ft) rippled, flesh rolling back to reveal segmentation that worked towards a long barbed stinger that dripped with a caustic apitoxin, the right of which zipped through the air almost upon birth jamming on an upwards angle beneath the chin of one of the approaching blood suckers and emerging through the top of it's skull, the caustic toxin while not effective in it's toxicity in this application, bubbled and boiled the vampire's flesh evolving a steam of the most abhorrent odours as it broke down the flesh into it's most basic of components. The others whipped up and back, held within a scorpion-like poise above the puppet's head. [WIDOWER-Tendril Package - Digestion] The two next longest tendrils (7ft) were thicker, their forms widening at the ends to reveal gluttonous toothed mouths that dripped with a bright green digestive slurry of acid and enzyme. The displaced air within the undulating tubes made a low groaning noise as they lazily washed through the air. [WIDOWER-Tendril Package - Impregnators] The shortest members of the tendril package (6ft) bore a strange hypodermic delivery barb at the end, the base of the barb was held erect upon these near-held tendrils with swollen sacs of sex fluids bearing both ovum and sperm. The body cavities of the living or dead made no difference as that gestation was ensured as the cocktail delivered contained sweet honey-like nourishment for the quick maturing creatures they would create (given the right amount of time, varying between five and ten minutes) a lower insectoid called a Cthanyandar would emerge, reminiscent of the scarab it sought to devour flesh and continue it's life cycle which bore several more opportunities for parasitic occupation via flesh burrowing and impregnation.
The smouldering frame of dried and old unappreciated wood quickly began to produce clouds of odoriferous smoke. The battle ready warlord made no difference within the scope of the controlling Kelitha, the puppet was expendable, but the revered recipient of the encrypted message was not. For the sake of entertainment, it was hoped that the local vampire population would be more of a giving contributor to the games at hand, for slaughtering them held a certain entertainment - like a video game. The obvious message was the presence of the puppet, the announcing of the presence within the Elysium, the more underlying encryption was a call to action, the notion that the hour was to be at hand and the final pieces of the puzzle were to be put into place. The puppet had two lesser accessory packages as well that were not yet activated, Myothe-Lite which served for electrogravitic deployment and the final Tamper-tempest which would abort it should it be compromised.
Malice: Elusive as a dedicated lover, it is faith that men claw at, as they blindly stumble through life.
There were many layers that made up Malice's psyche, many things that had transformed him from birth, into the beast he had become; and yet beneath the splendour of his features, his desires remained the same. Primitive, potent, primordial, these were the emotions that drove him, tempered by time and the wisdom of ages, but festering below the surface none the less, emotions so powerful they hearkened back to his creation, a thought made flesh within the void between celestial, and man. He had begun this great journey as a wraith, a manifestation of malign minds given form, and ever since the day Satrina had summoned him, his strength had, inevitably, found its calling at her side. Surpassing concepts like justice then, and religion, he had drank deities dry in her stead, and in their slumber become something far more terrible, a force so unnatural that his very proximity made skin crawl, and hairs prickle in dismay.
The dread that he inspired, however, was actually a hindrance in his current situation, as kindred and kine alike fled before his passage, and provided fresh sport for his companion instead; rendering his blade inefficient, as their prey tarried beyond his reach and was dispatched by Satrina's swordplay, in brutal and bleeding finality. Rather than allow his Queen all the fun though, he decided to reveal an unholy relic, a thing so blasphemous that its birth had made saint's suffer, utilizing their blood as a powerful catalyst to defile death itself. Situated upon his left hand then, and innocuous in its resemblance to its twin, the gauntlet that lay there held another purpose, a dominion over the dead that they could not defy, as invisible runes suddenly began to pulsate, activated by a fraction of the Warlord's crushing will. [Compelled] into servitude then, at least on some base and instinctual level, a dozen of the vampires closest to the fiend fell into a terrible stupor, their minds smothered by the red mists of rage so that, heedless of their wishes, or the danger it posed, they surged like a stampede of animals, toward Malice's waiting jaws.
Whilst the herd of fanged foes advanced, Adrin, or at least the shell that resembled the fallen weaver, spawned sons from the pores of their skin; unfurling a veritable armoury of weaponry from their frame with which to gird themselves, and yet, even as these sinuous serpents uncoiled, Malice regarded them with interest, rather than dismay. In truth, he had battled enemies from one end of the Multiverse, to the next, and so had never held the capacity to experience fear; simply enjoying the challenge each creature presented, instead of trembling before their might, allowing him to perceive this latest development of the volatile puppet's form as something remotely exciting, rather than imposing. FiendWrath too, expressed its glee at the threat becoming more formidable, emitting an unearthly wail of delight, as its ravenous teeth swept forth to gnaw upon the first of the twelve which now assailed its master. Employing the irresistible pull of his device, to heighten the sensation of slaying mere vampires, Malice demonstrated a fraction of his prowess, exploiting the momentum of his enemies against them; so when the vanguard of his aggressors drew too close, he simply sidestepped their initial swing, manipulating their inertia to devastating effect.
Twirling through the air in a horizontal slash, the Warlord's weapon cleaved his first opponent clean in half; requiring so little effort that, when their impetuous pace drove them onto its edge, he whisked it about in time to perform a deadly riposte, parrying another's lunging arm and sending it sliding like a bleeding snail across the floorboards. What was curious though, was not the ease with which the warrior dispatched these creatures, for the weight with which he carried himself implied the skill behind his swordsmanship, but instead the manner of their demise; because although limbs flew, and viscus fluid now flecked their surroundings, they almost immediately turned to ash as they fell, as if some unseen malevolence were disintegrating their bodies, before ever they came to rest upon the ground. The reality, however, was darker than most dared to dream, because it was FiendWrath that sealed their doom, devouring a victim's soul as readily as it did the energy which propelled them to purpose; growing plump and powerful upon this latest harvest and building vast reservoirs of vigour, with which to feed its wielder's wrath. [Life-Leech- {Innate ability}].
Rather than allowing his attention to fixate upon his assailants, Malice appeared more interested in Satrina and the stringed-spectre, focusing upon every detail of their movements, as if he were a choreographer admiring a rival's performance; leaving his preternatural senses, and the unyielding surface of his shield, to fend off any immediate assault, letting FiendWrath gather a considerable charge. Had they witnessed this feat, some men would have dubbed this technique 'blind fighting', where muscle memory and a heightened awareness of one's surroundings rendered the necessity of sight obsolete, but every Ankharu possessed an understanding of attacks, and the fundamental arcs with which they could be accomplished. As their progenitor then, Malice didn't just rely on his body being trained enough to counter such blows, but also on his positioning, ensuring that with every step he took, he considered its implication, and the advantage that it could yield, given undue caution.
Traversing table and turmoil alike, it appeared to those too scared to intervene that the warrior was at the centre of an enthralling dance, a whirlwind of steel whose gestures were a living representation of cause, and effect, of chaos, and order; but while his sword sung in his hand, Malice remained prepared for every eventuality, almost yearning for either Adrin's assault, or Satrina's speech to provide a diversion from, what was fast becoming, yet another one sided slaughter. Six snakes had already served to swell his blade's belly, their cowardice cowed by his indomitable will, and so perhaps the night would provide fresh entertainment, before his patience waned and he departed for the feast in search of further pleasures that evening.
There were many layers that made up Malice's psyche, many things that had transformed him from birth, into the beast he had become; and yet beneath the splendour of his features, his desires remained the same. Primitive, potent, primordial, these were the emotions that drove him, tempered by time and the wisdom of ages, but festering below the surface none the less, emotions so powerful they hearkened back to his creation, a thought made flesh within the void between celestial, and man. He had begun this great journey as a wraith, a manifestation of malign minds given form, and ever since the day Satrina had summoned him, his strength had, inevitably, found its calling at her side. Surpassing concepts like justice then, and religion, he had drank deities dry in her stead, and in their slumber become something far more terrible, a force so unnatural that his very proximity made skin crawl, and hairs prickle in dismay.
The dread that he inspired, however, was actually a hindrance in his current situation, as kindred and kine alike fled before his passage, and provided fresh sport for his companion instead; rendering his blade inefficient, as their prey tarried beyond his reach and was dispatched by Satrina's swordplay, in brutal and bleeding finality. Rather than allow his Queen all the fun though, he decided to reveal an unholy relic, a thing so blasphemous that its birth had made saint's suffer, utilizing their blood as a powerful catalyst to defile death itself. Situated upon his left hand then, and innocuous in its resemblance to its twin, the gauntlet that lay there held another purpose, a dominion over the dead that they could not defy, as invisible runes suddenly began to pulsate, activated by a fraction of the Warlord's crushing will. [Compelled] into servitude then, at least on some base and instinctual level, a dozen of the vampires closest to the fiend fell into a terrible stupor, their minds smothered by the red mists of rage so that, heedless of their wishes, or the danger it posed, they surged like a stampede of animals, toward Malice's waiting jaws.
Whilst the herd of fanged foes advanced, Adrin, or at least the shell that resembled the fallen weaver, spawned sons from the pores of their skin; unfurling a veritable armoury of weaponry from their frame with which to gird themselves, and yet, even as these sinuous serpents uncoiled, Malice regarded them with interest, rather than dismay. In truth, he had battled enemies from one end of the Multiverse, to the next, and so had never held the capacity to experience fear; simply enjoying the challenge each creature presented, instead of trembling before their might, allowing him to perceive this latest development of the volatile puppet's form as something remotely exciting, rather than imposing. FiendWrath too, expressed its glee at the threat becoming more formidable, emitting an unearthly wail of delight, as its ravenous teeth swept forth to gnaw upon the first of the twelve which now assailed its master. Employing the irresistible pull of his device, to heighten the sensation of slaying mere vampires, Malice demonstrated a fraction of his prowess, exploiting the momentum of his enemies against them; so when the vanguard of his aggressors drew too close, he simply sidestepped their initial swing, manipulating their inertia to devastating effect.
Twirling through the air in a horizontal slash, the Warlord's weapon cleaved his first opponent clean in half; requiring so little effort that, when their impetuous pace drove them onto its edge, he whisked it about in time to perform a deadly riposte, parrying another's lunging arm and sending it sliding like a bleeding snail across the floorboards. What was curious though, was not the ease with which the warrior dispatched these creatures, for the weight with which he carried himself implied the skill behind his swordsmanship, but instead the manner of their demise; because although limbs flew, and viscus fluid now flecked their surroundings, they almost immediately turned to ash as they fell, as if some unseen malevolence were disintegrating their bodies, before ever they came to rest upon the ground. The reality, however, was darker than most dared to dream, because it was FiendWrath that sealed their doom, devouring a victim's soul as readily as it did the energy which propelled them to purpose; growing plump and powerful upon this latest harvest and building vast reservoirs of vigour, with which to feed its wielder's wrath. [Life-Leech- {Innate ability}].
Rather than allowing his attention to fixate upon his assailants, Malice appeared more interested in Satrina and the stringed-spectre, focusing upon every detail of their movements, as if he were a choreographer admiring a rival's performance; leaving his preternatural senses, and the unyielding surface of his shield, to fend off any immediate assault, letting FiendWrath gather a considerable charge. Had they witnessed this feat, some men would have dubbed this technique 'blind fighting', where muscle memory and a heightened awareness of one's surroundings rendered the necessity of sight obsolete, but every Ankharu possessed an understanding of attacks, and the fundamental arcs with which they could be accomplished. As their progenitor then, Malice didn't just rely on his body being trained enough to counter such blows, but also on his positioning, ensuring that with every step he took, he considered its implication, and the advantage that it could yield, given undue caution.
Traversing table and turmoil alike, it appeared to those too scared to intervene that the warrior was at the centre of an enthralling dance, a whirlwind of steel whose gestures were a living representation of cause, and effect, of chaos, and order; but while his sword sung in his hand, Malice remained prepared for every eventuality, almost yearning for either Adrin's assault, or Satrina's speech to provide a diversion from, what was fast becoming, yet another one sided slaughter. Six snakes had already served to swell his blade's belly, their cowardice cowed by his indomitable will, and so perhaps the night would provide fresh entertainment, before his patience waned and he departed for the feast in search of further pleasures that evening.
Satrina: I hear you from the black caprice of darkness...
Imbued with blackened ichors, the szabla spun adroitly with an adept flip of the wrist, gyration of the hand revolving in an artistic and confident fashion. Satrina, assertive not just of aptitude or flair but also knowing the proficiency of her skill. Never underestimating an opponent; even if they were a festering corpse held no semblance of honour. Rufescent apertures curved into a seduction smirk causing the highlights of chiselled cheekbones to become accentuated within the flickering overture of hell’s fury. It was no surprise to her senses that the puppet [Adrin--Kelitha] had altered itself to metamorphic atrocity, into this pharisaism of arachnidan-caricature to prove some outlandish point or for slovenly amusement. Next course of action would determine which it was to be. Senses tapered to extended awareness, essence reaching out through the dancing shadows which rose like silent demons in every crevice subdued from the phantom kiss of light.
Exuberating in the unquenchable hungers stirring within the darkness, felt it crawl along her flesh like a rapturous lover’s tongue to taste the sweat and sweetness. Explore the curves and landscapes with moist approach of the ‘forbidden fruit’. Perceptions felt their curse burning through their engorged veins whilst body swelled and heaved to the cleansing of the flames—transmutation of flesh to ash. Gnarled hands clawing at the air while screams filled the cold wintry air before alternating into the cacophonous reverberation that made those in the villages below shiver with terror. None challenged, they did not harbour the nerve to challenge for all knew that the numbers of their legions were indeed, great. Each attack maladroit, lumbering in stealth and inelegant in tactic... conversely; to her jovial delight the relish to worship arrived with the pungent aromas... stepping over each toppled tower of death's reflectionless tragedy.
Smoky with a tinge of sweetness- like the inferior bouquet of Faust, jasmine and rotting meat, necrotic camphor--a libertine to the dance of strings and hidden things... a second szabla extracted. Where one worked with deadly precision, the second met its metal of sculpture. An exquisite dance of blades slicing through the remaining, eviscerating them to nothing but reduced instruments of will or circumstance. The faithfuless maggot always served its plate of rotting meat- and classically the elders remained in torpor within this crumbled house. Whereas the newly formed remained the ill-fated vagrants of the coffin knew little better and sought to carve their names upon the very stars. Keeping blade firm in grasp, wrist relaxed for the expectation of another strike kept perceptions and attentions vigilant.
Streams of zibeline ebony flowed to conceal the monochromatic beauty except those lustrous asphodel lanterns, glaring from behind the aphotic mantle of darkness. At the dispatch of another child of the grave, beheaded, head separated by one single action in refusal to relieve of whimpered plights. Swiftness accelerated, instantaneous, besmearing the atmosphere with indistinctive obscurity, vanishing before materializing, and blade held firm in both hands, staining to the whiteness of bone beneath translucent flesh. Momentum force flicked upwards before adroitly rising just past right shoulder before forcibly being swung around at a 180 degree arch bringing the right flank of blade towards another’s lower abdomen since its height rose to at least 6'3ft. Following the action with the hip and torso, flowing into the movement elegantly as a ballerina would gracefully sail.
Potency to dismember its motives quicker than a wasp could sting... and before it caught the chance to cantiliate its fiery breath of acidulous toxins no more would it sing. Nefarious curses etched to the caprice of talon, damnation and salvation subdividing the monstrosity of infernal bowels indisputably, one action. Inky-ichors spilling forth as exterior were driven to perforation, of this phertima. Eviscerating the gut through to spinal column; spilling forth the boiling duodenum of viscera and entrails. Two, at the moment of necropsy, again, the blade dexterously in proficient and practiced hand swung, upwards to the right flank of the faltering gargantuan. Aiming with expert precision betwixt the creature’s nape and collarbone, cleaving downwards with rapturous fervour.
Slashing descending at a 40 degree angle, hacking down deep-rooted to the bedding of bone and sinew- from right flank to left flank (side) using the length of arms and firm stance to balance that force directivity. Total anatomization of vampiric failure to that of fodder to the claws of the conflagration. Scathingly raking tourniquet limbs of Satrina’s physique— fire and night, casting overture of sciomancy across her pallor, like a honeyed-plethoric eclipse. Scintillation aglow, beneath the monochromatic silk as some of the leeches in attempt at escape found their flesh caught ablaze, radiating the area in a dazzle of brilliant lambency. Then... with the intonation of death-kissed mantra, clangourous in deafening euphony portending doom and massacre, their screams bore the brunt of tempest.
Strangely harmonic in its beauty, but also possessing the cacophony of discourse, eons of insanity- Satrina’s words spurred the hateful winds with barbed speech and necrotic curses. “Thou hast procreated odium where there dwelt none, and for this sombre affront... how thou art adorned by the burning wrath of his name, where the pretentious shall be abased, and the choleric flames lick the flesh raw from your bones. Suffering an eternity of my burning will... abhorred.” Another soon to be skewered, forcefully pressing the female up against the cold stone wall with the shoulder. Viciously twisted, staring the strigori directly into the eyes, words were sweetly whispered allowing its dying breath to caress her skin."Come closer, what is it you would like to say? Black cat got your tongue or does my blade's kiss sink too deep at hilt for the whore to find voice?"
Rancorous chuckle pluming over vibrated tongue, side of perfected arches rising in ridicule of the female’s beauty that perhaps had swayed many a farmers face thick with grime, but to attempt the anaemic fogs of dominance... undeniably, hilarious. “Please spare me, Atra’Lamia.” Turning tilted at the pronunciation of ‘that’ moniker , and deciding that there was no time like the present to bestow some wisdom to the entire ordeal, “Cutting out your flowery tongue would be a pleasure beyond pleasures for uttering that of which is scathing lies of a blistering tongue, licking the orifices of treachery—that cowardly cunted dog of worship.” Jarring words reminiscent to the mendacious siren weaving enchantments to lure- echoing through the vaults of the mind... “You seek mercy from one who never existed, poor sweet child... I am sure like the others; your blindness fails to see... shall we part those mists from the eyes so that you may truly see?”
A bold and beautiful woman, caressing with a single blade of armoured digit moved to trace the serrated edge across and towards inviting lip. Leaving reddened ribbons of blood, so that she could taste the cold nectareous essences of death those hands had wrought. Laughter... one where real chill crept down along the spine, like all of the small bugs in the world scrambling, crawling down those series of bones. Nothing here held value of truth, Satrina thought of it as a delightful dance of deviance and decadence; but one she wouldn't indulge-- some things should always remain, untainted. For another time, and perhaps another place. With lips of wine, only briefly would they hover, barely a feathered touch away from the vampires, as the curved sickle-blade rose and hooked against delicate throat the colours of the palest rose.
“Ego precor fuga et Diabolus volo vos ut igneus flamma ab phasmatis , eternus vadum vos teneo suus glorior vestri deficius” [Translated: " I pray flights of Devils speed you to the burning flames of the spirals, forever shall you know its glory in your own failure”] It was that lustful smirk that won Satrina many reprisals and notice, subtle yet also powerful by sheer finesse and stamina. Dominating and wielding personality shining through that perfectly formed grin, Force applied to the length of arm, sliding it across the gullet. Neck opening to display a ruptured dawn, motion severing the vocal chords to unlock the gates of this savage garden and wander through poppy fields; so red and so sweet.
Exsanguination a cruel torture to endure, but a beautiful one to observe. Pleased with the outcome of just a simply lingered embrace of shifting flesh upon flesh with this woman. One more sinking to a shameful low, of vanity chasing the wind. The temporal consequences of its sins had to stand, but from the eternal consequence of witnessing its own demise. Bones sickly cracked and head dislodged to fall... rolling across the wooden boards to play witness to its own fall, and just as Cassandra predicted the fall of Troy where the Trojans nipped at the heels with war. Satrina's blades had greeted the dove with the only peace it would truly ever find... oblivion.
As blood was offered to the salutations of silent tributes, the sanguine sunset leaps across it the blackening heavens like a dabbled skirt where the hurrying tempest swept.
Imbued with blackened ichors, the szabla spun adroitly with an adept flip of the wrist, gyration of the hand revolving in an artistic and confident fashion. Satrina, assertive not just of aptitude or flair but also knowing the proficiency of her skill. Never underestimating an opponent; even if they were a festering corpse held no semblance of honour. Rufescent apertures curved into a seduction smirk causing the highlights of chiselled cheekbones to become accentuated within the flickering overture of hell’s fury. It was no surprise to her senses that the puppet [Adrin--Kelitha] had altered itself to metamorphic atrocity, into this pharisaism of arachnidan-caricature to prove some outlandish point or for slovenly amusement. Next course of action would determine which it was to be. Senses tapered to extended awareness, essence reaching out through the dancing shadows which rose like silent demons in every crevice subdued from the phantom kiss of light.
Exuberating in the unquenchable hungers stirring within the darkness, felt it crawl along her flesh like a rapturous lover’s tongue to taste the sweat and sweetness. Explore the curves and landscapes with moist approach of the ‘forbidden fruit’. Perceptions felt their curse burning through their engorged veins whilst body swelled and heaved to the cleansing of the flames—transmutation of flesh to ash. Gnarled hands clawing at the air while screams filled the cold wintry air before alternating into the cacophonous reverberation that made those in the villages below shiver with terror. None challenged, they did not harbour the nerve to challenge for all knew that the numbers of their legions were indeed, great. Each attack maladroit, lumbering in stealth and inelegant in tactic... conversely; to her jovial delight the relish to worship arrived with the pungent aromas... stepping over each toppled tower of death's reflectionless tragedy.
Smoky with a tinge of sweetness- like the inferior bouquet of Faust, jasmine and rotting meat, necrotic camphor--a libertine to the dance of strings and hidden things... a second szabla extracted. Where one worked with deadly precision, the second met its metal of sculpture. An exquisite dance of blades slicing through the remaining, eviscerating them to nothing but reduced instruments of will or circumstance. The faithfuless maggot always served its plate of rotting meat- and classically the elders remained in torpor within this crumbled house. Whereas the newly formed remained the ill-fated vagrants of the coffin knew little better and sought to carve their names upon the very stars. Keeping blade firm in grasp, wrist relaxed for the expectation of another strike kept perceptions and attentions vigilant.
Streams of zibeline ebony flowed to conceal the monochromatic beauty except those lustrous asphodel lanterns, glaring from behind the aphotic mantle of darkness. At the dispatch of another child of the grave, beheaded, head separated by one single action in refusal to relieve of whimpered plights. Swiftness accelerated, instantaneous, besmearing the atmosphere with indistinctive obscurity, vanishing before materializing, and blade held firm in both hands, staining to the whiteness of bone beneath translucent flesh. Momentum force flicked upwards before adroitly rising just past right shoulder before forcibly being swung around at a 180 degree arch bringing the right flank of blade towards another’s lower abdomen since its height rose to at least 6'3ft. Following the action with the hip and torso, flowing into the movement elegantly as a ballerina would gracefully sail.
Potency to dismember its motives quicker than a wasp could sting... and before it caught the chance to cantiliate its fiery breath of acidulous toxins no more would it sing. Nefarious curses etched to the caprice of talon, damnation and salvation subdividing the monstrosity of infernal bowels indisputably, one action. Inky-ichors spilling forth as exterior were driven to perforation, of this phertima. Eviscerating the gut through to spinal column; spilling forth the boiling duodenum of viscera and entrails. Two, at the moment of necropsy, again, the blade dexterously in proficient and practiced hand swung, upwards to the right flank of the faltering gargantuan. Aiming with expert precision betwixt the creature’s nape and collarbone, cleaving downwards with rapturous fervour.
Slashing descending at a 40 degree angle, hacking down deep-rooted to the bedding of bone and sinew- from right flank to left flank (side) using the length of arms and firm stance to balance that force directivity. Total anatomization of vampiric failure to that of fodder to the claws of the conflagration. Scathingly raking tourniquet limbs of Satrina’s physique— fire and night, casting overture of sciomancy across her pallor, like a honeyed-plethoric eclipse. Scintillation aglow, beneath the monochromatic silk as some of the leeches in attempt at escape found their flesh caught ablaze, radiating the area in a dazzle of brilliant lambency. Then... with the intonation of death-kissed mantra, clangourous in deafening euphony portending doom and massacre, their screams bore the brunt of tempest.
Strangely harmonic in its beauty, but also possessing the cacophony of discourse, eons of insanity- Satrina’s words spurred the hateful winds with barbed speech and necrotic curses. “Thou hast procreated odium where there dwelt none, and for this sombre affront... how thou art adorned by the burning wrath of his name, where the pretentious shall be abased, and the choleric flames lick the flesh raw from your bones. Suffering an eternity of my burning will... abhorred.” Another soon to be skewered, forcefully pressing the female up against the cold stone wall with the shoulder. Viciously twisted, staring the strigori directly into the eyes, words were sweetly whispered allowing its dying breath to caress her skin."Come closer, what is it you would like to say? Black cat got your tongue or does my blade's kiss sink too deep at hilt for the whore to find voice?"
Rancorous chuckle pluming over vibrated tongue, side of perfected arches rising in ridicule of the female’s beauty that perhaps had swayed many a farmers face thick with grime, but to attempt the anaemic fogs of dominance... undeniably, hilarious. “Please spare me, Atra’Lamia.” Turning tilted at the pronunciation of ‘that’ moniker , and deciding that there was no time like the present to bestow some wisdom to the entire ordeal, “Cutting out your flowery tongue would be a pleasure beyond pleasures for uttering that of which is scathing lies of a blistering tongue, licking the orifices of treachery—that cowardly cunted dog of worship.” Jarring words reminiscent to the mendacious siren weaving enchantments to lure- echoing through the vaults of the mind... “You seek mercy from one who never existed, poor sweet child... I am sure like the others; your blindness fails to see... shall we part those mists from the eyes so that you may truly see?”
A bold and beautiful woman, caressing with a single blade of armoured digit moved to trace the serrated edge across and towards inviting lip. Leaving reddened ribbons of blood, so that she could taste the cold nectareous essences of death those hands had wrought. Laughter... one where real chill crept down along the spine, like all of the small bugs in the world scrambling, crawling down those series of bones. Nothing here held value of truth, Satrina thought of it as a delightful dance of deviance and decadence; but one she wouldn't indulge-- some things should always remain, untainted. For another time, and perhaps another place. With lips of wine, only briefly would they hover, barely a feathered touch away from the vampires, as the curved sickle-blade rose and hooked against delicate throat the colours of the palest rose.
“Ego precor fuga et Diabolus volo vos ut igneus flamma ab phasmatis , eternus vadum vos teneo suus glorior vestri deficius” [Translated: " I pray flights of Devils speed you to the burning flames of the spirals, forever shall you know its glory in your own failure”] It was that lustful smirk that won Satrina many reprisals and notice, subtle yet also powerful by sheer finesse and stamina. Dominating and wielding personality shining through that perfectly formed grin, Force applied to the length of arm, sliding it across the gullet. Neck opening to display a ruptured dawn, motion severing the vocal chords to unlock the gates of this savage garden and wander through poppy fields; so red and so sweet.
Exsanguination a cruel torture to endure, but a beautiful one to observe. Pleased with the outcome of just a simply lingered embrace of shifting flesh upon flesh with this woman. One more sinking to a shameful low, of vanity chasing the wind. The temporal consequences of its sins had to stand, but from the eternal consequence of witnessing its own demise. Bones sickly cracked and head dislodged to fall... rolling across the wooden boards to play witness to its own fall, and just as Cassandra predicted the fall of Troy where the Trojans nipped at the heels with war. Satrina's blades had greeted the dove with the only peace it would truly ever find... oblivion.
As blood was offered to the salutations of silent tributes, the sanguine sunset leaps across it the blackening heavens like a dabbled skirt where the hurrying tempest swept.
Adrin Eitan: The hour was late, The bell tolls..
The puppet and it's weaponized platform were at the mercy of the amused kelitha which wielded them. [WIDOWER- Stinger Tendril I]The vampire in which had been impaled upon the point at the end of one of it's four stinger tendrils popped and hissed as the the spreading flames cooked the undead flesh and spilled blood.[WIDOWER-Digestor Tendril I] The WIDOWER worked with amazing coordination, the half cooked carcass cleaned from the stinger blade by one of the digestor tentacles. Like an anaconda it's sphincter-lipped opening stretched over the carcass dragging it within and shredding it with it's inner teeth. The black glossy bulge upon the back of the puppet of Adrin surged and swelled with impending maturity. The offered slayings of Malice and Satrina's victims seemed to urge it on.
[WIDOWER-Mature Phase One] With nutrient dead or alive gave energy and with energy came increased biological function, bulging back form almost seemed to breathe in the way that it compressed and expanded in rhythmic succession. [WIDOWER-Impregnator Tendril I]Tendrils whirling, the bar keep closest and within the shorter ranged reach of the right impregnator. Poised and structured, rippling black lancelet covered form waved back and forth within the air as the vampire closed. In a single smooth motion, a fleshy slurp the impregnator stabbed the vermin right beneath it's rib cage. The tendril wriggled, spasaming like a gifted phallus delivering the slurry of nutrients along with viable sex cells into the core. Incubation would begin immediately, the glorious cycle of life even endures within such desolate places. [WIDOWER-Stinger Tendril II] Once the delivery was made. the second stinger tendril moved in a sweeping motion before the puppet, knocking the impregnated tender with enough force to send him crashing out the tavern door.
[Vesper] The time is near, upon the board the queen-peice is needed.
The puppet didn't seem to be taking the heat well, it was the genetic way of things. Sad really, but the WIDOWER carried on, spite the blisters upon Adrin's face. Flames spread and old wood tables became tinder to the out of control fury. Vampires wailed and screeched, their fearful cries no different than any other creature. Baked and reduced to ashes where they sat. [WIDOWER- Digestor Tendril II] The thickened dark snake of the second digestor curled about one of the flame covered beams, it's tiny teeth like lancelets dug into the wood and like a constricting viper it curled about the wood pulling and straining it's flame covered surface. The wood began to buckle and snap.
"I believe it is time to go soon!" The puppet laughed, flames dancing around it as it spoke to Malice and Satrina.
This likeness of the Chancellor seemed to shrink, it's charring skin tight against it's bones as the WIDOWER upon it's back fed from it as well as the vampire. The game would have to have a hasty end, the Governor was needed and the impending operations of the RTU bore much more importance than the game of chance that followed the delivery of the message to the Master's most precious prize.
It must be sad to find out the truth now for some, a life lived is a life served. Beneath the ocean of a lie, in proxy you served and many died. Feel good within deception's ignorance for with the same measure you preformed is the same measure you find idle. Is it the victims who really cry? Or the monster who takes and lets them die? Oh such great deeds, a hundred queens and a thousand ladies and not one ounce of reverence remains for greatness. Hear the moisture forced from the wood of this burning structure! It is like those sweet cries you are used to.
[WIDOWER-Stinger Tendril III] The third stinger bearing tendril whipped out from the WIDOWER, sailing over the bar-top and then sweeping back with a whipping sheer. The sound of bottles smashing could be heard, sweet and bitter liquors fell from their places and smashed upon the floor, sending streams of bourbon kissed sweetness flooding outwards, flowing towards the flickering flames of consumption.
Outside upon the ground the barkeep laid where he had landed, beginning to bloat and swell as the sweet gestation within began to devour both the nutrient slurry and his own flesh.
[Vesper - Kelitha] Death Orchid, Your bloom is to our mutual benefactor. I am asked to pass along for you to ensure that the last piece in place. It has been too long since your petals behind the lights of the great Chonyosa's array. Upon completion, the celestial lord beacons.
The puppet and it's weaponized platform were at the mercy of the amused kelitha which wielded them. [WIDOWER- Stinger Tendril I]The vampire in which had been impaled upon the point at the end of one of it's four stinger tendrils popped and hissed as the the spreading flames cooked the undead flesh and spilled blood.[WIDOWER-Digestor Tendril I] The WIDOWER worked with amazing coordination, the half cooked carcass cleaned from the stinger blade by one of the digestor tentacles. Like an anaconda it's sphincter-lipped opening stretched over the carcass dragging it within and shredding it with it's inner teeth. The black glossy bulge upon the back of the puppet of Adrin surged and swelled with impending maturity. The offered slayings of Malice and Satrina's victims seemed to urge it on.
[WIDOWER-Mature Phase One] With nutrient dead or alive gave energy and with energy came increased biological function, bulging back form almost seemed to breathe in the way that it compressed and expanded in rhythmic succession. [WIDOWER-Impregnator Tendril I]Tendrils whirling, the bar keep closest and within the shorter ranged reach of the right impregnator. Poised and structured, rippling black lancelet covered form waved back and forth within the air as the vampire closed. In a single smooth motion, a fleshy slurp the impregnator stabbed the vermin right beneath it's rib cage. The tendril wriggled, spasaming like a gifted phallus delivering the slurry of nutrients along with viable sex cells into the core. Incubation would begin immediately, the glorious cycle of life even endures within such desolate places. [WIDOWER-Stinger Tendril II] Once the delivery was made. the second stinger tendril moved in a sweeping motion before the puppet, knocking the impregnated tender with enough force to send him crashing out the tavern door.
[Vesper] The time is near, upon the board the queen-peice is needed.
The puppet didn't seem to be taking the heat well, it was the genetic way of things. Sad really, but the WIDOWER carried on, spite the blisters upon Adrin's face. Flames spread and old wood tables became tinder to the out of control fury. Vampires wailed and screeched, their fearful cries no different than any other creature. Baked and reduced to ashes where they sat. [WIDOWER- Digestor Tendril II] The thickened dark snake of the second digestor curled about one of the flame covered beams, it's tiny teeth like lancelets dug into the wood and like a constricting viper it curled about the wood pulling and straining it's flame covered surface. The wood began to buckle and snap.
"I believe it is time to go soon!" The puppet laughed, flames dancing around it as it spoke to Malice and Satrina.
This likeness of the Chancellor seemed to shrink, it's charring skin tight against it's bones as the WIDOWER upon it's back fed from it as well as the vampire. The game would have to have a hasty end, the Governor was needed and the impending operations of the RTU bore much more importance than the game of chance that followed the delivery of the message to the Master's most precious prize.
It must be sad to find out the truth now for some, a life lived is a life served. Beneath the ocean of a lie, in proxy you served and many died. Feel good within deception's ignorance for with the same measure you preformed is the same measure you find idle. Is it the victims who really cry? Or the monster who takes and lets them die? Oh such great deeds, a hundred queens and a thousand ladies and not one ounce of reverence remains for greatness. Hear the moisture forced from the wood of this burning structure! It is like those sweet cries you are used to.
[WIDOWER-Stinger Tendril III] The third stinger bearing tendril whipped out from the WIDOWER, sailing over the bar-top and then sweeping back with a whipping sheer. The sound of bottles smashing could be heard, sweet and bitter liquors fell from their places and smashed upon the floor, sending streams of bourbon kissed sweetness flooding outwards, flowing towards the flickering flames of consumption.
Outside upon the ground the barkeep laid where he had landed, beginning to bloat and swell as the sweet gestation within began to devour both the nutrient slurry and his own flesh.
[Vesper - Kelitha] Death Orchid, Your bloom is to our mutual benefactor. I am asked to pass along for you to ensure that the last piece in place. It has been too long since your petals behind the lights of the great Chonyosa's array. Upon completion, the celestial lord beacons.
OOC Note: Since this is all occurring just before the Citadel, I figured it was a good tie-in.
OOC
Credits: Thank you to my fellow writers who
participated in this role-play. Credit to Malice aka EJ, The Dweller
aka Drewberts, Kelitha|Adrin Eitan aka Drew. Thank you once again for the wonderful writing, it is always an honour to participate in the painting of words with you all.