Basic Information Name: Linda Oerthgrave Aliases: Lyn or Lin (childhood/nickname), Linda (adult), Dark Ecstasy (stage name, see below) Gender: Female Race: Human Age: Looks to be in early twenties (although older) Profession: Adventurer, Scholar, and Exotic Dancer
Linda moonlights as an exotic dancer at the Styx Oarsman in the Lower Ward. There, she dances under dim lighting, and the stage name of Dark Ecstasy, and is often in the company of tanar'ri, gith, and other evil creatures and humanoids that frequent the place. From this situation she earns a surprising amount of jink, patronage in the form of gifts and influence, as well as secrets and information.
This part of her life is kept hidden, and her face is always obscured with a dark mask when working.
She is a former apprentice of the accomplished enchantress Vara Jorina
Physical Information Height: 5' 8" / 1.524 meters Weight: 115 lbs / 52.1631 kilograms Body build: Athletic, bordering on thin, waif-like Skin type: Silky and smooth. Bruises easily. Hair style: Wild Scars: Has what appears two small, circular scars on the side of her neck, very faint, white scars, difficult to see (SPOT 25) Tattoos: Unknown. If she does, they're not visible when wearing casual attire. Colouring:
[b]Hair:[/b] Black, with a streak of white down the center. [b]Eyes:[/b] Emerald Green [b]Skin/Appearance:[/b] White, a bit pale. Scarlet red lips. [/li]
Mental Information
Alignment: Unknown; it's often shifting and variable. While a brilliant mind, she is not entirely and completely sane, but borderline. This instability often affects her personality and actions. Philosophy: No one will look out for you but yourself. Be ruthless in protecting one's interests. Find the weaknesss of others and exploit it to obtain what you want. Deity/Beliefs: She recognizes and is most familar with the Greyhawk Pantheon. Whether she worships or reveres one deity in particular is unknown.
Personality:
[u]Cautious[/u] [i]Tries to always have a back up plan, and not get killed.[/i] [u]Secretive[/u] [i]Rarely speaks what is truly on her mind, and prefers her goals and motivation to be inscrutible, even when benign.[/i] [u]Careful[/u] [i]Likes to deal with problems without dirtying her own hands.[/i] [u]Impulsive[/u] [i]Often does things on a whim or spur of the moment; this vies with her tendency and desire to be Careful and Cautious.[/i] [u]Mercurial[/u] [i]Dramatic mood swings and temperament.[/i] [u]Self Centered[/u] [i]Her pride and ego often border on megalomania. She prefers to be center stage, and in command, whether in social settings or otherwise. [/i] [u]Smug[/u] [i]Believes herself to be superior to nearly everyone she encounters, at least mentally.[/i] [/li]
Additional Information Gear: She is nearly always barefoot Jewelry: Likes emeralds, diamonds, and seems to be fond of bracers and anklets fashioned from cold iron. Habits/hobbies: Gossip, Partying, New Spell Creation, Alchemy General Health: A bit weary from lack of sleep, otherwise healthy Favorite Drink: Fine red wine, room temperature. Partial to merlot. Weaknesses: An addictive personality. Lends her trust to very few individuals.
All is shadows. All is deception. For this space in time only the pulse of desire is important, and it throbs and stirs the air like the heartbeat of a slumbering giant.
Boom. Boom. Something comes.
Trees and giant plants sway and move to this unseen heartbeat. Leaves cloister and mask bestial intent. Creeper and vines dangle from them like the filthy hair of a hag. A single point of sullen yellowish-green light fails to light the scene, obscured by their defenses, foiled by their communal will, and the result is a single crepuscular shaft of illumination exposing the center of a clearing.
This is a jungle that devours the innocent.
Boom. Boom.
From below a mist rises, and climbs into the air like expectation. The cries, screeches, and howls of this jungle quiet one by one, to be replaced by the susurrus of many bodies turning, settling into place, words stilled, the clink of glass upon glass. Conversation is hushed by threatening glares and curt words. The orbits of all the bodies swing into concordance around this singular point of light, for something arrives. From the heavens a lance descends, a rod of purplish glowing steel, traveling along the light and piercing the bush. It finally comes to rest as it touches the ground as gently as a lover's caress . . . a vertical metal cylinder perhaps three inches in diameter touching the exact center of the circle of light upon the ground.
Boom. Boom.Then the slumbering giant awakens, and the drumming fills the air like panic. A final resounding crash and a peal of thunder is heard. As the lightning flares and chases the shadows into hiding, one shadow, defiant, seperates itself from the darkness and launches herself at the cylinder, taking hold of it with the sound of a slap, flesh upon metal.
The figure is dressed in shadows and mist, dark silks that serve to accent her body as well as artfully conceal portions of it. The ragged dark dress shifts and moves of it's own will, and a hint of pale flesh is seen here . . . . then obscured . . . . and there, more flesh. The moon traveling behind clouds. Her clothing crawls over her flesh like a hungry animal. Primeval.
The woman seizes the purplish shaft – a dancer's pole - and, using it for balance, spins around it, one leg high in the air, the other serving as a fulcrum. A ballerina with little in the way of modesty. One full circle, then she collapses against the pole and rubs against it, writhes and sways. Her back arches, and her long hair tumbles down her naked backside like a dark waterfall. For a moment the pole is the god of her adoration. She climbs the pole and hangs upside down, crucified, panting, a slave to her desire. Softly slides down and regains her feet once again.
Then she senses the Others, and spins, facing them, her bosum heaving, her presence exposed. Heretics at the altar. Her gaze lashes out at Them, meeting all eyes and none, and she lifts her chin defiantly.
The audience stirs. Several lick suddenly dry lips with black tongues.
She begins to dance.
At one side of the stage an apish demon with skin the color of blood grins, and beats upon the drum, it's booming heartbeat filling the air once more. From hidden places a lute is heard; a sitar; a cymbol; a tamborine. Music drives the dancer like a remorseless whip; her agony is displayed like a naked wound for all to see. It is the music of souls in torment. She is their tormented angel.
She is pain and desire. Dark Ecstasy.
Her surroundings finally resolve themselves into the interior of the Spice Rack, a tavern in the Civic Festhall. Here by special engagement, the dancer has attracted a large audience in the form of nearly every type of sentient creature residing or traveling through the Cage. Here, an illithid, tentacles dripping a clear slime. Over there, a baatezu, it's wings folded against its back like a living cloak. Seated at a table a celestial sips from a glass, his gaze upon the woman. A vampire nearby watches with glowing, feral eyes. Humans, Gith, and Sensates move about, but not far, their attention upon the Stage, and each quickly finds a resting place, a vantage point to watch the agony of the Dancer.
Her lips part and she softly moans. The sound somehow carried and heard throughout the tavern. Magic.
A wound suddenly appears across her back, the mark of an unseen whip, and her blood begins to fall.
She begins to die.
Yet she dances on. Meeting all eyes and none, she is adept at her art. Coins and scrip appear on the edge of the stage, sacrifices lain before the goddess. She bleeds. She dances. A misty form driven one side of the stage to another, no escape from the music or the torment. Shadows take up the chase as they pursue her, split seconds in which her naked body is revealed before they catch up and cover her once again. Blow after blow from her unseen assailant strikes her, and she is driven from one side of the stage to the other, each time bearing the gift of a new wound. Her blood begins to paint the stage floor red.
The crowd begins to murmur once again as her dance reaches it peak.
She collapses center stage, driven to her knees by a final blow of the unseen whip. The music abruptly ends, and the tavern is dead quiet, hushed. Her hair obscuring her face, sweat beaded upon it, head bowed in apparent submission, surrender. Beaten.
Then she raises her head, emerald eyes glowing with a preternatural light. Defiant. She is not yet mastered. Who can claim her? The unspoken question hovers in the tormented air.
This night her dance is but for one individual, and one alone. Need drives her, and desire. Holding many of the audience within her power, she hungers for one alone. Breaking this fourth wall, breaking the rules of the Dancer, her eyes finally meet one sentient's, locking upon his, then shyly breaking away as if startled. Yet this is enough, a connection is forged, desire leaps from the stage into the audience, and back. He feels a shock, and shivers as if struck by a sudden, intense cold. Perversely he flushes and breaks out in a sweat. The audience is oblivious to this, and finally the hum of conversation once again fills the air.
The Celestial rises and leaves the bar, troubled.
A shy blush adorns her cheeks as her dress finally settles around her form, modestly concealing her naked body at last.
She always hungers for more.
Always.
Her audience shares this, and also hungers for more. As the curtains swiftly close, fists and tankards pound the tables. More jink is cast upon the stage. Unseen, forms rush to her side. Powerful magics are invoked, and her flesh knits and heals, leaving behind not a single scar. In a few moments she is able to stand.
Linda rises and sheds the tattered rags of her dress, the ruined and bloody silks puddling around her ankles. A robe is wrapped around her. She lights the thin stiletto of a cigar, then bends to collect her earnings. Finally, she straightens. Touches the flesh colored mask subtly altering her features, adjusting it.
"That outta keep the berks happy for another night." she mutters. She kicks a hovering kobold out of her way with a bare foot, and leaves the stage, heading for her dressing room. The apish demon grins, and picks up the mop again, cleansing the stage of her blood.
She has an appointment to keep. A rendevous. For she still hungers.
. . wraps her cloak tightly around herself, the mask on her face itching slightly. The memory of her triumph in the Spice Rack still fresh, she pads over the stones of Sigil's Lower Ward. Deftly avoiding the droppings of the troll known to be employed in the area, she wends her way through the smoke and darkness
Enroute to the Styx Oarsman, a vampire steps out from the shadows, regarding her. It's eyes glowing a feral red, hunger fueling Will . . . . reaching out for her.
Spinning, she hisses at it like a cat, and her nailed fingertip glows, tracing a glyph in the air. Little more than an insult, the message is clear. The male vampire's vulpine features show at first a snarl, then it smirks, and turns, to find entertainment elsewhere.
Avoiding Jarkman Vrees, she makes her way down Ironmonger street to the tavern. Beneath her bare feet detrius is pushed aside . . . yet even this weak cantrip does not suffice to keep her feet clean. A basin and water awaits her
She approaches the rear entrance and vanishes, immediately admitted by the bouncer standing nearby. She has clientele from which jink is to be squeezed. Not a "jink skirt", the gutter insult commonly used . . . but more expensive . . and less involved physically. A lure.
"Jinhxep be damned . . . . it will collect less of my jink than it desires this day . . ". She knows the Quasit awaits her . . . perhaps Lathly can be yet again persuaded to distract it, she muses. The Formorian was not the brightest, often the subject of abuse, and her overtures were appreciated by the dim bartender.
She steps into the cool, comforting darkness of the tavern, steeling herself for the encounter
. The Sun . . . dim overhead, but beginning to brighten, warming her face and bare upper shoulders. Birdsong sweetening the chill spring air in nature's melody, joining the somnolent hum of bees and other insects as they began to awaken, go about their endless tasks, filling the meadow with the noise of their activity.
A young girl brings her hand up to her eyes, shielding them . . . . green eyes, the color of precious emeralds. She peered down the road and across the Planting Fields.
She willed her father to appear. Not one known for patience or even the resigned, pragmatic nature adopted by many young romani girls, Lyn was hot-headed, willful, and at times, petulant. Today was the day he said he would return, and thus, so mote it be! Her eyes peered fearlessly into the twilight haze of an early morning fog still hugging the low hills like a reluctant bridegroom.
Was that a glint? A light? Torchlight! The torches of the Trade Wagon,the old (and desperately in need of a fresh coat of paint!) caravan driven by father and her brothers . . . rounding the final bend of the road leading to camp. It was still at least a half hour away; for the fat and plodding horses, more accustomed to pulling plows than her family's temperamental and creaking caravan, could not be forced into any greater speed, no matter how her brothers cajoled or threatened them.
The distance weighed no more in her mind than the possible dangers of running through Lord Ivanhold's fields alone did . . . . hiking her colorful skirt, hitching it a scandalous distance above her calves, she runs, barefoot, over the dirt of the Planting Fields.
To her Father.
"Pappa! Pappa! What did you bring me, Pappa!". Leaps into the open arms of her smiling father. Nearby, the second son, Pitor, scowled at his impetious sister as one of the horses snorted and threatened to shy, startled by the appearance of the young romani girl. Lyn ignored her older brother as she usually did, and found herself swept up into the strong arms of her patient father. The smell of woodsmoke, spice, and tradebeers she always associated with him, and his strength, enveloped her.
"Oh ho! What has Father brought his little paeshkaplamen today, straight from the household and open market of the noble Ivanholds, hmmm? If anything at all? You are such a greedy little child! Already it is nearly impossible to find you anything that will satisfy you.". Lyn smiled up into the face of her father . . . paeshka-plamen, "little fire", his favorite nickname for her. He exerted his strength and the girl is swept off her feet, kicking and giggling.
Gregori smiled and embraced his youngest daughter, knowing her mother would have him upbraid her for making the run through the meadows unaccompanied to meet him. Gregori was a large man of gentle habit, strong hands, and a quiet, yet confident, manner. Long suffering the sharp eyes and sharper tongue of his wife and mother of their seven children, Christina, he stolidly endured the years of constant nagging and mild insults, his love for her and his children the rock beneath his feet. Gregori was tanned, scarred, with the black hair and mustache so common among their people, and his strength – as well as skill at the smith's forge – made him the natural leader and spokesman for the traveling romani.
This, the shining jewel of his life, his youngest daughter, was already coming of age, nearly twelve, and a real beauty. Already turning the heads of several of the sons of the noble families owning the neighboring estates upon which the gypsy family was currently allowed to stay. As well as Lord Ivanhold's only son. Her long black hair, nearly to the small of her back, and bright green eyes were already beginning to haunt the dreams of the boys, and her brothers had been obliged to turn away the approaches of several of them, causing tensions and some trouble between the Family and the locals. Lyn was now chaperoned by several of the Family's dowager women . . . . how she had escaped their clutches Gregori did not know, but he was not surprised. Linda was willful and cunning.
"I'm sorry, paeshkaplamen , my Lyn, I have nothing for you today . . . .trading was not as good as it could have been. Plantings begin very soon, and while they have plenty of seed and fields, and hands to work them, the pay is not in silver, but livestock.". His eyes, green also, gleamed with mischief as he regarded his daughter's face at arm's length. The fall of her expression and the coming storm, so much like her mother, wrenched his heart, and then he merrily burst into laughter.
Lyn's expression turned from crestfallen to suspicious, and she would have gone so far as to openly question him, had he not reached into his pocket and produced a small silver chain. Purchased from a local jeweler after a long thirsty hour of the local beers and haggling, the necklace featured fine silver links ending in the gold charm of a stylized sun . . . Pelor, the local favorite and prominent church of the land.
Her mother would see it and there would be an additional price to pay, Gregori knew. So mote it be, he thought. He had gifts for Christina and his two older daughers as well, and, no matter what anyone said, he would cherish and spoil his youngest daughter as much as he wanted. Until the day came for her marriage, a day not so long away . . . . .two summers, perhaps three. Romani girls married very young, often handfasted when only children, part of the negotiations and politics rife in any gypsy camp. He would delay as long as he could prevail over Christina and his stepbrother's family. This, he did not like to dwell upon, the day another family's son would claim young Lyn, and she would make the transition from young girl to young mother and producer of sons for her new husband.
Lyn snatched up the necklace from his open palm with a crow of delight, admiring the way the charm turned and sparkled in the morning sunlight. Embraced her father and kisses his cheek in giddy delight. Skirts flying, leaving her father's embrace and running to the nearest caravan, she leapt up onto the wagon's lower ledge with the agility of a mountain cat. Claiming a seat as the wagon swayed and creaked, she raises her arms and dons the necklace, then produces her other greatest treasure, a small silver handmirror. Gregori had given her that not so long ago, her tenth birthday. Lyn turned the mirror this way and that, looking at it and herself with narrowed eyes and the unforgiving criticism only young girls seemed to possess regarding themselves. Occasional greetings and jibes from her four brothers she ignored or idly responded to, her eyes and thoughts only on admiring the way the necklace sparkled as it hung down to the early swell of her bosum.
Gregori turned and nodded to Pitor, and, with a shout echoing across the planting fields, the old caravan resumed it slow plodding pace down the dirt road to the romani encampment. Taking up the ironshod shepard's staff that he habitually carried, the tradewagon, it's attendant goats, chickens, and livestock, disappeared into the morning fog. . . .
wrote: . . . and on that day did the Walker in Shadow reveal his most potent and malevolent weapon. His arm raised once, twice, thrice - ashes. Hemond, Virgil, Kross. Where they once stood only ashes remained, slowly drifting to the ground like crows settling upon a carcass. Cackling in his mad glee, the shadow descended upon me, touched my face. My mouth became as dry as a desert – I will not deny that I trembled.
I could see the swollen moon behind his shoulder . . it seemed filled with blood. The howl of a maddened dog, not so far away; the grit of the road beneath my palms. My friends. Forever destroyed by touch of this fiend's most baneful weapon. Then he came for me . . . "
She pauses, the text before her swimming, blurred. Shadows dancing upon the page, and tormenting her eyes. Closes them, and pinches the bridge of her nose. Her head had begun to pound, matching the beat of her heart.
I have been without sleep for too long, she thought. The notion of a soft bed almost weakened her resolve, and she moaned softly.
Rising from the desk, Linda pads to the sputtering, protesting torch held in the wall sconce nearby. Reaching down, she extracts a new one from the barrel and replaces it's dying brother, and fresh light once more springs into existance within the crowded, tiny cell she occupies. Items and crates heaped about like abandoned children. Dust covered many like a shroud. The few items that lacked this shawl of neglect: her desk; an uneaten meal, grease long since congealed, cold; her satchel; her staff, ornate and alien, leaning against the wall like a drunken gith; finally, the old, mouldering tome that had held her captive for the past three hours.
I cannot sleep, she thought. Puts her hand to her forehead, feeling the warm of an impending fever. Too much is at stake, not the least of which, my life. She laughs quietly, a tinge of bitterness and despair hinting at a barrier seen, a path to walk, where only shadow dwelt. Shadows, and worms.
What have I done?. She sways.
Linda snarls, and clenches her left hand into a fist, driving the pointed, red painted nails into her palm with a sudden, savage fury. Sharp pain lances down her palm and along her arm, and she hisses. The room springs once more into stark relief; it had begun to swim as well, her weariness almost overtaking her. Blood begins to seep from between her clenched fingers, and onto the floor. Drip . . . drip . . . . . . drip . . . . a small fraction of life, lost each time. Wets the dusty floor of the cloister she had rented this evening. They impact the stones beside her feet like the beat of a hangman's drum. Beside them, bare feet dirtied by the neglect of the chamber in which she stood. Her hand throbs and spasms open, fingers trembling, a claw.
Pain was a friend she could understand. It's lash, once again, setting her feet back upon the path she had chosen. The stones we walk upon scar our feet, she thought disjointedly. Another throb of pain and her head finally clears.
They could come for me, she realized. They could.
How had things come to this, her next thought.
She lets out a soft moan and crosses once more to the desk. Sitting, she brings her hand to her mouth, her eyes once more focusing on the ancient, archiac text of the diary.
Slowly licks the blood off her hand and fingers. Reads. Continues to search for the Key.
wrote: " . . .yet it wasn't until the Walker drew close that I knew genuine fear. Was I frightened before? That was a mere shadow of the great abyss of terror that was soon to open beneath my feet like a black chasm.Â
For the dark man brought the Staff before him and displayed it to me. The hideous thing warped and twisted in his hand, it bulged and throbbed. Then a portion twisted, and I saw the face of my beloved Virgil form upon it. The face screamed, and a fluid hand, the size of twig, extended from the surface of the weapon beneath it, as he sought to escape. Then my beloved was dragged back down within the depths of the abomination, and I heard a ghostly wail within my mind's eye. At that moment a blood red jewel on the Staff began to gleam with a lurid red glow.
He raised the unholy thing again, above me, as I lay stricken, cowering. . .
wrote: It was only by the Grace of Pelor I survived. The rising sun seemed to weaken the Walker; then several crossbows brought him low. Of the insidious Staff, nothing was found – it had vanished.
I recovered in the gentle halls of the Hospice of Ilmater . . .
"WORTHLESS!"
Linda screamed and rose. Seizing her staff, she strikes, and the ancient tome flies against a far wall.
~clink~
Howling in a incoherent fury, she assaults the room. Devastating spells fly from her outstretched fingertips, blasting crates and sundering barrels. Dry goods and spoiled rations explode into the air, splattering the walls. Mortar dust falls from the ceiling as the room shakes with her anger. Only after she is spent, her strength ebbing, shoulders drooping, does she finally relent.
Sanity comes with the weariness. She pushes her disheveled hair out of her face, trying to arrange it with her fingernails. Then she suddenly freezes.
What was that, she thought.
Spinning on her heels, she looks over at the wall where the battered tome landed. Ruined, it's spine split and pages adrift, the corpse of the ancient diary lay in the corner, it's final resting place.
A gleam of metal.
With a swirl of her skirt she flies to the corner like a bat diving after a moonlit moth, the shadows borne of the sputtering torch nearby giving her cloak the wings of a wraith. Crouching near the diary, she spies what had caught her eye. Apparently it had been hidden in the spine of the diary.
She picks it up and lays it in her palm.
A strip of metal – mithril, she knows, by the texture and color. A small tablet, no bigger than a finger, it's surface gleaming and twinkling. Stamped upon the metal a single word, inscribed.
A Command Word.
She springs to her feet, clenching the tablet in her fist, and raises it high, keening in triumph.
Layla. The image of the old hag springs to her mind. Disgusting creature, but not without her uses.
A shadow passes over the room as the torch sputters a final time, and goes out, it's dying expiration a trail of smoke rising into the air.
A riot of color and sound. Bright crimson fireballs pierced by cerulean lances. Diamond stars blooming alongside green and yellow flowers. Some rose, some fell. Few failed to delight, as the skies lit the ground beneath and explosions filled the air.
Far below them the crowd surged and swarmed, and a sound not unlike thunder alongside the shores of a troubled sea arose; a roar; applause. Onlookers gasped in delight, then cheered. They numbered in the hundreds, these observers. As the dark night sky becomes a subject of amazement and wonder, few notice the singular anomaly present amongst the artifical artifacts of light.
A shooting star racing across the heavens.
Far below, two figures raced across the moonlit meadow, towards the beckoning tents of Festival.
One is a young girl, waist length dark hair and eyes the color of gleaming emerald. Her diaphanous yellow gown suffering the indignity of being gathered up and bunched above her knees as she runs barefoot through the grasses. Her companion, a tow-headed boy not much older, his blond, almost white hair, glowing beneath the soft light of Celune, the first of Greyhawk's two moons.
The young romani girl stops, bowed at the waist, her bosum heaving, nearly threatening to escape the low neckline of the silken dress. She pants heavily, palms upon her thighs, supporting her as she seeks to recover her breath. The hem of festival gown sliding down her legs and touching the ground. She brushes her hair out of her face and grins at her boy beside her.
"C'mon, Linda! We'll miss the dragon tamer!". Andrew grinned in anticipation at her. Youngest of Gregori's sons, he was her favorite, the closest to her in age, a mere three summers older at eighteen years. With his silken blond hair, nearly to his shoulders, and blue eyes, he clearly favored their mother, and was indeed Christina's favorite as well amongst the racious, sprawling family named Oerthgrave. "You'd do better if you'd wasn't wearing all that silk and finery! We're going to miss everything!"
"Oh, bullocks!" she swore lightly, and grinned back at him. It was her latest swear, and she used it often – out of the hearing of their mother, Christina. "We haven't missed anything – it's only an hour after sunset.". She pants a bit more and gulps more air. "Besides, you know it'll only be a tamed drake, not a real wyrm! You fall for it every year, and lose good coin!". Andrew scowls at her, but finds himself unable to do so for long, excitement almost palpable in the air.
"As for my dress, would your rather I shucked it and ran naked amongst the tents?". She starts to tug her dress upwards as if threatening to do so. Andrew snorted and laughed. Linda wore her fall festival dress, a nearly full length gown of yellow silk and ribbons, bought especially for this day, Brewfest, one of the last holidays of the Oerthian year. Costing her father nearly the price of a full grown hiefer, wearing anything else was unthinkable.
Even if it did flatter her figure in ways he wasn't comfortable thinking about, Andrew reflected. Chest all pushed up and exposed, with that amulet of Pelor resting in a most enviable place; nearly translucent skirt showing off shapely, muscular legs . . he shakes his head. A brother didn't think about such things - the very act made him queasy - but the effect she had on his mates was becoming profound. Linda might act oblivious to the effect her blossoming figure and striking featues had on the youths of Ivanhold, but it was the talk of the camps, her beauty. Already several young tribesmen vied for her attention, alongside the richer sons of the local landowners. Fending off would-be husbands had become a full time job for the boys and young men of the Romani camp – when those amongst them weren't pressing their own suit, that is.
Already several duels had threatened to break out amongst her swelling admirers. The Clan were forced to almost imprison her, within tent or caravan, like some fairytale princess, and bodyguards chaperoned her every waking hour of the last year.
Somehow, against expectations, Gregori had fended off early suitors and outmanuvered their mother for the past three years. Linda avoided an early handfasting, as his step-uncle's family cajoled, pleaded, and even threatened. It became quite the nightly row between their parents, their spirited aruging, punctuated by Christina's shouts and wails, keeping all awake into the hours of the night. It always ended with Gregori stubbornly folding his arms and saying nothing, weathering Christina's outbursts, daggered insults, and taunts; a rock anchoring their family even as he refused to relinquish their newfound treasure. Finally even Christina recognized the jewel beginning to shine in their midst – and it's potential value - and her tirades lessened and eventually quieted altogether. Linda would be the prize of some rich landowner, or, even the unheard of - a nobleman's third son. Perhaps it was not too much to dream . . . perhaps even his second. Riches, as well as influence, would flow into the Clan.
Behind them, four romani boys, friends of Andrew and their family, finally caught up to the pair, huffing and puffing, one noticeably wheezing. Linda's escort – guards - for this, Freeday, the last day of Brewfest.
Linda's eyes met Andrew's, gleaming mischeviously, and she gathered up her skirt again, the pair threatening to break out into another headlong run. A groan from the overweight wheezer forestalled them, and they laughed together, then relented, slowing to a walk. The tents of Festival a mere hundred yards away. Soon she and Andrew entered the first line of tents, their skin tingling in anticipation. She took a moment to produce both mirrior and comb, as her brother rolled his eyes and shook his head, visibly figiting and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Ignoring him and combing her hair, applying rouge to her lips . Deliberately taking her time. Then smirks at a muttered insult, her brother's excitement and impatience almost bringing him to a breaking point. She relents, sliding the mirror into her handbag; they clasp hands once more and continue walking.
Smells and noise assaulted them as they entered the festival grounds proper, and Linda crowed in delight at the excitement and activity, clapping her hands together. Unable to join Brewfest until the final day, she was determined to squeeze every ounce of enjoyment possible until the hour struck when they would be forced to return to the camp. Until that time, Linda – and the hidden coins she carried upon her – would be the govenors of her evening.
The crowds thronged and swarmed around them, and instinctively the boys formed a protective circle around her. Of the crowds, small islands formed around performers and artists. In one corner, a fire-eater garnished several dozen admirers; a troupe of acrobats nearby scowled, and paused in their antics, upstaged. A coterie of magicans stood, heads bowed together, as they discussed the next round of illusionary and real fireworks to be sent aloft to the delight of the large gathering. The smells of popped corn, spiced sausage, and smoke filled the air.
The gypsy youths, Linda leading them, merged into the crowd, and were lost.
One can find anything, anything, anything they desire within these hidden depths of the Lady's domain. Walk around the corner on many of the streets of Sigil and hidden treasures, or horrors, are yours to behold; and purchase, if the price is right.
A little bit of liquid agony? Black market and forbidden tomes? A slave to put to work . . . or sacrifice. Dangerous and rare magical components, some so toxic or malign they could wipe out a city block in mere minutes if mishandled. In a city where virtually nothing is forbidden, nothing taboo, one's dreams are just a short walk down that darkened alley.
One's dreams, or nightmares.
The end of this particular alley in the Hive Ward is well known among the locals as the "place to get IT", where IT could be a virtually limitless number of things. Today death is on the menu. Smoke arises in a thin spiral, its source: the skull of a tiefling sprawled upon the ground. Drosus "Bugs" Zakamir, to be precise. Former fence and rogue, now fallen on hard times, namely, the cold broken cobblestones of a dead end in one of Sigil's more dangerous locations.
A dark figure stooped over the body, hands moving over the slowly cooling corpse. Some objects extracted and discarded, tossed aside to join the rest of the garbage littering the alley. Some of interest or value, and retained. Finally, she has what she sought – a small prism of diamond, multi-faceted. She shakes the thing, then mutters a spell.
Broken up by the facets of the jewel, a face appears. Screams in soundless despair. Pleads. Bargains.
Satisifed, the figure pockets the Soul Prism. " "No" was not an option, my darling" she says to the slain cager at her feet. The figure gives a throaty, feminine chuckle. Continues rifling the body.Then she pauses, as another object is found. A small, gray rock, imperfectly round, an azure dot stamped upon it.
Sensory stone, she thinks.
Shrugs and pockets it as well.
From down the alley a flickering movement is detected. Steathy . . . cunning . . . and professional. Yet detected, her eyes missing little. The fence's confederates, his bodyguards.
A shadow amongst many, and vanish. Leaving the killers to mutter and wonder . . .before they, too, bend to prey upon the corpse and what valuables remain. Even the body, in some quarters, might find a place.
These are the scum of the Hive Ward. Gathered together under the same roof, enemy eyeing enemy, yet no weapons are drawn. In a city where nearly anything and everything has or will happen, this is a first, an unheard-of event. Rogues . . bashers . . . finger-wagglers . . cutters. The bloods amongst them, their leaders and lieutenants, all natives of this, the darkest and most dangerous area of the City of Doors. Several gangs eye one another balefully, hands going to weapons, yet no steel is drawn, no dire spell uttered.
Numerous examples have already been made of those unable to forget past rivalries.
Yet any representatives of the most powerful of the hidden guilds and factions are notably absent. This is a gathering of the unwashed and unwanted; the faction-less, the outcasts. The hungry.
She stands at the center of this motley group, bold and unafraid. Her appearance wreathed in living shadows that writhe and crawl over her flesh, her face a mask, her voice a tonal drone, obviously magically distorted. The chilling, inhuman lack of emotion sending a brief shivver down the spines of the less experienced of the gathered thugs.
Find me the Soul Prisms. Your targets have been provided to you.
Fear not the Harmonium. They are weakened and distracted.
Obtain the gems by any means you find expedient. Fair or foul. Then bring them here.
The gangs scatter, many licking their lips in anticipation of the promised reward awaiting them. Destruction of their hated common enemy, the fat, indolent factions and gangs at the top of the food chain of Sigil's underbelly. Tapping their dreams of greed and lust for power, She has welded together a new weapon with their forces, using the mortar of shared hatred and fear.
Soon the dusty warehouse is empty, save for the One, and she muses in solitude. Turns in her hands the first of the gems obtained, smiling into the screaming face of a captured soul.
If she were to point to a single night, one event, that was the beginning of the Horror that was to befall herself and her family, it would be that night. Festival night. Everything that followed seemed altered by what happened. Touched. Tainted.
Hers was a starcrossed existence.
This, the last night of happiness she was to know.
-o--o--o-
The monsters amongst us are not born that way.
They're made.
-o--o--o-
They walk, holding hands, through the darkened meadow. Dirt clods crumbling beneath her toes. She had removed her shoes hours earlier, and now carried them in her satchel. The grasses of the Planting Fields kissing her feet and ankles as she walks. Andrew stumbles and she grins, pulling on him, keeping him upright. About her and Andrew their escort also weaved and stumbled. Nearly all of them were tipsy, a few outright drunk, from the hard cider they had sneaked under the watchful eyes of the romani elders scattered around the Festival tents.
"Derek wasn't pleased. You wanted to stay!" Andrew grinned and made kissing noises, and soon the hue and cry goes up about her, all of the boys laughing and making crude noises and ribald remarks. She scowls and strikes her brother in the shoulder, blushing madly.
"Shut up!" she cries, but doesn't deny it. Lord Ivanhold's eldest son was her most ardent – and insistent – admirer. Despite the yawning chasm that lay between them, noble and commoner, he had sworn his devotion to her. Several heated clenches in the shadows. Whispered promises. He would marry her, he said. Convince his father, the stern elder Ivanhold. Defy tradition. Then his hands would move to her skirt, and the nightly contest of wills would begin again. To her credit she retained her virginity, although some nights it was a close thing. Too many times where she had almost lost control and allowed him to . . . have what he wanted from her. Nights she had sent him on his way, both of them sweating and frustrated, denied, angry.
Something held her back. A voice deep inside her: No, it whispered. Common sense, she supposed. Firstly, Derek had a reputation. It was well known he'd chased anything female with a heartbeat, and was used to getting his way, cutting a wide swath amongst the maidens of the territory. There was already talk of several young girls who had vanished, moved away or hidden by their families. Girls in trouble, and Derek, involved. Then there were his promises. Born from passion and desire, they often seemed ephemeral in the morning light, oaths reduced to wisps of fog dissolving under the scrutiny of Pelor's face; disappearing. In her heart she knew that to give in to desire, to give him what he wanted, would be the beginning of the end.
As always, she wanted more. In her dreams she walked as a Countess, adorned and adored. Never again knowing lack. Wealthy, the world at her feet. Somehow he would convince his father, and her dreams would come true. If she was patient. As well as unyielding. Yet it was so hard . . . . . so many nights where she wanted to find the heart of that voice inside her and stab it until it died.
She smiles wistfully, making her away around a small bush. Still, she reflects, having Derek's favor had some immediate benefits. Like the Festival cider. With Derek's influence she had managed to sneak nearly half a keg out from under the watchful eyes of the adults, to share with her brother and kin. Her stature amongst them had rose even higher, and would make those midnight rendevous and secret trysts even easier. About them the nightly chorus of crickets chirped and gamboled. A rustling noise as a fox observed them, eyes yellow-bright under the cloudy, moonless sky. Celune having long since set, as the night progressed in its usual stately manner towards the hours of early morning, not so far away.
The crickets had stopped.
She frowned, and paused, looking at Andrew. Something was amiss. Then the night erupted around them, several figures bursting out of the darkness and falling upon her drunken escort. The one carrying a torch turned and was felled by a quick fist. Blows and grunts as shadows danced, merged and embraced one another. She and Andrew stopped as victors arose, her kin sprawled on the ground. From one, the bright gleam of blood. From another direction, the snap of a twig and swift footfalls as another took to his heels and ran. She and Andrew merely stood there, still as statues, shocked.
"Linda . . ." one of the figures spoke, seperating himself from the rest. " . . you promised to meet me behind the stores tent.". The flickering light of the fallen torch lighting his face. Lord Ivanhold's son – Derek's. His fists clenched, one dripping blood. "How long . . how many nights, do you think you can play me for a FOOL?" . The last a snarl. His words bearing a slight slur; the young nobleman was drunk.
"Derek . . ." she murmurs. Tries to smile, the attempt faltering as she takes a step towards him. Fear grips her. "It's late, and my family . . ."
"Shut up, you little TRAMP!" . His open hand striking her face, driving her to the ground in a flash of surprise and pain. She falls to the ground, stunned, the taste of blood, copper and salt, on her lips.
"You son of a WHORE!" Andrew screamed, and starts forward. Anticipated. Two figures suddenly appearing at his side. A fist driven into his midriff, another to the side of his head. The sound of her brother's body hitting the ground like a felled tree.
Derek stoops, seizing her wrists and hauling her to her feet. She cries out, his grip unrelenting and painful. Her split lip throbs, blood running down her chin. Stunned, her control lost, the tears begin to flow. His hand moves to the shoulder and grabs the fine silk of her Festival dress. With a shocking suddenness grips it and wrenches, ripping the fabric in a long tear down to her waist, her bosum exposed now. She lets out a moan and begins to sob harder, now, deeply frightened, shaking, her head still swimming from the earlier blow.
"Family? What are they but a bunch of filthy squatters on my father's – on MY lands? When I'm Lord, you, you and all that romani trash will not be allowed here. Thieves and whores! Now . . . ". he pauses, eyeing her, open lust and contempt, mixed. Starts to pull her towards the nearby copse of bushes and new growth. Her feet making a small furrow in the dirt of the Planting Field as loses her footing and is dragged. The young Ivanhold then flinging her onto the hard earth beneath the largest bush.
"Now . . . " his hands begin to move to his trousers. " . .you tease me, you little bitch. Make a fool out of me, no more. . . ". Tears blinding her eyes as she attempts to cover herself with the scraps of her ruined dress, shaking and terrified.
Then a large hand falls on the young lord's shoulder. A yelp of surprise as he's hauled upwards by the collar of his fine brocade, his feet dangling and kicking.
Several bearing freshly lit torches moving inwards. Romani men, many of them openly bearing weapons. The rakes and young bravados belonging to the young lord raising their hands and stepping away from her fallen kin.
One of the band, the youth who had fled earlier, to summon the People.
The dancing light of the torches revealing the last figure, the giant holding Derek.
Her father.
"I think that is enough . . .entertaiment for you, this eve, young Ivanhold.". Gregori's face and voice eeriely calm, almost matter-of-fact; quiet. The young romani girl cries out, sobbing in relief and shame, lying on the ground as she clutches her ruined dress. Her tears beginning to recede, now.
Yet the fear remained. Recognizes the tone of her father's voice, hinting at a deep and barely restrained fury. Whenever Gregori's voice took this tone, even his wife Christina quieted and retreated.
The young son of Lord Ivanhold has no such recognition, and struggles, trying to land a blow against the massive smith behind him. In an almost casual, offhand manner, Gregori flings him against the trunk of a nearby tree, the force of the throw hinting at his barely restrained anger.
"Go and gather your friends, young Lord. Then go. Go peacefully, and we'll forget this night." her father rumbles, the warning now clear in his voice.
Derek snarls, rising. A hand going to his side, slowly drawing out his rapier. "No one . . NO ONE . . lays a hand on an Ivanhold, you piece of romani trash. You filth. I'll see you hanged, but first . . ". He pants and brings the blade up, and several gasps emerge from the circle, recognizing the weapon. Lancaster's Pride. The ancient weapon of the founding Ivanhold patron; the weapon of House Ivanhold. The deadly blade gleams, almost glowing in the shadows. It was rumored to be magical. No Ivanhold had ever been bested wielding it. Indeed, Derek had already defeated nearly a dozen in duels; two of them beyond the need of any healing. Whether that was the blade, or the young nobleman's schooling with rapier and epee', it was unclear. That the two were a dangerous combination was universally agreed upon.
"Think very carefully this, young Ivanhold" Gregori said quietly. His hand slowly pulling out the smithy hammer that always hung from his belt. "Think very carefully what you are about to do".
The young noble was beyond such rational thoughts. Furious and red-faced, he surges forward, excuting a balestra, a quick jump, deadly steel then extended in a lunge. A line of silver heading for the smith's heart.
It was impossible for a man of such size to move so quickly. Spinning around the deadly strike, Gregori moved to one side and then stoops. His hammer brought about in a half circle, the speed making of it a blur. The large mallet of steel slamming into the extended foot of the young noble. Sounds of the breaking of bone. Derek screams, dropping the rapier, and falls backwards. Lands unceremoniously on his backside, holding his foot and howling.
Gregori stoops yet again, picking up the Ivanhold family blade. "A fine weapon" he rumbles, weighing it, as the youth nearby, still on his backside, begins to darkly curse him, his words black and filthy. "Good balance". Glances at the youth, hearing the defiance, sensing this was not yet over. The smith's eyes then return to the blade. With a grunt he moves to a boulder sitting to one side of the tree, closer to the snarling noble.
"Too fine, I think, for a cacanar like yourself to inherit". Shoves the blade into the dirt beneath the rock. Derek's eyes widening as he only begins to comprehend the smith's intent. Seizing the pommel of the fine rapier, Gregori straightens. The muscles in his arms bulging, strength that was the sum of the long hours of every day, every year since his days as a young romani, that he worked and sweated at the forge. Arms like banded steel. He then pushes upwards, bending the blade in an arc. Strains, grunting with the effort.
Then comes the snap and ring of protesting metal. Riven. Sundered.
The smith reaches down and collects the two pieces of the blade. "A fine weapon, yes. ". Drops them at the feet of the stunned Ivanhold. "Yet obviously not magical, as rumors said. Pity, that".
Gregori then turns, and his face falls, spying his daughter once again. She sobs afresh and clutches at the silk of her Festival dress, trying to hide her nudity. Ignoring this, he collects her, picking her up off the ground and sliding his arms around her. Begins to draw her away from the scene, tenderly guiding her around those gathered. Nearby, another helps her brother to his feet and steadies him.
Then Gregori turns and looks at the panting youth, his anger now openly displayed. Gestures at the sundered weapon. "Take that back to your father, young Ivanhold. Show him what you've accomplished with your family's pride. If you dare.". Turns away from the stricken, now white-faced young noble.
"Personally, I think you'll hide the blade" . The smith snorts and lets out a quiet laugh. Then all attention to his daughter, as he guides her, leads her away. Away from the strife and back to the romani camp.
The rest of the gypsy band also turn, and melt into the night, leaving behind the gaping face of the young lord and his bruised and bloodied gang.
The crickets, ignorant of the troubles of Men, begin to sing anew. The night continues its slow progress towards morning.
-o--o--o-
A shadow moving back and forth. A creaking noise, rhythmic. The heat of the day distorting the air already, this early morning.
The shadow rocks back and forth, in harmony to the noise. A pulse in the air. The hum of bees and birdsong outside.
Dangling from the rafters is young Derek. A rope about his neck, his face horribly distorted, bloated and purple.
The body moves back and forth, the shadow following. The wood beam above him protests anew. Creak.. . . . . . Creak.
Beneath him, at his feet, on the dusty floor of the barn: the shards of a broken blade.
