Having been out-of-touch for several cycles, there was nothing but the chant to greet Rhistel as he came back to the Cage: the so called Mimir Killer and his last victim, as collateral it might have been.
He barely knew the woman himself, but he had an idea of McEwan, he knew he would have tried to bring her back immediately, and there was no shortage of means to do so. Oblivious of the complications, he could only assume that if she hadn't been resurrected already, it was because she had refused to be brought back, which was a decision everyone was bound to respect no matter how they felt about it.
She did not die in battle, but she probably still was with her Goddess now, if things really worked that way.
He pondered whether he had to go and visit. He heard in such occasions people used to, didn't they?
Maybe.
In the end, the only thing arriving at the Taigh a cycle and half after the happening were white lilies, not cut but still potted in their soil, accompanied only by a small parchment bearing just a signature.
The End Of Shadow's Solstice
-
*Nimiane
- Posts: 347
- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
[align=center]
"If you look closely at a Soul Prism, also called a Cage, you may see a tiny face or other features inside; it even seems to scream. It's the trapped soul of a being or petitioner. The value of a Cage depends on the power of the soul trapped inside, and can vary from one gold to a thousand or more."[/align]
<span style='font-size:16pt;line-height:100%'>Darkness. Endless darkness. An obsidian ocean that churned with memories, yet grasped none, spanning deep and wide with threat to swallow all. It was everything and it was nothing. Infinite torment contained by unseen walls. Screaming. Suffocating. Drowning. Time held no bearing here, reality a cruel trick of the mind with the pass of hand and the study of appraising gaze. What could mortals known of such a place? All that there was, all that there would be, was multitudinous night, and the screaming... the screaming was her own.
Odette's lifeless form was silent and still on the deck of the Spelljammer that creaked and groaned it's way through the Astral sea. Beneath the attentive eyes of the gathered, discomforted with their own feelings of being watched, the woman's cold lips were parted by Mercykiller's fingertips. White rose, carved perfection of unnatural stone, was held aloft for appraising stare of Dace's own green eyes; focusing on the last sense of its magical power before he looked down on the deceased. Betwixt lips manifested boon was placed with unspoken request, held in place by gloved digits.
Almost instantly, the woman was surrounded by a soft white light, barely perceptible to the point it might not be noticed at all. The energy pulses about her person; the concentrated holy energy strong enough to prick the hairs on the back of the necks of those watching despite lacking visuals. A crack splintered through delicate stone, then, another. Yet...there was nothing. No sign of movement. No breath of life that rose the curve of them woman's chest. Several minutes passed by with the steady tick of seconds. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. The light faded and the ivory rose crumbled to dust.
Wings. Wings as large and as black as the night sky; each powerful beat sending ripples through tenebrous seas. All that could be seen, felt, beyond the loom of ebony mask... a hand reaching, grasping, dragging from void that clawed and shrieked futile negation. Freedom: floating, falling.
Just when it seems as though hope was lost, broken and scattered to the winds of the astral... colour began to flood cold, dead flesh. A steady crawl that started within the woman's breast and spread with outward through muscle, sinew and limbs; warming all that came in contact. Pallor shifted to bronze, scars transposed from gunmetal to crimson, freckles from glaucous to russet brown. An unnatural silence fell over the ship. The wood did not creak. The rigging did not squeak. Pure, save for the murmurs and shuffles of those present... and the flicker of watching shadows that contorted, unseen, with sentience.
Then... movement. Slight and subtle enough to be missed with first breath; a stirring of the woman's chest in rise. Then stillness. A second followed. A third. Odette was breathing, each shallow rise and fall growing stronger and stronger still. Gloved fingers twitched, a booted heel scraped against wooden boards. In an instant, the woman's long lashes snapped open and she thrashed with whatever clumsy strength was found in form risen two weeks from death. Gasping with found breath, the panicked movements were enough to render hood fallen from crown; silver locks, once blonde, fanning outward over the deck in testament to unknown trials. Any whom would look upon her gaze in those moments would be greeted with a glimpse of mania and lacking recognition.
Disoriented, but alive. Odette had returned.</span>
[[Thank you to everyone who participated in the rather abrupt 'end' to Odette's personal/player plot. At least, for the time being. Several months in the making, it was an unexpected turn of events that saw things take a sudden and swift change of direction than was originally intended. It just goes to show, planning will always come second to the influence of interaction.]]
"If you look closely at a Soul Prism, also called a Cage, you may see a tiny face or other features inside; it even seems to scream. It's the trapped soul of a being or petitioner. The value of a Cage depends on the power of the soul trapped inside, and can vary from one gold to a thousand or more."[/align]
<span style='font-size:16pt;line-height:100%'>Darkness. Endless darkness. An obsidian ocean that churned with memories, yet grasped none, spanning deep and wide with threat to swallow all. It was everything and it was nothing. Infinite torment contained by unseen walls. Screaming. Suffocating. Drowning. Time held no bearing here, reality a cruel trick of the mind with the pass of hand and the study of appraising gaze. What could mortals known of such a place? All that there was, all that there would be, was multitudinous night, and the screaming... the screaming was her own.
Odette's lifeless form was silent and still on the deck of the Spelljammer that creaked and groaned it's way through the Astral sea. Beneath the attentive eyes of the gathered, discomforted with their own feelings of being watched, the woman's cold lips were parted by Mercykiller's fingertips. White rose, carved perfection of unnatural stone, was held aloft for appraising stare of Dace's own green eyes; focusing on the last sense of its magical power before he looked down on the deceased. Betwixt lips manifested boon was placed with unspoken request, held in place by gloved digits.
Almost instantly, the woman was surrounded by a soft white light, barely perceptible to the point it might not be noticed at all. The energy pulses about her person; the concentrated holy energy strong enough to prick the hairs on the back of the necks of those watching despite lacking visuals. A crack splintered through delicate stone, then, another. Yet...there was nothing. No sign of movement. No breath of life that rose the curve of them woman's chest. Several minutes passed by with the steady tick of seconds. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. The light faded and the ivory rose crumbled to dust.
Wings. Wings as large and as black as the night sky; each powerful beat sending ripples through tenebrous seas. All that could be seen, felt, beyond the loom of ebony mask... a hand reaching, grasping, dragging from void that clawed and shrieked futile negation. Freedom: floating, falling.
Just when it seems as though hope was lost, broken and scattered to the winds of the astral... colour began to flood cold, dead flesh. A steady crawl that started within the woman's breast and spread with outward through muscle, sinew and limbs; warming all that came in contact. Pallor shifted to bronze, scars transposed from gunmetal to crimson, freckles from glaucous to russet brown. An unnatural silence fell over the ship. The wood did not creak. The rigging did not squeak. Pure, save for the murmurs and shuffles of those present... and the flicker of watching shadows that contorted, unseen, with sentience.
Then... movement. Slight and subtle enough to be missed with first breath; a stirring of the woman's chest in rise. Then stillness. A second followed. A third. Odette was breathing, each shallow rise and fall growing stronger and stronger still. Gloved fingers twitched, a booted heel scraped against wooden boards. In an instant, the woman's long lashes snapped open and she thrashed with whatever clumsy strength was found in form risen two weeks from death. Gasping with found breath, the panicked movements were enough to render hood fallen from crown; silver locks, once blonde, fanning outward over the deck in testament to unknown trials. Any whom would look upon her gaze in those moments would be greeted with a glimpse of mania and lacking recognition.
Disoriented, but alive. Odette had returned.</span>
[[Thank you to everyone who participated in the rather abrupt 'end' to Odette's personal/player plot. At least, for the time being. Several months in the making, it was an unexpected turn of events that saw things take a sudden and swift change of direction than was originally intended. It just goes to show, planning will always come second to the influence of interaction.]]
-
*Mausman
- Posts: 486
- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
* The warrior sat at his desk. The calm breathing of his beloved to be heard on his left. Amir had given her something to sleep, the warrior had remained in their loft, unwavering in his presence.
Kelth was writing, a large book that had become his journal over the, what was it now, decades? yes...at least two of them, lay there, patient in it's acceptance of written words.
Large hand that used to be steady in grip, trembled now, whilst writing. Carefree expression and eyes that used to regard the verse in wonder and curiousity, had been replaced with a grim countenance and a diminished flicker in what used to be playful, somewhat coy gaze.
She had been restored, re-united with soul. Though her initial moments had been tormented, he knew full well. The image of her, thrashing about, unfamiliar with all she had to take in, her psyche resorting to coping mechanisms that had the warrior again deal with a blow to his own pysche...seeing how having to deal with reality dawning back onto mind and soul had it's effect on the one who held his heart, had been taxing, to say the least. His heart was ablaze with joy over her return, but the blaze remained inside, yet every moment he cast a glance at Odette's sleeping presence, a loving smile formed. He would feast with her if he and she could, but it was neither time nor place.
The knowing and keen eye might have been able to see it in his gaze, but it was evident to the same person possessing such an eye, that the warrior was on his last legs.
Behaviour had been, interesting, to say the least, the past two days. The warrior was seen trying to soothe arguments on the Streets of the Hive, rather than planting a fist in someone's face. Small pouches of jink had been given to folk living in their shoddy wooden lean-to constructs on the Streets. Weeks worth of food given to parentless children and former mercenary or army veterans of various background.
As a large bottle rested on the ground, empty, in front of the Taigh. The warrior had been seen, playing his lute-like instrument. Words sang, sounded more akin to a lament to the multiverse if anything. Perhaps finally a way to sincerely voice the way the warrior had become to view Sigil, it's factions and their meaningless bickering if not pathetic ideas and the multiverse, in general...*
"When yer born in the dirt the only way to grow is up
So we reach for the sun but it seems
Every rung that ye climb is another crooked line
That ye cross off the tally of yer dreams
DonÂ’t step out of line kid, ye'll learn it pretty fast
Every face has its place in the crowd
TheyÂ’ll give ye all the answers, so ye donÂ’t ask any questions
Then theyÂ’ll march ye with a smile intae the ground
And we all go tae our Gods in a little row boat
So put yer hands up, put yer hands up
If crawling for the scraps wonÂ’t ever be enough
Put yer hands up, put yer hands up
The writingÂ’s on the wall, this ainÂ’t ever gonna stop
Put yer hands up, put yer hands up
If crawling for the scraps wonÂ’t ever be enough
Put yer hands up, put yer hands up
WeÂ’ll fight until we die, this ainÂ’t ever gonna stop
This stray dog verse, this sick sad place
Got a belly full of maggots and disease
Every apple here is rotten, every blessing is a curse
Every word is a lie ye best believe
We take one step forward, then two steps back
In a race tae the bottom of the barrel
They teach us how to fear
They teach us how to hate
Then they arm us and they march us off to hell
And its left, left, left right left
So put yer hands up, put yer hands up
If crawling for the scraps wonÂ’t ever be enough
Put yer hands up, put yer hands up
The writingÂ’s on the wall, this ainÂ’t ever gonna stop
Put yer hands up, put yer hands up
If crawling for the scraps wonÂ’t ever be enough
Put yer hands up, put yer hands up
WeÂ’ll fight until we die, this ainÂ’t ever gonna stop
Because they came for our minds
We said nothing
They came for our hopes
We said nothing
They came for our souls
And still we said nothing
Now theyÂ’re coming for our lives
So whatÂ’s it gonna take?
WhatÂ’s it gonna take?
See how they'll run, see how they'll run...
So put yer hands up, put yer hands up
If clawing for the scraps wonÂ’t ever be enough
Put yer hands up, put yer hands up
The writingÂ’s on the wall, this ainÂ’t ever gonna stop
Put yer hands up, put yer hands up
If clawing for the scraps wonÂ’t ever be enough
Put yer hands up, put yer hands up
WeÂ’ll fight until we die, this ainÂ’t ever gonna stop..."
Kelth was writing, a large book that had become his journal over the, what was it now, decades? yes...at least two of them, lay there, patient in it's acceptance of written words.
Large hand that used to be steady in grip, trembled now, whilst writing. Carefree expression and eyes that used to regard the verse in wonder and curiousity, had been replaced with a grim countenance and a diminished flicker in what used to be playful, somewhat coy gaze.
She had been restored, re-united with soul. Though her initial moments had been tormented, he knew full well. The image of her, thrashing about, unfamiliar with all she had to take in, her psyche resorting to coping mechanisms that had the warrior again deal with a blow to his own pysche...seeing how having to deal with reality dawning back onto mind and soul had it's effect on the one who held his heart, had been taxing, to say the least. His heart was ablaze with joy over her return, but the blaze remained inside, yet every moment he cast a glance at Odette's sleeping presence, a loving smile formed. He would feast with her if he and she could, but it was neither time nor place.
The knowing and keen eye might have been able to see it in his gaze, but it was evident to the same person possessing such an eye, that the warrior was on his last legs.
Behaviour had been, interesting, to say the least, the past two days. The warrior was seen trying to soothe arguments on the Streets of the Hive, rather than planting a fist in someone's face. Small pouches of jink had been given to folk living in their shoddy wooden lean-to constructs on the Streets. Weeks worth of food given to parentless children and former mercenary or army veterans of various background.
As a large bottle rested on the ground, empty, in front of the Taigh. The warrior had been seen, playing his lute-like instrument. Words sang, sounded more akin to a lament to the multiverse if anything. Perhaps finally a way to sincerely voice the way the warrior had become to view Sigil, it's factions and their meaningless bickering if not pathetic ideas and the multiverse, in general...*
"When yer born in the dirt the only way to grow is up
So we reach for the sun but it seems
Every rung that ye climb is another crooked line
That ye cross off the tally of yer dreams
DonÂ’t step out of line kid, ye'll learn it pretty fast
Every face has its place in the crowd
TheyÂ’ll give ye all the answers, so ye donÂ’t ask any questions
Then theyÂ’ll march ye with a smile intae the ground
And we all go tae our Gods in a little row boat
So put yer hands up, put yer hands up
If crawling for the scraps wonÂ’t ever be enough
Put yer hands up, put yer hands up
The writingÂ’s on the wall, this ainÂ’t ever gonna stop
Put yer hands up, put yer hands up
If crawling for the scraps wonÂ’t ever be enough
Put yer hands up, put yer hands up
WeÂ’ll fight until we die, this ainÂ’t ever gonna stop
This stray dog verse, this sick sad place
Got a belly full of maggots and disease
Every apple here is rotten, every blessing is a curse
Every word is a lie ye best believe
We take one step forward, then two steps back
In a race tae the bottom of the barrel
They teach us how to fear
They teach us how to hate
Then they arm us and they march us off to hell
And its left, left, left right left
So put yer hands up, put yer hands up
If crawling for the scraps wonÂ’t ever be enough
Put yer hands up, put yer hands up
The writingÂ’s on the wall, this ainÂ’t ever gonna stop
Put yer hands up, put yer hands up
If crawling for the scraps wonÂ’t ever be enough
Put yer hands up, put yer hands up
WeÂ’ll fight until we die, this ainÂ’t ever gonna stop
Because they came for our minds
We said nothing
They came for our hopes
We said nothing
They came for our souls
And still we said nothing
Now theyÂ’re coming for our lives
So whatÂ’s it gonna take?
WhatÂ’s it gonna take?
See how they'll run, see how they'll run...
So put yer hands up, put yer hands up
If clawing for the scraps wonÂ’t ever be enough
Put yer hands up, put yer hands up
The writingÂ’s on the wall, this ainÂ’t ever gonna stop
Put yer hands up, put yer hands up
If clawing for the scraps wonÂ’t ever be enough
Put yer hands up, put yer hands up
WeÂ’ll fight until we die, this ainÂ’t ever gonna stop..."
-
*Lucadia
- Posts: 450
- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
Creak~Scribble-
Turn another page and then a pause.
The Silvanesti most often called Argent looked up from his writting with occasional tug of leather gloves. Pull at his fingers to soften the cramps. Often fall back subtle fidgeting of same seven fingers that been broken once long ago.
He was rarely a creature that had emotional investment in others. The last few days been taxing weather he say so or not. Even the rather power sent sleep hes had for weeks, rest was less then forth coming. Subtle flicker of memory eased by with baited breath standing on prow of the astral ship. It was going work right? They was not about be sent to all their deaths? Course he knew better then that. I mean, if anything, he was usualy a believer of the impossible things.
Course it worked, but he had trouble watching the traumatic reunite. He waited it out though, letting his mind prepare for battle. Though it had not come, shadows having fled from vast number that stood ready.
What came next though, the aftermath. Bringing her home? He did not expect. Disappointment? Mildly. He recalled leaning against the wall, tapping his foot as those that call each other brother rather argue over meaningless things. Could they not least be joyful with life brought back? Could they not focus on coming threat, knowing some creature been snatched of its prize? He supposed that was what he was there for. That conumdrum of cold logic whirling around in higher levels of insanity. He set to work.
His task to imbue several weapons that obliterate the dark weaver if it decided to rear its ugly head.
To be honest though, his knowledge of the Shadow Plane was rather ordinary at best, but few educated guesses and reviewing past history with such creatures often led the beasts to be weakened in true sunlight and similar magics. In the coming days he start with more personal contacts to reveal more, namely Vheer and Tess.
He already had idea for several other spells, it was difficulty of blending them to be useful, or if there was better options. Such as the creature was of shadow, it was not of nature either. A blend of both, and he would use it against.
He quietly spoken to the distracted Rainrix who gave no reply as he rattled off several spells.
Sign of the Cerulean to keep such creatures at bay.
Sunlight and sunburst to keep them weakened.
Natures Wrath
Sanctify Ground.
For now, he keep them in mind when he went speak with Tess, perhaps she had some better ideas what abberations hated most.
That is what he done with is spare time except the one coming day, soon for him leave, knowing at least the crisis was averted enough he could.
In one evenings, two days past, he would approach Kelth at the door steps, speaking a few quiet words. Course he seen a warrior that was breaking down, and he did not have voice it. It did not matter to him though. Perhaps its time everyone left. Away from reminders of Sigil and its wheel of torments in memory.
"I find you here. Good to see you not drowned in drink. Perhaps Iv still offer of a balm better then such, for both you and Odette, if you think you be up to it. I and Dace are preparing to leave in two days. Perhaps a trip to the mountains do you all some good. Away from all the ..mind madness that is this place."
-
*Xndar
- Posts: 282
- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
She knew where she was needed most, but it didn't make watching this anxiously-awaited revival from a distance any easier. She would have preferred to be one of the faces craning over Odette as her vision returned, but it was probably for the best that she wasn't.
After all, seeing the progeny of soul-bartering shadow demons after emerging from a soul prism held by a creature of shadow would likely not have made for the best transition for her mortal mind.
Such thoughts flickered through her mind as she lurked in the shadows of the Astral, surrounded on either side by her kin as they watched the 'jammer intently. She could feel their anger billowing out from each shadow demon like the heat from a flock of fire mephits, but she could also sense their powerful curiosity. Curiosity and greed held them in check.
Of the many shadow demons that had clamored to purchase Odette's soul prism, she'd payed the most powerful and most likely buyer three prisms to hold off on his attempts to purchase. If he bought the soul now, she'd explained, he was going to get cheated, as the soul would soon be removed from the prism by means that would not give him a chance to defend or hide his prize. How could someone steal a soul sealed by a prism without first breaking the prism? Well now, wasn't that information worth a few souls? If he gave up on buying or pursuing this soul, she'd lead him to where the ritual would take place, and give him information on the artifact used...information he could take back to their Princess, who would undoubtedly reward him handsomely for information threatening the integrity of the soul trade.
Vherr saw no need to add any requirement that he pass along word as to where he got this information from...the Princess would have her ways of finding out if She wished to know.
So he came, and brought his lesser servants. He would take the information to the highest authority for the biggest payoff, but his vassals were free to witness the events and sell word of it to lesser buyers so long as he got his cut.
Only when Odette began to feebly stir did Vherr allow a small smug grin to slip across her face. She murmured a brief summary and description of the artifact used, including its original purpose and potential risks, then looked up to the shadow demon at her side.
"Another prism 'waits ye if I get timely word o' when these events reach tha darkweaver formerly in possession o' this soul."
She'd flash the prism in question, then follow the demons back toward the portal they used and begin her trek back to Sigil through the Plain of Infinite Portals.
After all, seeing the progeny of soul-bartering shadow demons after emerging from a soul prism held by a creature of shadow would likely not have made for the best transition for her mortal mind.
Such thoughts flickered through her mind as she lurked in the shadows of the Astral, surrounded on either side by her kin as they watched the 'jammer intently. She could feel their anger billowing out from each shadow demon like the heat from a flock of fire mephits, but she could also sense their powerful curiosity. Curiosity and greed held them in check.
Of the many shadow demons that had clamored to purchase Odette's soul prism, she'd payed the most powerful and most likely buyer three prisms to hold off on his attempts to purchase. If he bought the soul now, she'd explained, he was going to get cheated, as the soul would soon be removed from the prism by means that would not give him a chance to defend or hide his prize. How could someone steal a soul sealed by a prism without first breaking the prism? Well now, wasn't that information worth a few souls? If he gave up on buying or pursuing this soul, she'd lead him to where the ritual would take place, and give him information on the artifact used...information he could take back to their Princess, who would undoubtedly reward him handsomely for information threatening the integrity of the soul trade.
Vherr saw no need to add any requirement that he pass along word as to where he got this information from...the Princess would have her ways of finding out if She wished to know.
So he came, and brought his lesser servants. He would take the information to the highest authority for the biggest payoff, but his vassals were free to witness the events and sell word of it to lesser buyers so long as he got his cut.
Only when Odette began to feebly stir did Vherr allow a small smug grin to slip across her face. She murmured a brief summary and description of the artifact used, including its original purpose and potential risks, then looked up to the shadow demon at her side.
"Another prism 'waits ye if I get timely word o' when these events reach tha darkweaver formerly in possession o' this soul."
She'd flash the prism in question, then follow the demons back toward the portal they used and begin her trek back to Sigil through the Plain of Infinite Portals.