The End Of Shadow's Solstice
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*Link6746
- Posts: 27
- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
Morthos wandered the streets looking for answers. He felt that the others removing him from the building had prevented him from doing what he felt obligated to do, and he certainly wasn't that happy happy about it, but the fact that they had been able to help Odette meant that he also couldn't do anything about it... He believed it was important he be able to ensure the information he gave them could be delivered personally and securely, after all, and he didn't think he would be able to do that without being able to enter the building for at least five minutes at a time (Something the words used to ask him to leave left him sure he could not do). As his trust in his own ability to make a difference under these circumstances waned, so too did his trust in the ability of those who were now actually allowed to help Odette and find the killer, a number that he no longer believed included him after a half a cycle and a couple too many drinks.
Feeling unwelcome in the very place he needed to keep going to fulfill his duties, and having forgotten to ensure he could pick up the now-full chest of all the information he had been collecting from his contacts, the information that was now being acquired piled up in his usual room at his favorite non-hive tavern, in a securely locked room that he had paid extra on in order to ensure the best possible lock and the sturdiest possible door for the room, even having been paying since he had first started making enough money to keep the room reserved to him for the room's very walls, windows, and ceiling to receive subtle reinforcements over time.
He spent a few cycles making every attempt to ensure that those other than himself would have even more difficulty finding entry to the room, two interlocking halves of a key having been made from the melted remnants of the old ones, hidden in a recently-added compartment accessible primarily by twisting his glass eye's two ends in opposite directions. A spare was made by the tavern's staff, something Morthos resented enough that he bribed one of them (after treating them to quite a few drinks, hoping to ensure they forget what they did) to take the key and have it enchanted specifically so that it would not even fit in the lock (by a very small margin) if inserted at anything but the times he normally would spend within it's confines, or in the presence of his own glass eye.. As well as another enchantment to hide the arcane signature of the first as much as possible.
In his mind, their inability to accept help from someone who practically owed Odette his life, a few drinks, and a small amount of jink due to trust issues was a sign that they were a little more paranoid than he was, and would probably make a mistake with the information that he had left there in a hurry. One night, the chest full of papers itself had disappeared as well, and apparently been delivered into the room with the help of some of the staff (Brought there by a woman that used a cane designed to appear similar to whatever the common idea of the mirmir killer's cane itself looked like, though with enough subtle differences to ensure a good eye would pick up that it was a forgery, meant in this context as a form of commentary on the situation)... though at the time, Morthos was nowhere to be found in the cage.
Chant said that he'd gotten very drunk one night, and stumbled into yet another portal on accident, stumbling around after leaving the Bottle And Jug while mumbling something about some shifty fellows he thought were following him. This being Sigil, it wasn't really that surprising that the locals couldn't remember which portal it was.
This story was further confirmed the cycle after his last delivery of reports and information. He was nowhere to be found according to several of his contacts, who had simply put the new reports on the desk inside of the room, then stopped delivering them at all.
As for the Hivers in the Bottle And Jug that were still on friendly terms with Morthos, they'd say that prior to his disappearance he'd taken an unusually large liking to a drink called "Slaadi Berserker" in recent cycles, and had probably picked a fight wherever the portal had ended up leading to once the initial delusions of the drink had given way to rage.
((Just my attempt at an ICly grounded notice of absence for a while while I get a few things sorted out IRL. No hard feelings OOC. Hope you'll get a nice burglary arc out of it, honestly))
Feeling unwelcome in the very place he needed to keep going to fulfill his duties, and having forgotten to ensure he could pick up the now-full chest of all the information he had been collecting from his contacts, the information that was now being acquired piled up in his usual room at his favorite non-hive tavern, in a securely locked room that he had paid extra on in order to ensure the best possible lock and the sturdiest possible door for the room, even having been paying since he had first started making enough money to keep the room reserved to him for the room's very walls, windows, and ceiling to receive subtle reinforcements over time.
He spent a few cycles making every attempt to ensure that those other than himself would have even more difficulty finding entry to the room, two interlocking halves of a key having been made from the melted remnants of the old ones, hidden in a recently-added compartment accessible primarily by twisting his glass eye's two ends in opposite directions. A spare was made by the tavern's staff, something Morthos resented enough that he bribed one of them (after treating them to quite a few drinks, hoping to ensure they forget what they did) to take the key and have it enchanted specifically so that it would not even fit in the lock (by a very small margin) if inserted at anything but the times he normally would spend within it's confines, or in the presence of his own glass eye.. As well as another enchantment to hide the arcane signature of the first as much as possible.
In his mind, their inability to accept help from someone who practically owed Odette his life, a few drinks, and a small amount of jink due to trust issues was a sign that they were a little more paranoid than he was, and would probably make a mistake with the information that he had left there in a hurry. One night, the chest full of papers itself had disappeared as well, and apparently been delivered into the room with the help of some of the staff (Brought there by a woman that used a cane designed to appear similar to whatever the common idea of the mirmir killer's cane itself looked like, though with enough subtle differences to ensure a good eye would pick up that it was a forgery, meant in this context as a form of commentary on the situation)... though at the time, Morthos was nowhere to be found in the cage.
Chant said that he'd gotten very drunk one night, and stumbled into yet another portal on accident, stumbling around after leaving the Bottle And Jug while mumbling something about some shifty fellows he thought were following him. This being Sigil, it wasn't really that surprising that the locals couldn't remember which portal it was.
This story was further confirmed the cycle after his last delivery of reports and information. He was nowhere to be found according to several of his contacts, who had simply put the new reports on the desk inside of the room, then stopped delivering them at all.
As for the Hivers in the Bottle And Jug that were still on friendly terms with Morthos, they'd say that prior to his disappearance he'd taken an unusually large liking to a drink called "Slaadi Berserker" in recent cycles, and had probably picked a fight wherever the portal had ended up leading to once the initial delusions of the drink had given way to rage.
((Just my attempt at an ICly grounded notice of absence for a while while I get a few things sorted out IRL. No hard feelings OOC. Hope you'll get a nice burglary arc out of it, honestly))
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*Xndar
- Posts: 282
- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
"Ehh...there's a fine line 'ere, but no they aint creatures o' Shadow tha way tha' a demon be a creature o' tha Abyss...they jes' happen ta be ideally suited ta huntin an' livin in tha Plane o' Shadow, underground in Primes an' other dark places.
If yer lookin fer specifics me sources tumbled me ta a number o' their habits an' abilities...one we woul' need ta be wary 'bout be their proclivity fer collectin dangerous predators an' trainin 'em...after a fashion...as guard pets fer their lairs. This shoul' be mitigated by drawin it outta its lair, but it may have enscorcelled or bribed minions wha' it don' mind bringin with it on tha hunt.
Needless ta say, but we'll need ta be wary o' its webs an' develop countermeasures ta such, as they kin cut our field o' vision as well as restrain prey wit their shadowstrands."
If yer lookin fer specifics me sources tumbled me ta a number o' their habits an' abilities...one we woul' need ta be wary 'bout be their proclivity fer collectin dangerous predators an' trainin 'em...after a fashion...as guard pets fer their lairs. This shoul' be mitigated by drawin it outta its lair, but it may have enscorcelled or bribed minions wha' it don' mind bringin with it on tha hunt.
Needless ta say, but we'll need ta be wary o' its webs an' develop countermeasures ta such, as they kin cut our field o' vision as well as restrain prey wit their shadowstrands."
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*Nimiane
- Posts: 347
- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
The Erlkazaran's worn leather satchel was one that seemed near bottomless in the wake of holding enchantment and, indeed, rather chaotic within. It takes several moments for Kelth to find anything relevant to the task at hand, the warrior knowing full well to leave the hidden pouch within alone. At the top of the pile, first and foremost, was a small black notebook that held several pages relating to the Mimir Killer; including the last of those written by her hand. Beyond a sizable keyring, several books, a few dubious vials and broken mirror shard, he would also find the familiar wrapped shapes of three elongated crystals; each one perfectly cut and tapering from six-sided point to a thinner flat end.
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*Theorum Of Neutrality
- Posts: 52
- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
A Bleaker's work is never public. A Bleaker's work is never rewarded. A Bleaker's work is never finished.
As plans were laid, as efforts were made - a notably absent presence was Amir. Around the Taigh, his presence wasn't felt, save for a scrap of paper with a short, scribbled couplet - or a wisp of herbaceous smoke.
Few would notice his absence, few would see the mountain of work he threw at himself as a distraction. Ink-stained hands hid behind new thick, leather gloves. Grim eyes hid behind simple chores. Any of the work Odette had begun in her short time at the Gatehouse was dutifully finished by the Factor - her vast superior. But, such things weren't unusual in the Bleak Cabal. Rank was meaningless, after all.
There was no time to mourn. There were no tears to soften the pain.
There was nothing but an elf, who had known only grief in a short, fitful existence.
As plans were laid, as efforts were made - a notably absent presence was Amir. Around the Taigh, his presence wasn't felt, save for a scrap of paper with a short, scribbled couplet - or a wisp of herbaceous smoke.
Few would notice his absence, few would see the mountain of work he threw at himself as a distraction. Ink-stained hands hid behind new thick, leather gloves. Grim eyes hid behind simple chores. Any of the work Odette had begun in her short time at the Gatehouse was dutifully finished by the Factor - her vast superior. But, such things weren't unusual in the Bleak Cabal. Rank was meaningless, after all.
There was no time to mourn. There were no tears to soften the pain.
There was nothing but an elf, who had known only grief in a short, fitful existence.
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*Mausman
- Posts: 486
- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
*The warrior withdrew notebook and shards, one by one, carefully from the pack. After sealing it again, he brough the items back to the large table in the hall. *Nimiane,Aug 1 2016 wrote:
The Erlkazaran's worn leather satchel was one that seemed near bottomless in the wake of holding enchantment and, indeed, rather chaotic within. It takes several moments for Kelth to find anything relevant to the task at hand, the warrior knowing full well to leave the hidden pouch within alone. At the top of the pile, first and foremost, was a small black notebook that held several pages relating to the Mimir Killer; including the last of those written by her hand. Beyond a sizable keyring, several books, a few dubious vials and broken mirror shard, he would also find the familiar wrapped shapes of three elongated crystals; each one perfectly cut and tapering from six-sided point to a thinner flat end.
"These are th' shards that we were tracking. I'd wager there's a connection somehow with th' cretin. They resonate when they are near another shard...that is all we know this far. "
*The warrior then began to flip through the notebook*
"I...think this is of worth to those who were invested in th' investigation...her last notes are in here..."
"I say we use th' Astral Ship t' find us a calm spot where we are nae bothered. Dace can use th' stone yonder. Once it worked an' she's back, we'll retreat as fast as we can.
If it does d'cide tae rear it's ugly head, I need a crew tae be ready tae fight it, as tae Ensure Odette nae comes tae harm."
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*DigitalDragoon
- Posts: 212
- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
Quinn sighs to himself quietly as the discussion of what the do dragged on. Began pacing about the taigh with muted steps.
Talk of battle. Talk of revival. Leaving time to fret over remorse. A plan spun nicely. An outline well in hand. She would be back before they knew, it seems.
The shuffle of boots pauses for a moment; The fidgety magician's attention lost to some manifesting thought. His gloomy gaze turning toward the door and without a word he slipped from the room.
Off to the Gatehouse to find Amir. Perhaps to see there was something a Sensate could do to bring comfort to a grieving Bleaker.
Talk of battle. Talk of revival. Leaving time to fret over remorse. A plan spun nicely. An outline well in hand. She would be back before they knew, it seems.
The shuffle of boots pauses for a moment; The fidgety magician's attention lost to some manifesting thought. His gloomy gaze turning toward the door and without a word he slipped from the room.
Off to the Gatehouse to find Amir. Perhaps to see there was something a Sensate could do to bring comfort to a grieving Bleaker.
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*Neethanial
- Posts: 231
- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
"Truth be told, I'd worry more about the webs we can't see. Mixing spiderkind with shadowkind is never an opponent you can predict entirely. I've heard horror stories of these things, but never seen them. If it has trained minions, they could be anything from giant spiders to Fomorian giants. We'll need to be prepared to handle just about any style of threat.
The fact that we're planeswalkers is our greatest strength here."
A casual glance to Vherr
"There are likely to be a lot of bright spells and fires lighting off if it comes for her. Best to ready yourself against that."
Tess turns her attention to Kelth
"We also have to be aware of whatever the contract was, the deal struck. I trust you would tell us if you knew something important. The last thing we need is to bring her back at the cost of another's life or soul, for example."
The fact that we're planeswalkers is our greatest strength here."
A casual glance to Vherr
"There are likely to be a lot of bright spells and fires lighting off if it comes for her. Best to ready yourself against that."
Tess turns her attention to Kelth
"We also have to be aware of whatever the contract was, the deal struck. I trust you would tell us if you knew something important. The last thing we need is to bring her back at the cost of another's life or soul, for example."
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*MadJackValance
- Posts: 58
- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
There was a steady hiss of course sanding paper against wood in the Taigh's workshop. A crude Zalantar bow sits atop a notched tillering stick, drawn into a tense frown with its sturdy string resting in one of the grooves. A honey-hued eye appraises the arc, manic and critical, he cants and pitches his head as he studies the shape. Indeed, if music was Vyse's first love, then bow making had become his mistress. It was a refuge where he could busy his hands and resist the temptation to pry at the tangled thoughts in his head.
Hearing Kelth's call to meet boom through the hall, he'd halted his work, still as a few measures of rests played out. In that idle quiet the shock of the situation was overtaken by the reality of it. His hands began to shake.
Unsteady digits catching his attention, the tiefling dove back into his work, redoubled. Sandpaper raked and rasped over the Zalantar again at an agitated tempo. The effort of regaining and maintaining focus on the task only seemed to veer his thoughts further from pleasant distraction. The limbs of the bow seemed even now. The ruddy tiefer flexed the bow further, the string drawn to rest in the next notch down.
The scarlet singer scrutinized the arch of the recurve limbs again. The bottom limb was too stiff, or the top limb bent too much. Quick, staccato fits of sanding sounding off in vigorous whispers. Though now, in the idle moments of study he shifted and fidgeted, each blink of his solitary eye a vision became clearer, the sight of his sister's scarred, serene visage. It was a fresh memory that gnawed and wrenched at his mind. Vyse had mourned Odette once before, but that time there hadn't been such certainty, no body to weep over.
The tiefling troubadour found his thoughts tugged in yet another direction as he heard each member arrive at the Taigh. With each assembled he could feel the air in the longhouse grow, at the same time, thicker with a sullen warmth, a shared grief; and empty as they subdued that grief with a sense of purpose and a need to plan.
The angle wasn't quite right. It would be easier to see at a full draw. The bard's hands quivered as he mustered up and drew the bow tense, the string buzzing taught as it was brought to rest another couple notches down. As he eyed the kinks in the crescent bow, a weight hung on the center of his brow, and a burden, heavier still, lowered anchor in his chest. The memory started to gnaw at him, from that short time ago. A nagging itch settling in his joints, he frantically hurried the gradual eroding of the wood...
Only a short few hours before he had the news broken to him, marching the uneven streets back to the mead hall. As he'd walked, clenched fists grasped his incredulity like a cudgel, as if he might smash the fact of her death with doubt. He was disarmed when he finally saw her, however. So still. His soles were nailed in place a handful of paces away for a fair few songs. Slow, careful, sorrowful songs that drug on and teased at curiosity and anger.
Finally he had managed a tentative approach. Teeth nibbling nervously at the inside of his lip he spoke quietly to the huntress "Th-This isn't very funny... Argent p-p-put you up t-to this pr-prank?" an anxious note bubbling from the bard, somewhere between a scoff and a sob. "C'mon... I c-c-can see you trying n-not to smile... y-you're about to crack. C'mon... C'mon!" His tone quickly turned to pleading, feeling the uneasy sting in his eyes. "C'mon, Odette..." He reached for her hand. Finally the cold, lifeless touch of her second draft digits forced him to accept it, punching at the pit of his stomach like a shot of swallowed quicksilver.
In the countenance of her scarred, pallid husk, he could still make out the sunned, freckled face he had met all those cycles ago on the bazaar. He still remembered the shape of her friendly smile as she sat beside an addle-coved musician, before it had taken to the habit of flashing wry smirks. He could still recall eyes of ocean azure, before they faded inexplicably like weathered copper. In the arduous measures that passed he might've said more, but his throat throttled his words, vision warm and blurred. He wondered how slow her death really was, what she'd say if she saw all those who were mourning her. "It is what it is." he wagered. And it quietly infuriated him.
He was pried from the memory suddenly by the subtle, straining groan of the bow...
Crack!
The limb he'd distractedly whittled away at splintered and splayed with a spectacular snap. The frightful release of energy sent the bard stumbling back in surprise, a heated hiss between his gritted teeth as he found a ragged gash across his palm from the jagged end of the stave. Finding himself, all of a sudden amidst a maelstrom of frustration, anger, and pain, the skald snatched the snapped stave and spiked it spitefully against the floor. Clinched fist steadily dripping blood, like a sanguine metronome, he shuffled to his pack, slumping down with his back against the door. Still seething, he fished through his pack with one hand until he could wrangle a small spool of bandages. He quickly set to wrapping the wound. A bit of healing magic would've sorted it, but he didn't have a song in him at the moment.
Vyse swayed a frantic tempo to and fro, the sudden spike of excitement and shock gripping his stomach. Before long, however, he recognized the sensation. The acrid red claw that clinched at his gut, cold sweat fast beading on his firebrick brow. At last, like his broken bow, the bloody handed bard couldn't bear the burden of his grief and the grating of his thoughts.
Eye screwed tight, tears trailed down the tiefling troubadour's face. "It'll pass... I-It'll pass... It'll p-p-pass..." He chanted silently to himself.
Hearing Kelth's call to meet boom through the hall, he'd halted his work, still as a few measures of rests played out. In that idle quiet the shock of the situation was overtaken by the reality of it. His hands began to shake.
Unsteady digits catching his attention, the tiefling dove back into his work, redoubled. Sandpaper raked and rasped over the Zalantar again at an agitated tempo. The effort of regaining and maintaining focus on the task only seemed to veer his thoughts further from pleasant distraction. The limbs of the bow seemed even now. The ruddy tiefer flexed the bow further, the string drawn to rest in the next notch down.
The scarlet singer scrutinized the arch of the recurve limbs again. The bottom limb was too stiff, or the top limb bent too much. Quick, staccato fits of sanding sounding off in vigorous whispers. Though now, in the idle moments of study he shifted and fidgeted, each blink of his solitary eye a vision became clearer, the sight of his sister's scarred, serene visage. It was a fresh memory that gnawed and wrenched at his mind. Vyse had mourned Odette once before, but that time there hadn't been such certainty, no body to weep over.
The tiefling troubadour found his thoughts tugged in yet another direction as he heard each member arrive at the Taigh. With each assembled he could feel the air in the longhouse grow, at the same time, thicker with a sullen warmth, a shared grief; and empty as they subdued that grief with a sense of purpose and a need to plan.
The angle wasn't quite right. It would be easier to see at a full draw. The bard's hands quivered as he mustered up and drew the bow tense, the string buzzing taught as it was brought to rest another couple notches down. As he eyed the kinks in the crescent bow, a weight hung on the center of his brow, and a burden, heavier still, lowered anchor in his chest. The memory started to gnaw at him, from that short time ago. A nagging itch settling in his joints, he frantically hurried the gradual eroding of the wood...
Only a short few hours before he had the news broken to him, marching the uneven streets back to the mead hall. As he'd walked, clenched fists grasped his incredulity like a cudgel, as if he might smash the fact of her death with doubt. He was disarmed when he finally saw her, however. So still. His soles were nailed in place a handful of paces away for a fair few songs. Slow, careful, sorrowful songs that drug on and teased at curiosity and anger.
Finally he had managed a tentative approach. Teeth nibbling nervously at the inside of his lip he spoke quietly to the huntress "Th-This isn't very funny... Argent p-p-put you up t-to this pr-prank?" an anxious note bubbling from the bard, somewhere between a scoff and a sob. "C'mon... I c-c-can see you trying n-not to smile... y-you're about to crack. C'mon... C'mon!" His tone quickly turned to pleading, feeling the uneasy sting in his eyes. "C'mon, Odette..." He reached for her hand. Finally the cold, lifeless touch of her second draft digits forced him to accept it, punching at the pit of his stomach like a shot of swallowed quicksilver.
In the countenance of her scarred, pallid husk, he could still make out the sunned, freckled face he had met all those cycles ago on the bazaar. He still remembered the shape of her friendly smile as she sat beside an addle-coved musician, before it had taken to the habit of flashing wry smirks. He could still recall eyes of ocean azure, before they faded inexplicably like weathered copper. In the arduous measures that passed he might've said more, but his throat throttled his words, vision warm and blurred. He wondered how slow her death really was, what she'd say if she saw all those who were mourning her. "It is what it is." he wagered. And it quietly infuriated him.
He was pried from the memory suddenly by the subtle, straining groan of the bow...
Crack!
The limb he'd distractedly whittled away at splintered and splayed with a spectacular snap. The frightful release of energy sent the bard stumbling back in surprise, a heated hiss between his gritted teeth as he found a ragged gash across his palm from the jagged end of the stave. Finding himself, all of a sudden amidst a maelstrom of frustration, anger, and pain, the skald snatched the snapped stave and spiked it spitefully against the floor. Clinched fist steadily dripping blood, like a sanguine metronome, he shuffled to his pack, slumping down with his back against the door. Still seething, he fished through his pack with one hand until he could wrangle a small spool of bandages. He quickly set to wrapping the wound. A bit of healing magic would've sorted it, but he didn't have a song in him at the moment.
Vyse swayed a frantic tempo to and fro, the sudden spike of excitement and shock gripping his stomach. Before long, however, he recognized the sensation. The acrid red claw that clinched at his gut, cold sweat fast beading on his firebrick brow. At last, like his broken bow, the bloody handed bard couldn't bear the burden of his grief and the grating of his thoughts.
Eye screwed tight, tears trailed down the tiefling troubadour's face. "It'll pass... I-It'll pass... It'll p-p-pass..." He chanted silently to himself.