Cromlich: Reclaiming The Lost
Posted: Thu Mar 09, 2017 12:00 am
[align=center]
Tink, clank, tink-tink, clang! [/align]
The sounds of the forge echoed in the depths of the armory, raising defiantly it's brazen crescendo, building and brewing like a storm to near deafening state before dropping off to begin the cycle anew. Vats of molten fire swirled in wait of precious metals, hissing threateningly with spits of flame from ruptured bubbles that sluggishly crawled to vermilion surface. The heat was almost unbearable, entwining the scent of sweat with the prevalent notes of ash, coal and pungent poultice. Through curtains of heat and calefactic waves, lone figure stood above it all; long, raven tresses dancing untamed in plumes of steam. Factol Pentar.
As always, the woman stood battle-ready in intricately designed breastplate, further fueling the belief that she lived, breathed and slept in it's armored embrace. With hands folded behind her back, and the silhouette of skulls and spikes that adorned attire, mere presence cut an intimidating image. This was to say nothing of the expression in wild eyes. From the groaning, steel catwalks that converged over cisterns, the Factol's gaze was locked solely on the work of humanoid below.
[align=center]Tink, clank, tink-tink, clang.
Pentar's gloved fist slowly furled, causing the leather to squeal softly under pressure.
Tink, clank, tink-tink, clang.[/align]
If the Sinker was aware of his Factol's gaze upon him, it showed little beyond the increased sweat upon his brow and the reckless abandon in which he dedicated himself to the task at hand. He didn't dare turn around. Despite having only recently come to embrace entropy, Dasbeck was a skilled smith. Yet, however hard the man might work under distant glare that envisioned only ashen flesh and jutting horns, he could and would never compare to the cambion's shoes he had filled. Few could. It was a dangerous subject to breach, as all knew and understood, but spoke not of openly.
"Spragg!" Pentar's voice, a powerful, commanding timbre, carried from the rafters on high and pierced through the the steady thrum of constricting bellows, hissing pipes and erratic clatter of tools on molten metal. By the time the former assistant of the Factol's most trusted had made his way to her side from somewhere below, the young woman's voice near shivered with enthusiasm that bordered on the perverse. "It is time." From the small of her back, her hands unfolded, moving to grasp the railing in haunting hues of persimmon that gleamed wickedly on the jutting spikes of right bracer. "If there are those that have desire to prove their dedication to entropy, let them come forth..." she uttered, teeth raking over lower lip with enough force to draw blood. "See them gathered on the twenty-second floor. One bell."
Licking the crimson droplet from lower lip with the deploy of tongue's tip, Factol Pentar turned to depart with a firm grasp on weapon's hilt. Noted ardour in armored footsteps that echoed throughout the depths of the forge, she proclaimed to all within earshot, voice imbued with decisive, wanton tenor;
[align=center]"We will have him back."[/align]
Tink, clank, tink-tink, clang! [/align]
The sounds of the forge echoed in the depths of the armory, raising defiantly it's brazen crescendo, building and brewing like a storm to near deafening state before dropping off to begin the cycle anew. Vats of molten fire swirled in wait of precious metals, hissing threateningly with spits of flame from ruptured bubbles that sluggishly crawled to vermilion surface. The heat was almost unbearable, entwining the scent of sweat with the prevalent notes of ash, coal and pungent poultice. Through curtains of heat and calefactic waves, lone figure stood above it all; long, raven tresses dancing untamed in plumes of steam. Factol Pentar.
As always, the woman stood battle-ready in intricately designed breastplate, further fueling the belief that she lived, breathed and slept in it's armored embrace. With hands folded behind her back, and the silhouette of skulls and spikes that adorned attire, mere presence cut an intimidating image. This was to say nothing of the expression in wild eyes. From the groaning, steel catwalks that converged over cisterns, the Factol's gaze was locked solely on the work of humanoid below.
[align=center]Tink, clank, tink-tink, clang.
Pentar's gloved fist slowly furled, causing the leather to squeal softly under pressure.
Tink, clank, tink-tink, clang.[/align]
If the Sinker was aware of his Factol's gaze upon him, it showed little beyond the increased sweat upon his brow and the reckless abandon in which he dedicated himself to the task at hand. He didn't dare turn around. Despite having only recently come to embrace entropy, Dasbeck was a skilled smith. Yet, however hard the man might work under distant glare that envisioned only ashen flesh and jutting horns, he could and would never compare to the cambion's shoes he had filled. Few could. It was a dangerous subject to breach, as all knew and understood, but spoke not of openly.
"Spragg!" Pentar's voice, a powerful, commanding timbre, carried from the rafters on high and pierced through the the steady thrum of constricting bellows, hissing pipes and erratic clatter of tools on molten metal. By the time the former assistant of the Factol's most trusted had made his way to her side from somewhere below, the young woman's voice near shivered with enthusiasm that bordered on the perverse. "It is time." From the small of her back, her hands unfolded, moving to grasp the railing in haunting hues of persimmon that gleamed wickedly on the jutting spikes of right bracer. "If there are those that have desire to prove their dedication to entropy, let them come forth..." she uttered, teeth raking over lower lip with enough force to draw blood. "See them gathered on the twenty-second floor. One bell."
Licking the crimson droplet from lower lip with the deploy of tongue's tip, Factol Pentar turned to depart with a firm grasp on weapon's hilt. Noted ardour in armored footsteps that echoed throughout the depths of the forge, she proclaimed to all within earshot, voice imbued with decisive, wanton tenor;
[align=center]"We will have him back."[/align]