.
Edited by Benoite on 8/12/2014 5:09 PM PDT
Of Dawn and Blood [Closed RP]
.
Edited by Benoite on 8/12/2014 5:09 PM PDT
Beneath a blood-red sky with a single, grinning quarter moon, voices screamed and armies collided. The frigid air became thick with the mist of blood and the ring of metal, the roars of the furious and the flamboyance of spellwork. The combatants were absolutely identical, fully armored with thinly slit visors, wielding jagged weapons of ancient design. In a valley of snow they clashed, the din of battle echoing through the land like the peal of metal thunder.
He strode amidst them, the harvester in his field.
Wrapped in plate and spines, brandishing a weapon in each hand, Liore Bloodwing screamed with hatred and madness, tearing into any and all who dared test his rage. Each sweeping, dancing motion revealed a master at his craft, every step and every strike resonating with a deep, old power. Tested through centuries of violence and tempered in the fires of war. Over the orchestra of carnage, his voice sang the strongest.
Five armored soldiers threw themselves wildly in his path, countless hundreds rushing to follow. With three abrupt movements, Liore cast them each to the sand, broken. His weapons spun in his hands like the wings of a gyrocopter, his deathstrokes more agricultural than martial. Incandescent with rage, he screamed his hate and pressed onwards.
There. In the back.
The gold and the white armor. The leering, hauntingly beautiful golden mask.
Liore slashed a shirtless brute from head to knee, raising his filthy sword to point at the Sin'dorei poised at the back of his army.
“Asimenios!” he shouted, pain and hate casting his voice through the valley.
“Asimenios! I have left them all to the crows and judgement's blade! Now you, traitor! Now you, demon!”
Golden Asimenios rolled his shoulders in laughter, clear and mad. As the battle raged around them, he could not seem to be bothered to even take part. Instead, he merely tilted his masked face upwards into the sky. Searching. Pondering.
Liore Bloodwing followed his greatest foe's gaze, to the moon overhead. It was not a moon at all. It was a face, massive and disfigured, beautiful and young. Recognizable at once. The weapons fell from his armored hands, and he sunk to his knees, his mind refusing to fathom what his eyes reported.
She smiled down at him, as she had before. One eye twitched violently and unnaturally to the side, and she opened her mouth and drowned them all in blood.
~
He awoke with a shriek, throwing his arms over his head and very much upsetting the orange cat that had been his companion in sleep. Nearly toppling from his throne, Bloodwing stared frantically at his surroundings, his fragile sanity delaying any ration. The long, steepled hall. Rows of pews stacked and pushed against scroll-laiden walls. The dozen or so Undead staring now at him with mixed concern and eagerness.
Inquisitor Liore Bloodwing had claimed a cathedral in the ruins of Lordaeron, above the Undercity proper, to serve as a convenient outpost and headquarters for his work in the Eastern Kingdoms. It suited him, the musk and the dark, but more importantly it suited his agents. The Guttersnipe Brigade had been cast from the Horde-recognized military, functioning now as his private army. It had been two years since he had taken the Brigade, who had been left behind with supplies and deemed unworthy for combat, into Northrend and they had followed him since. Such was their law. Should he ever fail to be worthy leadership, they would pull him to pieces and follow someone else.
The cathedral had seen redecoration since they invited themselves in; Liore waved away the stares of his agents and glanced about the great hall, taking in the small details. Anything to chase away the nightmare. That was how it worked. Keep the mind occupied. There were no borders or walls sectioning off his thoughts. Everything melded together as one whole. Every thought, every sensation, every memory, they all knocked and twisted together like some demented, timeless whirlpool. It made in him a great detective. It made in him a madman.
He strode amidst them, the harvester in his field.
Wrapped in plate and spines, brandishing a weapon in each hand, Liore Bloodwing screamed with hatred and madness, tearing into any and all who dared test his rage. Each sweeping, dancing motion revealed a master at his craft, every step and every strike resonating with a deep, old power. Tested through centuries of violence and tempered in the fires of war. Over the orchestra of carnage, his voice sang the strongest.
Five armored soldiers threw themselves wildly in his path, countless hundreds rushing to follow. With three abrupt movements, Liore cast them each to the sand, broken. His weapons spun in his hands like the wings of a gyrocopter, his deathstrokes more agricultural than martial. Incandescent with rage, he screamed his hate and pressed onwards.
There. In the back.
The gold and the white armor. The leering, hauntingly beautiful golden mask.
Liore slashed a shirtless brute from head to knee, raising his filthy sword to point at the Sin'dorei poised at the back of his army.
“Asimenios!” he shouted, pain and hate casting his voice through the valley.
“Asimenios! I have left them all to the crows and judgement's blade! Now you, traitor! Now you, demon!”
Golden Asimenios rolled his shoulders in laughter, clear and mad. As the battle raged around them, he could not seem to be bothered to even take part. Instead, he merely tilted his masked face upwards into the sky. Searching. Pondering.
Liore Bloodwing followed his greatest foe's gaze, to the moon overhead. It was not a moon at all. It was a face, massive and disfigured, beautiful and young. Recognizable at once. The weapons fell from his armored hands, and he sunk to his knees, his mind refusing to fathom what his eyes reported.
She smiled down at him, as she had before. One eye twitched violently and unnaturally to the side, and she opened her mouth and drowned them all in blood.
~
He awoke with a shriek, throwing his arms over his head and very much upsetting the orange cat that had been his companion in sleep. Nearly toppling from his throne, Bloodwing stared frantically at his surroundings, his fragile sanity delaying any ration. The long, steepled hall. Rows of pews stacked and pushed against scroll-laiden walls. The dozen or so Undead staring now at him with mixed concern and eagerness.
Inquisitor Liore Bloodwing had claimed a cathedral in the ruins of Lordaeron, above the Undercity proper, to serve as a convenient outpost and headquarters for his work in the Eastern Kingdoms. It suited him, the musk and the dark, but more importantly it suited his agents. The Guttersnipe Brigade had been cast from the Horde-recognized military, functioning now as his private army. It had been two years since he had taken the Brigade, who had been left behind with supplies and deemed unworthy for combat, into Northrend and they had followed him since. Such was their law. Should he ever fail to be worthy leadership, they would pull him to pieces and follow someone else.
The cathedral had seen redecoration since they invited themselves in; Liore waved away the stares of his agents and glanced about the great hall, taking in the small details. Anything to chase away the nightmare. That was how it worked. Keep the mind occupied. There were no borders or walls sectioning off his thoughts. Everything melded together as one whole. Every thought, every sensation, every memory, they all knocked and twisted together like some demented, timeless whirlpool. It made in him a great detective. It made in him a madman.
The old elf eyed the long scrollwork hanging from ceiling to floor, emblazoned with the stylized L of Lorderon, set in black over the blood red of the Horde.
It was built in old Lordaeron style, to humble its common visitors with size and ostentation. Hundreds of candles lined archways and curved walls, statues of saints and priestesses finished in marble and staring judgmentally down into the hall. The Forsaken craftsmen had broken off marble arms, replacing them so the statues covered their faces in shame, tears of blood snaking down their perfect cheeks. In the back of the cathedral proper, beside adjoining rooms that functioned as conference and offices, sat the throne, upon which he now slouched. Confessor Gideon had, in a time before Lordaeron's tragic destruction, conscripted for himself a ceiling-high chair, of the finest Tirisfal oak, lavish with scrollwork and twisting spires. Over one shoulder, the likeness of a nude woman would smile down upon the Confessor, over the other an armored angel of judgement, frowning diligently.
The throne remained the only original and unmolested piece in the entire cathedral, and it had functioned for some time now as the Inquisitor's bed.
One leg looped over a perfect armrest, Liore calmed his thoughts and turned his stare down at a very agitated cat. His only living companion scowled in the way that cats have, meowing a single plaintive meow.
“I apologize,” Liore mumbled, his tenor tattered with age and weariness. “You are fortunate, you know. To dream of mice and fine cheeses.”
“...or of clawing his way down the tapestries. Or of leaving furballs in our boots.”
The Forsaken approached him with a bald head, a lopsided smile, and a silver tray. Each morning, the Snipes cast dice to see who would approach him with foodstuffs and the day's intinerary. With the luck of a skewered fish, Curly had greeted the Inquisitor three times this week.
“Has he,” Liore responded, sitting upright and taking the tray with a grateful nod. “And here he was, singing me his innocence and greatness. For shame.”
The fat orange tabby did not seem too ashamed at all. It had already settled down on the single carpet stretching the length of the cathedral, a paw slanted over its snoozing nose.
Curly stood by patiently, running dead fingers over his bald head. A nervous habit. He had news. It could wait until after breakfast.
Breakfast was a bowl of processed wheat flakes and a cup of kafa. The Snipes made for excellent soldiers, but between them could not rub enough bread together to make a bread sandwich. The Inquisitor took a spoonful of dry flakes and sipped from his cup. He wouldn't pour the one into the other, like some uncivilized lowborn. He gestured for Curly to proceed.
“Cutter and Lucky have closed the Felrian case. Your council was accurate; it was the youngest responsible for all those fires. He has been detained by the Silvermoon guard, and awaits trial. Warlord Gorreck sends his thanks for the use of our scout unit-”
“Mercy's boys?”
“Yes. They turned the tide in taking the SI:7 operatives in Krasarang. The Warlord has also sent a percentage of the spoils, some gold and weaponry.”
Liore chewed and sipped, nodding thoughtfully. “See Mercy is given the lot. I expect a report on the Warlord's disposition- What is the hour?”
“Nearly dawn, dreadlord.”
“I expect Mercy's report by noon. What else.”
“High Inquisitor Lugenbrau has asked for your insight in a case. He has diverted all information to us, and would appreciate your immediate attention. The details are on your desk. Also, you've received a letter from Ambassador Sunsorrow.”
Straightening, Liore swallowed. Sunsorrow. The last time they had spoken was at a courtesy gala for some charity drive. The good ambassador had called into question whether the Bloodwing house had any true noble lineage. Lio responded by suggesting that Sunsorrow's own lineage had more sheep in it than Sin'dorei, and there was a brief fight. The ambassador's nose never really looked the same.
“What does our friend Sunsorrow want?”
Curly smiled his lopsided smile, rubbing his head like some magic totem. “You're to be sent a secretary. An Archivist.”
It was built in old Lordaeron style, to humble its common visitors with size and ostentation. Hundreds of candles lined archways and curved walls, statues of saints and priestesses finished in marble and staring judgmentally down into the hall. The Forsaken craftsmen had broken off marble arms, replacing them so the statues covered their faces in shame, tears of blood snaking down their perfect cheeks. In the back of the cathedral proper, beside adjoining rooms that functioned as conference and offices, sat the throne, upon which he now slouched. Confessor Gideon had, in a time before Lordaeron's tragic destruction, conscripted for himself a ceiling-high chair, of the finest Tirisfal oak, lavish with scrollwork and twisting spires. Over one shoulder, the likeness of a nude woman would smile down upon the Confessor, over the other an armored angel of judgement, frowning diligently.
The throne remained the only original and unmolested piece in the entire cathedral, and it had functioned for some time now as the Inquisitor's bed.
One leg looped over a perfect armrest, Liore calmed his thoughts and turned his stare down at a very agitated cat. His only living companion scowled in the way that cats have, meowing a single plaintive meow.
“I apologize,” Liore mumbled, his tenor tattered with age and weariness. “You are fortunate, you know. To dream of mice and fine cheeses.”
“...or of clawing his way down the tapestries. Or of leaving furballs in our boots.”
The Forsaken approached him with a bald head, a lopsided smile, and a silver tray. Each morning, the Snipes cast dice to see who would approach him with foodstuffs and the day's intinerary. With the luck of a skewered fish, Curly had greeted the Inquisitor three times this week.
“Has he,” Liore responded, sitting upright and taking the tray with a grateful nod. “And here he was, singing me his innocence and greatness. For shame.”
The fat orange tabby did not seem too ashamed at all. It had already settled down on the single carpet stretching the length of the cathedral, a paw slanted over its snoozing nose.
Curly stood by patiently, running dead fingers over his bald head. A nervous habit. He had news. It could wait until after breakfast.
Breakfast was a bowl of processed wheat flakes and a cup of kafa. The Snipes made for excellent soldiers, but between them could not rub enough bread together to make a bread sandwich. The Inquisitor took a spoonful of dry flakes and sipped from his cup. He wouldn't pour the one into the other, like some uncivilized lowborn. He gestured for Curly to proceed.
“Cutter and Lucky have closed the Felrian case. Your council was accurate; it was the youngest responsible for all those fires. He has been detained by the Silvermoon guard, and awaits trial. Warlord Gorreck sends his thanks for the use of our scout unit-”
“Mercy's boys?”
“Yes. They turned the tide in taking the SI:7 operatives in Krasarang. The Warlord has also sent a percentage of the spoils, some gold and weaponry.”
Liore chewed and sipped, nodding thoughtfully. “See Mercy is given the lot. I expect a report on the Warlord's disposition- What is the hour?”
“Nearly dawn, dreadlord.”
“I expect Mercy's report by noon. What else.”
“High Inquisitor Lugenbrau has asked for your insight in a case. He has diverted all information to us, and would appreciate your immediate attention. The details are on your desk. Also, you've received a letter from Ambassador Sunsorrow.”
Straightening, Liore swallowed. Sunsorrow. The last time they had spoken was at a courtesy gala for some charity drive. The good ambassador had called into question whether the Bloodwing house had any true noble lineage. Lio responded by suggesting that Sunsorrow's own lineage had more sheep in it than Sin'dorei, and there was a brief fight. The ambassador's nose never really looked the same.
“What does our friend Sunsorrow want?”
Curly smiled his lopsided smile, rubbing his head like some magic totem. “You're to be sent a secretary. An Archivist.”
Edited by Liore on 7/13/2013 10:49 AM PDT
.
Edited by Benoite on 8/12/2014 5:09 PM PDT
.
Edited by Benoite on 8/12/2014 5:10 PM PDT
Invisible and cold as the very apparitions haunting young Benoite, silence crept over the cathedral. The din of rattling armors, the parchments snapping like sails in a breeze, the murmur of plot and preparation; save for the clicking step of her heels against thin red carpet, all had come to a complete and utter stop. The tapestries, before fluttering with activity, now hung dejectedly, as if leaning in to observe the disturbance for themselves. The cat opened one thin yellow eye, his ears flicking forward.
Liore pouted.
It was his default expression, permanent said the menders, terminal said the nobility. The stoic frown cast his debonair features into a state of perpetual, professional indifference – which likely saved him at this moment.
THAT dress. THOSE jewels.
When the silence broke, it shattered, like the mutilated stained glass of the cathedral's ruined windows.
“Leave us.”
The command was nearly inaudible, so low and menacing his tone, but it did not require a repeat. Bodies moved as quickly and quietly as death, adjacent doors slamming shut. Some of the forsaken fled with Daisy back out the front. She glared at the intruder's back, sneering vengefully as she pressed the massive double doors shut.
A discerning eye would notice the ghosts too had fled, returning to the walls to look upon the Inquisitor with horror.
Rage, black and thick as bile, surged through his throat, rising in pitch and frenzy with each clicking step Benoite took towards his throne. It shone in his eyes, like the Legion's hellfire glimpsed in some magister's emerald scrying orbs. His fingernails creaked as he grasped the throne's arm-rest; his jaw cracked as it tightened beyond healthy capacity.
Another nail for my heart, Sunsorrow? Another and another. You soon will have little room for more.
Liore pouted.
It was his default expression, permanent said the menders, terminal said the nobility. The stoic frown cast his debonair features into a state of perpetual, professional indifference – which likely saved him at this moment.
THAT dress. THOSE jewels.
When the silence broke, it shattered, like the mutilated stained glass of the cathedral's ruined windows.
“Leave us.”
The command was nearly inaudible, so low and menacing his tone, but it did not require a repeat. Bodies moved as quickly and quietly as death, adjacent doors slamming shut. Some of the forsaken fled with Daisy back out the front. She glared at the intruder's back, sneering vengefully as she pressed the massive double doors shut.
A discerning eye would notice the ghosts too had fled, returning to the walls to look upon the Inquisitor with horror.
Rage, black and thick as bile, surged through his throat, rising in pitch and frenzy with each clicking step Benoite took towards his throne. It shone in his eyes, like the Legion's hellfire glimpsed in some magister's emerald scrying orbs. His fingernails creaked as he grasped the throne's arm-rest; his jaw cracked as it tightened beyond healthy capacity.
Another nail for my heart, Sunsorrow? Another and another. You soon will have little room for more.
She hovered closer, some perfect spectre clothed in his late wife's finery, each fluid movement as poised and timeless as memory itself. An angelic sculpture of a girl, cast from snowy marble and set in resignation. A searing brilliance, clothed in mourning, and adorned with raven black hair. Benoite shifted into a curtsey so naturally, he didn't even notice she had.
The fury ebbed, leaving behind only a hollow, forlorn emptiness. She did not know she tormented him so. How could she? He sighed through his nostrils, casting a hand through chin-length hair, slicking the golden threads back into short ringlets. The storm before the calm, not a fine way to make an impression.
Liore Bloodwing straightened and stood, his head angled fractionally to peer down at her from the tip of his nose. He was tall and lean, powerfully built. Not a single scar on his body, save a recent gash that ran parallel beneath his eyes over the bridge of his nose, staining his pale flesh with a blur of crimson.
In fact, he had expected someone a bit more... unappealing. Someone like old Judas, to tut about his records and yell at the Snipes for mussing his books. Someone old and wizened and liver-spotted and cantankerous. Judas emerged from the fog of his memory and slithered unbidden into his thoughts; the old Annalist would be shamed to see him so diminished...
As he inspected Benoite's bow, practiced with such humility as to seem contrived, he remembered his manners and began hunting about the throne for his shirt. It had seen fit to abandon him sometime before he had finally nodded off, no longer willing to suffer the wine being dribbled upon it. He fetched the fine, dark garment and pulled it over his masculine torso, to conceal the blood red series of tattoos lining his right shoulder and arm before a curious eye could glean too much from them, tucking the tails into his dark trousers.
Thus covered, he placed a fist on his hip and rubbed at his unshaven cheeks with the other, his intent stare still fixated on the girl. He steered his mind away from her attire, seeking out her eyes to do so.
“You have rehearsed this... flattering soliloquy to near perfection, My Lady Dawnsong, but I must wonder how many of those words you truly believe.”
A hand gestured for her to straighten, the other coiling behind his back as he stalked barefoot from side to side.
“I have little use for glory, and less for the Sin'dorei (he pronounced the word with a disdainful hiss), Ambassador Sunsorrow is a !@#$%son that breeds with his steak before having it cooked, and dear girl the only thing distinguished about Inquisitor Bloodwing is the stain he left on his family's name!”
Liore paused, his back to her, a finger dancing in the air. A conductor gathering his thoughts before some ancient, forlorn symphony.
“I am flattered, Benoite Dawnsong, but I am not honorable and you are not lowly.”
He twisted halfway to pin her with his baleful, poisonous stare. Searchingly, revealingly.
“So tell me please, in your own words, why you've intruded upon my lair.”
The fury ebbed, leaving behind only a hollow, forlorn emptiness. She did not know she tormented him so. How could she? He sighed through his nostrils, casting a hand through chin-length hair, slicking the golden threads back into short ringlets. The storm before the calm, not a fine way to make an impression.
Liore Bloodwing straightened and stood, his head angled fractionally to peer down at her from the tip of his nose. He was tall and lean, powerfully built. Not a single scar on his body, save a recent gash that ran parallel beneath his eyes over the bridge of his nose, staining his pale flesh with a blur of crimson.
In fact, he had expected someone a bit more... unappealing. Someone like old Judas, to tut about his records and yell at the Snipes for mussing his books. Someone old and wizened and liver-spotted and cantankerous. Judas emerged from the fog of his memory and slithered unbidden into his thoughts; the old Annalist would be shamed to see him so diminished...
As he inspected Benoite's bow, practiced with such humility as to seem contrived, he remembered his manners and began hunting about the throne for his shirt. It had seen fit to abandon him sometime before he had finally nodded off, no longer willing to suffer the wine being dribbled upon it. He fetched the fine, dark garment and pulled it over his masculine torso, to conceal the blood red series of tattoos lining his right shoulder and arm before a curious eye could glean too much from them, tucking the tails into his dark trousers.
Thus covered, he placed a fist on his hip and rubbed at his unshaven cheeks with the other, his intent stare still fixated on the girl. He steered his mind away from her attire, seeking out her eyes to do so.
“You have rehearsed this... flattering soliloquy to near perfection, My Lady Dawnsong, but I must wonder how many of those words you truly believe.”
A hand gestured for her to straighten, the other coiling behind his back as he stalked barefoot from side to side.
“I have little use for glory, and less for the Sin'dorei (he pronounced the word with a disdainful hiss), Ambassador Sunsorrow is a !@#$%son that breeds with his steak before having it cooked, and dear girl the only thing distinguished about Inquisitor Bloodwing is the stain he left on his family's name!”
Liore paused, his back to her, a finger dancing in the air. A conductor gathering his thoughts before some ancient, forlorn symphony.
“I am flattered, Benoite Dawnsong, but I am not honorable and you are not lowly.”
He twisted halfway to pin her with his baleful, poisonous stare. Searchingly, revealingly.
“So tell me please, in your own words, why you've intruded upon my lair.”
.
Edited by Benoite on 8/12/2014 5:10 PM PDT
.
Edited by Benoite on 8/12/2014 5:11 PM PDT
The pouting murderer and the veiled Queen dined in the desecrated hall of a kingdom overthrown by regicide, while minions of Death watched on in a plague of silence.
The notion struck him as dramatic. A scene, perhaps from one of Istvaan Questor's strident sonnets, or a watercolor spattered into life by Landerson's crooked claw. But unlike these pieces of fiction, he mused while daubing his pouting lips with a kerchief, there would be no hero.
No, the only fleeting act of heroism tonight is her stoic tolerance of this rubbish.
What am I to do with her...
As his silver fork described a Pandaren kanji of goop on his plate, Bloodwing glanced miserably across the long table at his flawless guest. A picture of servitude, she adverted her own gaze and labored over her own masterpiece, braving the occasional nibble to appear grateful. From the straight shoulders to the slight tilt of a porcelain throat, she was perched like a swan, amidst a pool of bullfrogs.
He found he could not look upon her for very long. Something in the hollow pit of his chest would kick and protest, and he would find his throat closing. Too familiar. Was that it? Or was it shame, shame that this gentle creature should be so disgraced by sitting at his table, surrounded by his blasphemies?
This one deserved a night on the City, locked on the arm of some fanciful gent, to be twirled and dipped and treasured. Her file, glimpsed before her arrival, listed no known associates, no history of youthful indiscretions, no family, nothing. She was a ghost-swan, ignoring the bullfrogs splashing about in the muck, patiently pecking a dinner unfit for an pigeon.
Dinner was not a drawn-out occasion. He did not eat much of his serving. He'd taken a roll and weighed it experimentally, before smashing it down on the table. The hearty wood threatened to splinter; he entertained the thought of fashioning it to a rod and flailing some fool's helmet in. Shameful.
Tisking twice, he summoned the cat and leaned down to set the nearly untouched bowl on the floor. Ser Sulliven Blunderpuss trotted over with unadulterated enthusiasm, a state that evaporated after a preemptive sniff of the mysterious glue. He tilted his pink nose and stalked away with a snuff, to vomit his outrage in some unfortunate soul's boots.
Glimpsing the marble indifference of Benoite's face, Liore swallowed hard and straightened. He summoned his courage and fished for eye contact, keeping his tone as formal as she would please.
“I've much to attend to, Ms Dawnsong. I am not certain of what use you hope to be -you are an Archivist; I suppose there are files and caseworks to be sorted- but you are welcome to walk among us as you please. We will arrange a bedroom for you, as seems to befit a lady. The one adjacent my study will suffice. If you require anything...”
And here his voice sharpened just a hair, directed at their invisible, lifeless audience.
“The Guttersnipes will attend you as they attend me, bound by old law and the contract of blood.”
Unanimously the chorus of the Forsaken responded, threatening to shake the ceiling loose with its joint echo: “The bonds of Old Law ne'er shall break! The Letters of Blood ne'er shall dry!”
Liore Bloodwing sipped from his wine and gestured with a swooping hand. And there you have it. With an awkward nod to his solitary guest, he placed his kerchief on the table and rose to stride into some adjoining room. The Snipes shuffled listlessly in the dark, staring raptly at the small-boned girl that could so effortlessly disarm their Dreadlord.
The notion struck him as dramatic. A scene, perhaps from one of Istvaan Questor's strident sonnets, or a watercolor spattered into life by Landerson's crooked claw. But unlike these pieces of fiction, he mused while daubing his pouting lips with a kerchief, there would be no hero.
No, the only fleeting act of heroism tonight is her stoic tolerance of this rubbish.
What am I to do with her...
As his silver fork described a Pandaren kanji of goop on his plate, Bloodwing glanced miserably across the long table at his flawless guest. A picture of servitude, she adverted her own gaze and labored over her own masterpiece, braving the occasional nibble to appear grateful. From the straight shoulders to the slight tilt of a porcelain throat, she was perched like a swan, amidst a pool of bullfrogs.
He found he could not look upon her for very long. Something in the hollow pit of his chest would kick and protest, and he would find his throat closing. Too familiar. Was that it? Or was it shame, shame that this gentle creature should be so disgraced by sitting at his table, surrounded by his blasphemies?
This one deserved a night on the City, locked on the arm of some fanciful gent, to be twirled and dipped and treasured. Her file, glimpsed before her arrival, listed no known associates, no history of youthful indiscretions, no family, nothing. She was a ghost-swan, ignoring the bullfrogs splashing about in the muck, patiently pecking a dinner unfit for an pigeon.
Dinner was not a drawn-out occasion. He did not eat much of his serving. He'd taken a roll and weighed it experimentally, before smashing it down on the table. The hearty wood threatened to splinter; he entertained the thought of fashioning it to a rod and flailing some fool's helmet in. Shameful.
Tisking twice, he summoned the cat and leaned down to set the nearly untouched bowl on the floor. Ser Sulliven Blunderpuss trotted over with unadulterated enthusiasm, a state that evaporated after a preemptive sniff of the mysterious glue. He tilted his pink nose and stalked away with a snuff, to vomit his outrage in some unfortunate soul's boots.
Glimpsing the marble indifference of Benoite's face, Liore swallowed hard and straightened. He summoned his courage and fished for eye contact, keeping his tone as formal as she would please.
“I've much to attend to, Ms Dawnsong. I am not certain of what use you hope to be -you are an Archivist; I suppose there are files and caseworks to be sorted- but you are welcome to walk among us as you please. We will arrange a bedroom for you, as seems to befit a lady. The one adjacent my study will suffice. If you require anything...”
And here his voice sharpened just a hair, directed at their invisible, lifeless audience.
“The Guttersnipes will attend you as they attend me, bound by old law and the contract of blood.”
Unanimously the chorus of the Forsaken responded, threatening to shake the ceiling loose with its joint echo: “The bonds of Old Law ne'er shall break! The Letters of Blood ne'er shall dry!”
Liore Bloodwing sipped from his wine and gestured with a swooping hand. And there you have it. With an awkward nod to his solitary guest, he placed his kerchief on the table and rose to stride into some adjoining room. The Snipes shuffled listlessly in the dark, staring raptly at the small-boned girl that could so effortlessly disarm their Dreadlord.
The Inquisitor brooded in his study, a brief room with a timeless masterpiece of a desk planted in its center. Moonlight trickled through the tall, shattered windows.
What was he to do with her.
The manner of a servant girl, the posture of a priestess. There was an air about her he could not comprehend. A solemn repression, harrowing in its depth. Observant, she was. Efflorescent green (though from their darker corners he suspected alteration at play) eyes darting here and there, low as she kept them. A learned habit, or a practiced one? What use had a ghost-swan the manner of the courts? An Archivist. The youngest, in fact. Floating unnoticed behind the change of guard, perfect nose tilted in a book.
Before quailing candle-light, Bloodwing shaved with a half-empty basin and a short dagger.
What was he to do with her.
If he pressed her flesh with screws and cranks, he if twisted limbs and peeled back snowy sheets of skin, she would still advert his stare and whisper praise. Distinguished Inquisitor. It would torment him less if she WERE simply mocking him. It wasn't a platitude; he would have sampled the disengenuity instantly, a flavor common enough on the wagging tongue of his bloody people.
Turning away from a shattered old mirror, Bloodwing dimly recalled the night his fist had ruined it.
What was he to do with her.
Duty, she said. He had his own. An Inquisitor of Lordaeron. The Queen's anti-venom, scouring away disease and toxins from the ruined streets of her Kingdom. Was the girl here to assess his work? Was she here to hinder it? Liore doubted that. She was capable of subterfuge, certainly, but did not seem the likely candidate. Assassination was not quite out of the question. Who better to send, than a creature that could rouse and calm the storms of his old hatred without even speaking. There are worse ways to go.
Pinching an oiled rag, Bloodwing polished and squinted down the barrel of his revolver.
What was he to do with her.
“Hay boss I think yer girlfr-”
Liore twisted instantly and shot Curly in the head. The weapon's report thundered through the stone of the cathedral, the forsaken man's body flung through the doorway and sprawling in a heap on the main hall's floor. Pouting deeper, the Inquisitor raised his smoking revolver upright, blinking with irritation and adrenaline.
Curly grunted and drunkenly gathered his feet, a contrite expression written on his dead face and a fingertip exploring the new hole in his skull. He sheepishly paced back to the doorway form which he had been jettisoned.
“We have a lady amongst us,” Liore admonished him in a growl. “You will practice knocking before you enter.”
“Y-yes Dreadlord,” the soldier responded, bowing his head. A nasty grin started to twist his lipless teeth; they always loved displays of violence, whomever the victim. Liore laid the gun on his desk and gestured impatiently for him to proceed with what he had come to say.
“Dreadlady Dawnsong's affects have been quartered in the master bedroom, as you've ordered. Daisy plucked up some fresh sheets and down, some pillows too.”
Curly hesitated while he plucked something from inside his bald head. Bony fingers flicked away a small shard of bullet, the saronite ammunition clinking on the stone floor. “Will SHE really be staying with us?”
“Yes. What did you call her?”
“Daisy? You know-”
Impatiently: “Our guest.”
“Uhm. Dreadlady Dawnsong?”
“Yes. I do not understand the title.”
“She's yer property, boss," Curly explained, as if to a yearling at Academy. "That puts her under yer contract. Old laws apply.”
That couldn't possibly end well.
“Do not test her. That will be -my- engagement. Now begone,” The Inquisitor finally grunted, pinning the Guttersnipe with a withering leer. Thoughtfully, he tapped the side of his blonde head with the still-smoking barrel of his silver gun. “And don't forget to knock. Spread word.”
Secluded again in his study, Liore diverted himself with his work. The implications of Benoite Dawnsong could wait.
What was he to do with her.
The manner of a servant girl, the posture of a priestess. There was an air about her he could not comprehend. A solemn repression, harrowing in its depth. Observant, she was. Efflorescent green (though from their darker corners he suspected alteration at play) eyes darting here and there, low as she kept them. A learned habit, or a practiced one? What use had a ghost-swan the manner of the courts? An Archivist. The youngest, in fact. Floating unnoticed behind the change of guard, perfect nose tilted in a book.
Before quailing candle-light, Bloodwing shaved with a half-empty basin and a short dagger.
What was he to do with her.
If he pressed her flesh with screws and cranks, he if twisted limbs and peeled back snowy sheets of skin, she would still advert his stare and whisper praise. Distinguished Inquisitor. It would torment him less if she WERE simply mocking him. It wasn't a platitude; he would have sampled the disengenuity instantly, a flavor common enough on the wagging tongue of his bloody people.
Turning away from a shattered old mirror, Bloodwing dimly recalled the night his fist had ruined it.
What was he to do with her.
Duty, she said. He had his own. An Inquisitor of Lordaeron. The Queen's anti-venom, scouring away disease and toxins from the ruined streets of her Kingdom. Was the girl here to assess his work? Was she here to hinder it? Liore doubted that. She was capable of subterfuge, certainly, but did not seem the likely candidate. Assassination was not quite out of the question. Who better to send, than a creature that could rouse and calm the storms of his old hatred without even speaking. There are worse ways to go.
Pinching an oiled rag, Bloodwing polished and squinted down the barrel of his revolver.
What was he to do with her.
“Hay boss I think yer girlfr-”
Liore twisted instantly and shot Curly in the head. The weapon's report thundered through the stone of the cathedral, the forsaken man's body flung through the doorway and sprawling in a heap on the main hall's floor. Pouting deeper, the Inquisitor raised his smoking revolver upright, blinking with irritation and adrenaline.
Curly grunted and drunkenly gathered his feet, a contrite expression written on his dead face and a fingertip exploring the new hole in his skull. He sheepishly paced back to the doorway form which he had been jettisoned.
“We have a lady amongst us,” Liore admonished him in a growl. “You will practice knocking before you enter.”
“Y-yes Dreadlord,” the soldier responded, bowing his head. A nasty grin started to twist his lipless teeth; they always loved displays of violence, whomever the victim. Liore laid the gun on his desk and gestured impatiently for him to proceed with what he had come to say.
“Dreadlady Dawnsong's affects have been quartered in the master bedroom, as you've ordered. Daisy plucked up some fresh sheets and down, some pillows too.”
Curly hesitated while he plucked something from inside his bald head. Bony fingers flicked away a small shard of bullet, the saronite ammunition clinking on the stone floor. “Will SHE really be staying with us?”
“Yes. What did you call her?”
“Daisy? You know-”
Impatiently: “Our guest.”
“Uhm. Dreadlady Dawnsong?”
“Yes. I do not understand the title.”
“She's yer property, boss," Curly explained, as if to a yearling at Academy. "That puts her under yer contract. Old laws apply.”
That couldn't possibly end well.
“Do not test her. That will be -my- engagement. Now begone,” The Inquisitor finally grunted, pinning the Guttersnipe with a withering leer. Thoughtfully, he tapped the side of his blonde head with the still-smoking barrel of his silver gun. “And don't forget to knock. Spread word.”
Secluded again in his study, Liore diverted himself with his work. The implications of Benoite Dawnsong could wait.
.
Edited by Benoite on 8/12/2014 5:11 PM PDT
.
Edited by Benoite on 8/12/2014 5:11 PM PDT
((Thank you very much, Azrielle!))
[ I'm very flattered that anyone's reading. Thank you <3 ]
The warm halls of the sun-lit mansion trilled with the stringy notes of the harpsichord, as untalented fingers danced over its polished keys. He was out of practice, but she hovered over his shoulder, purring encouragement.
“Press, do not poke. Look between your hands, love. Hm-hm!” Amberley Bloodwing laughed blessedly.
“And what is so funny?” Liore smiled the one, genuine smile he reserved just for his bride. He struck the wrong notes, his attention so divided.
“Focus, focus. You're like a cat in the window. Watching a bird zip back and forth!”
Another peal of laughter bubbled through the hall. Through his soul. “We cannot -all- while away the hours fawning over this... this torture device!”
The Bloodwings laughed. She rested her bare, silken fingers over his, guiding them with the nimble grace of a master pianist.
“If you practiced music as thoroughly as you did the sword, love, you might not find these lessons so terrible.” The gentle coo of her voice threw off his concentration again. More mis-struck notes. The composer would be cartwheeling in his grave.
Liore refocused with near physical effort, the ruffled sleeves of his fine shirt swaying as his fingertips sought out the complicated chords. “I am an indifferent artist, it would seem,” he admitted finally, under-toning the sentiment with an unappealing flat. He tilted his head to smile at her, and she radiated, tut-tutting with a perfect finger.
“Art informs life, dear-heart. It reveals curiosity, discovery, and perspective.”
Young Liore Bloodwing snorted and trolled out something discordant and mindless, his serpentine eyes flickering with mischief over his wife's petite frame. “Am I one of your students, profess-"
In a heartbeat, she had -changed.-
Golden Asimenios had taken her place, resplendent in his metal limbs and armored skirt. His bare torso rippling with power, his sneer concealed beneath a perfect golden mask. Layers of silver knives sprouting out the back like some facsimile of hair. Liore lurched back in horror.
“You...” he rasped.
Asimenios touched a silencing, golden claw to Liore's lips, before pointing across the day-lit hall.
Amberley now hung from chains over a deep, terrible pit. Hooks pierced her shoulders, her blood flowing in ribbons down her white dress. It dripped steadily below, into the open mouths of the madmen and horrors lurking below. They scrambled in their abyss, pale and malformed hands stretching to reach her. She dangled silently, her face frozen in agony and fear.
“AMBERLEY!!”
He could not move from the pianist's seat. His body rejected him. Thrashing and screaming, he fought to rip himself free, but ghastly golden hands erupted from the floor, denying him. Asimenios stepped nearby.
“Play me your melody, kin-slayer. Play me your song. Lets see if you can even do -that- for her.” The golden figure rushed beside him. The golden mask pressed cold against his face, Liore could feel the evil and the hate radiating from beneath. It did not numb his agony. Sweet Amberley... Darling Amberley...
Liore shook as he began the song anew. A convulsing finger struck the wrong note, and the chains dropped her an inch.
The pit of fiends writhed with moist anticipation.
“Play!”
Golden Asimenios loomed over him now, as horrible as the day they parted. Liore looked up to glimpse the slits in the perfect mask, yellow eyes bereft any sanity or hope.
“PLAY.”
The harpsichord began its haunting melody anew. Laboring, young Bloodwing rubbed his tears with the shoulder of his fine shirt. Another mistake, another inch. Amberley moaned as the chains jostled her so violently.
“Let her be! She's done nothing to-”
“Hasn't she?! She pays for YOUR SINS, kinslayer. She suffers STILL. While you sit upon a throne.” Asimenios spat the words as he posed, godlike. “Play your song.”
The harpsichord's black and white keys had also transformed, into a barber's razors. His fingers began to shred and bleed as he played to the best of his ability, but the errors were starting to add up. Amberley sank further and further. The creatures raved in their pit, clawing at one another. Climbing one another, filthy nails swiping the air beneath her dangling feet.
There was nothing left to his hands now. He beat the keys with what remained.
My fingers tremble
her lips move silently
one last I love you
crush my resolve again
Amberley Bloodwing fell into the awaiting mouths below, and her husband awoke with a scream.
“Press, do not poke. Look between your hands, love. Hm-hm!” Amberley Bloodwing laughed blessedly.
“And what is so funny?” Liore smiled the one, genuine smile he reserved just for his bride. He struck the wrong notes, his attention so divided.
“Focus, focus. You're like a cat in the window. Watching a bird zip back and forth!”
Another peal of laughter bubbled through the hall. Through his soul. “We cannot -all- while away the hours fawning over this... this torture device!”
The Bloodwings laughed. She rested her bare, silken fingers over his, guiding them with the nimble grace of a master pianist.
“If you practiced music as thoroughly as you did the sword, love, you might not find these lessons so terrible.” The gentle coo of her voice threw off his concentration again. More mis-struck notes. The composer would be cartwheeling in his grave.
Liore refocused with near physical effort, the ruffled sleeves of his fine shirt swaying as his fingertips sought out the complicated chords. “I am an indifferent artist, it would seem,” he admitted finally, under-toning the sentiment with an unappealing flat. He tilted his head to smile at her, and she radiated, tut-tutting with a perfect finger.
“Art informs life, dear-heart. It reveals curiosity, discovery, and perspective.”
Young Liore Bloodwing snorted and trolled out something discordant and mindless, his serpentine eyes flickering with mischief over his wife's petite frame. “Am I one of your students, profess-"
In a heartbeat, she had -changed.-
Golden Asimenios had taken her place, resplendent in his metal limbs and armored skirt. His bare torso rippling with power, his sneer concealed beneath a perfect golden mask. Layers of silver knives sprouting out the back like some facsimile of hair. Liore lurched back in horror.
“You...” he rasped.
Asimenios touched a silencing, golden claw to Liore's lips, before pointing across the day-lit hall.
Amberley now hung from chains over a deep, terrible pit. Hooks pierced her shoulders, her blood flowing in ribbons down her white dress. It dripped steadily below, into the open mouths of the madmen and horrors lurking below. They scrambled in their abyss, pale and malformed hands stretching to reach her. She dangled silently, her face frozen in agony and fear.
“AMBERLEY!!”
He could not move from the pianist's seat. His body rejected him. Thrashing and screaming, he fought to rip himself free, but ghastly golden hands erupted from the floor, denying him. Asimenios stepped nearby.
“Play me your melody, kin-slayer. Play me your song. Lets see if you can even do -that- for her.” The golden figure rushed beside him. The golden mask pressed cold against his face, Liore could feel the evil and the hate radiating from beneath. It did not numb his agony. Sweet Amberley... Darling Amberley...
Liore shook as he began the song anew. A convulsing finger struck the wrong note, and the chains dropped her an inch.
The pit of fiends writhed with moist anticipation.
“Play!”
Golden Asimenios loomed over him now, as horrible as the day they parted. Liore looked up to glimpse the slits in the perfect mask, yellow eyes bereft any sanity or hope.
“PLAY.”
The harpsichord began its haunting melody anew. Laboring, young Bloodwing rubbed his tears with the shoulder of his fine shirt. Another mistake, another inch. Amberley moaned as the chains jostled her so violently.
“Let her be! She's done nothing to-”
“Hasn't she?! She pays for YOUR SINS, kinslayer. She suffers STILL. While you sit upon a throne.” Asimenios spat the words as he posed, godlike. “Play your song.”
The harpsichord's black and white keys had also transformed, into a barber's razors. His fingers began to shred and bleed as he played to the best of his ability, but the errors were starting to add up. Amberley sank further and further. The creatures raved in their pit, clawing at one another. Climbing one another, filthy nails swiping the air beneath her dangling feet.
There was nothing left to his hands now. He beat the keys with what remained.
My fingers tremble
her lips move silently
one last I love you
crush my resolve again
Amberley Bloodwing fell into the awaiting mouths below, and her husband awoke with a scream.
((You two make me want to play along but Cridle Bloodfeather is retired so instead I'll enjoy and remain fond.))
{{ A compliment of the highest order.
Also. Here's the song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GbbKnGrgtp8
NO EDITS }}
Also. Here's the song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GbbKnGrgtp8
NO EDITS }}
Please report any Code of Conduct violations, including:
Threats of violence. We take these seriously and will alert the proper authorities.
Posts containing personal information about other players. This includes physical addresses, e-mail addresses, phone numbers, and inappropriate photos and/or videos.
Harassing or discriminatory language. This will not be tolerated.
