[ Thanks, Is Bee <3 ]
Of Dawn and Blood [Closed RP]
For not the first time, and certainly not the last, he awoke to the myriad stares of the dead. Liore pulled himself from the depths of his despair and panic, clearing his throat and slicking back his short hair. As he forced himself back into a state of calm, his poisonous eyes darted from floor to fall to face to face.
The Guttersnipes were organized, moving disassembled shelves and armfuls of books to and fro, or rather had been. The majority stood transfixed by his (sort of) unexpected outburst. Liore rubbed at his eyes and waved them back to their duties. He spotted sticky scarlet on his fingertips. The wound crossing parallel over his eyes was weeping again. Gathering the nearest article, he daubed it with fine cashmere and cleared his throat with a growl.
“What is the hour.”
A forsaken scurried out from the midst, nearly tripping over himself. Dead little hands clenched a timeless silver tray, brilliant golden eyes blinked beneath a frame of curly brown hair. Littler than the others, he came scrambling to a halt at the foot of the hideous throne, offering the tray on bent knee. Curly, as it would turn out, had rigged the dice and weaseled himself out of duty. One of the newdeads caught his bad luck. Poor sod.
“On your feet, soldier. What is the hour.” Bloodwing did little to keep the irritation from his voice, squinting a leer at the dead boy that would burn the ice from beneath Fordragon's bum.
“Quarter past dawn, me'sir,” he piped with the tone and smirk of a cherub.
“And where are your illustrious peers headed with my books.” Liore daubbed at his wound a final time before actually looking at the thing he had smeared in his blood. A shawl. Smelled delectable, like a pearly lily after a spring rain.
That -girl.-
What was he going to do with her.
“Dreadmissus says to start work onna liberry, she did.”
“Li-brary,” Liore corrected, setting the tray in his lap. Atop the shawl, so he wouldn't have to look at it. Breakfast today was cold black kafa and orange peels.
“What is this supposed to be?”
“A peeled orange, me'sir.”
Liore sighed through his nostrils. “That does make a degree of sense, doesn't it. Very well. How report my agents... Which one are you again?”
“Nibs,” the boy stated, blinking smartly and nibbling on one of his fingers. “Dreadmissus says she'll be takin stock of all yer work, me'sir. Says she'll be tellin you yer itener. Itiner. Ary. Yer schedule.”
The Inquisitor touched a fingertip to his throbbing temple. Already with this. Just as well. The Guttersnipes were willing, but not quite able, he mused while chewing thoughtfully on a dried and tasteless orange peel.
“Nibs. Inform Ms Dawnsong that I will be departing for Silvermoon in an hour. She will be joining me. Until then, I will be in my study. I do -not- wish to be disturbed.”
His tone brooked no contest, no quarter. Young Nibs bobbed his head earnestly, his delicate curls bouncing all over.
“Now scat. Nnh- Wait. Help me find my shirt.”
As Liore Bloodwing brooded in his study, his desk absolutely spattered with case files, he was very cautious not to peer for too long upon the harpsichord tucked in the corner.
The Guttersnipes were organized, moving disassembled shelves and armfuls of books to and fro, or rather had been. The majority stood transfixed by his (sort of) unexpected outburst. Liore rubbed at his eyes and waved them back to their duties. He spotted sticky scarlet on his fingertips. The wound crossing parallel over his eyes was weeping again. Gathering the nearest article, he daubed it with fine cashmere and cleared his throat with a growl.
“What is the hour.”
A forsaken scurried out from the midst, nearly tripping over himself. Dead little hands clenched a timeless silver tray, brilliant golden eyes blinked beneath a frame of curly brown hair. Littler than the others, he came scrambling to a halt at the foot of the hideous throne, offering the tray on bent knee. Curly, as it would turn out, had rigged the dice and weaseled himself out of duty. One of the newdeads caught his bad luck. Poor sod.
“On your feet, soldier. What is the hour.” Bloodwing did little to keep the irritation from his voice, squinting a leer at the dead boy that would burn the ice from beneath Fordragon's bum.
“Quarter past dawn, me'sir,” he piped with the tone and smirk of a cherub.
“And where are your illustrious peers headed with my books.” Liore daubbed at his wound a final time before actually looking at the thing he had smeared in his blood. A shawl. Smelled delectable, like a pearly lily after a spring rain.
That -girl.-
What was he going to do with her.
“Dreadmissus says to start work onna liberry, she did.”
“Li-brary,” Liore corrected, setting the tray in his lap. Atop the shawl, so he wouldn't have to look at it. Breakfast today was cold black kafa and orange peels.
“What is this supposed to be?”
“A peeled orange, me'sir.”
Liore sighed through his nostrils. “That does make a degree of sense, doesn't it. Very well. How report my agents... Which one are you again?”
“Nibs,” the boy stated, blinking smartly and nibbling on one of his fingers. “Dreadmissus says she'll be takin stock of all yer work, me'sir. Says she'll be tellin you yer itener. Itiner. Ary. Yer schedule.”
The Inquisitor touched a fingertip to his throbbing temple. Already with this. Just as well. The Guttersnipes were willing, but not quite able, he mused while chewing thoughtfully on a dried and tasteless orange peel.
“Nibs. Inform Ms Dawnsong that I will be departing for Silvermoon in an hour. She will be joining me. Until then, I will be in my study. I do -not- wish to be disturbed.”
His tone brooked no contest, no quarter. Young Nibs bobbed his head earnestly, his delicate curls bouncing all over.
“Now scat. Nnh- Wait. Help me find my shirt.”
As Liore Bloodwing brooded in his study, his desk absolutely spattered with case files, he was very cautious not to peer for too long upon the harpsichord tucked in the corner.
[ Well shucks, ma'am, thank you kindly. -Tips hat- ]
((Just one more fan posting to let you know I am now checking the forums daily to see if there is an addition to the story.))
Edited by Lrigknab on 6/26/2013 12:41 PM PDT
((THE PRESSURE. AAAUUGGGHHH
-Goes on a bender. Forgets how to words.-))
-Goes on a bender. Forgets how to words.-))
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Edited by Benoite on 8/12/2014 5:14 PM PDT
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Edited by Benoite on 8/12/2014 5:15 PM PDT
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Edited by Benoite on 8/12/2014 5:15 PM PDT
In the span between Benoite's bow-hunting and her slowly developing insurrection of culture, Bloodwing had flung himself at his work with such vigor as to shake from himself the webby tendrils of his most recent nightmare.
The cold stone walls of his study were draped with soft black velvet curtains on two sides, the third sporting the doorway and a massive corkboard. The remaining wall was home to a timeless fireplace whose hearth had been decorated in the jagged and metallic spines of ancient Lordaeron gothica. A single, devastatingly expensive portrait of a Sin'dorei galleon dominated the space above the hearth, the massive vessel bursting stoically through storm waves. The fireplace housed a boiling, black flame that splayed long shadows over the fine hardwood solids and cherry veneers of his desk and chairs. The distinctive lines and authentic details stood in naked contrast to the dusky cathedral's cold interior.
Settled on a cornerstand, with its black mouth tilted for perfect acoustics, a tired old phonograph droned out the strident war-hymns of the Sunwalker Choir. The Inquisitor squinted through a tiny pair of silvered pince nez reading glasses, perched on the wounded bridge of his nose, a sheaf of tattered parchments in one hand and his chin in the other. By dim light, and slouched in the crushed velvet grasp of his chair, Liore pouted over the wealth of reports and mortuary examinations, guard oaths and hearsay that made up his current case.
No one knew who killed Vasiliy Nightguard, a raven-haired Sin'dorei nobleman of some renown amongst the Silvermoon courts, but his manner of death was clear: he was stabbed twice, shot in the head, and summarily mauled by some carnivorous predator. Bodies had begun turning up in similar states all across Azeroth, found mutilated outside Orgrimmar, floating beneath the docks of Stranglethorn, or in one case dangling from the balcony overlooking Dalaran's Purple Parlor. To name a few.
No variety in technique, suggesting a serial case, but also no clear connection stringing the victims together. A chef in Thunder Bluff, a cobbler from Brill. Nightguard himself was a professor of histories at the highly regarded Silvermoon Academy.
Ambassadors of the Horde's conflicting factions were beginning to get desperate after the eleventh victim was found with no suspects. They sent to the Inquisition for professional help in finding the killer, and the Lord Inquisitor sent for Liore Bloodwing. An undertaking of severe moment. Impossible enough to keep him occupied. Vast enough to overshadow the rumors of his instability.
From the scant evidence, he had discerned little. Ritual sacrifice, at the hand of some twisted cult, popped into his head early, but a cabal would not be so careless with the bodies. They prefer to remain incognito until such time as their demented prophecies should call for action, working their evil intent undiscovered for as long as they are able. Nothing connected the victims but their wounds, not race nor even political alignment. Four of the eleven had been discovered in Dalaran, but without any witness statements, there was little to connect even these but speculation.
The method of the murders was a peculiar one. Two blade thrusts, piercing lungs and heart. A single shot to the head, high caliber, exploding the base of the skull. Bite wounds all along the throat, multiple impacts. Almost laughably thorough. Unlikely to be a solitary killer. Two working in tandem, perhaps? Three? The placement of the wounds were perfect and uniform. Killing strokes, the lot of them. The victims had no chance to even draw steel and defend themselves.
No hint towards pattern or motivation. Times of attacks varied maddeningly between deep night and broad daylight. It seemed utterly at random. Lord Inquisitor Haschel hadn't tossed a mystery into his lap. He'd dumped a hell-forsaken mess. It was like trying to find a needle in a needle stack. Last evening he had decided to travel to Silvermoon, to observe-
There was a disruptive knock on his solid door, the distinct clack of dead knuckles rapping out twice. The old door creaked and Liore snapped from his thoughts to glare witheringly at the figure moving into his study, a baleful rebuke boiling up from his throat.
It died on his lips as he beheld Benoite Dawnsong. He tilted his head back to inspect her from behind his tiny glasses. His hand hovered still over the silverite revolver laid on his desk.
The cold stone walls of his study were draped with soft black velvet curtains on two sides, the third sporting the doorway and a massive corkboard. The remaining wall was home to a timeless fireplace whose hearth had been decorated in the jagged and metallic spines of ancient Lordaeron gothica. A single, devastatingly expensive portrait of a Sin'dorei galleon dominated the space above the hearth, the massive vessel bursting stoically through storm waves. The fireplace housed a boiling, black flame that splayed long shadows over the fine hardwood solids and cherry veneers of his desk and chairs. The distinctive lines and authentic details stood in naked contrast to the dusky cathedral's cold interior.
Settled on a cornerstand, with its black mouth tilted for perfect acoustics, a tired old phonograph droned out the strident war-hymns of the Sunwalker Choir. The Inquisitor squinted through a tiny pair of silvered pince nez reading glasses, perched on the wounded bridge of his nose, a sheaf of tattered parchments in one hand and his chin in the other. By dim light, and slouched in the crushed velvet grasp of his chair, Liore pouted over the wealth of reports and mortuary examinations, guard oaths and hearsay that made up his current case.
No one knew who killed Vasiliy Nightguard, a raven-haired Sin'dorei nobleman of some renown amongst the Silvermoon courts, but his manner of death was clear: he was stabbed twice, shot in the head, and summarily mauled by some carnivorous predator. Bodies had begun turning up in similar states all across Azeroth, found mutilated outside Orgrimmar, floating beneath the docks of Stranglethorn, or in one case dangling from the balcony overlooking Dalaran's Purple Parlor. To name a few.
No variety in technique, suggesting a serial case, but also no clear connection stringing the victims together. A chef in Thunder Bluff, a cobbler from Brill. Nightguard himself was a professor of histories at the highly regarded Silvermoon Academy.
Ambassadors of the Horde's conflicting factions were beginning to get desperate after the eleventh victim was found with no suspects. They sent to the Inquisition for professional help in finding the killer, and the Lord Inquisitor sent for Liore Bloodwing. An undertaking of severe moment. Impossible enough to keep him occupied. Vast enough to overshadow the rumors of his instability.
From the scant evidence, he had discerned little. Ritual sacrifice, at the hand of some twisted cult, popped into his head early, but a cabal would not be so careless with the bodies. They prefer to remain incognito until such time as their demented prophecies should call for action, working their evil intent undiscovered for as long as they are able. Nothing connected the victims but their wounds, not race nor even political alignment. Four of the eleven had been discovered in Dalaran, but without any witness statements, there was little to connect even these but speculation.
The method of the murders was a peculiar one. Two blade thrusts, piercing lungs and heart. A single shot to the head, high caliber, exploding the base of the skull. Bite wounds all along the throat, multiple impacts. Almost laughably thorough. Unlikely to be a solitary killer. Two working in tandem, perhaps? Three? The placement of the wounds were perfect and uniform. Killing strokes, the lot of them. The victims had no chance to even draw steel and defend themselves.
No hint towards pattern or motivation. Times of attacks varied maddeningly between deep night and broad daylight. It seemed utterly at random. Lord Inquisitor Haschel hadn't tossed a mystery into his lap. He'd dumped a hell-forsaken mess. It was like trying to find a needle in a needle stack. Last evening he had decided to travel to Silvermoon, to observe-
There was a disruptive knock on his solid door, the distinct clack of dead knuckles rapping out twice. The old door creaked and Liore snapped from his thoughts to glare witheringly at the figure moving into his study, a baleful rebuke boiling up from his throat.
It died on his lips as he beheld Benoite Dawnsong. He tilted his head back to inspect her from behind his tiny glasses. His hand hovered still over the silverite revolver laid on his desk.
She beamed in like a ray of sunlight, placing breakfast on his papers, crushing the picture of Vasiliy Nightguard's mutilated corpse. The black flame occupying his hearth flared in its attempt to outshine her, failing.
“Behold the morning Sun,” she had said distinctly. An imperious blonde brow twitched impassively, as he plucked the glasses from his nose and set them in his vest pocket. He had dressed in a sober black suit, tailored to perfection, a rich white shirt and teal tie completing the classic Lordaeron style. His reply was measured and lyrical, completing the couplet.
“Its beams through all the nations run.”
A timeless piece of poetry. Theocratic, if he placed it properly. Older than the both of them.
Who the hell -was- she, really.
And breakfast. Eggs whipped into a cloudy scramble, and half an artisan loaf toasted, just. Liore eyed the feast. He vowed that his restlessness had robbed him of his appetite, but committed to at least nibbling at the thoughtful meal, so as not to seem quite as churlishly ungrateful as he felt. Pinching one of his silvers, he sawed off a mouse's bite of egg and placed it between pursed lips, chewing silently and thoughtfully.
The second bite was fractionally larger.
The phonograph hissed lightly as the hymnals transitioned to the midnight cello work of Madame De'Vere, austere in cant and mournful in pitch. Liore had swallowed and opened his mouth to comment idly on the music when Dawnsong fluttered over and slashed his wound with salve. Her fingertips were cool to the touch, her salve stinging briefly.
The sincerity of the gesture paused him. Its futility deepened his permanent frown.
As he scrutinized her, her eyes flickered up and away, meeting briefly. What he read in those eyes, as masked in hue as her petite face in emotion, unnerved him further. When she smiled at him, so pleasantly, he caught himself wishing he could return the expression.
She inquired about their day, just as he had brought the tea cup to his lips. The cup hovered there for a moment as he turned his poison apple green stare over her. A centuries-old consciousness regarding her dispassionately through its youthful doll.
“Casework. I intend to thoroughly inspect a body, held for me at the Silvermoon morgue.”
He laid out the case to Benoite Dawnsong in exacting detail, including his ruminations. Unsteady as they were. The breakfast tray disappeared bit by bit, the fine Gilnean tea drying up between words. For the first time in years, Liore Bloodwing kept down a hearty breakfast. He daubed at the corners of his mouth. The ghastly wound on his face had scabbed over, for the moment.
“I am not certain what I am to be looking for,” he admitted, leaning back grandly in his chair and crossing one leg elegantly over the other.
“Choir will attend us. If the arcane is at work, she will sniff it out. Cutter has an eye for small detail, but he is unavailable. The Barrens, I believe, set against the Kor'Kron command.” The Inquisitor swept back his short hair, leaving his palm on the back of his neck. He would have preferred the field himself. Decapitating fools was a far more satisfying vocation than chewing on pens and playing detective.
“I do not believe the City Guard will have shirked in looking over Ser Nightguard, but their report is woefully limited in perspective. Perhaps our expert examination will yield something more substantial.
“You will be coming. An archivist can sometimes open doors a badge cannot. And besides...
He had been glancing idly about his office as he spoke. Now he turned his stare upon Benoite again, an eyebrow lofting with debonair raffishness.
“I'm not leaving you here alone, to rearrange my books and wear out all my records.”
“Behold the morning Sun,” she had said distinctly. An imperious blonde brow twitched impassively, as he plucked the glasses from his nose and set them in his vest pocket. He had dressed in a sober black suit, tailored to perfection, a rich white shirt and teal tie completing the classic Lordaeron style. His reply was measured and lyrical, completing the couplet.
“Its beams through all the nations run.”
A timeless piece of poetry. Theocratic, if he placed it properly. Older than the both of them.
Who the hell -was- she, really.
And breakfast. Eggs whipped into a cloudy scramble, and half an artisan loaf toasted, just. Liore eyed the feast. He vowed that his restlessness had robbed him of his appetite, but committed to at least nibbling at the thoughtful meal, so as not to seem quite as churlishly ungrateful as he felt. Pinching one of his silvers, he sawed off a mouse's bite of egg and placed it between pursed lips, chewing silently and thoughtfully.
The second bite was fractionally larger.
The phonograph hissed lightly as the hymnals transitioned to the midnight cello work of Madame De'Vere, austere in cant and mournful in pitch. Liore had swallowed and opened his mouth to comment idly on the music when Dawnsong fluttered over and slashed his wound with salve. Her fingertips were cool to the touch, her salve stinging briefly.
The sincerity of the gesture paused him. Its futility deepened his permanent frown.
As he scrutinized her, her eyes flickered up and away, meeting briefly. What he read in those eyes, as masked in hue as her petite face in emotion, unnerved him further. When she smiled at him, so pleasantly, he caught himself wishing he could return the expression.
She inquired about their day, just as he had brought the tea cup to his lips. The cup hovered there for a moment as he turned his poison apple green stare over her. A centuries-old consciousness regarding her dispassionately through its youthful doll.
“Casework. I intend to thoroughly inspect a body, held for me at the Silvermoon morgue.”
He laid out the case to Benoite Dawnsong in exacting detail, including his ruminations. Unsteady as they were. The breakfast tray disappeared bit by bit, the fine Gilnean tea drying up between words. For the first time in years, Liore Bloodwing kept down a hearty breakfast. He daubed at the corners of his mouth. The ghastly wound on his face had scabbed over, for the moment.
“I am not certain what I am to be looking for,” he admitted, leaning back grandly in his chair and crossing one leg elegantly over the other.
“Choir will attend us. If the arcane is at work, she will sniff it out. Cutter has an eye for small detail, but he is unavailable. The Barrens, I believe, set against the Kor'Kron command.” The Inquisitor swept back his short hair, leaving his palm on the back of his neck. He would have preferred the field himself. Decapitating fools was a far more satisfying vocation than chewing on pens and playing detective.
“I do not believe the City Guard will have shirked in looking over Ser Nightguard, but their report is woefully limited in perspective. Perhaps our expert examination will yield something more substantial.
“You will be coming. An archivist can sometimes open doors a badge cannot. And besides...
He had been glancing idly about his office as he spoke. Now he turned his stare upon Benoite again, an eyebrow lofting with debonair raffishness.
“I'm not leaving you here alone, to rearrange my books and wear out all my records.”
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Edited by Benoite on 8/12/2014 5:15 PM PDT
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Edited by Benoite on 8/12/2014 5:16 PM PDT
Having been dismissed to attend whatever preparations an Archivist must (something about dinner), the sunlight banished itself from his dark office, leaving Liore to pout and rub at his wound and consider Benoite Dawnsong.
The girl had been professionally reticent as she swept through the photographs and the documentation. But the signs of grief were obvious; a widening of her falsely colored eyes, the fade of her pallor, the smile that was a touch too earnest and the indifference that was a touch too contrived.
Who had she once been, to be so personally shaken by the world's loss of Vasiliy Nightguard.
The incident report had briefly stated he was a nobleman, from a well-off House that resided somewhere in eastern Silvermoon. Worked in the courts, an advisor and advocate for the unprivileged. Decent wages. Sired a son.
How was Ser Nightguard connected to his new aide? Her arrival, this case. The timing seemed too convenient. Something akin to paranoia leaped up and disrobed in the forefront of his unfiltered mind, snatching up those loose threads and running bare-!@# down the street with them.
Stop it.
The Inquisitor devoted his remaining moments of peace to the drudgery and tedium of his station. Scribbling with swooping, ancient script, he detailed his suppositions and intent for the Lord Inquisitor's review, marking the parchment with his crest. A jagged wing, blotched as if drawn in blood, with the stylized L of Lordaeron dominating the center.
He yelled for someone to run his letter back to the office of the Inquisition. But dutiful as he was, his poisonous eyes hadn't drifted too far from the cherry wood chair upon which Benoite Dawnsong had minutes before been so perfectly poised. Her restrained bereavement had struck him somewhere behind the rib cage, the blow pinging harmlessly off something frozen and barbed.
Benoite's ashen smile, mournful in its falsehood, set up shop in his agonized head. Tarry as he might with dress and paperwork, it refused to vacate.
The girl had been professionally reticent as she swept through the photographs and the documentation. But the signs of grief were obvious; a widening of her falsely colored eyes, the fade of her pallor, the smile that was a touch too earnest and the indifference that was a touch too contrived.
Who had she once been, to be so personally shaken by the world's loss of Vasiliy Nightguard.
The incident report had briefly stated he was a nobleman, from a well-off House that resided somewhere in eastern Silvermoon. Worked in the courts, an advisor and advocate for the unprivileged. Decent wages. Sired a son.
How was Ser Nightguard connected to his new aide? Her arrival, this case. The timing seemed too convenient. Something akin to paranoia leaped up and disrobed in the forefront of his unfiltered mind, snatching up those loose threads and running bare-!@# down the street with them.
Stop it.
The Inquisitor devoted his remaining moments of peace to the drudgery and tedium of his station. Scribbling with swooping, ancient script, he detailed his suppositions and intent for the Lord Inquisitor's review, marking the parchment with his crest. A jagged wing, blotched as if drawn in blood, with the stylized L of Lordaeron dominating the center.
He yelled for someone to run his letter back to the office of the Inquisition. But dutiful as he was, his poisonous eyes hadn't drifted too far from the cherry wood chair upon which Benoite Dawnsong had minutes before been so perfectly poised. Her restrained bereavement had struck him somewhere behind the rib cage, the blow pinging harmlessly off something frozen and barbed.
Benoite's ashen smile, mournful in its falsehood, set up shop in his agonized head. Tarry as he might with dress and paperwork, it refused to vacate.
It was completely still outside. Dim sunlight beamed warmly from above to combat the insipid haze that occupied the desolated ruins of Lordaeron. Dewdrops cloaked every leaf, their weight bending branches out of alignment, making it seem as though every bush and tree was sagging from apathy.
The courtyard before the cathedral was much like the building itself; undoubtedly once a clean and tranquil place to spend the day, marked now only by broken cobblestone and overturned carts. A discerning eye could glimpse the hand-crafted sign of a fruit vendor protruding brokenly from a moist heap of rubble, covered now in filth and the rot of age.
Liore emerged from the massive double doors to squint unhappily at the sunlit sky. Rain suited him better. A shared melancholy, the spirit of dreary reflection.
He was flanked by a pair of Guttersnipes, unusually tidy in their appearance. The one they called Big Bucket stood head and shoulders above the Inquisitor, brawn and bulk barely restrained by a grey suit and tweed vest. All shoulders and barrel chest, Buck carried himself as straight-backed as a marine, a tweed beret slanted over a stern brow. He might have been handsome once, in a soldierly way, now lipless with a ruined cheek. Buck gripped the sharp lapel of his suitcoat, standing with powerful ease to Liore's right.
Choir was a small wisp of a girl, hovering at his left. She wore a practical black dress with a black feathered frill about the throat, the sleeves and hem terminating in spider-web lace. The undead girl had been Sin'dorei in her life, and it did not require much imagination to picture her lounging at some highborn soiree, commanding attention and courting immorality. Dead might have humbled her, her straight purple hair lacking style or ornament, her thin lips tilted into a meek smile. Her little feet dangled a few inches above the ground, suspended effortlessly by will.
Either Guttersnipe displayed a brooch near their unbeating hearts, the Bloodwing crest.
Liore himself had shed his jacket and replaced it with an impeccably tailored peacoat, knee-length, with buckles and straps adorning the shoulders and sleeves. The butt of his silverite revolver peeked out from a shoulder rig. A hand rested casually on the silverite hilt of the rapier slung to his belt. Knee length boots, polished of course, and soft black gloves. A loosely tied scarf, deep teal, tucked into his shirt and vest, bore his dead family's seal.
As the trio stepped into the courtyard, a carriage came grinding to a halt, kicking up dust and sending the nearby ravens into the trees, to squawk their indignation. It was Gilnean in make, pulled by a pair of tireless and quite dead stallions. Their skirts and a single flag protruding from the dark-stained carriage furled with the Bloodwing insignia. Even the driver, a headless corpse with a rein in either hand, had been dressed tastefully, the teals and blacks matching its employer.
If Liore had to set foot in that wretched cesspit of edacious revelry and unjustifiable self-indulgence, he would do so making a statement.
I am here. Now get the hell out the way.
The headless driver -hilariously named Headquarters- hopped nimbly from his perch to open the ornate carriage door, sweeping into a bow that revealed an unsightly amount of his gory interior through the gap of his open throat. Choir drifted inside first, the inquisitor settling in after. The interior was all velvet and spacious, gas lamps at each corner for night-time drives through Silverpine.
Liore settled fretfully, setting his elbow on the padded windowpane and pressing his scowling cheek into a fist. Buck effortlessly scaled the well-crafted vehicle to keep HQ company for the ride, though what conversation one can make with a headless man was beyond Liore's finest inquisitorial guess.
The bony steer pawed at the misshapen cobble, snorting notes of ethereal impatience. They awaited Ms Dawnsong.
What was he to do with her.
He had planned some informal, meaningless chatter to occupy the ride. Choir, of course, would not say a thing. Catching his brood, the dead girl smiled encouragingly and turned her gaze politely out the window. She could sense his discomfort. She could taste his surface thoughts, and that of every living being in a mile. He imagined she would find this whole exercise amusing, if not informative.
“I intend to ask her,” he stated as another fruitless minute snuck by. “About her mystical privation. I have never met a Sin'dorei without the scent of magic on them. It is curious. Still.
"I wonder if perhaps it would be imprudent.”
Choir simply stared out the window, her young smile growing with each second.
The courtyard before the cathedral was much like the building itself; undoubtedly once a clean and tranquil place to spend the day, marked now only by broken cobblestone and overturned carts. A discerning eye could glimpse the hand-crafted sign of a fruit vendor protruding brokenly from a moist heap of rubble, covered now in filth and the rot of age.
Liore emerged from the massive double doors to squint unhappily at the sunlit sky. Rain suited him better. A shared melancholy, the spirit of dreary reflection.
He was flanked by a pair of Guttersnipes, unusually tidy in their appearance. The one they called Big Bucket stood head and shoulders above the Inquisitor, brawn and bulk barely restrained by a grey suit and tweed vest. All shoulders and barrel chest, Buck carried himself as straight-backed as a marine, a tweed beret slanted over a stern brow. He might have been handsome once, in a soldierly way, now lipless with a ruined cheek. Buck gripped the sharp lapel of his suitcoat, standing with powerful ease to Liore's right.
Choir was a small wisp of a girl, hovering at his left. She wore a practical black dress with a black feathered frill about the throat, the sleeves and hem terminating in spider-web lace. The undead girl had been Sin'dorei in her life, and it did not require much imagination to picture her lounging at some highborn soiree, commanding attention and courting immorality. Dead might have humbled her, her straight purple hair lacking style or ornament, her thin lips tilted into a meek smile. Her little feet dangled a few inches above the ground, suspended effortlessly by will.
Either Guttersnipe displayed a brooch near their unbeating hearts, the Bloodwing crest.
Liore himself had shed his jacket and replaced it with an impeccably tailored peacoat, knee-length, with buckles and straps adorning the shoulders and sleeves. The butt of his silverite revolver peeked out from a shoulder rig. A hand rested casually on the silverite hilt of the rapier slung to his belt. Knee length boots, polished of course, and soft black gloves. A loosely tied scarf, deep teal, tucked into his shirt and vest, bore his dead family's seal.
As the trio stepped into the courtyard, a carriage came grinding to a halt, kicking up dust and sending the nearby ravens into the trees, to squawk their indignation. It was Gilnean in make, pulled by a pair of tireless and quite dead stallions. Their skirts and a single flag protruding from the dark-stained carriage furled with the Bloodwing insignia. Even the driver, a headless corpse with a rein in either hand, had been dressed tastefully, the teals and blacks matching its employer.
If Liore had to set foot in that wretched cesspit of edacious revelry and unjustifiable self-indulgence, he would do so making a statement.
I am here. Now get the hell out the way.
The headless driver -hilariously named Headquarters- hopped nimbly from his perch to open the ornate carriage door, sweeping into a bow that revealed an unsightly amount of his gory interior through the gap of his open throat. Choir drifted inside first, the inquisitor settling in after. The interior was all velvet and spacious, gas lamps at each corner for night-time drives through Silverpine.
Liore settled fretfully, setting his elbow on the padded windowpane and pressing his scowling cheek into a fist. Buck effortlessly scaled the well-crafted vehicle to keep HQ company for the ride, though what conversation one can make with a headless man was beyond Liore's finest inquisitorial guess.
The bony steer pawed at the misshapen cobble, snorting notes of ethereal impatience. They awaited Ms Dawnsong.
What was he to do with her.
He had planned some informal, meaningless chatter to occupy the ride. Choir, of course, would not say a thing. Catching his brood, the dead girl smiled encouragingly and turned her gaze politely out the window. She could sense his discomfort. She could taste his surface thoughts, and that of every living being in a mile. He imagined she would find this whole exercise amusing, if not informative.
“I intend to ask her,” he stated as another fruitless minute snuck by. “About her mystical privation. I have never met a Sin'dorei without the scent of magic on them. It is curious. Still.
"I wonder if perhaps it would be imprudent.”
Choir simply stared out the window, her young smile growing with each second.
((Excellent, excellent writing. Your wordstuffs are making me most envious. I'm not all caught up but I would be remiss in not exclaiming that this is amazing!!))
((Oh Finn! A thousand thanks. You, of course, have set the bar for storytelling. The rest of us are scrambling to catch up!))
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Edited by Benoite on 8/12/2014 5:17 PM PDT
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Edited by Benoite on 8/12/2014 5:17 PM PDT
Beneath the sun's revealing glare, and bereft the black corners of his dismal abode, the shadows that clung to the Inquisitor lost their grip, clawing at him as they shrunk back into banishment. The weight of memory sagged his powerful shoulders, dark rings appearing beneath his hellish eyes. Dressed as he was in finery, he could never truly hide what he had become. A haunted, majestic geist pulled prematurely from his desecrated coffin. The heart is stilled, but the corpse stumbles on.
Liore was not so tactless, at least, to comment on Benoite Dawnsong's tardiness. It may have been that the spare minutes were put to a deep and miserable introspection, a practice that every hundred years produced a productive insight. It may have been the surreal shift of her skirts as she approached the doorway, the glimpse of her, achingly beautiful, sliding in to his side, robbing him of the breath it would take to chide her.
Ancient and hateful, he could not for the life of him understand why she unnerved him so.
He tapped the window twice with a finely gloved knuckle, and the dark carriage lurched underweigh.
The Lordaeron streets were a ribbon of desolation, draped misshapenly over the dead land, scything through ruin after ruin. The trot of unliving hooves and the rattle of old wood drove away the cults of crows holding council in featureless trees. They spiraled irately overhead, casting slivers of black shadow over the undisturbed debris. The courtyard housing the Orb of Translocation, a device potent enough to snap them across continents fast as lightning, loomed in the distance, some miles out. Benoite would have easily recognized the path she had picked out with her hawkstrider, not too many hours before.
Out of politeness, or out of spite for the invisible hold she unwittingly(?) had over him, the inquisitor said as much. This sparked a conversation regarding the ruins of a sturdy old stone complex, that had once house a guild of poets. Topics of art and culture filled the uncomfortable space between them, ranging from Friden's heavy acoustic performances to Reedwinter's portrayal of personified Light in her early sonnets. Benoite Dawnsong was an exceptionally learned scholar of modern and classic materials. More than once, she had beaten him to a particular reference, naming a name that had slipped from his memory, or drawing comparisons between artists he had known intimately, but had never thought to connect. She was engaging, intelligent, with a practiced politeness.
As the Undercity courtyard replaced the disheveled buildings speeding by the carriage windows, Liore realized how much he had enjoyed this conversation - littered though it was with the highborn, baroque parrot-twittering and the cautious hyperbolic grandness she seemed to reserve for addressing him personally.
She didn't seem to know, just yet, quite how to react to him. He would be the last to blame her. To relax, to trust, is to unpeel your own layers of bull !@#$, of personality, of protectiveness, and pray the other person does the same. Its hard work. It takes time.
He decided, then, as they pulled near the humming Orb of Translocation, that time was the one enemy whose patience he could not exhaust. He decided, then, to trust Benoite Dawnsong freely and without equivocation. There were older, far more abhorrent beings in the world seeking to bring him to ruin. He could do much worse.
At the hands of a wispy Archivist, he mused, watching her like a snake would a blade of grass. What a way to go.
Liore was not so tactless, at least, to comment on Benoite Dawnsong's tardiness. It may have been that the spare minutes were put to a deep and miserable introspection, a practice that every hundred years produced a productive insight. It may have been the surreal shift of her skirts as she approached the doorway, the glimpse of her, achingly beautiful, sliding in to his side, robbing him of the breath it would take to chide her.
Ancient and hateful, he could not for the life of him understand why she unnerved him so.
He tapped the window twice with a finely gloved knuckle, and the dark carriage lurched underweigh.
The Lordaeron streets were a ribbon of desolation, draped misshapenly over the dead land, scything through ruin after ruin. The trot of unliving hooves and the rattle of old wood drove away the cults of crows holding council in featureless trees. They spiraled irately overhead, casting slivers of black shadow over the undisturbed debris. The courtyard housing the Orb of Translocation, a device potent enough to snap them across continents fast as lightning, loomed in the distance, some miles out. Benoite would have easily recognized the path she had picked out with her hawkstrider, not too many hours before.
Out of politeness, or out of spite for the invisible hold she unwittingly(?) had over him, the inquisitor said as much. This sparked a conversation regarding the ruins of a sturdy old stone complex, that had once house a guild of poets. Topics of art and culture filled the uncomfortable space between them, ranging from Friden's heavy acoustic performances to Reedwinter's portrayal of personified Light in her early sonnets. Benoite Dawnsong was an exceptionally learned scholar of modern and classic materials. More than once, she had beaten him to a particular reference, naming a name that had slipped from his memory, or drawing comparisons between artists he had known intimately, but had never thought to connect. She was engaging, intelligent, with a practiced politeness.
As the Undercity courtyard replaced the disheveled buildings speeding by the carriage windows, Liore realized how much he had enjoyed this conversation - littered though it was with the highborn, baroque parrot-twittering and the cautious hyperbolic grandness she seemed to reserve for addressing him personally.
She didn't seem to know, just yet, quite how to react to him. He would be the last to blame her. To relax, to trust, is to unpeel your own layers of bull !@#$, of personality, of protectiveness, and pray the other person does the same. Its hard work. It takes time.
He decided, then, as they pulled near the humming Orb of Translocation, that time was the one enemy whose patience he could not exhaust. He decided, then, to trust Benoite Dawnsong freely and without equivocation. There were older, far more abhorrent beings in the world seeking to bring him to ruin. He could do much worse.
At the hands of a wispy Archivist, he mused, watching her like a snake would a blade of grass. What a way to go.
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