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Post by Admin on Nov 15, 2014 7:20:47 GMT
« Thread started on: Aug 22nd, 2014, 7:56pm » -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Author's Note: As I am only borrowing from conversations and old RP memories, the text herein should be considered a parallel adaptation unless Serenade's creator deems it valid.ACT I: THE GAUNTLET
Sweet ghostly music hung in the still night air like a forgotten ache, slow and sad. It was easy on the ears if not the heart, teasing back to life old memories of love lost in bitter lament. It was an old tune, written in an age long turned to dust and only remembered in the musty tomes of ancient libraries. In its time the nocturne had been known to make kings and queens weep, to leave poets sullen at a loss for words, and to destroy even the strongest of love. Such a dark serenade had been banned in many old kingdoms for its power over the masses, its sheet music burned and their ashes scattered. Not a few times had it been whispered that the composer had woven forbidden arcana into its [stanzas] in order that a great nation might be brought to ruin. Whether these ideas were based in fact or scandalous conjecture might never be known.
As far as Lord Alisair Moroveston was concerned, any and every critic could simply hang.
Sitting as still as a statue and just as picturesque, Lord Alisair let the music wash over him and through him. His eyes were closed as if sleeping, one slender hand draped across his chest while the other lightly clutched an empty goblet in his lap. The last ruby drop of some turbid brew lay at the bottom of the glass, dancing with reflected firelight from the blazing hearth to the man's right. So still was Lord Alisair that one might consider him dead if not for the faint flush to his cheeks. In truth, the head of House Moroveston had been dead some two hundred years earlier for the briefest of moments before finding himself in his current state. Such a transition had rendered him undead, a chiera--what they layman often referred to as a vampire.
The chiera had been the most powerful and predominant of the Lesser Races in ancient times, ruling a dominion that stretched to all but the most remote corners of Enos. With grand authority and near divine power, the Emperor and the Empress held sway over a mighty nation unrivaled and unified for nearly a millennia. Then the War of Children shattered the pristine peace and cast the once-proud chiera into accursed ruin, dividing them into warring factions and forcing them to roam the night. Filled with a ravenous thirst for the blood of the living when not bound to a deep torpor while the sun held sway in the sky, the other Lesser Races rose up in rebellion and decimated the once-proud chiera in a matter of decades. The Empress turned her back on her children and fled to parts unknown, leaving the Emperor to unify the remaining bloodlines. Even with his substantial power and influence, the Emperor had only managed to broker a fragile peace between Houses. Still, fragile peace was far better than bitter conflict, and the chiera submitted to his terms--his Legacy.
Lord Alisair had not been an ache in his father's loins when House Moroveston was forged, but his grandsire spoke of the tales with sad fondness. The Moroveston bloodline, though publicly aligned with the Emperor and the Imperial Courts, followed the old code of the Empress behind closed doors. This minority view held that a respect for the other Races be found that the chiera might one day live in open harmony with them. This did not serve the Legacy at all, for the Emperor was determined to rule from the shadows of all Enosian kingdoms until he could rightly return to true power. To best protect themselves House Moroveston deigned to remain small and unassuming, preferring to exist on the outskirts of chieran society. Though small, House Moroveston could not be considered weak for it selected and trained its childer well and sheltered them in a secluded manor on a fortified peninsula. The Hasdran Peninsula was well-known for its dense, verdant forests almost as much as its sheer cliffs and rocky shoals. Moving any kind of sizable force, preternatural or otherwise, had to come by land; such would have to deal with trees of hard wood, clinging vines, and a large pack of blood-bound wolves. Whether by accident or design, a roving band of Were also patrolled the plains just to the northwest of the sanctum's border as well.
An asset that House Moroveston had worked tirelessly and quickly to secure.
Lord Alisair heard the slow shuffling of feet just before the chamber door was slowly and painstakingly opened. The air in the room changed just enough to bring a new scent to the chiera's nostrils. After a thought, the flush of life suffused Alisair's body and he began to breathe deeply as if truly asleep. A measured heartbeat prickled the chiera's ears for a moment before the footfalls stopped just behind his shoulder.
"Apologies, Master," a cultured voice heavy with the weight of age hushed, "but a guest has arrived just now, and is demanding to speak with the Master."
"Hmm, what?" Lord Alisair twitched as if startled awake, looking around sleepily. "Ah, Cushav, you sneaky rascal. Shame on you for slinking up on an old man like that. Nearly gave me a fright."
The manservant smiled a bit and bobbed his head much like the owl he resembled. Cushav had been quite the dashing rogue in his prime, a wily potter's son in a nearby village with the penchant for being a lightfinger as well. Sadly, all Lord Alisair could recognize of that spry lad was the hawkish nose and the eternal glimmer of mirth in Cushav's eyes. The weight of years had bent the poor soul nearly double with a bad back, and Cushav held his hands folded to keep them from shaking. The tufts of hair he had managed to keep just above his ears, now white as snow, were slicked back over his bald pate like frosty wings. A few drops of Lord Alisair's blood to the man's diet had added almost three decades to his life, but there was only so much that could be done to stave off True Death. Still, Cushav was a dedicated servant and friend, and did not let such a foolish thing as getting old keep him from his duties.
"The Master is kind to humor his man, Cushav," the old man murmured, chuckling himself into a coughing fit. "But Cushav knows his Master's people well enough to know that not even a cat could sneak up on the Master. Nor is Cushav silly enough to think that the Master is in need of either sleep or breath. Shall Cushav refill the Master's drink?"
Before the chiera had a chance to formulate his response, Cushav moved and took the goblet from Alisair's hand. It was not done in the manner of one given to assumption or in an attempt to be eager to please his master: Cushav had simply become very good at anticipating his master's needs and attending to them even before Alisair was aware of them himself. As the manservant bowed his head and returned to a respectful distance to the chiera's side, Lord Moroveston found himself smiling once more. Cushav was as much a friend as servant, though Alisair looked on him much as one would a favored pet than the man that he was. It was the companionship and pride in the man's good training that Alisair was fond of, not necessarily Cushav's service or personality.
Such an odd thing to think of at the moment, Lord Alisair mused. Perhaps the music, then.
"Shall I tell the Master's guest that the Master is indisposed for the moment?" There was almost a teasing lilt to the manservant's voice.
Lord Alisair closed his eyes and opened his senses for a moment. It was nearly dawn, which only piqued the chiera's curiosity. No mortal messengers or delegations ever set foot on Moroveston soil; such matters were attended to in the nearby town of Brenshire in a secure, private residence to promote a sense of neutrality. Only representatives from the other Houses came to call, yet why at such an early hour? Even the most recently-Turned neonate was taught to sense the sun's movement; a visitor at this hour would mean a manner of some urgency. Sighing inwardly, Lord Alisair adjusted his plush house coat a bit to hide his scowl and slowly got to his feet. Cushav offered another bow and backed up a step to maintain the respectful distance.
"Are we expecting anyone?" His tone was calm, but held a hard edge.
"No, Master." The manservant's reply was adamant but deferent. If anyone were to know for certain the comings and goings of House Moroveston, it would have been Cushav. After all these years, the man made it his business to know. "Cushav has never seen this one before, though he bears the mark of House Selimnar upon his lapel. Tall, dark-skinned, but not southern Aisani or Inachian. One of importance, from his trappings, and of the Blood."
A chieran noble from another House, and one that House Moroveston was not aligned with. Lord Alisair's frown could not be hidden now. Cushav tucked his shoulders just a hair tighter about himself as if he was attempting to disappear, but he did not move more than that. A familiar twitch at the corner of the manservant's mouth let Lord Alisair know that the man had something more to say, but it was something that bordered on bitter opinion rather than fact. Again, Cushav knew well his place.
"Is there anything else you wish me aware?' The chiera's voice was calmer than before, almost coaxing. "Speak your mind, boy."
The term of affection that Lord Alisair had for the elderly man did not lighten his mood a hair. Cushav bowed at the waist so that his face could not be seen. Were he a younger man, he would have likely thrown himself on the floor prostrate. "Cushav does not like this one, my Master, not at all. He comes armed into the House and demands of the Master. He does not respect the Master or his House, or the Master's property."
Lord Alisair folded his arms across his chest and scowled, but not at the manservant. Cushav's mention of property was pointed, and had nothing to do with furniture or foundation.
"What did he do to you, boy?" When the manservant did not answer in his customary timely fashion, Lord Alisair let a breath of veskr creep into his voice. "Speak, boy."
The words came from Cushav in a rush, as if his Master's blood magick had lifted a weight from his tongue. "Many, many apologies, Master! Cushav was Commanded to bid the visitor entrance without requiring his name or his business. Cushav tried to request the visitor to disarm, but the visitor Commanded Cushav not to speak another word to him. Cushav was then Commanded to fetch the Master forthwith. It was all Cushav could do to show the Master his due respect. Forgive Cushav, my Master."
Once the words had passed from the manservant's lips, he collapsed to the floor and huddled in a weeping ball, nearly breathless. Normally Lord Alisair would have attended to a member of his House immediately in such a state, even a servant, but a cold rage crystallized in the base of the chiera's skull. In a breath of veskr, Lord Alisair was at the door. In another, he was standing at the top of the dual staircase nearly one hundred feet away. The foyer was empty save for the dark shape of the visitor from House Selimnar.
The foreign chiera was admiring himself in one of the stand mirrors just outside the cloak room, his back turned just-so to be almost blatantly disrespectful. As Cushav had said, the stranger wore a longsword slung low on his hip in the style of Vorvanian duelists of old, a parrying blade peeking around his slender frame. From the pale olive skin, Lord Alisair would have guessed the man Taken from Ibanti or Tomaran stock. Yet the soft curl of his hair and the multicolored ribbon it was bound back with spoke of ties to one of the gypsy bands Lord Alisair had heard tell of. From the pristine longcoat of fine cobalt fabric closed tight to the neck to the polished black boots on his feet, the stranger was a contradiction of breeding, an amalgam.
"Ah, Lord Alisair Moroveston," the chiera drawled, still not turning to greet the master of the house as any proper visitor would. "So good of you to answer my petition for an audience. I very much admire the precise and punctual nature of House Moroveston, and have so looked forward to experiencing her hospitality firsthand."
Lord Alisair frowned for a moment, then adopted a neutral expression. "Welcome to the sanctuary of House Moroveston. I do apologize for the manners of my servants; someone shall be along to take your coat and blade shortly, I assume. Our staff is preparing for daylight. Whom do I have the pleasure of greeting?"
"You receive in your House one Vorigan Selimnar, Adjutant to First Seat Malandre Selimnar and Ambassador to the Imperial Courts of His Majesty the Emperor, may the shadow watch him forever."
"The Fangbreaker," Lord Alisair breathed before he could stop himself. His heart would have sunk into the pit of his stomach were such things still possible. Houses Selimnar and Moroveston had found themselves on opposite sides of the Imperial Courts for many reasons that stretched beyond whom each claimed ultimate fealty to. Where Moroveston attempted to be the velvet glove in chieran disputes, Selimnar was much the zealous iron fist. To call even the lowest member of that House bloodthirsty would to have been an understatement. It was whispered that House Selimnar had a kind of immunity to the Emperor's Legacy, and had taken to strategic and clandestine tactics when dealing with undesired mortal impositions. Bloodbaths, Lord Alisair thought bitterly to himself. Wholesale murder simply because the Empire did not get the answer it desired outright. Filthy.
Vorigan Selimnar was a name well-known even in the most remote pockets of House Moroveston. Called the Fangbreaker for a reason, Vorigan was the veritable boogieman amongst even the most staunch supporters of the Emperor. His viciousness was known far and wide in the Empire, and his zeal for the blood of the Emperor's enemies had earned him a place amongst the Questioners of Night and given him his sobriquet. His penchant for torture was nigh legendary, and that he found himself in the foyer of House Moroveston did not bode well. Alisair had more than heard of Vorigan, had debated and argued across from the man once or twice. Why the Empire had deigned to send this one to Moroveston's door, the master could only imagine. Yet several of the Laws of Night had been violated, and the fact that Vorigan had done them so blatantly worried Alisair all the more.
"Ah, so my reputation precedes me," Selimnar noted brightly, turning to face Alisair directly. The chiera's chestnut gaze bore a crimson corona, a sure sign the visitor had fed recently--yet another fact that sent Alisair's instincts screaming a warning. "I was so very much hoping that you would not have forgotten me since our last encounter over the Roselian Mines. Your impassioned speech against Imperial occupation turned many a head at Court. No easy feat, that."
Lord Alisair leaned against the banister and fell into the statuesque state that only the elder chiera were capable of. As Master of the House, it was his personal duty to attend his guests in a timely and gracious fashion; such a subtle breach in protocol, however warranted by Selimnar's liberties with a servant outside his own House, might have been lost on one such as Vorigan. A flash of amusement touched Lord Alisair's face when his visitor's brash smile fell just a hair. Perhaps not so lost.
"The Ambassador is too kind." Lord Alisair folded his hands carefully at his waist and inclined his head just-so. "Your prowess at Court has left an impression of it's own in the memory of House Moroveston. Selimnar's swift and decisive action against the upstart Insurgents pecking at the heels of the Empire at Meridia are nearly legendary."
Vorigan nodded his acknowledgement, tucking his thumbs behind his swordbelt and planting his feet a little more squarely in the manor's entry hall. "As the hour draws early, I shall not hold the Lord Moroveston longer than is necessary for what I have to say. That you should mention the Insurgency provides the voice of the Empire a polite opening to bring business to bear: there are members of the Insurgency known to be within House Moroveston."
"Is that so?" Only Lord Alisair's arched brow betrayed his rising panic. It was true that House Moroveston supported the Empress, but Lord Alisair had been so very careful to refrain from the more radical practices that the Insurgent's were known for. In point of fact, the Empire was not concerned with separating the more kind-hearted Resistance--of which House Moroveston belonged piecemeal--and the bold, defiant chiera that openly rebelled against the Legacy. The Emperor desired unity under the banner of the Blood, and dissonance was dissonance. "Might I inquire as to what evidence the Imperial Courts have to substantiate this claim, and who might be charged with such a heinous crime against the Empire? Surely, had such claims weight, the ambassador would have come escorted and better armed."
Vorigan smiled that empty smile and gave a shrug that could have meant everything or nothing. "Those that ironclad evidence exist against have been dealt with to the Empire's satisfaction. There are perhaps a few that remain in your walls in need of deeper scrutiny, but it is by the grace of House Selimnar that the Lord Moroveston be allowed to turn them over to be put to the question that the rest of his House be spared."
To the Empire's satisfaction? Lord Alisair blinked inwardly. Sweet shadow, what could the bastard mean by that? And of whom?
Lord Alisair shrugged in a direct imitation of Vorigan's, a gesture that was genuinely lost on the other chiera. "I'm afraid that I am not aware of any particular Insurgent's within the walls of my sanctum, Ambassador. As I said, if you could produce names I could better serve the Empire in its investigations."
"I see." The words were cold venom on Selimnar's lips, but the look on his face made him much the cat that had caught the mouse. Lord Alisair could not help frowning openly this time. Yet in an eyeblink it was gone, and Vorigan was as aloof as he had been a moment ago. "It shall be as you say, then. I shall withdraw for the moment to give you time to make your own inquiries. As for myself, I will be making my reports to the Empire and likely returning after sunset with a proper Proclamation of Accusation as the Laws of Night demand. Until then, may the shadow keep you, Lord Alisair."
The master of the house did not move a muscle until the doors were firmly shut behind Vorigan Selimnar and his footfalls could no longer be heard even to chieran ears. Lord Alisair could feel Cushav's eyes on him and turned to find the old man clutching the library's doorframe so hard his knuckles had turned white. The raw terror etched on the manservant's face belonged on a cowering child that had seen his nightmare made manifest. Unfolding his hands, Lord Alisair held one out carefully and put on a peaceful expression. Cushav nearly fled to his master's side and fell to his knees, clutching the hem of the chiera's house coat. Lord Alisair placed a hand on the old man's pate until Cushav's shoulders stopped shaking from the force of his sobs and the old man could speak.
"Please, M-Master," the manservant wailed when he could draw breath, "forgive your man, Cushav! Forgive an old m-man his w-weakness! I c-could not s-stop him!"
A twinge of confusion pricked Lord Alisair's mind before it resolved into gnawing fear. "Boy, what else haven't you told me?"
Cushav's mouth worked, but nothing came out. Lord Alisair growled inwardly and brought his veskr to bear once more, shattering whatever Commands from Vorigan had turned the manservant's tongue to lead. "The Lady, M-Master. Cushav c-could not s-stop the Fangbreaker, M-Master. Forgive your man, Cushav!"
In the space between thoughts Lord Alisair moved to where he remembered leaving his wife, the Lady Lisewynn, before withdrawing to the library to enjoy a bit of solitude. At this time of day, she would have been readying herself for her morning tea in the solarium; Lisewynn had deigned to remain a thrall much as Cushav had, that she might run her husband's House while he slept, and still retained much of her mortal ritual. Lord Alisair's nerves sang as he came before the shattered door to her dressing room. Even out in the hall, he could smell the sharp tang of blood. The chiera's horror grew as his primal mind came to grips with the knowledge that there was more scent in the air than one body could produce. Steeling himself for what he might find, Lord Alisair stepped through the remnants of the door to the darkened rooms beyond.
Lady Lisewynn's three attendants lay almost neatly arranged on the floor, throats torn out and faces frozen in horror. Their tattered and stained bodices barely hid the distended ruins of their chests, and Lord Alisair did not need to look further to know their hearts were missing. Snarling like a caged animal, the chiera could feel his jaw creaking to accommodate fangs that would make a jungle cat envious, fingers flexing as his nails slid and hardened into razor talons. His deep amber eyes cast this way and that in search for his lover, yet he could not find her in the room. Furniture had been tossed and broken like cheap toys in what he could only have guessed was a struggle. Even thralls were many times stronger than a mortal, had been known to best a chiera from time to time, but Lord Alisair had no illusions that any would have been able to best Vorigan even on his worst day.
"A...li...sair..." a voice hushed weakly from somewhere nearby. "My... love... You came."
Lord Alisair's head snapped upward, and his strength left him in a flood of despair. There in the center of the ceiling, pinned through her chest with a fragment of jagged wood like a macabre butterfly, was the Lady Lisewynn. Save for a few cuts and the monstrosity defaming her gentle bosom, she was as much the woman that had captured his heart so many decades ago. Her flaxen tresses hung like a veil across her face, but he could see a smile peeking weakly at him as she tried to twist to see him better. The chiera's claws slipped home as he reached up to take her hands gently in his. Tears of blood flowed down his cheeks as he tried to return her smile and reassure her silently. Yet he knew in his secret heart that there was little to be done for her: there was only so much damage a thrall could take.
"Of course I came, beloved," he whispered. "Had I but known you were in danger, had you called, I would have been here in an instant."
Lisewynn's tearful smile would have broken his heart had it worked as it once had. "I... cried your name... my love... as loud as I... could. Something... something the... intruder must... have done."
Lord Alisair frowned and opened his senses as wide as they would go. There was the faint prickle of blood magick in the air, but nothing he could put a name to. House Selimnar had ready access to some of the best teachers in all the Empire, so it could have been any number of Masteries. The Emperor loved his hounds well-armed. Whispering empty words of comfort to his ladywife, Lord Alisair gently probed for the source of the blood magick. It was obviously some form of stealth, possibly a Mastery of Quiescence, and that could only take so many forms. Such was usually applied to an object or talisman that a chiera could carry on their person so as not to require their full attention, but what would Vorigan have...?
A glint of metal caught Alisair's attention, and his strength failed him for a second time. Almost hidden by the fragment of wood and the fall of Lady Lisewynn's tattered bodice was a sezkyrn, a chieran hiltless ritual dagger coated with a fine patina of gold. Unlike the fairytales chiera were not allergic to silver, which was the metal of the night and the moon; pure gold, alloy of the sun, was anathema to Droa's chosen. In olden times, sezkyrn were cast in their entirety from the mineral, but were later simply coated that the flecks might break off in combat to corrupt and kill even were the blade pulled free. The fact that Lisewynn was a thrall and not completely chiera both worked in her favor and against her; she would not die as a chiera would from the heliacal poison, but its presence in her body would mean Alisair's blood could not be made to heal her. To make matters worse, the chiera could also feel the pulse of blood magick from the dagger.
Vorigan's blade was feeding on Lisewynn's vitae to power the blood magick keeping the room silent from the rest of the house.
Lord Alisair's voice nearly caught in his throat, but he steeled himself before speaking. "Here, now, beloved... let's get you down from there. It might sting a bit, but soon you'll feel right as rain."
The chiera's skin began to hiss and blister as he wrapped his fingers about the sezkyrn, his other hand coming to rest on the jagged plank keeping his ladylove aloft. Yet the mask he wore was frozen with love and surety, as if he were plucking a splinter from her finger and not preparing to remove a shard of doorframe from her body. Lady Lisewynn, bless the shadow, placed her slender hands on his wrists and offered him the faint glimmer of a smile that had once swept him from his feet. Great tears glistened in her eyes, and Lord Alisair nearly lost his nerve. Yet he would rather she pass on in his embrace than to be left as Vorigan's grim tableau. The sezkyrn sizzled against his grip, nearly writhing like a trapped snake with the power of the blood magick within. Now that he had come into full contact with the blade, he could feel Vorigan's Masteries pulsing in the heart of the weapon. Quiescence was certainly there, but there was something more sinister and elusive burning deep in the core of the magick. Taking a deep breath he did not need, Lord Alisair hauled both the sezkyrn and the plank free of his mate.
There was a palpable pop of power and time seemed to stand still for a breath. Both blade and board were held firm in Lord Alisair's hand, drops of Lisewynn's vitae suspended in the air like rubies spilled from her bodice. Her tears, finally free, mingled with her blood to fall like a gentle rain of sorrow and regret. Lisewynn's body jerked once with the force of Lord Alisair's effort, and breath left her body in a rush that left her looking more surprised than tortured in that fractured instant. As the blood magick snapped free and reality returned to normal, Lisewynn's body bucked a second time from tip to toe. She gasped, and a plaintive whisper prickled Lord Alisair's ears. Before he could full register her final words, his ladylove's body wracked itself one final time before rupturing in a wash of flesh and sinew. Such was the force of the effect that, when Lord Alisair managed to clear his eyes and fully take in what had happen, there was nothing recognizable of Lisewynn.
As the first flicker of sunlight set fire to the horizon beyond the forests of House Moroveston, Lord Alisair's ragged scream of rage and despair shattered the morning silence, sending bird and beast fleeing to their burrows.
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Post by Admin on Nov 15, 2014 7:26:59 GMT
ACT II: BLESSINGS AND SACRIFICES
Lord Alisair Moroveston checked the last buckle on his breastplate before examining himself in the mirror a final time. His ebon curls had been drawn tight over his head and bound by a thong of woven silver cord at the nape of his neck, trailing down his alabaster flesh to rest on his collar. His skin resembled his demeanor, devoid of life to the full and appearing as the very stone to which it was attributed. Dark veins stood out here and there, giving the appearance of cracks as if he were a statue come to life by some manner of fell magick. His polished steel breastplate sat tight across his chest over a swordsman's longcoat of deep crimson, the wolf-and-moon of his House etched just above his still heart. His slender hands felt a touch awkward in the heavy steel gauntlets, though more for his lack of wearing them for so long than their weight or build. After a thought, he nodded in satisfaction as his razor talons slid free of the metal sheaths before retracting. The Aisani longsword at his side might serve him well in the coming hours, but Lord Alisair wanted to be prepared in earnest should more... primitive means of defense be required.
As Lord Alisair's gaze fell across the sharp angles of his matching jambeau with their snarling wolfhead knee guards, he sighed softly at the reflected still form of Cushav just behind his heel. The master knew full well that his servant was in a deep sleep, having fed his lord that Alisair might remain awake to prepare for Selimnar's next move. As the memory of his last moments with Lady Lisewynn rose unbidden to the front of his mind, Lord Alisair sighed again and smashed them back into the darkness of his subconscious. There was little of the chiera's humanity remaining, his heart closed away in a cage of grief and self-preservation. There would be time to mourn his ladylove once Vorigan was dealt with; now he needed to be the master of his House and make ready for the return of House Selimnar. There would be no proper Proclamations of Accusation, no trial. The Empire had found cause to challenge House Moroveston's power and authority, and Vorigan had deigned to toss aside all protocol and provoke Alisair directly. Nodding to his reflection, Lord Alisair turned on his heels and marched from the tousled bedroom. The time for wild, unchecked energy was done and passed.
Now it was time for cold and calculated action.
The chiera moved at a stately pace through the manor despite all that was going on about him. Servants and childer bustled about the halls to prepare themselves as best they could for what was to come. Doors were being barred and windows sealed against more than just sunlight, and the furniture in every room was being moved aside or used as barricades. Lord Alisair nodded absently at the sight of his staff all conducting themselves just as they should, an effective and useful hive of busy bees doing what must be done. More than half the faces he noted that paused in their labor to bow and pay their respects were haggard and drawn, but no sooner had he passed than they were back at their labors. Even the pair of young lads hammering boards into place over the shattered archway where Lisewynn's spirit had passed from this world barely registered in the chiera's consciousness.
A few more turns brought his boots to rest just before the massive door of the grand ballroom. He could hear murmuring just beyond, but no real movement. Gathering his thoughts, Lord Alisair thrust open the carved oak doors and strode into what was temporarily the Moroveston war room. The entire floor had been cleared of furniture and decoration, the high-arched windows closed tight and curtains sealed against even the faintest light. On the cavernous room's perimeter stand lamps burned low, but the dozen armed and armored figures within did not even need that much light for what was to come. Each bowed to the master of the house in turn before returning to their muted conversations, and Lord Alisair paused for a moment on the room's periphery to take in the scene. His chevalier were gathered on the room's far side, heads nearly pressed together in muted discussion while their adjutants waited quietly nearby. Lord Alisair pricked with pride for an instant that the adjutants had arranged themselves rather strategically about the room. All conversation stopped at the sight of Lord Alisair, and all heads inclined respectively in his direction.
"My Lord Moroveston," the largest of the three rumbled, placing fist to chest, "we will avenge the loss of your lady and show House Selimnar what it means to trifle with our power!"
The dark-skinned man to his left sniffed. "Sir Baerlis has been going on and on about bloodshed and violence since the alarm was raised, My Lord Moroveston. One does not simply throw themselves at a desert asp unless they desire its fangs. House Selimnar is not a faction of humans we will be able to smash into submission, but a cadre of killers and serpents. No, it is by guile and cunning that we must win this."
"Sir Kamreon is, of course, entitled to his opinion," Baerlis grumbled. After a thought, he whispered, "However incorrect that opinion."
Sir Kamreon sniffed again and tugged at the forest green doublet over his lean form. His clothes were still cut in the Inachian style of his homeland, though he himself was part Aisani. The Turning had drained a bit of color from his beautiful tan complexion, making it a deeper olive tone like that of a Vorvanian. The verdant cloak draped about his angular form bore a gold-stitched wolf on his left shoulder, Kamreon's only vanity. The rapier and swordbreaker peeking through the gap in his cloak were plain by comparison, could have been from anywhere. The chieran's features were even less remarkable, brown braided hair and emerald eyes the only thing breaking up his everyman appearance. Simple as Sir Kamreon might have been outwardly, Lord Alisair knew it concealed a canny mind that had served House Moroveston well for decades.
Baerlis barked a laugh and clapped the smaller man on the back, drawing an even deeper scowl from Kamreon. Where Kamreon was a wolf, the Asgaari was very much the lion he resembled. Baerlis' fiery mane and beard were braided tight to his broad features and held in place with copper clasps etched with roaring beasts. The shoulders, elbows and knees of his polished steel full plate armor were done in the same motif, as was the hilt of his burnished broadsword. A fur-trimmed leather cloak was flung back over one shoulder to allow his swordarm to rest unhindered on his hip. Eyes of glistening bronze watched Kamreon from over a half-moon grin. The more Kamreon glowered, the more the Asgaari fed off of it until he might have burst with mirth. Unlike most chiera that fell into a darker state, Baerlis had only grown more passionate in his unlife. When the large man saw that his jocundity was not shared with Lord Alisair, he quickly sobered.
"Yes, right," he growled. "To business, then."
Kamreon and Baerlis had known each other in life as well as undeath, soldiers both taken on the field of battle and spared a True Death by Lord Alisair. At the time, it had amused the master of the Moroveston cadre to take blood enemies and bend them to his will, to make them blood brothers and allies despite their upbringing. At first the two were nigh uncontrollable, throwing themselves at their former foe with such ferocity and zeal that Lord Alisair nearly destroyed the pair for their hubris. Yet he weathered their defiance as the mountains did the rains, nurturing their strengths as chiera and breaking them of habits that no longer served them. Hatred smoldered to disdain before being banked to a stoic respect under Lord Alisair's practiced hand. Then, surprising the entire House, a strange fidelity was forged in the fires of competition as each challenged the other with feats in the service of their Lord. The contention existed even still, yet it did not interfere with their duties.
"Do you have anything to add before we begin, Lady Naimya?" Lord Alisair murmured, drawing the attention of his third chevalier.
To say that the woman jumped would be a slight overstatement, but to those who knew the Ibanti woman she might as well have leapt out of her skin. Large violet eyes blinked several times before she focused completely on her liegelord, and a soft rose infused the milk-white skin of her cheeks. Kamreon looked away with a soft sigh, while Baerlis snorted outright at her lack of attention, but Lord Alisair simply waited patiently while Naimya organized her thoughts. The chiera flipped her platinum ringlets over one shoulder and twined her finger in a particularly pronounced curl while absently chewing on the inside of her cheek. Her small, slender frame was wrapped tightly in bleached leather that accented rather than hid full curves. When Naimya realized that she was being scrutinized by both her master and her peers, she propped her small fists on her hips and attempted to look stern. Though perhaps three decades older than the other chevalier, the Ibanti woman had been Taken earlier than most; forever caught between girl and woman, Naimya's attempts to intimidate were more adorable than fearsome. After an eternal moment of frozen seriousness, Naimya folded her arms beneath her breasts and nearly pouted.
"M-my, ah, scouts have found no movement on our grounds, Master," she said in her sweet, silvery voice. "They have been told to continue their, ah, p-patrols until we are decided here."
Lord Alisair nodded. "Very well, then. What news of House Selimnar's forces, if any?"
The chevalier looked amongst themselves for an instant before nodding in unison and backing towards the far wall. The cold marble floor began to warm with a faint amber hue as if the stone were being heated from within. Lord Alisair paused for a moment to consider the pulse of energy at his feet, lost in a thought, before he followed the others. As he moved, the luminescence swirling about his boots warped and twisted into ghostly shapes. Within moments, the radiant fog undulated upward for a moment before snapping earthward once more as if an invisible had settled a gossamer blanket over an eidolic landscape. Other pinpricks of color leapt to life here and there, bleeding out along resolving forms until Lord Alisair could make out trees and hills and buildings, all translucent but as clear as had they been made of wood and stone. Here and there, burning embers of light could be found standing in stark relief against the more subdued hues and silhouettes of the landscape, refusing to find definition. It was to a small cluster of these cinders that Kamreon gestured.
"As it stands, milord, there is but a token force just inside our borders." The Inachian made a tugging gesture, and the shapes fell into chaotic mist once more before settling back into form. Lord Alisair could make out perhaps two dozen humanoid shapes clustered beneath a dense copse of ephemeral trees. "They are careful to remain far enough that we cannot scry them more clearly, which means that they are either practitioners or there are chiera amongst them. They would require study to determine if a hierarchy exists at this point, but this batch is not our concern."
Baerlis grunted and made a sweeping gesture, and the foggy terrain fell apart and resolved to concentrate on a point west of the manor. Three humanoid shapes flowed quickly across the amber veil, and Lord Alisair could make out tattered cloaks and armor on the figures. "These bastards worry me, My Lord Alisair, and I do not say so lightly. Scouts, if I had to guess, and blood dolls. They move with our speed, but look how they carry themselves as though not familiar with their bodies. Not chiera, and certainly not familiars. The Empire blesses House Selminar if there are Blood Dancers out there."
"Blood dolls," Lord Alisair spat, his face twisting up as if he had bitten into something noisome. Blood Dancing was a rare and shunned Mastery, even in the darkest reaches of the Empire. Where thralls could be created through the feeding of chieran blood over the course of a moon, blood dolls were subverted after even the barest touch of a chiera's vitae. Thralls retained their original personality and served their masters out of love and devotion, but a Blood Dancer obliterated the host will and assumed complete control of the aptly-named doll. Such an ability was rightly feared in the Empire for it could even be used against other chiera. How Selimnar had a Blood Dancer in its employ was something to be noted and ferreted out at a later time. Lord Alisair could see what Baerlis had meant by the three being "unfamiliar" with their forms. There was the way the head wobbled a bit, the way the limbs jerked and surged awkwardly as if just on the edge of losing balance before recovering, and a definite lack of overall balance. Blood dolls, indeed, the three were being pulled or dragged by an invisible hand rather than moving of their own accord. As he watched, one stumbled over a ghostly fallen log to tumble in a heap of arms and legs, then lurched to its feet and ran on as if nothing were amiss. Any other creature, even chiera, would have hesitated even briefly to assess themselves before moving on this close to the eve of battle.
"Ah, hmm, yes," Lady Naimya blurted as if just realizing the topic at hand. "Most assuredly, ah, dolls, milord. I'm certain that you've noticed the, uh, strange way they move and how little, yes, little regard they have for their own, ah, preservation. But I, ah, believe--"
Baerlis thumped a fist against his armor with a loud crash, startling the woman. "Get on with it, Naimya! Light take you, we haven't got all morning."
"Eh?" The smaller chevalier jumped a bit and rounded on the bigger man with a childish stamp of her foot. "I was working on it, you great lout!"
"Enough." The single word was barely spoken, but the steel in Lord Alisair's voice sent the two into a deferent bow. "Lady Naimya, please continue."
"Yes, milord. I, ah, I believe that there is only one, yes, one Blood Dancer amongst them. In my, ah, studies of the different Masteries, I was keenly interested in the workings, uh, of this fell form of, ah, puppetry. While it is, ah, incredibly horrid and, yes, potentially dangerous, it does have its, ah, limits--particularly range and, yes, capacity. If there were, um, one Blood Dancer for each doll we see, the Mastery allows for, yes, better control than what we see here."
Kamreon hummed in agreement, knuckling his chin in thought. "I am not familiar with the Mastery myself beyond token discussion, milord, but I would agree with the Lady's logic. Blood Dancers do in seconds to a doll what it takes an elder chiera weeks to accomplish with a thrall, though there are notable differences betwixt the two. We are taught that it is not simply our blood, but our essence, that we pass on to our servants as we bind them. As such, it must be done carefully and over time as to neither damage the servant nor the master. It is not as dangerous as, say, creating a childer, but our antecendents saw fit to craft the rituals thusly. One can only assume the Mastery of creating a blood doll works in much the same way, though on a vastly accelerated scale. If the rumors, legends, and accounts are all true, a blood doll should not be so easy to spot. Scrying would make it even more difficult. Yet here they are, lumbering along as if nothing is amiss and blatantly so. If the Lady Naimya is correct and there is but one Blood Dancer on the field, that would explain the lackadaisical manner in which they are being handled: the Dancer has created more than one doll and lacks the focus to exert any but the basest control. I can only assume they are meant as a distraction, as so few would serve well as fodder."
"Feh, that's an understatement," Baerlis rumbled. "Those Selimnar snobs wouldn't bother with blood dolls as bladecatchers. That's what humans are for, by their ken."
Lord Alisair made a sweeping and curious gesture, and the ethereal map dispersed and flickered before cohering to show the whole of the estate once more. Here and there a blush of color would wink into view on the periphery before dying away once more. So, they're scouting our scry, finding our blind spots. Lord Alisair noted grimly. More and more tricks you show, Vorigan, and yet for all your talent and might you refuse to come for me yourself. It was a bitter, tumultuous thought, that; rage, confusion, indignation, and so much more burned in his dark heart and had no outlet. House Moroveston could burn so long as Vorigan Selimnar lay broken and lifeless before moonrise.
Kamreon pursed his lips for a breath before shaking his head and focusing his attention on the ghostly visage. "Our greatest strength may also be our greatest weakness if things cannot be dealt with on the field. Though the high cliffs protect our southern border and the Blood will not easily consider an assault by sea, the sanctum has a great deal of large windows near the servant's quarters. These will not be easily sealed and could provide quick entrance for a force intent on striking our heart swiftly. Sir Baerlis has offered a few of his best men to reinforce the footman I had stationed there."
"Very good." Lord Alisair's eyes went distant as his mind wandered the halls of his House. "I need not remind you that special attention will need to be paid to our catacombs, as many of our fledglings will not be able to resist the sun's berceuse; should Selimnar push for a daylight skirmish, they will be helpless in their beds. Any servant that is willing should be outfitted as effectively as can be managed, and those that should ask may be embraced as thralls. A single day will not give them great advantage in the coming melee, but any advantage should be taken at this point. The rest of our footman should be arrayed on the grounds to repel any mortal agents Selimnar could bring to bear. I would pay dearly to know how much of the Empire's strength lay outside our borders, poised to descend on us like the feral jackals they have shown themselves to be, but we will defend our home to the best of our ability."
"If the alarm is raised," Baerlis noted, "all non-combatants will withdraw to the catacombs where they will be sealed and as safe as we can manage. Victory means survival, while defeat... Well, I can't imagine what House Selimnar will do to our supporters should we fail, so let's not weigh that as an option. A few of our best will hold that last line, as well as keep our fledglings in check should this siege drag out too long. Water and supplies have already been moved for the living, and measures have been taken for our kindred. The rest of our forces will be divided efficiently between the grounds without and the most defensible rooms within the manor. Positions have been assigned independently rather than as a collective to prevent any captured persons from being Commanded to disclose the whereabouts of their fellows. At present, our primary focus has been fortifying the manor to make it as difficult as possibly to gain entry without detection. Rooms that are either unnecessary or too difficult to adequately defend against a larger force have been shut up and abandoned after being stripped of any items that could be readily used against us. The war room, the Master's library and bed chambers, and a few other central areas are being outfitted for siege as best as can, as they will be the most defensible should we be forced to abandon the rest of the manor."
There was a heavy pause from Baerlis at that moment, and Kamreon gave the larger man a slight nod before the Asgaari took a deep breath. "With the Master's permission, I would like to take down the solarium. While it is not directly attached to the manor, it's height and position would give our enemy ready access to our upper floors, as well as makeshift weaponry or bulwarks should they have the inclination and opportunity to make use of it. I do not make this suggestion idyll, milord, yet--"
"See it done." Lord Alisair replied flatly. "I would rather it be taken down by a Moroveston than profaned by a Selimnar. Lady Naimya, have you attempted contact with the Were yet?"
"Hmm, what? Apologies, sire, but did you say...? Ah, but yes, of course you did. How silly of me. Many apologies, many." The small woman sucked on her lower lip, her fingers dancing before her bosom as if she were calculating. "I took the, ah, liberty of reaching out to the Jagged Pines, hmm, when I heard about the, yes, attack on Lady Lisewynn. The Alpha, Candar Blackhowl, has informed me that, ah, he and is Pack will not, no, not intervene directly to protect the manor, but will provide skirmishers outside the, yes, gate to protect the wild places. He also wished to add that, eh, the Jagged Pine will not, no, take the field until House Selimnar sheds blood."
Lord Alisair's glare made even Lord Baerlis take a half-step back as the master's lip curled in a sneer that showed a hint of fang. "That arrogant bastard saunters into my House, takes liberties with my servant, slaughters my ladywife and wards, and somehow that mangy son of a bitch can sit on his arse out in his pretty little thicket and suggest that blood hasn't been spilled?!"
The entire room was stone still for many breaths as Lord Alisair fought to regain his composure. His voice must have carried further than he had intended, because a liveried servant cracked the chamber door just enough to peek in, turn pale, and withdraw. All eyes were on the master of the house, and it took the elder chiera many moments for him to discern why even his chevalier looked drawn and ill. Sighing inwardly, Lord Alisair closed his eye and focused on regaining his calm. Within seconds the pain in his jaw and hands subsided as his canines and claws slid home. He could feel the crimson light fade from the depths of his eyes, and his dark heart reclaim the blood he had suffused his body with. The touch his mind and vitae had on every chiera within his House slowly faded, and he could sense a collective sigh ripple throughout the manor. Without realizing it, he had almost bestowed the Master's Mercy upon his childer--all of them. He offered each of his chevalier what he hoped would be an apologetic smile as he folded his hands at his waist and thanked the Night that he had not lost a hair's more control of himself.
In the early days of the Empire's fall, while the Emperor raged in indignation and the Empress lamented in earnest at their new-found Curse, chaos reigned throughout the Houses as the chiera as a whole came to grips with their new lot amongst the Lesser Races. The sun flensed pale flesh to the bone in moments with white-hot talons even while pressing all but the heartiest elder into the depths of torpor until night fell again. The gold in their coffers poisoned their skin and turned their blood to ash. Rain and river both drain their strength. The touch of flame could no longer be shrugged off, or even healed. Animals sought them out in their places of refuge and alerted the other Races to their presence. Everything the Blood had come to depend upon had turned against them as the Curse took full hold upon all chiera across Enos. The suffering of their entire race was both seen and shared through a mystical bond that gripped each and every one of them, from the Emperor and Empress themselves to the newly-Turned fledgling. In these tumultuous times elder chiera discovered that this bond had given them tighter control over their bloodlines through some manner of spiritual empathy that even in modern times could not be quantified. Through this link, master could strengthen or weaken childer with but a thought. It was also learned that this link could be severed and the childer released into the waiting arms of True Death. In the early days of the Curse, such was done as a kindness to the young and weak that their suffering not be lasting as each master felt what childer experienced. When the worst of the Curse abated and the remnants of the Empire learned how to circumvent or make use of certain afflictions, the Master's Mercy became a bitter joke.
"The Were are brutish by and large as you say, Master," Kamreon offered, placing his hand lightly over his heart, "but this Blackhowl fellow is new to his position and shrewd. If I may offer something to his defense, sire, the agreement between House and Cairn is barely three generations old. Centuries of tradition cannot be washed away in so short a time, and the Were place a great deal of import on strength as much as law. The Accord does state, sire, that the Were are not permitted upon our grounds without permission, nor are they allowed to interfere with our internal affairs. The idea was that they were to keep to their business without interference and we to ours, milord."
"I know full well why the Accord was worded as it has been, Lord Kamreon." No emotion touched Lord Alisair's voice, thank the Night, but the chevalier flinched nonetheless. It was not a good sign, and he knew it. He knew his lieutenants were fiercely loyal, blood bond or no, yet he valued them as family and it rankled him to see them fear his wrath. A breath of kindness entered his voice, the same tone he had used to calm Cushav. "Please come to the point."
"Forgive me, sire, you're quite right. There's much to be done and no time for prattle. As we are each keeping to our own, Lord Candar may see Vorigan's affront on our House to be an internal matter. A domestic squabble, as it were. Once Selimnar's forces engage us as a whole, it will represent a potential shift in power in this region. Whether Selimnar intends to purge us and withdraw or no, the Were will likely assume a new chieran force attempting to claim territory that is already spoken for. And as I very much doubt the Fangbreaker was polite enough to ask permission to cross Jagged Pines territory with his forces, the Were are sure to take insult to that as well. This new Alpha may be a bit uncouth, sire, but I have faith that we will not defend our sanctum alone."
Lord Alisair nodded. "Very well, then. As it seems my chevalier have our sanctum well in hand, I will leave you to attend to a final matter. Lords Kamreon and Baerlis will continue to fortify the manor and prepare to receive our guests. Lady Naimya, walk with me."
There was a strange look that passed between the two men before putting their heads together once more over the ethereal map, while Naimya seemed almost pleased with herself. Naimya's adjutant, a pretty Ibanti woman whose unusual name Lord Alisair always managed to butcher and never remember, made to follow but changed her mind at the rather pointed look from the master. The pale chevalier chirped a laugh, then fell into step with him as he withdrew from the war room, murmuring to herself as she always had done.
Lady Naimya was one of the few that had not transitioned completely from mortal to chiera, lost something along the way. Or gained it, as Lord Alisair was prone to believe. Thankfully she had not developed the madness associated with such a traumatic Turning and was spared; as a revenant, a chiera lost to all but the basest of impulses, her fate would have been unthinkable. She had not been Lord Alisair's first childer, yet he had not Taken many before her. In truth, he had regarded her as a mistake at first. The small waif girl had been nothing more than a feeding at first, a way to heal and replenish himself after a scuffle with a rival. Yet as she lay dying beneath him, struggling for breath despite her wounds and covered in mud and worse, his humanity had returned and he took pity on her. Lord Alisair remembered the choked pleas for mercy and her eggshell skull between his powerful hands as he braced himself to end her life. It was something swimming deep in those violet eyes that made him change his mind, something that prickled at a memory of his own mortal life long lost that brought his fangs to her neck once more. It was a night Lord Alisair would never be able to shake, for in her final moments of life before the chiera Turned her, Naimya's last breath came out in a simple hush of two words.
Thank you...
"Master?" Lady Naimya's touch on his arm brought him back to himself. Her eyes were large with concern as she studied his expression. "Shall I, ah, open it for you, Master? I don't, no, mind. You must, yes, have so much on your mind, Master, so please allow, ah, me to look after your, yes, House for you while you prepare."
The two chiera were standing before an ancient tapestry hung on the wall just below the main stair, a magnificent piece depicting the Emperor and Empress at the height of their rule on a background of deep shadow. The Emperor was wreathed in fur and finery, one hand on the pommel of some archaic sword and the other on the shoulder of his mate. The Empress was dressed plainly, hands folded demurely in her lap, but the set of her frame made her look far more regal than any physical trappings could achieve. The Dark Father stared boldly into the distance as if ever vigilant for those that would defy his will, while the Crimson Mother stared from the painting with gentle eyes that brought strange comfort to Lord Alisair. It was one of the House's few surviving relics from before the War of Children, when all other races on Enos bent knee to the chiera and there was peace throughout the known world. It was a stolen peace, a cheated one, but in those times the chiera were clothed in proud ignorance. The tapestry served to remind Lord Alisair and the rest of the Moroveston line that the chiera were a proud nation and yet could fall from grace without warning. It was a lesson in humility, and that lesson lay as much in the fiber of that tapestry as in the truth of history. Unconsciously, Lord Alisair reached up to lightly caress the thick, carefully-woven threads with the fingertips of one hand. Though the artisan was long turned to dust and scattered with their memory, the work was so painstakingly done that it was still in good repair despite being faded with age. Lord Alisair let his hand drop as he stepped back, gesturing to Lady Naimya.
The younger chiera nodded once as she ran her thumb across her lower lip in thought. A dull crimson light blossomed in the darkness of her pupils, lavender orbs catching fire as a flicker of her true nature crept to the fore. Like a child nursing a wound Lady Naimya popped her thumb into her mouth, full pale lips twitching briefly before she withdrew the digit once more with a sigh. The coppery tang of blood wafted to Lord Alisair's nostrils even before the first drop of vitae slid down her ashen flesh to pool just beneath a nail. She took a deep breath that she had not needed in decades, lifting her hand tentatively to paint a grim circle in the blackness of the tapestry with her bleeding thumb. A reverent, almost haunting, voice drifted from Lady Naimya's lips as her power floated in the air.
"Hail unto Thee, Droa, Mother of Darkness and Shadow. Freely Thou gaveth us life and breath, and freely we returneth it unto Thee with honor and love. In blood were we baptized and through blood are we given strength. Accept this unworthy gift and bathe us in Your dark mercy." Pausing only briefly, Lady Naimya placed a drop of her blood on the brow of the Emperor, then pressed her thumb to the lips of the Empress. "Hail unto thee, Dark Father and King of Night, patron of mine people. Thy strength be shown in mine arm, thy cunning in mine eyes. Hail unto thee, Crimson Mother and Umbral Queen, matron of mine people. Thy wisdom be shown in my deed, thy fealty in my devotion. May the ancient traditions guide our House, show us the way."
A sigh of power rippled outward from beneath Lady Naimya's hand as she spoke the last word. The tapestry undulated once as if touched by a breeze before falling still once more, and there was a hollow thunk from deep within the bowels of the manor. Lord Alisair's preternatural senses could feel stone moving against stone beneath his boots, the prickle of blood magick slithering along his stone-like skin. Lady Naimya chirped a laugh as the floor beneath her feet melted earthward gently to form three recessed and shallow stairs, childish wonder writ large on her face. Lord Alisair's attention was more focused on the tapestry itself, for the darkness flanking the Emperor and Empress seemed to bleed through the fabric and down the wall to touch the lowest stair. Within moments it was complete and the blood magick dissipated. With a nod from the elder chiera, Lady Naimya flattened her hand against the tapestry and pushed. With a soft click the tapestry swung aside and revealed a dimly lit staircase leading to the manor's basement. Smiling brightly, she turned to him and offered a slight curtsy.
"Did I do, ah, good, Master?"
Lord Alisair nodded with a soft chuckle as he moved past the chevalier and began the decent. "You did at that, though I can't much recall requiring such intonations. Very well-spoken, my child."
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Post by Jashin on Dec 26, 2014 21:17:21 GMT
ACT III: A GUARDED HEART With the secret door sealed behind them, the stillness of the earth surrounded the two chiera completely. The sounds and energy of the manor above were simply gone as if wiped away by the perfect blend of blood magick and clever construction. In the earliest days of the Moroveston haven there had been no manor above, only the catacombs carved deep into the peninsula's hardened bedrock. This place had been little more than a waystation or safehouse, a place where a member of the House or privileged traveling chiera might seek refuge from the brutal rays of the sun. When the Empire fell it had been expanded to include quarters for servants and thralls, a small fortress beneath the earth and away from civilization. The ravages of time had collapsed some of the furthest tunnels, but the heart of the haven was as strong as mountain stone thanks to the cleverness of chieran craftsman of old. The central chambers had been crafted with the bones of the earth held together by blood mortar, a substance as simple as its name suggested. Yet whatever lingering power Droa had given Her children through the stolen Blood of Belzha remained even after it was given or spilled for a brief period. Chieran stonemasons had realized this and devised an alchemic paste that could literally fuse stone and make it harden much like chieran flesh. There had been some other curious side effects, but the method was proven too useful to ignore.
Lord Alisair paused halfway down the stairway and turned to Lady Naimya, placing a steadying hand against the wall. Many a chiera had been unnerved by the pulsing that could be felt within the stones of the passage, but Lord Alisair drew comfort from the strange sensation. To him, it was as if the manor were a living thing that sheltered and protected his House, as if the blood of the Moroveston flowed through the earth itself and gave it strength. A foolish sentiment, he thought wryly, but there it is.
"Ah, Master?" The chevalier put a finger unconsciously to her lips, eyes both focused on him and at something that wasn't there. "Was there, yes, something I can, ah, help you with?"
The master's lips twitched upward a fraction. "I need you, Naimya. Perhaps more desperately than you can know. I need your body and your dedication in this dark time."
"Master?" A soft flush rose in the chevalier's cheeks, and she chewed absently on a nail. "There are none, no, more dedicated to you than, yes, I am. I would, ah, give you anything you would ask of, yes, me. You have but to, eh, ask it and it will be done. But is this, what, the most appropriate time for, ah, such things?"
"Oh, my sweet and innocent child," he laughed, a throaty and honest laugh that carried down the corridor and heated Lady Naimya's cheeks that much more. "I never expected any other answer from you, and I am grateful for your loyalty. I could think of no one better to safeguard our future should things turn dire. Would that there was a more appropriate time to discuss such matters, but you know how competitive the boys get. I would rather have them fighting over who slaughters the most invaders than focusing on rankled pride when things turn bloody. That, and your expertise at hand-to-hand would be more useful down in the catacombs than either with their blades. Can I count on you to keep our young childer safe from harm if all else fails?"
"Ch-childer, Master? Ah, yes, but of course. Forgive me, Master." Her blush touched the top of her bodice now. "You should know that I would, yes, be more than happy to serve where the Master demands."
Turning to descend once more, Lord Alisair could almost hear Lady Naimya nearly collapse with relief. Curious, that. "There is one more reason I asked you down here, child. It is not only our bloodline that you must tend to, but our heritage as well."
Lord Alisair ignored her piping confusion and moved deeper into the stairwell. His mind told him that it was only a few paces from the doorway to the catacomb floor, but the descent seemed to take a mind-numbing span of time. A simple archway marked the entry chamber, a plain room not much wider in any direction than his outstretched arms and lit with a pair of oil lamps. The wolf-and-moon of House Moroveston was lovingly carved on the floor by primitive hands, encircled by an ancient and faded script worn down by centuries of wear. While the bulk of the catacombs were reserved for times of emergency such as this, a few of the elders chose to reside belowground for personal comfort or out of sheer habit. The manor had been constructed initially for Moroveston thralls and their families, yet as the House grew more and more chiera moved to be closer to those they cared for. Or loved, Lord Alisair thought bitterly. My poor Lisewynn...
Another short hallway bridged the entry chamber and the antechamber, a slightly larger circular space that was as simply adorned as the previous room. Here, however, two armed chiera offered the master and chevalier a formal bow from shallow alcoves where they were standing sentry. Lord Alisair paused long enough to answer a few brief questions and calm their ruffled nerves before moving on. Tension was high even here, but he felt a prickle of pride in how well even the younger chiera were handling themselves. He was stopped twice more by armsman offering murmured support or humbly asking after the situation before the two elders reached the largest chamber and their goal. The massive wrought iron door was guarded by two heavily-armed elders on each side, breastplates and halberds glinting menacingly in the flickering torchlight. Unlike the rest of the chiera gathered in the catacombs, these four were focused completely on their duty. There was no chatter, no distraction amongst them. Only focus, like trained hounds committed to the hunt. Deadly focus.
"Master Alisair," one echoed from within his full helm, eyes hidden in the shadows. "What news, milord?"
"Sir Angelo." Lord Alisair nodded in greeting before drawing a heavy key from beneath his breastplate. "All is quiet, for the moment. Nothing more than scouts at our borders. We will be ready for them."
The other man grunted something that might have been agreement or acknowledgement before going stone still once more. It was just as well; the time for talk was drawing to a close and there was much to be done yet. Lord Alisair took a moment to regard the ancient door, yet another relic of the fallen Empire. Half again taller than he and nearly as wide, it was a work of art as much as it was a bulwark against intrusion. The architrave in which it was set had been circumscribed with convoluted arcane runes whose meaning slipped through the elder chiera's understanding like sand between the fingers of his mind. The door itself had been passionately carved into a frieze depicting the Empire in its glory, shrouded figures moving about sprawling, monolithic bastions guarded by stalwart figures in armor not seen by mortal eyes in nearly one hundred generations. Lord Alisair would sometimes come to this chamber simply to study the door, and there were times he could almost hear whispers and murmurs of those long-forgotten days, as if he were a shadow child in that ancient Empire standing amidst those goings-on. Even now, the flicker of the torches would catch the embellishments just-so and make the carved figures move in a panoply of nostalgia. Sighing inwardly, Lord Alisair broke from his self-imposed trance and slid the heavy key in his hand home in a cleverly-concealed recess. With a precise turn of his wrist, the door parted a hair's breadth with a soft snick of metal sliding against metal. He offered Lady Naimya a faint and wistful smile before pushing the door open just far enough to slip inside.
The faint smell of damp earth came to his senses first, even as the thin shaft of torchlight melted the deep gloam of the room. The master's keen eyes shifted to that preternatural blood sight that all chiera were gifted with, further dissolving the darkness within. When compared to the rest of the compound the massive vault might have been considered crude, with it's rough-hewn angles and unpolished surfaces. It conjured to mind what one might expect had some antediluvian force rent a pocket in the heart of the world. The hollow's periphery was a bit smoother than either floor or ceiling, a chiseled band dividing concave canopy from recessed floor. Every visible surface glistened with a dank patina, set alight by the fires just outside and suffusing the entire chamber with a malevolent glow. Now and again there was the gentle dripping of water, but it did little to break the near oppressive silence. Lady Naimya paused in the doorway, her shadow thrown long and cutting a swathe of gloom in what little light was offered. Lord Alisair did not venture much further into the chamber. There was some primal and palpable weight in this place, an unspoken sacredness that warned him against either sound or unnecessary intrusion. Unlike the door, he had visited here only once when his sire began to groom him to assume his place as Master of the House. "Our Empire lives in this place, Alisair," his sire had whispered almost reverently. "It exists in this place far more than it ever could in land or title, pomp or power. When you are lord of our House, you may yet understand what I mean in this. This is our seat, Alisair, our core. Our shelter and our duty. This, you should always remember."
Lady Naimya gasped behind him, and he turned to see the younger chiera put her hand across her mouth in awe. "A Heartstone! Blessed Night, it cannot be, no, can it?"
"Aye, it is." Lord Alisair nodded slowly and turned. At the far end of the chamber, barely visible to even chieran eyes, was a block of black stone that looked to have been sunk into the chamber floor almost as an afterthought. It was barely the height of a man and a pace thick, with chiseled edges and corners. Unlike the rest of the chamber, the Heartstone had been polished to a mirror glow. Though they could not be seen from the doorway, Lord Alisair knew that the ancient stone rested on a bed of gnarled roots that had been purposefully allowed to grow through the thick stone walls of the chamber to pool beneath the aged slab. The Heartstone was the oldest relic in Moroveston possession from nearly the dawn of the Empire, and the most precious object the House could be said to own. Lord Alisair gathered up his courage and approached the block, a sense of foreboding washing over him in palpable motes. He could feel something awaken within the Heartstone, and it was keenly aware of him. He could feel it gaze into his very soul without eyes, judging him without thought or focus. It was such a disorienting sensation that the elder chiera stumbled more than once. Then, in an eyeblink, it was gone as if it had never been so quickly that Lord Alisair fell to his knees with a clatter of mail. He lifted a hand to prevent Lady Naimya from rushing to his aid, for her reaction would have doubtless been infinitely more severe.
"This..." Lord Alisair sighed and stretched a hand towards the Heartstone, fingers hovering a breath over its glistening surface. "This is why I asked you down here, my child. Though it shames me to admit my need for personal vengeance, I must face Vorigan Selimnar on the field of war. Yet this place must also be protected. I cannot foresee the Fangbreaker breaching our defenses this deeply, nor do I doubt the prowess of the Moroveston guard. However, I will not risk our adversary seizing our Heartstone and thus must entrust it to your care. Of all my childer, I have the utmost faith that you would keep it safe."
He could hear Lady Naimya shift from one foot to the other nervously. "An honor, ah, Master. But... may I ask what it is, yes, that I will be, ah, protecting? I have, no, only heard stories--eh, whispers--of what a Heartstone, yes, is."
"In the days of the true Empire, when each and every chiera was pureblood and our influence stretched near the whole of Enos, great citadels were built from which we ruled over the Lesser Races." Lord Alisair slowly rose to his feet, not turning and head still bowed in thought. "These massive structures were built from dveskryn--midnight stone--rock that had not once seen the light of day, even in the earliest days of creation. Pulling such stone from the earth took generations of mining and countless lives, so much so that it was said that the screams of those sacrificed could be heard from the stonecutter's yard as they chiseled away. As you can imagine, such a stone was closely tied to the magicks of Droa and imbued our citadels with powerful protection."
Closing his eyes, Lord Alisair brushed the surface of the Heartstone with featherlight fingertips. Although his mind knew that the stone was nigh bone-dry there was the sensation of slickness beneath his touch, as if the stone was wet with something thick and distinct. As if in response to his subconscious thought a gentle energy rippled through the block, a pulse. No matter what logic or reason screamed at him, Lord Alisair knew that the Heartstone was somehow alive.
"When the Curse befell the chiera and the Empire began to crumble, we were not the only things to suffer from Meiliki's Gaze. The sun's vengeful power wrought havoc upon our bastions, robbing the dveskryn of their power and sanctity until they were little more than mausoleums of obsidian and granite. Every House in the Empire scrambled to preserve whatever dveskryn they could under the cover of night that some manner of our ancestral power might be preserved for the day we could once again return to our place in the open. As our people were scattered and mercilessly hunted, more and more dveskryn were lost to the light of the unholy sun until only a few remained. Those that did were dubbed 'Heartstones,' because the Master of the House would offer their essence in powerful thaumaturgical rites preserving its power. With each passing generation the descendants of our House would offer up the same to honor the tradition. I, myself, did the same when I prepared to take up the mantle of Master of House Moroveston. I had assumed that it was lip service, ritual. Only after I became Master did I understand how very wrong I was."
"Master?" Lady Naimya sounded almost fearful.
The elder chiera waved dismissively, chuckling. "Oh, I don't mean anything sinister by it, my child. But, like the mortar that holds our fair manor together, the essence of House Moroveston has been absorbed into the Heartstone. Its power passes through the blood mortar and gives arcane strength to our preternatural defenses, such as the scry in the war room. The roots upon which it rests are those of the most ancient trees on the manor grounds, trees that are woven together much like a redwood or some species of banyan to form a network that reaches to the periphery of our domain. In this way, our power can trickle outward along such conduits that our influence may extend the breadth of our territory. Yet this power is not without its risk, which is where your protection will play its part. That which can absorb can also exude if proper force is applied, and this is true of our Heartstone. If Selimnar were to seize it, I have little doubt that their thaumaturges would spirit it to their stronghold to glean whatever secrets they might from it. Worse, in doing so they would undoubtedly plumb the limits of our bloodline, learning the strengths and weaknesses of our most sacred Masteries. I can think of a litany of things a skilled blood mage might do with a plentiful supply of Moroveston source blood, none I wish to come to pass."
"Sweet shadows," she breathed. "I begin to, yes, understand why you would wish this place so, ah, fortified. I will honor your request, Master, and gladly. I would desire, hmm, more to be at your side on, ah, the field of battle should House Selminar, yes, breach our borders. Yet I understand that, no, my duty to our House is paramount, hmm, to personal feelings. Leave our legacy in, yes, my capable hands."
A disquieting thrum rippled the air about the two chiera briefly, making both turn to the doorway in unison. The air had taken on a malevolent quality just long enough to make each uneasy, a primal sense of dread that was there and gone so quickly it might not have been at all. Yet both knew the sensation for what it was: an intruder, or intruders, had set foot upon the grounds of House Moroveston and set off the arcane alarms. Lord Alisair sighed heavily without breath and made his way from the Heartstone's chamber. Lady Naimya followed him far enough to seal the door and receive the key from him, then turned her attention to the guardsmen. He was well-pleased in how quickly his chevalier took to her assignment, though the elder had little initial reservation. Lord Alisair lingered in the shadows of the anteroom long enough to make sure the others would follow her, however. By the set of a guardsman's shoulder he was a bit put off by Lady Naimya's peculiar method of speech, but the others were nodding and accepting her commands without hesitation. She was always an odd one, my little sparrow, he thought wryly. So long as they do as they are told, the lot can think on her as they like.
The ascent seemed to take less time than the trip into the catacombs, but that was always the way in this place. A hand on the hilt of his longsword, Lord Alisair make a curt gesture at the top of the staircase. With a hush of power the wall before him opened inward and his senses were at once flooded with all manner of smells and sounds. The manor was awash with anxious energy, servants and soldiers alike milling about and shouting at one another over the din of their comrades. Most would stop just long enough to dip their heads in acknowledgement before moving on, while he might not have existed to others for all the attention they paid him. Growling softly to no one in particular, Lord Alisair turned and carefully pulled down the tapestry to tuck it beneath one arm. Fear and indignation were the strongest scents in the air, matching the tension quite keenly. It stirred something dark within him, a lust for blood that came so easily to his kind. It was not the desire to feed, no. The malevolent desire that burned in the base of his skull was simply the desire to rend flesh and destroy lives. The predator was wakening within him and it was well he had mastered such an urge ages ago. The loss of his Lady Lisewynn still roiled in the fore of his thoughts, and he had remained poised on the verge of murderous rage for almost too long. Vorigan Selimnar needed to pay for his crimes against House Moroveston, but the bastard would surely pay for his transgression against Lord Alisair himself.
"Form up, you lazy dogs!" Lord Baerlis' booming voice cut through the seething thoughts like sunlight through shadow, and Lord Alisair's head snapped into the direction of the main stair. The large chevalier stood as a stone amidst the stream of bodies pressing past, massive fists on his hips and stone gaze sweeping the bedlam before him. "Front rank, take up defensive positions! Second rank, stand ready but do not engage until I give the command! The rest of you sorry bastards, clear the area! By the Empress, we'll show that Selimnar scum what it means to hurt. For House Moroveston and the Lady Lisewynn!"
Lord Alisair threaded his way through the press of bodies making their way to wherever they were assigned to go. Several servants had taken up position near the catacomb door, organizing the flow of liveried forms making their way from the path of combat to the safety of below. The elder chiera watched the last servant disappear into the darkness and the door seal behind them. The thin seam of the threshold melted away, leaving an unblemished wall behind. Nodding to himself, Lord Alisair mounted the stairs to stand just behind Lord Baerlis. The large chiera nodded to his master without turning, barking orders and insults as necessary to set the defenses to his liking.
"What news of Selimnar?"
Lord Baerlis' lip curled as if he wanted to spit. "Without putting too fine a point on it, milord, both nature and the Empire seem determined to erase our House entirely. A heavy storm has moved in from the southeast to blanket the sky and nigh blot out the sun, cutting our preparation time too damned short for my liking. Kamreon seems to think that the front had a little help from our opponents, but I say autumn weather needs little in the way of that. I can smell rain coming, but thank the Night it hasn't started yet. A battalion of bladecatchers marches on us now, with another company waiting just inside the thickest part of the forest to the north. Likely chiera waiting for the footmen to soften up our defenses. There is no sign of the blood dolls, and I don't need to tell you how badly that rankles me, milord."
"The Light take Selimnar," the master snarled. "Tell me that we're ready to meet them, Baerlis. Some good news."
"Our House is as ready as we can make it, milord. We were able to get the bulk of our bulwarks set up, thank the Night." The larger chiera paused to stoke his beard, ignoring the scowl from his master. "Kamreon and I were able to muster eleven squads and deploy them about the grounds to receive the initial assault. There are enough of our brothers and sisters mingled in their midst to balance the numbers a bit, but I will say that I full expect a fair force to make it to our walls. My brother chevalier is performing a final sweep of our halls in search of anything that sore needs attention before taking to the field himself. He mentioned that he had a special surprise for the advance force, but the fool didn't elaborate. As for the gveltstak, Vorigan, there's been no sign. Do you believe he'll oversee this venture, Master?"
Lord Alisair could feel the crimson pulse setting his pupils ablaze. "Oh, that son of a whore is out there, my child. That bastard has made this too personal--too pointed--to return to the Empire and allow some underling to handle things. No, our enemy is out there, waiting. He will come to finish what he started, and I will be ready to receive him."
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Post by Jashin on Dec 31, 2014 21:37:53 GMT
ACT IV: AMONG THE EMPIRE
The first peal of thunder crashed over the manor and rolled inland, splitting the tense silence and offering momentary relief to the soldiers gathered in the foyer. Lord Alisair could feel their tension through the bond of their bloodline even from his position on the entry stair. He had taken over for Lord Baerlis when the chevalier took leave to find his place amongst the defensive forces. All attention was focused outward. Every eye strained for movement that could not be seen, every ear ringing in the silence while waiting for the sounds of battle to come. The thunder was not quite expected, though the storm's heaviness hung thick in the air, but any noise was welcome against the tense waiting silence. Neonate and elder alike vibrated with violence poised for release and yet not finding it, every muscle tensed to spring yet being held carefully in check. The entire manor was still, chieran statues holding sword and lance and mace in frozen focus. Even the Master of the House had his senses flung as wide as they would go, mind searching for the faintest hint of the direction danger would come. It was a wonder they were not all struck deaf from the rippling thunderclap that shook the manor to its foundation before rolling over the grounds. Thank the Empress, the chiera were not built that way. It rankled the senses a bit, true, but it was not as debilitating as might be expected.
"A blessing and yet not," Lord Alisair whispered to himself. "We've a shortage of advantages, and such would be quite handy come the bloodshed."
As the thought faded from his lips, the first sounds of conflict came to his ears. It was the barest susurrus, the ghost of a whisper that his ears could not discern but that his trained mind knew was the crash of metal on metal blended with the cries of bloodlust. The wind from the storm played hell with the din, tearing it from his straining senses at times and others teasing his ears with a broken battlecry. Had he been a younger chiera, he might have strode from the manor to meet his foe in the open rather than waiting with blade bared in the relative safety of the manor. As a chevalier under the command of his sire, he had led the banner of his House in several forays against those who would stand against the wolf-and-moon. He could remember the feel of metal screaming beneath his sharpened claws, the hunger that churned deep in his core as his fangs tore into exposed flesh. Like Vorigan, he had earned his own reputation and title within the Empire, yet Lord Alisar had laid that life down the moment he accepted the mantle of Master of the House. That was who he was now, what he was. Yet there was a part of him that longed for those days, and the mantle of the chevalier.
The Night shelter my children and give them strength, he thought bitterly. Though he did not need to, Lord Alisair shifted his weight and placed the tip of his longsword pointedly between his boots. His place was in the heart of his House, guiding it and raising it to a great glory. It was no longer in the field amongst the common solider. Vorigan Selimnar would come for him, that he did not doubt. He had to trust in his childer and his chevalier. Lady of Darkness, let them be victorious. Though my life may be forfeit, allow my House to remain...
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Post by Jashin on Jan 9, 2015 1:24:31 GMT
Part One: Blood Wolf
Kamreon made a ward against evil with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand before he could stop himself. It was an old habit that his time as a chiera had not managed to break. Yet as he watched the approaching bladecatchers it was mildly appropriate. Though he had taken up position amongst one of the rear squads on the eastern wing to have an opportunity to watch things unfold, seeing a wall of men melt from the forest and boil down the small hillock towards the manor made him want to spit. The other men in his squad shifted nervously and tested the weight of their weapons or set their armor a bit better about their shoulders. Shaking his head, Sir Kamreon pulled a pair of fur-lined gloves from behind his swordbelt and tugged them on as if he had all the time in the world. That done, he clasped his hands before his chest and bowed his head reverently, whispering something against the well-worn leather before kissing the back of each hand. Mors, his first lieutenant, eyed him curiously without comment while Donnel barked a quick laugh before testing the edge of his axe with his thumb for the dozenth time since they had taken the field. Kamreon straightened his back and sniffed, but Donnel wasn't fased.
"They're turning," Mors remarked, leaning his spear in the direction of the bladecatchers. Donnel grunted agreement. "Right into the teeth of Lord Baerlis, likely as not. We should move to flank, sire."
Kamreon squinted, then pursed his lips. "Wait."
Just before Mors could protest, one of the thralls cried a warning. Like a stream breaking around a heavy stone, Selimnar's forces split and flowed in two different directions. The bulk of the bladecatchers continued on down the main road, but almost a third of the infantry had started to make a lazy arc in their direction. Donnel grinned wide enough to show a hint of fang as he hefted his axe, planting his heavy-booted feet as if making ready to catch them all himself. A gust of wind caught the Aisani's brown cloak and sent it billowing behind him into the face of one of his squadmates, but the chiera didn't seem to care.
Mors fingered the haft of his spear, eying Kamreon for some hint as to his master's pending command. As time stretched on, the man coughed pointedly. "Sire, should we deploy to receive our guests?"
"Most certainly. Take the squad and reinforce Leran's squad. Tell him that he is to avoid direct engagement with Selimnar's infantry." The chevalier glared down Donnel's rising protest. "You and he are to harry any stragglers that manage to peel away from this auxiliary branch only, nothing more. Hit and fade, that is all. Thin their ranks, flank them if you are able.
Mors blinked, but nodded and started barking orders as he marched off. Kamreon caught Donnel's cloak, holding the larger man fast.
"Sire?"
"As you are more intent on direct conflict," the Inachian sighed, "you will help me disrupt Selimnar's plans."
Kamreon's dark stare kept Donnel from asking after his meaning, which was just as well. Although the chevalier followed the general beliefs of the Empress, in times of war such as this he viewed those under his command as trained hounds much like the rest of the Empire. Hounds did not ask questions or balk at orders; they did as they were told to the full and were thankful they had been allowed to serve their master. He had such an expectation of his lieutenants more than anything else, to show Kamreon the same fervent devotion he had given to Lord Alisair. The elder chiera was not entirely without conscience, but he had shoved that part of him down as far as it could go so that he could focus entirely on what must be done. Here, on the battlefield, there was no place for forgiveness or mercy, no room for doubt or second-guessing. This was very much kill or be killed, with the latter being far more likely given their situation. House Selimnar had the superior force and position, and it was up to House Moroveston's outlying squads to thin that as much as possible before the real fight began.
"What would you ask of me, sire?" Donnel murmured as the two strode into the high grass.
The dark urge to backhand his lieutenant fluttered on the edge of his senses, but Kamreon smashed it down before it could take hold. Instead the Inachian concentrated on the hush of the grass against his legs, the sensation of the wind tugging like a child at his cloak, and the scents aloft in the arms of the storm. Rain churned just off the coast, but he knew that it would not move inland for some time yet. Once his more damnable impulses had fully faded, the chiera set his gloved hands on the pommels of his weapons. By now, he and Donnel had likely been spotted by whatever scouts Selimnar's true force had at the edge of the trees. Grunting, the chevalier threw up his cowl and tucked his shoulders as if he were suddenly cold. It took only a moment before he heard the hush of cloth as Donnel did the same.
"The dense thicket to your left," Kamreon said as a gust of wind pushed against his chest, carrying his voice away from his foe and to his lieutenant. Donnel grunted an assent. "At my command, flush our quarry."
Loosening his rapier in its scabbard, the elder chiera stumbled slightly as the wind pushed him too near a hidden furrow in the earth. Grunting against the pain lancing up his leg Kamreon limped on, determined to reach the brushwood as quickly as he could manage. As the wind carried the sounds of battle to his ears, it was all he could do not to turn. Mors was nearly as shrewd a commander as himself, so there was little to be gained from returning to his squad. At this point, his mind and Donnel's strength were best served where they were. He waved away his lieutenant's concern after his condition and hobbled on, ignoring the confusion and concern flooding the Aisani's voice. Kamreon felt a twinge of guilt as his eyes caught sight of their prey, knowing the suicidal gambit he was about to employ with Donnel's life. Yet it needed to be done, and sentiment would get them both killed. Nothing to do but have done with it, Light take me.
Kamreon put his fingers to his lips and gave a shrill whistle that rode the wind and reached every corner of the grounds. Like an arrow loosed from a longbow, Donnel blurred and was gone in a rush of chieran speed. In a blink, the large Aisani reached the clearing and disappeared into the thicket with a roar. The chevalier hobbled along after his lieutenant as best as he was able, keen eyes watching the shadowed forms dance to death's tune beneath the forest canopy. By the sounds of things and the speed in which the conflict was unfolding, he had been right in guessing this was where the blood dolls had been poised. Selimnar had likely positioned them here to follow the flanking bladecatchers after they had opened a hole in the manor's defenders. The echo of pain rippled through his mind and the bloodbond that he shared with Donnel as more shadows joined the fray.
So, it wasn't just the Blood Dancer and his toys, the chevalier thought bitterly. Rapier and swordbreaker rasped free of their scabbards as he passed beneath the arbor. Let us change the tempo a bit. One can only hope Donnel knows how to dance.
Putting his fingers to his lips again, Kamreon blew another piercing note that rose high enough that even his keen chieran ears could not hear it. The sounds of battle changed for a breath as every chiera gathered paused in hopes of discerning the result of the signal, but by the startled cries of outrage they were not prepared for what came. The very forest seemed to shake and snarl as wolves nearly the size of horses erupted from bough and bush to close on the Blood Dancer. The scent of blood and mangled flesh came strongly to his nose then, chased quickly by the bone-chilling screams of dying chiera. Though quite accustomed to the sights and sounds of battle, the chevalier was secretly glad that he could not see what was happening to the enemy. As a boy he had seen one of his father's hunting hounds worry a rabbit to death, the poor creature almost shaken apart by sharp teeth and primal energy. What such wolves could do to a chiera would have been very similar, save for the fact that chiera could fight back and prolong their own demise. True there would be much suffering on both sides, but Kamreon was confident that his gambit had played out. There was yet another twinge of regret that prickled the back of his mind as he felt the bloodbond with Donnel snap free and fade.
"It was not in vain, brother," the Inachian whispered sadly, leaning against a tree to rest his ankle.
A gurgling chuckle came from behind Kamreon and he turned quick enough to bring a grimace to his face, rapier and bladecatcher held in a loose guard position. A chiera crouched in the high grass two paces away in the rabbet Donnel had carved in his rush, one blood-covered claw pressed to the earth. To call him feral would have been a kindness, for the bedraggled beast that watched him held only a shred or two of humanity in his gleaming eyes. The flesh on the left side of his face was a tattered ruin that pulsed and twisted as it tried to heal, somehow making the madman's grin even more disquieting. Nearly concealed by the swaying grass nearby were four equally grizzly wolves, amber eyes glazed over yet peering into his very center. Kamreon growled at his lack of vigil, shouldering away from the tree and limping a few steps to the side. The strange chiera gurgled at him again, an errant flash of lightning mirrored by crimson orbs utterly devoid of mercy.
"We din't expect ta see th' Blood Wolf in th' flesh, did we, lovies?" the chiera cackled, swaying slightly in the wind. "No, we din't. Shame on him for being a sneaky sneak, yes. Master says he's a wily one, yes, lovies. Ooh, aha, we din't think on that, did we? No. We wonder how he'll taste, too, yes. Shall we invite him to dinner, lovies?"
The four wolves stood in unison and lowered their heads, lips peeling back from fangs that made knives look like splinters. Kamreon continued his slow orbit of the strange chiera, his boots whispering against the grass. Neither wolf nor madman twitched to follow, though five pairs of eyes tracked his every step. The chevalier tried to put on a brave face, but an awkward step make him wince again.
"It's very humbling to know that my sobriquet is known even in the cesspools of the Empire." Kamreon shrugged dismissively. "And you're Vorigan's pet Blood Dancer, I'd wager. Come to play with me, have you? I'd love to join you for dinner, but I'm afraid I'm horribly underdressed and sorely lacking proper escort."
The madman cackled himself into a snorting fit, rolling around on the grass while his wolves stood sentry. The chevalier had no illusion that he could have taken the other by surprise. The gurgling mirth cut off as if it had never been, the Blood Dancer's eyes narrowing to suspicious slits.
"Whatwhatwhat? No, lovies!" The strange chiera shook himself like a dog in from the rain, then cackled again at Kamreon. "Nono, that won't do. Ye'll have to join us for dinner, Wolf, no choice! None! Aha, we din't think our blood'd work on Were puppies, no, but it has! Yes, yes! Ha, din't see that one, no, we din't. They's much like Belzha's filth, yes, lovies. They never listen to us, no, but now... yes, now they do! Master will be pleased with this one, eh, lovies? Yes!"
Kamreon stumbled again, but this time from dismay. "Did you... Were?"
Another mad gale of laughter. "Oh ho ho! The Wolf is surprised, too, yes? Yes! And why would he not be, hmm? But we were not sent 'ere ta talk, no, lovies. No, we weren't. We were sent ta kill, an' we're running quite a bit late now with this chatty chat chattering. Sad to have ta kill such a nice fellow like yerself, but die ya must!"
The Blood Dancer stabbed a finger at Kamreon, and the wolves sprang into action as if one. Time seemed to slow as the chevalier's body reacted to the threat, crimson light flooding his vision and veskr singing in his veins. Although every chiera could call upon preternatural celerity, the Inachian had shown greater potential than most. While fully immersed in his dark heritage, the enthralled Were seemed to hang in the air like birds, jaws poised to bite and front paws opened to embrace him. The chevalier had an eternal moment to admire their power and ferocity, but also to notice the ghastly wounds they had all suffered during their tussle with Donnel and the Selimnar chiera. How the wolves could be standing with such grievous injuries, let alone attacking, was beyond him. That fact stuck in the fore of his mind as he worked his body to adequately meet the Were assault. The Blood Dancer had not moved, had simply squatted in the grass with his hand stretched out towards Kamreon in that pantomime of command.
To the uninitiated or mortal eye, a chiera could move with amazing agility and grace. True, there was a great deal of preternatural mystique at work in such a case, but only the most powerful Masteries could be laid squarely at the feet of magick. A chiera was simply better able to make full use of their body's potential. Reflexes became sharper, muscles flooded with strength, sights and sounds became more keen, and all well within the chiera's control once they learned how to adapt. As now on the storm-shrouded plains, elders such as Sir Kamreon were able to take full advantage of every breath. A heartbeat drew out into seconds, seconds into minutes, and the workings of even the most complex movements were laid bare to one of the Blood.
The chevalier twisted backward and brought his rapier just-so above his shoulder, letting the leading Were slip past him while shearing open its flank. Dropping his trailing leg beneath him, another Were sailed directly over him. As it did, Kamreon's bladecatcher split its belly open while the rapier cut a shining arc overhead to shear a third wolf's head clean from its shoulders. He completed the motion by pitching forward into a roll that carried him under the final Were and free of reprisal. Two Were spilled onto the grass, never to rise again, while the other pair landed awkwardly before immediately springing at him again. This time the attack came low, one rushing to clip his legs from him while the other launched itself at his center of gravity. He felt a smile come to him lips as he pushed off with both feet in a breath of veskr, twisting into a somersault as graceful as an acrobat. At the apex of his turn, his rapier fell almost lazily to shear the airborne Were in twain. With an expert flourish and a snap of his wrist, the swordbreaker found its mark at the base of the final wolf's skull as he landed, the beast crumpling almost at the Blood Dancer's feet. The chevalier offered the other chiera a fencer's salute before setting himself back into a ready position.
"Aha, this one is a tricksy," the Blood Dancer exclaimed, clapping like a child at the sight of a magician's trick. "We thought him weak and wounded, yes, we did. But an excellent dance, yes! Good good. Nothing better'n a show right before dinner, eh, lovies?"
Kamreon made a wry face. "Your playthings are dead, strange one. Perhaps you'd care to dance with me yourself?"
"Dead? Did you hear that, lovies? Ha! Dead, he says." The Blood Dancer cackled and drew both of his hands up before him, crooking his fingers in a curious gesture. To Kamreon's horror, the headless wolf twitched and slowly righted itself, blackening ichor still leaking from the gaping wound above its shoulders. Not long after, the Were slain by his swordbreaker surged to its paws as if drawn up by strings. The chevalier's stomach twitched in revulsion as a third managed to answer the Blood Dancer's deathly call, entrails hanging from its split ribcage. Thankfully the final Were could do little more than jerk and flop in the grass, spurting the last of its vitae across the grounds. The Blood Dancer laughed wildly and opened his arms in an expansive gesture as if to embrace the chevalier. "We are made of heartier stuff than the Wolf thinks, eh, lovies? Yes yes yes! But alas one will not make the second dance, no. Tsk, lovie, shame. But now we've seen the Wolf's tricks, yes, and we knows them. We won't get taken in by them, no, not anymore."
The chevalier laughed openly now, flicking the blood from his rapier before sheathing it at his waist. The other chiera blinked in confusion, cocking his head and narrowing his eyes suspiciously. Kamreon shrugged. "Ah, but you aren't thinking clearly, my friend. Fencing is all about feints and misdirection, improving your defenses while leading your opponent where you want him. You've seen through my limp, certainly, but that was only necessary to draw you out by making you think you had an easy target. Not only that, you've given me better insight into how your blood dancing works... and how to counter it. Did your master bother to tell you anything about me, truly? Perhaps why the Empire bestowed the title of Blood Wolf upon me?"
"Oh yes, he told us much about you, Wolf," the Blood Dancer gurgled. "That yer th' first of th' Blood ta completely enthrall wild animals in nearly ten generations, blahblahblah. Any fool can make a thrall, Wolf. Nothing special about that, no, lovies. Nothing!"
Kamreon barked a laugh, clasping his hands at his waist. Then, with a twist of his wrists, he brushed the heel of one gloved hand against the back of the other as if striking a flint. The air about the Blood Dancer ripped and snapped away like a bubble on a pin. Two full-grown wolves--one as white as fresh snow and the other as black as the deepest night--melted into existence, airborne and jaws yawning wide. The strange chiera's chilling scream of pain and rage overshadowed a nearby thunderclap as Kamreon's wolves seized his hands in their powerful jaws and bore him to the ground. A wracking shudder ripped through the ghastly Were once before they collapsed into the grass once more, still. In a snarling heap of fur and limbs the Blood Dancer rolled about on the field, spitting curses as he failed to dislodge his attackers. The chevalier walked calmly towards the melee, taking a moment to retrieve his swordbreaker, stopping just before the combatants. His rapier slid free of its scabbard with a clear ring of steel, then fell like a stroke of lightning to pin the Blood Dancer to the cool earth.
"Sadly, you were misinformed, my friend." Kamreon knelt before the cursing, spitting chiera who still struggled against his furry bonds. The two wolves worried his limbs in a savage reminder of their presence, but did not make to do more harm than was necessary. "I am called the Blood Wolf because I am the first of our kind in over ten generations to pass on a trickle of chieran Mastery to a wild animal, most favorably the wolf. Finding it hard to break their grip, eh? That is our potency flowing through their jaws. And that little trick of popping from sight unseen? Well, I'm sure that your Master can tell you all about his ability with quiescence. Now, to relieve you of your puppetry..."
The chevalier snapped his fingers and the wolves bore down with their teeth, severing the Blood Dancer's limbs at the wrists. Yet to Kamreon's surprise, the bedraggled chiera cackled through the pain. The alabaster wolf twitched for a moment before dropping to the ground. Snarling to himself, the chevalier slipped his rapier free and danced away as the obsidian beast dropped its grim prize and snapped at him with a grunt. Before he could piece together what was happening, he found himself tucking and leaping and rolling to avoid the savage attacks of his own pets. The Blood Dancer sat in the grass, laughing gaily at the Inachian's predicament, stumps held close to his chest. Seizing a split-second lull in the barrage, Kamreon brought his will to bear upon the two wolves through the bloodbond they shared, and both beasts froze. It was apparent by the rippling of their fur and the crazed look in their eyes that the wolves were caught between the Blood Dancer's Mastery and Kamreon's bond. Yet even the chevalier was forced to admit that he was not sure which would prevail.
Doubt is not a luxury that I can afford, the chiera thought bitterly. I am so very sorry for this, my friends.
Sighing, Kamreon reached through the bond that he shared with the two wolves and Pulled. The Blood Dancer shivered as if cold as the beasts simply died in his mental grasp, embraced by their master's Mercy. The chevalier took full advantage of the momentary look of confusion on the other chiera's face, blurring forward to sever the Blood Dancer's head from his shoulders with a brutal slash of his rapier. A follow-up thrust sent the blade through the other chiera's heart. Satisfied that there was no further immediate danger, Kamreon flopped down in the tall grass and pulled his two wolves to him, cradling their heads in his lap like sleeping children and gently stroking their fur. He had raised the pair from pups in the shadow of the manor, and each served him faithfully. Of all the ends he could have foreseen for them, this had not been one of them. Had the chevalier still possessed the capacity, he would have wept for them.
"I thank you for your help, Master Candar," he sighed as a familiar scent came to him on the wind. "Your fellows died well, and with honor. I can only pray the cost was not too high to keep the wood clear of our mutual enemy."
A low growl came from behind his shoulder, but the chevalier did not turn. "What did you do to them?"
"You can thank the Blood Dancer for the fate of your comrades, Alpha," Kamreon noted distantly. "I did only what was required to defend myself, I promise you. Winterfang and Midnight gave their lives that he might be brought low. I promise that his evil will not profane your lands further."
"It is my little sister and little brother that I speak of, soul-thief!" Revulsion hummed in Candar's snarl. Still the chevalier did not turn to face him. "I care not what you call them, only what you did to them! Their bodies are here, but their spirits have gone from this place. They do not linger on the wind to howl their stories to me, as they should."
Kamreon shrugged and closed his eyes, feeling drained and using the sensation of wolf fur beneath his gloved fingers to anchor his mind to the present. "I know nothing of the Beyond, Master Candar. Certainly nothing of your ways, the ways of the Were. I only knew the blessings they bestowed upon me in life, not the stories they tell in death. With all respect to your station, there is nothing more for you here. The Blood Dancer is dispatched and the copse clear of my kind. Yet I would wager that the rest of your lands still harbor Selimnar scum. Begone, and leave me be."
There was a tense moment where Kamreon fully expected the Were Alpha to attack at the affront. He was too drained to care, both with the exertion of battle and the lost of three of his faithful companions. Mors' unlife burned like a distant flame on the horizon of his mind, but the loss of his wolves and one of his lieutenants so close had cost him more than he would have cared to admit. As he was, there would have been little benefit to returning to the manor to be slaughtered. He was simply tired. Yet when the Alpha chuffed what might have been a laugh, Kamreon found himself strangely echoing the Alpha. Even when he felt Candar lift the wolves from beneath his touch, he found himself laughing. There was no reason to it, no mirth or sorrow. It was all so odd to him, so amusing. The wetness trailing down his cheeks did not register through the sensation of near-madness rippling through his body. He could feel the Alpha's presence, too, lingering behind him. Candar's attention was elsewhere, yet there was a heaviness to his company that brought Kamreon back to himself.
"See to it that they are laid to rest someplace nice, eh?" The chevalier stood shakily, his back still to the Alpha, and retrieved his blade from the Blood Dancer's body. "Winterfang was always fond of the ocean. Midnight was quite the opposite, always with his muzzle in the dirt."
A long moment hung between them, the only sound the distant din of battle and the wind in their clothes. Finally, Blackhowl sighed. "They spoke well of you, as best they could. Wolves do not speak as men, only in impressions and shared memories. Yet they held you as Pack, shared many nights on your domestic grounds. Of chasing music they could hear but could not find. Odd, that. But they loved your manor, your den. So much so that they took their names from it, though I do not understand why. You may have called them Winterfang and Midnight, but they did not answer to those alone."
"I see. Something to do with your ways, then?" He could almost feel Candar nod. "Please... if it will not dishonor them, how shall I remember them, then?"
Another pause, then a soft chuckle. "As your friends, your companions and shadows. But always as Crescendo and Arabesque."
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Post by Jashin on Jan 10, 2015 16:59:37 GMT
Lord Alisair sighed inwardly as he felt his children begin to die through the bloodbond. He had always imagined that bond as a sea of stars strewn across the vast expanse of his mind, distant yet tangible. His chevalier and direct childer burned the brightest, while the most distant descendant was but a pinprick of struggling energy straining to be seen. Each elder likened their bond to other things, but Lord Alisair felt his visualization most appropriate for his House. Each Moroveston was a light unto themselves, an independent spark that was perhaps dim apart but calmed the darkest night as a whole. Every one had its own influence under his domain, its own orbit, but was never outside of his sight. Immersed in the bloodbond he often found himself wondering if the gods of old felt such things for their followers. Yet his time for gods had long since passed; only Droa, Goddess of Night and the creator of the chiera was a thought in his head anymore, and only when he found himself thinking on days long turned ash. Now all Lord Alisair concerned himself with was his House and the Moroveston bloodline. His childer, his stars.
Stars that were flickering their last and going dark.
"Milord." Lord Alisair opened his eyes and looked down on the prostrate back of one of his childer. His name floated on the horizon of his mind, but was mist in his fingers. Perhaps it was best, in a way. It would be harder to miss them when they died if he could not recall names or faces, families or deeds. There was a twinge of guilt at that notion, but it was quickly swallowed by the sorrow in the loss of his own sweet Lisewynn. "Sire, the east wing is fully engaged. House Selminar's forward battalion has divided itself, though the bulk of their number makes straight for our position. Lord Baerlis has shifted our force to match, and a pair of the eastern squads harries the flanking arm. The trailing company has left the shelter of the wood at a slow but steady pace, sire. The Stormshield does not believe they will join the engagement directly."
Lord Alisair smiled at Baerlis' Imperial title. "I agree. Lord Vorigan has set his fiends loose to play; he is not likely to interfere unless forced to. Ever the typical Imperialist he'll let the fodder do the grunt work and enjoy the spoils. Inform Lord Baerlis to hold his position as best he can, but to pull back to the manor if he foresees a tragic loss. Then, return to your position."
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Post by Jashin on Jan 10, 2015 18:09:13 GMT
Part Two: Stormshield
Baerlis roared with laughter as an overhand blow and a whisper of veskr through his broadsword sheared yet another Selimnar bladecatcher nearly in half. A swift kick with a heavy boot dislodged the corpse from his blade and sent it crashing into two more bewildered men. All around him men and women on both sides were dying in heated, primal combat. There was no joy in seeing that, but there was much mirth to be had in how slapdash the assaulting force truly was. Save for grey tattered cloaks pinned at the shoulder with cheap tin emblems of the raven-and-crook of House Selimnar, there was little uniformity to be had. At least half of the poor bastards didn't know how to swing a sword or mace properly, and the other half knew just enough not to die within the first few seconds of joining the fray. Against a small force like that which House Moroveston had been able to deploy it was still an effective measure. By the empty look in their eyes and the scant regard for their own survival that they displayed, the bladecatchers had likely been given enough chieran blood to thrall them before being Commanded to attack. The ferocity that the fodder could display was slightly sobering, to be sure. It only took one or two to overcome a veteran thrall from his squad, the poor man screaming as they hacked and punched and bit him to death with snarls befitting rabid dogs. Four threw themselves bodily at one of his chieran sisters, driving her to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs. Two died and a third was mortally wounded before they finished dismembering her enough that she would not regenerate, the fourth bladecatcher limping a bit before lunging at another soldier in Moroveston colors. It was darkly amusing to behold, the mindlessness of it all. The center ranks of defenders tried to be stones before a tide of frenzied bodies that lumbered and crawled and threw themselves about with wild abandon.
"Hold the line, you sniveling gveltstak!" he roared, smashing his heater shield full into the face of a snarling bladecatcher and driving him to the ground. An expert flick of Baerlis' wrist sent the man's head into the center of another, throwing them off-balance enough that they could be easily dispatched. "Fight together! Don't let them break our ranks apart or, by Droa, I'll flense the lot of you in the courtyard! For Lord Alisair and our House!"
A growling chiera slid in just behind him, and Baerlis rolled his shoulder to drive his broadsword across his chest and into the heart of the interloper. Thankfully he caught sight of the wolf-and-moon etched on the other man's field plate, veskr flowing up his arm to take the blow past the chiera's shoulder and into the throat of a Selimnar lackey. The armored chiera nodded his thanks before drawing twin shortswords and setting to work protecting Baerlis' back.
"Best watch yourself, Sir Andol," Baerlis laughed, planting his feet squarely and following suit. Within seconds, the two had piled a rough circle of bodies about themselves. "I almost mistook you for Selimnar filth and spit you."
The other chiera snorted. "My lord is getting old and, apparently, senile. Perhaps I should put my lord out of his misery, lest he succumb?"
"What, and miss on all this?" The chevalier roared with laughter as he swept a pair of advancing bladecatchers from their footing. "You pups can barely strap your boots without my help. Besides, gardening is good for a man in his dotage, and my blade is still sharp."
Sir Andol made another derisive sound but swallowed whatever retort was hot on his lips. "My Lord Alisair commands the Stormshield to hold the line as best he can, but has given him permission to withdraw his forces to the manor should My Lord Baerlis consider the position lost."
"Right, then." Baerlis chuckled as his body moved to shift sword and shield about to lay low bladecatcher after bladecatcher. "Pass the word through the squads that they are to join the closest banner should they suffer the loss of a third or more men, or if their leader falls. We'll form a secondary line just inside the gate and reassess from there."
That won't take too long, the chevalier thought bitterly as he shattered the side of a man's face with a well-placed shield bash. Even at a quick glance his practiced mind could see that more than half of Selimnar's bladecatchers were dead or dying in tangled piles. House Moroveston had suffered similar losses, pockets of desperate men in blood-soaked armor fighting back-to-back against horrible odds. And the worst of it hadn't even begun yet. The pawns had done their dirtywork and softened up the defending forces; soon Selimnar would deploy the lurking chiera, their stronger pieces. A well-fed and -trained elder could fight effectively for a full day before wearing down, but mortal men and women weren't nearly so lucky. He could already see the slump of a weary shoulder here and slowing reactions there. Lord Kamreon's idea of bolstering the outlying defenders with chieran volunteers had been a grand concept, but even the best notion could only go so far in practice. It had been time bought either way, and it had been to give those inside the manor as much as possible to strengthen makeshift barricades and prepare able-bodied servants for the slaughter to come. The manor had never been designed as a stronghold to be lain siege to, but a sanctuary to hide away in and let the storm blow by. Selimnar will not settle for less than all, burn me.
Baerlis sighed heavily. "Belay that. Call a general withdrawal, Sir Andol. The Blood are to provide cover for our mortal soldiers, and then--"
A strong gust of wind pulled at the chevalier's cloak and made him stagger back a step. Setting his heater into a guard position and readying his broadsword, Baerlis cast a glance over his shoulder. Sir Andol was gone. Growling at the chiera and his careless waste of veskr, the Asgaari shook his head and returned to work defending the last of his squad. It took very little to convince men already on the verge of breaking to abandon their position and retreat to safety. A few brave souls made a stand to protect the weak or wounded, but that bravery only bought a second or two and a swift death. Baerlis continued to roar with laughter and shout brash jests, but it was beginning to sound hollow in his own ears. He had long since lost the fear of True Death, gained much a respect for the End. Perhaps even an appreciation for every moonrise and the simple pleasures each moment offered. The men and women under his command, however, had not had the luxury of decades upon decades of experience as he had. Such precious mayfly lives needed to be championed, protected and nurtured. Baerlis Moroveston was such a champion, and purpose gave him power.
Something heavy crashed into his back and drove the chevalier to one knee. Blade held expertly and shield tucked just-so, Baerlis turned the impact into a roll to get clear of whatever was attacking him. Casting about as he threw his cloak free of his swordarm once more his crimson gaze fell upon a twitching mass of steaming flesh and metal almost a pace across. He could feel his lip curl even as he lowered his center of gravity and set his shield to protect himself from whatever might emerge from the object. The Empire was not shy about its use of darker powers against its enemies, and any number of blood magicks called for husks of necrotic flesh. Yet the pulsing lump did not bear the scent of veskr nor the tingle of magick. As he stepped closer a lance of lightning set a larger fragment of metal adhered to the mass to gleaming, and Baerlis snarled as he recognized the wolf-and-moon etched on its face.
"Sweet Droa, Andol!" the chevalier breathed.
On instinct Baerlis dropped to one knee and pushed a mote of veskr into his shield, grunting as a heavy force slammed into his heater hard enough to make his arm go nearly numb. As he watched a tattered tendril of darkness leapt past his view like a jungle cat and wrapped about a fleeing Moroveston soldier. In an eyeblink the man was engulfed in a tattered, undulating patch of shadow before disappearing with a soft crack and an inrush of wind. Another umbral coil smashed into his thigh before consuming the last member of his squad with much the same ferocity. Feral rage built within Baerlis' chest as he was confronted with the gaping wound in his defensive ranks. Worse, they had been under his command! His shield should have protected them. His sword should have cut them a path to safety. And Andol... His lieutenant and friend should not have come to such a grizzly end. It was true that he understood the dark nature of war, that all mens' lives were one day forfeit no matter how prepared or armed. Yet to end up in such a state without the honor of seeing your killer's face was unthinkable. Snarling his blind hate for the cowards facing him beneath the Selimnar banner, he stood and thrust his broadsword skyward.
"Come face me, you curr!" he roared, echoed by a peal of thunder from angry clouds. "Or is House Selimnar full of such weaklings and cowards that it can't stand toe-to-toe with a real solider?"
A soft sigh of disdain whispered from Baerlis' left and he attacked without hesitation. The large Asgaari flowed across the grass with his broadsword in the lead, his whole body driving the blade downward in a shining arc of silver death upon the pale figure just at the edge of his vision. A hammerblow smashed into his shoulder and drove him to the ground, earth and shorn grass filling the air in his wake from the impact. Twisting his body expertly, Baerlis rolled his shoulder and let his legs pass over him, weight flipping him back aright in a low guard with shield ready. A pale man stood not far away, eyes filled with the blush of veskr, dust-brown cloak clutched tightly to his body by one slender hand as if cold. Other than the fact that he was chiera there was nothing remarkable about the man, no distinguishing marks or insignia. Yet there was a palpable malice in that sameness, a sense of primal dread that whispered up Baerlis' spine and made him reconsider his next attack. The pale chiera held himself as if the storm and battle were of no moment, as if he were apart from the world or beyond it. No clap of thunder registered in those eyes, no battlecry or scream of agony. They were empty, lifeless eyes completely devoid of any semblance of humanity. He had seen eyes like that once before, and it chilled him to the core.
Not a decade past, Baerlis had been chosen to escourt Lord Alisair to Meridia in Aisan to attent a meeting of the Imperial Court. The chevalier had prepared for the journey diligently, wishing to make a good impression on both his Master and the Empire itself. It had been less an exercise in personal vanity and more about placing the best face on House Moroveston that he possibly could. Such careful measures had perhaps saved the lives of both Lord Alisair and Baerlis himself, for the small delegation was set upon soon after crossing the Aisani border by a revenant. The chiera, if such a creature could even be counted amongst the Blood, had assailed their group with such ferocity and single-minded purpose that three guardsman were dead or dying before the rest could even draw steel. The revenant proved a horrid foe, hacking and clawing and biting until the guard had nearly dismembered it completely. Baerlis recalled the feel of its body beneath his boot as he held it in order to deliver the deathblow personally, still twitching and striving to kill even though it was barely capable of movement. Hollow eyes stared at him with neither malice nor sorrow as he lifted his broadsword overhead. Yet the chevalier saw in those eyes a strange kind of hate without true emotion, and that its mind was still working on how to kill him. Even with the thing's heart cut out, its body burned and its ashes scattered, Baerlis could not help but peer over his shoulder at every rogue sound until they were within Meridia's strong walls...and every night for three weeks after.
"It appears this one is attempting to appeal to our sense of vanity, dear sister." The pale chiera's voice was as empty as his eyes, and just loud enough to be heard over the wind. The chevalier's spine was ice and his stomach turned lead as the words rung in his ears. Cursing his carelessness, Baerlis shifted his stance to be able to keep the strange revenant in his view while still being able to take in more of his surroundings. Another curse burned on his lips as he discovered a second chiera had managed to flank him. Wrapped in the same brown cloak and staring at him with the same empty eyes, only the woman's long hair streaming in the errant gusts distinguished her from that of her collegue. "Given his experience, one would have assumed he would know this to be impossible."
Baerlis his his shock with a roar of laughter he did not feel. "So, House Selimnar has taught its dogs how to speak, eh? And mongrels at that. The Empire has fallen farther than I thought if it allows revenants in its ranks. I'm surprised you gveltstak can string two thoughts together, let alone dress yourselves."
"I want to kill this one, Gandrin," the female murmured. She may as well have been talking about the color of grass or the price of paper for all the emotion carried in her high, sweet voice. "Father promised you the other one, but he did not say which of us was allowed to kill this one."
Baerlis' mind reeled with each passing moment. Revenants that could speak, work together. Ones that displayed cunning, that could be trained. Such notions were held in the Empire as lunacy! From archives and rumors to the chevalier's own experience, revenants were nothing more than monsters in chieran form. Lord Alisair himself had made it a point to discuss the perils of Taking childer at great length and care simply because such creatures could be brought into existence. They were a boggle and a very real threat that every childer and elder knew. Some strongholds of the Empire even kept some in cages or pits and used in public displays of punishment for transgressions against Imperial Mandate.
"I want to kill this one as well, Maldia, but perhaps you are better-suited to the task." The first revenant studied Baerlis for a brief moment, fixing his dead eyes on the chevalier's own. "There is much you do not know about us, Baerlis Stormshield, and this suits Father just fine. You are blind to the truth because you wish to be, because it is safe and allows you to remain superior. Even though you have lived with our sister, you still will not see. But that is a failing you will sadly not live to correct. Perhaps you will draw some small comfort in knowing you will die on the field of battle much like you would have before your Master Took you. The Wheel of Fate has come full turn, as it always shall. Neither chiera nor gods have the power to make it otherwise. Yet I cannot say that your death will be swift. Father would be most displeased with us if you were to meddle in his plans, and my dear sister is eager to play with you."
Baerlis spat. "It will take more than the pair of you to end my life, bastard offspring of Vorigan or no."
With a roar and a breath of veskr, Baerlis charged the first revenant in a blur. Just before he struck, the chevalier shifted his weight to the side and slashed hard and low with his broadsword. His blade sang through empty air as Gandrin nearly melted away in a black wash of shadows to resolve several paces away. Boiling with rage and indignation, Baerlis launched himself at his opponent once more. Again his attack nearly met its mark only to be stolen away by whatever fell power the revenant possessed. It was more akin to true magick than any Mastery he had heard of, for there was no telltale prickle of veskr heralding the evasion. Baerlis was at war within himself, his mind churning with so many questions and so few answers while his body chased Gandrin about the plains, sword cutting a shining path before him. The very air began to crackle and hum with the force of his relentless assault, the chevalier barely able to bite back the roar of pure frustration he was feeling. No Selimnar dog would evade the wrath of his blade, least of all an abomination such as these. And it was happening right before his very eyes. Baerlis' heart began to sink with the weight of this newfound impotence. His honor, however, drove him on to continue the fray heedless of whatever outcome. Baerlis Moroveston simply refused to be bested.
A smear of shadow blurred towards him from his periphery, and the chevalier threw up his shield just in time to block the strange revenant magick from taking his head. The force of the blow was hard enough to numb his arm to the shoulder and send him sprawling, and yet he was given no chance to recover. The tendril of darkness rebounded from his heater and leapt into the air like a jungle cat, driving earthward again to smash into his defense. Again and again the hammerblows came, striking hard and fast enough that sparks began to scatter in all directions like frightened rats. Baerlis gritted his teeth and focused all his strength on keeping his guard, which was becoming increasingly difficult. At the edge of his vision he could see a pale shape padding closer and closer to him, as calm as if the night were calm and the moon were bright. A tattered veil of raven tresses could be seen dancing in the wind between umbral impacts giving a kind of gallows comfort from knowing where Maldia. Of Gandrin there was no sign, which made Baerlis' blood run cold. The fact that the chevalier could even think straight enough to wonder after the male revenant despite the aphotic onslaught made him bark a laugh.
The heart of night poured over him like a wave, swallowing everything around him and lifting him upward in a surge of vertigo. His mind lost all sense of direction in that suspending gloam, body twisting and turning in vain attempts to right himself in a world that no longer had heaven or earth. Something was there, a presence, moving through the darkness like a serpent in the grass. There was no movement in that void, no sound or flicker of life to tell him where it was, but that primal terror had a vice grip on his core because he somehow knew something was out there. It had an intense weight in his mind, and it was a palpability he could anchor himself to. With that realization came a deeper awakening within him, a subtle sound in his core that echoed out into the vacuum: the pulse of blood magick, of veskr. There was no tangible way to describe how he knew it was there, but the more he thought on it the more real it became. It was moonlight behind a dense curtain, power shrouded so heavily as to be nigh imperceptible. For what seemed like the first time in an eternity, Baerlis roared with genuine laughter.
"There is no mirth in this place, Stormshield," a voice called from everywhere and nowhere. Maldia's voice. A flicker of that caliginous veskyr slithered along his spine just before something smashed into his back and sent him spinning again. "You are in the heart of death, your end. There is nothing in this place, no time or space. Nothing but what the Father wills, and the Father wills nothingness for his failures. Will you beg for a quick end, as others have? Or will you flail and struggle against a force you cannot understand and die all the same?"
The chevalier only laughed harder. "Apparently you have absolutely no idea who I am, because I have done neither of those things in life or undeath. And I'm certainly not about to grovel to, or die at the hands of, some chevari gveltstak like you."
A tendril of darkness lashed at him from the void, striking Baerlis across the back hard enough to send him spinning. By the wetness trickling down his spine, the magick had struck expertly enough to slip under his armor and bite into his flesh. The veskyr it took to stifle the bleeding was so minimal as to be laughable, but the more he spent to heal himself was less he could use to get out of this situation. Anger simmered in his core, but he left it banked embers and focused on halting his ceaseless rotation. It was an exercise in indignity, for he had to flail his arms and legs like a frog on ice to slow himself. There was no wind in this place, no gravity, and no real resistance. It seemed almost impossible to do, because every effort in one direction needed just as much in the other to counter. What rankled him the most was that he was losing all sense of time while trapped here. His House was under siege, his liegelord in danger. The chevalier could not spend more time dealing with Maldia than he absolutely had to, but the revenant was an echo of Gandrin's warning: she seemed to intent on playing with him. Again and again, tendrils smashed into him and kept him off balance, wounding him just enough to sting and yet not damage anything vital.
The bitch intends to bleed me to death, he thought bitterly. If she can kill me, why not do it? Unless she means to delay me, buy her brother and the other Selimnar time. Blessed Droa, who is Gendrin after? Who besides Lord Alisair does that bastard Vorigan want dead?
"You think loudly, Stormshield." Maldia's voice was accompanied by another lightning strike of shadow, and he could feel blood filling his boot. "Your fear and confusion are screams to echo in this place. Is helplessness a bitter draught to you?"
"Helpless?" His roar of laughter shook his body. "Phaw, far from."
As he felt the build of her blood magick, Baerlis gathered his own veskyr and snapped into action. A nigh-mad glint lit in his eyes as he drove his broadsword downward along the edge of his shield, sparks showering from where metal sang against metal. The chevalier's blood magick flowed down his arm and collected in the blade, surging against the heat of friction and shaping it into something more. With a primal cry of savage fury, Baerlis stabbed his broadsword at where Maldia's veskyr had risen to a crescendo. A snap of power rocked his arm as a jagged tongue of lightning surged from the heart of his blade and lanced into the void, meeting her umbral coil and shredding it before it could reach him. The abyss about him buckled and pitched, and he could feel gravity's pull on his shoulder for the briefest of moments before the sensation was swallowed once more.
"Didn't like the taste of that, did you, you sneaky mardva?"
Gritting his teeth, the chevalier focused his mind and readied himself once more as Maldia's veskyr built. He bit back a curse as his senses prickled in not one, but two, directions from the inky expanse. The slight hesitation provided the revenant enough time to lash him in quick succession with blurred strikes of darkness before fading back into the nothingness. Armor and bone creaked under the impact, and it took him far too long before he could halt his rotation. Again and again, Maldia's attacks lanced from the void to strike before retreating, always just before he could fully recover and focus his blood magick in order to mount a counterattack. It was true that this new gambit did not hit as hard as before, but the precision was undeniable; he bled from several new razor-thin wounds that provided just enough pain to be a distraction without debilitating him. The deepest pain Baerlis suffered, however, was the thought of being Maldia's helpless plaything. For all his rage and strength, he was at the mercy of an abomination while his Moroveston brothers and sisters fought for their very lives. For all his wit and planning, his ranks were failing and his Lord was that much closer to danger. The chevalier had no doubt that Lord Alisair could handle himself in a fight, but it had been Baerlis' duty to be his master's shield. To make certain that such a day would never come to pass where the Master was threatened.
"I can feel your resolve weaken, Stormshield." Maldia's voice was distant, emotionless. A man might show more passion discussing the texture of dust. "There is no shame in surrender. All will face their End. Surrender, and take comfort in knowing you chose when your End came."
Baerlis sighed, his body going limp. "Just get this over with, would you? Bloody crazy gveltstak, gonna natter me to death like some old maid."
The chevalier hung in the void space, waiting as Maldia's veskyr began to build. It was weak and faint, but it was nearly everywhere now. The darkness sang with it, pulsed with it. For some reason, it reminded him of being in the womb, though such a memory was impossible. There was no intention in this space, no purpose. Baerlis could feel nothing other than the swelling of blood magick and the weight of his own surrender frozen in the pit of his stomach. The chevalier dare not even think, smashing every bitter thought that threatened to well up inside him against the anvil of conviction. His only focus was on remaining still, waiting for Maldia to strike and to shuffle him loose the immortal coil. In his mind's eye, he could almost see the trails of her veskyr slithering through the inky blackness as she gathered her focus like snakes in the grass. Baerlis' hand twitched on the hilt of his blade, but he forced his arm to go limp again. It was merely his sense of self-preservation vibrating through his body, something he had learned to master long ago. Sometimes a man's urge to act could get him killed just as easily as the urge to do nothing. Not that it much mattered anymore.
Veskyr crackled in the void now and struck out at him from everywhere, slashing and hammering into him in relentless waves. Blow after blow resounded against armor, pierced flesh, and slammed against muscle. Pain blossomed in his body like painted nightlilies after a summer rain, full and vibrant. He tumbled end over end, shield and sword held in tight fists even in the face of death. A warrior's grip, he called it. The chevalier's mind noted where Maldia's flurry of blows hit hardest, caused the metal of his armor to heat even for the briefest of moments. Arms and legs battered against each other as the assault tossed him bonelessly about, and Baerlis did nothing to stop it. A single thought bubbled to the surface of his mind as the barrage reached its apex, bursting like a bubble on a pin and filling his body with intense purpose.
Now!
Baerlis began to move his muscles and turn his body, gritting his teeth against the pain that came with it. This time, however, he threw himself about to continue the momentum found in Maldia's umbral attacks. The air about him began to churn and crackle as he flooded his broadsword with veskyr once more, directing as much as his anguished mind and body could. It took everything he had to do such, but it felt good to be about his work again. Over and over he turned, sliding blade against shield as if sharpening his blood magick into something that only he could see. A growl built in his chest as his veskyr built in his blade, and he shattered the silence of the void with the force of his howl. A seething bolt of electricity straight from the heart of the storm that was his namesake rippled up the blade, turning his broadsword so white-hot that it burned its shadow in his vision. Just before the surge broke into the air he shattered it with his mind, and jagged tongues of purple lashed out from him in all directions, hungrily licking the abyssal darkness. A keen like wrenched steel shook the void and made his ears bleed, but he pressed on. Baerlis drove that power straight into the heart of Maldia's tenebrous trap and broke it.
Moonlight broke against his vision like a crashing wave, searing his mind as surely as his molten blade. Thunder rang in his bloody ears and sent him to roll on the ground in agony. Ground that was like iron, though it moved beneath him. Gravity's pull was like the boot of an angry god smashing him against the anvil of that bitter place. And then it was gone, and the world about him slowly resolved. His vision cleared, and he wished it had not, for all around him were the broken bodies of men and women. The thunder in his ears abated to the gentle hush of the ocean tinged with the moans of the dying. The coppery tang of blood bit hard into his nostrils, made him want to sick up. As if he could do such a thing any longer, but the memory of it was strong enough that he almost did. The smell of searing flesh crept through that headier scent, and pain lanced up his arm. Cursing sulfurously, Baerlis cast the smoldering remains of his broadsword into the grass without much thought. Of the revenant or her kin there was no sign, and that worried the chevalier mightily. With a muttered apology to a man who no longer cared, the chiera sank his fangs into his neck and pulled hard on whatever fresh vitae was left. There wasn't much to be had, not without risk of him being pulled along with the fallen to Death's Door, but it helped him heal a bit. Two more such chanced feedings, and Baerlis managed to haul himself to his feet. What he saw made him want to fall back on his knees and howl in frustration.
House Moroveston was on fire.
The chevalier's lips moved but words would not come. What had happened while he had been within Maldia's void? Surely he had not been gone that long. The sounds of battle washed over him, and his heart leapt with the bitter hope of it. The manor might be ablaze, but there were those within still fighting. The war with House Selminar was not over yet, and that suited him just fine. Gritting his teeth, he took up the discarded blade nearby. Whether it was the sword of a Selimnar or a Moroveston, he did not know. Steel was steel, and a sword would serve whatever master that held it just as faithfully. Baerlis was much the same, and Lord Alisair held the hilt of his soul. The chevalier still felt the power of his Master trickling out to him, calling to him from within the manor. Putting one foot in front of the other, Baerlis moved to answer that call. A ragged, wayward wind whipped past him and tugged at his cloak playfully. Baerlis laughed.
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Post by Jashin on Feb 15, 2015 5:50:55 GMT
Lord Alisair grit his teeth as the mental glow of one of his chevalier winked out from the bloodbond. It was disorienting, this sensation, for it was not the tearing of life lost that he was accustomed to. No, this was as if a hand had simply wiped it away as if it had never been. Lady Naimya was close enough that he could still sense her persona in the back of his thoughts like an echo. He had no reports regarding the fates of either Lord Kamreon or Lord Baerlis. The not-knowing was perhaps the most disquieting part, nearly as much as the how of it. All about him, the invisible threads that connected Master to childer hummed away from him. The night sky of his subconscious was still littered with starlight, but there were noticeable patches of shadow. Such a burden, to be the channel through which so many chieran energies flowed. In the beginning it seemed such a blessing to him, for he never felt alone. Now each time a Moroveston life was taken, he bore the sting of it. It seemed futile to him, this battle, in the moment. Were House Moroveston to triumph, the Selimnar assault would have taken a great deal from him without laying so much as a glance upon him. Perhaps that was why most elders did what was necessary to end their humanity, chose to give up the deeper seat of emotion and live as the stones did. In the blistering heat of war, feeling those lives snuffed out only made him feel wrapped in thick cloth, stifled. Smothered. Cloying in his own mind, never free of it. Not able to be quenched, suffering each death as if it were his own before his childer slipped away for all time. Perhaps that was what they all were in the End, bitter memories best forgotten.
"The defensive line is broken," a panicked voice shrieked. "We are undone!"
Alisair's voice whispered between his lips, yet somehow carried to every corner of the room. "Peace, this was to be expected. Hold your places and do not give in to fear. We must be strong, both for those who have fallen and for those who yet draw breath. Lives may still be saved, our legacy may still be saved. We cannot and will not let House Selimnar snuff out our resolve, nor our purpose. I am with you; I will not forsake you."
Surprisingly his own words were calm, but filled with a deeper current of emptiness. Closing his eyes, the chiera could feel where the Moroveston forces were buckling, failing. No, they were withdrawing and still dying. Panic and confusion painted a mottled ribbon of scintillating color on the field of his mind, and Alisair frowned inwardly. Here and there it would tear apart completely, a gaping wound of night where whole squads were slaughtered. Erased. Other places were tattered knots where firm resolve or blind luck were allowing for a steady retreat. Behind him and along the coast, Alisair could feel wounded calm. Good, he thought, at least there is only one front to worry about. Odd to be thankful that a torch has been snuffed while a wildfire yet rages, but I shall accept grace where I may find it.
"Come, Vorigan," he found himself growling. His jaw ached from holding back his fury. "Come and end this."
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Post by Jashin on Feb 18, 2015 6:16:11 GMT
Part Three: Ivory Regent
The frenzied screams of men and women came just before the heavy oak door to the manor shuddered hard enough that the grand iron knockers jounced. Armsmen in Moroveston livery startled at the brutality of the assault, but thankfully held their positions. Here and there a heavy thump or crash of glass would sound from other parts of the manor. Wounded cries and the ring of steel echoed down the halls to the foyer as Selimnar breached Moroveston defenses and found armed resistance. A heavy rock shattered the exposed stained glass window over the main door and tumbled rather harmlessly across the landing behind Lord Alisair. The broiling storm outside howled in through that space, drawing with it the scent of death and threatening skies. The rain would not hold back much longer, sea-fed gusts buffeting the house almost as hard as the Selimnar. Another roar of rage came and the door shook a second time. In the distance something burned, tendrils of grey smoke clawing along the ceiling. A third blow to the door, and the wood groaned under the weight and splintered. Shields were readied and pikes were lowered. Looks were exchanged, too. Fear and trepidation, but also a heavy measure of resolve. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, an eternity in which a man might consider whether to throw down his arms and flee or stand his ground. A pause in the flow of history where one might search so very deeply within themselves, discover who they truly were and what they valued.
With a tortured screech oak and metal gave, shattering beneath the force of House Selimnar's press to come crashing down in the entry hall. Men and women boiled through the breach with weapons ready and the thirst for blood evident in their glares. Moroveston armsmen roared in defiance and charged to meet the invaders with little hesitation. Like two great tides, both Houses met upon the foyer's open floor in a crashing roll of metal and bodies. Although drastically outnumbered, the Moroveston force had the advantage in both arrangement and unity. Lord Alisair had set his shieldbearers and pikemen to make full use of the foyer's tight space, allowing archers with shortbows on the balcony to whittle down the savage tide. Dozens died in a hail of red-fletched shafts, still more meeting their end skewered by the thrust of a broad-bladed pike. Once and again someone would bellow "Push!" and shields would press forward, plowing corpses forward and throwing those in the fore off-balance. Men with blades bared and heater shields ready swayed back and forth behind the main line, gazes sweeping for a breach in the line where they could strike a blow before retreating. All civility had been abandoned in this place, men and women and chiera meeting in a seething frenzy of primal killing desire.
Lord Alisair stood upright and calm where he had been, unmoving, while all about him death and calamity raged. Only his eyes paced back and forth to scan the scene, taking it all in with statuesque grace. Proximity to battle fresh blood made it all the more important for him to maintain his composure before his childer. There was little concern that the Longing would turn him into the ravening beast that most mortals associated chiera with when presented with the source of their cravings, but it was still a strong temptation. Centuries had passed since he had been bested by the Longing, and longer still since it had owned him completely. Part of the Curse, Lord Alisair knew, was there was no real way to conquer the thirst for blood that all chiera had. No way to be relieved of it, no true freedom. A chiera could no more go without blood than a human could without water. The trick was not to consider the Longing an opponent to be brought low and slain, for it would be easier to tear his heart from his chest as best it. The Longing was a dear friend seen rarely, entertained in good company and with careful preparation. In his darkest heart, however, Lord Alisair burned with the desire to become the chiera he had been all those many, many nights ago. Unbridled, fearless, and primordial. In the dark times of his past, when the Longing had ruled him with an iron fist, he had been known as the Bloodreaver. Thank Droa those days are long behind me. Thank Droa, and thank the Empress.
The elder chiera stood like a stone in a storm, the washes of blood and the howling screams whipping all around him but never touching him. It occurred to him that some of his men might see him standing there, aloof, and doubt him. Yet he knew that the rest would see him unchallenged and undaunted by the conflict and take heart. They would see him safe and unharmed and fight all that much harder for him, not because they feared him or were in his thrall. No, they would fight all the harder because they loved him. In this way, Lord Alisair presented himself as a shining beacon of hope for his children. Whether mortal or immortal, human or chiera, they would look on his shining visage and believe salvation against impossible odds was, indeed, possible. The line of shields buckled and held, buckled and held, and finally broke under the assault of Selimnar fury. But House Moroveston had wrought from their foes a horrid price, for a wall of bodies lay between the two factions. More still littered the floor like cheap toys, broken and forgotten. Boots stumbled on a thin patina of blood painting the once-pristine floor in a grim tableau, the air perfumed with rent flesh and sweat where just a moonrise ago flowers drifted sweetly through the halls. Here and there, more blood and thicker things lay strewn along the walls and even the ceilings, Moroveston's hallowed halls now a canvas for Death's pallid brush. Only about the Lord Alisair did things seem right, his place untouched by war. It was as if his will alone prevented complete perversion, held to him a bubble of purity. Selimnar footmen drove his own Moroveston soldiers back to the base of the stair with a unified push, the thrall-clouded beating against the fervent and just. The savage threw themselves at the civil, the heartless against the loving. Here, in this place, was the true struggle between chieran Houses. In this place, in this moment, the strife between Emperor and Empress was given flesh and voice.
Something touched Lord Alisair's brow just then, a warm and featherlight brush as if a lover had amended a stray hair from his vision. He blinked, confused, and ran his fingers experimentally across his face. The elder's fingers came away damp, and he stared long and hard at the wetness that slicked his fingertips. The night was cool, and elder chiera of his age could no longer sweat even to falsify life. It was too dark for such things, too thick. Over and over his mind turned the viscous pinpricks glistening against his alabaster skin like rubies in the firelight. Warm, he thought. So very warm, and not cold like my skin. No, it was not his, he now knew. The name for it was on the tip of his tongue like a curious memory, but he could not think it. Could not utter it. Why, he could not say. It was as familiar to him as his own name, yet he could not conjure it into being. Every spark of realization was swept away by a chilling jolt straight from the heart of winter. Each time the air in his still lungs moved to breathe it out, his tongue hardened to lead and could not be moved. Such a simple thing, that one word, and yet something inside him feared to speak it. Again and again his mind beat against that fear-wrought cage, demanding its release, for he was transfixed and helpless. Lord Alisair could feel his body quiver with the need to be free of that word, to be free of the fear that bound him with unseen chains. A terrible longing churned inside him, a desperate need to give that word flight, and it rattled him to his core. The strain built inside him and welled upward, surging through him like a torrent of molten ash to beat against his teeth until it ripped free of him in the barest hush.
"Blood," he sighed, and something inside him shattered.
"Forgive yourself," she whispered to him, "as I forgive you."
Alisair felt her body ripple with the force of Vorigan's veskr, a wracking wave that surged from just beneath his hand to every corner of her being. His chieran senses were flung so wide that his eye captured every instant of her death, locking it within him as surely as if it had been etched in stone for all eternity. Lisewynn's bones cracked like frozen glass beneath his touch, and her chest gave just-so under her own weight as if she had broken from within. A faint pulse of darkness crept through her veins like a shadow sweeping over the horizon of her life to engulf her forever. Her pale skin darkened as that energy pushed outward, distorting her angelic features as her blood sought release from the spell's fury. Lisewynn's face was wracked with a horrid mix of confusion and sorrow. In that frozen moment, Alisair found himself darkly grateful that she seemed not to be suffering. Her crystalline eyes, veiled with tears, clouded over with crimson shadow before being lost completely. Like a stormcloud kissing the mountaintop, the Lady Lisewynn broke beneath the fundament of Lord Alisair's hand and wept warm rain down upon him. In all his years, all his centuries, he had never once balked or paled at how much blood a body could hold. In the shelter of that hot wash, however, his mind reeled at how such a fragile thing as his ladywife could cover him so. It was a grim thought, but there it was.
He had nothing to hold to him, no shred of his perfect love save for the tatters of her sodden dress. Nothing to cling to, as if he could simply will her from dying. The chiera's body shuddered with the need for release, to cry or to rage, but it would not come. It churned within, seethed against his chest. It lashed against his heart with scalding tendrils, beat against his skin in tortured surges. Yet a part of him was wracked with a greater fear. A fear that whispered to him to hold it back, to not give in. In doing so, it cautioned, she would truly be lost to him. That if he squeezed his eyes shut for long enough and held back his grief hard enough, Alisair could find her standing in the doorway. Standing there, smiling as she always had, with complete love and adoration. But as the memories of his sweet Lisewynn welled up inside him, his body began to shake once more. Not with rage or determination at keeping her alive by his power alone, but sorrow. Sorrow as he had never known, for in losing her Alisair had lost the one thing that he cherished the most: his humanity.
Lord Alisair felt more than saw his hand fall limply to his side. The screams of the dying and the raging fell away from his ears, becoming the gentle hush of wind in the leaves. A calmness draped about his shoulders then, one that he had never imagined possible. It was a palpable detachment, as if something had reached within his flesh and pulled out the whole of him to leave a hollow shell behind. That shell was as hard as mountain stone, unshakable. Unmovable and immutable. As his eyes clouded over with an umbral haze, the last of his grief drained from him as surely as water from a cracked pitcher, leaving him empty and dry. Alisair could feel his eyes slide closed, his vision mirroring the darkness that moved within him now. Deep in his center he could feel his veskr pulsing like a thing alive, wakening to his chill anguish like a beast roused from ancient slumber by an even older hunger. He felt it slither up his spine and creep over his skull, gripping him. When Lord Alisair opened his eyes once more, two pinpricks of burnished gold burned white-hot in seas of pitch. Taking a breath he knew that he did not need, Alisair honed his veskr to a razor edge along his tongue.
"Slumber."
The air about him sizzled and snapped away in a hot rush, washing over Selimnar and Moroveston alike. Men and women dropped where they stood as if poleaxed, eyes drawing shut and chests breathing deeply even before they hit the floor. Weapon and shield slid from limp hands, and foe fell into the embrace of foe. Lord Alisair hefted his longsword and ghosted down the stairs at a stately pace, his boots slipping between bodies and finding firm footing despite the slickness of the floor. When he reached the base of the stair, the elder chiera made a sweeping gesture. Slumbering bodies rolled away from him as if gripped by a dark dream before falling once again into quiescence, leaving Lord Alisair a clear path the tattered maw of the main door. He stretched out a hand and made a curious, entreating gesture, then frowned as nothing happened. Again he tried, and again his power was denied. A hollow laugh broke free of him and flew to every corner of the war-torn manor on frenzied wing.
"My dear Fangbreaker, you surprise me once more." Lord Alisair's laugh cut off as if it had never been, his face a mask of disdain. "Come out, then. Or is cowardice the only weapon a Selimnar truly has?"
Vorigan stepped from the shadows of the foyer with a strange smile on his face, like a child caught misbehaving. "It is truly impressive, the power of a pureblood. I, myself, nearly gave in to your ancient authority. If not for the grace of the Emperor, I would be helpless at your feet. But His Dark Majesty is nothing if not resourceful, and favors his most trusted well."
"The Emperor is not known to you, Vorigan," Alisair spat. "He broods and plots in some far-flung corner of Enos like a petulant child, sheltered in a broken, drafty tower to plot and plan a revenge he knows full well will never be realized. He sulks, beaten, and allows his children to fight amongst themselves. The one you call Majesty is nothing more than a figurehead, an icon for your kind to worship. You are pigs, slopping at a dead man's table and drinking wine soured by bitter defeat."
Vorigan laughed, tucking his thumbs behind his swordbelt. "Perhaps you have His Dark Majesty confused with the Empress, sobbing and beating herself like a deranged monk for sins perceived. She feigns love for her Cursed children, yet does not lift a finger to help them be restored to their rightful place as the greatest kingdom known. No, she would throw herself down dramatically and be the martyr, begging her own kind to rot in the darkness we were thrust into. To remember what we could have been, should have been, as decreed by those we once dominated. You and all your kind sicken me. His Dark Majesty has every right to want you all cut down to the last man, a diseased limb on the tree of greatness that will shelter the Blood one day soon."
"The Emperor has been promising such a day for three thousand two-hundred and sixty-five long nights, Vorigan." Lord Alisair shook his head without averting his gaze. "I was raised in the shadow of the Empire's folly, while you only suckled hungrily at the teat of Imperial lies. I felt the Curse roll over me like an ocean wave and take away everything I was, strip me of power yet unrealized during a golden era for our people. And what of you? You were merely Turned, a base creature raised up and flooded with the wakened dream of that greatness. You whine bitterly of injustice, shake impotent fists at something you know nothing about. You stand in the shadow of fallen gods and consider yourself their equal. No, you consider yourself their better. I know what it was like to be born a chiera and have that birthright taken from me, while you... you are merely a corpse tricked into a warped life. I speak from experience when I say our Curse is just, that we should make our own way and be grateful our bloodlines were not wiped clean from Enos."
Vorigan shrugged and drew his longsword and swordbreaker with a fragile calm. Crimson light bled into the man's vision, a hint of fang in his dark sneer. "Regardless of my origins, or yours, I suppose I should thank you for the rare honor you are about to bestow upon me. After all, it is not every day one can kill a pureblood!"
There was a wash of veskr and rage, and Vorigan was across the space between them. He would have been a blur to mortal eyes, but Lord Alisair was no mortal. The elder chiera's right foot slid backward almost lazily as he lifted his own longsword before him. Sparks flew as steel rasped against steel, and Alisair turned to let Vorigan slide past him and crash into the stairway. Chunks of stone and dust billowed around the exotic chiera as he tucked and rolled away from the elder chiera's counterattack. Again Vorigan came, and again Alisair parried. For all the speed and ferocity the Selimnar possessed, he could not overcome the pureblood's defenses. It was almost too easy, the feints and attacks, that Alisair quickly became bored with his prey. Yet no matter how much the elder chiera outmaneuvered him, Vorigan's grin never slipped and only grew. There was a pulse in the back of Alisair's neck that warned him that veskr was being used, woven to some purpose that eluded him. Even his keen eyes could not discern Selimnar's Mastery from his body language, considered the possibility that the other man was using it internally to fuel his attacks. Lord Alisair's mind turned the problem over and over, for everything he knew screamed in alarm against a foe that presented no outward signs of danger.
Vorigan barked a dark laugh and danced away from Alisair's blade, tapping the marble floor with the tip of his own sword and hissing, "Dveltna!"
The elder chiera gathered his own veskr and leapt backward just as the air where he had been standing blossomed into seething flame that rolled outward in a vicious surge. When his vision cleared Alisair saw grooves cut into the floor where the two combatants had recently engaged, a strange array scrawled in stone. Dark magick!
"Again, I applaud you." Vorigan saluted his opponent formally before dropping into a stance far too familiar to Lord Alisair. "I should have known such a cheap trick would not work on one of the pureblood, but I simply had to try. It really is too bad that the Ivory Regent holds true to his chosen sobriquet and not to the one he was given by His Dark Majesty. The Empress named you aptly, ruling from your ivory tower as if nothing was amiss."
Alisair did not deign to respond, saluting with his longsword before setting his guard in similar style. It had been centuries since he had used, or even seen, the old dueling style of the Blood. Tvelk'yllsek, it had been called in the days of the Old Empire: the Twelve Paths. Vorigan's form showed the true age of the style, for the elder chiera could pick out a few places where his stance was weak. Perhaps not in terms of combative strength, no; Vorigan was too much a warrior and a killer to use some slapdash method. There was simply an adaptation to the tvelk'yllsek that could be seen to one that knew how it had originally appeared. Lord Alisair was loathe to admit that his own stance was very much in need of work, though he would not show weakness in front of his opponent by amending it. Despite his age, the pureblood had worked diligently to keep up on modern warfare throughout the ages as a means of survival. After all, one could not hope to see a new moonrise using antiquated technique. Vorigan seemed a bit surprised in how Alisair held himself, though it quickly faded to a dark respect tinged with feral intent.
Vorigan led with a poor imitation of Prey Takes Flight, several quick rising thrusts meant to test an enemy's guard. The elder chiera blocked each attack easily with Weaver's Shuttle, his longsword moving as if it weighed no more than a knitting needle. The Fangbreaker pivoted on one foot and tucked his arm before lashing out with Thunder Kisses the Mountain. Alisair rolled his shoulder and twisted his blade up into Snake Grasps the Willow before turning into Lady Honors the Moon, cutting a shining silver arc through where Vorigan's head had just been. Blade sang against blade, and the Path of Destruction hammered itself against the Path of Shadows. Tiger Rushes the Fox met Sweeping the Courtyard. Falcon Takes Flight was turned aside by Crescent Moon Kiss. Adder In The Reeds locked with Master's Gentle Reminder.
"Your attacks are rusty, Master Moroveston," Vorigan hissed between their pressed blades. "Perhaps you should take your ease, hmm?"
Alisair's ebon glare smoldered. "Perhaps once the Fangbreaker is shattered at my feet, I shall do just that."
Vorigan laughed as he disengaged, slipping back and away from the elder chiera's guarded strikes. With a smirk and another deep laugh, the Fangbreaker turned and vanished down a nearby hallway. Alisair paused only long enough to consider the state of his foyer before giving chase. He followed the other chiera's echoed laughter through the manor, stopping only long enough to get his bearings before resuming the pursuit once more. Soldiers were strewn all about his path, leaning or laying where his blood magick had subdued them. Regretfully a few had fallen to their deaths from high places or found their end on a fate-placed blade, but for the most part neither side had suffered a traumatic loss from his Command. There was a dark part of him that lamented that fact, wished he had Spoken some other word in his anguish. Yet he had seen what the pureblood could do with a control of veskr such as he had, and it made his mind shudder. No, for all the torment and sorrow simmering in his stomach, he could not inflict that upon his House. Not for revenge, not for Vorigan. He would not sully his bloodline with that level of madness, not again. He would not, could not, do that to Lisewynn's memory.
Following Vorigan through the manor was like hunting a wild animal, both figuratively and literally. The Fangbreaker possessed some dark manner of Quiescence that not even Alisair could pierce with his blood magick. Perhaps grief had dulled his perceptions, or perhaps the Emperor really had given Vorigan some fell blessing that the Moroveston line might be purged from Enos. Such tactics were making it difficult for the pureblood but not entirely impossible. While Alisair did not believe in hunting for sport, he had taken it upon himself to train his childer to supplement their diets with the blood of animals that their dark needs might not be roused amongst men. He had learned in his youth, those fleeting years before the Curse fell, what to look for and how to track elusive prey. Hunting a man was no different than stalking an animal, only varying by a matter of risk. Bear and boar did not fight with steel and magick, were more or less predictable. A man was its own beast yet, and a chiera even more so. There was a strange sort of pleasure in this that stretched far beyond revenge or justice, the sort of thrill one might feel when playing King's Field against an equally-skilled opponent. Victory and defeat hung in equal measure between one heartbeat and the next, with only wit and skill to decide how the Fates would fare.
Alisair knelt in the hall near a particularly mangled corpse, his hand floating tentatively over a thick pool of cooling blood. The scent of rent flesh and thick fluids hung so strong in the air, he felt that hunger all chiera possessed roll in the darkest parts of him with the need to do more than look. The man's--at least he assumed it was a man, though whoever or whatever had hacked him to death had made a butchery of his features that even Alisair might have been wrong--this one's soul had not fled very long ago, but the risk to the pureblood was great enough that his hunger died away quickly and allowed him to make his observations. A chance ripple hung across the surface of the congealing pool like a serpent beneath a crimson blanket, and Alisair studied it for a long moment. It was too clean to have been caused by an errant breeze from the nearby shattered windows. No, Vorigan had fled past this point, his veskr-driven celerity moving the air in a sharp rush as he had passed. Had he the capacity once more, Alisair's heart might have fallen into his stomach when he realized where his Selimnar foe was heading.
The solarium.
Carefully Alisair pursued his foe with great caution, ears straining for the slightest sound of attack and eyes scanning for some telltale sign that Vorigan was near. He could hear the roar of flame and the groan of blazing wood far overhead as the manor's rafters fatigued, but Alisair had every confidence it could be contained. The storm boiled overhead and howled through fractured walls and shattered windows, the savage pressure like a great ghostly hand pressing down on the manor without cease. Thunder crashed hard enough to shake the floor beneath Alisair's feet before rolling away with a seething growl that reminded the pureblood of some great hunting beast. Rain was palpable now, yet for some reason beyond understanding it would not break. He could sense no other conscious presence on the Moroveston grounds save Vorigan's, a slick eel of a will that writhed in the corners of his mind, gone before he could wrap his focus about it. Perhaps there was some lingering effect from so much veskr cast about in one place, so much wanton death in a single place, that nature was loathe to visit any kindness on those beneath the storm's dark curtain. Wrath above and wrath below, he mused as he neared the cracked door to the solarium. How fitting.
A soft chuckle prickled Alisair's ears as the tips of his fingers rested on the polished wood of the door, scarred by a heavy gash from an irate invader's axe or blade. The pureblood clenched the hilt of his longsword tight enough that his already pale knuckles turned translucent as he pushed the door open. So focused on the impending conflict, Alisair's gentle touch tore the door from the wall with a scream of tortured hinges and sent it crashing to the cobbles that lead to the solarium proper. The lovingly-crafted conservatory remained largely untouched save for a few broken panes closest to the battlefield. Great granite blocks formed the supporting wall from which arms of aged oak stretched upward to form the lattice holding wide panes of the clearest glass. It had taken nearly two decades to assemble the materials and find the right artisans, but the look on Lisewynn's face when Alisair had presented it to her was well worth it. It had quickly become his ladywife's favored place to take afternoon tea or read some new tome she had discovered on her travels within the Empire. Smoldering embers from the roof danced exuberantly on the errant wind, dipping this way and tilting that and yet not touching the solarium. Normally that would have bolstered Alisair's spirit, the thought that his wife's present was somehow inviolate against the horrors besetting House Moroveston, but the pureblood only cared about Vorigan.
The Fangbreaker was leaning almost casually against the solarium's doorjam, arms crossed over his chest and one hand held languidly before his face. Both blades hung at his hip and were tucked between his body and the door frame, as if forgotten. Alisair stepped fully onto the cobblestone path between buildings, longsword held to one side and eyes alert, but Vorigan did not move to answer his presence. The corner of the Fangbreaker's lip was turned up in a faint sneer, which did not ease the tension between the pureblood's shoulders. It wasn't as if he truly feared the Selimnar, but there was something off about the whole thing. Vorigan simply stood in the solarium's doorway as if the battle were of no moment, as if he were meeting a friend on a warm summer's night to take drink and discuss days long past. There was no scent of veskr in the air, no palpable source to Alisair's unease save for that wintery caress down his spine. The darkened morning drew on while Alisair tried to glare a hole through the other chiera, the only sounds being the howling winds and the groan of burning rafters. The pureblood did not turn when the roof behind him screeched beneath its own flaming weight and collapsed inward, filling the air with a thousand angry embers. Vorigan, however, chose that moment to return Alisair's heated look with a chill scowl all his own. Dark secrets crackled behind those eyes, but Alisair could not glean their meaning.
"You are truly a cunning opponent, Lord Moroveston," Vorigan purred, tucking his free hand against his chest. "Yet I find that you have revealed yourself to be more ruthless and cold-hearted than even I could be. Letting your children throw themselves into the bitter arms of a Lasting Death when all along you had the power to speak a single word and save them? There is a bit of His Dark Majesty in you yet... or perhaps still. Why you deny such a birthright is well beyond me. To have been born a pureblood, to bask in the Emperor's presence..."
Alisair flicked his wrist curtly and brought his longsword up into a ready position. "Enough games, Vorigan. Surrender yourself now, renounce your right to vengeance upon my House, and I will allow you to return to the Emperor whipped with your tail tucked between your legs."
"Alas, surrender is not in my nature," the chiera sighed, looking nearly petulant. "Failure to purge the House Moroveston of Insurgents would not be tolerated amongst the Empire, even by someone with my reputation and position. Perhaps even less so, for the Emperor very much enjoys my loyalty and results. What would the Imperial Courts have to say if I were to simply forswear my duty? I would be remembered for setting a very distasteful precedence, and I cannot bear the thought of that."
"If I have my way, you'll not be remembered at all. Draw steel, Vorigan, and face me. I will allow you to die with dignity, which is far better than you deserve."
The chieran noble made a wry face. "I have no desire to cross blades with you again, Lord Alisair."
A thin eyebrow climbed before the pureblood could stop himself. The fact that Selimnar was using his proper title again made Alisair even more suspicious than before. It was all just too simple, too easy. His opponent was effectively unarmed and off-balance, in a relatively unsecure tactical position. The only scents on the wind were the faint tang of blood, the bite of sweat-soaked steel, and smoke from the burning manor. It almost hurt his chieran senses to take it all in and filter it, but Alisair did not want to underestimate his opponent. Selimnar had proven himself to be a slippery devil more often than not, whether on the battlefield by account or across the debate floor. The man almost had a knack for saying one thing and twisting it to mean quite another, to maneuver his rivals into whatever position he wanted them and make them think it was their own idea. Alisair was one of the few that had been able to outmaneuver him time and time again. It was little wonder that House Moroveston had been targeted by the Fangbreaker, however blurred his accusations. There had been a continuous movement within the Empire to be more proactive in making the Emperor's Legacy a reality and not just a goal or aspiration. Little wonder that House Selminar had been at the forefront of such a movement, speaking loudly and with conviction concerning a show of militant force in order to bring the Lesser Races beneath the Empire's heel. For Vorigan to now shy away from a conflict was... uncharacteristic of him to a fault.
"How would you suggest we settle this, then, Lord Vorigan?" Alisar could not help the sneer that rolled across his lip, but the other chiera did not seem to notice.
Slowly Vorigan righted himself, unfolding his arms carefully and dropping them to his side. Alisair shifted his weight ever so slightly to keep his blade pointedly aimed for the chiera's center, but did not advance. Selimnar nodded once before just as meticulously unbuckling his swordbelt and tossing it far to the side. The pureblood's eyes narrowed, but the tip of his longsword dropped to hover above the cobbles. Vorigan's voice was low and smoothe, as solid and sure as if he were once again facing Alisair across the Chamber of Rule and not the blood-soaked battlefield. "No swords, no blood magick. Let us settle this as the elders of old, with claw and fang. Nothing beyond what nature and the Dark Goddess gave us. Pureblood against highblood, til torpor or True Death."
"Such a contest seems truly unfair, all things considered. I was born and raised among gods-made-flesh and brought to knee, whereas you... You were born mortal and raised up in the shadows of titans. Raised to think that you could grasp what I once had without ever knowing what it truly meant. Yet if this is your desire, I accept your challenge." Alisair's razor claws slid free of his fingertips as his longsword clattered to the ground. "I pray you have your affairs in order, Vorigan Selimnar, for I will savor your death."
Vorigan's face twisted in a gruesome mask of cruelty as he slid a leg forward and set his guard. "I pray you savor it as much as I luxuriated in your bitch wife's screams as I took her under your nose."
As hot as the flames blistering along the roof and through the eastern halls of the Moroveston sanctum, as lashing and heavy the winds racing across the open plain to shake the trees in the glade to creaking, none could match the primal ferocity of Alisair's rage. Something broke inside the pureblood in that instant, the last color to his already pallid skin wiped away as if it had never been. Muscles twitched and tendons pressed like thick cables beneath stone=hard skin as the truth of what it was to be born from Emperor and Empress boiled to the surface. Gone was the gentle soul that had been Alisair Moroveston, the master of a great House that had championed a peace between chiera and all others for centuries. There were no soft lines to him now, no ounce of gentleness or mercy in his flinty glare. Only alabaster death remained, glistening fangs bared in a malicious snarl and body quaking with the intent to destroy whatever lay before him. The air about Alisair went deathly calm, the wind cut off as if by a knife, and Vorigan had the barest of instances to look a touch doubtful.
With a thunderous clap and a shower of shattered cobblestones, Alisair crossed the space and lashed out at Vorigan. As ready as the highblood chiera had considered himself to be, he was only barely able to slip beneath the lightning=quick slash of claws. There was no veskr here, no magick, merely the power of an ancient pureblood unleashed. Stone cried out as Alisair's talons rent jagged furrows through the support wall of the solarium. Vorigan struck back and landed a few solid blows to the pureblood's body, but it was like a smith's hammer finding his anvil. Steel armor cracked and shattered beneath the assault, yet Vorigan did not relent. Hardened flesh and bone rebounded from its like, and Selimnar disengaged in time to avoid a savage bite from feral jaw to the shoulder. Alisair had given himself over to the killing rage found in all chiera, held in check for countless years by painstaking effort and training. The Bloodreaver had taken place of the Ivory Regent, and it was exceeding hungry. Again and again, Alisair pressed his attacks only to have them narrowly thwarted by Vorigan's tight-held calm. Every failure at landing a blow only served to enrage the pureblood more, quickened his movements until he was nearly a blur even in chieran eyes. His talons and fists glanced off of Selimnar's defenses, sending stone and splintered wood in all directions. Yet Alisair's ferocity prevailed when Vorigan twisted his body just a bit too far and crashed into the solarium's doorway with a grunt. With a bestial roar, Alisair's clawed hand snatched up the other chieran's throat and pinned him neatly to the wood.
"Wait!" Vorigan croaked beneath the crushing weight of Alisair's grip. "Mercy, Alisair!"
A growling voice like the grinding of timeworn stone boiled up the pureblood's throat and seethed between clenched razor fangs. "Isk murgadt vauk skaultik oru nagi, gveltstak! Mercy is foreign to excrement like you, Selimnar. Did you show mercy to Lisewynn, hmm? To her handmaidens, or any of the countless lives that fell on their faces before you and begged the same? No, you are undone, and I want you to know it! I want you to feel the fear when facing True Death that all others did, to bathe in it that you face Droa reeking of terror before the end. You could not beat me with steel or with veskr, and you were such a pathetic challenge otherwise that you were bested before mortal men could soil themselves in commiseration for your plight. Whatever possessed you to offer such defiance is beyond me."
A trickle of blood painted a sinuous line from Vorigan's lip as he grinned. "It was the only way I could bring you close enough to touch, dear Alisair."
As quick as the pureblood was in his current state, Selimnar had already moved before revealing his masterstroke. A blistering pain slid between Alisair's ribs, and he blinked at the glint of a sezkyrn peeking between Vorigan's fingers. With a dark chuckle and a wrenching twist of his wrist, the other chiera snapped the hilt of the blade free and drove his knee into the wound. A breath of veskr sent Alisair crashing against the opposite jam. White-hot agony slithered through his body with hungry tendrils, coursing through his veins to every corner of his being. The pureblood scrabbled at the wound desperately trying to draw the auric fragment free, but the celerity at which his body was regenerating made it both unbearable and ineffective. Dawn was rising within his core, that impossibly bright and painful flare cresting the horizon of his resistance and breaking over him to consume Alisair completely. He could hear Vorigan's nigh-mad laugh teasing his ears, but it was an echo compared to the roaring between his temples.
"Oh, sweet and naive Alisair." Vorigan's boot landed heavy on the pureblood's chest, heel digging this way and that. Alisair roared in agony. "I am exceeding grateful for this rare and valuable gift you've given me, old friend. I had assumed the honor of wiping your House from the face of the earth, but to kill a pureblood? Oh, tales of my prowess will run rampant through the Empire, and none will dare challenge me. Do you think that the Emperor will lament your passing, or will His Dark Majesty laud my triumph? A delicious risk, don't you think? Ah, well, as much as I've enjoyed our conversation, I must conclude my business here and return to His Dark Majesty's side."
Alisair blinked hard against the blood tears blurring his vision, failing to will his body to move away as Vorigan retrieved his swordbelt. His veskr was mist in his fingers, his every muscle turning to lead as the seconds ticked by. A gallows smile crept onto his lips at the thought of it all. Alisair Moroveston was ancient by all accounts, mature when the Curse was young. While gold was a metal deadly to all chiera regardless, the fact that the pureblood had managed to avoid it for so very long made him doubly susceptible. Moving only accelerated the reaction, as did the use of blood magick. Had he the luxury of slipping into a voluntary torpor, his body might have rejected the sezkyrn after some time. There was no chance of that, not with Vorigan standing over him with that bloodthirsty glint in his eye. The younger chiera made a show of drawing his longsword in a reverse grip, grin widening as he lifted the blade above his head.
"Thus ends the Moroveston line!" Vorigan cried with savage glee, driving his blade for Alisair's neck.
Something heavy and dark smashed into Vorigan with a discordant groan, throwing the chiera clear of Alisair and sending him into the solarium. As the highblood crashed into the far wall, the ceiling supports buckled under the impact. Windows shattered and rained down jagged glass as wood splintered and fell inward, burying Vorigan under its crushing weight. A dark, narrow shadow fell over Alisair and he felt hands on him, exploring his chest with delicate pressure that nonetheless felt like molten knives. An icy talon slashed across his ribs just before a weight surged against him, making Alisair's vision pitch and blur. Yet when the shadow moved away, it took with it the molten seed of the sezkyrn from him. Alisair gasped without need as he heard more than saw the jagged gold blade clatter to the cobblestones. The pureblood's head lolled on his shoulders as the pain that had so gripped him was replaced with fatigue that threatened to drag him under if not for his will. He struggled to study the darkened form sitting next to him, eyes fluttering with both weakness and pain, yet another faint smile managed to creep onto his features.
"You sly rascal," Alisair rasped. "Couldn't just take your ease and let matters handle themselves, could you?"
An owlish face melted into his vision, and Alisair could feel Cushav's gnarled hand take his own. "When the Master works, the House can do no less. Certainly your man could do no less. How does the Master feel?"
"Oh, this?" The pureblood gestured feebly to the wound in his chest, now a ragged splash of color, and coughed a laugh. "A scratch, really. Nothing more than a splinter. What did you bring to bear against our guest, hmm?"
"Your, ah, prized piano," a sweet voice called from his shoulder just as Naimya stepped from the wreckage of the solarium. She attempted to sweep ashes from her breeches, but only succeeded in making great black smears against the bleached leather. Sighing, the chiera held her hands away from herself. "At least part of, yes, your piano. I fear we will not, no, hear its sweet melody ever again."
Alisair thought to shrug, but his vision swam as his muscles twitched to comply. Settling, he sighed, "And Selimnar?"
"Torpor, master." Naimya made an apologetic gesture. "It seemed, yes, a waste of good aged oak to let it lay there, and the filth is a tad, ah, more attractive now with a splinter of his own. Rest now, Master Alisair. You are safe and the day is won."
The pureblood shook his head, fixing the woman with a stare. "I am owed some explanation first, Lady Naimya. As powerful as my veskr is, it is unlikely that even its shadow would have touched our sanctum. Why did you abandon your post? And how could Cushav have shrugged off my Command?"
"Apologies, my Master," Cushav whispered in reply. "It was not your man's intention to disobey your will. I awoke with the sense that the Master was in grave danger, as if something was... screaming in my head to stand and attend you with great haste. I cannot say more than that, my Master. Cushav is so very, very sorry if he did wrong. Yet if the Master's continued life is the price of Cushav's disobedience, your man is happy to accept his punishment."
Naimya nodded, eyes thoughtful. "It is as he says, ah, my Lord Alisair. In truth none of us within the sanctum had any, no, clue as to what was transpiring above us. To coin a phrase, things were as silent as, yes, a tomb. I was inspecting the, ah, Heartstone chamber when I felt a presence all around me. I felt such cold panic, my Lord, and knew somehow that you were in, yes, terrible peril. Sir Angelo protested my return to the, hmm, surface but I could not remain. As I knew that you were in danger, I also knew that, yes, the Heartstone and our childer would be safe. While I moved to find you, I noticed Cushav racing through the halls and followed. It was he who led me to you, my Lord Alisair, and none too soon."
Alisair twisted his lips as if about to speak, but Naimya erupted in a curtain of flame and fell over, screaming. Cushav cried out in alarm and pointed over the pureblood's shoulder, crawling backwards in fright. The elder chiera heaved himself over and gaped at the sight of Vorigan Selimnar standing in the wreckage of the solarium, hand outstretched and hate in his eye. The arm-length shard of wood protruding from his chest seemed not to bother him in the slightest as he wrenched his leg from the last of the tangle of roof beams and shambled towards Alisair. The highblood let out a gurgling laugh as he began to draw patterns in the air with his slender fingers, blood pouring down his chin as his lips moved to chant in a soft, sonorous tone. The air about Alisair began to warm and his skin began to blister as Selminar's dark magick took hold of him. Setting his jaw against the burning along his flesh, the pureblood summoned the last of his strength to channel his veskr in a lightning strike meant to cripple his opponent. Before he could release his will, however, a great wave of power washed over him and wrapped itself around his mind like a smothering blanket, extinguishing his blood magick and flooding his power back into his body. Gasping, Alisair crumpled forward, eyes fixed on the Fangbreaker.
The strange power uncurled itself from Alisair's body and seemed to fill the air with a heavy weight like the storm clouds overhead before snapping outward in a sizzling wash that sent the pureblood's vision to rippling. Vorigan clapped his hands against his ears and screamed, thrashing this way and that as if to shake off whatever had assaulted him. Rivulets of blood painted razor lines down his face from his eyes and nose, and between his fingers to run down his arms. With a wracking shudder, the Fangbreaker dropped bonelessly to the solarium floor and twitched once before falling still. Whatever power was at work boiled in the air once more before racing across the manor like a great wind, snuffing the conflagration out like a candle before dying away completely as if it had never been. Alisair looked about him for signs of what had caused such an event, but there was only a lingering presence in the back of his mind that faded as quickly as the surge of power. He knew in an eerie way that it had been someone nearby, both familiar and foreign, but it was more the memory of ghost than anything he could place a name to. Not even Alisair had possessed that level of preternatural strength, and something so strong would not have gone unnoticed.
Would it?
"Naimya?" He felt silly for calling to her, but Alisair's concern overrode his logic. His childer's unlife still flickered in the night sky of his mind, and he eased back against the broken jam.
A soft groan answered him. "Still, yes, alive, my Master. The only memorial that needs be held, hmm, is for my wardrobe."
Had Alisair not know her, the smoldering and twisted form of Naimya standing slowly would have puzzled and revolted him. Yet there was a dark appreciation for chieran power as he watched blackened flesh slither and fold in on itself to be replaced with pale, fresh flesh. In the space of a few heartbeats she stood naked and pale before him, without a stitch of clothing or strand of hair. Violet eyes looked back at him with a mixture of shame and consternation, but she made no move to conceal herself. After a moment of thought, Naiyma padded over to Vorigan's body and probed with a bit of her own veskr, then wrenched his longcoat free to drape about her. Standing, she gave Alisair a careful nod. The pureblood returned the gesture, noting that Cushav had crawled up next to him to nuzzle his arm like a dog that knew it had done wrong. Shaking his head, Alisair placed a shaky hand on the man's pate until he settled.
"If our guest is truly subdued this time, shall we retire to someplace a little less... open?" Alisair's voice was far lighter than he felt. "Would that I could thank whomever, or whatever, granted us this reprieve, but I fear that I would find more questions than answers."
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Post by Jashin on May 5, 2015 19:47:04 GMT
ACT V: TAMING A TIGER
Thunder crashed heavily against the attic roof before racing away, but the three chevalier did not seem to notice. Silence hung so thick in the night air between them as to rival the iron-hard sky growling just outside, yet try as they might none could bring themselves to break it. Lord Baerlis stood with his arms folded across his chest at the head of the attic stair, frustrated glower fending off most of the curious and concerned that paced in the hallway below. Lord Kamreon was doing some marching of his own as he muttered and shook his head at whatever rogue thought got in the way. Lady Naimya was seated demurely on the floor next to their Lord, dressed once again in a modest ash grey blouse and breeches, her face distant and tortured unless Lord Alisair moved or made a noise. They had tried to make him as comfortable as was possible considering the state of the manor. The pureblood lay on a pallet that had been fashioned from a small mattress and a few sheets that had been spared war and fire's wrath, head propped up on a grain sack grudgingly retrieved from the cellar stores. His torso was bare and his wound dressed needlessly at Naimya's insistence, eyes closed and hands folded across his chest in gentle repose. Another peal of thunder brought a tortured groan from Lord Alisair, his face twisting into a nearly-inhuman mask of agony before returning to peace once more. Lord Kamreon paused in his stalking to peer inquisitively at Lady Naimya, but her saddened shake of the head made him grimace and march all the harder. "Sweet Darkness, Kamreon, will you just stop for a moment?" Lord Baerlis growled, thumping a mailed gauntlet against his chest. He met the other chiera's stare for a hard moment before his glare softened with his voice. "Is there... nothing we can do for him?" The dark-skinned chiera gave that Inachian shrug that could mean everything or nothing. "I cannot say, but there is not much hope. I have not had the experience in treating wounds of purebloods, and there is so little of such happenings in the Imperial libraries as to be laughable. Either no pureblood has survived an assault by a sezkyrn, or the Empire wishes its knowledge kept carefully controlled. Yet it was our grandsires that fashioned such weapons for dispatching rivals, so one would logically assume they were effective." "Oh, damn your logic, Kamreon! Surely you can think of something to save him from True Death." "Keep your bloody voice down," Lord Kamreon hissed sharply. "Would you assume that I am any less concerned for my Lord than you? Would you assume I am any less loyal? I hold the same fears as you, both for him and for us. I would fly to the Imperial Seat this very moment and throw myself down before the Emperor if I thought it would provide the answers we needed, but some things are simply inevitable." "What do you believe our, ah, chances are?" Lady Naimya's voice came out in a gentle, resigned sigh. Lord Kamreon thought long and hard for a moment, pinching his nose between thumb and forefinger as if it would ease his dark mood. He had considered the same question over and over since word reached his ears that Lord Alisair had been mortally wounded by the Fangbreaker. Much of his concern had been directed in earnest for the fate of his Master, yet he had been just as concerned for the lives of he and the other two chevalier. Lord Kamreon prided himself on his knowledge of Imperial law and lore, yet that knowledge also carried with it the weight of truth that could bolster or crush him. Unfortunately, it was the latter this day. Lord Alisair Moroveston was a pureblood, directly or near-directly descended from the Emperor and Empress and no ordinary chiera. In rare instances when a chieran elder died, the psychic ripple carried through the metaphysical bond sire held with childer and severed the Dark Blessing, ending the lives of any chiera not strong enough to resist the preternatural pull. Purebloods were far and away more powerful than their highblood kin, but also rare in number. Such chiera had not survived to the present day by being weak or foolish, and the power that Lord Kamreon had beheld tonight made his stomach curl into a lead ball in the pit of his stomach. The death of Alisair Moroveston might not be the only one to happen in the coming hours, and it wasn't merely the chevalier that needed to be concerned. Pushing aside the darker thoughts, the dark-skinned chiera shook his head and shrugged. "I simply cannot say," he sighed heavily. "Would that I had better news, but I will not give hope where none may be. Our victory against House Selimnar will have been bought at too high a price regardless of whether any of us lives or dies." Lord Baerlis grunted an ascent. "One less voice of reason and tolerance in the Empire, maybe more. He has to survive this." "For more than what he does for the Empress, or for our House," Lord Kamreon agreed. "Lord Alisair is the last pureblood in the Moroveston line, has been the Moroveston line since long before any of us received his Dark Blessing. Our Lord is a good and wise man with a great wealth of knowledge that will simply cease to be if True Death comes to claim him. Imagine all that he has seen and done, good and ill, wiped away in a breath simply because of a feud that none of us understands anymore. Whether we chiera were meant to be the pride of the gods or the bane of mortals, we are now what we find ourselves to be. There is no shame in that, whether servant or chevalier, except for the shame we see in ourselves or take up from others. I believe as Lord Alisair does, as the Empress does: that our reign was stolen and not won, as the gods intended. Our grandsires were cast down and stripped of much, but they were spared a True Death and given the chance to earn their rewards. The other races hate and revile us for what we were, but they might come to respect what we can be. There is solace in that." A soft rasping chuckle made them all turn to where Lord Alisair watched from beneath heavy-lidded eyes. "The seed of wisdom has... been planted deep, and its roots are... strong." Lord Baerlis genuflected at his Master's voice, and Lord Kamreon was not far behind. The Asgaari's smile split his face and flashed a hint of fang. "How fares My Lord Moroveston?" "Well enough that my boot will still motivate your backside for decades yet," Lord Alisair replied, though it sounded hollow even in his own ears. "There is no joy in being pricked by Meiliki's metal, and even less in having one of Selimnar make fester in my gut, but I have survived worse." Lady Naimya choked back her grief at her Lord's pain. "Then save, yes, your strength that you might recover all the quicker. The sezkyrn has been removed, so the worst of, ah, the danger should be past." "I fear not." Lord Alisair closed his eyes and winced a sigh. "Vorigan took a great risk to bait me into a direct confrontation, placed his life literally in my hands, just to strike me with his blade. Truth, the blade has been removed, but I can feel something just as fell tingling along my veins. I've sat across the tables from the Fangbreaker at Court to know full well what he shows is not all it appears to be. His sezkyrn is of the old style, and with no veskr tied to it, but there is something more to the weapon. Likely it was coated with gold dust in the new style or some other manner of chieran poison." Lord Kamreon blinked. "Why? What would he have gained from such a simple maneuver? Surely he would have known that such poisons would have not worked on a pureblood were you to survive. Had he perhaps employed blood magick to augment the weapon..." "All chiera possess the ability to heal from all manner of physical--and even magickal--attack, but our bodies are not as resistant to some things as others." Lord Alisair paused thoughtfully for a moment. "Sunlight and gold are chief amongst our weaknesses, the talons and fangs of other preternatural races only slightly less so. Fire, veskr, and like energies beyond that, and finally terrestrial instruments. In the beginning of our history, we clawed and bit at one another like beasts of the wood until we learned to harness the fibers and metals found in nature. When the Curse fell upon us and the Empire was divided amongst those loyal to the Emperor or Empress, we warred more passionately amongst our own Houses than we had against the Lesser Races during our dominion. Steel and cedar were all we had ever needed against our rivals, but it had become almost a torture. We hacked and prodded one another in dark reflection of the olden days, more to pain the other with wounds that would bleed and heal as fast as they had been inflicted. We could no longer use the powers of our fallen godhood, nor were mortal means sufficient. The sezkyrn were created as a suitable means of dueling, returning some civility and honor to the primal people we had let ourselves become. "My child, the answer to your question lies there, for sometimes the simplest method is the most effective. As an ancient pureblood I have developed tolerance to a great many things, yet gold remains a weakness. Perhaps it is more deadly to me than to you, for I am as I was born all those centuries ago. Neither you nor your peers has felt the touch of the Curse roll through your soul as I have, only know of it from tales and experience. You are of my blood, my direct descendents in undeath, yet even that one step down affords you a protection of its own. In you my blood is diluted, and with it the vulnerability to Meiliki's Touch. You are highblood and as close to pureblood as can be, but you were raised up and not cast down. I cannot explain it more simply than that. Vorigan used the sezkyrn because such a concentration of gold guaranteed his strike would bypass my Empress-given strength, weakening my body that the flecks of Meiliki's metal might complete the deed were the blade removed. Had he used veskr or any number of enhancements of which I might have been familiar, I would have seen his ruse for what it was. Sadly, I was so consumed by the rage and need to be done with him..." Lady Naimya patted his arm gently. "It is over, ah, Master. You must rest now. There is no way, no, for you to know of, ah, your end. The Fangbreaker is no more; our House is safe." Lord Alisair shook his head slowly, a single blood tear painting a sinuous line down the side of his face to soak into the burlap of his makeshift pillow. "There will always be hounds for the Empire, my child, and our House will never be safe. In all my years I have learned that harsh truth. No matter how strong one becomes, no matter how well-fortified one's position, and no matter how carefully one acts, there will always be a more cunning foe or lucky fool. Truth, it took a fox like Vorigan Selimnar this long to find fault enough with our House to gain the Empire's backing, but find fault he did. I could not protect my House, nor my sweet Lisewynn. Vorigan was wrong about a great many things, but he was right about one thing: with a single word I could have spared my House so much grief. Yet because I had vowed never to use such a terrible Mastery again, so many were sacrificed." "One of the many virtues you inspire me to strive for," Lord Baerlis remarked solemnly, "is integrity. If we abandoned our ideals when they proved difficult or inconvenient, they would not be worth holding onto. As you said, my Lord, you could have spared our House a great pain and many losses. Yet I am both honored and humbled that you would place such trust in my strength, my ability to defend our House and what you value. Mothers lost sons, fathers their daughters, and husbands their ladywives. Yet we triumphed, despite horrible odds. We sent the bloody Selimnar gveltstak back, bleeding, to their Imperial masters. Added to this the defeat of the Fangbreaker, and it will be many a year before another House dares to move against us." Lord Alisair shook his head. "Or it will mean swift retribution from the Empire for the loss of those loyal to His Dark Majesty. My brave child, can you not smell the blood? Does smoke not sear your nose? We are a House vulnerable, wounded prey. There are those that will seek to turn Selimnar's loss to their gain. It is our way now. We are predators, parasites. Those loyal to the Empress seek to rise above our Curse; those under the Emperor seek to use the Curse to attain power." "The Master is taken by grief," Lord Kamreon murmured defensively. "The loss of his ladywife has finally crept full into his heart. The Lord Moroveston is a strong chiera, one of noble bearing and purpose. Once the cloud of grief leaves your sight, you will once again be yourself. Those who fell today did so knowing full well what their House asked of them, and did so willingly. Some would say lovingly. Whether the Empire's retribution comes in a moon or in a hundred years, they will not avail." After a long moment, Lord Alisair nodded. "You are correct, my loyal Wolf. Our House will endure, yet it will do so without me. I have done well in teaching you all I could, and you have done your duty to learn what you must. I can go to Lisewynn knowing that my own legacy is in the best of care." Before any of his chevalier could object, Lord Alisair pulled back the simple sheet covering his torso. The other three chiera gave startled cries and balked at the sight before them. Beneath the linen bandage wrapped about his chest, and for a good hand span beyond, his pale flesh was ashen and as hard as polished stone. As the pureblood moved to adjust the sheet to once again conceal his wound, a jagged crack broke along the median of his abdomen like a frozen lightning stroke. A strange, distant smile slowly crawled onto Lord Alisair's face, and he cocked his head as if listening for something only he could hear. The chevalier looked amongst themselves helplessly, but made no move to disturb their Master. A frightful coughing fit gripped and shook the pureblood then, leaving him gasping weakly. Lady Naimya cooed to him as if he were a child in the grips of a nightmare, touching his brow tenderly until he calmed once more. Lord Alisair flinched once before relaxing against her touch, eyes drooping closed. He did not see Lord Baerlis nudge his fellow armsman and motion to the calcified flesh creeping like a tide up the elder chiera's chest. There was no sense in giving voice to what they already knew was fated to happen. "Ah, sweet Lisewynn," Lord Alisair hushed. "I should have taken more time to be with you. Would that I could sit with you in your solarium--our refuge--and gaze at the stars as we did when our love was young, your hand in mine. Such a simple pleasure, and one that I took for granted far too often." The storm overhead purred distantly as if to echo the pureblood's lament, and a strange look came over Lord Alisair. A cloudiness fell across his vision as the flesh of his cheeks began to turn to ash, but that smile did not slip in the slightest. Sighing against the effort he slowly stretched his hand towards the ceiling, skin cracking and flaking as he did. That sigh seemed to fill the attic and stretch out through the house, as if the whole of the manor respired with him, before dying away with a prickle of preternatural energy. It was Lord Kamreon's turn to gain his compatriot's attention, gesturing to the attic ceiling where the rafters were flickering like heat rising from desert stones. The rain, so long overdue and boiling in the heavens, began to fall like soft angel tears on the estate roof. Ghostly ripples formed on the wood of the roof like the surface of a spring pond where each drop struck, the color and texture of wood and tile melting away until only a single sheet of polished crystal sheltered them. A bolt of lightning slithered from horizon to horizon, filling the whole sky with sizzling purple arcs that coruscated through the translucent beams and braces before fading. The chevalier marveled at the sight of it all, the pain and loss of the day nearly forgotten, as the rain and wind painted playful patterns on the invisible surfaces with childlike abandon. Lord Alisair stirred faintly, closing his fingers around empty air. "My love, you came for me. I am coming home." Sweet ghostly music began to fill the air like a distant voice, a soothing mixture of sorrow and joy that teased across the ears and stirred the heart. Lord Alisair closed his eyes and hummed happily, arm frozen in the air by both will and stone, as that melody awakened memories of his ladywife within him. Despite the roiling storm and driving rain, a single and diaphanous shaft of soft moonlight slid through the clouds to caress the pureblood's brow and glint off of the single, crystal-clear tear before retreating behind the blanket of seething grey. Lord Alisair's lips quivered for a moment in the semblance of speech before a final sigh slipped free of his body to chase the moonlight into the aether. The ethereal music trembled once in commiseration before becoming a lower, soft dirge that reflected the mood of those remaining. Lady Naimya threw herself across the statuesque form of her Master and wept openly, the Lords Kamreon and Baerlis looking on in silent respect. Their fears at passing on into the cold arms of True Death with their Master were forgotten, replaced with the pang of the loss of so great a man. Time passed, but the chevalier did not move until the empyreal dirge had faded and the storm died to a dull roar. * * * * *
"Honor be damned, Kamreon!" Lord Baerlis snarled, bringing his fist down on the thick oak table at which he sat. "That serpent killed the Master, and nearly took our entire House with him. What's there to debate?" The chevalier had gathered in the wreckage of the ballroom in an attempt to bring their House to order once more. Servants paused fearfully at their work, making sure that they did not draw the Asgaari's rage before returning to their tasks. When word reached the halls that Lord Alisair had passed there had been much sorrow and confusion. To the credit of House Moroveston, the majority of the retainers returned to work with little to no fuss, choosing to honor their liegelord by working through their grief rather than giving in to it. Kamreon was glad for it, for there was much work to be done and he had too many things to think about. He stood before one of the large, broken windows with his arms folded across his chest, watching a few young men clearing the bodies from the front lawn. It was nasty work, but it had to be done. He was still dressed in the worn green doublet from the previous night, spattered with mud and worse. He stank of sweat and battle and death; they all did. A thousand thousand trivial things floated all about his mind like angry flies buzzing for his attention, but a darker concern lay before him to deal with: what to do with Vorigan Selimnar. The Fangbreaker was still in the strange manner of torpor they had found him in by the solarium, now hidden away in a dark corner of the underground stronghold that someone did not take revenge into their own hands until the chevalier were decided. Oh, they had stripped and bound him with heavy chains, but to have their Master's killer beneath their feet rankled Kamreon no end. Grumbling dejectedly under his breath, the Inachian turned. "This is less about honor and more about politics, and you know it, Baerlis." Kamreon ignored the other man's heated glare. "I've no stomach for letting our Master's... butcher live longer than I must, but we have the fate of our House to consider. These things need to be handled delicately and with great care." The Asgaari snorted. "You can take your delicacy and shove it in your vakd, Kamreon. We need to send a clear message to the Empire that our House can withstand whatever the Emperor can throw at us, that we won't back down from a fight. Maybe if we send Vorigan's body back to the Court one piece at a time--" "That could very well just piss the Emperor off, and then where will we be?" the Inachian snapped. Baerlis growled, but said nothing. Kamreon sighed and shook his head. "We need to be honest with ourselves, and each other: the Empire did not intend for our end. Think well on what we saw last night, brother, and you'll reach the same conclusion that I did. If the Empire, or His Dark Majesty, wanted House Moroveston wiped from the face of Enos, do you really believe we would have the luxury of this conversation? Well, do you?!" The larger chiera looked downright petulant as he gave his gauntlet an adjustment it did not need. "By Droa, the Empire wanted this. Why else would Vorigan been sent, if not for that?" "Politics," Kamreon repeated coldly. "Lord Alisair was correct in his assessment that chiera are predators. It's what we have been made to be, what we have allowed ourselves to become. We of the Empress do not long for days of yore to return to us, but much of the Empire does. I can see a shadowed wisdom in allowing the events of last night to occur. The Emperor's Legacy is a tight leash that many do not believe we chiera should be on any longer, that our time has come to step from the shadows and assert our 'rightful place' in the world. Vorigan, and much of House Selimnar, falls into that category. Whether we would like admit it or not, House Selimnar is a rather potent military power... which the Empire needs to keep the other Houses in line. Vorigan challenged Lord Alisair because our Master was a threat to his power, a strong voice against Selimnar's agenda and one that the Empire listened to. Claiming that our House was rife with Insurrectionists was just an excuse to move openly against us. It does not violate the Legacy for one House to move against another, so long as it does so with the Empire's sanction. We are not a large House, nor are we an openly strong power. We have kept to ourselves under Lord Alisair's direction, and that has worked both for and against us: we have not been enough of a threat to anyone's power as to invoke a confrontation, but we also do not have enough strength to intimidate rivals into staying their hand. It was a calculated move on the Empire's behalf to let their dogs have a bone--for lack of better term--than to risk them turning." "Trimming the tree? Phaw, but what did Lord Alisair or our House do to the Empire to ruffle enough feathers for this level of bloodshed?" Baerlis sighed. "Not that a madman like the Fangbreaker needs much provocation, but... Droa's tits, the beast needs to be put down!" Kamreon sighed and frowned out the window once more, ignoring the Asgaari's continued and disgruntled grumblings. His mind turned their dilemma over and over, but no satisfactory answer shook free. If they simply killed Vorigan, there was just as much possibility his House would seek retribution as back down out of wariness. If they made an example of the Fangbreaker more than just House Selimnar might have bristled at the affront, though such an act was more in keeping with Imperial habit and not Insurrectionist proclivities. Detaining the chiera was simply out of the question; Vorigan was like a viper in the hand, as apt at biting your wrist when you weren't looking as wriggling free. Letting him walk free was just as impossible because it would be a sign of weakness to the Empire, and it was more than reasonable that the Court would push the Fangbreaker to finish what he started--and likely with help. Not to mention that it would echo angrily in the halls of House Moroveston, turning their Master's killer free without so much as a thrashing. Time was running out for them to come to a decision, and Kamreon knew it. Word of what happened here would get back to the Empire, and the chevalier needed to control the situation as much as they could. Perhaps another visit to Vorigan's cell... " Fen mudao shi san bau," he sighed. It was an old Inachian proverb from an even older story, one that his father had told him many times when he was entering manhood. In the story, a man had managed to hunt down a wily tiger that snuck into the man's village at night to devour children. The man had not wanted to go, but there were no other hunters in the village. After many morally-driven encounters the man cornered the tiger in a cave, grappling the beast until it was cornered with its tail in his grasp. The final moral of the story was that there were times you had an angry tiger by the tail, a harsh situation that needed to be resolved with no apparent positive outcome. In the story the man released the tiger that he might reach for his hunting knife, trading fatal blows with the beast when it rounded and mauled him. The village was saved, but both hunter and tiger paid for that peace with their lives. It was a story of honor and duty that all men must eventually face, one of stoic acceptance no matter the cost or outcome. Of course the man was honored by his ancestors in the afterlife, but that was little comfort to Kamreon at this point. " Muo tzuji-na, but I'd rather not feel the tiger's claws at all." The chevalier could almost feel Baerlis' glare in the back of his skull. "What are you going on about, Ina-man?" "Perhaps there is, yes, another way," Naimya interjected as Kamreon bristled at the derogatory term, turning his hot retort into a curious look. "If there would be no, ah, objections from my fellow, hmm, chevalier I would like the opportunity to speak with our guest." Kamreon's eyebrow climbed. "To what end?" "I believe I may be able to persuade Vorigan Selimnar, ah, to give over any thoughts of revenge." The petite woman ignored Asgaardi guffaws. "If I am successful, I believe I may be able to, hmm, safeguard our House from Imperial retribution." Kamreon sighed heavily as Baerlis nearly fell out of his chair with incredulous laughter. Naimya, however, stood her ground and kept her stare with him level. He could see a strange form of determination in those violet orbs, but there was something else in her gaze that made him consider her request. It was akin to the stern resignation he found deep within his own heart, an acceptance of what was to come no matter how bitter it might have been. She was strangely confident in whatever she had in mind, though that subtle twist in her lip made him believe she was not looking forward to it. That stood to reason, since every visit to Vorigan's cell was a violent reminder that Lord Alisiar was no more. Thirteen childer and no less than twenty-six thralls had slipped into the grasping arms of True Death since the pureblood's passing, too weak or too new in the Blood to withstand the metaphysical backlash of a powerful end. The chevalier were silently thankful that Lord Alisair had passed in relative peace, easing from unlife to death like the setting of a pale moon, his connection to his House waning slowly with him. Naimya had the hardest time amongst all the chevalier, perhaps because she was the eldest of Lord Alisair's childer or the fact that she had been Taken so young. If this Ibanti tzin-hao wants to face Vorigan and give him a stern scolding, Kamreon chuckled to himself, who am I to say no?The men followed Naimya down into the catacombs at a sedate pace, Kamreon ignoring the other chiera's attempts to strike up small talk as they walked. Naimya would offer a nod or sigh once in a while in response, but it was clear that she wanted to be left alone with her thoughts. Kamreon could understand all too well. There was simply too much to consider to give over to trivial musings or gallows jokes. Yet the Inachian felt a twinge of guilt as he caught a glance of Baerlis' face from the corner of his eye. The Asgaari, so jovial and passionate, strode through the twisting halls with a slight droop to his armored shoulders. It was faint, but Kamreon had known him far too long to have missed it. Each of them was coping with the loss of Lord Alisair in their own way. Kamreon threw himself into the puzzles of the aftermath, the tactics of moves and countermoves. Naimya chose to grapple with it fully, speaking and acting only when she had something meaningful to say and remaining distant the rest of the time. Baerlis was fighting it on two fronts, it seemed: both inside and out, with only his peculiar brand of humor as his weapon. It was a bit annoying at times, but Kamreon chided himself for allowing his brother-in-arms to battle that fugue on his own. As they rounded a corner, Kamreon balled his fist and punched the other man's shoulder. Baerlis paused with startled confusion, then roared with laughter so loud it echoed back to them from the hall ahead. The chevalier saluted Sir Angelo and his men as they came to Vorigan's cell door. Angelo saluted crisply in return before unlocking the heavy cell door and pushing it open for the elder chiera. The torchlight would not enter the small chamber as the three highbloods filed in, as if it did not want anything more to do with their prisoner than they did. Once the door was again sealed behind them, veskr was invoked to pierce the darkness absolute. The still form of Vorigan lay where they had left him, propped in one corner with his legs and arms bound with intricately-arranged thick chains. His hair spilled down his face like a matted curtain, barely hiding the baleful stare Vorigan gave them as they entered. Whatever had gripped him in his duel with Lord Alisair kept him immobile and in pain, though he could neither move nor scream his agony. Good, Kamreon thought, let him suffer greatly and quietly. The strange form of torpor the Fangbreaker now found himself in was a curious thing indeed, and one the chevalier wished he had more time to study. There was nothing wrong with Vorigan physically, nor was he under the grips of any blood magick he was familiar with. It was as if his mind had been overcome to such a degree that he could no longer function. "All right, girlie," Baerlis drawled, "what's this idea of yours?" Naimya crouched before the Fangbreaker and grasped his head between her slender hands, moving it from side to side carefully while studying it. She took great care to look at his eyes, though Kamreon had to admit he tensed when she did so. Some chiera were able to hold others with just their gaze, a form of hypnotism that made their victim more susceptible to manipulations by Masteries. It was hardly likely that Vorigan could do anything with just a look other than hold her for a time, but Kamreon was not about to risk anything foolishly. As he had stripped the highblood, Kamreon had discovered a Rune--calcified magick from ancient days when Enos was new and magick was as commonplace as paper--bound to the chiera's chest. Runes were exceedingly rare in this day and age, and desperately sought-after, so either Vorigan had incredible resources or had an even more powerful benefactor. It was still unclear which Kingdom to which the Rune belonged, but its power had been enough to shield the highblood from Lord Alisair's veskyr. Naimya's hand passed over the spot where the Rune lay, a palm-sized symbol as pale as a birthmark that could be mistaken for a tattoo if it did not writhe at her touch, but she seemed loathe to linger. Kamreon blinked when the woman pried Vorigan's mouth open and seemed intent on climbing in, but did not say anything. Baerlis met his gaze with a confused look of his own. Naimya had always been a curious sort, but this was... different, even for her. Finally she nodded to herself and stood. "I will, yes, have your word that you will not interfere," she said coolly, staring at Kamreon hard enough that he felt the urge to back up a step. If it were not for the confined space, he might have for the gravity of that look. That sober and focused look. Even on her most lucid day, Naimya had never managed to look at him--no, into him--as she was now, always past him as if he didn't exist. "Your word, Kamreon Moroveston, as a man of honor." Oddly enough, he found himself nodding. There was no real rhyme or reason to his agreement beyond the fact that she had seem so very convicted about whatever she had in mind. He trusted her, too. The Ibanti woman had been flighty to say the least since he had joined Lord Alisair's House. Still, she had never even unintentionally jeopardized anyone, had kept the House in mind at all times. The Master would not have chosen her as chevalier otherwise, and that was an even better reason to agree. Lord Alisair had taught Kamreon the true meaning of patience and wisdom, sometimes taking decades before acting on an idea. Some had named him paranoid, but Kamreon had also seen him act on instinct in a crisis to decisive effect. It was something the Inachian had aspired to once he had mastered his Longing. Kamreon's mortal father had been an excellent teacher in patience when the two would play iko every morning before breakfast, and yet because of a finite existence that education had been limited in its scope. Yet even a chieran life had its limits. The chevalier found himself realizing that he had developed a childish notion of Lord Alisair over the years, that the pureblood was truly immortal and untouchable. Vorigan Selimnar had burst that bubble, added another harsh lesson to his extensive education. In his secret heart, Kamreon was as grateful to the Fangbreaker as much as he hated him. Perspective, his Master had said, is something to strive for, whether from ally or enemy. Ignorance serves no one but your opponent, so always be mindful for the opportunity to see through fresh eyes.
"For the love of Droa, woman, give over!" Baerlis barked, jarring Kamreon from his dark thoughts. He had to choke back a laugh because Naimya had the bigger man backed into a corner with her glare alone and looking as if he wanted to crawl up the wall backwards to escape. "Bloody hells, aye, I'll let you do as you will. Mark me well, though, if that gveltstak so much as twitches in a way I don't like, I'll fillet him without a thought." Naimya nodded and snatched the Asgaari's knife from his belt before turning and marching back towards Vorigan. Baerlis made a grab for her, but Kamreon crossed the space with a breath of veskyr and put a hand to his chest. Such a gesture wouldn't have truly stopped him, but the celerity of the action was enough to give Baerlis pause. Whatever the woman was up to, both of the other chevalier had given their word. They were bound, for good or for ill. Naimya crouched and cradled the back of Vorigan's head with one delicate hand and hefted the thin blade in the other. Her head turned this way and that, a shrike studying a lizard from the thorns, spilling her curls across her shoulders like a veil. There was a palpable tension mounting in the air, a hard set to her shoulders, as if Naimya was steadying herself within as much as without. The dagger drifted away from her body, hand poising it just-so in a reverse grip, but beyond that she did not move. Time passed and the silence became almost deafening as each of the chevalier in the cell braced themselves for what was about to come. Vorigan's eyes danced between the blade and Naimya's face, vibrating with a curious mixture of intrigue and concern, but whatever force held him did not relent enough to allow him any defense. Baerlis grunted, breaking the silence like a thunderclap. "I'm impressed. The lass seems intent on throating him. Can't say I disapprove." Before Kamreon could grace the larger man with a scathing retort, Naimya struck. It all happened so fast that time seemed to hang in a breathless instant of horror. The dagger flashed brightly in their chieran sight before she dropped it to the floor with a clatter, a spray of dark blood painted the Fangbreaker's face for a brief instant. The Inachian felt Baerlis lunge to stop her, but his shock and confusion pinned the Asgaari in place with preternatural strength. Naimya let out a choked gurgle before seizing Vorigan's hair with her free hand and bringing her lips to his in some kind of morbid kiss. Her back convulsed and surged in wracking spasms, a harsh and disquieting sound ringing throughout the cell with each heave. Retching, that's what it was. She was sicking up as if she would purge her whole being. Kamreon's brain screamed at him to act, to stop her now before she could accomplish her fell and foolish idea, but he simply could not act. Baerlis scrabbled to get past him, roars of outrage ringing hollow in the chevalier's ears. In the tumult, the Inachian thought it a curious and amusing thing to see Vorigan's foot twitch and jerk. Curious that Naimya should choose to embrace the Fangbreaker thusly if she was sicking up... "You yellow-skinned half-wit, let me go before I break your arms!" Baerlis' fist connected with Kamreon's gut, bringing his attention full into the moment. "That gvelstak is in her head somehow, and she's feeding him! If he gets enough of her blood, he could break free!" "No." Kamreon's voice was a harsh whisper as he held the other chevalier more firmly against the wall. "No, that's... that's not it. We swore, Baerlis. We swore we wouldn't interfere." The Asgaari struck at him, but it was easy for Kamreon to shift his weight to let it glance harmlessly off his jaw without losing control of the man. "You son of a motherless whore, we swore not to interfere with her. If you're wrong and he's got her in his thrall, I'll put you both down! Lord Alisair didn't die so this bastard could slaughter us all. Now let... me... go!" Realization came to Kamreon in a cold flash that made him shudder down to his feet. Baerlis was wrong. Somehow, he knew it as surely as he knew his own name. Vorigan might have been able to transfix Naimya with his gaze for a short time, but they were all of Lord Alisair's direct line. Unless the highblood had been sired by another pureblood, the Fangbreaker would not have been able to roll her mind easily, if at all. It was one of the perks of having a Master as ancient as Lord Alisair Moroveston. Even taking the Rune into account--a Rune that seemed designed to protect Vorigan--there was simply no way that Selimnar would have been able to use his Mastery while in a torporic state. No, Naimya was feeding him on her own. She was feeding him in such great, wracking and brutal heaves that it seemed she was intent on pouring every last drop of herself into him. And Kamreon knew in his darkest heart that it was exactly what she intended to do. There was only one way that the Ibanti woman could have guaranteed the safety of their House with such certainty. Naimya intended to make a thrall of Vorigan Selimnar. There was no other conclusion, repulsive as it was to consider. It was also madness, pure and simple. The Rune had protected Vorigan from Lord Alisair's power and from an oaken piano leg through his chest. If Naimya was acting rashly and without great consideration, she would both lose her life and empower their enemy. Kamreon had only read a handful of accounts where one chiera was able to use their veskyr to influence another, and over the course of moons with the barest of results. Mortal thralls could be bound within the space of a moon, a fortnight if the feeding chiera were old enough and the diet was constant. There was no way to know which of the pair was the elder, though it was a reasonable guess that Naimya had more nights under her proverbial belt than not. It had been obvious from the start that Vorigan bore the Empire's blessing, if not the Emperor's personal graces. Why the Ibanti woman thought she could force-feed Vorigan her blood he could not understand. It was not as though she were a... "Baerlis," Kamreon snapped, disengaging from the man and rounding on the little chevalier, "help me get her off of him!" The other man blinked at him as if poleaxed. "Wh-what?! You want me to protect him from her? Have you--?" "You fool, just do it! She's a Blood Dancer!" Without waiting for the Asgaari's response, Kamreon crossed the small space and wrapped his arms about Naimya's slender frame. As soon as she felt his presence her entire body tensed, arms and legs slithering about Vorigan's body as a serpent would lock on a mouse. Try as the Inachian might, he could not break her hold on him. It was a disconcerting feeling, her entire frame wracked with shuddering heaves as she struggled to pour herself into the highblood before either of them could stop her. Baerlis joined him after a moment of stunned consideration, pulling at her limbs awkwardly like a confused child trying to break up a dog fight. Kamreon was secretly amused by the whole ordeal despite the desperate nature of the struggle. Vorigan's eyes peered at him from a ragdoll body, helpless and genuinely frightened. Naimya, small but bolstered by both chieran strength and conviction in her course, might as well have been made of iron for her pliability. Both Baerlis and himself were nearly as helpless against her as had they been mortal, muscles as impotent as their egos. Kamreon did not give up in the slightest, flooding his body with as much veskr as he knew was safe for both Naimya and himself. It didn't avail him a whit. There was nothing he could do, and his knowledge of both the Ibanti woman and Blood Dancing were both lacking to a fault. That was, perhaps, the worst of it: she had fooled them all into thinking her normal. Had she fooled Lord Alisair as well? Such a concept did not bear much consideration. A final gurgling sigh escaped the frenzied press of lips between Naimya and Vorigan before the small woman went bonelessly limp. So sudden was the loss of her strength that both Baerlis and Kamreon tumbled backwards into a sprawling heap, the Ibanti woman's frame cradled almost delicately between them. Both men scrambled to disengage from the tangle of arms and legs, Kamreon's hands moving to inspect Naimya while Baerlis lunged to secure the Fangbreaker. Naimya's eyes were flat pools of violet drifting listlessly in their sockets and the Inachian could not sense her preternatural energies in the least. Probing with ghostly tendrils of veskr, he breathed a soft sigh of relief when there was the barest pulse from her in reply. True Death had not claimed her, but neither was she locked in torpor. It was a curious sensation to consider, one that his mind could not grasp fully. Naimya was not dead, but whatever made her chiera was not there either. Pushing the thought aside, he checked her body over for the wound where the blade had struck. There was only a faint splash of vitae down her bodice from where their wrestling had broken the contact during her purge. After a moment of thought, he pried her lips and peered into her mouth. Kamreon's heart fell and he sagged against the cell wall. Naimya had driven the dagger into her mouth to nearly shred her throat. Kamreon's mind trembled at the thought of the damage as his fingers fumbled to shut her jaw once more. To her credit, Naimya's strike had been a wise one. There were certainly better spots on her body that would have guaranteed a greater flow of blood, but none would have made for easy delivery. It had been quick and effective, if not painless. Kamreon shook his head and carefully laid Naimya on the cold stone floor, then turned to Baerlis. The Asgaari shrugged, setting the Fangbreaker against the wall. "What happened?" Baerlis' hushed, as if his voice would bring about an unspeakable reality. Kamreon shook his head sadly. "I'm... not sure. What I do know is that she's gone." "What are you talking about, Ina-man? She's right there?" Baerlis gestured curtly as if the other chevalier were somehow blind. "I can feel her as surely as I can sense you and this... gvelstak here." " I don't know," Kamreon barked. The door to the cell jerked open and Sir Angelo poked his head in, sword halfway from its sheath. The Inachian's icy stare seemed to be enough to satisfy him despite Naimya's body tucked against the wall, and the door shut once more. "Whatever makes us chiera is here in this room, but whatever makes Naimya who she is, is not. I... I don't know how much better to explain it than that." Kamreon tensed as Vorigan shifted and croaked a grunt, like a man who hadn't had a kiss of water in ages. The two chevalier stared long and hard at the Fangbreaker before relaxing slightly. Another hoarse utterance made Baerlis hiss in alarm and step away from the Imperial, hand dropping to his sword hilt. Kamreon shifted his weight slightly and scooped up the dagger that Naimya had dropped, staring fixedly at their prisoner's chest. Whatever had gripped him before was obviously wearing off, and the two chevalier needed to be ready. There was too much about Selimnar that they simply did not know, and ignorance was death amongst the chiera. Vorigan's head lolled weakly, chin coming to rest on his chest, but his eyes never left Kamreon's face. Eyes that held so much pain and confusion, but most of all anger. Rage. There was so much fury in that simple look, the chevalier might have burst into flame from it. Vorigan blinked once as if trying to focus, and then his eyes softened. It wasn't much, a raging inferno dying down to a wildfire, but that hairsbreadth allowed Kamreon to breath just a bit easier. The Fangbreaker swallowed hard, and his lips moved ever so slightly. It took a moment for Kamreon to understand the simple word, for it to filter through all that had happened in the last night and all that needed to happen. "Here." Baerlis scoffed and made a show of setting his feet into a better position for a clean draw of his blade. "That's right, you sniveling piece of horse shite. You're here, locked up tighter than a priest's arse and going nowhere anytime soon. Unless, of course, it's in a box." Kamreon shot him a look, but the larger man pointedly ignored it. His ire wasn't completely unfounded, but considering the dangerous and precarious situation in which House Moroveston had found itself, it wasn't helping. Vorigan looked so disoriented with his head swaying as if his neck was too weak to hold it properly, eyes half-lidded and barely focused. If Kamreon had thought it even remotely possible, he would have sworn that the Fangbreaker was drunk. Silence grew thick in the cell as their prisoner twitched faintly and looked about, silence only broken by the odd smacking of Vorigan's lips. Kamreon couldn't decide if he was attempting to talk again, or just making an inane noise for the fun of it. What game was he playing at? The Inachian was completely baffled, too many questions and not enough answers. It was almost too overwhelming. Vorigan Selimnar, hated enemy and taker of lives, was their prisoner and needed dealing with. His House was in complete disarray. Naimya was in some transient state that he could not begin to understand. Lord Alisair was... There was just too much, too soon. "Well, Ina-man?" Baerlis growled at his shoulder. "What are we going to do with him? Well, what are you going to do with him, hmm? By Droa, I know what I'd do with him, but that's not to your liking. So here we are, then." Kamreon shook his head, words flying from his lips in a rush. "I wish I knew. I-I always looked to Lord Alisair to lead us in the affairs of the House. I suppose I never expected him to ever be... gone! It's a foolish notion, but there it is. I should have known better, prepared better, than this. I took him for granted, his presence and his power. Now he's dead--yes, I said it: dead!--and I feel like an orphan on the streets. I want Vorigan to pay perhaps even more vehemently than you, Baerlis, but we have to think of what's best for the House. Whatever that silly girl was playing at obviously failed, and now Naimya's no better than our Master. I just need more time to--" "I didn't fail." Kamreon blinked his surprise, then fixed his befuddled expression on Vorigan. Vorigan, who was sitting upright and staring back at him. Not with any measure of defiance or superiority, as Kamreon would have expected, but with a glimpse of what he had seen earlier. No, even that anger and confusion was banking down to something else as he watched. Resignation? There was a touch of softness about the Fangbreaker's manner now, a stone shrouded in silk. The look reminded him of when his father had taken him into the Jade Courtyard for the celebration of Empress Miaosu's ascendance to the Immortal Throne. There, all the wonders and delicacies of Inach had been brought for the Empress' approval. One such wonder was an streak of domesticated albino tigers, staring lazily at the milling crowds from their raised painted platform. In an attempt to show his father how brave a son he could be, young Kamreon had slipped away to face one of those great beasts. His whole body had sung with the danger of it, but as he drew closer to one of the larger cats it had ebbed away. Both his schooling and instincts knew that the white tiger staring at him could have torn him to shreds before anyone could have stopped it. Looking into its pale blue eyes, however, there was something empty in them. Training and domestication had stripped away its nature. There was no doubt that it could still become the predator it had been born to be at-need, but it was no longer the tiger's way. Somehow even that young, Kamreon had understood that look. That was the look Vorigan Selimnar gave him now. The tiger had somehow been tamed. "Tch, you have a loose grasp on reality if that's your view," Baerlis grunted, a sliver of steel sliding from his scabbard. "You may have done your damage, but I wouldn't call your assault being routed a huge success." Vorigan stared back blankly, as still as the heart of night before shrugging. "As much as the two of you would be loathe to agree with my methods, I have fulfilled my promise: House Selimnar will not be a bother to House Moroveston any longer. Thank you for not interfering, hard as it might have been." "H-he's lost it, Kamreon." The Asgaari's voice was hoarse with disbelief. "Or, do you think...?" Kamreon shook his head, studying Vorigan intently. "There's no way to know for certain, unless he--she?--can provide assurances." "I cannot imagine what it must be like for the two of you, coming to grips with this." Vorigan shifted against the wall a bit, as if trying to find a more comfortable position and failing. "Sweet shadow, how you men can manage a sedentary position with awkward dangling bits, I cannot fathom. Still, for the sake of our House I shall adapt. Ahem, well..." "Will someone take one bloody minute and explain to me what the veth is going on?" Baerlis' eyes darted from Vorigan to Kamreon and back, as if both had somehow sprouted horns and began speaking in tongues. The Inachian absently waved away his compatriot. "If you would have us believe you, then I think some proof is necessary." It started slowly and hesitantly. Both chevalier took turns asking questions that they assumed only a member of House Moroveston would know the answers to. Some were pointed and aimed at misdirection, while others were almost flippant and humorous. Vorigan listened to each patiently and replied without much thought, each answer correct to a fault. Kamreon could not decide whether or not he wanted his curiosity to be sated. Both outcomes were nigh unfathomable, represented radical changes to everything he had come to understand about chieran society and his own House. If Naimya had somehow managed to successfully possess Vorigan, his entire impression of the small woman would be shaken. If Vorigan had gained both strength and knowledge from Naimya's blood, it would be yet another blow to the security of his House. Kamreon's mouth twisted up as if he had bitten into something sour at the thought that the whole interrogation could very well be useless. It would all boil down to trusting in Vorigan Selimnar, and that thought made him want to spit. The chevalier fell silent, lost in thought, while Baerlis continued to attempting to stump their prisoner. Curious, though, was the fact that Kamreon found himself asking himself more frequently if it were possible that Naimya succeeded, not because Vorigan knew so much about House Moroveston but the awkward lack of knowledge. It was a true battle of wits, move and countermove. The most dire aspect of the conflict was not the one without, but the one between the chevalier and their doubts. Time crept on and the subtle ebb in his bones told Kamreon that the moon was beginning to wane. He did not want to consider how many nights it would take of this before both chevalier were satisfied. If they could be satisfied. Baerlis grunted and folded his arms across his chest. "Well, I'm about out of ideas, Ina-man. Light burn me, but I'm not convinced either way." "Nor I." Kamreon sounded a great deal calmer than he found, almost composed. Inside he raged for an answer. "A true testament to the lives we as chiera lead. As resourceful as House Selimnar has proven itself to be, every answer could have very well been bought with coin or ferreted out with spies. Unless our guest can give us some irrefutable evidence, I can think of no alternative but to err on the side of caution: for the safety of our House, Vorigan will have to die. Whatever the consequences, that is the safest recourse. Too many sacrifices have been made to secure this opportunity. Despite the fact that I think it will mean more open war for us, the tiger must be put down." The Asgaari nodded solemnly, looking as if he had something to add but opting to remain silent. "No easy path, this," Vorigan murmured, shaking his head slowly. "Lord Alisair did us a great service in shielding we chevalier from the worst the Empire had to offer. It could also be said he did his work too well, that he was a protective father and sheltered us. Now, without him, we lack direction." Baerlis spat. "You have no idea of what you speak of, gvelstak. Until we're thoroughly convinced, you'll stuff any comments about our Master, understand?" "I understand. I've been wracking my mind for a solution to all our issues, though admittedly there are some that only time can deal with. As loathe to think about as it might be for the two of you, have you considered that you may not want to be convinced?" Vorigan paused just long enough to see the look of stunned disbelief and chagrin flicker across their faces. "Someone has to pay for the death of Lord Alisair, and the man you see before you is the only option available. You cannot strike against the Empire, not without dragging House Moroveston into a civil war that it cannot win. You cannot call the Emperor to task, or the Court, without earning a death that will serve no one. The rest of House Selimnar is either dead or beyond your grasp, beyond your wrath. Your only recourse for revenge is the one man you captured. If you do decide to execute me in the name of justice, can you say it was truly just? Will my sacrifice have been for naught because you could not be honest with yourselves?" Baerlis growled and pulled his blade free with bloodlust in his eyes, but Kamreon stepped coolly into his killing path. " Enough!" "Get out of my way, you yellow-skinned whoreson." The Asgaari clenched the hilt of his sword tightly, veskyr building in him enough that his eyes burned like embers. "I've heard enough of this bastard's mouth, so I'll do what you can't." Kamreon snarled, canines like daggers between peeled lips. "You've no idea what I'm capable of, barbarian! She's right, this is about revenge. You may not be able to see past your own blade, but I can." "Oh ho ho, so it's 'she' now, eh? And only a moment ago you weren't any more certain as I was. Yet in the space of two breaths, you're convinced that this back-stabbing shite monger is our Naimya?!" "Yes!" Kamreon spat, then shook his head sharply. "No. I don't know, but I'll be damned if I don't make certain. If you're right and the man here is our enemy, then he deserves to die for what he did. But if you're wrong, and this is our blood-sister, could you live with yourself for not giving her every chance to prove herself?" Vorigan cleared his throat, drawing the attention of both men. If wrath could truly manifest, the cell would have been a furnace for the heat of it. Kamreon locked his eyes with Baerlis, veskyr seething just beneath his cracking control. The larger man could have bested him in martial combat, but Kamreon had the upper hand in the arena of mental Mastery. It would have been a dirty trick to say the least, but the Inachian was full prepared to Command Baerlis to back down. To his credit, the Asgaari did not avert his gaze. Yet nor did he advance, and that gave Kamreon enough security to cast a glance over his shoulder. "If you intend to prove yourself, Naimya, perhaps you should take a different tact. My first full summer with our House, once the Longing had left me, you came to check on me. What was I doing?" Vorigan's answer was careful and calm. "Praying." "Oh, hells, everyone knows that Kamreon's got more love for the Goddess than ten chiera," Baerlis guffawed darkly, blade held as still as death. Kamreon could hear the soft whisper of chains as the Fangbreaker shook his head. "He wasn't praying to Droa, and he isn't as devout as he would have you believe. He was praying to his ancestors in the manner of his people, something he hasn't given up no matter what. It is true that amongst the gods the Goddess has his devotion, but She is not to whom he directs his thoughts in times of great confusion." A moment of long silence passed before Baerlis lowered his blade, amused shock writ large upon his face. "Well, bugger me twice and call me a sheep. Is that true, Ina-man? Sweet Darkness, it is! I had no idea a chiera could blush, but there it is. Hmm, you now have my attention, gvelstak. But what could you say of me that will assure me you're our little Naimya that no one else could know?" "Every spring, when the first frost begins to thaw, you take the hunting knife given to you by your father on your day of manhood and play Shave the Bear." There was a lilt of suppressed amusement, and Kamreon arched a brow. "Phaw, again, something everyone knows." Baerlis made a dismissive gesture with one hand. "Nothing like wrestling a cranky bear to remind a man that he's alive... even if he isn't." "Especially if that man is slathered in lard and stripped down to naught but--?" "Ho, now!" Baerlis roared, somehow managing to bring some color to his ears. "I-it's tradition, that, something you outlanders just wouldn't understand. All perfectly normal amongst enlightened Asgaari."
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Post by Jashin on Aug 10, 2015 17:17:49 GMT
EPILOGUE: FULL CIRCLE The ocean roared against the cliff side far beneath Kamreon's dangling boots, sending curtains of seething foam rushing up the rocks before they broke apart and returned to the churning waters below. Thunder purred far overhead as the last of the savage thunderstorm's strength faded, the chevalier's heavy sigh echoing the dark clouds overhead. Errant zephyrs tugged at his cloak and doublet like playful children before rustling furrows in the tall grass of the field at his back as they raced away. Kamreon's dull gaze was fixed on the horizon where a sliver of moonlight had managed to force itself through the heavy blanket, offering faint hope of brighter nights in the near future. Kamreon didn't much feel it, however. Normally the view from the cliffs helped him to clear his head, the wind carrying away his dark thoughts and the sights making his problems seem smaller somehow. Tonight, however, he was the one who felt small. His thoughts were too heavy to be borne aloft by the gusts pressing against his body. The roar of the waves and howl of the winds only served to remind him of the torment in his own heart, the disquiet in his mind. Although he had long since given up the need to breathe, his chest heaved another sigh.
It had been three full days and nights since Naimya--No, it was Vorigan now. He must always remember that--since Vorigan had left the dilapidated remnants of the manor to return to the Empire. It had taken many hours of strained conversation before the chevalier had truly become convinced enough to decide to let the Fangbreaker free. Selimnar had been exceedingly patient while Kamreon and Baerlis worked at how to smuggle him from the dungeons, and on how to proceed from there. Sir Angelo took some convincing himself, but eventually relented. From then, it had been a simple manner to move Vorigan to another, more comfortable part of the manor during a change in the guard. All agreed that it was best for the moment that House Moroveston consider Vorigan Selimnar well-contained in their dungeons; once the raw enmity of House Moroveston's defeat had faded and the mere mention of Lord Alisair's demise did not bring bile to throats, the chevalier and their conspirators would orchestrate an "escape." By that time, Vorigan would be safely away from any hot-blooded neonates. It was still a difficult concept, to associate the Fangbreaker with the fondness he felt for Naimya. Rage against the man churned against the familial love for the girl as the ocean crashed against the cliffs.
Perhaps that is why I can't find comfort here, he mused, a faint smile tickling the corner of his lips. I have found a reflection, not a distraction.
A silver glint winked at Kamreon from his lap, and the whisper of mirth vanished like a bubble on a pin. His gloved hand shifted ever so slightly, and the gleam faded. Kamreon did not need to look down to be reminded of the weight of Lord Alisair's longsword resting in his lap, or what it meant for him now: he was Alisair's successor as Master of the House of Moroveston. Vorigan had pushed for it the night of his departure, and the other chevalier had relented. In all honesty, Kamreon had expected more of a fight from Baerlis than the larger man had given. The Asgaari was a natural leader of men, and Kamreon would have been sorely tempted to agree had the other argued for the position. But no, contrary to custom and pride Baerlis had simply agreed that the Inachian was the best choice. Vorigan looked lost in thought for most of their conversation, speaking distractedly when spoken to but otherwise remaining silent. Kamreon could scarce begin to empathize what turmoil the chieran was facing, both morally and mentally. More than once, Selimnar looked poised on the edge of saying something when the conversation would turn to Lord Alisair or their House, but he would bite the corner of his lip and turn away. The only thing Vorigan had ever said with conviction and clarity had been just after the discussion of succession, and it had been cryptic at best.
"Speak with Sir Angelo and ask him about the Stone," he had said firmly. There was a touch of awe in his voice. "As the lord of the House, you must meet with her."
When Kamreon had tried to push for an explanation, Vorigan's impish grin was so like Naimya that he found himself wanting to knuckle the Fangbreaker's brow as he had done to the girl since joining House Moroveston. That frozen moment of camaraderie hung in his mind even now when all he wanted to do was forget. Vorigan had left without much ceremony to either of the remaining chevalier, and that was perhaps for the best. Kamreon remembered following the chieran's advice, however, and descended into the catacombs at his first convenience. Sir Angelo hadn't given the chevalier's--no, he needed to think of himself as a lord now==he hadn't given his liegelord's request to view the Heartstone a second thought, muttering something about being glad to be rid of the key once it had fallen against Kamreon's palm. The Inachian had held no expectations of what he would behold, and still he found himself awed by the sight of the cradled slab of dveskryn in the gloam of the chamber. He could feel the weight of history bear down upon him as he closed the distance to the tangled nest. It was as if every Moroveston since the forging of the line was evaluating his worth. Kamreon's resolve almost gave that he might retreat, but there was a House that was depending on him. Lord Alisair's legacy had to live on in him.
Kamreon shuddered against the wind as if cold, drawing his cloak more tightly about his shoulders. His thumb and forefinger rubbed together absently as he recalled the slick texture of the stone beneath his touch, warm and thick. The Heartstone seemed to shift as his fingertips came to rest upon it, and an even more disconcerting sensation washed over him. He could not have described it in a thousand years, not with all the world's knowledge and language. He had felt more solid, more sure, though his heart lurched and tumbled. An eerie and disjointed comfort, perhaps. He could have slept for an ageless eternity and yet there was such strength that boiled up from beneath his boots. The chamber was empty save for Baerlis and Angelo waiting at the door, but there was something swirling about him with such a force that he could almost reach out and touch it. It coiled about him like a serpent ensnaring a mouse, its ancient weight growing tighter and tighter until he could not breathe. He had to move, to get away from that power, but it cradled him in suffocating safety of a mother's death grip. So familiar and foreign, so powerful, was that sensation that he found himself sprawled on the floor of the chamber and gasping for breath. Though his arms and legs would not answer his need to move, his fingertips still touched the surface of the Heartstone where he had laid them. Kamreon's gloved hand fell away with everyday ease, but he felt as if he had wrestled it free of a titan's grip.
Even now, so far from the manor, he could feel that alien presence like moonlight on his shoulders. The apprehension and fear he had first felt was gone now. The manor was his home now far more than a place of brick and mortar. It was his sanctuary and his solitude, his strength. For the first time since Lord Alisair's death, Kamreon felt a bit of calm amidst the tossed seas of duty and obligation. There was so much to do in the coming weeks and months to set House Moroveston to rights again, but whatever he had felt in the catacombs with the Heartstone had melted away into a sense of purpose and focus. Kamreon closed his eyes and stretched out his senses inward rather than outward, and the world fell away. The ground beneath him was gone, and the sky above peeled away until there was only darkness in his mind. Here and there he could feel the lifeforce of his own childer, a few dull embers on the horizon of his conscious thought. Something else was beginning to unfold in that darkness just beyond his comprehension. Straining, he tried to push aside the umbral curtain to see what was beyond, but his mental fingers could not move the shadows. A smile prickled his lips as his touch on that darkness made eddies upon the surface, ripples along which whispers of something burned. Starlight, he thought idly. Starlight behind the clouds.
At that thought, Kamreon opened his eyes and heaved a sigh. "What is it, Sir Baerlis?"
"By Droa, Ina-man," a gruff voice grumbled from behind him, "you've ears that would make a cat jealous. I thought you'd like to know that our craftsmen have finished the repairs to the eastern wing. We can start bringing some of the families back up from the catacombs tomorrow. I'm sure that will help morale a bit."
Kamreon nodded faintly. "Good. That's very good."
"Good?" the Asgaari snorted. "That's bloody fantastic! Sleeping shoulder=to-shoulder with your men is all well and good out in the field, but at home a man enjoys a little privacy once and again."
The new Master of the House made a face at the irony of that statement, but did not deign to reply. The sound of the wind and waves filled the empty space between the two, and neither made any effort to change it. Since his experience in the Heartstone chamber, or perhaps since coming to terms that he was Alisair's successor, a gulf had opened up between Kamreon and Baerlis. It wasn't so much awkward as it was necessary, forced as it was mutually agreed upon. They were no longer equals and that had rankled them both than either would liked to have admit. In a sense, Kamreon had looked on the chevalier as a friend as much as a brother as he had with Naimya as a sister. With Alisair the father and Lisewynn the mother of House Moroveston, there had been a sense of peace and structure to it all. Oh, true, there were nights where Kamreon had thought of his birth father and mother, but he had come to accept his place in hte Moroveston family. In truth, he could not readily recall the surname he was born with; it was always on the tip of his tongue when he tried to recall, but it never managed to slip free of his lips. But now--perhaps again, if he were honest with himself--Kamreon found himself without a family. There was a part of him that would always consider Baerlis as close as his own kin, but the demands of the title of Master would forever strain that relationship. The larger man was his chevalier now, and he was a lord. The loss of that family made him want to be sick, to weep, to do something. And yet this was how it needed to be.
But not now, not in this moment.
"What are we going to do, Baerlis?" Kamreon's voice was almost a whisper and, for many heartbeats, he thought the wind might have spirited it away. As he opened his mouth to repeat the question, the other man spoke.
"I don't know. I wish I did." Baerlis heaved a sigh that Kamreon thought would go on forever. "Bloody hells, I wish I knew what to do, what to say. None of this seems real to me. I turn the corner to my quarters and find myself almost lost when I realize that they were destroyed in the flames. My ears strain for Naimya's inane prattle in the library, or Lady Lisewynn's singing from the solarium. My heart aches and my pride prickles when I think that I cannot seek Lord Alisair's council when I find myself troubled. I'm alone, Ina-man, and that doesn't sit right with me."
"I know that I should be doing more to shoulder the burden of repairs, to lend my strength to our House, but I can't bring myself to be there right now. It's too much for me. So much sorrow. So much guilt. So much to do, to set right. So much lost, broken." Kamreon shook his head. "Sometimes I would fantasize about this, being a lord over my own House, but I never wanted to succeed Lord Alisair in this way. I would imagine him stepping down of his own free will, of being there to walk me through all the rites and traditions of our people. It all seems wrong now, vile. I don't want this, Baerlis, not the lordship or the responsibilities. I want to be a chevalier again."
Baerlis grunted a laugh, though there was a sliver of strain in it. "Oh, no. There's no way you're going to try to put me in Lord Alisair's boots, you yellow-skinned shite monger. I'm perfectly happy in my own, thumping heads and wading into the thick of it like the rest. Being Lord of a House is a thinking man's game, and that's your style. I don't see myself sitting in the Imperial Court listening to all the bickering and the whining, all that fawning over the Emperor. His Dark Majesty hasn't even been seen at Court in... oh, I've no idea how long, but a long bloody time, and those fops act like he's going to spring up from under the table and 'boo' at 'em. Phaw, I'd spit one or two of those simpering gveltstak before I was torn asunder, and you'd be right back where you are now. So save me the trouble of dying and suck it up!"
Kamreon found himself laughing despite his dark mood, and Baerlis joined him in earnest. The Inachian laughed so hard until there were blood tears streaming down his face, shaking his frame so hard he thought he might fly apart. The mirth soon faded, however, but the tears continued to flow and laughter turned to wracking sobs. He had no idea how long he wept openly and unabashedly, only that at some point his throat began to hurt from it. The pain in his heart and that in his throat roused a long-buried ire from within him, and Kamreon found himself cursing the heavens with clenched fists. It was a mindless, primal noise that encompassed every wrong suffered and frustration borne. His guttural roars shook the cliffside like thunder, sorrow and indignation lasing his body as the waves below sundered themselves against the stone. Such was the force of his release that in the depths of his mind, Kamreon thought he might turn himself inside out. That image, and the almost-preternatural silence behind him, brought him back to himself and Kamreon collapsed on the grass. He could see Baerlis' outline at the edge of his vision, arms folded across his chest and trying to look anywhere but at him. Heartbeats turned into moments, and moments drew out long before Kamreon righted himself and sat as if he had never been otherwise. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he found himself grateful for both Baerlis' presence and his discretion. Kamreon wasn't sure if he would have survived the mortification of explaining the outburst.
"There is one more matter I've been given for you to think on," the Asgaari murmured thoughtfully. "One of the carpenters has been going on and on about naming the estate. Apparently it's a rising tradition in Aisani culture, like naming ships or somesuch. I can't claim to understand all of it myself. The only things we Asgaari give names to are our children and our blades. A ship is a ship, and a building is a--"
"Serenade."
He could almost hear Baerlis blink and stammer. "Wh-what was that?"
"Her name is Serenade," Kamreon smiled. "I think Lord Alisair would appreciate that, as would the Lady Lisewynn. Our Master always had a fine ear for music, and I have the feeling it will serve our House well."
Kamreon stood and brushed his breeches off, cradling Lord Alisair's longsword beneath one arm as tenderly as if it were a babe. Baerlis was staring at him as if poleaxed, but there was a faint glimmer of something else there, too. Amusement, perhaps, or awe. Whatever it was, it was gone in a chuff of laughter as the larger man strode up to him and clapped him on the shoulder. Surrounded by naught but the wind and the sound of waves in the cloud-strewn night, Kamreon began to feel the calm he had come out here to seek. His head felt clearer now, and there was a burning sense of direction in the fore of his mind. The Inachian had no clue what awaited him in the coming nights, but he had the strength of his House and his chevalier to lean upon. Baerlis clapped him on the shoulder once more before gesturing to the longsword. Kamron's gaze fell to the blade, and a ripple of trepidation coursed through him.
"What do you intend to do with that?" Baerlis asked, his voice laced with apprehension. "The masons have already sealed Lord Alisair's tomb, but I suppose we could reopen it."
Kamreon shook his head before pivoting on the balls of his feet and hurling the blade as hard as he could out over the ocean. The silver blade winked at him as it spun end over end, hanging in the air for a brief moment before falling like a shooting star to be swallowed by the churning blackness of the waves. There was a moment of anxiety and regret that gripped his heart when he thought of what he had done, but that sliver of unease that had so recently prickled him was gone. Kamreon could not rely on Lord Alisair's presence or council any longer, but the chiera had imparted in him so much wisdom and empowered him with purpose in his years under the pureblood's tutelage. Much as he would prefer to say that Lord Alisair's legacy lived on in their bloodline, it was now up to Kamreon himself to steer the course of their House. Lord Alisair had not exemplified his sire, or his grandsire, but had stood on his own. Kamreon had to do the same, and there was no shame in that. It was a poetic end in his mind, the sea swallowing his sire's sword as it had all of his other fears and doubts. House Moroveston would revere the pureblood, but there would be no guilt in Kamreon's heart for the penning of a new chapter in their history. Satisfied, he turned to Baerlis.
He could feel his brow furrow in confusion when he noticed the other man was staring off into the distance, a hand held weakly against his chest and finger pointing. Curious, Kamreon looked down the peninsula in the direction of where the chevalier was gaping, and found himself stunned. Sitting perhaps two hundred feet down the coast was a large wolf staring at the waves, its alabaster fur alight with moonglow. Kamreon blinked and gasped in amazement when he realized that the wolf was not flesh and blood, but a manifested apparition. What he had taken for glistening fur was thick mist suffused with moonlight, rustling with the hush of sea breeze. As if alerted to his surprise, the white wolf tilted its gaze toward him for a moment before lifting its muzzle heavenward and howling a pure note. Another deeper howl echoed the first, and Kamreon found himself laughing as he noticed a night black wolf just beyond the first. Black was perhaps too crude a word for the large shade; there was a void space in the night sky in the grass of the coast in the shape of a wolf, two amber pricks of light dancing in the absence. The two cried to the ocean and stormclouds for a time before turning and racing off into the wood beyond the manor. When Kamreon could bring himself to move, he turned to Baerlis.
"What do you make of that?" the Asgaari gaped.
Kamreon laughed, a pure and free sound. "That would be Crescendo and Arabesque. Remind me come moonrise tomorrow to pay a visit to our resident Alpha. I'm certain Candar will be pleased to know that their spirits are... well-honored."
"Whatever you say, Ina-man." Baerlis threw up his hands and spat. "You yellow-skins have some strange ways of dealing with things."
Kamreon glared at him hard enough that the other man swallowed the rest of his tirade. "Stow your insults, Sir Baerlis. You will henceforth address me as Lord Kamreon or Master. Is that clear?"
"A-aye," Baerlis choked. "Aye, Master. Apologies."
The Inachian's glare crumbled into a satisfied smirk. "At least amongst the rest of our House. Oh, do close your mouth, brother. Now that we've got that settled, I've been considering some improvements to the manor and grounds. And there's no small matter of selecting new chevalier. Let's go find out if any of that Nineteen Ninety-Seven Port Villion managed to survive, hmm?"
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Post by Jashin on Aug 17, 2015 17:57:58 GMT
The torch crackled and sizzled angrily in his gloved hand, throwing weak shadows about the musty storeroom to dance on the wall in mocking revelry. Stacked against the far wall were large crates covered in dust so thick that one could no longer read the manifests tacked to the side of each. To his left, swords and spears hung on racks in much the same shape, a cobweb strung between two hafts as if to give any visitor an idea how long it had been since someone had bothered to clean this far beneath Conclave. The roar of the torch's flame and the annoyed sighs of his own breathing were the only sounds to be heard, too loud in the depths of the earth. Solitude and silence were rather the point, for not even the upper basement levels would be occupied at this time of night. Or perhaps it was morning by now, there was little way to know without his pocket watch. His new favorite trinket, newly-crafted from the finest artisans Inach had to offer, lay next to his bed where he would rather have been. The torch snapped again, sending a shower of hissing sparks onto the damp floor stones in reflection of his irritation. It would have been much easier, and more distracting, for him to have conjured a globe of faefire out of dju'lin, but then half of Conclave would have wondered why someone was prowling the basement at night. No, despite his angst and chagrin he would wait as patiently as he was able and conduct himself with as much discretion as he could muster.
He had been summoned by the Mistress of the Dark for a matter of great import, and he would not fail.
The bolt of the storeroom door screeched in protest as it was opened, and he drew his fali'sara free of its scabbard as he turned to face the robed and hooded figure slipping into the room. The words to a grizzly death spell sizzled like bile on his tongue, but he choked them back when a white raven mask turned to face him. His own fox mask hid his relieved expression as he sheathed his blade beneath similar robes. Both men were of the same height and build that none could tell either apart save for their masks. Again, the point. The seven Grandmasters of the Circle of Nine all conducted themselves under similar guises, glamoured by ancient magicks to appear all of a kind that none could discern their identities. Whether pauper or prince, all were equal inside the walls of Conclave and all were equal in the Circle. Of course, there were schemes within schemes nowadays, and too often a Grandmaster would be "forcibly replaced" by his peers to further their own nation's cause. Conclave was supposed to have been free of allegiances and factions, but times had changed drastically since the War of Children. Anonymity was a Grandmaster's friend, now. Especially now.
"Master Watchful Raven," he sighed curtly, his deep voice purring through the fox mask's frozen sneer.
The other man nodded just as abruptly and gestured to the wall of crates. "I see that you've read it, Master Grinning Fox. What say you of its contents?"
Grinning Fox twisted the torch that its light might pierce the deep darkness between two of the dusty boxes. Tucked back far enough that it would not be readily visible were someone's curiosity to prick at his presence was a cracked leather scroll case. He did not need to look to know that there were no markings on the case to hint at its contents. Perhaps it was best that way. It had come to him anonymously by way of one of his spies within Conclave. Grinning Fox had been vehemently assured that the scroll's contents would be of great interest to the grandmaster, that he would not be disappointed. He had been, utterly. Sadly, there was now one less spy scurrying about the halls of the Hunter's Conclave.
"Perhaps I lack my fellow grandmaster's wisdom," Grinning Fox shrugged, "but I fail to see how the nostalgic prattle of some chieran dandy is of any concern to our cause."
Watchful Raven shrugged, folding his gloved hands before him. "If the Mistress of the Dark says that it is of concern, then we must accept it. Sometimes a thread does not appear important to the untrained eye, but it may knot a skein or unravel it if handled carelessly. We were only asked to read its contents, not grasp every nuance. It's text is a preface for tonight's meeting, nothing more."
A sultry laugh bubbled forth from every shadow in the room, seemingly everywhere and nowhere at once. Both men looked this way and that reflexively, then managed to look embarrassed for the doing. Another peal of laughter chased itself around the room before coalescing in the far corner of the storeroom. Another robed shape melted from the umbra, shapely curves barely disguised by a clinging dress darker than the blackest night. Pinpricks of light like distant stars danced at the hem of the cloak as an alabaster hand as silken as moonlight brushed it open to give both men a better glimpse teasingly. The woman's dress was slit up one side to the hip, and a shapely leg peeked out when she walked. Full eyes like harvest moons regarded them from beneath pale lashes, six small diamonds decorating the silver circlet adorning her brow and keeping her onyx tresses free of her face. A stone so dark as to be a void to swallow all light winked at the men from between two alabaster half moons barely contained in her bodice. Watchful Raven's gasp echoed that of Grinning Fox as both men fell on their faces before the beauty.
"Mistress," they both breathed in unison.
"Rise, my hounds, and attend me." Her voice was like a serpent beneath silk, soft but flirting with death. "My brother is ever-watchful of my comings and goings, so we must be swift. Has the child's birth been confirmed?"
Grinning Fox nodded excitedly, pleased. "It has, Mistress. My spies inform me that the divarian and his chieran bitch have succeeded as you predicted. They have produced a male by the name of Arijha. We are unclear as to whether it will survive long with such a conflicting nature."
The woman tapped a silver nail thoughtfully against full lips. "See that it does, or you will both find your end. That child must survive to serve my will. Does the rest of Conclave know yet?"
"No, Mistress." Watchful Raven seemed confused that the Mother of Secrets did not know the answer, but did not allow it to show in the least. "We will delay such a revelation as long as we can, or until the Mistress gives us leave to reveal it."
"You have my permission, my Raven," she purred. It took everything for Grinning Fox to choke back his disappointment. He was her most faithful hound, not Watchful Raven. Perhaps it was time to apply his cunning to unearthing the other man's identity that he might orchestrate an "accident." Grinning Fox would be the favored of the Mistress of the Dark when her plan came to fruition. "You do not have my permission to indulge in any infighting for my affections."
The mask hid Grinning Fox's wry face. Had she heard his thoughts, or had Watchful Raven been considering the same as he? The Mistress had spoken, however, and he would obey. However, the Mistress had not forbidden the acquisition of position and information, merely direct confrontation. Surely the Mistress would not be wroth with him for strengthening his hand when they were free of such proscriptions. Yes, nothing wrong with maneuvering. His grip on the hilt of his fali'sara tightened as he held back the urge to cackle with the possibilities.
"You, my Fox, will go to your contacts in the Imperial Court and inform my loyal children of this development." She sighed as Grinning Fox blinked, but nodded ascent. "Tell them that they are to make themselves ready for my command, and that if they harm so much as one hair on the boy's head they will reap my displeasure. They are free to harrow the divarian filth and his olitna, but that is the extent of it."
Grinning Fox swallowed hard and murmured agreement. He had no idea what form the Mistress' displeasure might take, but he wanted no part of it. "Ah, Great Mistress, what of the scroll?"
"Oh, that," she laughed. "A bit of revenge against my brother for what he did to my children, and a gift to my dear Anzuel for his loyalty. That scroll was transcribed from a recovered journal from House Moroveston's first highblood heir detailing the final night of his pureblood sire. As you know, your ward's mother is the last of that line--the Master of the House, whether she realizes it or not. As her child, this Arijha will one day have direct access to House Moroveston's Heartstone."
Silence filled the storeroom for a moment before Grinning Fox dared to speak. "Pardon, Great Mistress, if I may? What bearing does the boy's lineage have on things?"
An arch smile crept onto her face as if the Mother of Secrets had been poised to reveal the answer. "Before the end of the War of Children, the chiera were above the Lesser Races. Perhaps not as powerful as the Elder Races, but certainly a force to be reckoned with. Clearly so, as they dominated nearly the whole of Enos until the Curse. The Emperor and Empress, as well as the pureblooded chiera, were stripped of much of their power and cast into darkness. As part of my mother's damnable affront to my cunning, the chiera were thrust across the yawning abyss of death into undeath, never to return. Pureblood could no longer beget pureblood, save through the passing of their lifeforce. Even then, such a dilution would only result in a highblood. The gods aligned with Belzha and Meiliki in the conflict decreed that a chiera would never again ascend to the immortality and demigod granted to the Elder Races, an ascendancy that was considered stolen.
"Divarians are of the Elder Races, children of Belzha. Mother made her children anathema to mine at the end of the War of Children, giving them claws to rend and teeth to shred my beloved asunder. That one of Mother's children deigned to lay with one of mine is somewhat of a distasteful thought to us both, but I am choosing to see it as an opportunity. Chiera were never meant to breed again, but your clever Hunter found a way to circumvent that particular issue. So, too, will I exploit the fault in the Curse that none thought to shore up. Arijha is born of divarian and chieran blood, a demigod poised on the verge of ascendancy. If he could be guided to the Moroveston Heartstone and gain access to Moroveston source blood, he could cross that threshold and usher in a new era of dominance for my children. Anzuel will show him the way, mentor him and nurture him as the boy should be. And because Arijha carries the blood of his father in his veins, Belzha will not raise a hand to stop him."
Grinning Fox nodded, satisfied. He did not comprehend it all, nor did he fathom who this Anzuel person was, but the Mistress seemed pleased. And when the Mistress was pleased, Grinning Fox was content. Watchful Raven was nodding as well, but it was hard to tell whether or not he understood any more than Grinning Fox. It didn't matter. Soon enough, the Mistress would revoke her proscription and there would be a new Watchful Raven. One, perhaps, with closer ties to Grinning Fox himself.
"What do you think the Circle's reaction will be to the news of the boy's birth?" The Mistress of the Dark still seemed amused with her plan, but there was a hidden edge in her voice that made Grinning Fox's skin crawl.
"Rahjod will certainly be arrested and called to account for his heinous crimes against the Jemar'ai," Watchful Raven mused. "If he offers any resistance, he will be killed as a heretic. The chiera will be put to death regardless of whether she resists. It would be a safe wager that more than one grandmaster will call for the death of the child, but I believe there will be enough interest in his potential that the boy will be spared. Under our watch, the boy will be easy to mold and shape to the Mistress' design."
"Truth, the death of Arijah's mother would benefit me greatly," the Mistress mused. "There would be none left to challenge his claim to the Heartstone, and his destiny. No, as distasteful as it may be to let her live, I think it best that both be spared. Bend your will to securing the Rahjod males. If the Hunter resists, see that he is severely punished but spared. If your voices are the loudest to cry mercy for his son, the Hunter's gratitude will make him more pliable to your words. It should then be easy to guide the boy to the life of a Hunter, where we can watch both father and son. The Moroveston woman has proven herself a capable vessel for my future children, though she is the most expendable of the three. The boy is your prime concern, but the lives of the other two are nearly as dear. Am I understood?"
"As the Mistress commands," Grinning Fox murmured, bowing his head reverently. Watchful Raven echoed his sentiment.
"And now, before I depart, I will make my wishes clear." Gone was the silk, leaving only the serpent. A serpent with fangs bared. "My Raven will be in charge of the boy's protection, while my Fox will move to secure the Heartstone. Neither of you will interfere with the other, will do as you are able to assist the others' efforts. If either of you move to jeopardize my carefully-laid plans because of your petty bickering, I will have you replaced. And there are quite a few eager and able candidates, gentlemen. Do not cross me with the foolish notion you can outmaneuver me."
And with that, the Mother of Secrets was gone as if she had never been, leaving the two slightly breathless and shivering. Grinning Fox grumbled under his breath as he retrieved the cracked scroll case and tucked it under one arm. A cold knot had formed in the pit of his stomach that he knew he would not be able to shake. No, there would be no warm bed for him tonight, not with the Mistress' threat so fresh in his mind. He did not want to sleep in the dark tonight, for that was when her nightmare servants prowled the shadowed corridors of his dreams. Both he and Watchful Raven made submissive gestures to Droa before leaving the storeroom chamber and sealing the door tightly behind them. There was no doubt in either mind that this night was best forgotten, save for the commands that they had been given.
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