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The End
Posted: 04 Jan 2007 09:47 PM |
((http://vives.dyndns.org/vives/Forums/ShowPost.aspx?PostID=47763))
Rosen’s body was slouched in a tree hollow in the Buckshire Swamp amidst a strata of buzzing mosquitoes who were bested by Stirges in size, but not viciousness. One landed on Rosen's open eye and carefully inserted its proboscis into a vein. Seconds later, it was spinning downward, damaged, and lay on the mossy earth. Her placid stare saw nothing. Her lips were twitching rapidly, paused, and resumed their spasms.
“…cannot simply pick and choose what is right or wrong,” she was saying, “these are tenets writ by God, not by man. If God says that the number one is the letter A, then that is the way it must be. You cannot imagine the lengths of duplicity to which I have been driven-“
Hours passed. The symphony of crickets played alongside the accompaniment of fireflies, dancing to the rhythm of life. Around the young woman, everything was silent and still. Even the waters of the swamp seemed to take pause as they eddied around the trunk.
”...I heard Cedrych declare that his own ideals were more valid than what any God could say – and he is a paladin! A man I hold – held – in the highest esteem, now all but Aristi in his mindset. Mark my words, little one, when men begin to decide what God should think, we shall see the worst of-“
“It’s madness.”
Veldin was the precocious one and so Rosen became fixated. The rest of the children in the End Place had been absorbed by the encroaching shadows, but Veldin was allowed to remain. He was bound, sickly, and emaciated even by the standards of the island, but he yet lived. Some minds were too beautiful to let pass without first making them understand why the passing was not only necessary, but right. Her woolen robe, obsequious in its threadbare chastity, had transfigured itself into an ornate, impenetrable suit of armor. As always, the sword-which-was-not-a-sword was at her side, sucking in what little ambient light remained.
Veldin’s voice had aged into something resolved, but had also, over the course of his recent instructions, become tinged with despondency. She sighed, a little jet of heat basting back his limp hair.
“Little one, I’ve explained it a hundred times.”
“One more, Rosen, and perhaps you will see the flawed core.”
She rose and the plush furnishings which has so recently gilded her were quickly devoured by invisible, enormous mouths.
“Very well, little one. Pay attention. I do not want to send you to the End with anything in your eyes but acceptance.
“Wise men have said that life is essentially suffering. This is held to be true. I will not pain you with the countless examples; everyone who has lived a life outside of a manor’s walls knows this. What they miss is the next obvious step. Can you name the next step that a servant of God takes, Veldin?”
“To end suffering.” The boy’s eyes had fallen to the shackles around his wrists. They were attached to the floor with one foot’s length of chain, forcing him to eternally crouch.
“That is the charlatan’s answer. You are selling snake oil to me. It is beneath you.”
At that, the floor opened into
NOTHING (There were no words to describe the negative infinity which exists not a centimeter beneath the crust of existence. The mind cannot comprehend its own oblivion. Sleep is an inaccurate metaphor in the way that a glass of water fails to describe drowning. There is no light at the end of the tunnel. There is just nothing.) JUST NOTHING
and Veldin could not help but scream; life, mutated happenstance that it is, seeks life. Rosen was stronger than that. Her voice rose, booming across the stretching End Place, and traveling in vermillion and violet spirals down and down.
“It is beneath you, Veldin. For you know as well as I that pain is not pain’s cause. Suffering cannot end while life goes on any more than a bird can fly without wings. This agony, this terror, this is the experience of being born unto the truth. That you - that we all are to be undone. That our End is the will of the True God.”
Veldin was still screaming, but his voice was drowned by the torrent of starless turbulence which engulfed him. Pieces of the boy were occasionally visible between great belts of nonexistence. She continued.
“Is it not a relief to know that in failing, we succeed, Veldin? Does that not please you to hear?”
The screaming would not stop. It vaguely occurred to Rosen that she was able to hear a silenced voice and that this was somehow disturbing. This conversation would have to continue another time. She had given too much, too soon, and sent that unconvinced spark back into hidden places she could not reach.
Daybreak. Amber eyes focused on a spider, dutifully spinning its prey into organized little piles. Rosen shook her head in admiration, rose, and crushed it with a steel toe. |
True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
-Gretel Ehrlich |
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The Beginning of The End
Posted: 05 Jan 2007 09:34 PM |
Day 1
Undercity's caverns vibrated with the furtive hum of a hundred illicit conversations. Prices of slaves were negotiated over the sound of hawked wares; everything from common poisons to imitation Atalan armor was available, if one knew where to look. Rosen had been coming here for nearly a year, but never before for barter. Times change.
The smoky mug contained some substance which was reputed to be a mild narcotic. It tasted like chocolate. The man across from her at the small kiosk held a less mild equivalent in his delicate fingers. He had given his name as Bill Brady; it sounded as commonplace as his Buckshire accent. Rosen suspected that he was providing an alias and Rosen couldn't have cared in the least. What mattered was that Brady had answered all the rudimentary architectural questions without hesitation and even noted a few flaws in the inexpert questions she had devised. Moreover, he had expressed no qualms when she mentioned a three letter word. Something about the way he named his price ("Twenty five thousand and no damned counterfeit coin") made it clear to her that Brady had only one concern in the world, namely himself, and that made him as trustworthy as her money could take him.
"You'll provide the workforce. Can't get shite done on my own and I won't endanger the few connections I still got down here," he said, covering any nervousness with a gulp.
"Very admirable, mister Brady."
"You'll provide the materials, too. Can't get that done on my own, either - not with the timeframe you're demanding."
"Of course, mister Brady."
"And I wouldn't be trying anything smart, were I you. I got the plans for construction here," he grimaced, tapping his temple, "so there's no taking 'em and keeping your coin."
"Perish the thought, mister Brady."
He took pause, clutching his mug, and slowly working up the gall to ask his question. "You gonna find a way to call 'em off? I wouldn't know the sight of 'em from anything else, but... you're gonna handle them, right?"
"Quite right, mister Brady. You will be in no direct danger as long as you behave with a reasonable measure of awareness."
"Fine, then," he said, scowling his relief, "You know where to contact me. When do I get my money?"
"Presently, mister Brady," she said, sliding a detailed piece of parchment across the table. She had become a fair sketch artist ages ago, during a since abandoned plan to detonate barrels of black powder around the foundations of Gukathul's temple in Nebwood. The decrepit edifice on the page was measured down to the centimeter. "You will receive half when I am given to understand how much you will need in the way of materials, then twice the remainder when construction is complete. If you exceed my expectations regarding the deadline, there will be a substantial bonus."
For the first time, he smiled. He was missing an incisor. "I like substantial," he offered.
She squeezed a smile to the front of her face with effort, rose, and turned. "Get to work." |
True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
-Gretel Ehrlich |
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The Beginning of The End
Posted: 06 Jan 2007 02:34 PM |
(( This is all OOC knowledge. Seriously guys.
Thanks for some great RP, sorry about butchering parts of our conversation. ))
Day 4
The necromancer she knew only by nickname shuffled from foot to foot, threadbare cowl swaying from side to side. Rosen's threat to end the gnome's life culled her evasiveness but exacerbated her speech impediment. Like most necromancers, she probably had aims concerning the cheating of death. As such, the stick of negotiations was easily at ready, while the carrot continued to elude Rosen's grasp.
"M-material things... a-a-are transient... I c-can g-get them m-myself, one w-way o-o-or an-n-nother. W-what I seek i-is knowl-l-ledge... th-the sort which c-c-cannot be e-easily gained."
Then what do you want, you wretch? Rosen, on bended knee, forced her hand away from her hilt. They were crouched in a tree's husk outside the Buckshire swamp, speaking in whispers. It was the furthest Rosen had been able to coax the necromancer, who seemed bent on the idea that Rosen meant her some sort of harm. Far from it. Rosen was offering her the chance to rise above her stunted, diseased structure, to become (after a fashion) immortal.
Save that the necromancer did not see it that way. Rosen could not tell, but she had the impression that behind the golden mask which shielded the gnome's face, a malformed grin might exist despite the gnome's palpable fear. She was enjoying the act of reticence. Rosen was not enjoying the act of reticence, but she had few other options. Mages tended to become more megalomaniacal with experience and the gnome was at a good stage of development; she was powerful in her own right, but by no means able to flout partnerships.
"Knowledge, eh? Well, I have been to many places that people do not tread. I could tell you, step-by-step, how to breach the gates of Castle Valinor and live to tell the tale. I could show you where to find a key to a province of maddened magic. I could tell you the secrets of a living mountain, where men plot revolution under the watch of great elementals. But I sense you seek knowledge of a more... craven variety."
The cowl bobbed, the slits of the mask intently regarding Rosen. As to this area of study, Rosen had no idea where to begin. Rosen had, with a great deal of effort, been able to once cast a cantrip. What did she have to offer in the way of dark magics to an already accomplished mage? Rosen stared back at the mask, eyes burning. There had to be something.
"D-do y-ou know of... an-n-ny l-liches?"
"Know of? I would not call myself on speaking terms with any. I have encountered them before, but always at the end of a sword. They do not seem interested in parley."
"Y-y-you w-would... n-not know.... h-how to g-g-gain an-n... audience w-with one?"
Of course. Chasing immortality. Rosen's lips parted in the lovely, sexless, wholesome smile given by anchorwomen and sociopaths the world over, inclining her head. "I believe I do, miss," she said, then told the necromancer of the Se'eth tower. Then they were able to get to business. The task that Rosen had proposed to the gnome had not given her any sort of pause; this in itself was promising. Even so, the gnome seemed to have lingering reservations. The shuffling continued. The fraying cowl was worried. Eventually, something behind the mask flared, the gnome's voice rising with the strength of ancient rites and the tone of an impropriety spotted between acquaintences.
"Y-you h-have learned a s-s-secret of muh-mine. I sh-should kn-n-now one of one of y-yours."
The demand seemed trite, especially after days upon days of framing argument after argument to gawking crowds of bumpkins and old friends who suddenly had found someone, they hoped, less pious than themselves. Part of Rosen idly wondered whether things such as secrets could be used in spells of enslavement, but she quickly dismissed the thought as superstitious and beneath her. Even so, the gnome wished to get for free what Rosen had carefully dissected, puzzled over, lain out, and devised herself.
"Your secret I found on my own. Now you wish for me to divulge myself to you?"
"....W-well. If I am t-to trust y-you with that information, I w-would like that y-you trust m-me with the matter of this construction."
Rosen made a great show of consideration, eventually (and with great reluctance, nodding her head.) If this would cement the agreement between them, Rosen would allow the necromancer her neurotic proclivities. She lowered her voice to a near-silent whisper, bending to the gnome's ear. The gnome smelled like an abandoned child, unwashed and of intermingled sweetness and decay.
"A mutually beneficial project for a pair such as ourselves. We are going to repair--" and the rest was lost, caught in a sudden wind. Rosen, as she pulled back, saw nothing of the necromancer's expression save what the mask allowed. Still, there were other indications of shock. Tiny hands pulled her staff close to her body, as though to steady herself. The wind relaxed into audibility midst of her quavering reply.
"--H-how can I be c-certain....How can y-you be c-certain?"
Rosen spoke imperiously, using the same voice she gave to Midor infantrymen a lifetime ago. She used the words that a woman of personal ambition might recognize as kindred. "In this world, the only thing certain is our eventual end, magess. All we have is the best of our knowledge and learning to work with."
The night drew on. Most of the details were finally divulged to the necromancer, including the specifics of what would be required of her magic, where, and for how long. She seemed willing to accept, after all due persuasion and equivocation, that the work being done would draw attention away from Gukathul's temple. And indeed it would; if this endeavor succeeded, the surge of undead from Gukathul's temple would seem like a minor blemish upon Eibellenith's ravaged face: a very small problem in a context of looming disaster. |
True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
-Gretel Ehrlich |
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The Beginning of The End
Posted: 08 Jan 2007 12:20 AM |
Day 7
It was falling into place. The gnome was capable; had agreed. Brady had showed her the preliminary designs and accepted half her money with a grimy grin. The next time she saw him, his smile would gleam. Every passing moment infused her with greater purpose and greater capability. Best of all, best of all, best of all...
The mists of Carfax parted in her path, hot-white puffs of breath blasting out from her nose. Frigid puddles blasted frost at her face as her boots pounded, pounded into them with every sprinting step. She could not hear them, but she knew they were there. The guardsmen and farmers who no longer existed, weapons kept sharp by whatever magics trapped them here, a hair's breadth from her heart. She was almost to the center of town. She could perceive every presence in the area, like the buzzing of mosquitoes in the dark. A dozen - no - two dozen, ready to kill her, swarming.
She stopped, sending a froth of frozen slush ahead. They honed in, emerging from the mist. Gleaming promises. She spread her sharpened gauntlets to either side, taking hold of what existed beneath their shells. The stolen blood within the parasites.
"Rightly mine," she said, and they stopped.
It was as though someone had caught them in a watercolor, indistinct in against the whiteness. She slowly brought her hands together. They followed suit, gathering into one enormous, jumbled, spiky mess. She interlaced her fingers, drawing tight until her knuckles hurt. The sound from their crumpled center echoed across the abandoned farmland.
Control. She had a workforce, even if the gnome's magics (while impressive) failed to rise to the occasion. The undead, an architect, an ally, and drive. All that remained, quite literally, grew on trees. Rosen felt a surge of accomplishment welling and became unexpectly choked with emotion.
"Thank you," she said. |
True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
-Gretel Ehrlich |
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Re: The Beginning of The End
Posted: 10 Jan 2007 01:31 PM |
Day 10
"No, you worm-eaten invalids. Into planks! Planks!"
"Aaagghh..." with uniform, sorrowful confusion, the shambling ranks faced her.
They surrounded a felled oak of considerable age, slashed and ruined. Handaxes jutted out of the ancient wood from all angles, odd angles. Most of their swaying number still gripped their weapons, their attack on the tree ready to recommence at a moment's notice.
"It's not an enemy. You cannot kill it. Cut it into planks! Lengthwise pieces of the tree, which we will sand down and-"
A zombie's eye, hanging by a thread, was ripped free by a mild breeze and dropped to the earth. The ghoul nearest to the corpse snaked a rancid tongue over its lips, openly salivating at the prize. One of the skeletons gave the tree a tremendous, sloppy whack with its axe, empty sockets then turning back to Rosen for approval. Like this?
A seething curse flew from her lips. This was a waste of time. She would have to consult the necromancer again.
---
*Anyone who spends any considerable amount of time in the forested area that borders Syn's Cliffs will notice that a half dozen trees have been inexpertly cut down, hacked at, and abandoned.* |
True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
-Gretel Ehrlich |
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Re: The Beginning of The End
Posted: 10 Jan 2007 01:49 PM |
*A small boy approaches a Eibellenith the next time she is in Port Royale, clutching a note. He hesitantly eyes her mask and offers it her way, keeping as far a distance as possible. If pressed for details, he will tell Bel that he is a street child and that a 'tall, nice' lady gave him the note and five coins, with a promise of fifteen more with proof of delivery. The boy eagerly waits for said proof.
The letter itself is written in the meticulous, humorless hand.*
Esteemed Magess,
While compliance is not an issue, I am encountering no end of difficulty in compelling the tools of the trade into competence. There is more to our work than hauling and slashing. We require someone able to, for instance, hammer nails into something resembling a cohesive structure.
Please give word to this child as to where and when we can next meet. G's home is continually under seige from the likes of Ulalume A'Midori, a warrior of no mean experience in her vocation. Moreover, she is gathering support. The sooner we can draw away G's detractors from the wood, the better. Let us even up the fronts with all due haste.
In the meantime, please research (unless you are already aware of) methods allowing for complicated instructions to be followed by our workforce. Otherwise we may have to resort to slaves or conscripts of some stripe.
RV |
True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
-Gretel Ehrlich |
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Re: The Beginning of The End
Posted: 10 Jan 2007 10:17 PM |
Eibellenith moves quickly across the dampened pavement of Lower Port, a light shower coming to its end as she heads toward the dark alley way that leads to Johe's store. The iron-capped end of her staff clicks upon the surface of the wet stone as she uses it to propel herself forward.
As the small boy approaches her, Bel becomes uneasy, noting that he looks from herself to something in his hand several times. She slows her step, turning her small body partially toward the boy who stands as tall as herself. She shifts the position of the staff so that its crystal head points directly at the boy.
“Er...Sir!...Miss!...I 'ave a message fer ya!”
Bel relaxes herself slightly, though does not shift the position of her staff until she has taken the letter and read its carefully inked words.
“P-proof...? ...W-wait one m-m-moment...”
Bel removes the necessary equipment to make a note in return from the leather satchel that hangs at her side, lowering herself to the damp pavement in a cross legged position. The boy waits impatiently, almost hopping from one foot to another.
Once the short note is complete, Bel pulls a bit of loose red thread from the fraying edge of her deep cowl, using it to tie the letter in place. She then hands it to the boy who quickly vanishes amoungst the buildings.
The letter is inked in a haphazard fashion and in a hand that is cramped and awkward. The little words that are visible are slightly smeared, the parchment itself seeming slightly damp.
Their mental capacity it rather limited, it is true. I may have a solution, however, someth- [This portion of the text is smeared beyond recognition] -een developing of late. I will speak of it when we meet, if you wish.
There is an odd temple in the swamps of Buckshire, near the merchant trading post. It is abbando- [The word trails of into a blotch of black ink]
No name or initial has been scribed at the end of the letter to indicate its witter, nor one at the beginning of to letter to indicate who the note is addressed to. |
Me: “Hrothgar is not crazy, he is blessed!”
Wicked Keen/Sa'koless: “Vilyave must have been PMSing when she blessed Hrothgar...” |
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Written on the Subway Walls
Posted: 19 Jan 2007 12:51 PM |
A false bottom in Rosen's scroll case reveals a hidden cache. Alongside several precious gems is a black, suede bound booklet, just small enough to open across a pair of human hands. The text inside initially appears to be gibberish. Someone especially smart and linguistically inclined might eventually discover that the text uses the elven runic alphabet to phonetically spell words in Old Midoran. All entries are unmarked. This one is circled.
-~-
Opportune timing in Atalan movements, but life on the islands taught me that a powerful wave can drown or be ridden with equal indifference, not unlike God.
Can the impotent, self-proclaimed stewards of all things good and palatable be trusted to manage any sort of defense? Do I have the time and werewithal to manage both ends? What armies do I have?
-~-
Construction
Achitect remains pliant / nonissue
Materials in ready supply
Workforce--
--B is working on gnomish time.
----Harness Maggots, or
----Assist B in 'application of studies' / common ghoul / <-- Indefinite wait, uncertain results
--Hundreds of starv/desp/eager in Port. Obvious downside.
Press B into results or be done with it. Cowards are easily bullied into greater efficiency. If she has none to give, be done with her. Left alive? Honorable contract entreatied. Risk will be borne.
Construction Aftermath
Confer with mistress / Eager to see the ensuing irony of a defense!! / Should lines be drawn up? / Should a placid face be given? / If tide too far in Atalan's favor by that time...
A whirlpool has a center. If that center is disturbed by prevailing currents, it loses potency.
CvM ((Great care is taken with the stroke of the pen. The letters are bold, resplendent.))
Angles--
--Inherent weakness of Aristi faith / Make him understand
----Improv God
----Fallacy of Greater Good - Greater Good for wolf / Greater Good for rabbit
----Lack of efficacy - Few heralds in evidence anywhere / more Haven masturbation? Make a difference.
----THERE IS A REAL GOD.
--Show him the brink.
--Take from him what is dear. Strip away illusions. What does he still cling to?
Sister will come for me. Will conscript Ced to this end...? Inevitable. Kill her, spare him. Public display, lawful defense.
All the time in the world. A work of art takes years.
Text
--Contact F.
----1SR,4S,18FR
----Can he do it alone? (Never anything but reliability from F.)
----Payoff for F? He will not suffer great danger and deception lightly. A collector - eye open.
I never knew that found purpose would enslave me to the greed and whimsy of lesser minds. ((This written in common.))
--Purpose
----S.M. related?
----What does it do?
----Show B...? Show A...?
T.
--Easily controlled. Guilt / Anger.
--Occasionally surprising shows of intelligence, mostly no
--What else does he want from me?
----Reward results?
--Wait and see. I pray he lies better than he seduces.
A sketch of a small island at sunset resides below the text. Dozens of miniscule people dot the sands. They all exist in states of distraction, either arguing over fish, facing off wordlessly, or with fists poised to strike one enother. Offshore, an eddy of Charybdisian scope dwarfs the entire island. One gets the impression that it is growing. The islanders, wrapped in their own conflicts, pay no mind. |
True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
-Gretel Ehrlich |
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Re: The Beginning of The End
Posted: 25 Jan 2007 12:06 PM |
Day 28
Rosen opens her eyes. She's on her back, and in pain. The world's spinning, and her vision is clouded. As she looks around, a scene begins to form.
She's, apparently, in Buckshire. The town is burned and in ruins. Fires smoulder amongst the thatched houses, and bodies lie strewn about. Some writhe in what can only be percieved as agony, screams of pain ringing and echoing around the small town.
The bodies of several golems lie fallen, ruined. One has, by the looks of things, fallen into McGillicutty's, destroying the inn.
Suddenly, a boot stamps on Rosen's face, snapping her neck. All is darkness.
Time passes.
A voice, acompanied by Mistress's body, echoes around her conciousness.
"Silly girl."
But it's still dark.
Pain - fresh and more present - shot up her arm. The fugue vanished before her eyes and she clutched herself, arms wrapped around her sides. The knuckles of her right hand were bloodied and covered in plaster. A shaky look to the the side showed a cat-sized, crumbling hole in the wall of her room at the Mask. She must have lashed out insinctively. Ignoring the lamentations of her hand, she rubbed her neck.
Another portent given over as she...
...it wasn't sleep these days. Not anymore. There were no dreams, only visions. No rest, only a burning vitality rousing her into the world once more. And no succor, only a drive forward, forward, forward, out of the nest and over the edge.
It had been a message about impermanence and the price of hope. Rosen understood. It had also been a message about pursuing extracurricular activities to the exclusion of her God-given duties.
Rosen swallowed. Her neck felt think inside, constricted. She understood the latter half, too. |
True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
-Gretel Ehrlich |
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Re: The Beginning of The End
Posted: 26 Jan 2007 04:03 AM |
Day 30
There is only darkness.
There is only the void.
Then, there is only Mistress's voice.
"You paddle around in the pool of mortal affairs, but this pool has sharks in it. You have to step back and watch, very carefully. It's the only way you'll ever spot the sharks, they're not inclined to flash their fins.
Patience, my dear, patience. Inaction is the best of all courses of action, until all courses of action have been carefully considered. Do not align yourself with the weak, soley for the sake of conflict."
There is only darkness.
There is only the void.
One eye flit open. Rosen was in the Four Winds, awaiting her companion's arrival. Today was an auspicious occasion. If all went well, they would have turned a curse into a mobile army, begun construction on the project in earnest, and sealed a beneficial alliance.
The visions had been more active lately and more disturbing. She was being taught, but was not a quick learner, and the master this time was uninterested in slow students. Rosen took a swallow from her canteen, glancing toward the door. A red and black clad gnome hobbled in, clutching a staff as though it were a rope hanging above Syn's very maw.
***
The masses of the Aristi are arrayed before Rosen, and she looks out proudly, surveying them. The black and gold of her armor glint in the bright sunlight, her sword glowing with an inner divine light.
She pauses, before giving an order. The Heralds turn, then draw their weapons and charge out of the gates of the makeshift fortress. Rosen draws her sword, and charges out after them, out of the hurriedly constructed palisade, and straight onto the field of battle.
The arrow which embeds itself in Rosen's eye doesn't even grant her the courtesy of giving her time to be surprised.
Darkness comes quickly.
A mocking, teasingly amused voice echoes around the void of Rosen's mind. Again, the voice is Mistress's.
"Patience is a virtue,
Virtue is a strength.
Strength is something so much more than Grace."
The master of the residence had yet to introduce himself and had escorted them, Rosen and Eibellenith, to the edge of his property - though how he managed to keep it his in the midst of Maldovia was a mystery to her. He had great strength, clear in his shoulderly swagger, and the look of a man used to being obeyed, but he showed none of the tact that made for a man who kept his victories for longer than a day.
Rosen was robbed of her cloak, outmaneuvered by virtue of her tendency toward placation. The gnome, likewise, had lost her golden mask. Two gifts of priceless value. He had simultaneously accepted the gifts and sneered at their request, promising nothing concrete. Not a good tactician at all, unless he simply felt that he had nothing to fear from a crippled gnome and a quiet woman in black. Her rage kept the arches of her feet tense. She turned from his gloating face to her companion.
Rosen's voice was detached. "Do you wish to conduct business with him still?"
The gnome, eyes skewed, face marred by hatred, nodded once. "I d-do not have m-many other o-options."
The rage hardened into resentment and was buried. They had come for knowledge, and it would be obtained. "My presence is unnecessary. I will be waiting outside the grounds. Come find me when you are f--"
A sound halted her dismissal. She turned quickly, watching the bolt of the Aquistine manor's front door sliding through the frame. This pup of a lord had just walked away from them. He had given nothing. He still had their magic. Courtesy had been extended on their part, rebuked on his.
Now came the fun part.
The door flew apart in a great pair of strokes from her sword, shattering inward. Unhallowed light from the mansion flooded out as the pair hurried in. Rosen caught sight of the pup lord, ambling past his fetid dining hall to where they had left their offerings. She closed relentlessly. He turned, drew his burning greatsword, and with it a great breath. Fire exploded from his lips and all around them, the necromancer batting at the flames while Rosen charged through them.
Interesting, Rosen thought as her cheeks blistered, A half-blooded dragon. I thought they were all Naruthian.
He brought down his sword upon her and she took it with her shield, pinning it to his chest. Two great cuts marked his body in the space of a second, then another. She twisted her slim, ancient blade. With a roar, he wrenched his weapon free of the shield, sending Rosen into the air. She landed on her feet, trailing sparks along the floor, and charged. She landed several more good strikes in quick succession, backing him into a corner. He landed blows as well, but fewer and better deflected. He fought with all the strength that his hatred could muster, surviving an attack that should have killed ten men, but Rosen was simply the better killer. Distantly, a wolf howled.
"Yield, dog. On your knee." She breathed heavily, sword steady. His back was against the wall, eyes wild, but he did lower himself. He then proceeded to spit blood on her boots. It sizzled.
"Magess, if you please, kindly gather our things. We are leaving."
Rosen's eyes were fixed upon the pup lord, whose sharp, savage teeth gnashed against one another. He was sweating profusely, his weeping wounds intermingling with the ardor of a lost fight. Small feet skittered on the ground. Dim, peripheral vision caught the movement of the gnome at her work.
"A pity, Lord," she said, "I had long hoped to meet the master of this place. A pity things did not go better."
For a moment, she considered killing him. It might have been uncertainty, or the beginnings of a plan of intimidation and blackmail into servitude, or merely old habits, but in the end she did not. Rosen turned away, took three steps, looked down the hall, and saw a winged shadow, flanked by a half-dozen of Maldovia's hounds. The shadow smiled. Rosen regretted her decision to let the pup live immediately, a half second before the hounds came bounding.
"Run, Bel!" she called, engulfed by their fangs.
Everything was a sharp, dark mess of fury and thrusting desperation. Blood sprayed freely from wounds. Some were hers. Some were not. It was getting hard to tell. One of the hounds dropped. Another. Where was Bel? Her sword reflected nothing. It was impossible to see. And then the greater darkness of the winged shadow weaved through the mass of hounds to her, whispering an incantation.
***
Rosen is the puppetmaster.
Below her, she sees her hands. She grasps the top of the strings, and the puppets seem to dance at her behest. The play continues inside the box, exactly as she wants it to, the small fingers snapping to attend to the commands her fingers give.
Then, suddenly, a blade slams downwards, severing Rosen's hands. The strings slump, yet the puppets continue to dance exactly as they were before.
A figure gazes at Rosen from the darkness, amused.
Then the wave of pain hits Rosen, and she wakes up.
The haphazardly arranged mass of bone and sinew knew its name was Rosen, but the name did not cut to the _____ of the matter. There was no _____ to speak of. Something had changed. Despite the wracking pain of her circumstances, there was a pervading numbness, ubiquitous and serene. Her broken jaw worked, gutted innards aligning themselves back in place. She felt lighter. Words came out, after a fashion, to the red-clad goddess before her. Things came into focus. Answers were required.
"Nnk. Needed a workforce. Necromuh-hhk-mancer cursed. Hoped to turn weakness into control. Repair."
Mistress spoke. When the consort to Syn spoke, the world stopped.
"There are so many smarter and more reliable methods of repairing the bridge, my pet. You could enslave the minds of the orcs of Midor's Mountains, or bargain with the mercenary mages..."
Mistress's voice carried like the air across a cavern: inevitably. There was such a subtle difference in the way Rosen felt. Everything was through a filter, now.
"Yes Mistress," she said, then gagged.
Great ravages had been worked on her body. She kneeled, nude, on the ichor-spattered floor of the manor. One breast had been essentially torn away, while a crude cross-section had left her literally disemboweled. Both arms had been broken in several places. The wounds worked to undo themselves in accordance with the magic that Mistress had wrought, all of them healing in time save a certain something. There was a pain in her chest that flared up, demanding recognition. No, it was not pain, it was something else, like the memory of something dear and just out of reach. She could not fathom the meaning.
It was dim. It didn't matter.
Mistress spoke words, issued commands, gave further tasks. There were so many, and so few nearing completion. Her body was broken, her voice crushed, her face scarred, but she would be patient and diligent. There was time. All the time in the world. In the end, she would prove her fealty and her worth. She would take her place. She knew it in her _____. |
True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
-Gretel Ehrlich |
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Final Thoughts
Posted: 26 Jan 2007 01:42 PM |
Written in an elegant, ornate script in the final page of Rosen's booklet. Each letter is gilted with tiny, fractaled patterns, swimming and spiraling in a nauseating fashion before the eye that looks too deeply. Each word seems to span the entire page, to engulf it. The writing, illuminated with inlets of silver and twilight indigo, carries an undertone of deepest black.
Life itself is but a vision, a dream.
Nothing exists save empty space and you,
And you are but a thought.
-Unknown bard |
True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
-Gretel Ehrlich |
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Re: Final Thoughts
Posted: 29 Jan 2007 12:46 PM |
Day 33
Rosen wakes up.
The room is entirely dark. It's almost as if she's lying on nothing at all, so penetrating is the darkness. Strangely, the bedding beneath her seems absent. It's as if she's lying on an invisible concrete shelf.
Pushing herself up, she stands. The darkness is infinite, lacking either an apparent beginning or an apparent end. Looking down at herself, however, she is entirely visible. It's like she's lit from an invisible light source which has no effect at all on the surrounding environment.
In the distance, a parade of figures is approaching. They are lit in the same manner as Rosen, approaching her from the far distance. They seem to be walking on nothing, the floor consisting, apparently, entirely of darkness.
The figures approach Rosen and parade past silently. The smoky, half-remembered forms of a male and female guardian, each hinting at a laugh, the smell of breakfast, the jingle of a housekey. Simon, balding and shrewd, giving her a look of challenging approval. Gheal, whose burning admiration was more primal. Veldin, indignant, on the cusp of adolescence. A pair of knights, one cornsilk and lithe, softspoken; the other large, booming, resonant. Everyone. People she spoke to in passing. People she had long since forgotten.
As the figures come into Rosen's sight, they begin to age. Starting at the age they were when she first met them, and progressing rapidly as they proceed past Rosen. By the time the figures have taken a few steps past Rosen, their skin is decaying, leaving skeletons marching wordlessly away from her.
Rosen is unchanged.
The parade continues for hours, as thousands of people walk past in a seemingly endless possession. Finally, Mistress passes at the end of the line, ageless and unaging, idly waving to Rosen and blowing her a kiss.
“Wake up, my pet.”
Rosen woke up. The noontime sun burned on her tender face through the frost-smoked window of the Icy Vale inn’s upstairs room. Total disorientation, the lingering image of Mistress’s face, and the sensation of unearthly heat combined into irrational fear – she was burning alive under the wrath of the sun.
Calm.
Her breath was wet, shaky, no stronger for the three days she had spent bedridden. The fear receded. At least the burns were healing. The day before, she had hung her sweat-soaked sheets from the window itself, blocking out all the burning light. Her blisters had burst while she rested, insides roiling from the shock. She had paid a porter twenty gold pieces to bring her a fresh bucket of snow every two hours. The best money she had ever spent.
Mistress.
Rosen was becoming more and more certain that it was more than her devotion to the cause that was bringing on these visions. Her path to the End had been self-motivated and stalwart, guided by hard-learned experience and a desire to know the truth, to serve the True God, but there was also the simple fact that there had been a secretive, arcane ritual engineered by Mistress in order to seal the deal. There were likely side-effects, ones intended to ensure that Rosen was forever…
…something happened in her mind, like water slipping off the edge of a roof, leaving a thought-sized spot untouched. It was as though she had forgotten a word, or why she had just entered the room. It felt like a second-cousin to one of the times she had fallen under the effects of a Harpy’s song, or the spell of a fey. It was a strange, fluttering sensation, leaving a nearly-fallen-asleep queasiness in her belly.
All at once, Rosen knew how she would steal a powerful tome from under the White Bishop’s nose.
***
A letter arrives for Eibellenith, delivered by the same waif as before, when she next walks in Port Royale.
Esteemed Magess,
I write to inform you of a shifting of priorities. While I still intend to help you to the best of my abilities regarding your ailment, I no longer have delusions of being able to utilize its peculiar efficaciousness to my own constructive ends. I am currently making other arrangements in that regard.
However, there is perhaps something else you could do for me, if you would be willing. I noticed that your staff seems to have rather impressive powers of domination. Would it be possible to commission your services?
Fondly,
RV |
True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
-Gretel Ehrlich |
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Re: Final Thoughts
Posted: 29 Jan 2007 09:07 PM |
A small wrinkled bit of parchment is found folded under to door of Rosen's apartment, the crumpled note stained in its entirety a vague orange colour. The note smells of a mixture of herbs and the like, though no precise smell can be distinguished to identify any individual herb.
The text upon the bit of soiled parchment, tattered about the edges, is written in Bel's cramped and haphazard hand, all of which is inked in black. Individual letters are smeared and blotched, others so tightly formed that they are impossible to distinguished.
The note does not possess the name of the addressee, nor the name of the writer of the letter.
To my 'ailment' I have a solution, or will- [The letters here are smeared to the right, rendering them unreadable] -oon enough. I have made brief mention of this already. As to the ability of the staff I possess, I would first hear of what its use shall be before making any decision.
[The beginning of this sentence is simply a blotch of black ink]- also have a gift of sorts that I would like to deliver to you. I do not trust the proprietor of that- [At this part of the parchment there is a small tear, though when turned over it is discovered that the note was written whilst the parchment was folded as the words 'tavern to' can be found on the back of the parchment upside down, corresponding to those missing at this point when the note is folded in the opposite direction along the seam formed from the previous fold] -hold it in care until you arrive to receive it upon returning to your apartment, or some such. I will bring it to you personally instead. |
Me: “Hrothgar is not crazy, he is blessed!”
Wicked Keen/Sa'koless: “Vilyave must have been PMSing when she blessed Hrothgar...” |
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Flight From Paws: Part 3
Posted: 29 Jan 2007 11:02 PM |
(( From Flight From Paws: Part 2 ))
It was a paladin’s wet dream: cowering, peasant patriarch alongside devoted wife, prodigal son (or daughter) failing under overwhelming odds, weeping children. If only someone would come and rescue them. Someone streaming lines of vermillion and silver, or gold and steel, someone with hair to make the sun weep for envy and a smile to set the fretful at ease. Someone with a sword set firmly against the heart of evil.
Rosen started to laugh, then thought better of it. Her insides still burned with every step and each breath felt like it was drawn through an agitated beehive. The act of laughing would disturb her poise, what little of it was left, and might change the prevailing scene, one of frozen astonishment from monstrous attackers and imperiled innocents alike, to a feeding frenzy. Not that Rosen cared, of course.
No, the children coming within reach of the approaching giant’s swing, the noble father, possessed of his daughter's features, screaming as he was devoured alive, these things earned passing interest; they were features of a larger scene, soldiers in the context of a larger battle. The centerpiece to this ivory gift from God was the slight-figured, ball-fisted woman in blue.
Emma, from the moment she had evidenced herself in the Buckshire Trading Post, occupied an important place in Rosen’s mind. There was something innately uncompromising in the woman. It was not pride. It was a trait that Rosen first admired and had more recently come to loathe. In the interim since their first meeting, Emma had betrayed a secret, secretly worked to undermine Rosen, and outwardly opposed her.
Emma had been something of a hitherto unscratchable itch. The thought of allowing Emma’s End had not occurred to Rosen. Real pleasures were rare these days, but among them was the joy experienced in the elevation of others from naively optimistic to world wise. Something in the slackening of the features as a light went out.
Emma’s imagined face, small lips in a perfect, lower case “o,” as she saw the truth. The curve of Emma’s shoulder as it sagged under the weight of knowledge. It would bring to the forefront Rosen’s own confrontation with infinity, bring that last flare of something into her _____ once again. Rosen breathed it in and the pain disappeared for a moment.
It returned with the next step. Rosen was in no condition to be picking any fights. Rosen barely had the strength to stand. She had been brought to the brink of death twice in less than twenty four hours, and believed that at least once during that time the brink had been crossed. It would be a miraculous turn of events if her wounds ever healed to a point where she would be a in a condition to carry out her duties. If she had to move around much during the fight, she would likely lose. Rosen was hoping that the enemies wouldn’t think to take hostages. She was also hoping that they would take her wounded hobble as a swagger.
Her armor hung in tatters, blackened plate, charred flesh, brackish blood giving her a ghoulish look. The sword shed a firey sheen over her approach. Her leg, so recently shattered, faltered over a small fissure in the stone. She managed to parley the movement into a casual dip – a taunt – at the cost of a small explosion of pain. She now stood at the center of the melee, straightening to her full height, and shouldered her sword.
A coastal wind sailed through the valley. Rosen shrugged, masking a wet cough. “Well?” she asked.
They came as one, jackals upon the black lamb. No one present, Rosen included, knew that the last creature who fed upon Rosen’s dead flesh had nearly died for his efforts. A strength arose within her, surpassing the frail body she inhabited. Her wounds, though deep, seemed to have also created a fissure in a bodily shell that stemmed off a great power. The sword moved faster than her eye could follow. A greenish spray flew into the air. The first troll fell, cleaved neatly in two.
The rest of them quickly followed, powerful slashes cutting away mossy limbs before they could regenerate. Adrenaline blasted through her body, sparks trailing around her vision. It couldn’t have been more than ten seconds. A great pounding in her head, no: under her feet, caused her to whip around, just in time to catch a giant’s club in her off arm, where her shield would deflect it-
-but her shield had been left tied to a boulder, soaking in the river of shadows-
-and she found herself slipping, falling up against the cliff face, smashing her head, feeling the slick, blistered flesh on the backs of her arms coming away with a quick, ripping sound. Vaulting back into the fray, running her sword through a giant’s eye, considering flight, her bad leg standing on a disintegrating pile of fibers and anger, and hearing the sound of – Emma?
---***---
They stood across from one another, surrounded by the dead. One of Rosen’s eyes was swollen shut, but she knew better than to take the remainder from the pugilist. Emma stood between Rosen and her fugitives. The fugitives, Rosen was not beyond noticing, held up as possible relatives under closer inspection. Aside, of course, from their openly wondering, openly fearful expressions; Emma showed nothing. Considering that one of her arms was obviously broken and she had a pair of arrows jutting from her thigh, this was no mean feat.
Blood curled down her wrist as Rosen leaned forward, sword stabbing into the ground as a makeshift cane. She coughed lightly, spattering the red-stained earth black. The world faded into darkness for an eternal moment before Rosen blinked her way back. This was going to have to be quick. Emma was speaking to the old woman. A true Vilyavian: ageless despite the greyness of her hair, the haughty pout of her lips asking for attention in the midst of a battlefield. The woman began to approach her, though she was quickly corralled by Emma.
Somehow, Rosen’s sword had risen to a low, but functional angle. A laugh burbled out from her drowning lungs. Emma was alone in that she did not cringe.
“You’re... in a bad way,” Emma said, eyeing Rosen’s awkward leg, “I don’t know what I can do for you.”
Grunting, Rosen passed her hand over the broken bone, wispy cords of ebony working around the wound. With a deafening crunch, Rosen found that she was able to stand under her own power without groaning. Emma offered a hand.
“Sit,” she said.
Rosen batted her away, snarling. Breathing had become far more difficult. Her eyes passed around the survivors. Father. Mother. Emma. Two waifs. She spread an open palm, held as if to ward Emma, or snare her. “Five debts.” The silence hung for some time.
“I owe you what… aid… I can offer,” said the monk at length, voice wavering, “By the wind, what happened to you?”
“Perhaps I will… hhk …tell you as… hhk …you repay your first debt. I... spent a good deal of time at the... Asashi monastery. It was near... an old... association. I know there are... techniques... for aiding the body's… hhk …recovery from injury. Breathing techniques and exercises to grant strength that has been stolen by infirmity. You will show… hhk …these to me. You will walk me through them. For as long as I require.”
Emma nodded, features going slack. Rosen felt something wet sliding down her leg.
“By the wind,” said Emma as revulsion and empathy warred in her face, “Is there nothing that can be done for you right now?”
Rosen spoke old words, drew strength from them. Her good eye took on a nostalgic quality, watching the woman - an injured, erstwhile opponent - swell with mercy for her.
“It is… hhk …too late for me, miss Emma.”
Emma quickly cleared her throat, wincing. “You may have read a double meaning into that. I meant in order to help with your… immediate matters.”
It was adorable to watch, like when a three legged dog tried to catch a cat. Rosen began to roar with laughter, but quickly found herself doubled over, wheezing. She rose, wiping brackish ichor from her chin.
“You have an honest heart, miss Emma,” she breathed, “It is part of what makes you so… hhk …appealing. Such blindness can offer a form of strength.”
Emma, hastily withdrawing her hand from Rosen’s shoulder as the woman rose, quietly frowned.
“Blindness caused me to be duped by a very clever woman. Though I suppose she could have accomplished her goal without me,” she said.
“You presume so much,” replied Rosen in acerbic tones of wonder, “The way you will repay your… hhk …second debt to me is by ceasing your dang fool presumptions. See the world afresh and… hhk …draw your own conclusions. Even now you presume I have ever deceived you, while I swear I have not.
“How many times have you kept company with black and golden colors, being told that you could not know for your own good, that you must… hhk …trust the ambiguous them without knowing why?”
“So far, never.”
Rosen drew in a wet hiss. “Your memory is shorter than mine. I was present… hhk …when you were once so told, and you--” she broke off, coughing. The pain, when it found its path through the shock, was almost unbearable. She forced it down, teeth grinding.
“Well,” Emma said softly, “It was a silly question.”
“Wanting to know the truth is never silly,” Rosen shouted with uncommon ferocity. That must have been the crux of the matter, she thought. Emma cradled her innocence like a babe to her bosom, weathering any assault in order to protect the infant. Rosen had lost hers when she was five.
Emma’s eyes suddenly rolled into her head, the exposed clavicle from her torn clothes jutting out noticeably. Rosen sneered, uttering quiet words, and lashed out a palm. Emma’s bone snapped into place.
“Thank you,” the woman gasped.
“You are…” Rosen paused to search Emma’s face, “…Important.” She paused again, glancing to the huddled mass of age and childhood. “Yours?”
“My sister’s.”
The children stared at Rosen with the kind of awe normally reserved for tidal waves or materializing shadows. They cringed, hovering between terror of God and terror of Demon.
“Where are you taking them?”
“The safest place on Vives. An irony, too, considering where they are fleeing from.”
“Cease your… hhk …neophyte attempts at witticism. Where are you taking them?”
Emma smiled weakly. “Ferein. I thought you might… appreciate… that.”
Rosen would have normally sniffed the air for lies, but did not have the energy. Her leg was threatening to give out again.
“Ferein is not as safe as it seems, miss Emma,” Rosen said, chuckling tiredly, “The Atalan vendetta is against… hhk …the elves foremost, and grandiose designs tend to save the best for last.”
“It is where I take them.” The strength of stone in those words.
“Ignore my warnings at your bullheaded peril, then.”
There was the sound of shifting cloth. Rosen half-turned, watching Emma cross her arms defiantly. Demureness aside, there was no question of who wore the breeches in Emma’s family. The monk moved by her mother’s side, staring Rosen in the eye.
“Forgive me if I do not take your counsel on this matter. In truth, it is for my parents to decide, not me.”
An invisible lance pierced Rosen’s belly. She had to leave. She had to lie down. To swoon in Emma’s presence would surrender this advantage. Her words were empty, cold; they were miles from the exquisite torture of life inside Rosen’s broken body.
“Port Royale. The Broken Mask. The Pit. One week’s time.”
With that, and the last of her strength, Rosen Vimes vanished. Emma nodded, clouded eyes faithfully resting on the spot where she assumed Rosen still was. |
True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
-Gretel Ehrlich |
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Yucky Rosen
Posted: 01 Feb 2007 01:39 PM |
(( This is a rewrite of an earlier character description based on some recent events in Rosen's life. Essentially I'm running out of synonyms for "ruined" and "horrible" during casual emotes, so I thought I'd put something up for reference. What Rosen once looked like can be found here. ))
Orclun and animals alike will know at once that she is damaged. The acrid, pheromonal scent of a deep, sustained wound is punctuated by so many half-hidden winces and the wet rasp of tenuous breath. Her voice has fallen from tones of warranted authority to the sardonic, cold scrape of a dim shadow. She is rarely seen without a staff close at hand, gripping it like the wood were an anchor to the world she lightly inhabits. It is as though she suspects that the deep running scars along her few bits of exposed flesh will unravel, that bits of Rosen will hurl themselves into the air at the next squall. Her grip around the staff could crush bone.
Patchwork wounds run across her face in no particular pattern, deep canyons of rent flesh with tiny coal rivers at their base. They seem to be slowly healing. Her movements are deliberate as always, moreso than ever, but there are subtle changes. When Rosen is at rest, she is completely motionless, right down to the rising and falling of her chest. Whenever possible, she has a protective arm close at hand; the way in which it hovers near or directly over her midsection is reminiscent of a woman with child (or for the war-torn among Vives, the lingering pains of a punctured belly.) Despite the ravages wrought upon Rosen, the most intense change, the most horrific, is the nearly inexpressible change to her eyes.
They were once a businesslike brown, the kind found on big sisters and librarians. They once reflected the sun's light in autumnal colors on the few occasions that Port Royale's weather allowed for such things. Now they burn a quiet, immortal amber regardless of day or night, flaring into incandescent storms when she is agitated or intent. The flame seeks nourishment, leaving nothing in its wake but wry remembrance. |
True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
-Gretel Ehrlich |
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