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Johnny-Crass

Vampire Ancient
True Blood
Jan 25, 2012
6,633
California
Markus pulled the last stitch tightly, leaning back to look at his work.
Seven slaves stood there naked and shaking, a long incision was clearly visible over each of their stomachs though it had been sown back together.

Tossing the spare glass vial up in the air Markus looked at his loyal wretches "So you all know my instructions? Deliver my message and I will release you from my service." Underneath his silver mask Markus's burnt face smiled as best he could.

One slave stumbled out of line, half sobbing "My lord...Wh...Wha...What if the vial breaks?" Markus turned and leaned in close "Then I will burn everything you have ever loved you little maggot."

Straightening up Markus ordered "Now go find your marks and then gain your true release" Looking over them one last time, his eyes lingering on what was carved into their forehead.

MESSENGER
 

The Archivist

Archivist of the word The
True Blood
The bar was near enough to the ocean that the taste of salt caught on the tongue. The dead ratman skeleton pinned above the door was in danger of falling due to the rusted hooks. The smell of blood-infused wine and freshly slaughtered men permeated the stiff air, the still fog hanging over the Dead Rat like a shroud. Dark Elves moved through the freezing air, carried in insulated palanquins or wearing long lizardskin tunics.
This was the only known contact place of January Inkblood Tor, for all intents and purposes Jan.

The slave shivered as she neared the door. The noise inside was moody, with the sound of a whipped cat causing the diners to smile. Moving to enter, the slave was stopped by kicks two burly bouncers.
“You dirty slave. Go round the back and give your message there.”

Round the back the slaughterhouse was in full swing, steam rising from the freshly cut throat of a baby ogre. The slave whimpered and scampered through the smoke of the roasting pits to the slave entrance.
Inside, she found herself in the back office in which two females were sat playing cards. The two of them wore whips by their sides, and scarcely looked up as the slave entered.
“Who’re you looking for, scumbag?” asked the one facing the door. She tilted her head backward to view the slave from under her hat and put her hand on her sword.
“J… J… January…”
“That bastardess? Come here!”
The slave stumbled forward, tears in her eyes at the expected whipping.
“I’ll make sure the message never gets to her…”
The slave-mistress raised her sword above her head to slice the slaves head off, her partner moving behind her.

The slave closed her eyes and raised her arms, fully expecting to die. She heard the sword clatter to the floor and warm blood spurted over her shaved head.
Looking up, scared of what she’d see, she saw the partner holding her blade through the heart of the slave-mistress.
“I’m January. Hold still while I sort out Mistress Snaketongue.”
Jan removed her coat, replacing her hat and whip with sunglasses and combat leathers while taking from a pocket an adder. Stunning the snake, she tied the tail into the mouth of Snaketongue. She turned back to the slave.
“She wasn’t popular with the barwoman and I needed more credit. Now, let’s see what secrets you hold…”
The screams of the slave were lost in the general noise of the bar.
 

Mello

Hasn't left TVC for the rest of the forum
True Blood
Oct 26, 2010
3,460
Peterborough
Mythas looked down upon the Karond Kar with his usual combination of fondness and disgust, the latter reserved for the inhabitants.  The wind was whistling through his hair as he had his hood down, feeling that being on one of the tallest buildings of the city, owned by some noble with a fascination for astrology, granted him a form of anonymity.  Looking out from here he could see not only the harbour, and beyond that the permanently foreboding sea, but practically half the city as well, if the temple to Khaine didn't produce so much acrid smoke and took so much room up.  Still, this place remained his favourite, as he  felt in charge of the city from here, like it was his rooftop, not the milling, stupid masses'.  The other, more rational reason for this spot was that it overlooked all three of his contract drop points, marked out by a crow's nest with its inhabitants slaughtered and painted white.

Mythas looked up from the rat he was dissecting and scanned the three nests.  Sure enough, a figure had despoiled something in the nest.  Mythas glanced to his right, where Sylvia sat, picking at the remains of the rat hungrily.

"Go on then, I'll save the rest for you." He said.

Sylvia cawed reluctantly and fluttered off, lazily spiralling down without bothering to flap her wings. Mythas watched her with wistful envy, wishing his life could be as bland as the crow's, nothing to enjoy nor hate.  Mythas has met Slyvia quite early on in his life, just after he had broken his 'kills in a night' record.  They were both young and and ambitious, and both knew that they would benefit from each other.  Mythas had his mail delivered, and more importantly, a companion, and Sylvia got somewhere safe to stay, and a dead adult crow and lots of live chicks to eat every time Mythas changed areas, let alone the scraps she steals of Mythas' victims when he isn't looking.  Slowly but surely what started as a functional partnership turned into, at least for Mythas, a fond freindship.

As Mythas was finishing his third rat, Sylvia landed lightly on his shoulder, dropping the letter.  It was fancy, he thought, and had a wax seal.  Opening the letter, Mythas scanned through it quickly, sighed absently and chucked it away, watching it flutter down until it faded form vision.  The price had been too much, and that amount of money would have just weighed him down.  Mythas looked from the letter back to the drop offs, and frowned.  There was a  person standing next to one of the nests, which for the life of him looked like he was waiting, although it was difficult to tell from this distance.  Mythas looked at Sylvia and raised one eyebrow, who cocked her head sideways.  He tossed her the last rat, which she pounced on appreciatively and stood up, pulling up his hood. "See you in a moment then" he said, and swung over the edge of the roof, beginning the long descent down the side of the building.

After descending to normal roof height, Mythas began a steady jog over the roofs, his heart beating in time with the clacks of his feet on the roof tiles.  Being familiar with this route now, Mythas had no trouble defending to ground level, and launched himself off the edge of the roof, to swing off a  horizontal flag pole and onto a terraced roof garden lower down, rolling as he did so.  He vaulted over the garden wall and landed heavily in a back alleyway, the noise of his arrival echoing softly down the cobblestone walls.  Straightening up, he moved off into the street, instinctively joining the nearest huddle of people.

He passed the waiter, who turned out to be a slave, twice and pretty quickly came up with the conclusion that it was intended for him, being half naked, scarred and with the giant 'Messenger' scar on his head and all.  Mythas peeled away from the group he had attached to, and made a beeline and tensed as he approached.  Mythas smiled smugly, his reputation preceded him, or maybe it was just the half eaten dead unborn crowd.

"You wanted me.". He stated, leading the slave into a dark alleyway, should be private here.

The slave jumped slightly and stammered.

"Yes, s-s-sir, I have b-b-been sent to r-r-r-request that you t-travel to this location.". The slave produced a intricately drawn map, with a circle drawn around a small area on the coast, near the port somewhere.

Mythas looked down at the map and back up at the terrified slave.

"Why"

"My master is g-g-gathering assassins.. n-not Khainite!" he added hastily.  "He was hoping that you c-c-could all.. Work t-together?"

Non-Khainite assassins?  There are others!  Now this he had to see, maybe they led a life as noble as his, probably not but maybe..  This he has to see, it could be a trap, but he would stay observant, and he should be okay, looking at the map, it was a great place to hide, so he had back ups.

"Ok.  You can go."

The servant sighed a little too deeply in satisfaction, he must have been set free after he completed his task then.  Unfortunately for him, that scar seemed a little too well patched up..  The slave turned around, almost unsure as to what to do with his freedom, but it was too late.  Mythas grinned as he impaled the slave through the kidney, and savoured the high pitched scream, as it began to descend into sobbing, Mythas twisted the epeiu and dragged it up along the servant's back muscles until it ripped out of his shoulder with a wet slapping sound as muscle was torn loose.  The servant fell to the ground, writhing involuntarily in pain, still screaming uncharacteristically  high for a human.  Mythas stepped over the slave, savoured the anticipation, and then drove his epeiu into the top of the slave's neck, the blade protruding through his mouth.  With a final wet choking sound, the slave died.  Mythas took a moment to just stand there enjoying the moment while it lasted, then began work.  Turning the slave over, he carefully undid the stitches.  His eyes rose in surprise, a glass bottle, with a note.  Opening it up, being careful not to he any blood on it, he discovered an identical map, but with a slightly different location circled, and a note addressed to him, which he read.  Mythas chuckled, crafty.  A familiar caw sounded, and he looked up.  Sure enough Sylvia was perched on the edge of the roof, eying the slave hungrily.  Mythas glanced at the dead body and shrugged.

"Go ahead, I don't want him"

As Sylvia flutter down, he took a run at the wall and jumped up, grabbing onto the roof ledge, pulling himself up, he began a steady pace to the harbour, content.  He had a good feeling about today, he was meeting real people, not just the nameless masses, real people!
 

Raizi

Vampire Thrall
Oct 16, 2011
999
Three drunken corsairs were strolling down the pier in the docks. All of them walked in a sullen silence, since the biggest of the three was in a praticularly dark mood. They had been playing dice and he had lost big that evening, almost everything he had managed to bring back from the previous raid.

"Those dice were loaded, I can tell. No way the captain could beat me that badly if they were right."


"Sure, boss. Whatever you say."
Said one of the henchmen with a tone that suggested he was already fed up with the bigger man.

What?! You don't believe me when I tell you he cheated? You want to consider taking that back?
The larger corsair turned towards his fellow and drew a saw-bladed sabre. He was clearly looking for a fight and it seemed any fight would do tonight.

"Hey, cool down. I'm just saying this is the third time this has happened to you and you keep on playing with him. Why do you even bother playing with him, if you know the game is rigged?"

The other underling pointed towards a slave that was hurrying to meet them at the end of the pier and said:
"Shut up, both of you. Who's that over there, he's coming right to us. You expecting someone, boss?"

"I sure as hell am not, but let's see what he has to say."
The leader replied and sheathed his sabre. They walked to the end of the pier to meet the exhausted slave.

"I was told to find him here... do.. do you know a man named Raniq? I have a message for him."
Said the slave, panting heavily. The word MESSENGER was carved on the slave's forehead.

"A message for Raniq, you say. Why yes, I am Raniq, you can give me the message."
The leader said. His two subordinades exchanged a quick troubled look, but he didn't seem to notice it.

"Hey boss are you sure..."
Started one of the subordinates, the one who had spotted the slave.

"That this might be the message I've been waiting for? Yes, this might be just that. Now be a good slave and give me the message, I'm not a patient man."
The leader cut in, before the other could finish up his sentence.

The slave looked at the three corsairs in front of him and backed down a bit.
"I was told Raniq would be alone... that I would know him because of his condition...I was told he is mute..."

The corsair clenced his jaw as anger washed over him again.
"Yeah, that old legend, well it's just to spice up my reputation. Now give me the message." He took a step towards the slave.

"No... I don't think I..."

The leader buried his fist on the belly of the slave, right on the fresh stiches. The slave fell down on the pier, grasping for air. His eyes rolled backwards as the shock made him lose his consciousness. Some stitches had come loose and a glass vial dropped on the pier along with some blood and intestine. Stepping on the intestine, the leader of the corsairs picked up the vial and turned towards his companions.

"Well, he did manage to deliver the message after all. Now let's see what we can get out of this."


He started walking towards the neares lamp to better see what was written on the small piece of paper and had to take support from one of the pier's posts when the post came alive.

A weighted net flew on the leader's face and a swift kick made him fall on his back, now tangled in the web. His cloak was again the color of waterey milk and thrown around his sloulders. Raniq unsheathed his own sabres, took three running steps and gutted both of the remaining corsairs who were trying to draw their blades. He left them twitching and moaning in agony and went back to the leader who was still struggling to get rid of the net and trying to stand up. Raniq impaled him with both of his sabres and took the letter from the ground.

When the slave regained his senses, he could feel that he was being carried down some stairs. He didn't know how long he had been unconscius, but he was certain he was still in the docks. He turned his head and saw that he was being carried by a man who had a strange glow on his skin and wore a terrible skull-like helmet. He could feel the cold water now, the man who carried him was in the water waist down now and the waves made seawater go in the slave's eyes and nose. For a moment he just stood there, and then he looked down on the slave. The slave could feel the grip on his shoulder tighten as the man released his other hand and lifted it in front of the slave's eyes. The hand made some gestures. Sign language, the slave thought. Somehow the slave understood them, or guessed what they meant.

*PRAISE* *DEEP* *GODS*

Then the other hand grapped the slave firmly on the throat and his head was pushed beneath the waves. The last thing that the slave saw was the metamorphosis of the man's mask as the ripples on the surface distorted the light. From a skull to a tentacled beast. Then water filled his lungs and the cold sea took him.
 

Zephyr

Master Necromancer
True Blood
Mar 3, 2008
2,522
Rotterdam
Thick suffocating smoke drifted lazily upwards from Karond Kar's Temple of Khaine. It stained the nearby walls with grease and teased the souls of the Druchii who smelled it. It smelled of promise; promises of a great and glorious slaughter to come.

Like any other city the temple's sacrifices seemed to go on without pause. The temple's Hag was not to be seen, she had retreated into her inner sanctum as age once again had claimed her beauty. One could only imagine the acts of depravity that went on back in the Hag's private chambers to keep her occupied until she could once again bathe in the cauldron to rejuvenate.

Witch Elves were lying around on the temple floor mixed between other naked corpses of various genders and races. If it wasn't for all the gore and missing limbs it could have been mistaken for a wild interracial orgy instead.
Every time a ship entered one of the many great harbors it meant a feast for the temple. Incoming plunder was not only a great occasion for the ship-masters themselves but also for the inhabitants of that dark city. As long as the temple had sacrifices to pick from amongst the huge influx of slaves the citizens would be, more or less, safe.

The temple in Karond Kar wasn't that different from any other in Naggaroth though rumors soon spread of a strange visitor. A visitor that was clad in the garb of the Executioner no less.
Being exclusive to Har Ganeth stories quickly spread that the temple was up to something, one of the Nobles in the city was showing off by inviting one or even Malekith himself had send him as a warning to the temple for some perceived sleight.
Whatever the reason there were many rumors to choose from, for Kelarith however the truth was far more mundane.

He stood vigil next to the Altar of Khaine like a silent angel of death. Even though the temple was closed at the moment for outsiders he stood at attention, his draich balancing against his right pauldron.
Karond Kar had been a major disappointment to Kelarith.

He had never been outside of Har Ganeth nor had he been outside its temple for over four decades as his duties mostly revolved around sacrifices within the Temple. Some of his brethren did go out, even joined up in battles far away but Hellebron herself had told him his place was right there next to the altar. A position that was highly sought after and Kelarith could not suppress a feeling of pride that he had been the one chosen.

And then the blasted message had come he was to travel to the Temple in Karond Kar to await further instructions.
It had almost physically hurt, being so far removed from Khaine's altar though he was relieved to notice the Bloody Lord still whispered to him despite doing something what felt like treason to him.

He had praised Khaine when he saw the streets of Har Ganeth, forever stained with blood. Praised him when he saw the glories of Khaine's chosen race during his travels. But he had not praised the Bloody Lord when he had finally entered Karond Kar.

He had known the stories of this great harbor-city and he had expected...better.
For a city that had so many slave-raids coming in the temple wasn't as big as he had hoped and the Druchii were not as devout either. Inside the temple he was welcomed with open, bloodied arms(though he first had to cut off the head of an upstart young Witch who doubted he was a real Brother), and took up the position next to the altar he was used to.

Khaine had fallen silent inside his head twice now but Kelarith wasn't surprised. It was clear to him that even the Bloody Lord was displeased by the temple's state.
This night's feast though had been a step in the right direction. It had annoyed him, to use an understatement, to see the percentage of slaves who had been offered up in tribute.
Yet he kept silent, knowing his place in the hierarchy and simply showed the infidels of this city how Har Ganeth paid its tribute.
Many heads had rolled, not all of them unwilling slaves, and the temple's Hag had even come out to witness the proceedings for herself. Khaine had been pleased, whispering dark secrets of murder to him. Kelarith could only hope he had been a positive influence on this temple though looking at the exhausted Maibd* around him he need not ask. To be fair he should not be harsh on his beautiful and lethal Sisters, it were the inhabitants of this city that were lacking in faith. Death Night was coming again soon and this was always a perfect way of instilling some religious fervor into citizenry. Being on the receiving end of Druchii violence was a prospect no living thing did not dread, not even the Druchii themselves and their true Master would be praised accordingly.

Lost in thought it took him just a few second too late to notice the temple doors moving. His eyes narrowed, focusing on a scrawny little body almost crawling inside.
The decrepit things looked around, eyes wide in terror, at the scenery all around. It carefully made its way through the temple, avoiding any contact with the Witch Elves sprawled across the floor.
It nearly jumped when Kelarith tapped his Draich hard on the floor, announcing his presence.
Kelarith had seen it many times before, a slave sick of his life coming to end it willingly at the hands of an Executioner. Though Khaine appreciated all acts of murder a lowly slave that turned itself in willingly was not exactly the best sacrifice and it was up to Khaine Himself whether or not he accepted the thing's life.

Kelarith turned towards the altar and awaited a response. He did not need to wait long. A soft hissing sound reverberated throughout his entire being. He turned towards the pitiful things and gestured him forward with his left hand.

"I have a mess..."
Before the thing could even finish its sentence his head rolled against Kelarith's foot. It stared up to him, eyes wide and a mouth still opening and closing like a fish gasping for air on dry land.
It was then that Kelarith noticed the word "messenger" carved in its forehead. He picked the head up and rolled it over, looking for anything that would give him further details.
He slung his Draich over his back and took a moment to decide whether or not he would take a piece of the thing to put in his pouch. He tilted his head towards the altar and listened. Silence.

He dropped the head and knelt besides the body, going over with it with his dagger, prodding the strange pattern of stitches. Teasing apart the stitches he found the vial. Being somewhat familiar with the poisons the temple used he was certain nothing poisonous was inside it. He opened it up and looked at the piece of parchment inside. Harsh and cold whispers inside his head told him what to do.
He stood up and marched towards the temple doors, onwards to his new destination.


*Druchii for Witch Elves
 

Malochai

Moderator
Staff member
True Blood
Aug 4, 2010
3,072
England
Indoril closed his eyes, before opening the right one slightly; a pinprick of glinting emerald in the otherwise inky blackness that rose above the skyline of the city at night. A chill wind to freeze the weak and permeate the bones of the strong swept off the Sea of Chill, causing rimes of ice to form on the metal of his gauntlets. The elf shivered, before closing his eyes again and taking a deep breath. He once again opened his right eye and looked down the iron sight of his crossbow. The target, a corsair captain, was following the stream of human slaves down the wide road, towards the slave markets. A smile crept over the murderers face; ‘The fool doesn’t even wear a helmet. How has he lasted long enough for this job to be mine?’

Placing the weapon down on the slate roof of the building he was clinging to, he drew a single, wickedly barbed bolt from the quiver that hung at his waist. Inspecting the tip, he ensured that it was sharp. A satisfied nod, and he placed it gently next to the crossbow. Next, he reached into a pouch, hanging from his waist, and withdrew a vial of viscous, black liquid. With extreme care not to touch any of the foul-smelling concoction, he pulled out the stopper. Beneath the half-mask, he grimaced, face screwed up in disgust. ‘If anything will kill him, it’ll be this,’ he told himself, before picking up the bolt once more and dipping the tip into the poison. Neatly, efficiently, he loaded the quarrel and stoppered the vial once more. He then resumed the position, kneeling with his right arm rested on his knee. Looking down the sight, he found his target again, the tall, pale captain.

‘Breath. In, out. In, out.’ Indoril tracked the movements, allowing for the wind, which was starting to pick up and whistle through the streets and over the rooftops. Virtually unprotected, he was grateful for his precautions; extra layers under his robes and thick, skin-lined gloves. Shivers now could ruin over a months hard work. He finally reached the point where it as now-or-never. His finger squeezed the trigger firmly, and the bolt whistled away into the darkness. His gaze never left his marks face, and five seconds after it flew off, it reappeared, buried into the targets shoulder. From his vantage point, Indoril couldn’t hear anything over the roar of the crowd, but he saw weapons being drawn. He also saw the wounded captain choke, and then grasp his throat, before falling to his knees. With consummate ease, he slung the crossbow over his shoulders and got to his feet, spinning as he did so. Facing away from the commotion, he sprinted away and leapt from roof to roof, a shadow slipping away through the night.

He ended up on the cobbled floor of a nondescript alley. He ensured his hood was up, and mask still in place, before striding confidently into an arterial thoroughfare, which flowed from the Tower of Despair itself down to the slaver’s docks. Half way along this road, lined with buildings from which all types of business - from the legitimate to the borderline treasonous - were done, was the specific den of iniquity that Indoril was making for. It was almost like home to him since he’d been driven from House Nerefteen. Ducking into another alley way, taking him down the side of The Iced Knife, he made sure he was unobserved before following his regular path up the side of the building, hands and feet finding holds almost instinctively in the blackness. A shuffling sound above him caused him to freeze, the side of his face pressed against the cool stone. When nothing more reached him, he scaled the rest of the wall like a Asrai did a tree, before flipping up onto the roof like a gymnast, landing low and crouched; one hand pressed against the cool surface of the roof and the other grasping a knife, covered in a slick, shimmering poison that near-instantly necrotised flesh. He saw nothing, but the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up, almost pulling out his pale skin. Squinting to try and see further, he shook his head. ‘Jumping at shadows,’ he thought, but kept the knife clasped firmly in his right hand. A sigh. A breath. Two. Nothing.

He relaxed slightly, and crept over the roof, careful not to disturb any tiles, and, three-quarters of the way along, he made his way to the edge. Looking over, he saw the soft glow of light emanating from the window; the curtains open as they were. He slithered over the top, and hooked his fingers around the upper frame of the window. Pushing himself off further, he swung around so he was facing the window, hanging on with his fingertips, and then dropped.

The elf caught himself easily on the bottom of the frame, and dragged himself in, ‘walking’ himself up the back of the building. Finally in the room, he pulled the window closed and drew the thick curtains closed, to try and retain some of the heat that the roaring fire in the corner gave off. He peeled off his gloves, sighing gently through his mask as the slightly warmer air hit them. He removed his crossbow and placed it gently in a cushioned chest at the foot of his bed, before taking the hand bow he had there and hooking it onto his belt. Ready, he stood straight and made his way to the door, unbarring it and slipping out quickly, before pulling it closed and locking it, the key turning and tumblers thudding only a facade of security - he knew it anyone really wanted to get into his room, they would.

Confidently, he walked down the corridor and swept down the stairs, the purple cloak flowing behind him. Downstairs, the light was dim, the shadows cast in shadow. He made his way to one of these; the one his customer always sat at, and made himself comfortable. Less than five minutes later, the other elf walked in, clearly uncomfortable. ‘How did this weakling fop ever manage to retain a position of import?’ he asked himself in astonishment. It was almost as if he was worried about his part of the murder being found out. Sighing, he remained otherwise still, like a statue of insurmountable detail. The other elf sat down, looking around self-consciously.

“Is it done?” he murmured, eyes flitting around.

“Of course it is. Now, payment.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Here you go, take it!” With jerky movements, he pulled a pouch from his belt, almost throwing it at Indoril. He caught up in one hand, the movement so fast his client missed it, and tipped the contents into another leather pouch.

“This had better be the complete fee. Otherwise, you’ll regret it. You know you will.” The threat, unveiled as it was, caused the other elf’s eyes to bulge, before nodding vociferously. ‘He’s protected ... But by who?’ The thought flitted through his mind, before he realised he didn’t care. He’d dealt with him. He had to die. Standing to leave, he unobtrusively unsheathed his second knife - this one coated with a slow-acting poison that killed in an agonising process that started with paralysing him and locking him in his own body, before sending agony the likes of which he will never have felt before coursing through his veins - and with a practiced ease punctured the clients skin with the end. The knife was so sharp he didn’t even realise. ‘He should know never to deal with those who have no honour left to lose,’ Indoril told himself, even though he needed no such meaningless platitudes to console himself; he felt no guilt over it.

------------------------------------​

Half an hour later, he was in his room once more, dining upon a hot meal which was struggling to take the omnipresent chill from his bones. “Damned city,” he muttered, shaking his head. He continued cursing anything and everything from his father to the captain of his former ship to the slaves who’d died on the voyage back from the Old World, until a knock interrupted his thoughts. Instantly, a knife flashed into his left hand and his repeater handbow the other, he stealthily approached the door. Another knock sounded, insistent and ... Hesitant? ‘Not Illas, then,’ he told himself. The innkeeper seemed incapable of hesitancy, despite knowing what his paying guests were capable of individually. He unbarred the door slowly, before opening it a crack. The sight that greeted him was pathetic. A whimpering slave, cowed by his servitude, and touches of what looked like frostbite licking around his bare feet. Mutely, the messenger passed the note to Indoril, who took it suspiciously, keeping his eyes on the face of this stranger. He saw what was written upon it and his eyes, the only visible part of his face, widened slightly, before he ushered the slave into his room. Closing the door firmly, he span on the spot and grabbed the withered man by the throat and bore him across the room.

“How did you find me?” The question was growled, and the knife in his hand was pressing between two ribs. A bead of blood trickled down the slaves body. More whimpering. “I asked you how you found me,” he muttered, his masked mouth now next to the messengers ear. A strange trickling sound started, and it took him a few seconds to figure out what is was, ears twitching as he tried to identify it. He pushed the man against the wall, bruising brittle bones, and stepped back in disgust. The slave had pissed himself, sheer terror making him lose control of his bladder. A second later, Indoril found the man’s body at his feet, blood seeping from a wound between his ribs and dripping from the blade held in his hand, trickling over the intricate cross-guard and between his fingers. “Filthy beast,” he spat, before turning away and re-reading the delivered note, the blood on his fingers staining the parchment.
 

Chaos_Born

Master Necromancer
True Blood
Jan 17, 2012
2,053
Omnipresent
The messenger quivered as he stood at the entrance of the body strewn courtyard. 'Lord Trast?' He called, trying not to look at the gristly, dismembered bodies lying within. 'I have a message for you. Your doorman said I could find you here'. He said this last sentance more to himself, frustrated and wanting to be away from this place.

He took a tentative step forward. He had little time to register the dagger plunge through his foot, anchoring it to the floor, before a cloak wreathed figure dropped down from the archway above to land with a wickedly curved knife to his throat. 'A message you say?' Verikar looked amusedly at the word on the slave's forhead as he sank down onto one knee. 'Well go ahead'

The slave was almost overcome by the pain of his foot, but struggled on in the manner of one who was used to getting far worse. 'H...here' He held up a folded peice of paper. Verkar lowered the knife and studied it briefly before roaring with laughter. 'I see.'

Verikar somersaulted over the slave's head and became a blur of flashing steel. By the time he landed he had removed the slaves ears, opened up the veins on his arms and neck, reopened the stitched flesh on his stomach and retrieved and sheathed the dagger from the slave's foot. A look of surprise crossed the slave's face momentarily before he toppled over. Verkiar kicked him onto his back and reached into his wound to grasp the vial. He opened it and, studying the contents, called out for his manservant 'Byron!'

A well dressed and very nervous looking man sprinted through the archway, 'Yes m'lord' he panted.

'Have the large carriage brought round to the front and a dozen slaves sent to my armoury. I shall be leaving at once.' Verikar turned away and called back over his shoulder 'And get this place cleaned up!'
 

Lynks

Lord of RAW
True Blood
Dec 29, 2010
2,215
Sydney
As the mist cleared and the target could be seen once more the skeleton crew of the gates of Karond Kar, barely enough to man the two reaper bolt throwers, were ordered into action by their young guard captain. The hammering of the reaper bolt throwers sounded clearly over the din of the city beyond. Men loaded bolts as long as they were tall, opting for power and accuracy over a volley of shots in the hopes that a solid hit would bring down their declared foe in one fell strike. The gates guarded the scarcely used eastern approach, from which there was little threat of attack in an unusually clear and bright day. But even the least superstitious druchii would think something awry with the oncoming being, and the young captain on watch was a very superstitious person.

Even from such a distance details could be made out, the limping, swaying lope; the torn, ragged clothes; skin whiter than alabaster, the tangled mess of long hair covering the face of the creature; the cruel, barbed chain that it dragged behind it; and most strikingly, the blood of varying degrees of freshness with which everything else was drenched in. In the unfounded fears of a captain of a farmer’s road, this was none other than some dreadful revenant seeking revenge for somebodies’ misbegotten deeds and as a panicking mind tends to, he had convinced himself they were his own.

One bolt flew almost close enough for the dread-spirit to have caught and as compensation what sounded like a terrifying wail or scream howled through the raging winds which did nothing to disquiet the fears of captain and crew. Perhaps had they been firing volleys the reapers would have been able to take down the foe but the irrationality of the captain led to the revenant making it to within their minimum range. With little alternative, the crew abandoned the reapers and instead hefted repeater crossbows as they prepared to rain down a volley of smaller shots in the hopes of stopping their target while the captain stood watching, mortified.

The captain saw their foe pull out two handbows of their own and aim them into the sky. The captain turned and before he could react, watched as bolts arced overhead and fell as hail amongst the crew hurriedly preparing their own. Just a blood flowed from the bodies of the crew, other fluids flowed from the stomach and bowels of the captain who cowered in the face of his death. A heavy clung resounded off his armour, believing his end had come. For a few short moments the captain was left like this, unable to feel the pain of the wound and unable to come to terms with his demise before a rasping voice echoed on the winds, as if carried by some other means, “watch captain… you have your bribe… open your gate.” Opening is eyes he saw a great red gem lying in the blood before him. Swiftly and silently the guard captain turned the cranks, letting whatever demon had terrorised him into the city in the hopes that it would spare him. As soon as the metallic thud of the gates locking in position was heard the captain snatched up his gem, seeing no sign of the being from beyond the wall, fled, though startled shouts in the distance reaffirmed that it had entered.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Having finally made it into the city Iriden was relieved to returned to Druchii society after so long. Iriden had chosen Karond Kar as people came and went from the city in an astounding rate and it as unlikely that anyone here would know her presence, although her entrance left a lot to be desired and rumours were flowing about that. Having cleaned most of the blood of her travels in a back alley street and finding an inn, she was enjoying the luxuries of society, a soft bed, warm room, hot food and scalding bath. Simple things that she had not experienced for many months on the road, hounded by man and elf alike as she journeyed through the eastern civilisations searching for a way back to Naggaroth.

After what seemed like eons on the wrong continent, hunted by all manner of man, the two things she had learnt was while she could utilise the simplest of tricks, like lighting or snuffing candles, amplifying her voice or visage or reshaping small amounts of metal without drawing the eyes of Khaine. The second thing was, that no matter where she was she would always be hunted, hunted by men for being an alien, murderer, thief and public menace and hunted by Khaine for utilising the more powerful magic she was always called upon to make. Having lost her last name Iriden thus decided to label herself Iriden the hunted, though only she could enjoy the jest.

She eventually found and stowed away on an empire treasure ship bound to collect wealth and gold from the lands of lustria, which seemed like a perfect option apart from the march north through unknown terrain to naggaroth. Seemingly fortuitously, that was solved when the ship was plundered for slaves by a vessel of her distant lands. There the crew made the grave mistake of enslaving her as well, given the high price paid for elven slaves. Iriden had spent enough time at sea to know the most dangerous thing was a slave revolt, and she knew precisely how to instigate one… she took a prize of a shard of armour out of the foes who tried to enslave her and hammered it into her chain.

With a ship in her hands, all Iriden needed was a crew, the slaves understandably unwilling to assist her so once more Iriden was forced to call upon the powers of sorcery to force their submission. 6 weeks they sailed under the blood storm, men dying by day until almost at her location the ship had too little crew to operate and too little food to eat. Iriden solved the food problem easily for the citizens of the empire were plump and pig like but was forced to let the boat drift.

Once again she was seemingly granted good fortune, with the boat careening into and smashing apart on the isle of Karond Kar, there was only a simple matter of getting there and getting in. Looking back on it, her story would make for the perfect comedy if she were able to tell any of her plight, but the point was moot. She had made it to Naggaroth, was able to enjoy the pleasures of society, at least for a time and most importantly, she had survived. Nothing would stop her living on, the crew of three vessels and various others had died to prove it.

Iriden, with little else to do for the time being and seemingly having thrown off the cult of Khaine once more, made her way back to the gate to see her handiwork in significantly grander style than she left. Even though half a day had passed there was still a crowd gathered, chatting. Anything more than a passing comment in the twisted streets of a druchii city would be considered unsafe under normal circumstances but she had clearly hit some kind of nerve.

At the sight of the crowd she stopped dead. Not for the number, the talking or her infamy. She stopped for a face, and the face froze when it saw her. The body driving the face came bounding over from the vantage point he had overlooking the scene. Canthus the navigator of the first vessel she abandoned to it’s fate looked upon her equally as stunned as she was.
“what are you doing here?!” he exclaimed, “we all thought you assuredly died in the blood rain.”

Gulping and carefully thinking about how to reply Iriden replied “No… only overboard… I’ve had a long journey to return… what of the ship, and the crew?”

“The glory of Khaine never stopped, we struggled to return to Karond Kar with our groaning hulls but the weight of slaves and plunder combined with the rain the ship struggled to sail and all manner of ill luck befell us on our return, only a handful of us survived the ordeal in the end…” he replied remorsefully.

“But where did the others go, what have you done all this time, why have you come here?” Iriden questioned, perhaps too harshly.

Raising an eyebrow at the intense response, more than warranted of a former captain looking for their crew Cantus answered “the others, they scattered… we were all eager to put the ordeal behind us. As for me… I’ve no desire to return to the sea so at the moment I’m… a servant of sorts.”

“But why here…why now?” Iriden inquired with a little more tact.

“I’ve come to deliver a message” he responded, suspiciously pulling the hood he wore down a little further and caressing his stomach. “My ma-… the noble I serve told me to deliver it to the terror at the gates, whoever that was supposed to be but now it seems like I’m too late!”

If the pale skinned Iriden had any colour to lose, all of it would have vanished in that instant. Not only had someone known she was coming, but they knew how she would arrive well enough ahead of time to send a messenger. Her mind was flooded with an equal amount of fear and wrath and only barely managed to dryly say “perhaps you could come to my lodgings and we could trade information… tell me about your noble lord and I could help you find who you need to deliver the message to.”

Canthus graciously accepted, and as they began their trek back to the humble inn Iriden slowly worked a similar knife to the one on her chain from its hiding place. Canthus would tell her all she needed to know, then he would die. Then his master would die. Iriden could not let any who knew about her live, for she was hunted.
 

Johnny-Crass

Vampire Ancient
True Blood
Jan 25, 2012
6,633
California
7 chairs stood in-front of Markus as he stared at the tunnel opening. The noise of the sea-cave sloshing against its banks helped calm his rage slightly; but that did not stop him from beckoning two slaves over.
"They are late, but this means I have more time to prepare. One of you go fetch refreshments," Markus turned to the other slave who stayed "Take my mask off and help me apply the ointment."

The loud clang of the silver mask being placed on the stone table resounded through the cave. As he looked down at his masters visage the slaves only reaction was to fight loosing his meager bread and squid meal. With gray eyes, burnt black skin and the horrifying lack of eyelids, lips and hair the masters face would of given a daemon nightmares. The slave started to rub the emerald colored lotion on the masters skin, knowing any mistake would cost his life and that of his family.

Once the slave was finished he stepped back and Markus lifted his mask, returning it to its place.
"Leave me now.... They approach"
 

The Archivist

Archivist of the word The
True Blood
A whistled tune came from the lips of a sweeper in the morning light. The dark elf slave seemed disproportionately happy considering she was in chains, sweeping the dockside.
Her rags were dishevelled, and her face was covered in grime and muck. She swept the keyside, pushing a couple of dead bodies into the water and giving the finger to those who were merely hungover. As she scrubbed the piers she carefully avoided the slop buckets with practiced ease, wandering between the ships and taking pains to ignore the crys of irritation at her cheerful tune.

Jan reached the final pier, and began scrubbing the planks. They were old pine planks, generally found in stark relief on Naggaroth's shores, and generally had deep blood stains ingrained on them. About halfway along, she noted the deep mahogany found in Lustria, a subtle yet obvious contrast in colour.
She kept going. There were one too many shady characters awake at the moment. She decided to return once she had donned more suitable garments...

Two hours later, and a fisherwoman sat on the end of the pier, her rags and makeshift fishing pole not moving as she sat on the pier. A splash, and she was no longer there: that was the danger of fishing in these waters.
Now underneath the pier, Jan carefully wound her way through the maze of poles, planks, ropes and dead slaves left over from the construction. She counted the boards above her head until she found the right one. Beneath it was a dark hole, raised from the waters by carefully placed mortar and bone. She carefully packed her clothes into her waterproof bag, gripped her broom tightly with both hands and leapt for the hole.
 

Zephyr

Master Necromancer
True Blood
Mar 3, 2008
2,522
Rotterdam
Kelarith breathed in the cold, crisp air on the docks through the elven chainmail that covered the lower part of his face. He had followed the instructions to the letter but it took him a while to find the discolored wooden planks. He waited until the nearby Druchii finally left the vicinity, it only took him a few seconds to stare them down with his lifeless steel gray eyes.

He inspected the wooden boards and noticed they were stained by blood. Kelarith grunted approvingly before feeling around for a ridge or hole where his fingers could get a grip. He found a crack big enough for three fingers and pulled the boards upward. Underneath he could make out stones, almost like a waterhole and a tunnel leading away into darkness on the left.
He let himself down the hole, after closing the boards on the pier and going around and under the pier. He dropped himself down, landing with a loud bang. He could have sworn he heard another bang a few heartbeats later, just a bit too late to be an echo.

His right hand patted the pommel of his Draich, reassuring himself it was within reach if needed. He followed the dark and moisty tunnel eventually coming into a larger room where seven chairs stood in a semi-circle. A figure, completely covered in clothing and a strange mask, sat in front of it all, perfectly at ease clearly expecting him. From the looks of it he would not be the only one coming. A slave stood not far from him, holding a broom.

Kelarith picked the leftmost chair but rather than sitting down he stood in front of it, crossing his arms and awaiting further instructions. A low feral growl echoed in his ears. The Bloody Lord's warning that he should be at full alert...
 

Chaos_Born

Master Necromancer
True Blood
Jan 17, 2012
2,053
Omnipresent
The sound of cart wheels and clattering hooves rang through the streets of Karond Kar as the carrirage made it's way through the city towards the sea.

Verikar sat silently inside, clad in fine chain and leather armour and wreathed in his black scaled cloak. It was a functional and rather fetching get up, but he wondered if perhaps he should have brought something a little warmer for the journey, for he was shivering rather violently. He did briefly spare a thought for the slave driving the cariage who was waring even less than himself and sat out in the full force of the wind, but he had to stop himself. After all he didn't have time to sit here laughing, he had decisions to make.

He began to survey the dozens of weapons in the carriage, both on the walls and standing racks. One of his weaknesses, he would always say playfully, was that he could never dicide what to use until the very last minute. He looked from small, concealable stilettos to great long claymores like a man trying to choose between his children. The carriage ground to a halt; it was now or never. Indicision was rife on Verikar's face and for a moment he contemplated sending his slave down the tunnel and demanding to be met in his carriage.

After a good hour, Verikar emerged onto the pier with a dozen scabbards of various sizes strapped to his body. With a satisfied look, he walked around to the front and addressed his slave, 'Keep moving but stay close, I may have need of some other weapons. If I don't come out before dawn go back, I don't know how long I might be.'

Not waiting for the stammering reply of 'M'lord', Verikar turned into the numbing wind and briskly walked down the pier looking for the discoloured plank. He didn't hesitate upon seeing it, prising it open and hopping inside, more worried about getting out of the cold than what dangers might lie within. The dank tunnel was actually inviting after the weather of Karond Kar, and Verikar made his way deeper under the Sea of Chill.

When Verikar emerged into the room and saw the waiting chairs and the sinister looking masked elf, something registered in his head. This wasn't just someone hiring him to storm a hideout or protect his travelling daughter. This guy meant business. Verikar took a seat opposite the man silently, not wanting to be the one to break the eerie quiet.
 

Raizi

Vampire Thrall
Oct 16, 2011
999
"Get down you maggots!" Yelled the slaver as his whip tore another patch of skin from the slave's back and the unfortunate slave fell on his knees. The slaver was whipping two of his slaves do death as an example to the others what would happen to anyone who tries to escape or refuses to follow orders. These two were the weakest looking of the twenty that had came to Karond Kar with the last slaver ship and most likely would only make the rest of the stock look bad. Another crack of the whip for the other one, he at least had the sense to lay motionless on the ground and had stopped screaming.

The slaver's whiphand froze midair, as he saw the corsair who was approachig him from the piers. The man's armor and sea dragon cloak were dripping with water and he carried his curiously fashioned helmet in his hand. It was the face and the look in the eyes, that stopped the slaver. The face seemed to glow slightly and was wet, as if the man had just washed his face. But the eyes were what he recognized, he had seen them before.

He had seen them on slaves who were found in the canals or floating in the docks. On corsairs that had shipwrecked and came back to the surface two days after their ships had gone to the bottom of the sea. They were the eyes of a drowned man, pale and watery, void of any emotion or warmth. And the slaver knew the only man by name who still walked when he had those eyes.

Raniq the Silent.

The two slaves raised their heads and fear was apparent in their eyes as well, but for a different reason. They feared their end was coming near now that the slave master had ceased flogging them and they too turned their eyes towards the corsair who came to address the slave master.

*TWO* *SERVANTS*

The slave master knew his hand signals, he had done some business with Raniq before. He wondered, like many others what became of Raniq's purchases and why he never used the proper sign when referring to slaves.

"You want two slaves, master Raniq. Fine fine, please come and see what our freshest stock looks like. They're quite fresh so the price will be four silvers each, instead of the usual two a piece."

The stare he received made the slaver's adam's apple bounce a bit as he swallowed nervously and suddenly the cool night became very hot and uncomfrotable.

*TWO*

Repeated the signaling hand while the other hand pointed to the two flogged slaves who were lying on the ground, exhausted and dripping blood.

*PAY* *ONE*

And the corsair produced two pieces of silver, a standard price for a single non-descript slave and offered them to the slaver. This took the slave master by surprise and he just grabbed the coins from the corsairs hand and shouted to the rest of the group: "Now let's get going, you maggots! Tomorrow's a big day for you all, you might get just as lucky as these two here and get sold or you might spend another day in the warehouse. Now move!" The slaver quickly glanced back after a few dozen yards and saw the corsair helping the two whipped slaves on their feet.


----------------------


"My name's Janus." Said one of the slaves to his new master. The strange looking corsair didn't answer and seemed to be writing something on a piece of paper. The other slave had suffered the most from the beating and was barely able to stand. Surely they would get somewhere warm and dry now. Away from this blasted cold. The corsair had put his helmet back on and it frightened him a bit, but he assured himself it was just because he needed both of his hands to write on the paper. Janus examined the helmet and tried to figure out what creature it was made of. It had a resemblance of a humans skull, but strange tentacle-like appendages protruded from the upper jaw, just beneath the nose and curled around to cover the sides of the face, leaving the lower jaw and mouth exposed.

The corsair handed him the letter and started examining their condition as Janus read it.
"Read this out loud...." Janus began a gave a quizzical look to the corsair, but he didn't respond so Janus continued:
... so your companion hears it too. You are now my property and servants of the Deep Gods. I will lead you to a tunnel, which you will explore for me and then I will give you another task. Serve me well and the Deep Gods will reward you both. Fail me and die."

When he was done reading, the corsair started walking towards one of the piers and the slaves made their best effort to keep up with him. When they reached the pier most far away, the corsair dropped suddenly on one knee and removed a discolored board from the pier, revealing a dark tunnel beneath. He gave them both a torch, lit them and pointed towards the hole. Janus nodded as he understood what was required of them. Perhaps an ambush was waiting and the corsair wanted to be sure he wouldn't walk into one in the dark and cramped tunnels.

The corsair tied a rope to them both and they went into the tunnel. After an uneventful walk of about fifty yards, the rope tightened and was yanked a couple of times. They knew it was a signal to return. When they climbed up from the hole, the corsair quickly tossed the end of rope to a man who was sitting in a rowing boat next to the pier. The slaves climbed on the rowing boat, not knowing what lay ahead for them now, and as the boat began to separate from the pier, they could see the corsair going into the tunnel himself.

"Well, I hope he finds what he seeks." Janus said and noticed the amuled the rowing man was wearing. It was made of gold decipting a kraken eating another kraken.


-------

Raniq entered the small room at the end of the tunnel and saw four others were already there. He took the leftmost available seat, since he had always walked the path of the left hand. No one in the room spoke a word and it was known Raniq was a man of no words.
 

Malochai

Moderator
Staff member
True Blood
Aug 4, 2010
3,072
England
Indoril was sat on the rooftop of The Iced Knife, staring out over the elven population of the city meandering beneath him. His stillness was a facade, though; every sound was heard and processed as he contemplated the note. ‘They clearly know who I am ... What I do,’ he thought, ‘and have an obvious interest. But what is it? Revenge? For whom? But if they wanted revenge, why send a messenger instead of a blade?’

He sighed, already knowing that he would venture down to the docklands, and would then venture down the tunnel. Find what you seek. The line kept spinning around in his mind. ‘How could they know what I seek? Not even I know! Be it my rightful title,’ the bolt in his hands snapped as he thought this, splinters spearing into his calloused palms, ‘or merely revenge upon her ...’ Another sigh, and he crouched, quietly stalking to the side of the roof and slipping back into his room. He pushed into the warm air, the feeling as if he were walking through treacle from the Old World. Shaking his head, he pushed aside such nonsense. The elf strode straight over to the chest where he kept his weapons and withdrew the crossbow, caressing the cool wood lovingly. He smiled slightly, thinking of the many lives he’d ended with a squeeze of the trigger, before he regained his usual composure. He also withdrew three pouches, each with three vials of different, equally lethal, poisons, and tied them onto his belt, next to the double sheath for his daggers. The double quiver, holding both regular bolts and those for his repeater handbow, replaced the one already at his waist, and then he was off again, before he changed his mind.

He vaulted alleys and shimmied along ropes until he overlooked the docks - corsair ships bobbing nonchalantly on small, rippling waves, which glistened in the cold, harsh moonlight. It was colder here than anywhere else in the city, the freezing air creating an ache in his bones he felt no amount of warmth could ever displace. ‘Damned city,’ he told himself again, the thought resounding bitterly in his mind. Even now, in the depths of the night, there were elves wandering; guards with spears and shields patrolling, deckhands drinking and gambling, wandering between ships and the quayside inns, to get pissed and fight. The figure of Indoril, watching the scene with dispassionate interest, would have been chilling to see, if any had bothered to look up - the cloak, wild in the chill wind, and armour, glinting like the waves of the Sea of Chills, topped off by a face of shadows, and darkness, and two pinpricks of amber, intelligent and ruthless, watching every movement. ‘But they never do look up.’ He watched another elf walk down the pier, searching for the plank, and pulled it up, jumping into the pit immediately, before elegantly dismounting the building, hanging off the lip of the tiles and jumping backwards, tucking into a neat ball and landing perfectly. Glancing around to ensure he was still unobserved, he made his own way up the pier. He found the discoloured board easily enough, and was prising it up long, dextrous fingers when he heard the stamp of metal boots behind him.

“Stop! What are you doing?” The voice was strong and powerful, but a slight unease was obvious. ‘I suppose this isn’t the most normal of activities to find one doing,’ he thought, handbow already in his hand and spinning, cloak streaming behind him. Two shots were fired off, piercing the chainmail armour of the guard. Tottering, the guard fell into the water with barely a splash. “Damned fool,” he thought, turning back to the board and finished prising it up. He asked himself once more whether he should go through with it, before he dropped down into the black pit effortlessly. ‘Well, I’m committed now,’ he said, eyes sparkling with interest.

He then readied his weapons and started off down the tunnel, listening for any sounds. He eventually found himself in a large cavern, facing a number of other elves. The one that caught his eye wore a silver mask and appeared to be the one in charge; he had an aura of command about him. ‘I don’t like this ...’ he thought instantly.
 

Mello

Hasn't left TVC for the rest of the forum
True Blood
Oct 26, 2010
3,460
Peterborough
The click of roof tiles halted as Mythas jumped off the final rooftop, and after a whistling silence, the hard thunk of wood heralded the beginning of the sea-front.  Markus slowed to a walk and checked around him.  Yeah, this was the right place.  He didn't want to enter quite yet though, still could be a trap.  Markus casually looked around and saw a bench overlooking the sea, presumably because it had a 'nice view', whatever that meant.  Mythas sat down,  rested his head on his hands and waited.  He heard Sylvia flutter down on the roof above him

 Mythas, as he had many times before, watched the world go by in disgust.  It was easy to tell apart the rich from the poor, merely in the way they regarded others.  Those who rubbed shoulders with their fellows were most definitely not well off; those who avoided everyone, glancing around were usually thieves and the lowest dregs of society, rightly scared that contact with the wrong person would get them enslaved or killed.  Then there was the higher class, if they weren't distinguishable by their clothes, they were easy to find.  They would move in a straight line, expecting the sea of people to part in front of them, and would then recoil when they were touched or bumped into someone, sometimes killing or enslaving them if the contact was particularly rough.  It was the people who didn't fit into these categories that worried Mythas, as they were either foreigners or people that weren't walking in the city simply to go from A to B.  That meant that they could be looking for him.

After a couple of hours, Mythas noticed the first visitor, and was instantly worried.  An abnormal sized hole in the crowd had parted to reveal an executioner.  Was he here to kill the un-official assassins? Maybe..  Some time later a huge black coach pulled up.  Mythas had originally suspected that it was for the executioner after he had finished his mission, but it turned out, after a long wait, that it already had an occupant, who came out looking like he was a member of a blade fetish club or something, they were known to exist.  Mythas inwardly shrugged. Each to their own..  After a wait neither came out, so Mythas could assume that they were either not fighting or still fighting, either way would be safe for him.  A little later a corsair that seemed to have just had a swim in his armour turned up with two rather beaten up slaves.  Odd though, the crowd didn't part around him, either they were wanting to ignore him so as to not draw attention to themselves from pure fear, or he simply was extremely good at hiding himself.  Considering the fact that the corsair was, let's face it, a corsair, Mythas reckoned it was the former.

Mythas grinned as the two slaves were sent in before the master.  Someone else was intelligent or simply not arrogant enough to not go down that hole without letting someone test it first.  Sure enough, the slaves returned and the corsair descended.

Just as he was about to get up, a shadow descended from the rooftops on his left.  It quickly materialised into a cloaked figure who smoothly walked to the entrance, but was stopped by a guard when he was effecting entry.  The guard didn't last long.  Mythas whistled.  It was one of those professional types, who kill people from miles away.  He'd always wanted to meet one somehow.

Mythas stood up and brushed himself down, glancing at Sylvia, who stopped looking forlornly at the patch of sea the guard had fallen in and dutifully hopped onto his shoulder.  Evidently she was a curious as him.  He walked over to the now slightly overused entrance and dropped into the pipe entrance, landing with a soft splash.  Straightening up, Mythas softly walked forwards until he reached an entrance to a larger cave.  Upon entering, he found that there were four elves present and two slaves, one serving drinks, and the other... brushing the floor?  Mythas glanced down and kicked a pebble, well the slave was doing a rubbish job at it.  The four that he had already seen and who he had guessed must be the host, obviously rich due to the silver mask and expensive clothing.  Odd mask.. Mythas absently wondered why he wore it.

Mythas began to move forward and hesitated.  Where would he go?  He certainly didn't want to sit down, if there was any trap set, it would be on those chairs, and he would be near people anyway.  Mythas was unsure how to react to these other people anyway, and was rather glad that no-one was speaking, it made him less panicky.

A gentle breeze sighed through the cave towards Mythas, bringing with it the smell of the room.  Sylvia suddenly cocked her head sideways and cawed enthusiastically, jumping off his shoulder and flying unto the host's lap, whereupon she looked up at his mask eagerly.  Mythas panicked and shouted "Sylvia!!", his words echoing harshly through cave.  Sylvia took a look at Mythas, looked back at the host's face, then cawed begrudgingly and flew back to Mythas where he speedily gave her a mouse's tail to occupy her.  Now realising he was the centre of attention, he swallowed and slid down the edge of the wall just to the right of the entrance, where he pre-occupied himself with Sylvia's feathers to avoid any stares he may be receiving.

The fact Sylvia was so interested in the host's mask was strange.  She was usually only that enthusiastic when it involved food, but she only ever scavenged off whatever dead anim-

Ah.  It was what was behind the mask that interested her.  Mythas winced, thanking whatever was out there for his current physical health.
 

Johnny-Crass

Vampire Ancient
True Blood
Jan 25, 2012
6,633
California
As the bird fluttered away Markus rose, the silver mask turning to each elf and then to his new 'slave'. Calling out to her in a sneering tone "You know why I do not take women? Because they do not last through my experiments, but if you want we can give it a shot."

Markus then looked back at the rest of the room 'Only six?' he thought.

Raising both his gloved hands Markus let his voice boom through the cavern "Laddies and Gentlemen, Dead and Dying! Allow me to introduce myself, I am Markus the Black" His voice swelled with bitter pride as he said this. "And I am your future employer." He let the words hang in the air.

"As soon as our last guest joins us we can begin our business. But let me tell you now, these jobs will not be easy nor safe." Turning his masked face to the elf with the hawk "So if you do not have the stomach for it I suggest you start running." A coughing fit overtook him, making Markus double over and when he rose a thin trail of black blood was dripping from his silver mouth. "If you choose to accept my offer then great riches will be in your grasp..."

Markus sat back down and staring past those seated around him to the tunnel he called out "Come in my dear, I know you are out there. Please sit and feast!"
 

The Archivist

Archivist of the word The
True Blood
Jan burst into laughter. As she bent over she spun her chains off and grabbed a boiler suit from her bag, pulling it on in less than two seconds. Another three seconds and she'd wiped the grime and dirt from her face.
She took one of the remaining seats, combing her hair out with a small brush she'd taken from her bag. Jan now looked if not sexy then certainly pretty, her bag and broom in her lap and her loose boilersuit hiding the curves of her body.
She finished laughing with a snort.
"You invite me here, promising 'what I seek' and then you make a couple of veiled threats and a potentially lucrative job offer? If I had genuinely tried to infiltrate, I would sooo be making a treasure map out of your blood."
She sniggered again.
"X would mark the spot where you would be buried... And then bits of body could act as those landmarks... I have to do that sometime. Any pirates we have to kill?"
 

Raizi

Vampire Thrall
Oct 16, 2011
999
Raniq removed his helmet at the mention of pirates. His camouflaging cloak had already started to mimic the surroundings and now it's spell was broken when the corsair who wore it had moved and it returned to it's original color.

Water was dripping from his fingers when he put his helmet on the table and he turned his eyes to meet the woman who had broken the silence.
 

Malochai

Moderator
Staff member
True Blood
Aug 4, 2010
3,072
England
Indoril stared at the silver-masked elf, eyes unblinking. His left hand fiddled with the end of his dagger's grip whilst his right adjusted his cloak's hood and the half-mask.

"Laddies and Gentlemen, Dead and Dying! Allow me to introduce myself, I am Markus the Black. And I am your future employer." Indoril had been expecting this, but just to hear it said with such confidence, as if it were the only thing that could come out of this meeting was galling. 'He'll end up regretting this, I'd bet,' he thought sourly.

"As soon as our last guest joins us we can begin our business. But let me tell you now, these jobs will not be easy nor safe." Indoril scoffed slightly.
"So if you do not have the stomach for it I suggest you start running." When the masked man started coughing, the rough, hacking sound grating on the sensitive ears of the marksman. He shook his head in disdain, but kept quiet; there was clearly more to come. "If you choose to accept my offer then great riches will be in your grasp ..." He then stood and walked over to the tunnel. "Come in my dear, I know you are out there. Please sit and feast!"

He also listened through some of the others speaking, before finally voicing his own questions. "Okay, 'Markus the Black'" he began, the condescension clear, "I have questions - You said these jobs would be neither easy or safe. Do we look like we do easy and safe?" His right hand gestured to take them all in, "My second question is, what are these 'great riches' that you're promising us? And the third - what's to stop you attempting to kill us, after we've entered your employ and done your dirty work?" His intelligent amber eyes burned with both curiosity and the embers of anger starting to grow. "Why should we trust you?"
 

Lynks

Lord of RAW
True Blood
Dec 29, 2010
2,215
Sydney
It was only a short time in Dark elf society and vanity had already gotten the best of her. after the dispatching of her former friend after acquiring the letter, Iriden was helpless against spending a decent portion of the ill gotten plunder she had upon suitable clothing and the intricate hair, each designed to be as functional as possible while highlighting as much of her un-scarred skin. The only make up she wore was blood from the wounds of the fallen upon her lips, for as any noble knew, it had a shade that could not be matched by any other to compliment her pale skin.

As such, when she made her journey to where she had been directed, ever cautious along the way for fear of being watched or tailed much time had passed since the murder. Arriving and noticing the discoloured plank, Iriden was unable to enter without raising great suspicion as a small crowd of dock workers and officials had gathered around the corpse of a guard obviously hauled out of the water in a fishing net. Perhaps Iriden had forgotten after all this time how much a crowd could hamper a person, because they seemed to be stopping her at every turn.

Eventually the crowds cleared and Iriden approached the plank, lifting it up and gazing beyond. "always with the corridors and tight spaces..." she muttered under her breath, touching her chain-whip and regretting that this was another situation where her favoured weapon would not be of use. Drawing her crossbows instead she slipped in as quietly as possible, however not being particularly adept, making a lot of noise in the progress.

Iriden made her way down the tunnels she could hear relatively clearly in the distance the caws of a bird, the cries of an elf and the introduction of some other person. It seemed that there was a gathering of people, and if the words were to be believed, she was the only missing entity. She could see lights in the distance and it seemed the chamber of whatever gathering this was was just around the corner but at that moment a voice called out "Come in my dear, I know you are out there. Please sit and feast!". Iriden knew she had no particular talent but it seemed even as such she had overestimated her talent of sneaking, the experiences with men were obviously nothing as what trying to hide from a druchii was...

Readying herself for her 'grand entrance' she burst from around the corner and almost started her oration but a different member had burst into a flurry of motion and Iriden lost almost all effect. Instead she seized upon the interlude go glance around at the motley crew presented before her. Easily sizing up who was in charge by virtue of position, she levelled one of her handbows towards him while the other panned the room.

Iriden gazed deep into whatever eyes were hidden behind the mask and stated "That is twice you have known where and when I will be arriving. You will tell me how and why." Silvering her words with the slightest trace of magic as she went, making a calculated risk that if these people were to kill her, they already knew of her sorcery and it they did not then she would seem the tiniest bit more intimidating and compelling, something quite required given the botched appearance and removal of the element of surprise.
 

Johnny-Crass

Vampire Ancient
True Blood
Jan 25, 2012
6,633
California
Markus looked around the room and shrugged; reaching up and pulling his mask off and placing it on the table. Words began to spill from his lip-less mouth "You ask if you can trust me and how I know so much about you all? Well you see that is my insurance that you all will not kill me. My slaves found you all in less then a day! How?...."

Markus replaced his mask and continued "As for the riches I and many that we will work for are very well off. Money is not a problem. Now please sit so we can discuss our business."
 

The Archivist

Archivist of the word The
True Blood
Jan smirked at the wet, white-skinned elf's gaze. She pointed her index finger at him, then up, before sniggering.

As Markus spoke, her face lost its mirth.
"Money may not be a problem, Markus, but that is not what you promised. Your letter clearly stated you had what I seek. If you tell me that, I'm all ears."
She stared hard at his mask, murmuring half-formed puns about fire under her breath.
 

Chaos_Born

Master Necromancer
True Blood
Jan 17, 2012
2,053
Omnipresent
Verikar sipped a glass of something he'd been handed and regretted the concealed dagger in the small of his back. It may be only 4" long and still capable of removing a man's head in a single stroke, but it made it damn uncomfortable to sit down. Despite this, he was monitoring the situation as it unfolded.

He had been relieved by the introduction of the Markus. It seemed he was simply one of these powerful and eccentric types who like control and tricks, and so a lot of the worry he had felt upon seeing him was gone.
What did worry him were his soon to be co-workers. They weren't anything like the thuggs and adventure seekers he was used to dealing with. There were some real dark figures in this room, and worse they didn't seem to understand how these things worked. He ignored them as much as he could, not caring about their questions or confusion.

Verikar put his glass down on the arm of his chair upon Markus mentioning 'business' and gave the masked elf his full attention. He sat attentively but silently, not wanting to upset Markus by speaking before his voice was needed; an inflamed ego often resulted in a less generous employer.
 

Malochai

Moderator
Staff member
True Blood
Aug 4, 2010
3,072
England
Indoril nodded, and listened to Jan. "She's right, Markus. The note says 'what you seek'. I shall settle for nothing less than that, and the moment I think I'm being ... Underpaid, people are going to die, painfully. For now, though, I am content to listen to what you have to say." The elf took a seat, and drew a knife from it's sheath; flipping and catching it in gloved hands, between finger and thumb. Over and over, over and over, he repeated this, losing himself in the rhythm.

"What are we doing? Why not approach us ... Individually?"
 

Zephyr

Master Necromancer
True Blood
Mar 3, 2008
2,522
Rotterdam
A very soft and pleasing voice spoke up, it took the others in the room a while to mentally adjust that it was indeed coming from the Executioner. It seemed very freakishly out of place; more fit for a bard than a murderer of the Temple.

"It seems I am in agreement with some of the others here. It is not money I seek nor do I even know why I was invited though I have my...suspicions. And yes what strange company do we find ourselves in. Why this gettogether? Why drag me here all the way from blessed Har Ganeth?"

Kelarith unfolded his arms and took a step towards the desk.

"There is one thing you could promise me. Simple slaughter. Let me prove myself to my Lord against the infidels in this city, put me against those that think they are safe from His gaze and I will gladly strike them down."
The more Kelarith spoke his voice seemed to transform into something altogether more demonic. Raw and harsh sounding.
He cocked his head to the right and nodded as if listening to someone. He took a step back again and sat down, whispering again in the almost angelic voice.
"Your will be done Lord."
 

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