Best Of

So not long after the whole El'Jazira massacre Malcanthet, on her run through of the village, ran into an Enorian Knight just standing there! She had to stop and chit-chat a bit, and he was most obliging! XD Overall, a fun surprise little RP session. Thanks again @Sryaen !!!

Barely pausing to chew, you consume the corpse of a Teshen reaver bit by
bloody bit.

As she wipes blood from her maw, you ask, "Pretty, isn't it?""

You pat a pile of burnt corpses in a friendly manner.

Gruffly, Knight-Commander Sryaen Cardinalis, the Spectre says, "Something
like that."

You have emoted: Malcanthet's lips peel back into a grotesquely wide grin
that displays her many needle teeth, some still sporting bits of whatever
she's been eating. "So what're you up to?"

Sryaen slowly turns his attention away from the pile of charred corpses
to settle his gaze upon you. "Working on my tan," he replies simply.

You have emoted: Malcanthet plops herself down atop one of the corpses
rolled to the edge of the pile and stretches her legs. "Sounds like a
fine idea." She muses, bright green eyes already roving with a
scavenger's attentiveness. Snapping off a ring finger from the corpse at
her back with a loud *CRACK* she plops it into her mouth, chewing noisily
as she then decides to stare with open curiosity at you.

Your pose is now set as:
Malcanthet is here seated atop the pile of corpses with a queenly air.

Sryaen seems undisturbed by your loud snacking and his vibrant emerald
gaze flicks back towards the pile of bodies you were seated upon.
"Indeed," the Templar says in his usual low, gravelly voice before
falling silent once more.

You have emoted: Waving another liberated digit at you, Malcanthet
comments, "You don't look like an Enorian. You aren't all bright and
shiny..." Her demeanor is amiable enough as she sucks the rancid juices
from the pulpy end of her snack.

You have emoted: As she shifts into a more comfortable position, the
bloated body beneath her releases a noisy 'pffffffffft', the gases within
it expelled by her weight. Glancing downward briefly, Malcanthet chimes,
"Oh excuse you..." and then selects a toe from the corpse to the far
right, twisting it off like a berry from a bush, and then flips it into
her awaiting maw.

The corners of his eyes twitching ever so slightly at your words, Sryaen
allows a fleeting hint of a smile to pass across his ashen lips. "And I
doubt you'll ever find another like me in the Beacon," he states matter
of factly. As that putrid smell from the bloated corpses wafts across his
nostrils, he makes a low, thoughtful rumbling noise in the back of his
throat and pauses before he speaks once more. "Perhaps I should bring my
own snack next time," he thinks aloud.

You have emoted: Ever the benevolent hostess, Malcanthet gestures to the
many corpses out of reach of her but very near you. "Help yourself..
They're just going to waste here. Some of them are far too burnt to taste
that good, but if you dig deep enough you'll find others are juuuuuust
right." The last is said with a sing-song lilt as she selects another
toe, this one bigger, and wrestles with it for a moment. The effort
nearly unseats her, though finally, with a grunt, it gives, well-done
meat sliding off bone and into a greedy palm. She pauses, then glances
over at you, flicking the putrefying bit of flesh your way. "Catch!"

Sryaen lifts a lightly armored hand to catch the severed toe in his palm.
Keeping his piercing stare leveled upon you, the Templar stuffs the flesh
into his mouth and begins chewing slowly, every other bite accompanied
with a snapping of the nail between his teeth. Finally, he swallows and
turns his attention away from you to resume inspecting the damage done to
the village.

You have emoted: Malcanthet offers a grunt that could be vague approval
and then she's back to scavenging - the area eerily quiet save for the
occasional noise of her merry mastications. Eventually, a glance back
reveals her looking contentedly over at you, chin resting in her palm,
free claws idly plucking burnt hairs from a half-ruined scalp within
reach. "Those guys are fun, aren't they? Taste of sorrow... The corpses
wont talk to me." She sighs, nudging one with her foot. "Normally they
don't shut up."

(I missed logging Sry's comment here, but he basically asks why Lord Ivoln was punishing these people/shades - my memory is foggy on the exact wording, feel free to comment, @Sryaen !)

You have emoted: Malcanthet twirls a cleaned sliver of bone between her
claws with flourish and then jabs it between her teeth, working loose
stringy pieces of flesh lodged there. Her attention drifts as she does
so, an almost catty expression crossing her daemonic face as those
slitted eyes flick around in seeming disinterest. Just when you think
she's not going to answer, she drawls, "It's not Him."

Allowing you to make of that what you will, Malcanthet
reclines back, her repose setting off a noxious chain of death-vapors,
which arise noisily from below.

Sryaen loosely coils his whip around his forearm while his other hand
drops down to rest casually upon the blackened weaponbelt slung low
across his hips. The Templar doesn't inquire further, but simply offers a
single nod towards you. "Well. I hope the other territories fall in line
quickly and with minimal loss of life," he says with a throaty grunt that
tumbles roughly past his ashen lips.

You have emoted: Pushing off her corpse-bed with a jaunty little hop up,
Malcanthet grabs a finger for the road - or attempts to - yanking with
enough force to pop the dead woman's shoulder from its socket. As the
rest of the cooked flesh yields without resistance, she ends up with an
entire arm, but takes this in stride, swinging it up and over her
shoulder with a nod to you as she passes. "Either way, it'll be fun" she
half sing-songs, half hisses, and gives you an exaggerated wink.


Spoiler descs:

Look Sry:
He is a typical Azudim of Tsol'aa heritage and is a long-limbed, feral
creature standing roughly seven feet tall. Flawless skin the color of ash
covers his entire slender, yet subtly muscled figure. Arcane runes
zig-zag across what flesh can be seen, pulsing with a faint blue light as
the edges appear to have been carved into his flesh with seemingly
calculated design; the jagged markings describing the curvature of muscle
or outlining solid, powerful bone structure beneath his ashen flesh. A
large tattoo of shadowy black is set on the left side of his brow, the
half-crescent arcing gracefully along the side of his face before
finishing off in a sharp point that ends just below the curve of his
cheekbone. Long hair adorns his head, an alternating mix of raven black
and silvery locks of hair that have been pulled back into a long ponytail
that hangs just between his shoulderblades. His eyes are a deep emerald
green that are set beneath a slender brow, though small flecks of blood
seem to be permanently set within the irises upon closer inspection.
Tendrils of inky blackness swirl haphazardly around his lithe frame to
give the appearance of nearly translucent, shadowy wings that bend and
refract with available light. The Azudim is clad from shoulder to toe in
menacingly jagged and battle-scarred, black field-plate armor that makes
him seem all at once immobile and yet dangerously capable. Eldritch
violet light surrounds him - a blessing of chaos and dreaming. The clean
scent of a refreshing sea breeze lingers around him - the aroma marking
the blessing of the Maelstrom. Sparks of ember fall in his wake,
revealing the blessing of Ethne.

Look Mal:
She is an undead powerful Azudim Earthen of Imp heritage whose arresting,
sin-swathed figure of void-black obsidian and dagger's edge curves offers
a harsh hourglass of ebon faceted beauty evoking the wonder and fathom of
a starless sky. Jagged-spired horns are glazed and adorned with gold wire
to fashion an abstract crown nettled with earth-bound things: slivers of
still-gleaming bone, ash-flecked, glass beads and glittering diamonds --
all of these cascading in frozen rivers of wealth down a spine cold as
long-dead basalt. Whorls of fire burn within venom-green eyes, their
blase regard a paradox to the eerie conflagration beheld at each turn of
head or pointed stare. Feminine, sultrily frigid, the angular planes of
her fierce countenance are unforgiving: sooty lips curved in mischief, a
dare, perhaps, to any brave enough to approach. Volcanic veins trace
spiderweb patterns down the length of her tall frame, pulsing faintly in
time to the ravenous tune of her undead heart. Translucent strands of
spiderweb periodically weave around her form, empowering her with
Iosyne's blessing.