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An Interrogation
So, because the Shadowbound plot is dead - I decided to throw a couple of RP logs up here that I had been saving.
A shadowbound entered Spinesreach and killed its blacksmith. @Moirean then "killed" the shadowbound. Ishin and a team of Syssin tracked Moirean down to the Temple of Iosyne and stole the figure's body. Ishin took the body to the Syssin interrogation room. The events unfolded as followed:
DATE: Tn the early hours of the 19th of Severin, 423.
PRESENT: @Aren, Faerah, @Ishin, @Ingram
LOCATION: The interrogation room in the Syssin GH. It was a brand new room (designed by Aren!) as of about four RL hours before this happened.
A soft, almost sibilant whisper caresses the edge of Ishin's hearing. "The first of many," the voice intones.
Ishin leans in closer to the corpse. "We will kill every last one of you," he whispers back to it.
Ingram presses his shoulder into the wall to the left of the door, arms folding over his chest, staring at the figure on the ground.
Ingram M. Tenor says, "Why Aife? What's with the pylon? What's.. hgggh."
A pale, hunched figure snaps up suddenly in the chair - and when his eyes open, they aren't even remotely human. Instead they are feline, glowing with eerie, violet light.
Ishin gazes back into the figure's eyes, his own sapphire blue irises cold and merciless. "Didn't figure her hammer would do you in," he says with a smirk.
A pale, hunched figure says, "Your hammers are as shadows to us, hunter."
Faerah tosses her weight into a lean against the wall by the iron doors, her voice is void of inflection as she says, "...Chain it up as well, Black Hand. Can never be too cautious."
With a dusty, purring chuckle, a pale, hunched figure says, "Chains won't hold us. Not when our time comes. Do you think chains can hold back darkness? Do you think chains can hold back Mother?"
A pale, hunched figure says, "You think you know shadows, hunters. But you don't. The shadows... will swallow you up like minnows."
Ishin moves over to the hanging chains, unhooking several of them before he approaches the chair. He wraps the figure in the cold iron, ensuring that it's bound tightly enough to the chair that it can barely even move. "We've kept Ohlsana imprisoned for this long," he responds. "We'll keep her imprisoned longer."
Aren crosses his arms and stays near the doorway, watching silently.
Ishin snaps his fingers, lifting a hand to point at Aren. "Bring me a hammer, Shade."
Ingram steps around the boarder of the room, flanking the figure in the chair, hands loose at his sides as he watches silently.
A pale, hunched figure says, "You needed poor, dead Lanos. Where is Lanos now? Oh, yes. He has a different name. Damaaaariel. Yes. I think I saw Odravh swat him to the ground like a horsefly."
A pale, hunched figure licks its lips.
Ishin Cardinalis says, "Ingram, fetch me the hammer off the wall."
Ingram nods faintly, swiveling at the waist and taking a step back to snatch up the tool before hefting it over to Ishin.
"I doubt that will do much," Faerah comments to Ishin before crossing the room to close the distance between herself and the figure. "How about we try using our words for a bit first? ...I do realize its a struggle for you, Black Hand."
A pale, hunched figure's eye bulges outward, the veins standing out like pipes before one of them cracks - a thin trickle of blood runs across the white of the eye, with the feline, violet glow superimposed upon it.
Its eyes watering, a pale, hunched figure blinks.
Ingram's hand is still somewhat extended in the air from the throw, forgotten, his eyes on the figure in the chair with a worried frown.
Ishin shrugs slightly, spinning the hammer in his left hand after tucking his whip away. "I'll await your command, General."
Sniggering with a catlike purr, a pale, hunched figure says, "No hammer. Just the whip... for you."
A pale, hunched figure smirks at Ishin.
Ishin returns the figure's smirk with a wide, cold grin, showing off his sharp, gleaming canines.
With obvious annoyance dripping from her words, Faerah asks a pale, hunched figure, "Who sent you?"
His head lolling back, a trail of blood streaming from his nostril, a pale, hunched figure says, "Who sent me. That's a good question. Mother sent me, a long time ago. She had plans. Has plans. Plans that none of you ever factored into."
A pale, hunched figure hunches forward as best it can, licking the blood from its face with a too-long, bulbous tongue at odds with its humanoid appearance.
Impatiently, Faerah asks a pale, hunched figure, "Well then, as you're quite 'invincible' and sure of yourself, how about you tell me about those plans?"
Laughing, a pale, hunched figure says, "You were never supposed to exist. Do you know that? None of you were. You were all a mistake. All a fluke. You're going to be corrected soon."
Faerah asks a pale, hunched figure, "All mortals, or just all Syssin?"
A pale, hunched figure his head hanging low, and trails of smoke pouring from his glowing eyes.
"All of you. Everything on this continent. Even this continent. This is all a lie, little hunters. You're being lied to."
Coughing, blood spattering his front, a pale, hunched figure says, "You've ALWAYS been lied to. Right from the start. Right since you were mewling, puking babies."
Faerah's head tilts her head at the shadowy figured, eyes narrowed. "It's possible." The redhead's shoulders rise and fall in a shallow shrug. "We have been lied to before. However, like then as now, we will prevail. ...Consider us an incurable virus, if that is an analogy that suits you."
Ingram folds his arms loosely and glances sideways at Faerah a moment before back to the figure. He smirks faintly and shifts his weight onto a leg, fingertips drumming on his bicep.
A purr rises from a pale, hunched figure throat, and it raises its sickly face, grinning.
A pale, hunched figure says, "There are things older than the ground beneath your feet. They're coming to kill you."
A pale, hunched figure says, "And little precious Dhar won't be there to catch you when you fall."
Aren glances out the slit in the doorway, checking for anyone who doesn't belong out there briefly before his gaze settles once more on the figure.
"I am sure that may be true as well." Faerah nods at the shadowy figure. "But a fear of death is simply not something a Syssin possesses. We're reckless in that manner." she replies, her voice level and cool as her arms draw to a cross at her chest. "Why the blacksmith?"
A pale, hunched figure's face bloats - the chains creak suddenly, and it wrenches forward, a hideous, eldritch visage struggling to rise from the human's facial structure. In spite of the clear limitations of flesh and bone, a beast is making itself known, its eyes blazing with power. Old power.
Laughing with a multitude of voices, a pale, hunched figure says, "Why not the blacksmith?!"
Ishin steps forward, closer to Faerah and the figure. A low snarl comes up from his chest, and several of the striations in his eyes flicker from sapphire blue to vivid crimson.
A booming roar echoes from the depths of a pale, hunched figure's maw, and its eyes, for a moment, change - mortal. Terrified. Silently pleading.
Ingram drops his arms to his sides and a flash of glinting light precedes the dirk held in his hand, chest high, guard up. He glances between his guildmates gathered before back to the thing in the chair.
Faerah's gaze drifts to the back of her hand, inspecting her fingernails absently. "There may come a time when Lord Dhar does not assist us, but that time is not right now and your dramatics are not impressive." Her gaze lifts, barely noting the mortality in the figure's eyes.
Grinning a bit, Faerah says to a pale, hunched figure, "...Still, we are having such a lovely conversation. Tell me about the Shadow Mother."
A pale, hunched figure licks its lips.
Aren only shakes his head slowly, wings pressed against the doorway.
A dazed, distant expression on its monstrous face, a pale, hunched figure says, "I remember being inside my Mother, waiting to be born. That was happiness. That was...perfection. All I want is to return to Her. To touch Her. To know Her once more, as I did in the..."
A pale, hunched figure lurches forward, coughing - more blood spills up.
A pale, hunched figure says, "...young... day..."
A pale, hunched figure's monstrous visage melts away - all that is left is a man, pale, shaking, flesh peeling from his bones like birch bark. He falls back, sobbing, blood streaming from his eyes, from beneath his fingernails, from his nostrils and mouth.
"The 'young day'... The day before existence as we now know it? Tell me..." Faerah begins, lowering to a crouch to look the figure in its eyes. "You must miss it... Tell me about it?" the winged redhead asks.
Panting harshly, a pale, hunched figure says, "K-k-k-KILL MEEEEE..."
Flatly, Faerah says to a pale, hunched figure, "Tell me what I need to know and I just might."
Ingram tosses his dirk up a few degrees to catch it in a reverse grip, arms dropping to his sides, shoulders slouching. He glances to Faerah before turning off and pacing a few idle steps around, neared to the back of the chair.
Smirking a bit, Faerah says to a pale, hunched figure, "...Besides, you're in a man's body. That is what they do at death's door. They cry for their mothers."
Firmly, Faerah says to a pale, hunched figure, "tell me about the 'young days.'"
A pale, hunched figure's eyes - mortal, terrified, wild - lurch toward Faerah then turn away. He curls in, chains rattling, and a foul scent rises as he surrenders control of his bowels, his bladder. All he can do is sob, the gut-wrenching noises echoing harshly in the chamber.
A pale, hunched figure's hands blindly grope for his throat - clawing as if to tear it out, if they can reach.
"Aren, pull that lever to the left to keep its arms in check." Faerah commands, her dispassionate gaze not moving from the figure before her.
Aren does as asked, moving the correct lever towards his left and in return, shifting the figure's arms away from its throat.
"Well, I vote keep him here in restraints, come back with some buckets full of water after awhile when he's had time to calm down, go from there," Ingram murmurs, glancing sideways at the man before sheathing his dirk and sidestepping rapidly to keep him from a suicide.
Ingram straightens up and steps back, pocketing a hand after wiping it clean on the knee of his pants.
A pale, hunched figure's eyes clamp shut - and then, extending his bulbous, deformed tongue, he bites down, hard, jaws clenching. A muffled scream of pain echoes, and blood sprays as he attempts to sever the mutated appendage. His body is dissolving, flesh giving way to bone, bone giving way to threads of shadow. An insubstantial, dark shape leaps effortlessly through the chains - and in its wake, the man's ribcage explodes.
Ishin drops the hammer, his hand reaching for and drawing his whip.
Blood rains down as the shadowy, insubstantial blob shoots right for the door.
Faerah shields herself from the splatter with both arms, grimacing only slightly. "Black Hand!" she yells after Ishin.
Ishin coils his whip back, cracking it after the blob, his tall form rapidly chasing it.
In some last-ditch effort, Ingram snaps his hand to send his dirk sailing at the figure's back, face a grimace.
Aren releases the lever and turns away as quickly as he can, putting an arm in a vain attempt to keep the blood off him.
There's a quiver, then a bounce. Both whip and dirk pass through it, and it wriggles out through some near-imperceptible gap. Gone.
There is a steady drip, drip, drip of blood and ichor from the ceiling.
Ishin pulls his right arm back, hurling his spiked kite shield in a last ditch effort towards where the blob slipped through, the shield smashing hard into the wall before crashing to the ground.
Ingram's weapon smacks the metal of the door before clattering to the ground, its owner standing in place a bit hunched forward, arms swinging faintly before him. His teeth are bared in a set wince and his eyes widely stare at the door under a sunken brow.
Faerah wipes some blood from her face, peering up at the ceiling. "And this was all fresh and new," the redhead mutters to herself, more irritated than anything.
Ingram M. Tenor says, "Listen, I just..."
Ingram M. Tenor says, "I don't want to look."
Ingram M. Tenor says, "How much is on my suit?"
Faerah looks between Aren and Ingram, her tone flat as she says: "...Really, gentlemen?"
Aren glances around with a disgusted look, trying to wipe some guts from his shoulder, "It's disgusting."
Ishin gives a low, cold chuckle as he moves over, picking up his shield and Ingram's dirk. He settles the shield back on his arm, before he tosses the dirk back to him. "A shitload," he says. He doesn't seem to care at all about his own clothing, bits of flesh and blood spattered all over him. His crimson-tinged blue eyes shift back to Faerah. "Good way to break it in, no?"
Ingram snatches the dirk from the air, closes his eyes, and releasing a long and saddened sigh before muttering, "Thank you."
The man's spleen falls, bursting on the floor with a sad, wet 'pfiff'.
Ingram jerks back as a shot of fluid smacks him on the side of his face and collar, prompting a screaming barrage of curses and expletives as his hands and arms flail about.
Faerah grins at Ishin, smearing a bit of the blood over her arm as she tries to wipe it away. "Indeed. Though I wish we had obtained more intelligence before he... Well...." the redhead makes a 'boom' action with her hands, an amused sparkle in her eyes. "Ah well," she says, kicking the corpse a bit.
The corpse of a pale, hunched figure twitches, giving a half-hearted kick.
Ishin's lips pull up into an unpleasant grin, once more revealing his teeth as an equally unpleasant snicker comes out of his mouth. He pulls out several pieces of cloth, offering them to you. "Ati, perhaps, or one of his creations, I think."
Aren clears his throat, "General...I know you may not want to but that thing that escaped was controlling this man. It could enter another."
Aren Ratek Yaslana says, "Should warn people.."
Ingram starts wrenching off his jacket from each shoulder before tossing it aside to the nearest surface. He glances down and makes a "Heeenghh!" sound with a hiked pitch before unbuttoning his sleeves and rolling them up to his elbows, still cursing under his breath.
Ingram removes an elegant jet-black tuxedo shortcoat.
Ingram M. Tenor says, "It said it has been here awhile."
Ishin nods his head at Ingram.
Ishin Cardinalis says, "Which leads me to believe Ati."
Ishin Cardinalis says, "The look on its face was old as well. The presence of its power. It's no fresh-born shade."
Faerah claps her hands together, the sound resounding throughout the chamber before she nods at Aren. "Perhaps, but first your report," she sternly says, her gaze shifting to the blood-splattered ceiling.
Ishin reaches over and picks a piece of flesh from Faerah's shoulder, before he flicks it mercilessly directly towards Ingram.
Faerah says to Ingram, "As for you, write a post as Senator warning about the shadowbound and urging Spireans to be cautious... Keep it... Vague."
Ingram ducks sharply, the tissue going over his head, before straightening up with a pissed look while he jams a finger in Ishin's direction. Then he goes back to trying to delicately pick off bits and chunks without spreading it. "I will," he says.
"I'll get right on it." Aren announces with a nod, "In the meantime...if you have someone you want to punish...cleaning duty would do it."
Nodding, Faerah says to Aren, "Mm..."
Faerah says, "And of course, gentlemen, information loses its potency when shared."
Faerah says, "Don't share it."
Ingram nods his head emphatically.
Ishin nods his head in agreement.
Aren nods his head emphatically.
Ishin Cardinalis says, "As you command, General."
Faerah smooths some blood-soaked hair behind her ear. "Very well, you're each dismissed."
Aren gives Faerah a respectful salute.
Ishin turns, giving Faerah a salute. Then, he tucks his weapons away, before sticking his hands into the pockets of his coat and walking off, humming what sounds like an almost happy tune, despite being covered in body pieces and fluids.
Ingram strolls over, almost lazily, to the door before shoving it closed. He turns back to Faerah and steps over to stand at her side, staring at the corpse.
Faerah tilts her head at the corpse, staring at it for a lingering moment. "That was a person at some point," she says.
"Not so much by the time this month rounded the corner," Ingram says, lifting his eyebrows. "We're at a stark disadvantage. I saw that incident at Hashan, by the by. Our Gods were getting just.. backhanded away, with great effect."
Ingram M. Tenor says, "We know nothing, their entities are frighteningly stronger than most anything I've ever encountered, and.. possibly older, which doesn't bode well."
Faerah nods her head. "Fortunately, the worst that can happen is we all die horribly and existence ends as we know it. The plus of that is we're not around to see it," she replies, her tone flat before her gaze lifts to look up at Ingram. "So let's focus on getting our work done and keep fear out of the equation."
A shadowbound entered Spinesreach and killed its blacksmith. @Moirean then "killed" the shadowbound. Ishin and a team of Syssin tracked Moirean down to the Temple of Iosyne and stole the figure's body. Ishin took the body to the Syssin interrogation room. The events unfolded as followed:
DATE: Tn the early hours of the 19th of Severin, 423.
PRESENT: @Aren, Faerah, @Ishin, @Ingram
LOCATION: The interrogation room in the Syssin GH. It was a brand new room (designed by Aren!) as of about four RL hours before this happened.
A soft, almost sibilant whisper caresses the edge of Ishin's hearing. "The first of many," the voice intones.
Ishin leans in closer to the corpse. "We will kill every last one of you," he whispers back to it.
Ingram presses his shoulder into the wall to the left of the door, arms folding over his chest, staring at the figure on the ground.
Ingram M. Tenor says, "Why Aife? What's with the pylon? What's.. hgggh."
A pale, hunched figure snaps up suddenly in the chair - and when his eyes open, they aren't even remotely human. Instead they are feline, glowing with eerie, violet light.
Ishin gazes back into the figure's eyes, his own sapphire blue irises cold and merciless. "Didn't figure her hammer would do you in," he says with a smirk.
A pale, hunched figure says, "Your hammers are as shadows to us, hunter."
Faerah tosses her weight into a lean against the wall by the iron doors, her voice is void of inflection as she says, "...Chain it up as well, Black Hand. Can never be too cautious."
With a dusty, purring chuckle, a pale, hunched figure says, "Chains won't hold us. Not when our time comes. Do you think chains can hold back darkness? Do you think chains can hold back Mother?"
A pale, hunched figure says, "You think you know shadows, hunters. But you don't. The shadows... will swallow you up like minnows."
Ishin moves over to the hanging chains, unhooking several of them before he approaches the chair. He wraps the figure in the cold iron, ensuring that it's bound tightly enough to the chair that it can barely even move. "We've kept Ohlsana imprisoned for this long," he responds. "We'll keep her imprisoned longer."
Aren crosses his arms and stays near the doorway, watching silently.
Ishin snaps his fingers, lifting a hand to point at Aren. "Bring me a hammer, Shade."
Ingram steps around the boarder of the room, flanking the figure in the chair, hands loose at his sides as he watches silently.
A pale, hunched figure says, "You needed poor, dead Lanos. Where is Lanos now? Oh, yes. He has a different name. Damaaaariel. Yes. I think I saw Odravh swat him to the ground like a horsefly."
A pale, hunched figure licks its lips.
Ishin Cardinalis says, "Ingram, fetch me the hammer off the wall."
Ingram nods faintly, swiveling at the waist and taking a step back to snatch up the tool before hefting it over to Ishin.
"I doubt that will do much," Faerah comments to Ishin before crossing the room to close the distance between herself and the figure. "How about we try using our words for a bit first? ...I do realize its a struggle for you, Black Hand."
A pale, hunched figure's eye bulges outward, the veins standing out like pipes before one of them cracks - a thin trickle of blood runs across the white of the eye, with the feline, violet glow superimposed upon it.
Its eyes watering, a pale, hunched figure blinks.
Ingram's hand is still somewhat extended in the air from the throw, forgotten, his eyes on the figure in the chair with a worried frown.
Ishin shrugs slightly, spinning the hammer in his left hand after tucking his whip away. "I'll await your command, General."
Sniggering with a catlike purr, a pale, hunched figure says, "No hammer. Just the whip... for you."
A pale, hunched figure smirks at Ishin.
Ishin returns the figure's smirk with a wide, cold grin, showing off his sharp, gleaming canines.
With obvious annoyance dripping from her words, Faerah asks a pale, hunched figure, "Who sent you?"
His head lolling back, a trail of blood streaming from his nostril, a pale, hunched figure says, "Who sent me. That's a good question. Mother sent me, a long time ago. She had plans. Has plans. Plans that none of you ever factored into."
A pale, hunched figure hunches forward as best it can, licking the blood from its face with a too-long, bulbous tongue at odds with its humanoid appearance.
Impatiently, Faerah asks a pale, hunched figure, "Well then, as you're quite 'invincible' and sure of yourself, how about you tell me about those plans?"
Laughing, a pale, hunched figure says, "You were never supposed to exist. Do you know that? None of you were. You were all a mistake. All a fluke. You're going to be corrected soon."
Faerah asks a pale, hunched figure, "All mortals, or just all Syssin?"
A pale, hunched figure his head hanging low, and trails of smoke pouring from his glowing eyes.
"All of you. Everything on this continent. Even this continent. This is all a lie, little hunters. You're being lied to."
Coughing, blood spattering his front, a pale, hunched figure says, "You've ALWAYS been lied to. Right from the start. Right since you were mewling, puking babies."
Faerah's head tilts her head at the shadowy figured, eyes narrowed. "It's possible." The redhead's shoulders rise and fall in a shallow shrug. "We have been lied to before. However, like then as now, we will prevail. ...Consider us an incurable virus, if that is an analogy that suits you."
Ingram folds his arms loosely and glances sideways at Faerah a moment before back to the figure. He smirks faintly and shifts his weight onto a leg, fingertips drumming on his bicep.
A purr rises from a pale, hunched figure throat, and it raises its sickly face, grinning.
A pale, hunched figure says, "There are things older than the ground beneath your feet. They're coming to kill you."
A pale, hunched figure says, "And little precious Dhar won't be there to catch you when you fall."
Aren glances out the slit in the doorway, checking for anyone who doesn't belong out there briefly before his gaze settles once more on the figure.
"I am sure that may be true as well." Faerah nods at the shadowy figure. "But a fear of death is simply not something a Syssin possesses. We're reckless in that manner." she replies, her voice level and cool as her arms draw to a cross at her chest. "Why the blacksmith?"
A pale, hunched figure's face bloats - the chains creak suddenly, and it wrenches forward, a hideous, eldritch visage struggling to rise from the human's facial structure. In spite of the clear limitations of flesh and bone, a beast is making itself known, its eyes blazing with power. Old power.
Laughing with a multitude of voices, a pale, hunched figure says, "Why not the blacksmith?!"
Ishin steps forward, closer to Faerah and the figure. A low snarl comes up from his chest, and several of the striations in his eyes flicker from sapphire blue to vivid crimson.
A booming roar echoes from the depths of a pale, hunched figure's maw, and its eyes, for a moment, change - mortal. Terrified. Silently pleading.
Ingram drops his arms to his sides and a flash of glinting light precedes the dirk held in his hand, chest high, guard up. He glances between his guildmates gathered before back to the thing in the chair.
Faerah's gaze drifts to the back of her hand, inspecting her fingernails absently. "There may come a time when Lord Dhar does not assist us, but that time is not right now and your dramatics are not impressive." Her gaze lifts, barely noting the mortality in the figure's eyes.
Grinning a bit, Faerah says to a pale, hunched figure, "...Still, we are having such a lovely conversation. Tell me about the Shadow Mother."
A pale, hunched figure licks its lips.
Aren only shakes his head slowly, wings pressed against the doorway.
A dazed, distant expression on its monstrous face, a pale, hunched figure says, "I remember being inside my Mother, waiting to be born. That was happiness. That was...perfection. All I want is to return to Her. To touch Her. To know Her once more, as I did in the..."
A pale, hunched figure lurches forward, coughing - more blood spills up.
A pale, hunched figure says, "...young... day..."
A pale, hunched figure's monstrous visage melts away - all that is left is a man, pale, shaking, flesh peeling from his bones like birch bark. He falls back, sobbing, blood streaming from his eyes, from beneath his fingernails, from his nostrils and mouth.
"The 'young day'... The day before existence as we now know it? Tell me..." Faerah begins, lowering to a crouch to look the figure in its eyes. "You must miss it... Tell me about it?" the winged redhead asks.
Panting harshly, a pale, hunched figure says, "K-k-k-KILL MEEEEE..."
Flatly, Faerah says to a pale, hunched figure, "Tell me what I need to know and I just might."
Ingram tosses his dirk up a few degrees to catch it in a reverse grip, arms dropping to his sides, shoulders slouching. He glances to Faerah before turning off and pacing a few idle steps around, neared to the back of the chair.
Smirking a bit, Faerah says to a pale, hunched figure, "...Besides, you're in a man's body. That is what they do at death's door. They cry for their mothers."
Firmly, Faerah says to a pale, hunched figure, "tell me about the 'young days.'"
A pale, hunched figure's eyes - mortal, terrified, wild - lurch toward Faerah then turn away. He curls in, chains rattling, and a foul scent rises as he surrenders control of his bowels, his bladder. All he can do is sob, the gut-wrenching noises echoing harshly in the chamber.
A pale, hunched figure's hands blindly grope for his throat - clawing as if to tear it out, if they can reach.
"Aren, pull that lever to the left to keep its arms in check." Faerah commands, her dispassionate gaze not moving from the figure before her.
Aren does as asked, moving the correct lever towards his left and in return, shifting the figure's arms away from its throat.
"Well, I vote keep him here in restraints, come back with some buckets full of water after awhile when he's had time to calm down, go from there," Ingram murmurs, glancing sideways at the man before sheathing his dirk and sidestepping rapidly to keep him from a suicide.
Ingram straightens up and steps back, pocketing a hand after wiping it clean on the knee of his pants.
A pale, hunched figure's eyes clamp shut - and then, extending his bulbous, deformed tongue, he bites down, hard, jaws clenching. A muffled scream of pain echoes, and blood sprays as he attempts to sever the mutated appendage. His body is dissolving, flesh giving way to bone, bone giving way to threads of shadow. An insubstantial, dark shape leaps effortlessly through the chains - and in its wake, the man's ribcage explodes.
Ishin drops the hammer, his hand reaching for and drawing his whip.
Blood rains down as the shadowy, insubstantial blob shoots right for the door.
Faerah shields herself from the splatter with both arms, grimacing only slightly. "Black Hand!" she yells after Ishin.
Ishin coils his whip back, cracking it after the blob, his tall form rapidly chasing it.
In some last-ditch effort, Ingram snaps his hand to send his dirk sailing at the figure's back, face a grimace.
Aren releases the lever and turns away as quickly as he can, putting an arm in a vain attempt to keep the blood off him.
There's a quiver, then a bounce. Both whip and dirk pass through it, and it wriggles out through some near-imperceptible gap. Gone.
There is a steady drip, drip, drip of blood and ichor from the ceiling.
Ishin pulls his right arm back, hurling his spiked kite shield in a last ditch effort towards where the blob slipped through, the shield smashing hard into the wall before crashing to the ground.
Ingram's weapon smacks the metal of the door before clattering to the ground, its owner standing in place a bit hunched forward, arms swinging faintly before him. His teeth are bared in a set wince and his eyes widely stare at the door under a sunken brow.
Faerah wipes some blood from her face, peering up at the ceiling. "And this was all fresh and new," the redhead mutters to herself, more irritated than anything.
Ingram M. Tenor says, "Listen, I just..."
Ingram M. Tenor says, "I don't want to look."
Ingram M. Tenor says, "How much is on my suit?"
Faerah looks between Aren and Ingram, her tone flat as she says: "...Really, gentlemen?"
Aren glances around with a disgusted look, trying to wipe some guts from his shoulder, "It's disgusting."
Ishin gives a low, cold chuckle as he moves over, picking up his shield and Ingram's dirk. He settles the shield back on his arm, before he tosses the dirk back to him. "A shitload," he says. He doesn't seem to care at all about his own clothing, bits of flesh and blood spattered all over him. His crimson-tinged blue eyes shift back to Faerah. "Good way to break it in, no?"
Ingram snatches the dirk from the air, closes his eyes, and releasing a long and saddened sigh before muttering, "Thank you."
The man's spleen falls, bursting on the floor with a sad, wet 'pfiff'.
Ingram jerks back as a shot of fluid smacks him on the side of his face and collar, prompting a screaming barrage of curses and expletives as his hands and arms flail about.
Faerah grins at Ishin, smearing a bit of the blood over her arm as she tries to wipe it away. "Indeed. Though I wish we had obtained more intelligence before he... Well...." the redhead makes a 'boom' action with her hands, an amused sparkle in her eyes. "Ah well," she says, kicking the corpse a bit.
The corpse of a pale, hunched figure twitches, giving a half-hearted kick.
Ishin's lips pull up into an unpleasant grin, once more revealing his teeth as an equally unpleasant snicker comes out of his mouth. He pulls out several pieces of cloth, offering them to you. "Ati, perhaps, or one of his creations, I think."
Aren clears his throat, "General...I know you may not want to but that thing that escaped was controlling this man. It could enter another."
Aren Ratek Yaslana says, "Should warn people.."
Ingram starts wrenching off his jacket from each shoulder before tossing it aside to the nearest surface. He glances down and makes a "Heeenghh!" sound with a hiked pitch before unbuttoning his sleeves and rolling them up to his elbows, still cursing under his breath.
Ingram removes an elegant jet-black tuxedo shortcoat.
Ingram M. Tenor says, "It said it has been here awhile."
Ishin nods his head at Ingram.
Ishin Cardinalis says, "Which leads me to believe Ati."
Ishin Cardinalis says, "The look on its face was old as well. The presence of its power. It's no fresh-born shade."
Faerah claps her hands together, the sound resounding throughout the chamber before she nods at Aren. "Perhaps, but first your report," she sternly says, her gaze shifting to the blood-splattered ceiling.
Ishin reaches over and picks a piece of flesh from Faerah's shoulder, before he flicks it mercilessly directly towards Ingram.
Faerah says to Ingram, "As for you, write a post as Senator warning about the shadowbound and urging Spireans to be cautious... Keep it... Vague."
Ingram ducks sharply, the tissue going over his head, before straightening up with a pissed look while he jams a finger in Ishin's direction. Then he goes back to trying to delicately pick off bits and chunks without spreading it. "I will," he says.
"I'll get right on it." Aren announces with a nod, "In the meantime...if you have someone you want to punish...cleaning duty would do it."
Nodding, Faerah says to Aren, "Mm..."
Faerah says, "And of course, gentlemen, information loses its potency when shared."
Faerah says, "Don't share it."
Ingram nods his head emphatically.
Ishin nods his head in agreement.
Aren nods his head emphatically.
Ishin Cardinalis says, "As you command, General."
Faerah smooths some blood-soaked hair behind her ear. "Very well, you're each dismissed."
Aren gives Faerah a respectful salute.
Ishin turns, giving Faerah a salute. Then, he tucks his weapons away, before sticking his hands into the pockets of his coat and walking off, humming what sounds like an almost happy tune, despite being covered in body pieces and fluids.
Ingram strolls over, almost lazily, to the door before shoving it closed. He turns back to Faerah and steps over to stand at her side, staring at the corpse.
Faerah tilts her head at the corpse, staring at it for a lingering moment. "That was a person at some point," she says.
"Not so much by the time this month rounded the corner," Ingram says, lifting his eyebrows. "We're at a stark disadvantage. I saw that incident at Hashan, by the by. Our Gods were getting just.. backhanded away, with great effect."
Ingram M. Tenor says, "We know nothing, their entities are frighteningly stronger than most anything I've ever encountered, and.. possibly older, which doesn't bode well."
Faerah nods her head. "Fortunately, the worst that can happen is we all die horribly and existence ends as we know it. The plus of that is we're not around to see it," she replies, her tone flat before her gaze lifts to look up at Ingram. "So let's focus on getting our work done and keep fear out of the equation."
6