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Why first dates with Carnifex can be bad for your health
Tetchta
The Innocent
All the context required: Aramaeus and Tetchta are in a love triangle/polycule, and are arranging to have a meetup to get to know each other more. Also, a brief warning: I write emotes with the primary subject (not my character) as the POV, especially in one-on-one scenes. I thought about generalizing these emotes for an outside observer in post, but this is authentic to how the log was at the time and I don't see the point in editing it. Regardless, this was a fairly fun scene that shows off both my character and Aramaeus's without being too prone to metagamesque nonsense. Also my first log post since I came back in January, so plz be kind.
THE PLAYERS
@Aramaeus
He is a wise Idreth of Human heritage and is as a creature sculpted from an artists ideal of elegant, cold perfection. With flesh as smooth and flawless as polished white marble, the broad shoulders and narrow waist form a frame for a lean, graceful musculature that emphasises the balance of power and speed. The thick, lustrous locks of alabaster hair are so meticulously styled as to appear spun from purest snowfine, swept back from the brow, save for an artful array of tresses that arch down on the right. The features that make up the chill, remote visage are almost delicate in nature, though they retain a masculine air overall. The cheekbones are high and fine, complemented by an elegant jawline and a straight, modestly proportioned nose. The eyes are perhaps the most striking feature of this being, providing the sole source of colour in the unrelenting monochromatic palette. Like shattered mirrors set upon pools of lustrous black, the polished chrome is splintered, fractured apart by the ebon that is riven throughout - which makes the brilliantly saturated slivers of fluorescent colour all the more prominent. A dazzling riot of hues form a fragmented kaleidoscope of lambent energies, scintillating in every imaginable colour, limning the fractured silver discs in sporadic, lucent levin. The throat and hands are coated in glossy scales of varying thickness, the peculiar scutes formed from a slowly flowing liquid of utter black which occasionally drifts into the air in languid, atramentous splashes of night. Eldritch violet light surrounds him - a blessing of chaos and dreaming.
(worn on a finger) : a lightning-patterned obsidian ring
(worn on the feet) : formally-styled, functional black boots
(covering the torso) : a sleeveless indigo button-down shirt
(worn on the legs) : a pair of midnight black trousers
(ring163697) : a wooden ring of vigour
Tetchta
She is a powerful Idreth vampire of Imp heritage and her age is completely inscrutable. The skin covering this impish creature is a vibrant reddish color, and every visible inch from her neck to her toes is marked in tattoos. Ink fights for room on her skin, and while many designs stand out here and there, just as many seem nonsensical and inscrutable, blending into a swirling mess of text, flowing lines, shapes, and scarifications. Her eyes are a bright grey, nearly-silver color, and her black, wavy hair is combed and pinned off to the side, trailing down to her chin in loose curls, while the sides are cut so short as to look nearly-shaved. Four black, rough horns protrude from her forehead and are trimmed quite short, close to the skull. The bone structure of this vampire is angular, delicate, feminine. Over this slender frame, however, are well-defined muscles and broad shoulders made for exertion, predation. A long, leathery, pointed tail pokes out from behind her and runs down well past her feet in length--it may even be longer than she is tall. Well-manicured nails tip her slender fingers and are painted a crisp, shining black; they are cut quite short and buffed smooth. She's wearing dark makeup--her lips are painted black and covered with a shining gloss, and her eyelids are dusted with an agonizing precision, giving them a dramatic smokey appearance. Eyeliner has been drawn carefully in a thin catseye style, making her silver eyes look more narrow and predatory than they already do. She is glowing with a warm, gentle light. Translucent strands of spiderweb periodically weave around her form, empowering her with Iosyne's blessing. Earth and stone cling to her form under the blessing of the Earthen Lord.
THE ACTION
You read what is written on a pale blue-gray letter with detailed trim:
Tetchta,
I await upon the temple roof in Kentorakro. If you would kindly make your way to the coordinates of 14449, I would appreciate it.
-Aramaeus
Distance to Temple rooftop: 56.
Path: s, nw, sw, sw, w, w, sw, sw, w, w, w, w, n, n, w, n, nw, nw, nw, nw, w, w, n, w, w, nw, w, n, nw, w, w, w, ne, n, n, n, nw, w, nw, ne, n, nw, n, e, ne, n, ne, w, sw, w, n, n, u, u, u, u
You start speedwalking.
Temple rooftop.
The stars glimmer down, broken only upon occasion by thin wisps of clouds. The open sky stretches above this vast, diamond-shaped rooftop, the corners pointing unfailingly in the four cardinal directions. The bulk of Mount Kentorakro looms close at hand to the north, blocking most of the other Tarean peaks and valleys, though a village is nestled within one valley across the river to the east. The waving grasses of the Mamashi paint the southern horizon. The walls of the glass tower can be seen, by those with the nerve to approach the rooftop's sheer edges, running straight down to the garden surrounding the tower. The only exceptions are abalcony sitting below the northern corner and a small, dark enclosed chamber below the opposite corner. Next to a descending stairway of uncanny design in the roof's center, a pond is set into the glass floor. Unknown species of fish swim around in the water, which glows with an strange green color due to candles beneath, seemingly embedded within the glass yet mysteriously lit. There are a number of benches here for sitting and gazing at the sky, the beautiful pond, or the magnificent view. A wide obsidian dais topped with a tall, rose blossom arch dominates the room here. A robed Tsol'aa woman stands here, a welcoming expression on her face. Aramaeus is here. He wields a steel shortsword in his left hand and a reinforced tower shield in his right.
You see a single exit leading down.
You have reached your destination.
Tetchta trots in riding sidesaddle and slides off of a midnight black stallion, a sheer black longcoat of shimmering silk swirling dramatically as she lands with a loud "CLACK!" as her heeled sandals make contact with the ground. She repositions a flyaway hair with two fingers and slaps the rear of her horse, sending it riding off into the night. "Evening, Ward Conjurer," she says, with a melodramatic, yet surprisingly graceful and instinctive curtsy.
You slap a midnight black stallion on the rump and send it trotting off towards 'The Esterport stables'.
forecast
Kentorakro is a part of the Tarean Polar air mass.
The air temperature around you is measured at 39 F.
The apparent temperature is at a steady 22 F.
The relative humidity is at 66%.
The winds around you blow to the south at 18 mph.
Standing precariously close to the sheer edge of the tower, Aramaeus is at his ease, posture in a state of relaxed poise. His left forearm resting against the small of his back, a glass filled with dark red liquid dangling unconcernedly from the black talons. At the clatter of hooves that herald your approach, he turns his head to glance over his shoulder, the fractured kaleidoscope of his eyes flickering over your form appraisingly. Lips curving into a faint, pleased smile, he moves smoothly to face you, errant tresses of silken white fluttering in the breeze. He holds one glass out to you in a languid offering, and replies, "Good evening, Lord Mesis - or do you prefer a different title?"
As you look up at the sky, your search is rewarded by the sight of the nearly full moon almost directly overhead.
Tetchta snatches up the proffered glass in her perfectly-manicured hand and eyes it carefully before nosing it, inhaling softly, forgoing a sip, for now. "Lord, always," she informs, lowering the glass and cradling it in both hands. "Though I don't insist upon it, simply if you must. You're not a Squire," she says, silver eyes looking over you to the Kentorakro Mountain in the distance. "Haven't been here for years," she muses idly, swirling the wine in her hands idly, the nearly full moon overhead reflecting in her eyes like silver twins.
Aramaeus's eyes flick to your hand, drawn to the sudden motion for but a moment before he returns his even gaze to your face, his own pleasantly neutral, albeit a touch cool. "I am not, but I observe protocol where appropriate. If you prefer Tetchta, or some other moniker, say so." The pale figure does not deign to follow your gaze, his own instead taking in your attire with a distinct note of approval. "Indeed? I hope it is a suitable location for our little meeting."
p glass
This wine glass has been made of solid glass colored a vibrant, near-opaque orangish-red. Etched into the center of the glass are two instances of the letter 'F', crisscrossing at the long line of the letter with one of them being reversed as a mirror image with strategic flames billowing from behind the letters - a deeper etching style used to make the letters stand out from the illusion of flickering flames. A cylindrical base holds a sturdy glass stem that the drinker can hold without affecting the temperature of the drink. The stem rises and connects with a broad bowl that has been carefully blown to expand in the middle and narrow towards the top to concentrate the aroma of the beverage. 'Flask & Flame' has been carefully etched along the stem of the wine glass.
It has 8 weeks of usefulness left.
It weighs 2 ounce(s).
It bears the distinctive mark of Sir Stine D. Emerson.
A measure of a bloody Snowshoe sloshes about in it. (9/10 sips)
l procurator
Clad in loose, flowing blue robes, this tall Tsol'aa woman always appears ready to help. Her attire is dyed a deep, oceanic blue and tends to cause her rather slender figure to appear bulkier than it truly is. Her shoulder-length ebony hair is tied back strictly, and her narrow, chestnut-hued irises are constantly ablaze with curiosity and diligence. She is called 'Sequa.'
Tetchta's heels clack aggressively against the stone surface of the roof as she closes the distance between the two of you and settles to the side of you, next to the edge. "It is nice and out of the way. Good view. Sequa largely keeps to herself," the woman says, still looking off to the mountain. Finally, she sips from an 'FF' branded wine glass of a bloody Snowshoe. "Propriety doesn't do much for the Carnifex outside of our halls. Tetchta is fine," she says, sniffing at the air softly. "You smell different. Ascended, eh?"
You sip from an 'FF' branded wine glass of a bloody Snowshoe. A thick drink full of texture and strong taste assaults the tongue. Where kawhe and cherry do not mingle, the cold and gloppy nature of congealed blood and chilled snow hit the mouth.
You eye an 'FF' branded wine glass, giving it the once over.
You say, "Ah. Hah. My compliments."
Aramaeus inclines his head at the praise, a small, but genuine smile curving his lips. "I thought you might enjoy it." Lifting his free hand, the other still idly clutching his own glass of wine, he ripples his scaled fingers in a casual flex, tone amused as he replies, "Ascended. I admit, most tend to perceive the visual adjustments, rather than the olfactory." Tilting his head in your direction curiously, he asks, "Is the smell to your approval, or otherwise?"
Tetchta snorts softly, a smile playing at the corner of her lips. Yet still, her eyes remain on the scenery, her finger fondling the faint black lipstick stain on the rim of an 'FF' branded wine glass of a bloody Snowshoe. "Maybe. A smell's a smell. It's like, aaaah," she struggles for a while, her right hand freeing itself from the glass to gesticulate, as though it were going to help her grasp the phraseology. "It's like a texture. Or a flavor. They can be pleasant or unpleasant, but sometimes they just are. Asides," the hand comes back to the glass and she takes another sip, swallowing, and licking a runaway drop from her lips. "People carry more information in how they smell than how they look." Her silver eyes tear themselves from the mountain in the distance finally and she turns her head to look at you, the muscles in her neck flexing and contorting as she does. "How are you finding your new body?" she asks you.
A brief, powerful urge to run and dance sweeps over you, causing your muscles to spasm before you regain control.
You use Racial Scent.
You tilt your head back and deeply inhale any scents from the air.
You pick up the faint scent of Aramaeus at Temple rooftop.
Aramaeus listens with courteous attentiveness, head canted towards you as you speaks. A contemplative noise is the sole, vocal reception to the explanation, though he nods, tapping a talon thoughtfully upon the curve of his wineglass with a bright, sharp, 'tink-tink'. Silver eyes meet a shattered rainbow set upon fractured plates of chrome as he returns your regard evenly, a light smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Oh, I like it well enough. It suits me, I think." Pressing the tip of a splayed finger from where he grasps the wine glass, he trails the curved talon down along the glossy black scales of his opposite forearm. The odd plating 'tck's softly as the point catches on the ridged edges, until the ebon coating flows like viscous liquid, parting about the claw like the fin of a shark. "Is it to your satisfaction, or is that, too, a case of simply being?"
"It's alright," Tetchta says honestly, wrinkling her nose nearly imperceptibly. "Smell like Omei," she continues, unbuttoning a sheer black longcoat of shimmering silk and reaching inside into a nearly-invisible pocket to procure a slender white cigarette. She exhales in a quick, controlled puff, ending a burst of tiny flame to its tip to light it. "What'd you do to get her attention?" the vampire asks Aramaeus, propping the cigarette between two fingers and bringing it up to her blackened, glossy lips for a drag, sending bluegrey smoke pluming into the night air.
Despite the relative indifference of the answer, Aramaeus's smile is a broad one, amusement dancing in his eyes. Watching you light the cigarette with mild interest, he lifts a single shoulder in a liquid shrug. "Little, in truth. I was brought to Her Wood, and offered up some dead and a prayer of thanks. This was the recompense." Lifting his glass to his lips, he inhales the scent lazily, eyes never leaving you. "Why?"
"It's unusual to see a practicing Sciomancer walking with her approval of any kind," Tetchta explains, pulling a lit slender white cigarette from her lips and exhaling smoke as she pauses, considering your profile. She takes a sip from the glass in her hand, swallowing quickly. "You seem less tense than our previous two meetings," she comments, silver eyes locked on your own, simple and crisp in contrast to your intricate, multifaceted ones. Her tail gives a subtle twitch beneath her silken longcoat, but otherwise she's as still as a statue, elbow propped on her hip, cigarette dangling loosely in her fingers, smoldering silently.
You seek out all mental presences within your reach:
You sense Aramaeus at Temple rooftop.
(Market): You say, "Buying loose claws and preserved yellow eyes."
A blurry figure comes into view through the glass floor below you, growing slightly less indistinct as it enlarges.
@Mazzion gives a preserved, yellowed eye to you.
Mazzion says, "Shadus."
"Ha!" you exclaim.
"Mm. I was not aware. Interesting. I have a standing invitation to visit the Wood, and was brought before Her vacant throne. Perhaps my guide's approval was sufficient to offset the distaste of Sciomancy." Aramaeus,offers as possible explanation, his free hand splaying in a unhurried arc. The shattered galaxies of his eyes glimmer with increased lucence as he offers you a languid smile. At the new voice, however, he turns, a brow arching. "People do have a habit of simply apparating at the most inconvenient times."
Tetchta plants a lit slender white cigarette between her lips and gleefully twirls a preserved, yellowed eye along her lace-encased fingers before it disappears entirely in the blink of an eye--somewhere. "It's good to have friends sometimes," she says, retrieving the cigarette once more, plucking it like a bird that's found a snack in the grass. "You dodged my question," the woman says, bringing her glass back to her lips and taking a deep sip, silver eyes looking over the rim of the glass at you.
The deepening night stands strong against the coming day as the moon traces its path across the sky.
Now alone once more, Aramaeus returns his attention to you, the full weight of his regard falling upon you. "Did I?" he asks mildly, evidently unconcerned with the accusation. A wry smile twists his lips, the lopsided expression alight with subtle humour. "I suppose I am. You have been parted from me for quite some time." he observes, gaze direct, even and without malice. "Ascension has done much for me."
"Does for some folk," Tetchta acknowledges shortly, saying nothing more, standing in the silence of the temple, eyes matching your own, smoke trailing from her cigarette into the sky as she regards you. Save for the occasional gust from the Tarean mountains stirring a sheer black longcoat of shimmering silk, she remains still, as though her clothes were draping a statue (one covered in copious graffiti. After a long while, she breaks, although only with a fragile, tiny movement, her thumb expertly tapping on the edge of her cigarette, sending ash tumbling away into the breeze and down from the height of the temple.
Aramaeus watches you throughout the extended silence with an air of calm contentment, matching your stillness with an easy repose of his own. Lifting his free hand, he extends it towards you, talons curled inwards so that his knuckles face you, suspended on the cusp of breaching your personal space. With a subtle dip of his wrist, he motions to the black ring of the choker that adorns your throat, voice soft, pitched low, almost gentle as he asks, "May I?"
A sudden sense of baking heat intrudes on your thoughts, but the moment passes swiftly.
The vampire tilts her head to the side wordlessly, easing access to the choker snug around her neck. As she turns, her muscles flex and churn, like a snake moving through the grass, hunting for a predator to construct, and they bulge tightly against the choker that Tetchta has affixed with an almost cruel tightness to her throat. Her right arm remains poised, her elbow resting on her hip, while the glass of bloody liquor sets in her other hand, still and undisturbed her her movements, belying control and care in her movements. Yet still, she doesn't speak.
Unhurried, Aramaeus brushes the back of his scaled knuckle along the soft, strained velvet of the choker, his gaze shifting from your eyes to you throat, head canting aside curiously. With the utmost delicacy, he slips the curved, needle point of his foremost talon beneath the band, the smooth, gleaming ebon material of his claw cool upon your flesh. Murmuring, his voice as rich as the material that encircles your neck, he oberves, "I like this on you."
"Usually can't wear things like this regularly. Too restrictive. A handle that can be grabbed. Compromising," Tetchta she says, her words vibrating against your talon, sending each syllable not only to your ears, but up your arm. "But yes, you have good taste," she says, her eyes on your face as you probe the garment. Finally, she brings the neglected cigarette to her sparkling, shimmering black lips and sucks its smoldering contents into her lungs. You can feel the breath run past your talon, like the rushing of water, a slow, flowing resonance.
"I do," Aramaeus confirms, not a trace of doubt in his words. Seeming fascinated by the band, and the interplay of deeper shadow upon skin as muscle writhes beneath, his gaze does not so much as flicker up to your, his demeanour entirely at ease. "Yet you wear it for a meeting with me," he muses, the fine, glass-like substance of his talon sliding glacially from one side of the encircling garment to the other. "Why is that?"
"Went with the outfit," Tetchta informs shortly, a flicker of mischief pulling at her right eyebrow. Imps. "It brings people joy to see you embrace a gift you gave them, does it not?" she elaborates in the form of a rhetorical question, her tail curling in a tight stretch before releasing once more, a languid, limp draping of sinew and muscle. "I hope you don't think me completely devoid of propriety because I dragged you to the safest bar to talk on the continent," she needles playfully, otherwise not responding to your extended fondling and closeness; a calmness, like a panther napping in a tree, without a care in the world, saturates every muscle in her body.
The uneven combination of light sources projects a spectrum of colors across the opposite cavern wall.
You cast an invisible mind net out into the distance, allowing it to settle about the surrounding land.
The sound that vibrates from within Aramaeus's mouth is not quite a laugh, close as his lips are, but a distinctly amused "Mm." The riotous constellation of his eyes sparkles with humour at the remarks, the few stray locks of his snowy tresses drifting across his brow as he tilts his head to the opposite side, intent as ever upon the choker. "I suppose it does. To be honest, I don't quite know what to think of you, enigmatic creature that you seem." The languidly gliding talon slows, pausing at the center of the band. "You are so very distant." His voice remains quiet, a thoughtful tinge to the words so softly delivered. "I mislike it." Gently, so gradually as to take several full breaths to become noticeable, he curls the talon inward, applying the faintest pressure upon the straining velvet, pulling to him with the lightest of gestures.
"Hypocrite," Tetchta counters, not budging an inch at the pulling. Denser than she looks at a surface level, the warrior, clad in elegant and revealing clothing, is a mass of trained and powerful muscles that resist the pull reflexively, standing firm. In a flash, the languid calm is gone and replaced in its stead is a stubborn creature, a boar in its home territory, planted. Yet still, her body language shift is nearly imperceptible, and otherwise there's no display of alarm. She relieves her lungs of the inhaled smoke through her nose, sending a pluming stream into the air around her. Nothing else is said in reply, and yet still her eyes don't leave your own, sparkling in the light trickling down from the heavens above.
The smile that grows upon Aramaeus's lips is like the slow spread of fire within oneself at the first shot of whiskey, the gesture transforming his cool features from something remote, instead, to a sculpture of warmth and subtle invitation. "Oh? How so?", he asks, a lazy amusement suffusing his words with that same languid heat. He reacts not at all to the defiance so silently presented, maintaining the feather-light pressure upon the choker, pulling, ever pulling, yet without applying sufficient force to snap the band. The light gleams off the liquid, lustrous surface of his thumb as he brushes it along your throat, slow as the first trickle of meltwater in spring.
A wave of invisible force passes unnervingly through you, traveling from one corner of the temple to another.
Tetchta doesn't move, her counterpressure sufficient to remain in place, though the choker has begun to dig, ever so slightly, into the skin in the back of her neck. "You need me to spell it out for you?" she asks, bringing an 'FF' branded wine glass of a bloody Snowshoe to her perfectly painted lips, taking a gulp. You can feel the liquid travel down her neck and into her core, the muscles in her neck straining the tensile resistance of the choker's fabric, plucking it like cello string, sending the pulses through it and into your fingers. Ever unerred, her eyes remain on yours--not so much defiant as resilient, a rock unmovable, that's seen centuries of hurricanes and persevered.
"Let us say, instead, that I prefer to hear it direct.", Aramaeus replies mildly, his own wine evidently forgotten, dangling morosely from the loose cage of his other hand like a neglected vial of blood. The edges of the smile turn upwards as he watches your throat work, eyes following the path of the imbibed liquid with great interest. The continued resistance serves only to elicit the faintest bass rumbles of pleasure, a distant thunder of uncertain portent that vibrates from within the deep confines of his chest.
"Release me," Tetchta says, eyes firm and unyielding, though her lips have, over the course of the past few short exchanges, set grimly. Nothing else has shifted in her body language, though her cigarette has begun to smolder precariously close to her fingers, the ash elongaged, evidence of her diverted attention. A drink. Through all this, she takes another drink, the contents of the glass diminished dramatically from when the meeting started.
Your active class has been switched to Carnifex.
Laughter does, then, finally bubble up from Aramaeus, the sound low and thick with satisfaction, wicked and sweet like spiced honey. He gently slips his talon from beneath your choker, lowering his hand without hesitation or hurry to rest at his side. The look that he turns upon you is almost fond, a gentle creasing at the corner of his eyes as they slide from your throat to regard the silver discs of you own for the first time since seizing the velvet ornament. He remains thus, stance loose with natural confidence, watching in benign silence.
"Thank you," Tetchta replies, your laughter whipping around her like gusts of wind and passing into the air, echoing off into the wilderness from the top of the temple. Like a cat rubbed the wrong way, she eases back into place and returns to her neglected accouterments, flicking ash from her cigarette finally, leaving it clean and glowing. "Being distant can't be a property you find unsavory in another when you're the type of man who can't even tell someone where you're from," explains, a previous conversation's topic coming up as though she were staring at a transcript in her minds' eye. "And you've not asked me anything to judge either way. Seems like a you problem," she says, a glimmer of her previous humor pulling at the corner of her lip.
The tiniest swell of muscle upon Aramaeus's shoulder accompanies a minute twist of his head, acknowledgment of the thanks. A browarches, pale as a bridge covered in fresh snowfall, the shift in topic failing to diminish the quiet pleasure that radiates from the man like gentle heat. "I will gladly tell you whatever you wish," he replies smoothly, as diametrically opposed from his demeanour during the last raising of this topic as is possible. "So long as you give me what I desire."
"Which is?" Tetchta asks, a wind gust catching her lightweight longcoat and sending it swirling aggressively, giving glimpses of the revealing dress below before settling again at her feet. The predatory stillness in the woman returns, as though your talon were once more around her choker. Tension. Like a spring, tightened, spun to the breaking point, but painted with the trappings of calmness. Even so, though her skin and facial features remain as they were, a still contrast to your roiling and expressive form, she is unmistakably poised.
The wind whirls about Aramaeus, whipping his hair into a wild spray of purest white, though it disturbs the man himself not at all - the sole consequence of the errant gust resolving as the briefest break of eye contact, his gaze snapping down to the glimpse of exposed flesh. The calm repose of his eyes flickers, replaced for an instant by a boundless hunger so vast as to devour without cease - and then it is gone, the languid ease sliding back into place as if it had never faltered. So, too, does his gaze settle once more upon you, to whom he offers a smile so laden with complex and subtle meaning as to be indecipherable. When he speaks, the single word is simple, direct as a hammer blow to the temple, all pretense of delicate civility discarded. "You."
Tetchta chortles at the word. "You don't even know what you want, boy," she condescends, flicking the nub of a lit slender white cigarette into the breeze. It tumbles like a coin, caught by the strong wind of the higher elevation of the roof, traveling down and out, spinning until it disappears below. A high pitched whistle erupts from between her lips, and two things enter: a wild-looking, borderline feral, but obedient warhound and her black stallion. She draws a longsword, gleaming and sharp, from the saddle on the horse and wields it deftly. Without hesitation, she stabs through the restrictive skirt of her dress and slices down, revealing a pair of side-ribboned black panties, but also freeing herself from the confines of the cloth. She mounts the horse, no longer the sidesaddle debutante, but a Knight, although one ridiculously dressed all things considered. "I am no possession. I am not a thing. You want me? That's not how this works. Try again." With that, she digs her ankles into the horse and trots down the steps of the temple and off into the distance, leaving behind little but the scent of smoke and warm perfume.
A midnight black stallion trots in, beckoned by its master's call.
You let out a sharp whistle for Hildre, a white warhound to return to your side.
Hildre, a white warhound is now your active hound.
You swiftly swing up onto a midnight black stallion.
You start speedwalking.
Tetchta Gallops back home on her stallion and locks herself in the master bedroom, absolutely furious. Steaming. Enraged.
You unlock the east door.
You open the door to the east.
A spacious master bedroom.
This bedroom is massive, almost big enough to be a main hall in and of itself, but its furnishings are sparse. The ivory plaster walls are bare, and the dark wooden floor, although shined and sanded to be as smooth as glass, is unadorned by carpet. It gives you the sense of freedom of being in an open field with the intimacy of a living space. The ceiling is tall enough for a giant to stand comfortably. Thick steel beams with hooks and loops set into them dangle from the ceiling near head-height, and upon them are set hundreds of candles that keep the room well-lit. In the center of the room against the wall is a large, four poster bed. There are no windows in the bedroom, so the only light comes from the candles suspended above and a fireplace roaring in the far end from the bed. The doors to this room are constructed with strong, dark wood and are hinged with wrought iron. A sigil in the shape of a small, rectangular monolith is on the ground. A large bed is here, its four posters dramatically draped with silk. A battle-scarred desk is here, a pair of dazzling star sapphire cufflinks and a bottle bearing a "Burly Chest Tavern" label atop it. A cushioned, mahogany chair has been placed at it. A large stuffed doll resembling a bear is resting near a pillow on a four poster bed. Dominating the south wall is an intricately carved mahogany wardrobe.
You see exits leading north (open pine door), east, and west (open pine door).
You close the door to the west.
You lock the west door.
Tetchta unlaces a pair of beribboned high-heeled sandals and hurls them angrily against the wall, cracking the heel of one of them clean off in the process.
You have posed a pair of beribboned high-heeled sandals #250818 as:
High heeled sandals have been carelessly left here-- the heel of one of them is snapped clean off.
Energy spent demolishing the pair of shoes, Tetchta calms down and removes a sheer black longcoat of shimmering silk, stuffing it in a carved mahogany wardrobe. "F***ing petulant boy," she mutters to herself, kicking the drawer shut.
You remove a choker of black velvet and gleaming jet.
You give a choker of black velvet and gleaming jet to Hildre, a white warhound, eliciting a bark as she bounds off into the distance.
Your hound has successfully delivered a choker of black velvet and gleaming jet to Aramaeus.
A white warhound bounds into the room, its delivery complete.
Tetchta removes the rest of her clothing, the torn dress, lace gloves, and fumes for a while in nothing but her panties, thinking, getting angier and angrier all the while.
You whisper psychically into @Irys's mind, "I'M GOING TO FEED THAT LITTLE SH*T HIS OWN ENTRAILS!!" ROILING. FIRE. RAGE. Each word is like a hammer striking hot steel, sending sparks flailing about your mind. "HIS HEAD. WILL DECORATE MY GODS DAMN GARDEN."
You pull a iron-studded weaponbelt around your waist before quickly fastening the hound-shaped buckle.
You pull a bardiche from your weaponbelt fluidly into both hands.
You start speedwalking.
The Gilded Scale.
A glass jar stands here, a label on its side indicating its purpose for collecting tips. The elegant, twisted form of a darkbow sits nearby. You see a sign here instructing you that WARES is the command to see what is for sale.
You see exits leading south (open pine door) and down (closed pine door).
You have reached your destination.
You pay 250 gold sovereigns and receive a sharp, polished wooden pike newly made.
Tetchta gallops back to the Temple. Forgot to LOOK ME, but for your mental image: child is literally wearing nothing but panties and a weaponbelt, galloping on her horse, smol tiddies out, wielding a bardiche, ready for murder.
Central library of the Order of Mystery.
Her posture regal and collected, Sekhtet the Lich glances around with her milky-white eyes. Hovered over an ancient scroll with obvious delight, Irys sits reading and copying. She wields a dirk emanating shadowy brume in her left hand. Aramaeus is here. He wields a steel shortsword in his left hand and a reinforced tower shield in his right. A small sign indicates that LIBRARY CATALOG will list the materials in this library.
You see exits leading north, south, up, and down.
You have reached your destination.
As you draw a bardiche back, a viscous blue sheen envelops the weapon and it pulls slightly in your hand, eager for a taste of Aramaeus's soul.
Irys watches Aramaeus with measured eyes for a long time after the choker slips away, then glides smoothly to her feet. Striding over to the lounge, she leans down and seizes his lips in her own, kissing him hard for several long moments before pulling away. With a faint glitter in her eye, she steps back. "Aye. Sometimes you need to be more subtle to gain success." With a whispered conjuration, she fades away.
You swing a bardiche around in a wide arc toward Aramaeus, whistling through the air as it carves a path for his soul.
As a bardiche connects with Aramaeus, the thick blue sheen coating the weapon erupts in a blinding burst of light that momentarily blots out all vision. It is restored only to see the weapon pass directly through him, and although it leaves no physical trace, the effect on Aramaeus is staggering. His body instantaneously crumples to the ground, a hollow shell of what once was, an intangible white mass with undefined edges gently pulsing on the end of your weapon. Separated from its body, the soul stays intact only a moment longer before it begins to bubble and seethe like white-hot lava, then abruptly bursting and blinking out of existence.
You have slain Aramaeus.
Experience Gained: 91575 (Player Kill) [total: 31384450]
Sequa the procurator inclines her head politely to you.
You pick up the corpse of Aramaeus.
Sequa the procurator says, "Lovely to see you again, Tetchta. As always, I'm happy to help you however I can while you're here."
Irys whispers into your consciousness, "I don't blame you one bit."
Distance to An expansive floral garden before the Mesis estate: 55.
Tetchta gallops back to her home, still angry.
An expansive floral garden before the Mesis estate.
Sunset falls, casting the clouds above in a shadowy array of darks and silvers and lending the sky a purplish cast.
You see exits leading north (closed pine door) and south.
You have reached your destination.
You drop the corpse of Aramaeus.
You begin chopping away at the corpse of Aramaeus with a bardiche.
You finally manage to sever the head from the body, leaving only a pool of blood where the head had been.
You pick up the decapitated head of Aramaeus.
You ram the butt end of the pike into the ground and impale Aramaeus's head on it, leaving it as a warning to those who would cross you.
THE PLAYERS
@Aramaeus
He is a wise Idreth of Human heritage and is as a creature sculpted from an artists ideal of elegant, cold perfection. With flesh as smooth and flawless as polished white marble, the broad shoulders and narrow waist form a frame for a lean, graceful musculature that emphasises the balance of power and speed. The thick, lustrous locks of alabaster hair are so meticulously styled as to appear spun from purest snowfine, swept back from the brow, save for an artful array of tresses that arch down on the right. The features that make up the chill, remote visage are almost delicate in nature, though they retain a masculine air overall. The cheekbones are high and fine, complemented by an elegant jawline and a straight, modestly proportioned nose. The eyes are perhaps the most striking feature of this being, providing the sole source of colour in the unrelenting monochromatic palette. Like shattered mirrors set upon pools of lustrous black, the polished chrome is splintered, fractured apart by the ebon that is riven throughout - which makes the brilliantly saturated slivers of fluorescent colour all the more prominent. A dazzling riot of hues form a fragmented kaleidoscope of lambent energies, scintillating in every imaginable colour, limning the fractured silver discs in sporadic, lucent levin. The throat and hands are coated in glossy scales of varying thickness, the peculiar scutes formed from a slowly flowing liquid of utter black which occasionally drifts into the air in languid, atramentous splashes of night. Eldritch violet light surrounds him - a blessing of chaos and dreaming.
(worn on a finger) : a lightning-patterned obsidian ring
(worn on the feet) : formally-styled, functional black boots
(covering the torso) : a sleeveless indigo button-down shirt
(worn on the legs) : a pair of midnight black trousers
(ring163697) : a wooden ring of vigour
Tetchta
She is a powerful Idreth vampire of Imp heritage and her age is completely inscrutable. The skin covering this impish creature is a vibrant reddish color, and every visible inch from her neck to her toes is marked in tattoos. Ink fights for room on her skin, and while many designs stand out here and there, just as many seem nonsensical and inscrutable, blending into a swirling mess of text, flowing lines, shapes, and scarifications. Her eyes are a bright grey, nearly-silver color, and her black, wavy hair is combed and pinned off to the side, trailing down to her chin in loose curls, while the sides are cut so short as to look nearly-shaved. Four black, rough horns protrude from her forehead and are trimmed quite short, close to the skull. The bone structure of this vampire is angular, delicate, feminine. Over this slender frame, however, are well-defined muscles and broad shoulders made for exertion, predation. A long, leathery, pointed tail pokes out from behind her and runs down well past her feet in length--it may even be longer than she is tall. Well-manicured nails tip her slender fingers and are painted a crisp, shining black; they are cut quite short and buffed smooth. She's wearing dark makeup--her lips are painted black and covered with a shining gloss, and her eyelids are dusted with an agonizing precision, giving them a dramatic smokey appearance. Eyeliner has been drawn carefully in a thin catseye style, making her silver eyes look more narrow and predatory than they already do. She is glowing with a warm, gentle light. Translucent strands of spiderweb periodically weave around her form, empowering her with Iosyne's blessing. Earth and stone cling to her form under the blessing of the Earthen Lord.
(covering the chest) : a three-headed hydra tattoo
(raking the entire back) : an abstract tattoo of claw marks
(inked upon the right wrist) : an endlessly howling wraith-like skull tattoo
(inked on the right forearm) : a band of tattooed emerald flames
(barely peeking out on her upper thigh) : a portrait tattoo holding the oath of slaughter
(inked on the back of the right hand) : a serpentine tattoo with a centric stylized "V"
(inked upon the left hand) : a carved and scarified soulstone tattoo
(worn on a finger) : a wave of shadow ring
(inked on the left side of the neck) : a tattoo of a crossed halberd-and-hammer 'X'
(around one wrist) : a djerite and violanthe bracelet
(worn on a finger) : an emerald-studded ring featuring black diamonds
(tight around the throat, restrictive) : a choker of black velvet and gleaming jet
(around one wrist) : a flickering elemental brand
(tight on her muscular curves) : an alluring black dress
(wrapped tightly around muscular cales) : a pair of beribboned high-heeled sandals
(sheer, revealing the inked skin below) : black lace fingerless gloves
(closed, trailing dramatically) : a sheer black longcoat of shimmering silk
(raking the entire back) : an abstract tattoo of claw marks
(inked upon the right wrist) : an endlessly howling wraith-like skull tattoo
(inked on the right forearm) : a band of tattooed emerald flames
(barely peeking out on her upper thigh) : a portrait tattoo holding the oath of slaughter
(inked on the back of the right hand) : a serpentine tattoo with a centric stylized "V"
(inked upon the left hand) : a carved and scarified soulstone tattoo
(worn on a finger) : a wave of shadow ring
(inked on the left side of the neck) : a tattoo of a crossed halberd-and-hammer 'X'
(around one wrist) : a djerite and violanthe bracelet
(worn on a finger) : an emerald-studded ring featuring black diamonds
(tight around the throat, restrictive) : a choker of black velvet and gleaming jet
(around one wrist) : a flickering elemental brand
(tight on her muscular curves) : an alluring black dress
(wrapped tightly around muscular cales) : a pair of beribboned high-heeled sandals
(sheer, revealing the inked skin below) : black lace fingerless gloves
(closed, trailing dramatically) : a sheer black longcoat of shimmering silk
THE ACTION
You read what is written on a pale blue-gray letter with detailed trim:
Tetchta,
I await upon the temple roof in Kentorakro. If you would kindly make your way to the coordinates of 14449, I would appreciate it.
-Aramaeus
Distance to Temple rooftop: 56.
Path: s, nw, sw, sw, w, w, sw, sw, w, w, w, w, n, n, w, n, nw, nw, nw, nw, w, w, n, w, w, nw, w, n, nw, w, w, w, ne, n, n, n, nw, w, nw, ne, n, nw, n, e, ne, n, ne, w, sw, w, n, n, u, u, u, u
You start speedwalking.
Temple rooftop.
The stars glimmer down, broken only upon occasion by thin wisps of clouds. The open sky stretches above this vast, diamond-shaped rooftop, the corners pointing unfailingly in the four cardinal directions. The bulk of Mount Kentorakro looms close at hand to the north, blocking most of the other Tarean peaks and valleys, though a village is nestled within one valley across the river to the east. The waving grasses of the Mamashi paint the southern horizon. The walls of the glass tower can be seen, by those with the nerve to approach the rooftop's sheer edges, running straight down to the garden surrounding the tower. The only exceptions are abalcony sitting below the northern corner and a small, dark enclosed chamber below the opposite corner. Next to a descending stairway of uncanny design in the roof's center, a pond is set into the glass floor. Unknown species of fish swim around in the water, which glows with an strange green color due to candles beneath, seemingly embedded within the glass yet mysteriously lit. There are a number of benches here for sitting and gazing at the sky, the beautiful pond, or the magnificent view. A wide obsidian dais topped with a tall, rose blossom arch dominates the room here. A robed Tsol'aa woman stands here, a welcoming expression on her face. Aramaeus is here. He wields a steel shortsword in his left hand and a reinforced tower shield in his right.
You see a single exit leading down.
You have reached your destination.
Tetchta trots in riding sidesaddle and slides off of a midnight black stallion, a sheer black longcoat of shimmering silk swirling dramatically as she lands with a loud "CLACK!" as her heeled sandals make contact with the ground. She repositions a flyaway hair with two fingers and slaps the rear of her horse, sending it riding off into the night. "Evening, Ward Conjurer," she says, with a melodramatic, yet surprisingly graceful and instinctive curtsy.
You slap a midnight black stallion on the rump and send it trotting off towards 'The Esterport stables'.
forecast
Kentorakro is a part of the Tarean Polar air mass.
The air temperature around you is measured at 39 F.
The apparent temperature is at a steady 22 F.
The relative humidity is at 66%.
The winds around you blow to the south at 18 mph.
Standing precariously close to the sheer edge of the tower, Aramaeus is at his ease, posture in a state of relaxed poise. His left forearm resting against the small of his back, a glass filled with dark red liquid dangling unconcernedly from the black talons. At the clatter of hooves that herald your approach, he turns his head to glance over his shoulder, the fractured kaleidoscope of his eyes flickering over your form appraisingly. Lips curving into a faint, pleased smile, he moves smoothly to face you, errant tresses of silken white fluttering in the breeze. He holds one glass out to you in a languid offering, and replies, "Good evening, Lord Mesis - or do you prefer a different title?"
As you look up at the sky, your search is rewarded by the sight of the nearly full moon almost directly overhead.
Tetchta snatches up the proffered glass in her perfectly-manicured hand and eyes it carefully before nosing it, inhaling softly, forgoing a sip, for now. "Lord, always," she informs, lowering the glass and cradling it in both hands. "Though I don't insist upon it, simply if you must. You're not a Squire," she says, silver eyes looking over you to the Kentorakro Mountain in the distance. "Haven't been here for years," she muses idly, swirling the wine in her hands idly, the nearly full moon overhead reflecting in her eyes like silver twins.
Aramaeus's eyes flick to your hand, drawn to the sudden motion for but a moment before he returns his even gaze to your face, his own pleasantly neutral, albeit a touch cool. "I am not, but I observe protocol where appropriate. If you prefer Tetchta, or some other moniker, say so." The pale figure does not deign to follow your gaze, his own instead taking in your attire with a distinct note of approval. "Indeed? I hope it is a suitable location for our little meeting."
p glass
This wine glass has been made of solid glass colored a vibrant, near-opaque orangish-red. Etched into the center of the glass are two instances of the letter 'F', crisscrossing at the long line of the letter with one of them being reversed as a mirror image with strategic flames billowing from behind the letters - a deeper etching style used to make the letters stand out from the illusion of flickering flames. A cylindrical base holds a sturdy glass stem that the drinker can hold without affecting the temperature of the drink. The stem rises and connects with a broad bowl that has been carefully blown to expand in the middle and narrow towards the top to concentrate the aroma of the beverage. 'Flask & Flame' has been carefully etched along the stem of the wine glass.
It has 8 weeks of usefulness left.
It weighs 2 ounce(s).
It bears the distinctive mark of Sir Stine D. Emerson.
A measure of a bloody Snowshoe sloshes about in it. (9/10 sips)
l procurator
Clad in loose, flowing blue robes, this tall Tsol'aa woman always appears ready to help. Her attire is dyed a deep, oceanic blue and tends to cause her rather slender figure to appear bulkier than it truly is. Her shoulder-length ebony hair is tied back strictly, and her narrow, chestnut-hued irises are constantly ablaze with curiosity and diligence. She is called 'Sequa.'
Tetchta's heels clack aggressively against the stone surface of the roof as she closes the distance between the two of you and settles to the side of you, next to the edge. "It is nice and out of the way. Good view. Sequa largely keeps to herself," the woman says, still looking off to the mountain. Finally, she sips from an 'FF' branded wine glass of a bloody Snowshoe. "Propriety doesn't do much for the Carnifex outside of our halls. Tetchta is fine," she says, sniffing at the air softly. "You smell different. Ascended, eh?"
You sip from an 'FF' branded wine glass of a bloody Snowshoe. A thick drink full of texture and strong taste assaults the tongue. Where kawhe and cherry do not mingle, the cold and gloppy nature of congealed blood and chilled snow hit the mouth.
You eye an 'FF' branded wine glass, giving it the once over.
You say, "Ah. Hah. My compliments."
Aramaeus inclines his head at the praise, a small, but genuine smile curving his lips. "I thought you might enjoy it." Lifting his free hand, the other still idly clutching his own glass of wine, he ripples his scaled fingers in a casual flex, tone amused as he replies, "Ascended. I admit, most tend to perceive the visual adjustments, rather than the olfactory." Tilting his head in your direction curiously, he asks, "Is the smell to your approval, or otherwise?"
Tetchta snorts softly, a smile playing at the corner of her lips. Yet still, her eyes remain on the scenery, her finger fondling the faint black lipstick stain on the rim of an 'FF' branded wine glass of a bloody Snowshoe. "Maybe. A smell's a smell. It's like, aaaah," she struggles for a while, her right hand freeing itself from the glass to gesticulate, as though it were going to help her grasp the phraseology. "It's like a texture. Or a flavor. They can be pleasant or unpleasant, but sometimes they just are. Asides," the hand comes back to the glass and she takes another sip, swallowing, and licking a runaway drop from her lips. "People carry more information in how they smell than how they look." Her silver eyes tear themselves from the mountain in the distance finally and she turns her head to look at you, the muscles in her neck flexing and contorting as she does. "How are you finding your new body?" she asks you.
A brief, powerful urge to run and dance sweeps over you, causing your muscles to spasm before you regain control.
You use Racial Scent.
You tilt your head back and deeply inhale any scents from the air.
You pick up the faint scent of Aramaeus at Temple rooftop.
Aramaeus listens with courteous attentiveness, head canted towards you as you speaks. A contemplative noise is the sole, vocal reception to the explanation, though he nods, tapping a talon thoughtfully upon the curve of his wineglass with a bright, sharp, 'tink-tink'. Silver eyes meet a shattered rainbow set upon fractured plates of chrome as he returns your regard evenly, a light smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Oh, I like it well enough. It suits me, I think." Pressing the tip of a splayed finger from where he grasps the wine glass, he trails the curved talon down along the glossy black scales of his opposite forearm. The odd plating 'tck's softly as the point catches on the ridged edges, until the ebon coating flows like viscous liquid, parting about the claw like the fin of a shark. "Is it to your satisfaction, or is that, too, a case of simply being?"
"It's alright," Tetchta says honestly, wrinkling her nose nearly imperceptibly. "Smell like Omei," she continues, unbuttoning a sheer black longcoat of shimmering silk and reaching inside into a nearly-invisible pocket to procure a slender white cigarette. She exhales in a quick, controlled puff, ending a burst of tiny flame to its tip to light it. "What'd you do to get her attention?" the vampire asks Aramaeus, propping the cigarette between two fingers and bringing it up to her blackened, glossy lips for a drag, sending bluegrey smoke pluming into the night air.
Despite the relative indifference of the answer, Aramaeus's smile is a broad one, amusement dancing in his eyes. Watching you light the cigarette with mild interest, he lifts a single shoulder in a liquid shrug. "Little, in truth. I was brought to Her Wood, and offered up some dead and a prayer of thanks. This was the recompense." Lifting his glass to his lips, he inhales the scent lazily, eyes never leaving you. "Why?"
"It's unusual to see a practicing Sciomancer walking with her approval of any kind," Tetchta explains, pulling a lit slender white cigarette from her lips and exhaling smoke as she pauses, considering your profile. She takes a sip from the glass in her hand, swallowing quickly. "You seem less tense than our previous two meetings," she comments, silver eyes locked on your own, simple and crisp in contrast to your intricate, multifaceted ones. Her tail gives a subtle twitch beneath her silken longcoat, but otherwise she's as still as a statue, elbow propped on her hip, cigarette dangling loosely in her fingers, smoldering silently.
You seek out all mental presences within your reach:
You sense Aramaeus at Temple rooftop.
(Market): You say, "Buying loose claws and preserved yellow eyes."
A blurry figure comes into view through the glass floor below you, growing slightly less indistinct as it enlarges.
@Mazzion gives a preserved, yellowed eye to you.
Mazzion says, "Shadus."
"Ha!" you exclaim.
"Mm. I was not aware. Interesting. I have a standing invitation to visit the Wood, and was brought before Her vacant throne. Perhaps my guide's approval was sufficient to offset the distaste of Sciomancy." Aramaeus,offers as possible explanation, his free hand splaying in a unhurried arc. The shattered galaxies of his eyes glimmer with increased lucence as he offers you a languid smile. At the new voice, however, he turns, a brow arching. "People do have a habit of simply apparating at the most inconvenient times."
Tetchta plants a lit slender white cigarette between her lips and gleefully twirls a preserved, yellowed eye along her lace-encased fingers before it disappears entirely in the blink of an eye--somewhere. "It's good to have friends sometimes," she says, retrieving the cigarette once more, plucking it like a bird that's found a snack in the grass. "You dodged my question," the woman says, bringing her glass back to her lips and taking a deep sip, silver eyes looking over the rim of the glass at you.
The deepening night stands strong against the coming day as the moon traces its path across the sky.
Now alone once more, Aramaeus returns his attention to you, the full weight of his regard falling upon you. "Did I?" he asks mildly, evidently unconcerned with the accusation. A wry smile twists his lips, the lopsided expression alight with subtle humour. "I suppose I am. You have been parted from me for quite some time." he observes, gaze direct, even and without malice. "Ascension has done much for me."
"Does for some folk," Tetchta acknowledges shortly, saying nothing more, standing in the silence of the temple, eyes matching your own, smoke trailing from her cigarette into the sky as she regards you. Save for the occasional gust from the Tarean mountains stirring a sheer black longcoat of shimmering silk, she remains still, as though her clothes were draping a statue (one covered in copious graffiti. After a long while, she breaks, although only with a fragile, tiny movement, her thumb expertly tapping on the edge of her cigarette, sending ash tumbling away into the breeze and down from the height of the temple.
Aramaeus watches you throughout the extended silence with an air of calm contentment, matching your stillness with an easy repose of his own. Lifting his free hand, he extends it towards you, talons curled inwards so that his knuckles face you, suspended on the cusp of breaching your personal space. With a subtle dip of his wrist, he motions to the black ring of the choker that adorns your throat, voice soft, pitched low, almost gentle as he asks, "May I?"
A sudden sense of baking heat intrudes on your thoughts, but the moment passes swiftly.
The vampire tilts her head to the side wordlessly, easing access to the choker snug around her neck. As she turns, her muscles flex and churn, like a snake moving through the grass, hunting for a predator to construct, and they bulge tightly against the choker that Tetchta has affixed with an almost cruel tightness to her throat. Her right arm remains poised, her elbow resting on her hip, while the glass of bloody liquor sets in her other hand, still and undisturbed her her movements, belying control and care in her movements. Yet still, she doesn't speak.
Unhurried, Aramaeus brushes the back of his scaled knuckle along the soft, strained velvet of the choker, his gaze shifting from your eyes to you throat, head canting aside curiously. With the utmost delicacy, he slips the curved, needle point of his foremost talon beneath the band, the smooth, gleaming ebon material of his claw cool upon your flesh. Murmuring, his voice as rich as the material that encircles your neck, he oberves, "I like this on you."
"Usually can't wear things like this regularly. Too restrictive. A handle that can be grabbed. Compromising," Tetchta she says, her words vibrating against your talon, sending each syllable not only to your ears, but up your arm. "But yes, you have good taste," she says, her eyes on your face as you probe the garment. Finally, she brings the neglected cigarette to her sparkling, shimmering black lips and sucks its smoldering contents into her lungs. You can feel the breath run past your talon, like the rushing of water, a slow, flowing resonance.
"I do," Aramaeus confirms, not a trace of doubt in his words. Seeming fascinated by the band, and the interplay of deeper shadow upon skin as muscle writhes beneath, his gaze does not so much as flicker up to your, his demeanour entirely at ease. "Yet you wear it for a meeting with me," he muses, the fine, glass-like substance of his talon sliding glacially from one side of the encircling garment to the other. "Why is that?"
"Went with the outfit," Tetchta informs shortly, a flicker of mischief pulling at her right eyebrow. Imps. "It brings people joy to see you embrace a gift you gave them, does it not?" she elaborates in the form of a rhetorical question, her tail curling in a tight stretch before releasing once more, a languid, limp draping of sinew and muscle. "I hope you don't think me completely devoid of propriety because I dragged you to the safest bar to talk on the continent," she needles playfully, otherwise not responding to your extended fondling and closeness; a calmness, like a panther napping in a tree, without a care in the world, saturates every muscle in her body.
The uneven combination of light sources projects a spectrum of colors across the opposite cavern wall.
You cast an invisible mind net out into the distance, allowing it to settle about the surrounding land.
The sound that vibrates from within Aramaeus's mouth is not quite a laugh, close as his lips are, but a distinctly amused "Mm." The riotous constellation of his eyes sparkles with humour at the remarks, the few stray locks of his snowy tresses drifting across his brow as he tilts his head to the opposite side, intent as ever upon the choker. "I suppose it does. To be honest, I don't quite know what to think of you, enigmatic creature that you seem." The languidly gliding talon slows, pausing at the center of the band. "You are so very distant." His voice remains quiet, a thoughtful tinge to the words so softly delivered. "I mislike it." Gently, so gradually as to take several full breaths to become noticeable, he curls the talon inward, applying the faintest pressure upon the straining velvet, pulling to him with the lightest of gestures.
"Hypocrite," Tetchta counters, not budging an inch at the pulling. Denser than she looks at a surface level, the warrior, clad in elegant and revealing clothing, is a mass of trained and powerful muscles that resist the pull reflexively, standing firm. In a flash, the languid calm is gone and replaced in its stead is a stubborn creature, a boar in its home territory, planted. Yet still, her body language shift is nearly imperceptible, and otherwise there's no display of alarm. She relieves her lungs of the inhaled smoke through her nose, sending a pluming stream into the air around her. Nothing else is said in reply, and yet still her eyes don't leave your own, sparkling in the light trickling down from the heavens above.
The smile that grows upon Aramaeus's lips is like the slow spread of fire within oneself at the first shot of whiskey, the gesture transforming his cool features from something remote, instead, to a sculpture of warmth and subtle invitation. "Oh? How so?", he asks, a lazy amusement suffusing his words with that same languid heat. He reacts not at all to the defiance so silently presented, maintaining the feather-light pressure upon the choker, pulling, ever pulling, yet without applying sufficient force to snap the band. The light gleams off the liquid, lustrous surface of his thumb as he brushes it along your throat, slow as the first trickle of meltwater in spring.
A wave of invisible force passes unnervingly through you, traveling from one corner of the temple to another.
Tetchta doesn't move, her counterpressure sufficient to remain in place, though the choker has begun to dig, ever so slightly, into the skin in the back of her neck. "You need me to spell it out for you?" she asks, bringing an 'FF' branded wine glass of a bloody Snowshoe to her perfectly painted lips, taking a gulp. You can feel the liquid travel down her neck and into her core, the muscles in her neck straining the tensile resistance of the choker's fabric, plucking it like cello string, sending the pulses through it and into your fingers. Ever unerred, her eyes remain on yours--not so much defiant as resilient, a rock unmovable, that's seen centuries of hurricanes and persevered.
"Let us say, instead, that I prefer to hear it direct.", Aramaeus replies mildly, his own wine evidently forgotten, dangling morosely from the loose cage of his other hand like a neglected vial of blood. The edges of the smile turn upwards as he watches your throat work, eyes following the path of the imbibed liquid with great interest. The continued resistance serves only to elicit the faintest bass rumbles of pleasure, a distant thunder of uncertain portent that vibrates from within the deep confines of his chest.
"Release me," Tetchta says, eyes firm and unyielding, though her lips have, over the course of the past few short exchanges, set grimly. Nothing else has shifted in her body language, though her cigarette has begun to smolder precariously close to her fingers, the ash elongaged, evidence of her diverted attention. A drink. Through all this, she takes another drink, the contents of the glass diminished dramatically from when the meeting started.
Your active class has been switched to Carnifex.
Laughter does, then, finally bubble up from Aramaeus, the sound low and thick with satisfaction, wicked and sweet like spiced honey. He gently slips his talon from beneath your choker, lowering his hand without hesitation or hurry to rest at his side. The look that he turns upon you is almost fond, a gentle creasing at the corner of his eyes as they slide from your throat to regard the silver discs of you own for the first time since seizing the velvet ornament. He remains thus, stance loose with natural confidence, watching in benign silence.
"Thank you," Tetchta replies, your laughter whipping around her like gusts of wind and passing into the air, echoing off into the wilderness from the top of the temple. Like a cat rubbed the wrong way, she eases back into place and returns to her neglected accouterments, flicking ash from her cigarette finally, leaving it clean and glowing. "Being distant can't be a property you find unsavory in another when you're the type of man who can't even tell someone where you're from," explains, a previous conversation's topic coming up as though she were staring at a transcript in her minds' eye. "And you've not asked me anything to judge either way. Seems like a you problem," she says, a glimmer of her previous humor pulling at the corner of her lip.
The tiniest swell of muscle upon Aramaeus's shoulder accompanies a minute twist of his head, acknowledgment of the thanks. A browarches, pale as a bridge covered in fresh snowfall, the shift in topic failing to diminish the quiet pleasure that radiates from the man like gentle heat. "I will gladly tell you whatever you wish," he replies smoothly, as diametrically opposed from his demeanour during the last raising of this topic as is possible. "So long as you give me what I desire."
"Which is?" Tetchta asks, a wind gust catching her lightweight longcoat and sending it swirling aggressively, giving glimpses of the revealing dress below before settling again at her feet. The predatory stillness in the woman returns, as though your talon were once more around her choker. Tension. Like a spring, tightened, spun to the breaking point, but painted with the trappings of calmness. Even so, though her skin and facial features remain as they were, a still contrast to your roiling and expressive form, she is unmistakably poised.
The wind whirls about Aramaeus, whipping his hair into a wild spray of purest white, though it disturbs the man himself not at all - the sole consequence of the errant gust resolving as the briefest break of eye contact, his gaze snapping down to the glimpse of exposed flesh. The calm repose of his eyes flickers, replaced for an instant by a boundless hunger so vast as to devour without cease - and then it is gone, the languid ease sliding back into place as if it had never faltered. So, too, does his gaze settle once more upon you, to whom he offers a smile so laden with complex and subtle meaning as to be indecipherable. When he speaks, the single word is simple, direct as a hammer blow to the temple, all pretense of delicate civility discarded. "You."
Tetchta chortles at the word. "You don't even know what you want, boy," she condescends, flicking the nub of a lit slender white cigarette into the breeze. It tumbles like a coin, caught by the strong wind of the higher elevation of the roof, traveling down and out, spinning until it disappears below. A high pitched whistle erupts from between her lips, and two things enter: a wild-looking, borderline feral, but obedient warhound and her black stallion. She draws a longsword, gleaming and sharp, from the saddle on the horse and wields it deftly. Without hesitation, she stabs through the restrictive skirt of her dress and slices down, revealing a pair of side-ribboned black panties, but also freeing herself from the confines of the cloth. She mounts the horse, no longer the sidesaddle debutante, but a Knight, although one ridiculously dressed all things considered. "I am no possession. I am not a thing. You want me? That's not how this works. Try again." With that, she digs her ankles into the horse and trots down the steps of the temple and off into the distance, leaving behind little but the scent of smoke and warm perfume.
A midnight black stallion trots in, beckoned by its master's call.
You let out a sharp whistle for Hildre, a white warhound to return to your side.
Hildre, a white warhound is now your active hound.
You swiftly swing up onto a midnight black stallion.
You start speedwalking.
Tetchta Gallops back home on her stallion and locks herself in the master bedroom, absolutely furious. Steaming. Enraged.
You unlock the east door.
You open the door to the east.
A spacious master bedroom.
This bedroom is massive, almost big enough to be a main hall in and of itself, but its furnishings are sparse. The ivory plaster walls are bare, and the dark wooden floor, although shined and sanded to be as smooth as glass, is unadorned by carpet. It gives you the sense of freedom of being in an open field with the intimacy of a living space. The ceiling is tall enough for a giant to stand comfortably. Thick steel beams with hooks and loops set into them dangle from the ceiling near head-height, and upon them are set hundreds of candles that keep the room well-lit. In the center of the room against the wall is a large, four poster bed. There are no windows in the bedroom, so the only light comes from the candles suspended above and a fireplace roaring in the far end from the bed. The doors to this room are constructed with strong, dark wood and are hinged with wrought iron. A sigil in the shape of a small, rectangular monolith is on the ground. A large bed is here, its four posters dramatically draped with silk. A battle-scarred desk is here, a pair of dazzling star sapphire cufflinks and a bottle bearing a "Burly Chest Tavern" label atop it. A cushioned, mahogany chair has been placed at it. A large stuffed doll resembling a bear is resting near a pillow on a four poster bed. Dominating the south wall is an intricately carved mahogany wardrobe.
You see exits leading north (open pine door), east, and west (open pine door).
You close the door to the west.
You lock the west door.
Tetchta unlaces a pair of beribboned high-heeled sandals and hurls them angrily against the wall, cracking the heel of one of them clean off in the process.
You have posed a pair of beribboned high-heeled sandals #250818 as:
High heeled sandals have been carelessly left here-- the heel of one of them is snapped clean off.
Energy spent demolishing the pair of shoes, Tetchta calms down and removes a sheer black longcoat of shimmering silk, stuffing it in a carved mahogany wardrobe. "F***ing petulant boy," she mutters to herself, kicking the drawer shut.
You remove a choker of black velvet and gleaming jet.
You give a choker of black velvet and gleaming jet to Hildre, a white warhound, eliciting a bark as she bounds off into the distance.
Your hound has successfully delivered a choker of black velvet and gleaming jet to Aramaeus.
A white warhound bounds into the room, its delivery complete.
Tetchta removes the rest of her clothing, the torn dress, lace gloves, and fumes for a while in nothing but her panties, thinking, getting angier and angrier all the while.
You whisper psychically into @Irys's mind, "I'M GOING TO FEED THAT LITTLE SH*T HIS OWN ENTRAILS!!" ROILING. FIRE. RAGE. Each word is like a hammer striking hot steel, sending sparks flailing about your mind. "HIS HEAD. WILL DECORATE MY GODS DAMN GARDEN."
You pull a iron-studded weaponbelt around your waist before quickly fastening the hound-shaped buckle.
You pull a bardiche from your weaponbelt fluidly into both hands.
You start speedwalking.
The Gilded Scale.
A glass jar stands here, a label on its side indicating its purpose for collecting tips. The elegant, twisted form of a darkbow sits nearby. You see a sign here instructing you that WARES is the command to see what is for sale.
You see exits leading south (open pine door) and down (closed pine door).
You have reached your destination.
You pay 250 gold sovereigns and receive a sharp, polished wooden pike newly made.
Tetchta gallops back to the Temple. Forgot to LOOK ME, but for your mental image: child is literally wearing nothing but panties and a weaponbelt, galloping on her horse, smol tiddies out, wielding a bardiche, ready for murder.
Central library of the Order of Mystery.
Her posture regal and collected, Sekhtet the Lich glances around with her milky-white eyes. Hovered over an ancient scroll with obvious delight, Irys sits reading and copying. She wields a dirk emanating shadowy brume in her left hand. Aramaeus is here. He wields a steel shortsword in his left hand and a reinforced tower shield in his right. A small sign indicates that LIBRARY CATALOG will list the materials in this library.
You see exits leading north, south, up, and down.
You have reached your destination.
As you draw a bardiche back, a viscous blue sheen envelops the weapon and it pulls slightly in your hand, eager for a taste of Aramaeus's soul.
Irys watches Aramaeus with measured eyes for a long time after the choker slips away, then glides smoothly to her feet. Striding over to the lounge, she leans down and seizes his lips in her own, kissing him hard for several long moments before pulling away. With a faint glitter in her eye, she steps back. "Aye. Sometimes you need to be more subtle to gain success." With a whispered conjuration, she fades away.
You swing a bardiche around in a wide arc toward Aramaeus, whistling through the air as it carves a path for his soul.
As a bardiche connects with Aramaeus, the thick blue sheen coating the weapon erupts in a blinding burst of light that momentarily blots out all vision. It is restored only to see the weapon pass directly through him, and although it leaves no physical trace, the effect on Aramaeus is staggering. His body instantaneously crumples to the ground, a hollow shell of what once was, an intangible white mass with undefined edges gently pulsing on the end of your weapon. Separated from its body, the soul stays intact only a moment longer before it begins to bubble and seethe like white-hot lava, then abruptly bursting and blinking out of existence.
You have slain Aramaeus.
Experience Gained: 91575 (Player Kill) [total: 31384450]
Sequa the procurator inclines her head politely to you.
You pick up the corpse of Aramaeus.
Sequa the procurator says, "Lovely to see you again, Tetchta. As always, I'm happy to help you however I can while you're here."
Irys whispers into your consciousness, "I don't blame you one bit."
Distance to An expansive floral garden before the Mesis estate: 55.
Tetchta gallops back to her home, still angry.
An expansive floral garden before the Mesis estate.
Sunset falls, casting the clouds above in a shadowy array of darks and silvers and lending the sky a purplish cast.
You see exits leading north (closed pine door) and south.
You have reached your destination.
You drop the corpse of Aramaeus.
You begin chopping away at the corpse of Aramaeus with a bardiche.
You finally manage to sever the head from the body, leaving only a pool of blood where the head had been.
You pick up the decapitated head of Aramaeus.
You ram the butt end of the pike into the ground and impale Aramaeus's head on it, leaving it as a warning to those who would cross you.
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