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A Bargain Kept
A self indulgent little solo scene in which Aramaeus pays the price agreed upon with @Omei .
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Moving with brisk efficiency, Aramaeus places a prodigious amount of corpses into distinct piles, each sorted according to the colour and texture of their form. Studying the grisly palette for a time, the monochromatic Idreth nods in satisfaction before turning and approaching the holy edifice.
Bowing low before the shrine, Aramaeus' silken locks fall across his eyes in a spray of shimmering white, casting the stark planes of his face in faint shadow. "Good afternoon, Lady Omei. I ask Your indulgence in my interpretation of piety - Despite being suspected by the Senate of being a follower of Yours, I am deeply unfamiliar with Your preferences." Straightening, he offers the shrine a faint smile, the curve of his lips touched by wry humour. "Forgive me if this is not to Your tastes."
The work is unhurried, as Aramaeus takes evident care in selecting each element placed within the foundation of the macabre mural. His meandering path is punctuated by muted snaps and the wet sound of parting flesh as the raw material of the dead is molded into shape. Every strip of neatly sliced hide or clinically broken bone is considered at length, pieces often examined extensively with a critical eye before being tossed aside in favour of a selection subtly more suitable.
The grim artwork inexorably takes shape as Aramaeus' efforts proceed, workmanlike pragmatism blended with occasional bouts of whimsical flair. Centered upon the shrine as a focal point, the multifarious components form the wings of a large moth, with several smaller iterations swarming about it. Fur and feather have been placed so that when the slightest breeze passes through, the stirring gives the impression of motion within the grisly texture of the wings. Slick viscera has been judiciously arranged to provide gleaming swathes of colour, in winding curls and flowing ribbons of bright reds and mutes purples that catch the play of the light.
The sole corpse that has been left intact is dragged over to the shrine, propped up so that it sits with legs stretched out before it. Aramaeus settles down before it, cross-legged, and arranges an apoule of oil and a pouch carefully to one side. Without preamble, he draws the edge of his right foretalon along he fine scales upon the palm of his left, slicing through flesh and protective plating with equal ease. Blood wells up from the rent as readily as water from a fissure in black ice, and the ascendant makes a cup of his hand to retain the majority of the flowing liquid. Opening the ampoule with his thumb, he delicately pours it within the impromptu bowl of bloodied scale, the viscous substance swirling within the crimson pool as the container is set aside. The pouch is next, the shining purple contents streming forth in a glimmering, hissing flow of crushed amethyst and powdered ink. Using the edge of his thumb, Aramaeus mixes the concoction until what remains is a thick paste the hue of dark violet, which he gathers a generous dollop of upon his two forefingers.
Smearing the glittering paint with great care, Aramaeus' brow furrows faintly in concentration as he slowly draws the armorued pads of his fingers along the cold flesh of his canvas' brow. Simple, artfully stylised representations of a moth, the moon, and a feline eye take up the forehead and either cheek before he moves on, extending a glistening talon to cut into the still, exposed chest. With the swiftness of practiced ease, a triumvirate of dragon, phoenix and rojalli is sliced into the skin in slowly welling channels of red, all three creatures revolving and turned in about a single, central point. Scooping up the last of the violet paste with his thumb, the Idreth grinds it into the rent flesh, spreading it about the pattern so that the powdered fragments of gem glint even within the seeping incisions.
[Anoints a corpse with the ampoule arti oil, and drops an amethyst because verisimilitude!]
Aramaeus places his hands upon his knees, his left still steadily weeping blood, and closes his eyes. Speaking softly, yet clearly, he says in polite tones that do not quite reach reverence, "Lady Omei. I offer up to You essence and blood, art and my dreams, as the thank and price for keeping Irys shielded from Your wrath." This done, he focuses, and turns his mind inward.
[Thinkmotes]
An infinite plane of liquid night stretches endlessly beneath an impossible firmament, built from massive shards of effulgent colour and slowly shifting scales of utter black. Set within this chaos are two orbiting anchors of light that are at once a part of, and above all that forms the mindscape; An incandescent cocoon of fire formed from a phoenix's wings, and the unblinking, predatory regard of a silver cat's eye.
The talon of something incalculably vast taps the stillness of the midnight plane in a delicate gesture, sending ripples speeding out from the epicentre in glimmering waves of ebon. In their wake, the surface is as a gleaming mirror, the cold argent containing within it a series of flickering, indistinct impressions that are gone as swiftly as they appear. A fractured crown set atop a shattered throne, a chromatic rent in the fabric of reality, three figure clad in finest attire joining hands before an altar, an exultant dragon vast enough to eclipse all of creation, on and on in a dizzying blur. In an abrupt rush, the black sweeps back to obscure the vague images, leaving naught but the quiescent midnight in their stead.
[Back to emotes]
Stirring, Aramaeus says, "I ask only that You look kindly upon Irys and Tetchta, Queen of Dreams. You have my thanks, and for what little it is worth, my favour. I do no forget those who have been good to those I care for, be they mortal or Divine." Rising fluidly, he bows once more to the shrine, absently rubbing his left hand across his shirt, and departs.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Moving with brisk efficiency, Aramaeus places a prodigious amount of corpses into distinct piles, each sorted according to the colour and texture of their form. Studying the grisly palette for a time, the monochromatic Idreth nods in satisfaction before turning and approaching the holy edifice.
Bowing low before the shrine, Aramaeus' silken locks fall across his eyes in a spray of shimmering white, casting the stark planes of his face in faint shadow. "Good afternoon, Lady Omei. I ask Your indulgence in my interpretation of piety - Despite being suspected by the Senate of being a follower of Yours, I am deeply unfamiliar with Your preferences." Straightening, he offers the shrine a faint smile, the curve of his lips touched by wry humour. "Forgive me if this is not to Your tastes."
The work is unhurried, as Aramaeus takes evident care in selecting each element placed within the foundation of the macabre mural. His meandering path is punctuated by muted snaps and the wet sound of parting flesh as the raw material of the dead is molded into shape. Every strip of neatly sliced hide or clinically broken bone is considered at length, pieces often examined extensively with a critical eye before being tossed aside in favour of a selection subtly more suitable.
The grim artwork inexorably takes shape as Aramaeus' efforts proceed, workmanlike pragmatism blended with occasional bouts of whimsical flair. Centered upon the shrine as a focal point, the multifarious components form the wings of a large moth, with several smaller iterations swarming about it. Fur and feather have been placed so that when the slightest breeze passes through, the stirring gives the impression of motion within the grisly texture of the wings. Slick viscera has been judiciously arranged to provide gleaming swathes of colour, in winding curls and flowing ribbons of bright reds and mutes purples that catch the play of the light.
The sole corpse that has been left intact is dragged over to the shrine, propped up so that it sits with legs stretched out before it. Aramaeus settles down before it, cross-legged, and arranges an apoule of oil and a pouch carefully to one side. Without preamble, he draws the edge of his right foretalon along he fine scales upon the palm of his left, slicing through flesh and protective plating with equal ease. Blood wells up from the rent as readily as water from a fissure in black ice, and the ascendant makes a cup of his hand to retain the majority of the flowing liquid. Opening the ampoule with his thumb, he delicately pours it within the impromptu bowl of bloodied scale, the viscous substance swirling within the crimson pool as the container is set aside. The pouch is next, the shining purple contents streming forth in a glimmering, hissing flow of crushed amethyst and powdered ink. Using the edge of his thumb, Aramaeus mixes the concoction until what remains is a thick paste the hue of dark violet, which he gathers a generous dollop of upon his two forefingers.
Smearing the glittering paint with great care, Aramaeus' brow furrows faintly in concentration as he slowly draws the armorued pads of his fingers along the cold flesh of his canvas' brow. Simple, artfully stylised representations of a moth, the moon, and a feline eye take up the forehead and either cheek before he moves on, extending a glistening talon to cut into the still, exposed chest. With the swiftness of practiced ease, a triumvirate of dragon, phoenix and rojalli is sliced into the skin in slowly welling channels of red, all three creatures revolving and turned in about a single, central point. Scooping up the last of the violet paste with his thumb, the Idreth grinds it into the rent flesh, spreading it about the pattern so that the powdered fragments of gem glint even within the seeping incisions.
[Anoints a corpse with the ampoule arti oil, and drops an amethyst because verisimilitude!]
Aramaeus places his hands upon his knees, his left still steadily weeping blood, and closes his eyes. Speaking softly, yet clearly, he says in polite tones that do not quite reach reverence, "Lady Omei. I offer up to You essence and blood, art and my dreams, as the thank and price for keeping Irys shielded from Your wrath." This done, he focuses, and turns his mind inward.
[Thinkmotes]
An infinite plane of liquid night stretches endlessly beneath an impossible firmament, built from massive shards of effulgent colour and slowly shifting scales of utter black. Set within this chaos are two orbiting anchors of light that are at once a part of, and above all that forms the mindscape; An incandescent cocoon of fire formed from a phoenix's wings, and the unblinking, predatory regard of a silver cat's eye.
The talon of something incalculably vast taps the stillness of the midnight plane in a delicate gesture, sending ripples speeding out from the epicentre in glimmering waves of ebon. In their wake, the surface is as a gleaming mirror, the cold argent containing within it a series of flickering, indistinct impressions that are gone as swiftly as they appear. A fractured crown set atop a shattered throne, a chromatic rent in the fabric of reality, three figure clad in finest attire joining hands before an altar, an exultant dragon vast enough to eclipse all of creation, on and on in a dizzying blur. In an abrupt rush, the black sweeps back to obscure the vague images, leaving naught but the quiescent midnight in their stead.
[Back to emotes]
Stirring, Aramaeus says, "I ask only that You look kindly upon Irys and Tetchta, Queen of Dreams. You have my thanks, and for what little it is worth, my favour. I do no forget those who have been good to those I care for, be they mortal or Divine." Rising fluidly, he bows once more to the shrine, absently rubbing his left hand across his shirt, and departs.
Discord: Amondrask#8476
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