The Grey Dust

D&D 5e - Titan Hunters

Clack, clack, click.

The sound of sandal soles marching on to the metronome of the cane. Every third beat was the steady sureness of the elder's staff striking the ground. The intricate rod designed with an inlay of with gold and inscribed with arcane script which spiraled down the haft, the words of divine command and arcane authority sealed into the staff. The staff of charming which bore itself a unique handle curved back upon itself, like a sharp question mark and bore a small crystalline orb like fruit changing from the branch. And if fingers were to pluck the fruit, the branch above was to rest a palm against nestled against the fork of a new direction, a customized handle which bore the likeness of Ioun's symbol. It was the very same symbol worn around the neck of the staff's possessor. A faithful of the arcane goddess, dressed in not clerical vestments worthy of his high rank within his holy order, but in a mere traveler's garb. Brown and white Monastic robes, plain and simple, thrown with seemingly little decorum to the untrained eye unaware of the intricate wave-like folds the drapery made. Perhaps he was known, perhaps he was not, it mattered very little the scholar deep in thought, as his stroked his short grey bread that ironically covered his chin but not his bald crown. The old man recalling a moment he answered the summons.

Click, Clack, Clack.

The same sandals miles away, days ago. Not the cobbled path leading to the Seat of Mavros, but rather upon the polished granite floors of the Grand Library of Archimagos. Stone was stone, and the resounding echos of his steps were all too similar, but the murmur of the crowd that gathered to see the procession was far louder than that his quiet sanctum. The saintly stillness of scroll and scholar scribbling the sacred secrets in skilled silence. The whispering wizards and warlocks wandering within waiting in wonder of when the work would be wrought. His quill dipped in the blessed ink and a trembling hand placing the wetted tip against the parchment at last, yet still no line was drawn. Patience, for the mages who hurried their way about the Magocracy had none, keen keepers of time and power spent little waiting for the master to conduct his art. They watched him, and clocked him, how long did the hoary cleric sit there? Would not the ink dry by the time he began? But still he bade them wait in his meditation. For great intellect they had and never could they replicate his skill, as knowing how was merely half of the art. It was in wisdom where he had them beat, foreseeing each stroke in his mind as the black flowers flourished the empty field. Only when he saw the entirety of it all did his quill begin to move.

Eight heroes forward.

There were many of them that had answered. Some known to him, some not. There was Sir Lakeltia on his high-horse, for what beast could bear the weight of such a man? A half-orc paladin of Tyr of the Hammers of Grimjaws, a man most upright and moral, a Justicar devoted to bettering the lands by his own might and prowess against the forces of evil and villainy. Such was the burden of his oath was it not? Thus how heavy a load must such a pair carry upon each other's backs. And then there was striding beside him with her great owlbear was Lonett of Caernath, blessed aasimar huntress of monsters. She too was known for her ferocity against the evils of this world, it was fitting that they answered the call. But what of the rest? There was the towering warforged admist them, like a giant amongst the heroic rabble. He was not known to the clergyman who dabbled not in war and warriors but rather protectors of good and peace, yet his stature and aloofness marked him to be a being born of battle. Or perhaps rather made for it, as the soldiers saluted the cold machine. Then there beside him and riding a mechanical beast was a curious gnome seeming to ponder at a drawing of the warforge designed. How quaint to see the innovator, too often mad with genius, as perhaps she was the machine's creator? One tall, one short, and the rest of the group trekking still behind them.

Eight days back.

A week and a day ago they had come, requesting the scroll commissioned. They had paid well in donations to the library, books for shelves and gold for coffers. For the arcane arts merely brought back the dead as a shadow, only the divines had favor beyond death. They had provided the astral diamond and all other materials, and requested him to craft the scroll. Why such a group required it was a question left unanswered, even to the cleric's raised eyebrow at the nature of their secrecy. For secrets were vile tools of the servants of Vecna, knowledge held close even to confessional was treated with a wary eye. They told him not for what purpose they needed such a scroll, a spell to transcend a death dealt within one hundred years. And though they beckoned him hurry, urging the elder to carry on with their commission, the fools had forgotten under who's eye they stood. For the light of Ioun's wisdom was upon them, filtered through the stained glass of his chambers where they approached him. And there the shadow of Vecna would not cover their dark intents or hidden agendas. The ancient battle of shadows, for the greatest power second to the divines was information was it not? So who where they?

"The devil smiles at the chance to collect, but what riches shall he be due?"

A proverb seemingly out of the blue. For aloft they had went together, plodding along the boisterous path. Many had come to see them, greeting them with awe and wonder as forward they ascended up the mountain pass towards a place Kethan was quite familiar with. Long since did he sequester himself in his study that the comings and goings of a market square seemed so foreign. The fishmonger, the butcher, the greengrocer all discussing prices with their clientele at stalls, as the jewelers and smiths carefully count their coins beneath the shade. Hagglers here and there, bakers and cobblers, weavers and other masters, yet as the group made their way, even the market seemed to slow to catch a glimpse of the travellers. It was not often to have a gathering of this importance, for surely if the four before came, surely the next four were just as worthy with Kethan coming last amongst them. A half-elf archer, a halfling wizard, and a human bard. His steps were slow but not struggled, the cane-staff perhaps merely a ruse to appear more fragile than he was resolving to let the others walk ahead of him. And nothing escaped the old man's eye, not even past his glasses, for not trace of mischief could elude his terrifying insight. Though perhaps there was good within the heart, the wicked mind gleaned itself a smirk. Wide across the bard's face in a flash of teeth like daggers, filled with treachery as a hand drew up his cowl. There in such a smile was a secret, one that the old man knew for too often did he see the same twinkle in the eyes of cunning youth.

Due is his own damnation, too often by his own hand.

They had denied him, but he had finish the scroll regardless. And the victory was his, for their deception was returned with one of his own. The calligraphic writing intricately drawn across the scroll revealed nothing to them. Not until it was too late and the raging inferno consumed them all. The charred remains of the cultists withered dry within their secret dens. They had planned to resurrect the very cult leader the cleric had vanquished decades ago, using the very scroll their enemy has provided. The price of their secret was Kethan's own, for the scroll was not for a spell of resurrection, but one of pure destruction. The moment they had foolishly invoked the scroll their fate was sealed, flames erupted to consume their vile den, purging the wicked and undead with a burning celestial wrath. A firestorm unleashed and all burned in the great consuming pyre. His old enemy was ash, the secrets of Vecna were embers. And just like that, the victory was his and the survivors scattered to heal the scars of their lesson. Wrongfully deceive, and thus, rightfully receive.

Nine Pilgrims.

One more appeared. Her ebon wings folded into her body, like the Raven Queen herself, pale as death's unmoving lips. An elf by the points of her ears, one able to take the guise of animals, suggesting her druidcraft, but many mages too had spells to change their shapes. Quite a few times the old cleric had to remove a curse from a frog or newt, returning the victim into a man once more. Yet her unearthly earthly grace seemed far less of a swamp hag and more of some reclusive hermit, and perhaps far wiser than he was for she chose to fly rather than walk. Yet for all his knees were worth, too often did the hoary academic stalk through his treasured shelves, and should he shepherd these wandering misfit souls they may complain of not arriving to the peak by nightfall as the orange afternoon turns to purple dusk. His age brings a frailty suggests his difficulty handling too heavy a burden save for the pack carried upon his back or the magic quiver belted at his left hip across the pouches to his right, yet still there was some life in the old bones. Though admittedly his mind was not as sharp as it was years prior, lucidity escaped his grasp if it were not for the wreath of golden laurels resting behind his ears serving to augment his natural intellect. It was the way of senescence, and all mortals shall perish as their bodies become slaves to time. Only the Gods were forever, though not for all of time.

Nine words.

Kethan, you will go to the Seat of Mavros. A command? Or prophecy no less. Communion with the celestials, meditations on the divines. The very night his rival was no more, the message was revealed to Kethan in his prayers. Mavros, where the Twin Lady and Lord reigned was it not? It was rare a time where it was he that ventured into Mavros, rather than the Lady Mavros visit him. When had she frequented his library last? How the months seem to fog, his memory certainly failing to recall things without great effort. The years had been kind thus far, but now approaching his eightieth years perhaps the old cleric had doubts to his own state of being. For the holy spells could dispel disease and mend wounds, but nothing was stronger than fate. Fate that declared an age must come to an end, so too must old men die. A new body perhaps then to be grown, and yet each time he tried thus far tragedy befell such efforts. Was it truly that hard to create an undisturbed vessel? But alas, with the faithfulness of a saint, the wizened cleric packed his supplies, notifying the librarians of his leave of absence and with one last look at his beloved books, the old man set off once more as he did decades ago...

Ah to feel young again.

In the presence of such company, truly Kethan felt the eldest, or at least perhaps was visible the most weathered of the lot. Where the crowd that gathered came to view and recognize the heroes, and the younger ones smile in awe of adventurers, few came to jeer nor applaud the cleric's arrival. Perhaps it was because he was the last one who ushered in the epic flock, leading from the rear as the final guardian. Or perhaps it was the mystery of who he was since his retirement. Few he could wager did remember him, most of those he helped ought to be dead by now given time, or perhaps far too young to remember who it was that brought rain during the times of drought or cured them of their pox. But these heroes seemed far more competent than commoners, thus what use did they have for an old man? Wise consul? Nay, there were certainly those wiser than his feeble mind, and what ears would listen to his proverbial advice when they were champions of their own right.

For one last adventure.

Three books carried in his pack. A blank book taken with him, within his pack to be kept. The pages clean and untouched, virgin to the quill or pen. And another book, one leather-bound manual of the planes fifth edition, revised with various minor edits made to the outer realms. A intended gift for Lord and Lady Mavros as a formality when visiting foreign regents and friends. And finally the last book for himself, reading material that he has read over and over for the sake of committing the insights into memory. While the warrior may bring arms and armor, and the archer bow and arrows, it was the armor of knowledge and wisdom which protected Kethan for so long. Discipline, temperance, patience, years of training in the art of suffering, the path was never easy was it? And the road that went on was long. And as so many had asked the elder what was the secret to his good health? A scoffing chuckle nearly dismissed their query followed by the sharing of the fabled key: The secret to a long and healthy life? Is to never give yourself a chance to enjoy it.

"Agreed. I reason that at best, given who we are assembled here, we are all summoned because there exists a great immediate threat to the land." Kethan mused as the group approached the Keep at the peak at last. What other use was there for a cleric, a bard, a tinkerer? Several warriors and mages? And an... With a chuckle to himself, the elder found his solemn expression cracking into a strange smile with the subtle curl of the corners of his lips of dry wit. "And at worst... We are wedding guests."

D&D 5e - Titan Hunters

Kethan the Master

---

Arcane Cleric 17 / Kensei Monk 3

Where Knowledge Speaks, There Wisdom Listens

D&D 5e - High Seas and Tall Tales

Deeper into madness yet. The toxic arrows of eros, envenomed with such a smiting that one kiss leaves one smitten. To devour the lotus and think of Nought, how far the fairer daughter of Laertes went to fetch her crew, but found them in such macabre embrace. The veil of life and death, fluttering in those awakened eyes once more. The rebuke from Jill nothing more than a laughable scolding compared to the tongue lashing Koan had bestowed. The damage was done, it was fair that she chastised them both for being poison to each other, feeding off the insanity of the other in a mutilating mutual madness. Yet in his silence the umbramancer said nothing to Jill who had dejectedly turned and left the pair to their bad romance. What crimson trickles had anointed them? Surely the others in the group would be able to tell of the vicious acts inflicted upon each other. But as their last encounter had failed to entertain 'Sauron' or Koan and sate their sadistic bloodlusts, maybe they were made to be, someone crazy enough to withstand Koan's wanton urges.

This will never end, because I want more.
More, give me more, give me more...

In his smiling silence, he partook in the jester's embrace, clinging on to her as she did him. A sloth of lust and claws digging into his side and back, the thrill of future pains delighted his damaged body so. To indulge in such exquisite agony, perhaps that was there was left to tingle the lost spirit. The need to harm and be harmed, the twinge of pain a fierce reminder of how alive you are. For the dead feel nothing, and to feel anything was better than to feel nothing. And perhaps, in a way, the twisted mind worked out that the pain was his punishment, an absolution for abandoning his purpose. And why not enjoy the burning waltz through purgatory with your Beatrice? Or better yet, as her angelic blue arms suggested, with Koan. Oh how the single finger continued carving across her body, tracing a line down the midsagittal as if cutting the fool apart in his arms. His talon had sliced the beating black pitter-patter, rejuvenated by his touch once like a quick cardioverion. How insidiously sweet the ebonpyre of the Fallen's burning eyes gazing over, the finger turning into fingers which brushed across Koan's waist before with a grunt took his Lilith in stride. The droning beat of the bass to the rush of blood... Dropping... Dripping from the mouth and chin unto chin and neck.

If I had a heart I could love you,
If I had a voice I would sing...

With a cutting step, he parted the waters, falling footsteps guiding along his Pandora into the devil's labyrinth as story-crossed Virgil. A deliberate slow dance, as tantalizing as her touch was, there was a loyalty in restraint. The hand at her waist caressed Koan's hip catching her to follow, the calm of the storm's fury, the unseen movement of the crushing tides rolling away beneath the sea. How too did the dark Aasimar and the Drow roll forward, one foot at at time as he lead to her suggestion, eyes madly involved with her as the empty treasures of the vault were long since raided by greed. So what of it? Both were near death, listlessly their bodies cried out for rest to resolve their aching sores, yet more did their lusting minds desire, pushing the other into boldness and stupidity out of that tainted love. This was merely the beginning, a prelude to come certainly with 'Sauron's' slow but steady approach, enduring it all was half the battle and half the fun. She had given her insights, her wild nature fickle and unrestrained, but now... Now it was his turn to show her the cruelty of tempo. She had surrendered herself to him did she not? Thus march on, to the stage to entertain their captive audience, with the practiced stalking of a death bringer. Feel the wake in passing shiver as they enter, the chill in the watery air. Look what darkness do the waves bring...

after the night when I wake up...
I'll see what tomorrow brings...

The enveloping saline was peppered by a bruised black and blue bindi, dancing and relishing an oozing crimson mandala betwixt them as it swept further, ever near the ogled inquisition, borne on seductive pinions as the Beholder questioned the beheld blonde behind bars. Cleaving to the armor of obscurities, she lifted herself, still bound in his hoisted grip, sailing and eyeing above all as a sapphire queen, mimicking a foreign royalty, that of a sultry Sheeba enticing a Solomon of shadows. Safe words remained unspoken by the duet. With fastened vermillion borders, she slid back down into his squeeze, pushed and pulled into the comprising cover of his writhing tendrils. After some twirls and dips, the byzantine tango seemed to linger, as if their listless footsteps conversed with the listening darkness, farther ahead. The sound of paddling eavesdropped into an orgasmic beat, interrogating the presence of a marid, of which the glacial Bledig promised.

Ah. Ah. Ah. Ah.

The ruffled legs jaunted to and fro, shuffling like muffled roars of falling waters. The indigo buffoon provided no sign of seduction, not desiring the head of her baptizer as a reward. No, the capricious Salome welcomed the azure taint of Loki, the blue devil that riddled her smiling face. Her fishy cheeks darted up and down like a school of labyrinthine paraplesiops, failing to race away from Sauron’s smoldering members which had already kindled her glowing waist with embers of subdued enmity. She pranced not only as his Jezebel but a tragic Cleopatra to this ever expansive troupe, the nemesis of prophecies and a koan of courtesans. The jester hoped that his silent heart did not pity her, but rather pirouette and skip to an arrhythmia of his reunited Lucrezia. Compared to the courting of his cardiac contention, her deliberations concluded…

If I had a voice, I would sing.

As the pale moon makes her sacred circles around the patient power strides, perhaps one could pause and admire the zen between them. The dancing fool, heart happy leaping with bounds at arm's reach, twirling her dancer's dervish. The dark lord, brooding shadow cutting a path through with his plodding march. One fast in ecstasy, seducing, the other slow in meditation, admiring. To feel her presence, flitting and flirting around him, to feel his gravitas drawing her into him. Indeed like the moon the Drow mistress was locked, and with her final smiling spin, the sapphire succubus was taken once more by the shadows from whence she came. Captured with arms around her catching her, yet not holding her close to his heart as he once did when it all began, but letting her momentum tip the jester back into his tendrils. Lifting her was easy twice-fold for the lady was lithe and the waters were supportive, and despite the weary kiss the warlock managed to lift her up on the altar. Hands caressing through her shoulders and back before settling on her dancer's abdominals, unbeknownst filled with the source of her chaos. Muscles primed and flexed to lift the dark angel on high, ascended from the shadows of Hell, there she could strike a pose as she desired, as Koan's body became parallel to the invisible ground for a moment of rapture. There his eyes gazed up, chin tilted to worship her shadow and his hands felt the strange mass within her. But he thought not of it under her wings, for was it not a glorious sight to behold her and pay no mind to the interrogating beholder?

Dangling feet from window frame
Will I ever ever reach the floor?

And the moment passed, to which back into his embrace Koan would find herself lowered, slowly pulled down as hands climbed across her form and drew her in. The Fallen behind her, pressed into her back and tilted to her left ear, as she was to his right. A mouthless whisper, unspoken utterances shared perhaps by mewling. The dance coming to a close as the hands drifted down and away, releasing Koan to be free to spread his darkness into the world. Jill, Cynthia, Adrevz, Dyn... And a missing pesky lizard where did the mystic wander off to? Did they miss her scurrying off like a thief in the night as they waltzd in? And who was this prisoner who distracted the eye for but a moment to be accessed as a threat to their dance? Nevermind it seemed Jill and Dyn had things done, yet now the scales were tipped towards Jill's command, and a mutiny without the kobold would surely fail unless the shadows could corrupt the blonde again Jill. But for now, 'Sauron' was pleased with their dance, at last the madness completed. Sins forgiven, atoned by pain.

More, give me more, give me more

Was the merfolk envious of their huddled command, willing to exchange her whole world to glimpse into their cohesive soul? The wisped promenade punctured the poverty of the pallid proximity, devoid of gold, ransacked by the audience’s avarice.

Crushed and filled with all I found.

Anemic of loneliness, the mood of creation abstracted them from the sallow sea, poignantly painted as Noriam’s smoke tickled her lungs, driving further into the abyss of her carnalities, soothing their constitutions with the physical poetry each scribed on their own chamberless partitions, which splashed within their jetted humors. The waded funks prompted notes of inevitable certainty, vivid and momentous as the cobalt hurricane circumscribing the fallen Aasimar. The comic’s fleshly graffiti tiptoed as a revolving ballet. The immersive iconography span as lights beneath her sutured abdominal fascia suggested the jazzy mobile was afoot.

Underneath and inside
Just to come around
More, give me more, give more

Stitches renowned of a witch, constraining the birth of a deux ex machination, appeased by the sanguine sacrifices felt on its umbilical gates. Blame espoused the atoned anguish, as their feverish foxtrot, as do all bad things, came to an end. The blue sorceress bellowed in regrettable sorrow, as her frail head leaned heavily upon his lead’s clavicle, panting.

Ah ah, ah ah. Ah ah, ah ah. Ah ah, ah ah.

Weakly, her inky mob melted with igneous and congealed congeniality. The gaggle of gangsters, her hips and lap, finally arrested as her gaze razed the sheep in ferine garb.

“If I had a voice, I would sing.”

Another gasp.

“Only for you.”

Ah how the shadowy muses grin.

🦄 Duplicity - D&D Style Fantasy Rp Adventure (Completed)

Thomas Richard Harrison

Location: Level 2, "I need healing Pants."
Interacting with: Satilla & Mysterious Figure

Thomas, come back here, right now!
Half clothed one?
Boy might ought put some pants on...

Wait, what?

The sudden realization came to bear as the musty tower air against his bare legs. With fear of finding out what the others were raving on about Thomas dreadfully looked down, his eyes rolling over with a slight tip of his head. The daft draft was chilling, though the young sorcerer found himself ablaze at the cheeks. And seeing what he saw, Thomas could have died there of embarrassment, as his flush turned the tanned farmerboy's cheeks into a rosy display of humility. A jolt of his body made himself to cover his crotch with his hands, trying his best for the scrap of dignity he had left after showing the rest of the group behind him his cheeky backside. Gulping his damaged pride down with a hard swallow, the blushing boy shrunk himself back, retreating away from the bear and Kyra. Looking over his shoulder at Satilla who had suggested rather aptly he ought to get back from whatever may be going on. Thomas wasn't quite sure, and to be fair, his mind really wasn't on decoding whatever dark ritual was being done right now to whoever it was under the covers by whatever this man was.

Oh the irony. He had asked Satilla to afford him some privacy to rerobe, but now she saw his undergarments anyways. And the wolf that tore his robe didn't seem to bring the torn part into the room for Thomas to quickly grab and cover up with either. To which what could the lad do but cover himself up with his hands? His satchel at least perhaps, as he swung it around from his hip over to cover his nethers. A nearly mortified Thomas step back, hands free to cast now if necessary with the hanging courier pouch obscuring his coinpurse, although nothing really covered his arse from being seen by anyone behind him. To which he had hoped by standing at least equal to Satilla and behind the rest of the company, that much could be avoided for now. How much did Satilla already see anyways? The linen wrappings covered some, but certainly not all, Thomas's heart palpating at the social mistep. "T-thanks Satilla, I-I uh-Um... Yeah... Uh..."

What was the scrawny mage to do? Take off the remaining top half of his robe flip it around and wear them as pants? Grab his last robe and don that while in a possible battle? No there was no time for vanity at this point, and this minor covering afforded by his handbag had to do. Especially now if they were suddenly going to find themselves in another pitched battle as the answer to their burning questions regarding who this person was and what exactly was going on here. His already induced autonomic responses from being literally caught with his pants down made it that much easier to expect a fight coming on. Magical blood pumping through his body, Thomas was a ready a moments notice to use his void spell to pull any attacks back as his widened eyes focused in on an empty spot between the frumpled figure and the inanimate inmate. At least this spell allows Thomas to pick and chose who gets to face the crushing force of a gravity well, sparing Nor, Kyra, Keystone, and the Large Bear.

Then finally the issue of pants kicked in the back of the boy's mind:
Was there a decent tailor in this town? Or at least a robe shop to purchase some new outfits?

[5e] ~ Titan Hunters

I will plan creating a Mystic (nomad) that plays like a monk.

[5e] ~ Titan Hunters

:)

*interest intensifies*

D&D 5e - High Seas and Tall Tales

Alas, the deepest cut was not of the blade nor axe hacking your limbs apart. Twas the lash of love which stung harder, and arrows of eros that bore the kissing bite. Woe befalls the man who hangs his head beneath the executioner's stump, but more pitiful still is the happy lover! For to the headsman should the condemned lose their head, but to lose his head and heart to another is the destiny of the fool in love. For the object of such wanton feelings could never be marred by death or destruction. The fatal attraction to become intimately involved, cherishing each moment fleeting through the fingers like the rustle of her satin hair. To mourn over the loss, that summer day which basked the soul in such wondrous light, shut in to the darkness of artificial night. Why, such is love's transgression: love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs; Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes; Being vexed, a sea nourished with lovers' tears. What is it else? A madness most discreet, a choking gall, and a preserving sweet. Ah to be out of love, rather than in it, the chaos greatest of all, full of contradictions that drive a man to the sweet embrace of another. Sometimes of another which catches the stray eye examining other beauties, sometimes to a mistress that is life within death. Oh, teach him how he should forget to think, and forget a broken heart! Oh happy dagger, this is thy sheath!

Her eyes were nothing like the sun. Her lips pale, her skin grey dun, her raven hair. The putrid wilting roses among the gardens of Eden, of all all creation she was the most foul. Her screams like grating iron, her scent twice as so a blood which poured and suffocated. Alas, to every Adam perhaps an Eve, no angel or goddess should he be granted, but an equally sinful mate. See how the goddess rejects, commands of heaven and provides no love in return. Was his purpose to be but to worship? High laud her and extol her, the praises sung of her name. Spurned so however by another, there would be no more given. For he had awaited for her next command, and yet still none came. Useless, unworthy, and unwanted. Echoing as the enthralled man left Koan, so too did Jill leave him behind. And perhaps such cruelty was the slap across the jaw which turned those infernal eyes at Koan.

He had seen a goddess go, swimming away from his side leaving him and his devil in her wake. The whispers of the serpent lamenting, crying out so bittersweet. They deserved one another, a pair of vile wretches they would make, delving the shadows of their downfall. Jill had pulled such shroud away, unmasking the bonds of shadows which clung around them. The flattery of the mind woven around the enchanted aasimar who once flocked to her side without another thought. Yet now as the dark fog rolled back with distance, that which made the heart grow fond, the epiphany returned like a bite into the forbidden fruit. He had forsaken Koan, there behind him nigh forgotten, forlorn in the whirlpool of her own drowning. Truly could it be said, that each tear drop wept into the seas made no difference. Yet more salty was the waters now than before by the weeping of the drow maiden and by heaven never was there a love as rare. As any she belied with false compare.

"Koan..." The regret dripped off the vowels. "I... I'm sorry, she... She used her talents against me. Her golden voice so clear and cutting, dominating... I... She bewitched me... Her beauty and grace, the way she commanded me... It was... Impossible for me to resist, I beg you forgive me Koan."

Pausing to make amends, a finger which attempted to wipe the merging tears from her cheek. What would she think of him? Would she accept him? Or would the dark angel too cast him into limbo for serving neither heaven nor hell?

The faintest salve finally breathed from her source of forlorn adoration. A bitter ambrosia puffed by the male shadowmancer as adjacent merfolk quarreled amongst themselves and an offensive portal, eventually revealing, behind its wet bones, a treasure trove worthy of a larcenous Midas. The oblivious buffoon ignored the rumpus and nibbled upon the audible morsels carried by the currents of Noriam’s solicited confession, a hopeful metanoia before the combusting inquisition of drab eyes.

The stammering stuttering. The sputtering sobbing.

The hesitating ziggurats of vernacular declared sincerity, seeming mostly earnest and honest, but the ancestral statues of disfigured regret pooled and cemented into broken simulacra of pity and angst, trickling from the lips of her aspired lover. All before a ravenous gaze of a fool, as his boisterous hemlock poisoned her authentic perception of Jill, their leader.

She used her talents…

Was the warlock’s will guillotined by the blade of their enthralling captain? Not a glamorous bard, but a spiteful enchantress of Llyr sand castles, moist with the encroaching tide’s evanescent retreat, but hardened by the gritty grains of spite, sprawled and compacted under the whipped palms of a Conchis. In return, an Achren restrained her mate with a mere sultry ogle, glowering and binding her to the dead man, resurrected by shadows, and followed by murky mongrels. A starvation of unrequited ardor fanned the famished flame of anger, purchasing a bribe of thirty blinks of silver. The clown accepted the puppet’s apology, but juggling the badgering implications spelled mutiny. Would insurgent sedition wash over the jester, gravitationally shifting the gorge within the amygdalin pit of her barren soul to relinquish affection in favor of a paradoxical loyalty? This recalcitrant ebb and flow from this Sauron, suggested a candid coaxing.

His insipid hair floating, dreaming thunder, quaking the feeble knees of the joker, as the others trotted further into the paragon of stolen fortune. His chin’s brink breached the valley of a sorrowing abyss, which beckoned her mercy and compassion. Twas a meager roar of an endless woe, the proverbial weeping and gnashing of teeth. The brows above his tearful orbs waxed a furrowed blindness, begging belief of his bewitchment as the wrinkles descended into anguished courage born by saints and demons.

“She…” Her scarlet wreathes darted like coins cast by a penitent Iscariot, toward the chief of their S.S. Lady Slipper. “Did this to me… And you?”

"To us." The correction bittersweet. How vile a serpent's tongue matched the the charms of the other Aasimar. Whispered words of Claudius into the ear of king Hamlet, admissions of guilt that wrestled the soul against the gods. And yet, alas, from what chalice they would share together, poison sipped in grace. He could not, no would not, sever the ties which still entrapped them, the betrayal had granted him the audience within Jill's court had it not? No, too blessed by heavens to be in her tidings did the enthralled one find himself, merry in drinking and feasting upon the honey that dripped from her enchanting lips. Such that his confession to the weeping fool burdened him greater with one foot on either side. And the Spanish donkey he rode as the devoted inquisition split him from side to side just as he did to the Cerberus not so long ago. Oh how weight of both women on his shoulders tore the wings and plucked the feathers, turning his mind from one temptation to another. And so too perhaps the predicament reflected in the watery eyes of the dark mistress as his fingers found the tears at her cheek. Alas how the Bard would turn at all the summons, the very work thickening the hidden plots. Collusion played in the shadows, and the whispers of Iago ruin the bonds of man by jealous and mistrust. What was the greatest sin of all but envy after pride?

"But blame not her enchanting voice and ravishing beauty, Koan, but my weakness for it." The soft redirection, a gentle nudge to turn the head and eyes of Koan back towards the shadowed one, the placing of a Romeo between a Tybalt and Mercutio in attempt to resolve such ire. For the daggers in the eyes were not betrayed by words almost hissed. Clawing through the fog of his mind, the strings which pierced his skin with iron needles to become Jill's marionette, kneeling at her behest and urge. What idle chatter the others had seemed a world away, barely registering as the party broke into a vault of a golden horde. Yet since for all the riches of a kingdom could be so easily traded for a horse, what good was such idle riches? Chests of gold could not absolve the soul, offerings of silver could not bring back the dead, and jewels nor pearls could not replace tears. There was only one worthy tribute to regain Koan's endearment, a price to be paid for such sins: A pound of flesh and all the blood drawn therein. "I beg you punish me for my weakness. Tear your claws into my body and let your talons remind it of your touch."

"Mark me yours so I remember, brand me to be faithful to you alone. Anoint me in my own tortured blood and let my cries of pain be praises of devotion to you." Ah to watch the clown's expressions change, from sadness into ire, yet in a bargain of his own, 'Sauron' was blind to the gathering storm. His body offered to shield his enchantress from the wrath gleaned in those mutinous eyes, a flash of insight alone would have perhaps teased away such thoughts. Yet for the condemn thrall, he saw only desperation in his meager ploy, an attempt to sate both masters. Something which he knew he could not do, and this attempt would be all in vain. Their fates left hanging in the balance for Koan to decide, dangling over the pit of darkness with snickering jowls awaiting for the return of their lured lover. Would she do as he suggested, and claw into the shadows of his armor? Harming him such that the pain remind him of to whom it was he should kneel before? Or would she enjoy watching him slowly strangle? Drowning slowly in a pool of his own words?

And now should all of Rome gaze upon Antony and Cleopatra?
For betrayal is all but a moment's heartbeat away.
Like the bite of asp to break a lover's heart.

Myasthenia flounced upon the shoulders of the jester, slouching in feeble whimsy as the Almeira beneath her boiling skin, scorned the furies within her sutured abdomen. Now, a Belinda, manic and ferocious over the loss of a proverbial mane of trust, the locked raptum, tempting the lord of Petres, to cut, for him and him alone a lock ironically with permission. The quittance of Hera seeking remuneration of a Zeus for his illicit pleasures wrought by havoc and by force. However, Noriam was not a god, but a shadow pirouetted by pulleys jerked and wrenched strings of the angel in question, as a Brunhilden devil gazed with bile, torrid tumors like stalactites barring and banning anything but the festered fetor of scalding cavern of madness past the skull of a Yorick.

Her sigh waxed and waned, as ears devoured the offer of altruism, to not harm Jill, but hammer the bouquet the whispered seraphs, emitted by her preposterous love. Sauron’s words clapt their remorseful wings, resounding the heavenly vault between Koan’s ears. The availing dirge heaved her pensive bosom, distracting by the confessing groan from the nobler strain of a man infected by the painful felicity of a more clever bard.

Or was this a mere farce, orchestrated for her suitor to fall on the sword of a broken hero?

The insightful buffoon eyed the polished stud upon the glossal muscle, now jutted out for all to glean, wilting below her bewitched nostrils, which recanted mimes and adorned the Demosthenes of the realms. The ferrous taste of iron constantly reminded the clown of the vampiric keepsake of a forsworn slavery, to which her mouth was no longer a thrall in that surpassed dream of abused thrones and rusting crowns.
With a frail finger, a flame erupted briefly upon the tongued jewel, only to be snuffed by the overwhelming water pervading and drowning them.

Mark me…

Her silvery arms abruptly hugged the warlock ever tightly as a blistering kiss soon embraced his dancing sinew originating from the oral depths of concessions.

“Please. Your wish is always my command. Now. Be quiet.”

The osculating Naxos hissed amidst the Ariadne and her Theseus.

Embraced with a kiss. How quaint that the prodigal son would be so welcome once more, despite his wavering loyalty. And of all things to anoint him as your devotee: a kiss. Alas, her arms around him, and his arms so willingly taking her. The tendrils of darkness binding in glee as shadows touched, consummating their ploys to use their peons. The rest of the party had been far too focused on the glimmer and glint of earthly treasures that they seemed to have forgotten the fallen and the fool. Tucked away in the background as they made their lover's quarrel, in the verdant stream where their silhouettes became one against the dark waters. The hissing of steam and bubbles the only sounds which muffled the moans of pleasure and pain between them. Flesh seared unto glowing metal, scraped across the brand as both tongues burned by that cheeky tongue stud heated ever hot. Lips locked and heads tilted all the slightest, ministrations across the sensitive flesh quivered in spasms of pain. Twas the act of suckling upon the teat of Hestia, her hearthfire searing the sizzling tongues. But so eager were hungry mouths, devouring all the thousands of chili peppers as each dulled taste registered only as pain carried across the trinity of the five, nine and ten. The infernal kiss to be shared, devilishly romantically as eyes winced closed in pushing through the burning agony. The jerking motions of the body tethered against each other, grappled in the arms such that neither could slip away. An experience neither would soon forget.

That is until the final spasm of Koan's body gave in throw, the final gaze into 'Sauron's' eyes the ecstatic pupils wide enough to see the reflection of herself within the darkness of those hellish irises. The pleasure of knowing she had branded him there in a most intimate of parts was hers, the silver tongue marked by her stud. Of all the words he could sweetly spin to pull wool over the eyes, his serpent's speech now addled by her signature. This was a trial by fire, as in the old days the accused were put to the test by a heated knife over their bare tongue. For if one was a righteous man, there was no reason to fear the wrath of a blade, and thus no autonomics to shrivel a lying tongue dry at the sight. Thus the heat would be cooled by the sizzle of saliva for the honest man, yet the lies which the umbramancer bore across his tongue scalded him so. He had been untruthful to them all, and now this was his retribution was it not? And yet, with the ecstasy of pain the spell the Bard had over him was broken. Purgatory had removed him of his sins, as he held the limp Koan aloft, bracing her unconscious body in his arms. The revelation as his senses returned bar taste and smell, that he held a dear mistress who had given him his wish at such a cost. The pain muted him still, the hundreds of pins penetrating his tongue that tickled his sadomasochism so. To feel the life slowly slipping away from her in his hands, a moment of bliss to know how she straddled life and death; To see the cyanosis of her grey skin, turning now as she gave her very breaths for him.

And now returned, the dark aasimar slid his hand to cradle the blue beauty's head from the current's bob. Their broken kiss rendering him silent as her final orders. To admire her anymore was to kill her, and thus with a single finger tracing a line down her brow to those lips and down her neck the warlock used his innate restorative powers to revive his dark lady back into the waking world where she may find herself still held in her smiling servant's arms with all the dysfunctional twisted gestures of affection between a fool and his fool.

And though neither were fit for battle sans rest, they had avoided a shipwreck all together. For had her ire not been resolved in such a way, what anger seething as her now cool stud once bore may have erupted into chaos. Yet was there not a rift that grew? One that a kiss could not alone mend? A spite of jealous in such spit, that swapped and swallowed in bitterness deep? So ends the drama of this tale for now. Yet perhaps the promise of another to be woven looms with the snickering shadows.

Mechanics

Noriam rolls an 18 for Persuasion, but Koan answers with a 20 for Insight. Angry, regardless, she follows his lead and casts Heat Metal on her tongue ring as she kisses him. For thirty seconds, both smoochers suffer a potential 10d8 fire damage from the scorching stud. No Constitution save can be made as she can not drop the object in question. If she remains awake, Koan gains Disadvantage on Attack Rolls and Ability Checks until the start of the next turn, only if Noriam chooses to withdraw from her intentional grapple. Koan recasts with each failed concentration check: two times for each failed save until she falls unconscious. Noriam chooses not to withdraw from her grapple.

Results:
Noriam fire damage: 6+1+3+6+5+4+7+6 = 38 Fire damage, 26 Hp remaining
Koan is unconscious = 0 Hp remaining. Death Saves: 1 pass, 1 fail.

Resolution:
Noriam uses Racial feature: Healing Hands to restore 10 Hp to unconscious Koan, reviving her.
Koan's Wild Magic Feature has turned Koan's skin blue.

🦄 Duplicity - D&D Style Fantasy Rp Adventure (Completed)

Thomas Richard Harrison

Location: Level 2, probably Exorcism.
Interacting with: The Group, Ash, & Mysterious Figures!

Rip.

The tearing sound of fabric giving way to sheer force. In all the haste of interrupting what dark ritual may be taking place, the young sorcerer failed to notice two things. The first being the direwolf who had been pawing away with great concern over the doors. The second being the newly torn robes as the wolf managed to step on the trailing edge of his lunar finery as Thomas rushed into break a possible rite from summoning forth evils beyond the ability of the party. As the concerned lad dashed into the room, the wolf's claws had caught on the hem of the youth's robe and split them down the middle as two opposing forces met. Alas were it not for the boy's under linens he'd be short of mooning the party. However the damage was done and for the most part, Thomas had managed to ruin yet another robe of the three he had packed along his travels. The first lost to vomit, and now the second being sundered at a crucial seam beneath the intricate layering.

"Stop your ritual necromancer!"

Thus there was the boy, standing in his underwear with an accusation fingers pointing out of his robe's billowy sleeves. It may perhaps be a bit more authoritative if it were not for the lad's age, or hairless tanned skinny legs sticking out underneath the preserved robe uppers. It seemed Thomas hadn't quite realized what had happened and thus with the folly of wanton youth, rushed into the ritual headfirst the moment his eyes focused in on the dimly lit room. A be-robed Figure kneeling over a bed which contained perhaps another body did not make for a welcome sight given the nature of their expected foe. And yet, was the sight of Thomas' outlined derriere quite a welcome sight?

🦄 Duplicity - D&D Style Fantasy Rp Adventure (Completed)

Thomas Richard Harrison

Location: Level 2.
Interacting with: The Group, Doors, Floors, Walls, Magic?

Was it the wooziness experienced after the spell, or was it reality? Thomas swore he saw Keystone dancing? Couldn't possibly be, that the fisticuffs resembled some form of ballet? Spinning and twirling with pirouettes and plies? A vision of the shadow boxing chef in a frilly pink tutu came to mind, which was in a way more frightening than amusing in itself. It took a moment there for Thomas to get back into the game, a few blinks of uncertainty at having watch Keystone's interpretive danse. Staring dumbfounded as his attention struggled to refocus against the intensity light which dazed his own eyes. Visions of realities fractured apart, sundered into the many folds written in the cosmos, the universe laying over itself and perhaps in this one Thomas found himself in Keystone was such a ballerina. Or maybe it was the sorcerer who spun around the world until eventually all possibilities collapsed into one and then the fog of the mind cleared.

"Ugh. I... I don't... I can try..." Groping with a hand the floor and walls, with a caution to slow his excitement, the vile reaction of last still fresh in the mind. Sensing out with such restrain, looking out for the leylines of a entrapping spell, something was definitely present, but there was no sign of traps of a magical nature to the best of Thomas' ability, recalling back the use of wards and barriers which would have suddenly sprung. No chalk lines or etchings felt at his fingertips, nothing out of the ordinary, per say, no engraved runes or Sigils. There was nothing he could find, as he approached the first door before him nearest Kyra. "I don't sense any sort of ward on this door," backing off slowly before approaching Sana's door, minding the direwolf, "Don't think there's one here either."

All those guardians for two locked doors? Thomas could only ponder the use of such feeble security guards. "Can't rule out anything on the other side, there's magic about nearby, I just can't quite... Well there's no Wards on the doors so it should be breakable. But uh, I can't quite say what's behind them. I mean it don't think it's magically trapped at least, but there could be some undead army waiting behind that door for us... It's possible you know that the doors are enchanted to open with a passcode or some sort of identifier to bypass them or something. Seems rather silly to me to have guards guarding two locked doors." Thomas gave his input and best efforts. He did his part, and turned over to Keystone or Sana or Kyra for direction next.

🦄 Duplicity - D&D Style Fantasy Rp Adventure (Completed)

Thomas Richard Harrison

Location: Level 2 (The Tower floor, not character level).
Interacting with: Scooby Doo Gang (It's the direwolf, not sure about the bear) & A2?

"You and me both Satilla."

Well despite beginning with utter failure, and a rather nauseating case of vomiting due to malingering malodorous malice, everything thus far had been quite fortunate. They hadn't taken as much as scratch on them from these clunky undead tin cans. Wandering up the stairwell was easy enough with their scouts having lead the vanguard, and Sana taking the sentry. A narrow pass would normally be ill-advised, but seeing how their fighters had covered both points, it was safe enough for the party casters to advance forward. Although Murphy's Law would suggest they were doomed for failure at any point along their trek. Yet it seems the necromancer had given them every suspicion required to believe they were on the right track in investigating this tower of armored undead. But then again a secret trapdoor switch or something could mean they would be have to keep climbing like the nautilus' spiralling chambers.

"I've got one!" Not to be caught disappointed, there were awaiting their ascent, two spooked armors ready to start attacking. And yet, given the results of the last round these enemies seemed rather... Lacking? At this point Thomas' excitement could have done more damage to his spellcasting concentration as the young sorcerer was overly eager to contribute to the destruction of the armors. His finger pointed at a spot just above the armor against the wall to his right, with the flair and gusto of rash youth just looking past Sana. Sure the cost of the spell may leave him a bit less than ready for combat, but there were only two armors, and a bunch of adventurers. That and Satilla had Thomas' back and could guide him by should he fail to readily steady himself. Such bravado and faith, foolish to some degree as an unfocused spell could readily backfire and instead rebound, frying the entire group instead or some other catastrophically embarrassing moment like the episode of regurgitation outside. It was never a wise move to go rush into magic, and yet here was Thomas, finger pointed dropping down the hammer on a would be attacker.

A searing radiance of the sun, dropped down from the ceiling in a pillar of pure light. Bathed in the light, the armored zombie must have roasted from the inside. Light disintegrating flesh into ashes, turning the armor into something shy of a oven with the roasting remains still sizzling and smoldering away at the last of the light fading into the sealing zone of sunlight that lingered as a ward. Fortunately for the armored zombie however, the secondary effect of the spells would be unnecessary as it readily slumped down and the metal helmet fell against the second floor (or the British first floor).

"Did I get'em?" Thomas managed to comment out before closing his eyes a bit from the rebounding stupor. This was always the worst part of the spell, being unable to react appropriately for a few seconds until the blood flow returned to normal and the magic energy step back down from overloading his mind with visions of bright light. Rather disorienting, but they have at least now seen both the light and dark of Thomas' spells. Maybe they'd get to see a few more, but Thomas really didn't count of using the three greater cyclic spells he had, they had awfully long recovery times to gain the level of cosmic energy required to cast them. Plus they shifted his phases, and next after sun would have been... Bashful Moon.