I'll be posting tonight (my time)! :)
EDIT: Nevermind, I'm not feeling too great.
EDIT: Nevermind, I'm not feeling too great.
Varromere
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Malevolence
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VRAROK ADALSTEUNE
Duur Kharag, in the Deep Roads of the Ivuldiruuk
“Vrarok! Vrarok, look out behind ya!”
A voice cried out in the creeping dark as a large black shape exploded from the rock, accompanied by the hellish squeal of an angered beast, and then the sudden symphony of gunfire.
“Vrarok ya fool! Move out the way!”
The young dwarf turned to the wicked form of a ratoskr approaching fast, charging toward the group. Another moved in front of him, the sheen of his mithril axe caught as firelight hit it. The axe connected, but so did something else, there were screams, and finally a crushing thud.
“DURMAR!”
“Wake up, fool! You’ll wake half the district!” a familiar voice cut through the fog of his haunted slumber. A sudden cold deluge splashed across his face, instantly shocking the dwarf and bringing him to. He sat up immediately, rivulets of water slid from his forehead and collected on his shirt. Another dwarf stood over him with her arms crossed and her dim blue eyes furrowed in annoyance. Her expression eased as he woke. “The tunnels again?”
He rubbed his eyes before regarding her. He smiled in relief. Miriam was one of the few friends he had in Tyberia, one who had put up with his troublesome antics since he arrived in the city and first came in contact with the Legion of Lead. She worked for one of the organisation’s prized financiers, a connection that led to her meeting the wayward dwarven noble. Many of the dwarves he knew had some kind of connection with the Legion. Vrarok nodded, “Aye lass, the tunnels.”
“Did you take the poultice before you slept?”
He shook his head slowly, avoiding her eyes. The poultice, a mix of herbs and a very potent drug, was supposed to help him sleep better and suppress his nightmares. While time had eased the scars he earned deep in the Ivuldiruuk, and his thoughts avoided the subject altogether, the nightmares continued to plague him.
Miriam sighed, and strode over to the kitchen, her shock of fiery hair bound in one singular tail. She and Vrarok were vastly different. While he was raised in one of the dwarven strongholds of the Free East, she had been treated to a human upbringing. Orphaned as a child, the widow of a wealthy merchant adopted her and raised her as if she were a wealthy human of Tyberia. The thick accent, questionable phonology and mannerisms shared by Vrarok and other mountain-dwarves were lost on Miriam, who maintained posture and eloquence at all times.
“Hati delivered a message for you, Vrarok. From Alaric. It seemed urgent, I don’t think he’s happy.”
“I ‘aven’t done anythin’ wrong for that cunt to be un’appy.”
“You are kidding, right? You disobeyed his orders.”
“’e wanted information, I got information.”
“You killed three imperial soldiers!” she snapped in a hush tone.
“Shit ‘appens love, leave it alone yeah?”
Her scowl had almost burned through her face and seemed to glower at him from behind her head. She was right, though. While he did find what Alaric wanted, three Asgardians had to die. Two were necessary casualties, the other was… a lack of foresight on the old dwarf’s part.
“Alaric has enough information on you to have you arrested four times over.”
“I’ll blast a neat lil’ hole between his legs ‘fore ‘e does anythin’, don’t ye worry,” he giggled. The thought of killing that up-jumped cunt from the streets would make him very happy. Alaric was new to the management of the Legion of Lead, a street rat favoured by the former Magnar-Legionnaire Grim’dan. He was the only human that the late dwarf really trusted, but Vrarok loathed him. Since he took over, more humans – more vermin from the streets – had been inducted in the organisation, while its dwarven members were being isolated or relegated to the mundane duties of the Legion. Though Vrarok was never truly a member in the traditional sense, he took pride in his association with Grim’dan and his legionnaires, and seeing a friend’s work dismantled by an overworlder made him sick to his dwarf stomach.
“Hurry up, Vrarok.”
“Yeah, yeah, hold ye britches.”
Vrarok did as he was told. Miriam had done a lot for him, a lot more than she needed to, and a lot more than he had ever done for her, the best he could do was listen to her and do his best to keep her out of his dealings. He washed his face with a damp cloth and slung the jade cloak over his shoulders. He made his way to an old, grey stone building. They called this ‘the Workshop’, the base of operations for the Legion of Lead, but it made for a decent blacksmith.
A pair of dwarves were hard at work at the smithy, their beards slick with sleet. It comprised of an expertly built chimney of stone, tendrils of smoke rose from its spout as a bright, orange glow seemed to grow dimmer as he walked by. One of the dwarves was hard at work on one of the anvils, hammering a sword that’s blade glowered with heat. He nodded at them, “good day fer it lads.”
One of them scoffed at his mockery. Vrarok smirked and continued on inside the Workshop. The foyer was the most pristine part of the joint – finely woven carpet lining wall-to-wall, a chandelier of cyan crystals that twinkled and shimmied in the light, a line of oak chairs with velvet-skinned cushions in formation against the wall and a long desk. Behind that desk sat Ysondra of Cragenstead. A crone of a woman, with a violet silk bandana to mask her balding head and scrutinising grey eyes, she had always been in the employ of the Legion of Lead as a receptionist: the wizened, blunt face of the Workshop.
“Ysondre, ravishin’ as ever lass,” the dwarf made his way over to the desk. The usual annoyance painted on her face grew increasingly vexed as he mispronounced her name.
“I presume that you’re here for your letter,” she said matter-of-factly, withdrawing an envelope from her drawer.
“Letter? I was told Alaric wanted me.”
“Asked for you, but no. A letter.”
Ysondra placed the letter on the desk, lips pursed as tightly as ever. Vrarok took it and opened it. There was only an address, and an initial. An initial he knew all too well in his recent dealings.
He smirked at Ysondra and left, making his way towards the most expensive districts of Tyberia. After an hour and a half, his little legs began to ache slightly. He cursed his old body, but continued, finding the stately manor just as a human entered its ornate doors. The dwarf strolled over to the still open doors with an air of casual reverence.
“Vrarok Adalsteune, blah blah blah,” he chuckled as he walked in, he was never good at pleasantries. Then again, dwarven nobility and politics never demanded pleasantries – only action. “Up there then, yeah?” He regarded the Butler with a wry smile. “Hope ye got some beer or somethin’, ‘tis colder than a nun’s fanny out there! Phew, look at this place!” the dwarf took in the sight of the foyer with wide eyes. He hadn’t been so awed by something since he first arrived in Tyberia. With a slow pace, he made his way around, bobbing his head into all kinds of doorways before he discovered the dining room, and the lovely cast of characters in it.
There were elves.
He swallowed.
But then he spotted a tray, and on it, liquid. A plum-coloured liquid. It wasn’t beer, but it’d do. He strode over and took the bottle, bringing it over to the long dining table and taking whichever seat he desired. He took one long scull of the sweet alcohol and tried to hide his grimace. He forced a smile.
“Vrarok Adalsteune, only dwarf in this room, at ye service.”
@WhoamiI'll post sometime today. :)
Relevant lore information right here!
The clamour of bells resounded through Isamanca, their symphony accompanied by the silence of the townspeople. They marked the end of the Rose Hour, where all prayers and masses would finally conclude, and the reverie could continue. Thousands poured out of the various basilicas of Love & Beauty, their spirits renewed and fresh for their final day of pleasure, indulgence and intoxication.
A regal man emerged from the Palace di Chavarra and made his way to the gathering of hunters. He walked with the smooth, casual confidence of someone born into wealth. Lethodus recognised the man as Firenze Danari, a confidante and personal bodyguard to Duke Alessio Chavarra. The ebony crescent of hair that lined his jaw and was artfully trimmed, set against olive skin without blemish, and eyes that burned hot like mercury. He regarded Lethodus with a respectful nod, but beyond that, he was as cold as the tundras of Sivar Velg. “Her Eminence, Alta Sixtuvia II, and the Esteemed Dukes of the Revosso have requested your presence in the Blue Basilica. Follow me, and keep pace. Patience is not well practiced by some of our guests.”
Firenze turned and began walking swiftly. They would follow, he knew, for they were here for good reason after all.
He guided them through the palace gates. They emerged in a grand foyer of pristine marble, at the heart of which was a three tiered fountain etched with various caricatures and crowned by a cupid with rubies for eyes. They proceeded through a grand corridor that opened into an outdoor promenade lined by high-arched windows. On either sides there were pools of crystal blue water, from which eight marble podiums rose. Upon each podium were the eight nymphs of the Revosso, the daughters of the Goddess of Love and the God of Beauty. Every curve, every crease of fabric, every intricate feature was ornately sculptured. Even Firenze, despite his face of stone and chilly demeanour, slowed ever so slightly to admire the Daughters of Love & Beauty. To the left, there was Nimaro the Verdant; naked and exposed, with leaves decorating her long, wavy hair and a fawn nudging at her legs as she seemed to leap into the air, and Rissono in her loose, flowing robes, nurturing various scrolls, and next to her, Affora’s sumptuous figure was hidden beneath chaste robes as she seemed to reach for the promenade, and then Picassa and her three faces (representing fear, hope and tragedy) seemed to lament. Adjacent to them was Fiorella of the Orchards, tall, proud, muscular, her hair bound in buns, her sickle hanging deftly by her side, while Cairello smiled and danced on a field of flowers, Mercinia smirked wickedly with her crown of coins in her hands, and finally Bassinia, large and busty, with one exposed breast, stood with one foot and a jug of wine cradled in one arm.
They came to a pair of large, solid golden doors. Upon them were the inscribed images of Venice, the Goddess of Love, and Essere, the God of Beauty. Playing above their heads were eight small cherubs. Firenze turned suddenly to regard the hunters.
“In the presence of Her Eminence, you will not bow to the dukes, but kiss the sapphire upon her ring only. Her Eminence is not to otherwise be touched or interrupted when she speaks. If addressing the Duke Chavarra, you will refer to him as monsero – not sir, ser, my lord or m’lord. And one last note of importance,” he paused, observing the hunters warily. “The Phoenix is also present this evening. He is to be afforded the same respect as the other dukes, regardless of your… preoccupations.”
Firenze hoped they would behave. The Mass of the Dukes, the Alta herself, these were manageable for the Order of Cinders. The Phoenix, however, was an entirely different story. Overseer of the red wizards, known blood maegi who utilise their blood to empower their own incredible magic, the Phoenix was a particularly troublesome sort of woman who enjoyed provocation. He sighed and with one great push, opened the doors to the Blue Basilica.
The Blue Basilica was, in itself, a masterpiece. Marble columns lined the central aisle, rows of backless benches lined in formation towards an altar covered in red, gold and bronze cloth. Ten massive, arched stain glass windows curved from the doors to the altar, each depicting the nymphs, and finally Venice and Essere, who seemed to mirthfully overlook the lectern. Tiled floors, walls of golden filigree, and the stern faces of the leaders of the Revosso, met the hunters as they entered. There were nine men, and two women; one in flowing cyan and white robes that collected at her feet, and another further away from the rest of the peninsula’s nobility.
She was the Duchess Vessandra Rossarian, the Phoenix of Ceir Parval. She stood close to Alta Sixtuvia II, her crimson vestments with their golden hem a stark contrast to the purity of the light blue and white enveloping the high priestess. It was said that the dye used to colour a red wizard’s robe was the blood of maegi who had since departed this world, an additional locus to their use of power. She observed the hunters with amber eyes, the slightest indication of amusement playing on her lips.
Duke Alessio Chavarra, clad in azure vestments and velvet, welcomed them with open arms and a wary smile. “Dearest guests, welcome to Isamanca! It is beautiful, no? A pity why you’ve had to come, but alas I suppose darkness does not stop to celebrate as we humans do,” he turned to regard the other leaders. “Your Eminence, my brothers and sister of the Revosso, I have invited the Order of Cinders to our most holy mass to discuss an evil presence that has made itself known in this proud and ancient city. I do not speak of the savages of Jzarea, who threaten all that is sacred to us, but of a vamphiir. Master Lethodus, if you please,” he motioned to the older hunter.
A regal man emerged from the Palace di Chavarra and made his way to the gathering of hunters. He walked with the smooth, casual confidence of someone born into wealth. Lethodus recognised the man as Firenze Danari, a confidante and personal bodyguard to Duke Alessio Chavarra. The ebony crescent of hair that lined his jaw and was artfully trimmed, set against olive skin without blemish, and eyes that burned hot like mercury. He regarded Lethodus with a respectful nod, but beyond that, he was as cold as the tundras of Sivar Velg. “Her Eminence, Alta Sixtuvia II, and the Esteemed Dukes of the Revosso have requested your presence in the Blue Basilica. Follow me, and keep pace. Patience is not well practiced by some of our guests.”
Firenze turned and began walking swiftly. They would follow, he knew, for they were here for good reason after all.
He guided them through the palace gates. They emerged in a grand foyer of pristine marble, at the heart of which was a three tiered fountain etched with various caricatures and crowned by a cupid with rubies for eyes. They proceeded through a grand corridor that opened into an outdoor promenade lined by high-arched windows. On either sides there were pools of crystal blue water, from which eight marble podiums rose. Upon each podium were the eight nymphs of the Revosso, the daughters of the Goddess of Love and the God of Beauty. Every curve, every crease of fabric, every intricate feature was ornately sculptured. Even Firenze, despite his face of stone and chilly demeanour, slowed ever so slightly to admire the Daughters of Love & Beauty. To the left, there was Nimaro the Verdant; naked and exposed, with leaves decorating her long, wavy hair and a fawn nudging at her legs as she seemed to leap into the air, and Rissono in her loose, flowing robes, nurturing various scrolls, and next to her, Affora’s sumptuous figure was hidden beneath chaste robes as she seemed to reach for the promenade, and then Picassa and her three faces (representing fear, hope and tragedy) seemed to lament. Adjacent to them was Fiorella of the Orchards, tall, proud, muscular, her hair bound in buns, her sickle hanging deftly by her side, while Cairello smiled and danced on a field of flowers, Mercinia smirked wickedly with her crown of coins in her hands, and finally Bassinia, large and busty, with one exposed breast, stood with one foot and a jug of wine cradled in one arm.
They came to a pair of large, solid golden doors. Upon them were the inscribed images of Venice, the Goddess of Love, and Essere, the God of Beauty. Playing above their heads were eight small cherubs. Firenze turned suddenly to regard the hunters.
“In the presence of Her Eminence, you will not bow to the dukes, but kiss the sapphire upon her ring only. Her Eminence is not to otherwise be touched or interrupted when she speaks. If addressing the Duke Chavarra, you will refer to him as monsero – not sir, ser, my lord or m’lord. And one last note of importance,” he paused, observing the hunters warily. “The Phoenix is also present this evening. He is to be afforded the same respect as the other dukes, regardless of your… preoccupations.”
Firenze hoped they would behave. The Mass of the Dukes, the Alta herself, these were manageable for the Order of Cinders. The Phoenix, however, was an entirely different story. Overseer of the red wizards, known blood maegi who utilise their blood to empower their own incredible magic, the Phoenix was a particularly troublesome sort of woman who enjoyed provocation. He sighed and with one great push, opened the doors to the Blue Basilica.
The Blue Basilica was, in itself, a masterpiece. Marble columns lined the central aisle, rows of backless benches lined in formation towards an altar covered in red, gold and bronze cloth. Ten massive, arched stain glass windows curved from the doors to the altar, each depicting the nymphs, and finally Venice and Essere, who seemed to mirthfully overlook the lectern. Tiled floors, walls of golden filigree, and the stern faces of the leaders of the Revosso, met the hunters as they entered. There were nine men, and two women; one in flowing cyan and white robes that collected at her feet, and another further away from the rest of the peninsula’s nobility.
She was the Duchess Vessandra Rossarian, the Phoenix of Ceir Parval. She stood close to Alta Sixtuvia II, her crimson vestments with their golden hem a stark contrast to the purity of the light blue and white enveloping the high priestess. It was said that the dye used to colour a red wizard’s robe was the blood of maegi who had since departed this world, an additional locus to their use of power. She observed the hunters with amber eyes, the slightest indication of amusement playing on her lips.
Duke Alessio Chavarra, clad in azure vestments and velvet, welcomed them with open arms and a wary smile. “Dearest guests, welcome to Isamanca! It is beautiful, no? A pity why you’ve had to come, but alas I suppose darkness does not stop to celebrate as we humans do,” he turned to regard the other leaders. “Your Eminence, my brothers and sister of the Revosso, I have invited the Order of Cinders to our most holy mass to discuss an evil presence that has made itself known in this proud and ancient city. I do not speak of the savages of Jzarea, who threaten all that is sacred to us, but of a vamphiir. Master Lethodus, if you please,” he motioned to the older hunter.
Sorry guys, my ma had a bit of an accident so I've had to take care of my baby brother. Post will be up soon! Just needs a bit of a polish.
Question:
I have most of my post written except for the part where Vrarok arrives at the manor. However, I noticed that Casimir and Eodain received the same letter; just to clarify, is it correct to assume that we all received the same letter? If so, I'll add that to my post.
I'm going to wait for vietmyke to post or the others to post again and see where the three are at before writing Vrarok's arrival as I think having the four of us arrive at the exact same time might be a tad too cluttered. Do you guys mind?
I have most of my post written except for the part where Vrarok arrives at the manor. However, I noticed that Casimir and Eodain received the same letter; just to clarify, is it correct to assume that we all received the same letter? If so, I'll add that to my post.
I'm going to wait for vietmyke to post or the others to post again and see where the three are at before writing Vrarok's arrival as I think having the four of us arrive at the exact same time might be a tad too cluttered. Do you guys mind?
Alrighty, well if anybody else would like to post before we carry on, please do so! Otherwise I'll be posting tonight. :)
I will be posting soon.
I'm assuming that Mr. Pink is no longer with us, and with the departure of Kai and BC, I'd just like a quick number of who's still with us so I can tweak the story accordingly.
I'm assuming that Mr. Pink is no longer with us, and with the departure of Kai and BC, I'd just like a quick number of who's still with us so I can tweak the story accordingly.
I concur, I think we have enough with the tunnel.
Will start working on my first post. :)
Will start working on my first post. :)
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