Consequences

(( This will probably only make a little bit of sense to a very few of you, but I've been posting major things happing with my character thus far and -while apprehensive- descided to continue doing so.))

The flash of the moongate was bright in the native dark of evening. A tall, dark figure stood, clad in the deep shade of shadow steel, holding another close, his cloak hiding them both well in the mists of the Felucca forest. At a swift pace the Elf made off, moving with deceptive grace despite the heavy armor he wore - though another thing remained odd - the silence that surrounded him. His cloak itself was woven from material shadow - though such - even given its magical and dread nature - could not slay the very sound of the world.

Some time later, Deleaduindill stopped, still quite in his wind, much unlike the one he bore with him. With an unceremonious shove a slight female Elf sprawled upon the dead leaves before him, disoriented and frightened. The pale, dead bark of the Felucca trees reflected the moonlight well, the faint mist that hugged the ground casting doleful shadows about the small clearing.

Casa was in tears, scarcely stammering and standing the same, her voice wavering and soft despite the strength it held - the thought of screaming for help in Felucca at once an arresting idea in and of itself. In its stead, she simply stood, emerald eyes wide in the pale alabaster glow of the moon. "What...why...?! I mean - please what are you do..."

"As I recall I told you that sooner, else later, I would come for you. I am doing what I have always done." Deleaduindill exhaled softly, his breath turning into a misty vapor - they were perhaps somewhere near the mountains. In truth, Casa had not noticed the cold of the air about them - it was the last thing on her mind.

Even as Deleaduindill strode forward, Casa stepped back only once, sobbing softly, her hands up in protest, the delicacy and force in his touch all in the same a chilling thing as he turned her away from himself, his dark steel armor a cold thing as his arm locked around her neck. The slight elf's sobbing stopped with a panicked yelp, thereafter it being hard to breathe against the unforgiving steel of Deleaduindill's armor. "Peace be with you, Casa," he whispered with surprising gentleness, as if he believed it would wash away all her ills, the soft scraping ring of metal tickling the air about them as he drew his blade from its sheath. "Trust me." The next moment Deleaduindill forced the blade into her back to the hilt in a terrible, powerful, swift motion.

-/-

Deleaduindill stood, silent, still, watching the bent fellow before him examine his dark blade as it lay upon an old granite table, the blade seeming to absorb the light of the hundreds of candles that burned all around them. "You can do what I have asked, Necromancer." The older-looking fellow glanced over to him, the annoyance he felt unhidden and to a point - perhaps intentionally displayed. The statement broke the silence between them that had grown in the twenty or so minutes since the Elf had surrendered his blade - an unsteady silence.

"You are a fool Elf..." The man trailed off, looking back to the blade - its fey beauty but for its vile aura a captivating thing. "And only an idiot would have asked of me what you have - though if the price is..."

"One hundred and twenty-thousand gold farthings." The Elf stood still, his golden slitted gaze unwavering.

"Oh yes - there is a good fellow. Perhaps, then." Again the necromancer returned to looking at the blade. "I can feel him looking back at me, you know..." It was an off-handed remark - though nonetheless true. The sword was as alive as the Elf before him. Every creature that the Elf had ever slain lived within the weapon - and the scores more that had fallen to the weapon before he had come into its swath of fate. The mightiest of these simply waited inside - marshalling the veritable legion of those within - having in its own right an army - if things happened right. "So you wish..."

"One elf - one soul within..."

"Do not interrupt me again!" The fire flared in the Necromancer's eyes, young and potent. The Dark Art had warped his body to age beyond its vitality - though his youth and cunning still showed themselves in clearest accord. "I am not a fool that can be second-guessed or anticipated, my ways are mine own, and you have your place and it is *not* to speak to be with such assumptive arrogance." His voice held within it a clean edge that brooked listening to - even by the Elf before him. As so - Deleaduindill simply nodded, waiting until the Necromancer asked him his question. "You have a body that the soul can be placed into?"

"I have not." Deleaduindill's glance met the Necromancer's for a brief second - ambient gold meeting a mottled, faded blue - his head tipping just lightly enough to notice in a question.

"Well I do - it just so happens. Elven maidens are a thing to be had, after all." With a hoarse, grating cough, the Necromancer laughed at his own joke while Deleaduindill simply stood where he was, watching - ever watching. "Leave me, Elf. Come back the 'morrow to have your blade, and your ward. Bring the gold."

And Deleaduindill left.

-/-

As the Night is day, and the day is night upon the Demiplane of Dread, the Elf once again returned to the small, crumbling home within the most forgotten of forests in such a place, nearing the Mist of Eternity that separated her from the other true planes of existence. An old, weather-worn door, heavy to the touch, stood closed before him, having scrapes and cleaves pitting its old, gray surface. At Deleaduindill's first touch, it swung open, revealing the dank and bare place that the Necromancer called home. "I have returned." The Elf's smooth voice carried over the silence of the place, eliciting a stir from the fellow within. As he stood, the Elf watched as a head emerged from a doorway that stood open, a few paces down the hall he was faced with.

"The gold, Elf, did you bring the gold?" The Necromancer bore a shrewd look, though seemed to brighten noticeably as he noticed that behind the Elf an ass stood, eating the grass of the clearing, a small, flat cart behind it having a good many bags as large as one's head upon it. Even still - he awaited the Elf's answer.

"It is hither."

A crude, dirty smile graced the Necromancer's cracked lips, he once again disappearing into the room. "Come hither, yo..u..sm..bkll..." Reality twisted upon itself for a brief moment, Deleaduindill refraining from crossing the hearth of the place for a moment.

"Feyborn." The voice was a whisper, though it resonated in seemingly everything that was. "Feyborn, the Necromancer means you ill, he does. Would I lie to you?" It was a soft, sweet voice, punctuated with icy quills of dread and malice. Rarely did the lead entity of the blade speak to him - a sort of silent treatment bearing he have no satisfaction - though when it did - Deleaduindill listened. Listened - though did not believe - immediately. Though it was an interesting thing for the blade Nightsong to say - not that it said interesting things all of the time - else some of the time. It simply was of note in an odd - almost fitting sort of way. "Touch me not...until I say, Feyborn."

At that, the world seemed to shimmer, and once again, Deleaduindill stood, looking at the dubious face of the Necromancer. "Elf? Are you taken with more important business?" Without a reply Deleaduindill strode forward, following the Necromancer into the room he stood in.

It was small, quiet - though clean. In its middle another, impossibly heavy, granite table stood unevenly, upon it a body covered in an old, bloody white sheet. "Here," the Necromancer spoke in a breathless sort of fascination - as a one too pleased with own's work might. With a deft motion that gave lie to his frailty, the sheet was drawn away and there laying upon the cool granite was indeed an elfin lass. She was small, slight, slender as such manner of thinking goes, with firy red hair - like the color leaves turn when the warmth of summer fades from the land. Her ears were long and swept of elven blood, and oddly, about her was a certain peace of mind and of heart. She was beautiful. "I have done as you asked - see you - she breathes and has life for as long as ever she was going to. I have my pay outside - you may have your blade." Laying beside the elf was indeed, Nightsong, the black blade that stole away souls from those it felled.

"Feyborn...remember what I have told you." The same musical, mischievous voice chimed, the world around seeming to ripple in slight.

The Elf stood poised, simply looking upon the elf that was once living - whom had died - and now was made to live. "What was her name, Necromancer."

It was an odd question - though it was nonetheless expected - of sorts. Elves were odd about such things. The Necromancer frowned, thumbing his nose. "I do not know. Wait..." For a moment he closed his eyes, and upon opening them, he smiled. "Calista - that was easy enough. Your blade."

And there! The faintest flick of the fellow's gaze - glancing to the sword in heavily veiled anticipation - could have been mistaken for something usual but for its speed. For a few more moments Deleaduindill allowed himself to look at the Elf Calista before meeting the Necromancer's eyes with his own, his vaguely slitted pupils quick to find his dark eyes. "Perhaps it disturbs you?" He stepped closer to the blade though did not touch it. "Gilgamesh was a great Daemon Lord I have heard - and I have heard that he lives in this blade."

For a moment, the Necromancer's concentration halted. The shock of the Elf uttering the True Name to such a creature gave him pause, at which time Nightsong beckoned, and the Elf took the weapon in his hands with no ill to happen - as the blade had promised. The light click of metal as the scabbard met the quillons ended the moment - the Necromancer returning to his old, peevish self.

"Not a coin less than your price, Elf." With that, he walked off at a slight hobble, the edge in his voice returning, heading toward the cart. The Elf did not leave the room - though instead looked back to the young elfin maiden, his golden gaze reserved - though patient. At last, he heard what he hoped for. A pitiful scream, muffled by a guttural, bestial roar wandered through the air - the din lasting several minutes. At come of silence, Deleaduindill smirked softly, taking the young elf into his arms. In a moment - as he knew he had only such to spare, he stepped upon the Necromancer's summoning circle, calling the Name of the Hellgate, Darmoor itself, where he could pass from world to world. The swarm of disembodied heads that the 'bags of gold' held, that would only worsen with time, became a distant noise - their baneful, moorish cries fading into the fire and darkness of Darmoor - The Hellgate of all Worlds.

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> (( This will probably only make a little bit of sense to a very few of you, but I've been posting major things happing with my character thus far and -while apprehensive- descided to continue doing so.)) > The flash of the moongate was bright in the native dark of evening. A tall, dark figure stood, clad in the deep shade of shadow steel, holding another close, his cloak hiding them both well in the mists of the Felucca forest. At a swift pace the Elf made off, moving with deceptive grace despite the heavy armor he wore - though another thing remained odd - the silence that surrounded him. His cloak itself was woven from material shadow - though such - even given its magical and dread nature - could not slay the very sound of the world. > Some time later, Deleaduindill stopped, still quite in his wind, much unlike the one he bore with him. With an unceremonious shove a slight female Elf sprawled upon the dead leaves before him, disoriented and frightened. The pale, dead bark of the Felucca trees reflected the moonlight well, the faint mist that hugged the ground casting doleful shadows about the small clearing. > Casa was in tears, scarcely stammering and standing the same, her voice wavering and soft despite the strength it held - the thought of screaming for help in Felucca at once an arresting idea in and of itself. In its stead, she simply stood, emerald eyes wide in the pale alabaster glow of the moon. "What...why...?! I mean - please what are you do..." > "As I recall I told you that sooner, else later, I would come for you. I am doing what I have always done." Deleaduindill exhaled softly, his breath turning into a misty vapor - they were perhaps somewhere near the mountains. In truth, Casa had not noticed the cold of the air about them - it was the last thing on her mind. > Even as Deleaduindill strode forward, Casa stepped back only once, sobbing softly, her hands up in protest, the delicacy and force in his touch all in the same a chilling thing as he turned her away from himself, his dark steel armor a cold thing as his arm locked around her neck. The slight elf's sobbing stopped with a panicked yelp, thereafter it being hard to breathe against the unforgiving steel of Deleaduindill's armor. "Peace be with you, Casa," he whispered with surprising gentleness, as if he believed it would wash away all her ills, the soft scraping ring of metal tickling the air about them as he drew his blade from its sheath. "Trust me." The next moment Deleaduindill forced the blade into her back to the hilt in a terrible, powerful, swift motion. > -/- > Deleaduindill stood, silent, still, watching the bent fellow before him examine his dark blade as it lay upon an old granite table, the blade seeming to absorb the light of the hundreds of candles that burned all around them. "You can do what I have asked, Necromancer." The older-looking fellow glanced over to him, the annoyance he felt unhidden and to a point - perhaps intentionally displayed. The statement broke the silence between them that had grown in the twenty or so minutes since the Elf had surrendered his blade - an unsteady silence. > "You are a fool Elf..." The man trailed off, looking back to the blade - its fey beauty but for its vile aura a captivating thing. "And only an idiot would have asked of me what you have - though if the price is..." > "One hundred and twenty-thousand gold farthings." The Elf stood still, his golden slitted gaze unwavering. > "Oh yes - there is a good fellow. Perhaps, then." Again the necromancer returned to looking at the blade. "I can feel him looking back at me, you know..." It was an off-handed remark - though nonetheless true. The sword was as alive as the Elf before him. Every creature that the Elf had ever slain lived within the weapon - and the scores more that had fallen to the weapon before he had come into its swath of fate. The mightiest of these simply waited inside - marshalling the veritable legion of those within - having in its own right an army - if things happened right. "So you wish..." > "One elf - one soul within..." > "Do not interrupt me again!" The fire flared in the Necromancer's eyes, young and potent. The Dark Art had warped his body to age beyond its vitality - though his youth and cunning still showed themselves in clearest accord. "I am not a fool that can be second-guessed or anticipated, my ways are mine own, and you have your place and it is not to speak to be with such assumptive arrogance." His voice held within it a clean edge that brooked listening to - even by the Elf before him. As so - Deleaduindill simply nodded, waiting until the Necromancer asked him his question. "You have a body that the soul can be placed into?" > "I have not." Deleaduindill's glance met the Necromancer's for a brief second - ambient gold meeting a mottled, faded blue - his head tipping just lightly enough to notice in a question. > "Well I do - it just so happens. Elven maidens are a thing to be had, after all." With a hoarse, grating cough, the Necromancer laughed at his own joke while Deleaduindill simply stood where he was, watching - ever watching. "Leave me, Elf. Come back the 'morrow to have your blade, and your ward. Bring the gold." > And Deleaduindill left. > -/- > As the Night is day, and the day is night upon the Demiplane of Dread, the Elf once again returned to the small, crumbling home within the most forgotten of forests in such a place, nearing the Mist of Eternity that separated her from the other true planes of existence. An old, weather-worn door, heavy to the touch, stood closed before him, having scrapes and cleaves pitting its old, gray surface. At Deleaduindill's first touch, it swung open, revealing the dank and bare place that the Necromancer called home. "I have returned." The Elf's smooth voice carried over the silence of the place, eliciting a stir from the fellow within. As he stood, the Elf watched as a head emerged from a doorway that stood open, a few paces down the hall he was faced with. > "The gold, Elf, did you bring the gold?" The Necromancer bore a shrewd look, though seemed to brighten noticeably as he noticed that behind the Elf an ass stood, eating the grass of the clearing, a small, flat cart behind it having a good many bags as large as one's head upon it. Even still - he awaited the Elf's answer. > "It is hither." > A crude, dirty smile graced the Necromancer's cracked lips, he once again disappearing into the room. "Come hither, yo..u..sm..bkll..." Reality twisted upon itself for a brief moment, Deleaduindill refraining from crossing the hearth of the place for a moment. > "Feyborn." The voice was a whisper, though it resonated in seemingly everything that was. "Feyborn, the Necromancer means you ill, he does. Would I lie to you?" It was a soft, sweet voice, punctuated with icy quills of dread and malice. Rarely did the lead entity of the blade speak to him - a sort of silent treatment bearing he have no satisfaction - though when it did - Deleaduindill listened. Listened - though did not believe - immediately. Though it was an interesting thing for the blade Nightsong to say - not that it said interesting things all of the time - else some of the time. It simply was of note in an odd - almost fitting sort of way. "Touch me not...until I say, Feyborn." > At that, the world seemed to shimmer, and once again, Deleaduindill stood, looking at the dubious face of the Necromancer. "Elf? Are you taken with more important business?" Without a reply Deleaduindill strode forward, following the Necromancer into the room he stood in. > It was small, quiet - though clean. In its middle another, impossibly heavy, granite table stood unevenly, upon it a body covered in an old, bloody white sheet. "Here," the Necromancer spoke in a breathless sort of fascination - as a one too pleased with own's work might. With a deft motion that gave lie to his frailty, the sheet was drawn away and there laying upon the cool granite was indeed an elfin lass. She was small, slight, slender as such manner of thinking goes, with firy red hair - like the color leaves turn when the warmth of summer fades from the land. Her ears were long and swept of elven blood, and oddly, about her was a certain peace of mind and of heart. She was beautiful. "I have done as you asked - see you - she breathes and has life for as long as ever she was going to. I have my pay outside - you may have your blade." Laying beside the elf was indeed, Nightsong, the black blade that stole away souls from those it felled. > "Feyborn...remember what I have told you." The same musical, mischievous voice chimed, the world around seeming to ripple in slight. > The Elf stood poised, simply looking upon the elf that was once living - whom had died - and now was made to live. "What was her name, Necromancer." > It was an odd question - though it was nonetheless expected - of sorts. Elves were odd about such things. The Necromancer frowned, thumbing his nose. "I do not know. Wait..." For a moment he closed his eyes, and upon opening them, he smiled. "Calista - that was easy enough. Your blade." > And there! The faintest flick of the fellow's gaze - glancing to the sword in heavily veiled anticipation - could have been mistaken for something usual but for its speed. For a few more moments Deleaduindill allowed himself to look at the Elf Calista before meeting the Necromancer's eyes with his own, his vaguely slitted pupils quick to find his dark eyes. "Perhaps it disturbs you?" He stepped closer to the blade though did not touch it. "Gilgamesh was a great Daemon Lord I have heard - and I have heard that he lives in this blade." > For a moment, the Necromancer's concentration halted. The shock of the Elf uttering the True Name to such a creature gave him pause, at which time Nightsong beckoned, and the Elf took the weapon in his hands with no ill to happen - as the blade had promised. The light click of metal as the scabbard met the quillons ended the moment - the Necromancer returning to his old, peevish self. > "Not a coin less than your price, Elf." With that, he walked off at a slight hobble, the edge in his voice returning, heading toward the cart. The Elf did not leave the room - though instead looked back to the young elfin maiden, his golden gaze reserved - though patient. At last, he heard what he hoped for. A pitiful scream, muffled by a guttural, bestial roar wandered through the air - the din lasting several minutes. At come of silence, Deleaduindill smirked softly, taking the young elf into his arms. In a moment - as he knew he had only such to spare, he stepped upon the Necromancer's summoning circle, calling the Name of the Hellgate, Darmoor itself, where he could pass from world to world. The swarm of disembodied heads that the 'bags of gold' held, that would only worsen with time, became a distant noise - their baneful, moorish cries fading into the fire and darkness of Darmoor - The Hellgate of all Worlds.
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