[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/KrTJyM8.jpg[/img][h3][b]Cᴀᴇʀᴡɪᴄᴋ [/b][color=333333]. . . . . . . . . . .[/color][sup][center][color=333333]. . . . . . . . . . . [/color][color=darkred][i][b]Tʜᴇ Kɪɴɢ's Kᴇᴇᴘ[/b][/i][/color][/center][/sup][/h3][sup][sup][sup][sup][img]https://drfhlmcehrc34.cloudfront.net/cache/7a/2e/7a2eca87d796d9fd03a702d75817da61.png[/img][/sup][/sup][/sup][/sup][/center][color=lightgray]Mid-nights tenebrosity seemed to expel the carriage from the road and into the King’s keep, collapsing any sort of reverie the passengers had found as they were greeted by the commotion of a bustling hold. The dark hour held little bearing as guards and servants alike seemed enthralled with their own droning motions, weaving in and out of the shadows.
[center][color=black][i][sub]The wicked are like the raging sea, that cannot rest,[/sub]
[sup]whose water fometh with the myre & grauel.[/sup][/i][/color][/center]Working beneath the mad King made the guards flinchy dogs, traipsing along a line of cruelty and fear and unsure which to provide the carriage and its occupants. They debated amongst themselves, casting leery glances towards the women, the carriage and finally the parchment that had been handed over. As the acceptance of her forged missive began to take hold their interest became minimal, exerting only enough effort to show Sachevia and her handmaiden to their newly acquired servants quarters and allowing the carriage and the remaining handmaiden to depart and succumb once again to the anonymity of darkness.
[center][color=black][i][sub]For the iniquity of his covetousness was I wroth, and smote him;[/sub]
[sup]I hid and was wroth; and he went on backsliding in the way of his heart.[/sup][/i][/color][/center]The forsaken pair were accustomed to rehoming amongst strangers and integrating themselves; such was a nomad's fancy. Rosealia, the unarguable favorite of Sachevia, had been glissading into homes for long enough that they fell into a subliminal routine moving about their shared room. Their outward appearances were amended to cater to their new stations with little pomp, while they quietly whispered about their new selves, solidifying their backstories. The excitement seemed to flutter within both of them, brushing notions of sleep to the wayside.
[center][color=black][i][sub]And so ye wicked have no peace, saieth my God.[/sub][/i][/color][/center]
[center][img]http://sherrygideons.com/wp-content/themes/flexsqueeze150/images/dividers/square-dotted-grunge.png[/img][/center][center]Dᴀʏs ʟᴀᴛᴇʀ...[/center]
Sleep continued to be elusive, conscious favoring a conspiratorial sojourn as candlelight quivered in decaying twilight and cast spectral shadows across the dull walls of servitude. The muddled ambience was furthered by a chaos of castoff garments and possessions that covered the cramped quarters as if it had been in their custody for months. The conspiracy of ravens had surely made themselves at home, at least three had tucked themselves in for the night amongst the belongings. Despite the eerie climate, the occupants seemed jovial. There was an air of comfort, a lightness, that wove between the two as they recollected the previous days progress in giggling whispers. Co-conspirators were the only friends of the wicked.


Incorporating themselves into the household was of little trouble. It was a few mere passes by the guards with busy hands before they no longer noticed the new additions. There are plenty of ways to make yourself useful and invisible, and the Sirens were sure to teach the girls the value of a chameleon soul. Rosealia had taken a job skinning the animals brought in by the hunters. Kitchens had access with shared responsibility which usually built easy camaraderie. She had little difficulty with the skinning and it gave her access to a myriad of individuals; many were volunteering to hunt for the kitchen as a means to escape the confines of the Mad King.


Tonight Alia spoke of a man in particular she’d been growing a familiarity with. He seemed to fancy her, though, Sachevia wasn’t surprised, Alia was groomed far beyond her believed station. Previously, the majority of his conversation had been grumblings about unsteady pay, but gossip came quickly with attraction, especially when goaded with ale and... [i]other[/i] manipulations. 

The young fighter turned hunter eventually let go an intriguing story of a name not entirely unfamiliar to the Sirens, Veredict Daigon. Alluring tales, almost hopeless. They seemed to mirror some of the gossip Sachevia had garnered. Daigon apparently had collections of varied “savage” races in a war band that devoured not only the bodies, but the souls of those they defeated. This Daigon could caress the shells of the dead with a gift from the cryptic pagan lord of the mountains and called upon spirits to speak. He may or may not be immortal, that part seemed debated. No witches of mention. He had departed recently searching for some Netherwood hell beast. The details were gory and mystical, and likely over embellished; Sachevia couldn’t help but smile as she took him in. She was betting on a conjurer. 

Sachevia had not been idle either. The King had apparently taken a youthful mistress, mistress Magdaline. If there was anything Sachevia could pretend to relate to, it was the woes of a youthful harlot- it was an exaggerated stretch to put herself in the girls elegant yet ill fitting shoes. Insecurities were a favorite manipulation tool and they went hand in hand with being the mistress of a Mad King, that or madness. Either way, it was an in.

Manicured claws dropped some coins into the greedy, underpaid, and unquestioning fingers of newfound servant comrades and a surprising amount of doors and secrets fell open for. She found loyalty to the King, even within the castle, seemed to waver. It was almost disappointing the lack of influence it took to displace mistress Magdaline’s bathing nurse and slip into the position.

She lined the decorative walls with infused candles, scribing runes into the unseen bottoms. The scalding bathwater in the yawning tub was garnished with oils and flowers, disguising the quickly dissipating liquid that fell from her once again pierced fingertip. When the mistress began to rub across her slender neck the witch was there, fingers kneading into the girl’s shoulder blades. A tepid humming dissipated from her fingertips as her lips grew closer to the flushed earlobe and her influence drenched the girl in a hazy ease.

It wasn’t long before they were drinking wine and discussing the finer points of a man’s foolhardy nature. Sachevia continued to purr closely and trace her tingling fingertips at opportune times across the youthful girl’s skin. Truly, she prefered the company of women; the way into their trust was delicate, complicated, soothing, natural. Magdaline asked for Sachevia again the next night and their bond intensified, daily their secrets became more and more hushed.

She told the mistress about her home, a fictional one based in truth that’s roots were reinforced by cryptic whispers. A coastal port town not far to the west were her merchant family had raised her. Their wealth and reputation had landed her a place in the King’s Keep, but prior to that she had spent a good amount of time chatting with seamen and other visitors; the lie that would wrap about all the following lies.

It was during these hushed meetings that she heard more about this Daigon. The mistress seemed fearful of his influence over the King. Stories about magic seemed to bristle people, but could always be used to weave dissent. She poured another glass and repeated a legend of an old man she had met, and more importantly, his skills with talking to the dead. She assured the mistress it was true, but that these types were not to be trusted.

Each night as Rosealia and Sachevia found themselves in the room, her smile seemed to grow. Seeds had begun to flower. These talks would be her revenge, woven into falsehoods and half truths, enough of each to leave a balance and a fear. She used the rumors she had “collected living on the coast” to fuel her actual knowledge and slip into the mistress’ ear without drawing attention to her own magical inclinations. 

Tonight she had told her about the cave, just enough to get her curious...or to get the King curious, for she was sure the mistress was passing off this knowledge as her own to the Mad King. She curled those plump lips and spoke sickly sweet lies to the mistress about the forbidden cave, full of knowledge for the taking, for those willing to take measured risks. Conjurers such as Daigon would likely keep the place a secret from the King in an attempt to control him, as people like that tend to do.[/color]

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