The Black Adder Company possessed one of the most lavish Guildhomes in Delad, second only to some others who had long rested too comfortably on their laurels; second only to some who Lloyle Waraz was determined to slowly squeeze the life from. However, he was far from the facade above. Beneath the black marble and golden serpents, his private quarters were sequestered in shadows; rarely seen by even those closest to the leader. It was a room of middling size, simplistic stone smoothed to perfection, littered with open tomes and stoppered bottles of questionable content. He felt most at peace when the shadows were kissing his shoulders and gently caressing his hidden brow.
He stood, back straight, over a half-flayed subject. She had been a pretty thing, with a lovely voice and abhorrent eyes when animate, but now served as little more than a distraction while he waited on the clarion call of his lord Strife. Kanys was a chosen name, but not one that Waraz ever used. Strife was the name his true master had been "born" with and was the one that Lloyle felt most suitable. The sundered god did not have a preference, he thought, aside from the defiance that adopting a name of his own displayed. A spiteful gesture to his nearly-departed sister. The thought of their eternal, subtle struggle brought a smile to his obscured face; the distant taste of blood lingering in a mouth that few would ever see. His stomach rumbled, in response and he turned his attention to the flayed girl.
Once an Elf, the corpse had only become more pale since expiration. Her lower half had been expertly stripped, revealing muscle and small bits of fat; a stark contrast to the star-bright porcelain of her exposed upper body. Lightly, he ran gloved fingers through her leaf-green hair, leaning down to drink in her scent. Most in Vaald had their suspicions of Lloyle Waraz and rumors were never in short supply. A few times he had caught wind of whispers involving his cannibalism; rarely had he given any cause for people to believe them, but they would speak of him however they pleased...and that pleased the Black Adder leader. He traced her curves, admiring the slight stickiness of her fleshless places. Of course he had already tasted her and indulging more would only make him sluggish and complacent. Hunger was his drive, his essence. Power and flesh were all interchangeable; given that he sought to acquire both in spades. One always led to the other, regardless of the situation...he had come to know this through his long jaunt into Delad.
In a dark corner, there was a brief hum and a flaring of purple light. Lloyle Waraz did not turn or distract himself from fondly feeling the Elf's carcass. Those who arrived in such a way were expected guests, usually informants or other servitors of his dark patron. Few others in Vaald, or Delad, knew how to unravel the Words he had spoken to create that particular Void-tunnel. It was inaccesible to those outside of his approval, and a deadly traverse to those unprepared. He could feel the other waiting for his word, but he did not offer it immediately; only lifting a hand and offering a slight motion. Hobbled footsteps and the flowing of fabric followed, undoubtedly a bow offered to his back.
"You have news for me, Verrod?" His voice was a whisper, soft and touched with the accent of the southern reaches. "Speak, son of my brother, and I will hear you." The one who stood behind him was, to most, a man of questionable mental stability and a very low reputation. A man that some in Vaald would spit on without a second thought and continue walking. Lloyle had not mislabeled him, in truth; he was, indeed, the son of his brother...though that was another secret that none in Delad would know, if Lloyle had his way. There was a hesitant tension in the air, the other's respiration becoming erratic but shallow, Waraz assumed that his 'nephew' was looking at the Elf. She was, indeed, a lovely feast...but not something he was willing to share. He turned to face the ragged man.
Pox-marks marred a face that seemed lax and vacuous, a crooked nose and uneven mouth sat beneath icy eyes that belied a feverish intelligence; evidence of the Moonscratch plain across the left side of his face, a long, thin scar. His brother had done excellent work in crafting his children. Lloyle had no brood of his own, but had never had the inclination to create one. The man swallowed and tore his predatory eyes from the girl's exposed breasts, directing them toward Waraz. His breathing evened out and his eyes seemed to lose some of their intensity; though Lloyle knew that it was taking a large deal of effort on his part to not let himself be drowned in hunger.
"Yes, lord Lloyle," he straightened his formerly stooped posture, dropping the act of a limping beggar and adopting the bizarrely regal bearings of his lineage, "I have come at the behest of my father to inform you of an emerging situation. Atagh thinks it is a matter best left in your hands, given his current dealings. There is a piece of Strife's face within the city, in the hands of a soon-to-be executed woman. Elise, the Silver Glint. My father believes that the Councilors are conspiring to have it removed."
"By whom?" His interest was certainly piqued. Another fragment of his master's face would well serve Lloyle's purposes. The possibilities of a suitable carrier were few, if the Vaunted Council wished to keep this a secret from the general public. "No, never you mind. It is unimportant. Where is Elise?" there was a subtle hiss given to her name, a hatred for all of the Unsung displayed in Lloyle's quiet way.
Verrod smiled a smile that would turn the stomachs of most mortals, green and blackened stumps of teeth showing with the action. "In the Crystalline Chamber, lord Lloyle. Interred much the same as Illixion the Mad was, during his time." The son of his brother was becoming excited, again, the Black Adder could tell. "Such is why Father Atagh wishes for you to deal with this matter. She is lightly guarded. The Vaunted Council, in the throes of their hubris, believes her prison alone enough to contain her. The honor is for you, lord Waraz, but I have been told to assist you in this matter...however you choose to use me."
His brother was being generous and would likely expect a favor in return, later. While Verrod seemed to be the perfect image of a Isg-addled fiend, Lloyle knew that his was a keen mind. The beggar was far more than he appeared, in all regards. Even though he was a lesser to Waraz and Atagh, it was clear that his kin favored the child; blessed as he was by Strife's curse. He was a born assassin, capable of utilizing the magics of Delad with fair ease...and extremely handy with a bladed weapon. He smiled to himself and gave a nod; taking a few steps beyond Verrod and to the raised platform which he had arrived on. It was a large square with beveled edges, bearing inscriptions of Words and Runes that Lloyle had learned during his time with the Eldritch. Lloyle took a step upward and lifted a hand slightly from his side, the shadowy energies of Void surrounding his digits and making a barely-visible distortion amidst the carvings.
"So it is, Verrod. Accompany me. The guards outside of the Crystalline Chamber belong to you. Once you are done there, I wish for you to set flame to the city. I care not where it begins, so long as there is interference with the Festival." The Black Adder lifted his other hand with the approach of his nephew and another pulse of Void followed.
"Why, if I may ask?" Verrod settled back into his usual facade, hunching his back slightly and spacing his legs to allow his feigned limp to become more noticeable.
"As you are my brother's son, those marked by Strife are his children. Their slaying has long left a bitterness in me. If they were of their right mind, this Festival would have never come to be. We will let them free, Verrod. Free upon Vaald. Free upon Aedrasil."
With that said, the platform pulsed a final time and the two were swallowed by a Void-tunnel; leaving the Black Adder Guildhome far behind. Greater things waited for Lloyle Waraz and those who chose to serve him. Where Vaald expected a Lunar Festival like any other, he would give them an orchestration of misery; a cacophony of bloodshed and dissent.
He stood, back straight, over a half-flayed subject. She had been a pretty thing, with a lovely voice and abhorrent eyes when animate, but now served as little more than a distraction while he waited on the clarion call of his lord Strife. Kanys was a chosen name, but not one that Waraz ever used. Strife was the name his true master had been "born" with and was the one that Lloyle felt most suitable. The sundered god did not have a preference, he thought, aside from the defiance that adopting a name of his own displayed. A spiteful gesture to his nearly-departed sister. The thought of their eternal, subtle struggle brought a smile to his obscured face; the distant taste of blood lingering in a mouth that few would ever see. His stomach rumbled, in response and he turned his attention to the flayed girl.
Once an Elf, the corpse had only become more pale since expiration. Her lower half had been expertly stripped, revealing muscle and small bits of fat; a stark contrast to the star-bright porcelain of her exposed upper body. Lightly, he ran gloved fingers through her leaf-green hair, leaning down to drink in her scent. Most in Vaald had their suspicions of Lloyle Waraz and rumors were never in short supply. A few times he had caught wind of whispers involving his cannibalism; rarely had he given any cause for people to believe them, but they would speak of him however they pleased...and that pleased the Black Adder leader. He traced her curves, admiring the slight stickiness of her fleshless places. Of course he had already tasted her and indulging more would only make him sluggish and complacent. Hunger was his drive, his essence. Power and flesh were all interchangeable; given that he sought to acquire both in spades. One always led to the other, regardless of the situation...he had come to know this through his long jaunt into Delad.
In a dark corner, there was a brief hum and a flaring of purple light. Lloyle Waraz did not turn or distract himself from fondly feeling the Elf's carcass. Those who arrived in such a way were expected guests, usually informants or other servitors of his dark patron. Few others in Vaald, or Delad, knew how to unravel the Words he had spoken to create that particular Void-tunnel. It was inaccesible to those outside of his approval, and a deadly traverse to those unprepared. He could feel the other waiting for his word, but he did not offer it immediately; only lifting a hand and offering a slight motion. Hobbled footsteps and the flowing of fabric followed, undoubtedly a bow offered to his back.
"You have news for me, Verrod?" His voice was a whisper, soft and touched with the accent of the southern reaches. "Speak, son of my brother, and I will hear you." The one who stood behind him was, to most, a man of questionable mental stability and a very low reputation. A man that some in Vaald would spit on without a second thought and continue walking. Lloyle had not mislabeled him, in truth; he was, indeed, the son of his brother...though that was another secret that none in Delad would know, if Lloyle had his way. There was a hesitant tension in the air, the other's respiration becoming erratic but shallow, Waraz assumed that his 'nephew' was looking at the Elf. She was, indeed, a lovely feast...but not something he was willing to share. He turned to face the ragged man.
Pox-marks marred a face that seemed lax and vacuous, a crooked nose and uneven mouth sat beneath icy eyes that belied a feverish intelligence; evidence of the Moonscratch plain across the left side of his face, a long, thin scar. His brother had done excellent work in crafting his children. Lloyle had no brood of his own, but had never had the inclination to create one. The man swallowed and tore his predatory eyes from the girl's exposed breasts, directing them toward Waraz. His breathing evened out and his eyes seemed to lose some of their intensity; though Lloyle knew that it was taking a large deal of effort on his part to not let himself be drowned in hunger.
"Yes, lord Lloyle," he straightened his formerly stooped posture, dropping the act of a limping beggar and adopting the bizarrely regal bearings of his lineage, "I have come at the behest of my father to inform you of an emerging situation. Atagh thinks it is a matter best left in your hands, given his current dealings. There is a piece of Strife's face within the city, in the hands of a soon-to-be executed woman. Elise, the Silver Glint. My father believes that the Councilors are conspiring to have it removed."
"By whom?" His interest was certainly piqued. Another fragment of his master's face would well serve Lloyle's purposes. The possibilities of a suitable carrier were few, if the Vaunted Council wished to keep this a secret from the general public. "No, never you mind. It is unimportant. Where is Elise?" there was a subtle hiss given to her name, a hatred for all of the Unsung displayed in Lloyle's quiet way.
Verrod smiled a smile that would turn the stomachs of most mortals, green and blackened stumps of teeth showing with the action. "In the Crystalline Chamber, lord Lloyle. Interred much the same as Illixion the Mad was, during his time." The son of his brother was becoming excited, again, the Black Adder could tell. "Such is why Father Atagh wishes for you to deal with this matter. She is lightly guarded. The Vaunted Council, in the throes of their hubris, believes her prison alone enough to contain her. The honor is for you, lord Waraz, but I have been told to assist you in this matter...however you choose to use me."
His brother was being generous and would likely expect a favor in return, later. While Verrod seemed to be the perfect image of a Isg-addled fiend, Lloyle knew that his was a keen mind. The beggar was far more than he appeared, in all regards. Even though he was a lesser to Waraz and Atagh, it was clear that his kin favored the child; blessed as he was by Strife's curse. He was a born assassin, capable of utilizing the magics of Delad with fair ease...and extremely handy with a bladed weapon. He smiled to himself and gave a nod; taking a few steps beyond Verrod and to the raised platform which he had arrived on. It was a large square with beveled edges, bearing inscriptions of Words and Runes that Lloyle had learned during his time with the Eldritch. Lloyle took a step upward and lifted a hand slightly from his side, the shadowy energies of Void surrounding his digits and making a barely-visible distortion amidst the carvings.
"So it is, Verrod. Accompany me. The guards outside of the Crystalline Chamber belong to you. Once you are done there, I wish for you to set flame to the city. I care not where it begins, so long as there is interference with the Festival." The Black Adder lifted his other hand with the approach of his nephew and another pulse of Void followed.
"Why, if I may ask?" Verrod settled back into his usual facade, hunching his back slightly and spacing his legs to allow his feigned limp to become more noticeable.
"As you are my brother's son, those marked by Strife are his children. Their slaying has long left a bitterness in me. If they were of their right mind, this Festival would have never come to be. We will let them free, Verrod. Free upon Vaald. Free upon Aedrasil."
With that said, the platform pulsed a final time and the two were swallowed by a Void-tunnel; leaving the Black Adder Guildhome far behind. Greater things waited for Lloyle Waraz and those who chose to serve him. Where Vaald expected a Lunar Festival like any other, he would give them an orchestration of misery; a cacophony of bloodshed and dissent.