Dark Jack

The Prophecy

Certainly. Would you like to post before the guards enter, or shall I simply have them arrive at my earliest convenience?

The Prophecy

I'm here, I'm here, and I have seen and read your PM, Shien; I have yet to find the time to write up a proper reply, though. I am fine, however, and though not always visible still a presence that remains aware of events relevant to me.

The Prophecy

Oh dear, you asked a question! Go ahead and try without my input, and I'll point out if I have objections afterward.

The Prophecy

The word "teleportation" was one of the things Fixer had meticulously researched prior to seeking out the Grand Master to make his bargain with the devil, and one of the reasons that it had taken several days of him and the Ancient One passing their contract back and forth, each time editing it themselves and reading over the changes made by the other, before they were both pleased with the terms they reached. Few people put as much thought into their infernal transactions as Fixer had, examining every individual word in the document, every blotch on the paper, and carefully contemplating the implied meaning thereof; he suspected that his tenacity and cunning in perfecting the deal was one of the main reasons the Grand Master had deemed his service valuable enough to trade power for.
"Teleportation" referred to the transference of something - matter or energy - from one point to another without crossing the space in between. This was what Ixion had traded for, and this was the ability he had gotten; it was evidence of the Grand Master's mercy and generosity that the reappearance upon vanishing was instantaneous, as the term itself implied no such thing. It was not what Fixer had bought, though. Fixer was currently incapable of the feat of teleportation. What he had traded for was "dematerialization", which had similar yet different implications. This word was defined as disappearing and becoming immaterial, just as the opposite, "materialization", which he had also included in his deal, was for something to appear and take physical form. Together the two might produce something reminiscent of teleportation, which was useful, but using the terms interchangeably would be inaccurate; Fixer did have to cross the space between two points, even when he used the devil-given ability. In fact he could cross any unoccupied space in this form, rendering him capable of traversing any obstacle that was anything less than airtight or magically sealed... or he could abstain from moving at all, if he so desired. Unlike teleportation, in which only disappearance and reappearance had significance, his ability was sustainable.
To make a long story short: Fixer had not teleported away. As a matter of fact he was still nearby, except that he remained incorporeal. He was dark smoke in the shadows, the dimmer within the dim.

His form being dispersed into particles was not entirely without its own drawbacks, however. He had been extraordinarily cautious in describing his desired ability when he had made the bargain, and although he was indeed in possession of the abilities he required in this form, they were not quite the way he had wanted them. His vision, for instance, was unreliable at best as long as he remained like this. It was difficult to describe, but even though he had been careful to ascertain that he would remain able to see even while immaterial, it was... different. Without the fixed point of an ocular organ to focus his vision, it was as though he was looking in all directions at once, yet was incapable of actually registering anything occurring beyond noting light-levels and sensing significant movement, and even that he had immense difficulty as much as determining the direction in which it occurred. It took a great deal of concentration for him to direct his vision, gathering the sense and concentrating it in one direction, and even then the image he beheld was rather diffuse and monocular.
It was enough for him to witness Ixion go to the Blue Dirge and pick it up, though. I figured that the chances of it just being left there for me to retrieve it were not good. You take good care of that sword, Ixion; if you let it fall back into the hands of Corpse Forge, I will be quite displeased. There was magic in the sword, but it was dormant and would remain so until the blade was destroyed, at which point it would simply transfer the power within it back to the Corpse Forge headquarters. Even its makers were unaware of the hidden power that Lysis would know how to awaken, so clearly Ixion, even with his sniffer-ally, would have no chance of detecting it. He might recognize the black beads embedded into the intertwined twin blades as Stones of the Doom Mage, though, and realize that this made the Dirge a bane-sword. Would he see any value in a weapon capable of wounding the very soul of the one struck with it? Would he be willing to use it despite of this? Interesting stuff.
Most of his other mundane senses - smell, taste and touch - were completely lost as long as he was in this form, but one thing Fixer found that he could do better like this than when physically manifested was to listen. His sense of hearing was unbelievably acute like this, to the point where he could navigate using echolocation instead of his impaired vision. He could easily hear what they were talking about, and although Ixion implicated himself in what had happened more than Fixer would have liked, it seemed as though I'onriyi accepted the explanation and believed in their relative innocence. Good. Then Fixer's work here really was done, and he could leave.

The ability to remain in an ethereal form like this was indeed sustainable, but not one that Fixer felt comfortable maintaining for anything more than brief durations at a time; though it had not happened yet, he was not going to risk himself losing concentration while like this and materializing with some part of him or another missing. He also needed to get a lot farther away from these three before he dared resuming physical form, lest the sniffer sense his reemergence into the realm of the corporeal. He could also hear the hurried footfalls, agitated heartbeats and slightly labored breathing of four persons approaching the alley, guardsmen if he was to judge by the rattle of their equipment. They would be coming to investigate what had happened.
Riding a wind of his own making, Fixer finally slipped away, soundlessly slithering away. As a disembodied shadow, unattached to any surface but never straying far from them as to seem suspicious, he headed for the outskirts of the city. His business in Zerul was done for now, anyways, and it was probably for the best that he kept his distance for a while, until the people here grew less alert... and until he had a new task here.
For now he would simply need to contact his boss and hear what his next mission would be. After all, the Grand Master was always working, plotting, listening... and he did so enjoy having his very own Fixer.

The Prophecy

I'll be looking forward to it, Ashgan. I also think that I'll see if I can't get a post up in the collab sometime this weekend, and I may write a little something for the Zerul side of things, although at the current stage of events it would have virtually no influence on the state of things as perceived by the characters.

Who is next on that side, by the way? Rhaevnn? Yoshua?

The Prophecy

At least one small correction to that post: the Fixer's mask did actually dematerialize with the rest of him. The dry blood-smear on it that remained behind and crumbled away, the while the mask itself stayed with the Fixer.

The Prophecy

Just so that we're all clear on this: who is waiting for who to post right now?

The Prophecy

I wonder how many heirs there are to the Veldaine-name? Gerald idly mused to himself, seemingly looking at Jillian attentively as she spoke but only listening to her words with half an ear, since he had already arrived at a similar conclusion, and since going with Renold would not offer an immediately applicable solution to the Withering anyway then the urgency in getting there suddenly fell short of that to strike at Kevalorn... or whichever vessel Hazzergash had replaced him with, if the human had indeed expired. I know they are wealthy and possess notable influence in Zerul City, and probably some in Relimon as well, but I don't think I ever actually met a member of the family before, and if I did I'm sure they failed to introduce themselves as such. And I wonder if Jillian would be among the oldest of those heirs? She certainly does not seem to have the patience of one who was nursed as a future head of a major business, yet she is showing a surprising amount of common sense when it comes to chasing different ventures in terms of risk versus gain.
Personally he was starting to lose interest in the discussion of whether to seek out this malicious dragon, though... and though he was deeply ashamed to admit it recent events had greatly dampened his own enthusiasm about most things. Ever since he had contracted the Withering - no, even before that; when his wife had contracted the plague had been when the obsession had first taken hold in him - he had always felt a sense of urgency and importance when it came to his research into the plague, knowing that every minute that went by while the Withering still raged was liable to cost another life, and knowing that every day brought himself closer to incapacitation from the darkness that fed on his very life force.
But now, having learned all that he had learned and feeling as though he lacked just one more clue to be able to purge the Withering from Reniam forever, he could not help but to let realism give way to pessimism as it seemed more and more unlikely that this final clue could be uncovered in time to save himself... and even if it could, how likely was it that the Withering could be ended before it finally overpowered him and his efforts to contain it?
He always had a plan, always knew his next goal and usually the one after that, too. Knowledge, immortality, power, the ability to resurrect the dead and restore his wife to life; none of these objectives meant anything if the Withering ended him before he could end it.
So they had to visit a dragon that might kill them, or hunt down demon-worshippers, either of which might and might not have the answers they sought. Statistically he would estimate that their chances of success, especially if they ultimately explored both possibilities rather than limiting themselves to one of them, were good. The chance of them succeeding before his soul was swallowed by whatever demon had inflicted this vile illness upon the world was significantly less so.

"Considering how aimless their efforts have been," he muttered once the witch finished, sounding perhaps a little more dispassionate than he had up until now but still intent on investing himself fully in this endeavor of theirs - at least for as long as he had left, "I doubt that the crusaders or Hazzergash know more than we do, or even as much. Still, considering that wherever we find this information will probably send us on another chase, this time probably after Himyth - who has been hiding in Reniam successfully for millennia - it seems as though hunting down Hazzergash is the most urgent task at hand. We might as well ask him before we seal him away, but I doubt he knows anything." He shrugged before letting his shoulders sag, feeling suddenly even weaker than he did before.
"But Aliostar may actually have the answers you seek," Renold insisted, but the warlock silenced him with a dismissive wave of his hand.
"We were going to visit this expert of yours because of me in the first place," he pointed out grimly, scowling slightly at the dragon's persistence. "I'm saying that there's no point to wasting two days on that trip before we hunt down Hazzergash when all we'll really be doing is giving the Lord of Fire a head start and more time to recover." A sarcastic smile found its way to his lips. "That's what you wanted to begin with, wasn't it? You should be happy. I'll help sealing Hazzergash. The cure... can wait."

But just when Gerald figured the debate would be over, Crone surprised him by abruptly snapping. "You think beseeching a dragon for aid is perilous?" she spat tartly, abruptly sending her right hand shooting inside her shawl to rummage through her clothes for something. "You desire to waste no time but to face the greater risks this poses, both as the sun turn its cycles and you seek out even viler sources of information?" She withdrew her hand from her clothes, now holding what appeared to be a perfectly spherical piece of basalt, slightly larger than the woman's fist. "Very well, then I shall certainly spare the waste of time and offer an alternative."
Gerald opened his mouth, about to sneer at the woman for her impertinence toward his sacrifice and the irrationality of her prioritization, when something made him forget what he was about to say, making his open mouth instead simply hanging agape in shock of what he was witnessing. Visually what happened was less than imposing, with what appeared to be five randomly doodled little glowing golden lines seeming to spread up the stone, originating from about where the necromancer would estimate the center of Crone's palm would be, and combining at the opposite side in what appeared to be a five-pointed star. A scholar like Gerald or a witch like Jillian, however, would recognize that the doodles were far from random, but rather were sequences of words written in the Devil's Tongue. Realizing this made what was happening unsettling in and by itself, but it was not what had astounded Gerald so.
At the same time as the golden inscription appeared on the sphere Gerald had sensed magical energy - a neatly ordered flow of it, too, demonstrating that Crone definitely had not just been boasting when she claimed to be a necromancer - move from the old woman and into the artifact, which seemed to make the artifact itself start to emanate energy on its own. It was only a little at first, but the farther the golden etchings spread across the sphere, the greater this aura seemed to grow until it seemed absolutely overpoweringly huge. The sheer enormity of raw power radiating from that little piece of rock was very intimidating, even without considering the sense of foreboding that came with it and the primal dread it seemed to cause. Even Renold recoiled from its presence, Gerald noticed, and Crone's own ancient features were contorted in fear. There was just something about the atmosphere coming off this rock... something wrong.
It was not until the golden markings had fully formed after a period of maybe three seconds or so, when the dark rock turned crimson, that he could put a word on just what was so wrong about the feeling: it felt evil. Absolutely horrendously, unambiguously evil.
Then, as the crimson orb in her hand started to glow in addition to its markings and actually seemed to start shaking violently, Crone turned her wrist and threw it into the waters of the secluded lake next to them. There was an instant hiss and an explosion of steam the second the stone touched the water, as though it had been extremely hot despite of the fact that Crone's hand seemed unharmed, and then all that could be seen of the orb was the red and golden glow that lit up a small portion of the water.

The atmosphere did not fade, however, but only seemed to grow in intensity. It was hard to breathe through the sheer presence of this power, and Gerald felt his heart start beating irregularly, threatening to give up. Then the steam, which had hung over the area as a shapeless mist until then, seemed to whirl around a common center and gravitate towards the middle of where the light was coming from, and was dyed by the infernal glow of the stone.
The necromancer actually gasped once he realized what was happening; before their eyes the mist was forming a tall crimson figure, clad from head to toe in ominous robes. The figure's hands were long and slender, its head clad in a hood that put its face in shadow, but which bulged on top as though poked from the inside by horns. From the shadow within the hood nothing could be seen but blackness... that, and a pair of blazing red eyes that glared at them with displeasure.
Apparently standing on the water's surface as though it was solid ground, its form slightly translucent and seeming unaffected of the wind, this ethereal figure did not move from the spot.
"So you still possess one of my remaining sigil stones?" came a calm, smooth, almost suave voice from the entity, sounding disdainful and decidedly male. "I thought you would have destroyed that a long time ago, Eliza. A very long time ago."
"Grand Master of Evil," Crone said, apparently to no one in particular, completely ignoring the visage's question, "this is Gerald Glass and Jillian Veldaine. They have something they would like to ask you."

The Prophecy

To say that it was surprising that Ixion did not have the basic insight to copy Fixer's own maneuver from just before and lock his arm in its current angle would probably be inaccurate, his previously observed failings considered, but it definitely was disappointing after his trick with the teleportation and subsequent jump. As it was, it appeared that the additional acceleration that came from Fixer's quick swing of his lower body, in combination with the rotation Ixion had already started, was enough to put Fixer on top of the other's back, and the other face-down on the ground. It also somewhat lowered Fixer's awe at the other's abilities that he did not teleport them to somewhere softer once he must have realized that he would be the one to take the punishment for it. In general, this little assassin only continued to confuse his fellow infernal contractor with his wildly varying quality of performance. When Ixion did poorly Fixer would probably place him at a level where he could beat him without the use of either of his hands, but when he did well it was at a level where he would need both hands, and probably at least some elemental magic as well, to keep up with him. This man was dangerous, certainly, but his performance was far too erratic for him to represent a considerable threat; he had the potential to be a nice opponent in the future, once he had the experience to get rid of his low-level performance moments, and maybe gained access to some powerful artifacts or at least better weapons and armor, but now? Right now he was unworthy.
He was entertaining, though; Fixer could feel his heartbeat quickening even as he landed on top of his opponent, and while it would be easy to interpret his widened eyes that were visible past the mask as a sign of shock or fear, that was only because they could not see how widely he grinned behind the bloody smile of his persona. Fixer knew of several entities, which included more than just what could be termed "people", who were so powerful or skilled, or both, that they considered themselves invincible; who had bested so many challenges so great that they no longer imagined that they could be defeated. Such delusions were a weakness, however, and Fixer knew this. He had not traded with the Grand Master for invulnerability, longevity or indestructibility, even though these were qualities that had precedents that evidenced their validity as a possible buy exactly because he never wanted to forget the fragility of his own existence. All it would take would be for him to lower his guard for an instant at an inopportune moment and a blade finding him during this time, and Fixer would die like any other man. He wanted this. And he wanted to increase the odds of it happening. He wanted to feel the thrill of knowing that he could lose at any moment.
After all, you needed to have a chance to lose for a game to be truly fun... and it was never more exciting than when the odds were even.

Sadly it seemed that the fun was about to end; even without needing to follow Ixion's gaze, difficult as this was with Fixer looking at the back of the other's head, he had already noticed the sniffer darting at them, and had additionally sensed I'onriyi starting to mold magical energy - and if he could sense it with his modest ability, it probably meant that the penin was almost ready to cast a full spell. As amazing as it would have been to fight these three at the same time - a teleporting assassin, a sniffing vampire acrobat and a powerful penin warlock - he had to remember the rules. Ixion was one of the untouchables, and the two others had real potential for a future fight... if they stuck together, these three might someday even allow Fixer to fight to his fullest ability! But the fact that they were all targeting him, now, at least arbitrarily accepting each other as allies, meant that his job here was done. Blue was dead, he had her Dirge, and it appeared that he had successfully made himself the prime suspect in the tool's murder. It was time for him to leave.
His legs, with the knees planted on either side of Ixion's body - he had not wanted to kill him, after all, and made sure to spare him some of the impact - felt the assassin's arm moving even before he foolishly spoke his taunt previous to his surprise-attack. He smiled. Before he left, he would make sure that at least Ixion understood what the outcome of this fight would have been if it had continued. He quickly kicked off with his legs, raising his entire body up so that he did a fully vertical handstand on just his right arm, hand still planted on Ixion's wrist. He held pose for a moment, staring at the back of Ixion's head, and Ixion would probably notice a very slight tremor in the ground, the feeling of tiny bits of gravel prickling the side of his head and a sound similar to that of a cracking whip directly to the right of his head. The wide legs of his trousers started falling back from them being pointed directly upward, revealing that his legs were wrapped in cloth similar to that around his midsection, once more preventing the exposure of his skin. His violet eyes almost seemed to glow as he turned his gaze up, facing the vampire that was practically flying straight at him.
Smiling, Fixer flicked an internal switch he had constructed in his imagination, and where the sniffer would have violently collided with his undeniably unstable stance he found no resistance, but merely passed straight through. Ixion, likewise, would notice that the weight of an entire man that had previously been weighing down his right wrist suddenly disappeared.

There were many things a man like Grim could find very useful, and which would make him all the more dangerous as the Grand Master's Fixer. Teleportation was an obvious and popular thing to ask for, considering how useful it could be both in combat and in infiltration to be able to move instantaneously from one place to another, but it had obvious flaws: one needed to have seen one's destination, for one, and one had to very clearly define in one's contract exactly what circumstances would allow for additional objects to be teleported along with one. Formulate the deal too loosely and you would bring your opponent with you when moving, and being too careful might mean that you showed up at your destination naked and unarmed. The drawbacks had been much too significant for Fixer.
So then what? He wanted to be able to move quickly, unseen and unheard, to be able to infiltrate places that he could not necessarily see and to, in an emergency, escape harm in the last instant. The solution Fixer had arrived at had been to be able to disintegrate and rematerialize himself at will, including in this transformation only that which he was touching and he had marked with a special sigil that was either carved or sewn into all of his belongings. And so, when he flicked that imaginary switch, his dark-clad form abruptly turned into a silhouette of smoke the same color as his clothes, and when the vampire passed through it, the smoke he touched scattered as one would expect smoke to do. Bits of crusted blood drizzled onto Ixion as the mask's smile crumbled and fell away, unmarked by the sigil as it was, and much to Fixer's annoyance he also heard the dull thud of Blue's Dirge falling to the ground, likewise unmarked and not included in his transformation. Oh well, as long as Corpse Forge did not have it, he could always reclaim it later.
The wind moved, guided by Fixer's will, and the smoke gathered itself anew. Slithering away like velvety darkness it blew into the shadows, where it was virtually invisible.

And to the right of Ixion's head, but a fraction of an inch from where his ear had been, he would find a hole that was an inch wide and four inches deep carved straight into the cobblestone.

---

"Me neither," Gerald nodded his approval at Jillian's dismissal of Renold's plan. "Though I will concede that my..." He paused for a moment, trying to think of the best affiliation to state between himself and the witch. Colleague? That would suggest her being a necromancer and him being a witch, neither of which was true. Fellow exile? That sounded so distant, as though there was barely any association between the two of them... which was technically not far from the truth, but nevertheless felt wrong. Apprentice? Did she even still want to learn necromancy, or had she been distracted entirely from this goal by the promise of greater mastery over black magic? Friend, then? No, that was too sentimental. Ally? Not sentimental enough. In the end, he settled for: "Companion, she did ignore the bit about this Aliostar's knowledge of demons and the cross-planar flow of energy, it still seems like too much of a long shot. I mean, the way you describe him it seems as though we would be as likely to get the information we need from Hazzergash."
"Did we not just attain certainty that the Grand Master and his generals could not be the source of the Withering?" Crone wanted to know, her tone slightly impatient. "And that Himyth would be our most likely culprit? The minions of the Crimson Dawn would not even have awareness of this plot, let alone be in possession of useful clues that would lead to its origin. If they had, would Hazzergash himself not have directed his crusaders to bring an end to the malady already?"
"Hazzergash is also unambiguously our enemy," the Green added. "As is most demons, for that matter. More importantly, Aliostar is not immortal, and as such vulnerable to the Withering himself. I'm not counting on him helping us out of the goodness of his heart, but to save himself."
"I have also beseeched summoned demons for answers before," Crone finally pointed out, "but no matter how much I subdue their wills, how fiercely I enslave them with magic and bind them to do my bidding, they have all refused to reveal that particular piece of information... which means that a will and power greater than mine has already been forced upon them all to prevent its revelation. Summoning alone is not sufficient; one would have to be able to either sense it oneself, or be considered trustworthy by the demons.
And Aliostar is both."

The Prophecy

I didn't? I could have sworn I... But then, I don't remember coming up with a quirky title for him, so I figure I didn't. Very well, I will do so now!
Might as well remove Salas from the OP, too, and update the rules-section on how many free spaces are left for new characters. Wait, I didn't give Iridiel a title, either? Unforgivable. That must me remedied immediately as well.

The skeleton-blades on male lohks' arms protrude from a fairly long and relatively wide base running along nearly the entire length of the back of the lohk's forearm, from about half an inch from the elbow to an inch from its wrist, drawing an approximate lens-shape with slightly rounded tips, quite thin at the ends but more than an inch thick at its thickest. From the elbow-end of the blade it extends outward in a soft outward curve, protruding only around two inches outward from the arm over the first four or so inches, and is actually quite dull, but then curves outward a little more dramatically from there, reaching out (with the outer edge of the blade, as in the one facing away from the arm) about ten inches at its farthest, which would be the portion positioned behind the lohk's hand; it is also only on this more strongly curved part of the outside of the blade that is actually comparatively sharp along its edge, though obviously still not comparative to the sharpness of man-made blades or even other creatures' claws. The inside-edge of the blade curves more roundly along its first portion than the outer one does at any point, starting out protruding almost perpendicular to the arm instead of the near-parralel start of the outer edge and then sharply curving to approach a similar form to the outer one. It protrudes nearly six inches outward from the arm like this over nearly the same length in continuation of the arm, after which its curve softens significantly. Only after the first eight or so inches of edge - which is quite dull - does the blade sharpen to a similar degree as the outside edge, and extends some ten or so inches farther than the lohks outstretched hand, where the edges meet in a point that is much sharper than either edge.

EDIT: Very nice start to your collab, and a deeply fascinating portrayal of a lohk, I must say. I'm actually genuinely impressed and interested... I want to read more about the lohk.
Ah, but my dear intriguing little arbitrary obstacle, I suspect your life won't last much longer. A pity. But then, I felt similarly about the piaan-addicted yth.