You still accepting people?
ERode Member
Odd One Out
- Last Seen: 2 hrs ago
- Joined: 10 yrs ago
- Posts: 5804 (1.54 / day)
- VMs: 4
-
Username history
- ERode 10 yrs ago
-
Latest 10 profile visitors:
-
Most recent →
Verjil,
AThousandCurses,
Kero,
High Moon,
Phase,
Rabidporcupine,
nfvd,
Citrus,
Candelabra,
TheMushroomLord
Status
User has no status, yet
Bio
Most Recent Posts
A mistress of rats? An ‘Est’, who warned of…
Ilena blinked, a sensation, a thought, re-entering her body. Even with the physicality destroyed, a morsel of her own essence returned to her in that moment, shooting into her shadows, deciphered by the demons that safeguarded her mind.
Ah.
It connected, like objects of differing polarities snapping into place.
“Rikard…and Rhea. Belonging to the Society. Returning to the Society, to report. A piece of me died at the orphanage, where they last were.” Ilena settled her gaze on Akyasha briefly, before turning to Luna and Dragan. “The gunfire was likely involved with their hunting of Est. Though whether they are enemies or merely cautious…” From within the cathedral now, the sound of buzzing Skeeters echoed, the gargantuan insectoids flying over to Ilena before touching down, their abdomens swollen once more with the results of their hunt.
She didn’t bother with excising the blood carefully now, and instead, her shadows swallowed the enthralled insects whole, assimilating their disparate parts into her own body.
“...it matters not. Nor does the gargantuan beast that we encountered on our path here, if it seeks not to disrupt our departure. Let us slay what remains of that Paladin and leave for more plentiful fields.”
For a split second, Atzi considered just waking it up and then distracting it while Maira did her thing. But that was a stupid idea. Not because she wasn’t confident in her ability to outrun one of those lumbering oafs, of course, but more because of how loud it would be. Grove Bears had voices like the storm; if they didn’t strike it down at once, its roar would be heard from leagues away, no matter the density of the foliage.
Still, Atzi wasn’t a hunter. She didn’t have any love for killing something in such a cold manner. So, at the very least.
“I’ll turn you into something beautiful.”
Just a quiet murmur, before Atzi hefted up her studded club. Against an unmoving target, even if using only one of her arms, she was confident she could cut deep into its flesh, slice past the fur and the fat to tear open its veins.
“Alright, Maira. I’ll go for the throat on the first, and see if I can break its neck on the second.”
Serenity nodded, once.
Bedridden for a few months; was that something this man could afford, now that the possessions of his profession had been damaged so? Unlikely. But that’s why this order existed, after all. What use was the wealth of the Church, if it could not soothe the suffering of survivors? Off in the distance, she too heard of what words the dying and the captured spoke. Beyond stories of a caged beast, one that shrieked and consumed rabbit meat, it was nothing particularly noteworthy, and all within the expectations of what deserters could come up with. The smell of tobacco tickled her nose, the invitation founded in an open case.
She closed the lid firmly, gently, expression hidden beneath the visor of her helmet.
“A kind gesture, Dame, but there’ll be plenty of smoke to inhale soon enough, if Alodia has any say in it.” A pause. “Save one for me for after our victory march.”
…
And now, there she was.
Shield up, spear in hand, sword at one hip, and hatchet on the another, Serenity drew in a deep breath, feeling the blood in her veins, the tautness of her sinew, the flexing of her muscle. Lungs expanding, mind sharpening, thoughts flattening. In front, Sir Villis stood, resplendent as always. Behind, her comrades, shadowed by the treeline, immersed in the darkness of dusk. Firelights flickered in the distance.
Soon, those flames would become conflagration.
But no flames could outshine the Moon.
Fanilly’s cry sounded, a girl’s high-pitched call into the night, and Serenity responded with her own, a throaty roar rushing out from the depths of her stomach. Her spearpoint set, her shield aligned, she lunged forth, a cavalry charge on human legs. To their credit, the bandits were armed. To greater credit, none of them had moved to take their prisoners as human shields.
Didn’t mean she’d give them the chance to, either way.
The first lunge caught a bandit in the chest, tempered steel puncturing through chainmail as if it were nothing more than cloth. She twisted the haft as she drew it out, letting him choke on his own blood, before the second thrust caught another mid-charge, slicing deep into his knee. He fell over, and Serenity herself advanced, a boot stomping down onto his neck. A glint of light caught her eye and on reflex, she deflected an arrow with her shield, the projectile skipping off the rounded top. An archer, further off from the rest. Couldn’t enjoy the advantage of reach against that one…but it was irrelevant anyways.
She had felt the force of that arrow against her shield. It was insufficient for punching through her armor, so Serenity turned her attention elsewhere.
A cage in the distance, covered. More bandits nearby.
A split second decision.
“Dame Cecilia, I’ll open up the lines! Clear out the ones around the cage!”
Two hands grasped the spearhaft. Veins bulged out beneath the cuirass. Her heart accelerated. Her emotions heightened. Her fangs bared.
A true knight was both might and majesty.
A true knight was a lion.
And with a broad swipe, the Arcedeen scion displaced the men before her, scattering them just long enough for an archer whose skill surpassed the bowmen of House Autmere to have her pick of the targets.
Westward, then, to claim blood more human, more satiating. And to seven more lords, resurrection to grant, the seven whose fall marked the vampires' end. The sanguine light faded, Ichor disappearing into the cosmos, and Ilena let out a breath, rising up from her position. Amethyst eyes flickered from one new arrival to another, faces indistinct but repute well-marked enough that unfamiliarity would still bring forth fragments of knowledge with regards to their pedigree. Two royals, and a true-blooded cleric of Ichor. Of the naturalborn aristocrats, Giselle de Farry was more tolerable of the two, an architect of crimson constructions compared to the more child-like pretensions of the Rime-Winged Vermillion Angel and her hedonistic pursuits. And as for that Blood-Lily Cleric...
...well, Luna may have found her a like-mind, but the two were incomparable in methodology and grace.
"If the Goddess desires it, then westward we depart." This city and its mysteries could be left to be uncovered at another time, for vampires truly had but an excess in time. As for her familiar, for the Skeeters she's sent out to hunt?
She can await their return on her own time.
"The Sage's Lake?" Atzi shook her head. "Naw, never had much reason to go that far. Anyways, Enli tells us not to go that direction anyways. Lotsa big lizard-types n all."
It was another question, of course, as to how those reptiles were able to go through the blizzard without freezing solid, but hey, at least that Raam girl brought in a fair buncha meat into the village due to that. As the canopy chased away the last bit of sunlight they could get, turning their surroundings into one covered in hardened, crusty snow, Atzi pulled her fur-lined cloak closer to her body, her breath coming out in opaque, white clouds. The snow dampened the surrounding sound, leaving a silence that was at once foreboding and tranquil.
In the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of the Goddess of the Moon once more, and spared a smile for the pitying deity. A finger extended surreptitiously to tap her on the head. It was nice that even the Storyteller would deign to feel sorry for her, but Atzi? Atzi was feeling as fine as a kite. Grab the orb, make it back, feed it to a fish, and voila, cultists seethe!
"Sounds sorta appropriate though," she continued, "to toss the illuminator-rock near the sage's lake, right? Matches so well!"
It was not Ilena's duty to defend the desires of a thrall that had none.
"Then do as you will."
Though Dragan disdained such behavior, the shadow-witch could not care, in truth, for what perverse charities the former priestess held, not when the Crimson Star, the voice of Ichor, rang so clearly through the opened doors. The dark skies burned with sanguine light, shadows of greater demons swirling in the savage firmament. Behind her, others emerged, familiar, storied faces, but for now, they meant nothing. The Sovereign, the Progenitor, has made her request, and it was something to make even a god-disdainer feel pious.
She joined Dragan's side, slipping into shadow to slink soundlessly up onto the balcony, before reconstituting her form from the fluid shadows once more. Even now, her loyalty remained, and the shadow-witch kneeled, eyes downcast.
"Goddess, I am Ilena. Once more, my fangs are yours."
"Appreciate it, Achel~" Atzi chimed, giving the Chiralta a quick one-armed hug. The skeleton arm really was a bit on the small side, but well, even if it didn't fit, at least she could use it, probably. Maybe to freak out Maira a bit. Or to throw it at that cultist punkass. She glanced quickly towards that Finnegan fellow again, narrowing her eyes. "And you keep outta trouble, yeah? Dunno what your deal with, but first, the 'spider's' name is Achel, and second, we've got a lot more non-human types 'round in Dawn than just her. Talk shit and you'll get folded in half real bad."
Hopefully that'd get across to him. Hopefully Enli could do some better mentoring too, on the virtues of treating everyone as individuals and every race as more-or-less-equals-until-they-fuck-up-culturally. The dark-skinned woman scratched the back of her head, spent a few moments strapping the prosthesis over her shoulder joint, and then gave it a couple experimental flexes. It was definitely on the small side of things, and finer motor movements were a bit hard to do, but she could clench it into a fist, and so, she could punch with it.
...well, hopefully old bones like these didn't break so easily.
"Alright, I'll be off now. Maybe drop by Akando's place when you've got the chance? Pretty sure he'll have some cured stuff for you two to chew on."
A short exchange with regards to the merits of tea parties over battlefields, and like that, the skirmish had ended in massacre. Perhaps there was one incident, maybe two, in which there may have been a risk to befall the Iron Rose as individuals, but that was all. A risk not on a strategic level, or even a tactical one. Just individuals, lives at risk, but injuries unincurred. An extermination, then, of lesser foes, followed by the doldrums of delivering grace to the fatally wounded, binding those spared by fortune or surrender. No Bandit King, nor Bandit Knights. Just footsoldiers, intoxicated by past successes. Tiresome.
The flaxen-haired knight cleaned her sword with the tunic of another. Polished her shield until it regained some of its luster. Drove weapons discarded by cowards into the backs of the unsalvageable. Some prayed, but their prayers came too late. Some pleaded, but they were already wastes of grace. Fanilly was expecting too much, in truth, from a ragtag mob of inbred idiots who knew nothing but of pillage. These certainly weren't responsible for the routing of Thaln's military, that much was certain. The Iron Rose knights were a storied order, but they weren't magnitudes above the army that formed the backbone of the kingdom's defenses. So the bandits were just fools, fools that wasted the lives of all they consumed.
Serenity didn't spare any of them. Reon could judge, and Mayon could pity. Hers' was just the labour of deliverance, and besides, plenty of bandits have already become the smitten thralls of their long-lived troubadour.
"Dame Katerina," she called, laying to rest a pockmarked youth younger than herself. "How fares Sir Rickert's charge? Will he live to see another dawn?"
The heart of a great snake, and a ritual dagger that stank of something divine, something not of Ichor's domain. Her 'father' would no doubt be pleased with these gifts, but as for Ilena herself? The shadow witch toyed with the dagger briefly, allowing it to spin from one digit to another, before flipping it hilt-first towards the former paladin.
"Take it," she rasped. She would let it drop even if he did not.
The serpent's heart, she kept in her hand for a while longer. Plump still, fresh still, and reminiscent, in a manner, of that feline-serpent they had encountered on the way there. It could not have been that creature's heart though, not unless it possessed multiple. Too large to belong to giants, too small to belong to humans. Regardless, Ilena lifted her cloak to the side and slipped that heart into her fabricated form.
"Your piety shall be rewarded," she spoke, setting aside for a moment the idea that other lords have survived, have revived. "Do you wish to join your master, Thrall? Or be reborn again, under the servitude of another?"
© 2007-2024