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3 hrs ago
Current My latest post is like 20% allusions. With Frozen, WoW, LoTR, and Arthurian references in one post. D:
4 likes
13 hrs ago
Master has given Dobby clothes! Dobby is free elf!
6 likes
3 days ago
You've gotta be cruel to be kind, in the right measure/ Cruel to be kind, it's a very good sign/ Cruel to be kind, means that I love you baby... - Sadomasochism 101: Songs to Play during Sexy Times.
3 likes
4 days ago
You see, the Bad Puns are essentially Dad Jokes, so you can start calling me Daddy when it gets really Corny.
4 days ago
I do double entendres and innunendo. So if you will allow me to orally pleasure you, I will serenade you with a selection of quality puns, each one worse than the last.
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A collection of names.
To be written into memory.
Only two more yet to be named.

Dyn'yer'zhead.

The beholder, one with a voice like grating horses and an attitude against the warlock to match. As ugly as he was tenacious, too many eyes, not enough personality. Nearly foaming at the atrocious mouth from which the thing spat out each harsh dissonance. It was rather difficult to understand without having to rupture one's own ear drums. And for that reason, there was a pause, the longest pause of a few seconds between them. Where the two men, or at least the umbral one believed the creature was a male, saw each other, eye to eye to eye to eye to eye to eye to eye to eye. It was difficult to stare down those eyeballs but in that moment of silence the message exchanged was clear. The bile and venom felt in that godsawful voice, returned with a more soft spoken calm. A sly knowing glance at understanding her warning now about this entity named... Dinner's-Head. Something like that, although the acquaintance easier on the eyes, in more ways than one, had warned earlier of not crossing or getting this being crossed. Hence perhaps any name calling would have to be withheld until someone other than beholder pronounced his full name.

"Forgive me, but beholders are uncommon sights. You must understand my... Caution." Played to amount of ego-stroking. By guile or by charm, with an apologetic nod, the warlock sought to diffuse what animosity the talking head had. To which before it was finished another from the party rushed into the interrogation with a question of her own. A frozen throne appeared, the benefits of being surrounded by copious water was it not? Such a paradise for spellcasters who shaped the waves and seas. A cold-hearted maiden perhaps? As the turns turned into a winter's flurry, the click of daggers for heels dug into the earthly flesh. The fallen's infernal gaze became drawn into the storm approaching. Who was this? This dark lady who melted her shell of ice away to reveal the pallor of drow skin? Ah the cold never bothered him anyways. For what a pair would they make at night? For is it not said that there was never more a perfect pair than cold and dark?

Koan.

Another question posed. Something about drinking pink? Nevermind the luxury of drinking underwater, but the curiosity of who this girl was and the queerness of her question. Illogical as it seemingly came out of nowhere, but a refreshing break from the mangled mess of common the beholder bellowed out. A voice sweet as it was disarming, like the aasimar's but more... Persuasive? Where one had the child-like innocence, the half-drow's voice had the sultry allure that would melt a heart down in a different way. Was this some, hazing rite? A slight confusion raised a single brow as the beholder faded into the backdrop, and the aasimar's touch seemed a distant memory. And soon it was her dusky fingers that gripped his shoulders. Hands clenched around his throat, tight, but not as tight as a collar. Gripped and led to the siege perilous, as his shadow hound melded back into the ground to become a normal shadow. It did not like what was happening evidently, and cared not enough to stay. Or was it the warlock himself that recalled the shadow? In case he needed to escape this... Ritual.

Pink to red, or indeed pink. Pale cheeks flushed in silence, as the strange jester worked her magic. No, not the magic she had used to craft her chair and don her false face, but one that utilized her true face. And perhaps the somatic components of this ritual were, far more erotic than most? The grinding motions made across the shadowy armor, solid but not solid. Indeed with her gyrations, the entertainer may feel the true nature of Sauron's dark armor. It was, never truly there, not all the time at least, but she surely would have understood the moment her hands touched his shoulders that there was more give to the armor than expected. At which, what her rhythmic actions would feel may surprise her, or perhaps even excite her as a surprised Sauron watched half-mesmerized, half-confused.

Then there was the exquisite pain. A cut from an edge of ice, cold but not numbing. A delicious release, inked with crimson as the fallen one's blood washed the waters with its incarnadine taint. His soft gasp of surprise and ecstasy audible only perhaps by the woman bleeding him. Harvesting his blood into the unholy grail, a sacrament of wine, chilled as he watched her with golden glow. It seemed only they existed for this moment, this basking of beautiful pain inflicted upon his red cheeks redder. Yes, strange as she was, this was a more welcome greeting as his scarlet anointment as the sanguine rain showered them with mercy and carnality. A slow nod offered himself to her, transfixed by the moment in their public privacy. Their eyes met his eyes, all three of hers reflecting his own form seated upon his icy restraints. His shadow self in the very pupil of her third eye which opened like a deadly blossom upon her fair drow brow. A kiss drew him into her spell, deeper as she demanded more of him. Yes, a tithe given freely, and in place of a dark shadow, he would have a Queen. Not dark, but beautiful and terrible as the dawn, treacherous as the sea! Stronger than the foundations of the earth! All shall love her, and despair!

Despair. Reality snapped back, or rather the Koan did. Pulled back by a hand which grabbed her by the nape. Pulled off and peeled off, by a pair of clawed paws. And yet another pair of eyes now dissected Sauron as he sat back in the crafted chair. A deep inhale taken as his cheek still bled away slowly. A superficial cut, and a baptism in blood. His senses returned from the high and stimulation, recollecting his thoughts and hair. What had just happened? Was this not a test they conducted to every newcomer?

Nemiea.

"My apologies. That was... Unexpected." The answer to the feline-lizard came. Her eyes were mixed, an interesting note although perhaps it was expected of one who mixed their blood? Ah to speak of blood while having enjoyed shedding your own. The warlock himself was no proponent of piety and holiness, with all the vices that he had sanctified as the norm. The moment of cold heat gone, as the dark aasimar unfolded himself from his seat with the shadows composing his armor seeming to condense around him tighter. As a man may zip up his trousers and tightening his tie to be more presentable after such a lecherous show and afterglow. Oh that's right, they were doing all this in public were they not? Perhaps the drow would offer to cut more places across his excited body, already waiting to feel her frozen blade lacerating across his flesh. "Please, do not chide her, Koan was it? Enthusiasm Nemiea, it was certainly an experience to enter this group."

Jill.

"So... Jill. Is this the freedom you have found?" A question of his own now posed. A strange lot of friends she had for one so young. But who was in charge? Dyn or Jill? As it seemed one had the bite of a leader, while the other had more the charisma for it. They were drawn to her authority it seemed, or at least that was what the dracofeline suggested with her plea. "It is Unique."

(Collaboration with @JBRam2002)

Returned with a whine, the shadow hound was ousted by another magical force. So rudely cast out after being detected by a rather lengthy ritual which had allowed his dark self to follow their stopped trail. The target had not left this plane, but neither had she moved for quite sometime as the mystic bond between man and shadow relayed back direction and distance. They had either stopped at their destination, or else found themselves preoccupied with something else. To which the umbral one stalked his quarry well. They had made quite the performance before leaving, a dance, a song, a flute.And it would not be difficult to track a monstrosity like a beholder down in the city of a thousand recluses, information about them would have already trickled down into the underbelly of even these depths. And then it was a matter of talking to the right people for the right price. Captain… Of what? And what did that make her to him?

Nevertheless, with patient strides, or rather strokes for the water made it easier to swim rather than to walk. The dark figure tailed them blending in with the rest of the denizens and becloaked travellers here and there. What may be seen to a the keen eye, a feat of observation, would be the lack of shadow cast by the fallen aasimar as the dog dwelled with the shadow of his presumed counterpart. Though now the effect dispelled, his burning eyes could see his faithful hound returning to his side. It took the form and nature of the canine, ears dropped and tail low, whelp whipped by a spell with it’s sorry return. They must have found it, and dispelled it, as the warlock stopped to reason, just paces away from a tunnel to the surface. So they were not without skill in the arcane arts, keen enough to sense his hound’s jugular bite against her own shadow. And yet, perhaps he should send the poor dog back out to try another quarry?

A hand to affectionately rub the massless crown of the dog’s head. Made of shadows there was nothing but wispy blackness to its body, and yet even as the ink-like darkness steeped and twisted in the waters, there was a certain satisfaction the shadow had feeling its owner’s touch. A sentience of its own perhaps? Or a shared mind? Somewhere in between for his shadow was both his, but also born of the realm of shadows. Thus maybe it was the only company he kept for so long was this creature that the shadowmancer treated it as something that needed love to grow rather than darkness. Thus was it quaint that, the pair enter the tunnel together, attempting to pass as another traveller headed towards the surface. Hood kept down as his blood-orange eyes quickly glazed over the group. Where was she?

Jill had doubled back to scout those who were watching their performance. The majority of the underwater townsfolk had returned to their daily business, milling about on their various chores or occupations. A handful remained at the tavern, several of whom wore the manta ray cloak that much of her party had donned. Useful as the cloak was, it did make picking out faces rather difficult. And so, the Aasimar captain waited to see if her patience would be rewarded.

Sure enough, a few moments passed and one of the crowd began to stir, his fingers caressing... something. Jill couldn't quite make it out, but there was something off about the figure. She swam up next to him, drawing her pistol as she moved, and whispered in his ear. "Looking for someone?" she asked, her voice playful, almost seductive as she moved to the other side. "Perhaps you would like to introduce yourself. My Beholder friend thinks you are out to harm us, and it would be a shame--" the sound of a safety releasing could be heard-- "if he were right."

A whisper in the ear. Oh such a act had oh so much meaning. Was it the voice of the gods? A herald of angelic truth, uttering prophecy as the gods will, cryptic and mystic in all the ways of mortal minds. A divine diamon that guides and compels the soul to do what is asked of them? Such a sign of zealotry, devotion tested by the words of fanaticism, incited into producing an action. Or was it the voice in the shadows? The unseen ones hidden in the treacherous gloam, tempting and ever tempting mortals to step into darkness. Each sly call beckoning oneself to the edge of the abyss until, lo the abyss could swallow you whole! And yet, there was at least one more dangerous whisper to be accounted for that influenced a man's actions. While the gods may command, and the shadows tempt, it was this last whisper that was the sweetest of all. The seductive whisper of a lover. Yes, coy and playful, bashful but bold. An offer of oral pleasures in intercourse, of listening to that voice so alluring spark the discourse as their fates became entwined. Yes, of course such ears perked an interest as a presence in the water made its way about him even before her voice came to serenade him with her threat.

"Invisibility." The reply came with a calm smile beneath the hood, visible to the other aasimar certainly if she cared to see the warlock's face. "Clever girl." A compliment, although one perhaps too patronizing for a stranger. "If you do not know me, then you are not one of her Agents." Though still there was no introduction yet, which perhaps pressed the patience of female willing and able to shoot at pointblank. Though how exactly would a flintlock, or presumably a flintlock which worked on blackpowder and combustion, function underwater. But in a world of magic, things need not make the most sensible logic, though there was a limit of what silliness the powers that be would accept. "Sauron, and I was merely curious as to what another Aasimar is doing here, so I followed."

And if needed, if she shot that firearm, the warlock had his spells up his sleeve. And there was no need to be so subtle, no need to save spells so early when life was on the line. Was this a test? Would one of them have to die? Could there only be one? What did it take to earn his untarnished wings, and cleanse his soul of the shadows? "My guide may have brought me here to you, and yours to me?"

"Sauron... I see." Despite Jill's best efforts, she couldn't pierce the intents of the cloaked man. Whether he was who he said he was or not did not truly matter, and the name Sauron did not ring a bell with her. More intriguing to Jill was this "her" and the "Agents" he spoke of. "If you believe our allies in heaven joined us together, why did you threaten me with that spell of yours?" Jill asked, her voice calm and matter-of-fact. "It does not seem the friendly thing to do."

The safety clicked back into place. "I have no intentions of harming someone who is not a threat to our safety. If I did, my gun would be the least of your worries. No, I wish to live unchained, either by my forebears or by those whose paths I cross. I am sure you understand, Sauron." The aasimar's proximity was so close that she could almost be felt, if not seen, her face nearly adjacent to the other's. "Perhaps you would like to join us, and perform your observations in a closer setting, preferably without the threat of violence."

The venom of the serpent had worked its magic. Fangs dripping of toxins in that practiced smile. Disarming charming, despite the quiet intensity of those ember eyes. Like a beacon in the black shadow cast across his brow, a gaze that concealed his intent, hidden by a ring that guarded his thoughts well from prying spells. Twas a ring he bore upon the ring finger of his left hand, a golden band forged and etched with intricate engravings to shield him from efforts to divine his true nature, shielding his mind from all magical means of detection. Yet curiously the ring was, like the girl, invisible to sight though its presence was suggested by the form it bore, the physical presence found just as her form parted the waters around it. What use was invisibility when the water transmitted so much more information? But his hound held no mass, being a creature made of pure shadow like his armor that clung to him like black pyre. More treasured however than this ring's ability to conceal his thoughts and conceal itself, was the ability for it to store his soul. Until it was made pure the warlock could reside within the ring, his body destroyed by his immortal soul sealed within. And the whispers he could give, just like her, a shove into the mind, a suggestion, and a deception just like the one he wove now around her. Sauron... There was no Sauron.

"Forgive me for my methods, but just as you hide from me now, I hid from you." The quick-witted reply, "A need to track you through this labyrinthine city should our paths need crossing." But her words slew him, even as the click of the safety no longer placed 'Sauron' in the path of a woman's wrath. The irony of it all too amusing to not bring a genuine smile, curling itself on the corner of those lips. Unchained? To live free and untangled in the mess of fate and orders directed in the Heavens? Perhaps he saw a bit of his younger self in her, the rebellion in her unseen eyes, the feist she carried against the forces that would see her fulfill her role in the machine. Perhaps she would be able to see it in his eyes, that raging inferno of resentment dimming to a flickering candle of hope. And then in a moment later, it was replaced with a knowing glance as he felt her presence now so close, almost too close.

"Yes, I was once like you... But freedom has a price." A touch of melancholy in the fading trail-off. "And perhaps by following you, I can gain what I have lost."

Jill giggled, a sound that could melt the heart of a beholder. She knew, as she had done so previously. "Welcome to the crew, then," she said as her face faded into view, upside-down and inches from that of the other Aasimar with a mischievous smirk on her face. "Rule number one: don't cast that spell on me, or anyone else you want to be your friend. Rule number two: don't piss off Dyn." She reached for his hand, caressing it with her fingers as they intertwined. "And rule number three: trust me."

A spell was cast, a subtle pulling at the arvane threads that bound the world together, and the world collapsed around them. For a moment, naught existed but the two of them, Jill's fingers still grasping the other's and that mischievous smile beaming from her face. Almost as soon as the spell began, it ended, and the duo were now several paces behind Dyn and Cynthia in the tunnel. "Hey guys!" Jill called out. "I found a new friend. Don't worry, he's just a little shy." Her hand subtly released his, and she swam over to the others, tossing a wink over her shoulder at "Sauron."

Three rules? Automatrons had just as many. The innocent childishness to her persona caught the warlock off-guard. The fallen aasimar had expected a more rigid path, one devout and pious, strict with all the disciple his mentor had expected of him. Perhaps her was far more lax, but alas, what did he know of her? And her of him? His facade as 'Sauron' a name invented and a moniker adopted for his trade as a nom-de-arte. But he looked like a 'Sauron' did he not? A name hissed softly and stretched before ending in a definitive note? The venom injected at the very end as the masqueraded drops? She told him to trust her, and yet never gave her name, but stated another's. Dyn, whoever that was supposed to be. Introductions would be needed to infiltrate this group. But of the first rule, as much as his hound panted and sauntered its way over to her shadow cast below as the girl floated in the waters curiously and intertwined her fingers into the umbramancer's. A touch he nearly drew back from, with a wince but something told him a girl like her meant not to harm him. Not one so... Innocently naive? Or was such an act merely an intricate ploy?

Bubbles.

The rush of water from one end, and the displacement of it from the other. A group before them in the darkness of the tunnel, though the shadows were his friend. A beholder, a kobold, a scaled feline, a drowish mystery, and a native it seemed numbered amongst her troupe. Ones seen from before with casual glances thrown about from his card game. An interesting lot, intriguing indeed as the more radiant of the pair introduced her 'new friend' to the lot. Would they be as easy to fool as her?

"I am Sauron, but I do not believe I was introduced to your name, friend." A closed-lipped smile curled the corners, a move practiced to deceive by disarming charm. And by the feel of things, he was not the only one who knew how to use his dark charisma. How strange that his new friend had such an effect on him. Was he losing himself to the quarry? Or was it just his solitude that made his hound jealous as it slunk about him pacing to see if the master would find new friends and abandon his own shadow and the promises he must keep to the realm of shadows. "I am here to accompany your aasimar on her journey."


Thomas Richard Harrison

Location: Barad-dûr (The Tower).
Interacting with: The group


"Ugh... Bluargh-" Not quite yet over, but certainly a loss of brunch and whatever enthusiasm Thomas had for everything. His robes soaked in a mix of his own juices, it would take weeks to get the stains out without fading the crimson colors. His shallow breathing slowed now but steadied from the panic earlier. He could hear Satilla's concern buzzing in his ear, but the boy was still not quite ready to open his eyes to the reality of having experienced this severe vomiting. Any medical doctor worth his or her salt could tell you a sudden change in acids and bases could be fatal, and so could an alchemist. Titrating appropriately was the key, to which the sorcerer had just lost some stomach acids making his body respond by slightly slowing his breathing rate compared to his panic-induced moment. Of course there was not much loss, but enough to make the lad feel woozy as he muttered and sputtered through, still ripe from fresh emesises. A full gastric lavage, and perhaps it was fitting that Thomas felt a choking sensation burning down his throat. Call it Karma, punishing those with good intentions.

This will be the last time he tried sensing any magical auras for awhile. Whatever reaction caused this was either a nauseatingly powerful ward, or just pure bad luck. "I-I'll be a-alright. J-just give m-me a m-moment." Maybe by the time the men got the door open, Thomas would be a bit more chipper as his nostrils still fumed with that rancid odor malingering more than his own intestinal surprise. Bile and acid, half-digested and all. Throwing his body to one side, the mage weakly rolled over twice, and clutched his purged stomach as he lay on his side. A soft groan affirmed his malady. "It w-wasn't the eggs K-Brimstone." Give it a moment and surely he'd regain his strength and some coherency. Until then, perhaps leave the young sorcerer be as he wallowed in the pain of having his body cleansed.
A Koan

Something am I though you do not know me,
Unspoken I would be if you know me,
Riddles without answers,
Problems without solutions,
Reasons without logic,
In clear view you cannot see me,
Sight blinded by my truth,
Eyes too late to see.

Was it truly so hard to follow a fool into the forest? The barbarian had to have his way then? Nearly getting them killed one encounter was bad enough but to have nearly fallen for a trap that the psion would have surely noticed? Rather rude of the green orc giant to always demand he do everything. A meathead merely deserved to be a meat shield for all it was worth. To which the mute watched in total repulsion as the most uncouth act of jamming a goblin skull over one's privates be done. In all honesty it was now the knowledge of having to wade across the stream that was polluted by that foul orc's stench that was a horrid task for the silent one to do now as it seemed they had unwitting found themselves shortly within another bout of battle at the mouth of the cave.

With a mental sigh the psion drew his traveller's cloak around his lanky body and ventured forth into the cool stream. The flowing waters running over surely upstream from where the filth-covered ruffian had washed, as each step forward soaked the patches of his brown linen trousers and ate at the worn boots which tread across the aqueous path. To think this venture would only pay ten golds, a pitiful sum for one's life cut short here, and to go beyond the measure of their pay. Retrieving the dwarf in no means guaranteed, and certainly the risk of dying to goblin arrows was not high on the man's list of thing to do. No, he had many things yet to be done, a world to make a better place for those born without anything to their name. At one time in his life he was a man with nothing to lose, but now he had a family of his own. A ragtag bunch of orphans under his care, the orphanage was his charge along with every urchin in it. Thus despite the current's follow, and the knowledge of more goblins being detected by the unmanagable orc and the more agreeable warrior woman, the psion pressed on to the other side of the bank preparing his mind for the skirmish to come.

The veil was crossed, but what of the threshold? What did the others thing of the nameless psion? One who failed to introduce himself to this misfit group of adventurers. Then again none of them had bothered to stop and truly sit down for a conversation with the mute. Did they think him illiterate? Or had they simply assumed he was as aloof as his silence made him? Where does the mercenary work end, and the adventuring party begin? After this uncertain rescue, would they not go their separate paths? Laura could only do so much without more money for basic goods. They were his responsibility upon his sense of good, but so too where these fools who ventured in so far and put the goblins on alert. Thus to too would he have to be vigilant and scan the area with his eyes for the goblins had taken the advantage not only in action but territory.

So was it so easy to follow a fool?
Yes, for someone had to save their ass.
Surprise, Surprise.

Thomas Richard Harrison

Location: Barad-dûr (The Tower).
Interacting with: The Tower? The Group? The Gods?


The greatest of wizards walked the planes. From the vast depths of the astral seas above, stepping into the illuminated voids, to the infernal dimensions perpetually plagued by ever-burning flames. And from these realms the powerful magi enslaved the denizens to their collection of treasures amassing each wonder one by one. From there perhaps these planeswalkers would engage in magic duels, competitions of skill and tactics to see which was the superior duelist. It was at times perhaps they would summon such creatures to their beck and call by expending enough mana or magical energy. Some would summon fey creatures more attuned to earth and wood; fairies and the like, unicorns and even giants, others called forth leviathans and krakens from the seas. Other still called forth angelic hosts of heavenly nature, while darker magi like the possible necromancer summoned forth the shadows of death. Yet perhaps of all the magi, it was those who could tame the beasts of flaming purgatory that were the most skilled in destructive arts. Twas the nature of fire and brimstone, the devil you know and the demon within you as the god's first loss and man's first act of power. And with that faint smell of...

"I don't know there could be magic around I don'-Oh by- Hastur that's F-" The Sorcerer managed before being stricken down for his attempts to detect the subtle nuances of residual magic. Most spells left a signature in the air, or rather in the fabric. Like how a tailor can mend and stitch cloth to his or her will, so too could a mage warp reality. It wasn't as much as force one's will upon reality as it was to convince reality to decided otherwise, and sometimes if one was sensitive enough, you were able to sense the fine discrepancies of what should be and what is left by the use of magic. Thus it was often enough that one magic user trained and sensitive enough to these subtle changes in the weave could sense magic be it a staticky feeling in their beards or in Thomas' case a prickle inside his blood as the latent magics interacted with whatever seemed to interface with it. This time however there was not quite a tingle inside as it was a burning. A burning that singed his nostrils with a malodorous whiff so foul words fail to describe what could such ghastly aroma be compared to.

There was death, and there was this, and death dear friends, was far more merciful. For death only reaped, and did not reek. Death decays but does not rot, and this, this vile cloud of pestilence, coming in from the Grey skies above was anathema. The nip in the air could do nothing as the stagnant stank to befoul and purge the olfactories. The aerosolized bioweapon singed each nerve, a putrid touch of bleak bile and vile venom that corrupted the neuronal pathways with the flames of infernus. The pyre of Thomas' nose alighted, and alas, it was too late and the threshold was crossed beyond the veil. Taken by the hand, death submitted his bony grasp to this invisible assassin that yanked the poor sorcerer into the swallowing void. The toxic hand shoved down his throat, dripping of noxious poison ripped itself back out and took with it a fistful of Thomas' soul, as he felt himself die a little bit. And of course, along with the soul, came the bilious broken bready bits of breakfast.

Hurled with great force, or at least enough that his gag reflex could muster in such a circumstance, the fresh vomit projected itself so uncouthly beneath him. It was indeed a spectacle, one that you had to have been there to witness proper, but alas, there was nothing proper about upchucking was there? Nay, Thomas' eyes watered, his vagus fully engaged as a panic set over, the autonomics sending his heart racing as the inevitable load reversed bolused itself out of his mouth as the young mage heaved and clutched his chest. And the waterfall had no end so quickly, like a balloon sputtering out it lasted until the lad came crashing down weakening at the knees as the sorcerer buckled forward to his horror. Planting himself facedown, and soaking his robes in a touch of recently thrownup acids that burned his throat as they left. It was either some terribly great magic, or someone had just shoved their arse....

But let's avoid such vividly disturbing images and return to the situation at hand. There Thomas lay in a collection of his own vomit before the old suspect tower. Winded, heaving, and trying to purge the lingering scent from reaching his brain and melting it, Thomas clutched at his nose and messy mouth while the other hand lifted his head every so slightly off the ground...

Did anyone else smell death?
Oh dear.

Well Thomas is now Lord Voldemort.

His nose burned off.

Edit

I'll try and post tomorrow.
@Lady Amalthea

May I request an arcana roll to see/sense magical effects near the tower?
Thomas Richard Harrison

Location: The Tavern/Avengers HQ.
Interacting with: The group


Well, forgive Thomas for being some what sentimental to his animals. But Femnal or whatever the dwarf's name was (Nor was its?) didn't have to be so rude about it. Keeping them in the dark may have worn out their bioilluminsence, given that they aren't particularly being fed anything. Hence the point of keeping them in a lit area where they need not tax such glands to signal distress or confusion after their friends had been harvest so publicly. And the young sorcerer's reply was a rather indignant 'hrmph' who was some weak-stomached innkeeper to call him out? And this dwarf? A hairdresser that obviously only sees hair and heads, not people being so objectively driven to eschew comfort for livings things. All business, a barber who's earned his red stripe proper probably. Well at least there was Satilla of whom Thomas was happy to have her company, following the woodland witch with satchel in side. Thomas considered grabbing his makesift staff-walkingstick that was prepared by Ntaj, but seeing how he'll be riding sideseat its was probably unnecessary given Satilla's weapons and Thomas' lack of weapon training.

"Alright, coming!." Oh what an adventure this could be, hopefully one that would be fruitful. A good experience nevertheless assuming you didn't get yourself killed. Something to write home about maybe, the wonderful adventure of the dark tower. Of course such foolish youth was champing at the bit, threading forward with bold strides towards possible impending doom. He'd have to stick close to Satilla who had their shared light source. Reagents capped off and quickly placed in the hanging satchel, a stuffed bag carrying all of Thomas's usually effects. Maybe they'd find some interesting items in the tower, something to carry back and examine more thoroughly.

Leave no stone unturned and what not right?
Light.

See how it dances across the surface of the waves, glittering and glistening like shimmering magic over the seafoam's froth. By the shore the crystal waters of paradise ran clear as the sunshine sparkled over the rolling tides. And so too by night would the great sea mirror the stars and moon above as a map of the cosmos above charted below. This was the light by which the sailors relied, the certain stars and their movements across the sky kept to the rhythms of the heavens. Each celestial sphere giving the course and direction of which way and which when. Was it not also light that steered the weary captain away from the danger of the rocky cliffs? A blazing beacon of burning brazier from a high tower, which like a bright and wary eye scanned treacherous path? Was it not by the same principle that a traveler would light a lantern in the dark woods for fear of death around the corner? Or a even wander with a waning waxen candle in one's own house? A home of which ought to be familiar, a place of comfort and dominion for the lord or lady of the domus. So small wonder why he or she would bother with such a dim and lulling light. And yet the answer in all three cases was not out of fear of death perhaps, but something far greater, something which gave death such fear proper. There the answer lurked beneath the frolicking waves, under the forest canopy, and infesting one's very home.

Darkness.

Darkness, unknowing darkness. A black blindness that conceals and steals from the sense of sight. The abyss which gapes open like the emptiness of the skull which whispers memento mori or the pitiless gaze of the reaper who cloaks the body in the uttered shroud. Death is the promise of morality, a fear all mortals bear in the harrowing of their life. But it is darkness, ancient and foreboding that symbolizes the veil that even the immortals fear to cross. It is nothing, a void of existence, and yet it exists as a paradox of itself, as something made out of what is not. It is the never-was, always-is and yet-to-be. It was the mystery of a mystery, the boundary between the known and unknown. The darkness formed the very edges of reality, and the limits of fantasy where no god or writer could continue threading past. Where the mind ended and cannot comprehend, that is the truth and heart of darkness. For this reason the light must guide, however dim a glimmer it may be. And yet, while the great philosophers may delve and delve deep into the concept of the concrete nothingness and all of its abstractions for all the nihilism's worth, fewer still threw themselves into it. It was those souls who stared into the abyss and found the abyss staring back with its hollowed eyes.

Fire.

His eyes watched her. Burning beneath the shadowy cowl which masked his visage, tracking the movements made across the inn. Wading through the lake of tables, her movements slinking about to lure his eyes as the tavernmaster took them in. Who was she? So far and few who bore the torch of the heavens still, and she came not alone for the rest followed thereafter. And with the innocence of another patron giving the new arrivals a look over, he looked back down to cast those fiery embers away. What was she doing here? An agent of Varda? One who had come to bring him back into the service of the uncaring celestials? Or was she just another tourist in a tourist town? One that decorated itself not by the scales of the merfolk but by the coins that clinked within the pouches of visitors. The gold and silver chain that tethered them all, a weave interconnecting the exchange that binds them. And as he lowered his amber-bright gaze to glance upon his hand in this friendly game of chance played with the mer hunter across the table, he could feel them still, the astral collar around his neck like a proverbial albatross. It was from upon this chain that he hung, strangled like a puppet in suspension as his body cast a long shadow. They still tugged him so, even as the hands reached out from the fell to claim him. Strung now in every direction as each pulled his pale body asunder. And the pain was evermore delectable to a dead man. After all, to endure pain meant you still lived, even as they branded your flesh an outcast. And to soothe those burns, it was too easy to fall for an inviting drink even if no amount of mortal distractions could ever erase the strangle upon his tainted soul.

Water.

And how does one order a drink in a tavern underwater? What ways would the beerfroth flow in the currents and tows? Life underneath the waves was curious, a city of coral and thus so aptly named. A city far flung into the depths of the plane of water, carved into the reef as beautiful as it was sharp. A thousand and one cloisters tucked away with each wayward cave of living crystal, bastions of culture within the vastness of the wettest desert. What could be found was no question, but rather what was missing, for all pleasures from simple to the extraordinary. Weathered driftwood aged well from years of wave and waters erected themselves before each cave, spiraling and fanning shells became doors that opened and closed. And around each portcullis a frieze or placard depicting scenes of what could be found in exotic underwater artworks. Thus without language each visitor could know which were houses of ill repute and which such places were holy temples. Although often it was difficult to ascertain given the nature of being underwater made the locals seem so scantily clad by terrestrial standards. With their piscine graces and aquatic features, their forms were well adapted to the life in water eternal just as the warlock was attuned to life in the shadows. The umbral essences coalesced around his otherwise naked form, constituting themselves as an impressive armor set which fading wispy strands of inky blackness. Twas his cloak that concealed much of his shadowy manipulations and peppered white hair, keeping all within the edges of the ray's wraps. And twas also only the cloak he carried that allowed him to reside without drowning.

Air.

Without the cloak he must surface, breaching like the cetaceans to take the air, but first traverse the winding corridors of the coral maze. Higher and higher, following the luminous markings to the left to ascend the labyrinth network of undersea shops and coral buildings. It was a small irony that even in the depths so many miles down that such bioilluminescent light would exist in this abyss. Thus still even in the airless city, light still sought to cast out the dark and perhaps that for all their differences, even the mer and sea creatures still feared the primordial darkness that the umbral one could penetrate through with those infernal eyes. True he had come to rest and recuperate at the tavern, but he was here on business rather than pleasure. and despite his fall for vices and pleasures of flesh, the stalker had found his quarry. It was his game, his trade, finding that which needed to be found, and imprisoning them as required. The target was gullible for a wizard, convinced to cast a myriad of spells which rendered him powerless before a supposed impressed aspirant. A few words of flattery and encouragement was all that was needed for the arrogant fool to waste it all in a spectacular display of arcane powers. And to finish the show, the ecstatic wizard was goaded into doing the impossible: eschew the protection of his enchanted necklace and cast a spell of water breathing to prove his speed of spellcasting. Of course the very moment he attempted to do so, the smiling warlock dropped his false pretenses and evoked a counter. And thus alas, thrown to the mercy of the suffocating waters the wizard was forced to cut the dimensional anchor that tethered him to the plane of water, and there was instantly regrounded upon the prime material plane he could pose no threat to the warlock's employer any longer.

Earth.

Thus were the high and mighty humbled by a lowly shadow. Such was the might of words, the magicless magic from which so many sealed their fates with. Though it creeps low across the ground, the shadow was powerful. Few were blessed with its secrets, but those who knew its intimate arts could find themselves an eternal ally that shall follow them loyally. Thus come the sunless morning, from the ground his shadow rose and split off as it took form, darkness folding upon itself like a black sheet of origami. A muzzle, ears, legs, a tail, like shifting squid ink though invisible to all without a form of truesight as the shadow hound rose to the summons of its master and partner. Shaking the shadow mass that composed it like a canine would before sense the warlock's will and desire to watch her more. The Other Aasimar, before they left the public tavern for whatever and wherever it was they would venture. Slink into her shadow, and lurk there, let her feel the chill of fear, the dread of being hunted. What business did they have here? A fellow stalker visiting on assignment wondered the same thing thinking such a group had something to do with the fallen aasimar's arrival. Their card game interrupted the other night by such considerations, and they played for a greater wealth than coin. And with that knowledge won, there was something overheard in hushed towns about their former lord Marid. Ah a network of assassins, hunters and rogues, throughout all the planes, see how the shadows tempt so many?

Redemption.

Now with the silent bidding of his shadow hound, the umbramancer took his chances with this group with a keen interest in the young aasimar girl. Perhaps he sought to corrupt her too and turn her soul over to the shadows by dark seduction. Or perhaps he cared to warn her about straying from the path? Whatever the intent conspiring in his blackened soul was swallowed swiftly with a batting blink. Could she save him? Could he restore his inner light by following her? Orange eyes watched his shadow hound slink away and fade into her shadow as she left.

Farewell faithful friend.
For where once you followed me,
Now I follow you.

Would Varda tell her?

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