He was stabbing the mess that was the cadaver, ripping his dagger through its limp form. The sound of a blade puncturing flesh echoed through the moldy chamber that was the room he had been trapped in. There was no light, save for the glimmer of moonlight through the one, closed window. They looked to be in some sort of rotted vestige of opulence; a Rien manor, with nothing now but dead and dread.
Taelian tore through the flesh. Maggots crawled out. Blood that was more bile than anything else, spilled. Taelian began to sob uncontrollably as he let his dagger lodge into the dormant slab of flesh, his arms falling limp before him as the tears streamed down to the line of his jaw.
A nightmare. He awoke to the sound of his own whimpering screams, though almost distant, as if he had been detached from his own form.
He looked around him. He was... in Lethiril's room?
"What's wrong?!" the Dratori yelled hurriedly, his panicked stare descending upon Taelian from the now open doorway. The Siltori's eyes were wide; he must have looked crazed.
"How am I here?" he asked, his eyes darting around the room to ensure he somehow had not mistaken himself for being in a different place. But, no -- this was Lethiril's home. All the way out in the forest... he did not remember anything of the sort.
"You came here in the night," the Dratori told him. "You were crying. You said you wanted to sleep, but couldn't at home. Don't you remember?"
The Siltori frowned. He was suddenly filled with a feeling of deep anxiety; one he had not ever experienced, at least in the same way. "No," he replied. "Help me remember. Help me, Lethiril..."
The Dratori nodded. His face bore its own frown, wide and worried. "You showed up at my doorstep half-naked," he began, "...with nothing but an Enkindled twig in your palm. And blood on your clothes."
Ah...
He felt that he remembered.
Taelian closed his eyes. He felt the cool touch of the wintry forest winds, blowing against his cheeks, his exposed lower legs. His arms. He was that he had the Beacon; if not for it, perhaps he would have frozen out in the woods as he had been. He could see things so vividly, as if he were really there again. As if he were... in some way, reliving the moment.
He had his blade in his hand. So -- where had it gone? It was Enkindled, firm within his grip, and acted as a brazier for him in the night. Even though the Black Sun already lit his eyes. He... remembered the form of a woman, well-dressed with thick-padded wintry clothes, colored black, with raven's plumes extending from her collar. She had long, dark hair and gilded embroidery upon her gloves. Yes; he recalled her very clearly, though her face somehow remained at the edge of his peripheral.
A wounded wolf came, desperate for a meal. With such ease, Taelian butchered it. And she remained; at the edge of his vision, she remained. He couldn't remember whether she had even spoken to him, in all that time, but the glimpses of memory continued from there.
Re: The Lark
Posted: Sat Jan 11, 2020 9:33 pm
by Taelian
He had been led deeper into the woods. Something, he felt, was compelling him. It wasn't restlessness, not only at least; there was a sort of... force that loomed over his mind. He could hear a song emanating from deeper within the forest, haunting yet alluring to his senses. Somehow, as much as his fragile mind wished to suspect the raven-plumed woman that always lurked in the corner of his view, he knew that it was not her compelling him. Instead, she appeared to be watching curiously, as a cat would the engagements of humans.
Taelian continued to follow that song. He could hear a bird's voice join the chorus; a small thing, but with the powerful voice of a lark. The hymns reminded him of home -- of the Vainwood trees that sung of old glories.
He realized that he did not actually have a blade in his hands. He had left it at home. Whatever allure was on his mind, it had faded and he realized that he senselessly wielded nothing but a small and brittle branch. Taelian was filled with a deep and foreboding anxiety, but he had to continue to follow the tune. It felt . . . there was nothing that could pull him from the melody.
The Siltori's feet broke the branches upon the ground's soft soil, moist from the snow that had only just melted. His feet were dirty, covered in touches of mud. He flatly stared forward, a deadening look rife within his stare.
He came to a clearing, and it became apparently obvious what was occurring. A woman in similar shades of black to the one that had been following him, wearing a long satin dress, knelt over the corpse of a man with an ornate blade ran through his chest, blood scattered across his fallen form, seemingly in either frustration or tribute. She had red hair, but long ears, bloody-amber eyes; she was clearly a Siltori, despite the unnatural shade. And she was clearly, also, a Dranoch.
"Ah, so his mind is not all too strong," she whispered, rising from her position knelt over the carcass of her dead friend. "Though his blade is. Certainly, having killed Uther, I admit."
He understood, now. She... was a Mesmer. She had compelled him, in the night, to come here. She must have discovered who he was -- that he was an Ebon Knight. That he had slain her... friend, or whatever he was. Though he wondered why she didn't simply kill him in his bed, vulnerable as he was.
"I wanted you to come here. To see my beloved's final place of rest. You may think us all to be cowards, but we are not all. I was there when you came to cull Uther, and I did not intervene. I wanted his fight -- last or not -- to be honorable. And it was."
The woman created a blade from her palm, one manifested purely by the ichor of hardened, seemingly coagulated blood. She smiled grimly and gestured for Taelian to come nearer. He remarked to himself that she had only allowed him the wisdom to wield a twig; it was not truly a fair fight at all. But then, she did not want to die. He understood. If these conditions were slanted enough to let her live, then she wouldn't take her chances with the real thing.
Re: The Lark
Posted: Sat Jan 11, 2020 10:09 pm
by Taelian
Her neck suddenly snapped. An incredible force drew around it, twisting the air enough to where he could see space manifestly change, only for the force to tug hard and break through her bones. She was pulled onto the soil, going limp, twitching erratically as the life left her eyes.
The woman who had been following him stood at the edge of the treeline. She stared... somewhat stoically, before vanishing in what appeared to be an implosion of black dust. She re-appeared quickly at the side of the amber-haired woman she had just felled, reaching down to clutch the ornate necklace tied around the fallen woman's neck. Taelian stared, in quiet stupor, at what was occurring before him. He did not know what to make of any of it; he supposed he had just been assisted in some way, though the woman's reasoning for doing so was still vague in his mind. She said nothing. To him, at least.
"Honor means nothing," she said. The woman drew a knife from the pouch tied around her thick coat, and began to carve into the woman's flesh. Perhaps the origin of his nightmarish image, his waking mind thought; the thing that had unfolded before him. She cut perfect shapes into the flesh, she carved and grafted... and from the fallen Dranoch she drew skin, and blood, even pulled teeth and placed her eyes in jars. It was a long time spent watching. In and out of a daze, he stood quietly in the cold winds, simply observing as if the life had left his mind.
"I'm sorry for turning you into bait," the woman finally said. "I had been hunting them both for some time. Carefully; quietly. They did not know I was there -- they never knew. But had I gone, and had I tried to fell them on my own... the risk was too great. I'm glad you came when you did."
He couldn't immediately remember anything after that. The trail ended there; all the rest of his memories were, seemingly, locked away. Lethiril explained to him that it was the following evening, and that he had slept long amidst the sunny hours. From dusk to the fall of evening, he had dreamt; and he was glad that he could not remember those dreams, for he knew that more than just the one were incredibly grim.
"I have to leave this place," he said, filled with a pit of deep anxiety. The Siltori grimaced, his face wracked with manifest worry and doubt. "They know who I am; they know where I live. That woman -- she might have told her companions. I don't know how safe I am."
"Who, Taelian? Who?" Lethiril asked, frightened.
"The Dranoch," he replied. "I'm not the hunter anymore. I'm going to become the prey."
Re: The Lark
Posted: Sun Jan 12, 2020 11:14 pm
by Paragon
Taelian
XP: 5/5
Magic? No.
Loot: +5 Black Remedy progression points.
Lore: None requested. If you change your mind, please get in touch with me.
Comments: If you have questions, comments, or concerns let me know.
