The Game

[Taelian]

3rd of Glade, Year 112

"Taelian," the man called on him. The young Siltori - soon to be inducted as an Ebon Knight - turned to face his superior. His name was Vendrael, one of the Black Revenants. One of the first.

"What are our words?"

"From Oaths, Order..." he paused. Taelian knew the rest, but -- he always felt silly reciting them. As much as he could even manage to feel that way. And of course, Vendrael noticed that pause, his gaze beginning to narrow. Taelian's own gaze widened slightly, as he recognized the look, and the Famished scurried to rectify his blunder. "Order is my commitment. Strength is my tool. Belief is my weapon. I--"

"I am one blade among a million," Vendrael said with him. The two followed, now, in unison. "Pointed to the forms of our slavers; meant to drive through their necks. To rectify their scourge. I am the Cleric that will cure the land. I am the Wraith that will cull the deathless. I am the Revenant that will hunt them beyond the grave."

They both paused, then. Vendrael faintly smiled.

"From Oaths, Order. With Order, Strength and Belief, we will be free."

Vendrael looked to the younger man. He held his arm forward and gripped at the Black Sigil behind his neck, rubbing at the smooth texture of the mark. Taelian winced slightly at first, and even squirmed, before quickly settling into his grasp. He breathed coolly, and looked at Vendrael's complexion. Sometimes, he reminded Taelian of his uncle, a man long gone now. More severe, rugged, focused. Taelian's father was more of a silver-tongued seducer, while his uncle was the one who would get him out of the trouble that he started.

"You'll be initiated soon. You already have the Sigil - it's only a matter of tapping into the Rune within, and channeling the Beacon. Aldrin has told me of his interest in indicting you as a full Ebon Knight; a Cleric. It's good news, Taelian. You'll command some respect around here, at least among the youths and the refugees. It's something of a life," he explained.

Taelian looked away, beginning to frown. "It's not the life I wanted," he said. "I never wanted to be Famished. Unlike what the vows tell me, I'll never be free. No matter how far I go -- no matter what happens to Sil-Elaine. I'll never be anything." Sorrow overtook him, but in truth it was always there. It was the one emotion that he knew well. The one he was comfortable with... familiar with. For some reason, it was among the only emotions the Sigil didn't seem to suppress.

"Taelian, you will be," said Vendrael. "Aldrin is getting more powerful by the day. He's learning how to manipulate the Sigil. Eventually, he'll be able to rectify what was done to you. I'm certain of--"

"Done to me by him," Taelian made sure to include, shaking his head in frustration.

"Done by necessity. You know what's at stake. You at least got a better deal than most others he tried on. You don't need to be grateful -- but you do need to try and understand."

[Taelian]

"I have a test for you, Taelian," he began. "It's a prelude to your initiation into the Order. A hunt, within one of the lower levels of the Citadel Gallows. There's... a Dranoch Botchling we've unleashed down there, a frail and dying thing; hasn't fed in some time. Occasionally we test new initiates this way -- they need to learn to deal with the fear that the Dranoch can bring. They're a ferocious, hungry animal. Grotesque. They lurk in darkness, often, and they fight desperately when cornered. Viciously. These are the sorts of conditions you'll need to deal with all the time, and so... we'd like for you to experience them in a more controlled setting."

"A game, then? A mock hunt," Taelian questioned. He shook his head. "What do I get to bring with me?"

"Just this -- a silver dagger. Be wary of its claws; they're not quite so long yet, as it's only a Botchling, but they are sharp and infectious. Any cuts you sustain will likely need to be burned shut. Understood?"

"Okay," he quietly replied. "Okay."

Some time passed. Taelian made his way to the lower level of the Gallows, standing before the entrance to the crypts. The separation between him and the stone enclosure was nothing but a set of stairs and a stony door, one that could only be operated by Sigilic Pyromancy. Elandria was down with him; she would be the one to open the way for him, and to allow him back once his task was complete. He would only need to yell at the door when he wanted to return.

"Good luck," she told him. Taelian smiled faintly, nodding at the woman. Elandria was something like his older sister when he was first taken in by the Ebon Knights -- along with Darnan, she was one of Taelian's closer friends.

He slowly trotted down the steps, dagger in hand, his other hand smoothing along the edge of the wall. Before long he was at the face of the crypt, and Elandria lit the brazier beside her with Shrivenflame, opening the way. Taelian entered, his sight immediately lit dimly by Shrivenflame torches. Behind him, the crypt door shut, and in response he gripped the hilt of his dagger ever tighter. He steeled himself to what was to come. Now that the door was shut, he couldn't really go back without killing the Botchling.

Taelian wandered the crypts. Their grounds were largely dirt, but it was almost like eroded stone. Apparently the Citadel Gallows were built over a small town that was razed during the Sundering, and the crypts were its buried lower remains. There were stone coffins along the walls, boarded areas, and the occasional aether-corrupted vermin. Vendrael had told him once that they'd collapsed all of the tunnels that the crypt led out to, preventing it from being used as an entry point into the Gallows. The Citadel, considering its location, was virtually impenetrable -- they had ensured that it would remain so.

[Taelian]

He began to hear the faint sound of sobbing. Then, as he took another step, an alert rasp of shock. Taelian heard hasty rummaging, before he saw the face of the Botchling present itself from behind one of the walls before him. It was pale-grey, gaunt and with a bloodied and wide maw, its tongue hanging loosely from its lips. The tongue itself was covered in black bile, and the Botchling failed to hide its stunned reaction to Taelian despite its inoperable mouth. It reeled backward and nearly collapsed, the gaunt figure revealing an old club that it had managed to acquire. Judging by the age and quality, it had seemingly found it in one of the coffins. Taelian's gaze narrowed. Hunting it wouldn't be as easy as he would've liked.

"Pfaff... pfaff..." the Botchling began to mutter, attempting to speak. With its offhand, it attempted to stuff its tongue further into its mouth, before smoothing along the edges of its mangled jaw and seemingly snapping it partly back into place. It gagged with every sound, and gagged as it corrected itself, but seemingly it had managed to do so - at least in part. The Botchling proceeded to grip one of its silver wisps of hair, pulling at it roughly before staring frantically at the Ebon Knight.

"Ahm... one'f yaou," it cried out. "Ahm... Siltaarii..."

Taelian's eyes began to water. It was pleading not to die. And it was right; it was a Siltori. But that was the grim piece of this war; the reality the young Ebon Knights and the fresh Botchlings would all have an infinitely difficult time coming to accept. Dranoch and their mortal peers were fundamentally different; opposite in their goals. Dranoch were designed to hunger, to hunt, to kill. And nothing more. They had done nothing but prey on others since their conception into the world.

But that didn't make it easy for him. For either of them.

"I-I'm sorry," Taelian replied. As much as he understood the necessity of its death, it did hurt him to see the creature like this; frail, mangled, pleading. He wondered if it had chosen to be a Dranoch -- he hadn't chosen to be Famished, and so he only wondered. All of this was largely fueled by the elite crafting their pawns, and sending them against one another.

Taelian began to run at the creature, and he held the dagger back, his elbow shaping his arm into a ninety degree angle as he directed the blade of the dagger opposite from his thumb. Once close to the Dranoch, the fragile creature began to swing its club at him, but its weakness didn't allow it to strike fast enough. Taelian gripped its wrist and kept it there, before stabbing through its other arm repeatedly with his dagger until it couldn't move. Then, he began to stab through its chest, viciously lunging hole after hole into the leech. He twisted the blade, before pulling back his fist and meeting its mangled jaw with a hard strike. Its lower jaw snapped right off, flinging towards the wall of the crypt as blood began to pour.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. The creature began to fade, its eyes quickly blinking as its focus wavered. It coughed out more of that bile; some of it landed along Taelian's cheek. The Dranoch began to collapse. "I'm sorry," the Siltori said once more. In a few more seconds, the Botchling was dead.

[Althalos]

XP Awarded - 5
Magic Experience: N/A
Injuries/Ailments: N/A
Requested Lore:
Blades: Jabbing weak spots
Blades: Twisting a dagger
Blades: Backhanded charge
Running: Charging with a weapon
Unarmed Combat: Follow-up strike
Unarmed Combat: Punching a bone clean off

Loot: N/A

Comments: When I'd first about the Dranoch, I genuinely didn't think I'd ever see a situation where I felt sorry for one. This felt a lot more like an execution than any sort of fight, and knowing it took several blows to finish the thing off was grim. Otherwise, the thread was a fascinating examination of Taelion's psyche, especially in regard to his role as Famished. Well done.