|
|
Post by exile on Jan 27, 2008 19:36:20 GMT -5
Daily insanity roll [dice=20]
The magnificent colonnaded gate of the Great Gymnasium towered above Hadrian in all of its sublime opulence. He could not help me notice the ironic balance it added to Sigil’s great and varied skyline when juxtaposed with the dreary and imposing faced of the Gatehouse. For a moment the Madman was lost in his thoughts, his gaze following every lovingly hewn stone of gold and red veined marble as they spiraled upwards towards their graceful load.
He was only half sure why he had come. The one named Castor had extended an invitation his way the day before, but he had already been rebuffed at the seat of one faction. Unconsciously, his hands clenched about the shaft of his spear until his knuckles went white. With a ginger step, he began his ascent up the well worn staircase. At the top he caught a fleeting glimpse of the pools beyond and the many strange and varied creatures that had elected to seek the essence of the moment therein.
“You have to check your weapon, sir.”
Hadrian blinked in confusion, his gaze settling on a slender human behind a counter.
”I’m sorry?”
“Your spear, sir. You aren’t allowed to bring it in with you,” she persisted, though her tone carried no hint or suggestion of annoyance.
He paused, lips pursed in thought as he considered his response.
(more coming depending on the results of my sanity roll)
[rand=4255555784357404309730491418255482790325657738688629586255455489385]
|
|
|
|
Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Jan 29, 2008 4:12:49 GMT -5
Wraith shuffled down the crowded street; nay, staggered was more like it, as the hapless chit was half dead on her feet with tiredness. Exhaustion etched its spidery lines into the corners of her eyes, tightened her mouth, and gathered as deeper shadows around her sunken eyes. She's pale, frightfully so, and trace spatterings of blood still cling in matted clumps to her hair, and stain the cuticles of her black fingernails. Even the impeccably clean, if worn, corset and bodice of her black gown have been spattered with drying, suspicious looking spots.
The hem of her robes are stiff with blood, as though she has recently passed through a puddle of the stuff, and had no time to wash it off. All of this gives her a ghastly appearance, of the mad surgeon, the vivisectionist, the grim mortician, caught on his rest break between mutilations.
If she sees or feels the annoyed bashers bumping into her from all sides, she pays them little heed, and mounts the steps of the Great Gymnasium with a tired sigh of relief. She sidles along side Hadrian, but for now, it seems that the exhausted woman doesn't notice him all.
Up this close, he can see that her sunken eyes are glazed and bloodshot. Even if she did see him, it was doubtful the Dead would recognise him in this numb mindset. She's functioning like an automaton, going through the motions without any true awareness of her actions.
Checking her meagre possesions, she hands over her sheathed knife and walking staff to the door clerk. "Could you please direct me to the steam baths, basher? I've been working at the Weary Spirit since first light..." Her voice is soft and raspy, as though she's spent a good portion of the morning screaming, or crying.
|
|
|
|
Post by exile on Feb 3, 2008 14:25:06 GMT -5
The aasimar relinquished his weapon into the custody of the checkroom without quibble, and the slip of a girl behind the counter offered up a thin smile and a grubby, much handled ticket in its place.
That sweet melancholic voice again…
”If I believed in fate I would say that the planes themselves were conspiring to bring us together, Uathach.” Hadrian’s features conveyed a soft and personal pleasure lined deeply with fatigue as he turned to regard the woman at his side. ”Forgive me for saying this, dear sister, but you seem as though you have walked through Oinos and back. How any heart can bear a burden such as yours without breaking I shall never know. Tell me, have you had much time to think on our last conversation?”
Hadrian offered his arm to the woman and with slow, measured steps passed beneath the great doors that stood guard over the grand Gymnasium.
|
|
|
|
Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Feb 4, 2008 4:13:34 GMT -5
”If I believed in fate I would say that the planes themselves were conspiring to bring us together, Uathach.” Hadrian’s features conveyed a soft and personal pleasure lined deeply with fatigue as he turned to regard the woman at his side. Wraith turns as that familiar haunting voice grabs her attention: Hadrian. She faces the Aasimar Bleaker, and in that moment her bloodshot eyes convey more than any words could ever express. She gazes at him; no, through him. The Madman would've seen such a stare before, when passing through the halls of his House. Hers are the eyes of madness, trapped somewhere between death and despair. And again she beseeches him with her fading amethyst gaze, when no words to express her grief can pass her chapped, pale lips. ”Forgive me for saying this, dear sister, but you seem as though you have walked through Oinos and back. How any heart can bear a burden such as yours without breaking I shall never know. Tell me, have you had much time to think on our last conversation?” Hadrian offered his arm to the woman and with slow, measured steps passed beneath the great doors that stood guard over the grand Gymnasium. It would've been better if she had. Wading through the viscera of the fiends was a far more desirable fate than standing by the bloodsoaked table of the dispassionate vivisectionist... She blinks once, her dead, glazed stare focusing at last upon Hadrian, and she lets out a gasp that sounds like an agonized sob. "Oh, Hadrian... you have no idea what I've seen. Oinos would be a small mercy compared..." Wraith lets out another strangled sob, and pitches forward suddenly; falling heavily as she faints against the Aasimar Madman. |
|
|
|
Post by exile on Feb 6, 2008 21:08:16 GMT -5
With a startled look but firm grasp, the aasimar manages to hang onto the girl as she stumbles.
”Wraith?” he calls, his voice strained with worry. ”Sister, can you hear me?”
Gently lowering the tiefling maiden to the cold marble floor, Hadrian casts off his gloves and raises a hand to the woman’s cheek with the hopes of rousing her. His other hand finds her carotid pulse easily enough amidst the pale white flesh of her neck, and it fluttered beneath his finger tips. With a quick glance towards her heaving breast, Hadrian reassured himself that the woman’s lungs yet drew breath. It was not uncommon for patients at the Gatehouse to seize or collapse and Hadrian had long since grown accustomed to emergent situations.
But never before had he cared so much for the patient. Gods had she been this emaciated when last they met? Her lips were chapped and dry, and her eyes red and inflamed.
“Is she ok, basher?” The woman from behind the cloak-room desk was hovering uncertainly above them, and a small crowd of onlookers had gathered.
“She will be,” he replied. ”She’s dehydrated. If you want to lend a hand, fetch her something to drink. Warm, not hot. And let’s get her someplace more comfortable, shall we?”
Extending a strong arm beneath the woman’s tresses and another beneath her knees, the aasimar lifted the poor creature up to his breast and cradled her head against his shoulder. Passing beneath the great doors guarding the entry of Sigil’s fabled public gymnasium, Hadrian veered off towards one of the private chambers that lined the cloistered courtyard.
|
|
|
|
Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Feb 8, 2008 7:58:30 GMT -5
Wraith hung limply in Hadrian's arms, light as a ragdoll, and mumbling to herself in her delirium. The words are incoherent, harsh, gutteral, and too painful to make any sense of. Likely she speaks in another tongue, one of those foul and infernal languages of the Lower Planes, but every now and then the word, "Aerin" asserts itself from the inane babble.
If she can hear him, she doesn't show it. Air rattles shallowly in her thin chest, and her breasts strain against her too tight corset with each pained breath. She nuzzles Hadrian's neck, seeming to take some measure of comfort from his closeness, and relaxes completely in his arms.
Exhaustion finally takes hold of her, and the weary Dead succumbs to sleep, hissing with each deeper breath, by the time they cross the threshold into the private chamber. Careworn lines ease, lifting from her slack face, and leave behind this pale autumnal beauty, having found a little peace at last.
It seems that this is the first time she's fallen into a deep sleep in several days, and her condition brings to mind the exhausted and dehydrated traveller, who mysteriously fell from the painting that fateful eve.
[OOC @ Exile: It appears that in her babbling, Wraith is cursing the mad surgeon, Ridnir Tetch, in Tanar'ri, and the name Zanathis crops up, too.]
|
|
|
|
Post by exile on Feb 9, 2008 14:04:19 GMT -5
The chamber Hadrian had chosen turned out to be a small artist’s workshop and a class was in session. A half-dozen cutters, brushes in hand, sat before their easels with expressions of varying tranquility. The subject of their endeavor was a bariaur bull contemplating an apple. At the sound of the Bleaker’s footsteps the model’s gaze swiveled about to take the arrivals in but he was careful to preserve his form. If anyone else had noticed their approach, they made no sign of it.
Wraith had fallen silent for the most part, save for her ragged breathing. Hadrian didn’t understand the tongue in which she had been muttering but a few names rang true. Aerin, the center of her heart and the root of her sorrow. And Tetch, Hadrian knew that name well.
Spying a rather lavish couch that had been placed to the side, no doubt a prop for some other painting, Hadrian laid the sleeping woman down as gently as he could. Unslinging his pack from his shoulders, the aasimar produced a threadbare ashen-gray cloak from within and draped it about the tieflings recumbent form. As an after thought he reached down and loosened the strings of her corset, allowing her chest some greater measure of freedom. She looked peaceful now, the stress had passed and he was hesitant to wake her.
Smiling softly to himself the Bleaker took a seat on the floor beside his sleeping friend and pulled out his spellbook. Opening it to a page marked by a red ribbon, he began to read. Castor could wait for another time, some things were simply more important.
Close by, one of the students had repositioned her easel to face the unlikely pair. The madman looked up for a moment from his readings to consider the artist. She was a young thing, quite pretty really, with fine silken hair that stirred of its own accord. Genesai he decided, almost certainly air. Offering a polite smile and a nod of his head, the madman returned to his consideration of arcane formulae.
|
|
|
|
Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Feb 10, 2008 23:46:04 GMT -5
An hour or so passes. Wraith stirs on the couch, and opens her eyes. Breathing easily, she finds that her corset has been loosened, and raises a hand to her chest and her throat. Her movements are slow, languid, as the sleepy daze has yet to release it's hold upon her. Her throat is still dry, but at least the headache and the nausea have passed.
Where was Hadrian?
Turning her head to get a better look at her surroundings, and to search for her Bleaker companion, she discovers with a start where she is, and recalls with some embarrassment, having fainted in public. But how did she get here?
Wraith blushes; by now, four or five young painters have disengaged themselves from their study of the Bariaur, and formed a semi-circle around herself and Hadrian; quietly recreating the scene of the supine Dead maiden, and the Madman lost to his own quiet reflections. Never before had she been the centre of attention like this, and it made her feel a little giddy, actually. Although that could've easily been fatigue and dehydration.
Hadrian on the floor by her feet, reading quietly, so maybe he didn't observe her waking from sleep just yet. A scrawl of gilded runes spread across the aged parchment pages before him. His spellbook. She nodded, recognising some of the arcane symbols.
"Hadrian? Cutter, how... how long have I been asleep for?" She asks in a soft, dry voice, and raises her hand to her throat. She really could do with a good drink of water right about now.
|
|
|
|
Post by exile on Feb 12, 2008 0:44:28 GMT -5
Faint words at his back brought the aasimar out of his reverie. ”The maiden stirs at last,” he said, smiling as he turned to face her. Lapis blue orbs met their amethyst counters, and for a moment Hadrian could do little more than study the beautiful face that filled his sight. Gone was the haggard look of an hour before, and in its place was a vibrant life. Sadly he knew it could not last, for the weight of her burden was simply eased and not lifted. Before long it would come crashing down once more.
’But at least for this one moment, this single second frozen in time, at least now she is at peace,’ he thought, and it buoyed his own heart to know it. It was beyond the Bleaker’s capacity to see the truth behind the tenets this very building enshrined however. Wraith had found her moment; it would do the Ciphers proud.
A silvered pitcher of water had long since been fetched for the tiefling Dead and it lay forgotten near at hand. Hadrian reached for a beautifully blown gossamer-thin glass the color of Brux’s eternal twilight sky, and filled it with the tepid liquid. Everything the Transcendent Order touched was transformed into art evidently. Carefully he handed over the libation.
”How long, sister?” he said, finding his words at last. ”An hour perhaps. If it were a day, would it matter? You looked so tranquil; I couldn’t bring myself to awaken you.”
|
|
|
|
Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Feb 12, 2008 21:13:46 GMT -5
"An hour?" Wraith sighed, flopping back on the couch, and lay there in quiet repose for a moment longer. She supposed she needed the rest. She felt safe and at peace here. But the burden of her responsibilities soon came crashing down around her again. If only she could lay here a while longer, surrounded by the painters, with her dear friend Hadrian close to her side.
She sat up again, smoothing the crinkles from her old black gown, and draws the busk of her corset together. Now that the laces were loosened, she could breathe a little easier. What had possessed her, in all these years of tightlacing, to draw the strings so tight that she would faint?
Wraith shook her head and sighed again. "Thankyou, for staying here with me. I-It's not often that I have the simple pleasure of a friend's companionship." She murmured, taking the cup offered to her, and raised it to her lips for a sip. It tasted sweet, and clean, unlike the foul polluted waters that streamed from the sky of the Cage.
"But I should get back to work. I know Ridnir Tetch couldn't care less what happens to me, it's in my best interests to make a good impression with my superiors." A cold shudder suddenly siezed the maiden's fragile frame, and she trembled uncontrollably for a moment; spilling water over her fingertips. Visibly shaken, and haggard once more, she raised a hand to her face, and realised she'd lingered here too long already.
They were watching her. They were always watching. The sickening realisation squeezed her gut, clenching painfully arouind the sweet water she'd just imbibed, and she felt the bile rise to the tip of her throat. Draining her cup to dispell the foul taste, she rose from the couch on shaky legs, and secured her cloak around her shoulders once more.
"You have my thanks for your hospitality, cutters." She nodded to the painters in turn. "You may come along if you wish, Hadrian. But I am in a hurry. Please, forgive my abrupt departure." She turned away with a shaky breath, and shuffles quietly from the studio.
|
|
|
|
Post by exile on Feb 13, 2008 15:41:35 GMT -5
Hadrian marked his place in the tome with the ribbon and climbed to his feet. “It would seem this session is at an end, my friends,” he said, splaying out his hands apologetically. The smile on his face betrayed his good humor however.
Collecting his belongings, the aasimar turned to regard his companion. ”It would be my pleasure to accompany you back to the Hive, dear sister. Whenever you are ready.”
Matching Wraith’s hastened stride, Hadrian steps out into the open air of the cloistered commons. ”How are your studies progressing with Tetch?” he queried. ”You mentioned him in your sleep, and someone else besides I think. Zanathis? My Tanar’ri isn’t very good.”
Hadrian had never met the butcher who set up shop in the Weary Spirit but he knew the man’s reputation well.
|
|
|
|
Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Feb 17, 2008 23:19:15 GMT -5
Wraith walked in silence, quickening her pace when they were outside again in the stale grey air, and circumvented a puddle filled with brackish water. Her expression darkened at the mentioning of Ridnir Tetch, though of Zanathis, she said very little. Only this:
"Initiate Zanathis has been my teacher in the Arts, in the unfortunate demise of my former tutor. A man who met his fate in the same manner as Aerin's nursemaid." This is all spoken with an air of chilly detachment that is really quite startling after the previous few days.
Indeed the tiefling is going through a crisis, and it stems from more than just the emotional, extending it's claws into the spiritual. Her heart is no longer as constant as it should be.
"As for Tetch..." She growls, spitting his name like a curse. "The man should burn for the suffering he inflicts upon so many. Have you any idea what this vivisectionist does?" She turns an accusing eye on Hadrian, confronting him in the middle of the street.
Her eyes have brimmed with tears again, and they spill down her cheeks unchecked.
|
|
|
|
Post by Stix on Feb 17, 2008 23:31:03 GMT -5
Immediately outside the Gymnasium, a stained and decrepit Dustman wagon sits parked, blocking foot traffic; a Harmonium patrol carries a body out of a nearby alley, loading up the Ward's first deader of the day.
Holding the reins of the stout Arcadian pony, Dynusk sits at the driver's seat, his heartless gaze focused on his weeping faction-mate.
|
|
|
|
Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Feb 18, 2008 21:15:00 GMT -5
Immediately outside the Gymnasium, a stained and decrepit Dustman wagon sits parked, blocking foot traffic; a Harmonium patrol carries a body out of a nearby alley, loading up the Ward's first deader of the day. Holding the reins of the stout Arcadian pony, Dynusk sits at the driver's seat, his heartless gaze focused on his weeping faction-mate. Wraith stiffens, feeling the dead gaze fall upon her, and turns her head to the side. Catching sight of Dynusk, fellow faction-mate and superior, she fails to repress her shudder, and nods at him. "Cutter." She mouths, and starts to walk off, motioning for Hadrian to follow. She didn't wish to linger any longer, so long as he sat there, staring at her.
"This way, Hadrian. I've got to get back to work." Only now she was beginning to realise just how much their detachment troubled her. |
|
|
|
Post by exile on Feb 19, 2008 23:49:09 GMT -5
“I know Tetch by reputation alone,” Hadrian replied, holding up his hands in defense, though the smile on his face and the mirth in his eyes suggested he did not feel wronged. “And I do not care to know him in any greater detail. The man is a butcher, I’m told, and I pray we never cross paths.”
Wraith’s features underwent a sudden, startling transformation even as the aasimar spoke. Her attention, however, was not directed at Hadrian. Turning to follow her gaze, the Madman spied the source of her consternation, a fellow faction member making his rounds with the deadcart.
‘Ah,’ he thought. ‘self-reflection is merely the awareness that others may be watching. We wouldn’t want to give them the wrong impression now, would we?’
Hadrian had a mind to return the Dustman’s pointed stare, and perhaps tell him to park his ears elsewhere, but out of deference to his companion he stayed his tongue.
“Lets get you home then,” he replied, trying not to let his sudden irritation at their unwanted attention strain his tone. “After you, sister.”
(This scene is now closed by common agreement of the participants.)
|
|
