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Post by Stix on Feb 2, 2008 16:34:11 GMT -5
(Continued from the Gatehouse thread.)
Wraith follows numbly as Hadrian escorts her away from the Gatehouse line, and down a muddy litter-and-razorvine clogged side street, to a tavern marked as The Weary Head. It's little more than a boarded up shant really, with a rusted sign hanging above the door. It squeals, grating on the nerves of passersby, as it swings back and forth in the wind on a single nail.
The Dustwoman issues a disconsolate sigh, and mutters belatedly. "Why bother? Everything I eat tastes like ashes in my mouth, and fails to nourish me for long." The words are soft and monotonous, like the soughing of the wind through the Yew leaves in a graveyard. Still, she leans upon his shoulder, taking what comfort she could from his presence in light of all that's transpired. "Very little means the same as it used to, since he was taken from me."
Truth: It was un-Dustmanlike to allow herself to sink into such a deep, and dark depression, to express any kind of emotion at all, and to just feel like giving up when one should stoically shoulder one's burdens, learn from them, and move on towards a greater Truth.
Wraith was doing none of that. She'd fallen backwards, slipped down into a deep, black hole, only this time she no longer cared. The Apathy loomed over the precipice, big and black and oppressive, blocking the light of the only way out. Fight me, deny me all you like, Uathach, but I'll alays be here, watching you... and waiting. You can't hide from the Shadow within.
A cold involuntary shiver passed through Wraith's fragile body. She stared down at her hands, pale, chapped and scarred from many years of toil and sacrifice in the Mortuary, and clasps them in front of her. She sighs again. "What am I going to do, Hadrian? I can feel my own life, my own will, slipping away from me." She meets his eyes for just a moment: utter helplessness and the tell tale signs of fear cloud the murky amethyst depths. Then she turns away again. Her stare remains fixed upon some point, likely a stain on the rough tabletop, just beyond her clasped hands.
Like any other Bleaker establishment, the interior of the Weary Head is a somber and depressing affair. However to a careful eye, or at least to the eye of a Madman, there is something subtly different about this dreary place. In most Cabalist establishments, anything beautiful and cheerful will gradually wither or fade with the passing of years in silent reflection of the patronage, just as all things good and colorful are slowly leached from the Grey Wastes. The ambiance in the Head however was a deliberately crafted affair.
Every table in the room, every bottle behind the bar, every work of art littering the walls had been placed by design. Many had been intentionally placed to look haphazardly strewn.
‘This is why I can’t stand Bleakniks,’ Hadrian thought. ‘They’re all words and no understanding. They really have no comprehension of what our faction represents.’
A bald Gith in sackcloth robes stood behind the bar, polishing a mug. His sharp features were grimy and streaked with soot, and disinterested eyes swung about in deep-set sockets to regard the new arrivals. Catching sight of his faction mate, the bartender offered an unenthusiastic nod of recognition.
”Hello, Tav,” Hadrian began. ”Whats on the menu today?
“Battered stygian devilfish, with a side of Madhouse mushroom caps picked fresh in Pandemonium this morning,” the Gith replied. “I calls it Merciful Madness. Three stingers a plate.”
”That’s very poetic, Tav,” Hadrian said dryly. “Send a couple round to the table in the corner and two glasses of Heartwine if you still have a bottle.”
With Wraith still huddled under his arm, the aasimar trudged further into the tavern. Up on the raised and rickety stage an overly dramatic fensir was reciting lyrics while another such bespectacled creature beat out a staccato rhythm on a mephit-hide drum.
“-broken, trampled, crushed, ground to thick paste.
I lie beneath the boot sole of the planes.
Why? I long to call out.
Because.”
Hadrian shudders involuntarily but there is a smattering of applause from the other patrons as the orator takes a deep bow. “That was Death number four-hundred-twelve. This next one is one of my favorites…”
Stopping shot beside the ale-stained table in the corner, the aasimar pulls out a seat for his guest before taking one himself. On the wall beside the pair is a study in oil paints called “Grey”. It is difficult to decide for certain which of the four canvas panels of murky grey is the most profoundly vacant.
The tiefling lass was staring at her hands morosely.
”No one can decide your path better than yourself, Uathach,” Hadrian began. “For a while now I suspect you have been searching for answers beyond yourself. Any such answers will ultimately ring hollow. You must instead look inside yourself. If you truly want my advice I can offer only this: Walk away from the mortuary, drop your scalpel, and find your boy. Otherwise, lay his memory to rest. You will tear yourself apart otherwise.”
The aasimar reached out to cup Wraith’s hands in his own. “You have stumbled on your path, sister, but there is still time to find it again. I pledged to help you before, and I will do so.”
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Feb 4, 2008 2:09:34 GMT -5
If Wraith is at all comforted by the morose and artistic callowness of the place, she doesn't show it. In fact, she seems to blend in with the sad artworks, and sombre attempts at poetry, like a delicate frost-bitten flower juxtaposed by the first snows of winter. She uncurls her fingers, and lifts her haunted gaze to watch the fensirs for a moment, and a ghost of a smile flits across her full bloodless lips. The smile soon fades, leaving her face to fall prey once more to the ravages of apathy and despair: caught somewhere between Madness and Death. Yes, I like to sing... don't I? She frowns, and drops her gaze back to her hands. Why bother, when no one will notice me or even care. Besides, with the crushing weight pressing down upon her, would she even have the strength to lift her voice in a solemn threnody? ”No one can decide your path better than yourself, Uathach,” Hadrian began. “For a while now I suspect you have been searching for answers beyond yourself. Any such answers will ultimately ring hollow. You must instead look inside yourself. If you truly want my advice I can offer only this: Walk away from the mortuary, drop your scalpel, and find your boy. Otherwise, lay his memory to rest. You will tear yourself apart otherwise.”The aasimar reached out to cup Wraith’s hands in his own. “You have stumbled on your path, sister, but there is still time to find it again. I pledged to help you before, and I will do so.” Give up the Dead to find Aerin... The thought hangs ominously in the sudden silence that rings in her mind. Wraith listens, her face slack and hollow-eyed, as her mind runs over the events of these past few months. Aerin: gone. That sticks in her mind, first and foremost, as it always had. Pathetic, really. But how could it not? He is my son, Powers damn me! She seethed inwardly. Though only an anguished grimace and the clench of a fist were the only outward sign of her inner turmoil. And she knew as she sat there, wallowing in bitterness and melancholy, allowing Hadrian to close his hands around hers, that she would do anything... Anything to get Aerin back. And make his captives suffer. The thought brings her no comfort, for she is no closer to finding her, save for the riddles from a strange crystalline entity that would drive even a Madman barmy. She opens her mouth to speak, and wets her lips instead; the skin is dry, clammy and abraided from multiple tiny bitemarks, and her throat was a little parched. Smelling food cooking in the kitchen, her stomach growls in protest. "So... so you're saying I should just... give up everything I have ever known? Turn my back on the Dead to find Aerin?" She whispers, her beseeching gaze meeting Hadrian's. It was a horrid realisation, speaking of darkness and uncertainty; one that she didn't think she was prepared to face. Even if she did go mad searching for something she may not find. But he was right. To embrace Death was to let Aerin go, accept he had become one of the lost, and honor his passing with the proper rites. It was the only way she could make peace with herself; shedding the past, accepting that she had died to that life, and move on. Look to the future, because only Truth mattered. Wraith could not. Powers damn her, she could not accept that, and she would tear herself apart living this life - this lie - without her beloved son! The Dustwoman hung her head because the weight of her burden wouldn't even allow her that much dignity anymore. Tears cut tracks in her cheeks once more, and dripped onto the rough table unnoticed. I am Dead, and the Dead don't feel pain...
But I do. It's an effort, but Wraith manages to lift her haggard face, and meet the soothing sapphire depths of Hadrian's eyes. "I fear it's a trap, that Aerin is bait intended to lure me, and all these leads I have will only place us in further danger should I follow them. A strange creature told me this, not so long ago, in a riddle I couldn't make much sense of. But I've had much time to think about it... and the truth of it is... frightening. I don't recall the words anymore, but I believe he said look into myself, look into my heritage, and I will have my answer."
"Tanar'ri blood courses through these veins, and his nursemaid was likely murdered by a cult dedicated to Graz'zt." She shudders as the whispers the name, suddenly afraid of what her uncertain future holds. |
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Post by exile on Feb 4, 2008 23:07:47 GMT -5
With a sad smile and a gentle shake of his head the aasimar looks for a moment as though he is about to interject but manages to hold his tongue. When Wraith had finished putting her question to him, Hadrian reached up with a tattooed hand to remove his wide-brimmed hat and lay it on the table before him.
”I would not tell you to abandon your beliefs, and neither is it my place to do so,” he said. ”I do not proselytize and I try not to preach. Everyone comes to their own realization in time. And if they don’t, well it changes nothing save to make their already meager existences even more pitiable. One thing I will say is that in my experience, the Dead are both constant and resilient. They will still be there when your task is done.”
As he spoke, the Bleaker absently scrubbed his pale white fingers through his unkempt raven-black hair. His eyes were sharp now, focused in a way that seldom graced his countenance in these dreary days of late.
”I am intrigued though, sister. Why should anyone set a trap for you? That is an accursed name you speak. I can’t believe a demon prince such as he could esteem a poor embalmer in the ranks of the Dead for a threat to his throne.”
The sound of a glass bottle lain down with a heavy hand upon their table drew Hadrian’s gaze around. A handsome male Tiefling with a pair of slender, curving horns and opalescent skin stood over them with a leering grin. Wordlessly he flourished a pair of glasses and set them down along side the ruby-colored bottle with a bow too deep by half. Righting himself after a moment’s prostration, he winked at the Dustman woman and turned on his heels.
Hadrian took the display in, in silence, quietly marveling that the two men shared a common faction. Reaching for the bottle, he poured out a portion of the fiery liquid into each goblet and set it back down between them. Raising the nearer glass to his lips, he held it beneath his nares and inhaled deeply of the heady fumes before taking a draught.
It tasted like Ysgard; vibrant, full bodied, and carrying a big wallop. The aasimar smiled contentedly.
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Feb 5, 2008 22:59:13 GMT -5
"I know you're not trying to preach to me, Hadrian." Wraith whispers, offering the Aasimar Bleaker a sad smile. She clutched his fingers a final time, then released them; watching as he removed his hat, and ran his fingers through his unkempt hair. "I thank you for your kind words, and for listening to me. I am eternally grateful to you, cutter. Most would cast me aside as pathetic, a waste of breath and space... but not you, Hadrian." She sighed, and the last vestiges of her wistful smile faded, leaving her smooth ivory face wan and lifeless once more.
"I know the Dead are constant and patient. 'Tis a rare virtue I fear I have very little of these days." Came the belated reply, before she finally turned away and stared at the wall. She blinked once and allowed her tired gaze to focus upon the bleak patchwork mural, aptly titled "Gray". It was the same featureless painting that captivated Hadrian's attention not so long ago.
Wraith sighed again. Distancing herself from her surroundings, she studied the dappled gray on gray image, and wondered if it held some deeper meaning... or if it was merely a metaphor of the hopelessness and futility of Life, as glimpsed through the eyes of Madness.
The Dustman shook her head, dispelling the reverie before she was dragged in deeper by the swirling gray paint... It was probably a mix of both, she mused. There was rarely ever any rhyme or reason to the inner workings of the Madman. "I have... much to think about, Hadrian." She mumbled, more to herself, and calmly folded her scarred hands in her lap.
I've forgotten to put my gloves on again. [/color] She observed then, as though noticing the fact for the first time that day. She raised her hand before her eyes, and inspected her fingers with jaded disinterest. The nails were rough and dull, chewed down to stubs, with a layer of grime and blood collected around the cuticles. Hygiene had always been a point of pride for the Dustman embalmer, as was keeping herself neat and presentable, despite her destitution. But in recent days she'd begun to let herself go.
In light of all that had happened, what was the sodding point? And who could honestly blame her for her depressing attitude?
After a short while, the tiefling waiter arrives with the wine, and the glasses. She blushes deeply, and fiddles with the ribbon ties of her corset, keeping her eyes averted as he leers, and winks at her. Then he is gone again. What a strange and flamboyant fellow. Were many more Bleakers as over-the-top as he was? She glanced at the humble Aasimar sitting across from her, taking simple pleasure from the wine, and decided Hadrian was the norm... not the rude tiefling.
Wraith ignores her wine for now, folding her hands in front of her. She frowns thoughtfully. "I-I do not know why a-a Tanar'ri prince would even want to turn his gaze toward me. Although it could have something to do with my father. Or my father's father. Maybe I'm payment for some bargain one of them made." She cringes, paling visibly, as that last thought occurs to her, and shrugs helplessly.
At last, shaken by the previous thought, and any other unfathomable reason Grazz't might be nvolved, she picks up the wine, and waves it beneath her nose. She wasn't much of a wine expert - drinking was something she tried not to indulge in, or else she might too easily sink into the life of drunkenness - but this wne smelled delightful.
Hesitantly, she raised the wine to her lips for a dainty sip. Fire shot through her tongue, and rolled down her throat. She shuddered in delight.
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Post by exile on Feb 6, 2008 21:57:49 GMT -5
Hadrian turned his attention away from his contemplations of the depths of the ruby liquid that swirled in his hands and burned in his belly, and focused once more on the woman before him.
”You are not pathetic, sister,” he offered a sad smile as he spoke. ”And neither must you thank me. It is a small blessing to find a constant friend amidst the misery in this city, and I have found one in you I think. I will always be here to listen, so long as you have words to speak.”
Up on the dais, the performance had drawn to a halt and the stage was cleared in preparation for the next act. No one stepped up to take the reigns however and the audience was left whispering to one another and staring at an empty floor. Hadrian’s lapis eyes settled upon an ancient and long neglected harpsichord lying slightly away from the stage itself and rammed against the wall.
”You play, do you not?” The aasimar’s tone was distracted, but he indicated the musical instrument with a sweeping gesture. Perhaps it would do the Dead woman some good to remember there were still things in this life from which she could derive some simple pleasure.
The woman’s words were echoing through his thoughts even as he spoke though. Her father.
”Who was your father, Wraith? What do you know of him?"
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Feb 8, 2008 7:06:30 GMT -5
Hadrian turned his attention away from his contemplations of the depths of the ruby liquid that swirled in his hands and burned in his belly, and focused once more on the woman before him. ”You are not pathetic, sister,” he offered a sad smile as he spoke. ”And neither must you thank me. It is a small blessing to find a constant friend amidst the misery in this city, and I have found one in you I think. I will always be here to listen, so long as you have words to speak.”Up on the dais, the performance had drawn to a halt and the stage was cleared in preparation for the next act. No one stepped up to take the reigns however and the audience was left whispering to one another and staring at an empty floor. Hadrian’s lapis eyes settled upon an ancient and long neglected harpsichord lying slightly away from the stage itself and rammed against the wall. ”You play, do you not?” The aasimar’s tone was distracted, but he indicated the musical instrument with a sweeping gesture. Perhaps it would do the Dead woman some good to remember there were still things in this life from which she could derive some simple pleasure. The woman’s words were echoing through his thoughts even as he spoke though. Her father.”Who was your father, Wraith? What do you know of him?"Wraith too was drawn by the fact that the orators had taken their leave of the stage, and a bewildered crowd looked on in hopeless silence; wondering if one amongst them would take the reins, and add yet another gloomy shade to this already depressing atmosphere. She sighs and turns away. "Why bother? None of them will hear me, and my words will do naught else but fatigue my soul even further. I find... very little comfort in simple pleasures these days." She mumbles, tracing one pale fingertip round the edge of her wine goblet, and picks it up again with a listless sigh. "Perhaps my spirits will lift enough to darken the mood of this place even more, after another drink or two."Taking a sip, she shudders and sets the goblet aside once more. Her stomach growls loudly in protest. Lowering her hand to her belly, and the hunger pains gnawing at her, she takes hold of Hadrian's fingers again, and looks deeply into his eyes. "Thankyou, cutter, for having faith in me. I know you say I shouldn't thank you, but... it's in my nature to be grateful for all of my blessings, however small. It's nice to know you count me among your friends, and I you, Hadrian." The smile that illumes her face is soft and bittersweet, haunted by an etheral joy and grief. She stares down at the table, frowning thoughtfully as the words "Who was your father, Wraith?", echoes in her mind. She swallows hard, and this time when she raises the wine goblet, the fingers on that hand are trembling slightly. "My father is a cambion. His name is X'artru Blackmantle. I know only this from an arrest warrant I found amongst my adoptive father's personal effects shortly after he died." She hesitates, wetting her dry lips, and rakes her trembling fingers through her hair. "I was abandoned at the gatehouse, and adopted three years later by a Mercykiller and his Sensate wife. He was always off on one assignment or another, leaving me in the care of his accountant, Marrak..." Just speaking the name forces an anguished sob to her lips, and a few stray tears leak from her eyes unnoticed. "My mother was never there, just like my father. She... she was a whore. She'd drink and carouse like any other libertine, leaving me alone in that house..." She whispers, and weeps softly, burying her face in her hands, as the demons of her past again rear their ugly heads. "She was reckless and stupid. She had a taste for demon flesh... and it cost her her life. I watched her waste away before my eyes, when none of my medicines could cure her..." Wraith didn't know why she confided this in him, a man she barely even knew. But just hearing him call her friend was enough to make her want to bare her soul and confess all that had happened to her... even the darkest secrets that still shamed her. |
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Post by exile on Feb 8, 2008 19:33:39 GMT -5
“I’m sure this lot would appreciate a depressing melody,” Hadrian observed dryly.
From the corner of his eye the aasimar caught the return of their erstwhile server bearing a pair of platters dexterously aloft. Wearing an offhand expression of casual confidence the tiefling wove in and out of the oblivious patrons thronging the floor. Arriving alongside their table, he set their meals down indiscriminately and simply left, neither asking for abrupt payment nor further requests.
Hadrian looked down at the plate before him with skepticism. It was a simple meal to be sure, whatever name it went by. The fish at least looked passably good and he’d always been fond of mushrooms. On the whole, it was a cut above the tasteless grub doled out in the Gatehouse kitchens and his stomach reminded him noisily that he was in no position to protest. Reaching for the knife and fork provided, he speared one of the larger caps and raised it to his mouth.
”I wish I could say that your story as you’ve told it thus far were somehow revealing,” the Bleaker managed around his mouthful. ”But such is the blight of your kind I’m afraid. Dealings with demon-kind beget only misery as many a tiefling orphan in our ward can attest to. In a way you were lucky, I suppose, to at least have a family for a time. I am sorry however to hear of the suffering you must have endured in such surroundings.”
A whisper at his ear stirred the aasimar’s attention and drew his gaze about.
There was no one there.
With a look of confusion, he reached for another mushroom cap but halted with it half way to his lips. Turning to regard the morsel at the end of his fork, Hadrian tried to think back to what Tav had said upon on their arrival. Picked fresh in Pandemonium this morning.
With a shrug of his shoulders Hadrian took another bite. It was quite good really, he’d have to compliment the chef on their way out.
”So do we start by tracking down this X’artru Blackmantle?”
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Feb 11, 2008 0:50:53 GMT -5
Wraith stares absently at the food placed upon the table before her. The smell of fried fish, garlic and mushrooms sauteed in a rich brown sauce fills her nostrils. Her stomach growls in protest, and her mouth begins to water, but still she keeps her hands clasped in her lap, refusing to reach for the fork and knife sitting on either side of the cracked wooden plate.
At last, the temptation of the food becomes too much to bear. Casting aside good manners and ladylike behaviour, she seizes the knife and fork, and proceeds to shovel the food into her mouth as fast as she can. She doesn't even stop to wipe her mouth with the folded napkin, thoughtfully provided. With a mouthful of fried fish and mushrooms, sauce dribbling down her chin to drip onto her old corset and black gown, she takes a large sip of wine.
Lady's Grace, this tasted good...
"I ask for neither pity or sympathy from anybody. I've long since accepted my lot in life, and the fate that befalls those of my kind. I just wish... it didn't have to be this way. If only there was more that I could do to help those like me." She pauses between mouthfuls, wiping the sauce from her chin, and washes it all down with another thirsty sip of wine. It rushed into her head, and burned into her belly, warming her from the inside out. As the comforting numbness began to set in, she found herself relaxing, and smiling in spite of her morbid depression.
"Yes, that could be... a good start. Although I wouldn't even know where to begin." She frowns, recalling a deal she'd made with a certain Fated from the Open Shell, and wonders if now is the time she collected on the favour he owed to her, for what she'd done for him. "I'll need to speak with John again, see how he's coming along with what dark he can dig up at the Hall of Records. Otherwise, I see no harm in asking a few questions around the Foundry and the Armory. I understand cutters like my father are readily embraced by the Godsmen or the Doomguard."
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Post by exile on Feb 12, 2008 16:42:44 GMT -5
Hadrian parted the battered white flesh with his knife, flaking off a morsel. ”There is always something to be done, sister,” he said with a playful smile. ”We take in the Hive’s poor, hungry and orphaned every day, and even we cannot tend to them all. Of course, you needn’t be a Cabalist to give your time over to charitable works. I think you have already spent time at Allesha’s. Believe me, your efforts there are not unappreciated.”
The whispered, half-heard words that had tugged at Hadrian’s consciousness had largely faded into the dull drone of conversation that suffused the Weary Head. He took another mouthful of wine with his fish.
”In any case, we will speak with John, and see where it takes us. I doubt I would be any better received at the Foundry than I was at the Festhall, but perhaps the Doomguard will be more receptive."
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Feb 15, 2008 0:59:22 GMT -5
Wraith smiled at Hadrian in spite of herself. He was an odd fellow, she decided, but sweet natured and gentle. She could see that much beneath his sorrow stooped shoulders and dischevelled appearance. A mirror image of herself, almost. She shovelled the last portion of fish and blackened caps into her mouth, wiped her lips with the napkin, and belched softly.
"Please, excuse me, cutter." She aplogised, blushing in embarrassment, and laid the crumpled napkin onto the plate, alongside discarded knife and fork. Clearly the poor woman was famished, because not a morsel of food nor smear of sauce were wasted. She sat back in contentment, grateful for the offering of a decent, hot meal. There were too few of those, these days.
The tiefling picked up her goblet then, and swilled the last few drops.
Yes. Now she wasn feeling decidedly warm and fuzzy inside, and a little lightheaded. Turning away from her Bleaker companion, her sad eyes took in the depressing clientelle, and again she observed that no one emerged to fill the empty space on the stage. Her gaze fell upon the neglected harpsichord, all but tucked away in the corner; veiled in dust and gloom.
Her fingers, clasped demurely in her lap after the meal, began to twitch irritably. Glancing toward the crowd again, she nodded to herself, her decision made. Hadrian was right: the crowd was so absorbed by its own melancholia, t'was unlikely they would object. They may even welcome it.
Wraith rose from her seat then, and laid a gentle hand upon Hadrian's shoulder. "Please, stay here and mind my satchel, cutter. I'll be back soon." She whispered into his ear, and walked off into the crowd.
She set herself up to regale the motley Bleakniks with a song or two, and sat there before the Harpsichord, just trailing her fingers through the dust, and clearing her mind. She heaved a despondent sigh, and lifted the lid away from the keys.
She began her first song. The words just flowed through her, a cadence of pain, as her fingers moved over the keys with a familiarity born from years of practice. Soon she finds herself lost to the haunting counterpoint of her music:
I watch as time passes me by
Beckons me before to stand beside
the embers of Life that flicker and die
Cast unto Death and never know why.
Mortality is the curse we abide
Futility is the strength that She hides
A lie of Life, to wither and die
Is the only Truth...
though I don't know why.
I watch as Life, He quickly slips by
He calls me once, never to hide
From the light inside; it fades and dies
Smothered by sorrow, the risk is too high.
Mortality is the curse we abide
Helplessly though can confide
In the flame of Life; to wane is nigh
As the only Hope...
brings tears to my eyes
As the Keeper I give this chance to you
All the better to know yourself true
As a promise I keep, I give to you
The last chance to know thyself true
I walk unto Death, she holds me close
And whispers I'll find no sorrow here
All traces of Life have faded to Dust
At last the Truth becomes clear
A mark of pain
A rite of shame
Cast ash to flame...
and let die.
Who will you blame?
but the one just like me
Are you too blind to see?
You're no different from me...
Forsake your sorrow in Death.
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Post by exile on Feb 16, 2008 13:55:15 GMT -5
Hadrian enjoyed the remainder of his meal in silence, his eyes and ears resting solely upon his beautiful friend and her haunting melodies. Setting out a handful of jink to cover their expenses, the Bleaker took up his goblet and found a table closer to the performance. When the final strains of the threnody had died away, he rose, applauding, and crossed over to sit beside the tiefling maiden at the harpsichord bench. Without words or explanation he began to hum a simple, alternating refrain of stanza and chorus. Seizing upon his meaningful look, the Dead bard picked it out on the ivory keys, and in true form improvised and expanded upon it until it was uniquely hers. Hadrian held his eyes closed while he waited for the woman to play through each part once before adding his own sonorous voice to the melody. The aasimar had never sought training in voicecraft or any of the other finer arts, and he lacked refinement. What he did possess however was a natural talent and the experience of wisdom beyond his years to grant life to his words.
When day first broke, on fresh faced youth,
So newly cleft of apron strings,
we dreamt of honor and of gold;
the accolades of victory
Glory won; thou ecstasy.
Glory won; thou vanity.
Glory won, thou siren’s call
That tempts men into misery
The sun rides high above our heads,
Before us lies the enemy.
The banners snap atop the staves,
We wait to meet our destiny.
Glory won; thou ecstasy.
Glory won; thou vanity.
Glory won, thou siren’s call
That tempts men into misery
Alas, the day has grown too long;
With age we’ve seen the fallacy.
We stand before you wounded men,
Too late to halt our pride’s folly.
Glory won; thou ecstasy
Glory won, thou vanity
Glory won, thou siren’s call
That tempts men into misery
Hear me child, ere the sun has set,
And with it steals my breath away,
There’s nothing great in glory won,
Naught but sorrow and misery.
(OOC: To the tune of Greensleeves. I'm neither a singer nor a song writer, so just indulge me.  ) |
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Post by Stix on Feb 16, 2008 15:26:46 GMT -5
The Bleaker audience seems to actually appreciate Hadrian's lack of vocal talent in light of the lyrics' tone. Some few give applause, and the rest sit silently, nodding (apparently a higher mark of respect in this establishment).
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Feb 17, 2008 21:44:43 GMT -5
When the song is over, and Hadrian's voice dies away to the appreciative silence of the audience, Wraith regards the Aasimar with a genuine smile. "Your voice is magnificent, both true and powerful. You have much to work with, if you chose to harness it." A soft light illuminates her eyes, bringing spots of colour to her cheeks as she says this.
"You may sit with me through the next dirge, although this one is a bit more... violent." She says no more, falling back into the cadence of the soft tune she begins to play.
The tune opens delicately, hauntingly, with the gestures of her fingers over the keys, and her alto voice raised in mournful vocalisation.
Transition comes in the sharp change of pitch, a keening crescendo of harpsichord and fiendling voice combined; belting out her wrath and her anguish...
Valleys of bloodshed,
Run rivers of pain!
Rises from the ashes,
To fall! Soldiers strive in vain!
Struggles for supremacy
To rein; anarchy or law?
My barbed-wire tourniquet
The eternal scourge of war!
A breed to fight; urge to kill!
To fall by the legions!
Devildom lay waste and tore
This blood-vista forged creation!
To Abyss and to Hell;
A blood-soaked sacrement
Of wastelands forged by fire
Drown; in ichor, excrement!
Blood spurts from the wound
Scream My name in vain!
Shackled by the lashes
Hell doth march; Thy enemy to pain!
Through fields of fire,
Thou lay waste to shame
Corpses massed; ripped and torn
Thou hath screamed My name!
Valleys of bloodshed
Drowned catharsis sacrifice!
My barbed wire tourniquet
Decreed; of bloodletting thou demise!
Her keening voice is the first to trail off, merging with the notes of the harpsichord. And when that too fades to nothingness, Wraith just sits therem for a moment; until her blood cools, and the raging turmoil within simmers, and dies.
It is with a heavy heart and fatigued fingers that she closes the lid over the ivory keys, and stares blankly at the wall. She can feel their bewildered stares upon her - even Hadrian has turned to regard her quietly - for the song was a stark and discordant contrast after the previous softer melodies.
She doesn't notice or care. The sudden fury stirred by the battle dirge, abandons her to the red haze of her blood, and her tightly coiled wrath; where nothing was real but the thumping of her heart, and the ichor in her veins:
Tanar'ri blood.
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