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Post by Stix on Apr 5, 2007 11:03:59 GMT -5
The rain is mercifully light, but the oppressive darkness of night with the Foundry's smog overhead will make for a long, blind walk...
Dumb Luck Roll
[dice=20]
...and there isn't a lightboy in sight. The delirious sod begins to make noise again, this time in the form of a weak, wordless howl, writhing slowly in his impromptu stretcher.[rand=02399293082585640716980917298238096772765670400745629919668405734035]
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Post by Stix on Apr 5, 2007 19:38:18 GMT -5
Wraith curses her ill luck: In her moment of haste, and desperation she didn't think to light her lantern! Where were her wits this evening? Drowning at the bottom of a tankard of cheap bub? She'd lived in the Cage her whole life; one couldn't always rely on the usefulness - and availability - of the lightboys... Wraith shakes her head, banishing the useless, self-pitying train of thought with stubborn resolve, and calls out to Hadrian and Angwen, "Stop cutters, please... We need light."She pauses in the heavy smog and soft drizzle, beside the makeshift litter, fumbling blindly through her pack for her lantern, and some oil, when her patient begins to groan and squirm again; this time redoubling his pained efforts. Sodding Hells! What else would go wrong this eve? Wraith wanted to scream and tear her hair out in anger and frustration, but that would only serve to distress the ailing sod even further. Tempering the brief flare of anger, Wraith forces herself into a state of objective composure. She draws a deep, shaky breath, punctuated by a harsh, stifled cough, and kneels beside her patient. She lays her cool hand upon his brow, and with tender, soothing guestures, like a mother calming a distressed child, she brushes the matted hair back from his face. "Hush, cutter. Please, you must lie still." She croons, soft, slow and hypnotic, in motherly alto tones... (OOC: Wraith is attempting to use her Suggestion ability on her patient, assuming she is able to use it again.  ) (She's used it within the last week, at the Open Shell, so it'll have to be another Diplomacy check.)Diplomacy [dice=20]+0[rand=80031522557055657218423255677477000287994645256639548888817574924714] |
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Post by exile on Apr 6, 2007 12:26:08 GMT -5
Tendrils of the choking miasma that blanketed the lower ward swirled above the rain-slick cobbles and broke into tiny eddies with the passing of their feet. In the terrible solitude of the night, each step sounded like a tolling bell beckoning to the thieves in the dark. With careful, measured movements Hadrian shifted the weight of his stricken burden into his left hand. It was not a grasp he could maintain indefatigably, but for the moment it freed him to work.
Reaching below the neckline of his robe, the aasimar fished out a silver amulet on a fine chain-link cord. Clasped between his fingers a careful observer might barely discern a stylized triumvirate akin to the etchings on his belt buckle. In the low melodic tones of the Celestial tongue, Hadrian began to speak.
“Hear me, Twice-Blind Father on your throne. Cast back the veil of shadows and illume our path, I beseech you.”
Relinquishing his grasp on the amulet, Hadrian brought his finger tips to the Bleaker’s sigil on his breast and it burst forth with a blazing light like a torch.
“Let us be on our way, sister.” He addressed Wraith in the common tongue once more, a note of gentle urgency in his somber voice. “The night is full of evil things, and I am weaponless but for my knife.”
(OOC:Casting Light, duration 10 minutes.)
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Apr 7, 2007 13:32:07 GMT -5
With a gentle touch still laid upon her patient's brow, Wraith bows her head in solemn silence, as the Cabalist priest intones his prayer. Soft golden light bursts forth, banishing the gloom back from whence it came, and illuminating the path ahead. Her gaze flits momentarily from shadow to shadow all around them, a cursory scan intended to pierce the cutthroats likely lurking in there, between the dark buildings.
Wraith glances back to her moaning patient. Pained anxiety etches deep lines into her face. She gently tucks the cloak and blanket closer around him, again in a motherly guesture to help shield him as much as possible from the harsh Lower Ward air, and sighs wearily.
"Again, thankyou, cutter; The Cage would be a less inhospitable place, if only it had more charitable folk like you around." Her smile is wan at best, but sincere, and she rises to her feet, again starting off, and leading the way through the warren of dark streets. "Quickly, this way... I don't know how much longer I can keep my patient calm for..."
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Post by exile on Apr 7, 2007 14:37:01 GMT -5
Hadrian kept pace behind Wraith, carrying his share of the burden without complaint and scanning the dark crossways relentlessly. He was a relative newcomer to the Cage, and though he ventured out freely by day he was content for now to be led. Up until recently he had had little contact with the inhabitants of Sigil beyond the Bleakers and their barmy wards tucked away in the Gatehouse. These past few weeks had been an eye opening experience, and tonight was no exception.
There might be no grand purpose to this life, but that was as good a reason as any to take solace in companionship against the great depression. Besides, Hadrian was beginning to feel as though he might enjoy the company of the two odd and unfamiliar faces that tromped through the empty streets with him on a mission of uncertain merit.
A Bleaker, a Dustman and a soldier. Stranger things happened here every day.
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Apr 9, 2007 16:33:18 GMT -5
Wraith hastens her pace, all too aware of her patient's deteriorating condition, and the waves of darkness closing in all around them, beyond Hadrian's protective shell of light. She stops on occassion to check on the groaning sod - for now he seemed to have slipped back into his mumbling delirium - before slipping back to the fore, and guiding the way.
Wraith knows the area well enough. The Lost Keep Inn, and the Shattered Temple district weren't too far from the meandering, stagnant black spill aptly named The Ditch. She frequently navigated these dirty smog-choked streets, on her long, tiring walks to and from the Mortuary each day.
That was before...
Tears moisten her weary amethyst eyes, until she promptly swipes them away with trembling fingertips. Now wasn't the time to dwell on a past she didn't yet have the power to change for the better. Not when the life of her mortally ill patient was at stake.
So it is with resolute determination that the sad Dustman walks on, hanging back when need be, to wait for her mismatched companions to catch up, and to check on the mumbling sod again. Her tired eyes scan the darkness, poking into each shadow, nook and cranny, each twisting dark alleyway and door frame for the cutthroats and crosstraders, waiting to ply their trade on unsuspecting victims.
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