TIMESTAMP: 12th of Glacial Dusk, 4581 / 08:55
NOTES: Part 2 of 2; Roots of Sin: Sow
NOTES: Part 2 of 2; Roots of Sin: Sow
► Show Spoiler
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With slow steps, the elven mage makes his way down the stairs. Opening the door to the main floor of the funeral home, he looks around and sees that it is presently empty. This wasn’t entirely unexpected considering the particular request that had been made by the patron; they and Averre would likely be awaiting him in the basement floor of the building. Closing the door gently behind him, he moves a few feet to the side and opens the other nearby door. Using the same amount of force to close that one, he makes his way down only a few steps before he hears voices echoing up to him.
“How long exactly do you expect me to wait for him to do…whatever he’s doing?” An impatient female voice asks, accent denoting her status and tone clearly getting her feelings across. “He moves slowly sometimes, can’t really be helped. Do remember how much of a discount you’re getting by allowing this to be done by his hand, hm? I know money isn’t exactly that sacred to those of your ilk, but one doesn’t amass wealth without being stingy here and there, no?” Averre’s very distinct voice rang back. Given this exchange, Degare’s footwork quickens and he sets eyes on the woman as he rounds the corner of the stairs. ’Her appearance definitely matches her voice,’ he thinks as amber eyes shift up and down her figure.
Though he was in view, both of the other parties were engaged in speaking with one another and not looking in his direction. Therefore, it took them a moment to notice. It was Averre who did at first, whose face immediately lit up upon clapping eyes upon his beloved. “Look who is finally here! Always a bit slow to move, you are,” he taunts, voice sweet and mischievous. Degare and Dahlia sigh in uncanny unison at the raven haired man’s words. “Sorry about that– I hadn’t planned on beginning work quite yet for the day. I got ready as fast as I could for you, though.” He speaks with a velvety voice, tone level and unemotional. The woman’s head tilts forward as it meets with the palm of her hand, “Were you even awake?” She appears to ask the question musingly, as her next words indicate she’d already decided that she didn’t care. “No matter. You’re here now, we should begin.” With quick, fluid steps she makes her way over the altar in the center of the room and lifts herself to sit on it as elegantly as she could. Once this action is completed, she returns her arms across her chest and stares forward with an icy glare.
Degare noted the way her hood appeared to move against her head, recognizing she possessed ears in similar shape to his own, along with tell-tale silvery skin. He laughs a bit to himself at how short she was for a woman with such a commanding presence. Interrupting his thoughts, “Degare, my role here is to simply observe. The actual mark will be done by you, then we will both oversee her trial. Alas, if she is to fail, then I will assist you in cleaning up, so don’t worry about that,” the master Ferrier speaks with a chipper and enthused tone, despite mentioning the possibility of the woman’s untimely passing. It appeared that he simply didn’t care, just that he was excited for his lover to be doing this. The elven man gives his partner a half smile as he steps over to the altar, speaking as he moves, “Sure…and I do know what to do, so don’t worry about that,” words more directed at Dahlia than Averre. Now standing before her, “Where do you want it?” The expression on his face is sleepy and his voice is blank. The woman appears annoyed at not being able to glean anything else from his features, but she responds, “Back of the neck. I don’t want it to be particularly visible.” Her voice was curt, cold. She was staring daggers into the elven man’s own mark, starkly contrasted against pale, shimmering skin atop his sternum. “Mmm, alright. Bow your head, then.” She squints at him with a pointed expression, then does as the mage asks.
Since she failed to remove her hood this entire time, the elven mage pulls it back for her. Her hair was tied up in an ornate style, thus already out of the way. The necessary pathos begins to form in the palm of his non-dominant hand as he holds it palm up before him. He waits a moment for a small pool of it to form, then gingerly dips his pointer finger from his dominant hand into the small puddle of black liquid. “You know how to succeed here, correct? You didn’t show up ignorant, did you?” the taller man asks. Nearly hissing the words, she replies, “What kind of fool do you take me for?” That served as enough of an answer for the Ferrier. With precise, graceful motions he draws the mark of Bane directly below the woman’s hairline. She, of course, feels this. Once the mage retracts his hand from over her head, she lifts her head back up. It appears that she opens her mouth to say something, but no words come out as her eyes glaze over. It had begun.
Both Ferriers are wearing uncannily similar expressions of pleasure as they internalize the fact that Degare’s simple job was a success and the rest was up to the woman before them. The elven man steps back to give the woman more space to flail around, should she need it. He positions himself beside Averre who almost instinctively hooks his arm around the taller man’s waist, the other crossing his body and then resting above his lover’s stomach. The two of them watch as ribbons of bright blue ethos begin to snake around the woman’s figure. Over the next few painfully slow moments, the strands had wholly surrounded her with a blanket of ghostly silk. They watch as dusty fog begins to form within the cocoon and Dahlia gasps for air. Watching the woman struggle didn’t elicit sympathetic expressions from either observer; both still just as giddy for any possible result.
The expression she wore had shifted from the previous harsh one to something more panic-stricken as she realized each breath would be shorter than the one it came after. Her eyes had widened and her irises flitted around wildly, likely bouncing from each shard of the deads’ memories that would now be playing before her eyes. There was something oddly cathartic for the elven mage about watching somebody so confident have their face twist in fear, in horrified weakness. His deep amber eyes shifted down towards the woman’s hands, watching as they shook as she struggled to raise them up near her chest, black pathos barely visible through the cloth of ethos oozing through her fingers. ’So far so good,’ the man thinks. Drawing her hands to her lips, she desperately attempts to consume some of the foul liquid she had created, appearing to succeed in this endeavor. Her Hands shook violently before her face now. Pressing them against her lips, she struggles to consume the pathos. She then abruptly moved to grasp at her throat, likely feeling the oncoming nausea from having consumed it. The fear on her face is replaced with strain as she resists the urge to vomit, but it quickly overpowers her as the ethos dissipates from her body. Black bile bursts forth from her lips, splattering all over the floor before her, but not far enough to affect either of the observing mages. Reacting rather negatively to this development, she jumps off the altar only to crumple onto the floor, unable to balance herself. Continuing to puke, neither observer moves. They both know that any intervention is ultimately pointless until she gets everything out of her system.
They watch until she sits there, huddled on the floor, dry heaving and coated in a thin film of sweat. Averre’s immediate response as things quiet down is to applaud her, clapping loudly and saying, “Congratulations! You’ve succeeded! Now, if you want any sort of instructions on how to actually use your abilities, that costs extra.” His voice breaks the more placid demeanor he had been trying to maintain earlier; his enthusiasm was showing through far more than he had intended for it to. Degare can’t help himself but to laugh at the smaller man’s sentiment. The woman on the ground lifts her head and shifts her gaze first onto the pale elf and then onto the master Ferrier, glaring at him. “Sure, I’ll think about that. Until then, I will try and manage on my own.” Her voice was cold and harsh still, but with strain causing her words to waver quite a bit. On her feet now, she stands shakily, “Now…is there anywhere in this gods’ forsaken building where I can clean myself up?” Her harsh stare cutting into Averre still.
The shorter mage laughs at her comment, “Apologies madam, but you will find a washroom on the upper floor– it’s the door closest to the entrance. However, I would like to request that you pay first, so you don’t slip away.” The woman hisses and appears to be digging through the pockets of her cloak for something. She withdrew a velvet pouch, likely a wallet, and threw it at the man, hitting him hard in the chest. He steps back from the impact, coughing as he does so, but does manage to deftly catch it somehow. This made him laugh even harder, “Thank you for your patronage!” he voice rings out after her. Degare just stared at the situation unfolding before him with a single raised eyebrow. The two men stayed motionless, now staring at one another as she made her way up the stairs to leave. It wasn’t clear to him from this encounter, but Dahlia had recognized Degare as who he was– a fellow Entente member known for being reclusive with mysterious origins.
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With slow steps, the elven mage makes his way down the stairs. Opening the door to the main floor of the funeral home, he looks around and sees that it is presently empty. This wasn’t entirely unexpected considering the particular request that had been made by the patron; they and Averre would likely be awaiting him in the basement floor of the building. Closing the door gently behind him, he moves a few feet to the side and opens the other nearby door. Using the same amount of force to close that one, he makes his way down only a few steps before he hears voices echoing up to him.
“How long exactly do you expect me to wait for him to do…whatever he’s doing?” An impatient female voice asks, accent denoting her status and tone clearly getting her feelings across. “He moves slowly sometimes, can’t really be helped. Do remember how much of a discount you’re getting by allowing this to be done by his hand, hm? I know money isn’t exactly that sacred to those of your ilk, but one doesn’t amass wealth without being stingy here and there, no?” Averre’s very distinct voice rang back. Given this exchange, Degare’s footwork quickens and he sets eyes on the woman as he rounds the corner of the stairs. ’Her appearance definitely matches her voice,’ he thinks as amber eyes shift up and down her figure.
Though he was in view, both of the other parties were engaged in speaking with one another and not looking in his direction. Therefore, it took them a moment to notice. It was Averre who did at first, whose face immediately lit up upon clapping eyes upon his beloved. “Look who is finally here! Always a bit slow to move, you are,” he taunts, voice sweet and mischievous. Degare and Dahlia sigh in uncanny unison at the raven haired man’s words. “Sorry about that– I hadn’t planned on beginning work quite yet for the day. I got ready as fast as I could for you, though.” He speaks with a velvety voice, tone level and unemotional. The woman’s head tilts forward as it meets with the palm of her hand, “Were you even awake?” She appears to ask the question musingly, as her next words indicate she’d already decided that she didn’t care. “No matter. You’re here now, we should begin.” With quick, fluid steps she makes her way over the altar in the center of the room and lifts herself to sit on it as elegantly as she could. Once this action is completed, she returns her arms across her chest and stares forward with an icy glare.
Degare noted the way her hood appeared to move against her head, recognizing she possessed ears in similar shape to his own, along with tell-tale silvery skin. He laughs a bit to himself at how short she was for a woman with such a commanding presence. Interrupting his thoughts, “Degare, my role here is to simply observe. The actual mark will be done by you, then we will both oversee her trial. Alas, if she is to fail, then I will assist you in cleaning up, so don’t worry about that,” the master Ferrier speaks with a chipper and enthused tone, despite mentioning the possibility of the woman’s untimely passing. It appeared that he simply didn’t care, just that he was excited for his lover to be doing this. The elven man gives his partner a half smile as he steps over to the altar, speaking as he moves, “Sure…and I do know what to do, so don’t worry about that,” words more directed at Dahlia than Averre. Now standing before her, “Where do you want it?” The expression on his face is sleepy and his voice is blank. The woman appears annoyed at not being able to glean anything else from his features, but she responds, “Back of the neck. I don’t want it to be particularly visible.” Her voice was curt, cold. She was staring daggers into the elven man’s own mark, starkly contrasted against pale, shimmering skin atop his sternum. “Mmm, alright. Bow your head, then.” She squints at him with a pointed expression, then does as the mage asks.
Since she failed to remove her hood this entire time, the elven mage pulls it back for her. Her hair was tied up in an ornate style, thus already out of the way. The necessary pathos begins to form in the palm of his non-dominant hand as he holds it palm up before him. He waits a moment for a small pool of it to form, then gingerly dips his pointer finger from his dominant hand into the small puddle of black liquid. “You know how to succeed here, correct? You didn’t show up ignorant, did you?” the taller man asks. Nearly hissing the words, she replies, “What kind of fool do you take me for?” That served as enough of an answer for the Ferrier. With precise, graceful motions he draws the mark of Bane directly below the woman’s hairline. She, of course, feels this. Once the mage retracts his hand from over her head, she lifts her head back up. It appears that she opens her mouth to say something, but no words come out as her eyes glaze over. It had begun.
Both Ferriers are wearing uncannily similar expressions of pleasure as they internalize the fact that Degare’s simple job was a success and the rest was up to the woman before them. The elven man steps back to give the woman more space to flail around, should she need it. He positions himself beside Averre who almost instinctively hooks his arm around the taller man’s waist, the other crossing his body and then resting above his lover’s stomach. The two of them watch as ribbons of bright blue ethos begin to snake around the woman’s figure. Over the next few painfully slow moments, the strands had wholly surrounded her with a blanket of ghostly silk. They watch as dusty fog begins to form within the cocoon and Dahlia gasps for air. Watching the woman struggle didn’t elicit sympathetic expressions from either observer; both still just as giddy for any possible result.
The expression she wore had shifted from the previous harsh one to something more panic-stricken as she realized each breath would be shorter than the one it came after. Her eyes had widened and her irises flitted around wildly, likely bouncing from each shard of the deads’ memories that would now be playing before her eyes. There was something oddly cathartic for the elven mage about watching somebody so confident have their face twist in fear, in horrified weakness. His deep amber eyes shifted down towards the woman’s hands, watching as they shook as she struggled to raise them up near her chest, black pathos barely visible through the cloth of ethos oozing through her fingers. ’So far so good,’ the man thinks. Drawing her hands to her lips, she desperately attempts to consume some of the foul liquid she had created, appearing to succeed in this endeavor. Her Hands shook violently before her face now. Pressing them against her lips, she struggles to consume the pathos. She then abruptly moved to grasp at her throat, likely feeling the oncoming nausea from having consumed it. The fear on her face is replaced with strain as she resists the urge to vomit, but it quickly overpowers her as the ethos dissipates from her body. Black bile bursts forth from her lips, splattering all over the floor before her, but not far enough to affect either of the observing mages. Reacting rather negatively to this development, she jumps off the altar only to crumple onto the floor, unable to balance herself. Continuing to puke, neither observer moves. They both know that any intervention is ultimately pointless until she gets everything out of her system.
They watch until she sits there, huddled on the floor, dry heaving and coated in a thin film of sweat. Averre’s immediate response as things quiet down is to applaud her, clapping loudly and saying, “Congratulations! You’ve succeeded! Now, if you want any sort of instructions on how to actually use your abilities, that costs extra.” His voice breaks the more placid demeanor he had been trying to maintain earlier; his enthusiasm was showing through far more than he had intended for it to. Degare can’t help himself but to laugh at the smaller man’s sentiment. The woman on the ground lifts her head and shifts her gaze first onto the pale elf and then onto the master Ferrier, glaring at him. “Sure, I’ll think about that. Until then, I will try and manage on my own.” Her voice was cold and harsh still, but with strain causing her words to waver quite a bit. On her feet now, she stands shakily, “Now…is there anywhere in this gods’ forsaken building where I can clean myself up?” Her harsh stare cutting into Averre still.
The shorter mage laughs at her comment, “Apologies madam, but you will find a washroom on the upper floor– it’s the door closest to the entrance. However, I would like to request that you pay first, so you don’t slip away.” The woman hisses and appears to be digging through the pockets of her cloak for something. She withdrew a velvet pouch, likely a wallet, and threw it at the man, hitting him hard in the chest. He steps back from the impact, coughing as he does so, but does manage to deftly catch it somehow. This made him laugh even harder, “Thank you for your patronage!” he voice rings out after her. Degare just stared at the situation unfolding before him with a single raised eyebrow. The two men stayed motionless, now staring at one another as she made her way up the stairs to leave. It wasn’t clear to him from this encounter, but Dahlia had recognized Degare as who he was– a fellow Entente member known for being reclusive with mysterious origins.
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'Thoughts'
"Common Tongue/Speech"
"Raillen Tongue/Speech"
'Thoughts'
"Common Tongue/Speech"
"Raillen Tongue/Speech"
