TIMESTAMP: 17th Sun's Zenith, Searing 4572
NOTES: -
NOTES: -
► Show Spoiler
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For the pale Veir, he wasn’t too keen on the idea of waiting too long to enact his plan. While he was typically a patient man, the paranoia of the Tribune potentially wanting him dead served to override his usually cautious nature. He was fully aware that the pudgy little man was wandering his estate somewhere and that should either of them spot one another it’d be easier enough to get a conversation going. He didn’t, however, know how easy it would be to lure him off into somewhere more isolated– which was really all he needed to do. Lure him away, strike him down, and then lock the door and leave the body for the Valran to clean up after everyone else goes home. Very few in his entire house would bat an eye at this particular man’s death since most of them considered him to be a nuisance and given how many other people are here at the moment, it would be near to impossible to discern exactly who is responsible for Maurice Soreno’s mysterious disappearance.
With renewed resolve, the Ferrier pockets the little notebook once more and then exits the study he was in, locking it once more behind him. Moving with grace upon long, crane-like legs he weaves through the rivers and lakes of guests occupying the estate, eyes of reddened amber searching for one specific person. Degare figured he’d find the man somewhere within the main hall or entry hall since those two locations were where he typically lurked, looking for people to poke about the Omen. Passing through the maze of corridors of his house, the elf eventually arrives at the propped open doors of the main hall and looks in while standing on the side of the threshold.
Funnily enough, it was his target who found and approached him as he had half expected the irritating little man to do. “Lord Socorro! I was looking for you but sometimes you are just so hard to find!” The man speaks with notable enthusiasm, as he always does. With a sigh, the Ferrier replies, “Were you? If I had known I’d have made myself more available, my apologies,” he says with a polite tone to mask both his intentions and his annoyance with the man’s very presence. “Since you say that, am I to assume you’ve finally come around to see the reason in my words?” replies Soreno, a bright sparkle in his eyes and some semblance or something almost akin to relief reflected in the very back. Rolling with this line of thought, “I have. Say, why don’t you tell me more about your particular brand of worship somewhere more quiet? It’s rather hard to hear you with everyone else speaking and the music playing so nearby,” his voice and expression are both amiable, placid, utterly pleasant. Thankfully, the Tribune bites the offered bait. “Why, I think that sounds brilliant! With this being your estate and all, I trust that you know it better than I– please, lead the way,” the rotund man speaks with bright enthusiasm, clearly quite chuffed to be actively invited to preach about his beloved Ulen.
Oblivious to the elven Veir’s nefarious intentions, the Tribune happily trods along behind Degare as he walks back to the locked study he had lurked in earlier at a fairly leisurely pace. Unlocking the door, the Ferrier holds it open as a polite gesture to his lovely guest. When the human, probably mid thirties, walks into the room, the elf follows and closes the door– deftly locking it again behind him.
It only took a few seconds for the Ferrier to decide how he wanted to deliver his Bane to the other man. He was not wearing gloves so his hands would be susceptible to absorbing the liquid Pathos. Degare channels ether into the palm of his left hand as he moves to unpocket the little notebook with his right before sliding his left over the book’s spine– he did this very quickly after the two of them walked into the room, before the other man even had time to turn around and face him. “Oh, by the way– I found this on the ground and flipped through a couple of the pages. Given the contents, I should ask, is this yours?” The elf floats this question to his companion with a tone of polite friendliness. He made a point to not mention any of the dark stains contained within. Though the caustic miasma of Pathos is visible, he didn’t use enough to stain the book’s spine that badly and it would be hard to see against the dark leather of the cover in the dim light of the room anyways. Maurice turns to face the pale elf with a slightly puzzled look and then immediately recognizes his little lost book. Relief washes over him when he sees it. “You found that? Yeah, that is mine! Thank you for bothering to ask,” he sounds quite pleased to be getting the thing back.
Holding it out with the spine facing towards the other man, the Tribune happily accepts it, bare skin making noticeable contact with the spine where the Pathos had been applied. Now that the miasma was delivered, all that Degare had to do was wait for it to work. This should be obvious given the Bane he chose was Hush and the other man wouldn’t be able to speak at all. In waiting, the Ferrier rested his hands behind his back– a stance that many would see as polite; on his end, the elf did this because there was a knife sheathed at the small of his back, hidden by his cape. This was mostly kept for self defense but was also convenient should a situation like this ever arise.
Pocketing the notebook now himself, Maurice opens his mouth to say something to the waiting Ferrier, “How do you feel abo–” but is abruptly cut off. His voice catches and he grasps at his throat, an expression of very obvious befuddlement worn on his face. The rotund man’s mouth opens and closes repeatedly as he tries to make any sound and, repeatedly, he fails to do so– something akin to a combination of panic and fear bubbles to the surface of his round face. The mask of friendliness drops from the Norai’s face at once as lips curl into a fairly cruel smile, eyes alight with an uncanny brightness. It worked and it worked fairly quickly. He had used more Pathos than he supposed he really needed out of paranoia, but at least the concentration seems to have sped up the process a little bit.
Saying nothing, the Ferrier draws in a deep breath of ashes in and then breathes them back out with an infusion of ether. On his exhale, the room fills with a dense cloud of Spectrified ashes– haunting in their ethereal blue color and making it extremely difficult to see. At the same time, Degare drew the knife and quickly lunged forward, basing his movements on where he remembered the other man being positioned. Though the other man did not appear to be that competent of a combatant, any and all nobles of Daravin possessed at least one mark and the Ferrier had no idea which the other man possessed– taking him by surprise and with vision obscured was the safest route.
What the elven Veir lacked in strength was made up for by the sharpness of his blade as it cut through skin and muscle with ease. His initial strike cut through the Tribune’s trapezius aimed at a downward angle into the man’s chest. Withdrawing the knife, he repeatedly stabbed the other until he collapsed to the ground. Due to the Bane of Hush, all the shorter man could do was writhe and gasp for air, vocal chords so constricted not a sound could be produced. Blood flowed from his wounds into the man’s clothing, onto the floor and splashed back onto the hands of the Sil’Norai. On his end, the Ferrier took deep pleasure in his actions and found that the adrenaline of the moment was as intoxicating as it was thrilling.
As the ashes in the air began to fall and start to clear, the Tribune lay bleeding on the floor. With slow, leisurely steps Degare walks around the crumpled man such that the two could face one another. Removing the small notebook from the pocket in which it was placed, the elf runs his fingertips over the cover and strips another ribbon of glowing blue Ethos from the surface. Immediately, he was assaulted with more garbled words and physical pain from the woman’s wounds as she begged for mercy. Once that faded, he spoke, “Do you know what this is…?” His voice is low and cold in tone, features dripping with malice. Knowing the other man can’t reply, he continues, “It’s Ethos. Ribbons of a ghost’s fixations. I felt it as soon as I picked up the book and out of curiosity, I decided to peer into the memories of the deceased attached, lingering in limbo from the trauma of their end. Pity that the fragments I experienced painted you so poorly in my eyes…” he trails off, velvety voice hostile and taunting.
The terror reflected back in Maurice’s eyes only served to feed a hunger buried deep within the elven Veir. Voice playful and soft but laced with sarcasm, “Aw…don’t be afraid. It’ll all be over soon…and what is there to worry about? You’ll be with your beloved god soon enough,” It was very clear that Degare reveled in the suffering of the rapidly weakening man. Staying there for a few moments longer, he watched as the light faded from the Tribune’s eyes and once the elf was sure that the other man was dead, he finally stood. Concealing bloodied hands in the pockets of the dark fabric of his robes, the Ferrier leaves the room, locking it behind him.
With soft, satisfied steps he moves through the estate to notify the relevant Valran of his house of what needed to be done.
- - -
For the pale Veir, he wasn’t too keen on the idea of waiting too long to enact his plan. While he was typically a patient man, the paranoia of the Tribune potentially wanting him dead served to override his usually cautious nature. He was fully aware that the pudgy little man was wandering his estate somewhere and that should either of them spot one another it’d be easier enough to get a conversation going. He didn’t, however, know how easy it would be to lure him off into somewhere more isolated– which was really all he needed to do. Lure him away, strike him down, and then lock the door and leave the body for the Valran to clean up after everyone else goes home. Very few in his entire house would bat an eye at this particular man’s death since most of them considered him to be a nuisance and given how many other people are here at the moment, it would be near to impossible to discern exactly who is responsible for Maurice Soreno’s mysterious disappearance.
With renewed resolve, the Ferrier pockets the little notebook once more and then exits the study he was in, locking it once more behind him. Moving with grace upon long, crane-like legs he weaves through the rivers and lakes of guests occupying the estate, eyes of reddened amber searching for one specific person. Degare figured he’d find the man somewhere within the main hall or entry hall since those two locations were where he typically lurked, looking for people to poke about the Omen. Passing through the maze of corridors of his house, the elf eventually arrives at the propped open doors of the main hall and looks in while standing on the side of the threshold.
Funnily enough, it was his target who found and approached him as he had half expected the irritating little man to do. “Lord Socorro! I was looking for you but sometimes you are just so hard to find!” The man speaks with notable enthusiasm, as he always does. With a sigh, the Ferrier replies, “Were you? If I had known I’d have made myself more available, my apologies,” he says with a polite tone to mask both his intentions and his annoyance with the man’s very presence. “Since you say that, am I to assume you’ve finally come around to see the reason in my words?” replies Soreno, a bright sparkle in his eyes and some semblance or something almost akin to relief reflected in the very back. Rolling with this line of thought, “I have. Say, why don’t you tell me more about your particular brand of worship somewhere more quiet? It’s rather hard to hear you with everyone else speaking and the music playing so nearby,” his voice and expression are both amiable, placid, utterly pleasant. Thankfully, the Tribune bites the offered bait. “Why, I think that sounds brilliant! With this being your estate and all, I trust that you know it better than I– please, lead the way,” the rotund man speaks with bright enthusiasm, clearly quite chuffed to be actively invited to preach about his beloved Ulen.
Oblivious to the elven Veir’s nefarious intentions, the Tribune happily trods along behind Degare as he walks back to the locked study he had lurked in earlier at a fairly leisurely pace. Unlocking the door, the Ferrier holds it open as a polite gesture to his lovely guest. When the human, probably mid thirties, walks into the room, the elf follows and closes the door– deftly locking it again behind him.
It only took a few seconds for the Ferrier to decide how he wanted to deliver his Bane to the other man. He was not wearing gloves so his hands would be susceptible to absorbing the liquid Pathos. Degare channels ether into the palm of his left hand as he moves to unpocket the little notebook with his right before sliding his left over the book’s spine– he did this very quickly after the two of them walked into the room, before the other man even had time to turn around and face him. “Oh, by the way– I found this on the ground and flipped through a couple of the pages. Given the contents, I should ask, is this yours?” The elf floats this question to his companion with a tone of polite friendliness. He made a point to not mention any of the dark stains contained within. Though the caustic miasma of Pathos is visible, he didn’t use enough to stain the book’s spine that badly and it would be hard to see against the dark leather of the cover in the dim light of the room anyways. Maurice turns to face the pale elf with a slightly puzzled look and then immediately recognizes his little lost book. Relief washes over him when he sees it. “You found that? Yeah, that is mine! Thank you for bothering to ask,” he sounds quite pleased to be getting the thing back.
Holding it out with the spine facing towards the other man, the Tribune happily accepts it, bare skin making noticeable contact with the spine where the Pathos had been applied. Now that the miasma was delivered, all that Degare had to do was wait for it to work. This should be obvious given the Bane he chose was Hush and the other man wouldn’t be able to speak at all. In waiting, the Ferrier rested his hands behind his back– a stance that many would see as polite; on his end, the elf did this because there was a knife sheathed at the small of his back, hidden by his cape. This was mostly kept for self defense but was also convenient should a situation like this ever arise.
Pocketing the notebook now himself, Maurice opens his mouth to say something to the waiting Ferrier, “How do you feel abo–” but is abruptly cut off. His voice catches and he grasps at his throat, an expression of very obvious befuddlement worn on his face. The rotund man’s mouth opens and closes repeatedly as he tries to make any sound and, repeatedly, he fails to do so– something akin to a combination of panic and fear bubbles to the surface of his round face. The mask of friendliness drops from the Norai’s face at once as lips curl into a fairly cruel smile, eyes alight with an uncanny brightness. It worked and it worked fairly quickly. He had used more Pathos than he supposed he really needed out of paranoia, but at least the concentration seems to have sped up the process a little bit.
Saying nothing, the Ferrier draws in a deep breath of ashes in and then breathes them back out with an infusion of ether. On his exhale, the room fills with a dense cloud of Spectrified ashes– haunting in their ethereal blue color and making it extremely difficult to see. At the same time, Degare drew the knife and quickly lunged forward, basing his movements on where he remembered the other man being positioned. Though the other man did not appear to be that competent of a combatant, any and all nobles of Daravin possessed at least one mark and the Ferrier had no idea which the other man possessed– taking him by surprise and with vision obscured was the safest route.
What the elven Veir lacked in strength was made up for by the sharpness of his blade as it cut through skin and muscle with ease. His initial strike cut through the Tribune’s trapezius aimed at a downward angle into the man’s chest. Withdrawing the knife, he repeatedly stabbed the other until he collapsed to the ground. Due to the Bane of Hush, all the shorter man could do was writhe and gasp for air, vocal chords so constricted not a sound could be produced. Blood flowed from his wounds into the man’s clothing, onto the floor and splashed back onto the hands of the Sil’Norai. On his end, the Ferrier took deep pleasure in his actions and found that the adrenaline of the moment was as intoxicating as it was thrilling.
As the ashes in the air began to fall and start to clear, the Tribune lay bleeding on the floor. With slow, leisurely steps Degare walks around the crumpled man such that the two could face one another. Removing the small notebook from the pocket in which it was placed, the elf runs his fingertips over the cover and strips another ribbon of glowing blue Ethos from the surface. Immediately, he was assaulted with more garbled words and physical pain from the woman’s wounds as she begged for mercy. Once that faded, he spoke, “Do you know what this is…?” His voice is low and cold in tone, features dripping with malice. Knowing the other man can’t reply, he continues, “It’s Ethos. Ribbons of a ghost’s fixations. I felt it as soon as I picked up the book and out of curiosity, I decided to peer into the memories of the deceased attached, lingering in limbo from the trauma of their end. Pity that the fragments I experienced painted you so poorly in my eyes…” he trails off, velvety voice hostile and taunting.
The terror reflected back in Maurice’s eyes only served to feed a hunger buried deep within the elven Veir. Voice playful and soft but laced with sarcasm, “Aw…don’t be afraid. It’ll all be over soon…and what is there to worry about? You’ll be with your beloved god soon enough,” It was very clear that Degare reveled in the suffering of the rapidly weakening man. Staying there for a few moments longer, he watched as the light faded from the Tribune’s eyes and once the elf was sure that the other man was dead, he finally stood. Concealing bloodied hands in the pockets of the dark fabric of his robes, the Ferrier leaves the room, locking it behind him.
With soft, satisfied steps he moves through the estate to notify the relevant Valran of his house of what needed to be done.
____
'Thoughts'
"Common Tongue/Speech"
"Raillen Tongue/Speech"
"Silvain Tongue/Speech"
'Thoughts'
"Common Tongue/Speech"
"Raillen Tongue/Speech"
"Silvain Tongue/Speech"
