View Full Version : The Rise Of Van Occupanther (Solo)
The Trials Of Van Occupanther (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JDL9bXlwbM4)
Part Three of the Story Arc 'Legacy,' set after the events of The Fall Of Van Hildegard (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=20905) and directly referencing events therein.
1932
Upon his way to rob a Bank
He paused to watch a fire;
Though crowds were pressing rank on rank
He pushed a passage nigher;
Then sudden heard, piercing and wild,
The screaming of a child.
A Public Enemy was he,
A hater of the law;
He looked around for bravery
But only fear he saw;
Then to the craven crowds amaze
He plunged into the blaze.
How anguished was the waiting spell
Of horror and of pain!
Then--then from out that fiery hell
He staggered forth again:
The babe was safe, in blankets wrapt,
The man flame lapt.
His record was an evil one,
Of violence and sin.
No good on earth he'd ever done,
Yet--may he Heaven win!
A gangster he . . . Is it not odd?
--With guts of God.
- Robert William Service
Van Occupanther sat royally in the seat of his father, lording over the Guild only in his mind. He rubbed his chin and keened his gaze at the reams of parchment on the table before him, deciding on which course of action to take following his instructions. He was a young elf, at least by the reckoning of his kin, but he had accrued wisdom far beyond the years of any likeminded human. It gave him an edge over the other potentials for the position of Master.
The small holding that housed the Thieves Guild and it's many meetings was a Spartan tavern overlooking the river. It offered its occupants their weight in fish and cheap beer to disguise a lack of quality in other places, namely, everywhere you looked that wasn't near your dinner or ale. The beds were straw mattresses and the serving wenches’ cold and despondent, but it served their purpose well. Occupanther frowned and slouched into the comfort of the chair. Its tall back and regal décor accentuated his exotic features and reminded him of the glories of home. How he missed Alerar, the ancient would.
“What manner of trial is this, if there is no answer to its riddles and no solution to the puzzles it proffers?” The motley crew of attendants, captains and cutthroats all turned to look at the petulant heir with a curious arrangement of eyebrows raised and mouths gaping. The Mouth of the Council stepped forwards in a swathe of purple felt and grey fir and tapped a parchment with his thumb. The trestles of his black cloak and the tip of his cane shimmered in the light of the single candle that illuminated the trial papers.
“Answers can be found in the unlikely places you feign interest to look. If you cannot solve this first trial, Van Occupanther, then there can be no hope for you as Master of the Guild. The Guilds-man has spoken, you are to pass, or fail. It is as simple as that,” he turned and went back to his conversation leaving the young elf even more frustrated.
Occupanther thought long and hard, sporadically day dreaming about simpler days between each line of rhetoric and conundrum. There were four parchments in all, each with a pattern of ancient words scrawled in a seemingly random spiral. Each had a theme, circling one of the primary elements but beyond that, Occupanther saw nothing but nonsense. He rasped his knuckles on the edge of the table and took a swig from his tankard and allowed the peaty wine which had clearly been corked to scour his mouth clean.
“Then sunder me atwain and castigate me from society, for I see nothing but shadows and pointless dichotomy.” The Council ignored his plea and continued their mumbled discussions on the gossip and information of the day. Across the water another potentate muttered the same line, and on the far side of the city the third did the same. A little spark of creativity moved the Thieves’ Guild one step closer to reclaiming its lost momentum at the hands of one Arden Janelle. Vengeance was thick in the air and wrath hard on the minds of all of its members.
Thief and murderer alike knew that death would find them all eventually; but they fought for Lordship of the guild to ensure their enemies were found first.
The sun shone down over the sparkling waters of the dockland canals. The veins of trade and life spread almost half a mile into the city from tributaries and man-made reservoirs, powering steam wheels and generators with coursing, natural might.
Blank walked through the mists of the alleyway to the right side of the tavern like a midnight stalker, approaching his prey with eager fingers to pick pockets and twirling daggers to nick necks. His face was devoid of any expression and his walk sullen and silent. He stopped at the edge of the path as it gave way to the water and looked up to his left; the wind caught his hair and fluttered slicked it back a red swathe.
The building had two floors, before it went into a sharp overhang supported by heavy and sturdy beams. The top floor, which overlooked the water and cast a shadow on the less luxurious rooms below was the meeting place for the Thieves' Guild Council - if Blank's sources were correct, and they there more often than not, the next Van of the Guild would be seated in the ancient throne his father had once sat in many years ago.
He shrugged, rolled his hips and bent to touch his toes. He had to make sure he was at the right tavern, firstly, and whilst he would have preferred to simply break the door down and run his blade through every one of their pitiful necks, this assignment required more finesse and tact and thus an understated approach than usual. The Master of the Scourge did not want an incident to tie their mutual operations together.
This was war, after all.
With a resolved sigh, Blank placed his bent fingers onto the cold salty stone and hauled himself up using the cracks in the shoddy stonework as leverage. Like a creature of the night he started his ascent, careful motions carrying no sound apart from the heavy pounding in his chest and the slight escape of air that constituted his controlled breathing.
Van Occupanther stared one last time at the array of papers laid out on the table before him. Despite his regal airs and graces, his intellect and forlorn longing to be the new Master fell apart in a melee of fallen ideals and righteous waves of ignorance.
"Oh..." He mumbled, finally seeing a pattern emerge from the lines of concentric ink and blocks of ancient text. It all seemed so simple to him that he wondered why he had not abandoned his search sooner. In life, you often found what you were looking for when you were not in fact looking for it. It shone in the dark, grew brighter and gold and shed light on the world. He smiled.
"Twelve."
The members of the council at once scattered, several left through the locked door with hushed silence. The others sat two on either length of the table and the Mouth at the opposite end of the table. Something convened, but Van Occupanther could not be sure if it was to be his coronation, or his execution.
"Why twelve?" They spoke together in unison, hoods and masquerade gowns bellowing with arcane hand movements and ritualistic symbolism. The tavern ante chamber seemed to sparkle with iridescent energy as they spoke. The elf king smiled weakly, the unknown staring him in the face.
"All the symbols, riddles, rantings and images point to twelve. Twelve deaths, twelve kings, twelve nights. They are symbolic, although I could not say what they represent."
The stone work and trestle tables on each wall rattled, as the glasses and cups shook by the merit of some unseen power. The council spoke a single line in turn, building up a verse that had instilled every Master for the last five centuries.
"Twelve kings died to forge our bonds."
"Twelve nights passed to choose the Van's Name."
"Twelve deaths forged the bloody rite."
"Twelve hours claimed from the infinite gate."
The whole tavern shook and the band of silver around Occupanther's head shone brightly. Silence fell over the room as the Mouth stood and left in silence. He had to deliver the bad news to the other Van who had stepped forth to try their luck, and follow up his deliverance with a swift blade to the nape.
"The twelve kings shall die, and all hail Van Occupanther. All hail the Master!"
The elf smiled with such malice and joy fairies died in the distant concords of Corone's great forests. Blood tainted the air, and fear the sky; he wiped sweat from his brow at his survival, and wondered how long he would last.
Blank's fingers extended over the salty stone and pulled his body weight up onto the long balcony which ran along the overhang. It was accessible from every window in the tavern and a double door at the centre of the galley for customers to step out and admire the view, and for parties to rage inside and out long into the night.
With a swift roll and a scoop up to the division between two windows, Blank pressed his naked torso onto the cold stone and froze. His muscles were pounding and tense from the climb, and the overhang had required a difficult arrangement of careful stretching and well timed acrobatics to traverse. With his dodgy eyesight, he had nearly ended up sleeping with the somewhat beast-like fishes that hid in the murkier depths of the canals.
He rubbed his injured eye to clean it of moisture and tears and settled down for a long evening. He blinked several times to clear his vision and then slipped his head around the corner to take a lightning glimpse of the room beyond.
The long table he had seen before. The drapes over the window fluttered in the gentle maritime breeze and provided him some degree of cover to observe. The echoing halls of the large room cast the conversation going on inside to the careful ears of would be murderers, and he listened carefully, restraining his breath to give clarity to the conceited words.
No...I am too late... he sighed, the dredges of the new Master's congratulatory speech rattling around in his skull. He was a few moments beyond Occupanther's solution to the trial it would seem. He had an hour at most before the Mouth returned to the chamber, drenched in the blood of the fallen potentials and then, then the foolish elf's trials would truly begin.
Blank clenched his teeth and tried to decide what to do, hesitation and nerves clouding his judgement.
"Wait here, Master, we shall return once the Mouth has sated the other candidates. Whilst success is yours, there is one more trial to complete before we give you the Night's Eye." The council stood in unison as eerily as it spoke.
One by one the black cloaked figures left the tavern, leaking out into the busy streets and alleyways beyond on some errand or another. Occupanther knew better than to dwell on the habitual past times of the city's under folk; it did not lend itself to a healthy constitution.
He sat back in his throne and leant one hand on the ornate rest to prop his head up in resignation. His mind raced all sorts of horrors about the last trial, and he scanned the room for something to distract his attention. He traced the backs of the chairs and followed the jagged design to the roof, and counted the beams to pass the time.
The distant sound of seagulls, ocean waves and wind gave Blank the perfect opportunity to slip in through the window farther away from the elf and walk slowly and surely up to the throne. Placing a chair in the centre of a vast space with windows on every wall and balconies was not the most apt decision, and the Silent Swordsman drew Orichalos from his belt and placed it's cold steel across the elf's neck.
Silence.
"We meet again, brother," Occupanther said meekly, swallowing the lump in his throat as he caught sight of the ancient dagger's unique pommel.
A long time ago, two young children had witnessed a murder.
Occupanther Janelle, first born of Magnarion had forgiven his father's misdeeds and lied to the city guard in order to protect the man he assumed he loved and cherished.
Arden Janelle, second born son to a harlot mistress, had longed and threatened many a time to tell people the truth. He grew so angry at knowing his father's evil that he erased all trace of his family's nobility and claim to property, money and royal placement in the city. As the blue flames coalesced throughout his father's mansion, and blood and rage swept away all his innocence, Magnarion paid him one final disservice, and smote his son with a curse so powerful it silenced time itself.
Arden bore the burden of seeing his mother in a pool of blood for so long, he had forgotten and suppressed the memory so deep in his mind, that it only now started to emerge.
"Brother, it is you, is it not? No other fool would bare the brunt of those blades against their own." The elf's breath has hot and sticky on the back of Blank's palm, which was white with strain from his crushing grip on the steel.
"I thought the Master would send his loyal hound to eliminate the Thieves' Guild whilst it was weak, I did not think Father's game would be so utterly... successful."
Blank retreated, shock visible on his face. It was as cold and calculated as he expected, but all the pieces came together in one explosive force. Van Hildegard...the letters, the lavender scent - his father was seeking revenge.
"Tell me," Occupanther's voice was dry, as if fear tainted it, but was shorn from terror by knowing he held a card in his hand. He stood slowly and veered out from behind the tall back of the chair with his hands clearly visible and devoid of weaponry. "Could you truly kill me?"
His memory returned in waves of quicksilver, spiralling around in fire storms over the Aria in his mind. The image cracked only slightly, but the fabric of reality crashed into his world with reckless abandon. He mumbled and innate babble slipped from his tongue.
"Worry not, Father's curse will lift soon enough. My death will enact a world of suffering for the Scourge - blood magic is a powerful relic of the Sorcerer Milleuis's reign in this city, but it still holds power in the hands of the faithful. My sacrifice is but the price we pay for greatness - would you not agree?"
Occupanther sprinted forwards so quickly Blank was taken by surprise. Instinct took a hold of his body and drove his right fist upwards in a neat and bone crunching uppercut. Expecting the blade to pierce his heart, the elf's winded form shot up and landed on the rickety wooden floorboards with as much surprise as Blank felt at having shown mercy.
"I am not your brother!"
For the first time in two decades, Arden Janelle spoke, and thus he remembered. As dust spiralled up in plumes from beneath the elf's fallen form, plumes of memory and regret drifted up into the sky and relinquished the guilt from Blank's heart.
Occupanther pushed himself upright and sat on the cold floor, his armour and robes eschew with the chaos mirrored in his eyes. They were wild, fiery, full of expectation. Whilst he had not expected the curse to be so easily lifted, he still expected vengeance and wrath to take its toll on his brother's mind and drive his daggers into his elven heart - it had been foreseen in the mists of prophecy.
"I am your brother, and you cannot deny me that!" He rasped, taking a moment to spit the blood from his mouth. It splattered into a twelve pointed star on the floorboards, staining it with a memory for all eternity.
"You should not have returned to the city, lest not become embroiled in his petty games!"
"His? Can you not speak his name? After all he has done for u-"
"He has done nothing for me! Nothing, do you hear?" Blank shouted, all the anger and emotion lost to the mute status venting itself without control or thought. He tensed and shook and wiped his brow.
He felt alone.
"Pity. It is too late," the doors to the hall opened, and a line of black cloaked figures entered. At first, they did not recognise Blank, but soon stood aghast and in shock at the sight before them.
"Van!" They cried in unison as the elf stood slowly, still dazed from the blow. He held out his arm to stay their advance, and leant against the throne with an elbow rested on the carved eagle's head.
"Do you not want to claim your vengeance against me?"
"You have done nothing wrong, Occupanther, 'cept become embroiled in the Thieves' Guild. Regardless of your ignorance and your treachery, and the stain on our mother's memory...we are enemies through occupation."
"Ah, so you admit we are kin?"
"Oh I will admit it, but I claim no ownership of your sins, or your troubles. Like my father, you are dead to me inside; a remnant of a life unloved."
"Would you betray The Master and let me live?"
Blank smiled. Whatever scheme his father plotted, it would not come to fruition today. The tension in he air grew so powerful that he could bare it no longer, and he stepped forwards with his daggers crossed, brandishing their heirloom power with reserved but fiery judgement.
"I will not force the hand of the gods, but I will take from you the vestige of blood magic you claim to wield - I have sought for a way to revitalise these blades, and re-forge the Rheilhand anew...it would appear, you are to be a sacrifice after all." He grinned and lunged, a flurry of red hair and anticipation.
The Orichalus pierced the flimsy regalia and iron armour with ease, and cleaved it's way through the clavicle and muscle in Occupanther's shoulder. With a gasp of air he went limp, and Blank embraced him to keep him upright. He leant over his strike and whispered into his ear.
"Your time will come, and you shall see the howling rage of blood magic..."
He stepped back and watched his brother stumble, scrabbling on the chair and the table edge to feebly stop himself falling. He collapsed, and immediately the councilmen rushed the lengths of the table to surround their liege.
The crimson liquid ran along the dagger's edge and it's innate power pooled the blood into the handle. He clashed them together and smiled. An image of his mother flashed in his mind, and his memories surfaced in all their resplendent and malefic glory.
"To weak to defend himself, too weak to fall to my blade - I am more of a man and a noble soul than my father can ever claim to be; I made sure of that once, I will do so again."
With a calamitous roar he waved his hands inwards, forming a rainbow of blue fire and flames over the papers on the table. They did not burn the parchment but ate through the ink with indomitable fury and hunger. It took several minutes for the damage to be done, and Blank chuckled as the embers died away.
The councilmen drew their sword canes in unison and stood with their backs to their leader, the silver death masks on their faces newly donned in the commotion. Death guard, honour guard, servants eternal. Blank turned his back to them and made for the balcony wall.
"What will you do now, Occupanther?"
Spluttering and coughing, the elf pushed aside his aide and glared at his brother. He put out his hand and started to crawl towards him, but was held back with a firmly placed black lacquer rod.
"I will...see to it...that he knows."
"Knows?" Blank raised an eyebrow and smiled with a wry contention that defied any form of victory.
"Knows you are no longer bound. He will come."
"So let him - let me see Magnarion Janelle - let me wipe that smirk from his face. He cannot hurt me any more than has done already. In fact, tell him this..." Blank darted towards his brother, feet spread wide and daggers spun into a reverse grip.
"I will use his blood to bring her back!" At the last moment he leapt, and fell towards the elf like a raging madman.
Occupanther gasped and closed his eyes, praying for fulfilment and victory at last.
As the canes and deadly blades of the Councilmen rose to greet him, Blank dissipated in a veil of blue fire and vanished from the world; as if a comet had been plucked from it's descent to the earth.
"He has gone, Master."
Occupanther opened his eyes and sighed. He had failed, and the price of failure was far greater than a simple, painless, efficient death. He had hoped very much to be able to report to his father of his success, but it was not to be.
"Clear the tavern of customers, pay the in keep in the usual manner; we have much to discuss and I do not wish to be disturbed by vigilantes, Scourge-hands or vagabonds any longer!" They helped him stand and he sat on the edge of the vast oak table to steady himself against the weakness of blood loss. Whilst the injury was not immediately fatal, it would no doubt weaken and ultimately kill him in time.
"Fetch the Pastor, and a needle..." Nobody moved.
"NOW!"
---
Blank landed on the floor of an empty guest room in a swathe of flame and clarinet recital. The musical deluge of the Aria followed him and he mentally whistled along as he stood upright and dusted himself down. He did not appear to have sustained any injuries and fortunately, he had descended with enough momentum to clear the thick planks above.
He had come too far to be impaled into a seedy tavern's architecture.
He strolled over to the door and opened it, slipped out into the corridor as silently as possible, and dissipated into the vastness and anonymity beyond. There was much to do and little time to prepare; he smiled as he walked, eager to see the look on Duffy's face when he vented every insult he had ever wanted to throw at the bard in the years since they had met.
He was going to enjoy this.
---
Van Occupanther, thirteenth Master of the Thieves' Guild of Scara Brae sat slowly on his throne and adjusted his crown so that it was lob-sided, but elegantly dishevelled. The Pastor, a priest of dubious origin and a healer of world renown fussed and tended to the dagger strike amidst a long line of babble whilst the Council were seated in the traditional manner.
The others had returned, bloody handed and triumphant, and devoted to their new Van. The blow dealt by the Scourge to their strength had been mighty, but all were eager to cast their loss aside and claw their way back into the upper echelons of power within Scara Brae. There was much to discuss, and much plotting to arrange; power and enticing mania floated through the air, out the windows and across the waterways of potential.
Occupanther smiled, and drove his fist onto the table to draw the first Senescent of Thieves to order.
Spoils:
The Master: Van Occupanther is instilled as the new Master of the Thieves's Guild - he is inequitably a cold and calculated swordsman, master thief and zealous mind.
Dogma: The curse over Blank has been lifted, and he can thus speak and view his concerns as a normal human - the relevant effect on his abilities and the changes to his skills, both losses and gains will be represented in his next level update.
Blood Brothers: Orichalos and it's twin have both been bloodied by a member of the Janelle family, and the awakening power of the Rheilhand is present. This has no effect, other than to act as a binding agent when they are smelted and re-forged into the Rheilhand - using a brand of magic called Blood Arcana, a dangerous and violent sacrificial lore.
Blood Mage: Blank has remembered Blood Arcana, and is currently a below average Blood Mage - he has no actual spells, but knows the tennets and powers and purpose of blood magic which allows him to weave and work the enchantments and rituals required to activate Blood Magic relics and bind legacy and blood to metals - in principle, it can only be used currently to awaken items already bound in blood.
In the grande tradition of the theatre,
The End!
MetalDrago
08-20-10, 04:12 AM
STORY ~
Continuity (5/10) ~ Despite my having read and Judged the first thread in this series, and having a good idea what happened in the second, you hardly reference the last two at all. While this makes sense in some cases (I know you don’t want to add too much information), a little backstory for the characters wouldn’t hurt all that much.
Setting (4/10) ~ The setting was acceptable, but could have been done better. There may have only been a couple of rooms in the entire place, but most of the time it just felt like your characters were moving in a black void.
Pacing (6/10) ~ The pacing was pretty well done, but it could have been done a little better. Not really a whole lot to say here.
CHARACTER ~
Dialogue (6/10) ~ Typically, your dialogue score is one of the highest ones you earn, and this time it isn’t much different, except in the ways that it is. You did pretty well in you dialogue. Although the NPCs only appear for a couple of posts, beware making every character sound exactly the same. Though dialects may be the same, people typically do not say the same sentences with exactly the same inflection.
Action (5/10) ~ You provided enough action to make the thread interesting while still maintaining the almost purely story-driven way this thread is played off. However, I would have liked to see more facial expressions and body language, which could really drive home the way each character was feeling without having to describe their thoughts. This works extremely well in third-person limited omniscient view, where you only have access to one character’s personal thoughts at a time.
Persona (6/10) ~ Overall, I got a good, if not stellar, view of what each character encompassed, as far as personality traits. There were a few questions that went unanswered as far as what exactly these people are like, but I’m sure those will be answered in later installments of your stories.
WRITING STYLE ~
Mechanics (7/10) ~ Just a couple of minor errors here and there. Good job.
Technique (5/10) ~ Not much used in way of advanced techniques, but you did use a few basic techniques that made this score stay at a solid five.
Clarity (8/10) ~ The thread was exceedingly easy to follow, partially due to the brevity of it, but also due to the fact that no matter what you add to your posts, you always make sure to keep what’s going on at the forefront.
Wild Card (6/10) ~ I liked this thread, but the first part of this story was, at least in my opinion, a far more driving story.
Blank scores a 58, and receives 1150 EXP and 135 GP (10% deducted from his actual total of 150 GP)
Allow me to be the first to welcome you to Level 2 (as soon as the EXP/GP is added)
Taskmienster
08-20-10, 04:50 AM
Exp and GP added.
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