On the Topic of Messengers

[Ithermoss]

((this thread is a result of the posts that took place here: http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?p=45596#post45596 ))



"...speak always the words of wisdom, young elfblood,
for there are times in this world when you may do so only once."

The words still echoed upon the handworked stone of the halls of the old Red Hand. The high and precariously engineered cielings distributed the weight of an entire mountain evenly across arcs and pressure-held cornerstones. The acoustics of the room were impeccable - had it not been for the architects who had crafted the room from the very root of the mountain, his home would have been lost under a crag of rubble in the wilderlands a long, long time ago. It was this room that would serve as the stage upon which an example would be made this day.

“Close the gates,” Rakh growled with a wave of his hand. The few tradesmen manning the entrance dropped the winch, letting it spin wildly as the gates to the Grand Atrium crashed shut. It had been such a nice and quiet day, only to be unhinged by the recent intrusion. Rakh hated to be dragged into wars. Further still, he hated having to entertain outsiders who walk on his land uninvited. The half elf had entered into his home, dishonored his kin, and proceeded to make a mockery of his authority, punishable by the removal of her tongue. She was so young. She had the courage to enter into his domain, and before his fellow Handsmen, demand something of not only the Red Hand, but of him as well. She had the fortitude, even, to mock his very word. Rakh had promised her pain for it, and now was being tested in making good on his word. Rakh had found himself caught in quite a dilemma, dear reader...

...whether to cut her tongue out with the Archus salt-dagger, burn it off with a forging iron, or just rip it out with his own hand.

The son of Hromagh descended from his chambers, the dried mud caked over his barely clothed body dusting off as he padded his bare feet down stairs of dressed stone. It gave him an eerie appearance, although Rakh preferred being smeared with earth than clothed in silks. It helped keep the sun off his back, while still letting him retain his identity, identity which clothing didn’t allow. The necklace of bear claws and human teeth clinked against itself as he eventually reached the landing. His mohawk stiff on his scalp, he paced calmly toward the half elf - his ramping hand ready to snatch her tongue from her mouth.

“You made your decision, young one, you know what comes next. Submit, and I will make this quick, and you may go back to your war.”

[hamnat]

Shenjara's mind was wracked with confusion. She was unsure as to what she had done to offend him. Her apology to him for making the slightest notion of cowardice on his part was sincere, yet he seemed to think her as mocking him.

However, "Get what over with? I simply said that if you wanted me to leave, I would do so." She turned around and walked away from him slowly, then turned around and continued, "However if its a fight you want, and Im guessing from your past words that the prize would be my tongue, you shall have it." As much as she knew how powerful he was, she knew that people with great power, who were willing to use that power, would never respect anyone who backed away from them in fear.

"I would rather keep my tongue, as I need it more than you. As my attire would suggest, I am indeed a magess. Blessed with the abilty to wield potent fire magic and somewhat less powerful frost magic, I would fall quite quickly to your might. Not without giving you a few uncomfortable burns on that skin of yours. I would prefer that we do this in a public place. Somewhere like, I don't know, the Coronian Citadel, perhaps?"

[Ithermoss]

“Oh, don’t play coy,” he snorted. “I was clear: the next time you said the word ‘coward’ in my presence, I’d have your tongue. In saying it again, you have placed me in the unfortunate position of having to follow through with a bitter promise, but it is something I must do,” he dropped his hand to his side, glowering at her. “You have misused your tongue. Now it belongs to me.” In his already irritated state, someone turning her back on him would have found her entrails liquefied by a sonic blast, but he was feeling generous. She was already racking up quite a bill, and he felt it was, perhaps, best to let these trivialities go. This didn’t, however, improve his disposition.

“The citadel would be a suitable place,” he smirked, “but there really is no need for such a travel, when I can silence you here and now, and send you on your way. If you are concerned about whether my Handsmen will jump in, I assure you, this is not their fight, just as your war isn’t mine.” He sighed. “But as you wish. We will make for the citadel tomorrow, and you have my word that you will not be harmed until we have entered the arena. But when my hand finds its way around your neck, do not expect me to be so considerate. This changes nothing. You will be fed, and under guard,” he nodded to the rat catcher and the tanner, “see to her. She can stay in the guest room.”

Already tiring of pleasantries and his gritted-teeth-hospitality, he retreated back into his chambers for the night. He was always a quiet man, not as trite to say a “man of few words,” but certainly something similar. Patience was not a virtue he possessed, nor was mercy. He was a beast: brooding and savage and terrible. Just as he would hunt for prey, he would fight for dominance on his own territory. The richest of all tradesmen, and possibly the wealthiest man in all of Corone drew a bearskin over his naked back, and settled into his bedroll on the stone floors.

“How strange – on the anniversary of the Day of the Open Hand, duty would have me clench a fist. On a day of giving, here I must settle all accounts, and take from another what is owed.”

((feel free to bunny us until we get to the citadel, within reason))

[hamnat]

"This is your room, miss." The guard said to her after stopping at a door. "I hope you find it comfortable."

She opened the door, looked at him and replied with a short, "Thank you." The guard left her as she entered the room, which was definently meant for comfort. She would definently be comfortable.

She looked around in hopes of finding a bath of some kind, as she had not cleansed herself in a week. "Maybe the stench was to powerful for him." she thought, chuckling to herself. She was trying to lighten up, the situation finally getting to her as she dropped her defenses. She was very afraid. She knew that while death within the Citadel was not permanent, it did nothing for the pain one endured in battle. Pain was one thing that her studies had not prepared her for, at least not pain of the magnitude he could cause her.

She decided to think of strategy while she traveled tomorrow, and relax for now. With her nerves as wracked as they were, she probably wouldn't come up with any viable plans anyways.

She managed to find something to wash with, and after having done, she proceeded to clean her soiled robes. The leaf green color had given way to brown spots which covered the entire garment. Shenjara tied the sleeves of the robe around the back of a tall chair so that it could dry overnight, leaving her a scantily-clad girl in a cold room.

Shivering, she walked over to the bed, and pulled back the blanket. She smiled when she realized that this was the first time she had slept in a bed in a month. Crawling under the blankets, she smiled as the blanket quickly warmed her body, driving away the cold sensations of the room. She would sleep well tonight.

[Ithermoss]

She would sleep well, but Rakh wouldn't. He barely slept at all anymore, in fact - he had been attempting to hide the stone curse that befell him at night by locking himself in his chambers, when the changes came upon him. He had learned how to controll it over the past months, more or less, but it was still made life difficult. He couldn't let others see his weakness. He couldn't let others see where he was vulnerable. He was already feeling the stiffness taking hold of his joints when he curled up under his blanket.

"Just breathe," he told himself. "Just be calm. Concentrate. Keep it together."

It wouldn't prove so easy. His fingers crackled over in a dull grey, his knuckles hardening into stone. The changes flooded down his arms, canine hairs bristling out over his skin moments before it all stiffened into deposits of igneous rock. His changing was a quiet thing, quiet and painless, but he became quite thankful for the solid floors and reinforced structure . The transmutations he went through changed his weight dramatically, putting much strain on his surroundings. He had a few mishaps with wooden floorboards one time when he turned to stone in an inn: crashed right through the floorboards, and was too stiff to explain himself until morning broke. Sorry sir, I turn into animals and then stone every once and a while.

It was Althanas, after all. How odd could a person who turned to stone really be?

He slept light, as heavily as a stone under a mountain really could. His lucid moments of the struggles to come meant he would wake up still tired, still somber. The fur had shrunk away into his skin, as had the craglike features he had taken on in his sleep. It was a fear of his: to wake one day, and still be a statue

To wake, and not be able to breathe, as his lungs had become like lead.

To wake, and take in every living moment of life, while being a spectator in it: a permanent wallflower, in a world where one prefers to change things.

Rakh stood, stretched, cracked his back, and chewed some mint that he kept near in a clay basin. His effects sat at his door - his twin J'mphada ankh hammer, a satchel with a few days rations, enough gold to handle a few nights in a tavern, and Todd, the posessed skull that served as something of a sidekick. Storytellers would refer to him as the typical comic relief, but Rakh did appreciate his input every once and a while. It helped when he was being too much of a hardass for his own good. Rakh made it down the stairs to his meager accomodations, and waited for his guest until they set off upon their journey.

[hamnat]

Shenjara stood up at the side of the bed, feeling refreshed from her slumber. She walked over to the chair upon which her robe hang, and untying the sleeves, slipped the baggy thing over her head.

The room wasn't as cold as last night, but she still felt better once she had the freshly-cleaned robe on. Shenjara looked around and began collecting the possessions she had brought. As she gathered the various items, she remembered the situation she had found herself in.

Having just woken up, she hadn't yet gotten an active control on her impulses, and the panic she felt overwhelmed her. She gasped, her eyes going wide, and covered her mouth, worrying about whether or not her tongue still held purchase in her mouth. Her staff clattered on the floor, creating an echo that filled the whole room. She was shaking badly and horror once again shot through her nerves.

After a few minutes, Shenjara managed to exert her force of will upon her impulses, effectively suppressing the urge to hide and sneak out of the building. Grabbing her staff, she stood up and looked at the door, still scared to go out. She knew, however, that she must face the man she had upset greatly the past evening. Acting against everything her instincts told her, she walked calmly to the door and opened it.

Once the door was closed behind her, Shenjara turned around to find an unarmed guard. He held up his hand, beckoning to her, "If you would please follow me, miss. Master Rakh is awaiting your presence."

Shenjara nodded once, replying, "Alright, then. Let's not keep him waiting."

"Right this way, miss." The guard said as he walked down the corridor. Shenjara followed him in silence, thinking of strategies she would use today against her opponent. She had heard of the abilities that many found fearsome to behold, and began there, thinking up ways to avoid becoming victim to the awesome power he would wield.

Coming to the bottom of a flight of stairs, she noticed that her opponent-to-be was already here, as the guard had said. Looking him over, Shenjara noticed that he looked very tired, like one who had slept little in the past week. She felt the impulse to panic pushing its way into her mental defenses, but managed to fend it off, hopefully keeping it supressed. But as calm as she may have seemed, she was horribly afraid.

[Ithermoss]

And so they traveled. The trek through the underground pass made the mountains much more navigable. His kin held with those that would walk beneath the rocks, thus unseen, rather than climb to the summit and expose oneself to all manner of spies and brigands. It was this very underground road that he used to move his ore from the mines, to the great Bazaar. It was a decent-sized corridor, as far as tunnels went - just enough room for a covered wagon to fit through, without snagging on any rocks or protruding roots. So they traveled by lamplight, down and down, until they finally reached their arena. Todd had been amusing himself with a few crude jokes when they reached the exit.

"...so then I said, pal, it doesn't matter how tall you stand, you're too short for a gnome-hooker to go up on you." Todd's teeth chattered, a sort of auto-applause for the undead, to which Rakh gave a prompt thump.

"Here's where we get out. Follow," Rakh said in as few words as possible. He led them to a forested area with the citadel in sight, the daylight peeking through an almost solid canopy of leaves overhead. Approaching the gates, he hailed the keepers there. "Ho, there! I've got a score to settle with this one, and she requested to be struck down in the citadel's arena."

And that's how he found himself on the battlefield, this very day, awaiting his opponent. This arena was one of stone pillars and false floors. One wrong step, and one may just find himself at the bottom of spike pit. Skulls impaled on jagged bits of metal, bodies strewn about for dramatic effect: all the usual sort, you know. The pillars were of decent size - twice as wide as a man, and at least six times as tall. The terrain was made of fixed tiles, all in a grid.

"Where are you, young one? The time of your silencing is at hand," he called out, the echo returning to his ears with nary a response inbetween them. He bent down, placed his palm on the tile infront of him. Beat on it a bit too.

Solid.

And so the first step was taken, in this, a warrior's gauntlet.

[hamnat]

Hidden behind a pillar, Shenjara noticed Rakh was thumping on the floor. A strange thing to do, but with the way the arena was configured, there must be traps all over. Using her staff, she pushed down on the floor, making sure not to make too much noise. She was very close to him, whether he knew it or not. But even though he was unaware of her, she still felt too close.

Tip-toeing, Shenjara continued to push on the floor as she made her way as far away as she could get from him. She wispered the words to her most powerul spell, preparing it to be cast as quickly as possible.

"Bremnoytricgo nmertocit ailutishca reckña.
Shmeriche amni trescquio..... She wispered, being careful to leave off the last word so she didn't cast the spell to soon. She knew she had to hurry as her mind was too chaotic for her to hold the spell in for too much longer. If she didn't hurry, the spell would ignite, but without her controling it, likely blasting her in the process. The only one she wanted to burn today was Rakh.

As she looked over at him, she failed to notice that the floor in front of her moved. The floor panel moved loudly, and if she hadn't stopped right then, her next step would have been her last in this arena. She knew the noise would attract her opponent's attention.

"MAISHCE!!" she screamed, channeling a little extra energy into the flaming sphere that now surrounded her hand, just for potency. Turning to her foe, she brought her hand back, and hurled the ball of fire in his direction, guiding it with her hand...

[Ithermoss]

He had been surveying the battlefield when the spell was made complete. He would have begun with tracking his opponent by smell and sound, but it seemed she was more intent on blatant overture than subtleties of hide and seek. It seemed clear that the elfblood wanted to finish this thing quick and dirty - a strategy that Rakh wouldn't entertain. She had had the advantage of positioning so far, that was painfully clear; the fireball struck the tribal squarely in his right shoulder, dropping him to a knee from his hunched and ready position. A cold and wet sensation was all there was at first - the intense and localized heat having already overloaded the heat-sensing nerves, the thin layer of subdermal fat had liquified and oozed from the wound and down his back. It burned later, of course, then came blistering and nausea. Rakh squared his shoulders and gave a silent exhale. The flesh crisped and rolled back like a piecrust.

The only signs that an attack had been made was Rakh's wound, and the trail of smoke left in the fireball's wake.

"My turn."

The son of Hromagh drew a great breath, filling his lungs to full capacity, and called upon the strength of his patrons. The breath was to carry with it the fury of the whistling peak of Mt. Drakenthrone, and the unyeilding fortitude of Pandemonium's Fist itself. Taking hold of the wolf's tooth around his neck, fur flooded through his pores as he undertook the guise of a werewolf. His face elongated into a snout, and from under his loincloth sprouted a tail. Releasing his breath, he let fly a howl so jarring, that the rocks themselves began to tremble. All matter, flesh and everything else, would quake at his beckoning. The sonic blast oscillated the surrounding air, shook the floors, and began to erode solids before the mortal eye. From his unwavering foundation, what lay before him simply began to waste away - shaken apart by the intense sonic frequency.

A good deal of the false floors had cracked, and fallen away, but the tribal's true target was a pair of pillars near where the fireball had flown from. Their foundations, the very focus of his blasting howl, seemed just moments away from collapse. If she was intent on resisting, he'd tire her out. This wasn't the first time he'd ever hunted foolish prey.

Ready for a reply, his terrible claws flashed out, ready to snatch from his quarry what was owed.

[hamnat]

Shenjara took advantage of the disorientation that her foe would feel from the blast, dodging around a few more pillars to try and keep her location hidden. It was at the moment she stopped moving when she peeked around this new pillar, which had a groove in the side to suggest that a very keen sword once was made dull upon it. Looking at Rakh, she saw something terrifying: Rakh was taking a werewolf form.

From what she had heard of this man in her travels, he had a special ability which could quite possibly bring the roof crashing down upon her pointy ears. As fur popped out all over his body, she crouched down behind her pillar, bracing herself for the possibility that he would use that unstoppable power of his, what had people shaking when they talked of it.

Shenjara felt the air around her begin to vibrate with a sudden fierceness, shaking like a baby's rattle. She looked up behind her, having heard the pillar crack, and her eyes widened as she saw the pillar splitting. The roof above her also began to crack, causing her instincts to punch through her discipline and push her to run from the collapsing cieling.

As she bounded away through the shaking air, the pillar gave way, taking the cieling with it. One of the smaller falling stones caught her in the back, sending a jolt of pain up her spine. Instead of somersaulting with her landing, as she had planned to do, she collided with the floor, which pushed all the air from her lungs, and ricocheted her even further.

Having been stunned for a bit from the force of the impacts, Shenjara stood up slowly, a pained cough working its way out. The air had stopped shaking, and her body ached from the heavy vibrations. Stumbling, she realized that she had dropped her staff when she rebounded off the floor, making the detecting of trap panels a much more difficult task. She looked over at Rakh, who was panting from the force he had recently evicted from his lungs. If he did that one more time, there probably wouldn't be a tongue for him to take from her.

[Ithermoss]

The staff clattered to the floor, rolling clockwise until it bumped its way to a stop over debris and ruined stonework. A huff of contentment relaxed Rakh’s frame as he caught his breath, the ceiling and arena infront of him clearly unstable under the brunt of his sonic attack. Mages often called this skill a word of blasting, but they would be foolish to assume that Rakh’s power emanated from something as feeble as spells and potions. The weregoyle’s strength flowed through the wilderness – the savage strength of Hromagh, and the eagle-eye cunning of Y’edda. They were his parents, and he, crafted in a design of their own choosing: a man of many shapes, with a will as unyielding as the stone he turns into. Seeing his opponent’s staff, he lowered himself to the ground with the knowledge that his opponent was no longer armed.

Mage types were known for their tricks, however. Perhaps that was one of their greatest advantages: they depended on strength of intellect and keenness of wit, to defeat their opponents. That notion is what held Rakh’s hand. With his opponent slumped to the ground, he didn’t want to get too close, lest she attempt to immolate him with of her spells. It was a trick that desperately hungry lion cubs used, to lure in a vulture – they never made easy pickings, but to survive another day, its amazing how well a simple trick like that would work. Rakh wasn’t about to fall for anything of the sort. He had been on the hunt before, and approaching fallen prey was always a sticky situation when the hunter wasn’t already at the throat.

The tribal had already weakened the building’s structure considerably, and quite wary of venturing further underneath the unsteady ceiling to trounce the girl a few times, he sat back on his haunches and waited. His pink tongue lolling from the side of his mouth, he panted watchfully, his hackles settling back down against the scruff of his neck. He was calm, and would allow his quarry to struggle against her environment before he felt the need to wrestle her to the ground. But it was at this moment that the warrior cocked its gaze inquisitively at the structurally unsound pillar nearest to her. It was weakened, but still standing. He curled his lip into a panting smile, and lowering his hips, broke into a dash at the stone column. Dodging the odd angles of rock and debris jutting up from the floor, the destroyer’s spirit threw itself into the pillar. The blow was a jarring one, sending him stumbling to the side upon impact, the wind knocked out of him. He had succeeded, however, in putting the column off its center of gravity, in the direction of his prey. From the looks of things, the stone support was going to collapse itself on top of the elfling. An ends to a means, truly. A crushed body wouldn’t damage what he intended to remove from it.

“Submit,” he managed to hack, his canine tongue almost shoving the word from his mouth. “You need not die today.”

[hamnat]

Shenjara screamed as the pillar cracked, crying from fear. She jumped away like a rabbit, just dodging another bunch of falling rocks. She was no longer in combat, as she saw it. She was running for her life. Looking over her shoulder, she saw a large pile of rubble where her body once sat. Rakh was smiling at her, enjoying this. Turning her head forward, Shenjara started to incant another spell. She turned toward Rakh and began to walk slowly towards him, waving her arms in a meaningless fashion. At least to those untrained in the arcane arts. Actually, she was performing the routine for her latest spell, the one she called Chill.

"Crieaschno serafre cartonci nachte
Shmeriche cusrevar nalconiscer..."Shenjara said under her breath, preventing him from hearing the arcane speak. She wanted it to look as though she were submitting. Instead, she would speak the final word once he asked for her tongue, allowing the wave of wintery chill to pass down his throat. While she was an honest person, she was not above trickery, and if it would keep her alive, then so be it.

A few tears slid down her cheek, the products of her fear. She knew that she could very well be killed here if she wasn't fast enough. He was extremely powerful, and she stood little chance of defeating him. As she walked towards him, her eyes continued to overflow, spilling telltale tears down her face. Shenjara looked past him and saw her staff. If I do this right, I may be able to get to my staff.

[Ithermoss]

"Hey, Todd, what's she saying," he whimpered in confusion, poking at the yellowed skull hung at his waist. His sharp ears could hear a bird whistling in the grass 500 feet away, so hearing the magess wasn't a problem. Understanding her was. "It's not tradespeak."

"I don't have ears. What's it sound like" the grumpy skull clattered.

"Crea...something...sea-farin' carton - nacho smear, caviar nalco-whatta."

"Sounds like a recipe of some sort. Cold nachos? Can she cook?! It'd be nice to have someon-"

"Can it, bonehead," he growled from between his teeth. "Nevermind."

The skull mumbled something about just trying to help, and expressing distaste at his punny comment. Rakh stayed down low, shifting his body to the left, circling around to look for an opening. There was something fishy going on here, and it wasn't his empty stomach, or even his breath (a rarity, to be sure). He was used to people giving up, but having them approach him wasn't an every day occurence. The warrior slunk back, placing a few more feet between them, and raised his hackles; the scruff on his neck standing on end. His stained teeth flashed out from under his muzzle, a warning against any further approach. The weregoyle wouldn't be taking any more steps back.

"If you concede, stay where you are. Otherwise, I'll tear you apart."

The warrior spun a hammer in his hand, gripping it by the longest shaft that composed the handle. The thick iron weighed down heavily in his furry grip, ready and waiting to smash through bone, sinew, and whatever else stood in its way. Rakh would pound a new hole in her head, if it came down to it. He was never one for the "clean" weapons. Swords and fine edges never did it for him. When it came to battle, crippling wounds, and cleaving enemies in half were what made it all worthwhile. He had made sure, all of his life, that whoever had found himself toe-to-toe with the Destroyer's Spirit, would carry the marks of that encounter for the rest of his life. The fact that he was facing a woman, did not detract from this fact. He steadied himself, ready to pound her head into the floor if she took a step further.

[hamnat]

As she walked towards him, he began to whimper to one of his skulls trying to get a translation. The beauty of Daimonic spells' incantations is that they had no translation. They were just as unintelligible in that language as they were to everyone else. He told her to stay where she was, though. She knew something was amiss.

He saw through it. flashed across Shenjara's mind. As soon as she realized it was no use to try this spell yet, she let it fade from her mind. Wait, did I hear something about a nacho? It's similar a Daimonic word...perhaps the skulls can use magic? But what did it have to do with cooking? In any case, no chances...

Shenjara turned and ran toward the pillars. She would try to lure him in while avoiding the possible spell. If he took the bait and chased her, he would probably get close enough for her to use the spell on him. She ran, not looking back, and began the same arcane routine as before. She would be prepared this time...