Sound didn't carry far down here. The air was still and thick, like being submerged in a dark pond unable to see which way was up or down. When something did move it was muffled and could be mistaken for much further than it actually was. Which most likely wasn't a blessing. Somewhere in the distance was the constant flow of water echoing off the cavern walls, the only means of entry to this subterranean maze. Everything was wet in here, impossible to dry out as the earth condensed and bleed through the very walls, leaving nothing without a moistness that was almost maddening.
A scratching sound broke the monotonous flow and light burst bright for half of a moment before dimming back down, drowning in the maw of the great cave. The torch lit, it did little to illuminate anything further than a few feet, but soon it was joined as a bank of fire began to run along the top of the room. Cut into the rock a ledge that carried the stream of flame from one end to the other continuously.
It would have been beautiful this room and its wall of fire, the stone encrusted with mica, quartz and veins of silver, if what lay in center could be ignored. And with that light it seemed as if the sense of smell was clicked on and under the scent of stone and water and still air was the unmistakable rot of flesh.
A shuffling now, slow, steady and purposeful as it approached the center of the room, a stone table of gigantic proportions, etched with the arcane letterings of someone of higher learning and perhaps insanity. Each chiselled symbol and word carefully filled with silver, gleaming with the light as if magically set aglow, bringing your eyes upward to the pendulum above it.
Enourmous, the half moon of deadly steel shone blue, the metal of finest craftsmanship and flanked by two smaller crescents at exact specifications. The pulley system well hidden in the caverns roof led to a metal handle beside the entryway to the natural cathedral.
Those steps slowed as they neared the table, the mans head lowered, lank strands of hair, stringy and sodden criss crossed over a mottled skull, the skin pulled tight, emaciated and riddled with pox marks and scabs. Rags adorned the equally thin body, though tall he was hunched over almost in half, his arms wrapped around his painfully skinny body. Elbows jutted like sharp points and mercifully his face was hidden as he faced the floor, a line of drool tinged red, gleaming from his mouth to halfway the bare earth at his feet.
He stopped at the table but made no other effort to straighten or wipe the offal from his lips, no sound or breath coming from the bleached flesh to even say he was still alive. His head did however turn slightly as if picking up the faint sounds of rowing coming from the distance, and then he did make a sound... a faint whining of fear so intense, even in its softness it was enough to bring forth rustling and movement from the miles of bats above them.
The rowing grew louder.
slow, steady in its tempo as if the vessel was none other than Charon's, and Styx was being parted with more arriving flesh. As it neared the cavern the man cut off the sounds of distress as if they never were, stilling himself completely again, patient in his wait.
The underground river seemed to aid the arrival for it was not many minutes longer before the oars ceased their incessant splashing and sounds of a boat being tied off at an unknown dock were heard. Followed promptly by a single set of boots upon a sodden wood surface.
It was a testament to the darkness of this underground lair that the cloaked figure seemed not to enter so much as just appear from the black, striding forward toward the table and the hunched man waiting there. A gloved hand, the finest of Spanish leather touched over the table, moving toward the center and stopping at the iron of chain and manacle, matched by three other sets in each corner.
The figure then sweeps the leather encased hand upward and drops the black wool of cloak from their head, revealing the gleaming midnight tresses that could belong to no one other than a woman. She turned her head then, the white of her skin a stark relief against the darkness of her hair and the gemlike quality of green eyes, her beauty enough to punch through the hardest of men, and earn the hatred of women.
Remarkable as her face was, the curves of an angel, it was the keen intelligence and cruel tilt of her mouth that gave her character, made her something more than an object to be adored. She lifted her hand, fisted within the glove and then pointed toward the far wall of the great room, and without word, complaint, question or thought, the man shambled toward where his mistress demanded, vanishing into the darkness as she dismissed him without further ado.
She looked up then, at the pendulum, the gleam of blue was the stuff of smithy legend, folded steel from the Vatican itself, though it was here now, it had already seen its fair share of blood, murder and treachery... She knew the Pope, and if one must stand in comparison before Death, she knew she had far and long to go before matching that one's evil. Not that she cared really. It made her work that much easier, commissioned by 'God' as it were.
Small price to pay, these small magicks ordered from on high, to be able to delve so far into the abyss of Necromancy that gateways and paths yawned before her, able to deliver the dead and those who never had been human to be alive... Hers to command.
The shuffling of two sets of feet sounded now, and she whittled her features into a look of compassion, concern and worry, hurrying toward the rattle of chains as her minion approached with her prize.
"Niviai" she said as her guest appeared from the dark, disheveled, a bit dirty but not harmed as of yet.
Niviai raised her face, cherubic and lovely, laced with curls the colour of flame... a burning offense if one wasn't careful, that hair. But Niviai had caught the eye of a Pope, and thought herself safe. Had thought herself above everyone and everything...
A mistake the Necromancer was about to correct.
"YOU!" Niviai screeched, her fingers clawing as she tried to jerk from the deceptively weak looking man, only to find his grip was of iron as she yanked and kicked, spitting her rage at such handling. "Release me at once, the Pope shall hear of this you may be sure!"
The dark woman tilted her head to the side, watching with that same look of apology and compassion she had put into performance earlier. "Niviai, I am afraid the Pope has more pressing matters at hand than, though lovely... and let us be frank, possessed of a most talented mouth, mistress."
She paused then waiting and receiving the anticipated gasp of outraged breath, and put her hand up to ward off the upcoming denials and damning to hell. "I am sadly the bearer of bad news Niviai" no, she really wasn't sad at all...Niviai would make the last part of her experimental ritual a reality. It was no sad thing either that Niviai was a *****.
"His Eminence has decided to dabble in blonde this month."
And with that, Niviai went silent as it sunk in... there could be no string of discarded mistresses with this Pope, no woman or boy as the case may be, his Holiness never favoured one over other, to spare his secrets to his massive list of enemies.
Niviai knew a freshly minted paramour was certain death for her. And she began to weep.
Soon, the begging would begin, and that too would bring a certain enjoyment to the Necromancer, but for the moment, she again raised her fist and her servant unceremoniously threw Niviai up onto the table, scrambling atop her to fasten her struggling body into the manacles...
That was when the former mistress must have seen his face...
because that was when she began to scream.
Dreams and Lives long Past.
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Noemi Michaux
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Dreams and Lives long Past.
Noemi Michaux Dangeau - Childe of Ambrose - House Acheron
Die? Oh such a limited imagination
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Noemi Michaux
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Re: Dreams and Lives long Past.
Cold rock pressed against her cheek, biting wet into her flesh. The abrasion went unnoticed, she remained still, immobile as the stone she leaned against. The quiet of the place always calmed her, though it was never truly silent. Echoes of the constant condensation, the soft ripple of the cavern river, the muffled sobbing of unfortunates being held prisoner...
The Necromancers face itself was only partially visible. The upper half of her angelic appearance covered in velvet black enough to blend into the strands of hair escaping their confines. The demi masque did little to keep her identity hidden, that was not the point of it really. The covering was in deference to the Deity she sought to call upon. The hidden one. The Shadow. The evilest of all magiks.
Her attention remained inward as a small bead of blood began to trickle over the high plane of her cheek, the rock finally breaking flesh, but she had no thought or movement for the small injury. It was easy to pretend she was absolutely certain of herself. Easy to crack a sardonic smile and walk with a swagger to the altar. Not so easy to calm the knot in her stomach and the ache between her thighs as she once more dwelled on what she would be offering.
She was no stranger to horror. No, she had lived her fair share... and now she dealt it to others as necessary. This did not mean she was immune to kindness. To mercy... for Death was often a kindness, merciful... Death loved us all....
in due time.
Booted feet sounded in the distance, the first of the mass heralded by fine heshian workmanship... the Swiss Guard, the Pope's personal. There was no fighting unit on the planet that could best them... out soldier them... out torture and kill...
For Pope. For God.
The Necromancer knew there was no God. There were many. All hungry and impossible to sate. All cruel and deviant even as they loved you. Wanted you. -Needed- you.
As the booted steps drew closer the evilest of beauties pushed from the wall and turned toward her cavern of... delights... the pendulum stood in central focus, the altar with its streaming silver arcane etchings mingled with the blood of countless sacrifants. The body upon the altar split in two, ropes of intestines and the foulness within lay between the halves reeking a silent condemnation of murder. Her minion stood to the side, doubled over as always, face hidden as he gently rocked back and forth... no sound but the occassional giggle coming from the undead flesh.. her masterpiece...
her sweetest dream...
The Rook took her fingers over the already healing wound on her face, a gift of Death... she never remained harmed for long...even now the small sting was gone and no mark beneath the congealing vitae...
She licked her finger and walked toward the center of the enormous underground room, fire racing around the wall as she lit the imbedded brazier. Sparing another glance for the fallen Mistress, the Necromancer took a handful of the woman's liver and removed it from the stone.
And the dead woman began to scream.
The Necromancers face itself was only partially visible. The upper half of her angelic appearance covered in velvet black enough to blend into the strands of hair escaping their confines. The demi masque did little to keep her identity hidden, that was not the point of it really. The covering was in deference to the Deity she sought to call upon. The hidden one. The Shadow. The evilest of all magiks.
Her attention remained inward as a small bead of blood began to trickle over the high plane of her cheek, the rock finally breaking flesh, but she had no thought or movement for the small injury. It was easy to pretend she was absolutely certain of herself. Easy to crack a sardonic smile and walk with a swagger to the altar. Not so easy to calm the knot in her stomach and the ache between her thighs as she once more dwelled on what she would be offering.
She was no stranger to horror. No, she had lived her fair share... and now she dealt it to others as necessary. This did not mean she was immune to kindness. To mercy... for Death was often a kindness, merciful... Death loved us all....
in due time.
Booted feet sounded in the distance, the first of the mass heralded by fine heshian workmanship... the Swiss Guard, the Pope's personal. There was no fighting unit on the planet that could best them... out soldier them... out torture and kill...
For Pope. For God.
The Necromancer knew there was no God. There were many. All hungry and impossible to sate. All cruel and deviant even as they loved you. Wanted you. -Needed- you.
As the booted steps drew closer the evilest of beauties pushed from the wall and turned toward her cavern of... delights... the pendulum stood in central focus, the altar with its streaming silver arcane etchings mingled with the blood of countless sacrifants. The body upon the altar split in two, ropes of intestines and the foulness within lay between the halves reeking a silent condemnation of murder. Her minion stood to the side, doubled over as always, face hidden as he gently rocked back and forth... no sound but the occassional giggle coming from the undead flesh.. her masterpiece...
her sweetest dream...
The Rook took her fingers over the already healing wound on her face, a gift of Death... she never remained harmed for long...even now the small sting was gone and no mark beneath the congealing vitae...
She licked her finger and walked toward the center of the enormous underground room, fire racing around the wall as she lit the imbedded brazier. Sparing another glance for the fallen Mistress, the Necromancer took a handful of the woman's liver and removed it from the stone.
And the dead woman began to scream.
Noemi Michaux Dangeau - Childe of Ambrose - House Acheron
Die? Oh such a limited imagination
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Noemi Michaux
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Re: Dreams and Lives long Past.
Flickering light reflected off of the veins of mica in the rock walls, casting eerie metallic glints upon the 12 kneeling soldiers. Their heads bowed, in full battle armour, swords imbedded into the ground before them forming macabre crosses...
Perhaps if they had known how profound that observation was, for they were about to be sacrificed upon those crosses of steel.
The Necromancer raised her arms toward the heavens, bands of leather woven over her nude form mimicking burial bandages of ancient civilizations gleamed with oil and blood. Rivers of the fluid ran down her, pouring red and viscal onto the ground as she upended the bowl held between her hands.
"Aperi ianuam . Mors mihi . Affer mihi de praeda . Reduc me in vitam æternam , per quod mors!"
( Open the door. Bring me Death. Bring me Destruction. Bring me life everlasting through that Death! )
The hard packed dirt of the floor began to tremble, then shake with ever growing intensity. The Corpse Mistress upon the altar brought her screaming to new crescendos, high keening wails punctuating the seeming endless cries of pain. The once protected insides of her began to glow, pulse with a red feral light and then burst into a black flame, devouring the offering of flesh and life.
The smell of decay grew stronger
The darkened Angel lowered her bowl, the blood turning as black as the corpse, and then the same black glowing flame began to dance upon the Necromancers body, engulfing her in writhing darkness.
Hands began to form from the flames, stroking and caressing the firmness of her flesh, coveting the life and the worship within...
A smirk began to form upon her lips, green glints from her eyes as she peered from the shadow flames at the chanting guard, her minion stepping forward with bladed hands, slashing at the air before her, unbelievably parting the invisible into visible as a rift was open with a silent flash of decaying green light. Wider the light spilled, wider the Necromancers smile became... cruel, malicious and without a drop of mercy...
It stepped from the light, crouched and cloaked, bandaged as she was, but for it the leather seemed to be all that was holding the rotting white flesh to the bone. Scaberous fingers spilled from the open cloak, gaunt chest stretched over bony ribs down to hip bones jutting forward like an obscene offer of sex... its eyes, malevolent in the same glowing sickly green, took in the offerings before it as the rift slammed shut so hard the Necromancers hair billowed as if in a gust of wind.
She dropped to her knees, forehead to floor, palms upon the ground...
"Live through me so that I may live through you Dire One."
The deity turned slightly then, the sound of wet parting flesh ripped into the stillness as the Mistress Corpse stopped her screams. His hand lifted and touched over the back of her hair, gliding over her back to cup the rounded curve of her buttocks.
"Necromancer..." he hissed, his voice sounding long drowned, wet and full of hidden things "My Necromancer."
He turned again then, and his form seemed to blur into another world he moved so fast, and then he was once again beside the worship of his harbinger.
She knew without looking what had happened. The chanting of the soldiers of God ceased, cut off into bloody hisses as the bodies inside the armour began to turn themselves inside out, flesh tearing and sliding out over the armour, coating the once beautiful ornament with gore, muscles and wretched bouts of blood. there were no screams, just that awful wet tearing.
Soon it too ended, that sound, and the Necromancer raised her eyes to look at the newly made guard, their armour on the inside now, putrid flesh encasing the protection, so horrifying to ensure any who beheld it would never forget the nightmare...
they stood as one, their right fists in unison brought to where their hearts used to rest... awaiting command of their new Mistress.
"Nowww... my Necromancer... I shall fill you with Death..."
The terrible beauty did not scream.
Perhaps if they had known how profound that observation was, for they were about to be sacrificed upon those crosses of steel.
The Necromancer raised her arms toward the heavens, bands of leather woven over her nude form mimicking burial bandages of ancient civilizations gleamed with oil and blood. Rivers of the fluid ran down her, pouring red and viscal onto the ground as she upended the bowl held between her hands.
"Aperi ianuam . Mors mihi . Affer mihi de praeda . Reduc me in vitam æternam , per quod mors!"
( Open the door. Bring me Death. Bring me Destruction. Bring me life everlasting through that Death! )
The hard packed dirt of the floor began to tremble, then shake with ever growing intensity. The Corpse Mistress upon the altar brought her screaming to new crescendos, high keening wails punctuating the seeming endless cries of pain. The once protected insides of her began to glow, pulse with a red feral light and then burst into a black flame, devouring the offering of flesh and life.
The smell of decay grew stronger
The darkened Angel lowered her bowl, the blood turning as black as the corpse, and then the same black glowing flame began to dance upon the Necromancers body, engulfing her in writhing darkness.
Hands began to form from the flames, stroking and caressing the firmness of her flesh, coveting the life and the worship within...
A smirk began to form upon her lips, green glints from her eyes as she peered from the shadow flames at the chanting guard, her minion stepping forward with bladed hands, slashing at the air before her, unbelievably parting the invisible into visible as a rift was open with a silent flash of decaying green light. Wider the light spilled, wider the Necromancers smile became... cruel, malicious and without a drop of mercy...
It stepped from the light, crouched and cloaked, bandaged as she was, but for it the leather seemed to be all that was holding the rotting white flesh to the bone. Scaberous fingers spilled from the open cloak, gaunt chest stretched over bony ribs down to hip bones jutting forward like an obscene offer of sex... its eyes, malevolent in the same glowing sickly green, took in the offerings before it as the rift slammed shut so hard the Necromancers hair billowed as if in a gust of wind.
She dropped to her knees, forehead to floor, palms upon the ground...
"Live through me so that I may live through you Dire One."
The deity turned slightly then, the sound of wet parting flesh ripped into the stillness as the Mistress Corpse stopped her screams. His hand lifted and touched over the back of her hair, gliding over her back to cup the rounded curve of her buttocks.
"Necromancer..." he hissed, his voice sounding long drowned, wet and full of hidden things "My Necromancer."
He turned again then, and his form seemed to blur into another world he moved so fast, and then he was once again beside the worship of his harbinger.
She knew without looking what had happened. The chanting of the soldiers of God ceased, cut off into bloody hisses as the bodies inside the armour began to turn themselves inside out, flesh tearing and sliding out over the armour, coating the once beautiful ornament with gore, muscles and wretched bouts of blood. there were no screams, just that awful wet tearing.
Soon it too ended, that sound, and the Necromancer raised her eyes to look at the newly made guard, their armour on the inside now, putrid flesh encasing the protection, so horrifying to ensure any who beheld it would never forget the nightmare...
they stood as one, their right fists in unison brought to where their hearts used to rest... awaiting command of their new Mistress.
"Nowww... my Necromancer... I shall fill you with Death..."
The terrible beauty did not scream.
Noemi Michaux Dangeau - Childe of Ambrose - House Acheron
Die? Oh such a limited imagination
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Noemi Michaux
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Re: Dreams and Lives long Past.
She had no time for the useless it seemed. The court lackeys. The bored wealthy looking to keep their names, land and families safe from the eyes of the King... whenever He needed coffer funds, what better way then to take from a 'traitor' and gift it to someone else? Like his own children?
Mesmerizing... she was everything in that ballroom, every woman, every breath, every word spoken of love or beauty was because of her. They all could see it, some even hated her for it. He did not believe that moved her at all. Truth be told he was hard pressed to think of anything that moved her. Her mystery was unbreachable... perfect. There were whispers of course. The Pope himself curried her favour, her advise, perhaps even just her time... but everyone knew to cross her was to garner powerful enemies.
The King would bed her if she were found loose, her family name protected her from that.. though he wasn't sure if it wasn't more due to fear. There was never any doubt that this exquisite Bathseba was the cat to their prey. She fair crackled with some energy, some deadly fire... -power-.
Had she sold her soul? He privately put no stock in such, there were better things to barter.
The darkness of his gaze continued to follow her from the Dais he rested upon, his face cupped against the tips of his fingers, languid, seemingly bored, crushed with ennui... the masque upon his face keeping his true focus a secret for now.
Her...
Daeviniqa d'Arimis Anjou, Duchess of Savoy. Royal by birth, a Queen by stature.
His Queen. Soon enough...
He tore his thoughts from such things as the pain beneath his gums began to set in, his fingers rubbing over the firm cleft of his jaw as the ache heralded his appetites... sordid, deadly appetites... and that was not for her just yet...
He had ambitions when it came to Daevi. He had his own court to prepare this angel.
The vampire prince stood then, snapping his attendants to kneel as he moved from his seat of honour, his desire seemed to be winding her way toward the French King... if he allowed this he would be denied her for the evening as she would be caught up in the salacious designs of his highness.
Or whatever it was she did for the gouty fool.
He had no question this ebony haired vision was a sorceress of some sort. He could smell it upon her... it wasn't a scent you could pinpoint, more a combination of things, like lightning and earth combined with death. Natural things made unnatural. Like him. Perhaps even darker than that, he sensed such depth... such evil...
Necromancer.
His smile became touched with irony, his eyes glinting with a deeper intrigue now as the bud of a woman began to flower before him, her inner secrets unfolding. Human Necromancer. Powerful indeed... though some would argue, he was not of the same mind set. Human Necromancers had an advantage that vampire kind did not.
they had life with which to barter. that could tempt the Gods themselves..
Or those disgusting little fae creatures. They always seemed to favour the human.
It seemed almost a shame to consider turning her now. This gorgeous devil had power and more unplumbed. Much more. But it would truly be an evil to let her age...
Unless she'd already bargained...
His brows furrowed for a brief moment before smoothing to the look of boredom once more. He had spent so long cultivating this, closing in on his prey... knowing her...
Finding himself suddenly uncertain, a rarity for the vampire prince, a battle prince, killer, and exceptional lover... he himself was known far and wide as a soother of women... the blood was sweeter upon climax he found... he almost stopped his path, carrying on at the last second.
He was a known sexual beast yes, but he was also fraught with cruelty. Pleasure, pain... intertwined beyond separation, there was none without the other. He knew his Madonna was a match, perhaps even surpassing his own appetites. There was a knowing in her green gaze that spoke of legions of lives, experiences for only the strongest of minds.
His mind once more made up, he slipped behind her just as she reached the edge of the King's hangers on, just as they were about to part, and with a gentle touch of his fingers upon beautifully sloped shoulders she was whisked off and out the garden doors and down the balcony...
none the wiser.
Noemi Michaux Dangeau - Childe of Ambrose - House Acheron
Die? Oh such a limited imagination
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Noemi Michaux
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Re: Dreams and Lives long Past.
The room had become suffocating, drawn and dark against the light of day. Noemi tossed against the pillows on the bed, her nude form tangled in sheets and the tomes she had been reading before falling into torpor.
Her eyes flickered beneath delicate lashes, racing with the dreams that had plagued her since her turning.
Memories.
Unable to wake from the lurid paintings of past times, past lives, her body continued to revolt, as if trying to force the Vampiress awake. To no avail, she was sleeps prisoner, and with one last shuddering gasp she fell deeper still as the dreams overtook her.
The scenes continued to repaint themselves, her soft cries unheeded, and the snow white owl perched above her made no sound as she was guided into knowledge she didn't want.
but needed.
Harbinger....
Her eyes flickered beneath delicate lashes, racing with the dreams that had plagued her since her turning.
Memories.
Unable to wake from the lurid paintings of past times, past lives, her body continued to revolt, as if trying to force the Vampiress awake. To no avail, she was sleeps prisoner, and with one last shuddering gasp she fell deeper still as the dreams overtook her.
The scenes continued to repaint themselves, her soft cries unheeded, and the snow white owl perched above her made no sound as she was guided into knowledge she didn't want.
but needed.
Harbinger....
Noemi Michaux Dangeau - Childe of Ambrose - House Acheron
Die? Oh such a limited imagination
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Noemi Michaux
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Re: Dreams and Lives long Past.
The scent of wet grass and the ocean assailed her nostrils and she knew she was being moved toward the coast. Now this might become worrisome as it was well known that smugglers caves littered the entire shore...
She would know.
It began also to dawn on her that whoever her captor was, and it was most certainly male, a rather large male, he had an idea of magiks... she could feel protections about him, relics of sorts that kept her from focusing enough to cast.
Now that was worrisome.
Gently moving her chin, she tested the gap in the cloth covering her head, keeping her from seeing their destination or her 'host', she found she was quite well roped in. knowing that struggling against such knots would do nothing but tighten them, choking her into unconsciousness, she relented and went still once more.
Which brought a pleased clap of laughter above her. "She rains beauty upon the world to hide the colour of her intelligence."
the voice was deep, resonating with authority which should have been odd, one would think a kidnapping would be accomplished with the lackeys, not the leader... the Necromancer now began to feel the first ripple of fear. Until she remembered there was nothing that could be done to her that could not be undone.
And with that thought she went completely still, wrapping herself in a cloak of disinterest though she -was- a bit intrigued what could possibly be so important that this person would risk not just the wrath of her colleagues, but HER wrath.
because there would be wrath.
the minutes tic'd by, the sound of his booted feet tread a steady beat, yet he did not tire even with her weight over his shoulder. He moved so smoothly that she barely bounced against the strength of his back and she knew he was most certainly a man of battle. No one moved with prowess of his level without a lifetime of training. Having gotten that assessment out of the way, she tried to use her other senses to gain a better understanding.
Nothing.
He was completely blocked from her...
Mage... perhaps a Battle Magus. That could pose problems for her...
"your curiosity will soon be appeased little necromancer." his rich voice somehow made it past her defenses, soothing and beautiful, weaving a spell of calming, of charm... she had never encountered anything like it before.
She did not bother speaking back, she was never one to give more information than she needed, instead remaining silent as the sound of his steps changed into the grit and slide of sand. The Dire Angel had been correct, the smugglers cove.
Perfect.
Perhaps he would even take her to her own lair...
wouldn't that be fun.
Noemi Michaux Dangeau - Childe of Ambrose - House Acheron
Die? Oh such a limited imagination
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Noemi Michaux
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Re: Dreams and Lives long Past.
It was going from dark to very dark as the hood was removed from the Necromancer. Disorientated from the journey to this place and more than a little shaken by her inability to perform magik, she remained silent as she tried to adjust her gaze to her surroundings.
When the hood had been removed a necklace had been dropped over her head in its place, and that magik she could feel as it tightened around her neck, choking her for a moment as a sort of warning... she knew if she tried to cast that the relic would strangle her. She had heard a female voice softly chanting as the token had begun it's horrific effect and knew the chain had been linked to her energy, binding her.
No other binds needed.
Her captor had not searched her person as of yet, which may turn in her favour as the witch most certainly had bits of magik secreted about herself, though she did not know yet if those too had been neutered with the binding. She would find out when the opportunity arrived.
The chanting of her sister Sorceress ended and she could hear the rustle of skirt and shoe as she was abandoned in this stone cell. A cell very similar to the dungeons she herself used. Irony often amused the Dire Angel, but not in this instance. It was however good she was used to the darkness of Death, of rot, and flesh, blood and bone, because she innately knew she was amidst piles of the dead. The scent like confection upon her nose, her mouth fairly watering to make use of her people. Her children... she just had to wake them...
She needed her minion.
Daevi had no idea the time that had past as she sat unmoving and silent, taking stock of herself and her confines, running scenarios in her mind how she could gather her servant to herself, past guards she knew were outside the chamber... she knew these oceanic caverns were all intertwined, connected, she had placed the magical barriers to the entrances of hers herself. Her minion was warded to be able to pass them...
without ego, Daevi knew there were very few alive that could out magik her with ward cast. Integral to a Necromancer, wards, traps, circles, rituals... powered by Death so that Death could receive...
The Necromancer lay her hand languid across her lap, the opposing hand beginning to worry at her wrist, scraping to draw flesh and blood in a single peel. Nothing happened as she began to skin her wrist, no tightening of the relic, it was tied only to her energy it seemed. Good.
She had become numb to pain long ago, she was a master at controlling her nerves, so her fingers continued unhindered as a strip of flesh was removed from her arm, blood oozing from the wound to be lost and hidden in the folds of her dress... saved for later... blood magik was the most dark and dire, potent of them all... and she needed that she was sure.
Just as she needed the flesh she pressed against the bottom of the stone wall behind her. It did not take long, she knew the vermin down here well, and soon enough the rats began to crawl from cracks and crevices, advancing upon her offering of meat...
As the leader boldly stepped in to take the scrap Daevi grabbed it quickly, ignoring its struggles as she wiped her bloodied arm along its back and then tied a smaller strip of her flesh around its neck. She then tore a strip of lace from her dress and tied that over the meat, securing one of her rings, a knuckle ring, tiny and silver, light as air, to the scrap. Setting the rat free after giving it its meal, she watched it scurry back through a hidden passage no bigger than her fist.
The ring and her flesh would carry the vermin home. To her Minion.
Satisfied that she would soon not be alone, she leaned her head back against the wall, her fingers wrapping around a femur that lay to her side, bits of flesh still flaking from the dead thing, but pure luxury to the Necromancer, stroking her thumb over the comforting talisman.
Now all she could do was hope that they killed her...
When the hood had been removed a necklace had been dropped over her head in its place, and that magik she could feel as it tightened around her neck, choking her for a moment as a sort of warning... she knew if she tried to cast that the relic would strangle her. She had heard a female voice softly chanting as the token had begun it's horrific effect and knew the chain had been linked to her energy, binding her.
No other binds needed.
Her captor had not searched her person as of yet, which may turn in her favour as the witch most certainly had bits of magik secreted about herself, though she did not know yet if those too had been neutered with the binding. She would find out when the opportunity arrived.
The chanting of her sister Sorceress ended and she could hear the rustle of skirt and shoe as she was abandoned in this stone cell. A cell very similar to the dungeons she herself used. Irony often amused the Dire Angel, but not in this instance. It was however good she was used to the darkness of Death, of rot, and flesh, blood and bone, because she innately knew she was amidst piles of the dead. The scent like confection upon her nose, her mouth fairly watering to make use of her people. Her children... she just had to wake them...
She needed her minion.
Daevi had no idea the time that had past as she sat unmoving and silent, taking stock of herself and her confines, running scenarios in her mind how she could gather her servant to herself, past guards she knew were outside the chamber... she knew these oceanic caverns were all intertwined, connected, she had placed the magical barriers to the entrances of hers herself. Her minion was warded to be able to pass them...
without ego, Daevi knew there were very few alive that could out magik her with ward cast. Integral to a Necromancer, wards, traps, circles, rituals... powered by Death so that Death could receive...
The Necromancer lay her hand languid across her lap, the opposing hand beginning to worry at her wrist, scraping to draw flesh and blood in a single peel. Nothing happened as she began to skin her wrist, no tightening of the relic, it was tied only to her energy it seemed. Good.
She had become numb to pain long ago, she was a master at controlling her nerves, so her fingers continued unhindered as a strip of flesh was removed from her arm, blood oozing from the wound to be lost and hidden in the folds of her dress... saved for later... blood magik was the most dark and dire, potent of them all... and she needed that she was sure.
Just as she needed the flesh she pressed against the bottom of the stone wall behind her. It did not take long, she knew the vermin down here well, and soon enough the rats began to crawl from cracks and crevices, advancing upon her offering of meat...
As the leader boldly stepped in to take the scrap Daevi grabbed it quickly, ignoring its struggles as she wiped her bloodied arm along its back and then tied a smaller strip of her flesh around its neck. She then tore a strip of lace from her dress and tied that over the meat, securing one of her rings, a knuckle ring, tiny and silver, light as air, to the scrap. Setting the rat free after giving it its meal, she watched it scurry back through a hidden passage no bigger than her fist.
The ring and her flesh would carry the vermin home. To her Minion.
Satisfied that she would soon not be alone, she leaned her head back against the wall, her fingers wrapping around a femur that lay to her side, bits of flesh still flaking from the dead thing, but pure luxury to the Necromancer, stroking her thumb over the comforting talisman.
Now all she could do was hope that they killed her...
Noemi Michaux Dangeau - Childe of Ambrose - House Acheron
Die? Oh such a limited imagination
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Noemi Michaux
- Registered User
- Posts: 167
- Joined: 07 Feb 2016, 03:03
- CrowNet Handle: Urbanshee
Re: Dreams and Lives long Past.
The dark one sat upon a low wooden stool, his hands clasped and dangled between his knees as he ruminated, intense and keen gaze drifting from vampire to vampire. There were six all together here, a drop in the bucket of his court, but his most trusted...
Trusted being relative when it came to the undead.
His least likely to try and usurp his throne.
The darkness surrounding the former barbarian was of his own making, he often shielded himself in shadow, using light and shade to cast the images he wished to convey. His kind, those vampires of his ilk, were used to leading, used to imagery and mental weaponry to achieve their desired reactions.
Master Manipulators.
But that was not all he was, if it had been he would have been sent to death long ago for weak. The warrior was many things, but weak could never be used to describe him. Walking horror would be more apt.
He had been embraced eons ago upon some distant battlefield, his people fighting tooth and claw to kick the Romans from their forests, his germanic roots evident in the beauty of his bone structure, the perfection of his physique. His kind always took the brightest, most beautiful. The shiniest of toys. Other paths were not so finicky as his present company proved, often he met one from within his territories that had him at a loss as to why.
He himself had never sired. He would not waste his lineage upon anything less than legendary. He did not need to make others like him for company, he did not feel love, he did not need lackeys.. he had all of those already in those he ruled. It also amused him to no end when his court brought out exceptional humans for his perusal, hoping to be the one who brought their Prince his first childe... until he killed the human and ended that hope. Every time.
You'd think they would learn...
He was secretly glad that they did not. His ennui grew without boundaries every night he rose. He was finding it harder and harder to find reasons not to just slip into torpor and let the world go. His boredom and lack of stimulation was becoming a thing of epic proportions. He knew soon his mind would begin to diminish, fall into madness as he had seen countless elders do... and then he would be killed as a possible breach of masquerade. A sad little end for a Legend.
Then he had seen -Her- .
His Necromancer.
something inside his monster soul had stirred...
And he knew he could be saved. Brought back from the brink. Thumb his nose at the Elders of his people as he knew they watched and waited like spiders, waiting to tear him apart and drain him dry...
Luthar looked down and crushed a spider as it crawled beside his boot.
Trusted being relative when it came to the undead.
His least likely to try and usurp his throne.
The darkness surrounding the former barbarian was of his own making, he often shielded himself in shadow, using light and shade to cast the images he wished to convey. His kind, those vampires of his ilk, were used to leading, used to imagery and mental weaponry to achieve their desired reactions.
Master Manipulators.
But that was not all he was, if it had been he would have been sent to death long ago for weak. The warrior was many things, but weak could never be used to describe him. Walking horror would be more apt.
He had been embraced eons ago upon some distant battlefield, his people fighting tooth and claw to kick the Romans from their forests, his germanic roots evident in the beauty of his bone structure, the perfection of his physique. His kind always took the brightest, most beautiful. The shiniest of toys. Other paths were not so finicky as his present company proved, often he met one from within his territories that had him at a loss as to why.
He himself had never sired. He would not waste his lineage upon anything less than legendary. He did not need to make others like him for company, he did not feel love, he did not need lackeys.. he had all of those already in those he ruled. It also amused him to no end when his court brought out exceptional humans for his perusal, hoping to be the one who brought their Prince his first childe... until he killed the human and ended that hope. Every time.
You'd think they would learn...
He was secretly glad that they did not. His ennui grew without boundaries every night he rose. He was finding it harder and harder to find reasons not to just slip into torpor and let the world go. His boredom and lack of stimulation was becoming a thing of epic proportions. He knew soon his mind would begin to diminish, fall into madness as he had seen countless elders do... and then he would be killed as a possible breach of masquerade. A sad little end for a Legend.
Then he had seen -Her- .
His Necromancer.
something inside his monster soul had stirred...
And he knew he could be saved. Brought back from the brink. Thumb his nose at the Elders of his people as he knew they watched and waited like spiders, waiting to tear him apart and drain him dry...
Luthar looked down and crushed a spider as it crawled beside his boot.
Noemi Michaux Dangeau - Childe of Ambrose - House Acheron
Die? Oh such a limited imagination
-
Noemi Michaux
- Registered User
- Posts: 167
- Joined: 07 Feb 2016, 03:03
- CrowNet Handle: Urbanshee
Re: Dreams and Lives long Past.
The silence built until it was deadly, the Ruler of lower Germania clenched a single fist against his thigh but made no other movement. To look at his face one would have not guessed the exquisite levels of rage beneath... or that the prince relished the feeling, as he did ANY feeling he could still muster.
His countenance was sculpted ice, beautiful, hard and cold. Luthar stared at the fool standing before him, a fop, jackanapes, ridiculously unafraid.
The well trimmed man carried his rehearsed smirk a second longer before finally bowing into a proper greeting, sweeping his arm across his chest as he bent, a shapely and well booted leg elegantly extended. Then with a flourish he raised once more, his arm falling gently to his side. The brocade of his coat gleamed beneath the fires light, silver and blue, atop a snowy white shirt and lace cravat. His breeches fitted to him by an expert tailor, the better to show off the corded muscle of his thighs. Yellow hair spilled in contrived curls over his shoulders, the perfect backdrop to eyes of the deepest blue.
Luthar knew it would be no hardship to tear his throat out before having to listen to him.
"Your Lordship, I have been sent by our masters with an urgent message." the lackey finished his sentence, then fell silent, waiting. It was customary for messengers to be treated to an evening of revelry and dining... the fatted virgins so to speak.
The Dark One held his rage and his silence for a time long enough that finally the fop began to look uncomfortable... a bit... squeamish now.
When Luthar could scent fear beginning to perfume the messengers undead flesh he finally spoke. "yes?" he made no other move to offer comfort, and it was quite obvious the prince was not about to offer hospitality. Which did nothing to ease the confusion and diminishing confidence of the messenger. Exactly as it was meant to.
"your.. your lordship..." he began, then redenned as he stuttered, most likely the only time the fool had ever been for want of words.
Luthar continued to gaze at him, allowing his eyes to take on a feral look, the look of a hunter scenting blood. He was now in a fine rage, and very slowly uncurled his fingers and spread them over his knee. The better to see the battle hardened knuckles laced with scars and glory wounds of old.
"Our masters have requested your return to your holdings, there are needs be met. War needs." the little man finished at full speed, looking relieved to have his piece done and fell into silence.
A very uncomfortable silence.
"You may go." was all Luther replied, flicking his fingers at the man in dismissal.
the messenger now looked as if he were about to have a seizure, the outrage stamped over pure fear warring for position on his pretty little face. The prince raised a single brow, one of his own lackeys snickered quietly behind him as the messenger turned upon his heel and fled.
Leaning back hard in his chair, Luthar remained immobile as he thought over this newest bit of news. The thought of war was not unpleasant, going home was even less unpleasant...
"Begin packing our things, we are returning home upon the morrow. Begin with acquiring a wardrobe and travel necessities for my guest. She will be joining us.
He knew this was a risk, she would be missed very soon... but let them try to figure out the germanic prince, a guest of the king himself had taken their monstrous jewel.
He almost wished they would.
His countenance was sculpted ice, beautiful, hard and cold. Luthar stared at the fool standing before him, a fop, jackanapes, ridiculously unafraid.
The well trimmed man carried his rehearsed smirk a second longer before finally bowing into a proper greeting, sweeping his arm across his chest as he bent, a shapely and well booted leg elegantly extended. Then with a flourish he raised once more, his arm falling gently to his side. The brocade of his coat gleamed beneath the fires light, silver and blue, atop a snowy white shirt and lace cravat. His breeches fitted to him by an expert tailor, the better to show off the corded muscle of his thighs. Yellow hair spilled in contrived curls over his shoulders, the perfect backdrop to eyes of the deepest blue.
Luthar knew it would be no hardship to tear his throat out before having to listen to him.
"Your Lordship, I have been sent by our masters with an urgent message." the lackey finished his sentence, then fell silent, waiting. It was customary for messengers to be treated to an evening of revelry and dining... the fatted virgins so to speak.
The Dark One held his rage and his silence for a time long enough that finally the fop began to look uncomfortable... a bit... squeamish now.
When Luthar could scent fear beginning to perfume the messengers undead flesh he finally spoke. "yes?" he made no other move to offer comfort, and it was quite obvious the prince was not about to offer hospitality. Which did nothing to ease the confusion and diminishing confidence of the messenger. Exactly as it was meant to.
"your.. your lordship..." he began, then redenned as he stuttered, most likely the only time the fool had ever been for want of words.
Luthar continued to gaze at him, allowing his eyes to take on a feral look, the look of a hunter scenting blood. He was now in a fine rage, and very slowly uncurled his fingers and spread them over his knee. The better to see the battle hardened knuckles laced with scars and glory wounds of old.
"Our masters have requested your return to your holdings, there are needs be met. War needs." the little man finished at full speed, looking relieved to have his piece done and fell into silence.
A very uncomfortable silence.
"You may go." was all Luther replied, flicking his fingers at the man in dismissal.
the messenger now looked as if he were about to have a seizure, the outrage stamped over pure fear warring for position on his pretty little face. The prince raised a single brow, one of his own lackeys snickered quietly behind him as the messenger turned upon his heel and fled.
Leaning back hard in his chair, Luthar remained immobile as he thought over this newest bit of news. The thought of war was not unpleasant, going home was even less unpleasant...
"Begin packing our things, we are returning home upon the morrow. Begin with acquiring a wardrobe and travel necessities for my guest. She will be joining us.
He knew this was a risk, she would be missed very soon... but let them try to figure out the germanic prince, a guest of the king himself had taken their monstrous jewel.
He almost wished they would.
Noemi Michaux Dangeau - Childe of Ambrose - House Acheron
Die? Oh such a limited imagination
-
Noemi Michaux
- Registered User
- Posts: 167
- Joined: 07 Feb 2016, 03:03
- CrowNet Handle: Urbanshee
Re: Dreams and Lives long Past.
The night had turned glorious for the travelers. The moon full, lighting the dirt roads with silver and magical hues, softening the harsh realities of ruts and dangerous mud pits. The horses had not yet begun to lather, their pace steady and expertly maneuvered to avoid those traps, small chance for a broken leg. The animals chosen for their spirited disposition and lack of care that they pulled the living dead, they kept their heads high and alert... often the first alarm for wild animals such as the wolf packs that ruled these forests.
As if on cue the mournful wails of woodland kings began to sound in the far distance, not yet answered by any other packs in the area.
Luthar enjoyed the sound, the more cries that filled the night the closer he had come to home... hunting wolves was forbidden in his realm of vampire... they were used as scapegoats the humans could blame odd deaths and disappearances upon. He had heard the territories of Russia and Eurasia did the same with their wolves and the larger though more solitary tigers.
If the upcoming wars he was going home for were for the territories he thought, then he would find out the truth of it for himself.
Though the vampire prince had no rancor toward other Slavs or their ilk, he understood well the cost of letting other territories grow around yours. And the Elders of their kind had no use for those that proved too ambitious... usually swatting them back down into their places. Skirmishes here, small parcels of land there were acceptable... but let a prince begin to gain too much influence and power and it became a direct threat to the ruling status quo.
And that meant a swift retaliation and slow execution.
Often Luthar was called upon to carry out both. He had relished it at first, long ago... before he understood the ways of politics, the barbarian thrilling in the blood, power and berserker possession. As he grew in time and power, his intelligence sparked and honed with avid learning as boredom became a steady companion, he secretly became that very threat he was used to eliminate.
Now he was doubly so... because of Her.
His Necromancer.
This human was a beast of power, the tools at her fingertips from strength of will, deep and strong magik, and a beauty that could not be rivaled... he knew when he Sired her if he was not careful she would be made gone as a supreme threat. And he would be not far behind.
Luthar wanted that power.
It didn't hurt that this power was wrapped in grace and beauty. His first and only Childe would be the stuff of legend.
As if on cue the mournful wails of woodland kings began to sound in the far distance, not yet answered by any other packs in the area.
Luthar enjoyed the sound, the more cries that filled the night the closer he had come to home... hunting wolves was forbidden in his realm of vampire... they were used as scapegoats the humans could blame odd deaths and disappearances upon. He had heard the territories of Russia and Eurasia did the same with their wolves and the larger though more solitary tigers.
If the upcoming wars he was going home for were for the territories he thought, then he would find out the truth of it for himself.
Though the vampire prince had no rancor toward other Slavs or their ilk, he understood well the cost of letting other territories grow around yours. And the Elders of their kind had no use for those that proved too ambitious... usually swatting them back down into their places. Skirmishes here, small parcels of land there were acceptable... but let a prince begin to gain too much influence and power and it became a direct threat to the ruling status quo.
And that meant a swift retaliation and slow execution.
Often Luthar was called upon to carry out both. He had relished it at first, long ago... before he understood the ways of politics, the barbarian thrilling in the blood, power and berserker possession. As he grew in time and power, his intelligence sparked and honed with avid learning as boredom became a steady companion, he secretly became that very threat he was used to eliminate.
Now he was doubly so... because of Her.
His Necromancer.
This human was a beast of power, the tools at her fingertips from strength of will, deep and strong magik, and a beauty that could not be rivaled... he knew when he Sired her if he was not careful she would be made gone as a supreme threat. And he would be not far behind.
Luthar wanted that power.
It didn't hurt that this power was wrapped in grace and beauty. His first and only Childe would be the stuff of legend.
Noemi Michaux Dangeau - Childe of Ambrose - House Acheron
Die? Oh such a limited imagination