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Author Topic: Nec'perya d'Oloth  (Read 2356 times)

Dremora

Re: Nec'perya d'Oloth
« Reply #20 on: January 25, 2013, 07:14:04 pm »
Nym studied his face in the mirror, the room sparsely lit by candlelight which in truth he had no use for; his eyes mastered darkness the day he was born. He tried to recognise himself in the mirror but the face that was his seemed alien. How long has it been since he stopped and looked at a reflection and saw who he was? He settled on too long.
His mind felt fractured or compartmentalized, sections of memories and even personalities stored away in his elven brain, divided between his various lives. Lost, Nym, Nym'roos Claddana, Caenithral/Aerenir, Sar'thaal; the lives he had led in his short time on Layonara felt blurred. The lines between reality and fiction fading out as if they were drawn on sand that suffered the predation of the wind.

He turned and looked at the sleeping form of a Dar'thiiri sorceress, the object of fantasy, she had finally succumbed to weariness and the lure of shelter from heartache. He looked back in the mirror and knew she would cast him out for revealing the truth, it was the only response he could imagine likely from her once their last night was spent. A pleasant fiction Nym'roos called it; a better life Nym said, Aerenir and Caenthral just thought their host was a total moron. He liked those two.. they were the cynnical version of him given form in totality; the ones that cared nothing hither or tither, gods nor politics nor ancient grudges. What they want they took. Lost simply remained silent, judging silently while Sar'thaal urged him to drown his pain in the blood of others. Which life and which personality was his? He had become so involved with his various acts he was starting to lose sight in the absense of his Master and in the presence of the natives. He was growing soft..

He focused back on less qualitative musings, he reviewed what he had done. His foolishness with letting Zarianna asks questions she knew better than to ask. His risky appearance in public so that she would have a fond memory of their time together regardless of future complications which now arose. His rise to Qu'el'saruk in the House and his cadre of warriors who answered first to Ni'haer and second to him. His scheme of revenge against the Unseen Legion that crossed him and his plans for Arnax and power.
He felt like a juggler that struggled to maintain a truly impressive act, and so his mind felt thin; stretched like butter over too much bread. Too many personalities and expectations; he had to end it before it crashed down around him, and already Nym was being buried under the rubble of the fantasy with Zarianna.

Kalan'drira nearly discovered him, she forced his hand to demonstrate his superiority and in goading him, she revealed herself as something with the power to cause the end of it all. One word to Ni'haer and likely he could crush her as well, and that would be enough to call an impasse. But the pride, the anger. He pushed back until she shoved, and when she shoved she found herself upon the torture rack.. and she learnt the darkness that lay within him; the darkness Baraeon saw in him when he came of age, coiling around his heart alongside his vindictive nature. Sadism. The rule of Sar'thaal blurred into Nym'roos Claddana's personality, torture became pleasure when it should be just a tool; that rule that promised a hateful vengance upon those that crossed him, and so he unleashed upon her in full. She submitted to him, more than he expected for she seemed utterly willing to surrender herself now. Perhaps it was honor? The realisation she lived anything resembling life due to his mercy? Dark elves had that, twisted and distorted from the pathetic moral compasses of the surfacers, they had something akin to honor.

And Baraeon... he had started to lose his faith, was still in the process of doing so. Every other dark elf in the Deep seemed to put their personal ambition before faith.. so why should he not? Spiders were just prey, like dark elves, like light elves, like humans and like dwarves. But vengance, that was apart of him that would always keep him tied to the darkness, even if only loosely at the rate he was going. That might have also brought him closer to her, and yet he was evil; an outcast, a monster.

He looks at Zari and notices his her shiver, keen eyes seeing glisten of sweat on her brow even in the darkness and so he approaches. He gently wipes the sweat with a wet rag and lays beside her, covers her, holds her. A pleasant fiction that crumbles with the passing of every second. A night to a human.. a blink of an eye to an elf. How he wished he could slow time down..
 

Dremora

Re: Nec'perya d'Oloth
« Reply #21 on: January 25, 2013, 07:14:43 pm »
Nym studied his face in the mirror, the room sparsely lit by candlelight which in truth he had no use for; his eyes mastered darkness the day he was born. He tried to recognise himself in the mirror but the face that was his seemed alien. How long has it been since he stopped and looked at a reflection and saw who he was? He settled on too long.
His mind felt fractured or compartmentalized, sections of memories and even personalities stored away in his elven brain, divided between his various lives. Lost, Nym, Nym'roos Claddana, Caenithral/Aerenir, Sar'thaal; the lives he had led in his short time on Layonara felt blurred. The lines between reality and fiction fading out as if they were drawn on sand that suffered the predation of the wind.

He turned and looked at the sleeping form of a Dar'thiiri sorceress, the object of fantasy, she had finally succumbed to weariness and the lure of shelter from heartache. He looked back in the mirror and knew she would cast him out for revealing the truth, it was the only response he could imagine likely from her once their last night was spent. A pleasant fiction Nym'roos called it; a better life Nym said, Aerenir and Caenthral just thought their host was a total moron. He liked those two.. they were the cynnical version of him given form in totality; the ones that cared nothing hither or tither, gods nor politics nor ancient grudges. What they want they took. Lost simply remained silent, judging silently while Sar'thaal urged him to drown his pain in the blood of others. Which life and which personality was his? He had become so involved with his various acts he was starting to lose sight in the absense of his Master and in the presence of the natives. He was growing soft..

He focused back on less qualitative musings, he reviewed what he had done. His foolishness with letting Zarianna asks questions she knew better than to ask. His risky appearance in public so that she would have a fond memory of their time together regardless of future complications which now arose. His rise to Qu'el'saruk in the House and his cadre of warriors who answered first to Ni'haer and second to him. His scheme of revenge against the Unseen Legion that crossed him and his plans for Arnax and power.
He felt like a juggler that struggled to maintain a truly impressive act, and so his mind felt thin; stretched like butter over too much bread. Too many personalities and expectations; he had to end it before it crashed down around him, and already Nym was being buried under the rubble of the fantasy with Zarianna.

Kalan'drira nearly discovered him, she forced his hand to demonstrate his superiority and in goading him, she revealed herself as something with the power to cause the end of it all. One word to Ni'haer and likely he could crush her as well, and that would be enough to call an impasse. But the pride, the anger. He pushed back until she shoved, and when she shoved she found herself upon the torture rack.. and she learnt the darkness that lay within him; the darkness Baraeon saw in him when he came of age, coiling around his heart alongside his vindictive nature. Sadism. The rule of Sar'thaal blurred into Nym'roos Claddana's personality, torture became pleasure when it should be just a tool; that rule that promised a hateful vengance upon those that crossed him, and so he unleashed upon her in full. She submitted to him, more than he expected for she seemed utterly willing to surrender herself now. Perhaps it was honor? The realisation she lived anything resembling life due to his mercy? Dark elves had that, twisted and distorted from the pathetic moral compasses of the surfacers, they had something akin to honor.

And Baraeon... he had started to lose his faith, was still in the process of doing so. Every other dark elf in the Deep seemed to put their personal ambition before faith.. so why should he not? Spiders were just prey, like dark elves, like light elves, like humans and like dwarves. But vengance, that was apart of him that would always keep him tied to the darkness, even if only loosely at the rate he was going. That might have also brought him closer to her, and yet he was evil; an outcast, a monster. She wanted him to be good, to give up what came naturally to him, for her. If it were as simple as she made it, maybe he might even try it. A life where you are respected as well as feared, a life where you might enjoy happiness without worrying about being killed for a lapse in your guard, a life where you could afford the luxury of trust.. it was so enticing.. but the reality strikes him in the face. It is not that simple.

He looks at Zari and notices her shiver; keen eyes seeing the glisten of sweat on her brow even in the darkness, and so he approaches. He gently wipes the sweat with a wet rag and lays beside her, covers her, holds her. A pleasant fiction that crumbles with the passing of every second. A night to a human.. a blink of an eye to an elf. How he wishes he could slow time down..
 

Dremora

Re: Nec'perya d'Oloth
« Reply #22 on: January 28, 2013, 05:53:22 am »
It had nearly been a year since Zarianna and him had last seen each other; time in the Deep did not flow as quickly as it did on the surface, human slaves expired but society itself flowed in accordance with the timeframes of older, superior entities. In that time he had returned to Xull with his Lord, met that foul little wretch of a God-send and then assisted in the assassinations and schemes that his Master had developed in order to officially declare themselves a House of the city. Further more, he had then been placed in charge of arranging security, training, protocols and rank amongst all those under his command before the merger. Once Ni'haer took a wife however, his duties became two-fold and he was forced to compensate and calibrate everything to accomodate such a union.

His time however had not been wholly unpleasant although everyone had noticed his sombre, foul mood upon beginning their journey home. He was the odd one out, the only one that was not overjoyed to return. Kalandri'ira had officially accepted her public role as his consort and plaything, though everyone knew she was also one of the Apprentices learning to be a Weapon Master. Once their homecoming had been done and the first assassinations moved out of the way, it had been life as normal in Xull. The odd attempt on his life, security, training, pleasure dens, slave markets, screaming Deep Gnomes forced to endure the simplest, to some truly creative and horrible, tortures. Narcotic vapours, alcohol, duels of honor that demanded someone of position to oversee in accordance with the few rules that did exist to keep the subtle or dim-witted off balance (and everyone else entertained). It was good to be in a place where creatures existed that could live and die at your whm and no one would blink twice or ask why, where violent or hedonistic impulses were not considered evil or abnormal, where beauty and elegance was considered the norm; he had missed it even as he missed her.

Nonetheless, he yearned to return to the surface. It was not quite due to missing Zarianna per say; that had always nagged at him and usually led to taking his consort to the bed or whatever slave girl was on hand. No, he had understood her rejection of him and so the Nym he was with her had shrunken and shrivelled into the background to make room for the more appropriate personalities. But he did want to settle accounts with the Legion, and he wanted to be free of his Master's service, and his Master's 'Master' who he knew could not possibly be the Chosen One or whatever other unholy prophetic nonesense was fortold. He was a warrior, and not a superstitious one at that; the war in Voltrex and the problems arising with the Mother would rob him of his chance at personal payback, petty though some might consider it.  A small slight, but no slight is too small to seek recompense, but the more he thought about it the more he realised it was a means to an end. To power and freedom. Freedom to find a way to shield himself from that psychotic Prophet, Ni'haer and even Pit-Spawn who considers himself the teacher and guide in this.

So he left Ash'arok in charge, one of his best disciples and an adept of the katana. It had given him quite a headstart but he suspected with a new House Weapon Master needed, and the rebuilding before the inevitable attacks on the House begin to curb his power; Ni'haer would be far too busy to track down his deserting retainer. What he did not count on, but found he did not have the heart to leave to suffer at Ni'haer's side, was Kalandri'ira. In a way he never would have taken her along had he been returning to Zarianna's side, he did not want to think of what would go on were they ever to make each other's aquaintance (or what he would do to Kala were she to harm Zari's mind or body in any way) but leaving her seemed a cruelty she did not warrant. His new retainer infact, had seemed quite taken with him since he had flayed her, more taken than a dark elven female normally is with their master; it put HIM off-balance and made him wary.
But he was not returning to Zarianna's side, or Leringard for that matter. She wanted him gone and so he would go, back to Arnax. Kalandri'ira would help him wreak vengance upon his enemies and carve his retribution into the memory of Arnax's shadowy crime syndicate's that they would know to fear his ire. In return, his retainer would serve him as directed by her blood oath, on pain worse than death but she would still have someone that would watch over her, teach her, guide her and if she stayed faithfully.. free her. He fancied that he might even throw in the bonus of returning to the Deep with her for a time in which to bring about a spite-filled and bloody revenge upon those that had crossed Kalandri'ira's family and foolishly allowed her to survive. No better than the dar'thiiri failure really, it deserved a brutal retort.

But for now, he needed to decide on the path that would make him a little too dangerous to be worth killing, and a little too useful as a potential ally to exterminate for all those he had run from. Except it is never that simple, and he knew from campaigning and war that plans rarely survive first contact with the enemy. Were life simple, he might not have ever returned to the Deep again.
 

Dremora

Re: Nec'perya d'Oloth
« Reply #23 on: February 03, 2013, 08:24:47 pm »
Nym sat in the darkness of a burnt out building; tending with shaky hands, a wound that bled from his side and sent foul necromantic magic through his muscles to temporarily sap what little strength he had. In time, proper medical care and the magical healing artifacts he possessed, and knew how to tap into, restored him to health.

He laid his head back against the wall behind him feeling the cold, charred and splintered frame grate against the back of his head even as his hair cushioned the most of it. The pull for reverie was strong; his body needed it, and his mind was incensed with a burning desire to discover why it was that he had changed his mind about letting them all die at the last second. His demeaning and degrading duty was door watching, the test of his ability to take orders even when they come from the stupid. He knew he was more used to following the worthy and intelligent or leading than he was to simply shut down and follow orders like an automaton.The darkness drew in soon after his eyes closed and his self-reprimand died down, the unsettling quiet of that city section falling away to nothingness..

The sounds of fighting and and killing echoed throughout the front of the Unseen Legion; he watched the storm of the warehouse wipe out the initial resistance, Blood Fist bludgeoning Legion to death as they tried feebly to fight back or flee.

He looked to the street again turning his back to the slaughter, there was nothing and so he waited and listened. Wood splintered, bone shattered, organs ruptured and flesh tore. The screaming died down to a chorus of new battle cries.. he turns to look.

More Unseen Legionnaires poured forth from the backrooms, outnumbering and surrounding the Blood FIst, he recognises the immeadiate danger, the lack of space to swing weapons the Fist favoured should they lose their spacing and be forced to bunch together; they held their own. Impressive.
He turns to regard the street still nothing, perhaps the Legion guards are all within?

The fighting continued, time passed, and the street remain unchanged and quiet; he peers both ways along it from the wide doorway. He turns to look once more, the Blood Fist are being herded together, two are down with their leader 'Crusher' calling them to circle up with their dire maces and double-swords. Nym can tell by his gait he's bleeding. He looks away as they are corralled and encircled, the battle goes on.. no calls for help are sounded. Nym turns away and leaves the arrogant fool to his own folly.
The street is quiet, where are the reinforcements? How important was this front? Nym looks outside and yet again sees nothing. Another Blood Fist falls picked off by the Legion. It looks to be about six to two now..

A final glance, and the self-doubt starts to war in his head.. if Crusher got himself and everyone else killed Nym would have to escape and return explaining that he literally did as he was told. The man was surrounded and wounded, his partners dying. Nym should relieve the stress and return. No, he should stay and let the human reap what he had sown.. but would Kylara believe him? Or would she have him killed for not saving her men? How does a weaker Fist because of their trust issues benefit him? On the other hand, if he leaves his post, he would risk the doorway. He would take time to reach, his armoured charge would be heard even if he were fast.
A thought occured, the magic in his shortblades, he could cross the distance in a blink of an eye at five times a mortal's speed, cut down the unsuspecting in just as many seconds and return. That would shock the group and buy the idiots space to move and fight. Could he truly surrender ten seconds?

He looks to the street.. the street is empty. He could swear the slowing of the fight was giving way to methodical slaughter. He draws a knife and activates the enchantment.. his vision starts to swim as he moves. Crossing the spanse between him and the melee, he brings his blade up into the back of an unsuspecting legionnaire. The blade punctures the heart and slides neatly out of the woman's chest. He kicks the body, two seconds. He's behind schedule. He lashes out with a flick of the wrist and ends a shriek of surprise by removing a rogue's head in one sweep. Two seconds again. Nine seconds, the Crusher yells him back to his post.

Nym darts away. Ten seconds, barely. Even as he runs in tunnel vision from motion blur, he seesmore Legion burst through the door. How?! The street was empty. Between the adrenaline and speed he enshrouds the group in darkness as they charge. Entering a blade dance to counter their own deadly skills the battle drags on. He knows only Crusher is alive, barely. He cuts down the Legionnaires one by one, but cold metal slides under his arm an inch, robbing him of strength.

The battle drags on, the wounds start to rack up as more encircle him. Crusher is beside him now, everyone else is dead and they both seem to be on the way to the same end result. Nym cuts down two more, Crusher deals with the other three. The last retreats.

"You idiot!"

The words register and incense the dark elf he snarls back an angry retort. And then Crusher tries to kill him.


He awakens, the first tendrils of dawn pushing their way through the clouds to pull back the moon's cloak of night. He knew the human would blame him for his failure, if only to save his own reputation. He also knew the human tried to kill him to cover up the mistake and vent his own anger. Were Nym stronger, he might not have had to retreat. It was what it was, in saving the human he outplayed himself. It was too late to ambush and assassinate the fool, as it was too late to salvage the situation. The situation was likely to be lose-lose regardless and so he would have to abandon his alliegance.. again.

Rising and regarding the city, the dark elf makes his way out of Legion territory to a secluded tavern in a territory distanced from both areas to contemplate his positions multiple failures and present stance. He needed to contact Kalan'drira, order her out of the city so she might not be associated with him and hunted down. For now he had to contemplate his position,  contemplate whether or not he would try destroying the Legion even now that their one greatest enemy considers him the same. Would he also seek to claim his vengance on Crusher, if so how? If he left now, his reputation as Sar'thaal would be lost in that area of the world.

Was staying and pursuing vengance now wise and worth it? Even if he did, he had found himself in a figurative burning building coming down around him piece by piece. Whether or not he would chase his goal or abandon and fail even in the eyes of his God was something that weighed heavily on him now..
 

Dremora

Nym walked into his old den
« Reply #24 on: January 20, 2015, 10:51:34 pm »

Nym walked into his old den in something of a daze; his body did not fit well in his skin, and his thoughts would not stop racing. He felt sick, and he felt weak. Death had a way of doing that to the best, but he could feel the sickness of death only in the back of his mind, it was barely worth acknowledging.

Across the tables he could see maps that had begun to collect a little bit of dust, maps that he knew outlined mysterious points on Alindor as well as cryptic short-form reminders in Dark Elvish. A small part of him wanted distraction, but his mind raced in bursts of imagery, seeing the sunshine blinding him as the darkness fell away, the blood that sparkled from his wounds as he lay upon his back. The fading shadow of his killer and now his final gambit. The image of golden hair cascading down shoulders concealed in white, small twigs andleaves stranded in it's sunburst falls. The image of two orbs of liquid gold, and the way they looked to him. It made the maps meaningless and so he walked right by those fruits of his labours, the rewards of treachery, assassination and sabotage. He walked by it all just to lie down on the bed in his bloodied armour and close his eyes. He was going to reverie, forever.. if he could.. about those precious few moments and the one night that gave birth to a whole new persona. A persona, or the true him, he could not say. He was too sick to say and too afraid to search himself and know it might have died. Whatever it was, now it stands in the shadows of his mind with all the others, amongst the fictons and the truths about who he is.

He thought it strange, how when something ended, one thinks of how something started. How thoughts of twilight turned to thoughts of dawn. He wondered now if he could find his way through the maze of pain and cruelly shattered dreams, past and the forging of himself to get back there tonight. It was fresh, fresh like the phantom pains that burned his body and his face, and blurred the vision of his left eye; he slipped away thinking it rather likely.

 

Dremora

Images flashed in front of
« Reply #25 on: January 21, 2015, 11:03:07 am »

Images flashed in front of his eyes, images of sights long past and feelings long gone. Flashes of darkness and of pain and of malice. His mind had been wandering without focus, for rebirth by the Stone had robbed him of it. It was the earliest memories he was remembering, the one's of innocence lost. The servants milling around him and preparing him for his venture to the academies, the nerves and fear that made his heart hammer against the ribcage as if it were prison bars preventing an escape. He remembered the feel of his shaking hands, the buckling in his legs, with such clarity he was reliving it; barely twenty years but physically matured enough to withstand the brutalities of his new path. The memory felt wrong, hollowing and sickly in the way that paralytic levels of fear could make one feel and so his mind retreated from it, bypassing a wealth of memories in flashes. The look on his brother's face as he smiled down cruelly on his baby brother and stroked his head before locking the door and shattering any chance of escape "No tears please little brother, it is a waste of good suffering". The sounds of his sister being tormented. Flashes of screaming slaves and sadistic handlers. The contempt in his father's eyes when he sentenced his son to their adulthood. The humiliations and abuse everyone inflicted on everyone, it was all something he did not need to see again, for he could recall it all in the darkest recesses of his mind without the aid of reverie.

His mind eventually halted its fevered rush amongst the memories of the academies: His lack of natural aptitude for the arcane and the subsequent transfer to tutors of warfare and blade work. The feeling of alienation as he left with those that the mages refused. He remembered walking with the others, boys and girls though the overwhelming majority was of the taller, stronger latter. He recalled their new overseers, the look in their eyes as they separated the ore from the slag, the strong from the weak. This was not where he wanted to be, so his mind began to speed along once more, interrupted only by slips in concentration and lapses into random moments in training. He saw the speeches, the warnings, about how only a select few would survive the process either because of the predators amongst their peers or the regime itself. Looking back at the phantoms of his peers, he saw again how at the beginning many of the girls and boys looked the same, a hard surface to hide the fear and insecurity beneath. His reverie brought him back to images of the trials, the training, the tears that spilt and marked children as forever weak before they were executed by the Overseers or fed to the war beasts while they still kicked and screamed. He caught these glimpses of memory through younger eyes that gradually learned to not strain and puff with the threat of tears from anything but exceptional physical pain. "Pain is transitory". He heard and knew those words and how it moulded the survivors; how the males instinctively felt the predatory stares of their female competitors who were the stronger, but less favoured, gender in the stronghold. He could feel again, their stares, and he knew he and the others had all stared back. It came from the flaying, the beating, the torture of slaves, the testing of various weapons on living flesh that whimpered and pleaded for them to stop. It came from the fighting over dinner, the rocks that broke bones and bruised meat as they wrestled, clawed and fought with training weapons, the murders and those who were caught murdering and were punished for their clumsiness. It came when children killed children for approval and praise and succour over pain. It came from innocence lost.

The whirlwind of memories was a comfort to him, for if he never settled in one place too long, he would never have to experience the full force of emotions that one feels from revisiting such memories. Seeing the trials, the running and the pounding of adrenaline through his muscles, and across his skin; it made his heart beat faster in his chest even as he lay on the bed motionless and safe. This was not the place he wanted to be.

His elevation among the other students, entering the caste of warriors destined for close quarter heavy fighting, one of two males amongst a host of females, their compatriots having all died off or been sequestered into the scouts. The specialised weapons training, the unconventional tactics, lessons on fighting alone and yet as a whole. The way of war and the way of slaughter. The honour of his people, if you could call it that. The way that praised creativity and unconventional tactics, guile and ruthlessness and punished anything else as shameful to their kind; something to be culled and buried lest it infect those that were strong. His final trials, where he killed his ally Velenial at the end of a team deathmatch, a knife through the back and into the heart.. guided by his hand, but held by the hand of one of their foes. An accident, self-preservation, a lie. They liked it, and his punishment was light. A run through the gauntlet with the failed would-be poisoner, the slowest to be caught by the beasts; not he, her.

"Pain is transitory. He was a fool for giving his back to me so close to victory. I know he wanted me dead... they all do."

Words spoken together by a long past Dark Elven child and the scarred young adult that he became. The memory then faded away in silence and under the approving stares of his tutors. Cull two thirds and you never lose many to the Test, no slag. It all fades to a blur, his first missions, his time away, the ambush that saw Kar'shak torn apart. "No tears big brother..", his grin, his fear, and the escape; weeks of starving and wandering the Deep like a feral outcast before his emaciated form stumbled out into the blinding light for the very first time. His new Hell.

 
 

Dremora

Nym's body lay across the bed
« Reply #26 on: January 26, 2015, 07:35:40 am »

Nym's body lay across the bed still, unmoving except for the rise and fall of his chest beneath his breastplate. Slowly but surely he could feel the sickness fading away further and further as he skimmed the memories of his comparatively short life at break neck speed. Seeing only flashes and moments that were randomly chosen or significant enough to draw his eye without intention.

The first dark skinned face, as beautiful as it was terrible,; looked upon him and judged his worth. He recognised her now though he did not then for what she would be: the Mother of Spiders. Days upon the surface, foraging and robbing to feed himself culminated in being drawn to a strange stone surrounded by blood-red flowers. He had never seen a flower before, nor grass, nor sky, nor sun. But when he awoke from touching it, the next flash of memory was always of Solena. The mocking priestess and his guide into the shadow of her Master.

Ni'haer, the sense of arcane power radiated from him just by being in his presence, the sorcerer who gave Nym'roos a place and a purpose. Another father-figure to approve, disapprove, use and judge. At his side, the Priestess Solena with the cruel smiles and the whispers into Ni'haer's ear. He wonders, then and now, how much of what the G'elderin did was not in some way influenced by her voice; and then there was always her own personal shadow: Velkyn, the one who liked to cut flesh while it was still alive and marvel at his artwork. He recalled their predatory eyes shining in the night as they evaluated him. In words, deeds, and he could have sworn thoughts, he was weighed. But they were all gone now, dead or deep beneath the earth. So his mind then drifts from their meeting, to the sealing of their pact and the oath of service to the House.. the House hidden in the city. The House filled with darkness, spiders, dark elves and thoughts of murder.

"Nec'perya d'Oloth"; his lips worked in the real world, giving voice to the symbol of his chains.

That 'sanctum' was where he could be himself.. once.. and not one of the myriad of personae he was forced to construct and don for public appearance on the surface. A mercenary was how he felt, and so a mercenary was the easiest form to assume, and with that he wandered the surface with his features hidden in cloth, shadow and metal. It was through those eyes that he could see the scenes of murder and battle again; the screaming and stink of a battlefield. Allies and enemies bleeding and dying in a carnage that had no purpose beyond honing the survivors.. making them stronger. It was with those eyes that he first saw the she-elf that would highlight his weakness to him. He did not hate as he was moulded to, someone somewhere had failed and he was the result. He never thought much on it back then, but now he knew this was when he should have first realised and purged the flaw.

He knew her to be Keela Moonflower, a tamed Sylvan tied to the Ilsaran Sehky. The one he took into the darkness to torture, but instead decided on healing and saving. He could vaguely recall the logic in his mind as he mended the rent flesh, studied her form. Thoughts of blending in, getting close to the betrayers or simply gaining more allies to make his persona believable to sceptics. It made sense then, it worked as well, but as he looks back over the memories of her lying there and moaning in pain beneath him; he knows deep down he simply lacked the desire to go through with his original, 'expected' intentions. That she-elf was the one who taught him the meaning of 'friends'. Something he never managed to put into practise well, even if the theory behind it could be understood. He knew how such a chapter would end however, even then. He could hear the arguments again, see the pointed arrows from Sehky and his ilk, feel the close call with death when they cornered him in Vehl and attempted to murder him. Phantom pain wormed itself through points on his leg and back, remembering the bite of arrows as he fled under darkness and haste. These memories did not faze him, nor was he truly surprised then or upset now. But it taught him the weakness in their kind as well, how they were incapable of acting without approval of the whole. A woeful absence of independence, of flexibility. There were other memories of the wildling she-elf, and he knew in the back of his thoughts that he would miss them in his frenzied search for the memories he wanted to reach. He had a way to go, and he wishes to himself he had the mental composure to guide himself as effortlessly as he might do in good health.

 

Dremora

"Taking too long..", were the
« Reply #27 on: January 26, 2015, 09:30:03 am »

"Taking too long..", were the slurred words that came out in a mumble from Nym's lips in the real world as he made his way through the ghosts of the past. In a flash he caught a glimpse of pale flesh quivering beneath his hands, and it caused him to hope against logic that he was here. But the skin was too pale, the hair dark, and the eyes as terrified as intrigued by what was happening in her quarters. This memory he knew was of her seduction, and their secret tryst inside the Caliomel Trade House.

"Not Her", though he had faltered now, and so before his struggle to regain control would be one, he knew which memories of her would be unavoidable - the most powerful..

Breanna Shadowraven; the virgin, the meek, the traitor, once a 'friend' and once the mother of his unborn child. She loved him once, that unique brand of torment that the surface-born cling to so passionately. He had many a memory of her, from lover's sighs to light hearted laughter, to memories of promise when she came to confide in him and seek advice about how to handle the rejection of her 'friends'. He recalled their moonlit walks near the Lakes of Mistone and their hunts together. They had done many things together, but he had always kept her blind-folded about what he did for his Master, as blind-folded as when he first seduced her in Fort Wayfare. As he looked back over the hundred soul-searching looks she gave the one she loved, he recognised that his secrecy is perhaps why her unwavering in faith in him began to become more finite. She was not entirely alone however, there was another she-elf, a stronger one, one with golden hair and a sharp tongue. Hers was a more fierce soul than the more demure version Breanna possessed. She was Breanna's friend, but she was not the memory he sought for.. her eyes were not liquid gold. She was another lover of the past, a stronger one.. Calylith. But that was not now, not yet, and not what he was searching for.

Together the three of them enjoyed good times on the surface, living one life in the light while he lived another alone and in the darkness. For every laugh, touch and glitter of the eyes shared under the sun, at night he sacrificed Dar'thiiri hunters to the Lord of Spiders. He served his Master and his God, honing his skills and keeping a part of himself for the darkness, lest dread Baraeon come for his wayward 'mercenary'. Calylith suspected however, he could remember it a thousand times in the looks she would give him when she thought he was not watching. The recollection led him to feel something build, as if particular memory was about to surge forth to meet him as she opened her spectral lips to speak; and then they were alone by a river in nothing but their skin and each other's arms. He felt the sting of the sun in his eyes and prickling along his ebon flesh, but her voice never past those animated lips. He was curious now, he wanted to remember what she was going to ask him after their intimacy, he hated that he could not recall while they lay together with his fingers stroking the length of her delicate neck.. but he had lost control and the maelstrom of past lives returned.

Eventually, his mind skids to a halt, seeing Breanna running towards him as she saw his approaching form on a dark road; she clasped his hands and told him she was with child.. and it was his. He saw her now as he did then, filled with inexplicable joy at something that would make her life harder, her body more dependent and her relationship with him more public. She loved that promise of a child with an irrationality that he knew he was failing to hide on his expression. It fortified the doubt he knew now was building in her. Calylith, the one who he thought was Her for a moment, was there soon after. Night had turned to day and the lakeside had turned verdant hills. He desired to turn and gain his bearings, though he had no power over the eyes of the past with which he must always see through. The memory went on as Calylith and Breanna spoke at length about his suggestion.. and he remembered where they were: Dregar. The giants. They spoke of Breanna and Calylith together, raising Nym's child. He had brought them close to him, lured them to one another and himself and so what was a duo had become a trio bound by intimacy, lust, and for some by love. He tried to stay rooted in the memory but it was useless, the end was known to him now even if it was not then; in blood, tears, a bindstone for Breanna and a fractured happiness for the paleskin lovers he kept so close. He felt numb then as he did now, the thought of a child did not particularly stir him then as it once did in the future, nor does it stir him now as he lies on the bed in a state that an onlooker might mistake for death. He did not care about the child's destruction, only Breanna and Calylith. But Breanna cared, and he could sense a well of bitterness rising in his corporeal chest as he subconsciously prepared for the inevitable flashback.

With some semblance of control he forces himself past every other memory, happy, sad, dark, or light; wishing to reach the next anchor if only to get past it: midnight on Lake Splendour.

 

Dremora

He tried to turn his eyes
« Reply #28 on: January 29, 2015, 12:25:30 pm »

He tried to turn his eyes from her guilt-laden expression as Breanna's lips moved and spoke echoes of the past into his ears. He knew it had been a clear night, a bright moon and plenty of stars to illuminate the darkness, he could see in his mind, the layout of the trees and hills near the boathouse. But it was no use, the past is set, and one cannot change their actions to remedy mistakes. He would never scrutinise the tree line to see where they were hiding, nor would he ever be able to react quick enough to the faint whistling. This was to end as it began, and as he had seen a hundred times over: his hand on Breanna's throat as she confesses her treachery; her eyes wide with tears and fear; the sound of something whistling through the trees; the fireworks of pain that shot through his body as armour piercing bolts punctured meat, muscle and bone to cripple him. Always three bolts; one for his leg, one for his arm, and the one that went wide. He released Breanna as pain and confusion left him unbalanced and reaching for his weapons. He could see them now in the darkness, a split second before the tree line erupted with innumerable guards. All this for him? He recalled perfectly how his vision began to swim even as his head railed in wonder at his then-perceived end.

The rush of humans was punctuated only by the brief halt to loose another volley of bolts, and Nym saw as his shield was hauled into position just in time to shudder with the impacts. Pain flared in his wounded arm now as it did then, his nerves sympathising with what he was seeing in a way he wished they would not. Then his vision was restored and a tide of angry human faces washed down onto him.

Breanna's screams for him to stop and surrender, and for the humans not to hurt him fell on deaf ears to all then; only here in the mind could he review and register her pleading but he cared nothing for it now as he would have then. His blade rose up to block a downward arc of a mace, the force causing him to back-pedal and stumble on his injured leg. A jarring wave of force could be felt, shoving his shield against his chest from the impact of another's weapon while the whistling in his left ear and the warm bloom hinted at a near miss from a third. The pain was sudden and adrenaline had no time to truly take hold; he felt it all as he found himself pressed on three sides, blocking and parrying to preserve his life while the humans began encircling him. It was then that the savagery in him mixed with the tactical sense, causing him to back pedal further towards the boathouse while lunging to the human that had gotten behind him in the press. He knew to never let himself be backed up and on the defensive when outnumbered. It caught the man by surprise, and his attempt to raise his shield while his sword angled down failed to save him. Nym's keen blade and panicked rage cleaved a path through the wooden fore and boss before settling in the throat. Being slid free while the dark elf stumbled in a half-spin to face his pursuers, he saw the odds against him; he saw the phantom soldiers of Fort Wayfare numbered in roughly twenty, between the circle that was closing on him and the bolts that occasionally flew into press from over their shoulders. Hopeless, but too proud and hot-blooded to surrender. It was not long now, they corralled him eventually against the boathouse, but the bottleneck was to cost them another of their own and a wealth of injuries before they cut him up and knocked him out. With the blackness enveloping the memory, his mind shuddered and reeled as it avoided the draw of the unconsciousness. Nym often felt such memories that ended in blackouts or death were like stepping around quicksand. When he awoke, it was in a cell.

He recalled pacing like an animal in that tiny cell, chained loosely to a wall but allowed the freedom to walk the majority of his room, as well as sit and stand. He had no interest in this, and so his mind wandered through the images, of guards visiting and questioning him regularly to no avail. He discovered that he was not the only one captured thanks to Breanna, discovered that dark elves were causing havoc in the Silkwood, and how the humans wanted their cooperation to aid them against their dark kin and get at who they believed responsible: Ni'haer. He recalled the threats, with which he answered with mocks and insults. Human soldiers seemed so pathetic, trying to scare him with charges of murder and execution because he killed one or two of their kind when they attacked him. To this day he marvelled at their complete lack of common sense, he would not give them what they wanted, nor would he cry for their dead, nor feel shame for his actions. What he did understand, was bitterness .He could remember it without a reverie, but felt it as clearly as he felt the manacles around his wrists in reverie. Bitterness over betrayal, over knowing he deserved his fate to trust in a Dar'thiir, and to have not suspected a trap of some kind. It was his first, his first true grudge against a light elf. An image flashed, of his wrist up close and weeping crimson from where he chewed the flesh open. He knew about the gambit, the weakness it would cause and suspicion that he was attempting suicide. He knew it would draw them in while he pretended to be unconscious, draw them close. It always did.

The guard captain had returned, bringing along a pair of his men; ones Nym recalled as polar opposites to one another: The more slender man was disciplined, watchful and took himself seriously; the more burly man was non-chalant, undisciplined and relied on his (impressive) size to bully prisoners. He would never know why they sought him out, but when their calls were met with motionless silence, they entered swiftly to check on the prisoner who lay as if dead. Nym's memory was nothing of sight, but of his other senses, of touch and smell and heat as his skin registered the proximity of a torch being drawn near to him. His lids illuminated through the thin layer of skin and he knew that soon the guard captain would resort to beating the him as a way to rouse his prisoner. That kick ended as it always did, trapped in Nym's lurking hands as the elf's crimson eyes opened and glittered up at his tormentors with malice.

Violence and chaos followed next, scuffles and swings of the club-like torch to get the young dark elf to release their captain led only to a sinister darkness blotting out even the torchlight. The sounds of shouting, burning, rattling chains and meat being 'tenderised' was all the stimuli anyone would find as long as the spell held. Feet and fists exchanged with each other as Nym came face to face with the chief tormentor of this memory, rolling and wrestling while he remained shackled to his cell wall. He knew the guards were fumbling about with his clothing, trying to discern captain from prisoner before further confusion erupted from the rolling and flailing limbs. He knew because he could still feel their grasping paws on him as the foul odour of the captain filled his nostrils. Frustration, real and present, surged in his mind as it was forced to relive the struggle and the failed attempt to drive the Captain's nose up into his brainpan; had he succeeded the other two would have been easy pickings for Nym, even when bound to a wall. But as with every other memory, the perfect clarity that hindsight provides will never change past errors. The Captain survived, though he rolled away with a stream of red rushing from his nostrils. He would have bruising and black eyes by the day's end. Somewhere in the chaos Nym remembered his leg kicking out the torch as he rose to his feet and tore at the rags that had since been set alight. His skin burned and blistered and yet in the rush of adrenaline, he could not feel any severe pain, only the pounding of blood into every muscle and the thunder of it in his head.

A brief pause in the melee..

It was then that the darkness fell, and the pacifiers came out, rushed by the three men, the elf's comparatively fragile body bruised and burned easily, skin parting under the bludgeoned weapons even as their impact left his bones with fractures. He should have been broken in agony, but the cornered animal fights the hardest. Forced to defend himself, he would often hunker down and takes the blows, before lashing out at eyes and throats with a fist or questing fingers, but in the end, it was the slop bucket that he put his trust in. Kicking it over to make the clumsy humans lose balance. The slender one slipped up nearly end over end, and landed hard on his back. Nym then saw himself crossing the cell to the limits of his chain length his foot comes down hard on the man's throat; and so he saw once more, the fear and broken dreams of another life being cut short. A brief moment of triumph to stave off the end he knew was coming, he had no chance of escape in such a state, and the humans assaulted him with a renewed vigour. He could only marvel and writhe in pain as he took levels of punishment that very few elves could likely survive. There was little else to remember in such a time, the anchor had been passed, but he let his mind wander past the black hole of unconsciousness that spanned days in the infirmary. The days spent fighting against those trying to feed him, or the time Breanna came in to mewl her apologies and give pathetic reasons. He despised it all, but searched instead for the memory of a particular visitor. Was it the one he sought? No, the skin was pale, her hair dark and the aura of magic emanated strongly from her: Fleur. Checking up on him he knew, and so he moved on before the words they exchanged could be made out. He still had her token to keep his mind safe, and wondered briefly what became of her.

The echoes of anger and pain began to dim, and this drew the weary eye of his mind to the source. He had found his mystery visitor: The traitor, the one who had the power to dispel his hatred and malice just by being near him. The one who could speak to him of healing and yet try to relate with talk of tactics, war and life in the Deep. She was an oddity, and he regretted that the humans murdered her before he could at least discover if she was genuine, or a trick by Ni'haer. He had his suspicions, but they conflicted with his gut instinct.. but none of this mattered. It was time to move on.

Having no desire to recall the pit-spawn rescuing him, those images whirled by in a flurry; only small flashes could be seen: the tiles travelling beneath him as he was dragged from his cell, the blue-skin and masked face of the giant that was Coin, the burn of sunlight on his eyes and skin, and the vial of blood. He knew he was to be tortured when Coin returned him to his old Master, and tortured he was. But none of that mattered anymore, he wanted to find Her; and she was not near.

His eyes fluttered open as the reverie was broken by a flare of pain in his chest, but he soon closed them again and slipped back into the ether. He took control of his thoughts for a brief stint and raced through time to find the Crusade. She and it were tied, and it would help to guide him.

 
 

Dremora

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« Reply #29 on: January 29, 2015, 12:28:28 pm »