Post by diiroehntheliche on Jun 21, 2006 14:07:14 GMT -5
In the shifting afternoon light, clear until broken by the leafy boughs of Kelay's towering trees, a wicked mount ambles along the dusty road that slices the forest town in twine. Iron-clad hooves the size of dinner plates fall ominously, their powerful strides weighted by the armored rider they bare. The reigns of the massive, mottle-coated steed are loosely clutched in gauntleted fingers, nursed with subtle flicks of long fingers and tugs to guide the equestrian to the edge of the tavern's door. His dismount is made apparent by the sound of his greaves clattering together, the sight of his form sweeping off the horse obscured by the tavern's closed door. And then, his steps announcing his arrival with their low, heavy cadence, Castellian breasts the tavern's threshold and parts the hinged portal with the width of his rugged frame. Almost immediately his stark gaze slices over the shifting patrons, narrowing to keenly pierce the establishment's smoke-filled haze. Then, heavily, his attentions fall on Diiroehn's cloaked form, and without hesitation the Drow's feet cut him a swath through the milling bodies to close the distance between them.
Castellian addresses the revenant's concerns with a thin smile, a gauntleted hand folding across the rune-clad iron of his cuirass to fall on the hilt at his waist. "Might thou hath a moment, Revenant?"
Aerindir said to Castellian, "Hail."
Castellian turns his gaze sidelong as Aerindir's voice cuts through the tavern's din, addressing him with a slight dip of his chin before his attention returns to Diiroehn's rotted visage.
Garath is sat amidst the tenebrous shadows of the tavern proper, alabaster visage basted in the dark hues that the flames fingers dare not touch. Concealed to all, the crimson lenses flash this way and that as he peruses the gathered, recognizing some, but not all, of the complex make-up of the assembled bipeds. His silence is kept, along with a languid eye on Castellian and Diiroehn, Jayde noted thereafter as he sets the crown of his hooded head against the inn’s wall.
Diiroehn‘s wicked expression remains enthralled, vilely statuesque as the permanent motif of his cadaverous façade; even as the drow-lord approaches. Callous, is this lich, putrid cranium slightly tilted to the left as tombstone oculus fixate upon the masculine frame. In perfect contrast to the Eldritch Cabal leader, the remnant animate holds his ground; jowl sinuously inclining to breach his hellish mouthing. Chillingly audible rasps escape in eerie tendrils, dissolute the fashion; spine-crawling the execution. “Castellian…”
Jayde , after lingering just to the side of the door's entrance.. she finally made her way towards the bar. Hips encased in the dark green fabric of the floor sweeping dress swayed with the placement of one leg before the other, while her hands traveled down the front of her thighs, rubbing her palms against the toned muscle structure, almost as if in nervous habit. Gray eyes, fringed by a thick lining of dark lashes, swept over the faces of those gathered, that weren't keeping themselves hidden, and out of view. Once to the elongated counter, where some people chose to rest, Jay beckoned to Mesthak to call him over, so she could place her order.. which was fast becoming her 'usual'.
Castellian had yet to mark Jayde's arrival, his attention rivetted on the mangled countenance of the creature before him. And yet, despite apparent tension hanging thick in the space between them, Castellian's manner is as courteous as ever. His pose, held with the palm of a gauntleted hand poised against the hilt of his blade, is non-threatening. More-so as his opposite bends to lay the back of a vambrace-clad forearm against the small of his back. Again he speaks, the words carried on an archaic, gilted melody. His manner is of keen, and reserved might, folded down and tempered by eloquently offered words. "Thou hath a moment, Liche? There is a favor I must ask of thee."
Diiroehn ‘s figure contorts, limbs in motion to carry travel toward to better suite the drow; tombstone optics regarding Castellian without restraint of conspicuity. His jaw descends audibly, the sickening slide of sinew against marrow heard throughout the tavern, even as a mammoth roach crawls forth from the breached exterior. It scurries its way across his cadaverous façade, subliming itself within another gap of the rotted skin. Beyond that, his vocals once again creep forth, like tendrils of putrefied corruption fleeing pits of only the most damnable origin; the rasp chilling in its omni-present audibility. Chilling as a skeletal finger tracing up the spine, cruel as the tyrant’s whip, mirthless as the smile of the sphinx, callous as the gargoyles, is this intonation. “You may.”
The tavern's shuffling patrons have drawn still, the conversations dropped off. Beneath the flickering candle-light, the soft glow of wall-lamps and the hanging candleabra, Mesthak's establishment has been drained of the life it, but moments earlier, sustained. At the heart of the matter lay the armored Drow and the liche. One is an ebon sentinel, a chilling presence that is both otherworldly and ominous. The other? The attentive and curious eyes of the onlookers would be met with a most grotesque and mangled visage, unnatural. The liche's voice is death-personified, and to loose it he must part moss-covered teeth that appear all but eager to fall from his rotted jaws. And yet, as if oblivious to the stares of those nearby, the conversation continues to unfold unabated. "The army thou summoned has suffered a loss of half its number, a regiment that I had to commit much earlier than I had hoped in order to save some companions. Their performance was impressive, as thou hath promised. I came to request more."
Larewen enters the establishment, a satisfactory smirk tugging at her lips. She'd just had a lovely conversation in which she was comparing someone to her own niece. Oh how much difference was lacked! Shaking her head, her movement comes to a halt just inside the portal, amber gaze sweeping the crowd before settling on Castellian and Diiroehn. Curiousity flickers through the elven vampiress' eyes.
Garath brushes the enshrouding vestige from the crest of his brow, revealing the battered, too-pallid flesh of his features; dried cuts and marred blotches covering the entirety of his apparently lethargic façade, oh but how he wanted to roar with the pain that shivered up his spine with each movement, shook his body with every breath. The prospect of looking as ominous as Diiroehn sounded almost inviting if it would numb the torment. Regardless, to his feet he rises stiffly, a white sun devoid of the will to top the horizon, boots sibilantly striking the ale-stained floor as he moves to the bar. A drink was in order. “Oi, Mesthak.” He could only croak out the words, his former enthusiasm back with a fair amount of his blood in Cenril, “Gimme something…something strong…and not that s***e you call your strongest, we all know you water that stuff down.”
Light cast upon the emaciated figure; the result but a hasty expression upon the normally malicious features, effectively a calamitous smirk. The grinding of green-tinted sinew against brittle marrow ensues, awakening another insectoid inhabitant of the cadaverous fiend. Certainly, power radiated from the ungodly creature, but only to be rivaled by that of the armored cabalist before him; as if a clash of counterpart energies, unseen. “Perchance I may, provided the hosts…”
Castellian answered clearly to the Liche, considering him with that wildly intense stare as the conversation came to a head. The ungodly implications were clear to those keen enough to hear them, the images they would conjure capable of filling the most nefarious with nightmares of the most horrid things. The calloused nature of the Regal remains revealed, carried in the crisp edge of each word. Nearby faces flinch, but it matters little, for the ebon-fleshed warrior seems to lack even the slightest hint of concience. "The first tower of Cenril, north within the gates. A legion of Flaming Claw's guards lie mangled. Some are buried in the rubble, others lie in pieces through the street, and still more slaughtered in their homes nearby. Are they suitable?"
Diiroehn ‘s requisites have all been met; the lich none the more satisfied. The very feeling of contentment is only betrayed, however, by a slight flicker within those eyes of wicked ashen dreary. Digits of sinuous marrow are outstretched, a bloated worm revealing its presence down the length as they are offered to the regal Drow. All but subliming, however, are the intentions to the tavern sustained -malicious is but an understatement.
Castellian reaches with his gauntlet-clad palm to take the liche's own, pausing only to flick a clawed finger at the maggot's wide middle and send it tumbling to the floor. The shake is brief, but evident. "I am pleased."
Castellian addresses the revenant's concerns with a thin smile, a gauntleted hand folding across the rune-clad iron of his cuirass to fall on the hilt at his waist. "Might thou hath a moment, Revenant?"
Aerindir said to Castellian, "Hail."
Castellian turns his gaze sidelong as Aerindir's voice cuts through the tavern's din, addressing him with a slight dip of his chin before his attention returns to Diiroehn's rotted visage.
Garath is sat amidst the tenebrous shadows of the tavern proper, alabaster visage basted in the dark hues that the flames fingers dare not touch. Concealed to all, the crimson lenses flash this way and that as he peruses the gathered, recognizing some, but not all, of the complex make-up of the assembled bipeds. His silence is kept, along with a languid eye on Castellian and Diiroehn, Jayde noted thereafter as he sets the crown of his hooded head against the inn’s wall.
Diiroehn‘s wicked expression remains enthralled, vilely statuesque as the permanent motif of his cadaverous façade; even as the drow-lord approaches. Callous, is this lich, putrid cranium slightly tilted to the left as tombstone oculus fixate upon the masculine frame. In perfect contrast to the Eldritch Cabal leader, the remnant animate holds his ground; jowl sinuously inclining to breach his hellish mouthing. Chillingly audible rasps escape in eerie tendrils, dissolute the fashion; spine-crawling the execution. “Castellian…”
Jayde , after lingering just to the side of the door's entrance.. she finally made her way towards the bar. Hips encased in the dark green fabric of the floor sweeping dress swayed with the placement of one leg before the other, while her hands traveled down the front of her thighs, rubbing her palms against the toned muscle structure, almost as if in nervous habit. Gray eyes, fringed by a thick lining of dark lashes, swept over the faces of those gathered, that weren't keeping themselves hidden, and out of view. Once to the elongated counter, where some people chose to rest, Jay beckoned to Mesthak to call him over, so she could place her order.. which was fast becoming her 'usual'.
Castellian had yet to mark Jayde's arrival, his attention rivetted on the mangled countenance of the creature before him. And yet, despite apparent tension hanging thick in the space between them, Castellian's manner is as courteous as ever. His pose, held with the palm of a gauntleted hand poised against the hilt of his blade, is non-threatening. More-so as his opposite bends to lay the back of a vambrace-clad forearm against the small of his back. Again he speaks, the words carried on an archaic, gilted melody. His manner is of keen, and reserved might, folded down and tempered by eloquently offered words. "Thou hath a moment, Liche? There is a favor I must ask of thee."
Diiroehn ‘s figure contorts, limbs in motion to carry travel toward to better suite the drow; tombstone optics regarding Castellian without restraint of conspicuity. His jaw descends audibly, the sickening slide of sinew against marrow heard throughout the tavern, even as a mammoth roach crawls forth from the breached exterior. It scurries its way across his cadaverous façade, subliming itself within another gap of the rotted skin. Beyond that, his vocals once again creep forth, like tendrils of putrefied corruption fleeing pits of only the most damnable origin; the rasp chilling in its omni-present audibility. Chilling as a skeletal finger tracing up the spine, cruel as the tyrant’s whip, mirthless as the smile of the sphinx, callous as the gargoyles, is this intonation. “You may.”
The tavern's shuffling patrons have drawn still, the conversations dropped off. Beneath the flickering candle-light, the soft glow of wall-lamps and the hanging candleabra, Mesthak's establishment has been drained of the life it, but moments earlier, sustained. At the heart of the matter lay the armored Drow and the liche. One is an ebon sentinel, a chilling presence that is both otherworldly and ominous. The other? The attentive and curious eyes of the onlookers would be met with a most grotesque and mangled visage, unnatural. The liche's voice is death-personified, and to loose it he must part moss-covered teeth that appear all but eager to fall from his rotted jaws. And yet, as if oblivious to the stares of those nearby, the conversation continues to unfold unabated. "The army thou summoned has suffered a loss of half its number, a regiment that I had to commit much earlier than I had hoped in order to save some companions. Their performance was impressive, as thou hath promised. I came to request more."
Larewen enters the establishment, a satisfactory smirk tugging at her lips. She'd just had a lovely conversation in which she was comparing someone to her own niece. Oh how much difference was lacked! Shaking her head, her movement comes to a halt just inside the portal, amber gaze sweeping the crowd before settling on Castellian and Diiroehn. Curiousity flickers through the elven vampiress' eyes.
Garath brushes the enshrouding vestige from the crest of his brow, revealing the battered, too-pallid flesh of his features; dried cuts and marred blotches covering the entirety of his apparently lethargic façade, oh but how he wanted to roar with the pain that shivered up his spine with each movement, shook his body with every breath. The prospect of looking as ominous as Diiroehn sounded almost inviting if it would numb the torment. Regardless, to his feet he rises stiffly, a white sun devoid of the will to top the horizon, boots sibilantly striking the ale-stained floor as he moves to the bar. A drink was in order. “Oi, Mesthak.” He could only croak out the words, his former enthusiasm back with a fair amount of his blood in Cenril, “Gimme something…something strong…and not that s***e you call your strongest, we all know you water that stuff down.”
Light cast upon the emaciated figure; the result but a hasty expression upon the normally malicious features, effectively a calamitous smirk. The grinding of green-tinted sinew against brittle marrow ensues, awakening another insectoid inhabitant of the cadaverous fiend. Certainly, power radiated from the ungodly creature, but only to be rivaled by that of the armored cabalist before him; as if a clash of counterpart energies, unseen. “Perchance I may, provided the hosts…”
Castellian answered clearly to the Liche, considering him with that wildly intense stare as the conversation came to a head. The ungodly implications were clear to those keen enough to hear them, the images they would conjure capable of filling the most nefarious with nightmares of the most horrid things. The calloused nature of the Regal remains revealed, carried in the crisp edge of each word. Nearby faces flinch, but it matters little, for the ebon-fleshed warrior seems to lack even the slightest hint of concience. "The first tower of Cenril, north within the gates. A legion of Flaming Claw's guards lie mangled. Some are buried in the rubble, others lie in pieces through the street, and still more slaughtered in their homes nearby. Are they suitable?"
Diiroehn ‘s requisites have all been met; the lich none the more satisfied. The very feeling of contentment is only betrayed, however, by a slight flicker within those eyes of wicked ashen dreary. Digits of sinuous marrow are outstretched, a bloated worm revealing its presence down the length as they are offered to the regal Drow. All but subliming, however, are the intentions to the tavern sustained -malicious is but an understatement.
Castellian reaches with his gauntlet-clad palm to take the liche's own, pausing only to flick a clawed finger at the maggot's wide middle and send it tumbling to the floor. The shake is brief, but evident. "I am pleased."