Post by Joliette Thorne on Jun 22, 2006 6:31:08 GMT -5
The last of day's light was passing over the high cliffs of the cove, and in their shade The Eternity rested uneasily on the white-capped rolling waters. Only a little of the day remained to brighten the crystal window of the cabin, casting dim illumination across the room. Tenebrae sat at her dresser, brushing the lustrous swathe of her hair with long, even strokes. The rhythmic sweep of soft bristles was soothing to her, the action absent-minded as she studied herself in the mirror; the woman looking back at her as much a conundrum to Tene herself as she might seem to any other. Jewel-green eyes stared into themselves through the glass, as though seeking some hidden answer to an unasked question. Now and then, fingers would rise to trace gently down the silvered line of the scar that began above her left brow and continued along her cheek. The question rose, a whisper in her mind, and as though in answer it seemed to her then, her reflection began shifting, presenting her many 'faces', each in turn: the haughty, warlike 'Lady Tenebrae', Mistress of Darkness; the feisty Tene, loved and hated with equal fervour in the lands, of the biting wit and hot temper. The urchin Joliette, snickering mischief, never once to let opportunity slip by; and gentle Joli... the innocent she'd once been... the creature she'd become. Dark lashes brushed the crest of her cheek as the vampiress closed her eyes tightly, a deep inhalation accompanying their opening again. The woman in the mirror looked back, impassively, as she laid her brush down on the dresser.
While she was brushing through the silken length of her hair with disconnected strokes, Castellian had made his arrival into their bedroom's confines. In the fluid-cut armors of his people the General was revealed, the full regality of him unveiled. Blood, thick and rusty-red as it clung clotted to the length of his ebon armors, decorated his face still. If she had become accustomed to his stoic nature, today would be a sharp contrast. Anger seethed through his features in the form of rare wrinkles, creases formed between snow-white brows and mirrored in his squared chin as his teeth gritted together. His gauntlet-clad fingers bent, curling into fists as he flexed them, allowing the rasp of iron to make more evident his arrival. The archaic hint of his words was carried with a sudden hint of sincerity then, a first things first sentiment that momentarily broke through his frustrations. "Thou art well, my love? Healing?"
She turned in her seat to greet him, his quiet tread on the decking and the creak of armour sentinel to Castellian’s arrival. Before she could complete the movement her lips had spread to a customary smile of pleasure, only to have it fade as her Lord’s mood was perceived in the hostile set of his features, the tension in his stance. Tene nodded, slightly. “That I am, Caste.” Fingers were raised once more toward the mark of the sword that had marred her formerly flawless face, though they paused, lowering back to her lap. “Only a little tired. The bath did me good.” Her own armour, yet to be cleaned, had been left in a gore-drenched heap to one the side of the door, incongruous in the genteel luxury of the cabin. “You alright?” She searched his form for signs of wounds and, finding none obvious, rose to step across the space between them, only the slightest hesitation in her approach. Once before him she stood quietly, green eyes searching the fathomless white of his for clues to the nature of her lover’s dark demeanour.
By the first word that had fallen from Tenebrae's shapely lips Castellian had begun his approach, strides measured by the dull thuds sounding beneath the black-iron sabatons. Perhaps, having never seen him in this role, Castellian would seem taller to Tenebrae. His already austere manner was aided now by the addition of armor, by the axe strapped across his broad back. The clawed ends of his gauntlets were plucked at, before he allowed his eyes to find her own, surveying the scar that ran along her once pristine features while he removed the gruesome gloves and tossed them onto the nightstand nearby. "I am unharmed, Tenebrae, but I am far from alright. I wish to speak to thee of this. Wouldst that be fair?" The consideration he showed her even now, with a dull rumble pulling from his throat as he bit back his discontent would astound most. But, in years of holding court and leading warriors, self-control was a staple of Castellian's way.
He’d always awed her, from the moment he’d stepped into Giolla’s and she had first lain eyes on his nobly-borne frame, his sheer stature and breadth, the haughty, predatory mien he wore as though it was his birthright. Now, fresh from battle and bristling with some inner discord obviously aimed at herself, he almost frightened the necromancer. Caste had of late been prone to darker shifts of mood; brooding, sometimes seething breaks in his usually cool demeanour, alleviated only by their love-making, and the kisses with which she stole the burden of the Seal from him. Though, judging by the increasing frequency of their bouts and the dire shifts in temperament that followed more often after, her ministrations were no longer quite enough. “Yes, love… It is fair.” Her fingertips felt numb. She could feel the storm brewing within him, how close it was to breaking through the façade of control he wore. “Shall we sit, though?” She glanced toward the low, broad bed they shared. He’d not even commented on her new attire, the scarlet halter-dress she’d had made in Vailkrin; and he always noticed when she did such things to please him. Such details boded ominously, and with a nervous glance back to him, she moved to take her seat.
Indeed, beneath the surface Castellian D'Onri was at his wit's end. The battle of the previous evening had brought him frighteningly close to losing control, to unleashing the Seal and the abilities it gave him. In his mind it tugged always, an itch that he could not scratch, and steadily his composure was being sapped away. Regarding her, Castellian began to speak, as if unhearing her inquiry over the drone of his anger. In truth he could have probably not tolerated to sit still, every compacted muscle in his body tight with anxiety and anguish. If Tenebrae had been any other he would have lost control, spiralled into a bestial rage. Yet, as it had been since he took Darkness' burden, their love was proving a saving grace. "Careless, Tenebrae. It was foolish and careless of thee last night. In the very least because I wasted a legion of the Undead on the escape, but mostly because I could have lost thee. Thou knowest better."
Head bowed, hair framing cheeks that were paled beyond their normal pallor to an ashen hue, Tenebrae lowered herself to the edge of the bed. “Things sort of … I didn’t mean for it to get so out of hand, Caste. One minute I was hunting and the next… they were everywhere.” She nodded, gaze fixed upon the maple deck. “I admit, it was very foolish of me. I’m sorry, to have brought such trouble upon us.” She looked up, a wan smile edging to the corner of her lips. “I’m very glad you came, when you did. I fear we’d have soon been over-run…” Realising she was in no way helping her own cause, the vampiress caught her lower lip in her teeth, and fell silent.
With his rage left unsated, Castellian felt the desire to continue begin to creep through him. Sparks shot through the synapses of his nervous system, a twitch developing in his right hand, thumb pressing to his palm and releasing it in an erratic rhythm. However, his eyes were not blinded to her, the soft gestures that alerted him to how superfluous this conversation was. She knew, and it was evident not only in the way she spoke, but the way she looked at him. Shame was a hard thing for him to see in her face, and once again that compassion that bound them surged up to smother what seemed like unbounded flames. "As am I, my love. I'd have trouble appreciating any beauty in this world if I did not have thine to fall asleep to each night, and wake with each morning."
It seemed to Tene that his anger had leapt over her, the way a raging conflagration might a clearing in a burning forest; his words eased her a little. “Caste, forgive me. I should not be so impetuous any more. I just … I was joking, with Garath. There were only a few dozen men, around the tower.” A slender arm was raised, her hand stretched forth as an offering to his own. “Please, sit with me. I have so much to ask you. And I have need of you, close to me.” The palm of her opposite hand was lowered to the crimson satin covering the bed, several shades deeper than the hue of the dress she wore, patting the soft sheen of it gently.
Castellian spoke with a sudden edge in his words, the sound harsh as he lifted deft fingers to pluck at the fastenings that bound the armor to his rugged frame. As it fell, clanging loudly to the floor, Castellian continued to turn his gaze to Tenebrae more and more frequently. "Ah, yes. Garath. The incompetent killer. I tolerate him because he was good to thee in the past, but thou art not that girl anymore! Only a few dozen? Did the Cabal not openly proclaim Cenril to be host to our next takeover?!" What tenderness had lingered faded, quickly, as if the prospect of the scoundrel serving as Tenebrae's influence had been a straw this camel's back could not bear.
Tenebrae’s teeth gritted together, her fingers tightening on the bedsheet so that the smooth surface was bunched beneath them. The backdraft of his anger had stung, her own guilt and shame an intolerable weight that his rage only made harder to bear. When she spoke, at length, her tone was curt. “I have admitted my wrong. That should suffice your need to berate me.” Her lips tightened briefly, though still she couldn’t look at him. “And surely, you’d be the one to understand the need to hold loyalty to one’s past.” She crossed her legs, the toe of one booted foot jiggling, her spine coming erect as her gaze, at last, lifted to meet his; there was little left in it of the soft supplication she’d offered him, moments before. “Might we now discuss the questions I have for you? Or are you not yet done with your ire?”
Castellian muttered low with a hint of discontent that was not his own, sparked by the seeping corruption of Darkness as it continued to poison his otherwise noble heart. "Hold it, yes; betray my new responsibilities and life? No. I risked my life for thee, Tenebrae. If thou believes me to be equally foolish in doing so, then thou does my love for thee great dishonor." The armors were gone, collected on the floor in a neglected heap of blood-stained iron. Without them, Castellian's body was clad in a simple pair of battered cotton leggings, and his broad chest lay bare under the cabin's soft candlelight as he deposited himself into a seat at her side. "What wouldst thou ask of me?"
It was an unconscious movement, but one that might have betrayed Tenebrae’s chagrin at his continued displeasure: as he sat, she shifted her body slightly to make room for him, leaving several inches of space between them. Swivelling as she did so, legs uncrossed to bring one knee upon the bed, the vampiress’ gaze was frank, her tone void of any emotion that might have been raised in her by his former statement. “I’d like to know how it was you raised that army. And how you came to have knowledge of our predicament.” Her head canted very slightly, brow delicately furrowing. “I did not know you possessed such magic.”
Castellian replied tersely, the sound suddenly ripe with aggression as that stark gaze fixed pointedly on her own. His words were cold, unnaturally so, and hidden against his side the fingers of his right hand curled to the palm to form a solid fist. "My first indication of something amiss was the dust rising from the damned tower, and our own in the area saw what transpired and sent runners to me. As for the army, Diiroehn raised it months ago, in our preparations for my assault on the city's damned gates." On this ground her manner would win her little more than his further scorn, which was expressed with a bitingly short breath. "The entire city was rallied by my lover's foolish actions, Tenebrae. I came when I heard."
Tenebrae’s eyes caught in their periphery the flex of his shoulder, her gaze dropping from their now unabashed meeting with his own to cast quick acknowledgement to his clenched hand, before flitting upward again. Her lips were parted, as if to retort, though no sound came. Not right away. Her eyes widened a little, one brow arcing to affect a subtle air of nonchalance at the threat implicit in his tone and the language of his posture. “And once more, I thank you, my Lord. And offer you my sincerest apology.” The chill formality was echoed in her stance, as she rose and made as if to move away from him.
Would he have struck her? Weeks ago such a thing would have been an impossibility, a horror that Castellian D'Onri would not be capable of. But now? Perhaps she was right to fear him. At this moment he felt no urge to harm her, the clenched fist more to hide the pulse of the sign emblazoned on his palm and a subconscious twitch derived from its pull on his conscious mind. But in a week? A month? In truth, nobody could tell how far Castellian might go. In the war to control Darkness' corruptive influence, the Great Lord, the savior of the Queen Mother in times long before this, was losing. Her absence was felt more than witnessed, the way she rose gesture enough to freeze his heart. Sobered enough by her words, Castellian confronted his pride then, and found himself incapable of voicing how desperate he was for aide. And so, rising as well, the Great Lord departed in a rush of swift strides. "No," he offered then, pausing long enough at their door to say this much. "I am sorry, Tenebrae. I love thee, and I will not be cold to thee again." But the last few words fell without conviction, and worse came with concern. And then, turning swiftly, his ebon form vanished.
While she was brushing through the silken length of her hair with disconnected strokes, Castellian had made his arrival into their bedroom's confines. In the fluid-cut armors of his people the General was revealed, the full regality of him unveiled. Blood, thick and rusty-red as it clung clotted to the length of his ebon armors, decorated his face still. If she had become accustomed to his stoic nature, today would be a sharp contrast. Anger seethed through his features in the form of rare wrinkles, creases formed between snow-white brows and mirrored in his squared chin as his teeth gritted together. His gauntlet-clad fingers bent, curling into fists as he flexed them, allowing the rasp of iron to make more evident his arrival. The archaic hint of his words was carried with a sudden hint of sincerity then, a first things first sentiment that momentarily broke through his frustrations. "Thou art well, my love? Healing?"
She turned in her seat to greet him, his quiet tread on the decking and the creak of armour sentinel to Castellian’s arrival. Before she could complete the movement her lips had spread to a customary smile of pleasure, only to have it fade as her Lord’s mood was perceived in the hostile set of his features, the tension in his stance. Tene nodded, slightly. “That I am, Caste.” Fingers were raised once more toward the mark of the sword that had marred her formerly flawless face, though they paused, lowering back to her lap. “Only a little tired. The bath did me good.” Her own armour, yet to be cleaned, had been left in a gore-drenched heap to one the side of the door, incongruous in the genteel luxury of the cabin. “You alright?” She searched his form for signs of wounds and, finding none obvious, rose to step across the space between them, only the slightest hesitation in her approach. Once before him she stood quietly, green eyes searching the fathomless white of his for clues to the nature of her lover’s dark demeanour.
By the first word that had fallen from Tenebrae's shapely lips Castellian had begun his approach, strides measured by the dull thuds sounding beneath the black-iron sabatons. Perhaps, having never seen him in this role, Castellian would seem taller to Tenebrae. His already austere manner was aided now by the addition of armor, by the axe strapped across his broad back. The clawed ends of his gauntlets were plucked at, before he allowed his eyes to find her own, surveying the scar that ran along her once pristine features while he removed the gruesome gloves and tossed them onto the nightstand nearby. "I am unharmed, Tenebrae, but I am far from alright. I wish to speak to thee of this. Wouldst that be fair?" The consideration he showed her even now, with a dull rumble pulling from his throat as he bit back his discontent would astound most. But, in years of holding court and leading warriors, self-control was a staple of Castellian's way.
He’d always awed her, from the moment he’d stepped into Giolla’s and she had first lain eyes on his nobly-borne frame, his sheer stature and breadth, the haughty, predatory mien he wore as though it was his birthright. Now, fresh from battle and bristling with some inner discord obviously aimed at herself, he almost frightened the necromancer. Caste had of late been prone to darker shifts of mood; brooding, sometimes seething breaks in his usually cool demeanour, alleviated only by their love-making, and the kisses with which she stole the burden of the Seal from him. Though, judging by the increasing frequency of their bouts and the dire shifts in temperament that followed more often after, her ministrations were no longer quite enough. “Yes, love… It is fair.” Her fingertips felt numb. She could feel the storm brewing within him, how close it was to breaking through the façade of control he wore. “Shall we sit, though?” She glanced toward the low, broad bed they shared. He’d not even commented on her new attire, the scarlet halter-dress she’d had made in Vailkrin; and he always noticed when she did such things to please him. Such details boded ominously, and with a nervous glance back to him, she moved to take her seat.
Indeed, beneath the surface Castellian D'Onri was at his wit's end. The battle of the previous evening had brought him frighteningly close to losing control, to unleashing the Seal and the abilities it gave him. In his mind it tugged always, an itch that he could not scratch, and steadily his composure was being sapped away. Regarding her, Castellian began to speak, as if unhearing her inquiry over the drone of his anger. In truth he could have probably not tolerated to sit still, every compacted muscle in his body tight with anxiety and anguish. If Tenebrae had been any other he would have lost control, spiralled into a bestial rage. Yet, as it had been since he took Darkness' burden, their love was proving a saving grace. "Careless, Tenebrae. It was foolish and careless of thee last night. In the very least because I wasted a legion of the Undead on the escape, but mostly because I could have lost thee. Thou knowest better."
Head bowed, hair framing cheeks that were paled beyond their normal pallor to an ashen hue, Tenebrae lowered herself to the edge of the bed. “Things sort of … I didn’t mean for it to get so out of hand, Caste. One minute I was hunting and the next… they were everywhere.” She nodded, gaze fixed upon the maple deck. “I admit, it was very foolish of me. I’m sorry, to have brought such trouble upon us.” She looked up, a wan smile edging to the corner of her lips. “I’m very glad you came, when you did. I fear we’d have soon been over-run…” Realising she was in no way helping her own cause, the vampiress caught her lower lip in her teeth, and fell silent.
With his rage left unsated, Castellian felt the desire to continue begin to creep through him. Sparks shot through the synapses of his nervous system, a twitch developing in his right hand, thumb pressing to his palm and releasing it in an erratic rhythm. However, his eyes were not blinded to her, the soft gestures that alerted him to how superfluous this conversation was. She knew, and it was evident not only in the way she spoke, but the way she looked at him. Shame was a hard thing for him to see in her face, and once again that compassion that bound them surged up to smother what seemed like unbounded flames. "As am I, my love. I'd have trouble appreciating any beauty in this world if I did not have thine to fall asleep to each night, and wake with each morning."
It seemed to Tene that his anger had leapt over her, the way a raging conflagration might a clearing in a burning forest; his words eased her a little. “Caste, forgive me. I should not be so impetuous any more. I just … I was joking, with Garath. There were only a few dozen men, around the tower.” A slender arm was raised, her hand stretched forth as an offering to his own. “Please, sit with me. I have so much to ask you. And I have need of you, close to me.” The palm of her opposite hand was lowered to the crimson satin covering the bed, several shades deeper than the hue of the dress she wore, patting the soft sheen of it gently.
Castellian spoke with a sudden edge in his words, the sound harsh as he lifted deft fingers to pluck at the fastenings that bound the armor to his rugged frame. As it fell, clanging loudly to the floor, Castellian continued to turn his gaze to Tenebrae more and more frequently. "Ah, yes. Garath. The incompetent killer. I tolerate him because he was good to thee in the past, but thou art not that girl anymore! Only a few dozen? Did the Cabal not openly proclaim Cenril to be host to our next takeover?!" What tenderness had lingered faded, quickly, as if the prospect of the scoundrel serving as Tenebrae's influence had been a straw this camel's back could not bear.
Tenebrae’s teeth gritted together, her fingers tightening on the bedsheet so that the smooth surface was bunched beneath them. The backdraft of his anger had stung, her own guilt and shame an intolerable weight that his rage only made harder to bear. When she spoke, at length, her tone was curt. “I have admitted my wrong. That should suffice your need to berate me.” Her lips tightened briefly, though still she couldn’t look at him. “And surely, you’d be the one to understand the need to hold loyalty to one’s past.” She crossed her legs, the toe of one booted foot jiggling, her spine coming erect as her gaze, at last, lifted to meet his; there was little left in it of the soft supplication she’d offered him, moments before. “Might we now discuss the questions I have for you? Or are you not yet done with your ire?”
Castellian muttered low with a hint of discontent that was not his own, sparked by the seeping corruption of Darkness as it continued to poison his otherwise noble heart. "Hold it, yes; betray my new responsibilities and life? No. I risked my life for thee, Tenebrae. If thou believes me to be equally foolish in doing so, then thou does my love for thee great dishonor." The armors were gone, collected on the floor in a neglected heap of blood-stained iron. Without them, Castellian's body was clad in a simple pair of battered cotton leggings, and his broad chest lay bare under the cabin's soft candlelight as he deposited himself into a seat at her side. "What wouldst thou ask of me?"
It was an unconscious movement, but one that might have betrayed Tenebrae’s chagrin at his continued displeasure: as he sat, she shifted her body slightly to make room for him, leaving several inches of space between them. Swivelling as she did so, legs uncrossed to bring one knee upon the bed, the vampiress’ gaze was frank, her tone void of any emotion that might have been raised in her by his former statement. “I’d like to know how it was you raised that army. And how you came to have knowledge of our predicament.” Her head canted very slightly, brow delicately furrowing. “I did not know you possessed such magic.”
Castellian replied tersely, the sound suddenly ripe with aggression as that stark gaze fixed pointedly on her own. His words were cold, unnaturally so, and hidden against his side the fingers of his right hand curled to the palm to form a solid fist. "My first indication of something amiss was the dust rising from the damned tower, and our own in the area saw what transpired and sent runners to me. As for the army, Diiroehn raised it months ago, in our preparations for my assault on the city's damned gates." On this ground her manner would win her little more than his further scorn, which was expressed with a bitingly short breath. "The entire city was rallied by my lover's foolish actions, Tenebrae. I came when I heard."
Tenebrae’s eyes caught in their periphery the flex of his shoulder, her gaze dropping from their now unabashed meeting with his own to cast quick acknowledgement to his clenched hand, before flitting upward again. Her lips were parted, as if to retort, though no sound came. Not right away. Her eyes widened a little, one brow arcing to affect a subtle air of nonchalance at the threat implicit in his tone and the language of his posture. “And once more, I thank you, my Lord. And offer you my sincerest apology.” The chill formality was echoed in her stance, as she rose and made as if to move away from him.
Would he have struck her? Weeks ago such a thing would have been an impossibility, a horror that Castellian D'Onri would not be capable of. But now? Perhaps she was right to fear him. At this moment he felt no urge to harm her, the clenched fist more to hide the pulse of the sign emblazoned on his palm and a subconscious twitch derived from its pull on his conscious mind. But in a week? A month? In truth, nobody could tell how far Castellian might go. In the war to control Darkness' corruptive influence, the Great Lord, the savior of the Queen Mother in times long before this, was losing. Her absence was felt more than witnessed, the way she rose gesture enough to freeze his heart. Sobered enough by her words, Castellian confronted his pride then, and found himself incapable of voicing how desperate he was for aide. And so, rising as well, the Great Lord departed in a rush of swift strides. "No," he offered then, pausing long enough at their door to say this much. "I am sorry, Tenebrae. I love thee, and I will not be cold to thee again." But the last few words fell without conviction, and worse came with concern. And then, turning swiftly, his ebon form vanished.