Post by Joliette Thorne on Aug 12, 2008 7:30:51 GMT -5
CABAL NOTE:
On behalf of the Eldritch Cabal, I'd like to say thank you to Wile, without whose sheer brilliance at storytelling, writing and thinking nine moves ahead of us all, this rp would not exist.
Thanks for taking the time, and putting in the effort to create this for us. We hope it was as much fun for you, too. Wile was a marvellous and terrible creation, and gave Cabal a run for thier money, as well as a much-needed worthy opponent. Not only that, but you helped enormously in furthering the clan rp, as well as the personal storylines of the players.
Well done, old bean, and here's hoping for more rp to come.
Best wishes,
Tenebrae & The Eldritch Cabal
Wile sheds the doors with a brush of a long-fingered hand. His movements carried with a precision of motive, slicing knife-sharp through the bustling crowd. A barmaid nearly intersects him, tray in hand and her skirts up against the scissoring of her long legs, but he moves past with a deft and natural grace. Gone is the stiff-legged stumble, his battered sandals drum a quick cadence against the weathered floor. He affords no jovial greetings, only a rapier of a smile. His lips are thin and pulled back gruesomely to reveal perfectly straight teeth, a toothpick nestled passively in them. He's found his way to Tenebrae's fore, regarding her with a glint fashioned in the lantern green of his eyes. "Hail." It's a taunt more than a greeting.
Tenebrae was not long back from her seaside sojourn, and subsequently less pale than a vampire should be; indeed, she could have passed for almost living, were it not for the white flash of lengthened canines she didn't bother to hide when a vaguely familiar customer cut his way through the crowd in something of a beeline, smile like a jackal’s on his face. Or so it seemed; perhaps the nonchalant toothpick lent him that air. Eyebrows lifted, she held that smile, a good tavern keeper always, while her hands bustled to pour the ale for a half-orcish body-part merchant slouching one seat down. Sliding the drink, she winked at the greenskin by way of telling him business was concluded by now, and returned her attention to the human stranger. "Ello, pet. Get you somethin'?" Her nape prickled, and she forced her eyes not to narrow while she thought of where she'd seen him before.
"I've a thin wallet, Darkness." Came the answer, his articulation flawless and the tone an almost playful baritone. There was a game afoot. The great counter before him was claimed with a bent forearm, his hand smoothing polished stone until it settled. The opposite plucked the toothpick from his lips and set it to tumble over his knuckles, fore and back, deft fingers spinning the splinter at a malevolent cadence. "Too many days are wasted by the worried wanting and wishing. I didn't know the damned could garnish some sun."
Tenebrae eyed the man with little subtlety; and her blatant once-over was followed by a question as blunt, "I know you. How so?" She'd had a busy time of it, and faces passed like wasps, all sheer number and blur, and much of a much after a while. She added, before he had time to reply, "And if your wallet's empty, there's a mop over there won't move itself. Was just about to pin this up, matter of fact." She slid the parchment square across dark stone and timber inlay, where he might see the copperplate script advertising the position. "Earn your drinks, or take the gold, either way."
Spawne pushed the swinging doors which laid unimposingly between he and his chosen shelter. Morbid touch laid upon the access, its hinges squealed as though they'd not been used in decades. Darkened form now indoors, the shadows licked at his being, caressing his broad chest and shoulders like a devoted lover.
Leoxander noticed when Red passed him by. He stood there calmly until Spawne was out of sight, and then at a stealthy distance, he followed. The door hadn't entirely closed when fingers exposed from a black glove caught the edge of it, and he stepped inside without making a sound. His appearance was far more presentable in black leather armor that gave him the nameless assassin appeal, but almost made him hard to see when he stuck to the shadows. The solemn expression was not masked with anything more than the short facial hair he needed to shave.
Just where the draconian had come from was anyone's guess. How a 6'7 winged woman with horns, scales, and a tail was, too. Add to the fact that she's naked but for a belt and two sheathed swords, and...well...it would seem the laws of nature have been severely bent. But regardless of the hows and whys, there she is, standing by the hearth, her tall body a shadow against the flame-lit backdrop as she poises herself with arms crossed to watch the growing crowd.
Wile made no bother of reading, his interest hardly peaked. He'd the look of a miscreant, that was certain. It was all faded leather and bare skin, his body a rangy course of sinuous muscles that lacked definition and banner. There was the small matter of his sleeve, an archaic accessory that had upon it but a single diminutive rune scribed and singed to stand dark against the fading leather's bleached surface. But despite the parchment and the woman's words, he afforded a flat response. "I've no hands for a swab, cob, bob, rob, sob."
Leoxander stops, just a few steps in. Tenebrae might not much appreciate how the lycan pauses and locks his feral eyes on the statuesque horned woman along side the goblin faced hearth. The fire catches his eyes, and like an animal caught in lamplight they gleam amber and green like rusted coins. Motionless for a few seconds, his sun-spotted nose twitches once before he takes a few more steps forward to continue toward the bar, dirt stained fingers digging into the back of his head for a good scratch.
Tenebrae gave the echolalic a sere look, though his odd speech returning so also told her who he was; or. at least, where she'd seen him. "You're from the island..." But before there could be any addendum, the door swung to, first darkened by a hefty shadow soon greeted with a shrill little cry of delight, "RED!" No apologies given, she planted her palms to the bar and vaulted so to take seat there momentarily, before her legs were swung over it and boots without deadly heels struck the floor with 'thunk'. She'd be halfway across the room, when the second entry had her pause, and grin widely, and then she was a black-clad bullet, running for the massive man. The draconian might be given a curious look, but only after she'd thrown her arms around the waist of the big, crimson-skinned man. "Gods, it's been an age. You lug."
Leoxander would regard Wile with a sidelong look as tattooed arms caught his lean against the bar.
Spawne 's infernal optics flared, prompted by whisperings from the darkness. Hessian sack gripped tightly in his left hand, it left in its wake a trail of smeared blood, which would find itself promptly mopped up by the publican, as he proceeded toward the bar.
Tenebrae was clearly in tow. "Cripes, slow down."
Wile idly closed his fingers about the toothpick as it snapped about his knuckles, briefly concealing it in his palm. Tenebrae's movements were sharp and swift, sweeping her up and past him in a blur of ebon. Eerily, the smile on his features clung suspended to his smooth, angular features. He hardly blinked. Instead, he uncurled his long fingers. The toothpick gone.
Leoxander drummed his fingers only once atop the counter, lazily shifting his gaze back toward Spawne and his mate. He still didn't speak, greet anyone, or draw attention to himself but took that time to observe the behavior and interaction in the tavern, posture slumped forward with the collar of his leather jacket crowded against the back of his neck.
Spawne peered downward at the sin-eater around his midsection. Like an anchor, she'd gradually ceased his progress toward the counter. Digits danced beneath her chin, raising her gaze to meet his own as he replied in duotone, characteristic baritone underlaid with a chilling rasp, "I'd began to think you'd left..."
Leoxander turned his attention behind the bar, mismatched eyes searching for any bottle in easy grasp.
Wile said to Leoxander, "Why so glum, chum?" His voice had taken on a perpetual rhythm, snakelike and mosquito quick as he continued to smile at the empty place where Tenebrae had been. Those long fingers curled a fist once more, the impassive manner troubled only by soft, biting undertones. "Color me curious."
Tenebrae made a soft sound, "Pffft. It was you that was gone from me, from us, and all the while not a word to tell me you weren't dead." Her eyes couldn't help shifting Leo's way, as she spoke it, though soon her face was tilted back up to meet the eyes of her clansmate. "Good to have you back..." Wile was grinned at, the necromancer's mood obviously a light one. "Drinks on the house, for the reunion. Steady, pour us a few? Just keep 'em coming." A poke to the big man's midsection with a forefinger, and she slipped aside to mutter to the Cap'n, "You've met Red?" Steadman was hurried along by another look, and then her glance went upward again, a nod given the substantially taller female. "Help yourself, miss." Wile's chatter to the lycan elicited a soft wince, but she was in too bubbly - yes, bubbly-- a mood to let it stop her reaching for a drink.
Krys continues her silent vigil, of sorts, though now she does move forward from the hearth. In an unusual display of social aptitude - or perhaps just a great thirst - she comes to stand at the bar, her eyes browsing over the selection of alcohols. And ah, but they have ale! It's been a while since she's had a good ale; she can't help but wonder how this pub's selection is. With a few quick snaps of her fingers to garner Steadmen's attention, she silently jerks her head towards the bottle of the ale, and sets the required coinage - just don't ask where she keeps it, eh? - on the counter. Soon enough, she's got her chosen poison, and she tilts back her glass to take her first swig as she again observes those around her. Silently, of course. If you don't count the contented sigh that passes her lips, anyways. Mmm, the ale isn't that bad, apparently.
Leoxander gave Steadmen a look that said 'Yes, even me One-eye', a shadow of a grin touching his whiskered features. Rocking his shoulders back to stand more upright, he placed his black gloved hands and bared fingerprints on the counter in a waiting position and turned his head to look at Wile again when he spoke. "What gave you the impression I’m glum?" His own voice was - perpetually speaking - always a vocal growl no matter his mood. There were amused growls, devilish growls, and even the pissed off tone. This one wasn't entirely clear, maybe an ironic mix between bored and amused. "We've met..." These words came a little darker as Spawne passed, and Leo's eyes traveled over the red skinned clansmate.
Spawne snatched at memories which may well not belong to him as smouldering eyes assessed the rogue, thoughts talking nineteen to the dozen, ‘A buccaneer, of sorts… Hides in my shadows as if I don’t know he’s there. A canine… gone?’ There was no need to repeat what was already confirmed, The Catastrophe offered a nod of his head in its place.
Wile opened his fingers, the long digits uncurling with absolute certainty. The toothpick lay in his palm, and after a moment his thumb ticked its end until it was up and rolling along his knuckles once more. "Impressions are a tedious thing, friend. We are what we pretend." His lips curled a crocodile's smile, gem-green eyes glinting. "Have you a talent for impressions? I do."
Tenebrae was still eyeing the exchange between her mate and the "trick" - or so he'd introduced himself, back on the beach - whose suddenly less-impeded speech did not go unnoticed. Interesting fellow.. She was a bit loath to show that outward affection she might've had only clan been present, and so made do with a slide of her fingers across fresh leathers, a soft word, "Cap'n..." It'd say the dozen things she meant, before she looked again to Spawne. "So.. what's in the sack?"
Spawne said, "Legs, arms..."
Tenebrae blinked softly. "Any.. reason, for that?'
Wile quipped sidelong to Spawne, the mountainous figure's words provocation enough. "Parts of a chair."
Spawne said to Tenebrae, "I wanted them."
Tene made that face -- you know the one -- anticipatory, the kind you put on when someone's going the right way for a smacking. Looking at Wile, while she made it.
Leoxander looked from Wile's hand, to his face, to the drink placed before him. It wouldn't take him long to finish it. Understanding the need for strict behaviour in the eyes of so many, he only lingered like a moody drunk who happened to be one of the regulars, tossing that shot of dark liquor to the back of his throat before the tumbler was turned upside down, a terrible habit meant to leave a ring of liquid in his spot, third seat from the end. Other taverns the rogue had visited might have similar ungrateful marks claiming his territory...
Wile flexed the toothpick between bridged digits, forcing the splinter to bow before it finally cracked asunder. The halves were then set to twist in tandem, deft fingers rolling them fore and back. They whirled hypnotically close to one another, passing end over end at a dangerous quickness. They never touched or collided, and his fingers never faltered. To Tenebrae, he afforded only that unblinking, unnervingly broad smile.
Terra fidgeted, tugged, and appeared all-around restless as she made her way through the tavern's door behind the most recently exited patron. Those gathered were given a slight study, though none seemed to be of interest for the vampiress simply shrugged and settled at the bar, all cozy-like.,
Tenebrae was.. a little unnerved. Mainly by the prospect of having to mop up blood, and her back only now. To have one fight-free hour in her pub... The woman huffed a little breath, an said to Red, "What for?"
Terra was the next to illicit that expression.
Spawne reached into the sack, tremendous grip curled around a distended mandible, cleaved at the wrist. An underarm toss would prompt its momentum toward Wile, "Have a seat, then..."
Wile said, "The Strong and Sullen type. A popular choice, friend." This to Leoxander, his attention finally straying toward him. "But your lady friend has you beat by the ears, I'm afraid. 'Soul-Eater' is just a fit more mysterious. Buck up, though, I think we'll get along famously. And I'm a popular friend, or so I've been told."
Tenebrae coughed softly. "Sin." Her lips were string. "Sin… eater."
Terra thought it better not to speak to Tenebrae, and so she didn't. Instead, she'd keep to herself, knees to chin and eyes to the door.
Krys regards Spawne upon his proclamation of what is in his sack, a disgusted look plastering itself on her face. Arms? Legs? Just what sort of being collected those? And why would they haul them around? The paladin never would understand that. But still, it provokes her mind enough that she finally speaks, her voice surprisingly quiet...though, likely simply from her not finding a need to be louder. "You may wish to extend your collection to some sanity, hm? Or perhaps seek mental help? I hear beheadals are good for that." Of course, her being a paladin in the presence of such a person, she can't help but mutter to herself, "Brutish orc-spawn..."
Spawne said to Tenebrae, "The old ones were beginning to smell...' He spoke as though his reasoning was flawless. And, to the morally inept, it may very well be. "The dwarf didn't want me keeping them in his cellar any longer."
Terra would, after finally drawing her eyes from the door to the arm-tossing Spawne, smile at the male.
Wile leaned back, allowing the limb to smack wetly against the counter before him. Blood misted from the impact, coloring sun-bronzed skin with crimson droplets. That smile remained, and he gave a strange, solitary hoot of amusement.
Tenebrae's bubbles were rapidly popping, one by one. She took Terra's silence with a loft of brow, another clearing of her throat. "What, no greeting? Lost your manners overboard, Terra?"
Wile said to Tenebrae, "I spoke correctly, Darkness." That smile was suddenly dagger-sharp. Long-fingers twisted the splintered toothpick's halves into his palm and closed about them. "Pride's a fair mask."
Leoxander took a step back from the empty glass left on the counter. "She's somethin' else, alright..." This muttered as he made his way through the crowd, scowling at anyone who should get too near, even an accidental step. The lycan headed back to the place they preferred him not to be, and maintained that position as the monster lurking in the cellar, drinking to his heart's content.
Terra blinked... multiple times, but the smile offered towards Spawne was the same given to Tenebrae. "Hey, you. Glad to see nothing ate you." And, despite all that had occurred, she was genuinely pleased to see this.
Tenebrae wrinkled her nose at Spawne, unable to help agreeing with Mesthak, on that one point. "You can put 'em in ours.. and what are you going to do with 'em?" Her brow puckered, at the apparent nickname bestowed on her by the "trick", though her eyes followed her mate down the stairs. "So's madness."
Wile opened his fingers, and his palm was empty. The toothpick's halves once again vanished. His empty hands lifted to heft the severed limb before him, pale eyes cutting over it. "Contrary to contrary opinion, yes." The lantern green eyes twitched onto Tenebrae's features, seeking to find intimate claim upon her own. "I've to confess a matter to you, Darkness, but I'm an honest liar."
Spawne tossed the sack into a corner, using his now free left hand to scratch at his right wrist. long streaks of crimson flesh would be exposed as massive digits dragged over the ebon film enveloping his hulking form, only to drown in the darkness once again as it reclaimed its prominence. Shoulders lofted in response to Tenebrae’s question, "They are put to as much use in that sack as they were on the indolent wastes of flesh from which they were excised. Slothful wretches..."
Tenebrae dragged her gaze from that open stairwell, offering Terra a wan uptilt of lips. "Likewise, I'm sure." And her glance to Wile was pointed, the man's agenda piquing her curiosity, and irritating her a smidgeon more, besides. "Oh really, now." Finally, she took a sip of that rum. "Do tell."
Wile turned a moment, thrusting the arm toward Spawne's hulking frame. The words were afforded with absolute clarity, the smile that would otherwise serve as jovial haunted by its own incessant presence. "You've a strong handshake."
Spawne said to Wile, "Yours is one I'd like to take with me."
Tenebrae interrupted, wanting to hear Wile's reply before Red made good on that wish. She said, to the big man, "Fancy making a buck out of 'em?"
Wile deliberately turned toward Tenebrae then, his hand releasing the arm and allowing it to thud heavily against the Corpse's weathered floor. It was an instant, the smile gone. His empty hands closed two fists before him, presented to Tenebrae as his eyes found her own once more. "Fate will play its part, and I'll not deny her. Many a foolish man has tried to escape a woman's will. But you will have your way, won't you? A fickle thing, win or lose, it manifests itself as consequence. The deception is a harsh one and I admire it. My impression is this: choose a hand and allow fate her fortune, at least then the rules are clear."
Terra would let Tenebrae carry on her multiple conversations without further interruptions, instead murmuring a quiet, "we'll talk soon." Still unable to be comfortable in those leggings and that cursed shirt, she'd stare towards the door and wait.
Spawne wasn't one to waste his time grappling with a silver tongue. A modest tug releases his cleaver from its sheathe, the broad face of the blade slapped against Wiles side, where blood which had retained its viscosity would be transferred to the humans bare skin, "Which is the hand you choose, hm?"
Tenebrae grunted something at Terra, unable to spare words while her mind, quick as it was, attempted to decipher the man's odd speech. Fate? And he called her "Darkness" too. Something twigged, a prickle of a twitch in her mind, and his furled hands were stared at while that snippet clocked its wheels around, and she soothed herself a moment longer, then replied, "Fate is a bitch. It's irony you have to watch for." Then peridot met his lampish green, and she'd stare, as though waiting a response triggered by her reply. Subtly, her hand smoothed over her bodice, as women are wont to do when uncomfortable. The dagger lying tucked away in the band of her pants was a comforting weight. Then Red drew his weapon, and it was a moot point anyway. She'd be content to watch.
Shishi gently nudges the doors open as he ushers the birthday boy and girl into the tavern, he might cringe a bit to see the place so 'crowded', but the troupe is coaxed inside none the less. Arius rides into the establishment atop his large Black Wolf, hugging a brand new, thin bladed sword to his chest. The boy's head is covered by the hat that usually rests atop his father's head. Leralynn is behind her brother and is pulling the Rotten Undead Mage in through the door by his skinless, petrified hand. The girl is wearing her father's Water Scarf which seems to have frozen over on it's surface, it is sure to thaw out soon in the warmth of the tavern however. Fixed atop the girls head is a lovely platinum crown that she seems to be constantly fussing over, perhaps it is a size too big for the six-year-old. In her left hand is a sphere of pristine, clear water, also slightly frozen, that houses a dead goatfish which she will continue to carry until the deceased fish is reburied...
Wile allowed his eyes to linger long on Tenebrae's own, the piercing glow of those catlike orbs turned blade-sharp under flicker of the hanging candleabra. She afforded no answer, and a full moment passed before he pivoted upon a sandal clad foot toward the hulking Draconian. The miscreant is a baleful creature, long and angled features contorted in that mocking smile. Leering at Spawne, those perfectly articulated words afforded him a menacing challenge. "Ah, but let us see if she's fortune's fool or otherwise. Choose, friend. You've the cleaver."
Tenebrae was quick to shoot a warning glance to Shishi, paling sightly at the sight of the children. A tilt of head toward Spawne and his cleaver might explain the look.
Terra was already two steps ahead of Tenebrae and the look of caution she tossed towards Shishi. "Orange and Yellow! Just the people I've been meaning to see." With a wink to Shishi, she'd gesture for them to follow her out the door. "I've got presents for the birthday folk. Any clue who they are?" The question was posed as she held the door open, waiting.
Shishi was right to cringe at the crowd as he entered, it seemed. The vampire had halted his brood's advance into the tavern at a few feet past the threshold as his oceanic eyes calmly flitted over Tenebrae's warning look and the cleaver held by Spawne. Terra's greeting to his children takes their always wandering eyes off whatever business the others in the tavern are conducting and is appreciated by the vampiric father. The little ones bounce excitedly, such an action by Arius causing the Wolf he's riding's knees to buckle slightly. Leralynn squeaks happily, "Presents!?" while Arius confirms some suspicions, "That's us! It's our birthday!" Blue can't help but crack a smile at Terra's wink and his children's responses and he spins around to carefully usher his troupe out through the door Terra hold open for them.
Spawne , once a man of comparative restraint, now approached situations not unlike these without cessation. Narrow steel edge rolled against Wiles side as Spawne’s wrist twisted to point the ghastly blade toward the ceiling, the sharpened surface flashed briefly in the nearby firelight. The slap of metal against bare skin was the inauguration of an upward swing, aimed to strike at the pit of Wiles arm. A crude cut, perhaps, and the result would leave him with more limb than would be practical, but such issues can be remedied at a later date.
Tenebrae hoisted herself back onto the bar, a better view afforded there of the brawl, and lifted a hand to stay the surge of Urghdak and his men, who glowered at her white palm, but obeyed -- however grudgingly. There'd be a few extra coins in the security chief's pay, for that assurance of his loyalty to the necromancer.
Wile had anticipated the choice of his left, perhaps his less dominant hand limb if such could be said. The steel was warmer than most, slick and hot with quickly drying vitae. It was this that afforded the vagrant some perverse comfort, some unshakable confidence as the brand rested against his bare side and stained it with that lingering gore. And as it twisted, goaded so by the Death Knight’s iron-clad hands… so did Wile. The step was deft and sure, planted on the opposite side of the limb he had abandoned on the floor between the pair, and thrusting him to the far larger figure’s shoulder. The quickness was unnatural, some terrible celerity that afforded him to keep his left arm, but not without cost. The blade bit into the meat of his forearm, carving deep amidst a gout of the vagrant’s blood. Airborne, a chunk of flesh was rent from him, cleaved free by the Knight’s meaty blade. Wile’s response was sharp, silent, and sure. The free hand opened, palm revealing the slender sliver of hardwood. His toothpick was deftly in his fingers, a flip of thumb leveling it surely. As he twisted past the Draconian, the vagrant’s slight of hand was put to new use. Perhaps too small to be considered a threat, or seen at all, the toothpick lead a thrust of his quick hand to the base of his attacker’s throat. There, where soft flesh lingers under the hollow of the jaw, it was meant to be forced home amidst soft tissue and the thick carotid artery beyond.
Spawne had caught and cast away the hunk of meat in the same motion of his left hand; the flesh smacking against the coarse weave of his sack of limbs, where gravity would eventually peel it away and decline to the hardwood at its base. Obsidian ooze lurched away where it once clung to his form, suggestive that it, too would share the sensation presented by the tiny toothpick puncturing his flesh. And puncture, it did, to the surprise of its victim the shard passed flush through his leathery hide, spilling stagnant blood to mix with the darkened haze which shared the gargantuan vessel. Spawne’s sinister garb clambered over his neck and shoulder, again concealing his crimson flesh beneath the viscous shadow. A smack of his lips and a disgruntled snort preceded his retaliation, as his colossal mandible curled around Wiles skull. Cranium would then be guided toward Spawne’s chest, to apply pressure limited not by will, but his own substantial strength.
Tenebrae had yet cause to wince again, while sundry meat was flensed from this body, and blood spattered from that. The necromancer sat cross-legged on the bar, while Steadman's laconic eye roved over the rings Leo had caused, the moisture left to stain another circle on expensive wood. Nor would he run for the mop-- little point til after the fight was done. Shrugging, the one-eyed former keep swiped a cloth around the space where Tene's behind was not, this his silent protest at her choice of seating. The vampiress looked on, oblivious to Steadman, peridot eyes fixed and intent on the fight at hand.
Wile had lost that smile, that crocodilian grin that defied logic or reason as to its nature or necessity. It had served as some kind of sick mask, concealing so much of what the vagrant had brought with him into the tavern. What was bared to the occupants now was something grim and terrible, an inverse of the fates. A deep, mournful, and mad-looking frown that’s animation upon his features was exaggerated and grotesquely alike to the theaters symbolic and unfortunate second-seal. The pressure of the goliath’s arm, vice-like in its insistence against his temples, forced his green eyes to redden as vessels burst beside the emerald iris. And still, that horrible and unexpressive frown remained. His nose burst a jet of blood. The Death Knight’s forearm crushing it until it nearly broke, and still no movement. A moment, then longer, as he remained hunched in the Death Knight’s hold. Apprehension in those nearby, perhaps anticipation, seemed to wind and wind like a spring until the moment came to a sharp and sudden conclusion. With a whip-snap quickness his entire body inverted within the grasp, his ears popping as the cartilage ruptured against the pressure and friction of the larger figure’s hold. Wile was now facing to the sealing within the man’s hold, and the pain of his movement could only be accounted as astonishing… and his mask remained. “An eye for an eye.” The words were a rasp, denied their precise enunciation by the Knight’s ever-tightening grip. Then, with astonishing quickness, he lashed that deft hand upward. It sprung toward Spawne’s eyes, only to slash down, seeking to hook his fingers in the leather of his cheek and rip it savagely down and to the side. His intentions were to simply tear the skin from the man’s face, to reveal his teeth and create a gaping wound. And if successful, his hand would flick that flesh toward the sack of limbs in a terrible mock of the Draconian’s own gesture.
Caedan whispered to Tenebrae, "Should I go to him?" A steely blue gaze is locked on Spawne and seems barely cognizant of the person in his grasp, except for when he launches his own offensive against the burly, red giant. "I told him I'd protect him from the fishes. From what I saw."
Caedan is watching the fight with greater interest, cupped chin resting in her palm and attention fixed on the ensuing fight, even as Steadman scrubs petulant little circles around her bum.
Tenebrae looked aside, in a subtle way that was only a shift of eyes toward the psychic, but that would in its malevolent glint and the minute shake of head that sent ebon tresses trembling against her shoulders offer a reply in the negative. Her pack, upon the back of the chair she'd vacated was leant to, and item were removed without word and handed to Caedan in a negligent manner, as one might idly hand a treat to child.
Tirla stepped into the tavern and slipped to the side as the door as the door closed. She leaned against the wall, one knee cocked and her foot flat against the stone. Her back is slightly arched to keep her tucked wings from discomfort as wild green hues explore the scene before her. She saw two people she reconized, the silent and sturdy Spawne, though she had no idea what his name was for they'd only met once before and he had a snarling quick silver cat perched upon his shoulder. The other was Tenebrae, once again the avian did not know her name, though it was owed to her. She waited for a bit, observing what was going on, not wishing to disturb anyone that was busy.
Caedan 's lips split into a pale grin, the nails trickling into her hand with a pleasant chime coupled with a hint of discord. The teen absently fiddles with the nails, turning them over and over in her palm with a subdued sense of glee, even though her focus remains with the fight. However, a transient flicker of cobalt sideways could indicate another query formed, and subtly launched at her bar-top companion.
Tenebrae heard, in her mind, "For the scrawny one or for the feathered one?"
Spawne 's infernal optics flared wildly as the vagrant thrust his fingertips within their blazing reach. Like a log hurled into a furnace, so too had Wile fuelled their burn with his wayward digits. The object foreign to his eye sockets, deftly removed, raked across his rugged features, vicious tips shredding the fabric which shrouded his visage. Again his flesh was hewn, split asunder by what could only be the keenest of fingernails. A sadistic snarl rose from Spawne’s throat, caught again as his jaw lashed forward to catch Wiles hand in his yellow, jagged teeth. Moribund blood streamed from his face, pooling in the crevice between his teeth and lower lip, and spilling across Wiles face, still pressed against his broad chest, to blend with his own claret.
Tenebrae looked aside to Caedan again, and only smiled, before she nodded toward Tirla.
Caedan said to Tenebrae, "Good sport tonight."
Tenebrae said to Caedan, "Steadman will be busy."
Caedan glances sidelong at Tirla, letting a disconcerting stare wash over her before returning her attention to the fight. The coffin nails in hand are jingled absently, constantly.
Tirla cants her head as the woman rakes her form with her gaze, brown curls with honeyed highlights, tanned skin, ebon gray feathers, a blow gun and darts surrounding her hips and a broadsword between her feathered appendages. Slowly she makes her way around the fight, moving to the bar, taking a stool a few feet away from Caedan and Tenebrae, giving each of them a look before turning her eyes to the fight.
Wile shattered the mask of Fates with a sudden, haunting burst of laughter. And yet, as his lips split and his body convulsed with it, the sound came not from his lips. It was a silent, terrible thing until at last it was given life. Maniacal and sharp, it was born from thin air directly behind Tenebrae’s seated form. In truth, it would almost sound if it came from within her, shrill and mad as it echoed through the room. One could only imagine what illness had perverted the vagrant’s heart, what allowed him to play such awful tricks as his features were sprayed by a fresh geyser of blood from his attacker’s face. His ears were a mangled mess, torn and tattered remnants of themselves. His face was tenderized by the pressure of the man’s hold, swollen and violently blushed as the blood collected close to the skin. The snap of Spawne’s jaws would find only the air in that hand’s wake, too quick its movements and the arc of it to be caught. It was this unnatural dexterity that afforded Wile a last, ominous attack. That toothpick, left protruding from the side of the Death Knight’s neck, was swept from the wound. That tiny hole unplugged, promising a geyser of blood from the body’s greatest artery. There was nothing quite like arterial spray, sometimes eight feet of it in a gush pumped by anatomy’s most powerful muscle. The threat of bleeding out was not quite enough for the heat of this battle. As if doubt remained to the sheer will of the vagrant to go the distance with his foe, he once again snapped his fingers. The toothpick was sent hurtling, lance-like through the air with flawless precision. It would pierce one of the Death Knight’s pale grey eyes were it undefended, and perhaps it would be, putting it out like a flame between two wetted fingers.
Tenebrae heard, in her mind, "Too," the frown is markedly gloomy, " ..easy."
Tenebrae gave Caedan something of a glum look, and nodded again.
Caedan abruptly stands and seems on the verge of catapulting forward.
Tirla watched the brawl with interest, her eyes, and her thoughts only briefly slipping to the bouncer, wondering why he did nothing to stop this. Little did she know that the owner of the pub was only a few feet to her side.
Spawne would deliver but a inadequate trickle from his punctured artery, for the muscle which would have inadvertently emptied the behemoth of a mortals life force had ceased to palpitate some years ago. Without sufficient time to respond, only the slightest of movements would place the blood-soaked shard within the flesh of his left brow, where it lodged itself like a boorish act of body modification. Alas, he grew somnolent; for all his size and seemingly limitless might, stamina was not a trait for him to crow about. The brawl would proceed to the floor should The Catastrophe have his way, albeit he’d plan for it to end there, also, as the entirety of his weight, along with the force applied to Wile’s head, was redirected toward the ground.
Tenebrae slid off her seat, to approach the struggling pair, as her higher perch offered not a good a view now. Two yards distant, she wore a smile near as grim as the brawl itself.
Wile landed with what only could be described as a god-awful, soul-shitting, great fucking crunch of bone and wood. The laugh that was so sharp and maniacal was now naught more than a haunting, pained remnant of its former. He lay, sprawled in his own thick blood as his forehead split and gushed against it. "The Catastrophe" had given himself a twin in names, for Wile's face was a bloodied, shattered remnant of its former. Strangely, as he lay there, finished as it were... he managed to turn his head and allow his pale green eyes to cut through the tavern's now dead-silent confines onto Tenebrae. His lips curled back to reveal his teeth, the creases between them filled with blood from his gums. It was a gruesome grin, and he spoke through it.
Wile said to Tenebrae, "My confession, Darkness, remains."
Caedan slides off her own seat to follow Tenebrae, stalking behind her like a shadow, or a loyal puppy -- only less adorable and a bit more menacing, most of her aggression directed towards one individual, a dark sneer contorting pale lips and hands ever-toying with the set of coffin nails harmonizing in her palm.
Tenebrae said to Wile, "Don't ever laugh with my mouth again. Upstairs." Her eyes turned, with more compassion, to Red. "Leave the madman, pet. He might be useful. Oh..." She nodded toward the sack, various limbs hanging higgle-piglet from its confines. She turned for the stairs, then, a serene pace taken, and glanced over her shoulder to the larger man briefly. "Sell those in rat city. I have a dealer,. We should talk."
Tenebrae said to Caedan, "Got a moment?" This was spoken from the stairs. "Or two?"
Tirla slides from her seat and looks from Tene to the wounded pair and back. She always seemed to be so in charge. She waited for Tene to finish with her directions before finally speaking for the first time since entering the tavern, "Are my skill needed here," her eyes go back to the two brawlers with a little concern.
Tenebrae said to Tirla, "Can you pour an ale?"
Spawne rolled onto his back, barrel-chest heaving, "Son of an ass..." came his speech, lacking the sinister rasp of but an hour ago. Uncouth, vulgar were the words, characteristic of Red, Tenebrae’s on-again, off-again offsider. A massive hand curled around his head, tugging the Deathmask of the Catastrophe away and balling it into his palm. The shadows adorning the remainder of his massive frame slunk away from the light, leaving the crimson behemoth mostly naked, "Son of a goddam ass... Girlie, get my smokes, huh?"
Tenebrae said to Tirla, "And get my friend there a cigar."
Tirla raises an eyebrow in confusion as she looks to the woman, her words come out a little strangled as she knew not what to make of this, "I can?!"
Tenebrae was leaning on the banister, grinning at Spawne.
Caedan said to Tenebrae, "Lots of moments." Her attention wavers between the vampire and Red, torn between a desire to patch the giant up with whatever she's got on her -- namely cutlery, lint, and flowers -- or go to her leader. "Never a repeated moment," she's walking towards the stairwell now, one eye kept on Spawne. "Equation to prove a moment can't be repeated twice in eternity, too many variables, but I've run out of fennel to prove it."
Spawne said to Tirla, "Big one."
Tenebrae said to Tirla, "He's boasting."
Caedan said, "Son of a goddamn ass ...." That was a new one, mimicked under her breath and perfected in inflection. "Ruttin' mouth."
Tenebrae shifted aside to allow the psychic's ascent.
Tirla sighs and turns about, looking to the bar and without a moments more hesitation she slid behind it, pulling out a glass and finding the ale and pouring it in the glass. Then she rooted about some more and found a box of cigars. Grabbing both she slid over to Spawne and held out the cigar, once it slipped from her hand a flame would light upon her palm and be held up for him to light his cigar with, the glass of ale was held up in question.’
Spawne spat into the air, the projectile of escaped blood and saliva arced high, and landed just shy of his head. Quite an ascent it was for Kaine to lift himself from the ground to a standing position.
Wile pressed himself from the floor, accompanied by slick saliva-like strings of blood that clung to his face and the floor. A solitary time he purses his lips, spitting a great bout of blood onto the floor before he is claiming his feet. The stagger in his movements is a sharp difference to the deftness of his strides prior, but he is in no healthy condition. Both ears are tattered remnants of their former, and his once handsome face is now a shattered, swollen mask. He shows no sign of pain or discomfort, and it is not a ruffian's tolerance but something darker that keeps him through it. He moves after Tenebrae, right hand twisting a toothpick steadily through his knuckles.
Caedan ascends, backward and counting each step, accompanied by a breathy oath.
On behalf of the Eldritch Cabal, I'd like to say thank you to Wile, without whose sheer brilliance at storytelling, writing and thinking nine moves ahead of us all, this rp would not exist.
Thanks for taking the time, and putting in the effort to create this for us. We hope it was as much fun for you, too. Wile was a marvellous and terrible creation, and gave Cabal a run for thier money, as well as a much-needed worthy opponent. Not only that, but you helped enormously in furthering the clan rp, as well as the personal storylines of the players.
Well done, old bean, and here's hoping for more rp to come.
Best wishes,
Tenebrae & The Eldritch Cabal
The Trick
“The guilty one is not he who commits the sin, but the one who causes the darkness.”
- Victor Hugo
Wile sheds the doors with a brush of a long-fingered hand. His movements carried with a precision of motive, slicing knife-sharp through the bustling crowd. A barmaid nearly intersects him, tray in hand and her skirts up against the scissoring of her long legs, but he moves past with a deft and natural grace. Gone is the stiff-legged stumble, his battered sandals drum a quick cadence against the weathered floor. He affords no jovial greetings, only a rapier of a smile. His lips are thin and pulled back gruesomely to reveal perfectly straight teeth, a toothpick nestled passively in them. He's found his way to Tenebrae's fore, regarding her with a glint fashioned in the lantern green of his eyes. "Hail." It's a taunt more than a greeting.
Tenebrae was not long back from her seaside sojourn, and subsequently less pale than a vampire should be; indeed, she could have passed for almost living, were it not for the white flash of lengthened canines she didn't bother to hide when a vaguely familiar customer cut his way through the crowd in something of a beeline, smile like a jackal’s on his face. Or so it seemed; perhaps the nonchalant toothpick lent him that air. Eyebrows lifted, she held that smile, a good tavern keeper always, while her hands bustled to pour the ale for a half-orcish body-part merchant slouching one seat down. Sliding the drink, she winked at the greenskin by way of telling him business was concluded by now, and returned her attention to the human stranger. "Ello, pet. Get you somethin'?" Her nape prickled, and she forced her eyes not to narrow while she thought of where she'd seen him before.
"I've a thin wallet, Darkness." Came the answer, his articulation flawless and the tone an almost playful baritone. There was a game afoot. The great counter before him was claimed with a bent forearm, his hand smoothing polished stone until it settled. The opposite plucked the toothpick from his lips and set it to tumble over his knuckles, fore and back, deft fingers spinning the splinter at a malevolent cadence. "Too many days are wasted by the worried wanting and wishing. I didn't know the damned could garnish some sun."
Tenebrae eyed the man with little subtlety; and her blatant once-over was followed by a question as blunt, "I know you. How so?" She'd had a busy time of it, and faces passed like wasps, all sheer number and blur, and much of a much after a while. She added, before he had time to reply, "And if your wallet's empty, there's a mop over there won't move itself. Was just about to pin this up, matter of fact." She slid the parchment square across dark stone and timber inlay, where he might see the copperplate script advertising the position. "Earn your drinks, or take the gold, either way."
Spawne pushed the swinging doors which laid unimposingly between he and his chosen shelter. Morbid touch laid upon the access, its hinges squealed as though they'd not been used in decades. Darkened form now indoors, the shadows licked at his being, caressing his broad chest and shoulders like a devoted lover.
Leoxander noticed when Red passed him by. He stood there calmly until Spawne was out of sight, and then at a stealthy distance, he followed. The door hadn't entirely closed when fingers exposed from a black glove caught the edge of it, and he stepped inside without making a sound. His appearance was far more presentable in black leather armor that gave him the nameless assassin appeal, but almost made him hard to see when he stuck to the shadows. The solemn expression was not masked with anything more than the short facial hair he needed to shave.
Just where the draconian had come from was anyone's guess. How a 6'7 winged woman with horns, scales, and a tail was, too. Add to the fact that she's naked but for a belt and two sheathed swords, and...well...it would seem the laws of nature have been severely bent. But regardless of the hows and whys, there she is, standing by the hearth, her tall body a shadow against the flame-lit backdrop as she poises herself with arms crossed to watch the growing crowd.
Wile made no bother of reading, his interest hardly peaked. He'd the look of a miscreant, that was certain. It was all faded leather and bare skin, his body a rangy course of sinuous muscles that lacked definition and banner. There was the small matter of his sleeve, an archaic accessory that had upon it but a single diminutive rune scribed and singed to stand dark against the fading leather's bleached surface. But despite the parchment and the woman's words, he afforded a flat response. "I've no hands for a swab, cob, bob, rob, sob."
Leoxander stops, just a few steps in. Tenebrae might not much appreciate how the lycan pauses and locks his feral eyes on the statuesque horned woman along side the goblin faced hearth. The fire catches his eyes, and like an animal caught in lamplight they gleam amber and green like rusted coins. Motionless for a few seconds, his sun-spotted nose twitches once before he takes a few more steps forward to continue toward the bar, dirt stained fingers digging into the back of his head for a good scratch.
Tenebrae gave the echolalic a sere look, though his odd speech returning so also told her who he was; or. at least, where she'd seen him. "You're from the island..." But before there could be any addendum, the door swung to, first darkened by a hefty shadow soon greeted with a shrill little cry of delight, "RED!" No apologies given, she planted her palms to the bar and vaulted so to take seat there momentarily, before her legs were swung over it and boots without deadly heels struck the floor with 'thunk'. She'd be halfway across the room, when the second entry had her pause, and grin widely, and then she was a black-clad bullet, running for the massive man. The draconian might be given a curious look, but only after she'd thrown her arms around the waist of the big, crimson-skinned man. "Gods, it's been an age. You lug."
Leoxander would regard Wile with a sidelong look as tattooed arms caught his lean against the bar.
Spawne 's infernal optics flared, prompted by whisperings from the darkness. Hessian sack gripped tightly in his left hand, it left in its wake a trail of smeared blood, which would find itself promptly mopped up by the publican, as he proceeded toward the bar.
Tenebrae was clearly in tow. "Cripes, slow down."
Wile idly closed his fingers about the toothpick as it snapped about his knuckles, briefly concealing it in his palm. Tenebrae's movements were sharp and swift, sweeping her up and past him in a blur of ebon. Eerily, the smile on his features clung suspended to his smooth, angular features. He hardly blinked. Instead, he uncurled his long fingers. The toothpick gone.
Leoxander drummed his fingers only once atop the counter, lazily shifting his gaze back toward Spawne and his mate. He still didn't speak, greet anyone, or draw attention to himself but took that time to observe the behavior and interaction in the tavern, posture slumped forward with the collar of his leather jacket crowded against the back of his neck.
Spawne peered downward at the sin-eater around his midsection. Like an anchor, she'd gradually ceased his progress toward the counter. Digits danced beneath her chin, raising her gaze to meet his own as he replied in duotone, characteristic baritone underlaid with a chilling rasp, "I'd began to think you'd left..."
Leoxander turned his attention behind the bar, mismatched eyes searching for any bottle in easy grasp.
Wile said to Leoxander, "Why so glum, chum?" His voice had taken on a perpetual rhythm, snakelike and mosquito quick as he continued to smile at the empty place where Tenebrae had been. Those long fingers curled a fist once more, the impassive manner troubled only by soft, biting undertones. "Color me curious."
Tenebrae made a soft sound, "Pffft. It was you that was gone from me, from us, and all the while not a word to tell me you weren't dead." Her eyes couldn't help shifting Leo's way, as she spoke it, though soon her face was tilted back up to meet the eyes of her clansmate. "Good to have you back..." Wile was grinned at, the necromancer's mood obviously a light one. "Drinks on the house, for the reunion. Steady, pour us a few? Just keep 'em coming." A poke to the big man's midsection with a forefinger, and she slipped aside to mutter to the Cap'n, "You've met Red?" Steadman was hurried along by another look, and then her glance went upward again, a nod given the substantially taller female. "Help yourself, miss." Wile's chatter to the lycan elicited a soft wince, but she was in too bubbly - yes, bubbly-- a mood to let it stop her reaching for a drink.
Krys continues her silent vigil, of sorts, though now she does move forward from the hearth. In an unusual display of social aptitude - or perhaps just a great thirst - she comes to stand at the bar, her eyes browsing over the selection of alcohols. And ah, but they have ale! It's been a while since she's had a good ale; she can't help but wonder how this pub's selection is. With a few quick snaps of her fingers to garner Steadmen's attention, she silently jerks her head towards the bottle of the ale, and sets the required coinage - just don't ask where she keeps it, eh? - on the counter. Soon enough, she's got her chosen poison, and she tilts back her glass to take her first swig as she again observes those around her. Silently, of course. If you don't count the contented sigh that passes her lips, anyways. Mmm, the ale isn't that bad, apparently.
Leoxander gave Steadmen a look that said 'Yes, even me One-eye', a shadow of a grin touching his whiskered features. Rocking his shoulders back to stand more upright, he placed his black gloved hands and bared fingerprints on the counter in a waiting position and turned his head to look at Wile again when he spoke. "What gave you the impression I’m glum?" His own voice was - perpetually speaking - always a vocal growl no matter his mood. There were amused growls, devilish growls, and even the pissed off tone. This one wasn't entirely clear, maybe an ironic mix between bored and amused. "We've met..." These words came a little darker as Spawne passed, and Leo's eyes traveled over the red skinned clansmate.
Spawne snatched at memories which may well not belong to him as smouldering eyes assessed the rogue, thoughts talking nineteen to the dozen, ‘A buccaneer, of sorts… Hides in my shadows as if I don’t know he’s there. A canine… gone?’ There was no need to repeat what was already confirmed, The Catastrophe offered a nod of his head in its place.
Wile opened his fingers, the long digits uncurling with absolute certainty. The toothpick lay in his palm, and after a moment his thumb ticked its end until it was up and rolling along his knuckles once more. "Impressions are a tedious thing, friend. We are what we pretend." His lips curled a crocodile's smile, gem-green eyes glinting. "Have you a talent for impressions? I do."
Tenebrae was still eyeing the exchange between her mate and the "trick" - or so he'd introduced himself, back on the beach - whose suddenly less-impeded speech did not go unnoticed. Interesting fellow.. She was a bit loath to show that outward affection she might've had only clan been present, and so made do with a slide of her fingers across fresh leathers, a soft word, "Cap'n..." It'd say the dozen things she meant, before she looked again to Spawne. "So.. what's in the sack?"
Spawne said, "Legs, arms..."
Tenebrae blinked softly. "Any.. reason, for that?'
Wile quipped sidelong to Spawne, the mountainous figure's words provocation enough. "Parts of a chair."
Spawne said to Tenebrae, "I wanted them."
Tene made that face -- you know the one -- anticipatory, the kind you put on when someone's going the right way for a smacking. Looking at Wile, while she made it.
Leoxander looked from Wile's hand, to his face, to the drink placed before him. It wouldn't take him long to finish it. Understanding the need for strict behaviour in the eyes of so many, he only lingered like a moody drunk who happened to be one of the regulars, tossing that shot of dark liquor to the back of his throat before the tumbler was turned upside down, a terrible habit meant to leave a ring of liquid in his spot, third seat from the end. Other taverns the rogue had visited might have similar ungrateful marks claiming his territory...
Wile flexed the toothpick between bridged digits, forcing the splinter to bow before it finally cracked asunder. The halves were then set to twist in tandem, deft fingers rolling them fore and back. They whirled hypnotically close to one another, passing end over end at a dangerous quickness. They never touched or collided, and his fingers never faltered. To Tenebrae, he afforded only that unblinking, unnervingly broad smile.
Terra fidgeted, tugged, and appeared all-around restless as she made her way through the tavern's door behind the most recently exited patron. Those gathered were given a slight study, though none seemed to be of interest for the vampiress simply shrugged and settled at the bar, all cozy-like.,
Tenebrae was.. a little unnerved. Mainly by the prospect of having to mop up blood, and her back only now. To have one fight-free hour in her pub... The woman huffed a little breath, an said to Red, "What for?"
Terra was the next to illicit that expression.
Spawne reached into the sack, tremendous grip curled around a distended mandible, cleaved at the wrist. An underarm toss would prompt its momentum toward Wile, "Have a seat, then..."
Wile said, "The Strong and Sullen type. A popular choice, friend." This to Leoxander, his attention finally straying toward him. "But your lady friend has you beat by the ears, I'm afraid. 'Soul-Eater' is just a fit more mysterious. Buck up, though, I think we'll get along famously. And I'm a popular friend, or so I've been told."
Tenebrae coughed softly. "Sin." Her lips were string. "Sin… eater."
Terra thought it better not to speak to Tenebrae, and so she didn't. Instead, she'd keep to herself, knees to chin and eyes to the door.
Krys regards Spawne upon his proclamation of what is in his sack, a disgusted look plastering itself on her face. Arms? Legs? Just what sort of being collected those? And why would they haul them around? The paladin never would understand that. But still, it provokes her mind enough that she finally speaks, her voice surprisingly quiet...though, likely simply from her not finding a need to be louder. "You may wish to extend your collection to some sanity, hm? Or perhaps seek mental help? I hear beheadals are good for that." Of course, her being a paladin in the presence of such a person, she can't help but mutter to herself, "Brutish orc-spawn..."
Spawne said to Tenebrae, "The old ones were beginning to smell...' He spoke as though his reasoning was flawless. And, to the morally inept, it may very well be. "The dwarf didn't want me keeping them in his cellar any longer."
Terra would, after finally drawing her eyes from the door to the arm-tossing Spawne, smile at the male.
Wile leaned back, allowing the limb to smack wetly against the counter before him. Blood misted from the impact, coloring sun-bronzed skin with crimson droplets. That smile remained, and he gave a strange, solitary hoot of amusement.
Tenebrae's bubbles were rapidly popping, one by one. She took Terra's silence with a loft of brow, another clearing of her throat. "What, no greeting? Lost your manners overboard, Terra?"
Wile said to Tenebrae, "I spoke correctly, Darkness." That smile was suddenly dagger-sharp. Long-fingers twisted the splintered toothpick's halves into his palm and closed about them. "Pride's a fair mask."
Leoxander took a step back from the empty glass left on the counter. "She's somethin' else, alright..." This muttered as he made his way through the crowd, scowling at anyone who should get too near, even an accidental step. The lycan headed back to the place they preferred him not to be, and maintained that position as the monster lurking in the cellar, drinking to his heart's content.
Terra blinked... multiple times, but the smile offered towards Spawne was the same given to Tenebrae. "Hey, you. Glad to see nothing ate you." And, despite all that had occurred, she was genuinely pleased to see this.
Tenebrae wrinkled her nose at Spawne, unable to help agreeing with Mesthak, on that one point. "You can put 'em in ours.. and what are you going to do with 'em?" Her brow puckered, at the apparent nickname bestowed on her by the "trick", though her eyes followed her mate down the stairs. "So's madness."
Wile opened his fingers, and his palm was empty. The toothpick's halves once again vanished. His empty hands lifted to heft the severed limb before him, pale eyes cutting over it. "Contrary to contrary opinion, yes." The lantern green eyes twitched onto Tenebrae's features, seeking to find intimate claim upon her own. "I've to confess a matter to you, Darkness, but I'm an honest liar."
Spawne tossed the sack into a corner, using his now free left hand to scratch at his right wrist. long streaks of crimson flesh would be exposed as massive digits dragged over the ebon film enveloping his hulking form, only to drown in the darkness once again as it reclaimed its prominence. Shoulders lofted in response to Tenebrae’s question, "They are put to as much use in that sack as they were on the indolent wastes of flesh from which they were excised. Slothful wretches..."
Tenebrae dragged her gaze from that open stairwell, offering Terra a wan uptilt of lips. "Likewise, I'm sure." And her glance to Wile was pointed, the man's agenda piquing her curiosity, and irritating her a smidgeon more, besides. "Oh really, now." Finally, she took a sip of that rum. "Do tell."
Wile turned a moment, thrusting the arm toward Spawne's hulking frame. The words were afforded with absolute clarity, the smile that would otherwise serve as jovial haunted by its own incessant presence. "You've a strong handshake."
Spawne said to Wile, "Yours is one I'd like to take with me."
Tenebrae interrupted, wanting to hear Wile's reply before Red made good on that wish. She said, to the big man, "Fancy making a buck out of 'em?"
Wile deliberately turned toward Tenebrae then, his hand releasing the arm and allowing it to thud heavily against the Corpse's weathered floor. It was an instant, the smile gone. His empty hands closed two fists before him, presented to Tenebrae as his eyes found her own once more. "Fate will play its part, and I'll not deny her. Many a foolish man has tried to escape a woman's will. But you will have your way, won't you? A fickle thing, win or lose, it manifests itself as consequence. The deception is a harsh one and I admire it. My impression is this: choose a hand and allow fate her fortune, at least then the rules are clear."
Terra would let Tenebrae carry on her multiple conversations without further interruptions, instead murmuring a quiet, "we'll talk soon." Still unable to be comfortable in those leggings and that cursed shirt, she'd stare towards the door and wait.
Spawne wasn't one to waste his time grappling with a silver tongue. A modest tug releases his cleaver from its sheathe, the broad face of the blade slapped against Wiles side, where blood which had retained its viscosity would be transferred to the humans bare skin, "Which is the hand you choose, hm?"
Tenebrae grunted something at Terra, unable to spare words while her mind, quick as it was, attempted to decipher the man's odd speech. Fate? And he called her "Darkness" too. Something twigged, a prickle of a twitch in her mind, and his furled hands were stared at while that snippet clocked its wheels around, and she soothed herself a moment longer, then replied, "Fate is a bitch. It's irony you have to watch for." Then peridot met his lampish green, and she'd stare, as though waiting a response triggered by her reply. Subtly, her hand smoothed over her bodice, as women are wont to do when uncomfortable. The dagger lying tucked away in the band of her pants was a comforting weight. Then Red drew his weapon, and it was a moot point anyway. She'd be content to watch.
Shishi gently nudges the doors open as he ushers the birthday boy and girl into the tavern, he might cringe a bit to see the place so 'crowded', but the troupe is coaxed inside none the less. Arius rides into the establishment atop his large Black Wolf, hugging a brand new, thin bladed sword to his chest. The boy's head is covered by the hat that usually rests atop his father's head. Leralynn is behind her brother and is pulling the Rotten Undead Mage in through the door by his skinless, petrified hand. The girl is wearing her father's Water Scarf which seems to have frozen over on it's surface, it is sure to thaw out soon in the warmth of the tavern however. Fixed atop the girls head is a lovely platinum crown that she seems to be constantly fussing over, perhaps it is a size too big for the six-year-old. In her left hand is a sphere of pristine, clear water, also slightly frozen, that houses a dead goatfish which she will continue to carry until the deceased fish is reburied...
Wile allowed his eyes to linger long on Tenebrae's own, the piercing glow of those catlike orbs turned blade-sharp under flicker of the hanging candleabra. She afforded no answer, and a full moment passed before he pivoted upon a sandal clad foot toward the hulking Draconian. The miscreant is a baleful creature, long and angled features contorted in that mocking smile. Leering at Spawne, those perfectly articulated words afforded him a menacing challenge. "Ah, but let us see if she's fortune's fool or otherwise. Choose, friend. You've the cleaver."
Tenebrae was quick to shoot a warning glance to Shishi, paling sightly at the sight of the children. A tilt of head toward Spawne and his cleaver might explain the look.
Terra was already two steps ahead of Tenebrae and the look of caution she tossed towards Shishi. "Orange and Yellow! Just the people I've been meaning to see." With a wink to Shishi, she'd gesture for them to follow her out the door. "I've got presents for the birthday folk. Any clue who they are?" The question was posed as she held the door open, waiting.
Shishi was right to cringe at the crowd as he entered, it seemed. The vampire had halted his brood's advance into the tavern at a few feet past the threshold as his oceanic eyes calmly flitted over Tenebrae's warning look and the cleaver held by Spawne. Terra's greeting to his children takes their always wandering eyes off whatever business the others in the tavern are conducting and is appreciated by the vampiric father. The little ones bounce excitedly, such an action by Arius causing the Wolf he's riding's knees to buckle slightly. Leralynn squeaks happily, "Presents!?" while Arius confirms some suspicions, "That's us! It's our birthday!" Blue can't help but crack a smile at Terra's wink and his children's responses and he spins around to carefully usher his troupe out through the door Terra hold open for them.
Spawne , once a man of comparative restraint, now approached situations not unlike these without cessation. Narrow steel edge rolled against Wiles side as Spawne’s wrist twisted to point the ghastly blade toward the ceiling, the sharpened surface flashed briefly in the nearby firelight. The slap of metal against bare skin was the inauguration of an upward swing, aimed to strike at the pit of Wiles arm. A crude cut, perhaps, and the result would leave him with more limb than would be practical, but such issues can be remedied at a later date.
Tenebrae hoisted herself back onto the bar, a better view afforded there of the brawl, and lifted a hand to stay the surge of Urghdak and his men, who glowered at her white palm, but obeyed -- however grudgingly. There'd be a few extra coins in the security chief's pay, for that assurance of his loyalty to the necromancer.
Wile had anticipated the choice of his left, perhaps his less dominant hand limb if such could be said. The steel was warmer than most, slick and hot with quickly drying vitae. It was this that afforded the vagrant some perverse comfort, some unshakable confidence as the brand rested against his bare side and stained it with that lingering gore. And as it twisted, goaded so by the Death Knight’s iron-clad hands… so did Wile. The step was deft and sure, planted on the opposite side of the limb he had abandoned on the floor between the pair, and thrusting him to the far larger figure’s shoulder. The quickness was unnatural, some terrible celerity that afforded him to keep his left arm, but not without cost. The blade bit into the meat of his forearm, carving deep amidst a gout of the vagrant’s blood. Airborne, a chunk of flesh was rent from him, cleaved free by the Knight’s meaty blade. Wile’s response was sharp, silent, and sure. The free hand opened, palm revealing the slender sliver of hardwood. His toothpick was deftly in his fingers, a flip of thumb leveling it surely. As he twisted past the Draconian, the vagrant’s slight of hand was put to new use. Perhaps too small to be considered a threat, or seen at all, the toothpick lead a thrust of his quick hand to the base of his attacker’s throat. There, where soft flesh lingers under the hollow of the jaw, it was meant to be forced home amidst soft tissue and the thick carotid artery beyond.
Spawne had caught and cast away the hunk of meat in the same motion of his left hand; the flesh smacking against the coarse weave of his sack of limbs, where gravity would eventually peel it away and decline to the hardwood at its base. Obsidian ooze lurched away where it once clung to his form, suggestive that it, too would share the sensation presented by the tiny toothpick puncturing his flesh. And puncture, it did, to the surprise of its victim the shard passed flush through his leathery hide, spilling stagnant blood to mix with the darkened haze which shared the gargantuan vessel. Spawne’s sinister garb clambered over his neck and shoulder, again concealing his crimson flesh beneath the viscous shadow. A smack of his lips and a disgruntled snort preceded his retaliation, as his colossal mandible curled around Wiles skull. Cranium would then be guided toward Spawne’s chest, to apply pressure limited not by will, but his own substantial strength.
Tenebrae had yet cause to wince again, while sundry meat was flensed from this body, and blood spattered from that. The necromancer sat cross-legged on the bar, while Steadman's laconic eye roved over the rings Leo had caused, the moisture left to stain another circle on expensive wood. Nor would he run for the mop-- little point til after the fight was done. Shrugging, the one-eyed former keep swiped a cloth around the space where Tene's behind was not, this his silent protest at her choice of seating. The vampiress looked on, oblivious to Steadman, peridot eyes fixed and intent on the fight at hand.
Wile had lost that smile, that crocodilian grin that defied logic or reason as to its nature or necessity. It had served as some kind of sick mask, concealing so much of what the vagrant had brought with him into the tavern. What was bared to the occupants now was something grim and terrible, an inverse of the fates. A deep, mournful, and mad-looking frown that’s animation upon his features was exaggerated and grotesquely alike to the theaters symbolic and unfortunate second-seal. The pressure of the goliath’s arm, vice-like in its insistence against his temples, forced his green eyes to redden as vessels burst beside the emerald iris. And still, that horrible and unexpressive frown remained. His nose burst a jet of blood. The Death Knight’s forearm crushing it until it nearly broke, and still no movement. A moment, then longer, as he remained hunched in the Death Knight’s hold. Apprehension in those nearby, perhaps anticipation, seemed to wind and wind like a spring until the moment came to a sharp and sudden conclusion. With a whip-snap quickness his entire body inverted within the grasp, his ears popping as the cartilage ruptured against the pressure and friction of the larger figure’s hold. Wile was now facing to the sealing within the man’s hold, and the pain of his movement could only be accounted as astonishing… and his mask remained. “An eye for an eye.” The words were a rasp, denied their precise enunciation by the Knight’s ever-tightening grip. Then, with astonishing quickness, he lashed that deft hand upward. It sprung toward Spawne’s eyes, only to slash down, seeking to hook his fingers in the leather of his cheek and rip it savagely down and to the side. His intentions were to simply tear the skin from the man’s face, to reveal his teeth and create a gaping wound. And if successful, his hand would flick that flesh toward the sack of limbs in a terrible mock of the Draconian’s own gesture.
Caedan whispered to Tenebrae, "Should I go to him?" A steely blue gaze is locked on Spawne and seems barely cognizant of the person in his grasp, except for when he launches his own offensive against the burly, red giant. "I told him I'd protect him from the fishes. From what I saw."
Caedan is watching the fight with greater interest, cupped chin resting in her palm and attention fixed on the ensuing fight, even as Steadman scrubs petulant little circles around her bum.
Tenebrae looked aside, in a subtle way that was only a shift of eyes toward the psychic, but that would in its malevolent glint and the minute shake of head that sent ebon tresses trembling against her shoulders offer a reply in the negative. Her pack, upon the back of the chair she'd vacated was leant to, and item were removed without word and handed to Caedan in a negligent manner, as one might idly hand a treat to child.
Tirla stepped into the tavern and slipped to the side as the door as the door closed. She leaned against the wall, one knee cocked and her foot flat against the stone. Her back is slightly arched to keep her tucked wings from discomfort as wild green hues explore the scene before her. She saw two people she reconized, the silent and sturdy Spawne, though she had no idea what his name was for they'd only met once before and he had a snarling quick silver cat perched upon his shoulder. The other was Tenebrae, once again the avian did not know her name, though it was owed to her. She waited for a bit, observing what was going on, not wishing to disturb anyone that was busy.
Caedan 's lips split into a pale grin, the nails trickling into her hand with a pleasant chime coupled with a hint of discord. The teen absently fiddles with the nails, turning them over and over in her palm with a subdued sense of glee, even though her focus remains with the fight. However, a transient flicker of cobalt sideways could indicate another query formed, and subtly launched at her bar-top companion.
Tenebrae heard, in her mind, "For the scrawny one or for the feathered one?"
Spawne 's infernal optics flared wildly as the vagrant thrust his fingertips within their blazing reach. Like a log hurled into a furnace, so too had Wile fuelled their burn with his wayward digits. The object foreign to his eye sockets, deftly removed, raked across his rugged features, vicious tips shredding the fabric which shrouded his visage. Again his flesh was hewn, split asunder by what could only be the keenest of fingernails. A sadistic snarl rose from Spawne’s throat, caught again as his jaw lashed forward to catch Wiles hand in his yellow, jagged teeth. Moribund blood streamed from his face, pooling in the crevice between his teeth and lower lip, and spilling across Wiles face, still pressed against his broad chest, to blend with his own claret.
Tenebrae looked aside to Caedan again, and only smiled, before she nodded toward Tirla.
Caedan said to Tenebrae, "Good sport tonight."
Tenebrae said to Caedan, "Steadman will be busy."
Caedan glances sidelong at Tirla, letting a disconcerting stare wash over her before returning her attention to the fight. The coffin nails in hand are jingled absently, constantly.
Tirla cants her head as the woman rakes her form with her gaze, brown curls with honeyed highlights, tanned skin, ebon gray feathers, a blow gun and darts surrounding her hips and a broadsword between her feathered appendages. Slowly she makes her way around the fight, moving to the bar, taking a stool a few feet away from Caedan and Tenebrae, giving each of them a look before turning her eyes to the fight.
Wile shattered the mask of Fates with a sudden, haunting burst of laughter. And yet, as his lips split and his body convulsed with it, the sound came not from his lips. It was a silent, terrible thing until at last it was given life. Maniacal and sharp, it was born from thin air directly behind Tenebrae’s seated form. In truth, it would almost sound if it came from within her, shrill and mad as it echoed through the room. One could only imagine what illness had perverted the vagrant’s heart, what allowed him to play such awful tricks as his features were sprayed by a fresh geyser of blood from his attacker’s face. His ears were a mangled mess, torn and tattered remnants of themselves. His face was tenderized by the pressure of the man’s hold, swollen and violently blushed as the blood collected close to the skin. The snap of Spawne’s jaws would find only the air in that hand’s wake, too quick its movements and the arc of it to be caught. It was this unnatural dexterity that afforded Wile a last, ominous attack. That toothpick, left protruding from the side of the Death Knight’s neck, was swept from the wound. That tiny hole unplugged, promising a geyser of blood from the body’s greatest artery. There was nothing quite like arterial spray, sometimes eight feet of it in a gush pumped by anatomy’s most powerful muscle. The threat of bleeding out was not quite enough for the heat of this battle. As if doubt remained to the sheer will of the vagrant to go the distance with his foe, he once again snapped his fingers. The toothpick was sent hurtling, lance-like through the air with flawless precision. It would pierce one of the Death Knight’s pale grey eyes were it undefended, and perhaps it would be, putting it out like a flame between two wetted fingers.
Tenebrae heard, in her mind, "Too," the frown is markedly gloomy, " ..easy."
Tenebrae gave Caedan something of a glum look, and nodded again.
Caedan abruptly stands and seems on the verge of catapulting forward.
Tirla watched the brawl with interest, her eyes, and her thoughts only briefly slipping to the bouncer, wondering why he did nothing to stop this. Little did she know that the owner of the pub was only a few feet to her side.
Spawne would deliver but a inadequate trickle from his punctured artery, for the muscle which would have inadvertently emptied the behemoth of a mortals life force had ceased to palpitate some years ago. Without sufficient time to respond, only the slightest of movements would place the blood-soaked shard within the flesh of his left brow, where it lodged itself like a boorish act of body modification. Alas, he grew somnolent; for all his size and seemingly limitless might, stamina was not a trait for him to crow about. The brawl would proceed to the floor should The Catastrophe have his way, albeit he’d plan for it to end there, also, as the entirety of his weight, along with the force applied to Wile’s head, was redirected toward the ground.
Tenebrae slid off her seat, to approach the struggling pair, as her higher perch offered not a good a view now. Two yards distant, she wore a smile near as grim as the brawl itself.
Wile landed with what only could be described as a god-awful, soul-shitting, great fucking crunch of bone and wood. The laugh that was so sharp and maniacal was now naught more than a haunting, pained remnant of its former. He lay, sprawled in his own thick blood as his forehead split and gushed against it. "The Catastrophe" had given himself a twin in names, for Wile's face was a bloodied, shattered remnant of its former. Strangely, as he lay there, finished as it were... he managed to turn his head and allow his pale green eyes to cut through the tavern's now dead-silent confines onto Tenebrae. His lips curled back to reveal his teeth, the creases between them filled with blood from his gums. It was a gruesome grin, and he spoke through it.
Wile said to Tenebrae, "My confession, Darkness, remains."
Caedan slides off her own seat to follow Tenebrae, stalking behind her like a shadow, or a loyal puppy -- only less adorable and a bit more menacing, most of her aggression directed towards one individual, a dark sneer contorting pale lips and hands ever-toying with the set of coffin nails harmonizing in her palm.
Tenebrae said to Wile, "Don't ever laugh with my mouth again. Upstairs." Her eyes turned, with more compassion, to Red. "Leave the madman, pet. He might be useful. Oh..." She nodded toward the sack, various limbs hanging higgle-piglet from its confines. She turned for the stairs, then, a serene pace taken, and glanced over her shoulder to the larger man briefly. "Sell those in rat city. I have a dealer,. We should talk."
Tenebrae said to Caedan, "Got a moment?" This was spoken from the stairs. "Or two?"
Tirla slides from her seat and looks from Tene to the wounded pair and back. She always seemed to be so in charge. She waited for Tene to finish with her directions before finally speaking for the first time since entering the tavern, "Are my skill needed here," her eyes go back to the two brawlers with a little concern.
Tenebrae said to Tirla, "Can you pour an ale?"
Spawne rolled onto his back, barrel-chest heaving, "Son of an ass..." came his speech, lacking the sinister rasp of but an hour ago. Uncouth, vulgar were the words, characteristic of Red, Tenebrae’s on-again, off-again offsider. A massive hand curled around his head, tugging the Deathmask of the Catastrophe away and balling it into his palm. The shadows adorning the remainder of his massive frame slunk away from the light, leaving the crimson behemoth mostly naked, "Son of a goddam ass... Girlie, get my smokes, huh?"
Tenebrae said to Tirla, "And get my friend there a cigar."
Tirla raises an eyebrow in confusion as she looks to the woman, her words come out a little strangled as she knew not what to make of this, "I can?!"
Tenebrae was leaning on the banister, grinning at Spawne.
Caedan said to Tenebrae, "Lots of moments." Her attention wavers between the vampire and Red, torn between a desire to patch the giant up with whatever she's got on her -- namely cutlery, lint, and flowers -- or go to her leader. "Never a repeated moment," she's walking towards the stairwell now, one eye kept on Spawne. "Equation to prove a moment can't be repeated twice in eternity, too many variables, but I've run out of fennel to prove it."
Spawne said to Tirla, "Big one."
Tenebrae said to Tirla, "He's boasting."
Caedan said, "Son of a goddamn ass ...." That was a new one, mimicked under her breath and perfected in inflection. "Ruttin' mouth."
Tenebrae shifted aside to allow the psychic's ascent.
Tirla sighs and turns about, looking to the bar and without a moments more hesitation she slid behind it, pulling out a glass and finding the ale and pouring it in the glass. Then she rooted about some more and found a box of cigars. Grabbing both she slid over to Spawne and held out the cigar, once it slipped from her hand a flame would light upon her palm and be held up for him to light his cigar with, the glass of ale was held up in question.’
Spawne spat into the air, the projectile of escaped blood and saliva arced high, and landed just shy of his head. Quite an ascent it was for Kaine to lift himself from the ground to a standing position.
Wile pressed himself from the floor, accompanied by slick saliva-like strings of blood that clung to his face and the floor. A solitary time he purses his lips, spitting a great bout of blood onto the floor before he is claiming his feet. The stagger in his movements is a sharp difference to the deftness of his strides prior, but he is in no healthy condition. Both ears are tattered remnants of their former, and his once handsome face is now a shattered, swollen mask. He shows no sign of pain or discomfort, and it is not a ruffian's tolerance but something darker that keeps him through it. He moves after Tenebrae, right hand twisting a toothpick steadily through his knuckles.
Caedan ascends, backward and counting each step, accompanied by a breathy oath.