Post by Requiem on Jan 6, 2013 10:52:59 GMT -5
The minstrel could no longer stand the brightness of daylight. The harsh radiance of the rising dawn drew an irate noise from the man’s throat in contrast to the melodious tones that usually came from about. The cottage shared with Evangeline felt all too bright despite the barrier of thick fabric that barred the light from biting at his sensitive eyes. Rarely did minor nuisances such as the dawn earn his ire so easily. It drove Girard from the abode with little more than a murmured farewell to the still slumbering Aasimar. With the hood of his white, fur-trimmed cloak pulled over his eyes to keep the sun out of his eyes he set about settling close to a nearby tree.
There he took to a sort of ritualistic dance, the sort that some roguish sorts close to entities such as his own Nightsinger came to call shadow dancing. Girard did not choose to call his method by such dull terms; such would only serve to belittle it as he exercised it to slip between the fabric of the planes. The dance had led the minstrel to a place surrounded by nothing save for a dark rendition of the outside of the cottage he’d left in the prime. Never did the plane of shadows feel this much like home, yet so completely alien to him. A Nightstalker stood where he had expected to see the Nightsinger, the entity’s minion motioning him to follow in its wake. Few options left available against the rising curiosity and those considered demands of the entity that he felt had not wholly delivered her side of the pact between them.
The minstrel continued in the shadow creature’s wake for what seemed like many hours to Girard until finally the dark counterpart of the word around him began to resemble the icy territory he considered uncomfortably akin to his homeland. The all too sparse memories of the place always left him ill at ease even in the matters regarding the Nightsinger. When his guide disappeared he got the message meant to be relied by the simple action. He began the dance anew until once more in the prime, unbeknownst to him outside an insignificant cave in Rumeria. The chill should have been biting in this season, a factor he found respite from thanks to the fur-trimmed mantle he wore about his shoulders.
Darkness within the dank hole in the ground that served as the cave the minstrel hopped down, expecting it to be as in his youth and be met only with solid ground. What the occasionally foolish minstrel found instead was his the jarring collision with what mounted to frozen mud. The flash of pain left Girard still for much more than a handful of moments before he finally picked upself up and struck his skull against the earthen ceiling. Of course the place was smaller than he remembered inevitably coming to force his crawling to reach the end. This destination of his was the altar he’d constructed himself the basis for what became something of a symbol to him. A non-functioning archlute carved from obsidian. It was not a masterfully made thing, in fact it resembled a lute only in the loosest of terms. Still the obsidian lute served its purpose for the shadowy vestige it kept linked to this reality. Drawning one of the jeweled daggers from its sheath trapped to one of his ankles, he began to carve the Nightsinger’s geometric symbol into the dark, sharp, and easily chipped material. The once waning contract flared back to life and the full force of the entity assaulted his mind with the cries of a single pained woman and the chorus of screams of the burned children that together made up this wicked intelligence he bargained with two decades prior.
When the screams died down within his own mind, the minstrel was left breathing deeply as the attempt to compose himself left him open to the dark entity’s scrutiny all over again. He heard the Nightsinger before he even opened his eyes to take in the sight of the vaguely feminine shape that living shadow had taken on, his own perhaps? He could not see it without the benefit of light.. there was simply no way of knowing.
“ Wanderer. “
“ You haven’t lived up to your end of the bargain, Nightsinger. “
“ Haven’t I? “
“I was promised immediate power, all you have given is the means with which to acquire my own power by my own means. “
“Have you renewed the contract only to speak of what has always been known? “
This gave Girard paused, the green eyed minstrel stared in silence for a moment.. those eyes giving off a soft, yet eerie blue glow in the darkness. The entity seemed to take note of those eyes.
“Surprising. “
Girard threw off his silence out of irritation at what he perceived as the entity’s mocking. That the cave’s low ceiling kept him from taking a position other than one that very much forced the man to bow in order to look up at at Nightsinger was bad enough. He did not need to be mocked while they were at it!
“ Silence. I tire of these games either tell me what you want in no uncertain terms and give the means to see it done or I’ll shatter the instrument keeping you from oblivion. “ It was a hallow threat, both he and the Nightsinger knew he no longer had it in him to so completely end the existence of something beyond death itself.
“ Kill the tyrants of this world until you find the one that slew me and the children that haunt your dreams. “
The words left the minstrel cold inside in spite of the mantle. Tyrant. That word never set right with him, after all it was what he coined his father to be petty, murdering noble that the man had been and possibly still was. After all.. the trail had only gone cold only once he’d reached Sarkotos. The murder of nobles and royalty though was no small matter.
While Girard was lose amongst those less than cheerful thoughts, the Nightsinger sent out a tendril of darkness to seize one of the man’s belongings. It snatched away the blade he wore on his swordbelt, a broadsword already enchanted by the means of an aged magic.
“ Sufficient. “
“ ‘Eh, Wait! What are you doing!? “ Well the entity could not expect being robbed by a tendril of darkness to be anything less than disconcerting for anyone!
“ Giving power. Was that not what you came for, Wanderer? “
“ It is.. “ Answered the wary minstrel.
Without another word the shadowy entity forced the tendril to hold the golem-bane broadsword aloft as she set to work. Drawing upon the very essence of her the blade began to warp, darkening with the shadows being incorporated into its metal. The entity paused only long enough to direct her full attention to Girard. She immediately set other tendrils of darkness to seize him, holding the minstrel still as tore from him part of the very fabric of his being. This she wove into the darkened metal as well giving it a less than friendly looking, wicked edge. The blade could very well be said to represent the minstrel from the inside out.
Girard knew not how to take the sight before him, none of that mattered when the tendrils came next for him rather than anything on his person. Struggling came easy; it was only natural to struggle against your bonds when you feared what would be done to you if unable to defend yourself. What was being done did not have words fit for use in describing it. The best he could do was liken it to what a would-be lich much have felt when its soul left its body to be harbored in its newly crafted soul gem!
His moment of ill-defined thought did not allow the minstrel to realize until it was too late that the tendrils were drawn back. That lax in attention left him to painfully collide with the ground in that short drop to it. Drawing the sole remaining shadow tendril back to herself, the Nightsinger examined her handiwork. Deciding the broadsword would be suitable for the tasks ahead, if not exactly what was needed for them, the tendril gave the blade a toss; catching it by the blade. The hilt came to be offered out to the dazed minstrel to take hold.
“Do not leave me waiting long, Wanderer. “
A pained groan was her answer, the sound came when he was picking himself up and briefly fussing over the now stained mantle he wore to ward off the chill of winter. The blade did not come to his notice until those words finally hit his sense of hearing. “I thought you only gifted your pact-forgers with magic.” Not that such a trivial thing stopped him from reaching out for the hilt of his very much changed recent acquisition.
When the hilt was firmly in Girard’s grasp, the dark tendril withdrew soon to disappear altogether. The entity seemed to ponder the minstrel’s musing spoken aloud.
“Did I not provide you with a magically changed weapon, Wanderer? [glow=red,2,300]Now be gone[/glow].“
What an unceremonious means with which to send him on his way after accosting him as she had! Even if it did provide a… not until that moment had he thought to truly examine the sword. It resembled the blade it had been only in that it was indeed still a broadsword! The weapon was much changed, looking far more befit to be in the hands of someone with far less scruples than he possessed on any given day! There would be no arguing with the entity in a sensible fashion now, now that the pact restored her to a manifestation on the prime.. he was uncertain how much he wished to test the Nightsinger. He thought better of it, instead he sheathed the altered sword then sought to leave the cave behind. It took more than a little climbing to draw himself up and out of the frozen, dark abyss and into the snowy landscape that awaited. Wise sort that he sometimes was he set quickly about the dance to return him to the shadows so the way back to Sarkotos, to his cottage home could be trek’d before Evangeline was left to worry too long at his absence likely prolonged absence.
There he took to a sort of ritualistic dance, the sort that some roguish sorts close to entities such as his own Nightsinger came to call shadow dancing. Girard did not choose to call his method by such dull terms; such would only serve to belittle it as he exercised it to slip between the fabric of the planes. The dance had led the minstrel to a place surrounded by nothing save for a dark rendition of the outside of the cottage he’d left in the prime. Never did the plane of shadows feel this much like home, yet so completely alien to him. A Nightstalker stood where he had expected to see the Nightsinger, the entity’s minion motioning him to follow in its wake. Few options left available against the rising curiosity and those considered demands of the entity that he felt had not wholly delivered her side of the pact between them.
The minstrel continued in the shadow creature’s wake for what seemed like many hours to Girard until finally the dark counterpart of the word around him began to resemble the icy territory he considered uncomfortably akin to his homeland. The all too sparse memories of the place always left him ill at ease even in the matters regarding the Nightsinger. When his guide disappeared he got the message meant to be relied by the simple action. He began the dance anew until once more in the prime, unbeknownst to him outside an insignificant cave in Rumeria. The chill should have been biting in this season, a factor he found respite from thanks to the fur-trimmed mantle he wore about his shoulders.
Darkness within the dank hole in the ground that served as the cave the minstrel hopped down, expecting it to be as in his youth and be met only with solid ground. What the occasionally foolish minstrel found instead was his the jarring collision with what mounted to frozen mud. The flash of pain left Girard still for much more than a handful of moments before he finally picked upself up and struck his skull against the earthen ceiling. Of course the place was smaller than he remembered inevitably coming to force his crawling to reach the end. This destination of his was the altar he’d constructed himself the basis for what became something of a symbol to him. A non-functioning archlute carved from obsidian. It was not a masterfully made thing, in fact it resembled a lute only in the loosest of terms. Still the obsidian lute served its purpose for the shadowy vestige it kept linked to this reality. Drawning one of the jeweled daggers from its sheath trapped to one of his ankles, he began to carve the Nightsinger’s geometric symbol into the dark, sharp, and easily chipped material. The once waning contract flared back to life and the full force of the entity assaulted his mind with the cries of a single pained woman and the chorus of screams of the burned children that together made up this wicked intelligence he bargained with two decades prior.
When the screams died down within his own mind, the minstrel was left breathing deeply as the attempt to compose himself left him open to the dark entity’s scrutiny all over again. He heard the Nightsinger before he even opened his eyes to take in the sight of the vaguely feminine shape that living shadow had taken on, his own perhaps? He could not see it without the benefit of light.. there was simply no way of knowing.
“ Wanderer. “
“ You haven’t lived up to your end of the bargain, Nightsinger. “
“ Haven’t I? “
“I was promised immediate power, all you have given is the means with which to acquire my own power by my own means. “
“Have you renewed the contract only to speak of what has always been known? “
This gave Girard paused, the green eyed minstrel stared in silence for a moment.. those eyes giving off a soft, yet eerie blue glow in the darkness. The entity seemed to take note of those eyes.
“Surprising. “
Girard threw off his silence out of irritation at what he perceived as the entity’s mocking. That the cave’s low ceiling kept him from taking a position other than one that very much forced the man to bow in order to look up at at Nightsinger was bad enough. He did not need to be mocked while they were at it!
“ Silence. I tire of these games either tell me what you want in no uncertain terms and give the means to see it done or I’ll shatter the instrument keeping you from oblivion. “ It was a hallow threat, both he and the Nightsinger knew he no longer had it in him to so completely end the existence of something beyond death itself.
“ Kill the tyrants of this world until you find the one that slew me and the children that haunt your dreams. “
The words left the minstrel cold inside in spite of the mantle. Tyrant. That word never set right with him, after all it was what he coined his father to be petty, murdering noble that the man had been and possibly still was. After all.. the trail had only gone cold only once he’d reached Sarkotos. The murder of nobles and royalty though was no small matter.
While Girard was lose amongst those less than cheerful thoughts, the Nightsinger sent out a tendril of darkness to seize one of the man’s belongings. It snatched away the blade he wore on his swordbelt, a broadsword already enchanted by the means of an aged magic.
“ Sufficient. “
“ ‘Eh, Wait! What are you doing!? “ Well the entity could not expect being robbed by a tendril of darkness to be anything less than disconcerting for anyone!
“ Giving power. Was that not what you came for, Wanderer? “
“ It is.. “ Answered the wary minstrel.
Without another word the shadowy entity forced the tendril to hold the golem-bane broadsword aloft as she set to work. Drawing upon the very essence of her the blade began to warp, darkening with the shadows being incorporated into its metal. The entity paused only long enough to direct her full attention to Girard. She immediately set other tendrils of darkness to seize him, holding the minstrel still as tore from him part of the very fabric of his being. This she wove into the darkened metal as well giving it a less than friendly looking, wicked edge. The blade could very well be said to represent the minstrel from the inside out.
Girard knew not how to take the sight before him, none of that mattered when the tendrils came next for him rather than anything on his person. Struggling came easy; it was only natural to struggle against your bonds when you feared what would be done to you if unable to defend yourself. What was being done did not have words fit for use in describing it. The best he could do was liken it to what a would-be lich much have felt when its soul left its body to be harbored in its newly crafted soul gem!
His moment of ill-defined thought did not allow the minstrel to realize until it was too late that the tendrils were drawn back. That lax in attention left him to painfully collide with the ground in that short drop to it. Drawing the sole remaining shadow tendril back to herself, the Nightsinger examined her handiwork. Deciding the broadsword would be suitable for the tasks ahead, if not exactly what was needed for them, the tendril gave the blade a toss; catching it by the blade. The hilt came to be offered out to the dazed minstrel to take hold.
“Do not leave me waiting long, Wanderer. “
A pained groan was her answer, the sound came when he was picking himself up and briefly fussing over the now stained mantle he wore to ward off the chill of winter. The blade did not come to his notice until those words finally hit his sense of hearing. “I thought you only gifted your pact-forgers with magic.” Not that such a trivial thing stopped him from reaching out for the hilt of his very much changed recent acquisition.
When the hilt was firmly in Girard’s grasp, the dark tendril withdrew soon to disappear altogether. The entity seemed to ponder the minstrel’s musing spoken aloud.
“Did I not provide you with a magically changed weapon, Wanderer? [glow=red,2,300]Now be gone[/glow].“
What an unceremonious means with which to send him on his way after accosting him as she had! Even if it did provide a… not until that moment had he thought to truly examine the sword. It resembled the blade it had been only in that it was indeed still a broadsword! The weapon was much changed, looking far more befit to be in the hands of someone with far less scruples than he possessed on any given day! There would be no arguing with the entity in a sensible fashion now, now that the pact restored her to a manifestation on the prime.. he was uncertain how much he wished to test the Nightsinger. He thought better of it, instead he sheathed the altered sword then sought to leave the cave behind. It took more than a little climbing to draw himself up and out of the frozen, dark abyss and into the snowy landscape that awaited. Wise sort that he sometimes was he set quickly about the dance to return him to the shadows so the way back to Sarkotos, to his cottage home could be trek’d before Evangeline was left to worry too long at his absence likely prolonged absence.
