A Strange Way to Make Friends (Navi007)

Omentus paused, looking at the priestess. "More than capable of inflicting chaos," he recited back to her, mimicking her own voice with near-perfect inflection. He paused again; his eyes glossed over. While still in his apparent haze, he began to speak, in his own voice, without warning, "It seems that coming here may have been a mistake. It appears to me that you have only two ways of seeing other people: dead or under your control. If this is, I am certain you have many devices for attaining the control of others.

The first perfume, Efflorescent Rain, contains the essence of the blood of Arienna. In different words, I have distilled nature herself and made her a part of scent crafted only for you. You are versed in at least a modicum of arcane magic, and I pray this means that you know how to harness and direct the flow of magical energy occurring naturally in yourself. Efflorescent Rain is designed to be relaxing, while also slightly invigorating. Additionally, if you were to channel mana through the perfume, it has the ability to attract mindless animals to your control." He turned to look at the priestess, then blinked twice.

"You want to know what great token I have given you of my loyalty," he spoke mostly in his own voice, but said 'great token' in Nerine's. "I'm not offering you my loyalty. If you want that, you can pay by coin like any queen or noble before you, Lady Dracona. Instead, I am extending the hand of friendship to you, a commodity more rare than you may dare to think. I do not have many friends, but those I do have are free to ask favors of me at any time. Have I the resources for those favors, I am happy to give them. Of course, the only thing which I can ask for my friendship is yours in kind, but I understand that before this can happen, we should first have things in common."

He blinked a few more times. Each time he did, his eyes cycled through different colors. First red, then bone white, and then pure black. With a final blink, they turned teal again. "You should ask me about the properties of the other perfumes, when the mood strikes you," he commented to the woman in a tone of voice that made the statement seem off-hand. "You and I both have an appreciation for order, and enjoy being in control. It seems uncomfortable for you to not be in control of your situation, though this is a point where we are different. You have a fascination for serpents and insects; I have the ability to collect and create serpents and insects. You can adapt easily to both surprise and uncertainty; so can I." He paused again, lifting his left eyebrow.

"There," he said, "we have things in common." He put his brow back down. "Next, it would be normal to do something to endear myself to you. Sharing some form of truth normally hidden from others seems to be a typical act of endearment." He looked into Nerine's gaze, and his eyes seemed suddenly cold, though their teal color did not change. It was not a normal sense of cold, like a simple shiver in the spine, but as though the unfortunate lady on the other size of that gaze had been dropped into a deep winter's storm. Then, as soon as the feeling came, it was gone. "I'm sure there are questions on your mind. Ask me a question," he said, "and I'll tell you the answer."

Nerine’s face contorted into a hard grin, her perfectly white teeth shining maliciously in the dim candlelight. “A question? Why yes, Omentus, I do have a question for you.” Around the dark woman, the snakes hissed in response to the tension about her. Every time the demonic man had mimicked her voice, it pricked her insides, provoking her into anger.

“You say you want a friendship? An alignment without restriction?” Nerine barked a laugh, her distaste and fury blatant. She reached for Omentus without warning, grabbing the metal fused to his left arm. With her viselike grasp, she pulled it up into the light, where it caught the dull shine of her candles. “Is this what you do to your friends? Manipulate them as you do your own body to get what you desire? It’s quite kind of you, really, to try to lull them into a sense of security, to think that you actually care. It’s people like you who have no respect for authority that would desecrate even the blood of gods that I despise the most.”

With a hiss, Nerine threw Omentus’s arm away in disgust, her eyes blazing with an oily red. “You are mistaken in thinking there are no rules to this world, Omentus. You are equally deceived in thinking I would ever accept such a person into the folds of Darissa. It is not a matter of control; it is a matter of principle. Those unloyal are not permitted to walk in these hallowed halls. Now, if you want to speak business, I will speak business. If you desire to speak of friendship” – Nerine’s eyes flashed dangerously as she spoke the word— “then I suggest you turn to the gullible disciples of cleaner gods.”

Omentus did not flinch when the woman grabbed him, nor did he react in any overt way at all. If he did react, it was only as if he was expecting to be grabbed, like he had asked to be grabbed. His lip curled into a smirk, however slight, but his expression remained otherwise unchanged, and his tone was still even. "Personally, my friends have utter safety from my projects. Moreover, they have access to the fruits of my labor inasmuch as I do, where that is wise, without first being subject to the rigors of the research and development of the same... does that answer your question, Miss Dracona?"

He tilted his head toward the woman, then pressed his lips into a line. "Wherein have I led you to believe that I do not respect authority, and that I do not think there are rules to this world?" he asked, again with the tone of pure curiosity in his voice.

Nerine wanted to slap him. She really wanted to slap him. Her nostrils flared, her hands clenching and unclenching with an animalistic desire for violence. Omentus was utterly unaffected by her wrath, his curios expression mocking the fury that raged in her blood.

“You…you that would defile your own body with the callous workings of man would ask me such a question? You who draw the blood of dead gods because you are too feeble and unloyal to truly recognize the power of a living one? You that—” Nerine cut herself off bitterly, turning away from the stolid gaze of Omentus. She was seething in her own anger, enraged even at herself for allowing the man to have such an effect on her. If only…if only Darissa would let her kill him! How soon this pain would end!

But she could not engage in violence, nor could she leave the demonic man. Unable to overcome or submit, she was trapped in her own room by the sheer will of this stranger. It was absurd, inconceivable in every way. The leader of the most powerful cult in the land, trapping herself by her own means!

“I have no more business with you,” Nerine finally stated, staring fixedly at the wall opposite her. The rejection of her words was clear, but even she knew it was utterly useless. Omentus would leave only once he chose to.

Omentus watched Nerine's back, and was suddenly caught up in a deep contemplation. Among the facets of his animus-jewel, more than a hundred voices spoke and conversed among themselves. The seromancer was not just in his haze. His mind had withdrawn from his body completely. On the very edges of his consciousness, he was dimly aware of having lapsed into something like a coma, but he hadn't bothered to close his eyes just yet. Right now, he was thinking, drawing on the combined mental power of every creature whose blood he had used in the modified homunculus process since Aldergeyn. He was trying to puzzle out what was going on with Nerine.

On the outside, Omentus had just stood there for nearly half a minute, utterly silent. The pupils of his widened eyes had contracted into paper-thin slits, and his skin cooled as his heart slowed. Every few seconds, a whispered phrase from the convergence of minds slipped out of his mouth, either in his human voice or his demonic one, sometimes both at once. Every new voice that emerged made the snakes in the room more nervous, and some of them slithered further from the demonic man.

Suddenly, he blinked. His pupils fluctuated, and he blinked several times more. He glanced left, and then clutched his forehead. His eyes were squeezed shut, and tears formed on their edges. After a moment, he opened his eyes and looked about the room. The look on his face suggested that he had no idea where he was, but then his expression changed, and he seemed more present.

"Jonys is scared stiff, priestess. He's never seen or heard of you like this. What did She say to you about me, Nerine?" he asked. His voice was deeper than it had been since he arrived, and more mature. The sound of innocent curiosity was gone from him; this was a focused question, led by a focused and serious mind.

...She?

Omentus' words weren't making much sense, but there was meaning in them, a meaning that frustrated Nerine more than it should. She loved puzzles, traps, things to think through, but not in a situation like this. Not when she was the mouse in the maze, the clueless creature that couldn't comprehend the meaning of the labyrinth. There was depth to this man's mind, things that he shouldn't know, and yet the depth and threat of this knowledge was unclear.

"Jonys always was a fool, Omentus," Nerine stated flatly, turning her head slightly to look at him. His question had caught her off guard, changing the vivid red in her eyes into a deep purple. "And She...you speak of Darissa, do you not? Her words are of no concern to you, as are the matters of our cult. Whatever Jonys told you was a lie. He never was greatly favored by Darissa, and you can see why."

"Jonys told me nothing," Omen said plainly. "I haven't got the patience for you to figure this out on your own, so I'll be frank." He found a chair to sit down on, and crossed his left leg over his right knee. He looked at the priestess the whole time, never taking his eyes off her. "If a person is the culmination of their life's experiences, then I am Jonys Doph. If you are familiar with the process of a homunculus' creation, then the working of this feat should be easy for you to understand. After detaining him, I prepared your assassin's blood, just over halfway through the process, and injected it into myself. Everything Jonys Doph ever experienced is mine now, including the things he is too traumatized to remember. So you see, he could not have lied to me, because he never told me anything. He never had a choice in the matter."

He went on, "You may be correct, too. What She told you is not of any special concern to me, but you have already admitted that she has said something, and since you haven't tried to kill me, yet, I am already putting together exactly what was said." He paused for a moment, pursing his lips. "Perhaps Darissa wants you to ally with me, because She knows Her sister's church fears me," he mused aloud. His tone was speculative, but he gazed directly at the priestess, gauging and calculating her response.

So, this man was a memory sucking leech who had fought the servants of Lloth. Wonderful. Yet another thing Darissa had not told her. It was just like the dark goddess to give her vague information and expect a good return, for that was her way. To obey without question, regardless of details— even Nerine had to do this.

Darissa had ordered her not to kill Omentus. He would live.

But she never mentioned anything about befriending him.

“Oh yes, I am well aware that Jonys could not lie to you. What he has conveyed to you, Omentus, are my lies. He was well aware of how much I favored him, how much I cared for him. The fool believed he knew my secrets, that he even had power over me. Do you honestly think I would trust any such man with valuable information? He didn’t even understand the true purpose of his mission!” Nerine spoke the words with obvious viscosity, her eyes dark full of immense hatred. “You want proof of this? I will give you proof.

Jonys thought he was sent after a man I had the foolishness to trust. He believed he would fetch the man, beat him to a pulp, and return him to me to kill with terrible vengeance. He was also wrong.

Serhulta is in fact much more valuable alive than dead. He came to this cult seeking shelter from a gang group, one that has been particularly vexing. They are, no doubt, still searching for him, thinking they can kill him without instilling my anger. He is bait, a fat and writhing worm to be used as I see fit. When his enemies come close enough to strike, there will be quite an opportune moment to deal a strong blow to the fools that dare to oppose Darissa. As you are well aware by now, Jonys had no knowledge of this.”

With a dark smile, Nerine turned from him again, moving over to a small end table to stroke her beautiful black Krait, which lay resting on the cool stone surface. “By disclosing such information, you must think I have some degree of trust regarding you. Such an assumption is not entirely wrong. I trust you not to be stupid. If you desire a beneficial alignment, however, I need to know where your loyalties are. I need to know why you opposed Lloth, and exactly why you have chosen a cult to gain resources from. Is this not a fair request?”

"I am curious on why you always refer to Darissa's religious presence as a 'cult'," Omentus said slowly. He appeared to still be thinking, and there was no overt reaction from him, while Nerine revealed his 'follies.' Instead, he mulled over the information as she spoke, and used the time she'd given him to make an assessment. "So, you're not allowed to kill me... unless your goddess knows that the attempt would be too dangerous. She does not care for whether you live or die, but she could find your intrigues in her favor. Perhaps she is protecting her assets, through keeping you alive." He hmmed for a moment, tapping his chin.

He began to speak with a clinical and objective tone, "You are very quick to create a plausible situation, then to defend it, and then to affirm that the information is true. If I were versed in psychology, I might be able to reason that you are grasping for control over a situation in which you believe, consciously or subconsciously, you have no control. The mind often equates control to power, and your story's veracity is irrelevant, making this theory a viable one." He paused, churning over more thoughts in his head. He hmmed again.

"What do you think She wants from our meeting, Nerine? Or... have you not bothered to think on the matter?" He lifted his left brow at the priestess again, waiting for next answer. Still, the same calculating expression rested on his face.

Nerine felt her insides twist again. Never before had she been so insulted by such a calm tongue. He was analyzing her like he did his insects, as if she were not only helpless, but irrelavant as well. What made it worse was that he was right. She wanted control, and she wanted it badly. It was because of him and her goddess that she was not free to leave, to relieve herself of his horrible company.

“How thoughtful of you to ask,” Nerine said in a biting tone, “but your question is irrelavant. What I think and what you think obviously does not agree, and any argument on the matter is a waste of time. If you have anything relavant to say, do say it, for I grow weary of your games.”

Omentus fought the urge to snap at her, in his own acerbic way. It would have been like punishing a puppy for having hair, though. Rather pointless, and unnecessarily abusive to the dog. On the other hand, trying to press a thought through her head, to this point, had been like trying to push an egg through a brick wall.

If there is one thing she controls, I'd say that it is the level on which you handle the terms of your alliance, Lorik's voice rung in his head. Omentus hesitated. I think you've been too heavy handed, Garridan. Try giving her the illusion of control. Give in to her demands, grudgingly, and begin again tomorrow.

You think that's the only way, Lorik? Omentus asked his old master.

I do, and I have far more experience in diplomacy than you do.

Omentus stood up from the chair and looked at the Lady Dracona with an unfathomable expression. As the expression subsided, he said, "I have never directly opposed Lloth, but her church fears me nonetheless. There are things I have done to the drow and to Lloth's personal servants that... I admit, even I am proud of.

After some deliberation, I have come to a decision. It was wrong of me to treat you in such a way. You've gathered a great deal of affluence beneath you, and it would be a tort to ignore your accomplishments. You deserve better regard than I've given you. Before I take my leave, is there anything I can do for you, to begin making reparations for my behavior?" He asked the question without a guarded tone, or even the calculating expression he had been wearing recently.

Nerine faltered for a moment, surprised by Omentus’ sudden acquisition of humility. Well, humble for him, anyways, Nerine thought bitterly. She was familiar with the sudden use of a mask, putting on a different face, an expression that would get the results one desired. Omentus’s change was subtle enough to show he had great skill with such things, and she already knew too well his ability to manipulate the minds of others.

He was giving her space. He was curbing his own instinctual responses with hopes to make peace with her. It was obvious that he was too prideful to believe that Nerine’s hatred could be overcome, that her trust could be won. The dark woman put faith in no one, not even the most devout of her followers. That was how she avoided crisis, like…say, having an assassin intercepted by a demonic man. Already, the fool had allowed him passage into her quarters, into the privacy he had no business in disturbing.

And he had already gained the greatest of her distaste. He was free. He was powerful. Everything he had he had for himself, with no constraints to any other person. No vows made to possessive gods, no human restraints to keep him from doing what he wanted. Only death could stop Omentus, if even that had power over him.

But Nerine couldn’t rail at him. To meet his pacifying words would truly make her look like a fool, and his offer was irresistible. Anything to get rid of him, but there was more to it than that. Her logic mind told her that she couldn’t just release him, have him walk away and forget he had ever appeared. That was exactly what she wanted to do. Such a thing, however, was too dangerous. Now that he had confronted the head of the cult itself, it was obvious that he could do whatever he pleased. If he desired to hamper Nerine’s plans to get her attention, then he could easily do so. He could do anything he pleased.

“Reparations?” Nerine put on her best faux smile, pretending that her anger had only been a fleeting thing. “You owe me nothing, Omentus. Truth, no matter how blunt, is to be admired, however unorthodox it may be. You have shown me what you are, and I, in return, have done the same.

There is, however, one grief you have brought upon me. As we speak, Serhulta is crawling away, as I no longer have another man to follow him. His was a delicate matter, and now I shall have to call upon another doing their own business in the area to follow. It is a minor setback, but not one I would trouble you with.”

"As you wish, Lady Dracona. I would change Jonys back for you, so that he could continue his duty, but am afraid that after this long, it may not be possible. I apologize for the loss I've caused you," The apothecary said. He didn't need to try to be sincere, since he had decided to try a new route of gaining the lady's trust, apology was a consummate part of his needs. "I hope that you enjoy your new pets, and the perfumes I've made for you. If you are ever in Kedaldown, I would enjoy it if you were to visit my shop, humble as it is." He bowed to her, and then stood up to leave the room.

Near the door, the seromancer gripped the well of Nymru's blood inside his cloak. Suddenly, he and anything he did, became Ignored. The potency of this spell was the same as when he came in - impossible to overcome through focused attention, bumping into the man, magic, scent, sixth senses, or the like. He drew up the cloak of his hood and prepared to leave, but thought better of it. Instead, he turned around and watched Nerine for a moment, curious to what she would do when he 'left.' He tarried there for just half a minute, and then opened the door and let himself out.

The rest of his journey was uneventful. He met up with his carriage as it waited outside the town, and slept inside the cab until sunset. Just as the sun dipped under the horizon, he awoke, held the blood of Nymru in his left hand, and scribed a strange glyph onto the back wall of the cab. The entirety of the carriage, its horses and driver, became as Ignored as Omentus, though it was unaware of it. The driver set off on the road northeast, the direction of Kedaldown from this place. Mentally, he began to compose the letter he'd be sending back to the priestess.

As soon as the necromancer was gone, Nerine was surprised to feel a tinge of regret. With Omentus gone, there was a strange emptiness that never would have existed had he not appeared. He must have had a strong air of darkness indeed to have such an effect, but there was something more. His presence had been one of intelligence that had challenged even her own. He had not been afraid, cowardly like her servants. Such a find was rarer than Nerine cared to admit.

But it was only a small thing compared to the overwhelming relief. Her posture became more relaxed, no longer tensed for the event of an attack. Without her will being challenged, there was no more tiring pressure, only the soft hissing of her snakes to quiet her restless emotions.

With a thoughtful expression, Nerine turned to her vanity, gazing at her pale visage in the mirror. It still held the same vigor she had begun the day with, though there was more caution in her swirling blue eyes.

Then, bending over just enough to reach a small square drawer near the surface of the table, Nerine pulled on its handle, revealing a strange assortment of objects within. All of these were the personal possessions of her men and servants, things that held enough of their essence to draw her magic to them. Some were precious objects, pendants and rings given by loved ones, while others were worn tools that had been used in their daily life. There were even locks of hair and charm bags, which ironically enough, served to make them targets of her magic, rather than protect them from it.

The dark woman rummaged through this odd assortment for only a moment, picking out a small metal crest that fit into her palm. It truly was a lovely thing, a crimson red shield with a golden lion engraved into it. Such a thing was a sign of power and magnificence, which Herald had been before he was betrayed by his brother. Now he was nothing more than a commonplace vagabond, whose authoritive experience in the army had put him at the head of the defense in her fortress. She couldn’t blame him for his security not being anything close to stopping Omentus, but some changes would have to be made.

Turning back to her mirror, Nerine closed her eyes, the fingers of her right hand curled around the crest. She began to focus, to picture the dark haired man with whom she needed to communicate with. Then, still focusing her powers, she muttered, “Prepeerio vave mayha.”

At her command, the mirror began to swirl with black fog, though she didn’t see it. Her mind was being led through her own fortress, past its stone walls and thick doors. Eventually, she was taken to a well lit room lined with candles, for there were no windows. The man she sought for was sitting at a thick wooden desk, pouring over a map of the city. Beside him, another man stood, pointing to various places on the crinkled paper and making quiet suggestions.

Nerine couldn’t have cared less about interrupting Herald’s business. He was subject to her, and he had to hear the words which she was about to speak.

Nerine opened her eyes as the vision in the mirror became utterly clear, and she placed her hand near the surface of the glass, streaming more dark energy into it. She then shifted the magic right into the shadow of Herald’s ear, where her voice could be heard with the greatest effect. “Herald.”

The man immediately jumped, his shoulders tense. He looked to the left, where Nerine had spoken from, but found nothing. In one more moment, he immediately understood what was going on, and realized his foolishness. With a dismissive wave (which Nerine saw from the small space of his ear), he sent the man away, only daring to speak once he was gone.

“Milady?”

“I don’t expect you to see him, but there is a man, not of our own, who is leaving our territory. If you see a man with cat eyes, wearing a red cloak, you are not to detain or attack him. If he comes seeking me, you and your men are to let him pass. He goes by the name Omentus Anima.”

“Yes, Milady.” Herald sounded confused, but he knew better than to question orders.

“Good.” Nerine then waved her hand, the vision in her mirror fading back to her reflection. What she had done was a simple, useless thing, but it was best to avoid any ‘unpleasantries’ that might come from having a new man about her land.

With this business concluded, Nerine went about fixing Omentus’ deeds with Serhulta. Using the same dark spell, she called upon one of her assassins near Kedaldown to pursue the worm. Kulmar, the man she had sent to clear up some business regarding an arms trade with the cult, was exactly the person she contacted. Unfortunately, he was a good few miles away, which would create an even longer delay before he even reached the last known location of Serhulta. She’d have to remember to get a personal item to track the fool with once Kulmar found him.

Then, once this was done, Nerine allowed herself to fully relax, sitting in a cushioned chair while her snakes slithered carelessly around her floor. Before calling any more servants to her, the dark woman allowed herself a moment to think on the mystery of Omentus Anima.

(OoC: Introduction 1 of 2, Navi. I hope you'll post while I'm writing the other half.)

BiC:

More than four hundred miles away from Gargarock, in the neighboring kindgom of Raol-fet, Lerte Chronis sat in his personal library, pouring over the ancient tomes and scrolls he'd been collecting for the last year and a half. His was an exhausting task, but its fruitful ending was nearly at hand. A separate scroll sat near him, and he made marks on it with his quill every few minutes. Even a year and a half later, something inside him still twanged. The knowledge he crafted here was dangerous, and he would need to be sure that it never fell into the wrong hands. Against his own faith, the spell would be disastrous. Still, it was a necessary thing that Lerte did, even if it gave him the shivers.

Idaesia of the Black Claws Tribe , Lerte's longtime friend and a paladin-shaman of Athoche, the god whom they both served, walked into the library with a solemn look on her face. She was covered in scratches and soot, and there were several dings and cuts in the armor she wore. If Lerte didn't know any better, he'd have said that she had been training in her holy armor, but he knew what Idaesia wore was only a replica. "You're working on the scroll already?" she asked. Her voice always had a way of making the day's weight seem lighter, to Lerte. It wasn't that Lerte had some infatuation for the woman, though he had to admit she was beautiful. It was Idaesia's heritage, or the effect of it, more specifically. According to her tribe's records, her great great grandmother on her father's side was an angel. Not just an especially beautiful woman, but an angel descended from the heavens, in the splendor of the Celestial Realm's golden light shining from her wings.

"I am, Idaesia," he responded. His reply was curt, but only because most of his attention was on the scroll and three tomes from which he drew the vital information.

"That puts you six days ahead of schedule. Have you been sleeping at night?" she sounded genuinely concerned for him, but proud of his work at the same time.

"I have... but probably not as much as I should. It's not affecting my work, though. I promise."

Idaesia smiled and nodded. "That's good," she said, "just be sure to take care of yourself. I have to get back to training, but I thought I'd come check on you."

"Thank you, Idaesia. I'll be joining you in a couple of hours or so... I want to get this line finished."


The angelic woman smiled at Lerte, and walked into the hallway outside Lerte's library. The white and yellow marble of the halls gleamed gently but beautifully in the sun's light. Above her, mirrors and panes shifted slowly in the ceiling of the citadel, filtering the daylight in from outside. At night, a circle of candles lit beneath the citadel reflected their light up into the bastion's hall, and was often augmented by the starlight or moonlight from outside. Every so often, the symbol or visage of Athoche, or a tapestry depicting a great hero of the faith hung on the wall.

Idaesia walked calmly out onto the terrace overlooking the bastion's garden. Down in there, brightly colored flowers of all bright, beautiful and pleasant-smelling sorts grew among a few trees, with small paths between. On the path between two cherry trees, which ended in a bush of lavender and a sort of flower Idaesia did not know the name of, was Meobeth Terzi . Even after living her for more than a year and a half, Meobeth was still a bit of an enigma to Idaesia. She had a unique and unfortunate heritage which saw her cast out from her home at a very early age. On her mother's side, she was elven. On her father's side she was mostly human, but her father had an ancestor who was primal, and another who was demonic.

The elves were normally tolerant of half-humans born among their number, but when Meobeth was born, she had traits that made her undesirable. Meobeth's fingers ended in claws, and there were tiny horns on her forehead. Her eyes were an amazing dark green color, and her hair was ... well, hair, but it seemed leafy. Its color changed depending on the time of year it was. In the springtime, Meobeth's hair was golden blonde with light green highlights, which darkened as the seasons turned to summer. As summer waned into autumn, these highlights turned red with touches of amber. Then, while autumn turned to winter, the highlights turned silver-white. She was a solid girl, too. Strong and able of body, certainly no stranger to hard work.

To Athoche, the Heavenly Father, Meobeth was a devoted druid, seer, and mystic. She could predict things that would come to pass, and she was a wonder with all things natural. She made poultices and ointments, and sometimes she could work miracles. Like the garden itself. When they arrived at the citadel, the garden was an unused and dry patch of earth with a few weeds and thistles growing in it. And now... it was a wonderful miniature landscape, bursting with life and vitality.


"Idaesia," Meobeth called up from her garden, "are you going to stand there and look pretty, or are you going to come down with me?"

"Ah, no. Sorry," the celestial woman replied from above. "I got a bit distracted, I was just on my way to the training hall.”

“You have fun there. If you get hurt again, I have another batch of red morning cammisonia prepared,” the druidess called back. Her friend smiled awkwardly, and crossed the terrace to the hallway that led to the training hall.

Meobeth looked back at the flowers beneath her and kneeled down. She felt around the base of each flower, and plucked away the occasional unwelcome one. She wasn’t completely certain how dandelions or bristlegrass had made their way over here, but they seemed to thrive near the lake dragontears. She shrugged and collected the unwelcome ones into her compost bag. Anything could be put to a use in her garden.

The druidess stood up and looked around. There was still plenty more to do, but nothing that needed to be done today. She looked at the cherry tree beside her, and walked into it. Across the garden, she emerged from the trunk of the kindred spirit oak. Where she came out of the tree, leaves grew around her, reacting to her presence with a burst of springtime growth. She dumped out the compost bag into a box on the edge of the garden, and put away her garden robes.

With one last, long breath of her garden’s scents, Meobeth turned to look at the gnome reclining in an apple tree’s branches while she picked up her quarterstaff and gloves. He was minding his own business, running a polishing cloth over the weapon in his hands.

Siletase Vicerinege was not what Meobeth would have called a warrior, but he was very mindful of his weapons’ wellbeing. He spent at least twenty minutes every day cleaning and polishing them, and making sure that they worked just right. Four times since they arrived here, the gnome had taken a day or two off from training to repair his weapons.

“Siletase,” she called out to him. The gnome looked up at her. “I was just about to head over to the training hall. Did you want to come with me?”


“Oh?” Siletase answered, dumbly. He had gotten lost in a daydream, and couldn’t quite make sense of what Meobeth had said. He ran it over in his head a couple of times, and then its meaning clicked into his mind. “Oh!” he exclaimed, “Yeah, I’ll go with you, Meo. Well, actually… let me put this away first, then I’ll meet you there. I’m running out of ammunition for it.”

“I’ve always thought you’re better off that way, Siletase,” the woman answered. “I’ve never understood why you prefer those things over more conventional weapons.”

Siletase shrugged and hopped down from the tree. He slipped the pistol into a holster on the small of his back and trotted off behind Meobeth. The climbed the stairs to the terrace, and then went their separate ways. Meobeth walked into the hallway that led to the training hall, while Siletase set into the hall that led to the citadel’s personal cells.

They were supposed to be personal, anyway. Three weeks after the church of Athoche started this project, they moved Vidas of the Gerou Tribe into the room opposite to Siletase’s cell. This meant that for Vidas to reach his room, he had to go through Siletase’s cell. Sharing his space didn’t bother to gnome, though. Actually, it made the citadel feel a little more like home.

The gnomish alchemist walked into his cell to find the room feeling exactly as he’d left it, which meant Vidas hadn’t come out of his room since Siletase had gone to visit Meobeth. It wasn’t that Vidas was a messy person, or a nosy one… it was that Siletase could feel traces of people. It was a very rare gift, and no one really understood exactly how it worked.

He climbed up onto his workbench and looked around at the various tools he’d left behind. He was in the middle of crafting new ammunition for his guns when he’d left to go see Meo. So, that’s what he did when he got back. He put away his pistol and finished crafting three more shells. He alchemical ingredients in each shell, and marked the contents by painting the tips of the bullets with different colors. His surroundings shifted very slightly, and he turned to see Vidas walking out of his room.

OoC: Here it is! Quite boring, though, if I do say so myself X.X

“With Keldar conveniently disposed of, the arms trade has been quite successful, Milady. Kulmar was able to conclude the matter before he left on his— er— other errand, leaving us with some of the most prestigious of crafted weapons, which are as follows…”

Nerine sighed and lolled her head onto her elbow resting on the arm of her chair. Her gloved fingers curled mindlessly into the dark black strands of her hair as Winson droned out his report, plowing through it like an ox in chest deep sludge.

In truth, the dark woman’s mind was far from the young man’s dull words, wandering in the vast lands that surrounded Gargarock. In her lifespan, she had seen a surprisingly small amount of it herself, this world that existed outside of Darissa. As the leader and person responsible for all of Darissa’s followers, she was constricted to the thick walls of her fortress, verifying endless reports and creating new plans for further expansion. All that she saw outside of Gargarock was through her own men, who traveled the vast reaches of the world. Important political events and people were tracked with great precision, creating an enormous net of knowledge which was used to the cult’s benefit. Nerine, of course, was too busy to oversee such an elaborate net of spies personally, so this fell to Alim, whose simple name didn’t even begin to describe the complex man within.

In fact, Alim was standing before her now, patiently waiting for Winson to finish his business report. He was quite a tall and calculating man, whose dark brown eyes forever seemed to be thinking. His Arabic ancestry left him with a flawless dark tan, which reflected warmly against the perfect white of his teeth. Beside him, even the bulky Winson was frail in comparison, looking like a deer next to the lion that was Alim. Though severely scarred and tattooed, the Arabic’s body was the perfect image of muscular strength. His whole body radiated this power, tamed only by the deep mind which had been plotting since Alim had been a child.

“…and so you can see, with these new crossbows, defensive power will be at its height. New supplies from Trenna have also been delivered, which will keep us for another month in the case of an emergency. Such supplies as…”

Nerine tuned out of Winson’s speech almost as quickly as she had tuned in. Part of her mind was forced to follow his boring drawl, taking note of important gains and losses, as well as making the arrangements that would soon follow. Her other half, however, was still pondering over her most recent guest, who had surprisingly been free to leave unscathed. She didn’t even have a spy to follow the man. His worth was still a bit of a puzzle to Nerine, though she was not at liberty to question Darissa’s jugement. Even now, Omentus’ words haunted her mind.

"What do you think She wants from our meeting, Nerine? Or... have you not bothered to think on the matter?" The demonic man’s eyes had been so cold as he had spoken the words, more of an insult than an actual question. He had been calculating in that objective mind of his why Darissa had permitted him into her fortress, a mystery even Nerine didn’t understand. She could not see the worth in a demon who played with the laws of nature as if they were mere toys. She cared nothing for his blood magic or his science, for what use was it if it was not hers to use? The man could serve only as a mystery, a prized object one could behold but never touch. What had Darissa seen in him that was of actual use? Nerine could not imagine him obeying orders or performing a duty in the name of Darissa. No, if ever she was insane enough to even want his help, it would not be in the form of a bargain or service. Omentus offered his alliance as a friend would give invitation to his own home, as if he were an equal to the emissary of Darissa!

“…and are you satisfied with these transactions?” Winson’s eyes hesitantly met Nerine’s gaze, drawing her out of her thoughts.

With a sigh, Nerine surrendered her mind to the mundane yammering of her servant.

The letter arrived in much the same fashion as its writer had.

A somehow strange creature, mostly resembling a domestic cat, stalked carefully into the room where Nerine went about her business. For a cat, it was an averagely-sized animal, perhaps weighing about ten pounds and being nine and a half to ten inches tall at the shoulder. It had the nearly unique coloration of the archangel blue, with the breed's classic, vivid dark green eyes that twinkled with intelligence. Around the cat's neck and chest, the animal wore a black suede harness with red steel clasps, and from the harness hung a five-inch long, crimson and brass scroll case.

The cat walked briskly, though not a single person had noticed it so far as it had explored the temple of the snake goddess. As it entered a particular room, it looked around intently, leapt atop a table, and then sat down in front of Nerine, partway atop an important paper.

Still, the woman's mind was off the cat; she seemed to be dully focused on the pratterings of a servant man. After waiting a moment, the creature meowed to the priestess in greeting, immediately dispelling the charm that had kept it from notice until now.

Gently, the cat batted at the scroll case on its harness, nudging it toward Nerine. Inside the scroll case was a letter written on fine vellum, folded over and rolled into a loose bundle. Its lettering was written by a neat, but exacting hand. It read:

To My Dear Adenine Corran,

Good morrow, Adenine. How fare you today, and what new revels does life bring you?

I must apologize again for my behavior on the night previous. Indeed, I was disrespectful, and wish to extend to you an invitation to Kedaldown, whether to my home or any other place you find appropriate, at any time you should wish to see me or seek reparation for my trespass. I give you my promise that you will not see this offense from me again, and eagerly await the opportunity to let me prove this promise to you.

No doubt Shadrim has found you quickly, though I do hope he has not interrupted any important business you have today. Please have patience for my pet's eccentricities, and be assured that he will not seek out any of your own animals for his crepuscular meals. I have faith that Shadrim will attend you regularly, but not incessantly, until you are ready to tender a reply into the scroll case on his harness, and then take leave of your residence to return to me.

Best Regards,

Omentus Anima

Even Winson’s droning fell silent at the sudden presence of the creature. It had seemingly come out of nowhere, and half of the monks lined up against the wall jumped up to protect their emissary, from what they soon realized was a strange blue cat. Nerine barely managed to stop them before their hands closed around the frail creature’s neck.

“Idiots!” Nerine screeched in frustration, leaping up from her chair, as if in revulsion towards the cat. Her blazoned red glare passed over each of the men in the room, as if searching for the fool who had let the creature in. After a moment of tension and an impatient meow from the creature, Winson actually had the audacity to speak.

“Who let that thing in here?” His voice was a weak hiss as he wheeled around to face the guards, who stood dumbfounded by the bolted doors.

Instead of turning her anger towards the stupid man, her gaze fell back on the cat, who sat on the table next to her as calmly as if she had asked it to tea.

Just like someone I know…

“All matters of business are postponed until further notice.” Nerine spoke flatly, her back to the entire audience in the room. Her order was followed by complete silence for a moment, and then she heard the nervous shuffling of feet as men left the damp room. After the iron doors firmly closed again, she could hear her cloaked priests go back to murmuring their prayers to Darissa, and all was calm, as if nothing at all had happened.

“And what has my dear demon come to offer me now?” Nerine asked the cat, half expecting an answer from the creature. Knowing Omentus, it wouldn’t be the strangest thing he had ever done to a living being. She took the scroll from the creature with a resigned sigh, her delicate fingers opening the paper soundlessly. The dark woman slowly took her seat again, looking at the finely printed letters with an unreadable expression. From the corner of her eye, she saw her priests gazing curiously over at her, but they knew better than to speak.

Nerine’s gaze hardened as she read the letter, already displeased by the friendliness of Omentus’ greeting. It should not have surprised or angered her to see such coming from him, but the notion that he thought of himself as her equal— perhaps even something more— bothered her quite a bit. She found it difficult to believe that Omentus had actually extended an invitation to one as busy as she, who had no time for games. The last time she had taken a leisurely tea under the pretense of being a friend had been years back, when she was still in etiquette school. Those were the days of juvenile innocence, where she had been a creature of pleasure, not darkness. Now, those foolish dreams of luxury had turned into something dark and immortal, something that extended far beyond her own power.

And Omentus wanted her to make a friendly call.

Nerine was sorely tempted to crush the letter in her claw-like grasp and send the corpse of his cat back as a reply, but such a thing was far too juvenile for a dark creature like herself. What bothered her even more, however, was that fact that she was actually tempted to go, to enjoy the company of a man other than her mindless servants, who held only a drop of intelligence when compared to Omentus. She needed to leave her confining fortress, if just for a moment, just to remind herself that she was something more than a shadow on its dark stone walls.

“A wise decision.” Again, that dark, sweet voice penetrated into her mind, filling her with joy and dismay. She both hated and loved her goddess, who provided immortal death to her most devout of followers.

“You would wish me to pursue Omentus?”

Nerine’s inquiry was met with disdainful laughter. “You had not the need to bring upon yourself so much frustration, my dear Nerine. Your argument would have been so much smaller if you had simply given him what he sought for from the beginning.”

“Then you do approve of him?”

“Approve?” Darissa repeated mockingly, her sarcasm biting. “What need does a goddess have to approve a mortal? If they are useful, make use of them. Forces are gathering against us, Nerine, and his abilities may be more helpful than you think. Or do you not approve of him?”

Nerine clenched her jaw shut, her nails digging into the arm of her chair. The last thing she wanted to do was go pandering to Omentus, asking for aid from him like a dog begs for a bone. Even he had not stooped to that level when meeting her. Of course, Darissa hadn’t actually told her to ask for aid, but she had implied that she might actually need it. A vague warning, perhaps even a useless one, but one didn’t take the words of Darissa lightly.

Quite unwillingly, Nerine ordered that writing supplies be brought, and she quickly went about composing the letter, that she might get it off of her mind as soon as possible. It was bad enough having to take care of business— she didn’t need more of Omentus clouding up her mind.

Instead of replying with the genial tone Omentus had given her, Nerine wrote with curt politeness, accepting his invitation and promising a visit within the next three days. She’d have to put Winson in charge of her affairs once she left, but he had been trained for that sole purpose. While he still didn’t have the authority of Nerine (it being split amongst the monks), he was responsible for taking care of the daily business and assignments that kept the cult on the rise.

OoC: Eh, not very good, but I didn't have much time X.X

(OoC: I thought it was pretty good, really. And now, introduction part 2 of 2. We're getting close to the exciting parts, I think. =3)

BiC:

Vidas was short for a man, and he dressed in the fitted hides of jungle creatures. He was a dark-skinned man with black hair, and he covered his body with bone-white stripes of paint, which he stripped away and renewed at the beginning of every week. The man’s eyes were a bright yellow color, and they glimmered in a way that made others a bit uneasy. Visible under the white stripes on Vidas’ skin were some tattoos drawn into complicated concentric patterns, with black and bright ice blue inks. One of these tattoos was on his right arm, and another was on his chest. A few more were on his legs, and if you caught the angle right, you could see another tattoo that had been inked onto his scalp.

Vidas worshiped Athoche, the same god of Justice, Healing and the Sun that most of the others at the Bastion did, but Vidas was a necromancer. It had taken the others nearly a month to figure out how it was possible that Vidas was even allowed inside the Bastion.

Ultimately, it was Kronis who explained the mystery to them:

Although Vidas was a necromancer, he used his powers to respectfully communicate with the dead, and to put the undead to rest. Vidas had a unique perspective on what most people understood to be a practice of simply abomination, a perspective which Kronis believed was far more enlightened than most people would dare to think. Vidas’ perspective made him invaluable to the team and their mission, not only because he understood what makes the undead such a wrong thing, but he had an insight to the abilities of the church’s enemies that most were too afraid to even study. Vidas was not a dark man. Rather, the Gerou tribe regarded him as their most noble spiritualist, and the team living inside the Bastion of Sunlight should hold him in much the same regard. Furthermore, he was not just a necromancer. He had other talents, and was a formidable hunter, as well.

This explanation seemed to suffice for all of the team’s standards.


“It’s an hour until the training session begins, Siletase,” Vidas said. A snake slithered out of his room, climbed up his leg and then disappeared into the spirit bag on his side. This occurrence bothered the painted man in no way, as this was his familiar’s favorite way to travel.

“Yeah, I know,” the gnome answered. “I’ll be up there on time, it’s just that the big day’s getting closer, and I want to make sure I have all the right tools for the job. You know what I mean, right?”

“Indeed I do, friend,” Vidas said. He stopped to consider something for a moment, then walked back into his den. He picked up his staff. It was a length of high quality, polished oak wood with a twisting gnarl of thick tendrils at its top, within which rested a very large, faceted emerald. The jewel twinkled as Vidas took up the staff, and the medium could not help but smile in response. He crossed the smoke-hazed room to poke at the remains of an incense-rich fire. After a moment, he pulled a thick leather beltpouch out of the remnant embers with the butt of his staff, and held it up on eye level.

The outside of the bag smoldered a bit, especially where more than a dozen glyphs had been seared into its surface. On one side of the bag, the image of a bird with wings spread wide had been branded onto the bag. Its plumage twinkled in fiery hues as tiny embers came alive and died out on the bag’s surface, but the slow burning never abated, and never scored any further into the bag’s leather.

The shaman closed his eyes and focused. In his mind, the image of a sunny sky over a courtyard with washed white paving stones formed. He could almost feel the wind soaring beneath his arms as he found a perch to land on. The steel of signpost was cold beneath his talons, but the feeling was a comforting one. He looked down into the courtyard, where a few of the warriors had already gathered.

Idaesia and Meobeth sparred with one another, Idaesia with her spear and Meobeth with her quarterstaff. The shamaness was at a clear advantage in skill, but the druidess’ had her own gifts; her quarterstaff always seemed to be blocking at the right time, in the right place.

Apart from them was Joro Siska , a large and impressive man with dark olive skin and blue eyes. Joro was muscular, toned and fast, having honed his body and mind for the better part of his life. Since their arrival here, Joro had told the team, under inquiry, about the strict tenets that allowed him to be such a paragon of human ability.

Joro Siska lived an austere life. He kept no more material possessions than his own clothes. Though he once carried a small backpack with him, for food, this was no longer the case. He said that his faith in Athoche sustained him, in every way that it could. Whenever he came upon money, it was his sworn and sacred duty to give it away, to people that needed it more than he. In many other ways, he was exceptionally bound to helping others, though it was a task that gave him great personal and spiritual satisfaction.

At first, the others wanted to find ways to help Joro, after learning about his tenets barred him ever acquiring material possessions, especially those of magical natures. Lerte and Siletase bent their brains over it for months. Lerte suggested magical clothing, since Joro was allowed to have clothes, but Joro told him that even his clothes could not be magical. Siletase thought of potions, but Joro pointed out that he would need to be given the potion before he could use it, and therefore this was also invalid.

Eventually, both Lerte and Siletase happened upon answers to which Joro did not, and could not, object. Both measures were obscure.

First, Lerte recommended that he allow a celestial being to possess his body. Joro saw no fault in this, since accepting aid was no sin. Lerte began to research the celestials, and the manners by which to attract their favorable attention, when not working on the scroll. After a few months, his labor bore fruit.

Second, Siletase suggested pseudomagical tattoos. At first, Joro was hesitant, but even Kronis could find no reason that these would violate Siska’s vows, as these tattoos would be a part of the man’s body, rather than possessions. Joro felt uneasy at first, but agreed to the tattoos, as long as Siletase promised to be sparing.

In time, Joro had become a creature of eventuality. Though he saw himself as nothing special, he was a considerable force to be reckoned with. All of the elements in his life combined with one another, and even what killed Joro had made him stronger. So did the training and the bonds he made with his friends after his rising.

All of these things were precisely the things that saw him where he was now, in training with a number of other combatants, all of whom had to be specially conjured from the upper planes.

Two of them were obviously angels of great station – white-winged men, nine feet tall, with alabaster skin and brilliant golden eyes, wielding gleaming bastard swords against the unarmed man. Joro’s third opponent was a nine foot tall celestial with golden wings, emerald skin and shimmering blue eyes, who wielded a broad-headed spear. Finally, there was a wingless archon in the shape of a woman, twelve feet tall with flawless golden skin and glowing blue eyes, in whose hand was a sparkling greatsword.

The monk fought all of them simultaneously. Deftly and with great agility, he sidestepped the angel’s blades, ducked under their slashes, parried their thrusts and seemed to completely ignore the occasional arc of lightning or tongue of fire. Rarely, one of his opponents’ weapons would strike his skin, but would either be deflected from it, or the cut would heal itself instantly. In one notable case, one of the white-skinned angels scored a deep gash into his arm, but the wound had closed itself just moments later. To a careful observer, it could be seen that Joro struck out at his assailants only very rarely; he seemed more intent on wearing them down into exhaustion.


The odds were against Joro, and this made him happy. The harder he trained here, the more likely he was to fulfill his mission, which would bring lighter fortunes to many of the unfortunate. As the golden-winged angel’s spear bit into his shoulder, Joro smiled and wove between the gleaming swords of the white-skinned celestials. “I cannot thank you enough,” he said to the green-skinned celestial. At the same time, he had grabbed onto the blade of the golden-skinned woman, and flung her into the two pale-skinned men. Without hesitation, he dropped the disarmed greatsword on the ground, flipped over another thrust from the spear, and dropped the emerald-skinned angel with a well placed and heavy kick to the head.

Joro Siska paused for a moment, looking at the far end of the court. Vidas and Siletase had arrived. A golden-eyed falcon with glittering wings soared down from its perch on a nearby lamp post, and landed on its companion’s shoulder. Joro waved to Vidas, who returned the gesture in a less pronounced manner.

The large man turned around and bowed deeply to the assorted angels and archon. “Thank you for training with me again today. I owe you all an immeasurable debt,” he said. His sparring partners rose and bid him kind words in return before disappearing off to the planes of their eternal duties. The gold-skinned archon stayed behind.

“Shall we?” she asked.

“Only if you still wish,” Joro answered.

She smiled at him approvingly, and stepped forward. Her body seemed to melt away into the ether, and become absorbed into the monk at the same time.

Against the wishes of all of her men, Nerine rode the narrow dirt road alone. Her favorite Arabian stallion carried her lightly on its back, its black skin glistening with sweat under the unforgiving sun. The scathing orb of fire was finally beginning to set, having done its damage to the dark traveler who now approached the insignificantly small village of Keldatown. Her dark cloak was gray against the fading light, covering her delicate frame like frost on the petal of a flower. If any had been there to see her shadowy form against the deep red of the sky, they would likely would have thought it was a ghost their eyes perceived, whose bleak appearance seemed to carry death itself upon their shoulders.

“Perhaps I came too soon,” Nerine muttered to herself, gazing down from the hill with narrowed eyes. If this was indeed the home of Omentus, it had been a severe understatement to call the home of such a man as himself “humble.” His exotic insects and perfumes had foreshadowed something dark and illustrious, but clearly, that was not his way. Though a creature of blasphemy and destruction, he preferred what quiet a simple life could provide.

Yet another luxury Nerine could never have.

With a bitter smirk, Nerine moved her horse forward, thoughtfully fingering the silken reticule that hung from her shoulder. Within it was the few possessions she carried, being only enough gold in the case of a bad situation, a few trinkets with which she could contact her men of authority, and various bottles of poison. One, a particularly beautiful flask only three inches tall, was meant for Omentus. It was only fitting that she give a gift in return for his, one which she knew he did not posses. Inside this crystal clear flask there lay a sweet golden nectar, one of the most potent and precious of poisons: Basalisk venom.

A few minutes of lazy meandering and Nerine was within the city. The few people that now walked the streets regarded the dark woman with an air of reverence and curiosity, her purple silks and lavish appearance being that of rich authority. When she inquired after Omentus, she was promptly given directions, some even offering to take her there themselves. She refused politely each time, keeping her voice humble and naïve, and within minutes, she found herself before the apothecary’s shop.

Nerine hesitated just outside of the door, still seated upon her horse as she contemplated her next actions. It would have pleased her just fine to keep on walking by, but there was a dark urgency about her now. If she was going to speak to Omentus, she had to do it now…