The Necromancer's Study

Really now? Don't you have anything better to do than bother /me/, the great Markal Cassalantar? Oh, tssk tssk. You younglings. Very well. Ask, but I will not guarantee your life expectancy will prolong ...

[necromanoxus-archive-blog]

Smiling cheekily, the woman sprawled herself comfortably on the couch, propping her arms on the back of the velvet sofa. “Grandfather should not linger any longer now.” A flicker of magic in her jade eyes confirmed that. “He is entering the manor’s premises as we speak.”

[summoner-renzus]

“Well, since you have kindly agreed to help me with my task in place of your grandfather, my business with the Cassalantars has been concluded for the day.” He nodded, idly fiddling with one of the teacups on the trays. “But it wouldn’t be becoming of me to leave without at least paying my respects to the master of the house.”

He waited patiently until the inevitable creak of the doorknob and opening of the door to the room. With a short bow of greeting and a slight smirk on his lips, Renzus steeled his nerves to once again meet Markal Cassalantar.

[necromanoxus-archive-blog]

"Hmm." Was all the woman murmured - whether of agreement or anything else, it was hard to tell, but what was certain was that the topic had ended … and they soon moved on to the situation rapidly approaching at hand.

Tybresa had barely laid on her couch before she would once more spring up with sprightly agility, tittering like a child impatiently waiting for something to happen. “Certainly, most certainly - Markal would certainly be glad to see you, indeed.” She purred as she walked towards the door, closing the distance in several long strides, only to open it …

And soon enough fall at the neck of the man that stood stiff-straight in the frame, jade eyes flickering something fierce in their sockets, speaking of great contained power in their depths.

“Mon chéri pére!~” The woman purred happily as she clung to his side like a doting daughter, nuzzling her cheek against his shoulder like a kitten. Her hands interlocked together to rest on the top of his shoulder, and then her chin on top of that, she stared back at Renzus with her lips curved into a soft, childlike smirk, batting her eyelashes once as she waited.

[markal-the-necromancer]

When the door swung open, the most noticeable trait was the darkness that stood in the frame ... which soon took the partial-shape of a man as he stepped forward. His robes as black as the night, the only things for the human eyes to seize on, in order to give the man any kind of visible shape was the red velvet mantle draped across his shoulders, with countless golden trinkets and signets pinned at his chest.

And then, of course, was his head - crowned with a silvery crown and framed by a carefully-cropped snow beard, Markal's face was expressionless in its meaning, though his features looked gaunt and grim. Jade eyes flickered something fierce in their sockets, speaking of great contained power in their depths indeed.

And yet surprisingly, he reacted almost instantly at the attention he received from his granddaughter, a black-clothed arm reaching out to wrap around her back and protectively hold her waist as she stood by his side, leaning on him tenderly. He spoke out, his voice comprised of hollow sounds, hardly betraying the bearded smile playing on his lips.

"And what is it that my little Voleur de L’âme caught in her net this time? A lost soul, perhaps?"

Tybresa simply shrugged her shoulders and purred - Markal would soon fix his attention squarely on Renzus, instead.

"It seems like you arrived sooner than I expected, Crow." His words sounded sharper than intended, with a sardonic edge. "Though it seems you took the liberty to meet my granddaughter and Heir, I see."

"And what brings you to my doorstep this time, Renzus?"

[matronleblanc-deactivated201607]

One Last treasure

[nobodytouchesthehat]

"Two Billion." He near chuckled out. He didn’t care. he was gambling with money he didn’t have. It didn’t matter anymore, all that mattered was the flop card.

He was going to play this into the ground, and win too.

[bounty-hunter-von-archived]

As one could guess from his body language, the first mate was 

not happy with this possible outcome in the slightest.

[summoner-tybresa]

The woman flared her nostrils as she attempted to raise her hand in the air -…

[markal-the-necromancer]

Only for a pale, sinewy hand to cut through the air and grip the woman's warm and dainty one, quickly setting it back. What Tybresa seems to have forgotten was the fact that it was not her fortune she was attempting to throw here.

Markal, however, was more than aware.

"Darrrling ..." He purred out venomously in-between gritted teeth as he glowered approvingly at him. "It seems you are ... overstepping your bounds here, for something so superficial. How very uncharacteristic of you."

[matronleblanc-deactivated201607]

Fifth Item

"This gorgeous masterwork dagger, coined ‘Tooth,’ generously donated by the Sarkozy Museum of Noxian History, is said to glow more brightly when enemies of the wielder are near. Inscribed with ancient runic magicks, this historical artifact was once wielded by famed Noxian general Elliot Bonaparte, who slept with it beneath his pillow each night. Bidding starts at one million valors."

[summoner-tybresa]

First it was Markal who raised his hand, but it did not take long for Tybresa herself to follow suit …

It seems she had a taste for bidding, and was slowly indulging herself into it. Her Grandfather did not help either, at all.

[theyoungerrealm]

The Grand General lifted a shaky hand and indicated to the auctioneer’s attendant a sum of two million valors. He spoke hoarsely, without parting his teeth given the apparent swollenness of his jaw and lifted his chin after the announcement for his bid had been made in assessment of the crowd.

[markal-the-necromancer]

The two Cassalantars exchanged glances for a moment - quizzical blue, determined green. Immediately, Markal raised his hand, his voice barely raising past the crowd.

"Three hundred and fifty million valors."

[matronleblanc-deactivated201607]

One Last Treasure

[summoner-tybresa]

I am here for you.

[bounty-hunter-von-archived]

He excused himself from his table heading toward Tybresa’s direction, carefully leaving a note on her table for only her to notice as he seemed to walk toward the nearest restroom.

'You have my income should money be a problem in securing the Sheriff's safety.'  

[markal-the-necromancer]

Unfortunately for Von, the note would not be seen by Tybresa at all, for she was too preoccupied intimidating contenders down with her gaze to notice the man that had passed behind her, never mind drop a note to her left side ...

And, unfortunately for them both, Markal noticed, having pretended to sample from the wine, feigning disinterest in what was happening around him only to palm the note and read the scribble, making him purse his lips in mild distaste.

Tssk. He thinks we do not have the means to buy your little Sheriff?

The coffers of Cassalantar run deep enough to buy out half the nobility present in this room - which it already did.

"Hrrmf." He let out a small grunt of disdain as he crinkled up the note in his fist, emerald eyes flaring for a moment to turn it to speckles of dust, only to wipe his hands clean with the handkerchief nearby with not a single ounce of care about it all, only to resume doting his attention on the fine pinot noir set in his glass.

Needless to say, Tybresa never saw the note.

[theyoungerrealm]

Markal raises his glass of red wine towards the Grand General's direction as soon as the Champion would run his gaze around, a sardonic smile curled on his lips. He curtly bows his head in greeting and intently stares at the Master Tactician, his emerald eyes seemingly anticipating for a reaction ... -markal-the-necromancer

Seated in his chair beside Darius, clad uncharacteristically—though smartly—in a three-piece suit and green ascot, the Master Tactician met Markal’s gaze for just a moment before turning back to the other guests (socialites and High Commanders) clamoring for his attention. It was a look so even, so unmarked by any signs of recognition or emotion, it was almost inhuman.

In addition to the agelines and scars that marred his weathered visage, the left side of his face was obviously swollen, his cheek so puffy it half-squinted one red eye. The raven on his shoulder, unlike her master, did not drop her gaze from the necromancer.

[markal-the-necromancer]

A look, a glance - a single moment for emerald eyes to meet crimson orbs was needed and required for Markal to declare himself satisfied.

His sinewy hand lowered the glass to bring it to his lips, drinking up the wine in a single sip before he set it before him, his smile turning to a grin instead …

To the great unease of his Granddaughter, seated beside him and having barely caught the scene, eyes searching his and the Master Tactician’s expression for any answer, sign or key to whatever it was that happened.

To no avail.

[matronleblanc-deactivated201607]

Second Item

"Donated by the Sarkozy Museum of Noxian history, this antique book of orchestral arrangements dates back to 333 BLE. The transcripts are penned in original ink from Noxian composer Camille Saint-Saëns. Bids start at five hundred thousand valors. This clockwork item by celebrated inventor Corin Reveck is so lifelike! What a festive little Reindeer Kog’Maw: expertly crafted with real AI and a festive glowing nose. All the adorable charm with none of the insatiable appetite. Will it light your sleigh tonight? Bids start at one hundred seventy five thousand valors."

[markal-the-necromancer]

A moment of silence fell over the crowd as the possible bidders were thinking it through - save for one man, who raised his pale, sinewy hand in the air in a two-fingered gesture in the direction of the book, showing he would bid for the object.

[matronleblanc-deactivated201607]

Entrance

At the strike of fifteen hundred hours, the front doors of the Maison de Verger were thrown open with much pomp and grandeur for the acceptance of Champions, Summoners, dignitaries, and nobles alike. A scant two or three inches of snow covered the ground, enough to conceal the earth below though not enough to be dangerous. The stone walkway that lead from the manor gates to its wide, wooden double doors had been swept of snow. The budless rose bushes that lined either side of the path leaned down with the weight of the wintry mix still burdening its leaves.

At the gates, a pair of seasonally dressed gentlemen stood with clipboards and pens, ready to admit the arriving guests. The Matron hostess was nowhere to be seen and for those that asked, the attending doormen simply indicated towards the path beyond and ushered them within.

[markal-the-necromancer]

Not soon before the doors had opened, a carriage as dark as night with silver and emerald accents to highlight the skulls-and-bones pattern lining the outer compartment had pulled up at the entrance of the Maison de Verger with quite the pomp, the wheels creaking softly under the weight while the pitch-black steeds snorted obnoxiously as they restlessly hoofed at the cobblestone. The driver, cloaked in (unsurprisingly) black, swiftly jumped from his seat to open the door to the compartment and with a flourish of his hand, bow down to invite his masters outside with a show of humility.

To those who knew how to interpret the signs decorating the carriage, it was no surprise to see the Necromancer himself step out gracefully and with ease quite uncharacteristic for someone his age. Markal Cassalantar flared his nostrils as he took one, two steps forward, visage seemingly forever engraved in a subtly-disdainful yet sardonic expression. His garb was unchanged - the trademark black robes of a Necromancer with the velvet red cover on his shoulder, a sign of prestige and rank, with the multitude of valuable trinkets and signets pinned to his chest showing off his well-being and wealth in the breast of Noxus' high society.

One thing was noteworthy about him, and that was the lack of his staff, believed to have been nigh inseparable from his person ... save for such an important event, it seems. But instead of strolling forward towards the doors, ready to brush up his skills of socializing with the present generation of nobles and mingle, he turned to the carriage, offering his hand to assist someone to step out ...

So it seems, that Markal did not come unaccompanied tonight. Not at all.

[whinyhero]

Approaching The Steward [@summoner-tybresa/markal-the-necromancer]

[markal-the-necromancer]

"Speak quickly - don’t waste our time now. And if you do, then I fear I will be forced to redeem it back by taking yours." The veiled threat behind his words was clear just what kind of time he was talking about - he pursed his lips, an expression of mild impatience and disapproval as he, indeed, waited …

[whinyhero]

"I was told that Steward Summoner Tybresa lives here… The Institute sends me cause of an urgent matter, I have a letter from the Council and one from Master Yorick with me if you need that as a prove…"

[markal-the-necromancer]

The man’s features were implacable, his expression not really changing from his frown as Lekkur spoke his answer – perhaps, if only to darken a little, turning from disappointment to down-right disdain. His right eye twitched ever-so-slightly and Heavens knows what could have followed afterwards had it not been for a woman’s voice to call from within the Manor, the incredible acoustic property of the vestibule making it hearable all the way to the outside.

“Grandfather? Who might be at the door?”

The man in question sneered out as he lightly turned his head to look over his shoulder, his voice now honeyed. “A visitor, darling – and fortunately, just for you.”

The answer following that was the sound of footsteps clicking against the marbled floor, approaching the door – the slightest glimpses of gold and a womanly shape moving behind Markal could be seen, until Tybresa herself stood beside him, clad in a dark-grey Noxian gown, her hair done up as befit the present fashion of the high society of the city-state.

Her blue eyes fell on Lekkur with a spark of curiosity in them, tilting her head slightly to the left. “Oh? Good day to you.” She greeted politely, with an ounce of puzzlement. “Were you looking for me, then?”

[whinyhero]

Approaching The Steward [@summoner-tybresa]

[whinyhero]

It took another second for him to calm down, bowing in front of the other summoner. “I am sorry, seems like the Institute was not really fond of me and pulled a joke on my behalves. Would you please be so kind and tell me if you know the whereabouts of Steward Summoner Tybresa?”

[summoner-tybresa]

With that said, the summoner had no quarrel to close the door, not waiting for Lekkur to react appropriately,the sound of locks turning closed immediately following as the man barred himself in his room, one ear pressed against the door, hoping to hear Lekkur leave anytime now …

[whinyhero]

Well, whatever, through a lot of asking and guidance he finally found to the house where he was told that the Steward Summoner lived. Cautiously he got neared to the doorknob of the big house, knocking as carefully as it was reasonable. Now it was sitting and praying.

[markal-the-necromancer]

Manor Cassalantar - often referred to as 'Death's Door' by the commoners did indeed deserve its name. In order to actually reach the grand double doors, one had to pass through an dark iron wrought gate, the motifs of skulls, bones and skeletons beautifully overdone all around. The message was clear - this was the house of a Necromancer. And not just any kind of necromancer ...

Nevertheless, passing through the gates, one would then walk over the cobblestone pathway that cut straight across the 'lawn' - there was no grass present, mostly because the entire outer grounds of Manor Cassalantar were covered with large pieces of dark marble, leaving not a single place for any kind of plant life to flourish. However, there were trees - dead trees, by the looks of it. Their bark were silver-white and their trunk massive, reminiscing one of a grand oak - but their canopies were empty, twisted, gnarled branches pointing skyward like a dead man's hand reaching out to the sky after having been buried alive. There were strategically placed all around the manor - far away from the tall gates, not giving whatever culprits the opportunity to use them to trespass on the Cassalantar Grounds, while also gathered around the house, a source of privacy from privy eyes.

As for the Manor itself, it was large - it could almost be comparable to a palace, a two-story structure that religiously followed the gothic architecture style, mixed together with a macabre flourish of motifs that revolved around dead - skulls, skeletons, coffins ... certainly not the happiest place to grow up, but the Cassalantars are certainly used to it.

Nevertheless, reaching the double doors, Lekkur would be greeted with a skull-shaped knocker and two large, iron rings from which one would assume would help open the door. The knock against the massive wood echoed loudly in the vestibule of the Manor, only for the to spread throughout the side-wings - whether through magic or simply clever use of acoustics.

Nevertheless, Lekkur would wait ... and wait ... and wait ... it seemed like an eternity, waiting in front of the grand double doors that towered over him, seemingly tailored for even a giant to be able to enter without too much problem - not only that, but there was an odd aura around the house ... it was probably magics that the summoner was familiar with - necromancy.

Finally, someone must have heard poor Lekkur's knocking, for the sound of the locks turning beyond the door could be heard, only for the door to groan loudly as they parted from their ancient stance, showing ...

A tall yet well-aged man, dressed in the finest yet blackest robes anyone could find, the only ounce of color to his person added by the various signets, expensive trinkets and jewelry pinned at his chest, the red velvet shoulder-cover embroided onto the robes, indubitably with its own meaning. His hair was positively silver-white, his beard trimmed neatly while his hair was slicked back, arranged as befit a grand nobleman such as him. There were a few wrinkles showing on his large forehead as well around his eyes and cheeks - which, mixed with the disdainful frown that presently marred his features, only made them more prominent.

One sinewy hand was wrapped around a tall mahogany staff, a skull seemingly planted on top of it, an object that he would be rarely seen without.

Markal Cassalantar pursed his lips together ever-so-slightly as he eyed Lekkur from head to toes, his striking green eyes shining like cat's eyes in the darkness inside the Manor's vestibule, the only light coming from outside, through the open door. He clicked his tongue, seemingly disappointed by what he was seeing, only to speak in a firm yet acidic voice.

"You had better have a good reason to come here, and an even better explanation - I am giving you one - one chance to at least make me believe you are worth my time, lest I will make you sure you will cease breathing, like you were obviously destined to, about ... hmm." He narrowed his eyes,  now glowering an acidic green hue that swallowed his pupils entirely, once again running over his body, his gaze practically piercing through Lekkur's being, his very soul, stripping him bare and methodically sorting bits and pieces into a neat catalog.

"Fifty-six years ago." He answered with precision and efficiency, his eyes losing their glimmer only for the empty sockets in the skull-head on top of his staff to glow instead, a faint ethereal, teal hue. A presence could be sensed around it, not belonging to the Necromancer ... but to someone else.

"Speak quickly - don't waste our time now. And if you do, then I fear I will be forced to redeem it back by taking yours." The veiled threat behind his words was clear just what kind of time he was talking about - he pursed his lips, an expression of mild impatience and disapproval as he, indeed, waited ...

[markal-the-necromancer]

Dealing with the Dead and the Devil (RP w/ ask-swain)

[markal-the-necromancer]

He stopped once more, bringing a hand to run his fingers through his beard. “Hrrm, hrrm … you see, normal men, they die once – you run a sword through them, or subtly place venom in their wine goblet, or accidentally push them down a flight a stairs … and there are as gone as a spring breeze! But you and I … we are great men. Perhaps our physical forms will die, unfortunately taking us with them, but there is still a way for us to remain immortal – legacies, my dear friend! All great men leave behind them a legacy! The death of a legacy is, perhaps, the most tragic end of them all…”

[markal-the-necromancer]

Swain reached in to his robes and retrieved a sealed scroll. He broke the wax seal, flipped open the scroll with one hand and threw it on to the table, facing Markal. “Read it,” he ordered. “I think you will find the contents…most interesting.”

At the Grand General's own speech, all Markal did was to settle behind the chair once more, pressing his free hand against the furniture's back, a quirked eyebrow the only sign on his expression to show that he was still listening, his emerald eyes glowing forebodingly in his eye sockets, never leaving the Master Tactician from his sight, nor his actions.

His eyes flitted ever-so-slightly at the thrown paper, only to settle back on Swain - finally, his lips curled together in a sardonic and mocking smile as he straightened his back, lifting his hand off the chair only to pat his palm against his chest, causing the various trinkets and medallions pinned to his robes softly clink together.

"Hrrmf." he began, mostly to clear his throat than to show the true indignation that was stirring in his being - but for now, he kept in check ... but the affront brought to his house would not remain forgotten, even though he could play the part of the forgetful old nobleman quite well. "Seeing and hearing you talk as you do now, Grand General, I am led to believe your informants are indeed, quite terrible. I would suggest you  see them immediately executed and replaced with more efficient task force ... but then again, even if you do that, I doubt you would truly be able to know Cassalantar fully."

Markal bowed his head, signaling he was done speaking, before he went around the chair and towards the table, the tapping of his staff against the floor accompanying his otherwise silent steps. He reached out for the scroll with his free hand, his expression sobering up as he deftly handled the parchment, holding the top of the scroll before himself to allow it to unfurl by itself, before he indeed, continued reading, his emerald eyes scanning each and every word for whatever hidden meaning, symbol or code he could detect ...

[markal-the-necromancer]

Dealing with the Dead and the Devil (RP w/ ask-swain)

He did not announce his arrival, neither was he accosted by whatever guards or servants to inquire his business. But the Necromancer was confident, the Raven would make an appearance …

[ask-swain-deactivated20190329]

The ethereal bird fluttered up to the Cassalantar, hovering in front of him for a second, before accelerating faster than the eye could catch. It collided with the necromancer’s head in a small puff of green haze; just one way Jericho had devised to take a small revenge for all the pattering and self-service of most of the nobles he had encountered thus far. Despite the seeming insult of the act, the collision had served its purpose; images briefly flowed through Markal’s mind of the path to a small meeting chamber well out of the way of prying eyes. Within, the Noxian crest, overshadowed by a raven.

The Raven awaited.

[markal-the-necromancer]

…

However, he only took several steps further into the room before he promptly stopped and turned his head around, his eyes glowing a shinier hue of green as he swept his gaze around the chamber, a thoughtful expression on his face. Whatever he was doing, it certainly involved magic …

[ask-swain-deactivated20190329]

Jericho felt the necromancer’s arrival, the strengthening of the magical scent, a slight chilling of his bones. Steel hinges complained as the door creaked, disturbed by its sudden use. Swain saw Markal’s eyes immediately, the pale, glowing green orbs sweeping the room for information. The General slipped out from the shadows, displaying stone-like emotion, fixing his eyes on the necromancer before him. “Welcome, Markal, of Cassalantar. Although, I’m certain this isn’t your first time to wander these halls.” Jericho motioned towards a very basic wooden chair for Markal to be seated in. Splinters were a dire possibility, a possibility Swain could only hope for. Not waiting for the man to be seated, Jericho continued. “My advisers thought it necessary to build up a dossier of profiles of all the heads of houses and political heavyweights of Noxus. Laughable, isn’t it?” He paused for effect, although not long enough to allow the necromancer to interject. “I know my cards, and I know when to play them,” he croaked, “but I can’t win with my hand alone. I require loyalty and strength to succeed, and revive Noxus. I believe you have both, Cassalantar, but I know you come at a price. Name it,” he finished, snapping straight to the point. Jericho resented playing power games with the nobles, yet he knew the necessity and enormity of the task. He kept his opinions hidden as best he could however; he had seen the political carnage wrought by the most recently deceased Darkwill, and he had resolved in his mind that we was not going to allow a repeat scenario. Besides, he had reasoned with himself, this one might actually be useful….

[markal-the-necromancer]

The Necromancer quirked an eyebrow ever-so-slightly in acknowledgement as his gaze swept across the room, only to continue their trail, making certain there would be no … unwanted visitors to their discussions. Only when he was satisfied with his own little scanning did his eyes snap to Swain, his visage marred by the sardonic, almost devilish smile concealed amongst the silver trimmed beard as he took several tentative steps towards the Grand General’s general direction – he seemed on the point to speak and accompany his words with his eccentric theatrical flourishes, but was simply never allowed the chance, which made the smile plastered on his face to lose from its intensity. His right hand tightly gripped around his staff, his left hand held before his chest, flexing it open and closed in a visible tick of annoyance at not given the chance to speak … not that he audibly protested about it.

Instead, he bowed his head slightly in unspoken thanks at the offered chair, which he approached from behind – but instead of sitting down on it, he pressed his left hand on the wooden back to lean his weight onto it, revealing a pale, sinewy hand, the veins pulsing noticeably underneath the skin. He had countless golden rings encrusted with venom-green, red and black expensive gems - most likely a distraction from the long and seemingly sharp fingernails while his tips lightly tapped and scraped against the surface at a rhythmic tempo. His smile faded entirely – surely, there was no point to entertain the mask no longer, considering how sharply the Master Tactician made his point – his venom-green eyes pinned to a blank spot on the floor, avoiding the gaze of his conversation partner as his visage now showed signs of thoughtfulness.

But only for a moment, for the next one Markal raised his head to grin at Jericho, visibly gritting his teeth together in a theatrical grin. “Well, well, well.” He began in a mocking tone. “Certainly, you are far more different than your … predecessor. Boram always took his time, stalling, watching and learning from the reactions manifested by those around them … it is quite easy to rat out the liars and jesters … and keep the valuable little pawns, hmm?”

Markal let out a bemused huff as he smiled. “But you seem to be as sharp as a sword, piercing directly to the heart of the problem. This … change of pace, it may prove a little bit difficult on mine creaking bones, but aaahhh ….” He let out a throaty chuckle as he raised his hand to wave it nonchalantly.

“This one may be old, Grand General…” He pressed his hand on his chest, making the various medals, signets and trinkets pinned to the night-black folds of his robes clink softly as he bowed lightly. “But do not let that fool you. I may be of use to you, still. And I am … certain you may be of use to me, as well, hrrm?” He seemed to clear his throat at the end of the question. “As old-fashioned as I may be, I still hold the best interests of Noxus next to my shriveled little heart. Everything I do, in the end, will always result with that idea in mind.”

He began slowly pacing in a small square around the chair as he spoke, apparently maintaining a monologue with himself. “I am far too old to understand whatever these card games you youngsters pretend to be playing. Pssaaah – I say, let them! I am a man of my work, my family and my city-state – those are the most important morals a man should follow, so I reckon …”

He abruptly stopped, only to turn on his heels and stare at Swain, a wicked smile visible on his features. “But, ah – you humble me so, Grand General, to remember this one … so fondly. House Cassalantar is one of the oldest ones Noxus has to offer – our roots run deep, far deeper than the deepest tunnels we may be aware of, but how many more are there still lying in wait? My House’s Family Tree, it rests atop the very bones of the first and greatest Noxian Generals, the ones that have proclaimed the first of the Rune Wars, the most powerful of the magi and strongest of the fighters to prevail and form the mold after which we strive to maintain nowadays – successful or not …” He raised his hand to wave it nonchalantly. “Hrrmf. It could be better, I reckon – but I shall let you be the judge. I am quite the old-fashioned old man – my mind may not be where it is supposed to be.  It may be I do not have a mind anymore, at all. Ahahah!” He guffawed loudly, only to abruptly stop.

“Hrr-hmm … where was I … Oh, yes! House Cassalantar has reached far, make you no mistake … we have remained strong and stable, while other even greater houses rose higher than us, only to crumble oh-so-unceremoniously back in the ashes they came from.” He quirked an eyebrow. “One could consider your predecessor a worthy example, perhaps. Hrrrm. Yesss ….” He dragged the last word onward as he began leisurely pacing around his chair once more.

“But ah, for just how long can one maintain that statement, especially this one, when he finds himself so unfortunately alone. My wife and daughter passed away, the latter proudly serving Noxus in the last War, but leaving nothing behind, I suppose….”

He stopped once more, bringing a hand to run his fingers through his beard. “Hrrm, hrrm … you see, normal men, they die once – you run a sword through them, or subtly place venom in their wine goblet, or accidentally push them down a flight a stairs … and there are as gone as a spring breeze! But you and I … we are great men. Perhaps our physical forms will die, unfortunately taking us with them, but there is still a way for us to remain immortal – legacies, my dear friend! All great men leave behind them a legacy! The death of a legacy is, perhaps, the most tragic end of them all…”

[markal-the-necromancer]

Dealing with the Dead and the Devil (RP w/ ask-swain)

He did not announce his arrival, neither was he accosted by whatever guards or servants to inquire his business. But the Necromancer was confident, the Raven would make an appearance …

[ask-swain-deactivated20190329]

The ethereal bird fluttered up to the Cassalantar, hovering in front of him for a second, before accelerating faster than the eye could catch. It collided with the necromancer’s head in a small puff of green haze; just one way Jericho had devised to take a small revenge for all the pattering and self-service of most of the nobles he had encountered thus far. Despite the seeming insult of the act, the collision had served its purpose; images briefly flowed through Markal’s mind of the path to a small meeting chamber well out of the way of prying eyes. Within, the Noxian crest, overshadowed by a raven.

The Raven awaited.

[markal-the-necromancer]

Markal shifted from his position as his emerald eyes spotted the ethereal companion, his expression turning to a satisfied smirk - it seemed like he was right. The Raven did catch whiff of his entrance ... and not fashionably late, either.

However, the smirk was promptly wiped off his face when the Raven seemingly charged straight into his forehead only to disperse at the collision, his vision temporarily clouded by the green haze before it would promptly reveal a pathway towards the designated meeting area. Markal crinkled his nose as he scowled, obviously offended by the act ... but he ground his teeth together and swallowed the affront, if only for now. At least, compared to Darkwill, Swain had a less ... bloody way of inviting his esteemed guests for a talk.

The Necromancer wasted no time. Thunk, thunk, thunk. The sound of his staff tapping against Darkbourne Hold's stone floor accompanied his otherwise soundless steps, the folds of his black robes trailing after him like a vaporous streak of pitch.

Markal had been in this place plenty of times - yes, quite a great deal, especially during old Boram's reign. After all, if there was one thing one could say about the old necromancer was that he was indeed loyal to his city-state and its ruling liege. He had seen his share of secret chambers and rooms that Darkbourne Hold had to offer - the one Swain chose was one of the few he rarely had the pleasure to find himself within. But it was familiar, nevertheless. He knew just exactly where to go, which corner to turn, whether it was the left or the right finger to hold out when pressing the button and - ... ah!

The door opened, indeed revealing the room exactly as it was shown to him by Jericho's delightful little trick. With a stiff-straight posture and his chin held up high in dignified arrogance, he strode within, the tapping of his staff changing tones as the floor underneath his feet changed from stone to polished wood.

However, he only took several steps further into the room before he promptly stopped and turned his head around, his eyes glowing a shinier hue of green as he swept his gaze around the chamber, a thoughtful expression on his face. Whatever he was doing, it certainly involved magic ...

[markal-the-necromancer]

"Your granddaughter is about as Demacian as they come, Cassalantar."

The senior necromancer let out a scoff as he rolled his eyes, his words dripped with venom. "Tssk tssk - I congratulate you for your most astute observation, General. It seems you aren't the unintelligent brute I initially believed you to be."

He would suddenly turn with a flourish of his black robes, holding out his hands dramatically. "But, ah! That is just a minor obstacle, a mild hindrance. You see ..."

He would turn once again, this time hunching his back whilst holding one clenched hand to his chest, the other still holding onto his skull-headed staff. "One is able to draw power from one's bloodline. Whilst the present ... dilution of the Cassalantar blood with that of a poorer quality may seem most unfortunate, it is nothing that cannot be changed."

He straightened his posture, pacing aimlessly as his footsteps, otherwise soundless, were accompanied with the rhythmic thunk-thunking of his staff. He was grinning most wickedly in his beard, his eyes glimmering an unholy hue of green. "If one knows how, it is possible to wring out the weak properties, eliminate them completely or change them into something useful ... whilst keeping that which is good and strong, turning it into something far more advanced than it initially was - from both sides."

He then puffed out as he stopped in his tracks and regarded Darius with a disdainful expression, pursing his lips together in mild disgust. "Then again ... what would you know about such things, hrrm?"

[markal-the-necromancer]

Mark my words, Mordenheim – I never forget. And I never forgive. Next time you come up with such a brilliant idea like making Cassalantar an offer, at least make it worth my TIME!

Markal Cassalantar, sassily denying an offer

[markal-the-necromancer]

You have much to learn about what goes around here – in this case, allow me to … share some of my wisdom with you. Everyone around here is an ally… until proven otherwise. Most of them all, I. Never underestimate a man’s loyalty and love to his city-state. But that … is where it stops.

Markal Cassalantar on Noxian Patriotism

[markal-the-necromancer]

Do not let the name deceive you, for our roots ... run as strong as ever. It is a most fortuitous time, ever since Swain has taken control - the sudden shift in command has caused a stir, yes yes, it made people think of their careers and their lives ... money is easy to come by, but what about good education and proper noxian tradition? That does not come by easy, you know ... but - then again, easy was something Witherwood did not appreciate. Efficient, yes, but a proud Noxian always looks forward for the challenge!

Markal Cassalantar, on Witherwood Academy

[markal-the-necromancer]

You know well what I think about letters - you either see a man's face as you speak with him, look him in the eyes and know full well where his intentions lay - or ... you do not. Simple.

Markal Cassalantar, showing his disdain towards letters