#mr blaque

[safrona-shadowsun]

Send 🙌 to get a Promo of your blog written by my Muse!- The First

“Ah…you have questions about the guitarist, don’t you?” The Courier slipped a glance from her booth to the man in black that occupied a corner of the Lounge that night, readying his lovely Ebony on his knees to test her strings. Perhaps the musician had felt said Courier’s gaze, meeting it with just below the brim of his hat in that moment. “I think you could call him “Mr. Blaque.” she spoke casually as she drew her eyes away, trying to smooth over the taken little smile he often inspired in her. 

“A very storied soul. Like many musicians, yes? But he has a very particular style. Intimate, some would say. Some days he brings the room to a quiet with a solemn piece. And some days I think he could raise the very dead to their feet to dance if he wanted to.” 

“But he’s more prone to putting them to rest, the spirits that is. Something that’s important in this day and time when so many are dying for someone’s war. I call him ‘Soulsinger’, among other things…” An unconventional softness seeped into the Void Elf’s tone for just a moment as she spun a bottle of Highland Scotch in place upon her booth table. The Void Elf recovered her more practiced charm quickly. “But I digress – words about the man are best spoken by the man himself. Pay him a visit, yes?”

{ @thefirstperished <3 }

[safrona-shadowsun]

{Rp between Safrona and @aranyaphoenix that eventually carried into game. Thank you for helping me get more acclimated to rping in game again! Under a cut for length. With mention of @mrblaque!}

A short, penned letter in return was sent to the Arcanist detailed a time to meet in Sunspire Port, always injecting some needed organization within the bit of chaos of her days. The Courier was also a punctual creature, yet she arrived without her typical red cloak - today was not exactly a day for the typical business it would signal. Safrona was dressed only in the Ebonsilk gown that the lady Arcanist had given her on the first day of their meeting a summer ago, and today she was approaching few else. The expected company of the Ethereal also waited, the setting sun edging the starry light of his form with its color. Her gaze was cast out to the sea, idling on the scene that gave the Port its aspect of beauty.

Aranya could only smile, seeing the familiar gown she had given to the lovely Courier, and how the smoldering design matched the flame-washed appearance of Saraj's wrappings. It was like they had been donned in fire, just for the occasion of meeting with her. "It is good to see you both," greeted the arcanist. "Please, tell me what matters have been at hand."

A cant of the head was given by the lady importer,  while the Ethereal flourished into the usual gentlemanly bow,  show off that he was. "Too many matters at hand,  but I'm glad for the moment to tear away from them to meet with you. " Safrona ambled along slowly down the pier,  inviting Aranya to stroll with her.  She seemed to want the conversation to be more private,  away from passing ears.  "But one of those matters I've felt... drawn to speak with you on." A small smile curved her lips as her absinthe eyes glanced the Arcanist's way.  "If Blaque trusts you,  I figure that is a good sign I can too."

"Likewise," replied Aranya with sincere warmth. "And your aid arranging with Saraj for the temporary dome for Sunspire was most helpful. I would be only to happy to return such a favor."

There was a silence from the Courier, unsure of how to begin to ask her questions, to ask the favors she would ask. Her natural hesitance did not go unnoticed, and the sincerity of the Arcanist came again. “How can I help, Safrona?”

She was unable to meet the sorceress’ eyes in that moment. “I hoped for a... favor. That you might keep something hidden for me. Or...safe, is more the word. Keeping it in Dalaran any longer might put me at risk of certain implications I am trying to avoid.”

Aranya’s whiskery black eyebrows furrow. “I can certainly do my best. What manner of “something” is it that could implicate you, may I ask?”

Safrona let out a soft exhale in attempt to release her nervousness, her absinthe gaze holding on Aranya a moment as she explained in a careful murmur. “It’s of a demonic nature. Sunspire Port was what I thought of as far as...security. With you and Blaque...”

Stepping forward and nodding, Aranya was quiet, all ears to hear whatever more needed to be said. But staring on the Arcanist drew in the Courier’s gaze, attaching to something beneath the flesh, idling sight penetrating. “There is...more I feel. A draw to you specifically. I am unsure how well you are connected to the Purveyor but...there is a familiarity that surpasses even what I feel in him in you...”

Ver’sarn blinked, silent and straight faced, as the Courier continued with her careful insight. “...you have touched something....tainted, haven’t you? I feel it, like a dark stirring..”

It was Aranya’s turn for her eyes to be chased away as she admitted: “I have touched--and tasted--many a tainted thing these past several years...it’s not easily understood by some. “What stirs...funny you should say that.” Safrona was met by a wry smile.

“This seems...or feels more recent.” The warlock continued a little more confidently at the admittance. “Either a newly touched demonic source, or something...resurfacing?” The curious edge was on her voice, still surprised in what she herself was saying. The lady Arcanist hardly seemed to be one embroiled in corruption. But she heard it, the dark static of something kept quiet for too long. “There are voices that I am tuned to in the Dark, and it knows your name.”

A nod from the Arcanist further solidified her insights. “There is one. One I tasted, one I crippled in ways that can never be undone. His face found me in my dreams, recently, making threats...or portents. I struggle to discern which.”

“...manipulative, yes? Even in death their hold is reaching. It is their nature to corrupt.” The Courier remarked with some bitterness. “I struggle in my own way as well, but it is more the nature of what I do. As the Legion has fell on Azeroth again, the demons have become more prey than I mean them to be. But every soul I tap into, that I rip from them is...not always the victory that some would celebrate.” She gave her attention back to Aranya as she looked out to sea, the storm that seemed to ever be building in the distance.

“Mmm, they were common prey for me as well, once upon a time. I hunted them in the days we tapped mana, for sustenance. But what no one could have known was what part of my true nature that fostered in me.”

A quiet attentiveness continued in the Courier, the verdant gaze of the Arcanist returning to her with intensity. “I liked it, Safrona. I found a visceral pleasure in the hunt, the triumph, the taste of tapping the essence of my prey before they fade away. That’s never gone away. It’s an addiction deeper than blood, my predator nature. But it’s been years since I gained full self-control and few know or really understand it...”

The importer’s brow furrowed both with some confusion. “...how did you stay...yourself, in it all? Did they’re hatred not haunt you? Their destruction? Until you could not remember who you are?”

Aranya shook her head, “I felt nothing for them after I drained them. Like an animal, or a beast. And that’s what I struggled with, being my own master of myself, trying to not let the urges of my blood be what controlled me. And yet, that urge for the hunt stirs more strongly than ever again....He saw it in me as he faded beneath my hand. He knows.”

A momentary silence again, as each woman considered the words already passed, the words to next give. Aranya broke it with her wry smile. “The Tomb changed the whole game, didn’t it? A font of power for them all, even the weakest ones.”

There was a gradual nod from the Courier as she agreed. “It changes much. And in the years I have survived, I’ve fought a long habit of needing to...change as well. Or go back to the beginning of what I know, I suppose you can say.”

A nod now from the Arcanist, kindly in tone. “Perhaps we can help each other...”

“I am hoping so...” Safrona began on an anxious breath as she rolled a finger up across her temple. More cracks in the Courier’s composure tonight than she would be privy to before the typical acquaintance. “But you need to know more of me in order for that to happen.”

A directing nod to the Ethereal, and Saraj breached reality to access Void Storage, pulling an articulated chest of dark orgin from its hollow expanse. As it hit the wooden dock with a heaviness, the disturbed reality healed.

“My initial forray into the Dark Arts was paved on a road of ignorance, Miss Aranya. A decade ago I was...different. Naive. Too trusting. Desperate. Vengeful. And I trusted my fate to the wrong mentoring hands. A decade ago, I earned boons of power by offering up the innocent to the Dark. The purer the soul, the better the sacrifice, the better the boon of power by which to earn. And with our own measured currency invested in the soul, it was not long before I began offering up pieces of my own to better cement my path to power.”

Aranya nodded gravely, but it was not with a judging eye, coercing instead for the Courier to continue.

“In the days of my Gathering, my coven, this was...simply the expectant. We did not question who we served, the names we gave ourselves to. In those days, the name Tichondrius was one meant for all else to fear and us to divulge long-dead secrets from.” Safrona’s eyes settled on the chest lain before them. “By the time I could gather my will to break from the ‘pack’, the gravity of what what was done was...there. My soul tethered to names sworn in the Great Dark, to demonic overlords. I have managed to outrun my fate for years in one way or another, but the Path ends the same either way I walk it.”

“Dark bargains were made then, I take it?”

A stiff nod now from the Courier. “I had long settled with my fate. That I belong to the Dark, when I take my last breath and cannot steal another more.”

Aranya almost seemed bemused now, trying to lighten the moment. “Doesn’t sound like a very pleasant afterlife, eternally in thrall.”

Safrona’s smile tightened. “In thrall? More perhaps hollowed out by others to serve as a vessel. There are many ways that the entities of the Dark can stake a claim on a soul, and none are too pleasant.”

The words stole the mirth from the Arcanist. “And what of your soul...?”

Safrona lighted a finger at her own breast, simply feeling the heart that beat beneath it, the thrum of the soul it echoed through. For a moment, her eyes misted over with the knowing she could lose all of what she had tried to make her own, even if she lost all right to it long ago. “What is left of who I am is...chained to the Dark, food for the Dreadlord I swore it too. Even in death he continues to mock me, eternally bound to the Dark as I am, knowing I belong. I have no future. No afterlife. And I had thought I had long settled with the price I am to pay...”

Her voice took a soft, yearning turn, staring out to the ocean where so much began and ended. “And yet...in the three years I have began to learn to live again? I...have come to want more. To be more, to live...more. I may have become greedy, but I want to claim a better death when the day comes, at the very least. Is this too much to want, my friend?”

There was no answer, but the gentle wrap of arms around her. At first there was hesitation within the embrace. Even within Aranya’s inner struggles, she was not a demon, and the touch lighted on a submerged yearning for something to break up the monotony of Fel-taint the Warlock had fed on alone. But with an instilled control, and the heavy reliance of warding runes inscribed to her skin, she inhaled only the comfort that was offered from a friend. 

“I think I know how this can be done,” Aranya murmured as she released the importer. “And perhaps it will bring some light for me as well.”

“...yes...” Lacy fingers gestured to the chest. “This is why I bring the chest to Sunspire Port. To you. To Blaque. Your Order. I think you can help me.”

“What is in the chest?”

“What is left of the Lord of the Nathrezim. What I could manage. His dormant eye.”

The wheels visibly turned in the Arcanist’s head as she gazed to the ‘prize’, even as Safrona further explained. “I need to severe my connection to him. To the Legion. I want to.”

The thoughtful gaze lightened with a spark in her eyes, Aranya’s lips slowly pulled to a smile. “If Blaque will allow it...I believe I know just such a condition that brings this about.”

The Courier injected her intensity to the matter. “Aranya...My freedom’s cost is death, either way. And I understand it can be my own, if it must be.”

The grave silence returned as the sorceress nodded, and Safrona dared to perk a smile. “Luckily we have soulstones, yes?”

“Or something very near to it.” The Arcanist paused to collect her wheel of thoughts, then elaborated again. “Tezzakel. That was the name of the first demon I crippled beyond repair. Because I drained him of his power and killed him in the wastes of Outland, a world saturated by the Nether. Talk to Blaque, there is a way you can face your death, and if it is done in the heart of the Netherstorm, you may yet have your freedom, one way or another.”

Safrona muttered the name beneath her breath to commit it to memory, as such names held power. But as Aranya mentioned Netherstorm, there was a glint of recognition in her eyes as they blinked back up to the Arcanist.

“...fitting, I think. I died there once. Fell from the clutches of the Nether when I tried to denounce what bound me, deny the sacrifice of my love.” She was momentarily lost in resurfacing memory, of which Aranya brought her back from with the encouraging comfort of a touch to the arm. “Thank you for your insights. I will...confer with Blaque. But enough of the glum talk. I think I promised a certain sorceress wine.”

[safrona-shadowsun]

" My sweet courier... It's time ta' stop sittin' on the fences an' make the leap; the leap tha'll brin' ya' inta' the depths of 'oo an' wha' I am. Join me, Safrona... Join me in Deat'."

{Join Me In Death by HIM - because I couldn’t get the song out of my head for this }

The opening of the Purveyor’s usual bottle of Highland Scotch slowed in the Courier’s slender wrap of fingers, his request a deeper one than she ever expected today in her delivery to the Port. Her absinthe gaze was caught by the haunting crimson of his own, her breath softly held like the superstitious might when passing the graves of the lonely lost in hopes their own names would not be etched in stone too soon to join them. She released on a quiet breath of a chuckle, eyes drifting down the rugged face and back to the bottle, where she would continue to pour his favorite of her selections. “Very strong delivery,” she answered at last with an evasive tease, “but I’m afraid you’ll chase away many a lovely lady with that kind of offer, Mr. Blaque.”

It was the coy response she would give to most as the Courier, habitually hiding behind the armor of her little mystery of a smile, putting up the front of her redirecting charm. Yet Blaque had long started to sweep aside her professional veil through their unnatural bond, secrets shared and only understood by death-scarred souls. His glass was carefully set on his desk now with a slow, more apologetic smile. The man deserved more than the smoke and mirrors of empty talk, she knew. “I know of your Perished, my Blaque Orchid. At least I hear you speak of it here or there in name across your Shadowlands. And I am drawn to find others to bring into your fold, but I keep myself from your ritual. I know I seem like the queen of indecision here, clinging to my ‘fence’ as I have. But there are reasons for that hesitance.”

Inhaling softly, the lady importer poured herself her own glass of Highland scotch over ice as she preferred, sitting at the edge of his desk with a pained smile. “The last time I swore my service to anyone, it was in ignorance, and a lust for power fed by the circle that I put my faith in. And in that faith, we swore our service to demons, to the infinite Dark of their defining. And while I abandoned most sense of faith and motivation since those years after the ruin I’ve brought myself, I am quite sure some hunt me now in the Legion’s invasion to bring me back to where I belong, to serve as was promised. Or to at least drag me down to torment me as a reward for my defiance. Or…just as a twisted reward. Demons are rather ubiquitous in their reasoning for torture.”

There was a pause amongst heavy words to drink, taking a brief pleasure from her glass before continuing, staring numbly into a shadowed corner of the Purveyor’s office. “Death has been a series of returns, reformations for me. It has meant a certain amount of change, the death of the old and the survival of the new. Sacrifices for evolution. But as much as I have changed from the soul I began as, those I formed pacts with remember, and they wait to claim what was offered. In the finality of death, without runes to bind me to the flesh, my soul know where it is bound, ultimately. It knows it belongs in the hands of the Infernal realms it is promised to, to be consumed. I am lucky to prolong the inevitable as long as I have. Well, resourceful, is more the word.”

The Courier’s gaze drifted back to the Purveyor’s, bearing her brutally gentle smile. “And so that is your Courier’s dilemma, and why she does not know if she can be sworn to your Perished. If you wish me to plumb the depths of who and what you are, my previous….’attachments’ must be unraveled, and I do not have the power to do this alone. I wonder if Death can save a doomed soul, truly.” Safrona quickly moistened her lips, eyes veering away as she spoke with a hint of anxiousness. “…but I trust you to help me find out, if your walk across the Shadowlands gives you ideas.”

{ @mrblaque }

[safrona-shadowsun]

Haunt me- Mr. Blaque

{ Leave a “Haunt Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character watching over yours [as a ghost, watching from a distance, or otherwise, feel free to specify.] }

{Say You’ll Haunt Me - Stone Sour}

Within their unusual bond, a Voice was enough to haunt. Though often it was Blaque’s accented vocals that stretched across the death-touched realm he shadowed through to reach the Courier, echoing around her soul with his gritty charm. The assassin was gradually a welcome haunt for her, providing a spiritual conscience like a lantern in the dark when he needed it, a confessional. There was a certain pride she took in that for him, and an interest that went beyond business.  His was a dark soul, a survivor, one that she found something vital in, and a presence she would never dismiss.

Yet for however much the woman he only knew as Safrona stayed alight for him, no matter how much of a confidant, she was careful not to reach too strongly in turn. Always restrained in the ebb and flow of secrets, she seemed. Not bright and warm as his Phoenix, nor ruling with the wild strength of his Wolf Queen, nor the lively personages of the Port she knew had made a stamp somehow on his heart. She was an echo, a wayward soul that had pretended too long under her Courier mask, and sometimes she could be nothing else but that pretender. A Shadow on the Sun.

But under a taste of Highland Scotch, he encouraged her to be more.

“Y’always lettin’  y’ lovely boy haunt his sweet Courier, lettin’ him lay out his pain, followin’ th’ map o’ the scars on ‘is soul,” his Voice drifted to her, backed by the lazy strum of guitar strings, “when are y’ gon’ haunt me the same?”

“You’re so much more interesting…” Safrona teased, evasive as usual. A little playful tug was given of that soul he trusted her with.

The air around her seemed to thicken with his voice, his presence, as if she pulled him to her, the scotch warmed on his breath as he captured her ear in all seriousness. “Haun’ me, Saf.  I want you to.”

It was an irrisistable plead in the end, a need to reach for someone close evoked, another soul to spill herself to, someone trusted enough that could she could bury her secrets in. Reaching seemed easy in that moment that Blaque wanted it, finding herself there in his office, shedding skin, spectral. Elvish skin left behind, she was something unearthly that was apart of the skin she wore, her eyes like lanterns on him. Rune-scribed chains trailed from her,  imbedded in the nexus of her being, each bearing the weight of each tithe agreed to, each pact for power, bound to what she swore herself to so long ago. 

“You don’t want me haunting you,” she whispered somberly, her voice like the rustle of autumn leaves. But spectral fingers were already reaching, trailing against the bearded face, dipping in along the soul in a caress that was more meaningful than flesh could ever be. “…to haunt is to possess, and I have no right to claim you.” A mournful chuckle escaped the ‘Courier’, a soft resonance of sound that reverberated down his bones. “I cannot even claim myself. But you breathe beautiful words…and give safety, pulling me away from my Dark, and into Yours.”

The rush of her words, heavy with yearning laced with regret, they began to release the Purveyor as the bound soul backed away. The chains around her spectral form began to glow red, reminding her of the hell she was bound to when she would find no more escape from death. The Nether twisted behind her, her collection of demons shadowy figures emerging, eyeing the Purveyor with dangerous interest.. “…but I am a fool to think I am ever safe for too long. I should not bring my hell to haunt the peace of your Dark.”

Returning to the shell of her form, she inhaled, tasting life and the heat of scotch upon her tongue again. Little addictions, little treasures she’d become attached to, like Blaque. Lying her head on her desk, the spiral of her long wine braid washed over polished wood. “It’s not to say that I couldn’t, lovely boy. Haunt you little by little, if you wish. If you are strong enough to not let me ruin you. Stay, and we will see, yes?”

{Seeecrits @mrblaque, I hope that makes any lick of sense. With small mention of @aranyaphoenix and @wolf-queen}

[safrona-shadowsun]

" I want ta' 'old an' remove the fear wit'in ya'."

“Can you…? Safrona asked in turn her visiting Shadow. “Should you?” There was only one voice that held such a sound, she knew, that familiar Shadow. It spoke a story in the soul, and entreated for her most personal thoughts, which she let spill far easier that she would for most. “Fear’s healthy to have, I think. For all the destruction I can do, fear is the least harming. It keeps a target from getting hurt in the end. It makes us warier, wiser to the potential pain waiting to afflict us. I’m…not so sure that I should be without that wisdom exactly. It keeps me grounded. Thinking I am safe for too long is a foolish thought, however sweet the idea of the sanctum of another’s arms might seem. Sanctums are so often lost, Sweet Shadow, and I am left with demons waiting to prey on the weakness left in me in the fallout. Always.”

{ @mrblaque }

[safrona-shadowsun]

" Anotha' late night confession: I miss runnin' in the shadows, doin' wet work an' makin' a difference. Miss 'avin a crew ta work wit' an' ta watch em work a blade, not as well as me but still pretty good. I need ta' run again.."

The witching hour into the night's whiskey confessional had barely begun when the all too familiar voice found Safrona, making the smile tug with some wistfulness at the confession. "...a shadowdancer, blade in each hand, cutting away the ills of the world yourself, and turning the ear of other shadows to gather to your cause...?"

The vision of the once-named Black Orchid coalesced within her thoughts as she remembered him, red-eyed and silver-tongued, stepping from the shadow with a smile. "Some guitar for good measure, and I can confess I would wish to see it again too. But we are restless little souls at our cores, aren't we? And the world we want to connect to is so much more than four walls."

{ @mrblaque }

[safrona-shadowsun]

Send a ✿ to my inbox and my muse will fill this out about yours!- Mr. Blaque

A thought about them that they’d never share: We're bonded at the soul. Any closer, and you'd think we're lovers. Fel, Orchid. The Courier chuckled nervously to herself. First impression of them: "I knew the Purveyor just a bit before the name 'Blaque', yes. It was the voice I met first, the music. I loved the way he would make his guitar weep." A soft, breath of a laugh. "So did many other women, I think."Favorite thing about them: "I feel I can speak to him about anything. Though, ahaha, I shouldn't sometimes. Might drive the poor man mad. He has a lot on his plate. Business is easier."Least favorite thing about them: "...I don't like that he doesn't get a break from being the Purveyor. He wears his mantle too well. Even I manage to not be the Courier. Sometimes. Crazy, I know. But we all need an escape, yes?"Hopes for their future relationship: "I've seen, heard, the Legion taking much from this world recently. I can be content knowing Mr. Blaque isn't lost too. Again."{ @mrblaque }

[safrona-shadowsun]

Red Courier to the Rescue

{Response to original post here }

Circling one of the precious little vials she'd mysteriously received in hand, Safrona took a moment from resupplying an invaded Azeroth to admire the assumed potential held within all that delicate glass. It seemed highly familiar in her eyes, in fact, echoing the ethereal make-up of...well...an Ethereal. Her gaze floated over to Saraj rather curiously, the Ethereal only waiting on being asked the right questions. A stride to her assistant's side, and she gently placed the precious vial in his silken 'hand'.

"Is it true? Is it of Consortium make? It resembles your Ethereal Liqueor somewhat..."

"Ahhh, my lady courier," the Ethereal lingered, wrapped fingers enclosing the vial in his grasp. "It is so more than the liquor, no?" Saraj spoke mirthfully, producing a bottle of magic-infused liquor in the other delicately weaved hand. Few had access to an Ethereal's special inventory, and few could pay the price they asked in return, as she could. Souls were Saraj's currency and livelihood; they helped keep him intact, as well as the rest of his brethren within the Consortium.

Staring silently on the Ethereal for a moment, Safrona gradually sighed out her words. "If it can save lives, we'll need much more, yes? Sunspire Port is good business. It would be an immediate shame to lose it, lose some of our favorite people, especially in the wake of these damned demons."

"...your Saraj is at your service," Another bow, the Ethereal continuing on intently, "...for the right price."

Safrona pivoted away on foot without a question more, determined. Sacrifice was always necessary. "Let's be off then. I've souls to throw at you. Fel, you're going to make me starve this time."

Much later in the evening of scheduled delivery to the Port, a curious crate would be delivered by Saraj in the night to the Purveyor's office, fifty replicated vials of arcane-infused medicine safely contained within. A letter penned by the Courier was contained within, as well as the originating letter from 'Rizzy the Rig Master'.

Orch Dearest Blaque,

Contained within are very rare vials that I am told may help with the plague holding Sunspire Port hostage. Distribute them to the sick as you see fit. The price is heavy for their making, but rest assured I am working with the Ethereal in producing more. I will continue to send Saraj with new shipments of these vials each night as more is concocted. Between the demonic invasions and the high-risk of Sunspire, Saraj is a better bet than me to deliver. Please keep me informed. I am searching my contacts on those knowledgeable on the Old Gods, as Mister Rizzy requested.

I wish you, Mister Rizzy, and all of the Port well. Here is to the day when we can all sit in the Broken Chain safely and share in rounds of Scotch again.

~Your Courier

{ Originally posted by Rizzy the Rig Master } Rolls for use of the vials: First use: 1-5 sets the disease back a week, 6-10 2 weeks, 11-15 3 weeks, 16-20 4 weeks Second use: 1-7 sets the disease back a week, 8-14 2 weeks, 15-20 3 weeks Third use: 1-11 set the disease back a week, 12-20 sets it back 2 zero potency beyond the third use.

{ @rizzythemonk, @mrblaque, @sunspireport }