#only edited

[mychemicalvamp]

[floating-feelings]

(transparent glitter fluff)

[likeabulletfromagun]

[markal-the-necromancer]

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

Despite the still-darkened morning sky looming across the city of Noxus, some of its denizens have already stirred awake and began their daily routines diligently. The streets were still lighted by the lamps as peddlers set up their stalls and the more respectable merchants opened up their shops. But just as any respectable, working man would start their day so, why would necromancers be an exception to this rule? Whatever people that were walking through the main street scurried to the sides as a tall, slender man made his way right through the middle. His robes were as black as night, save for the distinctive, red velvet material fastened to his shoulders, with countless golden trinkets and expensive gemmed brooches, which clinked ever-so-softly with each movement. His posture was straight and as stiff as a board, holding his chin up high in a prideful, almost arrogant manner - nobody could dare doubt his stature as a noble of high importance. Despite his soundless steps, his staff - an elegantly-carved thing with a clean, pristine-kept human skull at the top - was thunking softly against the cobblestones as he walked at a slow pace. His expression was blank, unreadable - the portrait of nobility, with aquiline features crowned by neck-length cropped, silvery-white hair and a trimmed pickedevant. His venom-green eyes focused on a point on the horizon, seemingly ignoring the present world surrounding him. That changed, however - he stopped in his track, and obstacle in his path. A child - no less than five, no more than seven - had let his rubber ball roll in the street and had finally caught it, holding it victoriously in his hands. The happiness had faded, however, quickly wilting underneath Markal's severe gaze, having broken his straight posture to look down upon the child. The boy's pupils were dilated to large, black discs in their grey-blue pools - an eye color to die for, really. His little heart had slowed down from its usual rhythm, a fact Markal found delightful - if the boy held his breath any longer, his body will soon suffer from lack of oxygen. And yet, here he was, frozen - no doubt, in fear - before him. A woman's muffled cry was heard from somewhere in the crowd - no doubt, the mother, the child's life-giver. But nobody dared breathe a sound. Nobody dared raise a finger. What can one do to save a child standing before Death's Harbinger? ... Markal's lips curled up to a small smile - a cruel, knowing smile. Ignorant fools. Death does not reap until the crop is bountiful. His eyes saw more than others could - the child was but a feeble whelp. His bones - fragile and easily shattered. The skin - too tender, easily torn through. And the heart? Well, it does seem to be defect, considering how slow it is beating now ... From the sleeve of his robes, Markal took a coin - a golden coin, the kind of currency that opens a great deal of possibilities to those that have it - and know how to use it. With a flick of his wrist, he flipped the coin down to the child - surprisingly, he reacted swiftly to it and clumsily caught it in one hand while still clinging to the ball for dear life with the other. Hmm. Good eye-hand coordination and surprisingly fast reaction time. His brain has ... potential. Duly noted. Markal would raise the butt end of his staff and unceremoniously shoved the child from his path before he proceeded forward, with not a single glance thrown back. The grave-still silence that had pressed the streets during those moments had been broken by the cries of the mother as she retrieved her child and the crowd finally remembering to breathe. Markal resumed his initial demeanor, but his smile did not fade - on the contrary, it seemed to have widened to a grin, a most sardonic one. It may have seemed like kindness, that much is true... But it is kindness, too, when cattle is being raised, fed and tended to, only to send them to the butcher's to be slaughtered? Ah, yes ... morals. Such an ironic joke.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The necromancer kept his path straight and unobstructed as his purpose led him towards the grand structure of the High Command, the Darkbourne Hold. It has been quite a while since he last passed these gates ... yes, quite the while, if one were to consider the change of rulers. Gone was the old Darkwill - such a shame. His company was insufferable, but at least he made good work of remembering his allies. I can only hope that his successor will do the same.

The guards took notice of him, but did not stop him, neither did they visibly acknowledge them - not because they knew specifically who the man was, but because one does not wish to haggle with a necromancer-noble. He pursed his lips in a mild show of disdain - it was clear the guards were chanced and oblivious to his status, lest they would have bowed down as deeply as they could. It bothered him, but it was no surprise - the worst mistake a 'freshly'-risen Grand General could do was not to switch the predecessor's guards with his own men.

He made a mental note to remind the fresh switch of guards just who was it that passed them, but for now ... he kept his gaze pinned forward, his darkened form slipping through the parted grand entrance of Darkbourne Hold. He slowed down from his pursuit, stopping right in middle of the large, high-ceiling vestibule, his emerald gaze sweeping around his surroundings.

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 ...

[cervvo]

Brynjolf.