#sethennai

[silverscorpio11]

[silverscorpio11]

Csorwe, every time she she interacts with Sethennai:

[silverscorpio11]

This is how that conversation went, right? 🤔

[some-small-mercy]

High Noon at Redgate

The sun was shining and the birds sang. Which was nice, but a thunderstorm and wasp swarms wouldn’t have kept the crowds away on a day like this. Some had been camping in the best perches around the plaza’s edge since the night before, and enterprising sorts were renting out the windows of roofs of buildings looking down on it. The food carts had set up even before the spectators, and at least three nearby taverns had staff taking drink orders to run out. By the appointed hour, the crowd was well into the hundreds – after all, how often did the great and good of the city actually settle their disputes by trying to smash each others’ face in? It was the hottest show in town, and then some.

Captain Ritona Curze arrived first. Being the local favourite, the fiendblooded pirate queen got all the cheers and encouragements you could ask for – and she took her sweet time doing just that, playing to the crowd and enjoying every second of it. She was dressed exactly as everyone expected her to be, infamous dragonfire pistol and well-loved dueling sabre on her belt, and an impossible number of knives and alchemical tricks seemingly hidden in every cut of fabric or ring of armor. The Knight-Captain, by contrast, looked nothing at all like what the crowd had expected. He was still built like an ogre, certainly – nearly a head taller than anyone watching in the crowd, and even broader at the shoulder - but he had exchanged his usual raiment for a marine officer’s dream, pristine mithril chain and a matching longsword and shield still glittering in the sun. He came with his own crowd, dozens of squires and initiates running over each other for the chance to see their hero lay down Sart’s judgment. The Redgate natives started hurling abuse as soon as they caught sight of him, but none of them were quite so bold to keep going once the aristocratic knight stared them down. Curze, ever the gentlewoman, greeted him with an exaggerated bow and a flamboyant salute with her sabre before calling out “Ye’d better have a decent show in ye fer the crowd Duke, the street theater is the only reason I’ve shown up at all. Give em’ some material with me eh?” Tareis didn’t reply beyond a derisive snort, walking to the agreed upon distance and drawing his blade. Sneering down at Ritona, he replied “Your form is...just as I expected. Shall we get this over with?” The pirate’s expression soured at that, settling into a proper stance as she shot back “I did me learnin’ on ye duke, last t’survive on a plague ship full o’ yer kin, grim fates. Ready to join em at last?” And then, before anyone had time for anything so quaint as a bell or countdown, it was on. Ritona darted forward, faster than most of the crowd could follow, her sabre fleshing out towards the knight’s exposed armpit. Despite all appearances, Tareis proved himself to be nothing like the lumbering beast the crowd had assumed, reacting in time to parry and announce the duel’s beginning to with a clash of steel loud enough to echo through Redgate’s narrow and overbuilt streets. But before he could move to attack himself, Curze struck again, a dagger in her off-hand cutting him across the cheek as she jumped away and began circling him from a safe distance (quite far, given the knight’s reach). Tareis taunted her as she did, his rumbling voice loud enough for the entire crowd to hear. "Run, Ritona, run. Let everyone see what you are!" “Oh, they’re all see what I am. They’ll see what ye’r made of, too!”   And with that, another clash of steel, as Tareis shifted just in time to take the blow on his well armoured shoulder instead of his throat. And so it went, for a dozen clashes and more. Tareis quickly seemed to run out of words, a problem which Ritona certainly didn’t share, but little else changed. Ritona dashed forward, lunging in on a weak point in the ogre’s armour. Each time Tareis responded almost perfectly, his time seemingly pretenatural. But Ritona had a seemingly endless supply of daggers and distracting tricks, and every second or third try the shining knight ended up with a new line of bright red leaking onto his perfect armor. The crowd was almost entranced, barely aware of their own bodies as they strained to take in every detail. Suddenly, without warning or visible cause, Ritona stumbled as she tried to pull away. And, with a roar, Tareis lunged forward, one massive hand shooting out and grabbing the pirate’s shoulder before she could catch her footing. A look of panic flashed across Ritona’s face at that, but she reacted smoothly. Pulling a flare off one of her belts, she sent it flying into the knight-captain’s face seemingly the same moment he grabbed her. Somehow, he almost seemed prepared for it, jerking his head to the side and letting the wind take it harmlessly behind him. “Is this really the best you can do, Curze? I’m almost disappointed.” “Oh shut it, ye overgrown beastie!” Panting for breath, Ritona tried to break the far stronger man’s grapple – as he moved to grab her with both hands, trapping her in a headlock – but his right hand seemed like it might as well have been nailed into her, for all the luck she had. And so, a curse on her lips, Ritona jerked the Dragonbreath pistol from her belt and pressed it against the templar’s side, pulling the trigger before he had a moment to react. The thing lived up to its name. At point blank range, the two of them were engulfed in a fireball. It took a solid minute to clear, and smoke sent the fraction of the crowd in its path running, choking on ash and the smell of burning hair. But not, it seemed, burning flesh. When the smoke finally cleared, both combatants were covered with soot and much worse for wear, and Tareis in particular had a half-melted shirt of armor and was sweating like he might collapse. But he kept his grip on Ritona, the tiefling clearly suffocating in his grip as she slashed at his arm with a pair of knives. His arm was a bloody mess, flesh cut to ribbons and bone visible at points, armor utterly destroyed. Still, his grip held until her arms began to falter and go limp from simple asphyxiation. Looking up at him, she managed to choke out “Alright Duke, I yield. Ye’ve shown yer mettle and I’ve shown mine, looks like I prove the wanting. I’ll sing yer fighting praises and make sure the playwrights treat ye fair and just. All I ask fer is me life, fer I ain’t done on this wretched earth yet, and there are far more people relyin’ on me than I can just up and die fer aught but a bit of rep.” With perfect aristocratic contempt, he replied more to the crowd than to her, tightening his grip as he spoke. “You won’t die today, Curze. You will face Sart’s justice in due time. For now, you’re coming with me.” He did not move until she had gone limp, before finally releasing his grip around her neck and flinging her over his shoulder. The crowd seemed almost in shock, even his own supporters taking a few seconds to remember to cheer. As he moved to leave, some of the natives began to boo and yell insults or threats, but no one dared – or was prepared – to stop him as he marched back to crossroads. He managed to keep from visibly limping until he was onto the bridge, at least, the squires handled carrying Curze from there. It was only sheer, bloody-minded stubborn pride that got him to the temple under his own power, where a priestess of Cania waited to make sure he hadn’t been poisoned in the fight. He was unconscious before she finished tearing into him about the state of his arm.

[some-small-mercy]

A Prince in Carmine and Scarlet

The grandest of demons were too vast to be contained within themselves, the world breaking around them as all of creation rushed to share in the joy of rebelling against Heaven’s will. 

Naradin had nothing like that stature (though in a godless city, even the damned can dream). Still, it was mighty enough.

As it entered the banquet hall, the light through the windows grew dim and red. The candles and magelights filling the chandeliers and adorning the grand tables flickered and dimmed in the same instant, leaving the cavernous room filled with shadows and ruddy half-lights. Even had it looked like just another guest, that would have drawn all the attention in the world.

It did not. The demon was built on a roughly human plan. Seven feet tall, beautiful and androgynous. It’s ivory skin and long, ash-white hair seemed chosen to maximize the contrast with the sanguine tears forever dripping from its empty eye-sockets, and the glistening red coating its nimble hands to the wrist. There were wards, of course. But you couldn’t welcome guests from across the city into a hall for so many nights and expect security. And so, for the moment, all the enchantments set in wood and stone believed it to be a merchant with every right to be there. It was his blood dripping from its left hand, after all. And so the doors flung wide as it walked through them, red light flooding in behind it to complete the dramatic entrance. When it spoke, it spoke in the ear of every guest, its voice a medley of all those whose memory aroused the sharpest passion. The guards rushing towards it almost tripped over themselves in shock as it began. “Greetings, one and all! Welcome to the stage, and thank you for participating. I am Naradin, who dances amid slaughter. And tonight, you shall bear witness to my glory.” It did not react as the bravest of the guards charged, slamming polearms deep into its flesh, seeming to accomplish little but increasing the speed at which the puddle of blood spread across the floor. After a moment, the blood began running up the blade and shaft of the polearms as well, metal rusting as if years were passing for each second in contact. Neither guard was quite so devoted to their station to keep the grip on their weapons until the blood reached their hands. The demon paid neither any mind, continuing to speak as it stepped forward, blade clattering to the ground as it stepped forward and skin healing seamlessly the moment they did. “This city has no god, it has no prince. I offer myself in place of both. The streets shall be rivers, the prisons abattoirs. All shall revel, wild and free, until their flesh and bone remembers itself and becomes something greater still.” It smiled wide as it approached the guests closest to the door, and farthest from the high table. The middle aged patrician that caught its attention froze in terror, whimpering quietly as it caressed his cheek with a bloody hand. “And you’ve already lived so well! You’ve drowned your soul in wine and buried it in feeling. Would you even notice the loss? Wouldn’t you th-” “Enough.” Princess Isabelle did not shout, or slam her hands. Decades of training and practice ensured she did not have to, for her voice to fill the room with an icy authority. The Dragon-in-Exile stood as she continued, her voice deceptively calm for the promise of retribution dripping from every word. “You insult my hospitality, and threaten my guests. Do you intend to entertain yourself abusing the helpless, or will you prove you claim and face a true princess?” She walked forward as she spoke, a flick of her hand sending the purified salt that had been sitting before her streaming into the sleeve of her gown as she stepped away from the stable. Naradin turned to face her, grin spread unnervingly wide across its face. “It would be my pleasure.” It took its time walking across the hall, grin never leaving its face. It never looked away from Isabelle, but it felt as if it was mostly focusing on their audience, drinking in the anxiety and terror of every petrified servant and guest. The dripping of blood from its fingertips louder than it should have been in the silence, echoing through the vaulted hall. This, as it happened, was a mistake. As it walked directly beneath the chandelier hanging above the centre of the room, Isabelle struck. A triptych of hurried incantations sent the gathered salt shooting out, settling into a perfect circle around the demon. The silver necklace she wore broke into pieces at the same time, flying through the air to form the skeleton of a pattern around the circle as they were joined by a dozen iron nails falling from the groaning chandelier. The grin vanished from its face as it stopped mid-stride, perfectly sculpted muscles tensing as it tried and failed to break the circle. The effect was instant. Light became more natural. The blood pooling on the floor began to dry. Guards, servants, and guests broke from the spell of terror and began to move. The princess barely had to nod to send several running for help, before turning back to Naradin. “I don’t know what hell you were dredged out of, but tell any friends you have down there not to follow your example.” A sigil of glowing light appeared in the air before her as she held out her hand, flaring as she completed the ritual gestures for the banishing. The demon staggered back, its body seeming to desiccate, shrivelling and decaying from the sigil’s light. At first it cringed away, as if in pain. But it didn’t vanish – after a few seconds, the spell seemed to stop working. And then it laughed, an unearthly chorus echoing in the ears of all who saw it. “I’ve got more of a claim to the city than you do, dragon. You could say it runs in my blood. And if you think a little circle like this is going to stop me-” The screaming was horrible, coming from the edge of the room. The patrician who had had the misfortune to bear the demons touch, on the ground and clawing at his face as Naradin’s blood seemed to bubble and boil – though it quickly became clear that it was the skin and bone beneath that was actually warping. It happened impossibly quickly, from that. The Naradin inside the binding circle collapsed, leaving a gruesome puddle of ash, sinew and gore behind, as the man ruptured with a horrible crack. A new, pristine copy of the demon seemed, despite all constraints of physics and logic, to drag itself from the quickly dying man; in the same motion, it launched itself into the air with a cry. “And now, with royal blood I shall anoint myself.” It was faster than should have been possible, closing the distance between them in half a breath. Before Isabelle was more than a syllable into an incantation, its fingers were pressing against her skin. And it gave way, flesh and bone parting like a morning fog before its touch. As the princess gasped out one final syllable, it laughed too loud for any to hear, it’s face a mask of victory. And then, as Isabelle weakly pressed her palm against it, there was a great flash of light, and it was reduced to so much ash. There’s nothing so sacrosanct as the royal body, after all, and it would be a foolish family indeed without a technique to avenge the spilling of their own blood. Servants and courtiers were rushing towards her a moment later and, after what seemed like an eternity but was merely an unforgivable few minutes, healing mages and priests arrived, attending to wounds that would otherwise assuredly be fatal. And, in the quickly shrinking puddle of blood at the hall’s great doors, a reflection of Naradin lingered without anything to cast it. It bowed as it spoke a final time. “A lovely trick. Next time, I will come prepared. Until then, my wyrm.”