Somewhere in the Northeastern Threshold Abyssal Manse, Graveswood 22nd Moon of Resplendent Wood, Sun's Day, 768 F resh snow. When was the last time he saw that in these woods – it made the long-dead grove feel vibrant, as though any of the trees would be in full blossom once the season passed and Calibration drew nearer. Each foot fall left a small indentation; the snow was soft, and chilled his feet ever so slightly as he plodded across the grove, the stiff, lacquered wood bent into a set of steps. His tail barely brushed the ground with each step, swishing slowly back and forth as he reached the gates. He stood still, an ear flicking as snow built up against the downy fur. The metal bars of the blackened gate
creaked, swinging in slowly to let him in. He twisted his head,
looking up at each of the obsidian gargoyles that lined the pathway
through the garden as he passed them. Each of them menaced anyone who
sought entry beyond, their teeth bared, and spears at the ready.
Never did he dare mistake them for decoration, though – no, to
assume that they were merely to scare emissaries, or further frighten
those who lacked the courage to walk these paths at night, would have
been folly. They were not simply statues. Should their owner desire
him dead, they would shudder to life, and skewer him. They were
weapons, automata designed to protect their master. No, not statues
at all.
His bright blue eyes fell on gardens
that must have once thrived with life, and the hollow shades that
attended to them now. The colourless flowers and bushes that grew in
their place held their own charm, he supposed. Though it was prettier
this season than it would be in the late summer, once the snow had
begun to melt away again. The fresh frost caused the grey and white
petals to glisten, blackened stems and leaves to shine, while the
dusting of snow added to their charm. The figures who attended to
these lifeless gardens paid the visitor no mind. This was normal now
– never had they so much as acknowledged his presence, even if he
was to approach, such as one more curious might have. Perhaps it was
some purpose in their continued existence, to repeat out endless
toils until such time as the master of these gardens found a new use
for them. Or that they simply feared changing routine. That the only
thing left for them to cling on to would cause them to have purpose
no more, and either fade away, and wander in madness, hunting for a
new, darker, ambition.
There was no need to linger on what
those shades would do, or how their master might warp them should he
desire. No, to think on such things would be to consider what might
happen should he fail in his duty, or no longer be useful to their
master. His master. Slowly, he ascended the second set of stairs, the
shadow of the great hall looming over him, the great double doors of
soulsteel towering ahead. Flanked on either side of the door were
what might be easily dismissed as decoration, but he knew better.
There was nothing without purpose here. The blackened armor each
lifted as a hand as he approached, their helmets, with nothing but
shadows obscuring what lay inside, drifting their gaze down on him.
As their gauntleted hands pressed against the black metal, reddish
faces seemed to press against the smooth surface, moaning and
yearning for impossible freedom. As each face seemed to meld back
into the jet of the door, another face took it's place, rippling out
as though it was a pond. Each set of faces appearing quicker and
quicker, reaching the edges of the doors, before bouncing back,
faster the silent screams became more frantic until the doors
themselves groan and creak, giving them a voice to scream with.
The armored hands fell, and the
darkness of what was little more than a glorified mausoleum stood
before the visitor. He canted his head slightly as he passed by the
steel guardsmen – he still dared not think what horror was entombed
within, as the door closed in it's slow agony behind him. For a
moment, as his eyes adjusted, he was left in pitch black. He could
make out the shapes and figures of what lay inside and could recall
from memory what the great mausoleum possessed in it's foyer.
As though to aid, and assuage any
fears of being left in the darkness, eerie blue-white lanterns lit
themselves with each step forward. He left himself slowly pull
himself up the stairs, taking one step at a time, an ear twitching,
or turning, listening for any unfamiliar sounds, or something that
might stalk him as he made his final climb. Each time he passed a
lantern, another would flicker to life with the pale flames ahead of
him. He would pause each time another lantern would do so, ears
shifting to listen again, before another cautious step forward, until
he reached the top of the stairs, and a ghostly butler wordlessly
allowed him passage into the main hall, where court was inevitably
being held.
He stalked in slowly, tail twitching in
irritation as the number of people gathered in the room. Keeping
himself focused, however, he stared straight ahead. Unwavering
concentration on the figure that impended before him. The black armor
that covered his figure from head to toe, adorned with the skull of a
Tyrant Lizard on one shoulder, while the blackened mask of a mortal
skull was fixed to the knee joint of one leg. Upon his crown sat a
crown of ivory horns, built into the fanged steel mask that served as
his helmet. Carefully laid against the side of the stone throne he
sat himself upon was the largest blade any man could have ever laid
eyes upon – the fuller was not simply a groove, but a great pattern
that covered the interior flat of the blade on both sides. The black
steel almost seemed to glow in the light that ghostly flames gave
off, the edges polished to a fine, near-white sheen.
His eyes only strayed once, his gaze
breaking away from the lord and his concubines who lay at his armored
feet in various states of dress, to cast over the grotesqueries that
littered the hall. His blue eyes stopped, however, when he saw what
he was looking for. The skull-faced helm, topped with a long fringe
of light blue hair flowing down his back, and the exposed, black
flesh, marked with tattoos the same colour as his fringe. The
soulsteel armor, inlaid with white jade designs of dragons and
violence. The three blades he had claimed for himself. A daiklave of
black jade, pried from the cold hands of a Dragonblooded scout from
Lookshy – water aspect, he chose, wisely, to fight at the nearby
frozen lake – who had stumbled upon this... lair. The second was
the orichalcum reaper daiklave, a blade pilfered from a Solar tomb in
Sijan. None of the priests dared deny him. The final, a gift from his
master, the great soulsteel reaver. The blade given to him for the
loyalty and service that a gifted knight might show to his lord.
His gaze remained on the figure, as he
slowed to a stop, his body coming to a rest, sitting back on his
haunches. Quietly, he waited to be recognized, and called upon, his
head slowly turning back to face the man upon the throne who had by
now raised a hand to usher silence in the court and begun raising to
his feet.
To call the master of this mausoleum a
giant might have been overstating his size, but he was a full two
heads taller than the lord's knight, and three taller than himself.
Upon reaching his full height, he motioned towards the visitor, “Come
now, is it not rude to greet your lord in such a base form?” He
questioned the visitor, who merely shook his head, acknowledging the
statement.
The visitor eyed the lord for a moment
longer before he shifted to stand, one leg forwards in a bow as he
closed his eyes. The soft silver glow enveloped his body as his form
began to change – leaving that of the beast behind, and leaving the
kneeling form of a man, humbled, in it's wake. He kept his head low,
not bearing the mark of his true mistress to the one whom he
currently served, “Aye, lord. It was rude of me to not greet you
properly in my true shape. I have no excuse beyond that of forgetting
myself in the recent hunt.” He started, knowing that there was no
patience for excuses in these walls. He tried to ignore the hushed
murmurs of the ghosts, both prince and pauper. “But, my lord, know
that I have met with the Bull. I have much interesting news from the
Northern fronts, following the swift defeat of the Tepet legion.” “That is it has been repelled and
crushed is not news to me. Or to any in the Threshold.” The lord
barked, he shifted to sit back down, his harem parting to allow him
to reclaim his throne, “Perhaps you can tell me something more
interesting though, whelp.” The words spoken cut cold, and deep, as
the visitor nodded.
He kept his head low as his gaze
returned to look at the lord with upturned eyes, not daring to show
the mark of Luna in these halls so brazenly, “Indeed. That Kaneko
crushed the Tepet legion and their Linowan allies is of no true news,
but I did learn that one of his circle had been out of contact with
him for several weeks – it was apparently a concern of both his
forces, as well as the Bull himself. It was unlike this ally to go so
long without contact. I took it upon myself to hunt out this lost
ally, and discovered where she had last squirreled away. She would
make a valuable asset to leverage against-”
“Is this the leverage you speak of?”
He reached down beside the throne, lifting a sack and tossing it to
the visitor's feet. The sack rolled to a stop, and he looked warily
at it – the shape was odd, slightly rounded, and there was the sick
smell of death that told him what he might expect inside. Gingerly,
he pulled at the drawstrings, before pulling away the burlap to
reveal the head inside. He bit his lip as he stared down into the
blank eyes. Matted, blonde hair between his fingers, he grit his
teeth, seeing the symbol for the Eclipse caste carved into the
forehead of the woman, a line carved horizontally across it, to make
it clear that she was Solar no longer. He frowned, knowing who was
cruel enough to do such a thing, “Consider this a gift for Yurgen.
I should like to deliver it myself, but I feel that, perhaps, you
might better serve as emissary in my stead, whelp.”
The vistor could feel his teeth
grinding together, he swallowed his anger, and nodded, “Yes, ser.
If it pleases you.” was all he could muster.
