The Skull and the Hand [Open, see OoC]

[Priscilla Malatrast]

Priscilla kept the hood of her cloak pulled up over her face, even though she knew she was not hard to recognize. At 104, she didn't stand quite as tall or straight as the others who had come to the gathering, hosted, as agreed upon by the Council, in secret amidst the ruins of the dungeon under the forgotten fort Marn.

She could hear twigs snapping and leaves crunching, and she could smell the salty scent of torches. The turnout for the gathering seemed much larger than expected, and cloaked figures trickled into the hall, collecting slowly until the room was almost full. Perhaps word had gotten out about what was to happen. Priscilla searched quietly for anyone in the crowd that she knew, but more specifically, for Lord Panterras. She couldn't see any faces. The shadows cast by the hoods were too thick.

Priscilla rapped her cane on the wooden dais they had constructed to serve as a stage. The sound reverberated in its hollow cavity and coursed throughout the room. She cleared her throat, preparing her low, hoarse voice to speak.

"You all know," she began, "why we have chosen to meet. Throughout the years, there have been many groups that opposed the controls on the magic that could transform our humble city.. Transform it into something fearsome, something great."

There was some murmuring in the audience, but she silenced it with a wave of her gnarled left hand.

"However, these groups, such as the Cabal of Sagacious Thinking, have all disbanded. They were broken up by internal strife, assassinations, and general turmoil because they were afraid to do one thing--weed out the dissidents."

She stared into the audience, focusing on three figures. At the center was a small man, hooded. On both sides were her servants, powerfully built and in the process of pulling back their cloaks to reveal their faces.

"They have relied on anonymity. Hoping that if they ignored the government's spies in their midst that they, too, would be ignored."

Priscilla paused and drew back her hood to reveal her sunken, wrinkled features.

"I, Priscilla Malatrast, with the backing of the Council of the Skull and Hand, will put a stop to this idiocy by making an example of one such spy! I will let the bastard officials of Thar Shaddin know that if they meddle with the snake, the snake will strike back! Julius Harold, employee of Judge Bryn Moryldar, I denounce thee as a spy!"

With that, the small, hooded man made a move to run, but Priscilla's servants were ready for him. They each grabbed him by an arm and hoisted him from the ground, where he flailed, feet kicking in midair in an attempt to run. They brought him to the stage and held him before Priscilla, who nodded. They pulled back his hood to reveal his mousy face, eyes bulging and mustache twitching. Priscilla spat in it.

Reaching into her robe, she closed her hand around an amulet she had prepared.

"Vex parisitum!" she cried. The words were, however, only a ruse. In truth, she had readied the spell she was using over the past weeks with draining, laborious effort. It would only appear to the crowd that the powerful magic was spontaneous. She scratched her nail across the surface of the amulet under her cloak, the true gesture to activate the spell.

She withdrew her hand from her cloak and held it up in the moonlight that filtered in through the broken stone walls. The light seemed to gather around it, swirling in tendrils of mysterious silver luminescence. Without warning, it jumped from her hand to the squirming little man before her, engulfing him and growing in brightness to resemble white hot flames. Her servants dropped him, and he collapsed on the floor, writhing in agony, but unable to draw a breath to scream.

"Pull back your hoods. Reveal yourself and learn to recognize the faces of your kin, that if any move is made against one of them, we will be aware, ready to take our revenge with a move of our own!"

With this, the council members standing behind her on the stage lowered their hoods, some of them revealing themselves to be prominent magistrates. Priscilla moved to kneel painfully next to the writhing man. On her knees, she inhaled, breathing deeply through her mouth and nostrils, and the silver flames coalesced into three streams that coiled and followed the influx of air. She breathed in until her lungs screamed in protest at their fullness and there was nothing left on the floor before her but a pile of chalky ash.

One of the men behind her snapped his fingers, and torches lit up throughout the room. Priscilla's servants helped her to her feet.

"Let us mingle," she said. "We have convened before, but this will be our first meeting."

She ventured into the crowd, invigorated by the life force of the fallen spy, to see if she could find Lord Panterras.

[Lylessa Uluki]

((NPC Post))

Lord Panterras was not hard to find. He wore his best robes of rich velvet, a shade of dark burgundy that resembled spilled wine. As was generally the case, his hand was adorned with a large but tasteful ruby ring, and a heavy pendant with a matching stone hung around his neck. His hair was snowy white, his skin gaunt and pale, and his face was deeply lined. His eyes were yellow and slitted like a cat’s… and there was as little pity to be found in those cold eyes as a cat might show a wounded bird.

Lord Hornwood, standing beside him, was a startling contrast to the fragile old man. Hornwood was built like a sofa, strong and solid but well-padded. He had been much admired by the women of Marn in his youth, and even now was not entirely unattractive. His collar-length hair was still thick and still golden, and his physique, while not sculpted, hinted that his prowess had not been entirely lost to years of soft living. For Hornwood did indeed lead a soft life: a mansion to live in, a dozen servants and staff… no, eleven since he fired that ugly scarred woman who had come from the shanty town…, more money than he would ever be able to use, and a name that could open any social circle in Marn to him.

Hornwood had gone for the conventional in selecting attire for the gathering— black, and of a material like velvet but less heavy— but the cut was such that the robe didn’t scream “cult” like the garments of some of the others did, and it could be worn for other occasions as an eccentric but not utterly eyebrow-raising cloak. After all, Hornwood was influential and well-known; he couldn’t have his tailor gossiping.

Hornwood had not, strictly speaking, been invited. Panterras had brought him along for two reasons. The main one, of course, was that Panterras felt above taking orders from anyone, and he would do whatever he damn well pleased… and since Hornwood was currently in the old man’s good graces, it pleased him to have the middle-aged aristocrat around. The other reason, though, was that Panterras had wretchedly little to show for himself tonight. His ungrateful bitch of a daughter was nowhere to be found, and since he couldn’t bring her as a demonstration of his work, his next best option at the last minute was to bring a wealthy protégé to prove he had at least something to contribute.

He cursed Kira once again for disappearing. He’d intended to show her off tonight, so he could receive due credit from the others for his experiments. But she’d taken off, and though he had his suspicions about where she was, for the moment she was lost to him. His own daughter showing such ingratitude burned him deeply. She should be grateful for the chance to be a subject in his brilliant and noble research, even if it meant a little pain. Or, he had to admit to himself, a lot of pain. It wasn’t as if she’d known any other life. He’d taught her well to be an experiment subject, not a person.

Panterras considered, for a moment, the possibility of calling off his assassin, bringing Kira back, and continuing his work instead. But no, that wouldn’t do. That wretched fairy woman would have ruined her already. Not just by treating her like she mattered, like she deserved to be happy or fulfilled or whatever it was that the fairy seemed so eager to push on those unworthy of such benefits— Panterras would be able to force such thoughts out of her head with enough suffering, and make her see once again that she existed only for his purposes, something she used to understand when she was a child but seemed to have lost an appropriate sense of recently when she became a teenager.

No, the problem was that by now Uluki, the fairy woman he so hated, probably would have healed Kira’s body… and by doing so, undone all of Panterras’s work. Ten years of effort, all gone with nothing to show for them. All because that damnable fairy couldn’t keep her nose out of other people’s business and always had to worm her way in where she wasn’t wanted. Yes, the fairy had probably made Kira unfit for anything but the death to which Panterras had condemned her. He took only slight comfort in the fact he’d ordered she suffer first, and not be allowed the mercy of a quick death. After all, a man like Panterras who endured so much in the name of magic and science had few pleasures, and had to seize them where he could. At least if Uluki had healed Kira, the girl would be able to scream, which would make her fate all the more satisfying. Every cloud had a silver lining.

Panterras looked on with interest as the old woman dispatched Julius Harold so elegantly. He wasn’t fooled by the theatrics… he’d spent too much time studying magic, and he had used those tricks too many times himself… but the actual spell she was using was far more intriguing. He wondered how she had done it, and whether she would part with the secret.

“Impressive,” Hornwood murmured.

Panterras said nothing, but nodded. The nod might have seemed faint praise, but even such a terse acknowledgement of another magic user was rare for him, and conveyed a level of respect for the skill he saw displayed.

Hornwood and Panterras both pushed their hoods back when the others did. Panterras did so without hesitation, knowing he was likely to be recognized and confident, almost cocky, that he deserved any attention he might receive. Hornwood was much more cautious; he had more to lose. Everyone would know Hornwood’s face too, but for different reasons— not as a black magician, but as a pillar of the community who graced all the fashionable salons and was an unflagging patron of the arts. He continued to look around warily, as though expecting the City Guard to come charging in at any moment.

Panterras made his way to Priscilla Malatrast slowly, almost lazily, not wanting to seem too eager. When he reached her, he took her withered old hand in his own wrinkled one, and kissed it. “My lady,” he said, bowing his head. “It is a great honour. Please allow me to introduce my friend and associate, Lord Alessar Hornwood.”

[Priscilla Malatrast]

Priscilla barely managed to choke down her surprised chortle. Alessar Hornwood, one of the city's most renowned playboys, dared to masquerade as an enthusiast of the dark arts.

"I'm surprised you didn't just turn tail and run when it came to revealing identities," she said, propping herself on her cane so she could lean in closer. "It's quite a big risk for such a little boy."

She bared her long teeth in what might have passed for a smile were she twenty or thirty years younger. The sagging of her mouth at its edges contoured her lips into more of a menacing snarl.

"Although, I must say, Panterras, that one might express surprise at seeing you here as well," she said, turning to the older man. "I've heard about the stray. We all have, really."

She coughed into her free hand. "But what's done is done. I suppose there's no getting her back. From what I understood, the only value in the experiment lay in its unbroken continuance, and that a disruption like this... the possibility of her having time to 'heal'... well it would ruin your years of labor. Ungrateful bitch. If only she could have grasped what you were attempting."

Priscilla reached into her cloak again and pulled out this time a square, silver case. Balancing herself precariously on one elbow, she freed both her hands and flicked open a corner of it. Carefully, she tapped a line of rich, dark tobacco into the crook of her thumb and index finger and snorted it. She paused to let out a contented sigh.

"At any rate, I've made a valuable discovery myself," she continued. "That spell I used is, as you can imagine, quite a rare one. I'm sure we both know that it took some time to prepare, but so does the orchid. It was quite a pleasure to see it come to fruition. And do you know where I received the instruction to cast it? From the source itself. It seems that bastards over on the other side are quite bored enough that they revel in the delight of seeing their magic wreak havoc on our provincial little plane."

She moved to return the silver case to her cloak, but stopped herself. She proffered it to the two, as a pointed offer to share, as it were, the wealth.

[Lylessa Uluki]

((NPC Post))

Panterras took a pinch of the offered tobacco, and prodded Hornwood’s foot with his boot when the younger man seemed disinclined to partake. Gestures like this were important. It wouldn’t do to refuse any gifts from the old woman, especially not until they’d sorted out where they all stood in relation to one another.

“The stray will be dealt with.” Panterras waved a hand dismissively. “Had I been able to recover her even after the few days that have passed, all would not be lost, but if she has hidden herself where I suspect she has, she will have been given magical healing. That healing will have destroyed any potential meaningful result from my work. It is regrettable indeed. All I can do now is tidy things up. I have… an employee… seeing to the matter. The stray will repent of her disloyalty as she drowns in her own blood, and the next person who would defy me will think twice after learning of her fate.” His voice was eerily calm, as though he were discussing the day’s weather rather than the planned brutal murder of his own thirteen year old daughter.

“But tell me more of this magic. I will admit your little demonstration intrigued me. No one could ever argue that you lacked style.” He gave a slight appreciative nod. “My own results in working from the source have been… mixed. I would like to learn more about how to be more consistent in my effectiveness. My access to the planes has been… rather compromised after what happened in the other world.” He wasn’t sure if the old woman knew about that, but as it didn’t show him in the most positive light, he did not clarify any further. “If I could gain the information, I would be prepared to…”

Then he realized he couldn’t make the offer he had planned to. Knowing Kira had been near death anyway, he had intended to promise her corpse— which would provide a wealth of information about his work, should the right person conduct the autopsy— whether she died on her own or he had to help her along in order to produce a body in time. That option was no longer open to him, and he realized he had nothing to trade.

Hornwood, however, smoothly stepped in and took over. “We have information about a man who was physically inhabited by a chaotic and destructive god, and if all goes well, potentially access to his remains. Imagine being taken over by a creature from another plane… and able to gain control over it. Imagine the power. The power of a god, within one’s own mortal form.”

Panterras looked over at his associate with surprise and, for the first time ever, just a hint of respect.

[Blood Ravenous]

Ryxa had her ways of finding out what was going on around the city. After she had thrown Lucian into a cell at the Justice Hall (and took some time to pamper herself after her hard work) she had worked diligently at research. It was time to find a new trick, a new satisfying pleasure, and something that would break even someone like Chrishton or Lucian. She had found her amazing abilities to be suddenly lacking in the face of their will... Well, that would soon be rectified.

Thus, when she had heard how there was a cult by the name of The Skull and the Hand, and how they were having an important meeting very soon, she jumped at the chance. No one really knew who was in the cult, but it was quite obvious that one interesting character that took part was Priscilla Malatrast. Ryxa had never been interested in the old witch before, and certainly didn't know much about her. But there had been hints that she dabbled in black magic. That certainly would be a good addition to Ryxa's collection of tricks.

By the time she found out about it, it was happening soon. She would have to rush to get ready. A swift kick to the side sent up a groan from the weeping man who had told her about it. She sneered at his once haughty appearance reduced to this pitiful, shaking form on the floor. With the door to her torture room locked, the battlemage prepared to set out.

Finally Ryxa arrived in the ruins indicated. Quickly the woman flew down the steps, hearing voices in the dungeon already. As she entered, she was surprised to see a numerous swarm of people, which she hadn't expected. Such a large illegal group here in the city, she thought. Right under everyone's nose!

She slipped into the room and walked along the wall, being careful not to bump anyone in front of her. It was a little hard to see from back here, but she found the best spot she could as far back out of the action as she could. No one paid her much attention, because it seemed the meeting was about to start, and a small, hunched form was standing on a dais raised above the others.

There, Ryxa stood in the back of the dungeon room, watching everyone with slitted eyes from within a black cloak. It was the standard fare to wear, though she didn't like it much. She liked her presence being known, so those that knew of her--everyone, obviously--would quake in fear.

Beneath the slit of the cloth where the cloak hung loosely, a skintight black dress graced a feminine form, sleek down to her thighs where it then hung about her ankles in delicate waves. She stood still, hovering by the wall--being careful not to rub on the grime that stained its granite surface--and watched.

A faint grin appeared on her face as a man was brought up to the old woman. The proceedings meant nothing to her, but seeing a man, employed by Judge Moryldar no less, being led to an obvious slaughter spurred her excitement. What came next came as a slight surprise and piqued her interest so badly she almost shouted in morbid glee.

Vex parisitum!

Something silvery engulfed the traitor, sending him into an unspeakable agony. As he writhed, she strained on her tip-toes to see him, and failed to suppress a wicked, wide grin. Something like that would do, something that caused pain and weakness without continual effort.

The crowd in front of her was moving in frantically, fighting to see what the old lady was bending down to do. Ryxa couldn't see over the jostling movements. She focused on processing what the old lady had said. 'Reveal yourself.' Now, normally Ryxa would gladly do that, unafraid of whatever repercussions there would be... However, in this case, something warned her not to; perhaps it was the act of killing Judge Moryldar's employee--a man who worked for one of the men she, too, was supposed to obey--or perhaps it was that she came uninvited, unannounced, and probably because of the fact that she could potentially be a spy. Being a battlemage, one who pledges to eradicate magic with magic in Marn, and a very well-known one at that, was not a good thing in this situation.

She brow furrowed deeply at this tug of war with her allegiances. She cared nothing for Judges or Marn--it was just a job where she could abuse her status. However, she did care for her life, though she wasn't afraid of this mob. For the first time she realized how wonderful her position in Marn politics was--a pawn sometimes, yes, and a dog to the system, but it allowed her to break a LOT of rules. Normally the guard would jump down your throat if you had your servants dump another hobo's corpse out into the street after his mind couldn't cope with the pain...

Many people in the crowd were taking off their hoods. Ryxa stoutly kept hers on. She had no need to "reveal" herself, since she wasn't a part of this cult. She merely wanted to question Priscilla Malatrast. With that goal in mind, she pompously stepped through the crowd, who had, as ordered, begun to mingle. She saw the old woman talking to two men, both of whom Ryxa recognized. They would also recognize her. This was going to be interesting; a keen excitement was filling Ryxa in this moment. She felt like she had while running from her parent's burning, smoking house, pumped full of adrenaline and awe at what horror she had brought. This time, however, it was a mock horror at how much danger she could potentially be in. It was wickedly delicious to be among so many rebellious magic-users and supporters.

She was close enough now to hear their conversation. Something about a "stray" which held no meaning for Ryxa. Then, when the word magic came up, she listened eagerly over the hubbub and ignored the odd glances her way from the people around. She only had intent for the three in front of her.

But tell me more of this magic. I will admit your little demonstration intrigued me. No one could ever argue that you lacked style. My own results in working from the source have been… mixed. I would like to learn more about how to be more consistent in my effectiveness. My access to the planes has been… rather compromised after what happened in the other world. If I could gain the information, I would be prepared to…

At this he paused, and his "accomplice," as Ryxa regarded him, said,

We have information about a man who was physically inhabited by a chaotic and destructive god, and if all goes well, potentially access to his remains. Imagine being taken over by a creature from another plane… and able to gain control over it. Imagine the power. The power of a god, within one’s own mortal form.

Now that was an intriguing concept. Who could this man be? She pondered further. This night will lead to a great many things, she thought to herself.

[Priscilla Malatrast]

"Excuse me, but I don't think my old woman's ears heard your man correctly, Panterras," Priscilla replied, eyes flicking momentarily to Hornwood. "A god? That's really quite interesting. I'd love to hear more.

She chuckled quietly. "It seems like you always manage to land on your feet."
Her free hand flitted up to lay itself for a brief, amiable moment on his forearm.

"As for the matter of spells from the source, well, I'd be happy to share.. in fact.. I've even been encouraged to. I, too, had experienced little success until--" one of her servants interrupted her with a nudge.

"What is it now?!" Priscilla snapped. The man nodded, and Priscilla followed the motion with her eyes, noticing at once the only still-cloaked person in the room.

"Perhaps we had best continue our conversation another time, Panterras. Although we've rooted out some of the spies in our ranks, there's always the odd suspicious figure. Do you see that one there? Wearing the cloak?"

She cleared her throat several times loudly, and little by little the chatter began to quiet down, first in the clusters of people near her, eventually spreading throughout the room.

"I hope your masking your face isn't an attempt to spite me."

She spoke softly enough to mute the open accusation in her words, but loudly enough that the whole room could hear. She flashed again her ugly, long-toothed smile, the muscles of her cheeks aching with the exertion they experienced so infrequently.

[Blood Ravenous]

I hope your masking your face isn't an attempt to spite me.

The old woman was looking directly at Ryxa as the battlemage stood in the general area of the room, where she had moved before. It was an open confrontation, one that Ryxa did not take lightly. The crowd who had been moving before was now still, except for the few who were in the line of sight between Mistress Malatrast and Ryxa. They were backing slowly out of the way, sensing the sudden tense feeling of danger in the area between the speaker and the cloaked woman.

Smirking to herself (since her hood was too deep to reveal details of her face) she walked closer to Priscilla Malatrast, her high heels clicking dully on the stone floor. The sound echoed lightly throughout the quieted room. When she was at a comfortable distance, a few strides away, she said calmly, "Priscilla Malatrast, I presume," as she gave an almost imperceptible nod to acknowledge the old witch. Of course, she wasn't "presuming" anything; she knew the woman by sight. "I would hate to interrupt your conversation with the Lords here. Especially in a violent manner," she continued, putting an almost loving inflection on 'violent.' "I have not taken off my cloak, not to spite you, but because I am not a part of this cult here, nor do I wish to join. I came to speak to you. Privately. But like I said, I would hate to interrupt your fascinating conversation with the Lords here." She truly meant fascinating, and it showed. Her tone was calm still, but a little of the thrill she felt came through.

She didn't know if anyone here would recognize her by her voice. It was hard to say. Everyone was paying so much attention to her, without knowing who she was, and it was titillating; however, she only had intent for the black magic mage in front of her. She was determined to have a conversation with the woman, but it was not going as planned. Priscilla Malatrast had messed that up. And, Ryxa knew that it was she who was controlling the situation, determining how everyone would react to Ryxa's presence, and Ryxa, as always, hated that. From her hate came stubbornness, and she didn't even twitch toward the hood of her cloak.

[Lylessa Uluki]

((NPC Post))

Panterras did not recognize the Battlemage. He had been in Marn only a short time, and had little interest in the local laws. He didn’t follow them, but he violated them discreetly enough that he felt he had nothing to fear. Even if he had, so much of his mind was occupied with his own work, his own goals and desires, that he was unfamiliar with even the important personages around him unless they specifically caught his attention or he felt they had something to offer him. Panterras knew— and was known to— many of the dark magicians in the area. He’d made a point to seek them out, and to brag about his experiments on Kira. The Battlemages, however, were outside the scope of his interest.

“It is a pleasure to have you join us, young lady,” Panterras said genially. The implied threat in the woman’s words seemed to have escaped him. “Would we not all benefit from one another’s learning? Surely you have talents of your own you might share with us. If so, we would gladly include you in the conversation about these other matters which you find so ‘fascinating’… as well you should. You might join us in our discussion, and we could try to find common ground.”

Hornwood, however, recognized the voice. He couldn’t have said it belonged to Ryxa in particular, but he’d heard it before and knew it spelled danger. “Let’s not be hasty, Barmitheon,” he said quietly. Truly, Hornwood was worried that the little he had already revealed would go beyond his control. The information about the god of destruction was a hand of cards he wanted to play slowly, dealing out information as needed, as sparingly as possible in exchange for the maximum return. Besides, it wouldn’t do for this woman— whose voice vaguely reminded him of something he couldn’t place, but something that clearly put them in peril— to interfere with the plan. “We do not even know why she has joined us, or if she would be… interested… in continuing the conversation. If you prefer, we could leave the two of you ladies to talk in private.”

[Priscilla Malatrast]

Priscilla moved closer to Hornwood, leaning up against him conspiratorially. "Yes.. yes. I think you're quite right. It would be best to continue our discussion another time," she said quietly, face turned up to look at the taller man's shoulder. "You never know what kind of rabble will be turning up here, especially when they keep their hoods raised. And we certainly don't want to be telling strangers our secrets."

"As for you, madam," she continued, speaking up this time so the whole room could hear once again. "That is, madam, I presume."

She took a few steps forward, closing in on the cloaked woman's comfortable distance. Her long dress swept along the floor, the ghostly whisper of its dragging hem echoing in the silent, tense room.

"You're quite correct--I am Priscilla Malatrast, as I announced to this room not five minutes ago," she cleared her throat and began to talk with mock jovially. "For one who so confidently touts her ability to break up a conversation in a room full of mages in a violent manner, you don't seem to have such a good sense of hearing. What good would it do you to attack me if one of my supporters were to, say, sneak up behind you?"

Several audience members snickered at the jibe.

"Ahh.. But you say you've come to talk privately. Well.. this," she gestured at the staring crowd, "won't do. Will it?"

She offered out her elbow to the cloaked woman in pantomime, but withdrew it theatrically soon after and put her hand to her chin.

"But.. hmm.. Well.. It wouldn't be smart for a frail old woman to leave herself alone with a mysterious, threat-making stranger.. Would it?"

Now she moved her hand to her hip and stood leaning on her cane. "So you see my predicament. As much as I would like to trust you, I must consider my reputation. How would I ever be allowed to live down this terrible lapse in judgment?"

[Blood Ravenous]

Ryxa stood quietly while the three each offered their own appraisals. This included Priscilla Malatrast, who mocked her. With her standing now within reach, Ryxa twitched violently at her words, just managing to stay her hand from reaching out and grabbing the old witch by the throat. Her cloak fluttered, and that was the only evidence of what could have happened. She consoled herself by thinking about how wonderfully ridiculous the old woman would have been writhing under her painful grip. A few torturous imaginings flitted through her mind. She was used to thinking of new ways to hurt others, and this person she sought help from would be no different. She'd get what she wanted, one way or another.

Instead of a reply, she let Priscilla rant and put on her little show for her fellow cult members. It wouldn't matter in a moment.

But.. hmm.. Well.. It wouldn't be smart for a frail old woman to leave herself alone with a mysterious, threat-making stranger.. Would it? So you see my predicament. As much as I would like to trust you, I must consider my reputation. How would I ever be allowed to live down this terrible lapse in judgment?

After this question was posed, silence ensued for a moment. The crowd was breathlessly waiting for the stranger's reply, waiting to see if there would be a fight.

Without thinking, Ryxa's hand reached up out of her cloak and pulled back her hood. It was a delicate movement, ensuring that it wouldn't mess up her hair, which lay perfectly parted. Strawberry-blonde hair was short in the back, gradually increasing in length until it rested on her collarbone. Her blue-and-black ice eyes had an intense, piercing quality that was enhanced by the dark kohl around them.

Her next movement pushed back her cloak, revealing her front and leaving her arms free. The black dress she wore fit her form tightly down her hips and thighs, then her arms in bell-shaped sleeves. It was sexy but still covered her extensively other than the neckline, which shot down in a V-shape and showed just a hint of her breasts. The tight fit around her thighs but not her legs allowed her to move fairly freely, but it was not a good outfit for battle. Not that it would matter to a mage.

As her face was revealed, those that could see her and recognized her gasped. They moved back out of instinctive fear. This reaction caused whispers to go through those that didn't recognize her, until her name spread throughout the dungeon. The shocked faces around her gave her another thrill. Whispers continued as a few had need to explain, or babble. "...so painful...The battlemage who caught...afraid...this is bad...works for…" Ryxa picked out quiet words from the audience, and it caused her to smirk.

Crimson lips moved as she said, "You say a terrible lapse in judgment, but something you will never 'live' down is acting against me." 'Live' was emphasized, and another obvious threat. "Thankfully for you, especially after that display before, the Judges haven't sent me." She raised her delicately arched eyebrow to go with her next words. "Maybe next time they will." The battlemage still had a smirk on her face. She obviously felt superior.

"So go ahead and see how long you last after harming a Battlemage. That employee may be ignored, for your sake." She leaned closer, arching downward as if conspiratorially whispering in her ear. Ryxa knew how to put on theatrics, too. "Not the best judgment, you know. Moryldar would prefer to break you—which he could draw out over days even with your body, Lady Malatrast—while other Judges would probably go easy on you because of your service to Marn and kill you outright.”

She straightened. "As I said, I'm not here on professional business." A stirring went up as she said this, and she heard a snippet of "...torture..." from multiple people in the crowd. She was now ignoring this type of attention.

"I think he--" Ryxa continued, indicating Lord Panterras, "--has the right idea. Either we could have a lovely conversation here, or I speak with you privately--now or later." Here she displayed her agitation, and had as dangerous a tone as she ever had. "Either you INVITE me at your discretion, or you get a tour of Justice Hall on MY invitation. I’d suggest you forgo your judgment this time and go with your GUT.”

[Priscilla Malatrast]

Priscilla's cheeks flushed with color, and her strained, polite smile turned into a very obvious snarl.

"You insolent little bitch!" she exclaimed. "You dare intrude and then order me around?!"

She stormed up to Ryxa and grabbed her chin, allowing the long, yellowed nails of her bony hands to dig into her jaw as she inspected it before batting it away just as quickly as she had reached for it.

"You think you fool me?" she asked in a grating sing-song. "You don't. You're nothing. A worm before our boot. I wonder if you've even ever been in a fight. The real warriors don't look so pretty. They're covered in scars.. they've got milky, blind eyes and hair turned gray out of fear, and that's just from dealing with two-bit wizards. You stand here in front of a room filled with dedicated practitioners of the dark arts, who do more than merely dabble or attract the quixotic ire of your illustrious judges. You must be very brave."

She drew herself up, and there was a sick crackling from the bones of her back. "Very brave.. or very stupid. You honestly think that they will stand behind you? Do you honestly think that I MEANT for your mole's death to be ignored? Well I didn't. I've killed the messenger.. or.. made a messenger out of the killing. Depends on how you look at it."

She turned from Ryxa to address the entire room. " It was nearsightedness that first compelled them to ignore their birthright--the magic that each of us can muster. And it is with nearsightedness that characterizes their reign even today. They rely on fear to oppress us, while they, too, shiver in their ivory halls. A city paralyzed by fear.. is it not pitiful? The Judges will not dare make a move. They will not dare risk a public uprising, lest the rats truly begin to pour out of the woodwork. That is why they make their arrests in secret, breaking into homes in the night to usher out their 'prisoners' while others turn a blind eye."

"But our eye is not blind," Priscilla said, lowering her voice and turning to shoot a venomous look to Ryxa. "We've opted to meet their gaze. Look them in the eye. So ask yourself, bitch, if you think that any one of us would hesitate to harm you."


She lifted up her free arm, and the sleeve of her cloak fell back, pooling around her shoulder. The sagging skin of her pale arm bore a strange, complicated marking--a cross with a single long arm, bisected by a line ending on both sides in three prongs. There were other, curving lines and further intersections, but it was these central markings that pulsed and angry red.

"Ask yourself if I would stay my hand for even a fraction of a second," Priscilla hissed. She snorted loudly and spat a thick gob of snot and tobacco on the ground before her.

[Lylessa Uluki]

((NPC Post))

Panterras raised his hands, still leaving them partially hidden by his sleeves, ready to launch a magical attack if combat ensued.

“Barmitheon, no!” Hornwood warned in a whisper. As the two women confronted each other, the two Lords conducted their own argument in hushed tones.

Panterras looked indignant. “That upstart girl can’t just walk in here and…”

“That ‘upstart girl’ is a Battlemage. They are known for their ferocity and for their impressive magic skill.”

“We can’t just leave Madame Malatrast to fight alone. She would think us cowards. We need her information about the source, and she will not help us if…”

“The old woman will not win this, Barmitheon. She’ll be lucky to survive at all. Once the dust has settled, we will still have our own truths to barter. She seemed interested enough in that, in the god. This will all be useless to us if we’re killed in some ill-conceived magic duel.”

“A Council member”— he meant a member of his own Council, the Council in the other world, not The Skull and The Hand— “does not back down!”

“Perhaps if you had backed down when all reason and good sense suggested you do so, the Council would not have fallen, Barmitheon.”

Panterras flushed with rage. Never before had Hornwood dared such blasphemy. He was so stunned by this disrespect that he allowed Hornwood to take him by the hand and bundle him across the room and out the door like a child up past his bedtime being trundled off toward home.

Hornwood had learned a great many things this night… not about magic, but about Lord Panterras. Perhaps the man who had so long been his hero, the man he practically worshipped, was a flawed human being after all. Panterras was arrogant, impractical, short-sighted, and blind. And after that revelation, Hornwood intended to make some changes…

[Devon]

So many things were rushing through Devon's mind at the time that all of this presented itself. Why was this battlemage here? Just to pick a fight? The old lady seemed rather agitated to say the least, but was she strong enough to win out if a fight ensued? Granted she was experienced in the dark arts, but that experience came with age, and with age came frailty. The battlemage didn't look so frail.

Devon called the old lady Madame, not to her face for they had never met, and right now Madame seemed sorely pressed. Devon smiled, there were ways to even the odds a bit seeing how no one else was obviously helping the woman who said she could help them. Selfish ignorance, he thought as he looked at the group. He checked his options, a crowded room, but full of people practiced in magic, thats a plus.

He looked at the battlemage again, that's a definate negative he thought. Then again, even if you can tell where heat is coming from, you can't really tell what's moving shadows right? Devon smiled wider, it really is a dark room.
He concentrated, the shadows almost seemed to be sentinent beings to Devon. He asked them to do things, they answered by doing them. A fairly beneficial relationship he thought. Right now, he posed only one option to them.

Keep the battlemage still.
To be honest Devon didn't know if he was strong enough to do it or not, but what he did know, was even if he failed, a battlemage wouldn't survive in a battle against the whole room, at least he hoped.
Devon muttered to himelf, "What the hell, I'll give it a shot".

He concentrated on the shadows, picking the target, almost willing the shadows to the mage. A small spear of shadow crept across the floor from a corner of the room. Thankfully it was a dark room, he couldn't really pull this off without the benefit of surprise. Closer the spear, which now looked more like a shadow snake for the way it weaved out and around people, got to the mage. Just a few more feet and it would reach her, and bind her...hopefully.

Closer, just another foot.....just a few more inches...

[Blood Ravenous]

Ryxa was a little stunned when the old woman grabbed her face then shoved it away. It happened so fast Ryxa had no time to reach out in retaliation. She glared at the old witch as if she could burn a hole through her…which, if she was angry enough, believed she could pull off. Perhaps it was a good time to practice…

She mentally stopped herself from doing so, but continued to glare at Priscilla Malatrast. Her fists were balled up and white-knuckled, then flexed as if she had some invisible stress ball in her hands. She was itching to strike this hag down, but knew it wouldn’t be wise to do so full of her supporters and, more importantly, she wouldn’t get the information she needed.

Again, Priscilla ranted, using this mini-fight to impart wisdom on her fellow cult members. It was annoying; this was not about them, but about Ryxa! Nevertheless, she heard the words.

Ironically, the message was exactly what she thought, too.

Looking at the red symbol on the other’s arm, she was suddenly overcome. The battlemage began to laugh, not very hard, but delicate, just like her features. It was quite humorless, barely resembling true laughter, and it echoed around the room. The crowd seemed to be shocked by her sudden laughter and was otherwise completely silent. Her hand was brought up to her face and her index finger lightly hovered over her lower lip. Her other hand held her elbow. This gave her a thoughtful but mocking pose.

Her laughter hardly faded before she tried to choke out, “Oh please, you old hag… If you were to harm me, truly, and you were as ruthless as you say, you would have already attacked me when I introduced myself.” Her anger had dissipated with her laughter and she sounded congenial.

She shook her head, and her hand rested on the side of her face, fingers curled, as if she was leaning on a table. “Why do you think I’m here? Truly? I wish to learn magic from you. I care little for the Judges or our miserable little government, and they know it. They know I’m using them, and they don’t care. They need me, you see. It is the same with all the battlemages. We get free reign, and in return they get killing machines who will do their dirty work for them. Of course, I’m sure you knew that already.”

She turned her face away a little, eyes half closed, and waved her free hand dismissively. “I’m sure we can have a wonderful conversation, despite our little argument. I merely wished you to know who was in charge of the situation. You obviously don’t know yet, but I’ll give you time. It takes time to come to grips with it. You, however, will be treated fairly if you tell me what I want to know, unlike most of those that receive my attention.” She was still being pompous, but it was as close to an apology as she ever got before.

Suddenly a shiver went up her spine. Something was on her leg. It wrapped more around her left leg and then tightened. Startled, she yanked sideways, but it was holding that leg to the floor. She bent over, keeping her shoulder blades poised to hold back her cloak, and lifted her skirt to reveal her smooth legs. One of them was covered in blackness, like shadows. Its tendrils were slowly getting bigger, but it was a hardly visible change. It had completely covered her lower leg, however, and was keeping a tight grip.

It was emerging from the wall through the crowd. She looked around sharply and barked, “Who did this?” as she rose. There were so many people; it could have been anyone. She doubted it was Priscilla. It didn’t seem her style.

Luckily, she never left the house without bits of wood or matches. In a silk purse which was hanging from a shoulder underneath her cloak, there was some money and the referred to matches. She reached inside and grabbed a couple. She lifted up her skirt again and focused on the matches in her fingers. She didn’t even have to look at them, just feel them in her grip. When they lit with a rush and burst of flame, she threw the small fire at the shadow on her leg. With the approach of light, and perhaps heat, the shadow bind faded, unable to exist in bright light.

The hold on her leg was gone as quickly, making her stumble. The two matches burnt up and the flame went out, tendrils of smoke rising from the pile of ash on the floor. Normally they’d last for a few minutes, since they were long and good for lighting lanterns. Her powers had consumed them in seconds, enabling that bright light.

“Try it again, you piece of shit!” she yelled at the crowd, face twisted by her anger. She now stood warily, waiting for more shadows or other movement from the crowd all around.

[Devon]

Devon stood blankly. He wasn't afraid or even worried of what the battlemage might do. He had acted blindly trying to stop the battlemage from fighting, and then realized she wasn't going to. He stood there blankly because he didn't want to attract any attention to himself, that was part of the plan with shadows, don't be seen. If he had wanted to attract attention he just would have multiplied the heat of the matches. Then again, fire didn't really burn Devon, so why would it burn her? Who knew what kind of powers this mage contained within. He felt dumb, he felt weak, and most of all, he didn't want anyone to know about it.

Then it hit him. Maybe, just maybe, if he did reveal himself to be the shadow caster then he could show himself to the Madame to be more than just an onlooker of her plans. He could show that he would be a participant to them.

The thing was, he wasn't quite sure what those plans were, he did notice however, that the onlookers here were not dying because of using magic. Whether it be due to the battlemages true wish to learn, or the fact that the Madame might be more powerful and be their protector at the moment.

Devon held still. Better to show a little cowardice when no one knows and live, then to be bravely stupid in front of everyone and die. Part of him wanted to be noticed though, part of him wanted the attention one way or the other of the others.

That was not the role of the shadows however, if he truly desired attention he would have combuted his hand into heat and walked up and punched her in the face. That wasn't Devon's style, he wasn't that stupid. His work had been completed, if the Madame needed an opening to attack a slight moment of a lack in concentration from the battle mage, it was there.

Devon continued to have a blank stare on his face, he noticed others were looking around to find the culprit, so he did too. He scanned the faces of the crowd, some were angry, some were afraid, others were curious. He seen one or two smiling smug faces, as if they were the ones to create the shadows. They were trying to take credit for his magic!

Well, if they wanted to take credit for them, they would also reap the consequences. Devon wasn't too afraid of them getting the positive attention he personally wanted, as far as he could tell and the shadows could relay to him, they wouldn't come to the call of anyone else in the room. Then again, if the magic was strong enough, they could be made to. Oh well, Devon thought as he crossed his arms over his chest. Let's see whose move it is, is the mage going to strike first or is the Madame?

He was still a little annoyed that the mage had scared away his shadows. She's arrogant but she ain't dumb. She wants to learn? Lesson 1, don't mess with my shadows. She'll get what's coming to her.

Devon never had it come to mind that the mage might not be a bad person. He had used the shadows for two reasons, to let Madame have an opening if she needed and to have a little fun. The mage had ruined that fun.