The Red Chalice was busy for as late as it was. A group of merchants passing through were living it up, cheering for the barmaid who was doubling as entertainment.
At the moment, she was singing in a lovely soprano, with no musical accompaniment. The merchants mostly stared raptly at her as they listened, spellbound, only the occasional comment about the singing passed in a whispered voice behind a hand to a mate. The song was eerie, high notes wavering on the verge of dissonance as the barmaid sang a song of men lost at sea, and the spirit of a woman who constantly watched the sea from a high cliff, waiting and wondering.
The song ended with a drawn out note that slowly got softer, the sound of the woman's scream as she threw herself from the cliff after finally realizing her husband and sons were not coming back. The barmaid slumped, completing her performance. Silence reigned for a brief moment before the group of merchants suddenly began hooting and clapping, beer sloshing over the rims of their cups. The barmaid peeked up at the group from under her eyelashes, a shy, proud smile gracing her lips. She did a quick curtsy, then moved swiftly to the bar, where the bartender gave her a smile and handed her a tray.
There were other patrons in the Inn, mostly in pairs and small groups. The Inn wasn't normally open this late, so some of the regulars were taking advantage of the owner's generosity to the merchants. A second barmaid was running drinks back and forth as the young man with the fiddle began playing a fast, catchy tune. He had waited for the barmaid to finish her song, and was now getting back to livelier music. The son of the owner, he often was called upon to play late into the night when the Red Chalice Inn had guests who would spend lots of coin.
There was one patron in the Red Chalice that didn't seem part of the festivities. In fact, everyone currently in the room were trying their best to pretend he wasn't even there. Something radiated from this man, something that was almost a smell, but not quite. It made everyone around avoid him as if he carried a sickness. No one who was asked would be able to explain it, but would say it was just a feeling of wrongness, that something wasn't quite right about him.
This attitude suited Mavarion just fine. He didn't want attention, and he didn't like talking to people unless he had a purpose for them. He was content to sit in a corner with the bottle of whiskey purchased from the bar and his glass, refilling it when he needed to.
Deep within the hood of his robes, black eyes with no whites watched the other patrons. The eyes showed no emotion, even if they could be seen within the confines of the hood. His wrinkled hand gripped the half full glass of whiskey resting on the table, only occasionally making the trip from the table to his mouth.
On one such trip, Mavarion's hand froze in midair on it's way back to the table. Slowly, slowly, the hand lowered until the glass was again resting on the table. Within the hood, his eyes had closed, and his senses had danced on wings of magic to another place. Many of the patrons shuddered as an inexplicable feeling, a feeling of something indefinably wrong, seemed to suddenly settle over the Red Chalice. No sooner had it appeared than it was gone, leaving some of the patrons glancing around nervously, while others simply dismissed the feeling.
That moment, that feeling, spoke volumes to someone like Mavarion. Someone who's plans hinged on certain events. He knew what that feeling meant. He had been waiting for the time to come. He had been told it would be soon.
A barrier that had been in place for decades was no longer. Someone had entered a place forbidden to them. It was almost time.
A small smile creased the wrinkles of his face as his white-less eyes opened, glinting in pleasure, excitement, and insanity. Plans were finally coming to fruition.
It was almost time...
Silent Awareness
Ancient Goddess - 3
((In order to follow this thread, you will also need to read "Ruinations"))
Mavarion decided to remain in the tavern, continuing to drink the whiskey. Eyes avoided him as the merrymakers continued their drinking into the night, stalwartly ignoring something that may be the cause of trouble or the end of their nightly merrymaking.
Mavarion didn't mind either way. Some thought they could manhandle him because he looked frail. No longer in his glory, he could still put up a fair fight, but his powers no longer lay with his physical strength. He had discovered something as a young man, in his days of glory; something that had granted other powers to him. Something that led him down a path that even he didn't know where it would lead.
Perhaps she had sensed he was thinking about her, or perhaps she had felt the importance of the occurring events; either way, she appeared suddenly before him. A full-bodied woman, dark-skinned, and, though naked, nearly incorporeal. He was unsure if it was an attempt to entice him, but he ignored the nakedness. Braided throughout her hair were various bones and pieces of bones, some splintered, some with the occasional bit of flesh still attached, dripping blood onto her tanned shoulders. The dark eye sockets, within which flashed the tiniest spark of light, and perhaps awareness, often made him shudder. Were it not for his enhanced, pupil-less eyes, he would hardly be able to see her. Even with his power, he could barely make her out.
She often came to him like this, and it seemed to Mavarion that she didn't really believe he was there, as if he were the one that was incorporeal. He had never spoken to her, sensing that she wished to speak. Often when she came, he would be inundated with visions of times past. Times she had lived through. Times she remembered. Through these visions, he would see her, moving with him as he watched, her mouth moving as she narrated.
It was this way again. She wished to tell him a story, and she began with her usual flair for the dramatic.
The gods made the wild creatures come from their dark forests, from their swamps, from their deserts. Humans were slaughtered, all of them, for their lack of respect to the gods.
Mavarion sensed she had once been ashamed of this, just like he sensed that she no longer cared. It had been the destruction of what she had created.
And then she started again. A new man was wrought from maize...
Mavarion frowned at the vision, looking through it to the glass of whiskey forgotten in his hand, resting on the table. He had noticed the slightly different taste of this whiskey previously, the difference caused from it being made with corn. Perhaps what he did affected her more than he realized. Perhaps his choice of whiskey on this evening had affected the memory she chose to visit upon him.
Before she became angry with him for ignoring her vision, Mavarion returned his attention to her. He looked into her eyes for a moment, moving them swiftly from the empty sockets to the splinters of bones in her hair. He couldn't look long into her eyes before his own misdeeds welled up before him. It had made even him nearly insensate with horror to view them through her eyes. They were multiplied beyond anything he could have believed.
Those around him threw glances at Mavarion. Intent on the visions and the incorporeal creature before him, Mavarion didn't notice. His body had stiffened when she had appeared, and hadn't relaxed yet. Nothing but his eyes had moved for several minutes. His eyes moved as if he was watching something. And suddenly his lips began to move, as if speaking, though no words actually came out.
In his head, in her head, his words were clear as he responded.
What would I do, mistress? Though my attempts would be feeble compared to one such as yourself, I would still try. I would see if I could make something in my own image, using myself as the perfect model.
His eyes lowered to the glass of maize-whiskey in his hands.
I would never have thought to use something already grown from the earth, however.
Mavarion took a chance. He brought his gaze up to stare into her near-empty sockets, holding them for a long moment.
Mistress, what do you wish of me? What do you need me to do? I am working on someone who will replace me when my mortal spirit leaves my body to join you. Someone who will continue in my footsteps in my work to bring you back to the world. He has potential. Teach me, Mistress. Show me the way.
Mavarion decided to remain in the tavern, continuing to drink the whiskey. Eyes avoided him as the merrymakers continued their drinking into the night, stalwartly ignoring something that may be the cause of trouble or the end of their nightly merrymaking.
Mavarion didn't mind either way. Some thought they could manhandle him because he looked frail. No longer in his glory, he could still put up a fair fight, but his powers no longer lay with his physical strength. He had discovered something as a young man, in his days of glory; something that had granted other powers to him. Something that led him down a path that even he didn't know where it would lead.
Perhaps she had sensed he was thinking about her, or perhaps she had felt the importance of the occurring events; either way, she appeared suddenly before him. A full-bodied woman, dark-skinned, and, though naked, nearly incorporeal. He was unsure if it was an attempt to entice him, but he ignored the nakedness. Braided throughout her hair were various bones and pieces of bones, some splintered, some with the occasional bit of flesh still attached, dripping blood onto her tanned shoulders. The dark eye sockets, within which flashed the tiniest spark of light, and perhaps awareness, often made him shudder. Were it not for his enhanced, pupil-less eyes, he would hardly be able to see her. Even with his power, he could barely make her out.
She often came to him like this, and it seemed to Mavarion that she didn't really believe he was there, as if he were the one that was incorporeal. He had never spoken to her, sensing that she wished to speak. Often when she came, he would be inundated with visions of times past. Times she had lived through. Times she remembered. Through these visions, he would see her, moving with him as he watched, her mouth moving as she narrated.
It was this way again. She wished to tell him a story, and she began with her usual flair for the dramatic.
Creation itself, creatures of dirt raised to a savage form of civilization. Sacrifices of children, once a month, to appease the gods. Subversion of others in order to save their own children. Slaves begging the gods for the lives of their children. Vengeance. Slaughter. Death.Angatdan wrote:Let's begin.
The gods made the wild creatures come from their dark forests, from their swamps, from their deserts. Humans were slaughtered, all of them, for their lack of respect to the gods.
Mavarion sensed she had once been ashamed of this, just like he sensed that she no longer cared. It had been the destruction of what she had created.
And then she started again. A new man was wrought from maize...
Mavarion frowned at the vision, looking through it to the glass of whiskey forgotten in his hand, resting on the table. He had noticed the slightly different taste of this whiskey previously, the difference caused from it being made with corn. Perhaps what he did affected her more than he realized. Perhaps his choice of whiskey on this evening had affected the memory she chose to visit upon him.
Before she became angry with him for ignoring her vision, Mavarion returned his attention to her. He looked into her eyes for a moment, moving them swiftly from the empty sockets to the splinters of bones in her hair. He couldn't look long into her eyes before his own misdeeds welled up before him. It had made even him nearly insensate with horror to view them through her eyes. They were multiplied beyond anything he could have believed.
This was new. Never before had she asked a question of him. Never before had she shown any interest in anything he thought or did. He had sustained her for years, nearly alone, dragging companions in to worship her. He was alone again, his commitment and his devotion to her the only thing helping her hold on to immortality.Angatdan wrote:So tell me, priest. What would you do if you could start over with the world?
Those around him threw glances at Mavarion. Intent on the visions and the incorporeal creature before him, Mavarion didn't notice. His body had stiffened when she had appeared, and hadn't relaxed yet. Nothing but his eyes had moved for several minutes. His eyes moved as if he was watching something. And suddenly his lips began to move, as if speaking, though no words actually came out.
In his head, in her head, his words were clear as he responded.
What would I do, mistress? Though my attempts would be feeble compared to one such as yourself, I would still try. I would see if I could make something in my own image, using myself as the perfect model.
His eyes lowered to the glass of maize-whiskey in his hands.
I would never have thought to use something already grown from the earth, however.
Mavarion took a chance. He brought his gaze up to stare into her near-empty sockets, holding them for a long moment.
Mistress, what do you wish of me? What do you need me to do? I am working on someone who will replace me when my mortal spirit leaves my body to join you. Someone who will continue in my footsteps in my work to bring you back to the world. He has potential. Teach me, Mistress. Show me the way.
5
((In order to follow this thread, you will also need to read "Ruinations"))
The tavern continued jumping, the music continued playing as the night progressed. The tavern owner's impatience with the late night caused by the merchants was tempered by the money he was making. Everyone tried to ignore the dark stranger in their midst, and the fact that he wasn't moving and that he seemed to be talking to himself within the confines of his hood.
Mavarion was confused by the sudden look of horror and revulsion on her face. Why was she reacting like this?
Then she began to fade. This was often how she vanished, almost as if she was releasing her connection to him. Her eyes closed, and suddenly she was no longer the full-bodied, tanned woman. A vision of a gaunt woman replaced her, a skinny wraith of a woman who's stringy, greasy hair was matted in clumps as it framed her skeletal face. Is this how she really looks? he thought. Is this what she sees herself as?
Suddenly the wraith vanished, again replaced by the dark-skinned woman with bones strewn through her hair. At first she looked surprised to still see him there, before a confident look replaced the surprise.
This was also new. Never before had she asked a question of him, and never before had she shown any interest in him. He blinked a few times as he looked at her, then took a deep breath.
Mavarion looked deep into her eyes, letting the visions he saw there, the horror of his life laid bare, and pulled them outward. He drew on his magic to place the visions around them similar to how her visions were. The past was laid over the present, the visions appearing real. Reality was still there, if you looked hard enough, but neither seemed to care to. Mavarion wasn't used to using his magic like this, but necessity and experience served him well.
Suddenly they were following behind a young Mavarion in his prime. The young Commander of the King's Legion wore the silver armor of his rank as he strode through his men at camp. The camp was on the hill above a city, autonomous within the larger kingdom. Mavarion's job was to take over the city-state and annex it into the kingdom.
Mavarion's lips moved within his hood as he spoke, though no sound came out. She would be able to hear him as he narrated, and he knew what he was saying.
I was young; I was in my prime. I had risen quickly to the Commander of the King's Legion. The King himself allowed me to go about the business of putting down revolts and enlarging his kingdom, calling me a military genius. I was extremely good at what I did.
The visions swirled, moving past various battles waged through the kingdom. Suddenly Mavarion was front and center, leading his men in battle, standing on a pile of dead four bodies deep. A quick, powerful downward stroke separated the sword arm of one attacker, rendering him ineffective. This was followed by a quick sidestep, Mavarion's feet sturdy on the ever-shifting pile of dead and dying shoulders. The speed with which Mavarion moved surprised a second attacker, leaving his sword arm too far away to swing at the young commander. Using his own shield to hook the top of the attacker's shield and force it down, the taller Mavarion quickly moved his head into a butt, shattering the attacker's face.
We were trying to bring a city-state that was trying to remain autonomous from the kingdom into the fold. They didn't have a large army, and the fighting was over quickly. What was strangest was the religion they followed there. I went into the temple to be sure the last of the resistance was finished. I found an artifact I am sure you are familiar with.
The visions shifted to inside a temple, several priests held by members of the Legion as Mavarion bent over a freshly sacrificed sheep. He drew the dagger out, staring at the teardrop of blood engraved in the handle. Odd writing was etched into the hard, beige-colored blade. The knife was made of one piece of stone, about a foot in length. The blade was just over six inches long and serrated, and the writing was in a language that not many people would recognize. The hilt was long enough to fit both hands of an average sized person comfortably.
Something about the knife drew me to it. I had to find out everything I could. I learned that these people sacrificed a sheep every month to their goddess. I began searching through old books, learning what I could about an old civilization that made similar sacrifices, except with people. In some of the books I found, I began to learn about magic. I discovered I had a talent for it, especially the darker magics. Eventually I learned how to call creatures from the astral planes to help in my search.
Again the visions swirled and shifted, now showing a picture of Mavarion knelt before a demon lounging on a throne. The demon was kept at bay by a circle of blood and salt, and so didn't even attempt to tear apart the one that had summoned him. The demon leaned back on the throne of human skulls, goat-like legs with cloven hooves crossed at the knees. A forked tail flicked lazily back and forth over the demons shoulder. The rest of the demon's torso and head were human, except for the four inch horns sprouting from each side of the head above the pointed ears. Sharp fang tips peeked through the lips as the demon spoke to a rapt Mavarion.
One particular demon was able to tell me much about that old civilization...
Mavarion turned away from the images shown by the visions and looked again into her eyes.
And about the gods and goddesses, one more than the others, that the civilization worshipped.
The look in his eyes told more than he was saying, and to someone like her, the connotation would be obvious. Mavarion's eyes turned back to the visions as they shifted again.
A last image of Mavarion in the confines of a private tent, surrounded by the Legion. At the foot of an altar lay an unconscious young woman. Mavarion stood over her, no longer wearing the silver armor of the Legion. In it's place, Mavarion wore black armor with wicked spikes at the shoulders and razor sharp ridges on the forearms and going from the eye-slits on the helmet to the nape of the neck. The knife was held in both of his hands, ready to plunge into the young woman's body.
I learned how to do the sacrifice properly, but I was never able to figure out how to bring you back fully into the world.
Mavarion's eyes dropped to the table top at the admittance of his failure. The visions slowly faded as Mavarion released his hold on the magic.
The tavern continued jumping, the music continued playing as the night progressed. The tavern owner's impatience with the late night caused by the merchants was tempered by the money he was making. Everyone tried to ignore the dark stranger in their midst, and the fact that he wasn't moving and that he seemed to be talking to himself within the confines of his hood.
Mavarion was confused by the sudden look of horror and revulsion on her face. Why was she reacting like this?
Then she began to fade. This was often how she vanished, almost as if she was releasing her connection to him. Her eyes closed, and suddenly she was no longer the full-bodied, tanned woman. A vision of a gaunt woman replaced her, a skinny wraith of a woman who's stringy, greasy hair was matted in clumps as it framed her skeletal face. Is this how she really looks? he thought. Is this what she sees herself as?
Suddenly the wraith vanished, again replaced by the dark-skinned woman with bones strewn through her hair. At first she looked surprised to still see him there, before a confident look replaced the surprise.
Angatdan wrote:Tell me a story, priest.
Tell me your story.
This was also new. Never before had she asked a question of him, and never before had she shown any interest in him. He blinked a few times as he looked at her, then took a deep breath.
Mavarion looked deep into her eyes, letting the visions he saw there, the horror of his life laid bare, and pulled them outward. He drew on his magic to place the visions around them similar to how her visions were. The past was laid over the present, the visions appearing real. Reality was still there, if you looked hard enough, but neither seemed to care to. Mavarion wasn't used to using his magic like this, but necessity and experience served him well.
Suddenly they were following behind a young Mavarion in his prime. The young Commander of the King's Legion wore the silver armor of his rank as he strode through his men at camp. The camp was on the hill above a city, autonomous within the larger kingdom. Mavarion's job was to take over the city-state and annex it into the kingdom.
Mavarion's lips moved within his hood as he spoke, though no sound came out. She would be able to hear him as he narrated, and he knew what he was saying.
I was young; I was in my prime. I had risen quickly to the Commander of the King's Legion. The King himself allowed me to go about the business of putting down revolts and enlarging his kingdom, calling me a military genius. I was extremely good at what I did.
The visions swirled, moving past various battles waged through the kingdom. Suddenly Mavarion was front and center, leading his men in battle, standing on a pile of dead four bodies deep. A quick, powerful downward stroke separated the sword arm of one attacker, rendering him ineffective. This was followed by a quick sidestep, Mavarion's feet sturdy on the ever-shifting pile of dead and dying shoulders. The speed with which Mavarion moved surprised a second attacker, leaving his sword arm too far away to swing at the young commander. Using his own shield to hook the top of the attacker's shield and force it down, the taller Mavarion quickly moved his head into a butt, shattering the attacker's face.
We were trying to bring a city-state that was trying to remain autonomous from the kingdom into the fold. They didn't have a large army, and the fighting was over quickly. What was strangest was the religion they followed there. I went into the temple to be sure the last of the resistance was finished. I found an artifact I am sure you are familiar with.
The visions shifted to inside a temple, several priests held by members of the Legion as Mavarion bent over a freshly sacrificed sheep. He drew the dagger out, staring at the teardrop of blood engraved in the handle. Odd writing was etched into the hard, beige-colored blade. The knife was made of one piece of stone, about a foot in length. The blade was just over six inches long and serrated, and the writing was in a language that not many people would recognize. The hilt was long enough to fit both hands of an average sized person comfortably.
Something about the knife drew me to it. I had to find out everything I could. I learned that these people sacrificed a sheep every month to their goddess. I began searching through old books, learning what I could about an old civilization that made similar sacrifices, except with people. In some of the books I found, I began to learn about magic. I discovered I had a talent for it, especially the darker magics. Eventually I learned how to call creatures from the astral planes to help in my search.
Again the visions swirled and shifted, now showing a picture of Mavarion knelt before a demon lounging on a throne. The demon was kept at bay by a circle of blood and salt, and so didn't even attempt to tear apart the one that had summoned him. The demon leaned back on the throne of human skulls, goat-like legs with cloven hooves crossed at the knees. A forked tail flicked lazily back and forth over the demons shoulder. The rest of the demon's torso and head were human, except for the four inch horns sprouting from each side of the head above the pointed ears. Sharp fang tips peeked through the lips as the demon spoke to a rapt Mavarion.
One particular demon was able to tell me much about that old civilization...
Mavarion turned away from the images shown by the visions and looked again into her eyes.
And about the gods and goddesses, one more than the others, that the civilization worshipped.
The look in his eyes told more than he was saying, and to someone like her, the connotation would be obvious. Mavarion's eyes turned back to the visions as they shifted again.
A last image of Mavarion in the confines of a private tent, surrounded by the Legion. At the foot of an altar lay an unconscious young woman. Mavarion stood over her, no longer wearing the silver armor of the Legion. In it's place, Mavarion wore black armor with wicked spikes at the shoulders and razor sharp ridges on the forearms and going from the eye-slits on the helmet to the nape of the neck. The knife was held in both of his hands, ready to plunge into the young woman's body.
I learned how to do the sacrifice properly, but I was never able to figure out how to bring you back fully into the world.
Mavarion's eyes dropped to the table top at the admittance of his failure. The visions slowly faded as Mavarion released his hold on the magic.
7
((In order to follow this thread, you will also need to read "Ruinations"))
Mavarion continued to stare at her from within his hood as the tavern began to slowly wind down for the night. Several of the merchants had already stumbled their way to bed. Regulars still sat, nursing ales and talking quietly about the old days. The owner and his son were moving around the tables, picking up mugs and wiping down the tables.
Mavarion didn't notice a thing. It was all secondary, a breeze ruffling his hair as he stared off into the distance in concentration.
He was communing with his goddess.
He watched her face as strange emotions flooded through her. He could tell she was having some kind of internal conflict. He didn't quite know what to make of it. He waited as she ran a hand over the bones in her hair, looking none too pleased with what she found there.
And then it hit him. She didn't know! She had been living whatever life goddesses lived and hadn't even known he actually existed. She'd had no idea that others sustained her.
Mavarion wasn't arrogant enough to think he was the only person sustaining her. He knew she likely visited others and told them storys as he figured immortals were wont to do.
And with those words, her realization became clear to him, and seemed to be accepted by her. She was suddenly more corporeal, more solid, and when her hand came in contact with his drink, it stopped instead of passing through. Mavarion continued to watch her, trying not to let his shock show. He figured that even if it didn't show she would know, but it was second nature to try to suppress the outlying show of any emotion.
With those words, Mavarion knew the journey had begun in earnest. He didn't know if he would be alive when she remembered, for he knew that an instant to an immortal could be several hundred years to mortals. But he had faith in his goddess, even when all others had forgotten, or left him to his own devices when it seemed he insanely worshipped a goddess that never seemed to care.
A questions leapt to mind, something he needed to ask her regarding the current situation.
He mouthed the words, his mind again projecting them for her to hear.
"I am grooming another, and have sent him on his first test. He has ambitions that I wish to help him accomplish. Should he succeed, we will be able to secure a large quantity of worshippers for you, mistress. I need to know how he fares. I need to know what is happening below the battlemage crypt."
The images of the cemetary in Shim jumped forth for her to look at, to see. In this way, she would know where he meant for her to search.
Mavarion continued to stare at her from within his hood as the tavern began to slowly wind down for the night. Several of the merchants had already stumbled their way to bed. Regulars still sat, nursing ales and talking quietly about the old days. The owner and his son were moving around the tables, picking up mugs and wiping down the tables.
Mavarion didn't notice a thing. It was all secondary, a breeze ruffling his hair as he stared off into the distance in concentration.
He was communing with his goddess.
He watched her face as strange emotions flooded through her. He could tell she was having some kind of internal conflict. He didn't quite know what to make of it. He waited as she ran a hand over the bones in her hair, looking none too pleased with what she found there.
Angatdan wrote:"I don't remember the ritual."
"It was so long ago...you'll have to be patient. Give me the time to remember."
And then it hit him. She didn't know! She had been living whatever life goddesses lived and hadn't even known he actually existed. She'd had no idea that others sustained her.
Mavarion wasn't arrogant enough to think he was the only person sustaining her. He knew she likely visited others and told them storys as he figured immortals were wont to do.
And with those words, her realization became clear to him, and seemed to be accepted by her. She was suddenly more corporeal, more solid, and when her hand came in contact with his drink, it stopped instead of passing through. Mavarion continued to watch her, trying not to let his shock show. He figured that even if it didn't show she would know, but it was second nature to try to suppress the outlying show of any emotion.
Angatdan wrote:"But now that I am aware...I shall try."
With those words, Mavarion knew the journey had begun in earnest. He didn't know if he would be alive when she remembered, for he knew that an instant to an immortal could be several hundred years to mortals. But he had faith in his goddess, even when all others had forgotten, or left him to his own devices when it seemed he insanely worshipped a goddess that never seemed to care.
A questions leapt to mind, something he needed to ask her regarding the current situation.
He mouthed the words, his mind again projecting them for her to hear.
"I am grooming another, and have sent him on his first test. He has ambitions that I wish to help him accomplish. Should he succeed, we will be able to secure a large quantity of worshippers for you, mistress. I need to know how he fares. I need to know what is happening below the battlemage crypt."
The images of the cemetary in Shim jumped forth for her to look at, to see. In this way, she would know where he meant for her to search.
9
((In order to follow this thread, you will also need to read "Ruinations"))
Mavarion could only sit and watch the goddess as she deliberated on his request. Never before had he seen an immortal take such a request. He couldn't read her body language and facial movements like he would a regular human. Applying such base views to a goddess just didn't make sense, as well as simply not working.
So he sat and waited patiently. He had been working his whole life towards something of this sort, and he knew he could wait longer. He took the time to take another drink of his long forgotten whiskey to wet his parched mouth and throat.
Mavarion also took the time to look around the tavern, finally noticing that it looked like things were beginning to wind down for the night. He knew this would mean that he would have to go back to his room upstairs soon, but he knew he still had several minutes. There were still a couple of booths of regular customers, a few of which were ... staring at him.
More accurately, they seemed to be staring at him for a moment, and then their eyes would flicker to the empty chair with something like suspicion. Mavarion found this amusing, especially since he had stopped caring what anyone thought for many years now.
He turned back to the goddess when he heard the whiskey glass tip over on the table. She held her hand out to him in an obvious way, asking him to take it. Without the least misgiving, he placed his hand in hers and leaned forward, only then noticing the change she had undergone. There were now what looked like scales... dragon scales? ... around her eye. They made their way down her body in a vague 'S' shape, covering one breast before going below the table line. Hardly missing a step, Mav looked into the pooled whiskey on the table. He knew how magic worked, and had been a part of many scrying spells. Never of such a magnitude as that which a goddess could create, but he knew how it worked.
Mavarion could only sit and watch the goddess as she deliberated on his request. Never before had he seen an immortal take such a request. He couldn't read her body language and facial movements like he would a regular human. Applying such base views to a goddess just didn't make sense, as well as simply not working.
So he sat and waited patiently. He had been working his whole life towards something of this sort, and he knew he could wait longer. He took the time to take another drink of his long forgotten whiskey to wet his parched mouth and throat.
Mavarion also took the time to look around the tavern, finally noticing that it looked like things were beginning to wind down for the night. He knew this would mean that he would have to go back to his room upstairs soon, but he knew he still had several minutes. There were still a couple of booths of regular customers, a few of which were ... staring at him.
More accurately, they seemed to be staring at him for a moment, and then their eyes would flicker to the empty chair with something like suspicion. Mavarion found this amusing, especially since he had stopped caring what anyone thought for many years now.
He turned back to the goddess when he heard the whiskey glass tip over on the table. She held her hand out to him in an obvious way, asking him to take it. Without the least misgiving, he placed his hand in hers and leaned forward, only then noticing the change she had undergone. There were now what looked like scales... dragon scales? ... around her eye. They made their way down her body in a vague 'S' shape, covering one breast before going below the table line. Hardly missing a step, Mav looked into the pooled whiskey on the table. He knew how magic worked, and had been a part of many scrying spells. Never of such a magnitude as that which a goddess could create, but he knew how it worked.
11
((In order to follow this thread, you will also need to read "Ruinations"))
Her nail bit into his flesh, though Mavarion hardly noticed it. He was used to pain, even thrived on it to a degree. His blood dripped freely from the severed vein and into the pool of whiskey, quickly mixing with the alcohol.
Leaning forward, Mavarion licked his lips with eager anticipation. He knew where they were supposed to go, and he had heard rumors of what might be guarding such a treasure. When she released his hand, he leaned farther forward, only putting the thumb of his other hand tightly over the vein to keep the blood from continuing to spill forth. He cradled the hand in his lap, not as if he was nursing the injury, but more because he was no longer thinking about it.
The mixture of bloody whiskey didn't change, but his head was suddenly filled with a picture of the entirety of Thar Shaddin, before moving quickly down in a dizzying rush to show Shim, then the cemetery. The battlemage crypt loomed out of the night, a hole in it's side the obvious point of entry.
And then the image was rushing downward again, ever downward, into the throat of the earth. Several doorways and side passages flashed by, but the path remained true. Within moments, they were in the cavern, and Mavarion had the glimpse of what was happening below the earth. He leaned forward, eager to see how things were progressing.
He heard her voice whisper across the edges of his mind, and he stored the advice. He watched as the vampire began throwing rocks at the worm, even as the worm was attacking Krevster on the opposite side. Krevster was beaten down by three tentacles, though the worm didn't press the attack. It was suddenly too preoccupied with the swift moving rocks being launched in its direction by the strength of the vampire. Krevster used the time to his advantage, swiftly plunging his sword into the worm's side.
Suddenly the worm reared, slamming to the ground, and then again. Rocks rained down, almost causing Mavarion to flinch back from the viewing. The flickering light of a flame died out as it was buried, and suddenly everything was still. The worm lay on the ground, shuddering, and Mavarion couldn't make out either Krevster or the vampire.
And then he found himself staring at a pool of whiskey on a table. At the same time, a hand fell on his shoulder, drawing his attention.
The owner of the tavern, the slightest tinge of fear showing on his face, nodded down at Mavarion as he quickly withdrew his hand.
"I'm sorry to bother you, m'lord," the tavern owner said, stepping back and dry-washing his hands. "My son and I need ta close up the place so we ken get things ready for the mornin'"
Mavarion caught the almost fearful glance the tavern owner threw at the empty chair across from him. He idly wondered if the man could actually see his goddess on the chair before him, or merely sensed that something was not as it should be.
Mavarion offered a disarming smile, which only caused the man to step a little further back.
"You'll have to give me a moment, my good sir. I should like to clean up this mess I've made with my clumsiness. A cloth, if you could?"
The owner looked like he didn't want to argue with him, so gave him the cloth and quickly walked away. Mavarion wiped up the whiskey using his uninjured hand, then looked up at the spectral woman before him. His wrist was no longer bleeding, but it still throbbed slightly in pain.
"Thank you, milady, for that brief glimpse. Only time will tell if they are still alive. Feel free to come to me again, if you should wish."
Mavarion doubted she would walk with him out of the tavern, as she had never before come to him while he was moving, only when he was stationary. He didn't want to be presumptuous.
Her nail bit into his flesh, though Mavarion hardly noticed it. He was used to pain, even thrived on it to a degree. His blood dripped freely from the severed vein and into the pool of whiskey, quickly mixing with the alcohol.
Leaning forward, Mavarion licked his lips with eager anticipation. He knew where they were supposed to go, and he had heard rumors of what might be guarding such a treasure. When she released his hand, he leaned farther forward, only putting the thumb of his other hand tightly over the vein to keep the blood from continuing to spill forth. He cradled the hand in his lap, not as if he was nursing the injury, but more because he was no longer thinking about it.
The mixture of bloody whiskey didn't change, but his head was suddenly filled with a picture of the entirety of Thar Shaddin, before moving quickly down in a dizzying rush to show Shim, then the cemetery. The battlemage crypt loomed out of the night, a hole in it's side the obvious point of entry.
And then the image was rushing downward again, ever downward, into the throat of the earth. Several doorways and side passages flashed by, but the path remained true. Within moments, they were in the cavern, and Mavarion had the glimpse of what was happening below the earth. He leaned forward, eager to see how things were progressing.
He heard her voice whisper across the edges of his mind, and he stored the advice. He watched as the vampire began throwing rocks at the worm, even as the worm was attacking Krevster on the opposite side. Krevster was beaten down by three tentacles, though the worm didn't press the attack. It was suddenly too preoccupied with the swift moving rocks being launched in its direction by the strength of the vampire. Krevster used the time to his advantage, swiftly plunging his sword into the worm's side.
Suddenly the worm reared, slamming to the ground, and then again. Rocks rained down, almost causing Mavarion to flinch back from the viewing. The flickering light of a flame died out as it was buried, and suddenly everything was still. The worm lay on the ground, shuddering, and Mavarion couldn't make out either Krevster or the vampire.
And then he found himself staring at a pool of whiskey on a table. At the same time, a hand fell on his shoulder, drawing his attention.
The owner of the tavern, the slightest tinge of fear showing on his face, nodded down at Mavarion as he quickly withdrew his hand.
"I'm sorry to bother you, m'lord," the tavern owner said, stepping back and dry-washing his hands. "My son and I need ta close up the place so we ken get things ready for the mornin'"
Mavarion caught the almost fearful glance the tavern owner threw at the empty chair across from him. He idly wondered if the man could actually see his goddess on the chair before him, or merely sensed that something was not as it should be.
Mavarion offered a disarming smile, which only caused the man to step a little further back.
"You'll have to give me a moment, my good sir. I should like to clean up this mess I've made with my clumsiness. A cloth, if you could?"
The owner looked like he didn't want to argue with him, so gave him the cloth and quickly walked away. Mavarion wiped up the whiskey using his uninjured hand, then looked up at the spectral woman before him. His wrist was no longer bleeding, but it still throbbed slightly in pain.
"Thank you, milady, for that brief glimpse. Only time will tell if they are still alive. Feel free to come to me again, if you should wish."
Mavarion doubted she would walk with him out of the tavern, as she had never before come to him while he was moving, only when he was stationary. He didn't want to be presumptuous.
13
((In order to follow this thread, you will also need to read "Ruinations"))
Mavarion instantly gave her his injured hand, though unconsciously he had begun the healing process when his thumb had been over the wrist. He hadn't noticed until now, since he wasn't particularly skilled with healing. He could make himself mend slightly faster than normal, but could not heal himself fully, or anyone else, for that matter.
His mind wandered as he awaited what she would do. He decided he did not want to leave the tavern just yet. Even as she was grasping his injured hand, Mavarion was half turning towards the innkeeper.
"Good sir, I could use a room for the night. What do you think?"
The innkeeper turned and stared at Mavarion in surprise and quickly concealed fear. He nodded once, turning to his son and pointing behind the bar, murmuring something that Mavarion only half caught, and cared nothing about.
The young lad ran behind the counter, grabbing a key and running back around. He gave it to his father, and the innkeeper in turn approached Mavarion. The entire time she still held Mavarion's wrist, which would have looked extremely odd for anyone noticing, and not able to see her like Mavarion could, which no one else so far could.
The innkeeper checked the key, then set it on the table next to the empty whiskey glass. "'Tis our best room, sir. Please, with my compliments."
Mavarion shrugged his indifference. Whatever made the innkeeper better about having him spend the night was to his advantage. He didn't care which room he had. He would spend the night in the common room, should there be no rooms.
He lifted the key, inspected it, noted the number etched into the large, flat surface, then turned back to watch her working on his wrist.
Mavarion instantly gave her his injured hand, though unconsciously he had begun the healing process when his thumb had been over the wrist. He hadn't noticed until now, since he wasn't particularly skilled with healing. He could make himself mend slightly faster than normal, but could not heal himself fully, or anyone else, for that matter.
His mind wandered as he awaited what she would do. He decided he did not want to leave the tavern just yet. Even as she was grasping his injured hand, Mavarion was half turning towards the innkeeper.
"Good sir, I could use a room for the night. What do you think?"
The innkeeper turned and stared at Mavarion in surprise and quickly concealed fear. He nodded once, turning to his son and pointing behind the bar, murmuring something that Mavarion only half caught, and cared nothing about.
The young lad ran behind the counter, grabbing a key and running back around. He gave it to his father, and the innkeeper in turn approached Mavarion. The entire time she still held Mavarion's wrist, which would have looked extremely odd for anyone noticing, and not able to see her like Mavarion could, which no one else so far could.
The innkeeper checked the key, then set it on the table next to the empty whiskey glass. "'Tis our best room, sir. Please, with my compliments."
Mavarion shrugged his indifference. Whatever made the innkeeper better about having him spend the night was to his advantage. He didn't care which room he had. He would spend the night in the common room, should there be no rooms.
He lifted the key, inspected it, noted the number etched into the large, flat surface, then turned back to watch her working on his wrist.
15
((In order to follow this thread, you will also need to read "Ruinations"))
Mavarion paused as he half turned back to the innkeeper. In an odd pose, the man was caught staring at Mavarion's elbow propped on the table, his wrist bent as if someone was holding it. Mavarion reached into a pocket and pulled out a couple ten Bishani pieces.
"How much for the room, my good man?" Mavarion asked, as if he hadn't noticed the man staring.
The innkeeper started guiltily, quickly bowing to the strange cloaked man seated before him. "Tis a pittance, Master. Merely twenty-five Bishani a night. Includes breakfast in the morning, and since you haven't had dinner tonight, I dropped the price from the regular thirty."
Speaking price had managed to sweep the man's reticence and fear aside, and the translucent green Bishani held in Mavarion's hand helped as well. Mavarion nodded his agreement and added a five Bishani piece as well, offering it to the innkeeper. The innkeeper took it and bowed again.
"Your room up the stairs and at the far end, last door on the right," he said as he came back up from the bow. He offered a hesitant smile and turned to finish cleaning for the night.
Mavarion barely noticed the man's departure; in fact, he barely noticed anything as a sizzling pain began in his wrist. His eyes closed as he embraced the pain, as he egged it on. His eyes cracked open to see what she was doing, and he caught the last drop of her blood drip from the end of her thumb and into his own wound.'
That drop ignited another firestorm of pain that swirled directly into his veins. Fire seared him, running from his wrist to his heart, and from there pumped to every extremity. The pain was ... exquisite. He pulled it into himself, hardened himself. A smile nearly of rapture pulled his lips up at the corners even as his eyebrows bunched together in a frown from the pain.
Mavarion had never felt a healing quite like it, and when he finally stopped riding the pain, even prolonging it to a degree, he looked to his wrist. A small black patch of skin was the only indication a wound had been there.
He looked up to her, looking her in the eyes again, no longer afraid. He saw death and destruction there, even his own, but he was no longer afraid. When she spoke, when she touched him, his eyes closed.
Vindication. He had known he was right, and he now knew he had been correct in sacrificing those that claimed allegiance only to turn their backs when there was no manifestation.
Mavarion's eyes opened and refocused on her, still seated across from him. He slowly removed his hand from her grip, standing only slightly unsteadily. His lips moved without sound again, but she would be able to pluck the words from his mind.
"You have no idea what this means to me, Mistress. I - My body needs rest now, this mortal coil that demands such things as this from me in order to continue. I must get some sleep."
He bowed slightly, hoping she would not take offense to his sudden need for sleep. It had been a busy day, and the way things had begun to take shape, it was going to be busy for the next couple of months.
Mavarion paused as he half turned back to the innkeeper. In an odd pose, the man was caught staring at Mavarion's elbow propped on the table, his wrist bent as if someone was holding it. Mavarion reached into a pocket and pulled out a couple ten Bishani pieces.
"How much for the room, my good man?" Mavarion asked, as if he hadn't noticed the man staring.
The innkeeper started guiltily, quickly bowing to the strange cloaked man seated before him. "Tis a pittance, Master. Merely twenty-five Bishani a night. Includes breakfast in the morning, and since you haven't had dinner tonight, I dropped the price from the regular thirty."
Speaking price had managed to sweep the man's reticence and fear aside, and the translucent green Bishani held in Mavarion's hand helped as well. Mavarion nodded his agreement and added a five Bishani piece as well, offering it to the innkeeper. The innkeeper took it and bowed again.
"Your room up the stairs and at the far end, last door on the right," he said as he came back up from the bow. He offered a hesitant smile and turned to finish cleaning for the night.
Mavarion barely noticed the man's departure; in fact, he barely noticed anything as a sizzling pain began in his wrist. His eyes closed as he embraced the pain, as he egged it on. His eyes cracked open to see what she was doing, and he caught the last drop of her blood drip from the end of her thumb and into his own wound.'
That drop ignited another firestorm of pain that swirled directly into his veins. Fire seared him, running from his wrist to his heart, and from there pumped to every extremity. The pain was ... exquisite. He pulled it into himself, hardened himself. A smile nearly of rapture pulled his lips up at the corners even as his eyebrows bunched together in a frown from the pain.
Mavarion had never felt a healing quite like it, and when he finally stopped riding the pain, even prolonging it to a degree, he looked to his wrist. A small black patch of skin was the only indication a wound had been there.
He looked up to her, looking her in the eyes again, no longer afraid. He saw death and destruction there, even his own, but he was no longer afraid. When she spoke, when she touched him, his eyes closed.
Vindication. He had known he was right, and he now knew he had been correct in sacrificing those that claimed allegiance only to turn their backs when there was no manifestation.
Mavarion's eyes opened and refocused on her, still seated across from him. He slowly removed his hand from her grip, standing only slightly unsteadily. His lips moved without sound again, but she would be able to pluck the words from his mind.
"You have no idea what this means to me, Mistress. I - My body needs rest now, this mortal coil that demands such things as this from me in order to continue. I must get some sleep."
He bowed slightly, hoping she would not take offense to his sudden need for sleep. It had been a busy day, and the way things had begun to take shape, it was going to be busy for the next couple of months.
17
((In order to follow this thread, you will also need to read "Ruinations"))
Mavarion didn't notice her reaction to the innkeeper, didn't even notice the reaction of the innkeeper as his nose suddenly began gushing blood for no apparent reason. The door to the kitchen thumped shut behind him as he rushed into the back room.
She looked at him, smiled at him, was pleased with him. If a withered heart, given over to darkness, could be said to swell, Mavarion's would have. As it was, he merely felt pleasure in the furtherance of his own plans, and the bringing back of his chosen goddess.
He was never sure if she had chosen him or he had chosen her, but in his mind, it no longer mattered. What mattered was that events were unfolding even as she sat in front of him. Events that would change Marn, Thar Shaddin, and all Pal Tahrenor.
Her affection smile for him changed in a blink, from serene to shock and ... panic?! Mavarion's eyes widened as the world tilted around him. The extreme change of her expression, and what it could possibly mean, seemed to almost bring the world crashing down around him as he stared in utter horror at her panic-stricken face.
With a last look at him, one of perhaps promise and longing, she was gone. Mavarion stood frozen, staring at the spot where she had been. His brain wouldn't work, and he could not force himself to move, not after seeing such an expression on her face. And her words ...
He shook himself, firmly taking rein of his emotions. He knew what needed to be done, and he knew that at this moment, there was nothing he could do about it. He was weak, he knew, much from a lifetime dedicated to powerful spells and callings, from searching for answers over the next horizon, and from destroying all those between him and his goals. He was growing old as well, and knew that his time wouldn't last much longer.
Mavarion began slowly making his way upstairs to his room, already formulating plans in his mind. His body may be weaker and need the rest, but his mind was as spry as ever. He wondered where he could find a girl who would not be missed in a little village like Shim.
Mavarion didn't notice her reaction to the innkeeper, didn't even notice the reaction of the innkeeper as his nose suddenly began gushing blood for no apparent reason. The door to the kitchen thumped shut behind him as he rushed into the back room.
She looked at him, smiled at him, was pleased with him. If a withered heart, given over to darkness, could be said to swell, Mavarion's would have. As it was, he merely felt pleasure in the furtherance of his own plans, and the bringing back of his chosen goddess.
He was never sure if she had chosen him or he had chosen her, but in his mind, it no longer mattered. What mattered was that events were unfolding even as she sat in front of him. Events that would change Marn, Thar Shaddin, and all Pal Tahrenor.
Her affection smile for him changed in a blink, from serene to shock and ... panic?! Mavarion's eyes widened as the world tilted around him. The extreme change of her expression, and what it could possibly mean, seemed to almost bring the world crashing down around him as he stared in utter horror at her panic-stricken face.
Angatdan wrote:"Time grows short...priest! You must...hurry. This mortals body...will not suffice for longer."
With a last look at him, one of perhaps promise and longing, she was gone. Mavarion stood frozen, staring at the spot where she had been. His brain wouldn't work, and he could not force himself to move, not after seeing such an expression on her face. And her words ...
He shook himself, firmly taking rein of his emotions. He knew what needed to be done, and he knew that at this moment, there was nothing he could do about it. He was weak, he knew, much from a lifetime dedicated to powerful spells and callings, from searching for answers over the next horizon, and from destroying all those between him and his goals. He was growing old as well, and knew that his time wouldn't last much longer.
Mavarion began slowly making his way upstairs to his room, already formulating plans in his mind. His body may be weaker and need the rest, but his mind was as spry as ever. He wondered where he could find a girl who would not be missed in a little village like Shim.