Day of the Dead was always an interesting time for the arcanist Faronne Price. On prior years, she'd always found herself slumped over the makeshift grave of her long-dead husband, half-empty bottle of whiskey in one hand, and smoldering cigarette in the other. She'd stay there as a crumpled, sobbing mess until the cemetery's guards would order her to leave.
This year was different. This year, Faronne Price was smiling for Day of the Dead.
"N-No, s-stop, let me go, you're hurting me!"
The smile quickly faded.
"Oh, hush," she spat, and took a swig from her flask. The whiskey burned her throat as she swallowed, and her tiny body shuddered.
"You'll never get away with this! You… you vile witch, you monster!"
The man strapped to the large slab of stone in the middle of the workshop frantically struggled against his bonds. He'd been strapped down tightly. This man wouldn't be leaving the workshop in one piece.
"You're right-- Daniel-- that was your name? Forgive me, the mind tends to fog with age," Faronne shrugged, and took another swig of whiskey, "You are most certainly right that I will never get away with this! I will be judged, Daniel, by a being, by a force that is much, much higher than the silly laws and taboos of humanity. Be it the Light--" she pauses to scoff at the notion, "--or something more sinister. All things come to an end."
Daniel stared at Faronne, and his eyes were as wide as saucers. He'd stopped struggling, and his horrified eyes took in the sights of the quaint little workshop in the wastes of Shadowmoon Valley. Cutlery on the walls, and racks of vials and reagents rattled with each impact of the infernal rains, and an eerie green glow filtered in through the one window. The lantern in the center of the ceiling swung wildly.
"Evil witch!" Daniel yelled, and spat. Faronne's bony hand collided with his cheek, and her rings sliced the young man's cheek. He yelped, and Faronne just sighed as she tucked stray locks of hair behind his ear.
"Shhhh, darling," she whispered in his ear, and then lapped at the tiniest bit of blood, "Do not despair. Today is Day of the Dead. To some, it is a celebration, Daniel. Rest assured that you will be mourned. Someone will miss you, and they will call upon your spirit but one day out of the year."
Daniel held his breath and forced his eyes shut. He could feel Faronne's breath tickling his ear, and the alcohol and cigarettes on her breath made him want to vomit.
"You will have to be a patient lad and wait until next year, though," the tiny woman said with a creepily jovial smile, and patted his chest. On the last pat, Daniel felt his breath catch in his throat and a supernatural chill permeate his body.
A soft glow of purple formed underneath Faronne's palm, and she slowly drew her skeletal hand back. Little wisps of purple, with what looked like tiny faces, began to swirl up from Daniel's chest and into Faronne's palm. They coalesced into a jagged purple gem, which grew in size with each merging essence.
Daniel's skin was pallid, and his eyes were frozen open with terror, and the onset of death. She could feel his consciousness, and the very essence of his soul waning. Her other hand brushed through his hair, and then retrieved the dagger from her side.
"Someone will mourn you," she whispered again, and then closed her fist around the soul shard. At that very moment, Daniel's body convulsed, and she plunged the dagger into his chest with all of her might. Daniel stopped moving, stopped breathing, stopped everything. She left the dagger in his chest, and held the soul shard up to the swinging light above.
"Mmm. Getting better…" she smirked, and then sank down to sit on the floor. Her back leaned up against the stone slab, and she pocketed the shard. The flask was at her lips again, and she took a greedy drink.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Monday, October 10, 2011
Crux
Duskwood. The mist had been particularly thick that night, settling in a blanket over the dead foliage of Raven Hill. The smoke from a small camp fire rose in a winding stream to mix with the fog. It was in the center of a pentacle, crudely drawn with a stick in the dirt. At each of the star's points was a small candle, their flickering barely noticeable in the misty dark.
A hooded figure limped around the drawn circle that enclosed the pentacle. The figure was female, shrouded in fine, embroidered black and silver robes. After one complete circle around the fire, the woman snapped her cape back with flourish. The fabric billowed behind her in the slight breeze, and the candles and bonfire flickered. Light reflected off of her monocle, and illuminated the raised areas of her face while shadowing the gaunt hollows even more.
"Here you are, Lady Price… wicked witch, fallen from grace, left only to your schemes and little games. You have no country, you have no companion, you have no love," the woman spoke to herself in a voice hardly above a whisper, "Only hate. Only schemes."
Her skeletal fingers reached under the collar of her robe, and pulled out a long golden chain with a locket at the end. With one sharp tug, she broke the chain and held the locket out in the palm of her thin hand.
The tiny fingers opened the oval locket, revealing a small painted portrait of a man and woman, both tall with dark hair. They were in grand uniforms of silver and gold, smiling, holding each other. Carefully, she slipped the portrait out from the locket and held it up.
"You are lost to me now, my love. We cannot be together. Criminal and corpse does not make a suitable marriage. Your mind is weak, you have fallen prey to powers beyond either of our control. My husband, Urien Fuoco, died in Andorhal. Should I come across the maddening, murderous corpse that once belong to him…"
With a simple flick, she tossed the portrait into the fire.
"I will burn it to nothing but ash. Your soul will see no torment; only rest. I loved you," she kissed the locket, and threw it into the fire along with the portrait, "No longer will your body be my weakness."
Faronne Price stretched her hand out, fingers extended, and turned her wrist to face her palm to the sky. A small ember danced there, flickering and moving about in tandem with the bonfire. Squinting to focus, she uttered a small incantation under her breath.
In a brilliant display of fire, red with fury, tempered with the blue of arcane frost, both the bonfire and flame in her palm grew. The bonfire raged, fueled by only the will of the arcanist. She could see the metal locket become orange with the heat, then begin to bubble and ooze into liquid droplets.
The fire burned through the fabric of her glove, and Faronne only hissed, relishing the pain. A moment later, she closed her fist around the flame. Simultaneously, the bonfire and flames at the pentacle's points all went out.
"And so the Covenant is reborn," she said lowly, smelling both burnt cloth and flesh. Her fist released, extending each finger one by one. Smoke streamed up from it, barely visible in the moonlight.
Abruptly, she teleported from that spot outside of Raven Hill. A swirling vortex of mana was left in her wake, knocking the candles over and covering the pentacle with dirt. The wind settled and mana dissipated, leaving only the destroyed ritual site.
A hooded figure limped around the drawn circle that enclosed the pentacle. The figure was female, shrouded in fine, embroidered black and silver robes. After one complete circle around the fire, the woman snapped her cape back with flourish. The fabric billowed behind her in the slight breeze, and the candles and bonfire flickered. Light reflected off of her monocle, and illuminated the raised areas of her face while shadowing the gaunt hollows even more.
"Here you are, Lady Price… wicked witch, fallen from grace, left only to your schemes and little games. You have no country, you have no companion, you have no love," the woman spoke to herself in a voice hardly above a whisper, "Only hate. Only schemes."
Her skeletal fingers reached under the collar of her robe, and pulled out a long golden chain with a locket at the end. With one sharp tug, she broke the chain and held the locket out in the palm of her thin hand.
The tiny fingers opened the oval locket, revealing a small painted portrait of a man and woman, both tall with dark hair. They were in grand uniforms of silver and gold, smiling, holding each other. Carefully, she slipped the portrait out from the locket and held it up.
"You are lost to me now, my love. We cannot be together. Criminal and corpse does not make a suitable marriage. Your mind is weak, you have fallen prey to powers beyond either of our control. My husband, Urien Fuoco, died in Andorhal. Should I come across the maddening, murderous corpse that once belong to him…"
With a simple flick, she tossed the portrait into the fire.
"I will burn it to nothing but ash. Your soul will see no torment; only rest. I loved you," she kissed the locket, and threw it into the fire along with the portrait, "No longer will your body be my weakness."
Faronne Price stretched her hand out, fingers extended, and turned her wrist to face her palm to the sky. A small ember danced there, flickering and moving about in tandem with the bonfire. Squinting to focus, she uttered a small incantation under her breath.
In a brilliant display of fire, red with fury, tempered with the blue of arcane frost, both the bonfire and flame in her palm grew. The bonfire raged, fueled by only the will of the arcanist. She could see the metal locket become orange with the heat, then begin to bubble and ooze into liquid droplets.
The fire burned through the fabric of her glove, and Faronne only hissed, relishing the pain. A moment later, she closed her fist around the flame. Simultaneously, the bonfire and flames at the pentacle's points all went out.
"And so the Covenant is reborn," she said lowly, smelling both burnt cloth and flesh. Her fist released, extending each finger one by one. Smoke streamed up from it, barely visible in the moonlight.
Abruptly, she teleported from that spot outside of Raven Hill. A swirling vortex of mana was left in her wake, knocking the candles over and covering the pentacle with dirt. The wind settled and mana dissipated, leaving only the destroyed ritual site.
"The Conception" -Shoji Meguro
Friday, October 7, 2011
Information for Gold
((Hastily-written notes. All information acquired ICly.))
Met with contact, information reported.
-Subject seeking mentoring from another priest-- 'Mooney'
-Gone to Molten Front with paladin 'Aurric' -- (name is familiar, but where?) Talk of romance between the two.
-Seeking alchemy lessons from draenei-- 'Caade'
-Allergies: Darnassian maple pollen, shellfish, skethyl berries.
-Prone to sunburns
-Blood Type: O
-Worgen Curse
-Assisted in torture and dissection of Twilight's Hammer cultist
-Physical skills: limited.
Interesting.
Met with contact, information reported.
-Subject seeking mentoring from another priest-- 'Mooney'
-Gone to Molten Front with paladin 'Aurric' -- (name is familiar, but where?) Talk of romance between the two.
-Seeking alchemy lessons from draenei-- 'Caade'
-Allergies: Darnassian maple pollen, shellfish, skethyl berries.
-Prone to sunburns
-Blood Type: O
-Worgen Curse
-Assisted in torture and dissection of Twilight's Hammer cultist
-Physical skills: limited.
Interesting.
And crying out to the sky cause he was lonely and scared
But only the devil responded, cause god wasn't there
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
A Moth to Flame
((Song for this entry is "Ripe (With Decay)" - Nine Inch Nails.))
Journal, journal.
It's been such a long time since I have terrified someone so wholly through only words.
Miss Agnes Yardley… a young girl of Gilnean heritage. Her accent gave it away at first, but I was quick to discern much of the rest of her life. She is an orphan, a survivor of civil war and witness to the most terrible of deeds, one of which likely being the murder of her family. She reminds me so much of myself, after the invasion of Andorhal. Young, completely alone in the world. Terrified and enraged at the same time, under the veneer of a proper lady. Nothing to lose, everything to prove.
I can see that she is drawn to me. Terrified, first, but after the first wave of terror comes interest. Almost like a moth to flame, now that I think of it. If she truly had no want to be near me, to listen to my words or listen to what I have to offer her, she would have run away the instant she laid eyes upon me. She would have not come to meet me at the altar today, just as I had asked of her.
There is something underneath the surface of the lady that wants no more than to help others. Something wicked, separate from her curse. Drive. Desire. A thirst to be recognized, to be the one using others instead of the one being used.
She will come back, and I will offer her greatness.
I am, however, quite pleased with this kitten I had adopted from her. The little female provides such good company for Mittens, who has been lonely since Ludovick and Emmercy's departures. I will name her Amelia.
--F.P.
Journal, journal.
It's been such a long time since I have terrified someone so wholly through only words.
Miss Agnes Yardley… a young girl of Gilnean heritage. Her accent gave it away at first, but I was quick to discern much of the rest of her life. She is an orphan, a survivor of civil war and witness to the most terrible of deeds, one of which likely being the murder of her family. She reminds me so much of myself, after the invasion of Andorhal. Young, completely alone in the world. Terrified and enraged at the same time, under the veneer of a proper lady. Nothing to lose, everything to prove.
I can see that she is drawn to me. Terrified, first, but after the first wave of terror comes interest. Almost like a moth to flame, now that I think of it. If she truly had no want to be near me, to listen to my words or listen to what I have to offer her, she would have run away the instant she laid eyes upon me. She would have not come to meet me at the altar today, just as I had asked of her.
There is something underneath the surface of the lady that wants no more than to help others. Something wicked, separate from her curse. Drive. Desire. A thirst to be recognized, to be the one using others instead of the one being used.
She will come back, and I will offer her greatness.
I am, however, quite pleased with this kitten I had adopted from her. The little female provides such good company for Mittens, who has been lonely since Ludovick and Emmercy's departures. I will name her Amelia.
--F.P.
Monday, October 3, 2011
OOC: Music Post, Updated
I have been meaning to post one of these for awhile now so, here you go.
1. "Criminal" -Fiona Apple ("What would an angel say? The devil wants to know…)
2. "I Can't Decide" -Scissor Sisters
3. "#1 Crush" -Garbage
4. "Winter in My Heart" -VAST
5. "Please" -Nine Inch Nails (note: video also relevant to Faro's character. NSFW.)
6. "Let the Poison Spill From Your Throat" -The Faint
7. "Until it Sleeps" -Metallica (bonus Apocalyptica cover!)
8. "Sober" -Tool
9. "Falling Again" -Lacuna Coil
10. "Destroy Everything You Touch" -Ladytron
11. "Dirty Little Thing" -Velvet Revolver
12. "Post Blue" -Placebo
13. "Macabre" -Dir en grey (English lyrics)
1. "Criminal" -Fiona Apple ("What would an angel say? The devil wants to know…)
2. "I Can't Decide" -Scissor Sisters
3. "#1 Crush" -Garbage
4. "Winter in My Heart" -VAST
5. "Please" -Nine Inch Nails (note: video also relevant to Faro's character. NSFW.)
6. "Let the Poison Spill From Your Throat" -The Faint
7. "Until it Sleeps" -Metallica (bonus Apocalyptica cover!)
8. "Sober" -Tool
9. "Falling Again" -Lacuna Coil
10. "Destroy Everything You Touch" -Ladytron
11. "Dirty Little Thing" -Velvet Revolver
12. "Post Blue" -Placebo
13. "Macabre" -Dir en grey (English lyrics)
Friday, September 30, 2011
Duskwood
Damn all the luck, I was spotted by Ludovick's new woman. Complete happenstance, I am sure, but I'm quite surprised that I was spotted so easily in full armor and a mask.
In any case, I met a young lady named Agnes Yardley who may or may not be right in the head, but will fulfill a purpose in my new venture.
I sent her a few dresses-- the girl looks absolutely dreadful in gray.
--F.P.
In any case, I met a young lady named Agnes Yardley who may or may not be right in the head, but will fulfill a purpose in my new venture.
I sent her a few dresses-- the girl looks absolutely dreadful in gray.
--F.P.
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