Post by Ser Mehran S'Disraeli on Feb 28, 2010 15:19:03 GMT -5
My eyes opened to the twinkling around them. Many fires burned on a hill. The night was hot and sultry; magic burdened the air. As I looked closer to the fires, they were not random nor damaging. Eyes surrounding the fires stared back at me, and as they did so, some sparked with recognition. Most did not. This great gathering of flames was disjoint and separated, none speaking for another. To my left, I felt a dark chill, a void, the presence of very wicked evil. I looked, and I saw a great dark man there. Upon his chest was born chaos, upon his shield, death's face. He held a great horn and blew upon it, working to gather the attention of the fire-eyes. "Behold me," said he, eyes blazing like the fires before him, "I come from the great dark Lord, the god for whom fields run crimson and thick." Some fire-eyes looked away, some looked to this great beast intently. "Before you stands wild chaos, lust, passion, and possibility." From my right came a righteous fury, a blinding bright light. I looked, and I saw a man, tall and very sightly to mine eyes, hair of flax and eyes of sky. I knew him not, as I knew I had known the former. He wore an armor so silver it shone white in the blaze around him. "A wretch from the ninth circle bespeaks us, allies," he said, voicing sound as a trumpet. "He and his dark lord conspire to bring us to ruin, unleashing brimstone upon our lands and sulfur upon our families." Many fire-eyes turned to the angelic figure, though many more lingered to gaze upon the void-creature. I stood in the middle of them, hearing their words and seeing them. My sight looked beyond the men into their history; pain, misery, and perverse pride came from my left; fury, devotion, and humility from my right. I turned to look behind me, and I saw a path laid through a cool, shadowy forest. I left the scene of the fire-eyes behind me, and stepped onto the path. In the shadows, I saw many strange and terrible things. A woman in repose drained of life-forces, eyes empty; huge and inhuman creatures waging bloody war; a tender child transformed into a misshapen gargoyle. I walked the meandering trail, feeling and seeing my surroundings. At times, impending doom seemed on my heels, and at other times, a laziness overtook me. I came to the end of the path, which culminated in an oval clearing in the forest. Around the clearing were many spider-webs, thick and glossy. I could see crickets, locusts, and flies in the webs. As I approached the cleaning, I noticed a person in the center. Her hair was the color of polished copper, her cats-eyes were green and opaque. I knew this woman intimately; she had stolen my body and ruined my life. My chest drew in with panic, such was the chaos the creature radiated. She watched me with indifference on her face, and amusement at my reaction. Raising her arms, she came to me and embraced me. "It has been too long, too long," she murmured. I felt her darkness, the opposite to my light. She withdrew to look in my own gold eyes, and I--
As Mehran sat straight up in bed, heart pounding, she was sure that the Demoness must be there next to her, preparing her for indwelling again. Her eyes surveyed the one-room cottage, and as she assured herself that (except for the mandrakes) she was alone, she allowed herself to lay back on the furs of her bed. The dream had been so real, and yet, there had been a definite surrealism to it. As she reviewed the characters that had presented themselves, she shuddered. "Skeith is still alive?" she wondered aloud, the whisper escaping her lips and surprising her own ears. To herself, she sounded frightened and bewildered. The man had deserved an end for a very long measure, and in the past, Mehran would have been ecstatic to track him down and give it to him. But now, she had been given a new life, and peace prevailed. She wondered at the Man of Light, and shook her head at the Demoness. Disraeli had hounded her long enough; she had even taken "S'Disraeli" as her last name, in the tradition of an ancient tribe that believed taking a demon's name as your own would keep the demon out. "Strange, still, to see her this night." It was a year from the date of Mehran's exorcism, performed by Eldrin the Black of the Ravenwood Company. The experience had been horrifying, and she never wanted to relive it. She owed Eldrin and his elves of Ravenwood her life, and would answer any call they sent to her. As she lay there thinking of the details, a dreamless sleep took her.
A knock at the door awoke her in the morning. As she peered out of the curtains from her bed, she noted that the morning was half-over. She slowly rose, setting the furs to rights and pulling on a robe over her scant nightclothes. The witch's robe would be appropriate for any company at the door, and would denote her trade and skill as well as deliver a warning for any would-be assailant. She went to the door and grasped the doorknob. Better sense prevailed, and she said loudly, "who is it?" She hoped the faeries would warn her if the person meant harm.
Receiving no reply, she opened the door to a crack and peeked out. No one stood there; a scrap of parchment floated on the air to land on the rocks forming the path to the doorstep. After a moment of caution, she retrieved the paper and shut the door.
Mehran looked up from the letter and rolled her eyes. "How did he even know where I was?" she wondered aloud, amused with the man's skill. He had always been good at getting an important message to the intended recipient. The red witch noted that the letter had not come through the Elven blessed mailbox Ilyia had given her. Thinking of the important message brought her back to Percival's written words. "They're finally gathering." It had been an event she had anticipated for some time. Despite her misgivings as to Percival's method of locating her, she felt compelled to attend the event. A treaty-signing was not something one missed, especially when one received written order (however thinly veiled as an invitation, a la Percival) from a public official. She signed and went to her money-jar. Taking out a small amount, she set it in a separate jar labeled, "Alliance Travel Costs." Mehran was nothing if not prepared.
As Mehran sat straight up in bed, heart pounding, she was sure that the Demoness must be there next to her, preparing her for indwelling again. Her eyes surveyed the one-room cottage, and as she assured herself that (except for the mandrakes) she was alone, she allowed herself to lay back on the furs of her bed. The dream had been so real, and yet, there had been a definite surrealism to it. As she reviewed the characters that had presented themselves, she shuddered. "Skeith is still alive?" she wondered aloud, the whisper escaping her lips and surprising her own ears. To herself, she sounded frightened and bewildered. The man had deserved an end for a very long measure, and in the past, Mehran would have been ecstatic to track him down and give it to him. But now, she had been given a new life, and peace prevailed. She wondered at the Man of Light, and shook her head at the Demoness. Disraeli had hounded her long enough; she had even taken "S'Disraeli" as her last name, in the tradition of an ancient tribe that believed taking a demon's name as your own would keep the demon out. "Strange, still, to see her this night." It was a year from the date of Mehran's exorcism, performed by Eldrin the Black of the Ravenwood Company. The experience had been horrifying, and she never wanted to relive it. She owed Eldrin and his elves of Ravenwood her life, and would answer any call they sent to her. As she lay there thinking of the details, a dreamless sleep took her.
A knock at the door awoke her in the morning. As she peered out of the curtains from her bed, she noted that the morning was half-over. She slowly rose, setting the furs to rights and pulling on a robe over her scant nightclothes. The witch's robe would be appropriate for any company at the door, and would denote her trade and skill as well as deliver a warning for any would-be assailant. She went to the door and grasped the doorknob. Better sense prevailed, and she said loudly, "who is it?" She hoped the faeries would warn her if the person meant harm.
Receiving no reply, she opened the door to a crack and peeked out. No one stood there; a scrap of parchment floated on the air to land on the rocks forming the path to the doorstep. After a moment of caution, she retrieved the paper and shut the door.
Mehran looked up from the letter and rolled her eyes. "How did he even know where I was?" she wondered aloud, amused with the man's skill. He had always been good at getting an important message to the intended recipient. The red witch noted that the letter had not come through the Elven blessed mailbox Ilyia had given her. Thinking of the important message brought her back to Percival's written words. "They're finally gathering." It had been an event she had anticipated for some time. Despite her misgivings as to Percival's method of locating her, she felt compelled to attend the event. A treaty-signing was not something one missed, especially when one received written order (however thinly veiled as an invitation, a la Percival) from a public official. She signed and went to her money-jar. Taking out a small amount, she set it in a separate jar labeled, "Alliance Travel Costs." Mehran was nothing if not prepared.