A closed (semi, permission needed at the very least) role-play that serves as a direct continuation of the Château de Trimorphe Session I, it will become a locked/closed thread upon completion.
A closed (semi, permission needed at the very least) role-play that serves as a direct continuation of the Château de Trimorphe Session I, it will become a locked/closed thread upon completion.
Last edited by soulbrand; 08-20-2010 at 02:52 PM.
A raven disturbed by the riotous nature of the trio, would take towards the heavens letting out a single caw, a warring sound that caused a roost of kin to stir; taking flight they’d drift and glide about the wretched tower that jettisoned in all its brazen glory.
Vile was the ground rocked by the party as the coat of bones, both of beast and man, shifted and turned to dust, the very dust that blanketed their movements. Had it not been for the song of the raven, they would have been as well. Yet, as their final footfalls drew nearer a man enveloped in the light that escaped from the doorway, was seen in his entire ambiguous splendor.
“Hello, and welcome, may I help you?” Aged. It was the voice of an elderly man; the timbre was shaky and spotted as his skin as he broke from the light to bear his torn attire, the stone cane he leaned upon. Without another word, he merely stood in wait.
Talyn stood between Claude and Isidore, eyes adjusting to the light that poured from the doorway. Slowly her eyes became more adjusted and she began to make out the aged features. She had long pocketed the slip of paper handed to her by Marat but for just a second, she briefly touched the side of her jacket where the pocket was as a psychological reminder of why she was here. And as if the touch instilled some sort of giddiness, she came to the sudden realization: holy shit, she was actually meeting a Grand Marquis. This moment was beyond belief for Talyn; it went beyond superb.
The dust and over all macabre atmosphere did nothing in the way of phasing her. It was all so fascinating; what could she learn just by spending time here? Her mind itched for such knowledge and she almost considered forgetting what exactly was supposed to be happening. But she came to her senses and unlike a child on Christmas, she spoke with a firm calmness.
“We’re here to meet with the Marquis Amon,” she responded, raising a sky-facing palm to gesture to her two travelling companions on either side of her. The gesture served two purposes—the revealed and open palm demonstrated an unconscious assurance of truth and honesty, while also serving as a very general nameless introduction.
A dawdling set of steps carried the man and his cane into the heart of the luminous pathway, his features masked by the shadow that now enveloped him; yet it was the smile that radiated through it all. “Oh, well the man you seek does indeed lay within the establishment before you, though, I must warn you that should you enter the Raven—you do not stop until you’ve reached his table.” Lifting his cane heavenward it would become sheltered in auburn mist that whirled about the oaken construct before being pulled into the head of the cane; the cane took up an ashen hue before breaking apart.
It had been only a few moments before the cane reassembled in the shape of a single token placed upon a single chain, it would be walked to the female of the group and hung absently about her neck; the man smiled that bright smirk before offering a parting wave. “Remember well that should you depart from the course to the man you seek, you will be sucked into the darkness that looms about. Hands will reach to you from tables, daring and calling out to you. Do not sit them if you value your life.”
And in a howl the man faded leaving the doorway wide for their venturous eyes.
(way to tell me that you posted, jerk =P)
Talyn looked down at the chain, bringing her hand to the token. Before she could even ask what it was for, he had already departed. She wondered in part if that was a standard warning given to anyone, or if he had picked up on her inquisitive nature. Well, yes, of course she valued her life though to what ends she had yet to find out. It wasn't a question of value for her, it was more of a question of limits. To what limit did she seek knowledge? Where was the line for her, when she constantly sought to find a way to push past the line and redraw new ones? She took a quick glance around her surroundings, shoving the picture into her mind for later contemplation when she had old pages to write on about this experience. She was too anxious to get inside to see everything. She didn't even talk to the people who accompanied her as she began to walk up the steps. It was as if she had forgotten their existence. It was her, the location and whatever was inside that mattered at this point. Nothing else was considered and as a result she was in before they were.
"I wonder who or what the hands belong to," she muttered absently to herself, "and why they would lead to the end of my life." The questions were related, likely. She continued the monologue in her head, head tilting upwards to view the room above eye level where details were often the most fascinating and therefore, the most neglected. Her head tilted further up, eyes wide as she allowed the entire atmosphere to soak in that way as her gaze met the high arched ceilings within.
"Suitable, I guess, wouldn't you agree, Claude?"
The Raven bore inward a sea. Blurred visages sat transparently at oaken tables, their features lost in a continuous motion blur; yet it was clear to what and to whom their eyes befell—the trio that had entered. With a wrathful moan they began to bend and swirl towards the troupe and with skeletal fingers than they would stroke from the warmth of their frames.
A single found a single thread and thread found ruination before being plucked wit fingers that bore life and muscle. With a groan and a smile Claude inspected his attire: that vest was still safe, and that was all he cared about. A single step towards the group would leaving the fingertips falling short of him and his possessions as he sought with his gaze the table in question. It was the third wheel who spotted first the table. His twin pistols held upright in his hands, drawn the moment they entered the sea known as the Raven, as he drew his own glance to the only table that came into focus—a table that at the head sat a single man.
The head of a dog, a Doberman, stood out above the white collar of a suit. A tie of ebony and bone hung about his neck and his hands, those of man, shuffled a deck of cards that seemed to scream out each time they flipped and flopped atop their kin.
The Marquis of Hell—Amon—resides here, within the Raven.
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