An Old Conjurer's Foolishness

The Raven of Dispersion

Atra'Lamia Darkbane
ᴏᴜʀ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ɪs sωᴀʏᴇᴅ ʙʏ sᴜɴᴋᴇɴ ᴍᴏᴏɴs

Wanderlust can be just as poisonous as the viper that lay in sand-scorched wait for a thirsting shred of destiny. Between the two lies the great Chasm, an open wound of the real. The idealist's blind-spot, cob-webbed and sold as dangerous confection to blind acolytes that see not their souls in the shallow— it shall become as Hell if allowed to bloom just so. Traversed, loved and nurtured, it attains the most wonderful geometry, sacred and perfect to the savage gardens, the wastelands of chaos.

Perhaps they shouldn’t be so afraid of the beast that springs forth from the salted wounds of nostalgia, for she is your worldly answer to cosmic fear. A romantic ossuary in the unknown dark. Over the walls and webs of a meandering Hell, watching in elegant patience, there stirring only to collect her gentle debt of secrets— ethereal butterflies on the wing. She carries with her the secrets of sorcery, failure, love, delight and sorrow. Each born unto her callous maw and so graceful and silently she feeds. Gilded in throes of writhing, entombed souls, draped across the carcasses of those long spent offerings.

Such an 'acclaimed' passionate "love", despite the seeming grotesquery which many had attributed her toward. Not so versed in the words of war before, speeches usually lacked the grace and flair granted to her tongue these days; one could not expect when sitting in the courts of some of the most influential and powerful empires, and not learn a thing... or two. Most certainly now, she could incite war or bring forth peace with the elegance of intellect and honeyed tones purring twixt those apertures. Not 'just' a woman of word but also the blades that had for long clashed with some of the mightiest lord. Whose gauntlet had 'long' eviscerated many to the tides of the fallen skulls that 'had' piled at her feet, Pandora, Spectre and Ballathor amongst her most prized 'Darkbane' trophies. Were still their souls carried in company, so attuned to primal customs, they failed to see the boredom of its presence in the blackness of her eyes?

Perhaps too, that it had not been by chance that another presence darkened the hues of hyacinthine gloaming and the cool miasma of chilly air. It had been long since she had graced these primal shores with a cruel beauty none could deny, save for those whom had fallen to the gauntlet of high hopes and wishful thinking. However, it was past icons who rose often from the darkness of obscurity, though no longer did a personification given by The Eternal Goddess Pandora rule the face, only that of true appellation. Burnt celestial eyes glimpsed over these lands with a lack for nostalgia that was anything but, impervious to content. No virtue and vice- rising with temptation only to take back into the darkness those poor screaming souls, dragging at the moist earth.

Captured in the captivation of such tormented beauties; paled in comparison to this coquettish 'Imperatrix'. Would she even dare or care to whisper such a thing? It wasn’t like civilization was anything more than what her eyes had already seen a thousand times before. It was all too languid now. Maybe it was more enriching to enjoy even the simplistic of pleasures such as moonlight and glittering stars; of crimson ichor pouring from a delicate incision across the throat, and the anathema of poison, slowly coursing through the veins, while the body convulsed and relieved itself of caustic fluids in emesis?

With a lure of disruption, a calming terror that beauty brings forth from the shadows of the most common myth perpetuated and habituated by man. There was no need to rise from the tide of the swooping darkness as it blanketed the land in its cold silence. A creature of these elements should not have to rise either from earth or crypt like a dirty secret waiting to be scratched out from beneath the surface of societies crust— like a tick burrowing beneath the skin of a giant. To bleed every sin out only to imbibe it with Atra's ravenous tongue, even though the fetish of it was promised upon the rim of the crystalline glass. A single satirical fingernail traced the burnished images casting reflections upon the surface. There Atra sat just as she had so many years before, silently observing the most noted of interactions and arrivals. A slender leg crossing the other... exposing just enough of her translucent flesh to capture the eye, but, also adding to the mystery of her status; or familiarity to these lands and the elegance of her swords.

Twin Sentient Scimitars suspended from either side of hip, both had been forged and cooled in sacrificial blood. Highly decorative, bound by necromantic rites and tempered to a muttering of lethal runes, and inscribed afterward with primal death spells. Blackheilm- 'true' black silver blade and hilt of ivory and black gold embellishments accompanied by a scabbard of black embossed leather akin to the Obsidian Lords of olde—(Overall length: 91 cm. (35.7 inches); blade length: 76.5 cm. (30 inches). Gaze lost in the opalesque furls of her own hair. Regally poised, aesthetically in an open space of the tavern filled with static, acrid scents and senses that were anything but natural. Stale alcohol, sweat and cheap perfumes, such unnatural smells were the easiest to find in the wilderness.

Both within and without walls; that it made her stomach lurch and crawl as she tried to look away. Looking outside of this strange humanoid little world, and see something beyond the stone and glass, devils and dust, to find one, something familiar to all of creation. It was then that she heard a voice, one husky and deep with intoxication. "How are you this evening?" Not needing to look upon the man's stubble-rugged face to know an artificial smile was planted; a mask of attraction, infatuation or compassion to her glory. She just was not interested, in that of man or over-ride the infection of indifference to anything that fell outside of those imaginary lines that humanity placed between themselves. She could, however, smell something from deeper below the masks which made her smile... only in that those reactions for which he had no control were, indeed, wholly common to all creatures.

"It doesn't really matter, now does it?" a sarcastic voice... cold and empty... head cocking to the side... ravenesque hair parting in a fashion that they might, for the first time, actually see eye to eye. "Little does it matter, to how I may feel, I am sure you shall claim to possess some miracle elixir, to soothe away my woes?" Words dripped with cynic amusement, black magick and sarcasm; even if subtle venom was coveted behind the mellifluous sensuality of dulcet timbre. Honeyed, even angelic in lilt- before he managed to discover a retort in that copious empty skull where usually for most, a brain actually sat. With this one, Atra had many doubts. "I reckon, that I could scratch all your itches, sweet one." A wink demonstrated while his wondering eyes danced over sculptured frame shamelessly depicting every curve, lingering over feminine curves idyllic of Darkness and Aphrodite.

How ludicrous could one morsel of flesh be, jumping from one extreme to another and deserved only the response deemed worthy of his comical performance.

Laughing darkly, tossing her head back and staring up at the marks on the ceiling that had been left by moisture. All things die... eventually. Would it be so shocking here and now... in this nostalgic place?

Stout and heavy in build as the man was, he must have been surprised at the fast riposte of her reaction. Having wounded the beasts pride, for no sooner had the laugh echoed through the tavern his left fist had furled and headed straight towards her right cheek. This was what entertained her the most in a mortal man's displayed wounded pride. Already he was at a disadvantage, inflicted with the effects of a strong days worth of drinking; clumsy and off balance. Another was the fact; he had greatly underestimated his chosen victim for the evening. He was no soldier and certainly no hunter either; but he was fast on his way to becoming the prey— he was not as quick as what he had wished or flying fine as what his intoxication had him believe. No sooner had the strike instigated its flow of motion she had ushered hers.

Waiting for just the precise moment his fist would be only but breath of air, the palm of her right hand instantly coming up to encompass his left. First with the palm of her hand. Elongated fingernails smothering over his clenched fist; fingers of knives perforated deeply into the tight flesh of his beefy hand that had been so hungry with eagerness to strike her. Skin splitting, crimson ribbons trickling over his olive complexion and stunned amazement where he cringed in agony. Doubling over as he was forced to stoop down to the level where her eyes would be the directive in proving her point. No man had yet the skill to strike her, and it certainly would not be this cretin trying to find him a thrill or fancy for the night way out of his league.

A smirk conversed over opulent rubicund apertures, both devious and infectious ."Foolish child!" Atra mocked. "You have only seen the first shore, and already it leaves you weak and tired; a longing for some other place that you know must be very far away from here. One that you shall never find, an eternity you shall never know!!" Statement boldly spoken while arching her back, forcing him down upon his knees provoked by the painful grasp of her assault. Temperate air from her lungs plumed hot over his creeping canvas, trembling with a fear it had never experienced, until now. "The poison hurts, but pain will soon abate, and fear will pass away, so choose!" Perfectly honed heel rising then impressing towards the center of his forehead, the lure of enchantment hidden behind her tones enticing euphoria as if sympathetic to his dilemma.

"I can take this away from you... but, what would you ever give me in exchange for such a... service of... kindness?" Subservient begging was all the body language required to perceive, she did not need or desire his words, for that was all his words were; empty and soulless poetry. Did he want the pain to be vanquished so soon? One should always be dubious of what they wish for, no sooner had his eyes pleaded for mercy, her left hand had delved beneath the matricide of raven lace and leather. In the tourniquet of mesh of hilt, her beloved 'Umbra-Mucro'|Shadow Dagger producing it out and in the same motion of retrieval an angular slash was directed against the surface of his throat. Splitting his Adam's Apple like a cherry twixt the teeth, while tongue delved deep to just how sweet its flavour would be. He wanted that pain gone, and now he had been given what he craved most, liberation. Something she knew, she would never have.

Right hand releasing the slumping arch of his limb, as his body melted to the hardness of the dirty floor beneath her stiletto crowned feet, submissive like any slave or puppet should be. Smouldering dusky eyes glancing over the patrons who may have witnessed the events of her favourite hobby; a playful, yet also cruel, sort of expression made her face seem to exceptionally beautiful... seduction of all evils. Coy with a hint of feigned innocence glinting in the devilish pits of those persuasive orbs as cadmium sienna apertures pursed to speak to those still watching her and the body now lifeless. Interrupting their drunken banters of sordid tales, myth and wonders betwixt hushed fears...."Now, now, boys... do not think ill of me. I only did what you were all thinking, and yet could not pluck the courage, even from the rum-infused warmth of your bellies or the wenches that await you in their perfumed beds." A chuckle escaping past those pursed lips designed for death before attentions re-examined the empty glass inquisitively. "I used to think of the glass somewhat half empty... now indeed I see the glass half full... "

Contemplating something refined, something like absinthe and belladonna... the phantasms of dreams. Listening to these lecherous tales of yore, it was rather sacrilegious to hear various things uttered from common lips of treachery, glories and loves so bravely spoken, yet none seemed true. At least not how SHE had remembered them. Speaking through the tiers of ivories, where their fine points sat barely covered on the orchid blooms of apertures, "Charming..." spoken in dissonance with raspy unsympathetic tones. Enough of wistfulness had been seen this evening, and yet, to return here where it all began... with a dead body on the floor at her feet, boot heel rising to rest on the pinnacle of forehead while the blood flowed like Phlegethon.

Even as patrons scuffled to move chairs away from the svelte woman... midnight eyes froze in their silent reverie, toward deeper reflection. Glib-tongue licking across the lower arch of strawberry hued pillow, plump and voluptuous as perfect ivories can to pinch the sweet flesh between them, meditatively. Something of arrogant inattentiveness. Chin rising with that famous notorious haughty fashion well acclaimed for; lambency bejeweled by ophidian jet slithers beaming heinously from behind lustrous lashes, malevolence... so unspeakable. A score of a few hundred years and even though Ayenee had seen war after war through the eons, this tavern of old hadn't seen many changes despite the build up of metallic giants surrounding it. A sly and confident smirk rising over moist lips of wine, enshadowed with intricate artistry by the lustre of the amber glow provided from the flickering overtures dancing in ascendance like serpents upon the tavern walls.

Energies extending, beloved vines of necrotic rapture 'weaving' their unseen webs. Exuberant in the horror of a body crushed of all life, its soul struggling for liberation. Each tainted tendril coiling around their aura's, indeed traveling with those who scrambled away quickly into the night. Thinking that refuge in the darkness would be discovered, and sweet solace found there in the bitterest of today’s and tomorrows. Atra wouldn't tally here for any length of time, but certainly long enough to share one last drink with 'old friends' or 'old foes'.

"Nothing surpasses... a little magick!" Uttered just as the mace struck with metallic triumph.


The Administration Mage
Staff member
Miths silver eyes traced the movements of Daelan and Gris as they came down the stairs his eyes showing playful calm but behind the jovial appearance his attention remained upon Gris. Nothing like cajoling a mans pride to get him to action, but sometimes their pride threw a mace at you when you seemed distracted. As he heard Daelans quip Mith snickered loudly “ I've tried knocking sense into people as well Daelan, but I find objects and spells more susceptible to brute force than people.” His attnetion shifted as Gris looked over the nail before seeming to come to a decision perhaps with Daelans added encouragement. Mith however was well Mith and had to correct Gris “ More of a holy blacksmith if it makes you feel any better“

As the augmented mass of the mace struck with its divine fist of god radiance the nail would not budge, but would splinter into seven separate slivers. The impact of the mace upon the nail caused a deep reverberating tone like a massive church bell striking before filling the area around it with a profound absence of sound. Those eyes that remained upon the nail would see the rosemary like string encircle the slivers and bind them together tightly like rope about a bundle of wood. The single difference was that the rope would not continue to coil around the bundle which the rosemary did until no fleck of iron remained visible. The Impurities of which there were far more than one would assume having looked at the nail simply fell to the ground as dust moats scatting through an unseen breeze. Once the mace was withdrawn the slivers in the rosemary case would rise up from the ground slowly moving in a counter clockwise motion until they arrived as waist height.

After the encased slivers had risen Mith would step towards them and held out his left hand allowing the bundle to move towards him and settle into his palm with a soft imperceptible thud. Turning his attention towards Griss and Daelan he smiled as he closed his fingers slowly around the casing and moved towards the door of the Tavern “Fine work master Paladin” He said with a wink towards Daelan as he stepped up the stairs and pushed upon the door to the tavern. “Now then comes the fun part well fun-ish” He said waggling his eyebrows.


Revered Elder
"Fancy!" grinned Daelan, leaning heavily on his staff. "The church bells are a really nice touch."

He hopped up the steps, favoring his left leg heavily. Clearly all the spells had drawn their due, and he was feeling drained for it. Maybe a cold ale to soothe the leg! The gray-streaked beard lifted from his chest as he smiled at the thought. Simple pleasures.

Daelan had been in the game for ages. Eons, even, from a certain perspective. He'd seen and done both evil and good on a scale beyond the cosmic. Fought dragons & gods, actually stopped a dragon from ascending to godhood once, waged war on entire civilizations (where did that holy text of the Asurii people go, anyway? Was that still rolled up in that lead box in the closet?), and destroyed continents (the Kurian Empire had that shit coming, dammit! Keeping your word cannot possibly be THAT difficult for their species!).

Daelan had cracked the mystery of TIME, for fuck's sake! A province to intimidating for most deities!

He had once carved an entire city out of ice on a frozen rock in deep space, then animated the entire populace of ice sculptures mid-step. The memories he wove into the conjuration were all from a uniform instant of an active, interwoven social structure. For all they knew, they had lived happily together for centuries, when in fact, he had just popped them into existence all at once moments before!

Dae wondered sometimes if the multiverse as a whole weren't like that, too. If some omnipotent fifth-dimensional being hadn't just clapped its hands and popped worlds and stars and people into existence but a moment before, and simply installed things like aged books, childhood memories, and evidence of a fossil record in all the right places. Thoughts written, pre-formed in the right heads to give the world a false history, or rather, ANY history at all... It was possible. Surely, if the art of Creation were significantly advanced enough, adding in these little details would not be beyond a Creator. He/She wouldn't even need to get it right the first time. There could be a million attempts already tried and this existence, simply the most recent, would be none the wiser for it. Except of course that the Creator had learned from all those previous mistakes and know to add things like weather damage reflected in tree rings and geological evidence of tectonic shift and the occasional fossilized dinosaur bone.

Hell, it's entirely feasible we WERE all, in fact, born yesterday.

Daelan chuckled at the thought as he leaned in to open the door for Mith and Gris. It's possible I'm not really cursed by a black-handed servant of a god of unmaking, and instead my plight is just part of some elaborate game played by beings beyond this dimension whose purpose and will I simply cannot comprehend. Daelan laughed aloud at the thought. But what choice, then? Either way, this is the life I've got, so I suppose I might as well make the most of it. Seems ungrateful not to.

Daelan Magan was a Chronomancer, a wizard, a knightmagos, a duke (once upon a time), and a passable singer if the occasion called for it. He could write and rewrite universes of truth and power, good and evil, and split an atom between chapters for fun on a good day. But in the end, of all the great and powerful cosmic truths he had learned of the universe, the most important was this: The only stories that matter, matter for their humanity. Nothing else gets the buy-in.

"Anyone else just really want a cold beer..?" Daelan asked the three as he stood in the doorway. He included the darkly-dressed woman with the twin blades in the invitation as he politely stepped over the hapless victim to hoist himself up onto a barstool with a grunt. "I'm also curious to see what's next with that nail," he added to the room in general. "Mith does good work from what I've seen so far. I'm excited to see where all this preparation takes us."


The Paladin of the Light
Gris cast his eyes around in the darkness, all sound seeming to pay their respect in silence. His eyes fell back onto the nail. He watched the magic do it's work, doing whatever it is that magic does. Green eyes looked up at Mith as he stepped forward, taking his prize into his hand. Gris nodded at mith's comment, starting to walk beside him back towards the tavern. "Now, maybe all this will start to make sense on some level that I can understand."

Walking past Daelan he shook his head. "No beer for me. Should trouble show up I'd like to be sober for it. But food on the other hand would be much appreciated." Plated feet stopped at the body on the floor, eyes scanning over it a few times. "And suddenly my appetite leaves me. Someone care to explain?"

The Raven of Dispersion

Atra'Lamia Darkbane
As to make sweet, once more, what death made sour,
To call back time, and make a moment flower... much the same manner as themselves, all things dwell in their own heavens or their hells.

The elder deities had vanished it was true - at least where science and theology agreed. But the moon and the ocean continue in their eternal cycle, and the golden violets of spring and the fiery hues of autumnal leaves, and ardour with its desolation and delight. Sweet, unendurable sagacity, such a brevity in the return or remain of their existence-- between the sunlight and the moist earth. It is from these, and from other representations of a like loveliness or pathos that the mellow, reflective and often profoundly touching magic of such realization is derived. And whereas these possessions endure, and although there are hearts to heed and the wings of Ayenee unfurl to grant the benedictions of starlight or moonlight, and while there is still the scarlet embers of the shiraz moon above the seasonal fields at evening, and the sapphire flame of stars over the winter wood, it seemed impossible that such visions of old such as hers would not always have its gods, hellions, glories, lovers, heroes or villains.

Was it a meeting of consequence or chance? Or that which was nothing at all other just strangers in passing. It tugged upon the memory strings, almost like one who plucked the strings of a violin; the tune almost chaotic yet bearing the semblance of the 'astrals'. But, there were other presences conflicting that of the other, the high-pitched sequences ringing through her mind in sharp pitches and variations of musical tones. It was mildly amusing for she thought most of the colliding of spheres that sung throughout the lands of Ayenee, of the many ghosts of hordes that had fallen by the blades of Darkbane, and yet here she sat in a tavern bemused by the weaving of spells- of nails, hammers and rosemary.

Atra gave a gesture of obeisance in response to the gentleman that gave the same regard.... a subtle nod... then... a benediction of jest crossed her lethal apertures, expression fluid in both its poisons as it was with its sweetness towards the "... someone care to explain?". Of course most retreated back into the comforting shadows of hoods and cloaks, others gave a weary eye towards the woman and others remained to minding their own business. Such things were not uncommon, afterall. The request was met with silence by the tavern patrons, until she of course approached the subject.

"I didn't like his face."
The final syllable of melodious pitch drifted; seductive accent fading to the silence that rose to smother it in pitiless hands. Abysmal depths glimmered, analogous to horned crescents of gibbous moon, narrowed slits of pure obsidian.

Reclining back into the comfort of the chair, in truth, what better place to start here... where it all began, so many moons.... so many lifetimes ago. "One wouldn't think, that a man of your stature could have his appetite swayed by a little bloodshed?" There was something more macabre in the lilt of her tones, hidden beneath the lilies of perfumed speech.

Thy heart is fed with murmurs and music of the dead...


The Administration Mage
Staff member
As Mith turned his head and looked to Gris with a smile " I cannot guarantee the spell will make sense, but I can summarize the concept behind it. Imagine you have a leech upon your hand and you can't remove it. Naturally, you've tried fire, ice, blades, maybe even a king and all his men and horses...wait, forget that last one. Well, what if you could find an ability to leach from the leech, in essence causing the leech to feed you? In point of fact making the leech deplete itself instead of you, and then suppose for the leech to break your link to it it had to lift a hill giant....Something like that although it feels like I might not have explained the last part correctly.." He said with a quick smile as he pushed hard upon the door and steping into the warm room.

As Mith stepped into the tavern his mind registered multiple things at one time. The first of these was Daelan and Gris's words. The second was the low murmur of people having hushed conversations. Hardly casting his eyes from the collection of Cedar bark and the bowl of garlic he responded to Daelans comments first " Well magic must always have panache, otherwise some arbitary god will get the credit for your hard work, but the church bell wasn't exactly my doing" He said with a soft chuckle before he felt something tugging at his attention. His mind was working through the calculations and the internalized preperatory work, and having a conversation; the nagging sensation would have to wait. " I could go with an amber mead honestly, and a steak myself"

Mith stepping forward with his mind in a dizzying array of spell work and calculations absentmindedly stepped over the corpse of the man with a less than pleasant visage. He hardly stopped in his steps towards the cedar bark and the garlic until the familiar scent of blood wafted through the air to him causing him to mildly salivate at the aroma. The man's blood would naturally not be viable nor enjoyable judging but the faint notes of scent attached to it, but one might think any meat set on fire might smell appetizing for the briefest of moments until they realized it was their families home and their children's scent wafting up through the smoke. It was such a facet of life that it hardly occurred to his conscious mind as he spun lightly upon his left leg as it landed his heel upon the floor boards spinning him in motion as his eyes swiveled around the tavern's interior. "What in the bloody hells is this?!?!" he said looking at the people with more intent than would be commonly acceptable.

Mith's silver eyes briefly illuminated shining closer to white for half a second. His reaction to the man was far less concerned or off put than Daelan or Grises. He was more shocked at the number of people who had entered the tavern in the span of breaths that the spell had taken before he narrowed his eyes and turned to Daelan " Did you use temporal magic as a means of reconstituting the Tavern, because if you did that moment of silence outside was a temporal bubble, we've probably been pushed forward a few hours" He said sticking his touge out a few times tasting the air almost like a snake before turning his vaguely illuminated eyes towards the woman who clearly had ended the ugly man's life " Could you do something about the smell of your kill the urin and blood scent almost with that lingering pus smell from his under cloths makes it hard to concentrate." He said before moving towards the counter the nail still clutched in his hand.


Revered Elder
"Hmm..?" Daelan had been noticing the tavern's sudden activity himself when Mith voiced his suspicions of time bubbles. Before Mith's sentence was complete, Daelan had whipped an oversized pocket watch from his waistcoat and clicked the face cover open with the press of a button. The watch showed seven clock faces. A large one graced the center, with six smaller ones evenly spaced surrounding. Each one had four hands, save the large one in the center which had six. All of the second hands ticked away tirelessly.

Daelan held the watch up above his head, a chain from his vest stretching beneath his hand, evidently enchanted for additional length. He waved the chronograph in and out of the doorway where he stood, took a few limping steps in each direction, and proceeded to click and wind at the buttoned control knob several times, muttering absently.

"Hrm. Yes... Looks like you're correct. We've got a ripple. Seven hours, 48 minutes we've lost..." Then he called out, "Gris, I suggest you get inside. You're wasting time! Sloppy work, that, I'll just smoothe...uhmm... That is I'll..." a dazed expression crossed his features for a moment, followed by embarrassment, with a twinge of fear. He clicked shut the pocket watch.

"I'll..." Daelan was silent for a long moment, the ornately-etched watch clasped in a trembling hand. Bronwyn was at his side instantly, a swift hawk to her falconer's glove. In her fist she gripped the Scroll, snatched up from its place at the bar. As she approached, she held the Scroll away from Daelan at arm's length, worried. Daelan stared at her unrecognizing, his thoughts lost to him.

"I don't remember how," he said, bewildered. "I remember straightening out a rough patch of temporal energies on countless occasions. I know I CAN do this, but..." His face was suddenly hurt, like a child realizing his toys were being stolen and there was nothing he could do about it.

It was then that he erupted in pain. Coarse arcs of golden chronal lightning sparked from his body, his arms, his feet. His face twisted into a silent scream, overwrought by the echo of a thundercrack. Yellow electricity stretched out and around him, up into the rafters, curling out along the floor. It burned scorch-marks in random lines where it struck up to a dozen feet in all directions. Bronwyn had been nearest, and so she wrapped her arms around the old mage from behind, supporting his weight with both arms as he shook violently. She was pelted with arcs of lightning, but her aethereal form seemed protected by the Scroll thrust hastily into her apron. The strewn charge was drawn over her body directly into the Scroll. Golden motes of light hung in the air like gleaming dust, floating lazily in the blindingly bright flashes, and with each eruption more such sparks were thrown.

Atop the bar, a similar eruption mirrored Daelan's in miniature, albeit harmlessly. Tiny coils of spark and smoke reached up and around by inches from the Coin, the Cup, the Blade.

The moment was swift, taking place in the span of a breath, before the energies twisted their direction, curling into a split focus, half directed down into that black scar of the scorched claw marring Daelan's left ankle. The other half leapt to Bronwyn's apron and burned into the Scroll, which glowed, invulnerable. Bronwyn, her conjured form that of an athletic woman, lowered the convulsing mage to the floor as gently as she could in the midst of the tempest. He lay there, convulsing, emitting strike after strike after explosive strike, and as he did so the gray in his shrinking beard faded a bit, and that gut he'd limped around with all day tightened and was drawn in. Wrinkles and scars left much of his face and hands, and it was obvious that even in this agony, he was growing younger. Years were being stolen.

Bronwyn, her arms held straight on either side of Daelan's head as she knelt, looked up at Mith, out the door toward Gris, and even at the mysterious woman pleadingly, desperate to aid her maker. "Please!" she shouted over the repeating cracks of thunder. "Please help him! It's never gone on this long before..!" Then she added, shrieking as she nodded toward the sparking items on the bar, "Protect yourselves from the charge!"
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The Paladin of the Light
Green eyes peered out through strands of golden blond hair. The digits still clutching the handle of his mace started to tighten, the sound of leather being squeezed ringing out lowly. Heavy plated boots started to pound through the doorway and across the floor towards her. "Oh, you think something like that would unnerve me? It's the killing of an innocent that throws my appetite, woman! At least the man had courage to not hide his face in the shadows!" Gris continued to stomp towards her then stopped, looking around. When did the tavern get so populated? Gris hesitated for a moment, listening as the two magic users talked about time travel, jumping ahead in time. Time travel?! Those were children's stories but no one would have gotten into the tavern without them noticing. Just what in the nine hells were these magic users up to? had no one noticed the three outside with the nail? Had in that brief moment, the three of them slipped off into another dimension? No. These were children's tales. Clearly, they came in the backdoor.

"Now, consider yo- ", Gris whirled around as the room lit up, sparks flying everywhere. In his swift motion, his shield was around in front of him, positioning himself where he could keep an eye on the woman and Daelan. Hearing Browyn cry out for help to aid Daelan, Gris finally stood up. He started to make his way towards them and stopped. "Protect yourselves. from the charge!" He saw her nod towards the items. Gris gritted his teeth, looking back to Atra. "Come on! Move!" Gris muttered a small blessing of protection, not wanting to take any chances as he held his shield up and ran towards the items. It was up to Atra now if she wanted to follow or not.

After reaching the bar, he reached out, taking the cup in his hand. Armor continued to clank and sound as he continued to run, now running towards the fallen Daelan. Finally reaching Daelan, Gris knelt down pressing the cup to Daelan's chest. "If you got any answers to stop this madness, now is the time!" Gris didn't know if the cup would help or not, but he had to try to stop it from killing the poor man. Lowering his head, gris started to mutter a prayer, hoping something would work.

The Raven of Dispersion

Atra'Lamia Darkbane
" Could you do something about the smell of your kill the urin and blood scent almost with that lingering pus smell from his under cloths makes it hard to concentrate."

It brought no other response than a soft, chimed chuckle....

Stiletto heel rolled roughly against the trunk of her victim, causing a slice over the shirt and deep into the silent chest, bereft of breath. Even the pool of blood that expanded outwards in crimson revelation to how frail mortality was, had begun to dry and stain the wooden boards of the floor. Black eyes sweeping over to the male who uttered things of decomposition and concentration—it rather amused her, after all, what was a little death in one of the many taverns of Ayenee?

Rolling her eyes a little to the left, casting all thoughts that served no purpose aside, allowing them to fully come to rest upon the door, as if expecting another figure to enter, or the commotion to erupt that was active chaos seemingly within conjuration. Shifting on the hard wooden surface of the chair, evident the place certainly didn't spare a cent in the lavishness of the establishment and chose to go for the poor-rustic dark aged discomfort. That way people drunk more, therefore complained less about their sore asses caused by festering splinters from the chairs.

Raising an empty glass towards the patrons who cared or dared to acknowledge, tilting the cup slightly in grasp so the flickering dull lights caught painted reflections inside each vermilion globule gleaming like languid rubies, "To the harbingers of war, where cadavers' shadows cower - so let us drink to that on these passing hours!" Spoken strangely musical and seemingly broke the magic of stillness, other than the main figures interacting with what appeared to her, as some sort of temporal ripple. Such things were difficult not to appreciate. Escalating energies rising like golden flames to the ceilings whilst the commoners of the establishment appeared completely ignorant to the transpiring scenario.... just as the cadaver of her kill just melted away like liquid into the sparkling fragments. As if consumed by sullen mead, brimmed with sunlight's crystal.

Shrugging at the proposed mention of an 'innocent' , the man was a sleazy commoner not probably was the locale's rapist- was a matter of opinion; and was hardly an eyebrow lifter when law was pretty much left to the heroes and villains to squabble over. She had spent her time within this wretched world, playing the masterful game of destruction and creation, pitted both against erstwhile relatives and clans as if they were nothing but pawns badly played upon a chessboard. "Perhaps warfare has made me less tolerant to the sins of lechery and drunkards... but I digress... it is hardly more of a concern than.... that..." Gesturing with a graceful sweep of hand towards his companions succumb to the prodigies of temporal tardification, progression, reversal or distortion reality/ extensive temporal manipulation...

To Atra, they didn't appear as of the same origins... mannerism and discourse, that in itself caused her brow to furrow. Age turning to that of youth and the other man falling to the floor in paroxysm whilst the lady also in their company called for help and for all to "Protect yourselves from the charge??" Looking towards the burly, towering man, "If he passes wind, then we're all fu......!!" (The odoriferous harbinger could possibly be the death of them all ... well at least the mortals within the establishment), obscenity was cut short with swift movement and the military-like command of, "Come on, move"-- these were curious, entertaining creatures indeed. So Atra moved with all the grace and velocity of smoke... despite the shift of gravitational discharges rendering past, present and future stacked together that would cast most minds into the oceans of insanity.

However was this adept, metamorphosing into an unanchored anomaly? This was no magick akin to her talents or knowledge. Sorcery utilizing trinkets such as coins, blades, cups and fancy things. Eyes narrowing at the events which soon brought her standing behind the man with a shield, holding a cup to the twitching mage's chest, uttering some kind of prayer of salvation and healing, and other 'sparkling' items close to arms reach. The faintest hue shimmering around Atra's form as energies expanded emanate a semi-barrier intended to dull the force of any 'charge' or 'explosion'-- "I am not sure what a cup pressed to chest may do Sir... but perhaps try throwing it at his head instead?" .... the twitching spasms were starting to become slightly disturbing... usually something that twitched that much deserved a quicker end.
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The Administration Mage
Staff member
Mith nodded towards Daelan having heard the number of hours they had skipped forward the temporal energies normally would have dispersed like sand through a hurricane. However that was not one's typical luck in Ayenee, no something always had to go horribly awry. It happened almost at the moment Mith's right hand darted forward and grabbed the garlic. The stuttering and incoherency that stammered from Daelan should have been enough to tip anyone off who'd meet the man things were about to be normal. As Mith turned to look towards Daelan his eyes flicked over him briefly as the golden arcs of lightning started to waft from him. The general change from light-hearted banter to full tilt chaos was almost impossible not to laugh at, from a friendly conversation about the corpse in your path to lightning filled shitshow was certainly hilarious from the right perspective.

Shaking his head for a moment he looked towards the woman and then to Gris. "Polar Opposites," He said as a mindless thought before looking to Daelan and his eyes dropping and alighting upon that which he had in his hands. As fast as his celerity would allow he pushed the rosemary nail into the garlic cloves one after the other. Once they were harpooned he started to sway and move almost as if predicting where the strikes would hit on the floor and ceiling. He wasn't predicting the movements or moving that fast, he just moved himself through the paths between Daelan and the objects. As he twisted his fingers around the garlic knotted nail of rosemary the garlic started to grow out from the nail springing tendrils out from it which Mith promptly put before him as a shield. The idea here was to collect some of the energies that were jumping from Daelan into the spell forged nail thus making it an even better anchor. As he got closer he heard Bronwyn's plea and her warning and yelled back " I will do what I can, but no attacking me by any of those in residence got it " He said before leaping towards where Daelan was reclined upon the floor. He held the sprouting nail between his forefinger and thumb looking towards Daelan's right ankle.

There were three options here from what Mith could figure; The first was to use his almost completed spell as a means to ground out Daelan's powers and negate some of the effects of the mark while leaving some of the better effects out. The second option was to knock Daelan unconscious, although judging by the look of pain he had on his face that seemed unlikely and hitting him hard enough to get a response might be the type of punch that would kill someone. The third was to use a sympathetic binding or thaumaturgic link to remove the harder effects to ween Daelan out of this fit. As soon as Gris arrived with the Cup Mith looked at the shield with an almost manic smile " Can I borrow this ? " He said flicking the edge of the shield with his left index finger. His idea wouldn't take long and with Miss Shadows behind Gris emenating, a barrier Gris should be fine. If Gris agreed Mith would link the Shield to Daelan as a syphon for excess temporal energies. Sure it would weaken the shield, but only by the same amount as it being ignored in a corner for seven hours, forty-eight minutes and some number of seconds.

That would at least slow down the progression of the fit and take away the tendrils of energy that were making it hard to diagnosis the issue beyond topically. In addition using the shield wouldn't make him use the spell work he'd been setting in motion for the last eight hours of his life according to the normal clock of Ayenee.

Eseer Darkthorne

Active Member
Time, a cruel word to those who lived such numbered days of their lives. For Eseer that time had been numbered to an exact date, one which he had cheated. He had sought this escape in the vaults of time itself, after conquering numerous lands in a distractive strategy to not betray his true agenda, he had found it the city of time. As he opened the vault of time things changed, he found himself lost in time. He had been created with a purpose, to destroy the life of Reese Blackthorne, the mold which he had been forged after. For some, they can look into a mirror and see the things they dislike about themselves and walk away. For Reese, Eseer was that reflection walking in the real world. Eseer hated being a reflection, more than Reese probably hated having an evil double trying to ruin his life.

Eseer hated being tied to Reese, that and the lack of freedom to forge his own destiny. Eseer never was one to give into situations others would deem hopeless or impossible. He persevered and cut the strings that made him a puppet, but in doing so numbered his own days. He went on to lead the Darkthornes in a campaign across numerous lands and helped hand over the capital city to Varsinax, when his army took the city. Proving to be more than just a puppet or a reflection now, he sought to make his stamp on time remain. In doing so, he fell victim to time itself and had been drifting in the chaos of existence and nonexistence, a space removed from time. He had watched countless empires rise and fall, and rise again. He existed in all time, but had access to not even a second. Then it all changed, something had altered his prison just enough.

A vortex kicked up the dust in a tavern as Eseer suddenly emerged from thin air. He stretched and took in the air savoring every detail. His dark fey features were evident, his skin pale, eyes a dark purple hue, a member of the Tuatha race, an ancient race. He wore a segmented armor that acted like a symbiotic second skin. Memories flooded his mind, through those memories a name arose, Varsinax. The name brought rage to the forefront of Eseer's being. He had once abdicated a throne he and his army had won to that fiend. Things were now different, Eseer wanted the throne, he wanted to enshroud the world in an age of darkness and chaos. There would be pogroms in the streets, people would shun cities and see that civilization was nothing more than an illusion, a prison. He would ensure that his name would live on in history this time, he would not be forgotten.


Revered Elder
As Gris approached with the Cup, the chronal arcs split to a third focal point. The black scar of a claw encircling Daelan's left ankle still drew the main share, but the Scroll pulled a portion, and the moment the Cup came within six feet of the spasmodic mage, a portion leapt to that as well.

Like lightning rods, the two items drew much of the stray charge, creating a sort of invisible shield around those in proximity of either. Even if struck by a stray bolt, neither Gris, Mith, nor the mysterious Atra would feel any more than a tickle. So diluted, and lacking the curse's singular draining focus, the charge as a whole quickly subsided.

There was a long moment where Mith knelt nearby, hands cautiously halted mid-motion in whatever arcane mysteries he had prepared. Gris balanced, imposing and --to Bronwyn's gaze-- magnificent. Atra slid like a terrifying snake poised pre-strike. Only the pale curls of ambient smoke moved, floating lazily in a room too crowded with ozone and acrid clouds.

"D-Daelan..?" Bronwyn suddenly came to herself and gently tapped Daelan's cheek from above. She leaned in close, craning her neck to listen at his mouth for breathing.


A deafening sound, felt as much as heard, suffused the room and its occupants space, blood, and bone. Smoke careened away like frightened specters from the arrival of Eseer, hovering in the space where Daelan had begun the fit. At the jolting noise, lost in the cacophony, Daelan snapped bolt-upright and sprang to his feet with a start. His heart pounding relentlessly, he cast his eyes this way and that. A younger man stood before the room by 10 years or more. He moved with a speed born of fright, casting about for something undefined.

Without a thought for herself, Bronwyn leapt to him, wrapped her arms around the shaken mage, and produced the Scroll, thrusting it under his chin as she embraced him, clutching the smouldering chronomancer for dear life.

"Well uhh... Hello there, Miss. Can I... help you?" Slowly, Daelan spoke to Bronwyn, though his eyes darted around the room with slow recognition. "Ayenee Tavern... Damn. Haven't seen this place in --how long's it been? Years..?"

"Read the Scroll, you ninny," came Bronwyn's muffled voice from his chest. She leaned back, shaking the mage by the shoulders. "Don't frighten me like that! I'm just so happy to see you breathing! And why would you make a floating man? You never warned me about these fits making floating men!"

Daelan extricated himself, looking baffled, but latched on to the Scroll. It seemed as good a place as any to start figuring out why he was here, and it did, after all, bear the dragonsfoot crest of House Magan, his own. As he cracked the wax seal, a quick bolt of chronal lightning leapt from the parchment to his chest, this time silently, harmlessly, and he looked around the room with new understanding.

"Okay. Well, I'm prepared to take that on faith..." He held his left foot out to survey the black scar as thought it might attack at any moment. He muttered simply, "Huh..."

Turning his attention to Eseer, he cracked a slightly less wrinkled smile and pronounced confidently, "Heaven's sakes, I'm a father! Are you my son? Seriously, I will go Maury Povich on this shit. I don't think it's mine..."

[I hope you'll forgive me some artistic license... That moment of smoky silence just begged description! :) ]
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Eseer Darkthorne

Active Member
Eseer's feet touched the floor of the tavern, his eyes began to see things from the past, long ago. Heads lined the banquet table, enchanted and blood wine poured freely. Prisoners were lined up like cattle outside and a cacophony of their delightful screams echoing down the streets and across the buildings. The acoustics of this city were absolutely marvelous. He had tortured a whiskey baron here. He had also had to explain to the mercenaries that Varsinax had bought why he did so.

Why he would be torturing and murdering ten or more aristocratic types. He had done this under the guise of forcing them to confess about rebel forces being hidden behind the city walls. It was a ruse, of course, Eseer had known they did not know anything, but he wanted to make an example of them. The new overlord would need funds to repair damage and line his vaults, of course.

Eseer had always been efficient, and logical in his madness, but the scene faded as a bolt of energy passed him by. It returned to the current state of affairs. He folded his arms across his chest and began to pace about the room. His eyes as cold deep space and black as the ocean depths, looked about the room at the faces. His mind processed and stored the faces, the clothing, posture, weapons, and accents. His eyes fell on the maelstrom of the commotion and they gleamed with interest.

He needed to know things about when he was now that he had attained a degree of where. A voice echoed towards his ears and he turned facing Daelan. His pale face was decorated with a facsimile of a smile, but it held no humor or pleasant mirth. It was truly astonishing how he could reproduce such an expression with a genuine appearance. It was merely a ploy to make himself look what some would consider normal while being disarming.

"Oh no dearie, trust me you are not the father. If you were my father.." he turned and looked out a window and said, " I would have my fingers tightly wrapped about your throat already. I am not your lineage, though I doubt that prospect is very disappointing to you. My name is Eseer Darkthorne, I was once..." he thought about correcting himself, but he was truly unsure about the state of his titles. He began again, " I was once the general of Varsinax's army and leader of the Darkthornes, I was the shadow that doused the flames of my enemy's lives. Such titles are trivial however, I would ask you a question now, who rules Ayenee?"

Eseer watched what was going on, quite capable of averting the problem the tavern was experiencing. His eyes fell on Mirth, not with recognition, but with understanding. The type of understanding that one would see between two experienced veterans from across a bar or a battlefield. He gave a tilt of his head in quiet acknowledgment. His eyes did not have to find the others, for he could sense them quite well.


The Paladin of the Light
Gris let out a soft sigh. He gently took his shield back from Mith, standing and hooking it back across his back. His eyes gave Eseer a once over before crossing his arms over his chest, armor clanking gently. "...And the plot thickens." His eyes fell back on Bronwyn, "Might want to get the old man a drink and a chair."

Turning on his heels, Gris walked towards the door, stepping outside into the cool night air. He shut the door gently, then stepped to the side, leaning back against the wall. Arms crossed back over his chest, his head leaning down and his eyes closing. It had been a while since Gris had slept, fatigue was starting to take its toll on him along with the excitement. "Might as well get a moment's peace from these mad magicians... I suppose they'll summon dragons and liches to fight next." An image of them all jumping forward in time again, fighting hordes of undead and dragons with canes and white beards flashed across his mind. He gave a small snort, then tuned in to the sounds of the night.

The Raven of Dispersion

Atra'Lamia Darkbane
Within this mundane surreal establishment, where it seemed events played and scattered across the game board were far more suited to the fountains of youth-- of an essence.... epitomes torn and putrefied by its own contempt of time and epoch. Time... its own misery wailing thin, as the night-tide screams arrive within the howls of tempest and the night with its perforations; energies spilling outwards to smother the skies. So willingly without coercion to drown in such fetid decline. An honour fit for the lost and confounded dead, even still in their wretchedness, they scream in rotten spurts of selfish panic, miles away and blinded well... from a grave reality. Ayenee was always a nurturing mother to its wars.

Even here within the tavern, a struggle of a different nature spoke its stories well. Interactions between the young lady and the mages, of scrolls and magickal trinkets to the expanse of trans-dimensional energies which yawned and brought forth another. Did deathly splendours grace the unknown now into the realm of the most proficient necromancers Ayenee had ever seen? Eseer.

Throughout Ayenee, shadows... spewing forth into lanes of darkness deep below like poison being tipped into the opiate elixir to stir the wounded of faith. Catharsis gives life to barren fields of hope and rains of defeat poison the drying skins of humility, even those thought to be immune from the treacheries of it. Nothing in this world is perpetual, everything however seemingly firm is in continual flux and change, the world itself gives symptoms of frailty and dissolution. Perhaps this is why the world seemed more 'alive' than what it really was, or the fact humanity even when beaten into the earth, refused to die. Whatever morbidity was the flavour of the month, at least that was more of an improvement on the city and far more worthy of conversation than the weather.

Apocalyptical, as if pulled in by unseen forces or directed from the black wings of some formidable demon, lightning lashed, even the very few who had been walking in street ducked for cover beneath the awnings. Atra had not moved, apart from the manner of how she stood, more militant. Features, Erzulie-hued in the pallid light produced from the sporadic flashes of lightening outside and the tavern's dimming hues. Eyes like black vast abysses locked as if in communicate with something not of this world, distant yet fully aware of the surroundings even as nigrescent hair fell over one clad shoulder and down, over leathers and furs.

" I was once the general of Varsinax's army and leader of the Darkthornes, I was the shadow that doused the flames of my enemy's lives. Such titles are trivial however, I would ask you a question now, who rules Ayenee?" Eseer had uttered... a question that didn't seem relatively directed towards her, but one of the Mages.

In a throaty, haunted, other-worldly voice she spoke, to no one in particular unless it was to the dead infidel beneath stiletto heel. The only of ineffable thing about her demeanor was the golden glyphs and silver sigils forming intricate patterns across pallid flesh, entwining beneath the tautness of attire. Elaborate cuneiform inscriptions elusive, an elusive light reminiscent of the waning moon, or the phantasmal phosphorescence of the dead. [Sanctus Incendia] Faint at first, flames flickering as they danced along tapered limbs; hues of frost and moonlight with dim spectral shadowy veins. Insidious but indistinct waves of heat rippled outwards from her form, though features or the hint of expression gave away nothing of any intention or cause.

"That would be the Darkfire's. Varsinax and his progeny. Unless I have been ill-advised."

Lips of sculpted rubies that soon bore the smile of jest before speech flowed as wine, "The litanies of darkness, where dead mouths mutter not in sleep, but from the feeble fluttering of dust-winged moths, as a necromancer speaks". What was this, a spell of some malevolent tryst or merely words to hear how deathly silent the place would be, because of them? No sooner had those words graced lips and flowed off tongue eloquently a smile formed at the corners of apertures-- they had met an understanding previously... in times long past. From one's madness unto another's.

Attentions did not sway however from the Mages or their companions, even as more whispers arose between the last of the occupants, at ;east from those whom were either brave or too frightened to move. It brought a wealth of anticipation in those musings. In dulcet sultry lilt, where the words rolled from apertures in salacious sonata. "This land is nothing compared to the shores we have ruined. So you wish to conquer Ayenee, even though its heart barely even beats?" Dialogue briefly pausing, then again words rolled from the opulence of intoxicating voice, gratingly distorted in dual pitches, one moderately sympathetic the other algid in its malevolence, each syllable dripping with incensed ignominy.


Revered Elder
Daelan rather haltingly found his way to an old, patched-up easy chair by the burning fireplace. He hobbled like an unprepared marathon runner at mile 25. Once, twice, finally a third time, and then only with Bronwyn to assist, he turned the old chair to face the room.

He breathed heavy at the effort, bending his arms and flexing his fingers gingerly, every muscle in his body sore beyond description. Eventually, once the girl had brought him the beer wisely recommended by Gris, Daelan turned his attention to Eseer.

Slowly, his exhaustion gave way to a chuckle, then bubbling laughter. After a few moments he cleared his throat, forcing himself to seriousness as he checked his large pocket watch.

"Hoooboy... Hot DAMN, General! I'm back in town three..." --a meaningful look came from Bronwyn-- "Hmm? Ah! Yes, eleven hours, thank you my dear, and BAM! Just like that, it's all 'Who Rules Bartertown' in this burg. Look, man, nobody rules Ayenee. Nobody has ever ruled Ayenee. Anyone who says different is full of shit. Ayenee is bloody unruly, and we love her that way.

He waved a hand to cut off interruption, "I know, I know... She's been conquered a few times. Every so often some lunkhead with more coin or more brawn than sense swaggers in with his dick in his hand and his head up his ass, and declares himself the next Grand High Nutsack, but it never means anything. He never DOES anything but wait for the next challenger.

"Ruling involves helping people en masse in a meaningful way, at least in theory. It's writing down common sense shit that shouldn't need writing and calling it law. Then enforcing it in an effort to build something useful. It's collecting ludicrous taxes, building lousy roads, and making sure that the next butt-plug comes a'swaggering doesn't step all over Joe Serfdom on his way to a meaningless throne he only really wants so everyone can see what a special boy he is. Daddy never hugged him and all that." He gestured vaguely in the direction of the dead man Atra had discarded earlier.
"Guys like that dude getting offed and nobody caring..? Your proof we are not ruled.

"Ruling is just boring as fuck. And an endless pain in the ass to boot. The capital alone is made of 20 to 30 shifting chunks of myriad worlds at any given moment, and they change constantly with whoever comes and goes. It's handy enough for tapping into magical energies with all the teleportation going on constantly, but logistically this place would be a nightmare to govern...

"That said, conquering is simple enough. Setting aside the fact that this town is a thin ghost of its former self at the moment, I don't doubt half the people within earshot couldn't conquer a solid piece of Ayenee even in its prime. Big deal, who couldn't?

"You ask who rules, I ask who in their right mind would want to.

"Now what I'm interested in is, you, General, shook loose from a time trap unless I miss my guess. And fun fact, I'm pretty sure I'm the one did the shakin'. So it seems to me, fully intentional or not, I saved you from an fate best called EPIC levels of shitty. May be one to one, you owe me a favor.

"May be, if you're the big bad you claim to be, I could call in that marker and set some of that rampant, mighty testosterone to more meaningful purpose.

"So, General, are you honorable? Do you pay your debts? And if so, how are you at hunting priests..?"


Active Member
"There is no reason to discuss the throne.
This world is dead in the water.
There is no new blood.
The age of Ayenee will die when we die.
Enjoy your evening.
Enjoy your drink.
This is all there ever will be.
This is everything."

Varsinax, the King of Ayenee, did walk directly into the tavern and had spoken these words toward the ones who had mentioned anything about him or rulership of the realm.

He was a tall male in dark armor, complete with a long flowing cape, and a helm which only allowed for his burning eyes of crimson fire.

He sat at a table, nearby anybody worth talking to. His voice could carry the entire tavern if it had to, though. Regardless, he did take a seat. A server did tend to him, to whom he had spoken a request, and then that server did deliver the item in a silvery chalice. The drink of choice was some sort of glowing, orange-colored substance. It was very hot, as steam would be seen rising as the King of Ayenee drank from the silvery chalice.

Anybody who had reason to recognize Varsinax could do so. He wasn't some mysterious person wearing a disguise. Anybody who was anybody could look and know who he was.


The Administration Mage
Staff member
As Daelan came back to himself although slowly and without any direct aid from himself or Gris let alone the wild-eyed murderess Mith moved his fingers from Gris' shield and smiled to him for a beat " Nevermind it seems the storms passed at least for the moment" He turned his attention back to Daelan as he moved away and stayed where he was. Watching Gris stand and move out the door clearly beset with the shocks of the day Mith pondered following him but was almost certain that a man such as Gris would return duty and his dedication to his holy order would keep that line tight. His attention moved From Gris' back and moved towards the new temporal aberration Eseer Darkthrone. The man appearing from out of nowhere imparticular was something of moderate curiosity however it seemed there was more to Daelan's fits than simple bleeding off of excessive temporal energies. Unless Eseer had been put in his cage precisely at this location, the temporal prison was most likely drawn to Daelan's outburst. Catching sight of the courteous nod and returning it in kind. The general was clearly reading the room. His seeming perfect placid expression was the greatest hint of what he was doing, it was a forced mask of calm that denied everything, otherwise, most people would be staring either at Daelan, the world's first temporal roman candle, or the smoldering scorch marks upon the floor and ceiling. If nothing else Mith respected that kind of discipline over one's reactions it showed a capable mind working through the situation. When he heard the question of rule he responded with a pensive look and said plainly " The tavern keepers, they know the secrets, control the money, and disperse happiness to the people one bottle at a time" He said giving Bronwyn a serious nod and a sidelong wink.

As he heard Atra's response he almost burst out laughing but he caught himself. Mocking those who believe themselves in power gains one nothing but a moment of humor at the expense of another's pride. He might argue the point if he knew precisely what he was dealing with, but to his knowledge, he'd never encountered the Darkfires, or Darkthornes. He could, of course, be wrong, but he always had a bit more on his plate than made introductions always possible. If only he could find Reiven, Hascle, or Moonfire he'd be able to ask as they were normally much more acquainted with the powers who attempted to rule over the wild lands of Ayenee, but they like most had seemingly left this realm for others. None the less he'd heard of Varsinax but more often than not as a problem further north than he preferred to travel. Thankfully while Mith mused upon the rulership of Ayenee he was spared his momentary lack of focus by Daelan complaining about the rulership of the world and smiled to himself. Seeing that this might become a long and tedious argument over sovereignty Mith pulled himself up and moved towards the cedar chips still on the bar. In his right hand, the rosemary nail skewered through Garlic remained, however, the leafy tendrils of the garlic started to pull into the nail as if being absorbed. The chaos of Daelan's eruption was almost the perfect catalyst for the next step of the spell. The charges had in some ways caused a minor temporal feedback loop into the next level of the spell. "I'll be buggered by the sexiest unicorn that's what I call luck." He said to himself as he stepped around the peasantry leaving the clearly unstable tavern. Mith might have stepped around a large man in armor with fiery eyes but it was not something he was particularly worried about he needed to work the cedar into the nail.

As he made it to the counter his left hand darted forward plucking the cedar bark up and rolling it between his fingers. Those of the magical adept would sense or perhaps even see the fine cords of light threading themselves through each piece of bark line stitching lines through leather. As his fingers rolled the bark, it seemed to contract to build upon itself and tightening into a hollow sheath. The cedar sheath extended and grew longer until it was as long as a ruler and as thin as a needle. As he held the needle in his left hand he drove the nail against it. The nail seemingly shattered and then constricted around the needle. The needle of cedar compressed more and more and vanished within the green flesh of the nail before vanishing completely from sight. Leaving only the nail remaining in his left hand as he turned and snapped his right forefinger and thumb which caused a mild emanation of sound that was soon covered with the sound of an ominous thunderclap. "Sure it might be a little melodramatic, but as I said panache' " It was then he noticed tall dark and armored how in the hell were people walking past him without him noticing he demanded of his own mind before shrugging it off.


Active Member
Varsinax didn't seem to demand any special attention. He was just there, like anyone else, and that was simply how he appeared. Tall, dark armor, and glowing eyes were not all that different from the others in the tavern's collection. There were wizards, animated servants, individuals that surely radiated with a lot of magic and power. If anything, the King of Ayenee was simply one of the many others in the building, and unless you knew who he was, you'd probably think this person was just some random wizard, just like the other wizards in the hall.

Then again, he didn't seem to be looking for attention. He was just there. He was sipping on an orange drink in a silvery chalice. He was seated at some table, somewhere, not far from anybody who had mentioned anything about rulership, or his name. It wasn't like he was summoned by this, or maybe he was. It actually seemed fairly random that he had come here, just as random (it seemed) as the others who had come there. Perhaps it was a shining light in a somewhat sad and desolate place that had attracted him.

Ayenee Capital City was not so sad and desolate, though, or was it?

At least one person did notice Varsinax, though. That person was Mithrandirxx. The tavern was not large. It was created to create interaction. The King of Ayenee looked right at Mithrandirxx.

"I'll fight you if that's what you're looking for. As the King of Ayenee, I Varsinax cannot ignore a challenge, or else I would lose my title. However, I did not bring with me a weapon. So, you may have gotten lucky."

Eseer Darkthorne

Active Member
Eseer listened to Daelan's prattling about a ruler helping people and fixing roads. Why not enslave the people and have them build the road, learn a trade skill? Eseer smiled and turned towards Daelan, his face creasing with a forced grin.

"You say there is no rule in this Ayenee, chaos, I like that. As for debts, the mere fact that I haven't drained the life from your body is a proper payment is it not? I am not a genie, you can't just rub a lamp and expect me to grant you a wish. I am no puppet, I am an architect of chaos."

As he spoke, he gestured with his hands in the air for emphasis or effect.

"This priest you wish to be hunted down, why not look wherever the bell tolls, usually priest can be found near bell towers and temples, or such."

Eseer sighed, "Sod it all, perhaps a debt is owed, but as one can see I am recently returned from parts unknown. I think debts are the last thing on my to-do list right now."

He moved his hands about in an intricate pattern and then grasped something unseen, he brought his hands out extending his fingers. There were no signs of his revived Darkthornes left in this world, but no matter. He knew he could simply bring them back from the sands of time should he need. It did, however, make him question something else, he again made a pattern. This time the threads he viewed were not tied to him, but to another and the result was much the same. Something in his mind seemed to shift.

"No Blackthornes, well this time is truly a strange one indeed. " It was then that his ears picked up the familiar name of Darkfire. He remembered the Darkfires, they belonged to Varsinax.

"Yes it is becoming clearer, Varsinax, the Darkfires and Darkbanes, and ah damn it. I know there was someone else involved in that war, but their name has drifted through the cracks of time."

Eseer drifted in his thoughts for a moment, the grinding of titanic boulders crashing into one another, a sea of voices, for an instant he was recalling the maelstrom of time.

He turned and looked to Atra and nodded his thanks for her contribution. " You seem oddly familiar to me, have we met?"

At the jovial quip from Mith, about the tavern keepers, Eseer turned and gave a slight chuckle. He made a motion with his right hand and his armor began to move, it extended itself like tar forming a shape in his hand. The shape consolidated into a black bladed sword. " The tavern keepers.." he laughed, " I almost forgot how many of them I killed in my day. I suppose I was good for the business of the other taverns, at least those I deigned to grace." He tossed the sword into the air causing it to turn to dust. " That was a long time ago, and they may have supplied nothing more than liquid courage and inebriated complacency, a bottle can never give on happiness, no magic spell, potion, or wish can grant something like that. "

"Though" he turned folding his arms over his chest, then he brought his right index finger to his chin, tapping it in thought, " I agree they know the secrets of the land and its people."

Eseer looked about the tavern, back at Atra, when suddenly a familiar presence entered the tavern. Eseer seemed to shake his head in disbelief and slowly turn to the figure that had seated itself.

He looked towards Varsinax, to say he held disbelief on his face would be an understatement.

"What the devil is going on?" Eseer was dumbstruck by the amount of coincidence it would take for the one he sought to simply stride into the tavern. Eseer thought back to the maelstrom of time, could it have anything to do with this? Well, he would not question luck, if it was on his side, he would simply cast the die. Eseer began to make his way towards the table Varsinax was seated.
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