Darkwood? Yes, I Would + DT Tailing - Igrainne (28/7)
Aug 23, 2020 0:26:51 GMT
Daisy, Ghesh, and 3 more like this
Post by Igrainne (RETIRED) on Aug 23, 2020 0:26:51 GMT
31st Flamerule 1497 (Midsummer Day), southern outskirts of Daring Heights
Igrainne squirms behind the tree as a figure emerges from the roof of the run-down shed she had been watching for a few hours now. The figure is entirely nude, obsidian skin exposed to the unforgiving glare of the summer sun, save for a bronze threaded band in her white hair. Ainhoa closes the hatch on the roof, then lies down on it, sinking from Igrainne's sight from the ground. The young half-drow knits her brows in confusion and grabs onto some low branches on the tree as she prepares to climb it.
A week ago, after a job in the Turning Fields, Heret Velnnarul approached her with a request for aid. House Ithyr had asked his trading company for an undisclosed favour, in exchange for a place at the negotiation table for the Underdark darkwood (Underdarkwood?) trade. Several days later, Heret gathered a number of his friends -- herself, Ankhet, Cadfan, Ghesh, plus Menace who tagged along uninvited -- to undertake this mission. The goblin co-owner of the Red House, on behalf of House T'sylan, gave them the mission: find Ainhoa in Daring Heights, stop the ritual that would allow her to ascend the priesthood, but make sure she leaves alive.
They were directed to a small, derelict old tomb in the south of the city. The area was suffused with an odd, nauseating aura that night, which visibly affected some of the adventurers. Within the tomb was a portal that transported them all to another realm, one that resembles a dark temple with ancient Drowic patterns carved into the walls. Igrainne would have investigated the place further had it not been for the sense of dread it instilled in her.
They navigated the temple, looking for traces of Ainhoa, following her trail of ritualistic magic. Cadfan nicked a diamond from a statue of a female drow, which set off fire trap, much to Heret's annoyance. Igrainne managed to extinguish the flames...somehow...by imitating the motions of the clerics she saw in Menzoberranzan and splashing holy water onto the wall of fire. That was when some vaguely humanoid-shaped shadows surrounded her and mumbled in Undercommon:
"Help our kind, help one of our own..."
Their wispy hands reached out to her, their touch cold as a corpse. And then, just like that, the fires went out. Despite the overbearing hot weather, a chill travels down Igrainne's spine as she remembers the moment.
Eventually, they found Ainhoa in a chamber full of coffins, decorated with banners bearing the insignia of House Gorr, the most powerful family in Aeschira, chanting some sort of prayer in front of a lit brazier. She was alarmed, demanding to know who they were, and saying something about only "contestants" being allowed in. Heret tried to talk to her but to no avail. The drow priestess raised her hands and magical flames come alight between her palms; she demanded one last time for the adventurers to get out, when Igrainne, not stopping to think, took out an eight-pointed star amulet -- the holy symbol of Lolth she "reclaimed" from a rogue priestess in Xarribia -- and declared:
"I'm a contestant!"
The words echo ominously in the ranger's head. She winces at the memory of it. What had she done? What had she inadvertantly signed herself up for? Why the Hells didn't she think before she spoke? More and more questions spring in her mind as she made her way up the tree. In her distracted state, she fails to notice a sharp twig poking out in her direction and it cut into the side of her left palm. She inhales sharply and bites down on her bottom lip.
Igrainne settles herself on a branch attachment, making sure she is still obscured by some foliage, and tries to get a look at the top of the roof. She can't help but let out a gasp. Ainhoa is lying there, spread out and motionless, as the scorching rays of sunlight sear her bare skin, causing it to peel and blister all over her body. She could see tears streaming down the other woman's cheeks. The horrific sight reminded her of the public self-flagellation acolytes were sometimes punished with in Menzoberranzan. But this is extreme. Harsh, even for the drow.
Ainhoa had a completely dumbstruck look on her face when she heard Igrainne's words in the burial chamber. In that brief pause, the fire in the brazier behind her suddenly went out. The ritual had been interrupted. Then the lids on the coffins shifted and mummified corpses rose from them, moving to attack Ainhoa. Ghesh grabbed the priestess in time as the rest of them put the mummies back to rest whilst Ankhet held the rapidly closing door open for everyone to get out. They ran into a teleportation circle and were transported back to Daring Heights. Ainhoa, injured but alive, quickly made herself scarce.
It took Igrainne a couple of days to track down the drow woman again, which she did at Heret's request and her own curiosity. She later spotted a familiarly abrasive figure, now cowled in a dark hood and moving in a rather twitchy motion, having a terse exchange with the human co-owner of the Red House. Then, she followed Ainhoa here, to this shabby shed in the outskirts of town. And now here she is, watching the priestess torture herself in utmost discomfort, wanting to persuade her to stop but too afraid to do so.
After what feels like an eternity, Ainhoa lets out a short, incoherent yell. She gets up and climbs down the hatch, disappearing back into the shed, for now. Igrainne feels her muscles relax.
Ainhoa comes out from the shed hours later, when the sun is well on its way behind the horizon, shrouded in the same black hooded cloak. With more than a little hesitation, Igrainne trails her back into the city, all the while rehearsing in her head the things she wants to say to her, wondering how she may respond, and imagining different scenarios.
The crowds are out in full force on Midsummer Day. As the day darkens, the revelry begins, and swarms of drunken folk begin to from around them. The priestess of Shar seem to still not notice her presence, even when she got quite close behind her. Close enough to hear her mumbling under her breath, "Failure, failure. How will I face Her Majesty the Matriarch? Atonement...Atonement..Yet, I cannot present myself in this state."
Ainhoa gazes down at her scarred and blistered arm. "For the dark and deep, for the light and bleak, I dedicate myself to you, Mistress of the Night. May your blessing help me find my path and relieve my pain," Igrainne hears her muttering. The blisters on her hand begin to shrink smaller and smaller until they disappear completely. The half-drow's eyes widen.
"Oi! Watch where you're going!" A throng of men laugh drunkenly as they, one after another, bump into Igrainne and stumble in front of her, blocking her view of Ainhoa. Igrainne grunts and roughly shoves her way out of the sudden stream of people, but it was too late. The drow priestess had disappeared amidst the celebrating crowd. She sighs, both in exasperation and relief.
Ainhoa's Elvish prayer repeated itself over and over in her head. There is a poetry to it, a rhythm to the words that feels...strangely comforting. She pulls her piwafwi cloak tighter around her shoulders as she walks down the street. Almost unconsciously, she murmurs it aloud several times over:
"For the dark and deep, for the light and bleak...I dedicate myself to you, Mistress of the Night...May your blessing help me find my path and relieve my pain."
Igrainne feels something stir in the pit of her stomach. She suddenly feels more alert, more sensitive to the sensory input from all around her -- the sounds of chatter and laughter, the smells of alcohol and fried foods, the lights of the streetlamps and torches blazing in her eye. She perks up and realises that the stinging in her cut palm has stopped. She lifts up her left palm and, sure enough, the flaps of skin where the cut was made are sealing themselves on their own accord, the red gash gradually disappearing from one end to the other. When it is done, there is only a thin, barely visible scar left. Igrainne's jaw drops open as she recognises the spell for what it is.
Oh.
Oh no.
(Thank you to Dasha for the awesome session and providing the scenario in which Igrainne multiclasses into cleric.)
Igrainne squirms behind the tree as a figure emerges from the roof of the run-down shed she had been watching for a few hours now. The figure is entirely nude, obsidian skin exposed to the unforgiving glare of the summer sun, save for a bronze threaded band in her white hair. Ainhoa closes the hatch on the roof, then lies down on it, sinking from Igrainne's sight from the ground. The young half-drow knits her brows in confusion and grabs onto some low branches on the tree as she prepares to climb it.
A week ago, after a job in the Turning Fields, Heret Velnnarul approached her with a request for aid. House Ithyr had asked his trading company for an undisclosed favour, in exchange for a place at the negotiation table for the Underdark darkwood (Underdarkwood?) trade. Several days later, Heret gathered a number of his friends -- herself, Ankhet, Cadfan, Ghesh, plus Menace who tagged along uninvited -- to undertake this mission. The goblin co-owner of the Red House, on behalf of House T'sylan, gave them the mission: find Ainhoa in Daring Heights, stop the ritual that would allow her to ascend the priesthood, but make sure she leaves alive.
They were directed to a small, derelict old tomb in the south of the city. The area was suffused with an odd, nauseating aura that night, which visibly affected some of the adventurers. Within the tomb was a portal that transported them all to another realm, one that resembles a dark temple with ancient Drowic patterns carved into the walls. Igrainne would have investigated the place further had it not been for the sense of dread it instilled in her.
They navigated the temple, looking for traces of Ainhoa, following her trail of ritualistic magic. Cadfan nicked a diamond from a statue of a female drow, which set off fire trap, much to Heret's annoyance. Igrainne managed to extinguish the flames...somehow...by imitating the motions of the clerics she saw in Menzoberranzan and splashing holy water onto the wall of fire. That was when some vaguely humanoid-shaped shadows surrounded her and mumbled in Undercommon:
"Help our kind, help one of our own..."
Their wispy hands reached out to her, their touch cold as a corpse. And then, just like that, the fires went out. Despite the overbearing hot weather, a chill travels down Igrainne's spine as she remembers the moment.
Eventually, they found Ainhoa in a chamber full of coffins, decorated with banners bearing the insignia of House Gorr, the most powerful family in Aeschira, chanting some sort of prayer in front of a lit brazier. She was alarmed, demanding to know who they were, and saying something about only "contestants" being allowed in. Heret tried to talk to her but to no avail. The drow priestess raised her hands and magical flames come alight between her palms; she demanded one last time for the adventurers to get out, when Igrainne, not stopping to think, took out an eight-pointed star amulet -- the holy symbol of Lolth she "reclaimed" from a rogue priestess in Xarribia -- and declared:
"I'm a contestant!"
The words echo ominously in the ranger's head. She winces at the memory of it. What had she done? What had she inadvertantly signed herself up for? Why the Hells didn't she think before she spoke? More and more questions spring in her mind as she made her way up the tree. In her distracted state, she fails to notice a sharp twig poking out in her direction and it cut into the side of her left palm. She inhales sharply and bites down on her bottom lip.
Igrainne settles herself on a branch attachment, making sure she is still obscured by some foliage, and tries to get a look at the top of the roof. She can't help but let out a gasp. Ainhoa is lying there, spread out and motionless, as the scorching rays of sunlight sear her bare skin, causing it to peel and blister all over her body. She could see tears streaming down the other woman's cheeks. The horrific sight reminded her of the public self-flagellation acolytes were sometimes punished with in Menzoberranzan. But this is extreme. Harsh, even for the drow.
Ainhoa had a completely dumbstruck look on her face when she heard Igrainne's words in the burial chamber. In that brief pause, the fire in the brazier behind her suddenly went out. The ritual had been interrupted. Then the lids on the coffins shifted and mummified corpses rose from them, moving to attack Ainhoa. Ghesh grabbed the priestess in time as the rest of them put the mummies back to rest whilst Ankhet held the rapidly closing door open for everyone to get out. They ran into a teleportation circle and were transported back to Daring Heights. Ainhoa, injured but alive, quickly made herself scarce.
It took Igrainne a couple of days to track down the drow woman again, which she did at Heret's request and her own curiosity. She later spotted a familiarly abrasive figure, now cowled in a dark hood and moving in a rather twitchy motion, having a terse exchange with the human co-owner of the Red House. Then, she followed Ainhoa here, to this shabby shed in the outskirts of town. And now here she is, watching the priestess torture herself in utmost discomfort, wanting to persuade her to stop but too afraid to do so.
After what feels like an eternity, Ainhoa lets out a short, incoherent yell. She gets up and climbs down the hatch, disappearing back into the shed, for now. Igrainne feels her muscles relax.
Ainhoa comes out from the shed hours later, when the sun is well on its way behind the horizon, shrouded in the same black hooded cloak. With more than a little hesitation, Igrainne trails her back into the city, all the while rehearsing in her head the things she wants to say to her, wondering how she may respond, and imagining different scenarios.
The crowds are out in full force on Midsummer Day. As the day darkens, the revelry begins, and swarms of drunken folk begin to from around them. The priestess of Shar seem to still not notice her presence, even when she got quite close behind her. Close enough to hear her mumbling under her breath, "Failure, failure. How will I face Her Majesty the Matriarch? Atonement...Atonement..Yet, I cannot present myself in this state."
Ainhoa gazes down at her scarred and blistered arm. "For the dark and deep, for the light and bleak, I dedicate myself to you, Mistress of the Night. May your blessing help me find my path and relieve my pain," Igrainne hears her muttering. The blisters on her hand begin to shrink smaller and smaller until they disappear completely. The half-drow's eyes widen.
"Oi! Watch where you're going!" A throng of men laugh drunkenly as they, one after another, bump into Igrainne and stumble in front of her, blocking her view of Ainhoa. Igrainne grunts and roughly shoves her way out of the sudden stream of people, but it was too late. The drow priestess had disappeared amidst the celebrating crowd. She sighs, both in exasperation and relief.
Ainhoa's Elvish prayer repeated itself over and over in her head. There is a poetry to it, a rhythm to the words that feels...strangely comforting. She pulls her piwafwi cloak tighter around her shoulders as she walks down the street. Almost unconsciously, she murmurs it aloud several times over:
"For the dark and deep, for the light and bleak...I dedicate myself to you, Mistress of the Night...May your blessing help me find my path and relieve my pain."
Igrainne feels something stir in the pit of her stomach. She suddenly feels more alert, more sensitive to the sensory input from all around her -- the sounds of chatter and laughter, the smells of alcohol and fried foods, the lights of the streetlamps and torches blazing in her eye. She perks up and realises that the stinging in her cut palm has stopped. She lifts up her left palm and, sure enough, the flaps of skin where the cut was made are sealing themselves on their own accord, the red gash gradually disappearing from one end to the other. When it is done, there is only a thin, barely visible scar left. Igrainne's jaw drops open as she recognises the spell for what it is.
Oh.
Oh no.
(Thank you to Dasha for the awesome session and providing the scenario in which Igrainne multiclasses into cleric.)
