Post by Varis/G'Lorth/Sundilar on Aug 30, 2020 11:30:34 GMT
6th day of Flamerule, 1497
Firelight flickers off the red stone walls, low flames casting ghoulish shadows across the faces of the rooms only two occupants. Seated opposite each other, they are separated by worlds and lifetimes, but tonight, as it has for many months now, an ornate game board bridges the gap - a delicate wood and slate stand-in for the battlefield on which their minds war.
Seated squarely on a low stool, back straight and eyes narrowed, the sandy-haired young man wears a divet of concentration between his brows. His delicate features are ornamented with two scars, as different from each other as the man is from his opponent. One is a fine, pale crescent that sits gracefully beneath his left eye, a calligrapher's stroke matching the curve of the socket. The other is a brutal, puckered trench bisecting his face diagonally from hairline to jaw, as though his face had been harrowed by some careless farmer. His crisp black uniform is buttoned all the way up in spite of the heat from the fireplace, the high collar sitting just beneath his chin. Green eyes scan the board, weighing options and calculating risks with the sombre sedulity of a man budgeting for his own funeral.
By contrast, his opponent looks as though she has been poured from an amphora by some hedonistic god of excess. Clad in purple silk and thread of gold, she lounges in her ornate, wingback chair, limbs draped across the velvet upholstery like a debauched cephalopod. Each finger is adorned with enough wealth to feed a family for a year, and her dark braids glint with silver and gemstones. One hand cradles a heavy goblet, while the other toys with an amethyst the size of a pigeon’s egg suspended on a golden chain around her throat. Her expression is one of bemused scorn, but for all her practiced indolence, her eyes are chips of ice. They fix upon the man as he makes his move, giving her the air of an arctic predator.
For the first time since her arrival in Daring Heights nearly half a year gone, Shen’Izera, Knight of Tu’narath, Commander of the Star Scourge and Favoured of the Lich Queen, is losing.
7th day of Hammar, 1497
“Next!”
Red’s voice rings out across the yard as the sullen-faced elf slopes away, still nursing a bruised elbow and a bloody lip. A broad shouldered minotaur takes his place, hooves pawing at the frosty earth.
“Name?”
The blunt-faced dwarven woman sounds bored.
“Yelka Ironhorn. I was told I might face the Godslayer.”
“You don’t wanna face the bossman, love. He doesn’t play well with others. Kamar?”
The burly half orc looks up, braids rattling against her cuirass.
“Put the big lass through her paces.”
Kamar grunts an acknowledgement and ambles toward the centre of the yard. The minotaur frowns, but says nothing, instead taking a huge padded hammer from the rack against the wall and hefting it to test it’s balance. Seeming satisfied, she nods to Kamar and begins advancing toward the half orc, when from the archway onto the street, a harsh voice rings out.
“Where is the Godslayer?”
Red rolls her eyes, exasperated.
“Nine Hells! Will you people just leave it the fuck alone?”
She raises her voice to address the newcomer.
“He’s not taking visitors, sunshine. If you want to try out you get in the damn line and wait your damn turn.”
The figure in the archway pulls back her hood, revealing yellow skin and a high widow's peak, the dark braids adorned with silver and gemstones. The ornate hilt of a greatsword is visible over one shoulder.
“I am Shen’Izera, Knight of Tu’narath, Commander of the Star Scourge, Favoured of the Lich Queen. I demand congress with the master of this place.”
Red sighs, gesturing for Kamar and Yelka to stand down.
“I don’t care if you’re the damn Soulforger himself. The boss doesn’t dust his boots for mouthy scrubs, no matter how long their list of fancy fuckin’ titles.”
The newcomer ignores Red, raising her voice to be heard throughout the compound.
“Godslayer! Show yourself!”
Red curses under her breath, patience clearly frayed to breaking.
“Listen you-” the figure cuts her off.
“I do not address you, stonecrawler. This is a conversation between warriors. Still your tongue or I will remove it.”
Red surges forward, hand going to the weapon at her side as around her members of the Order and new recruits scramble to clear the yard.
“Enough.”
Red skids to a halt, looking ready to grind rocks between her teeth, and both women turn to face the young man now standing in the doorway to the south wing. His face is pale, and surprisingly delicate - a single crescent scar curves beneath his left eye.
Looking up at the newcomer he appraises her for the first time. She has drawn back her cloak, revealing an ornate suit of plate, its surface covered in intricate scrollwork and set with small gemstones that glitter like frost in the winter sun. She looks to be almost as tall as Kamar, though wiry where the half orc is broad - a wolf instead of a bull. She in turn inspects him with icy skepticism.
“You are the one men call the Godslayer?”
There is a quiet snigger from his left, and Varis flicks a small frown toward Red, but the dwarven woman’s face is a picture of innocence.
“I am.”
The newcomer turns fully toward him, thin lips curving up in a cannibal smile.
“I thought you would be taller. No matter. I challenge you.”
Red curses under her breath.
“Boss, let me slag this voidsnake.”
The tall woman’s head whips round at the slur, her eyes dripping with disdain.
“I warned you what would happen if you continued to yap, little cur. I do not repeat myself.”
With the speed of a striking snake, she unsheathes her blade, crossing the distance between her and Red in the blink of an eye. As the silver blade falls, Red raises her weapon, but too slowly, the greatsword cleaving toward her unprotected head with sickening inevitability-
Only to stop, a hair's breadth from the dwarven woman’s skull, parried by a frost-rimed blade. The newcomer gazes steadily into Varis’ eyes as the half-elf carefully lowers his sword.
“I accept.”
6th day of Flamerule, 1497
“G’helzor!”
Shen’s curse rings out in the small chamber, breaking the silence. Varis gives no outward reaction, save a slight twitch of the lips. The tawny woman misses nothing, however, and her anger turns arctic.
“Smirk all you wish, Godslayer - it took you four months to best me. Four months!” She sneers at the placid half elf. “Perhaps I was wrong about you.”
The faintest shadow of a frown wrinkles his brow.
“In my defence, I did spend most of that time dead.”
She narrows her eyes at him, standing abruptly.
“One victory means nothing.”
She turns to leave, snatching up the bag of coin beside the board almost as an afterthought.
“Hold.”
The Githyanki woman stiffens, but does not leave.
“My victory has earned me something, I am sure. When you first arrived in Daring, I bested you in combat. Now, at your insistence, I have bested you at this game of yours, which you claim to be the trust measure of the skill of a commander. You have won a small fortune in coin from our contests, insulted my soldiers and abused my hospitality.”
She gives a derisive snort, but does not disagree.
“Why are you here?”
The silence stretches, but Varis waits, confident he has read his opponent correctly. Finally, she proves him right.
“I am looking for someone.”
He allows himself no satisfaction - this, as much as the test of blades, as much as the game of kings, is a form of combat.
“Who?”
She turns halfway back, her aquiline profile casting razor shadows.
“I do not know. Someone who can do the impossible.”
A slight frown wrinkles his brow, but again he waits for her to fill the silence. With a sound halfway between a sigh and a hiss, she turns to face him fully. Her expression is grim, all artifice evaporated, the caricature of indolence gone.
Ah he thinks. There it is.
When she speaks again, her voice is steel.
“My name is Shen’Izera, Knight of the Sha’sal Khou, sworn enemy of the Lich Queen of Tu’narath. And I have a god who needs slaying.”
Firelight flickers off the red stone walls, low flames casting ghoulish shadows across the faces of the rooms only two occupants. Seated opposite each other, they are separated by worlds and lifetimes, but tonight, as it has for many months now, an ornate game board bridges the gap - a delicate wood and slate stand-in for the battlefield on which their minds war.
Seated squarely on a low stool, back straight and eyes narrowed, the sandy-haired young man wears a divet of concentration between his brows. His delicate features are ornamented with two scars, as different from each other as the man is from his opponent. One is a fine, pale crescent that sits gracefully beneath his left eye, a calligrapher's stroke matching the curve of the socket. The other is a brutal, puckered trench bisecting his face diagonally from hairline to jaw, as though his face had been harrowed by some careless farmer. His crisp black uniform is buttoned all the way up in spite of the heat from the fireplace, the high collar sitting just beneath his chin. Green eyes scan the board, weighing options and calculating risks with the sombre sedulity of a man budgeting for his own funeral.
By contrast, his opponent looks as though she has been poured from an amphora by some hedonistic god of excess. Clad in purple silk and thread of gold, she lounges in her ornate, wingback chair, limbs draped across the velvet upholstery like a debauched cephalopod. Each finger is adorned with enough wealth to feed a family for a year, and her dark braids glint with silver and gemstones. One hand cradles a heavy goblet, while the other toys with an amethyst the size of a pigeon’s egg suspended on a golden chain around her throat. Her expression is one of bemused scorn, but for all her practiced indolence, her eyes are chips of ice. They fix upon the man as he makes his move, giving her the air of an arctic predator.
For the first time since her arrival in Daring Heights nearly half a year gone, Shen’Izera, Knight of Tu’narath, Commander of the Star Scourge and Favoured of the Lich Queen, is losing.
****
7th day of Hammar, 1497
“Next!”
Red’s voice rings out across the yard as the sullen-faced elf slopes away, still nursing a bruised elbow and a bloody lip. A broad shouldered minotaur takes his place, hooves pawing at the frosty earth.
“Name?”
The blunt-faced dwarven woman sounds bored.
“Yelka Ironhorn. I was told I might face the Godslayer.”
“You don’t wanna face the bossman, love. He doesn’t play well with others. Kamar?”
The burly half orc looks up, braids rattling against her cuirass.
“Put the big lass through her paces.”
Kamar grunts an acknowledgement and ambles toward the centre of the yard. The minotaur frowns, but says nothing, instead taking a huge padded hammer from the rack against the wall and hefting it to test it’s balance. Seeming satisfied, she nods to Kamar and begins advancing toward the half orc, when from the archway onto the street, a harsh voice rings out.
“Where is the Godslayer?”
Red rolls her eyes, exasperated.
“Nine Hells! Will you people just leave it the fuck alone?”
She raises her voice to address the newcomer.
“He’s not taking visitors, sunshine. If you want to try out you get in the damn line and wait your damn turn.”
The figure in the archway pulls back her hood, revealing yellow skin and a high widow's peak, the dark braids adorned with silver and gemstones. The ornate hilt of a greatsword is visible over one shoulder.
“I am Shen’Izera, Knight of Tu’narath, Commander of the Star Scourge, Favoured of the Lich Queen. I demand congress with the master of this place.”
Red sighs, gesturing for Kamar and Yelka to stand down.
“I don’t care if you’re the damn Soulforger himself. The boss doesn’t dust his boots for mouthy scrubs, no matter how long their list of fancy fuckin’ titles.”
The newcomer ignores Red, raising her voice to be heard throughout the compound.
“Godslayer! Show yourself!”
Red curses under her breath, patience clearly frayed to breaking.
“Listen you-” the figure cuts her off.
“I do not address you, stonecrawler. This is a conversation between warriors. Still your tongue or I will remove it.”
Red surges forward, hand going to the weapon at her side as around her members of the Order and new recruits scramble to clear the yard.
“Enough.”
Red skids to a halt, looking ready to grind rocks between her teeth, and both women turn to face the young man now standing in the doorway to the south wing. His face is pale, and surprisingly delicate - a single crescent scar curves beneath his left eye.
Looking up at the newcomer he appraises her for the first time. She has drawn back her cloak, revealing an ornate suit of plate, its surface covered in intricate scrollwork and set with small gemstones that glitter like frost in the winter sun. She looks to be almost as tall as Kamar, though wiry where the half orc is broad - a wolf instead of a bull. She in turn inspects him with icy skepticism.
“You are the one men call the Godslayer?”
There is a quiet snigger from his left, and Varis flicks a small frown toward Red, but the dwarven woman’s face is a picture of innocence.
“I am.”
The newcomer turns fully toward him, thin lips curving up in a cannibal smile.
“I thought you would be taller. No matter. I challenge you.”
Red curses under her breath.
“Boss, let me slag this voidsnake.”
The tall woman’s head whips round at the slur, her eyes dripping with disdain.
“I warned you what would happen if you continued to yap, little cur. I do not repeat myself.”
With the speed of a striking snake, she unsheathes her blade, crossing the distance between her and Red in the blink of an eye. As the silver blade falls, Red raises her weapon, but too slowly, the greatsword cleaving toward her unprotected head with sickening inevitability-
Only to stop, a hair's breadth from the dwarven woman’s skull, parried by a frost-rimed blade. The newcomer gazes steadily into Varis’ eyes as the half-elf carefully lowers his sword.
“I accept.”
***
6th day of Flamerule, 1497
“G’helzor!”
Shen’s curse rings out in the small chamber, breaking the silence. Varis gives no outward reaction, save a slight twitch of the lips. The tawny woman misses nothing, however, and her anger turns arctic.
“Smirk all you wish, Godslayer - it took you four months to best me. Four months!” She sneers at the placid half elf. “Perhaps I was wrong about you.”
The faintest shadow of a frown wrinkles his brow.
“In my defence, I did spend most of that time dead.”
She narrows her eyes at him, standing abruptly.
“One victory means nothing.”
She turns to leave, snatching up the bag of coin beside the board almost as an afterthought.
“Hold.”
The Githyanki woman stiffens, but does not leave.
“My victory has earned me something, I am sure. When you first arrived in Daring, I bested you in combat. Now, at your insistence, I have bested you at this game of yours, which you claim to be the trust measure of the skill of a commander. You have won a small fortune in coin from our contests, insulted my soldiers and abused my hospitality.”
She gives a derisive snort, but does not disagree.
“Why are you here?”
The silence stretches, but Varis waits, confident he has read his opponent correctly. Finally, she proves him right.
“I am looking for someone.”
He allows himself no satisfaction - this, as much as the test of blades, as much as the game of kings, is a form of combat.
“Who?”
She turns halfway back, her aquiline profile casting razor shadows.
“I do not know. Someone who can do the impossible.”
A slight frown wrinkles his brow, but again he waits for her to fill the silence. With a sound halfway between a sigh and a hiss, she turns to face him fully. Her expression is grim, all artifice evaporated, the caricature of indolence gone.
Ah he thinks. There it is.
When she speaks again, her voice is steel.
“My name is Shen’Izera, Knight of the Sha’sal Khou, sworn enemy of the Lich Queen of Tu’narath. And I have a god who needs slaying.”
