Post by Ser Baine Cinderwood 🔥🌼 on Sept 13, 2020 21:35:01 GMT
Aftermath of Tea With A Serpent. CW: Graphic execution
The raw red wasteland stretches out before them as far as the eye can see, its grim horizon broken occasionally by jagged mountains or - far to the north east - a blackened volcanic cone spewing fire and ash.
Despite the heat, Varis has to suppress a shiver. This is not a place mortals were ever meant to walk. Taking one last look at the blasted landscape, he turns back to his companions. Baine’s face is a mask of grim determination. Despite the horror of their surroundings, the hulking knight seems calm, eyes lazily scanning the horizon, hands resting on the haft of his maul. Beside him Aurelia floats a few inches off the carmine earth, feet not deigning to touch the soil of Baator. The archmage looks much as she always does, yet today, her celestial perfection has a hardened edge to it. She meets his gaze, and arches a sculpted brow.
“No time like the present.”
He bends her a humourless smile in response.
“Indeed.”
Baine gives a low snort.
“Dickheads. Come on then, let’s get this over with.”
Aurelia floats to a nearby spur of igneous rock, incanting quietly under her breath as she traces the outline of a door on the midnight stone, and suddenly, the outcropping is a portal to another place entirely. Through the silvery arch lies a room of pale stone, ten foot on a side, and empty save for a solitary figure, battered and bruised but standing defiant all the same.
Darkened and dried blood covering most of his pale grey skin, gagged and shackled, the archfiend Te’Zeer, Second Lieutenant of Glasya, meets their gazes unflinchingly. His black eyes glide slowly from Aurelia to Varis before lighting on Baine. He arches a graceful eyebrow and tilts his head sideways, waiting.
“Welcome home.”
With a massive gauntleted hand the half-orc hauls the devil out of the pocket dimension by the scruff of his neck. His left leg is at an odd angle and clearly broken - it gives out under him and he drops to his knees in the carmine dust, biting down hard on the cloth between his teeth. Aurelia flicks her wrist and the doorway disappears.
An acrid wind sweeps around the small group, Te’Zeer’s eyes narrowing through the eddy of dust it kicks up. Even on his knees he’s an imposing presence, hardly having to crane his neck to meet Varis’ eyes. The pale half elf holds his gaze for a moment before speaking.
“Te’Zeer. For crimes against the Free Peoples of Kantas, the attempted genocide of the Tribe of the Cobra, and threatening the lives of the citizens of Daring Heights, we sentence you to die by beheading. May the gods grant you swift judgement.”
From behind the gag, the grey devil lets out a low, dry sound, more a cough than a laugh. Even as he draws shudderings breaths through the sodden piece of cloth his voice seeps into his captors' minds like smoke.
“The Tribe? Genocide? Ha, that's rich coming from you. Get on with it, then. This is nothing compared to what My Lady has in store. You are all pathetic."
He sinks back on his heels and looks over at Baine before baring his neck in open invitation.
“Come on, be a good lapdog. Your master has spoken.”
The mask of determination on the half-orc’s face slips for a moment, revealing a myriad of emotions; a begrudging respect, shame and regret, a violent hunger and utter contempt. He steps forward, looking to his commander. Varis hesitates for a moment, the echoes of an earlier argument playing across his face. Then he sets his jaw, nods once, and hands Baine the carved ivory haft of Tromar’s axe.
The broad blade of the fabled weapon glitters silvery blue in the dim light of Hell. Baine’s eyebrows rise ever so slightly, then he shrugs, hefting the axe to get a sense of its balance. Satisfied, he squares himself to the fiend kneeling battered in the red dirt.
He cocks his head minutely as he considers a final dig at the fiend in the dust before him, one last taunt about coming out the victor in their many bouts. In the end, the corner of his mouth twitches and he settles for letting his actions speak louder than his words.
Baine closes his eyes, settles his breath, and in one graceful stroke parts Te’Zeer’s head from his neck. The grey skinned body slumps forward, glowing as it does, an inner fire consuming it until only flakes of dark ash remain to be scattered on the winds. In moments, nothing remains of the elegant fiend save the manacles that bound him.
The wind howls. Without a word, Baine hands the axe back to Varis. The half-orc clenches and unclenches his left fist a couple of times before nodding to himself and stooping to retrieve the shackles. He stands back up with cold satisfaction written plainly on his face.
“Let's go home.”
With Varis/G'Lorth/Sundilar Guido and andycd .
The raw red wasteland stretches out before them as far as the eye can see, its grim horizon broken occasionally by jagged mountains or - far to the north east - a blackened volcanic cone spewing fire and ash.
Despite the heat, Varis has to suppress a shiver. This is not a place mortals were ever meant to walk. Taking one last look at the blasted landscape, he turns back to his companions. Baine’s face is a mask of grim determination. Despite the horror of their surroundings, the hulking knight seems calm, eyes lazily scanning the horizon, hands resting on the haft of his maul. Beside him Aurelia floats a few inches off the carmine earth, feet not deigning to touch the soil of Baator. The archmage looks much as she always does, yet today, her celestial perfection has a hardened edge to it. She meets his gaze, and arches a sculpted brow.
“No time like the present.”
He bends her a humourless smile in response.
“Indeed.”
Baine gives a low snort.
“Dickheads. Come on then, let’s get this over with.”
Aurelia floats to a nearby spur of igneous rock, incanting quietly under her breath as she traces the outline of a door on the midnight stone, and suddenly, the outcropping is a portal to another place entirely. Through the silvery arch lies a room of pale stone, ten foot on a side, and empty save for a solitary figure, battered and bruised but standing defiant all the same.
Darkened and dried blood covering most of his pale grey skin, gagged and shackled, the archfiend Te’Zeer, Second Lieutenant of Glasya, meets their gazes unflinchingly. His black eyes glide slowly from Aurelia to Varis before lighting on Baine. He arches a graceful eyebrow and tilts his head sideways, waiting.
“Welcome home.”
With a massive gauntleted hand the half-orc hauls the devil out of the pocket dimension by the scruff of his neck. His left leg is at an odd angle and clearly broken - it gives out under him and he drops to his knees in the carmine dust, biting down hard on the cloth between his teeth. Aurelia flicks her wrist and the doorway disappears.
An acrid wind sweeps around the small group, Te’Zeer’s eyes narrowing through the eddy of dust it kicks up. Even on his knees he’s an imposing presence, hardly having to crane his neck to meet Varis’ eyes. The pale half elf holds his gaze for a moment before speaking.
“Te’Zeer. For crimes against the Free Peoples of Kantas, the attempted genocide of the Tribe of the Cobra, and threatening the lives of the citizens of Daring Heights, we sentence you to die by beheading. May the gods grant you swift judgement.”
From behind the gag, the grey devil lets out a low, dry sound, more a cough than a laugh. Even as he draws shudderings breaths through the sodden piece of cloth his voice seeps into his captors' minds like smoke.
“The Tribe? Genocide? Ha, that's rich coming from you. Get on with it, then. This is nothing compared to what My Lady has in store. You are all pathetic."
He sinks back on his heels and looks over at Baine before baring his neck in open invitation.
“Come on, be a good lapdog. Your master has spoken.”
The mask of determination on the half-orc’s face slips for a moment, revealing a myriad of emotions; a begrudging respect, shame and regret, a violent hunger and utter contempt. He steps forward, looking to his commander. Varis hesitates for a moment, the echoes of an earlier argument playing across his face. Then he sets his jaw, nods once, and hands Baine the carved ivory haft of Tromar’s axe.
The broad blade of the fabled weapon glitters silvery blue in the dim light of Hell. Baine’s eyebrows rise ever so slightly, then he shrugs, hefting the axe to get a sense of its balance. Satisfied, he squares himself to the fiend kneeling battered in the red dirt.
He cocks his head minutely as he considers a final dig at the fiend in the dust before him, one last taunt about coming out the victor in their many bouts. In the end, the corner of his mouth twitches and he settles for letting his actions speak louder than his words.
Baine closes his eyes, settles his breath, and in one graceful stroke parts Te’Zeer’s head from his neck. The grey skinned body slumps forward, glowing as it does, an inner fire consuming it until only flakes of dark ash remain to be scattered on the winds. In moments, nothing remains of the elegant fiend save the manacles that bound him.
The wind howls. Without a word, Baine hands the axe back to Varis. The half-orc clenches and unclenches his left fist a couple of times before nodding to himself and stooping to retrieve the shackles. He stands back up with cold satisfaction written plainly on his face.
“Let's go home.”
With Varis/G'Lorth/Sundilar Guido and andycd .
