The Fruits (Oziah)
Mar 6, 2023 15:59:18 GMT
Jaezred Vandree, Delilah Daybreaker, and 1 more like this
Post by Oziah Daybreaker on Mar 6, 2023 15:59:18 GMT
The evening is quiet. Well, as quiet as Fort Ettin gets. There seems to be some sort of rowdy activity going on in various parts of the Fort at all hours - they are adventurers after all. Oziah finds it comforting, in a way. It reminds her of the Legion. Of simpler times. Their private rooms are quiet, though. Delilah is out, doing whatever she does in the shadows of the night - either being lethal or honing her craft to become even more lethal. Hells, but she loves that woman.
Oziah kneels in front of the fire, takes a deep breath and pulls out an ornate, golden dagger. She paid a pretty price for it, and had to watch both the smith and the jeweller like a hawk to make sure it was suitable for her needs. It’s very finely made - the blade sharp enough to cut you just from looking at it - but its true purpose isn’t blood. It’s information.
She lays her old sword - Leomar’s old sword - on the stone floor in front of the hearth. She unrolls the sketched portrait she commissioned of her father and sets it down next to the sword. As she grips the hilt of the dagger, the air around her crackles with eldritch energy. From her back, ripped, tattered wings extend and cast the room into further shadow. She makes a precise, clean cut on the back of her left hand and lets the blood drip into a small puddle on the stone. She uses it to trace an arcane rune, pressing the palm of her free hand over it and focuses on the portrait. The sapphire set into the pommel, as well as her cobalt eyes, glow bright.
It's like she never left. Her father, Archon, sits at the desk she’s known for most of her life. She remembers it arriving - a monolith of cedar authority which her father wielded like a badge of office. There are different papers, perhaps a new ink blotter, but the scene is one you've seen a hundred times, though never from above like this.
He is sitting quietly and writing a letter. Something thanking a minor noble for attending a recent party - a stack of similar letters lie to the side of the desk. Archon Hadir may be ruthless in his operation, but he always attends to the details.
Oziah watches for a few minutes of quiet writing, Archon occasionally taking a sip of a drink in a fine teacup, until he sits back in some level of relief. "And that's the lot," he says under his breath - startling to hear the first words spoken since the spell began. The page is added to the pile beside him, which he picks up as he stands.
The scrying sensor follows Archon out to a hallway she remembers every inch of, leading down a flight of stairs towards the great hall. It's her familiarity that makes the differences stand out so starkly - a dozen minute details not even Delilah might think to pick up on (though she obviously would) - the display cabinet had shifted and the runners underneath the objects had been switched out for a carmine red, clearly to better accentuate the green dragon scales arranged tastefully in the centre of it along with other valuables she haven't seen before. Other objects she expected to be there however - family heirlooms, are conspicuously absent.
The tiny changes add up to a story - the family had some hard times, but are bouncing back strongly.
Archon hands off the papers to a servant she doesn't recognise - more changes - and pushes open the door to the great hall. A handful of local petitioners often come here to request aid or counsel from the House of Hadir, and court is clearly in session. Oziah was being trained for this, of course, in all of those tedious diplomacy and politics lessons - though never allowed to actually hold court. She was far too unpredictable. Untamed, her father had called her.
At first glance though, it seems that perhaps she is. Her father walks quietly around the side towards the dais in front, striding with the full purpose and dignity of his station - she recognises the performance of that walk. Archon circles around to stand just behind the chair all eyes are trained on, resting a hand on the back as he looks out calmly at the crowd.
The Scrying begins to fade just as she gets a full view of the aasimar woman sitting in the chair, responding with a clear, dignified voice to a request to relieve a farmer with blighted crops. She... isn't Oziah. But the resemblance is striking. This could easily be a cousin to Oziah Hadir. Her cheekbones are a little less sharp, her dark hair falls a little more severely, her voice is strict but has the grace and temperament she often struggled to master. The powerful martial build though is unmistakable.
But if you wanted to convince the world that Oziah Hadir never left town - this is exactly who could do it. And it must be said, the real Oziah thinks as her vision snaps back to the Dawnlands, for all that she left that world behind, she’s sitting in the chair. Bitch.
Her mind is reeling. She can only think of two options. Her father has found someone easy to subdue, someone he has leverage over or has threatened with violence, to take her place. If so, she must be freed. No woman deserves that fate, the fate she herself killed for in order to escape, fell from grace to avoid. The other option is that someone thinks that they can wear her face and take her name, take her place and live her life, and thinks they won’t die a slow death for it.
Around her, ornaments and trinkets have fallen over, books have fallen out of their shelves. The wine glasses they just had imported from Neverwinter have shattered. She doesn’t notice. In her fury she grips the dagger tighter, staring at the hilt of the sword in front of her.
Her father hadn't changed at all - aasimars do have their advantages after all. Leomar, on the other hand, has clearly aged. It hasn't been so many years, but the lines on his brow have deepened, his skin a little more weathered. A couple of new scars are visible as well. Pair those changes with the expertly wrought breastplate of green dragon scales and similarly polished new equipment, and he cut an impressive figure, for all his many faults.
"Over-commander!" a soldier - Blue Legion uniform, young, human woman, black hair cut short. He barely turns his head toward her as she approaches his horse. Still the same horse, despite everything else. The mercenary holds a rolled sheet of vellum up to him, and he takes it with a curt nod, his focus still ahead. Unfurling it, he holds the vellum up in front of him, revealing a topographical map presumably of the region he is travelling through. Hills and forests on the outskirts of the sensor's vision could well be Cormyr.
Behind the 'over-commander's' horse, she can look back to see Blue Legion in the distance, her old company in full kit. Leomar is riding ahead far enough that she can't make out any faces at first, though she reckons even from some builds she can recognize a few soldiers.
He sits for a few minutes, regarding the map and looking out over the terrain. The young soldier stands patiently waiting, and a pair of other scouts run up during this time to simply report all clear on their patrol before heading back to the main mass of the forces, now approaching closer.
Finally, he nods to himself and rolls up the vellum. The leather ties to bind the map prove tricky, and so he takes off his steel gauntlets, revealing the glint of platinum she’d been looking out for. It distracts her enough that she doesn’t notice the arcane runes on the other ring he’s wearing until it’s too late. Handing the roll back to the soldier, something catches his eye and he looks up right in your direction.
"When you come to kill me, whoever you are," Leomar says in a smooth but threatening tone, one she knows very well. "Be sure to come well armed. I wouldn't want dispatching you to be too easy."
With one swift motion, he draws a curved wand of some kind from a saddlebag, points it at her, and the scrying connection is severed.
When she comes back to herself, her throat is sore from screaming. Her cheeks are wet with furious tears and her nails have dug themselves into her palms from clenching her hands into fists. The doors to the balcony and the windows are all thrown open. Deimos looms outside, his hooves clattering uneasily on the paved walkway.
She slowly becomes aware of arms holding her firmly, hands stroking her hair and a voice shushing her. She slumps, finally relaxing muscles that are screaming with tension, and into Delilah’s neck she whispers, hoarsely,
“He married her.”
There’s a moment of silence, then, “Of course he did. Men such as him need the illusion of greatness, of controlling that which is viewed as untamable.” Nimble fingers brush under her chin, lifting Oziah’s face up. Delilah’s eyes are dark, pitiless, and hungry. “But he is a fool. He has none of that because I have you.” There’s the smallest hint of a grin. “And you’re at your greatest when you’re cutting down fools like him.”
She’s too tired to argue. She takes the words as truth because Delilah spoke them. She slips further, closing her eyes and breathing deeply of the scent of night, of smoke and shadows and death that always cling to her love.
In her mind she lists them.
Archon. Leomar. Ankaa.
One at a time. Not today, not yet.
But soon.
With the murderwife Delilah Daybreaker 🖤🗡️
Oziah kneels in front of the fire, takes a deep breath and pulls out an ornate, golden dagger. She paid a pretty price for it, and had to watch both the smith and the jeweller like a hawk to make sure it was suitable for her needs. It’s very finely made - the blade sharp enough to cut you just from looking at it - but its true purpose isn’t blood. It’s information.
She lays her old sword - Leomar’s old sword - on the stone floor in front of the hearth. She unrolls the sketched portrait she commissioned of her father and sets it down next to the sword. As she grips the hilt of the dagger, the air around her crackles with eldritch energy. From her back, ripped, tattered wings extend and cast the room into further shadow. She makes a precise, clean cut on the back of her left hand and lets the blood drip into a small puddle on the stone. She uses it to trace an arcane rune, pressing the palm of her free hand over it and focuses on the portrait. The sapphire set into the pommel, as well as her cobalt eyes, glow bright.
It's like she never left. Her father, Archon, sits at the desk she’s known for most of her life. She remembers it arriving - a monolith of cedar authority which her father wielded like a badge of office. There are different papers, perhaps a new ink blotter, but the scene is one you've seen a hundred times, though never from above like this.
He is sitting quietly and writing a letter. Something thanking a minor noble for attending a recent party - a stack of similar letters lie to the side of the desk. Archon Hadir may be ruthless in his operation, but he always attends to the details.
Oziah watches for a few minutes of quiet writing, Archon occasionally taking a sip of a drink in a fine teacup, until he sits back in some level of relief. "And that's the lot," he says under his breath - startling to hear the first words spoken since the spell began. The page is added to the pile beside him, which he picks up as he stands.
The scrying sensor follows Archon out to a hallway she remembers every inch of, leading down a flight of stairs towards the great hall. It's her familiarity that makes the differences stand out so starkly - a dozen minute details not even Delilah might think to pick up on (though she obviously would) - the display cabinet had shifted and the runners underneath the objects had been switched out for a carmine red, clearly to better accentuate the green dragon scales arranged tastefully in the centre of it along with other valuables she haven't seen before. Other objects she expected to be there however - family heirlooms, are conspicuously absent.
The tiny changes add up to a story - the family had some hard times, but are bouncing back strongly.
Archon hands off the papers to a servant she doesn't recognise - more changes - and pushes open the door to the great hall. A handful of local petitioners often come here to request aid or counsel from the House of Hadir, and court is clearly in session. Oziah was being trained for this, of course, in all of those tedious diplomacy and politics lessons - though never allowed to actually hold court. She was far too unpredictable. Untamed, her father had called her.
At first glance though, it seems that perhaps she is. Her father walks quietly around the side towards the dais in front, striding with the full purpose and dignity of his station - she recognises the performance of that walk. Archon circles around to stand just behind the chair all eyes are trained on, resting a hand on the back as he looks out calmly at the crowd.
The Scrying begins to fade just as she gets a full view of the aasimar woman sitting in the chair, responding with a clear, dignified voice to a request to relieve a farmer with blighted crops. She... isn't Oziah. But the resemblance is striking. This could easily be a cousin to Oziah Hadir. Her cheekbones are a little less sharp, her dark hair falls a little more severely, her voice is strict but has the grace and temperament she often struggled to master. The powerful martial build though is unmistakable.
But if you wanted to convince the world that Oziah Hadir never left town - this is exactly who could do it. And it must be said, the real Oziah thinks as her vision snaps back to the Dawnlands, for all that she left that world behind, she’s sitting in the chair. Bitch.
Her mind is reeling. She can only think of two options. Her father has found someone easy to subdue, someone he has leverage over or has threatened with violence, to take her place. If so, she must be freed. No woman deserves that fate, the fate she herself killed for in order to escape, fell from grace to avoid. The other option is that someone thinks that they can wear her face and take her name, take her place and live her life, and thinks they won’t die a slow death for it.
Around her, ornaments and trinkets have fallen over, books have fallen out of their shelves. The wine glasses they just had imported from Neverwinter have shattered. She doesn’t notice. In her fury she grips the dagger tighter, staring at the hilt of the sword in front of her.
Her father hadn't changed at all - aasimars do have their advantages after all. Leomar, on the other hand, has clearly aged. It hasn't been so many years, but the lines on his brow have deepened, his skin a little more weathered. A couple of new scars are visible as well. Pair those changes with the expertly wrought breastplate of green dragon scales and similarly polished new equipment, and he cut an impressive figure, for all his many faults.
"Over-commander!" a soldier - Blue Legion uniform, young, human woman, black hair cut short. He barely turns his head toward her as she approaches his horse. Still the same horse, despite everything else. The mercenary holds a rolled sheet of vellum up to him, and he takes it with a curt nod, his focus still ahead. Unfurling it, he holds the vellum up in front of him, revealing a topographical map presumably of the region he is travelling through. Hills and forests on the outskirts of the sensor's vision could well be Cormyr.
Behind the 'over-commander's' horse, she can look back to see Blue Legion in the distance, her old company in full kit. Leomar is riding ahead far enough that she can't make out any faces at first, though she reckons even from some builds she can recognize a few soldiers.
He sits for a few minutes, regarding the map and looking out over the terrain. The young soldier stands patiently waiting, and a pair of other scouts run up during this time to simply report all clear on their patrol before heading back to the main mass of the forces, now approaching closer.
Finally, he nods to himself and rolls up the vellum. The leather ties to bind the map prove tricky, and so he takes off his steel gauntlets, revealing the glint of platinum she’d been looking out for. It distracts her enough that she doesn’t notice the arcane runes on the other ring he’s wearing until it’s too late. Handing the roll back to the soldier, something catches his eye and he looks up right in your direction.
"When you come to kill me, whoever you are," Leomar says in a smooth but threatening tone, one she knows very well. "Be sure to come well armed. I wouldn't want dispatching you to be too easy."
With one swift motion, he draws a curved wand of some kind from a saddlebag, points it at her, and the scrying connection is severed.
When she comes back to herself, her throat is sore from screaming. Her cheeks are wet with furious tears and her nails have dug themselves into her palms from clenching her hands into fists. The doors to the balcony and the windows are all thrown open. Deimos looms outside, his hooves clattering uneasily on the paved walkway.
She slowly becomes aware of arms holding her firmly, hands stroking her hair and a voice shushing her. She slumps, finally relaxing muscles that are screaming with tension, and into Delilah’s neck she whispers, hoarsely,
“He married her.”
There’s a moment of silence, then, “Of course he did. Men such as him need the illusion of greatness, of controlling that which is viewed as untamable.” Nimble fingers brush under her chin, lifting Oziah’s face up. Delilah’s eyes are dark, pitiless, and hungry. “But he is a fool. He has none of that because I have you.” There’s the smallest hint of a grin. “And you’re at your greatest when you’re cutting down fools like him.”
She’s too tired to argue. She takes the words as truth because Delilah spoke them. She slips further, closing her eyes and breathing deeply of the scent of night, of smoke and shadows and death that always cling to her love.
In her mind she lists them.
Archon. Leomar. Ankaa.
One at a time. Not today, not yet.
But soon.
With the murderwife Delilah Daybreaker 🖤🗡️