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Post by Senscha on Jun 13, 2006 9:12:39 GMT -5
Slumber, ever elusive to her, had failed to keep its appointment once more. An hour of tossing and turning had tangled sheets about ankles and hips, leaving intermittent swatches of pale skin exposed to pervasive heat of the room. Thoughts drifted as she was poised upon the edge of sleep, suspended over the hazy crossroads of dream and waking, where the two were interchangeable and ill defined and one would wake wondering if dreams could be so vivid or reality so dream-like.
Senscha understood that she had tread beyond the line of wakefulness when the shadows began to stir and roil, churning with purpose and coagulating until the rough form of a man could be discerned. As she knew they would, his gelid eyes surfaced, still and suspended in the writhing mass of inky shade. Bloodless lips emerged from the impenetrable darkness and shaped His name. Senscha knew it for a death knell and she rejoiced.
Then they came to her, a swarm, His creatures all, still bound to Him beyond the grave until they discharged their final obligation to He who had mastered them for too long. Senscha could feel each of them straining at the arcane bindings He had set upon them, impatient to be gone from the plane in which they had been enslaved. Their presence was an angry roar in her ears that thrummed with a jealous hunger for her living flesh, for her life itself for such craving was the substance of their existence.
The strongest and most sentient of the horde thrust itself to the forefront of her mind so she could espy its misshapen figure, squat and porcine, its flesh weeping with malodorous ooze. "Ebonssssoul.” It hissed through several tiers of needled teeth, the sound itself a gnashing of them. It swept a malformed limb tipped with serrated talons toward the horizon of Senscha’s dreamscape where a hulking fortress loomed, a city at its feet like a supplicant. “Barak Nor.” The voice screeched at her.
The fortress sped toward her, or perhaps, she to it, at an astounding velocity and Senscha realized she was an interloper upon one of the creature’s memories. Through an open casement she whisked, down darkened corridors taken at a dizzying speed until coming to a sudden halt before an archway of obsidian. The room beyond was enormous, the glazed jet stone stretched to unfathomable heights above her. Dominating the cavernous space was a throne. She had barely spared it a glance before she darted toward it with great celerity and just as the impending impact was imminent, a gut wrenching swerve brought her behind its bulk and betwixt twin columns behind its bulk. She hovered there, the landscape before her nothing more than seamless black marble and had it not been for the sheen of the stone, she might have believed the vision abruptly ended. But wait, there – the faintest flicker of air, it sent her ethereal form to ripple upon its wake. Senscha saw it then, the faint outline that was only a fraction darker than the night stone and rectangular in shape.
“Ebonsssoul.” The minion repeated and with a jarring lurch, the vision was gone, replaced by its grotesque features. “Enough?” It bobbed excitedly with what Senscha could only describe as giddiness, if so ugly a being could display such. The surge of hunger and lust as it rejoined its kindred was a palpable force. Senscha had been prepared for this moment; He had schooled her repeatedly in the proper course of action should His minions be forced to seek their release from her hands. She ducked her head once in acknowledgement and spoke the ancient words of unbinding painstakingly learned in her youth. When the last syllable left her lips, she did not pause for breath and, before they could descend upon her with teeth and claws, she began the litany of banishment learned in concert. Her voice rose above their howls of outrage and frustration, which soon faded as they were spun into a vacuous vortex.
Soon, silence reigned and true sleep claimed its prize.
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Post by Senscha on Jun 18, 2006 22:14:19 GMT -5
Senscha’s weight rested on her haunches in the bare bracken that lined the dusty road. Though the cover was sparse, the spot in which she lay in wait had other advantages. A slight incline and simultaneous bend in the road afforded her shelter from sight by any upon it would be too late. In an effort to blend into the caliginous landscape, she’d sheathed her niveous skin in black, her coppery mane tamed, plaited and covered with a tightly wound scarf which veiled her face as well. It was now merely a matter of time. A fortnight’s vigil was rewarded at last when the unmistakable creak of cart wheels broke the night’s relative silence. With a flicker of movement, the sinuous length of a garrote appeared and wrapped about gloved fists. The cart rounded the bend and beneath the thick veil, Senscha smiled. The lone driver never heard her. She was upon him in moments, the thin wire dug deep into his throat, arresting the passage of air into his lungs. The driver flailed at his neck but only succeeded in gouging his own flesh. In seconds, his struggles ceased as consciousness fled, but Senscha held on, drawing tighter until she heard the small hyoid bone crunch. Only then did she release him, allowing him to slump back onto the bench. The draft horse was well trained; having halted at the driver’s tug on the reins, it now stood complacently. Senscha surmised it would remain so until directed to do otherwise. Working quickly, Senscha yanked the larger man from his seat, letting him tumble to the ground where she dragged his lifeless body to where she had hidden. ***** The guards stopped her at the gate as she anticipated. While one detached himself to search the cart, Senscha adopted an expression of aggravated boredom and tried not to scratch at her scalp that itched unbearably beneath the rough woolen cap that kept her hair from sight while simultaneously cursing the dead man for his fleas. “You’re not the usual driver we get from the forge,” the second sentry opined skeptically while he perused her papers. His nose was large and hooked and his head bobbed as he read, giving mind to a chicken pecking in the dirt. Senscha shrugged and dug a finger in her ear, “Anvis got drunk waiting for the shipment, Zalas didn’t trust ‘em to get here wit’ the cart in one piece.” Thankfully, both names had been on the lading. She made a display of studying what she’d extracted from her ear before wiping the finger on her shirt. “Everything checks out back here,” the first guard shouted as he jumped over the side of the cart. Beaky was still looking at the papers as if they could give him counsel. His silence stretched on and just when Senscha became concerned, he moved to open the gate. Before she could scoop up the reins though, he said to the other, “I’ll escort her to the armory.” Bloody hell. ***** Beaky proved to be too talkative a companion for Senscha, full of questions and suspicious looks. She had no choice but to slit his throat and if she couldn’t stifle a small squeal of glee when his hot blood splashed her, well, who could blame her, really? Senscha left the cart at a common trough, Ole Beaky rolled beneath the bench along with the clothing she had borrowed from its original driver. The more vigilant security focused on the outer walls made entering the fortress itself a simple matter once she found an open door. Navigating the dimly lit corridors was another matter, the vision given to her had been too brief, the metaphysical sojourn through them too fleeting for her to have established any sense of direction or identify landmarks along the way. Senscha relied on what she knew of such constructions, surmising that the throne room would be near the center. Luck or some other force sided with her in that she saw no one and only twice heard voices in some distant branching. In fact, the fortress seemed almost too quiet, a stillness that was unnatural and unnerving. After a few false starts and wrong turns that left her dead-ended, Senscha spied the obsidian archway she recalled from her vision. Sinking to her hands and knees, she crawled toward it and peered around the archway’s edge, expecting at the very least a token pair of sentries at either side. The room was utterly empty. Her uneasiness bloomed into wariness, her nape tingling in warning. She slipped into the room with a heightened sense of caution, hugging the slight curve of the walls. Senscha reached the throne without incident, but her head throbbed from the toll on her nerves. She padded to the wall behind it and closed her eyes, summoning the vision from her memory, trying to get her bearings in order to uncover the secreted door behind the throne. Blindly, her fingers traced over the stone, seeking the seam she had been shown. She suppressed a cry of triumph when she found it and followed it to the small finger hole. She expected a lock, simple or magical, some sort of impediment to whatever lay behind the door, but the door moved easily and soundlessly when she tugged on it. Later, she would ponder the ease of her passage and its causes, but now, caught in the moment, she crossed the threshold and into the unknown.
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Post by unholylord on Jun 26, 2006 22:05:37 GMT -5
Impenetrable shadow, blackened calm, pervaded the private chambers of the Dark Lord. Brackish air hung heavily, filling the chamber with a foreboding calm that might threaten any who trespassed this night.. save one. There were those in this world who traveled to gather armies, to bring those armies to bear upon others, consolidate power, and fight to the last man to maintain that power.
Shane Ebonsoul was not one of these individuals. For armies will flock to those with the will to wield the power that is theirs by right. It had been a gathering of wills under one banner that had preceded the newest arrival to the lands of Barak Nor, the one the Emperor had awaited for years. It would be upon this very night that his destined pupil would make her appearance, as he had foreseen.
Through the blackened penumbra, placid pools of arctic blue refracted across the distance to the entry way, a thin line of cascading light shone through the cracked door, ever brightening as it gave way to the intruder. He would watch in silence for several moments as she closed the door, the clicking of the lock's mechanism resounding to pierce the silence which hung between them. Slowly, he would rise to his feet, his diminutive stature did little to supplant the august presence which exuded from his form, his words the epitome of fluid serenity as he spoke in a sibilant whisper, [glow=red,2,300]"Welcome...".[/glow]
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Post by Senscha on Jul 8, 2006 14:50:03 GMT -5
The word hung and stretched in the thick air as had the earlier silence. Confronted with the reality of the presence who had resided only, she had thought, in her dreams, Senscha hesitated, wrought with indecision. Never before had she connected the man of shadows with Ebonsoul, the one responsible for His murder, though now in hindsight the association was blatant and she silently berated herself for her ignorance. And now she was conflicted, caught between the irrational impulse to display reverence and the embedded need to exact the vengeance with which she'd been charged. Mikhail, the only true child of His blood, had dispatched Senscha to avenge Him and secure the blood-price for His murder. Senscha leapt at the chance, driven more by an abhorrence for her foster-brother, who was a foppish, softhearted fool and lacked the backbone to rule in his father's stead, than any sense of injustice or desire for retribution. The hatred was mutual and his inevitable arrival heralded peril for Senscha for, despite his impotency, Mikhail developed quite an aptitude for malice when it came to his foster-sister. He would not get his own manicured hands dirty with it, of course, but he had handfuls of sycophants that would fall over each other to do so for him. Senscha had no intention of giving him the chance. There was no doubt in Senscha's mind that Mikhail assigned her this task with the expectation she would not survive it. Perhaps such had been her underlying intention when she accepted it. But now, all notions of motivations were eradicated under the weight of that stare. For the visitation on the night of His death was not her first encounter with the shadow-cloaked entity, the one she now knew as Ebonsoul - hardly that. The boreal gaze upon its canvas of shifting ebony, which now regarded her entry, had attended upon Senscha's dreams for as long as she could recall and it ... he, apparently... had been a constant in the unpredictable universe in which she resided and He reigned. But for that final vision, Ebonsoul had never spoken in her dreamscape, never acknowledged Senscha at all, yet always she had believed that there was some higher purpose, some meaning to the ominous presence. She could not neglect the opportunity to confirm the belief. The frigid stare was countered with the tranquil contemplation of her own sage-hued gaze. And the question she asked was complex in its very simplicity, "Why?"
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Post by unholylord on Jul 12, 2006 15:07:24 GMT -5
The shadowed eternity would be allowed to perpetuate in the stillness of the night air. His liquid pools of frigid blue resting as heavy weights upon her form until, finally, he would slowly shift his attention to the cracked entry way which at present, had allowed a waning light to intrude upon his solitude. The shadows nearest the door seemed to come alive, writhing in a slow dance as they coalesced into a solid wall, too thick for any light to penetrate, and covered the egress. When he was satisfied that the intruding light had been sufficiently vanquished, his gaze would return to rest upon Her. The underlying turmoil was evident in her expression as she had posed her question, the answer to which, was much more complex than she could have possibly imagined, and given their current situation, so convoluted that it might have been impossible for either of them to fully grasp in mutual revelation. In the dusk, the Emperor had ordered that the upper levels of the fortress be evacuated without explaination of why he had done so. The truth was, that he wanted no distractions upon her arrival. No nearby thoughts to dillute the presence of her emotional turmoil. He would revel in that turmoil for it had been long since he had felt anything that even approached the level of contradiction in one being as it had in her. In his visions, he had sensed it as an underlying feeling, clouded below the surface like that of a dark lake, as if one knew it was there, but could not see it for the murky water. It was, he knew, the only true way that he would know for certain if it were indeed she who had come to him. Their connection had become something of a pandemic irony. Wrought with that same contradiction that seemed so engrained within her. So much so that the visions he had had of their first encounter after the death of her master had been contradictory. He had attributed the encounters as an allegory of a much larger landscape, and, it was this that had most intrigued him and gave him reason to watch her. Because of this, he made a point to be here at the appropriate time, when she came to exact her revenge. He knew that it would not be his blood spilled to exact vengeance. For the few times in his visions that she had succeeded in killing him, she had done so in ways that would never have any meaningful effect upon him in his current form. By the same token, had he been mortal, her vengeance could be easily sated. This was, perhaps, the most telling sign that his visions had indeed been something other than straight depicted reality, but rather, an abstract. It was then that he slowly began to move forward once more, indelibly silent footfalls would carry him nearer as he had, for the first time, truly considered her words, speaking in a soft tone that knew no bounds of subtlety, [glow=red,2,300]"To so fully emerse oneself in such exquisite evil, always comes with a price. A price in blood", [/glow]he said. A pause would come just then as he regarded her with that stare of cold visceral fire. [glow=red,2,300]"We have always been here..."[/glow]
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Post by Senscha on Jul 14, 2006 0:54:07 GMT -5
If his appetites were inclined toward turmoil and inner conflict, then Senscha would be an abundant feast. The woman had been raised to be submissive to Him in all things, yet He simultaneously fostered in her a passion for dominance over others, nurtured in her a fervor to clasp one's fate in her hand, to toy with it as she pleased. He tempered her lusts with His own, maintaining for her a precarious internal balance of the twain contradictory natures of her essence. And at the very moment the Emperor parted his lips to speak, Senscha experienced an epiphany, a moment of crystalline clarity in which she realized not only was she no longer bound to Him, but also that there was no longer a controlling presence capable of sustaining her fragile equilibrium.
This new augmentation of her prevailing emotional discord nearly shattered her inveterate diffidence. But, if her existence in His dominion had cultivated in her any one skill, it was the ability to disjoin herself from such sentiments, banishing them to a distant corner of consciousness when weightier matters were at hand. So his words were absorbed and measured by a stable mind. One aspect of her multifaceted query had been answered, much in the ambiguous manner it had been asked, and like a ripple upon still waters, yielded a multitude in its wake. In the same vein, beneath the surface, his answer itself seemed to ask something of her. His final utterance might also have been construed as obscure were it not for the existing if undefined relationship they shared. Where they stood, here in the depths of the Dark Lord’s private sanctum, shrouded in shadows and surrounded in darkness but for those twin points of blue fire, bore an indisputable resemblance to Senscha’s dreamscape. It was not inconceivable then, that they lingered there still; had always been there.
But Senscha believed there was something more profound at work here than simple fantasy. Something beyond her comprehension and perhaps his, had brought them to this moment, a moment that had always been here, awaiting their presence. The insistent but tenebrous draw she had felt each time he'd presided over her dreams was glaringly absent here, the propelling force appeased by the assignation. There was, in its place a sensation of inexplicable consummation.
Acceptance came swiftly, for destiny is undeniable. Rejected and abandoned were her earlier ruminations of retribution, for her connection to Him... to him... was now little more than a filament when judged against the potent bindings of fate that held Senscha to Shane.
Her head dipped once in assent, and a response that had forever echoed only upon the canvas of her mind fled her lips, "And we have come to be."
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