Announcements: Initiative: Promoting Forum Roleplay » Universe of the Month! » Finding Universes to Join (and making yours more visible!) » Guide To Universes On RPG » Starter Locations & Prompts for Newcomers » RPG Chat — the official app » USERNAME CHANGES » Suggestions & Requests: THE MASTER THREAD »

Latest Discussions: Train Poetry I » Joker » D&D Alignment Chart: How To Get A Theorem Named After You » Dungeon23 : Creative Challenge » Returning User - Is it dead? » Twelve Days of Christmas » Empty Skies » Does Mind Affect the World? » I have an announcement. » Iskjerne Ballad by dealing_with_it » Viking Music / Norse Songs - Germanic Paganism » Capitalism » Panspermia: a Case for Cordyceps » The Ethics on owning a Housepet » I just really had to share this plot idea. » Materialism » Satire & Comedy » Platonic numbers » No complaints (a little bit of rappin) » Any multi-player roleplay videogamers here? »

Players Wanted: OSR Armchair Warrior looking for Kin » Friday the 13th Fun, Anyone? » Writers Wanted! » Long term partner to play an older male wanted » DEAD! » Looking for new RP Buddy(s)! » Sands of Oblivion » Looking for Role Players to join an active universe » Looking for Empire of Cendalia Players » Seeking Roleplayers for The Isekai Wonderland Project » Hadean The Brave - Fresh Blood » Just a trophy of status - long term, story focus! » Kingdom come looking for roleplayers » The Last Dragon! » Roleplay Return for 1 x 1 » Players wanted for a science fiction adventure. » Players needed for Fantasy Romance reboot » One(1) male & Two(2) Female Roles OPEN <3 » Talmora: Kingdom of magic » Looking For A New Partner »

Ignis

Raraku.

0 INK

a part of Ignis, by The Stinky Hat.

Entered Raraku.

The Stinky Hat holds sovereignty over Raraku., giving them the ability to make limited changes.

560 readers have been here.

Setting

A large desert area to the East.
Create a Character Here »

Raraku.

Entered Raraku.

Minimap

Raraku. is a part of Ignis.

2 Characters Here


Setting

1 Characters Present

Character Portrait: Weyellin
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

The elite climbed back onto their mounts, still laughing to themselves when Weyellin's deep voice came forth with a hint of amusement.
"Well, men, what are we waiting for? Let us humour her."
Reaching into his pack at the side of his horse, Weyellin pulled out a device made from the Moving Metals of Everlast. It acted as a sort of compass, and as he held it horizontally and studied it, a tiny smile curled upon his lips. That smile disappeared as he realised that this was the time to strike.
"Elite. Blackmont rides toward the Kingdom. What say we take her in?"
The elite laughed and raised their swords. The first elite opened his mouth and yelled like an animal. The rest of the men copied him. Turning his horse to where Blackmont had gone, he spurred his horse onward, hearing the roar of his small army galloping after him in harmony with the wails of the sands.
While his horse was in full stride, he took his helm from his hip and replaced it upon his head, concealing the smile that adorned his face. In the pack at his side, he pulled out the General's Syaan, and replaced the poisoned bolts with regular blacksteel ones. He didn't want to kill her, no, he planned to maim her, take her to Everlast, and make her pay.
"The first to bring me her steed's head gets on ceremony!" Weyellin shouted through his teeth.
The galloping at his back intensified as the elite roared and sped up.
It had been a long time since he had fun.

Setting

3 Characters Present

Character Portrait: Iaira Blackmont Character Portrait: Ulysses the Seared Character Portrait: Neiu Lynn
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

Ulysses saw the metal unit closing in on Iaira, and sped his horse further. If this was the platoon from Everlast, Iaira was in serious trouble. If they had killed him for the murder of a few troublemakers, what would they want to do to her? He shouldn't have been, but Ulysses was worried for the assassin. Sure, she could handle herself, but these were not men, they were machines bred for murder, for war, and with 21 of them, Iaira didn't stand a chance. Ulysses' steed was now in full stride, and through the haze he could see Iaira ahead of her hunters. The leader of the pack was a mountain of a man upon a huge horse. This left no doubt in his mind. Weyellin was after Blackmont.
"Iaira!" He screamed at the top of his lungs, waving his arm frantically. "Iaira, behind you!"
Ulysses' arm swung around and his hand curled into a pointing finger directed at Weyellin.

Setting

2 Characters Present

Character Portrait: Iaira Blackmont Character Portrait: Weyellin
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

Driven by ambition and blind hatred for the Blackmont girl, an elite by the name of Lestium drove his steed next to Iaira's, and before she could react, a black halberd swung around and caught her chest with it's pole, knocking her from her mount with great force. Lestium threw his halberd from him as he jumped from his steed to Blackmont's, drawing his longsword. As he landed, he drove the sword deep into the horse's neck, twisting it slightly. The horse fell from under him and, whilst it collapsed on the floor, Lestium pulled his weight to one side and brought the sword with him, dismembering the gelding's head. With that movement, the rest of the pack cheered and dismounted, drawing their swords and edging closer to Blackmont. Weyellin remained upon his horse and circled the chaos, enjoying what had turned into a very one-sided hunt.

Setting

4 Characters Present

Character Portrait: Iaira Blackmont Character Portrait: Ulysses the Seared Character Portrait: Weyellin Character Portrait: Neiu Lynn
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

Ulysses' voice startled Iaira and she briefly glanced behind her. She had been to consumed into saving them, all of their hides, and had not even considered that possibility-the one of them turning against her. There was a man then, who hit her with the end of a halberd, knocking her off her horse and drawing the air out of her lungs, pointing at her diaphragm. She did not tumble, instead, she found her balance quickly, scrambling to her feet quickly. In time to watch her horse's head being separated from its body, blood spraying from the wound and splattering a few drops on her face. There was a metallic taste on her tongue, burning.
Betrayal was the greatest of all crimes in Iaira's mind, for it took all that was human within a person and made it a thing of pain. She recognised that taste. It was the one in her mouth. Seemingly, around her, they kept coming, crowding, now safe from the Whirlwind's wrath.
Not from mine, alas.
She was vastly outnumbered, she knew. But then again, that was the way all Blackmonts found their end, didn't they?
She unsheathed her long-knives in a blur. As the man who had struck her approached, she performed the basic moves of the Shadow Dance. Quick, measured steps. She darted in, low to the ground. Impossibly low. Her back leg thrust out of balance, not even touching the ground. Her knife arm licked out in front of her, her knee bent so deeply that her entire body would have been below the level of a man's head sitting cross-legged on the ground. Iaira unfurled all this csunuous motion as quickly you can snap your fingers. The tip of her knife came in low under Lestium's guard and angled up towards his knee. Heavy armoured as he was, there were places he was exposed and the joint of his knee, at the side, was one of them. She sliced, then tumbled backwards to rise again. The man turned, still, somehow making use of his legs. Her forearm hammered into the man's covered face, stunning him and she shoved into him, causing him to stagger onto his already unstable leg. Iaira, now on his left, pushed the thin blade into his flesh between his shoulder and chest. She made sure it was deep. And that it would not be a quick death.
Iaira made her way quickly along the road, tracked by half a dozen crossbow quarrels that struck the ground with snaps and sounds of splintering.
She swore under her breath as blades flickered in the air above her. She threw herself to the right and down, regaining her feet in time to meet the four men. A flurry of parries as Iaira worked her way further right, pulling herself beyond the range of two of the attackers. Long-knife lashed out, opening one man's face and as he reeled back, Iaira stepped close, impaling the man's left thigh on the exposed side, merely a slit, whilst blocking a frenzied attack from the other Elite. Pivoting on the first man's pinned thigh, she twisted behind the man and thrust with her free weapon over her victim's right shoulder, the point tearing into the attacker's neck.
Tugging free the blade impaling the thigh, Iaira brought that arm up to lock beneath the first man's chin, where she flexed hard and, with a single, savage wrenching motion, she snapped the man's neck.
God, I hate that armour.
The one stabbed in the throat had stumbled, his jugular severed and blood spraying through the fingers grasping futilely at the wound. The last two of the four Elites were coming up fast. Beyond them, Iaira saw, others were closing in on Ulysses and Neiu. Snarling her rage, Iaira launched herself past the two Elites, taking their attacks on her long-knives, slamming her foot into the nearer one's right leg, midway between knee and ankle, breaking bones- probably along with giving herself bruises. As the man shrieked his pain, the second attacker, seeking to move past him, collided with the falling man, then lost balance entirely as both feet slid out on spilled blood.

Setting

2 Characters Present

Character Portrait: Iaira Blackmont Character Portrait: Weyellin
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

Weyellin watched on as his men were slaughtered by the assassin, one by one. He was actually quite impressed. He had never seen an assassin move with such elegance. Deadly elegance. With raised eyebrows, he kept his arms folded upon his steed, watching his men being sent to the Dragon Gods in the most brutal of ways, all the while keeping a stone cold expression. Hardly any time had passed before the blood of 5 elite was spilled upon the floor.
Five elite? By the False Gods, I never would have thought it possible.
The general unfolded his arms once again and took out his Syaan, newly loaded with the blacksteel bolts. He waited until the remaining elite formed around her before bringing his horse closer, so that he would not miss. With a cold and decisive mind, free of pity, or any other emotion for that matter, Weyellin pulled the pin of the Syaan, releasing the three bolts in quick succession towards Blackmont's calf with incredible accuracy. He didn't even look to see if the bolts had hit or not, he knew they had from the step back that his elite took as they stood easy for the first time that day. Covered in the blood of his comrades, an elite spat an insult in his native tongue at the girl on the floor. Weyellin dismounted and pushed through his elite to Blackmont. He knelt down to the girl on her back and he delivered a devastating punch to her jaw with all of his force, feeling a section give way under his knuckle. Emotionless, still, he watched as her head fell to the side as her eyes closed. Out cold. He dragged her through the dirt and rock on the ground by her wounded leg and threw her atop the back of his great horse, quickly mounting it himself.
He knew the way from here.

Setting

3 Characters Present

Character Portrait: Iaira Blackmont Character Portrait: Ulysses the Seared Character Portrait: Weyellin
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

Trailing back through the harsh winds and hard rock, Weyellin and his men found themselves in familiar territory, the hills of Everlast appearing before them like a kind memory. The Great Doors were concealed in a valley, but they all knew the way, even in the weather they faced. As they approached, they heard the loud thuds and clunks of ballistas and trebuchets being loaded within the smooth stone walls, and soon enough they appeared through holes in the rock.
"Who approaches?" A voice bellowed in a threatening tone, filling the harsh air with his raspy and worn out voice.
"Your Overseer." Weyellin replied calmly, nowhere near as loud, but still heard.
"Welcome back, sir."
The tips of the great defensive weapons returned to the darkness within the walls, still loaded.
"Home at last." An elite said, followed by a content sigh.
"Indeed."
As the unit moved slowly towards the Great Doors, they did not open. The defensive weapons reappeared and the guardsmen stood ready, their hands clutching the adjustments. Upon this surprise, Weyellin turned his head to face behind him, and saw the rider in the top hat progressing towards the walls of Everlast. An elite laughed wildly.
"An imbecile, sir, he still approaches our Great Kingdom!"
Upon this joke, the elite joined him in laughter, the only warrior not finding the situation amusing being Weyellin. He had been observing the rider. Long, drooping coat, top hat, all dark in colour. This was Ulysses. He clenched his teeth, although his anger did not last long. Over the laughter of his elite, he heard commands from above him, and a thick, devastating bolt from one of the ballistas was fired from the walls. Ulysses barely had time to react. The large wooden bolt was about the size of a trunk from a tree, tipped with a huge metal point. It found its way neatly into Ulysses' horse's flank, the force throwing Ulysses some many metres from where he sat, and almost tearing the horse in two.

He lay on the floor, winded, and badly hurt. He could barely breathe, and standing was out of the question. He closed his eyes and tried his best to concentrate on his breathing. It was no use. He opened his eyes and was greeted by the face of his hunter, the High General and Overseer of Everlast, Weyellin. He shook his head before bringing his armoured heel sharply down onto Ulysses' temple. With the same technique as he had used for Iaira, he dragged Ulysses to his horse outside the Great Doors, now open for him and his unit. Dimly lit by torches, the Grand Terium to the kingdom was large and steeply sloped downwards. He had captured two, on one surface mission.
Magnanimous are the Dragon Gods. He thought, bringing himself, his elite and his two captives inside of the kingdom, the Great Doors sliding shut behind them.

Setting

1 Characters Present

Character Portrait: Ulysses the Seared
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

Ulysses awoke in a damp and unlit cell, cramped and sick. The pain in his head was incredible, and he could barely think with the ringing in his ears. He could just about hear a man screaming, the rattling of metal upon metal and faint sobbing. He was a prisoner in the Undercells, a collection of cells on the lowermost level of the Everlast Kingdom for those awaiting death at the hands of the Everlast Pets. Through his blurred vision, he could see the dark figure of a girl in the cell opposite. A warden walked past, the hilt of his sheathed sword forever in his grip, always ready.
"Where in the hells am I?" Ulysses asked, his hands gripping the rusted iron bars of his cell.
The warden laughed loudly. From the wheezing and coughing that followed the man's laugh, Ulysses could tell he was extremely unhealthy, the silhouette of the warden hunched, and inhuman.
"You're in the Undercells, my boy." He chuckled again. "You currently await death. You'd better enjoy what is left of living while it still lasts, eh?" He walked off, laughing to himself.
Ulysses slumped himself against the back wall of his cell. The figure in the cell opposite stirred, and moaned, obviously in pain.
"Hello?" He called out.

Setting

2 Characters Present

Character Portrait: Iaira Blackmont Character Portrait: Ulysses the Seared
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

First, there was a blur and nothing else. As if everything around her, every sensation had been smoothed out. And then, at her slightest movement, it happened. Pain shot through her like current, but only briefly, then it was gone as suddenly as it had come. It left a numbing feeling behind, like a thousand miniscule needes piercing through her skin, though not long enough to reach the bone underneath. Iaira slowly began checking her wounds, trying to bring back the memory of the battle. Fast-paced scenes-truth be told, she didn't know exactly what had happened. When the assassin tried to move, she found her wrists chained and stretched above her head, a wide metallic bar over her stomach, keeping her pinned to the damp, stone wall behind her back. When she tried to speak, a stinging pain shook her head and faintly, she remembered the shape of a tall man, fast and steady as he stood above her, before delivering a hard punch straight to her-
Jaw. Of course. He just had to go for my marvellous face. How am I supposed to woo-
A voice called out from the cell opposite. A voice she damn well recognised. An exasperated sigh.
'Ulysses?' She called out. Her voice sounded odd to her own ears, bereft from the sultry hue and the demanding undertone. Almost strained. The self-sacrificing idiot. What was he thinking? Hadn't that beast of a man already killed him once?

Setting

3 Characters Present

Character Portrait: Iaira Blackmont Character Portrait: Ulysses the Seared Character Portrait: Weyellin
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

It was her. Ulysses recognised Iaira's voice instantly and squinted into the darkness as an attempt to try and make out more of her figure. She was awake, he knew that much, but she was not moving, bar her head, which seemed to look around in very sharp movements, as if scanning everything around her.
"Iaria! It is you! I saw you being carried into this hellhole, thought I'd follow you. I haven't the best foresight, have I?" Ulysses let out a deep chuckle before putting his hands back on the cold, iron bars that imprisoned him and sinking his head with a sigh. He could feel Iaira's cold and judgmental stare without even looking at her.
"Don't look at me like that. I thought it was a good idea at the time."
Before Iaira could open her mouth to scold Ulysses, the warden came by again, holding a lantern in his free hand and stopping by their cells. The dim light shone upon Iaira's figure. She was pinned to the wall with an extremely strange contraption holding her arms above her head, and a metal bar that crossed her abdomen, pinning her still. Ulysses should have felt pity for her, but instead he couldn't help but allow a meek smile to shine upon his face before concealing it with his hand.
"You, my dear, are coming with me. The Overseer has asked to see you personally. He has... plans for you." The warden chuckled and unlocked Iaira's cell door with a single key he held in his inside pocket.
"It's a good thing we still have your key, girl, all the others just seem to vanish into thin air." He laughed again and struck Iaira with the back of his hand, right on her jaw where it had been fractured with Weyellin's monstrous punch.
"Struggle at all, and you will find yourself in deep trouble. Deep, deep..." The warden did not finish his sentence, instead he loosed a latch at Iaira's side, releasing the bar at her stomach, sliding it to the side. The chains pinning her hands to the stone above her head were released, but the shackles binding her hands together were not, keeping her restrained. He left the lantern on the floor of Blackmont's cell, letting his hand reach out and violently tug at her wrists as he walked out of the cell into the narrow corridor. It stank of moss, sweat, blood and death. Ulysses called out her name, but knew that Iaira could not turn to face him. Ulysses had a doubt in his mind, a doubt that Iaira would come back from this meeting with the General. This doubt shook him and made his skin cold.

The march to the interrogation chamber seemed to take forever, but eventually the labyrinth of mossy cobble and sharp turns abruptly ended with a large and heavy-looking wooden door. The warden let go of Iaira's bindings and beat heavily on the door.
"Prisoner here for you, sire."
The Grandmaster put all of his weight on the handle and pulled with both hands, grunting and straining to shift the door. The warden heard a deep sigh behind the door as Weyellin pushed the Grandmaster aside and opened the door with his free hand.
"Very good, Warden. You are dismissed. Return to your duties."
"Sire." The warden replied with a bow, and shuffled back the way he came, disappearing round a murky corner. Weyellin stared at Blackmont with an icy glare, his broken arm now healing at his side.
"In." He ordered.

Setting

2 Characters Present

Character Portrait: Iaira Blackmont Character Portrait: Weyellin
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

Iaira grinned, though it cost her. Fucking bastards, don't know how to handle prisoners civilised. Don't appreciate the element of surprise. 'Give me a reason not to bolt right now and be skewered by half a dozen quarrels on my way out. Better than what you have in store for me I-' she had to pause, the pain in her jaw aching too much. She shut her mouth, moved her mouth to the side a couple times then looked up again. 'I'm sure,' she finished. Still, standing hurt more than her pride did at the moment-just what had the bastard impaled her leg with? So, the assassin slipped inside the room, as gracefully as her wounds allowed her to do so and seated herself in a comfortable-looking chair, that was quite clearly not intended for her. She went as far as to cross her legs and place her hands neatly on her lap as if they weren't restrained with sturdy chain and bloodied.
'So, Commander, to what do I owe the dubious honour of your company?'

Setting

2 Characters Present

Character Portrait: Iaira Blackmont Character Portrait: Weyellin
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

"I require information, Blackmont." Weyellin approached Iaira and took her hands from her lap and yanked her from his chair and threw her into the chained wooden chair in the centre of the room.
"You will give it to us." Weyellin clicked his fingers loudly, and as he did so, a small framed man with crazed blue eyes and deeply blood stained robes entered the room, his quivering fingers wiggling with anticipation. Weyellin crossed his arms as best he could and rested himself the wall opposite the chair Iaira sat in.
"Blackmont, this is our most successful Pacifier. I believe your word for his role is a 'torturer', but I also believe that that word is too soft, don't you think?"
The torturer burst out with a crazed giggle, still shaking. The man was mad.
"Oh, can we start, sir, oh, please can we start?" The Pacifier said in between shuddering breaths.
"Soon, my friend, very soon. First, we must ask the poor girl some basic questions. Please, if you will."
The small man grunted in acknowledgement and moved his way behind Iaira's position. His hands stretched over her, slippery with sweating fingers he took the shackles binding Iaira's wrists and pulled them sharply to the back of her neck, hooking them onto a latch at the head of the chair and locking it shut.
"Now, if you value the blood within your veins, you'll comply, understood?" The Grandmaster's voice pierced through the darkness.
Weyellin stepped forth from the wall and knelt down to Iaira, so that his head was level with hers, his breath brushing past her ear.
"What were you doing in the Raraku? Were you one of the riders with the masked man?"

Setting

0 Characters Present

No characters tagged in this post!

Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

Neiu watched silently as the soldiers began to swarm around the assassin like wasps discovering an enticingly sweet flower. She had not expected them to turn on her, that was evident in how her dark eyes flared, shock pulsing once through her body. Yet she was no novice. Her training did her justice, and as she cut through them one by one, they began to realise she was more a Venus flyrrap than a rose. Her knives sheared one limb from another, trimmed vital veins with deadly accuracy.
However, under the watchful eye of their commander, a gargantuan silhouette from Neiu's viewpoint, the rest of the ranks were closing in - and not even her lithe skills could hold all their brute force back.
Neiu reined in her steed, reluctant to throw herself into the fray without thought. Her job was to observe only, and she felt no great desire to die for the Shadow Dancer. She recognised the armour of the infantry from the never ending lessons Sherah gave her on heraldry. Soldiers of Everlast, the Elite. Their ruler was a man named Weyellin, no friend of magicians. Their encounter was truly not one blessed by Sha'ik's winds.
They had not yet noticed her and Ulysses. She looked to her left, hoping to get his opinion on their next move. He was not there. Cursing herself for not seeing this coming, she looked for his form amongst the ranks. It wasn't hard to make out his top hat from the sea of helms. He was too far away for her to stop him without getting them both captured.
A cry rang out, and Neiu's eyes snapped back to Iaira. She had been knocked to the ground and although she could not see her wounds, Neiu knew from the way she was holding herself that the dance was over. She had lost.
Neiu allowed time to pass, watching the infantry rearrange themselves and move on, the absence of the men Iaira had slain making no dent in their mass. Their bodies were left where they fell, their blood feeding the ever-thirsty sands of Raraku. The Elite would come back for the armour someday. But not until the useless flesh within had withered and decayed.
When they were far beyond the reach of her eyesight, she prodded her gelding onwards. They would lead her to their compound and there, she would decide what to do.

Setting

2 Characters Present

Character Portrait: Iaira Blackmont Character Portrait: Weyellin
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

'Iaira had opened her mouth to make a sharky remark at Weyellin's lack of manners and his undoubtful failure with the ladies, but the pain in the back of her head as well as the entrance of the small, drooling man shocked her well enough. Now, she was not known for her measured silences but Iaira did know how to hold her tongue, especially when her life depended on it. So she listened to the Overseer. For a time. Her mouth twisted with obvious annoyance when the sweaty fingers of the small man touched her skin and yanked her wrists above her head once more, her disgust obvious.
"Oh, Commander, you really don't know me, do you?" she chuckled dryly. Instead of answering his question she made a point of turning her head as far as the short chain allowed her, and looking him dead in the eyes for a very long moment - an excruciatingly long moment before she rolled a balls of saliva in her mouth and spat it onto Weyellin's face.
"I saved you. You and your men. Without me, you'd be dead, another heap of bones to be buried beneath the sand of Raraku, and you call this-" she tugged on her chain harshly, "honour?

Setting

2 Characters Present

Character Portrait: Iaira Blackmont Character Portrait: Weyellin
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

Weyellin let a small smile appear upon his face for a second, and then it had gone. The Pacifier threw Weyellin a cloth, which he caught without breaking eye-contact with Iaira, which he quickly used to wipe the spit from his face.
"You know, Blackmont, there is a time for honour and there is a time for getting things done quickly and effectively." He moved back and pulled up the comfortable chair Iaira had placed herself in when first entering the room beside her.
"You killed five of my elite, did you not? Sand cannot harm a warrior of Everlast. We hold the strength of the Dragons. You saved no-one."
Weyellin placed Iaira's wounded leg upon his lap and held it there, tightly, his fingers trailing the badly sealed wounds with no care.
"My, these wounds don't look good." He chuckled. "What say we clean them a little, Pacifier?"
The quivering man jumped in excitement and brought a straight iron plank with him to the wall at the back of the room. Pulling a lever as hard as he could, a small opening appeared in the stone, and within it, a furnace. The plank fit with little room to spare, and before long, it was white hot at the tip, ready to cauterize.
"He's done this many times before, Blackmont. He knows what to do to make you beg for our mercy without bringing you close to death."
The man giggled again and brought himself to the General and pointed at the iron bar. The Overseer could feel the heat radiating off of it. It seemed welcoming, but its purpose was far more malicious.
"Oh, come now, don't be shy, Pacifier."
With a teethy grin wide on his sooty face, the Pacifier's eyes widened as he slowly brought the iron bar towards Iaira's leg, eventually sinking it into one of the gashes in her leg, blackening all flesh.

Setting

2 Characters Present

Character Portrait: Iaira Blackmont Character Portrait: Weyellin
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

Iaira was not a woman to be scared easily and she had had her fair share of torture, enough of it for the threat of it not sounding quite so ominous to her ears anymore. Her tolerance for pain had been heightened over the course of time- not ,however, perfected. To say that her eyes did not follow the iron bar, did not focus on the white of its colour, would be a lie. To say that she did not have to steel herself, that she didn't feel a tightness in her chest at the expectance of pain, would be another one. When the disgusting little man, -/Hood take me, look with what malicious pleasure, no not malicious, mad, completely, blindingly mad, he presses the metal into my skin/- began his work, her fingers coiled tightly around the chain, tugging at it with full pressure. All at once, she felt the nerves in her body screaming at the sudden, rough pain, pain reaching through her, sharp and persistent. The assassin's teeth dug deep into the her lips, biting down so hard as to make them bleed, dripping down to her jaw, and from there, her chest.
And yet, she held on. Locked eyes with Weyellin as soon as she had managed to control her reactions. And spoke naught.

Setting

2 Characters Present

Character Portrait: Iaira Blackmont Character Portrait: Weyellin
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

"What were you doing in Raraku, Blackmont?" Weyellin repeated, gently bringing the Pacifier back with a hand upon his shoulder. Silence. Her stern eyes seemed to pierce his, a flame of pure hatred burning bright in her pupil, and yet she seemed calm. Weyellin had seen victim upon victim who denied him his rightful authority in the name of bravery and honour, but for some reason this girl was different. Blackmont seemed not phased in the slightest. This was not bravery, it was pure stubborness, and that Weyellin could respect. Nonetheless, he continued to probe Iaira for information.
"That wall of sand. It was your doing, wasn't it?"

Setting

2 Characters Present

Character Portrait: Iaira Blackmont Character Portrait: Weyellin
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

"That wall of sand. It was your doing, wasn't it?"
Again, there was no answer, only the sound of strained breathing and a slight whimper from the Pacifier.
"Go on, then, Blackmont, resist for as long as you can. Just know that we /will/ break you." He turned his head to the side, but his eyes remained fixed on Iaira. "Pacifier?"
"Y-yes, my lord?"
"Show the girl what it means to defy Everlast Justice. Kha'ir maalwes Rica."
With a crazed giggle, the crooked man suddenly drew an grey dagger from the small sheath at his side. Its blade was crusted with blood and the undulating edge was speckled with rust, designed originally to rip and pare the flesh beyond healing. The Pacifier shuffled edgeways to Iaira's back, and though her wrists were firmly locked in place behind her head, he gripped them tightly as he drove the knife slowly into her left wrist at an angle. It required more strength than usual - It was obvious the blade had not been cared for, but its edge was very almost blunt. Nonetheless, it effortlessly ripped and tore through muscle, vein and ligament as if it were built for this very purpose. Perhaps it was. Having done such things countless times before, the Pacifier had become an expert at finding the nerve within a certain limb. As soon as the tip of the blade had found hers, he couldn't help but sever it. At the jolt of pain, he violently twisted the knife to the side and pulled, gouging a chunk from inside of her wrist onto the floor. The flow of blood seemed endless, but he had not finished. This much blood would kill her, and he couldn't have that. The iron bar that had been previously used to cauterize the wound on Iaira's leg was replaced in the furnace to heat while the Pacifier entertained himself. Her right wrist was now in his tight grip, exposed to the warmth of her own blood on his serrated blade. He very quickly made several horizontal slashes down her forearm, letting the flow of blood quench the floor below her. These wounds were not to close. He knew with these wounds alone, she had the best part of 5 hours. The Pacifier yanked the boiling iron bar from the hole in the wall and slammed it against the wound on Iaira's left arm, fracturing the Radius within. The wound was now closed, but the pain would not subside for weeks. Weyellin chuckled as a father would to his child.
"Tell us. What were you doing in Raraku?"

Setting

2 Characters Present

Character Portrait: Iaira Blackmont Character Portrait: Weyellin
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

She kept her mouth stubbornly shut, the metal tinge of blood colouring her tongue. A familiar taste. That familiarity, along with Weyellin's questioning made her laugh heartily. It sounded wrong- all edges and rougness. 'Oh, bite me, Commander.' She murmured, licking her lips to wipe the blood off. 'I'm sure you've thought about it. Come on. I'm all at your mercy-only thing men want, isn't it? Too hard to get a woman otherwise, I bet.' She kept talking, slowly enough to block the thoughts out, refusing to follow the Pacifier's limping figure and most of all, refusing to look at his hands. Iaira made a point of nudging Weyellin's crotch with her foot-the one that hadn't been scorched black, that is. She had a feeling moving that one would...not cost cheaply. 'Oh!' She feigned surprise, 'My but you're a big one. Well, go o-' She twisted her mouth in a sign of annoyance when the old man tugged on her wrist. But she hadn't been ready for what followed. /My hands. The bastard-I'm an assassin. I need my hands!/ Those were the last conscious thoughts, before searing pain filled her mind, taking over everything else, brushing aside reason and pride. She only saw blotches of white now, her mouth opening wide enough to release a scream. Her voice sounded inhuman to her own ears and she felt her body jolt in resistance, jolt in that animalistic need to flee, to evade the pain...all this pain. Somewhere within her was the knowledge of anatomy and the experience of her own murders that shared a lovely truth with her- she would not survive long. This blood loss would kill her soon. More pain, this time stinging and quick at the peak, subsidising but lingering afterwards. She was aware of her own voice, as if she were a spectator from afar, unable to control her cries and she heard Weyellin's faintly. Asking her another question, commanding /her/. And a piece of resolve was returned to her. Iaira forced herself to breathe, slowly, rhythmically. When her eyes opened once again, they were filled with unwanted tears, blurring her vision, but what she wanted to see was clear enough to her. As she spoke now, she could barely get the words to leave her lips, her voice cracking and barely audible, 'Heh...'A long pause. Her breathing, despite her efforts, was still not steady. 'Is that...' Coughing. The shaking that followed sent more needles of pain across her entire body. '...all?'

Setting

2 Characters Present

Character Portrait: Iaira Blackmont Character Portrait: Weyellin
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

Weyellin smiled as he looked down at Iaira, on the brink of collapse, her consciousness fading by the second. Darkness was closing in. If only he had more time to admire.
"That falls down to you, my girl." He whispered, his breath falling softly upon Blackmont's ear. "And I expect you're not one to give in, are you?"
"Pacifier. Skip to the final phase."
With these words, the Pacifier hurriedly slid through the gap left in the side door he entered through. Soon, he returned with two black masks and a small phial filled with a viscous crimson liquid. He handed a mask and the phial to Weyellin, who toyed with it in his hand.
"How fragile, the mind. Will plays no part in the matter, and neither does strength. So terribly exploitable..." Weyellin slid the mask over his head and made sure the filtration padding covered all of his air passages. This mask would obfuscate the gas for him, nullifying it of negative aspects.
"Pacifier, don your mas-" As Weyellin turned, he saw the mask already obscuring the Pacifier's face and wide grin, but not his overwhelming excitement.
"Nevermind, then." He said with a sigh. With his free hand, he traced his fingers along Blackmont's chin, and lifted her head to look at him. He smashed the phial against the chair that was visable between Blackmont's legs, releasing the gases that would allow mind-altering toxin to rage through her bloodstream.
"Rougabin A-alkaderi. It'll m-make you lose your mind!" The Pacifier giggled.
"Go ahead. Hold your breath." Weyellin said, his hand running down the inside of Iaira's leg to find her burnt wound, digging his finer into it.

Setting

2 Characters Present

Character Portrait: Iaira Blackmont Character Portrait: Weyellin
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

Iaira had been trained as a tool for murder, possessed by a vengeful god with an apetite for blood, she had been beaten and raped. The assassination Codex did permit the use of poisons, excluding only a few that had been deemed so inhumanly slow and painful that not even the organisation could use without being spit upon by its own members. Even so, the Claw's- as well as the Talon's- methods were nowhere near...amicable. Through her own memories as through Kalantir's. she faintly recognised the name of the contents of the miniscule vial in Weyellin's hands. And this time, when he probed at her wound with his hardened, rough fingers, she had hardly any resolve left. Iaira attempted to follow his advice and hold her breath, but as she sucked in air, she could feel every gash, every wound breathing on her own body and the sensation made her scream.
The grey-coloured fumes entered through her nostrils and her mouth. Her hand began to ring, suddenly even heavier on her shoulders and she felt it drop to her chest. As soon as that happened, however, she found her airway blocked, her breathing hindered, as if black tendrils had wrapped tightly around her throat. She fought with her chains, trying to free her hands and claw at them and the scraping of the metal against her mantled wrist produced another hoarse scream from her. The tendrils seemed to be choking her, unmindful of her struggles, the assassin kicked in front of her, twisting her core as far as her restraints would allow, sending renewed waves of pain through her body. Her eyes ahd opened widely, and before them, Weyellin's grin seemed to become even more malicious with joy, his skin blackened and cracks began branching out across his flesh, just before it turned rotten and fell off in uneven pieces. Underneath there was no muscle and bone, but worms. White worms- the colour of pestilence and pale death, a sickly hue that would have made her retch, had she not beenin such a poisiton. They moved and twitched one against another, sliding and slipping before they fell on the floor between Weyellin's gauntleted feet. Through the skin breaking open on his arms, some found their wayy crawling to her flesh and inside the deep punctures on her leg.

Setting

2 Characters Present

Character Portrait: Iaira Blackmont Character Portrait: Weyellin
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

Weyellin watched as Iaira squirmed and faught against the deepest reaches of her mind, pulling with all her might at her restraints. The flow of blood on her wrist was becoming heavier, but she didn't seem to mind. Blackmont's eyes widened, locked onto Weyellin, who stared with genuine interest, and nothing else. /She is a strong girl to have lasted this long/. Iaira's will was being shaken by the constant barrage of terror that the gases had instilled into her. It was a concuction thought up by a previous Betrayed that had devoted his life to his alchemic studies. The liquid was not fatal, nor were the gases. No, this mixture had a much more sinister intention for its victim, as Iaira so well knew. The chemicals released by the vial blocked off vital signals in the brain, distorting everything that was seen, felt, or heard, twisting the human senses to breaking point. Weyellin turned his head to the side in thought. He thought of the girl's unbreakable strength of mind, and body, for that matter. Throughout all of their encounters Iaira had never failed to impress Weyellin, and he had actually started to like the girl. He was going to try and make this quick. Reaching out with his hand, he held her face tightly against her struggle and made her eyes lock into his glare, so deep and calculating it was if he was staring at a lab experiment.

Setting

2 Characters Present

Character Portrait: Iaira Blackmont Character Portrait: Weyellin
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

The wet trails left behind the worms on her flesh sent shudders throughout her body, causing her to shake violently. She jolted violently when she felt Weyellin's hand gripping her jaw and turning her face to his. The black of his eyes seemed to be returning, flesh forming once more, and they were nothing but deathless pits. Now the cheekbones were sharper, the jaw more prominent and the eyes an emerald grin like her own, but far colder. A scar marked the right side of that face, running from the hairline to just above the thin lips. Lips so thin, stretched into a constant line, except for those rare moments when they smiled and the sterness was gone. But she had not seen her father smile in years. Not once.
Through stabs of pain and the urge to scream again, she stopped, her breathing hitched. She could not do much but lock eyes with the man she thought dead for so long. The years had not been kind to him and deep lines marred his skin. 'Iaira,' he said and that voice- that beloved and feared voice- sent her back, to the place of her innocence, when a scraped knee was more than what she could have handled,'what are you doing, my girl?'
Her lips trembled and she laughed maniacally, tearing the skin wider that it had already.Her voice suddenly sounded so childish to her own ears, 'Father...I'm sorry, I'm bleeding again...mother will be so angry. Please don't tell h-'
The hand on her face began to stroke her cheek softly, with such tender care, the assassin shut her eyes and sighed happily. It was as if she were breathing normally for the first time in years. 'Please don't leave again, father, I-'
'I am not going anywhere, Iaira. I'll stay right here.'
Her breathing slowly subsidised and steadied. She could smell his scent-sandalwood and ashes. That's what Dassem always carried with him. He had been a demanding but fair figure in her life, he had made her feel safe, so safe...
The hand on her face tightened. It hurt her. Iaira opened her eyes. Something was wrong. Dassem struck her-he was armoured, he always was. The gauntlets left marks on her skin.
'Fath-'
'You betrayed me.' The blow had turned her face to the side and now she slowly locked eyes with her father, feeling panic seeping into her once more.
'No, I never-'
Another blow. She had twin lines of blood running down her cheeks now. 'Where were you, Iaira? Where were you?'
'Look at me.'
She shook her head, her eyes on the floor.
'Look at me.'
A hand pulled her head upwards. She let out a cry of pain.
'They came at me, all at once. An ambush. My friends and allies. They were not quick. They tortured me, for you and your brother. Do you remember Adaephon, Iaira? Where is he now?'
'They killed your mother before my eyes, they raped her and burned her alive. She died protecting you.'
'Father, please...'
'You are no daughter of mine.'
She felt tears begin to trail down, mixed with the blood. Her shoulders shook in agony. 'I tried...I wanted to-'
'I died because of you. You abandoned me. Your family was wiped out because of you being a coward. Undeserving of our name.'
'Please...stop...I never meant...p-please, f-father...' She was sobbing now, her words barely coherent, her voice rising with each passing moment.
'I want you to know what you did. I want you to know you're dead to me. You'll never be able to make amends for what happened. You will die knowing that you stole the life of your own family. You will die worthless and alone and every trace of your so-called honour stripped away from you.'
Her sobs were mixed with pathetic, desperate pleas as the image of her own Father, alive and cruel, was distorted turning him into a bloodied corpse. Iaira screamed, begging him to come back, apologising, pleading for forgiveness.
But Dassem was silent as a grave.

Setting

2 Characters Present

Character Portrait: Iaira Blackmont Character Portrait: Weyellin
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

Her eyes continuously darted away from Weyellin's, instead her gaze fixed on the floor beneath her, were her own blood had formed a crimson puddle then slowly branched out, painting Weyellin's boots red. She tilted her head, with the intention to read through its patterns. Images were still playing before her eyes, of the things that had once happened and those that never did. Iaira heard it all. The clangour and the panicked sounds by the horses, the screams and the noise of crunching bones, breaking beneath hooves, boots or weapons.
'Sha'ik...' she whispered, though uttering the simplest of words pained her. 'T-the...Whirld...wind.'
"That's what you call it? The Whirlwind? My men have taken to calling it 'Tal'Verashak'. 'The Unthinkable'."
Weyellin thought back to the scene he saw of his Elite being mercilessly ripped to pieces by The Whirlwind. Of what could come such power? Such destruction?
"Who is Sha'ik? What is their significance?"
Iaira's skin had begun to succumb to the cold gradually. Her clothes in tatters- matching her flesh, but now the pain was ever more raw, even more brutal that the warmth was leaving her body. The assassin was aware of every small cut, every slash, every deep wound charred into her. That was not what made her talk. Before her, Weyellin's eyes would occasionally revert back to that magnificent, rich green. The sooner I talk, the sooner he'll kill me. And that bastard Hood can feed me to his bloody hounds and be done with me. 'Sha'ik...the Goddess of the Whirlwind...the leader of the Seven Cities Rebellion. She is a prophetess. And she controls the Whirlwind itself, a great magical barrier between the people of Raraku and the outsiders, along with the enemies of the Rebellion. The Whirlwind survives, controlled by her, but even if she died, the barrier would remain.'
A barrier? To separate the people of Raraku from the 'outsiders'?
Weyellin sat forward, supporting his chin with a loose grip, running the new information through his head.
"So, this Sha'ik is a woman who can control the winds and the sands? She's the Goddess of the Whirlwind as you say, but the Whirlwind is used to what end? For what reason would a barrier be needed in the Raraku? I have seen the destruction and I have seen the power Tal'Verashak holds and I think to myself: Why would such an augur of death be used in such a worthless way? There are two reasons a barrier may be required, and those are to prevent something or someone from coming in or - much more commonly - to prevent something or someone from getting out. Which of the two does this event fall under?"
Her vision was failing her. Dark blots were marking the image before her eyes and her head felt heavy on her shoulders. Iaira had to use whatever resolve she had left to just keep it upwards. 'The Aetherians...they are a powerful Empire. Technology that would amaze you, powerful organisations, extreme skill. And most importantly...the Aetherian shoulder is allowed to think, which is what makes him so dangerous.' As she spoke, her voice caught and she coughed violently for a string of moments. 'Not to mention the available Warrens to them and the alliances they have forged over the years. But the Rebellion must happen. Wars...cannot simply be won by emotion alone.'
"Emotion has no place in war at all. Wars born of feeling are the wars that are lost from their declaration."
Weyellin eyed Iaira's broken body with an unusual glaze of empathy, his arm becoming outstretched upun her cheek to aid her in keeping her head upward.
"Pacifier."
"S-sir?" The shadow replied, still shaking with overwhelming excitement.
"Collect the requirements in order to nullify the girl."
No noise left the small figure save a hesistant sigh as he slipped through the gap once again.
"After you have been nullified of your injuries, we will take you to more... respectable quarters. I have just one last question for you, my girl, and one of pure curiousity alone: How did the chemicals manifest for you?"

Setting

2 Characters Present

Character Portrait: Iaira Blackmont Character Portrait: Weyellin
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

Iaira could only see vague shapes all around her. Weyellin's voice was distant but his touch felt oddly reassuring. Perhaps he was manifesting into something else now...someone else.
The western half was in flames, lighting the entire bowl a grauny, waverung red. Damien and Iaira saw evidence of clashes as they hurried down Work Road towards the lake- downed horses, dead Aetherians. The Inn had been barricaded, then the barriers breached. From the darkness of the doorway, as they passed came a faint moaning.
Iaira hesitated, but Damien hooked her arm. 'You don't want to go in there,' he said. 'Pulp's men hit that place early on and hard.'
Beyond the town's edge, Work Road stretched empty and dark all the way to the fork. Through the rushes on their left was the glimmer of the lake's placid surface.
The man led her down into the grasses, bade her crouch down, then did the same.
'The worse things get, the more he shuts his eyes.'
Her words came out slurred. 'And what things are getting worse?'
As if in answer, a shout followed by harsh laughter sounded behind them, coming from the inn. Damian halted, then walked back to the crossroads they had just passed. From there he could see the Inn- and Pulp's soldiers.
Like a wraith rising up and stealing through Damien, tension slowly filled the man's posture. As she watched, vague alarms rang in Iaira's skull. She hesitated,[i] He's standing alone, out in the open. There are arrows trained on him.

Damien almost backed up a step, then visibly steeled himself.
'They're coming for him,' Iaira hissed.
Pulp and his soldiers wandered into view, closing a half circle around Damien. Cocked crossbows resting on forearms pointed towards him.
'You all alone back there, lass?' Captain Pulp called out. His soldiers laughed. 'Come join Damien here. We're just telling him some things, that's all. No worry, lass.'
Damien turned to speak to her. A guard stepped up and struck him across the face with a gauntleted hand. Damien staggered, swearing as he brought his hands up to his face.
Iaira stumbled backward and clenched her fists. One hand slowly wandered behind her back to feel a blade. Crude, unadorned and nothing but impressive. Yet still sharp. She made the first step of her Dance-
Crossbow bolts thud in Damien's back. And before she knew a fierce pain clung to her chest, stealing all breath from her. As she collapsed on the ground, she abstractly felt the blade clatter, sliding from her loosened grip, Damien's cry ringing in her ears.[/i]
Iaira laughed harshly and dryly, knowing it might well be her last laugh. 'My sins, Commander... and Hood knows I got a whole lot of them.'

Setting

2 Characters Present

Character Portrait: Iaira Blackmont Character Portrait: Weyellin
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

Weyellin's eyes glazed over Iaira, his lips adorned with the rare smile that sat excruciatingly uncomfortably to everyone laying eyes on it.
Curious.
"Everyone on this mundane rock knows you have enough sins for them all, girl."
Weyellin calmly reached to his shoulder to carefully undo the Everlastian Dragon pin that held his decorated shoulder cape in place, but his armoured fingers were impeding the dexterity required to do so. He quickly flipped three buckles on his gauntlet and the plated steel slid from his arm and onto the floor with a loud clatter.
"They say it is dangerous for me to do this," His now bare fingers returned to undo the small pin. "as the person or persons involved may find a way to damage me."
His smile returned now as he looked at the state of Iaira, the way she was injured, impaired and the way she was tightly bound. The pin soon came off with ease, and with it, the shoulder cape, which he carefully folded and placed upon his lap.
"Here," Weyellin took Iaira's hand with peculiar delicacy and dropped the pin into it. "This is a symbol of a Justicicar of Everlast: A Dragon God. Beings of benevolence, wisdom, courage, omniscience, strength, undeath, omnipotence, and pure Justice. As Everlastian people, it is our duty to follow their wishes and to carry out the Will of the Gods. For those higher up, we carry the weight of their Justice. This is why we hunt your kind. Scholars and Spiritualists claim to hear, speak and see them. Heresy. The real purpose of channels from our plane to theirs is the gift of true sight: For overseers of the High Cathedral and Parish, such as myself and the Grandmaster, this is used to locate sinners and wrongdoers, and to receive orders relating to the matter of Justice being delivered. For those like you, my dear... The magnanimous Dragon Gods will allow you to see the past, the future, happenings on the ethereal plane and even the plane of your false deities should they deem you worthy. Tell me, my girl. What is it that you see?"
His words were savoured by a cold and unwelcoming silence. Iaira's head had begun to droop regularly against all of her will, a blackness overcoming her. Death's icy fingers, gentle but deadly, wrapping around her slowly. Weyellin took the pin from her hand and returned it to his shoulder, along with the decorative cape that was to sit there.
"Grandmaster. Through."
The heavy door shuffled inch by inch, and after a few words were spoken, it crept forward, the smell of damp and mould already poisoning the interrogation room.
"Sir. I'm correct in assuming that the paci-"
Silence.
"Something wrong, Grandmaster?"
"Your arm. Your gauntlet is removed."
"Yes, it is."
"That is most certainly advised against, sir. If the girl were to come round, she cou-"
"Take a look at her. Do you see any threat? I don't."
"No, sir, you're right."
"I didn't call you in here for a conversation. Ward the girl with undeath until the Pacifier meets with the equipment. Lest we lose our most valuable asset. "
"Sir."
The Grandmaster produced a corked inkwell from his inside pocket and opened it, dabbing his finger generously. Upon Iaira's forehead he drew the dark ward - three uneven circles all meeting at one point between her lifestolen eyes.
"Drakiogmenisa."
The ward lit up in a gentle, warm purple light before returning to an ink stain.
"Warding complete, sir."
"Congratulations. We will transport her to an overhang bedroom in the keep. Guard the doors and the balcony. The damp and cold down here will do nothing for her but render her useless."
"Sir."
Weyellin let out a deep sigh. He couldn't help but feel a very faint sense of disgusting pity for Iaira.