Porphyria stood a small distance away from Vurp, considering something that had been tickling the back of her mind. For one thing, goblinoids of any stripe were not known to be exceptionally gifted magi, since their short lifespans made the kind of intensive long-term study required to be a mage of any caliber a life-long pursuit. Hell, humans barely had time to make a serious go of being a decent mage, and they tended to live a couple of decades longer than any goblin. And yet here was a boglin who was wearing the robes of a full Frater Zephyrius Mutatoris, and had obviously learned a thing or two about magic. Porphyria wondered if boglins ever got gray hair, or went bald -- the hair on Vurp's head was a stringy black mess, not showing any real signs of aging.
"Uhm Vurp," Porphyria started, causing the boglin to fidget uncomfortably at the sound of his name, "I hope you don't mind me asking, but how old are you?"
Vurp smiled slightly at the question responding, "I'm somewhere around thirty-five years old, madam."
"But you don't look all that old..."
"I live a clean and healthy lifestyle, and generally keep out of danger. And I'm also a devotee of a certain sect of worshippers of the longevity aspect of Zo, goddess of life -- we learn some useful techniques to retard the aging process. Very useful for one whose lifespan would normally be measured in decades." Vurp grinned proudly at his own cleverness, showing a mouthful of sharp yellow teeth. Whatever other benefits that might have been passed on to worshippers of Zo, good oral hygiene was obviously not one of them.
"Well, I'm glad to hear you won't be keeling over anytime soon then. At least, not from old age." Porphyria saw the boglin's smile dull slightly as she made the comment. She knew that the magi of the OZM tended to be a lot more careful with their lives than the typical ELF operative. Hell, almost everyone was more careful than the typical ELF operative, and often times, that recklessness spilled over onto those closest to the agent. Vurp would either learn to excel in his craft, or find himself on the wrong end of something sharp and pointy (if he was lucky) fairly quickly.
Vurp shifted nervously in his seat, and Porphyria realized that she had been staring at the boglin in an almost predatory fashion while she had weighed his chances of survival. She smiled reassuringly, and Vurp relaxed somewhat. "You and I should make a good team," Porphyria told him, "I've worked with people from your order before, and always enjoyed the experience."
Vurp nodded slightly. Some of the other magi of his order had been quite vocal in the past concerning their experiences with Porphyria. The phrase 'madwoman' came up with astonishing frequency, but then again, what could one expect from an ELF guerilla? The ELF form of magic basically relied upon calling up ancient and terrifying Powers and letting them rampage, all the time hoping that they hit the right target. It was nothing like the studied control that an experienced Frater gained over the elements. One would almost acquire madness as a survival tool, working as an ELF agent.
Vurp gathered up what little courage he had, and asked, "So what's the plan, mistress? Taking over the world might be a bit much for just the two of us."
"Oh, it probably is, and I was just joking, really. I think we should start with someplace smaller first, like Camille."
"You really mean to take over Camille? But why? I thought that we'd be spreading chaos. It seems like taking a place over would require imposing some sort of order, which is kind of the opposite."
Porphyria smiled happily, and replied, "Sometimes the surest path to true discord is to encourage the aneristic principle to flourish and begin to dominate. After all, very few really good revolutions start because there's too little control. And when empires finally fall, they tend to create enough discord to last hundreds of years, even if the empire only lasted a handful. Loosen the reins of power enough, and society becomes essentially self-ordering, but tighten them until society has no concept of self-order, and then let those reins snap, and that's when things really get interesting."
Vurp looked into Porphyria's eyes as she leaned towards him, entranced by the yellow runes that seemed to swim through her deep black irises. He looked for a hint of sanity somewhere behind those eyes, but could only see inscrutable depth. Vurp felt some fear at what this strange ELF agent proposed, but at the same time felt against his better judgment that he should work with her to see that her goals would be achieved.
"Madam, excuse me for questioning you," Vurp begain, seeming to wince at each word as it came out, "but I thought that chaos was all about giving people freedom, not about causing a new dark age."
"It's not about giving people freedom, Vurp. It's about making them realize that they already have freedom, no matter what their king or priest says. The State and the Church enforce order through a complex system of fear and force, and people buy into it -- they even begin to crave it. If you just kill the king, soon enough people will raise up another king. But if you make it so that people don't want any more kings, then you've got something that can last." Porphyria stood back form Vurp and turned around, looking into a dark corner of the room, continuing, "Dark ages are when people are the most free, anyhow. In order for people to experience real freedom, the system has to break down as utterly as it can."
Wow, Vurp thought, she really is completely bonkers. But there was still something in the back of his mind that couldn't simply dismiss what she was saying. For some reason, he found himself twisted more and more towards Porphyria's way of thinking, the more he thought about it. Maybe there was something to what she was saying, even if the first impulse of his gentle nature was to rebel against it.
"I see your point, Madam." Vurp's answer was timid and reverential.
Porphyria stood silent for some time, and then said, "We'll leave for Camille in a few days. I doubt we'll have much trouble with the Justicars there -- the strength of the Pantarchic Church in the city does tend to push out all the other religions. At the very least, we ought to be able to make a bit of a stir there, won't we?"
Vurp nodded, happy to at last have a hand in bigger events -- to have a Higher Purpose, even if it would probably get him run out of every town he set foot in, if not killed.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Friday, July 17, 2009
Chapter 9, Part 1 - Boglin
Porphyria enjoyed the cool night air as she sat on the porch of the Discordian safe house. In the week since she had come to the city, she had come to tolerate its various eccentricities. The small but lively nyloc community in the city had come to regard Porphyria as one of their own -- due in part, no doubt, to the influence of the Golden Apple -- and Porphyria enjoyed their company.
A sudden crashing noise off to her left brought Porphyria out of her reverie and into a combat stance as she quickly engaged her psychic invisibility. Out of the darkness from the direction of the noise, a smallish, green-skinned creature came flying as it made a beeline for the door of the Discordian safe house. Damn, Porphyria thought, looks like someone's bringing trouble with them. Porphyria sighed. She had just gotten the safe house comfortable, as well. If she was forced to abandon it due to the antics of this creature, she would be quite annoyed.
Luckily, there was little sign of anything chasing the creature, as it made it to the door and quickly rushed inside, slamming the door behind it. Moments later, a pair of guardsmen came rushing around the corner, stopping and looking slightly confused as they peered around, searching for their quarry. They strolled down the road, poking piles of garbage and peering into shadows, but walked straight past the safe house without pausing. As the two guardsmen turned the corner at the other end of the street, Porphyria breathed a sigh of relief and turned to the door. It was time to see who this new guest was.
As Porphyria slipped in the door, she heard a strange, hissing voice chant in Enochian. Porphyria's future sense alerted her to oncoming danger, and she dove aside just in time to avoid an almost-solid gust of wind which screamed past her ear and slammed into the door behind her, causing it to shudder violently. In the middle of her dive, Porphyria applied psychokinetic energies to change her course and propel her towards the small figure in the darkness, who was already chanting another phrase in Enochian. Porphyria crashed into the short figure about waist-height, knocking the breath from it and disrupting its spell. Grabbing the creature by the neck, Porphyria stood and examined her catch, holding the creature at arms-length as it attempted to smile ingratiatingly.
On close inspection, the strange creature was obviously a boglin -- a race rumored to be a cross between a goblin and a slaan, which shared little of the redeeming qualities of either race. The boglin's green skin oozed a slimy moisture which reminded Porphyria unpleasantly of urine, and its homely, frog-like face showed an expression of terror behind its sickly smile. The boglin was dressed in a thigh-length, sky-colored robe that looked almost comical on the creature's skinny form. Porphyria felt little weight at the end of her arm -- the boglin obviously had the ability to levitate, and was doing so in order to avoid being choked at Porphyria's hand.
Porphyria looked into the eyes of the boglin, and threatened, "Now, there will be no more of that magic in here, understood?"
The boglin nodded cautiously, its eyes darting around, apparently searching for some means of escape.
"Good, because if I hear any language other than Anglic from you, I swear that you won't survive to get out more than two words." At that, Porphyria released the boglin's throat and smiled with amusement as it hovered in the air before her rather than dropping to the floor. "Now, I would like to know who you are, and why you came here."
The boglin gulped, rubbing its neck, "My name is Vurp, apprentice brother of the Ordo Zephyrius Mutatoris, and Discordian Legionnaire. And I'm sorry for attacking you, madam, but I thought you were a Hellhound."
Porphyria nodded slightly, replying, "No problem. My name's Porphyria, ELF guerilla," -- the boglin's eyes widened slightly as a flicker of recognition played across his face -- "Why were the Hellhounds chasing you?"
"A simple misunderstanding, mistress Porphyria. I was accused of attempting to liberate a small amount of coin from a nobleman." Vurp's eyes continued searching the room for a means of escape, even though his body was almost completely relaxed. Perhaps it was a nervous habit.
"So you're a wizard, eh?"
"Merely an apprentice, madam. I have yet a long way to go before I am able to do more than the simplest of spells, but I am learning the best that I can."
Porphyria paused for a moment, considering. "Well, you're welcome to stay here, Vurp. As long as you promise not to send any lightning bolts my way, that is."
Vurp's eyes widened, "Of course not, Lady Porphyria. Even if I could muster a lightning bolt, I would never dream of harming you. By the way, is there any food in here? I'm hungry."
"There's some in the pantry there, although I don't know how fresh it is. I usually go out to eat," Porphyria said, "You're welcome to anything you can find."
Vurp smiled happily, saying, "Thank you. I'm really hungry." The boglin climbed up on the countertop in the kitchen and began rummaging through the cabinets.
Porphyria watched as Vurp found some dried meats and fruits and began to unceremoniously devour them. Perhaps this little creature would prove useful. After all, the magi of the Ordo Zephyrius Mutatoris had potent magic when properly trained, and Porphyria felt that she could use the ally.
"How would you like a job, Vurp?" Porphyria asked the boglin once he was done shoveling a meager meal into his mouth.
"Eh? What sort of job, madam?" Vurp seemed slightly confused at the question, and appeared as if he was looking for some possibility for escape, although Porphyria assumed that this was just his general demeanor.
"You'll be helping me take over the world, of course," Porphyria laughed, only partly serious. "You'll be my assistant, and help wherever I need it."
Vurp thought for a moment, considering. The Ordo Zehyrius Mutatoris had been his life for the past dozen years, but Vurp felt that he might be able to learn much more through this infamous ELF agent and her adventures. "Fine. I'll come along with you, madam." Vurp felt that perhaps he was making a mistake, but assumed that things would work themselves out eventually, even despite the strong sense of foreboding within his gut.
A sudden crashing noise off to her left brought Porphyria out of her reverie and into a combat stance as she quickly engaged her psychic invisibility. Out of the darkness from the direction of the noise, a smallish, green-skinned creature came flying as it made a beeline for the door of the Discordian safe house. Damn, Porphyria thought, looks like someone's bringing trouble with them. Porphyria sighed. She had just gotten the safe house comfortable, as well. If she was forced to abandon it due to the antics of this creature, she would be quite annoyed.
Luckily, there was little sign of anything chasing the creature, as it made it to the door and quickly rushed inside, slamming the door behind it. Moments later, a pair of guardsmen came rushing around the corner, stopping and looking slightly confused as they peered around, searching for their quarry. They strolled down the road, poking piles of garbage and peering into shadows, but walked straight past the safe house without pausing. As the two guardsmen turned the corner at the other end of the street, Porphyria breathed a sigh of relief and turned to the door. It was time to see who this new guest was.
As Porphyria slipped in the door, she heard a strange, hissing voice chant in Enochian. Porphyria's future sense alerted her to oncoming danger, and she dove aside just in time to avoid an almost-solid gust of wind which screamed past her ear and slammed into the door behind her, causing it to shudder violently. In the middle of her dive, Porphyria applied psychokinetic energies to change her course and propel her towards the small figure in the darkness, who was already chanting another phrase in Enochian. Porphyria crashed into the short figure about waist-height, knocking the breath from it and disrupting its spell. Grabbing the creature by the neck, Porphyria stood and examined her catch, holding the creature at arms-length as it attempted to smile ingratiatingly.
On close inspection, the strange creature was obviously a boglin -- a race rumored to be a cross between a goblin and a slaan, which shared little of the redeeming qualities of either race. The boglin's green skin oozed a slimy moisture which reminded Porphyria unpleasantly of urine, and its homely, frog-like face showed an expression of terror behind its sickly smile. The boglin was dressed in a thigh-length, sky-colored robe that looked almost comical on the creature's skinny form. Porphyria felt little weight at the end of her arm -- the boglin obviously had the ability to levitate, and was doing so in order to avoid being choked at Porphyria's hand.
Porphyria looked into the eyes of the boglin, and threatened, "Now, there will be no more of that magic in here, understood?"
The boglin nodded cautiously, its eyes darting around, apparently searching for some means of escape.
"Good, because if I hear any language other than Anglic from you, I swear that you won't survive to get out more than two words." At that, Porphyria released the boglin's throat and smiled with amusement as it hovered in the air before her rather than dropping to the floor. "Now, I would like to know who you are, and why you came here."
The boglin gulped, rubbing its neck, "My name is Vurp, apprentice brother of the Ordo Zephyrius Mutatoris, and Discordian Legionnaire. And I'm sorry for attacking you, madam, but I thought you were a Hellhound."
Porphyria nodded slightly, replying, "No problem. My name's Porphyria, ELF guerilla," -- the boglin's eyes widened slightly as a flicker of recognition played across his face -- "Why were the Hellhounds chasing you?"
"A simple misunderstanding, mistress Porphyria. I was accused of attempting to liberate a small amount of coin from a nobleman." Vurp's eyes continued searching the room for a means of escape, even though his body was almost completely relaxed. Perhaps it was a nervous habit.
"So you're a wizard, eh?"
"Merely an apprentice, madam. I have yet a long way to go before I am able to do more than the simplest of spells, but I am learning the best that I can."
Porphyria paused for a moment, considering. "Well, you're welcome to stay here, Vurp. As long as you promise not to send any lightning bolts my way, that is."
Vurp's eyes widened, "Of course not, Lady Porphyria. Even if I could muster a lightning bolt, I would never dream of harming you. By the way, is there any food in here? I'm hungry."
"There's some in the pantry there, although I don't know how fresh it is. I usually go out to eat," Porphyria said, "You're welcome to anything you can find."
Vurp smiled happily, saying, "Thank you. I'm really hungry." The boglin climbed up on the countertop in the kitchen and began rummaging through the cabinets.
Porphyria watched as Vurp found some dried meats and fruits and began to unceremoniously devour them. Perhaps this little creature would prove useful. After all, the magi of the Ordo Zephyrius Mutatoris had potent magic when properly trained, and Porphyria felt that she could use the ally.
"How would you like a job, Vurp?" Porphyria asked the boglin once he was done shoveling a meager meal into his mouth.
"Eh? What sort of job, madam?" Vurp seemed slightly confused at the question, and appeared as if he was looking for some possibility for escape, although Porphyria assumed that this was just his general demeanor.
"You'll be helping me take over the world, of course," Porphyria laughed, only partly serious. "You'll be my assistant, and help wherever I need it."
Vurp thought for a moment, considering. The Ordo Zehyrius Mutatoris had been his life for the past dozen years, but Vurp felt that he might be able to learn much more through this infamous ELF agent and her adventures. "Fine. I'll come along with you, madam." Vurp felt that perhaps he was making a mistake, but assumed that things would work themselves out eventually, even despite the strong sense of foreboding within his gut.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Chapter 8 - Aftermath
Wyrena looked around at the walls of the Ivory Tower and sighed. The walls stank with the caked-on viscera of Justicars -- her brothers and sisters in arms, who had fallen protecting the tower from that demon. Attempting to protect it, anyhow, Wyrena thought to herself as she applied her rag to the formerly-white stone, scrubbing vigorously. By all indications, Porphyria had been after just one thing, the artifact that Coelwyn had been keeping and researching a way to destroy. And the ELF agent had gotten what she came for. Wyrena shuddered as she thought of what that artifact could do in the hands of someone like Porphyria. Whatever came next, it would likely not be very pretty.
And the thought that it was all her fault nagged Wyrena's conscience as she sat there amongst the aftermath of the previous night's battle. She could have warned the others long ago, if not for her shame in not being strong enough to resist Porphyria's tortures. The Justicars could have been ready, instead of having been taken off-guard as they were. And it was all her fault. Shame squeezed Wyrena's heart even harder now, and was even more terrible to bear now -- her temporary reprieve had come too late, and now the damage was done. If Wyrena confessed now, she would be kicked out of the Justicars, at best.
Wyrena looked at the new cracks in the wall she was scrubbing and cursed herself softly. Not all of the Justicars who had fallen last night would be coming back, even though the Justicars had more than enough -- if just barely -- to pay a priest to raise them. Some of those who had fallen had made their wishes clear long ago that they desired nothing more than to go to serve Tyr in the afterlife should they fall in battle, and the rest of the Justicars were honor-bound to follow those wishes. To Wyrena, it felt like a terrible waste of talent at a time in which the Justicars would need it most, but she supposed that her own faith might simply be insufficient to find solace in the idea that those who had fallen would be enjoying their richly-deserved rewards.
"Private, a word, if you would." The soft voice startled Wyrena out of her reverie, and she looked up to see one of the lieutenants, a sharp-featured half-elven woman, standing slightly behind her.
Wyrena nodded and put down her cloth, looking up obediently at the lieutenant. "Yes, madam?"
"Before he passed, Sergeant Upton wrote a memo detailing how admirably you stood against the raptorak raiders you met on your caravan duty. We found this note in his personal effects this morning. Additionally, we all saw how well you handled yourself against the orcish legion that assaulted the Tower last night. Had you not come when you did, many more might have fallen."
Wyrena shook her head at the lieutenant's words. An overwhelming guilt threatened to overcome her and force her to shout out the secret -- that it was her fault in the first place. Instead, Wyrena simply demurred, "I don't know what to say, madam. I simply tried to follow my duty."
The lieutenant smiled, replying, "And you did that very well. Far more ably than a simple private could have. So henceforth, you will bear the rank of corporal, and be entitled to all attendant privileges of your new rank. That will be all."
Wyrena lowered her eyes as the lieutenant turned to leave. Didn't the Justicars around here see that she shouldn't be rewarded for anything? She hung her head for a moment, and then returned to the scrubbing of the walls, hoping that perhaps there was some sort of penance in this simple act.
===
Porphyria looked around her with barely-veiled disdain. The city of Sanctuary was an oppressive place; the sort of city that touted itself as safe and orderly, but only achieved the semblance of safety by keeping nooses tightly-wound around everyone's necks. Public executions were distressingly common here, with the bodies being carted off to Kurd in the morgue so that further horrors and indignities could be perpetrated upon those who would tarnish the image of the city through thievery or murder.
A sigh escaped Porphyria's lips as she frowned her disapproval at the slave market when she passed it. Whatever distaste she might feel about staying in such a city, it was at least safe for her for the time being. The mainland of Almeria would likely be too dangerous for the time being, as the Justicars and their agents scoured the cities for Porphyria, seeking their revenge. And it wasn't as if this city was all bad, even despite the ever-present heat and humidity. There were still some small amenities here.
The Discordian safehouse was, like the one in Losthaven, almost conspicuously non-descript, presenting a facade of studied and deliberate squalor to the outside world, while being almost opulent inside. Porphyria knocked on the door, and then entered as no response came. The house had obviously not been used in a couple of months. Good -- the fewer people who knew Porphyria's whereabouts, the better.
Porphyria's eyes adjusted quickly to the inner gloom of the safehouse, and she let slip the small amount of concentration she had dedicated towards editing her presence out of the minds of onlookers. Porphyria looked at her new prize. The Apple of Discord, now masquerading as a ring on Porphyria's finger, promised great things to come. Unfortunately, while bearing the Apple provided Porphyria with increased favor with the forces of Chaos and some protection from Order, it would not protect her completely from the Justicars, and so she would hide away for a time, here in Sanctuary, while the Justicars exhausted their search and retired to their Ivory Tower.
Unlike the interior of the safehouse in Losthaven, this house was entirely mundane. There were no impossible angles or tricks of perspective, only cobwebs and dust. A cupboard full of preserved meats and fruits had been left behind by whoever had used the house in the past, but there was little else in the way of provisions. Porphyria was tired, and decided that she would sleep for the rest of the day, and then go out for something to eat at night.
===
Wyrena collapsed upon the bed in her new quarters. She had finished the arduous task of scrubbing the walls, and they again gleamed white. The corporals' quarters were a welcome relief from the closeness of the privates' chambers, which were little more than open bunk rooms. She would still be sharing a room with someone else -- another corporal -- but Wyrena felt that she now had more privacy than ever before in her life. This was almost the case, as Wyrena had spent nearly her whole life within the confines of the Ivory Tower, sleeping in a common room with a dozen or so other Justicars.
Wyrena stretched out on the bed, examining the small specks of blood she had been unable to remove from under her fingernails. Idly, she wondered how much more blood she would see in her life, and how much more she would be called upon to spill in Tyr's name. Wyrena knew the need for Order and the dangers presented by Chaos, but couldn't help feeling that there was little anyone could do to really tip the scales in the favor of either. Certainly, the influence and nearness of the Justicars had helped to keep the lands of Andala somewhat safe from the forces of Chaos, but then again, this was also a land where raptorak could raid caravans and good people could be lost fighting against some terrible and frightening demon that had invaded their home.
No, Wyrena thought to herself, it is important. People should be able to know what to expect in life. To know that there are rules, and that the universe isn't simply run on idle whim and random occurrences. As she drifted off to sleep, Wyrena could only hope to herself that her convictions were true, and not some idle fantasy.
===
Porphyria walked down the streets in a darkness lit only by the light of a barely-waxing moon. The street lamps were few and far between, almost absent from this run-down portion of the city. Porphyria strolled down the street almost completely alone. Although Sanctuary had no official curfew, few wandered its streets at night, for fear of being either robbed, or being mistaken for a thief by an often over-zealous guard force. Porphyria had passed less than a dozen people by the time she had walked to the spot she had been looking for -- a small tavern from which a strange and disquieting hissing spilled, being almost completely silent otherwise.
As she stepped inside, Porphyria was greeted by almost absolute blackness, and allowed her eyes time to adjust to the interior of the room. Shadowy creatures surrounded nearly half the low tables in the room, their legless lower halves reclining upon cushions on the floor. As Porphyria entered, many of the creatures looked up with suspicion evident in their glowing eyes, and the whispering sounds of their conversations muted slightly as a few more nylocs turned to stare.
Porphyria made her way to a table near the center of the room, and sat down cross-legged on the floor, gingerly folding her wings so that she might accomplish this feat with some measure of grace. Most of the suspicious gazes had left Porphyria, although furtive glances continued, and a more regular level of conversation resumed. A pudgy-looking nyloc came out from behind the counter, gliding gracefully and coming to a hover by Porphyria's left arm.
"Greetings, madam. I am Zerifelxis, your host. Please do not take offense, but are you certain that you are in the right place?" At the tavern-keeper's question, several of the nylocs nearby chuckled their amusement, raising an almost-disquieting hiss.
"Yes. I'm certain. And I'm very hungry, so please bring a bowl of whatever's on special tonight." Porphyria's eyes looked into those of the tavern-keeper, and she could almost feel the Golden Apple working its charms upon him.
The nyloc blinked in momentary confusion, and he responded, "I'm very sorry, madam, for my previous rudeness. Of course, your meal will be on its way immediately, and it will be on the house." The tavern-keeper quickly glided back behind the bar, and Porphyria smiled with satisfaction. She had been able to manipulate the nyloc as effortlessly as breathing, and could feel the glances of the others in the room slowly moving away from suspicion as the Apple worked its charms upon them.
Zerifelxis soon came back with a bowl full of blood, with curds of congealed blood floating in it. To Porphyria's nose, it smelled as wonderful as any other food she had smelled, and she began to think that perhaps being a blood-drinker might not be the worst thing in the world. The soup was hot, and as she bit into one of the congealed lumps, Porphyria savored flavors that non-sanguivores had little conception of and no real description for. The resulting sensations were delightful and heady, and Porphyria had almost eaten half her meal before she paused to regard a small glass canister on the side of her table. She sniffed the container quizzically, and was surprised at the scent of hot chili peppers wafting from inside. Similar canisters stood upon all of the other tables, and Porphyria wondered at that -- wouldn't a sanguivore have difficulty digesting the chili? Then again, others eat all kinds of indigestible things, like corn, Porphyria thought as she sprinkled her soup with a pinch of chili pepper. The spice livened up the dish considerably, making it all the more delicious. Porphyria quickly finished.
Looking around, Porphyria saw that the occasional glances in her direction had changed tone to respect and acceptance, although she could not tell whether the change was because of the Apple, or because she had finished an entire bowl of nyloc cuisine while appearing to enjoy every spoonful. She supposed that really, the reason for the change in demeanor hardly mattered. The tavern-keeper glided back over to her table, and Porphyria smiled pleasantly. It had been a long time since she had had a good meal, and she thanked the nyloc as he cleared her table. Porphyria offered a small silver coin as a tip, but the tavern-keeper waved her off casually saying, "It was a pleasure to serve you, madam. And please, do come back soon."
Porphyria nodded her agreement, and stood back up. As she walked back out the tavern door, Porphyria had the strange experience of being nearly dazzled by the bright light of a nearly moonless night. The interior of the tavern certainly was dark. Full and happy, Porphyria slowly wandered back in the direction of the safehouse, enjoying the dark, peaceful night.
And the thought that it was all her fault nagged Wyrena's conscience as she sat there amongst the aftermath of the previous night's battle. She could have warned the others long ago, if not for her shame in not being strong enough to resist Porphyria's tortures. The Justicars could have been ready, instead of having been taken off-guard as they were. And it was all her fault. Shame squeezed Wyrena's heart even harder now, and was even more terrible to bear now -- her temporary reprieve had come too late, and now the damage was done. If Wyrena confessed now, she would be kicked out of the Justicars, at best.
Wyrena looked at the new cracks in the wall she was scrubbing and cursed herself softly. Not all of the Justicars who had fallen last night would be coming back, even though the Justicars had more than enough -- if just barely -- to pay a priest to raise them. Some of those who had fallen had made their wishes clear long ago that they desired nothing more than to go to serve Tyr in the afterlife should they fall in battle, and the rest of the Justicars were honor-bound to follow those wishes. To Wyrena, it felt like a terrible waste of talent at a time in which the Justicars would need it most, but she supposed that her own faith might simply be insufficient to find solace in the idea that those who had fallen would be enjoying their richly-deserved rewards.
"Private, a word, if you would." The soft voice startled Wyrena out of her reverie, and she looked up to see one of the lieutenants, a sharp-featured half-elven woman, standing slightly behind her.
Wyrena nodded and put down her cloth, looking up obediently at the lieutenant. "Yes, madam?"
"Before he passed, Sergeant Upton wrote a memo detailing how admirably you stood against the raptorak raiders you met on your caravan duty. We found this note in his personal effects this morning. Additionally, we all saw how well you handled yourself against the orcish legion that assaulted the Tower last night. Had you not come when you did, many more might have fallen."
Wyrena shook her head at the lieutenant's words. An overwhelming guilt threatened to overcome her and force her to shout out the secret -- that it was her fault in the first place. Instead, Wyrena simply demurred, "I don't know what to say, madam. I simply tried to follow my duty."
The lieutenant smiled, replying, "And you did that very well. Far more ably than a simple private could have. So henceforth, you will bear the rank of corporal, and be entitled to all attendant privileges of your new rank. That will be all."
Wyrena lowered her eyes as the lieutenant turned to leave. Didn't the Justicars around here see that she shouldn't be rewarded for anything? She hung her head for a moment, and then returned to the scrubbing of the walls, hoping that perhaps there was some sort of penance in this simple act.
===
Porphyria looked around her with barely-veiled disdain. The city of Sanctuary was an oppressive place; the sort of city that touted itself as safe and orderly, but only achieved the semblance of safety by keeping nooses tightly-wound around everyone's necks. Public executions were distressingly common here, with the bodies being carted off to Kurd in the morgue so that further horrors and indignities could be perpetrated upon those who would tarnish the image of the city through thievery or murder.
A sigh escaped Porphyria's lips as she frowned her disapproval at the slave market when she passed it. Whatever distaste she might feel about staying in such a city, it was at least safe for her for the time being. The mainland of Almeria would likely be too dangerous for the time being, as the Justicars and their agents scoured the cities for Porphyria, seeking their revenge. And it wasn't as if this city was all bad, even despite the ever-present heat and humidity. There were still some small amenities here.
The Discordian safehouse was, like the one in Losthaven, almost conspicuously non-descript, presenting a facade of studied and deliberate squalor to the outside world, while being almost opulent inside. Porphyria knocked on the door, and then entered as no response came. The house had obviously not been used in a couple of months. Good -- the fewer people who knew Porphyria's whereabouts, the better.
Porphyria's eyes adjusted quickly to the inner gloom of the safehouse, and she let slip the small amount of concentration she had dedicated towards editing her presence out of the minds of onlookers. Porphyria looked at her new prize. The Apple of Discord, now masquerading as a ring on Porphyria's finger, promised great things to come. Unfortunately, while bearing the Apple provided Porphyria with increased favor with the forces of Chaos and some protection from Order, it would not protect her completely from the Justicars, and so she would hide away for a time, here in Sanctuary, while the Justicars exhausted their search and retired to their Ivory Tower.
Unlike the interior of the safehouse in Losthaven, this house was entirely mundane. There were no impossible angles or tricks of perspective, only cobwebs and dust. A cupboard full of preserved meats and fruits had been left behind by whoever had used the house in the past, but there was little else in the way of provisions. Porphyria was tired, and decided that she would sleep for the rest of the day, and then go out for something to eat at night.
===
Wyrena collapsed upon the bed in her new quarters. She had finished the arduous task of scrubbing the walls, and they again gleamed white. The corporals' quarters were a welcome relief from the closeness of the privates' chambers, which were little more than open bunk rooms. She would still be sharing a room with someone else -- another corporal -- but Wyrena felt that she now had more privacy than ever before in her life. This was almost the case, as Wyrena had spent nearly her whole life within the confines of the Ivory Tower, sleeping in a common room with a dozen or so other Justicars.
Wyrena stretched out on the bed, examining the small specks of blood she had been unable to remove from under her fingernails. Idly, she wondered how much more blood she would see in her life, and how much more she would be called upon to spill in Tyr's name. Wyrena knew the need for Order and the dangers presented by Chaos, but couldn't help feeling that there was little anyone could do to really tip the scales in the favor of either. Certainly, the influence and nearness of the Justicars had helped to keep the lands of Andala somewhat safe from the forces of Chaos, but then again, this was also a land where raptorak could raid caravans and good people could be lost fighting against some terrible and frightening demon that had invaded their home.
No, Wyrena thought to herself, it is important. People should be able to know what to expect in life. To know that there are rules, and that the universe isn't simply run on idle whim and random occurrences. As she drifted off to sleep, Wyrena could only hope to herself that her convictions were true, and not some idle fantasy.
===
Porphyria walked down the streets in a darkness lit only by the light of a barely-waxing moon. The street lamps were few and far between, almost absent from this run-down portion of the city. Porphyria strolled down the street almost completely alone. Although Sanctuary had no official curfew, few wandered its streets at night, for fear of being either robbed, or being mistaken for a thief by an often over-zealous guard force. Porphyria had passed less than a dozen people by the time she had walked to the spot she had been looking for -- a small tavern from which a strange and disquieting hissing spilled, being almost completely silent otherwise.
As she stepped inside, Porphyria was greeted by almost absolute blackness, and allowed her eyes time to adjust to the interior of the room. Shadowy creatures surrounded nearly half the low tables in the room, their legless lower halves reclining upon cushions on the floor. As Porphyria entered, many of the creatures looked up with suspicion evident in their glowing eyes, and the whispering sounds of their conversations muted slightly as a few more nylocs turned to stare.
Porphyria made her way to a table near the center of the room, and sat down cross-legged on the floor, gingerly folding her wings so that she might accomplish this feat with some measure of grace. Most of the suspicious gazes had left Porphyria, although furtive glances continued, and a more regular level of conversation resumed. A pudgy-looking nyloc came out from behind the counter, gliding gracefully and coming to a hover by Porphyria's left arm.
"Greetings, madam. I am Zerifelxis, your host. Please do not take offense, but are you certain that you are in the right place?" At the tavern-keeper's question, several of the nylocs nearby chuckled their amusement, raising an almost-disquieting hiss.
"Yes. I'm certain. And I'm very hungry, so please bring a bowl of whatever's on special tonight." Porphyria's eyes looked into those of the tavern-keeper, and she could almost feel the Golden Apple working its charms upon him.
The nyloc blinked in momentary confusion, and he responded, "I'm very sorry, madam, for my previous rudeness. Of course, your meal will be on its way immediately, and it will be on the house." The tavern-keeper quickly glided back behind the bar, and Porphyria smiled with satisfaction. She had been able to manipulate the nyloc as effortlessly as breathing, and could feel the glances of the others in the room slowly moving away from suspicion as the Apple worked its charms upon them.
Zerifelxis soon came back with a bowl full of blood, with curds of congealed blood floating in it. To Porphyria's nose, it smelled as wonderful as any other food she had smelled, and she began to think that perhaps being a blood-drinker might not be the worst thing in the world. The soup was hot, and as she bit into one of the congealed lumps, Porphyria savored flavors that non-sanguivores had little conception of and no real description for. The resulting sensations were delightful and heady, and Porphyria had almost eaten half her meal before she paused to regard a small glass canister on the side of her table. She sniffed the container quizzically, and was surprised at the scent of hot chili peppers wafting from inside. Similar canisters stood upon all of the other tables, and Porphyria wondered at that -- wouldn't a sanguivore have difficulty digesting the chili? Then again, others eat all kinds of indigestible things, like corn, Porphyria thought as she sprinkled her soup with a pinch of chili pepper. The spice livened up the dish considerably, making it all the more delicious. Porphyria quickly finished.
Looking around, Porphyria saw that the occasional glances in her direction had changed tone to respect and acceptance, although she could not tell whether the change was because of the Apple, or because she had finished an entire bowl of nyloc cuisine while appearing to enjoy every spoonful. She supposed that really, the reason for the change in demeanor hardly mattered. The tavern-keeper glided back over to her table, and Porphyria smiled pleasantly. It had been a long time since she had had a good meal, and she thanked the nyloc as he cleared her table. Porphyria offered a small silver coin as a tip, but the tavern-keeper waved her off casually saying, "It was a pleasure to serve you, madam. And please, do come back soon."
Porphyria nodded her agreement, and stood back up. As she walked back out the tavern door, Porphyria had the strange experience of being nearly dazzled by the bright light of a nearly moonless night. The interior of the tavern certainly was dark. Full and happy, Porphyria slowly wandered back in the direction of the safehouse, enjoying the dark, peaceful night.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Angels
Found out a few days ago that angels are a playable (at level 200+) race. Almost changed Porphyria's race on the spot, but figured that it'd contrast pretty badly with her basic theme. Still, if there was any race that I've been really wanting to play over the years, this would be it.
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