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[IC] Enervation, 2020

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Hyacintho Quietus's picture
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The pipe is well-worn, with a thick ochre resin built-up in the bowel piece. There's only a dribble of water left inside. Most likely it has not been in use for some time.

The pouch contains three small clusters of deep yellow crystals, rather like the rock candy one finds in abundance in the city's Khajiiti wards during their boisterous street festivals. The crystals have a pungent sweet smell, very cloying, and a subtle hint of some other spice that evades naming.

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Venari draws an arrow from her quiver and walks over to the curio cabinet. Standing on her tippy-toes, she uses the arrow to shove the jar to the edge of the cabinet. Once positioned optimally, she reaches up and grabs it with her hands. She dusts off the cobwebs and holds it up to get a better look.

Placing the jar on a countertop, Venari carefully removes the lid, cups her hand above the opened jar, and gently wafts the air towards her nose to help determine its contents.

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The smell from the jar is best described as a piquant medley of brandy, honey, ether salt, and something rather like boiled ham left in the sun for several days. There appears to be something solid in the jar, something with a head and four limbs.

Further inspection reveals a label beneath the dust. It reads "Ayleid Princeling, Late 1st Era".

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Venari pokes the pickled princeling with her finger. On her face appears a grin. The grin becomes a smile. The smile becomes a laugh. Ven cannot remember the last time she laughed so hard. Maybe one day she’ll look back at this day and laugh again ... but she doubts it. 
 

Venari turns and walks out of the dilapidated shop.

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Outside is quite the scene. Bruised Dunmeri hooligans and battered Argonian clutchings are being hauled up in fetters to a train of 'jeety-wagons by His Imperial Majesty's finest. As he's being frog-marched to a wagon, a particularly bold hooligan with his hair cut into tall mohawk makes eyes at Venari.

"Hey girly, like what you see? How's about we celebrate the victory whens I gets out?" he cat-calls at her.

The Horsehair dragooning him barks "No talking, scum!" while delivering a heavy clout on his ear.

...

Elsewhere,

 A very large, very pale Nord festooned in uncharacteristically flamboyant silk attire pins a note to the front door of the legal residence of a certain Mr. Clovis Bronmar with a very large knife. He then departs without commentary of any kind.

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"Nailed to our door, you say?" Clovis turned the knife over in his hands. "How... crude. Do send for the carpenter, won't you? It will not do to leave the paneling in such a state." He placed the knife delicately upon a side table and nodded at Reggie. "Well, go on, read the thing. We may as well hear what so adamantly demands our attention."

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"Dearest Dead Man,

I know what you did. There will be consequences, I can promise you that with absolute certainty. But at least return what you've stolen, and perhaps I can convince the Night-Mayors to sentence you with a lesser eternal torment. Though only perhaps - that I cannot promise - for they are far less forgiving than I. My own mercy, for reference, expires in three days time. Until then,

Sweetest Dreams,

Camoëns"

 

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Clovis' mouth twists. "Well then. This is less than ideal." He stands abruptly and paces to the window. A lengthy silence, as he searches the street below for some sign. Finding none, he twitches the blinds shut. "The oneiric communion remains closed to us, Reggie, and we appear no longer to have the luxury of time." His fist tightens around his cane. "Fetch me the dark lantern and ready my carriage. If our old friend Camoëns believes he can frighten me..." A short bark of a laugh escapes his lips. "He underestimates my devotion. Come, let us see whose faith is stronger."

---

Dusk near Talos Plaza. A black coach rumbles to a halt outside a small chapel, and a large gentleman steps forth. He bears a lantern aloft, but no light shines. Over the lintel is the eroded visage of a woman - perhaps the Lady Kynareth. A perfunctory genuflection, and the man has disappeared, into the pitch inside.

His footfalls echo in the darkness, first loud, then deafening, then thunderous. By the time he reaches the stone effigy alcoved within the far wall, each step cracks with the shock of lightning.

Outside, the soft murmur of the City's nightfall continues undisturbed.

The man kneels, bows his head. He raises his lantern in both hands and whispers a prayer, or perhaps an incantation, and silence descends like a crashing wave.

The man stands and turns, lifting his lantern as though its dead wick will afford him a better view, toward the direction of the Elven Gardens. He stares for a moment, there in the black, then turns and quickly walks away, his footsteps quiet.

The lantern now burns with intense, unseen heat, and he quickly stows it in a metal box back at the carriage. Then he doubles over, clutching his seared hand and cursing all nine divines and a few more for good measure, as his aide begins a healing ritual.

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No one stole from Camoëns, or defamed him, or even so much as passed him a bad check, without meeting his most trusted right hand, Torgyl the Talker, late of stabbing a threatening notice to a certain burgher's front-door. Easily 7 foot, holy shit inches, without so much as a half-ounce of fat or a blemish of any kind of his bone-white skin, a visit from the elegantly dressed giant was like receiving death itself.

So it was for Robart Buzin, the poor sod, just about to settle in the cathedral-deep-darkness of his city manse's stately drawing room, next to the sole illumination of a cozy fire with a tipple of good flin and a respectable folio of pornographic etchings, when the Nord seemed to float up to him.

"You!" Robart gasps.

Yes. Torgyl answers.

"I...I have the money. Let me ring for my valet. He can bring it."

Don't bother: Your guards are in a heap in their quarters; I've taken the liberty of breaking every one of their necks.

"I...uh...have a small pittance hidden away in my escritoire, the one in the corner. But let me go and unlock it and..."

I'm aware of the hand-candle stashed in there. .

"Please! You don't understand! It's those damn Bravilians! Basso! Those illiterates have finally caught on, now their watching the waterfront constantly - we just can't move the paradise like before!"

Relax. Camoëns understands; He's merely dispatched me here to issue a warning.

"Thank the weaver!" Buzin exhales a jet of a relieved sigh. "Please," he continues "Tell Camoëns...I'll find...some way to move the sugar, I swear!"

No, you won't.

"What...what do you mean?"

I apologize if I was unclear. The warning is for others.

Robart attempts to call out, but he finds his jaw stayed, as if by the grip of an giant invisible vise wrenched about his head. He struggles to his feet, intent to flee, but the clenching power tightens its hold. Slowly but indomitably, the pressure increases. There's no running. His only chance is the hand-candle. In terrific pain, Buzin stumbles over to the aforementioned escritoire. He fumbles with his key.

Torgyl can't help but sport a naked grin at the ridiculous display.

The pressure is excruciating. Robart can't barely think, much less breath through the oppression. Nevertheless, despite the extreme difficulty, he pulls the key free of his breeches and jabs it into the keyhole. A torrential bleed bursts out of his nose. He clicks the lock and rips the drawer out, nearly off the rollers. So close now, he's just got to find the hand-candle in all the clutter and just...

CRUUUUUUUUNCH

The head that was Buzin implodes in a wet spectacle. The fingers go limp just as they were about to curl about the grip of the weapon. The headless body collapses to the floor, like cutting the strings on a marionette.

I must strive to communicate more clearly in the future, Torgyl says to himself before departing with the same ceremony of his arrival.

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Dawn breaks like a rancid egg, dribbling a steamy grey fog down through the streets of the City, where it pools in scummy puddles and casts shadows from all things.

Is there still a City out there? In the haze, one could imagine oneself almost anywhere. For as long as it takes the sun's gaze to seek out and reclaim Tamriel's clouded jewel, the place becomes as a gateway to foreign worlds.

The wise know the enshrouded shapes hold nothing more fearsome than the buildings and statues of their waking world. The wary stay home for fear of chancing upon some waking nightmare.

Others, still, are suited to neither category. The shadows move.

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Venari walks toward the headquarters of the Imperial Office of Agricultural Statistics. The bronze tigers flanking the entrance are showing some wear — and so is the panhandler seeking refuge in the shade underneath one of them. 

 

Ven sits down next to the beggar, hands over a couple of drakes, and asks, “Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

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"Mind is the only question, weftling," the slight, sun-roasted beggar offers ponderously with a deep, weary voice as he tests the weight of the new drakes in his wizened hand "Is yours ready to taste paradise?"

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Venari rests her right hand on the beggar’s arm and casts Charm. “Well aren’t you a sweetheart!? I guess that depends. I’m looking for a mer named Arkved. What can you tell me about him?”

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The charm treacles over the beggar, a slow deluge of green ichor. Yet it does not hold, the once resinous glamor washing off in the wind as if it were water defeated by a sailor's oil-skin. The wizened old man can only laugh off the attempt in hearty gales, revealing his intensely yellow mouth.

"You breath dust in the face of one who has eaten the panoply, weftling" he says, through heavy guffaws "but far be it from me to refuse you sacred Arkved."

His laughter subsided, he points a wizened claw back at the Office of Agricultural Statistics "Seek your goldenrod within. Like all Man's hubris, this edifice is betrayed by a black door, deeply held. You want the letters Beatriz Viterbo."

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“Thank you. That is most kind. Generosity seems to be in short supply in this city.”

 

Venari takes the milkskin from under her cloak, uncorks it, and takes a long drink of jagga. The warm milk coats her throat. She extends her hand and offers the milkskin to the beggar.

 

“Any advice?” she asks earnestly. 

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The old man refuses the skin, his face twisted with a squeamish expression.

"My advice, weftling? Drink no poison."

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“Suit yourself,” she says as she corks the milkskin and tucks it back under her cloak.

 

Rummaging through her satchel, Ven locates a small, brown pouch — its tanned leather soft and oddly beautiful. Opening it, she spills the contents into her open palm. She takes the strange bone dice and throws them onto the ground between her feet. She stares at them for a second or two and mutters a quiet prayer to Y'ffre:

 

Song of night-tide canopy

Stars woven between your leaves

Crow’s watching eye 

Snake’s empty belly

Moving, dancing in every moment

Forgetting what comes and what is gone

 

Venari scoops up the dice and returns them to their pouch, tucking it back into the satchel. “Not ideal,” she remarks cryptically.

Hyacintho Quietus's picture
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It was Framis, in case anybody needs closure.

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That is good to know. I quite enjoyed reading this RP. B's character Venari actually lives on in our current D&D campaign with Loranna. You are always welcome if you want in.