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Eternal Glade of the Shattered Mind; In this echo of forgotten time, remembrance is my only crime...
Topic Started: Sun 12 Jun 2016 18:50:34 (1,855 Views)
blader4411
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Lacunae
[ *  *  * ]
Eternal Glade of the Shattered Mind
These words are my gift, my longing and my end,
The tear that calls for salvation.
Long in coming, you have waited,
As worlds died and reality was remade.

Upon your throne, know the dreamer walks onward,
Though sleep be no respite.
In the last - in Twilight's hour - to be reunited.
These words are my memory, my echo and my beginning.

Those who witness her descent shall be my judge,
If any will even remain.


The Empress

The Wheel of Fortune

The Star that Swallows

The World that Was

The Tower of Babel
Tournament Victories:
Grand Opening Bout! (Quadra)
Warpfest (Iggy the Fool)

Event Victories:
Ratzmas 2017 Fluff Competition
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blader4411
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Lacunae
[ *  *  * ]
Turn 1 - Never Sample Your Own Wares
“Look at them.” Lacunae purred, her voice distinctly at odds with her posture. Bent double, muscles taut, she slowly backed away from the edge.

“Insects, a thoughtless swarm existing for existence’s sake.” Slowly, the spring snapped into place - taut, primed and ready - as Lacunae tied the rope’s end to a nearby post.

(Scurrying below us with no life, no purpose. They should thank us for bringing some excitement to this dreary corner of un-space.)

“Patience, dear sister. Half the thrill of the hunter is the wait. Don’t spoil that - even our target deserves that thrill.”

(Were you always so capricious? Ah - here he comes!)

***

Skittle Mireclaw’s House of Games, better known as the Mirelurk. It had begun when the aforementioned Mireclaw had fallen afoul of his creditors and went on the run, desperately searching for a place to hide. This hole - hollowed out centuries ago by an underground lake - had provided the perfect mixture of space and obscurity, whilst still remaining but a stone’s throw from Hell Pit proper. What started as a cave with some blankets grew with Skittle’s own improving fortunes - once debts were settled and Warpstone began to flow, the cave transformed: first a dwelling house, then an apartment, until finally it reached its current incarnation - a house of games, drink and occasional ill repute.

The original founder had died long ago - before the End Times - but his descendants continued the upkeep of the Mirelurk, which by now had become the favorite haunt of the lost, the dispossessed and the willingly forgotten. Despite the dated aesthetic and unsavoury clientele, the Mirelurk had seen a resurgence of late (possibly due to the fact that it was one of the few establishments here, on the border of what was once Clan Moulder territories) as members of all races seeking solitude came here, to the edge of this Rock floating aimlessly through the Warp. This resurgence brought with it capital - a shocking amount of currency passed through this haven, chiefly from the hands of those unable to make use of the traditional markets.

There were even rumours that the Mirelurk hosted Strangers on occasion. Forever covered in thick robes and speaking to none but the proprietor, these mysterious figures would claim a private room for a day, maybe two, before leaving as mysteriously as they came. The room they left would always be immaculate, bearing no signs of use save for a large stack of Tokens left on the dining table. An endless stream of rumours discussed these Strangers - important Moulders slumming it? A band of roving assassins? One of the many proscribed religions and their secret society? All rumours of course, nothing to get the Inquisition worried about. Not yet, anyway...

Amidst this wretched hive of scum and villainy, an anxious human was currently making his way to the door. Alistair Villein: tenth in his family to serve the Mireclaws. His ancestor had been taken as a slave in an Old World raid, but generations of faithful service had elevated his family’s status, culminating with emancipation in the chaos of Hell Pit’s ascension. Affable, charming and intelligent, Alistair had become an indispensible resource in the upkeep of the Mirelurk, and had not only freedom but also a great deal of responsibility. As he walked out the door and into the dark, lamplit tunnel ahead, taking several corners en route to a secluded enclave, Alistair reflected upon his past as men are wont to do, lost in thought - up until the moment his leg was caught in a rope.

A few seconds later, Alistair was dangling upside down, staring unamused into the mischievous face of a certain Wood Elf.

“As much as I enjoy these little surprises.” Alistair drawled, “Would it kill you to make an appointment like everyone else?”

“But where would be the fun in that? Besides, I need to keep my skills sharp - an Asrai who cannot hunt is one who cannot live.” (And live we must, until it is time.)

Alistair chuckled in spite of himself, and fumbled for something in his pocket. Pulling out a sizeable sack, he tossed it to Lacunae, who pocketed it in turn without bothering to verify the contents - a truly rare admission of trust in Hell Pit.

“Your information was spot on - how could you possibly know that Number 3 was taking Black Lotus? Or that his competitor was aware and would cheat accordingly?” Alistair was incredulous - he drew information from every card dealer and staff member in the Mirelurk, yet this lucrative information had slipped him by.

“I’m afraid that’s a trade secret - don’t trouble yourself with it. Just keep cooperating, and we’ll both walk away far wealthier than before.” Lacunae promised, already reaching out to lower the rope.

“Wait!” Alistair nearly shouted. “Answer me this! Why play these games? Why get me to fleece these fools and take their money? With this information, you could do it yourself without even giving me a cut, so why?” At this, Lacunae gave him an incredulous look.

“The first rule of being a dealer is to never sample your own wares. I am known in the circle of brokers - if I were seen personally profiting on the information I trade, there would be consequences. Far better to use an intermediary - better still to pretend said intermediary had been kidnapped if anyone were observing. Take this rope trap for instance - if anyone saw you coming down in a minute, with a considerably lighter purse, they would think me a common thief, and not spare a second thought. Ah, but I’m sure your leg is getting stiff, so I’ll be on my way. Same time, two weeks from now?” (He will come.)

Without waiting for a reply, Lacunae released the rope, and Alistair soon disappeared from view. The Wood Elf quickly began dismantling her trap, humming a quiet tune as she worked.

OOC: Feel free to comment in this thread, as I'll be posting links to every story in the first post for easy reference.
Tournament Victories:
Grand Opening Bout! (Quadra)
Warpfest (Iggy the Fool)

Event Victories:
Ratzmas 2017 Fluff Competition
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Ratticq of clan Gnawkin
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SUIT UP!

I have known you to write stories for quite a while, blader, so in regard to the writing itself there is little to comment on. Yet, one thing that made me wonder was:
Quote:
 
But I digress. [...]

Who is digressing? Is it Alistair? Cause for reading purposes, it would make more sense (to me) to start with his introduction, rather then doing so after the digressing-part.

Other then that, a nice piece and it seems I need to keep my wits up around the Mirelurk. :P
In my body, where the shame gland should be, there is a second awesome gland. True story.
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blader4411
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Lacunae
[ *  *  * ]
Mmm, it seems you caught a writing note that should have been removed. Good eye :)
Specifically, this story started out in the first-person, but was later reworked to the current format. What you found should have been Lacunae speaking as the narrator, but alas, that never quite worked out :P

I'm sure you'll see these characters again, I didn't invest in the politics tree for noth as I continue my works of fiction.
Tournament Victories:
Grand Opening Bout! (Quadra)
Warpfest (Iggy the Fool)

Event Victories:
Ratzmas 2017 Fluff Competition
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blader4411
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Lacunae
[ *  *  * ]
Turn 2 - Chain of Memories
“A tray of Dandelion Biscuits. Codfish Roe, marinated for two and a half days. Three bottles of Elderberry Reserve. Freshly roasted stag meat, coated in Cold One sauce. Dwarfblood Pudding. That should be the last of it.” Lacunae listed each item in turn, ticking them off as they were brought to the table.

(It’s not much, but I suppose it will have to do.)

“I had not expected this to be so difficult.” She confessed as she handed a sack of tokens to the leader of the Servitors, who bowed before heading to the door.

“Unfortunately, sourcing the more exotic ingredients has proved difficult: that, and the need to prepare a variety that will appeal to any of my kin. The White Spires, the Deepwoods and the Black Towers, I do hope all will be represented, but I know not whom nor in what proportions. Thus, I need something for everyone.”

(Is it just my imagination, or do you seem happier recently?)

“It’s been over a decade since I’ve spoken to any of my kin.” Lacunae protested. “True, we’ve never been the most outgoing pair. Some might even call us withdrawn, or severe. But in these trying times, a little company might lift even our withered spirits.

(So you say. Still, you’ve gone quite far with these preparations.)

Looking out at the fruits of her labour, it was hard to disagree. A large, round dining table had been hauled into the upper chamber of the Mirelurk, filling the majority of the room. Upon the table lay a veritable feast: in quantities such that it was a wonder the table’s legs did not buckle.

The back wall had been repainted: a thick bough of trees illuminated by the sparse candlelight. In the sky, the sun was black - the final eclipse of the Old World a stark contrast to the peaceful scene below.

(Wake up, sister. The guests are arriving.)

She tore her eyes away from the painting with visible reluctance, and used the short walk to the door to school her features back into the impassive mask everyone knew. A final check in a handheld mirror confirmed her preparation - the door opened.

The guest filed in slowly: some alone, others in pairs or small groups. When next the door closed, the two dozen seats had been filled, and goblets of wine and plates of food were filled and passed around. Seated at the nominal head of the table, Lacunae waited patiently for her guests to get settled in. Eventually, when the flurry of activity had largely subsidied, she cleared her throat softly. All eyes turned to their host; a myriad of emotions apparent in their gazes.

“We are gathered here today to remember what has been lost.” She began solemnly, looking at each guest in turn. “To remember the World when it was a world. To the spires that touched the sky, to the wind running through our lungs, to the rivers dyed in blood. The World was not eternal, it was not perfect, but it was ours. A toast, to what once was!” (What will never be again.)

On cue, everyone raised their goblet to their lips. Lacunae was pleased to see only the slightest hesitation amongst the guests: the relative lack of suspicion was a welcome contrast to her dealings with fellow Moulders. With the welcoming ritual concluded, the ice was broken - wine and conversation began to flow in equal measure. But out of everyone present, one guest was evidently ill at ease. A young Wood Elf of less than a century, she looked remarkably out of her depth as the other guests chatted. The hesitation was evident in her eyes and her movements, until eventually it came to a head and she left her seat, ready to depart.

“Why are you leaving so soon, my child?” The girl froze in place as all eyes turned to her. Lacunae had to resist the urge to laugh at her dumbstruck expression, but managed to maintain an expression of curiosity and sincerity. (Barely.)

“I...I don’t belong here.” She finally answered “Everyone else in this room lived in that World, they were there, they remember. I was born in Hell Pit, the olden age are but stories to me. Even you are-”

“I am older than you, yes” Lacunae replied crisply, “But not so old that I am blind. I could tell your age at a glance, child, yet I still invited you here. Can you guess why?”

The girl blinked, confronted with this new information. After a moment of hesitation, she slowly shook her head.

“It is precisely because you never lived them, that you must learn our memories.“ Lacunae explained, gesturing grandly at the forest painted behind her. “Blessed as we are with longevity, we are still not immortal. One day, it will come to pass that none who saw The World will remain. When that day comes, it is the efforts of individuals like you who will ensure that when we die, our legacy does not die with us. You who do not remember can most clearly learn - you who never lived them can understand, free of nostalgia and bias and superstition. Tell me, child, what is your name?”

“L-Lorena. My name is Lorena.” The girl muttered, before gasping as Lacunae stood, bounding over the table in a single, fluid movement. Now standing level with her, Lacunae offered an outstretched hand.

“Lorena - proud daughter of a lost world: will you become our Listener? Will you take your place among us, the newest link in a chain of memories that shall endure throughout space and time?”

Lorena had begun breathing rapidly as she stared in silence, and Lacunae began to fear she would hyperventilate. Eventually however, the girl calmed her racing heartbeat, and clasped Lacunae’s hand in her own.

“I will.”

At that simple proclamation, the other guests - watching with bated breath - erupted in cheer. Lacunae and Lorena returned to the table, hand in hand, and wine began to flow once more.

OOC: A reminder that even amidst the serious struggle of life and death in Hell Pit, its important now and again to relax and have a good time!
Tournament Victories:
Grand Opening Bout! (Quadra)
Warpfest (Iggy the Fool)

Event Victories:
Ratzmas 2017 Fluff Competition
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Grey Lord Skreetch Warpfang
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He of the Glowing Green Incisor

Trust... Yes-yes, I have heard of this 'trust'. It has no place in the glorious society that is Hell Pit, each skaven striving for his own goals. The only way that elf-child will survive in the race for the trophy of Mutae's rebirth is if she had a poisoned spike in her hand when Lacunae took it.
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Weirder than Tim Burton's Gotham... My lab!
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blader4411
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Lacunae
[ *  *  * ]
That may be true of Skaven, but the Elves have long memories. Even in the depths of the Warp, loyalty and honor can still be found if one knows where to look.
Tournament Victories:
Grand Opening Bout! (Quadra)
Warpfest (Iggy the Fool)

Event Victories:
Ratzmas 2017 Fluff Competition
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AshenEshin
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MK ULTRA - Skaven style

This is conflicting my friendly Skaven Character. What would Tirr do?...
Probably try to make friends or create a psycho-analytical profile. Interesting to see player's social outlooks/ moral compass (which generally moulders(especially skaven) don't have)
He's not a master assassin!, He is a very naughty boy!
The Rave(-ing Mad) Cave a.k.a my lab
Praise be to Mutae:fsm:
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Grey Lord Skreetch Warpfang
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He of the Glowing Green Incisor

Or steal their medicine. Maybe.
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Weirder than Tim Burton's Gotham... My lab!
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Sod
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Marquis de

Ha, the shade is real!
Ps:rock on blader!
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AshenEshin
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MK ULTRA - Skaven style

@ GreyLordSkreetchWarpfang
Sorry. I did help you off the floor. Does that count as payment?We cool?
He's not a master assassin!, He is a very naughty boy!
The Rave(-ing Mad) Cave a.k.a my lab
Praise be to Mutae:fsm:
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blader4411
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Lacunae
[ *  *  * ]
I promise there was nothing weird in the food and drink. :P
I haven't had time to research Alchemy yet Drugs were my S2 project, but this time I'm going for something a little different.

Also, whoever is taking organs, keep your hands off the Elves :P
Tournament Victories:
Grand Opening Bout! (Quadra)
Warpfest (Iggy the Fool)

Event Victories:
Ratzmas 2017 Fluff Competition
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blader4411
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Lacunae
[ *  *  * ]
Prologue - Feminine Wiles and Floral Guile
“The Key is what may never be seen, yet holds the levers that move the world.
The Vessel is the heart yet to beat, the lullaby that lures thirteen to sleep.
The Blade is the one who holds, the body is empty - embrace and extend.
The Eye is the one who speaks when all who live are silent.
The Sacrifice is He who breaks, She who thirsts,
The Child shall be born of the last breath that is The First.
She who dons mortality to lift us to Heaven.”


(But if she is so much, what is left of us?)

“We are the broken, the thirsty, the lost. We who have been forsaken shall by our own endeavour create that which has been torn away.”

(By your own code, does that mean we are both He and She?)

The quill snapped in Lacunae’s hand as she clenched instinctively. Ink splattered across the table and began running down the side; most of it was caught with a handkerchief before it hit the ground.

“Could you take this a bit more seriously, dear sister?” Lacunae frowned, unimpressed. “These are after all the tenets of our faith the guiding light of our future!”

(What is faith in a world where even Gods can die? Why should we even try? Besides, I thought you’d be more worried about the ink. That concoction is terribly expensive.)

“Just behave!” Lacunae groaned “And please don’t say anything that might upset our host...”

“Ah, a visitor! Come in and shut the door, its cold outside!” Despite wearing only a thin leather tunic and trousers, it did not feel that cold, but Lacunae nevertheless complied.

As she secured the door, she got a good look at the shopkeeper who had busied himself with a pot of tea. He was short and uncommonly stout for a human: with arms as thick as the elf’s waist. Add in his bright orange hair and matching beard, and Lacunae thought he might have passed as a Dwarven slayer. Behind him, was a collection of some of the oddest items Lacunae had seen in decades. Some particular items of note were the statue with the head split in two, a stone mask sporting a pair of fangs, an ornate sword with a monkey circling the handle, and oddly enough, a tiny bell shaped like a swan.

“Bella Swan?” Lacunae murmued, focusing on the last item. “Was the one who had that engraved drunk, dumb or Bretonnian?”

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that myself. I will say however that when you hold some light to that, it really sparkles. Careful not to blind yourself if you try!” The shopkeep laughed heartily. “Name’s Anthony, lass, in case you didn’t know. Everyone round here calls me Ant though; says I put the Ant in antiques, hah!”

“I am Lacunae. It’s truly...a pleasure.” Lacunae blinked - clearly the man’s eccentricity had been no exaggeration.

Taking a seat, Lacunae refused a cup of tea with a polite smile, before opening her freshly written scroll - the ink barely dry. She passed the scroll to Ant wordlessly, who took it with barely concealed delight.

“Yes... Yes! Such delightful symbolism! Such profound understanding of the cosmic relationship, of the tether that binds us all together! So ahead of its time too, oh, the musty scent of old leather!”

(He’s really that impressed with something we wrote in ten minutes?)

“Indeed - this transcription must have come from a renowned elven sage!” Lacunae replied, using every ounce of willpower not to break down laughing. As Ant continued to rant, she tuned out the background noise, instead focusing her hearing outward - behind the sturdy door to the shop. Three short, soft knocks.

(It’s showtime!)

“...Oh, just wait until we get this to auction! It will fetch at the very least two thousand!” Anthony panted, taking a big gulp of tea - talked out for the moment. With that opening, Lacunae seized the initiative.

“Such a strange piece,” Lacunae asked, cocking her head and lifting a finger to her lips - the picture of innocent curiosity.. “Of Gods and birth and creation. But coming from so long ago - before the End, even - what could it possibly mean?”

“That - ah, forgive me madam, but it wouldn’t do to speculate on such things. Ah, the walls listen in, you know, right?” Ant tried to divert the conversation, but something was wrong. As he continued to read the scroll, a strange aroma assailed his nostrils and his thoughts - normally clear despite his eccentricities - had become murky, his posture slack and his words slurred.

(The information was accurate - he really is allergic to poppies. Now’s your chance, sister.)

“Oh, that won’t do.” Lacunae pouted, leaning forward onto the table. “I came an awfully long way to see you, to listen, surely you can offer me some of your wisdom?” Her already-tight tunic stretched at the seams, giving Ant quite the view. With feminine wiles added to floral guile, Ant - his thoughts thoroughly scattered - finally relented, and began to speak.

“My dear, this piece quite simply describes the creation of an Elven God! This is extraordinary - the conception of a being of pure thought given form and soul. Indeed, in many ways it appears that this old Elvish sect followed ideals very close to the Cult of Mutae! I would even suggest that the latter might have been copied from this-”

That was as far as Ant got before a thunderous crash tore the reinforced door clean from its hinges. Half a dozen armored Stormvermin flooded into the room, tackling the shopkeeper to the ground. A pair of cuffs were swiftly clipped to his wrists, and he was roughly pulled to his feet.

“What is the meaning of this? I am a reputable-” A smack to the mouth silenced the man.

“Anthony Konig” The leading Skaven snarled. “You are guilty of profaning the name-form of the Futuremother! You squeak-spit heresy, claiming Mutae was born of elf-things. With everyone here-present as my witnesses, we take-bring you to the Inquisition for judgement.”

“Wait.” Anthony shouted, beginning to struggle as he realised what was happening. “It wasn’t me! Her - she brought the scroll I was reading from, it was her!”

All eyes turned to Lacunae, who pouted as she held the scroll, rolled up in her hand.

“What are you saying, my dear Ant? You were the one who called me here, telling me you had some grand discovery. I travelled so many miles to listen to your tale, and now I am accused of your heresies? For shame.”

(Could you lay it on any thicker?)

“Look at the scroll! The scroll speaks no lies!” Ant writhed, desperate for some way to escape his predicament.

Lacunae shrugged, and tossed the scroll to the leading Skaven, who quickly unwrapped it.

“Yes-yes, it is as you say, man-thing.” At that, Ant sagged in relief.

“See? I told you, Lacunae was the one who brought-”

“The scroll speaks-tells no lies.” The Skaven turned the scroll to face Ant, and his brief jubilation shattered. It was completely blank.

“To think that I had come, willing to take notes of your discovery, and yet instead of science you attempted to feed me these foul heresies. I hope you enjoy your time with the Inquisition, it is more than scum like you deserves.” Lacunae turned her nose up, ignoring the pitiful wails of Ant as he was led out of the shop in chains.

The leading Skaven was the last out the door, not sparing Lacunae a single glance. Patiently, Lacunae waited until the footsteps of the departing faded, until she was absolutely sure she was alone.

Then she laughed. Oh, how she laughed - until tears ran down her cheeks and her ribs hurt - still she laughed. Finally, laughter became panting as her humour ran its course.

(You really do take things too far. To think that all this, just because that simpering fool outbid you at an auction.)

“That was certainly the main motivation for this farce.” Lacunae smirked, “But there are other benefits than my good humour. The Order of Mutagenesis will look favourably upon my role in stamping out that heretic, so my membership application should be approved soon. Furthermore, in their haste to take him to trial they didn’t even loot the shop. Oh, how many wonderful pieces there are here. This will take quite some time to catalogue, but it's just what we need to get started.”

(Quite the profit indeed, even with the extra cost of the invisible ink. Then you’ve decided?)

“Oh yes. With just a few weeks until the next pit-fighting season, now is as good a time as any to register. The sales of these antiques should provide our initial funding, and we can even take a few choice pieces with us to the Shattered Knights as gifts. Yes, I think this is the beginning of something beautiful.

OOC: Here's something slightly different, a prologue if you will, set just before Turn 1. Enjoy :)
Tournament Victories:
Grand Opening Bout! (Quadra)
Warpfest (Iggy the Fool)

Event Victories:
Ratzmas 2017 Fluff Competition
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blader4411
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Lacunae
[ *  *  * ]
Turn 3 - New Moon
“There he is. This is worse that I thought.”

(Look at the robes those two are wearing.)

“I see him. New Moon Syndicate, probably an enforcer judging by the truncheon. Robes are new, none of the wear from frequent scrubbing, but no bloodstaines either. He can’t be very experienced.”

(Might be why they were sent to this desolate corner of Hell.)

“Only one person, I can’t hear any other movement in the area. I think I’ll watch for a bit, and move in when he’s distracted.”

As she spoke to herself, Lacunae never took her eyes off the scene unfolding up ahead. Mismatched eyes observed her prey, whilst her hand drew out a thin, grey vial from one of the many clips at her belt, absently rolling the container in her palm.

Down below - seperated by a ledge descending into a chasm, Alistair was having what looked like a spirited discussion with the robed individuals. He was a human who looked, for lack of a better word, ragged. Despite wearing fresh robes, there was something unmistakably off about his appearance.

The human was leading the conversation, punctuating his words with wild, flailing gestures. Alistair said very little, but occasionally shook his head. They were too far away to hear what was being said, but Lacunae could nevertheless understand the general story. Repeated gestures at the pouch of gold at Alistair’s hip, denials and negotiations - a common language of barter that transcended speech.

It seemed that the human was growing more agitated as the conversation dragged on - Lacunae took that as her cue to begin stalking closer, silently approaching the arguing figures. She’d already made it three-quarters of the way when the human raised his first to strike. Lacunae cleared her throat loudly.

“Excuse me, am I interrupting something?” Startled,they reacted very differently.

Alistair sighed in relief, slumping to the ground. The Skaven gaped at Lacunae, unsure what to make the of the new arrival. The human was the most decisive, and he lunged forward. Crossing the distance faster than humanly possible, his fist flew towards the elf’s head.

Sidestepping, Lacunae just barely dodged the blow, before driving her first into the man’s exposed stomach. He staggered backwards, winded, but recovered surprisingly quickly to lunge again. By this point, Lacunae had already drawn her blade, and she landed a deep cut in the man’s thigh.

Unexpectedly, the man did not fall, but instead rode his momentum into a shoulder barge that sent Lacunae flying. She landed gracefully, transitioning into a roll, and was back on one knee by the time the man began approaching, the wound in his thigh seemingly gone. This time, he drew his truncheon and leapt forward with a snarl, aiming at Lacunae's chest. She waited, until the man was nearly on top of him, before throwing the vial in her left hand at him. Her blade flashed, cutting the vial in half and spilling the powder within onto the man’s face.

Immediately, the man fell to his knees, letting out a gutteral scream as his face seemed to melt. Fur sprouted around his body, coating it in a thick black pelt, while a tail sprouted from his spine.

“So I was right.” Lacunae panted. “You weren’t subtle about it, naming yourselves the New Moon Syndicate and all, but when I saw how quickly your wound healed I was certain.”

As she spoke, Lacunae ran her blade along the ground, coating the edge with the spilled powder.

“This is powdered silver, blessed in Athel Toralien. When Beastmen attacked every winter, many possessed unholy means of healing. The best cure for such creatures was fire, but when one lacked fire, silver was the next best thing. Of course, you already knew that.”

The werewolf shuddered, seemingly trying to speak. His hand spasmed, reaching for his lost truncheon, but Lacunae only laughed as she kicked the weapon out of reach.

“Ordinarily I would interrogate you, asking why you were accosting my friend, but you’ve likely told him more than enough, so I won’t waste any time. Aw, don’t look so sad, wolf, the rest of your pack will join you soon enough.”

A single flick of Lacunae’s wrist sent the silver-coated blade through the werewolf’s neck, parting his head from his shoulders.

“Thank you!” Alistair coughed, getting back to his feet. “I really thought that was the end of me! Here, let me give you the gold I owe-”

Lacunae cut him off with a raised hand.

“Forget that payment, help take this to market instead. Organs are in high demand this week, and lycanthrope body parts have special properties. This will fetch us both a month’s winnings at the table (and then some,) but we have to move quickly before the rot sets in. Come, help me lift him, we can talk on the way...”

OOC: As always, comments and discussion are welcome - keep in mind that as noted above, this story is far from over :P
Tournament Victories:
Grand Opening Bout! (Quadra)
Warpfest (Iggy the Fool)

Event Victories:
Ratzmas 2017 Fluff Competition
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Ratticq of clan Gnawkin
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SUIT UP!

I never expected the story to end quickly either. ;)

Out of curiosity, does silver (in powder form) really trigger the transformation of a werewolf? I thought to have read plenty a story or fable on the matter, but I never got around to that bit.
In my body, where the shame gland should be, there is a second awesome gland. True story.
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Packlords: Glod-Unbaraki, Morkskittar, Chieftain Quickitt
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