What Dreams May Come
Early morning, and while the chaos at the Ashe Bridge has begun to settle down, the fallout is only just beginning. Even far up on the Hill, the sounds of frantic refugees, harried workers, desperate healers, angry merchants, and bereaved children can be heard by all but the most determined efforts to shut the city noise out.
A smile creeps upon Agrin's lips while he lays in his bed, the windows cracked open to let in what breeze can be had, even if it means the noise of the recent tragedy. He crooks an arm behind his head, stretching out langoriously. The lingering scent of cheap perfume reaches his nose, a faint reminder of the activities from the night before. His whore has obviously gone her way, leaving just the lingering of her perfume. "And so it begins," he murmurs, a soft chuckle bubbling up from his chest.
The cries, clatters, warks, and arguing from far below begins to blend together, becoming a formless babble, meaningless white noise... but to the ear sensitive and knowledgeable in the message woven behind the words, meaning can be picked out of the static. Deep in the pit of Agrin's ear, a small, shrill tone begins to rise, and a feeling of being watched prickles the back of his mind.
Agrin lets out a deep breath, pushing himself up to a sitting position. He spots his clothing somewhere in the midst of tangled bedding that managed to make its way to the floor. He raises a hand to rub at his ear, brows furrowing at the ringing in his ear. Paranoia, the other bedfellow of a spy and provocateur, rises up within. His gaze darts rapidly back and forth as the sensation of being watched grows. A glint of silver shows amidst the rumbled bedding, his cane out of reach for adequate protection.
The babbling begins to muffle, the edges of Agrin's vision beginning to blur and darken. Is this truly happening, the light fading and the sound dying to a whisper? Is something wrong with the man, himself? Or is it merely in his mind. Whatever it is, the figuring atop the cane lowers its hands, head turning up to face Agrin directly. --//Chosen.//--
The mark etched into his body, along his stomach and blended in with other youthful tattoos feels at though it is itching. Agrin's breath catches in his chest as he scrambles, skyclad, to the cane to pick it up out of the bedding. "Mistress," he manages to choke out of his clenched chest. "It is an honor to speak with you again." Elation burbles at the edge of his paranoia.
--//Yes.//-- The figure's mouth does not move, but somehow, within the blank, molded silver eyes, there is a terrifying, burning intensity. --//We listen, at the cracks of our tombs. The goings of the world trickle into our ears, and eager we stir.//-- The shrill note rises, for a moment, the mark pulsing with a brief flare of agony. THough the Lucavians and their lackeys have ever been devoted to their masters, long has it been true that one never *truly* wished to gain the regard of the Damned Thirteen... only their favor.
The mark upon his body pulses in a burning sensation in time with the flare of agony, causing Agrin to bring his fingers to the mark, pain crinkling the corners of his eyes. "I have set into motion a plan will help to release you from your prison, Mistress. One that would bring the Spirits themselves from their vaunted, high seats into the mortal realm." His voice holds a touch of acidic hatred at the mention of the spirits. "I have also found a scholar who has touched your tomb."
--//We have seen the beast of War stir in the north,//-- The voice says without speaking, tiny silver hands clasping together, --//We have heard the betrayals fed to the family of our Chosen, by his own split tongue.//-- The mark on Agrin's body cools, bringing with it the sensation of a lover's caress upon his cheek... and quickly burns bright again. --//We have heard our Chosen bring to us news of the Conduit as though we were not aware.//-- The pain fades as quickly as it began, the rebuke delivered. --//The Conduit remains our sport, for the present; will the Knight of Hair succeed, and crack the shell further? Will the Dead Bitch triumph, and rid us of our most powerful useless servant? It is marvelous sport. With each step, they journey further into *my* realm, Chosen. Never forget this.//--
"Of-of course, Mistress," Agrin stumbles. The memory of pain is one that is sharp, added to others he has experienced in his lifetime. "My apologies for being presumptive." He clears his throat, trying to regain equilibrium. "I will be directing the Archadian Empire to move south, toward Emberstrand through my brother, and I will be speaking with the Rozarrian Ambassadors about the Archadian move, as well as speaking to both on how Emberstrand garners adventurers with abilities and weaponry to take on other armies." He pauses, catching his breath, skin feeling afire from his own embarassment at needing to be rebuked for his idiocy.
The mark cools again, and is that a smile on the lips of the figurine on the cane? Impossible to say. --//A lesser Chosen would direct one clump of mortals at another, and we would be pleased. This Chosen seeks to begin a war of three sides, one that may see all this fetid land aflame. We are pleased, Chosen.//-- The shrill tone begins to rise, drowning out all other sound, as tiny silver arms stretch toward Agrin's face. --//Succeed, and we shall set a place at our left hand for you. Kings and queens shall flock across Terra, fight to gain but a taste of the poison that will drip from your lips, my Chosen...//--
Agrin brings a hand over his heart, giving a seated bow to the cane. "All paths to victory, Mistress." A less secure man would find the absurdity of giving a skyclad, seated bow to a cane top figurine. Agrin brings the cane closer, almost afraid to breathe in the presence of his Mistress. "I live to serve."
--//Yes, Chosen.//-- And as the tiny hands touch Agrin's face the blank silver eyes blaze to life, shedding unholy, beautiful light on the naked, twisted noble. The tone drowns out everything, now, even the sounds of his own heartbeat, as black veins crawl across Agrin's vision. The silver face seems to draw even closer, growing to obscure the bed, the room, the world beyond.
--//You serve to live.//--
Early morning, and while the chaos at the Ashe Bridge has begun to settle down, the fallout is only just beginning. Even far up on the Hill, the sounds of frantic refugees, harried workers, desperate healers, angry merchants, and bereaved children can be heard by all but the most determined efforts to shut the city noise out.
Agrin gasps awake, hand grasping at the mark upon his stomach. A dull ache rests in his bones, as does every time he speaks with his Mistress. The cheap scent of perfume wafts toward his nose, lingering with the night's activities. The warmth of the bed reminds him he's not alone; his whore never left last night, at his own request. Sitting up in bed, untangling himself from the sheet, he peers back down at the bedding, fetching his cane from the twisted sheet.
The cane is, by all appearances, simply a cane; a peculiar affectation, that often serves for an interesting conversation piece. An angelic woman holding her hand to her mouth. And if an imperfection at the base of the image suggests a hoof where a foot should be, well... it *is* a well-used cane.
A curved, scimitar grin coming to Agrin's face. The words are remembered from his discussion as his hand gingerly clasps around the top of the cane, cradling it. "I serve to live." A dark chuckle bubbles forth from his chest. He hears the whore stir in her sleep at his laughter, which causes it to die down. "I will see you another night, Anatalia. Your bonus, as always, will be waiting for you. Now, leave with haste." He glances toward the open window, ears catching the cries of the bereaved, the scuttle of cleaning stone, and the bone weary anguish that can be turned to his needs.
"I have work to do."
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