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Sometimes I must forge hard bargains with the world of men in order to gain what I wish; this is made altogether more difficult by being silent. It was far simpler, little book, to remain behind walls and act only upon the things given unto me by others: these records, that altar cloth, this list of dead men's names. On days like this I consider if things might have gone very differently had I chosen to remain in that life. I would have been held tightly -- cosseted by the walls which cloistered me -- for certain. I would have been a great deal less troubled (news usually spread slowly and with much distortion to the novitiate, one gossiping phrase at a time delivered as we walked in neat queues to the pews). I would have been at leisure to do something I enjoy doing, and in fact do very well: inscription.
We've kicked off a two-week story line inspired by Behind Fel Eyes. Where are the vanished Quel'danil quelfs? Where did that Wretched come from? Why do belfs keep trying to shoo me out of a house in Alliance territory? Can't they go erp somewhere else? Questions answered! Skinny butts kicked! Tears shed! Hims kissed! All this and more with THE SERVITORS OF LOTHAR!
((Current SL bump. Full thread found at http://goo.gl/dlQYA ))
Diraen had never before been beaten by one of the sayaad. He did not understand how a whip could be wielded so very precisely. His body ragdolled about, and even in the moments when the succubus wasn't actively opening another line in the neat basket-weave pattern upon his back, he writhed against the waves of pain, against the straps binding his thighs and the back of his neck to the board. He craved unconsciousness, but her craft had been perfected. She wouldn't even grant him that. Just the sound of his flesh being opened, just the sound of her voice, made ugly with anger and still uglier by the Eredun words. He didn't know what she said, but it didn't matter. The whip spoke in a language he did understand.
"You displease my master!" He heard the sudden hum in the air and knew her arm had drawn back. "You repay the riches you've been given with incompetence!" Snap. He imagined the curve of the braided length, like the path of an arrow arcing gracefully. "Do you know why I'm beating you?" The knotted and already crimsoned tip streaked toward his back. "It's because you don't merit him doing it himself!" And then he was dancing again, on fire, j.igging like a horse in harness. He thought of harnesses then, of leather, of the arc inscribed in the air. He tried to think of apogee and perigee, strove to focus on parabolae, to do anything he could to keep from screaming.
"You return empty-handed!" Snap. Pain.
"He needs subjects upon which to exercise his brilliance!" Snap. PAIN.
He tensed between each blow; he couldn't help himself. When the next didn't come he tried to think of himself as a bowstring instead. He did not relax when he heard the footsteps. Though he felt the first beginnings of shock, he tried to focus, tried -- despite knowing he would fail -- to turn his head toward the sound of his employer's entry.
"Marilladin'ae." A male voice addressed the demonic servant in Thalassian. "That is quite enough, my pet. Get this mess cleaned up. You shouldn't make so much noise. One of the others could hear you and there's no calming her down now." The sayaad pouted, capered closer to display her plump lower lip. The kidnapper, the bound man, could hear her shoes clickclickclick on the stone, could tether the hissing sound to that of the whip slithering across the floor. "Later," Diraen heard his employer say after a rustle of fabric and a throaty giggle. "Later."
The voice addressed him now. He tried to stay still. He pictured the curve of a crescent moon, plotted the angles out in his head.
"You've disappointed me. I can't have you repeating this performance, so I needed it to be memorable." Diraen felt a hand brush his shoulder, heard a disgusted sigh. "You took the gold. You gave them up for insurance. Until you finish with me there's the risk that I could do something to them. I chose not to." A fingertip probed a wound and he gasped, belly roiling. "I chose to take your failure out upon you and not your family. Remember that." The fingertip disappeared. Unconsciousness overtook him as he heard the footsteps recede, heard the door close.
Edited by Philomene on 8/12/2012 10:40 AM PDT
((Recent MenaJournal bump, for once!))
Edited by Philomene on 8/14/2012 12:05 AM PDT
I'm not sure which one was worse. Meri throwing the brush to Eth in a goodbye or Eth repeatedly and desperately lunging towards him only to be pulled back by half the Servitors. Either way I haven't had music move me towards wanting to kill all sonsama!@#$%es in that way in years.
Edit: Post #69 is mine!!
Edited by Almara on 8/16/2012 5:38 AM PDT
8/15 22:01:07.244 Merric rises suddenly, silhouetted against the sky as he comes to his knees in the floundering boat. He howls again and lights everything around him up. Uncanny mageflame burns, licking across the surface of the water, and then everything pulls inward.
Sevitors of Lothar: I Cannot Over-Emphasize How Amazing This Guild Is.
((For nostalgia's sake, an old MeriJournal bump. Meriwether recorded his, so what you'll read is a transcription.))
<transmission begins amidst a background wash of voices and random clinking of glass>
Edited by Philomene on 8/17/2012 11:12 PM PDT
I go away for sixteen hours and come back to NINE scene logs in my inbox. I need to send a few out myself. In this guild, you don't even have to be present to experience the awesome--as long as you share, too.
Servitors of Lothar: We Share the Love
((RP logbump. Meriwether's got unfinished business.))
The moment the three girls are out of sight, Axasa turns toward the kitchen itself. The pots and pans hanging, the dishes... the spice rack, where he'd carefully kept her vinegar. That was the first casualty - obliterated in a sizzling puff of pungence and smoke, the sound of the electricity and flame barely enough to cover her scream of anguish.
Meriwether's Ghost attempts communication. He manages only a sad little hiss of a whisper, mostly but not completely covered by the Axasa's noisemaking.
Axasa hears nothing and feels everything, but this is no time for spiritual consciousness and harmony with the realm between. This is an angry drunk !@#$% who doesn't believe in 'not your fault', and the next thing that vanishes in fire are the knives in the block, bursting from their flaming wooden tomb and embedding in the barrel or shattering into pieces against the stone.
Meriwether's Ghost is beside himself, not that anyone sees this. He tries to get a hand on the flaming knife block but he manages in altering its trajectory in only the most minor of fashions.
Axasa cracks the icebox open with a fearful yank - the cold stones holding in place popping like a broken spine and tumbling to the floor. Milk jugs shatter on the wreckage, cheese wheels go rolling off. "How could you do this to me?" she rails, swaying perilously, tears streaming down her face. "It's not bloody fair!"
Meriwether's Ghost whispers, "Maaaadam."
Axasa shakes her head, tendrils flailing with the fervor of her denial. "No, ^-*! you, Meri. You don't get a pretty kitchen any more. You killed your aunt's house. Everything went right!" Lightning arcs from her splayed fingertips, dragging a black fingertip across the wall and leaving ashen spiderwebs in its wake.
Meriwether's Ghost doesn't know what to do, so he tries to push all the broken glass into a corner. Shards shiver and skip across the floor, some only rocking, wobbling back and forth instead of moving. There's a ripple in the milk puddle.
Axasa aims a finger at the milk puddle, and the milk rises into the air in an angry, wobbly sphere. "Get away!" she sobs, flinging the milk across the mess, where it splashes on the table. "You aren't allowed anymore! You went and ruined everything!"
Meriwether's Ghost tries again. "Lissssssten."
Axasa sinks a hole in the stone floor, giving it the appearance of an extremely heavy weight being dropped into it. Milk and other icebox liquids seep into the puddle. "No, YOU listen! No one ever listens! You didn't listen on the beach, so you listen! I SAID TO GET DOWN, YOU DIDN'T FOLLOW MY ORDERS!"
Meriwether's Ghost sighs and a napkin flutters. Empowered by the attention he's being paid, he causes it to slide off the counter. "Sorry," the napkin seems to mutter as it flaps to the floor.
Axasa incinerates the napkin. "You're ALWAYS sorry! You were always sorry, it was always sorry madam, sorry sir, I'm sorry for existing, I'm sorry I'm in your space, and all anyone ever did was love your stupid @#$! WHY ARE YOU SORRY FOR BEING LOVED?!"
Meriwether's Ghost realizes this isn't the best way to go about things. He tries again to push the glass into a pile, and is far more successful than his last attempt.
Axasa is angry enough to actually bind Meri's ghost, but there is nowhere near enough concentration in her soul to do the deed. So instead, she bursts the glass, lifts the sand particles, and embeds the whole mess in the poor barrel. "Stop it! You're ruining your kitchen!" She takes a skillet off its hook, and throws it in the general direction of the ghost, but of course she has no idea where that is, so it just goes clanking off into the room.
Meriwether's Ghost actually winces at this. He pats himself down, upset now, trying to decide what to do. He settles for closing the mostly-broken door to the coldbox.
Axasa is just about out of gas at this point, but she gives it a last effort. She slaps all of the pots off the stove, off their hooks, and scrawls another scorchmark on the broken icebox door, before running toward the shattered stone and sinking down against the door fragments, wetting them with her tears. "Why didn't you listen to me. No one ever listens to me. You always did this. Pushin' people away. How come you didn't listen?"
Meriwether's Ghost does his best to give Axasa a croissant. As he can no longer conjure, he has to compromise; a napkin slides across the floor toward Axasa.
Axasa scoops up the napkin, and blows her nose in it. Her armor dragging on the heavy rocks, she sinks down to her knees and then her butt, sobbing so hard that the hiccups come. "You w-were s-so l-l-loved! Why d-didn't you luh-luh-listen to meeeeeeee..."
Meriwether's Ghost whispers, "Nonono..."
Axasa clutches at herself and the snotty scrap of napkin, rocking back and forth, unable to stop the tears from pouring from her dimly glowing eyes. "Nononono no no no-ho-ho-ho why? Why? Meri, why? Look at what happened! Look! Look at what happened!"
Meriwether's Ghost invisibly hangs his head. He sits down on that poor barrel and it wobbles ever-so-slightly.
Meriwether's Ghost says: You're 'ere.
Axasa watches the barrel through tear-blurred eyes, all of her tentacle-limbs flailing. "You should be here. Why aren't you here? Everyone's so sad! We have to bury your things because YOU DON'T EVEN HAVE A BODY ANYMORE!" Shrieking the last bit, she conjures up a handful of molten rock, and flings it at the beleagured barrel.
Meriwether's Ghost looks down as the molten rock passes through his legs. He flinches before he remembers. "Don't," he whispers. "Pleeeease."
Axasa turns away, rocking back and forth. All the mana was finally drained from her poor, addled body, and she was exhausted and sad, panting on the floor, sniffing loudly and shaking her head. "Shoulda listened to me. Shoulda listened."
Meriwether's Ghost passes into the pantry. "Nonono," he mutters again, and then he's gone, having run out of strength to interact with anything.
Axasa remains there on the floor, rocking back and forth, mumbling to herself, until she physically feels the room change with the departure of the spirit. Eventually, she hauls herself up, wanders off, and falls asleep on someone else's bunk in full armor.
((Handbook excerpt bump! Full text can be found at http://tinyurl.com/SoLHandbook ))
VII. Life On Base
One more tribute to Meri, this one from Eth's journal:
<Appears to be a continuation of the previous entry.>
It was actually intended to be "feel-oh-main" but as nobody pronounces it that way I gave up and went with the English language version, "fill-oh-mean".
Additionally, if you see my Alternate Universe priesty walking around, Philomène, that is indeed the same char, just what her unlife might have been like had she died at Fenris during a battle about eight months ago.
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