Game: The Awakening

As she comes over to clean the mug up, she is about to ask Dreer if he wants more,..smiling.

then she spots the poem. And smiles wide.

Well, I hope yer not this kind to every chit you meet! She says, her voice excited, though slightly.

She sits down at Dreer's table.

I thought the Dead were not supposed to harbor passionate feelings... she declares/asks with faux suspicion- which in itself is actually quite unlike a Dustie.

Oh, and where are my manners? she points to herself. Aya.

Her eyes lock with Dreer's, and she gives him an expectant look.

OOC: With all this poem-writing and soothsaying, I'm inclined to post a picture of the Dustie Beautie..

She is a Dustie, though probably not very rigid like the others... Perhaps that's why she's the barkeep... more sociable than your average Dustman.
She just wants to talk to someone new- though being surrounded by Dusties, almost anyone would.

So Dreer, you know what I am, but what'r you?

She is speaking of occupation, though the question in itself sounds suspicious to a Doppleganger.

Aya leans in close, her beautiful eyes locked and shining at Dreer's.

Who do you work for?

12 hours earlier:

The Silver Mistress "dissolved" into the cobble.

Aras, The Whitewhisper, Xasskorn, Dolmen and Argint - after Phae'dyiin's brief lecture on "divide and conquer" agreed to part ways, for a time. They were to meet at the auctioneer's block of the Market Ward in exactly three days and share their findings.

Whether they were to stay together after that was anyone's guess.

OOC: I don't have too much internet access where I am (read below), but I do have good old Microsoft Word. I will be posting long cutscenes (like the prologue), but my posting in general will be slower.

She chuckles softly, still keeping her eyes locked with the Doppleganger.

And how, may I ask, do you help the Wards? Or perhaps you can tell me of your latest adventures?

She leans back in mock thoughtfulness, quite unlike a Dustie - pouting and playfully scratching her chin.

I am something of a troublemaker meself!

Out of the corner of his eye, Dreer spots five of the Dustmen from the round table getting up to leave, while the remaining 7 weakly sip their drinks and return to their soft, inaudible conversation.

I do a lot of freelance work. the sweet voice interrupts his attention from the other dusties.

I haunt Undersigil often, sometimes looking for cutters, sometimes retrieving items - it's always fun and a little scary. I know a little of the Art, though not by any book knowledge, it's inherent. (OOC: Sorceress)

My employers usually include the runner's guild, the Dusties (as a part-time collector), and Narena.

Phaed'yiin and Xasskorn, after a morning of gathering information as well as completing other transactions, find themselves back on Smith Street (In front of the Seer's Lower Ward Guildhouse, near where the Silver Mistress attacked).

The Styx Oarsmen, a frequent haunt of the persona they wish to find, is but a short stroll down. Although Phaed'yiin does not know this character from earlier chapters of her life, she knows his name and kip - the Rethan Manor (Manor #46) at the Greytowers district of the Lady's Ward.

Sorry, I don't have time to answer posts and PMs today, but I will copy and paste the little story hour about our old friends, enjoy.

Shazz’ak’fr waits idly in his manor in the Nobles’ District of the Lady’s Ward. More than a manor – a center of operations.

The magnificent atrium of the manor rivals that of the Palace of the Jester belonging to the Natterer. An exquisite fountain of speckled brown marble and off-white limestone dominates the center of the room – large enough to be a building in its own right. A bright red liquid emerges from at least fifty spouts in various shapes and sizes – some shaped as dragon heads mock ‘firebreathing,’ others include life sized humanoids with holes on their bodies, perpetually bleeding out the bright red.
From the center of the massive structure emerges a giant, or more likely, an overblown marble humanoid with long flowing hair, and rune-inscribed armor. The male holds a dragon-head helmet, tucked in one arm, and the other arm sports a curved longsword (though, not quite a scimitar) that extends to the ceiling. The marbled face looks up at the sword. Triumph. The statue is at least 25 feet high, though, unlike its smaller carved counterparts, has only a few orifices from where the red liquid emerges, and also unlike the rest of the carvings, the liquid comes out slowly, at a significantly lower pressure. From the tip of the sword, the highest point of the fountain, the liquid flows down – giving the appearance of a sword that has been recently thrust into someone. Besides this, there are two more holes, where the eyes of the humanoid should be, where the red fluid slowly trickles out… bloody tears.
The awe-inspiring marble structure is perhaps the only thing in the multiverse that could overshadow the rest of the grand atrium. Shazz’ak’fr looks around at the suits of armor forged in the heart of Baator out of green steel – some humanoid, though most are shaped to fit the bodies of Abishai’s – the Baatorian foot soldiers of the Blood War – at least those worth armoring. Off to one of the walls is the semi-ovular, diamond-encrusted opening to the bedchambers and rooms hidden in the inner bowels of the Manor. Before the Cornugun can admire the rest of the scene, a silvery liquid emerges from the bottom of the apparently seamless front door.

“How do you enjoy life as a celebrity?” he barks as the beautiful young girl materializes in front of him. “Headlining every newsrag in the Cage, Silver Mistress..haha!” he coughs more than chuckles.

“I seek no more than coin. Celebrity is a symptom I’d rather do without.” Her voice is smooth, seductive, though sounds as if it was coming from many women speaking synchronously.

Taking the hint, Shazz’ak’fr immediately conjures to his massive maw a small tan sack of coins. Upon close inspection, one can make out the faded, cinnamon-colored runes etched upon the side, marking it as a modified Bag of Holding. “Seventy-Five thousand jink, 25 for the task completed, and 50 in advance for the next task. As was agreed upon by your superiors.”

“And by yours” the smooth, multifaceted voice quickly shoots back- not wanting him to gain any kind of psychological advantage in their dealings.

“Yes my dear, but I do advise you to practice caution and avoid inflicting unnecessary casualties – every major structure in the Cage has increased security measures in fear of another attack. You don’t want to gain any more attention from the authorities, and more importantly, from Her Dread Majesty. We (he started, referring to Baatezu) could overthrow the Sigilian Authorities and infrastructure within an hour – but even We do not stand a chance in the Abyss against Her.”

“Yes my dear,” she begins evenly “although the nature of my missions makes it near impossible not to inflict casualties... that may be something you might want to look into – the planning of your machinations- before you criticize my execution.”

Shazz’ak’fr growls a low, deadly growl, but does nothing more than hastily hand her a neatly rolled parchment outlining her next task. The greater Baatezu, was fed-up with disrespect. Especially from characters that weren’t Baatezu.

Speaking of such characters, a young, unshaven (though not quite bearded) man with a distinctive scar on his face sits on a bench outside an unmarked house a Ward away in the Lower. He is dressed in his trademark black studded leather, complimented by a commoner’s cloak.

Sitting beside him is a very little redhead girl, obviously an indigent with her dirty, tattered clothes and blackened, shoeless feet. The girl glances at the unremarkable man beside her. Her Papa (currently inside the unmarked house) had told her not to talk to strangers, but this man seemed quite timid, harmless.

He was shivering in the cold night air.

“They give me Papa a lot of jink, and it doesn’t even hurt that much – just once a week.” She squeaks.

The man looks back at the small blood bank. The Dusties had only put this up after the faction war. He then looked back down to the girl. In a timid, shaky, high pitched voice he replies: “Th…They’re taking an awfully long time w..with your Papa.”

“Yer right rounder, it shouldn’t take this long, but he’ll be fine- he’s been going here for nearly two years.” She thinks out loud.

An elderly Dustwoman emerges from the entrance of the house. “Magnus Hillthrow, you may come in,” her bored, monotone voice echoes.

“Bye Magnus!” the lively little girl yelps with a smile as the man gets up and starts for the unmarked house.

The man simply waves back with a humble smile in return.

As he enters the house alongside the old Dustie, he notices unusually powerful enchantments on her body. He studies her carefully, though not making it apparent.
“Your blood tests have proven satisfactory, you will be duly compensated for one and a half keils of blood.” She drones, breaking his train of thought.

The house/blood bank appears small on the outside, though inside it seems to be a far larger structure, at least thrice as big as it should be. He then spots a burnt patch of wall with four-fingered claw marks off to the side. Before he can examine it further, the elderly woman prods him near a door and knocks twice.

The heavy stone door opens, and two, nearly identical tiefling Dusties stand immediately at the entrance. They do a good job of obscuring a view of the remainder of the room. One of them has a green lens over his left eye. He studies the unshaven man for a quick second.

Through his Lens of True Seeing, the tiefling discerns that this man is indeed a human, and is void of magical items save a sword on his belt.

But that’s impossible.

The sword’s magic is more powerful than anything he’s seen before in his life- the glow is blinding through the Lens of True Seeing.

“You cannot enter with weapons!” he barks.

The man slowly, hesitantly removes his curved longsword (though, not quite a scimitar) and gives it to the fiendling. “My A..Apologies, I didn’t know.” His voice betrays nervousness and trepidation… as if he’s afraid the tiefling won’t return the sword.

“Where did you get this sword?”

“M..My father gave it to me before my w..wedding, it’s a family heirloom.”

The old woman disappears back towards the entrance of the house and the tieflings part to give way to the unshaven, scarred man. He finally sees the room in its entirety. Unlike the rest of the house, this room is metal-bound from the walls to the ceiling. There are four dustmen in total, including the two tieflings, a human male and female stand at the other end of the sparse, though roomy chamber. They stand on opposite sides of a long, raised metal slab with chains and handcuffs – the perfect place to bind someone.

There is something strange about these Dustmen. Their eyes betray a hungry, almost feral look.

The door closes behind the unshaven man, and the tieflings quickly bolt it.

“W..What’s going on?”

No verbal response, instead the surprisingly strong tieflings grab the man from either side and begin dragging him towards the metal slab. The man kicks and shakes and screams and begs, but is ultimately powerless.

Within seconds, the now whimpering man is bound to the metal slab via handcuffs and chains.

He notices for the first time, that there is a rusted metal cart off to the side with cruel-looking instruments, odd spiked tools of some demonic design.

“P..p..please!! I d..didn’t do anything!!!”

The other human male finally speaks.

“Aaaah Magnus. We are delighted that you can join us today. Our records indicate that you have a very, very rare blood type.” The voice sounds calm and refined.

“NO! P..please spare me! Who are you? W..what do you want from me?!!!” The unshaven’s voice is now becoming louder and more desperate.

The Dustman quietly walks over to the cart and removes what, in the loosest sense of the word, can be described as a large needled syringe. It could hold well over thirty keils of blood, and the needle is long enough to horizontally impale a bariaur. Dried blood cakes the handle.

For a moment, it seems that the human will be unable to wield the instrument… that is until a short blink later, when he no longer is a human. The two Dustmen, who used to be humans… are actually full-blooded Glabrezus.

The chained man opens his mouth in a silent scream. He begins violently shaking the unyielding chains.

The fiend with the instrument now approaches. “Don’t worry Magnus, this will be utterly painless… for us..”

The tieflings smile dark, sadistic smiles.

The unshaven, scarred makes a strange sound. Weeping… coughing, in some strange stuttering combination. It is high pitched one second, then breathy and low the other. Then it suddenly becomes louder and more regular.

The tieflings stop smiling, and the Glabrezus exchange confused glances as they realize that the man isn’t weeping.

He’s laughing.

A strange chill descends upon the room. The man now laughs loudly, a maniacal, humorless laugh. Then for a split second, all is silent.

“My name is Akuma.”

The fiend looks at the chained man’s lips to confirm that he actually spoke those words. So different was the voice, so cold and steady. So unlike the timid commoner who was on the slab just moments ago.

The man’s dark eyes become firm and narrowed.

One of the tieflings shouts in agony and the sound of a sword dropping interrupts everything. The sword is on the ground, and there is a hissing sound. It appeared to have just melted through the fiendling’s hands, as if it were coated in a potent acid.

The two tan’aari glance at the tiefer, for a short moment, then realize their fatal mistake as they hear the sounds of chains breaking.

The sword is no longer on the ground, but in the human’s hand, at the ready.

The next seconds are a series of guttural screams. They beg for mercy that won’t come, and scream in seething agony. The bolted metallic door is sliced then kicked off as the human walks, only a minute later, out of the room. Behind him, the walls are smeared with large amounts of tan’aari blood.

He casually skewers the unsuspecting third Glabrezu (who was previously the old, monotone Dustwoman) on the way out.

Stepping out to the street, he sees the little redhead still sitting there, waiting for her father. The dark street is otherwise empty.

He walks over to her. “Child, your father is dead.” His steady voice would put ice to shame. “He was taken by the enemy. Do not return to this place, and never let me see you again.”

Aya looks at him, her expression a perfect mix between excitement and trepidation, then without a word, quickly grasps his outstretched hand.

OOC: roll d6 then i'll let you know which spell

Dreer feels a pleasurable tingle

No, not of that nature, get your mind out of the gutter

"Invisibility"

If/when you have time, could you please post me a link to the class description, I don't have the book.

Rethan is the name of one of many tan'aari cells that operates within the Cage. The Babau's individual designation is Zanisubruss, but he can be addressed as a Rethan (much like his family name). He is one of two Babau to operate within that particular cell, the other named Bal. House Rethan serves as a Blood War recruiting outpost as well as headquarters for low-level espionage operations in Sigil. None of the babau have actually been on the battlefields, but have spent time planning, recruiting, and assasinating in Sigil - they are, not surprisingly, experts when it comes to local and planar knowledge. They have many allies, and few enemies (the enemies they make are under different guises and aliases, so it is very, very difficult to trace them unless one either has a lot of local knowledge, or a lot of coin).

To Aras's disillusionment, the gith does not respond, though Aras is certain that he entered right behind him.

In fact, as Aras reflexively glances back, he sees only darkness behind him - no lighted tent entrance as there was before. It is only then that Aras realizes what has happened. He has stepped through a portal.

He hears nothing save the flint and steel quivering in his now sweaty palms.

OOC: if you light the torch, make a spot check, will save, and another listen check. if you don't, just make a listen check.

Dreer is not certain why stealing her spell was strange. His best guess is that she is a powerful sorceress, though she seems too young, and perhaps too undisciplined to be classified as a 'powerful' practicioner of the Art.

Aya still looks intently upon her apparent colleague, in anticipation for a response.

The Whitewhisper does not recognize the man, though she does recognize that he probably isn't one she would like to be alone with at an alley in the Hive near antipeak.

The summoned dretches approach the Styx Oarsmen which doesn't appear to be busy at the moment... the front door is strangely unguarded. As they approach, the unshaven man (who is now in front of them) pauses for a moment, then turns to the side and begins walking away.