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Log: Siccing the Scythe on the Sun Kingdom

Page history last edited by wastevens@... 15 years, 6 months ago

PCs: Masq Timor, Vathrin

 

The sun is setting, fat and red in the cloudstreaked western sky and by the smell, the bodies are no longer fresh. Masq is forced to dismount from his suddenly wild horse as he approaches the former fishing village, several dozen miles up the coast from Nexus. Frowning at the beast as it runs madly off, he shrugs and continues on foot. The waves gently lick the sandy beach, occusionally bringing up another corpse. Chasing a tip, that could be worth more than silver and jade.

 

The few fires that were inadvertantly started in the village by panicking villagers are already begin to burn themselves down into nothingness. Wood homes upon the shore, away from the docks, are left as nothing but blackened husks of their former selves, the ground around them all littered with the remains of those panicking villagers. Most do not have to the fortunate to be completely whole, and more often than not one person's body is spread over a rather wide area, arcs of dried blood marking the paths the appendages and pieces took. In the center of the village, where the town square would be, two blood-soaked poles have been shoved into the ground - apparently salvaged from nearby homes. Between them a hammock has been set, and in it swings a black-clad pale figure. Bodies have been placed to either side, like little steps, to make getting up into and out of the hammock a simple matter.

 

Masq Timor walks towards the hammock, and hesitates for a moment at the slaughter. Not ill, not vomitting- but hesitating, like a man with a large stack of silver looking at a wheel and a tumbling ball before he sets it down. The moment passes; he continues. A few feet away from the hammock, he pauses, and sketches the slightest of bows. "Are you the one called The Winter's Scythe?" he asks, in a voice that, if he's afraid, conceals it well.

 

A single eyelid snaps open, the red iris hidden behind it swivelling to focus on the source of the voice that addresses him. It stays centered on the richly dressed man for a long and silent moment, some carrion birds erupting into the sky nearby with a loud series of cawing as they take off into the evening sky. The last dying light of the sun reflects in Vathrin's eye, the glint there like light reflecting off of ice. Slowly, the other opens as well and Vathrin turns his head to get a proper look at the man standing near his hammock. "A name I haven't heard in a while, though it's always a pleasure. I am, and who are you that has come to this place, seeking me out by the look of it?"

 

"Masq Timor, a merchant of the Guild. One with an offer for you, Scythe. If you're interested. A chance to make this-" he waves around vaugely at the village. "Look like a child kicking over an ant hill."

 

The offer causes the Deathknight to blink a single time, his bright red eyes narrowing ever so slightly though there is curiousity on his unearthly exquisite features. "An offer for me? That alone is interesting. Most who come to find me come so with swords and misguided ideas of justice." The Deathknight grips the threads of the hammock, slowly pulling himself up into a seating position that sets the hammock to swaying slightly. "What is it you offer, Masq Timor."

 

Masq Timor smiles at that. "A target. A land stumbling towards health and recovery, but which could still tumble into burning ruin, a land stalked by famine- and, of course, by you. A land which even holds some of those folks with swords and misguided ideas of justice, if you wanted to discuss ethics with them."

 

"They're a chore to talk to," he replies amiably, lifting a hand obscured partially in silver chains in a waving gesture, as if to ward off the idea of talking with the aforementioned people. "Tell me, Masq Timor, why are you interested in seeing such a land torn to bloody shreds, the remains cast over The Hundred Kingdoms in a red storm? What could you, a merchant of the guild, have to profit by seeing so many customers wiped from the face of Creation?"

 

Masq Timor shakes his head. "They won't be customers of mine. Those friendly folks with misguided ideas don't much care for the Guild- they're paying huge goddamn gobs of jade to rebuild their poor country in record time, but not one sliver of silver for any merchant with a Guild badge. That sort of matter rankles, frankly."

 

Vathrin tilts his head to one side, the long white hair swaying in that direction and brushing overtop the man's black leather attire with a soft sound. "Ah, I see. Not customers at all, but nuisances. Well then, that makes far more sense to me." The Deathknight rises dexterously out of the hammock, placing a booted foot atop the back of a nearby corpse - the first step in his body staircase - and descending to the charred ground around them. "What country is this that you speak of?"

 

"The Sun Kingdom," Masq replies, stepping forward towards Vathrin. "Naturally, if there's anything you could use in this venture, you have my full support."

 

Vathrin reaches up to his pale chin with long, spider-like fingers to stroke at it softly for a moment in silent thought. When his crimson gaze returns to the exquisitely dressed merchant, "I do not think there is anything. Not just yet. I will go to the Sun Kingdom and see it for myself. Should I require something, rest assured that I will find you again and tell you exactly what it is I need." The wan hand reaches out to the man's face, his fingers wrapping around the beard there before sliding down it's length, a perfectly amused look upon the Deathknight's face. "It is interesting I must admit, to see someone such as yourself inviting a creature like me to commit unspeakable attrocities. But because it is interesting is why I will do it." He turns away, lifting his hands up in gesture to the destroyed village before him. "I've never been to the Sun Kingdom."

 

Masq Timor smiles thinly at that. "Had you ever been to this village, before?" he asks, as if sharing a private joke.

 

"Not until now. They were accomodating," he replies, looking back over his shoulder as a hand is dropped down to motion to the corpses nearby, the chains attached to his arm jingling softly in the motion as if laughing. "But they always are, in the end. Besides, who wants to grow old and wither away in any case, and carry all the worries that come with existing here. It's so much easier for them to be dead." He crouches down, picking up a severed head, turning it so that it is facing him. "I'm sure they're thankful."

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