"Statues of .... undead?" Lia muses. "I did not think the Flesh to Stone spell worked on the undead, but it would be a most effective way of restraining them, would it not?
But what puzzles me more is that the undead clown was drinking. The dead do not usually require liquids, unless they are vampires or such ... or in need of embalming fluid."
The Eye of Anubis: Book Seven
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Rock of the Fraternity
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Nathan of the FoS
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"We don't know he's undead," Charles points out, frowning. "He seems to prefer the company of the undead--or perhaps it's just he prefers to be surrounded by slaves, and undead are most convenient for the role--but he could be something else entirely. The statues--well, that's peculiar. It's certainly no ordinary art gallery, whatever it may be. Reserves? Trophies? Enemies he didn't find another way to deal with?"
[b]FEAR JUSTICE.[/b] :elena:
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Rock of the Fraternity
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"Religious statuary, perhaps, signifying that the eye of the 'Ruse is now hi sanctuary?" Lia shrugs. "I do not know. Let me meditate on the subject for a while, and I may come up with an idea." Having spoken, Lia distances herself a bit from the main group and sits down on a relatively clean patch of ground.
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yalenusveler
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"Mind affecting spells can affect him. He isn't undead. Horribly twisted, but not undead." Andre offered, trying to get himself into the right mind to talk with the plaguetouched dead. And to think of an appropriate disease. I mean, was the weeping rot out of fashion this year? One hated to be tacky when dealing with the animate unliving.
"Sometimes, Mr.Liquor cabinet is my only friend"
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Kaitou Kage
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Kuzan worked at getting the sled put together, but seemed to be having a tough time of it on his own. He put the pieces down and sighed heavily, reaching up to rub his ear. It was then that he remembered the earring. He put his finger to his ear and seemed lost in thought for a moment.
Sam, we're staying at a Darkonian Death Ship. Fighting tomorrow to free the monastery. Be careful, Cavendish is there. Stay safe and stay back.
His message sent, he awaited Sam's reply, then stared grumpily at the wood and sailcloth on the ground before him. "Could someone help me out here?" he called.
Sam, we're staying at a Darkonian Death Ship. Fighting tomorrow to free the monastery. Be careful, Cavendish is there. Stay safe and stay back.
His message sent, he awaited Sam's reply, then stared grumpily at the wood and sailcloth on the ground before him. "Could someone help me out here?" he called.
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Nathan of the FoS
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Later That Afternoon
"Very exciting, isn't it?" Charles notes to nobody in particular. "Negotiating with the un-dead...not really run-of-the-mill stuff. Do you think that's the ship Ianthe meant?" Lia makes a sour, low-pitched noise in the back of her throat. Before departing the graveship, she had once again put on the silver-stained, ebony mask that had been given to her by the Fey of Kermanshah. The Wizard is clearly not at ease; her head is continually swivelling left and right, trying to see the whole world at once. She has not really said a word since putting on the mask.
Ianthe had described this vessel as a ruin, and indeed it was. An old fishing ship, Darkonian perhaps, had fallen half-across a Souragnien cargo vessel, splintering the two into a mess of wooden wreckage. The only sign of habitation was the cabin of the fishing craft, nestled amongst the wreckage and almost entirely whole amongst the mess. A few boards stood before it, with large mats of poorly-tanned leather over them, and a vast mass of offal not far from the impromptu hut. It smelled horrible.
Wordless, Lia reaches out and tugs on Charles's sleeve, then nods to the 'mats' in a significant way. Nodding, Charles stands very straight and claps (as he's been told is the polite way to announce yourself in this world.) "We seek the Argus, on business which is much to his benefit!" he says clearly. Lia continues to look around: left, right, above, beneath, all-around—and most certainly behind. For his part, Charles moves his head less, but his eyes are very active indeed, searching the ship for any sign of "habitation" and the scene for anything that might be dangerous.
The mats of dark leather rustled somewhat at the sound, though there was no wind, and Lia spotted a pair of slithering shapes in the darkness behind them. A soft, sibilant voice spoke from the hut. "Enter....ssssstrangers." Lia leans over to Charles and mutters a few soft words: "Law of host and guests ... Host must keep guest safe."
"I hope it pertains among such as these," Charles replies in Draconic.
As they are about to enter, Charles noticed something odd; there were crows in the wreckage. Small, dark birds with a slightly ephemeral form.... and as the mathematician looked, they were joined by a new bird. A huge, eagle-sized rook with a cruel beak and red-tinged feathers. It nestled on the rafters, gazing at its smaller compatriots with considerable disdain.
Fighting down the urge to wave to the watching bird, Charles considers his options; stay out and offend, or go in and be defenseless? t's a dilemma. Promptly deciding not to impale himself on either just yet, Charles step to the door and bows, letting his eyes adjust to the view within before actually entering. Lia follows a few paces behind Charles, fingers writhing slowly, slowly ...
It was quite dark inside the hut, with only the light from the door letting Charles see even vaguely. The stench was horrid, here, of poorly tanned and rotting hides. In the shadows sat a figure, clad entirely in tattered clothing turned into impromptu robes, face hidden. "Ssssso, ssssstrangers.... you wisssssh to ssssspeak with I?"
"We do," Charles says firmly. Shrugging mentally, he steps inside and to one side, to allow Lia to enter. "We have come to speak about your new neighbor and his minions." Lia follows, and goes to stand a pace behind and to the side of Charles, eyes still constantly moving; up, down, left, right...Her hands are still, however.
"Yes..... Jonathan Lancaster Cavendish he styles himself..... Yes...." The figure hissed. It extended a hand towards Charles, and the mathematician saw the purple, scabrous flesh of the hand was covered in eyes—bulging, ugly white eyes, with dirty brown irises.
Having been forwarned, Charles is able to keep his reaction to this bizarre and horrifying apparition under wraps. "You have learned something of him, then?" he says, mild and polite.
Lia's eyes narrow, but though her thoughts are shifting and fluttering about, she stays quiet.
"Oh.... yessss......" A moist, unpleasant chuckling emerged. "He is..... hard to miss....."
"Yes...” Charles replies. “He has a way of calling attention to himself, doesn't he? And of taking all the best for himself, as well. Not a welcome new neighbor, I would imagine."
"You imagine.... correctly.... ssssstranger...." The Argus hissed. The eyes on its hand still stared dully at Lia and Charles.
Snapping his fingers and giving an apologetic smile, Charles says, “Ah, your pardon. My manners. I am Charles Martel, your servant; this is M'selle Mourneswaith. May I suppose it would interest you to learn of a way in which you might evict this undesirable?"
'Vitreous Drinker,' Lia thinks. 'Vitreous, Vitreous, Vitreous, Vi-tre-ous Drinker! And we are talking to it! Talking to ...' Briefly, the Wizard trembles.
"Sssssome plan you have..... Charlesssss?" The undead murmurred sibilantly. "Ssssssomething that benefitsssss you.... isssss it not? "You are brave.... to enter the lair of sssssuch as I..... sssssso you are confident..... I would know why. Sssssspeak."
Charles nods. “Indeed, we have a plan; a plan which I think will benefit a great many. We--I speak of M'selle and myself, and our friends--are formidable, but, as they say, many hands make light work. We are engaged in preparing to oust Cavendish and destroy his servants--and him, if we can do it, though he's a slippery devil. It has come to our attention that you, among others, might find a return to the status quo desirable, and we have come to offer you a chance to participate in this endeavor."
"Yessss....... that issss an idea......" The whispering entity seemed to be intrigued by this offer, to say the least. It seemed to watch Charles from the folds of its cloak. After a long moment, the creature spoke. "Yes..... perhaps it can be done.....And perhaps you are the one to do it."
It's taken the hook...so far, so good. Aloud, Charles says, "It can be done, and it will be done soon. I have been given to understand that your agents are unusually mobile, and rather more clever than the common run. It seems to me that your talents and the talents of those you lead are ideally suited to finding the patrols Cavendish has sent out and dealing with them--drawing them off and preventing them from returning to his aid. And also, of course, to prevent them from discovering our other preparations. Do you consider this an accurate analysis?"
"It can be done.... yessss..... it can be done...." The Argus considered this again. "Yes....."
"You will know how best to arrange the forces at your disposal. Draw off the patrols, harry them, prevent them from returning; that is all we ask. The brunt of the fighting will fall elsewhere. Will you do this?"
"It ssssshall be done....." The Argus hissed. "It issss a good plan. And ssssshould you fail..... well, I ssssshall not be there. Ssssso it is a good plan."
Lia continues not to speak, just looking all around. Inside, however, she has to fight the impulse to start seething. Carefully, she is pushing down the words that want to rise.
"I am heartened to hear we are in agreement on this point," Charles says, bowing. "If you desire further communication, please send one or two of your agents to the grave ship. We will entertain them there."
Lia squeezes her eyes shut briefly at these words; oblivious to her masked discomfort, Charles says, "Is there anything you wish to convey before we depart?"
"We sssssshall work well together..... my allies....." The sinister thing hissed. "I believe all is well....."
Charles bows a final time. "Very good. We will be very glad of your assistance. M'selle?" So saying, he gestures toward the door, indicating Lia's priority in departure. Lia nods stiffly to the Vitreous Drinker in the shadows and slowly starts to back away to the doorway, one hand twitching at her robes as if to sketch a curtsy, and turns to go out the door. Charles departs after her, waiting until they are well away to shake his head and grimace.
When the two of them pass an innocuous lump of dry wood, Lia abruptly takes out her cane and pulverizes the harmless item, hissing with frustration. "Save it for Cavendish," Charles advises. Lia does not respond directly; "Let us return to the others," is all she says once she's gotten it out of her system, and walks on. Charles does likewise.
"Very exciting, isn't it?" Charles notes to nobody in particular. "Negotiating with the un-dead...not really run-of-the-mill stuff. Do you think that's the ship Ianthe meant?" Lia makes a sour, low-pitched noise in the back of her throat. Before departing the graveship, she had once again put on the silver-stained, ebony mask that had been given to her by the Fey of Kermanshah. The Wizard is clearly not at ease; her head is continually swivelling left and right, trying to see the whole world at once. She has not really said a word since putting on the mask.
Ianthe had described this vessel as a ruin, and indeed it was. An old fishing ship, Darkonian perhaps, had fallen half-across a Souragnien cargo vessel, splintering the two into a mess of wooden wreckage. The only sign of habitation was the cabin of the fishing craft, nestled amongst the wreckage and almost entirely whole amongst the mess. A few boards stood before it, with large mats of poorly-tanned leather over them, and a vast mass of offal not far from the impromptu hut. It smelled horrible.
Wordless, Lia reaches out and tugs on Charles's sleeve, then nods to the 'mats' in a significant way. Nodding, Charles stands very straight and claps (as he's been told is the polite way to announce yourself in this world.) "We seek the Argus, on business which is much to his benefit!" he says clearly. Lia continues to look around: left, right, above, beneath, all-around—and most certainly behind. For his part, Charles moves his head less, but his eyes are very active indeed, searching the ship for any sign of "habitation" and the scene for anything that might be dangerous.
The mats of dark leather rustled somewhat at the sound, though there was no wind, and Lia spotted a pair of slithering shapes in the darkness behind them. A soft, sibilant voice spoke from the hut. "Enter....ssssstrangers." Lia leans over to Charles and mutters a few soft words: "Law of host and guests ... Host must keep guest safe."
"I hope it pertains among such as these," Charles replies in Draconic.
As they are about to enter, Charles noticed something odd; there were crows in the wreckage. Small, dark birds with a slightly ephemeral form.... and as the mathematician looked, they were joined by a new bird. A huge, eagle-sized rook with a cruel beak and red-tinged feathers. It nestled on the rafters, gazing at its smaller compatriots with considerable disdain.
Fighting down the urge to wave to the watching bird, Charles considers his options; stay out and offend, or go in and be defenseless? t's a dilemma. Promptly deciding not to impale himself on either just yet, Charles step to the door and bows, letting his eyes adjust to the view within before actually entering. Lia follows a few paces behind Charles, fingers writhing slowly, slowly ...
It was quite dark inside the hut, with only the light from the door letting Charles see even vaguely. The stench was horrid, here, of poorly tanned and rotting hides. In the shadows sat a figure, clad entirely in tattered clothing turned into impromptu robes, face hidden. "Ssssso, ssssstrangers.... you wisssssh to ssssspeak with I?"
"We do," Charles says firmly. Shrugging mentally, he steps inside and to one side, to allow Lia to enter. "We have come to speak about your new neighbor and his minions." Lia follows, and goes to stand a pace behind and to the side of Charles, eyes still constantly moving; up, down, left, right...Her hands are still, however.
"Yes..... Jonathan Lancaster Cavendish he styles himself..... Yes...." The figure hissed. It extended a hand towards Charles, and the mathematician saw the purple, scabrous flesh of the hand was covered in eyes—bulging, ugly white eyes, with dirty brown irises.
Having been forwarned, Charles is able to keep his reaction to this bizarre and horrifying apparition under wraps. "You have learned something of him, then?" he says, mild and polite.
Lia's eyes narrow, but though her thoughts are shifting and fluttering about, she stays quiet.
"Oh.... yessss......" A moist, unpleasant chuckling emerged. "He is..... hard to miss....."
"Yes...” Charles replies. “He has a way of calling attention to himself, doesn't he? And of taking all the best for himself, as well. Not a welcome new neighbor, I would imagine."
"You imagine.... correctly.... ssssstranger...." The Argus hissed. The eyes on its hand still stared dully at Lia and Charles.
Snapping his fingers and giving an apologetic smile, Charles says, “Ah, your pardon. My manners. I am Charles Martel, your servant; this is M'selle Mourneswaith. May I suppose it would interest you to learn of a way in which you might evict this undesirable?"
'Vitreous Drinker,' Lia thinks. 'Vitreous, Vitreous, Vitreous, Vi-tre-ous Drinker! And we are talking to it! Talking to ...' Briefly, the Wizard trembles.
"Sssssome plan you have..... Charlesssss?" The undead murmurred sibilantly. "Ssssssomething that benefitsssss you.... isssss it not? "You are brave.... to enter the lair of sssssuch as I..... sssssso you are confident..... I would know why. Sssssspeak."
Charles nods. “Indeed, we have a plan; a plan which I think will benefit a great many. We--I speak of M'selle and myself, and our friends--are formidable, but, as they say, many hands make light work. We are engaged in preparing to oust Cavendish and destroy his servants--and him, if we can do it, though he's a slippery devil. It has come to our attention that you, among others, might find a return to the status quo desirable, and we have come to offer you a chance to participate in this endeavor."
"Yessss....... that issss an idea......" The whispering entity seemed to be intrigued by this offer, to say the least. It seemed to watch Charles from the folds of its cloak. After a long moment, the creature spoke. "Yes..... perhaps it can be done.....And perhaps you are the one to do it."
It's taken the hook...so far, so good. Aloud, Charles says, "It can be done, and it will be done soon. I have been given to understand that your agents are unusually mobile, and rather more clever than the common run. It seems to me that your talents and the talents of those you lead are ideally suited to finding the patrols Cavendish has sent out and dealing with them--drawing them off and preventing them from returning to his aid. And also, of course, to prevent them from discovering our other preparations. Do you consider this an accurate analysis?"
"It can be done.... yessss..... it can be done...." The Argus considered this again. "Yes....."
"You will know how best to arrange the forces at your disposal. Draw off the patrols, harry them, prevent them from returning; that is all we ask. The brunt of the fighting will fall elsewhere. Will you do this?"
"It ssssshall be done....." The Argus hissed. "It issss a good plan. And ssssshould you fail..... well, I ssssshall not be there. Ssssso it is a good plan."
Lia continues not to speak, just looking all around. Inside, however, she has to fight the impulse to start seething. Carefully, she is pushing down the words that want to rise.
"I am heartened to hear we are in agreement on this point," Charles says, bowing. "If you desire further communication, please send one or two of your agents to the grave ship. We will entertain them there."
Lia squeezes her eyes shut briefly at these words; oblivious to her masked discomfort, Charles says, "Is there anything you wish to convey before we depart?"
"We sssssshall work well together..... my allies....." The sinister thing hissed. "I believe all is well....."
Charles bows a final time. "Very good. We will be very glad of your assistance. M'selle?" So saying, he gestures toward the door, indicating Lia's priority in departure. Lia nods stiffly to the Vitreous Drinker in the shadows and slowly starts to back away to the doorway, one hand twitching at her robes as if to sketch a curtsy, and turns to go out the door. Charles departs after her, waiting until they are well away to shake his head and grimace.
When the two of them pass an innocuous lump of dry wood, Lia abruptly takes out her cane and pulverizes the harmless item, hissing with frustration. "Save it for Cavendish," Charles advises. Lia does not respond directly; "Let us return to the others," is all she says once she's gotten it out of her system, and walks on. Charles does likewise.
[b]FEAR JUSTICE.[/b] :elena:
Khalil quirks an eyebrow, "Indeed you had but to ask", he offers a short bow that could be interpreted as slightly sarcastic, but then with a small grin to diffuse any bad feeling sets to work.Kaitou Kage wrote:His message sent, he awaited Sam's reply, then stared grumpily at the wood and sailcloth on the ground before him. "Could someone help me out here?" he called.
[OOC: sorry been workign way too much and havent had much tiem to post]
"I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space..."
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space..."
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yalenusveler
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- Joined: Thu Nov 29, 2007 10:44 pm
- Location: Pennsylvania...or Baator
Later that afternoon
"The Plague.." Andre softly muttered, half to himself, half to the world. Why couldn't undead call themselves the Fluffy Bunny Fanciers, and have it be truth in advertising? It would make things so much easier.
Less potentially useful in the fracas to come, but well, that's what one would sacrifice for undead that fancy fluffy bunnies. And not undead bunnies either. Normal nice twitchy nose bunnies.
It was completely clear to Andre that this was utterly insane AND inane, but at the same time, it helped distract him from the unsettling sensation of death crawling under his skin that Shroud tended to produce.
After a while, the sensation almost became pleasant. Like slipping on a comfortable old coat you didn't wear anymore because it was threadbare, but at the same time, too comfortable to throw out. The fact that at the moment he looked like a leper dead for years, his suit the one he buried his father in, and was himself to be buried in...didn't help either.
In the distance, the professor of theology saw the old hospital ship rise from the sand. It was a dignified old vessel, and almost whole, as far as Andre could tell, landing softly on a sand dune. Of course, given what had happened inside....
Andre approached the hospital ship, a twinge of sadness washing over him. They expected to be cured...saved...and instead they got this. Abandonment far from home, far from salvation, and a tainted eternity.
And now a lunatic madman with a flair for theatrics and grand guignol was probably going to attempt to enslave them. Some people can never catch a break from Dame Fortuna, fickle bitch she is.
As Andre approached the hospital ship, he picked up the sounds first. A low murmuring of dozens of throats, and soft whispering voices. And past them, the sound of a woman crying.
Andre approached, trying to pick some form of sense out of the murmurs, put words to the cacophony...and shut out the sound of tears. "Hello?" Andre called out in his mother's native tongue. It only made sense, he thought to himself ruefully that he would end up being the one confronting yet another example of the world's cruelty.
The sound abated a bit, and from the depths of the ship came one of the Plague Blights. It was a hideous, bloated corpse, the putrescent body wrapped in in tight circles of stained cloth. It's eyes were oddly small and moist, a dark green as it beheld Andre balefully.
"I've come to speak with a representative of the Plague...on a matter of mutual concern." Andre said, trying to tap into an inner reserve of dignity and diplomacy he was sure he had tamped down somewhere.
The diseased creature nodded silently, and with a slow, grave hand bade Andre follow it into the depths of the decayed hospital-ship.
Inside, the sounds grew slightly louder, and once again Andre heard the crying, even as he took in the foul-smelling air.
Andre looked around, trying to shake off the sheer human misery that infused this place utterly, having quite the feeling that it was more than present pre-mortem. "You are aware of the top hatted...thing?"
The Plague Blight said nothing, merely gesturing for the leper-like undead that was Andre to follow it, entering the hold. Inside... Andre guessed this had been the holding area for the diseased victims before.
Thin pallets were stacked side by side like so much cordwood, and every surface was covered in a layer of filth, vaguely sticky and moist.
Bloated corpses lay unmoving everywhere, or else tottering along and moaning to the world at large.
In the far corner of the room was what must've been a young woman once, sitting beside a cradle, rocking it and crying.
Andre looked around, eyes continuously drawn to the once young, now forever ageless woman, and the cradle. It was appalling and humbling that the undead still had it in them to weep. He couldn't help himself, looking towards her, than over to his...escort. "May I go speak to her?"
The Plague Blight nodded, standing back. It was easy to tell the blighted ones from the plague walkers. The former still retained their senses... the latter had only pain and horror in their lives. There were far more Plague Walkers.
Andre made his way over to the weeping woman, trying to determine if she still had sense, or if it was all lost to the pain of the world, her pain. A family that would never really be, joy that would not be shared.
What was inside the cradle had been reduced to bones and dust by now, but the undead woman turned slightly at Andre's appearance, nodding once. She was rather disturbing to look upon, a beautiful face marred by the plague sores and slow but steady decay of time.
"A boy or a girl?" He asked, his voice quiet. Respect for another's pain, pain held out over however many years, trapped in this place, a great sinkhole of misery.
"She was Adora..." The woman murmured softly. "She was beautiful...."
"A daughter...I had a daughter as well. Her name was Angelique. She was the light of my world...and then she was snuffed out." Andre said, choking out the words with a good deal of effort.
"She started to cough.... little coughs.... but then there was blood.... and they said I should take the ship.... the priests of Ezra could heal her...." the undead mother said, trailing off.
"And then...you were here." Andre said with a painful grim finality. "What's your name..?" Andre asked, before stating "Mine's Andre.."
"I am Neci." The rotting woman said simply. She ran a hand a fond hand along the little pile of bones in the cradle. "I was a laundress in Moondale, so many years ago."
"A professor here. My little girl would have been 5...had she not been murdered along with my wife." It was nigh on impossible to hide the pain, as raw and fresh as the day it happened.
"Do you know of the top hat wearing man?" He asked, trying to choke down, rebind a mental wound, slap a poultice to prevent festering for another blessed day.
"We have seen him..." Neci said softly. "His cats and soldiers sometimes come by, but they have no interest in us."
"For now..." Andre said "His name is John Lancaster Cavendish. He is a dark priest and a necromancer. And he murdered my wife and baby girl...and now he seeks to make the ruse his playground."
"He will not stay." Neci shrugged. "His business is his own, and soon he will leave."
"He seeks undead with prowess in great fights, the deadly beasts, not me and my kin." Neci smiled, just a little. "He finds us too.... distasteful."
"I had come to seek aid against him." Andre said softly, looking down at the pile of dust that had once been a little girl. "But I cannot drag you into my pain. There is more than enough here without mine" Andre said, feeling almost ashamed for asking, though a moment of thought, and a question left his lips.
"You say he doesn't bother you and he finds you distasteful...you have spoken with him?" Andre asked, his eyes moving between the once beautiful mother, and the pile of bones.
"Once.... he talks a great deal." Neci noted, sighing softly. In another part of the hold an undead burst out into feverish screams. "He does not trouble us so long as we leave the birthing pit to him."
"He's in love with his own sense of theatrics. And..birthing pit?" Andre said, as dry as the desert.
"There are powers in the air here, powers within the ground and the ships." Neci explained simply. "This man you call Cavendish, he has called them forth with fell magics."
"I assume he intends to use them to produce more servitors, or perhaps something worse." So very like Cavendish
"He called these powers down into a great pit and bound them with his magics, and sends them forth. And it gave birth to my kin and I, but not to Adora. For that I am thankful."
"A small mercy in an often merciless world." Andre said, looking at Adora. Would she be long dead now? Would she be in her prime, young and beautiful, calling the gaze of all the boys? Would she be Angelique's age, giggling and calling over her mommy to look at the flowers she picked. No. Now she would be nothing but bones, but at least allowed death's peace.
"Is there anything else you can think of that might be important?" Andre asked as an afterthought, mind drifting between unpleasant elsewheres.
Neci just stroked the bones of her daughter. "I do not know. This Cavendish, he is not interested in those such as you or I. He seeks undead for his armies, I think, and uses the birthing pit for it. Why? I cannot say."
"I will be his destruction if there is even a shred of justice left in this world." Andre said, trying not to sound bitter. "I thank you Neci...without bringing your people into the fight. You have helped more than any could hope."
"You are welcome, Andre." Neci said softly. "It is rare to talk. Thank you."
It wasn't until he was well away from the plague ship that Andre let the tears flow. Tears of sorrow, tears for Neci, tears for Adora, tears for his wife, his little girl, himself. And tears of hatred so ice cold on his cheeks they almost burned, a hate for one man so cold it could turn the seas to glaciers. It took a time to get that out of his system, but once that necessary task was accomplished, he headed back towards camp, accompanied only by his thoughts.
"The Plague.." Andre softly muttered, half to himself, half to the world. Why couldn't undead call themselves the Fluffy Bunny Fanciers, and have it be truth in advertising? It would make things so much easier.
Less potentially useful in the fracas to come, but well, that's what one would sacrifice for undead that fancy fluffy bunnies. And not undead bunnies either. Normal nice twitchy nose bunnies.
It was completely clear to Andre that this was utterly insane AND inane, but at the same time, it helped distract him from the unsettling sensation of death crawling under his skin that Shroud tended to produce.
After a while, the sensation almost became pleasant. Like slipping on a comfortable old coat you didn't wear anymore because it was threadbare, but at the same time, too comfortable to throw out. The fact that at the moment he looked like a leper dead for years, his suit the one he buried his father in, and was himself to be buried in...didn't help either.
In the distance, the professor of theology saw the old hospital ship rise from the sand. It was a dignified old vessel, and almost whole, as far as Andre could tell, landing softly on a sand dune. Of course, given what had happened inside....
Andre approached the hospital ship, a twinge of sadness washing over him. They expected to be cured...saved...and instead they got this. Abandonment far from home, far from salvation, and a tainted eternity.
And now a lunatic madman with a flair for theatrics and grand guignol was probably going to attempt to enslave them. Some people can never catch a break from Dame Fortuna, fickle bitch she is.
As Andre approached the hospital ship, he picked up the sounds first. A low murmuring of dozens of throats, and soft whispering voices. And past them, the sound of a woman crying.
Andre approached, trying to pick some form of sense out of the murmurs, put words to the cacophony...and shut out the sound of tears. "Hello?" Andre called out in his mother's native tongue. It only made sense, he thought to himself ruefully that he would end up being the one confronting yet another example of the world's cruelty.
The sound abated a bit, and from the depths of the ship came one of the Plague Blights. It was a hideous, bloated corpse, the putrescent body wrapped in in tight circles of stained cloth. It's eyes were oddly small and moist, a dark green as it beheld Andre balefully.
"I've come to speak with a representative of the Plague...on a matter of mutual concern." Andre said, trying to tap into an inner reserve of dignity and diplomacy he was sure he had tamped down somewhere.
The diseased creature nodded silently, and with a slow, grave hand bade Andre follow it into the depths of the decayed hospital-ship.
Inside, the sounds grew slightly louder, and once again Andre heard the crying, even as he took in the foul-smelling air.
Andre looked around, trying to shake off the sheer human misery that infused this place utterly, having quite the feeling that it was more than present pre-mortem. "You are aware of the top hatted...thing?"
The Plague Blight said nothing, merely gesturing for the leper-like undead that was Andre to follow it, entering the hold. Inside... Andre guessed this had been the holding area for the diseased victims before.
Thin pallets were stacked side by side like so much cordwood, and every surface was covered in a layer of filth, vaguely sticky and moist.
Bloated corpses lay unmoving everywhere, or else tottering along and moaning to the world at large.
In the far corner of the room was what must've been a young woman once, sitting beside a cradle, rocking it and crying.
Andre looked around, eyes continuously drawn to the once young, now forever ageless woman, and the cradle. It was appalling and humbling that the undead still had it in them to weep. He couldn't help himself, looking towards her, than over to his...escort. "May I go speak to her?"
The Plague Blight nodded, standing back. It was easy to tell the blighted ones from the plague walkers. The former still retained their senses... the latter had only pain and horror in their lives. There were far more Plague Walkers.
Andre made his way over to the weeping woman, trying to determine if she still had sense, or if it was all lost to the pain of the world, her pain. A family that would never really be, joy that would not be shared.
What was inside the cradle had been reduced to bones and dust by now, but the undead woman turned slightly at Andre's appearance, nodding once. She was rather disturbing to look upon, a beautiful face marred by the plague sores and slow but steady decay of time.
"A boy or a girl?" He asked, his voice quiet. Respect for another's pain, pain held out over however many years, trapped in this place, a great sinkhole of misery.
"She was Adora..." The woman murmured softly. "She was beautiful...."
"A daughter...I had a daughter as well. Her name was Angelique. She was the light of my world...and then she was snuffed out." Andre said, choking out the words with a good deal of effort.
"She started to cough.... little coughs.... but then there was blood.... and they said I should take the ship.... the priests of Ezra could heal her...." the undead mother said, trailing off.
"And then...you were here." Andre said with a painful grim finality. "What's your name..?" Andre asked, before stating "Mine's Andre.."
"I am Neci." The rotting woman said simply. She ran a hand a fond hand along the little pile of bones in the cradle. "I was a laundress in Moondale, so many years ago."
"A professor here. My little girl would have been 5...had she not been murdered along with my wife." It was nigh on impossible to hide the pain, as raw and fresh as the day it happened.
"Do you know of the top hat wearing man?" He asked, trying to choke down, rebind a mental wound, slap a poultice to prevent festering for another blessed day.
"We have seen him..." Neci said softly. "His cats and soldiers sometimes come by, but they have no interest in us."
"For now..." Andre said "His name is John Lancaster Cavendish. He is a dark priest and a necromancer. And he murdered my wife and baby girl...and now he seeks to make the ruse his playground."
"He will not stay." Neci shrugged. "His business is his own, and soon he will leave."
"He seeks undead with prowess in great fights, the deadly beasts, not me and my kin." Neci smiled, just a little. "He finds us too.... distasteful."
"I had come to seek aid against him." Andre said softly, looking down at the pile of dust that had once been a little girl. "But I cannot drag you into my pain. There is more than enough here without mine" Andre said, feeling almost ashamed for asking, though a moment of thought, and a question left his lips.
"You say he doesn't bother you and he finds you distasteful...you have spoken with him?" Andre asked, his eyes moving between the once beautiful mother, and the pile of bones.
"Once.... he talks a great deal." Neci noted, sighing softly. In another part of the hold an undead burst out into feverish screams. "He does not trouble us so long as we leave the birthing pit to him."
"He's in love with his own sense of theatrics. And..birthing pit?" Andre said, as dry as the desert.
"There are powers in the air here, powers within the ground and the ships." Neci explained simply. "This man you call Cavendish, he has called them forth with fell magics."
"I assume he intends to use them to produce more servitors, or perhaps something worse." So very like Cavendish
"He called these powers down into a great pit and bound them with his magics, and sends them forth. And it gave birth to my kin and I, but not to Adora. For that I am thankful."
"A small mercy in an often merciless world." Andre said, looking at Adora. Would she be long dead now? Would she be in her prime, young and beautiful, calling the gaze of all the boys? Would she be Angelique's age, giggling and calling over her mommy to look at the flowers she picked. No. Now she would be nothing but bones, but at least allowed death's peace.
"Is there anything else you can think of that might be important?" Andre asked as an afterthought, mind drifting between unpleasant elsewheres.
Neci just stroked the bones of her daughter. "I do not know. This Cavendish, he is not interested in those such as you or I. He seeks undead for his armies, I think, and uses the birthing pit for it. Why? I cannot say."
"I will be his destruction if there is even a shred of justice left in this world." Andre said, trying not to sound bitter. "I thank you Neci...without bringing your people into the fight. You have helped more than any could hope."
"You are welcome, Andre." Neci said softly. "It is rare to talk. Thank you."
It wasn't until he was well away from the plague ship that Andre let the tears flow. Tears of sorrow, tears for Neci, tears for Adora, tears for his wife, his little girl, himself. And tears of hatred so ice cold on his cheeks they almost burned, a hate for one man so cold it could turn the seas to glaciers. It took a time to get that out of his system, but once that necessary task was accomplished, he headed back towards camp, accompanied only by his thoughts.
"Sometimes, Mr.Liquor cabinet is my only friend"
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Rock of the Fraternity
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(This post assumes Andre tells everyone about his experiences with the Plague. If he doesn't, I'll edit.)
"So now the patrols should be dealt with," Lia says once Charles and she have returned to the graveship and made report of their dealings with the Vitreous Drinker. "Unless the Argus and his troops find themselves overwhelmed. The Plague ..."
For a few moments, Lia just stands there looking at Andre, then she walks over and touches his shoulder for a moment. "Well. Diseases were never going to be eminently useful against other undead. Leave them to what peace they can find."
"So now the patrols should be dealt with," Lia says once Charles and she have returned to the graveship and made report of their dealings with the Vitreous Drinker. "Unless the Argus and his troops find themselves overwhelmed. The Plague ..."
For a few moments, Lia just stands there looking at Andre, then she walks over and touches his shoulder for a moment. "Well. Diseases were never going to be eminently useful against other undead. Leave them to what peace they can find."
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yalenusveler
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Andre summarized his jaunt for the group upon his return, leaving out certain aspects. Namely his crying fit after leaving, and his thoughts about fluffy bunny fancying undead. Those were private. But Cavendish using a birthing pit to create undead by sending out the "Nightmares" that he had so gleefully stirred up ? That he shared gladly.
Andre stepped back from Lia's touch, waving his hands in protest. "I was just inside a hospital ship, Lia. Carrying plague victims. I don't know if I'm infected or not..I do feel a bit of a chill." Andre frowned, unsure of if he actually felt cold, or if he just felt so because the fear of infection mandated that he must.
Andre stepped back from Lia's touch, waving his hands in protest. "I was just inside a hospital ship, Lia. Carrying plague victims. I don't know if I'm infected or not..I do feel a bit of a chill." Andre frowned, unsure of if he actually felt cold, or if he just felt so because the fear of infection mandated that he must.
"Sometimes, Mr.Liquor cabinet is my only friend"
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Rock of the Fraternity
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"Perhaps, then, you should ask the inestimable Kuzan to give you a thorough physical ... or the benefit of his deity's magic," Lia says drily. "Speaking of magic ... Perhaps we should avail ourselves of the calm before the coming battle to decide which magics we should bring to bear on the morning."
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Kaitou Kage
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"Here's hoping that Devereux has good luck with his undead, then," Kuzan murmured softly. He was a little disappointed the plague-undead didn't fight, but he supposed it couldn't be helped.
He'd been poring over Otto's little map since getting back from barrel-loading. Anyone looking at him could see the cogs turning in his head.
"The cannon ship is here, which is where Dieter, Otto, and I will be," he murmured, "And the blast radius is going to be huge. So Lia's group should probably set up around here somewhere." He pointed near the top of the map. "That way they won't get caught in the blast. After we light the fuse, I'll jump us up to the other side here." He pointed near the top again.
"Our melee like Khalil and Ishaq could probably get in and help the prisoners. If the third group of undead agrees to raid Cavendish's camp, then our people can use them as cover to get to the monks. What is the term in Core language? Scalpel strikes? Something like that. Careful, precise attacks while the undead distract them.
Does this sound good?"
He'd been poring over Otto's little map since getting back from barrel-loading. Anyone looking at him could see the cogs turning in his head.
"The cannon ship is here, which is where Dieter, Otto, and I will be," he murmured, "And the blast radius is going to be huge. So Lia's group should probably set up around here somewhere." He pointed near the top of the map. "That way they won't get caught in the blast. After we light the fuse, I'll jump us up to the other side here." He pointed near the top again.
"Our melee like Khalil and Ishaq could probably get in and help the prisoners. If the third group of undead agrees to raid Cavendish's camp, then our people can use them as cover to get to the monks. What is the term in Core language? Scalpel strikes? Something like that. Careful, precise attacks while the undead distract them.
Does this sound good?"
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Rock of the Fraternity
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Kaitou Kage
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