[Obsidian] An Elf With A Mission

[Dream]

TIMESTAMP:
The Month of Cryxatum in the Season of Summer, of Era II of the Celestine Mandate (Current Pattern) Era XI Post Fractum in the Age of the Darkening, the Mageocracy of Julos the Mad.
Paradigm Shift: Schism in the Church of the Faith!

Silrosia's deadliest assassin moved through the streets of Ethgan'tor, invisible to all but the most determined eyes. There was no trick to his craft as yet, the Master Necromancer content with invisibility the old fashioned way - the grey cloak and unassuming robes of an Esh'lahier pilgrim from the Empire, seeking to bring himself closer to Ioannolius through a visit to the holy city of Ethgan'tor. He guessed that hundreds passed through the streets he walked every day for the same reason, to marvel at this effeminate pink city of stone. He had been in Ethgan'tor for less than a brightening and already he could not stand the place - how any decent, self-respecting elf could carve an entire city out of stone, he did not know.

Then again, it would not surprise Naloren to know the powers of the ancients had abandoned these fiends.

Bringing his mind back into focus, the elf reminded himself that he was only here to achieve his goal. After that, it was back to Silrosia and normality. The first step to his goal was locating the Palace. He would have two cycles to chase down his 'father' once the mark had been made, while it was too busy in the city to be seen leaving.

Sometime before he reached the Palace, he would have to find an alley or something to work his craft as well, weaving the shadows around his body and shrouding himself with the sweet nothingness that Death energies controlled. He had made up his mind - Ethgan'tor would tremble at the might of noble Silrosia that day. Even before he found himself lodgings, he would have the king's body before him, and the mark of Silrosia would be burnt with Death into the King's body, his life to drain out from the wound. A simple assassination by a necromancer would bring Vortex to question, but Naloren had no taste for subtleties. Ethgan'tor would know that the lightborn were responsible, and this city would learn to fear his name just as the pirates of Imperia and rogue Vyssies of Vortex knew. What name they ended up giving him was irrelevant. What mattered was a name would be known here, and feared.

[Obsidian]

No one but the necromancer knew how hard the labour was to find the holy city was. For anyone in the empire, except the Esh’lahier, the city was impossible to find, and those who had accidentally ventured close, never left. But still, for a half Esh’lahier to find the city would have been very hard, it would have required some time. The city was a secret, half the empire didn’t know it even existed, some of the Vysstichi knew, some of the Silrosians knew, but no one else had the faintest clue that the Esh’lahier had a city that wasn’t some small community away or within the major cities.

But Naloren had entered the city, with a burning vengeful rage that could rival the old inquisition. The obvious destination for a pilgrim would be the bright temple of Ethgan’tor, one of the three wonders of the city. The structure was immense, bigger then any building that Naloren would have seen before. Level after level of pink veined marble in a flat dome like structure, with many wings leading off the main structure, each wing being devoted to each of the gods of the Aetherian Pantheon, the structure was truly a tenement to the faith of the Esh’lahier.

But, that wasn’t what Naloren was here for; he was looking for the royal palace, a structure that even a dog could not miss. It was perhaps one of the tallest, if not the tallest spire in Lauryl, it was so tall, that it was a wonder why people could not see it from afar, but that was due to the cloaks of secrecy that shroud the city, it was quite a walk, at least five kilometres from where Naloren stood, right in the epicentre of the city.

Finding a secret alleyway was harder then expected, everything was so spaced out in this city, everything had a triangular formation, buildings in triangular rings of three, which were all then themselves in rings of three around the three wonders of the city. But, after a little bit of searching, it looked like there was a place for Naloren out of the public eye to weave his dark magic. It was a risky place, behind the pet store, before the forest. Wasn’t the typical dark alleyway necromancers thrived in, but for what the assassin wanted to do, it would be more then adequate.

[Ragman]

The plan was simply really.

Naloren knew it was foolhardy and witless to simply barge into the Palace, or summon a Daemon to wreck havoc as a distraction. The former would likely end up with him squaring off with the Priests and Priestess of the Temple grounds, and some of the Knight Templars, and everything will soon turn really, really ugly. The latter he belief would only cause the Palace security to tighten for fear harm reaching their pathetic King, making it harder for himself.

Naloren wasn't a man of finnesse subtlety. None of the Mithania's were. Everything had to be dramatized and grand, everything should not be accomplished by political diplomancy, but by the desicive wars and fights. The late foster father of Naloren, The Warmaster Shan'tilaar Mithania had never been a man of words, believing them to be filled with sinous lies and implications. He loved the real wars, the real battlefields, when he can defeat the enemy himself by putting the knife into his gut.

The Half-Esh'lahier was not stupid, however. Doing so would have been a witless act. The dramatizing could be left till later, after the King is dead.

And so slipping into Clara, the Master Necromancer reached across the infernal planes, feeling the cold fires stroking his anger, the voice of the nameless ones cooing and soothing his inner hatred, promising him the sweet vengeance. He almost swooned at the thought of finally able to kill his father, something that made a grim smile of irony reached onto his face, despite the iron resolution glinting in his shocking green eyes.

Shaping one of his own specialized spells Shadow Walk, he pulled the strands of the shadows and laced it around himself with Conjuration, before weaving an Abjuration around the essence of darkness to allow mobility to his spell.

The end result? Simply fragmenting his own body into the slinky form of black-gray shadows, making his invisible frame if possible, even more invisible as he completely blended into the white marble walls of this damnable City.

Maintaining the gateway to the Astral Plane, he once more Channeled the dark energies from the infernal planes as he Cast a Master-level Grim Aura, that would enable him to levitate, as well as remove the need to breath, to eat, allowing him to hide in small confined spaces if necessary.

Mother, be my judge this night.

He thought to himself, and of his mother whose life is now suspended in the stars, as he dived toward the Palace with frightening speed, silently and unseen.

[Ragman]

Slipping through the night air, Naloren felt buffeted and suddenly chastened. He looked upon the court of majestic stars, like the millions of tiny eyes of the Aethernia above, looking as if they would one Brightening claim him; but the stars claim no one really, and even if they did, his dark blood would never give him peace.

He felt hurt. He felt pain.

Vengeance was his. Only revenge can grant him that sense of purity that the evil twisted blood that ran twined to his light blood could not. He felt tainted and dirty. When he was young, he wanted nothing more than to drain the blood out from his body to cleanse the wickedness in them.

The floodgates of memories inundated him once more.

He could remember the knife, a tiny dagger he had stolen from one of the local armouries. With grim, but terrible determination, he had slashed his own wrists and broken the arteries from which dark, foul liquid flowed from his veins.

As the blood flowed, he felt even more dirty, stained with that cursed blood against his snow-white skin. He could see the vileness plainly, red in all its glory and his eyes were dazzled and his soul hurt even more.

Only gradually, in a spume of hazy darkness did he come to, when he had laid in the cusp of death, in the very jaws of Jalat Himself did he see the vision that he would one day bring the retribution on his bastard of a father that had committed the unspeakable against his mother. By his own hands, he would taste his blood, and in so, liberating himself from the pain and discrimination he had bore when he was too young to fight it, and now too numb of soul to care.

He knew then, what he had to do.

He could sense the numerous magical wards drawn around the Palace, each one different from the other to prevent any intruder from using the same method to unlock the passage within, to the secret chambers where -

Feth!

A ball of white light exploded before him, almost searing his tunic if he had not ducked in time. Somehow he had managed to overlook one of the more intricate traps that was warding specifically for the manoeuvre that he was attempting. The pain and light disorientated him, making him tumble into the hard marble ground that would splinter his bones if he did not gather his nerves in time.

He slipped into Clara, and dived into Grim Aura once more, narrowly missing the white, base floor inches away.

Esh'lahier's emerged from around him, some unmistakably Mages, judging from their trailing white robes; troops venture near them, bearing swords and pikes. There were no Templars on sight yet, which brought him a little sense of relief.

A white robed Esh'lahier, bearing the crest of the royal family pointed an accusing finger at him, as she slipped into Clara. Her silvery hair was thrown back around her as the air tumbled around her, surrounding herself and those near her with a protective barrier.

"Get him!"

Surrender. And vengeance would be yours.

"Be careful, he is a Necromancer!"

Surrender.

The voice cooed softly to him, whispering dark promises.

People give up money, their friends, their families to get what they want in life. What would you give young one? What have you got to offer?

The voice of Shan'tilarr floated into his mind. He heard himself answer as he did so many Eras ago, mouthed the words, coming out barely above a whisper.

"Myself."

Naloren's rage ignited anew as he leapt into the air, blades dancing in his fingers.

[Ragman]

Naloren went for the closest Esh'lahier as he deftly did a side step to maneuver his way out of an approaching pike, knives raised above his head, as he brought it down with a cry, cleaving the Esh'lahier guard's helm and head, the sickening , screeching sound of metal scraping against metal, then skin, bone and tissue. Bending his body rearward, he ducked another spear aimed for his exposed back, which was now lodged into the armor of the dead Esh'lahier.

Scything his knives upwards, Naloren once more cleaved the second guard from between his legs. The Esh'lahier had no chance to evade, having exerted all force on the spear that had missed and hit his comrade instead, the momentum carrying him forward and exposing himself to Naloren's attack. He screamed as he dropped onto the marble floor, desperately clutching onto his spew viscera that skidded all over the hallowed grounds of the Palace.

An orb of light exploded near Naloren's ears, making him wince in pain as he spied from the corners of his emerald green eyes the woman Thaumaturgist flinging light projectiles at him. Soldiers flanked her from all openings, making it hard to inflict any harm unto her without having to get pass the soldiers first. Another light orb, this time hitting him squarely in the chest as he smothered a cry, spiraling backwards into the air as he found his limbs suddenly refusing to obey his command, refusing to adopt a break fall position to cushion the impact when he lands onto the hard ground.

A searing web of white light enveloped him, smothering his breath and choking him at the same time. Righteous Stun, an Apprentice-leveled spell, evoked to a Master level, snaring him in its blinding hot light like a fly stuck on the web of a spider, paralyzed and helpless. The light, by its damnable machinations, held Naloren in a spread eagle position as he swerved uncontrollably towards earth.

"Got you!" The Thaumaturgist yelled, triumph in her voice.

A jarring thud ensued as Naloren landed on his right shoulder, skidding across the marble tiles, with soldiers hot on his heels. For a brief instant, he hovered in a spume of pain, dancing electrical shockwaves coursing through his body, and the sharp, tingling sensation in his shoulder he feared broken. Through the howling agony, he kept his grip on the stare of Clara, hurriedly shaping his mana into a Dispel as he sought to unravel the magical web on his form.

With a startled and relieved cry, the unbearable pain faded away as he struggled to his feet to regard the approaching soldiers, one arm supporting his limp shoulder. He shot a look at the Esh'lahier mage, then at the guards attempting to encircle him, thereby forcing him to submit.

"Damn you to Aeternia, I'm going to have to cheat then."

Weaving a simple Apprentice spell Coagulate Blood, Naloren began his casting, lightly brushing across the array of troops presented before him as each one cried out in more astonishment then pain, crumbling to the floor as their heart seized functionality for a brief, agonizing moment, and the guards themselves squirming on the floor, unable to get up, unable to get a breathe into their lungs, writhing in pain.

Naloren started out toward the Mage, who had began her castings once more, hurling spelled projectiles at him, all of which he deflected with the simplest of all dark spells, the Acid Ball. Fear seized the Esh'lahier as Naloren stood a hair's breath away, so close that she could smell his breath, and so close that she found herself unable to unhinge her eyes from the arresting green of the Half-Esh'lahier assassin.

His eyes held no emotion, no anger, no lethal commitment, no... soul.

"Die, bitch." Was all she heard as Naloren plunged his flaming digits into her bosom and severed the roots of her heart from her body, yanking it out so forcefully that the Mage jerked violently in mid-air, swayed for an instant before falling limply onto the assassin who brushed her body aside without a care in the world; dropping the bloodied pulp of organ beside her.

The soldiers were beginning to recover, some on their knees forcing the air into their constricted lungs as they struggled to find strength in their limbs.

Casting Shadow Walk, then Grim Aura, the Half Syl'rosyan, Half-Esh'lahier assassin Naloren continued toward the throne chambers of the King, undeterred, unafraid and unstoppable.

[Ragman]

Up and up Naloren went, through the strings of rooms that were closed, likely to horde the vile loot of the damned King that was going to die this Darkening. The pain in his shoulder socket seemed to intensify as he moved noiselessly and invisible, using the natural shadows cast by the numerous beeswax lamps to conceal his movements.

Already, the Palace Guards are on high alert, seeking the intruder. He passed by a patrol of them unnoticed. Naloren exhibited no response as their boots practically waltzed pass him, keeping his vine-green eyes ahead to the wide corridor stretching into the distance. A dozen leather and chain mailed clad soldiers passed through him at another bend, their swords sheathed with their bows slung over their shoulders, close to their quiver cap that hid scores of arrows within the leather bag. Though their weapons were not drawn, every hilt was gripped in a ready fist as vigilant eyes scrutinized the shadows dancing across the doorways and regally arched domes, and through the gigantic pillars that supported the vaulted ceilings that seemed to stretch on forever.

Naloren did not bother himself with them. These are simply peons, ungifted, and could pose no danger to him. True, he could have destroyed them with a sweep of his hands, that won't have taken much more effort from him than swatting a stubborn fly; but Naloren was a meticulous man. He needed all the strength he had. Especially with his broken shoulder. Damn that Thaumaturgist bitch to Aeternia.

Skirting left beside a pillar, he continued his advance straight ahead. A blind man would have no trouble finding the King in this Palace, built in a circular design, it was obvious to even the most daft of persona that the seat of power laid in the center, the hub of the Palace. At each intersection, stairs continuous led him upward toward the more private and more hallowed chambers privy to the royal family.

Though there won't be much of a family when Naloren was done with them. A mirthless smile ghosted across his cheeks at that thought. Another patrol of guards hurried pass him, obviously being called to muster of arms. Again he slipped pass, undetected. Those without the gift would never be able to detect his veiled presence. Even the most vigilant and cautious would see him only as a mass of shadows fleeting through harmlessly.

And then he saw the bane to all Necromancers.

The Knight Templars. The Esh'lahier's very own version of Paladins. Done in a cloak of white felt over silvery armor trimmed with gold fringes, they bore the crest of the royal family proudly upon their breastplates. Swords hang limply from their metal tooled belt, with several blades strapped over their chest and back in a criss-crossed manner. Daggers were concealed until only the hilt was slightly visible beneath gleaming bracers and gauntlets.

They looked like walking arsenals of weaponry. And they commanded the gift. Perfect combination of killing machines.

Standing very still like sentinels overlooking their charge, it was clear that they were different from the other soldiers that had strode past Naloren without the slightest guess that they were walking pass the very man they had been instructed to hunt down. And four of them stood before the entrance to the tower which housed the royal family, the tower that from the outside of the Palace seemed to stretch into the skies themselves, surrounded by other minarets that loomed above, only this one was the tallest and grandest, crusted with gems of all make and seeming to glow even when the last of Twilight has died away, seeming to garner the envy from the rest who could only watch on, but never attain that level of grand beauty.

Naloren had to be careful now. Very careful.

Could he in his current state take down four Knight Templars single handedly? His head screamed a deafening no. But his heart and spirit spurred him on.

One of the principals of attack: surprise.

He had the element of surprise.

As he Dispelled the Grim Aura around him, so did he begin to unravel the Shadow Walk, but not before he was just at striking distance from the Knight Templars.

"Boo." Was all he said as he materialized himself before the four Knight Templars, who stood rooted for an instance, held in muted surprise.

That moment was enough for Naloren.

The air crackled with his magic, as the lamps went out all at once, casting the entire chamber in harsh, unforgiving shadows. Astonished cries as blades were drawn from their scabbards, the soft metallic -clink- of armor pieces against one another, fumbling, groping blindly in the dark. Confusion. Chaos.

Naloren drew his blades, still wet with blood from the previous contact.

And then he began.

[Ragman]

Naloren had shut his eyes prior to the extinguishing of the flames, and hoped that his eyes would readjust much faster to the darkness than the rest of the Knight Templars. Opening his vine-green orbs, all he could see were dark hazy shadows clustered together as they groped blindly, their fumbling hands reaching for their scabbards and drawing their blades with a resounding -clink-.

Naloren edged forward slowly, his own knives drawn, still warm with the blood he had spilled. He tried his best to remember what he was about to do, focusing on that goal and trying not to let the fear overwhelm him. His shoulder joint throbbed again, making him almost cry out in agony.

Right now that self-assurance and confidence, coupled with his powerful posture was the only solid ground in his quicksand of terror.

Quick as lightning, he drew his blade over the neck of the first Templar, before leaping back and out of their sword distance. He let himself saturate with the feeling of hatred and fear, letting it drive him in the dance.

The dance of death.

A gurgling sound as the Templar fell, with the rest of his ilk behind him, shouting and swearing all at once as one of them fell, his artery severed as he toppled, choking to death on his own blood, an incredibly painful and slow death, exacted almost cruelly by the Half-Esh'lahier.

With a gait unique to himself, Naloren leapt into the air, using the toppling Esh'lahier as leverage as he jumped over the heads of the remaining three Paladins, doing a rolling back break fall as he found himself a mere ten feet away from the tower that would lead to the Royal Chambers. He finally let out a muffled cry as he felt his shoulder scream again.

"Feth!!!" He growled a curse under his breath as he pulled himself to his feet, biting his under lip to keep himself from screaming with agony.

The Knight Templars, recovering from their initial hiccup rushed rearwards toward Naloren, one of them rising his hilt to his lips and offering a sword salute before bringing down his blade in an attempt to cleave his head into two. From behind he could hear the spidery chants of magic as the other two slipped into Clara, and before long surrounded themselves with a halo of dancing white light.

Naloren ducked to the side, placing one sole on the side of the marble wall, then using the it as another leverage to push himself forward, timing it such that the Templar's blade would arc below his belt before he lunged, withdrawing two daggers from the side of his boots in midair, forcing his right shoulder to obey as the muscles screamed with pain, echoed in his wild battle cry as he skewered the two tiny blades through the exposed temples of the first Esh'lahier, then flipping his hips forward, brought the soles of his feet to his chest as he pushed himself away backwards, and propelling the dead Esh'lahier toward his comrades at the same time.

The two Knights, likely to have cast a spell which increased their dexterity and nimbleness missed the body as they advanced forward, one of them reaching with his palm opened toward him as he dashed, as an orb of fiery white flames exploded from the tips of his fingers, and given the short distance, gave the assassin no chance to react as it connected solidly with his chest, the impact throwing him backwards as he tasted blood in his lips.

Underneath his dark tunic, he could see his skin melting, shriveling as the flames ate through his superficial muscles.

Naloren's rage ignited.

Diving into Clara, a process which usually takes less than a couple of seconds, Naloren hurled his long knives at the two Esh'lahier as an attempt to delay them; a weak attempt it seems, for they parried away the weapons without much difficulty. The pain was making it especially hard to concentrate, to pull his mind together to cast his spell.

Through a series of practiced spell techniques, he channeled the Mana and shaped it, closing his eyes.

Time slowed to a dream as he opened them, a flicker of steel before his eyes.

An soundless explosion in the air, with the two Esh'lahier's bearing the brunt of the impact, as a ring of blood spurt from their lips. With practiced ease, he reversed the spell techniques, Abjurating the life force into himself, as he watched the cruel scars on his chest, exposing part of his ribs start to close, as the dark energies began its evil machinations, fabrics of new skin rising and knitting together to form a healed layer over his ivory white chest, mending the horrid wound that would eventually kill him if left untreated.

The two Esh'lahier's jerked, swayed and fell, face first, thumping onto the ground with a rather hallow sound.

As Naloren's breathing evened, he begin to sit up, struggling to lift his arm up, and pleasantly surprised to find his shoulders healed from the stolen life force.

Watching the shadows fall upon the corridor, he hatched a plan in his head.

Using Alteration and then Conjuration, he held the essence of the shadows themselves within his fingertips, shaping them and hardening them to a thick, vicious liquid that sprout wherever the shadows touched, forming a living ball of oily glob on the corridor that would block off anyone else trying to come up this way.

Dragging two of the bodies, one who was still alive - the one who he had dealt the neck wound, he stripped off their armor as he sat down and delicately touched the dark pool of blood by the side, drawing a sigil unknown to many except those of his order, a mark that would make Father Hiriam himself shake with fury, very likely taking him to the grave in anger.

The mark of Jorel.

The one still alive moaned as he stared accusingly at Naloren with dark, glossy eyes, blood continuing to spurt out of his throat, bubbling as the air no longer came through his lips, but through the gaping and sucking wound at his neck.

Summoning a Daemon with his current Vis reserve would place himself in danger. Already he could feel the nagging exhaustion at the back of his head. No, he simply had to do a summoning without magical means.

Placing his hand over the shuddering body of the Esh'lahier who was rapidly falling into shock, his chest ragged with breathing, sputtering with wet blood.

"Ives trans jacqirrita in profanuds eiuns seutique eius in ten'elis."

He felt the goose pimples behind his back raise as felt a hole open to this Plane of Existence.

"Et hevista eius seutique eius in ten'nelis."

Blacker than the night sky, the portal swelled and hovered above them, the weight bearing down upon Naloren as if it might crush him. He could hear the lulling whispers of the entities within, whispering dark promises, asking to be set free. He could feel the darkness within respond to them, for in some wierd, strange level unknown to perhaps only the secondary part of him made up of remnants of nightmares and vileness, they comfort him.

"Eius in ten'nelis, eius in ten'nelis, eius in ten'nelis."

Naloren disappeared into the stairwell, fastening his long knives back to his belt once more, waiting for the Daemon to bite on the bait.