[Location] The Temple of Jalat

[Kalinda]

The courtyard was less crowded than it was during the brightening, and in the darkness the guards couldn’t see very far. There weren’t enough torches and candles to light all the dark little corners, and the men were getting tired. Even followers of Aetheria slowed down a little after sunset, and even the most fanatic priest of Diana eventually had to go to bed. If Magrand concentrated hard enough, he would be able to hear them talk. Every time they passed each other on their patrols, they said the same couple of words, “Diana bless you, and may you walk in the Light.”

Magrand could see light in some of the windows. The priests were just getting ready for the last prayer of the brightening. It was late. A man stood at a large window to the left of the main building. He was dressed in a long white garment, a nightgown rather than a robe the likes of which the priests wore when they were doing their duty. His hands were folded. He was saying something – a prayer maybe? Then he turned away, put a cap on and closed the window. The light went out. The man had most likely gone to bed.

From another window a sound could be heard. Somebody was singing, a song to Diana.

There was an empty and little guarded space to the left of the priests’ quarters. There had once been a door, but it was barred now, an entrance that had last been used ages ago. Building materials such as boards and stones were lying there in a heap, suggesting that this part of the complex was in need of repair.

[Magrand Black]

Descending across the world’s breath, Magrand felt a second rush of exhilaration, the dorin’s stolen power whispering further dreams of grandeur into his magnificent stature. Ebon robes danced upon the edges of the wind, beckoning him to new heights, as powerful wings were consumed with the vigour of two were thrust upon the wind with their master’s righteous fury.

Muddled whispers carried upon the currents of the wind; whispers of his prey settling to sleep, oblivious to his coming. If there was a time to strike, it was now, for sleep whispered few omens of the coming blade issued at their throats. Magrand’s eyes fixed in position to the left of the priest’s quarters, the perfect place to finish his descent.

Giving himself as much room as he could to land, the dracon set himself down in his desired position. Certainly, arcana could compensate for his inefficiencies in flight, and the weakness of his wings, but there was truly no substitute for experience, as he well knew. Expecting a bit of a rough landing, powerful legs thrusting themselves upon the ground to absorb the blow of his inexperience as best he could, pouring as much effort as he could to dampening the sound of his landing…

Once he had reached his destination, Magrand stopped for a moment to orient himself and survey his surroundings on the ground. He needed to find the safest path into the priest’s quarters without being spotted – no simple task, to be sure, but as usual arcana changed everything…

[Kalinda]

The courtyard looked a little different from the ground. Magrand could seethings much better than from the entrance gate or from the air. It was much bigger than he might previously have expected. The guards and the dogs were still doing their patrols, but they never got near where the dracon was standing. They did not see any need to inspect the construction site. There was nothing worth stealing (except boards and a few shovels), and opening the door – which was barred – and breaking into the temple would be kind of hard. Thieves – the few that were stupid enough – tended to climb over the walls, and their enemies usually did the same.

Entering through the barred door would be hard for a non-arcanically inclined person, but for a necromancer – who knew?

It wouldn’t be too hard to reach the priests’ quarters from there. Of course he could always fly and try to enter through a window without being spotted – or make himself invisible and step through the front gates as if he were just a normal visitor … one that nobody could see though.

[Gahl]

Gahl approached the temple, the home of Jalat, the home of Gahl's destiny. The black temple stood as a beacon of direction and purpose, a reason for being. Light was absorbed by the massive structure as was Gahl's thoughts. First he prepared his mind, then his body, now it was time to offer his soul to Jalat.

Gahl knew he would need to learn all he can from the mighty priests inside, he would need to obsorb more information, need to be a better listener but most important of all, he must learn to release souls of the living to meet Jalat's open arms. Walking into the massive structure Gahl surveyed the area, awe overcame the orc and he stood with mouth open. Walking between the isles Gahl's thoughts turned to finding a teacher...

OC: Think i will need a mod as i am hoping to learn Jalat practices, not sure if this a skill tho :$

[Kalinda]

It was cold inside the temple, the cold of death, of perpetual winter. Life and warmth had no place here. This was Jalat’s domain. The gigantic black marble structure was cast into perpetual twilight, and mist lingered everywhere between the columns, the bench, behind the altar. The orc’s footsteps were oddly muffled as if sound itself could barely exist here. The Temple of Jalat was as separated from the rest of the world as any place on Telath could possibly be. It had little connection to the city of Vortex, to Aelyria Prime, to the chaos that governed the rest of the Empire.

Had this been another other city but Vortex, somebody would have slaughtered Gahl the moment he came here. He would most likely not even have made it past the gates. Since orcish armies had burnt Narim and destroyed Paxia and taken the lives of countless innocent, people had begun a veritable hunt on them. Only Vortex still accepted his kind. Only in Vortex orcs were able to walk about without having to fear for their life.

And so it was that a priest, a young human male with brown eyes, black hair and pale skin that was garbed in a long, dark robe, approached him with a smile on his face. It wasn’t a very bright smile for it was unbecoming of a priest of Jalat to show an excessive amount of emotion, but he looked as if he was glad to have a visitor.

“Good brightening, brother orc”, the priest greeted him. “What can I do for you? Are you here to make a sacrifice? Do you wish to pray or learn more about us?”

[Gahl]

Gahl's expression remained awe inspired as he faced the young human. He was surprised that not only was he accepted into the temple but the figure before him seemed pleased to see him, despite his green complexion.

M.. me f... f... follow Jalat. You t... t... teach m.. me h... how to s.. s.. s.. serve?

A bead of sweat trailed down the brow of the orc, the strain of speech could be clearly seen across his face. Taking a deep breath, Gahl awaited a reply with baited breath.

[Kalinda]

The young priest found it hard to understand Gahl's speech, but where others would have made fun of the orc or even called him a savage because he was not capable of speaking proper Common, this human showed nearly endless patience. As he answered, he did so with the same quasi-friendliness as before.

"I'm glad to meet an orcish brother in the faith", he said. There was nothing about his words that suggested that he was lying, that he didn't care or wasn't impressed. The priest of Jalat in his black robe with his pale face really did seem to be glad, in his own, special way. "Not many among your kind follow Him - which is unfortunate."

He was referring to the fact that most orcs worshipped Jorel, that they were blood-thirsty, chaotic people.Few had the calm that was required to serve the god of death.

"I will teach you how to serve. If you want to become a priest, brother orc, you will be allowed to join us. But tell me, why did you choose Jalat? Why do you follow him?"

[Joshua Ravencroft]

Brightening Srennia; Third Cycle on Pontius, Winter of Era XV P.F.

Joshua wasn't exactly sure how he found himself in front of Jalat's temple, though one could hazard a guess that it had something to do with the impressiveness of the Landmark. The boy couldn't help but feel drawn by it, since it seemed to exude the exact qualities he'd been looking for since arriving in Vortex.

"Wow..." It had been meant for his head, but somehow he couldn't help but utter the words in astonishment as he approached the great doors to the temple. Upon closer examination, Josh found himself feeling that 'Wow' may have been a gross, and insulting understatement for the majesty of such a building. "I really shouldn't," he muttered to himself after placing a hand on the door; however, he'd never been one for the safe approach.

Against the better judgment of his instinctual fear, Joshua pushed upon the entrance and stepped into Jalat's domain- shivering in the process because of some cold wind.

Josh called out to try and gain someone's attention, if there was anyone. He wasn't sure if he was seeing shadows, or people milling about. "Hello?" the boy called out again, this time taking a few more steps into the temple.

[Ilfirin Tyraen Chumomisto]

First Cycle of Cryxatum, Spring, PF XV

The soft whisperings of prayers from the Temple of Jalat remained in the head of the Elensson, long after he had said them in the mid-brightening, to the now, the darkening. The darkness fell on most parts of the town, yet the child never shuttered or shivered out of fright. He was here for a mission. At the sight of the dark, a smile was brought to the half elf's lips, though it was not one that should appear on a child's face. It was twisted and belonged only to the most scarred of adults. His face spoke of youth and innocent, with his fair pale skin and kind eyes. His hair took on a moonlight silver, a common trait among Silrosian elves, who were of grace and lithe. It hung below his ears, save for one last strand, which seemed to have managed to avoid being shortened and so remained on his shoulder. His eyes, the most distinct trait of his features, were perhaps, only the trait he inherited from his human father. They appeared crimson at first sight, but if one stared closely, they would see a hint of hazel mixed within all that red, softening the color. Even after his death, his father was still trying hard to bring peace to the world, for the color of hazel was a trait of the Air'riela Gypsies. Nevertheless, to the normal stranger, his eyes appeared crimson and that was all it mattered. Eyes were often claimed to be windows to the souls. If one looked into his, they would only see the thick shade of red and not the idiotic kindness of a light elf.

He hated that label. He was anything but a light elf. He was a human, a gypsy, a child, but not a light elf. He had no father called Petsha, who would not teach him his human heritage, and thus, his last name was not Chumomisto, but Elensson. It never would be. The man who taught him about himself was Elen, not that human.

As he stared at the tavern, he thought of its name as inaccurate, silly even. The city of Vortex was anything but white and pure and Ilfirin gladly held the notion that it should remain this way. It had been the initial sight of the wonderous and terrible city of Vortex that had brought Ilfirin the decision that he should remain here, that it was unlike all the other hypocritical cities. This city openly allowed a temple belonging to the god Jalat to remain while not so many other cities would be willing to do the same. There was no good and evil to Ilfirin, just the tolerant and intolerant.

At this moment in the darkening, Ilfirin sat isolated in the temple, drinking nothing, eating nothing. He despised any type of distractions while he waited and food was one of them. He closed his eyes again, trying to clear his mind and obtaining some kind of peace, something that would keep him from insulting the next person that appeared. From his pockets, he grabbed his bloody tarot cards. Most of the cards had been contaminated by blood, but remained in good condition, to Ilfirin's point of view. He looked around the temple with his tired eyes. He would not leave this temple, not until he found a way to learn necromancy, the secrets of death.

[Kalinda]

It was quiet inside the temple. Occasionally the chants of the priests would interrup the silence, but this was not one of those moments. This time the silence was complete, and time seemed to stand still. The Temple of Jalat seemed to exist outside the Kingdom of Aelyria as it was now called, outside the material plane even, in a place that was untouched by the problems that troubled the mortal world so. While spring had begun all over the province – even in Vortex, although that had happened a little later than anywhere else - it was cold here, as if the temple really wasn’t part of anything. It was the cold of death, of perpetual winter. The priests seemed to not really notice it, but somebody who was new to the temple, would most likely experience it as unpleasant.

It was darker than outside. Very little sunlight ever entered the temple, and mist lingered in every corner as if the building existed in that perpetual twilight, the strange time when the whole world seemed to be shrouded in white, when the grass was moist as if it had rained, that time in the earily morning, shortly before the suns rose.

Nearly everything in the temple was black, the walls, the columns that lined them, the altar. Most people associated the color black with evil, but there was no sense of evil coming from the temple. Death was not evil.. It was neutral, the ultimate equalizer. Death came for everybody in the end, regardless of race, regardless of social status or religion, regardless of whether they were evil or not. The priests of Jalat killed, some more often than others, but they were different from the chaotic followers of Jorel. Whatever they did served a greater purpose.

Ilfirin was alone in the temple for a while, the only one that sat on the benches in front of the altar with the statue of Jalat, portrayed as a hooded man. Only after a while did somebody else come in. It was a woman, a priestess dressed in a plain black robe. She appeared to be somewhere in her thirties, pale, with dark eyes and white hair that hinted at mixed heritage, a half elf of some kind most likely. She nodded at Ilfirin, the barest hint that she recognized his presence before she faced the altar. She carried a bowl in her long fingered hands, a bowl filled with red liquid that she placed in front of the hooded man. It was a sacrifice, a blood sacrifice.

[Ilfirin Tyraen Chumomisto]

The half elf promptly shoved his cards into his pockets at the new arrival, not wanting any hints of his past to escape to the city of Vortex. It was enough that the citizens of Herozzal knew all about it... At the thought of the city, his eyes darkened and and the pale tints of his cheeks quickly grew to a soft red. He clenched his fist, against digging his nails into the fragile skin of a half elf. Only when he could not see any part of his cards would the Chumomisto breath a sign of relief. His stance relaxed and his shoulders drooped slightly.

Then came the lack of warmth. The annoying icy pierce of cold that came with living in the Temple of Jalat. It occured throughout many times in the brightening, but the half elf found it even worse in the darkenings. Sometimes, the boy felt as if the ice had edged its way into the center of his heart, freezing it as well. The dark did little to bother him. He was long used to the darkness after eras of staying inside his house, in fear of the other children.

He nodded back to the other member, though it was reluntant. He edged his neck a bit higher, so that he could see whatever substance was contained in the bowl of the priestess. He twitched his nose in distaste, unfazed that actual blood was used the followers of Jalat. He had seen more blood spilled from his own veins during his childhood at Herozzal, where he was the ridicule of his village. Indeed, the scars remained in small streaks of darkened skin that fell over all his body. He was not handsome and would have been a fool to say otherwise.

Normally, the half elf would have long spoken to the priestess, but the sight of blood had sent past memories spinning to his head. He stared mindlessly at the ritual before snapping out of his thoughts.

"Serale, Sister."

[Kalinda]

The woman did not react to his greeting immediately. She did not even turn around as he adressed her, but knelt down in front of the altar, her back to him. The only sign that she knew he was there was the brief nod she had made before. She knelt in front of the altar, on the cold floor, her head bent, her long black skirts fanned around her. He could hear that she was praying, but her voice was too soft for him to make out what it was that she was saying. It was only a faint murmur, but not an unpleasant sound. There was something melodic, something powerful in her voice even now.

She dipped one pale, slender finger into the bowl of blood she had placed in front of Jalat’s statue and smeared the liquid across her forehead and her cheeks, and then she finally rose to her feet and turned to face him. She bore three red marks on her face now, one on her forehead and one on each cheek. The red stood in contrast to the rest of her being. Everything else about her was black and white and cold. Her movements as she approached him were graceful. There was an almost otherworldly quality about them. She could have been beautiful, with a little darker skin and different clothes she could have been beautiful, but as it was she merely looked strange and faintly dangerous.

“Serale, brother.” Her voice was a rich alto, a voice that made you pay attention, a voice that made you want to listen even if you didn’t like what she was saying. She was that kind of woman that just appeared charismatic, even if the ideals she believed in were not your cup of tea. “Can I do something for you? You are new to this temple, aren’t you? I don’t think we have met before …”

[Ilfirin Tyraen Chumomisto]

He stayed in silence, being ignored. There was nothing foreign about that feeling. He had felt it often during his time in Herozzal, but it annoyed the half elf nonetheless. He stared away, then glanced back at the priestess, watching her as she completed her ritual. The sounds was mesmerizing and the half elf found himself wanting to pray along, if he actually knew the words. That, and the elf could never sing properly in his whole life. So he content himself by sitting there, listening the sounds.

He was a bit shocked when she smeared the blood over the face, jolting slightly. Ilfirin had half the mind to ask whether or not that was fresh blood, and how clean it could possibly be. He held his tongue, not wanting to disrupt the process. After all, it would be a pity if he got kicked out after trying so hard to enter as a novice.

His eyes snapped to focus at the mention of the greeting. He turned to her, nodding softly. He shook his head at her question, "I have never had the opportunity to be graced with your presence until now, Sister. I come with the request to learn the secrets of Necromancy, and as is forbidden within most cities, I found myself here. As one can see, I am willing to do anything to learn."

[Infireus]

Infireus walked into the temple still fresh from his journey. His robe was pulled tight around him and the hood still hid his face as it had from the city gates to the temple itself. His weapons hidden and his nature unknown he approuched the altar of the place paying little heed to the rest of the temple. As he approached the altar he reached up and pulled back his hood revealing his bald and scared head. His eyes that burnt a dark green swept the area around him as if even here he expected armed men to jump out of the shadows and attack him. That was the affect of this place, the shadows were long and the nights that he hadn't slept were many.

He had little to lose however.

Infireus reached the altar and to a distant observer it would apear that he had become completely still, that was however until he reached up and drew the sword who's hilt could just be seen over his shoulder. He then knelt towards the altar and placed the sword before him as if perhaps maybe in offering. It also appeared that he was praying, or maybe he was just waiting for something; An observer wouldn't know.
If however a person looked close enough the sword that was out had the stain of blood on it, almost as if it had killed many things and had yet to be cleaned.

[Trickster]

Infireus

Cold and dark were words that normal citizens would use to describe Vortex. So it made sense to say that the Temple of Jalat, one of Vortex's main religious establishments, would be "cold and dark" as well. There was nothing notably different about the dracon's way to dressing than most of the people. After all, Jalat was rumored to have appeared as a man in a dark cloak.

Soon after Infireus's arrival, another member of the church arrived. Sharp-eyed and silent, they watched the dracon advance to the altar. They kept in the shadows, giving no hint to as where they would be. Then finally, the priest walked out of the darkness, and into the dimness. It mattered little where one was standing for the place was shrouded in a veil of darkness. The priest, experienced beyond his generation, walked with a quiet step that would be noticeable to only the carefullest of warriors. He slowed to a stop, walking behind to the dracon.

"Serale sir. How may the Temple of Jalat be able to assist you?" Low and deep, his voice matched the very mood and setting of the temple. It was no so much a threat, but a string of kind words that perhaps, fully wished to help Infireus.