Registered Member #24078
Joined: 3:40:59 am GMT 05/14/17
Posts: 1715
PLAYING THE PART
The Grand Keep was bustling with activity as more documents flooded into the gnome's office. Soldiers clanked up and down the stone hallways, their metallic steps ringing about the gnome's ears as he tried in vain to concentrate on the work laid out before him. Life as a notary for the nobility was supposed to be a posh, simple job with great benefits, but as more and more work poured into the little man's office, he began to have his doubts.
There they stoop, teetering and reaching perilous heights: Ledgers to be approved, guard citations for unattended horse grazing, reprimand's for unlawful use of magic...
The gnome's stamp falls with deadly precision as each document is notarized by his seal, yet just as the prodigious pile of papers begins to wane, a Knave clunks in and drops yet another pile of papers and parchments in a messy bundle upon the gnome's desk.
One rests atop the pile, bearing the seal of House Gwydion, one that among all others, seems to catch his attention, if only for a moment...
APPLICATION FOR CITIZENSHIP
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Name: Renault Slyph Race: Human Age: 32 Winters Hair: Brown with Grey Streak Weight: 12 stone Prior Affiliation: Brotherhood of the Woods
Notes: Showed promise in aiding the city in several endeavors, noteably supplying the city with a great number of "Waystones" and felling an exceptionally large beast that was disrupting forester industries in the Graeur.
The gnome takes one glance at the application, one of many that had flooded the city in recent days. He thinks little before tossing it aside into the waste bin. This City was busy enough. The last thing they needed were more humans scurrying around, especially uneducated woodland hermits like the rangers. As far as he was concerned, they wouldn't miss one more human.
~S~
As the sun sets over the city and the guards begin to change shifts, the beleaguered gnome finally leaves his place of work to take in what little is left of the night to relax, and perhaps even find some sleep.
The guards were almost surprised to see him return so soon that night, but he was the industrious, if angry sort. One followed him back to his small office and watched for a moment as he returned his efforts to thinning the piles of papers before the knaves would surely bring more in the morning to come.
His stamp fell like an executioner's axe as he went about denying, and approving, all sorts of things well into the night...
~S~
The rooster's crow rings as the gnome returns to his office, finding the papers to seem a bit thinner. Needless to say, he didn't file a complaint, or take notice that someone had also seen to his waste bin.
Registered Member #24078
Joined: 3:40:59 am GMT 05/14/17
Posts: 1715
TO BE SEEN
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The warm summer air gathers in the rafters of the old inn, hanging in the gables like a burning haze as the bright sunlight cuts through the stuffy air and lands upon a parchment, one still wet with ink...
VISIBILITY
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- Dangerous. - It is Dangerous. To be seen. - Those who see you each day begin to know, even if they do not Know. - Must be done. - Find easy job. - Helms. Helms hide face most of the time. They think this is face. - .... - Guards? - We can be a guard. A solider. We have before. - Not a captain. They know them. - A Knave. - Soldiers go everywhere. Hear many things. - Maybe learn more of rumors. - Rumors of a King.
The man follows, holding the heavy mail in its rucksack as the older and already armor man tours him about the barracks. The men sit, some relaxed, others dozing, most sharpening their weapons or polishing their armor before their patrol.
Before his patrol.
The man looks to the others as he is led to a spartan bunk with a single trunk at its feet. He slings the bundle of armor upon the ropes that hold the thin straw mattress and nods to the other new Knaves to take up bunks beside him. They are so young. He forgot they start young. His hand absently pushes at his wrinkled brow and stubbled chin as he turns away from them, hoping they had not paid too much attention. As the men ready for patrol some wash while others dress.
He returns from the bath clean shaven and looking nearly a decade younger, smiling at he tosses the razor to his bunkmate.
"Amazing what a clean, fresh shave will do hmm?" he says to them, before helping the other young knaves into their armor and joining them on his first patrol.
Registered Member #24078
Joined: 3:40:59 am GMT 05/14/17
Posts: 1715
THE UNCHANGING
Within a bustling Kreisian barracks, one footlocker is left tightly locked. If peered into, it would reveal the standard implements one may think a guard of the city to possess...
...and a single bit of charcoal ridden parchment.
THE UNCHANGING
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- Some think they do not change. - Some think they are born the way they will die. - No. - Many think this. In this city. - They think they must do this. - This is... -.... - This is difficult to understand. - To change is easy. - To learn to accept who, or what, you are.. - That is difficult. - ... - But, it is, in the end, your own to decide. - Do not waste this choice. - Do not waste this choice. - Some, only get one.
The armored man returned the the carefully wrapped blade to the woman as the rain pattered down, running into murky rivulets of stained streams as it washed over the cracked cobblestones. Lowtown was not a safe place for a man in uniform to be wandering, let alone one who was alone at night.
He could feel the eyes piercing into to him as he walked those dirty streets, the same street he walked and the same stares he once gave to others. It was all so familiar to him. The dirty woman thanked him, accepting the pilfered heirloom that was reported stolen the fortnight prior.
He wandered those streets deep into the night, daring those emboldened by desperation to make their move; to make their choice. None did that night.
As he settled back into the barracks and peeled off his third skin, the one made of metal, he glanced over the quite barracks as the other men slept.
Slowly, his flesh faded from the ruddy sun-kissed tone to a stale and blank grey, the sort that seemed to absorb whatever light fell upon it and devour it into a bleak nothingness. The blue eyes clouded over and melted into an equally grey and white canvas of nothing as he relaxed.
Soon he was himself.
Who ever that was.
The changeling thought about it until the sun broke the horizon and the other men began to stir. He too rose, donning all the skins that covered up the truth as he once again took to the streets of his home.
Registered Member #24078
Joined: 3:40:59 am GMT 05/14/17
Posts: 1715
TO KEEP A SECRET
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One piece of parchment seems to be different, as if not written by whomever, or whatever scrawled the others...
MEDICAL REPORT
SUBJECT INFORMATION
Subject: Human Male, mid thirties in age Name: Unknown Affiliation: Presumed Knave. Badge of the Knight Order, denoting the Knave rank, was found on his person.
Subject staggered into Stone Circle Temple late in night, clad in coarse clothing and heavily bandaged. Seemed tired and confused, as if reeling from heavy injury. Collapsed in temple and was relocated to infirmary for treatment.
EXAMINATION
Removed clothing and inspected wounds. Noted that subject had previously suffered heavy blunt trauma and burn wounds, but had been subjected to magical healing, although it did not seem to have fully remediated whatever heavy damage had been inflicted.
Discovered a single dagger and knave badge tucked within subject's clothing. Dagger was heavily enchanted and badge was legitimate. All belongings were locked within the Stone Circle Vault.
Subject was well built, but lean and otherwise seemed to be a healthy human male of approximately 30-35 winters, but several anomalies were noted upon further investigation:
Subject's skin had patches of grey, featureless marks. These were first presumed to be scars from the magical healing, but upon further inspection, they were found to be healthy skin, although lacking in any pigmentation or body hair.
Subject's eyes were closed, but upon opening the lids, all that could be seen was the whites of the eye. Presumed pupils and iris had rolled back in unconsciousness, but upon further inspection found this not to be the case. The entire eye was white. Subject possibly may have been blind?
Inspected subject's remaining wounds, most of which seemed to have been closed by magical healing, but noted one left bandaged by a grey length of cloth. Upon removal, noted that cloth was not grey, but rather stained by some silvery liquid. Noted that this same liquid seemed to be seeping from the subject's wound. Showed no symptoms of poisoning, but decided to retrieve an antidote just in case.
Upon inspecting the wound, subject began to move and groan, as if waking. Made haste to recover antidote in the case of this being a fit of secondary poisoning.
Returned to the infirmary, but the subject was nowhere to be seen. This report will be shared with the guard force in the morning, after/if the subject is found.
SUBMITTED: Alyisa Kramer, Healer
~S~
The figure crept out the window as twilight broke over the ramparts of the city. His hands tucking away his reclaimed dagger and badge as he concentrates, willing his face to shift and melt around to form a new face to match the fine silken tunic he had just pulled over himself, another spoil from the vault, that wasn't his, but seemed like a good fit nonetheless.
It was just in time. He sees her now, darting about the streets as the morning breaks, looking for signs of the man she had treated last night. She soon spots him and approaches. The sun breaks over the ramparts and she stops, looking over the face of the man as he adjusts the collar of his fine silken shirt. He looks back, his own eyes appraising the woman.
"I'm sorry sir...Have you..well, have you seen a man leave the temple? A wounded man? I think he escaped our care in the night and even broke into our vaults.." She stammers the question, turning her gaze back to the streets as the man listens.
"Escaped?" questions the man. "Curious choice of words, if I do say so myself."
The perturbed healer lets out a sigh. "I think this man was different. Oh never mind. I need to alert the guards."
Slyph watches her leave, making her way back into the Temple and then no doubt towards the Knight's Hall.
He smiled.
~S~
The frantic woman enters the Knight's hall, drawing the attention of a knave who stood on guard as she drew forward. He approaches and she waves the parchment about, her eyes wild.
"Sir! I have a report, I think it is related to the incident at the Stone Circle Vault last night, can I speak with your commander?!" The woman looked past the knave and beyond into the barracks and offices.
"The Commander is preoccupied and has already been briefed on the matter, however, I will make sure he gets your report." responded the knave.
She protested again, insisting on seeing a commander, but the Knave was having nothing of it. After a small tirade, the woman hands over the parchment and departs, warning the knave of what she witnessed.
"Something is out there, and it has a Knave badge too. You best check your ranks." The woman took one more deep breath, then left the keep.
The knave looks over the rolled up report, then back to the barracks. From within the metallic visor of his helm, his grey eyes read over the report. He nods, tucking the parchment away. Can't have mistrust spreading in the ranks. He would see that only the right people see this.
Registered Member #24078
Joined: 3:40:59 am GMT 05/14/17
Posts: 1715
LOOSE ENDS
Within dusty gables of the attic, one stack of parchment seems to be a copy of something that appears to have been an official document of sorts...a report?
NO. 8675 FIRST DETAINED FOR UNLAWFUL AND UNLISCENCED USE OF ILLUSUROY MAGIC UNDER MAGIC CONTROLS PROTOCOLS. CAUSED NUMEROUS CHAOTIC EVENTS WITHIN THE ZOO, MAKING USE OF ILLUSIONS AND NATURAL MAGICS TO INCITE RAGE WITHIN CAPTIVE BEASTS. SEVERAL INJURIES REPORTED IN ATTACHMENT 4530-A, ALBEIT NO FATALITIES
UPON MAGIC BAN BEING LIFTED AND CONSIDERATIONS OF NO 8675'S AGE, NO. 8675 WAS FREED FROM BLACKSTONE. SEVERAL REPEAT OFFENCES RESULTED IN TWO MORE APPREHENSIONS. NO. 8675 DEEMED MENTALLY COMPROMISED AND TRANSFERRED TO THE CARE OF DELANAR AND SONS FOR TARGETED CARE AND READJUSTMENT.
DUTIFULLY SUBMITTED: CAPTAIN [REDACTED]
NOTE: SEEMED ENAMORED WITH NO.6757-6567, KNOWN LYCANTHROPE. SEE FILE NO.6757-6567 "RAGS" FOR MORE INFORMATION.
The knave returns from his routine patrol of Blackstone Prison, one he volunteers for that particular night. Few knaves longed for such a task, given the danger of some of the inmates. Fortunately, it was a quiet night an he was even able to read some old records...and take a few notes.
HIs pallid grey eyes look out the slotted helm, focusing on the contents of the file, but specifically upon the last known whereabouts of the gnome.
DELANAR AND SONS
Decades ago, that was the name of a once prestigious facility, a place of healing, not of the body, but for the mind - a place for a troubled and dangerous mind to find solace, if not correction.
A reputation that fared as well as the now dirty and forgotten, gang-ridden streets that have consumed the old asylum.
The changeling pauses, himself always fearing the place. It was no longer a place for healing. It was a place for "correction" and if that was not possible...
It was a place of containment, much like the walls of Blackstone that hold the body. But this wasn't Blackstone, this was "Delanar and Son's House for the Haunted" as the locals now called it. This was a prison for the mind.
Registered Member #24078
Joined: 3:40:59 am GMT 05/14/17
Posts: 1715
WHAT IS NEEDED
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Within the dusty attic of the tavern, hidden within the crooked floorboards and ceiling joints, there is a small scrap of parchment that is illuminated by a stray beam of moonlight that shines through the broken window...
ANORA
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- She Knows. - Knows that we have a secret. - Knows what we are. - Knows what we have been doing. - Knows what we can do. - Knows we care for our home, in our own way. - Knows that we can be useful. - We Know too. - There are secrets of her own. We know the look. - Maybe we will Know them too.
The changeling tossed another hefty ledger aside, allowing it to crash into an unsightly heap with the others.
Records. Permits. Licenses to practice magic. Known offenders of the craft. Wanted mages. They were all here, al stacked to the ceiling within the abandoned magical permitting office, deep within the Kreisian keep.
And so was his quarry. A renegade mage on the loose within the city, a danger that needed to be apprehended. In days past and nowadays, all mages who would practice magic of any sort were registered in this very office. The investigation was a welcome break from his expeditions throughout the sewers and catacombs of late, while in the guise of a Knave. The alluringly deadly and cunning Anora had tasked him with such a task..
Anora.
The woman had since left, but a part of him still felt her steely gaze upon him, as if his test was far from over. Another book is read and set aside as his tired eyes, now drooping, grey, and featureless, looked to the final tome.
She knew what he was, that much she made apparent. She knew his kind were dangerous. Untrustworthy. Manipulative. Yet also Resourceful. Curious. Adaptable. Useful. She had recognized these talents for what they were, and what they could be. He need only prove it now.
He turns back to the last book, his face shaking and restoring back to an unassuming human guise, a weary scholar in this case. His eyes find one name, littered throughout the lists of pompous wizards, esoteric practitioners, and exotic sorcerers...the name of a simple tradesman. A tailor at that.
Registered Member #24078
Joined: 3:40:59 am GMT 05/14/17
Posts: 1715
FAITH
White vestments and priestly accoutrements bearing brilliant gold sigils lay scattered about the small attic alcove, the heap of cloth partially covering a fresher parchment…
PRIESTS
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- Speak for the Gods. Or Goddesses. - Some Heal - Some Kill - Look like you are listening, all the time. To someone that is not there. - Only you can see them. - You must prove this to others, or they will kill you. - Do whatever it takes.
The changeling’s form thickens to the fill the billowing white robes, his own gangly and thin limbs swelling to fit the sleeves of the vestment. His now plumper hands arrange the golden accessories over the robes, placing them in the ways he had seen the others wear them within the temple during his last visit.
The dusty mirror is turned to face him and he sees the burned and scarred face of Pious Endaris looking back at him. He concentrates a moment, allowing the anger to melt from the reflection’s face. Pious was never angry. Always calm. Confident that he was in the right, that he would persevere and come out on the other side, be it against members of his own faith or a burning ruin of a building.
The man in the mirror looks the part, but something was missing. The forms slowly melts away, fading to a featureless grey as the changeling allows the visage to fall. Pious had something that not even the changeling’s prodigious powers could mimic. Pious had Faith, and if he were to play this part, the changeling would need to find faith of his own. The robes are tossed aside from his lithe form and he finds himself gathering his worn leathers and blades from the table, where they rested next to a strange shard: a conchoidal chunk of glasslike material he had found. Other had found more of the same, seven in fact. It had led them each to the old ruins of Bak’non, far the frozen wastes of the north. The same was said to have once been the seat of a powerful, faith-led city, one that had fallen to the very same powers that once made it great. Was this the true fate of Faith? He’d find out soon enough.
Registered Member #24078
Joined: 3:40:59 am GMT 05/14/17
Posts: 1715
TO FORGET
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Within the eaves of the old tavern, a silence hangs in the air as the frigid wind from the cool autumn night breathes through the slat boards of the building. A fog forms over the mirror, obscuring the creature's face as it peers into it wistfully. Another chilling breezes blows a wayward parchment to the floor where it flutters about the attic like a dried leaf...
THE ONES WE FORGET
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- Sometimes we forget. - Their names - The way their eyes narrowed - How they laughed - Sometimes. Not often. - Where did he go? - This one had felt so familiar - Boots that fit just right. - Gone now. - The darkness devoured him, just like it did before. - To the real one.
The changeling wipes away the condensation from the cooling mirror, his face rippling and swirling about, trying to find the familiar face within the reflection. Dozens of visages flush over his otherwise pallid face, but they were all wrong. The beard was wrong with this one. Another had eyes that did not shine the same way. This one smiled wrong.
As the faces wash over his own, he takes a breath, letting them all fall aside. One by one they drain away, melting back into the pale nothingness of his natural face, seeping away like oils of a painting being consumed by the very canvas they had just covered.
The memory of the form had left his mind, given over to the darkness they had brought from the North. They all had to give something, something for it to devour, something to make it real.
Did he give this? Or was it taken?
The moon rises high into the night as the cool breeze picks up, causing the shingles overhead to rattle upon one another. The changeling stares long into the mirror, searching for something that was not there until a scream breaks the silence of chill night.
Before he knows it, he is donning his leathers and checking his blades before stalking into the night to investigate.
He may have lost the man, the face, and the persona called Renault, the same he had stolen all that time ago, but he still had himself.
And more so, he was beginning to understand now just who that was.
Registered Member #24078
Joined: 3:40:59 am GMT 05/14/17
Posts: 1715
LIVING TO LIE & LYING TO LIVE
The old attic has seemed neigh derelict for sometime, as if the ghosts that haunted it had finally left, but upon this eve, a single pair of footsteps break through the layer of dust that coats the old floorboards.
They lead to a lone desk, one littered with parchment...
TRUTH & LIES
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- Some say our kind only lie. - Some think we must; to live with the others. - To go unnoticed. - Some say we kill to keep our secrets. - We do. - We have killed. We have lied. We have lied about killing. We have lied to kill. We have killed to keep a lie. - One time we killed just to kill - To know what it feels like, so we can live that lie too, when needed. - Killers know killers, you cannot fool them. - It all blurs, the truths and the lies. - But we never lie to ourselves. - We walk with them. Talk their words. We learn how they laugh. We live their lives. - But we are not like them, even if it seems so. We must remember this. - Sometimes, you have to live a lie, to learn to see Truth. - But when you find it, you know. - We know we can never be as they are. - We can fool them, but we cannot fool ourselves. - But we can still help them. We can still help our home.
---
The changeling sets the scraggly quill aside, his featureless eyes looking out the hole in the attic wall that fancies itself a window. The voices below had finally fallen silent as the shimmering moon had reached its zenith, now casting its light over the spires and gables of Steinkreis like a gossamer web spun by some otherworldly spider. All around the old attic the light traces over the piles of discarded armor, rusty weapons, foppish wizard hats, and more. He finds himself looking to each piece, his face melting to take on the visage of each personality he had made, or stolen, to fill the empty props that littered the old attic.
It was a gift, to be able to walk where one pleases among the creatures of the realms. Dwarves, elves, men, hin, and even orcs counted among the many races he had fooled. He had heard of others of his kind, others who yearned to live as themselves, free of deception. This had always bewildered him. For as he drifts through the dozens of forms in that dusty attic, he sees not a slew of divergent personalities, but the same being, dressed differently, yet still the same.
He sees a dwarf that cares for his home, a ranger who defends his friends and allies, a knave who deals with threats to his city that an ordinary man would stand no purchase against. In others, he sees a cold-blooded hin, a cutthroat ready to slay any and all to keep the status quo. He sees a ruthless and calculating spy, cloaked in shadow. In the next, he sees a vicious orc, one that is too brash for its own good sometimes. A pale hand wipes the dust from a standing mirror, showing the faces wash over his own like paint spilled upon a blank canvas. The faces merge and blend together forming endless combinations of the faces as the night drags on.
Yet all he sees in that cracked mirror are the Lies that have become Truth.
Registered Member #24078
Joined: 3:40:59 am GMT 05/14/17
Posts: 1715
SELF PORTRAIT
Within the rafters of a long forgotten attic, the autumn wind blows through the gables and rustles a number of parchments new and old. One flutters forth, still wet with ink...
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We are not one of them.
We are not one of them.
We are
What are we?
We cannot stay here, the answer is not here.
It is elsewhere, in the wild places.
The Fateweaver saw it in our palms, and in our blood.
But we're not leaving yet.
We have a score to settle.
The knave known as Renault brushed past the other returning patrols and made for the barracks. In the glow of the lantern light he saw the pair of House Montaine soldiers who seemed a constant fixture outside their building of late. One by one they let the returning guards pass, but not before plucking each of their hands with a thin needle-like knife. He joins the procession, watching as they raise the bloodied knife to the light, examining the drops of red blood upon it before wiping it way and nodding for the next guard to extend their own hand.
Soon it is his turn. He offers his arm, removing the dark glove and presenting his palm to the solider. He had come to know this one. Her name was Aryn Claust, a lesser scion of the house. Thirty-four winters old. Twice widowed. She liked how he looked in this form but never said it. Right-handed. Affinity for the color o-
"Knave Renault. Another quiet night?" Her voice brings his attention back to the present matter. The woman positions the knife above his palm, then quickly plucks it into the exposed flesh, drawing the blade up to the light.
He remembers to flinch this time. From the pain. It should hurt, but not that much. It is perfect, the reaction.
She nods, seeing the red blood stain the blade as the drop drips off the knife's tip. She pats his wounded hand and smiles, gesturing him in.
"Go on, get inside. Your hands are freezing. Maybe find a fire?" he gives her a smile back, a smile to let her know he is okay and he understands her empathy. Then, he moves forward, making for his quarters. It was a long patrol. He should desire rest.
Once inside, he pulls free the severed hand from his sleeve, a borrowed hand, this one from a Lowtown thug who seemed to have an issue with the Knaves, enough even to embolden him to attack one. It was cold and crude affair but at least it had enough blood left to keep his lie alive. He stokes the fire and tosses the severed hand into the flames.
Security in Kreisian barracks had grown tighter, rumors drifted among the city that there were shape changers in their midst, wearing their faces and worse. Though he had eluded them once again tonight, he knew one day they would learn; they would learn he was not one of them.
[ The Island of Thain ]
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