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 Posted: Tue Dec 15, 2015 1:39 pm
“No,” Ataya murmured aloud. “You may not accompany me.”
The mental push that answered him lonely, lonely, scared, no, no, no, was accompanied by an audible keen and the snort-huff of a snout as it pressed to his ankles when he stood. He toed the attention away, clicking his tongue in reprimand and gathering the last few of his things together—a notebook, a small carrying satchel, several writing instruments, and a thin cutting knife. The spellblade — or dagger, rather — gifted him by his father hung at his hip. Karazhan whimpered at his push, but obediently shuffled back several steps, and he could hear the scrape of her tail shifting along the floorboards, emphasizing the mental press of her anxiety.
“Crypts are no place for infant reptiles,” he said. “And I won’t be terribly long besides. Entertain yourself or sleep the hours away, or wait obligingly by the door for all I care, but don’t disturb me. You will be safe here until I return.”
Sounds, danger, lonely, lonely—
As though in embodiment of her concerns, something crashed downstairs in one of the rooms below, and immediately his bonded’s fear spiked, claws scrape-scurrying along the floor to dive first between his legs, and then — at his squawk of objection — off under the bed, where she quivered. Ataya huffed.
“You will be fine. Enjoy yourself.” And he left, clicking the door shut behind him and locking it, pointedly ignoring the simpering whiiiiiine that came from inside immediately after. She would manage.
Thankfully, after making it outdoors, into the streets, and further from his chosen inn, her mental anxieties quieted along with the audible ones, leaving his mind blissfully quiet again. Save for his own thoughts, of course, which were currently focused on his most recent source of curiosity: a crypt, spoken of by one of the locals whose conversation he’d happened to overhear. The man had sounded like a coward, for the most part, but his mention of a unique set of tunnels, whose entrance only seemed to appear during the height of the blood moon, was intriguing at least, and potentially profitable at best with—Ataya hoped, something available to learn from ancient spellwork therein.
His study of spirits, including the catching and usage of them in the art of rising bodies, was still rudimentary, but if there was any truth in the man’s babbled tale, there might be something in the catacomb for him to take away for the better. Working based on the vague directions learned of over the course of his eavesdropping, Ataya set out in what he hoped was the direction of said crypt.
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Posted: Sun Dec 20, 2015 3:40 pm
Kazqueth could feel the Blood Moon pulsating against his senses. This was always an interesting time of year, a time when dark magics stirred from their slumber, sometimes taking form and walking amidst the beings that called Magesc their home. Sometimes, walking as those beings. Kazqueth had many reasons for being abroad at this time of year, not the least of which was his... lover's... cruelty. The Blood Moon, understandably, was encouraging to the bloodmage. Sometimes too encouraging. Besides, other things drew him forth at this dark time of year. He touched the wall of the crypt with gentle reverence, reading the inscriptions on it with quiet intensity. This was one such thing – ensorcelled, somehow, to remain hidden and secret until the Blood Moon rose, these tunnels – made by Magescian hand and magic – held many secrets. He had seen himself here. He had seen himself revealing those secrets – it was their time to be revealed, to be brought to the world. Perhaps those secrets – knowledge and artifacts both – had been placed there by people with abilities like his, for him, awaiting him. Perhaps not. Such things happened by chance, after all. Either way, no matter what he had seen or what he had yet to see, Kazqueth was sure that there would be many more secrets locked in the watchful stone of this crypt, more, certainly, than he would have the grace to touch. To other adventurers, perhaps, those spoils would go. For him, for now, he was translating the ancient runes upon the wall in this chamber. They were near enough to the entrance that he could hear the soft whisper of wind, but far enough that the breath of the outside only just caressed his fins, mere ripples in the musty dankness of the crypt. The runes sang with power, and he wanted to know what they were doing – he had seen that he would do this, and he was sure that if he was doing it it was integral to finding what he sought. That, or it was just fascinating... which it was. Spellcraft such as this had been lost long ago, an ancient art supplanted by other methods of casting spells, equally artful, but different. He longed to know exactly when it was formed, and when it was lost. He hoped the runes would give him some clue as to it's makers and to it's purpose, aside from a hiding place for secrets. So far, he knew they were doing something, likely they controlled some spell deeper into the tunnels. He knew – from scraps of vision – that he did go deeper in eventually, and likely would only do so if he knew what the runes were doing, and – if they sought to do harm to intruders – to deactivate them or find a way around them. After all, he knew, now, that they were doing something, thus his vision of himself seeking treasure in the tunnels could only happen if he had ensured his safety. He was not, after all, a fool. He hummed in amusement – such was the way of visions. When one had them all one's life, one became accustomed to their complications. He took a moment to scratch down his translation thus far into a journal for safekeeping, reading over what he had briefly to see if understanding would dawn... it did not. Ah well... he thought, returning to the translation. He would see what he needed to soon. And, he was enjoying himself. Perhaps too much – so wrapped up was the old hybrid seer in his translation, that he failed to percieve the slight catch of the tunnel's breath, the slight stutter in it's unpleasant caress, that marked the entry of another explorer...
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Posted: Mon Dec 21, 2015 4:02 pm
The trek to the spoken of location took longer than Ataya anticipated, though he supposed he ought to have predicted it might, given the added challenge — in no way insignificant — of locating it only with direction and shape as his guide. By the time the sun was low in the sky, however, warming his back with its last rays even as the night bugs began to chirp in their usual chorus in the surrounding wilds, he was fairly confident he had found it. A deep, yawning cavern in the midst of a large hill surrounded by flat on other sides. A great archway loomed over its entrance, stone Ataya guessed, though he couldn’t be sure without touching.
He approached, slipping like ink in the form of a shadow first and reforming beneath the entrance. From there, an outward gust came, earthy in scent. Strange in itself, he thought, if it were a cave, but he dismissed the concern. He highly doubted he would experience anything he couldn’t handle within, and thus proceeded without further concern.
It quieted quickly.
As though spelled to do so, outside sounds faded with remarkable speed the deeper he walked, but Ataya took his time, more curious than anxious, and let his magic seep outwards as he did, scanning for spellwork of note or, at the very least, valuables worth his time. He found nothing immediately of note, but that wasn’t concerning. There were the hints of old spells seeped into the stone. Magic like a faded painting, no longer legible or even potent but ancient beyond telling. When curious, he touched at the walls, shaping his fingers gradually along the stone statues that lined them. Lifelike, almost.
Reaching the base of a set of steps, he hummed—and then paused.
His breath coiled out, white with frost, and his fingers fell to his sides, lashes narrowing curiously. For he was not alone. Either, he concluded after a moment, there were beasts down here as spoken of, or someone had made the trip just ahead of him. When he took his first steps downwards, however, he felt solidly confident it was the latter. And no one without consequence, either, if the strength of their magical signature was any indication.
“Shall I prepare myself for a battle to the death?” he asked, tone winding, inquisitive and casual as opposed to what the content of the question might otherwise merit. “Or do you think, stranger, that we can co-habitate without any immediate attempts at sending one another to an earlier-than-planned date with the dead already here…”
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Posted: Mon Dec 21, 2015 5:18 pm
Kazqueth didn't notice the light tapping of his tail – why should he? It was his tail, after all, and it was prone to such things. The barbed stinger tapped and swished against the eerily clean floor – there was no dust in this place to hold the mark of his movements. There were spells and other things that kept the dust away. The tapping barely echoed in the cavern, light as it was, spelling out the inner workings of his mind as tails were wont to do. It did, however, mask the approach of the other until they were well within his magical sense (his preoccupation helped too.) In fact, he was so absorbed in his translation – he was close, almost at the purpose of the spell, he was sure – when the icy chill of the breeze and the voice startled him free. He was still for a moment, his heart trembling in a moment of something resembling (but not quite) panic. He knew that voice. It was familiar, though when he had last met it in the current, present realm it had been younger. But he knew it – he had heard it other times, other places through the medium of his visions. He knew that voice well. He had not been expecting it here. Was this meant to be? he thought, trying to remember any inkling, any vision that would have hinted that he would not be alone here. The moment passed. He hooted aloud in his amusement – of course it was meant to be. Fate was simply toying with him and reminding him that he did not know all. Indeed, even with visions, he knew so little. “I think...” He rumbled, turning to face Ataya Doryu, his future student, his someday friend, his ally. “That perhaps co-habitation...” he smiled toothily and fondly, looking – finally truly looking – upon Ataya's thin, mottled form in the flickering glow of a his magic light, “Can be arranged.” Oh, gods, what do I say now?! he could almost laugh at his own awkwardness, though he managed not to. The unforseen always made him a little bit excited, and delighted, and nervous. All at once. It was a lovely feeling, but a little overwhelming for the seer. He didn't know how this conversation would go – he hadn't even known it would happen here and now. “What brings you to this ancient place, fellow sorcerer?” he asked. There, that was a safe way to start...
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Posted: Tue Dec 22, 2015 11:50 am
Laughter.
Of all things Ataya might initially have expected, laughter — and not even a rough, condescending sort, but what at least sounded like genuine, amused laughter, if rather animalistic in tone — was admittedly not among the top reactions he anticipated. Or among any of them at all. The words to follow, though, set the stage at least as well, and Ataya hummed beneath his breath, posture relaxing only barely. Strangers were not to be trusted, after all, but at least he felt he wouldn’t be immediately facing offensive magic. With that spare focus, he assessed his company based on shape and sound.
Large. Older. Male. His voice was deep and rasping, but with a strange air to it that — for whatever reason — managed to sound—gentler than one might expect? Amused and curious? Ataya tucked the thought away for further examination later. ‘Khehorian,’ came to mind briefly, thanks mainly to the size and rough outline of the man’s large body and tail, which stuck out. But his magic wasn’t limited in that way. Or, it didn’t seem to be from what hints of it Ataya could discern without experiencing it in action.
It seemed messy. Mixed.
Hybrid.
Ataya tilted his head, debating on the best response. “A fool,” he said at length, settling on his perception of the truth for the time being. “And the tall tales that came with him, combined with whim and…”
His fingers splayed, subtle magic spidering out in the form of a dusting of frost as he made further inspection of his new surroundings. Specifically the dead, everywhere. Skeletal remnants of what once might have been magnificent warriors. All of them seeped in a condensed pool of the same, old magic as though it stained their bones. He felt his pulse flutter with curious anticipation, though he couldn’t have said of what.
“Fatal curiosity,” he finished at length. “In the face of all opinions to the contrary, I have always been of the firm personal belief that one can never learn…” Ataya stepped sidelong, towards one of the many spell-soaked corpses, “…too much. And you…?”
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Posted: Wed Dec 30, 2015 9:52 pm
Ahhh, a conversation! A real, live, present-time conversation! How he had longed for this... And now it was here. At last. Unexpected. “Sometimes, I have found, it is the fools that hold the most interesting things... and do not realize their value. Just as they come into possession of... treasured tidbits... so too are they easily parted.” He watched the spidering of frost, felt it's chill touch him. He bit back a shiver – he had faced more biting chills in Aisko, a land that had the power to freeze his very blood, had he not come more-than-adequately prepared. For Ataya, Kazqueth had to endure the cold... For Ataya, yes. Not that he wouldn't have ample practice. Ah. The skeletons. Kazqueth had noticed them, as well as their intriguing concentrations of magic, but he had left them be. Best to let the dead lie unless you know exactly what you were doing – necromancy was a tricky school of magic, one that Kazqueth always performed with great care and respect, and this was very ancient, very complicated, beautifully done necromancy. He was about to move to hold Ataya back, scold him, and say as much, when he remembered... or whatever the term was for recalling a vision of unknown time-origin... that Ataya did not take well to being scolded. Scolding, if the hazy visions (and there were more than one) could be believed, would only serve to enflame the desire to do the exact opposite. Kazqueth could understand that, and he would not waste his effort. Besides, this had the potential to be a teachable moment, and what better way to begin the relationship between master and student than knowledgeably and respectfully educating them? Kazqueth watched the spells on the skeletons carefully, enhancing his perception of the magic until it was very, very fine. “I agree.” he said, readying himself to... ah... show off a little, if the need arose. He sort of hoped it did. “No matter how much knowledge one accrues, there is always more to be learned. 'Tis one of the things that I find delightful about life...” he tilted his head, feigning ignorance. “Though, it seems, that you wish to find it in the dead. Tell me, fellow seeker of knowledge, what do you sense in the spells upon the bones?” He moved towards them, intent on the skeletons, “They are not rune-carved – the spell's anchor is not physically inscribed. It is not in the region where the bodies are – not in the walls, floor, or ceiling, so it is clear that the magic is held within them. How do you think that the magic was able to suffuse them so strongly, without an anchor or fount to produce it?”
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Posted: Thu Dec 31, 2015 2:31 pm
Ataya flicked his fingers—minute twitches and curves to provide a framework for small seeking spells, each testing and attempting to discern what exactly he was working with.
He ought to have been unnerved by the company, he supposed. It was far from his preference, to be burdened with an outside observer while attempting much of anything, and worse still to go far into the sort of spellwork he intended to explore with an audience that might report back—not least of all because he was fairly certain that magics of the dead were frowned upon in most circles, if not punishable by death. Ironically?
He shook his head. Something about the nature of the question though had his mind moving, his curiosity peaked, and thus, in spite of his better judgement, he wanted to have an answer. As though he were being tested and offered a chance to prove himself. Unfortunately, despite each of his tests so far, he hadn’t the faintest idea what he was dealing with other than it was inevitably something of the sort employed in long since buried spellbooks, likely at their prime during the time of the first race wars. Binding and rising spells. Control and protective trap formulas. Concentrations of energy he hadn’t witnessed in person before in all of his life. He was well in over his head.
But his company didn’t know that. Nor was there any way for him to know or learn it. He was probably a babbling old wanderer. Still…
“Old magic is in place here,” he said at length, “and not of the sort a caster willingly places upon themselves. The original source must have been external, not carved into them or bound on them by the room or their weapons, but woven through them…it can’t have been a traditional spell, however, because it wouldn’t have lingered so long if it were. Spells based entirely or even mostly on the energy of the caster fade in time, and far more rapidly after the death of said caster or disappearance, which means the primary fuel of the spell must have been internal…with a caster acting only as a puppeteer, using predominantly the energy of the body or…”
He trailed off, thoughts shifting temporarily to something he had attempted in the past, but never come near to mastering properly.
“The soul, or life energy of the ‘puppet’. But even so, a life energy dissipates almost immediately upon death, and wouldn’t be about to feed a continuing spell in the remains unless it, too, was bound to them somehow, or entrapped by the nature of the original master spell, still…” Ataya’s brow pinched with thought, so caught within the shifting train of his own thought process that he barely spared time to care what his company thought—or what might happen, if he remained in the room with him. It wasn’t precisely Ataya’s concern. Instead, his focus was on how — despite the age and dimness of the spells — they still had recognizable patterns too them. “It is almost as though they are interconnected,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else, “and triggered so that, if they were still active…”
Curiosity, as it often did, got the better of him.
Ataya reached, following what could only best be described as a thread of magic between the others before his fingers hovered over one of the trinkets attached at the wrist of a skeleton. A bracelet? An ornament? It did not seem to matter greatly, and he plucked it.
The spells, as it happened, were still active.
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Posted: Sat Jan 09, 2016 9:50 am
Ataya was, as they said, bullshitting a little. Kazqueth let him do it, listening as he actually started thinking about it. He nodded quietly, watching as Ataya's hand drifted, slowly, towards one of the items of treasure. It would be foolish to take such an item. Kazqueth knew this without needing to see the future. But he nodded to himself as Ataya picked it up – this too, he didn't need to be a seer to expect. He felt the magical thread gleam, suddenly, it's triggering magic activating other threads of magic as, like a subsonic rumble in his senses, he felt the magic that suffused the crypt – once merely subtle and cloying and watchful – roar to a blazing 'life' with an indescribable sound and surge into the skeletons. Fell, eerily intelligent lights gleamed in their sockets as they rose, clacking, like marionettes, brandishing their weapons and treasures with cold and malicious intent. “Interesting.” Kazqueth observed the sudden clarity of the runes in his magical sight, the way they truly suffused through the whole skeleton. Hence, why the bones – and their weapons - were still so intact after millenia of interment. They would not be as brittle as normal, old bones. “You may be right.” His magic billowed about him like a cloak, controlled but curious, touching the skeletons with delicate tendrils, seeking the spells that held them and investigating their make up. His magic felt like the deep depths of the ocean, full of alien intelligences and cold unfeeling water... or, perhaps, the fetid stagnation of a swamp, full of secrets buried and preserved in bubbling muck. Or both. Kazqueth wasn't sure himself. He was not afraid of the skeletons, but he knew that, as any fight or work of spellcraft, they would require concentration. “We shall discuss their makeup in a moment – I believe...” he easily dodged a skeleton's ancient, magically enhanced arrow. It clattered against the wall and vanished from his senses. It may not even be an actual arrow, but summoned from a memory, or from one of the other planes, or... the possibilities fascinated him. “That we have several intriguing clues based on this particular group.” He blocked a sword attack, dodging the skeleton's follow up blow in a smooth movement of unarmed combat. He used his proximity – and the brief contact of his paws on the skeleton's bones - to examine it a little more closely. “Tell me - aside from simply smashing the skeletons into pieces, which I believe would work...” He tripped one over with his tail, investigating the short sword it dropped as it stumbled – not entirely of their plane, and yet it appeared to be ordinary steel... very interesting. “How would you dispel them?”
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Posted: Sun Jan 10, 2016 10:55 am
“Ahh…”
It was a very rare occasion indeed wherein Ataya Doryu was left—even momentarily—speechless. On this occasion, it could not even be said that said reaction was due primarily to what one might normally have expected: i.e., the sudden shifting and lifting into animation of a horde of dead which had only moments before been just that—dead. He hadn’t completely ruled out the fact that the magics in place might still be active and that some of them might be triggered to life. Granted, he hadn’t anticipated them responding with quite so much immediate…vigor.
But that couldn’t be helped. And it most certainly could be dealt with. He was not afraid of the dead.
No, what left Ataya with significantly less at the tip of his tongue than usual was his company. It was not every day you encountered someone in a crypt with you to begin with, and even less often that within such a place you came to face the most vibrant and violent form of dark magic come to life in the shape of laughing corpses. Needless to say, the older hybrid’s reaction to the train of events had officially stepped so far beyond anything Ataya might have expected from him, it took him a few moments to gather his thoughts.
Screaming. He might have anticipated that. Panicking. Yelling. Fleeing. Perhaps a flail of magic here or there, or a brandishing of weapons. Yes, he was an old man, evidently, but Ataya had still pegged him as somewhere within the realm of ‘normal.’
A reserved, curious remark of, “Interesting…” followed by continued casual commentary as though this were a field trip and learning expedition—
Ataya felt his pulse throb insistently against the inner wall of his chest, as though in reminder that he was still very much alive and as such, ought to be taking some form of action, particularly as his company’s magic billowed outward. Subtle, but deeply powerful, and this time impossible to miss—and impossible not to respect, for there were things writhing within it that Ataya knew he did not understand the full workings of, little as it pleased him to admit it.
He felt distinctly and unpleasantly as though he were being schooled. Gently. His instinct was to grimace, but that seemed — at least certainly for the moment — to be a great waste of energy and opportunity when there was so much else far more worth his time. He also felt a great and immediate twinge of want to see his company’s face—actually see it—for he felt surely it was one impossible to forget.
But that, too, could wait.
Ataya drew his own magic to himself, taking a breath in with it and honing his focus. “Admittedly…” he said with no small amount of effort dedicated to not having the word come from between closed teeth, “…I am more practiced at the magical variants of ‘smashing to bits’. That said…” What would be the best means of dispelling them without destroying them? It would almost be a pity to destroy such fine examples of spellwork, after all, and learning to unravel without destruction would provide him with a better end product for learning from them. “If only it were possible to understand the source of what still binds them…” he mused, quietly enough that it was again, almost more to himself than his company. “Though it is magic and not strings of a physical sort, they are still puppets in most other senses of the word—if I knew what once controlled them and where the bindings are tethered and how to manipulate that…”
What would it mean, to be able to not only rise, but command so many unthinking soldiers at once? Ataya lifted a hand, shadow magic swallowing an aggressive projectile before he, himself, sank into the floor, slipping out of range of a more solid blade aimed his way.
“They all responded in unison to a single item taken…” Ataya mused, thumbing over one of the beads on the bracelet he’d taken. “But I imagine such would be the case if any single item was moved so as to disturb them. Who would devote so much time to the intricate rigging of a single crypt, and why? There might be a master spell inscribed in one of them, or placed somewhere within this space itself…” Ataya trailed. “Aside from that…” His voice took on a lilt that was almost but not quite sarcastic, “…I bow to your expertise, and would so love to hear: what do you know of the walking dead?”
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Posted: Mon Feb 15, 2016 8:27 pm
Kazqueth laughed, deep and throaty, as if he was discussing this over a homey meal at an alehouse and not, indeed, in the middle of a crypt full of ancient magic and undead. This was much more interesting than an alehouse and, dare he say, more fun. It was interesting to hear Ataya admit a flaw. What Kazqueth knew about him was considerable, and thus, such an admission was notable. Highly notable. It meant that Kazqueth was meeting him at the right time and the right place, and that his actions here, now, could open the door he needed it to open. But of course, any time was right. Such was fate. Kazqueth dodged another skeleton with ease. He trusted in fate, and thus, he needed to not be distracted by it. "Indeed!" he said, agreeing, moving to stand back to back with Ataya. It was a good vantage point - from where he stood, he could easily see and sense the spellwork around them. "Who indeed. Notice," he said, gesturing, "That they do not fight mindlessly. Nor do they fight as uncoordinated puppets attempting to follow a single, driven directive. So this is not a simple, triggered raising spell, nor is it combined with a command. Something is actively controlling them. To the end of killing us, of course." Again, said casually. Kazqueth knew that neither of them died here, at this time, so he could afford to be so. "Normally, yes. I would attempt to damage or destroy a master spell. Since we lack a spellcaster or puppetmaster, that would be the most reasonable option to preserve the bones and spellwork... however they all have what could be termed master spells, inherent in their bones. The spells are connected..." He swiped an arrow aside, "By magical threads. So no single skeleton is a keystone, though each can be deactivated by destruction... again, smashing them to bits would work." "However." And here Kazqueth grinned, wide and sharp. He knew really shouldn't advertize his power too much, but it was so rare that he got to really use more than the shallowest extents of his magic, and this was Ataya. He wanted to make an impression on him. He wanted to impress him. He wanted to show off. "The spell - each of them - has a weak point, a phrase that, if disrupted, will end the whole spell." He spread his magic out again, immersing the skeletons now in it's viscous depths. Just for resonance, though. He had something far more interesting in mind. "And, I believe... If I have read the spell correctly..." he squinted at the runes, reading them again just to be sure, "You disrupt it... thus." And then he made a sound, something not entirely within magescian hearing. What could be heard sounded not unlike the croak of a toad, but it was a complex sound. His murky magic carried it and funnelled it to where it needed to go, the subsonics of it rattling the old bones. As the sound washed over them, a few of the runes - the same one, or perhaps slightly different variations of the same - winked out. The rest soon followed, dimming to a magical glow not unlike the dying light of a glowbug. The fell lights in the skeleton's sockets blinked out. They collapsed to the ground, piles of magic bone held together by ancient sinews and magical residue. The malevolent presence lingered though, watching them intently as such presences did, before fading away into the background despair of the crypt. Not gone, but away for now.
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