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 Posted: Thu Apr 12, 2007 4:12 pm
Welcome to the original birthplace of Mordre This journal is maintained by DareDelvil  Height: 16h (10h as colt) Mordre's Stats Skill level: 0Power: 14 pts Strength: 11 pts Intelligence: 8 pts Wisdom: 12 pts Courage: 10 pts Luck: 5 pts Speed: 8 pts Agility: 10 pts Adaptability: 11 pts Stamina: 13 pts IllusionistSkill level: 0Control: 6 pts Efficiency: 9 pts Recovery: 9 pts
Personality: Sustained by his magic long past his natural lifespan, Mordre may not be the most intellectual of Nequus - or the quickest on the uptake - but he is nonetheless shrewd and worldly-wise. He serves Queen Savit'Taren with an unusual degree of loyalty, and sets an equally unusual amount of store by truth. Disliking the cheating, backstabbing "politics" of the Katilenuck herd, he conducts himself in a dignified and moral manner, partially in the hope that others will follow his example.
Location: Fyhi Tel Oren, sometimes going through Yisi Rishunesafarina and D'ob to reach his tree in Shrilal. He seldom troubles those he sees along the way, no matter their race or colour.
Mordre's Tree is located in the Western Quadrant 
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Posted: Mon Apr 16, 2007 4:27 am
The Seventh Tree
"...But the seventh tree was different. It rose tall above its brethren, standing on the fringes of the group and yet outstripping them all, and its trunk was as a monolith from ancient times, broad and unshakeable. Slate grey bark, smooth as a foal's flank and slightly waxy, covered every snaking root and gnarled branch. Here and there, the handiwork of humans could be seen. Carved bone and tumbled amethyst had been threaded on to strings and hung from the tree, each rope of purple and ivory tipped with one or two brown feathers. Clearly the owner of this place was revered, probably at least in part for having reached such a venerable age as the tree's size suggested. And here, the most wonderful thing of all: while the boughs of its fellows lay empty, grey-green leaves flourished from the lowest branch to the very apex of this mighty giant.
The tree was alive, a colossal monument to the continuing existence of one Nequus. And what a Nequus, I thought to myself, gazing up in wonder at the dizzying heights of it. What a Nequus he must be!"
-- From "The Illusionist"
Rules and Regulations
- Please don't post here: Mordre likes a tidy tree.
- Please be civil in your dealings with Dare: it makes things a lot nicer for everyone concerned.
- Please stay literate: see above.
- Please PM me with RP requests and tags if it seems like I've missed you in the thread.
Contents
01 - Introduction
02 - The Seventh Tree
03 - The Illusionist
04 - Mordre's Magic
05 - Other People
06 - The Servant
07 - Statistics
Acknowledgements
Lines, colour, concept - Kealdrana Sasaiuni
Concept - lostlinx
Character, RP, writing - DareDelvil
All other characters - their players
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Posted: Mon Apr 16, 2007 4:29 am
The Illusionist
"He approached me, his grey flesh deathly in the firelight, and I admit to a shiver of fear. The colt before me was deeply unnatural, and yet I could not place the significance of the trinkets about his person. Not only that, but though he seemed at least a month my junior I felt young. I felt humbled by his presence, as though I stood before a mighty elder.
Watching the illusion fall away, first seeing the twinkle in his ancient eyes, is an experience I shall never forget..."
-- From "The Illusionist"
About
Name: Mordre
Also Called: The Illusionist, My Lord, Sir, various derogatory terms
Gender: Male
Age: Ancient
Physical Description: 16h, brindled grulla with medium-length dark grey mane and tail, dark grey hooves; pale blue eyes with black tear-marks underneath; body and wings in shades of pale grey; bone-like earring in left ear, amethyst and bone bead collar, leather bracelets on front legs, one brown feather each on earring and bracelets and three on collar
Personality Overview: Dignified - regal, knowing, subtle, restrained, roguish sense of humour, protective, slightly cynical, level-headed, calm
Strengths and Weaknesses
Despite his age, Mordre is a hale, hearty stallion with a surprising degree of physical strength and stamina. His experience of the world is extensive, and his calm, subtle approach to dealing with problems has been invaluable to the Katilenuck for several generations. He is shrewd and difficult to trick, being so familiar with the essence of lies, but never lets the nature of his magic sway his moral compass. Mordre could have tricked his way into power a long time ago, and the fact that he has not says everything about his willpower, his loyalty to the ruling family, and his respect for the truth.
Over the years, Mordre has suffered through a lot of Luck. It is not always bad luck, but nonetheless he gets a lot of it. Things always seem to happen around him, never giving him a moment's peace. His magic, that which is envied by so many, seems to occupy much of his mind: its very presence slows his thinking if he does not control it properly. For someone with his level of experience he is a dreadful illusionist, and he knows it. He frequently refers to himself as "the worst brute ever to be gifted with magic, provided you drop Mavasu from the equation". And when things go awry, he often finds himself at the back of the fleeing herd due to sheer lack of running practice. Luckily his illusions, no matter how clumsy for one of his years, are more than sufficient to keep him from the line of fire.
History
- the seven fruits
- discovering his magic
- not the one to rule the herd
- relationship with the Queen
Current Status
IC: Telling the Queen stories (past), in limbo (present)
OOC: ...oh, bugger. o_o;;
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Posted: Mon Apr 16, 2007 4:32 am
Mordre's Magic
"I must have lain there on the grass for hours, watching as he made the colours dance for my amusement. The butterflies he made were almost real, though when they fluttered close enough they seemed blocky and strange.
"Does this not tire you?" I asked.
"No," was his answer. "Doing little tricks like this keeps the magic from building up. If I have too much of it, I am burned as if by fire. Too little, though, and I should waste away."
I was shocked. "How dreadful!"
"Not in the least, if I am careful," he corrected me gently. "If the balance is kept just right, you see, the magic...sustains me. It heals me from within, makes me strong, and gives me life past the end of what is natural. Magic of any kind, when used properly, gives the gift of years."
"And how many years," said I, quite innocently, "have you seen roll by, O Master?"
The Illusionist he sighed, and he shook his grey head. His eyes still sparkled with a smile.
"I no longer know, my boy," he said..."
-- From "The Illusionist"
Magic
Despite its many forms, magic in the Nequus world is a unified force. The power of each and every magister, no matter how different from the rest, comes from the same source. Exactly what this source is remains a mystery: some believe that their powers are a gift from the gods, others maintain that mages have become somehow linked to an invisible other plane called "the ether" from whence they summon their magics. The only thing that everyone manages to agree upon is that a well-trained mage, no matter what their art, is a matchless ally and a formidable foe.
The reason for the vast array of different powers possessed by various Nequus is a total mystery. Magic users are rare enough that no research can be practical, so any attempt to find common characteristics between followers of a certain art would probably be fruitless. Nonetheless, most magisters maintain a feeling of being chosen for their art (hence, possibly, the strength of the god-gift theory), and thus they feel it would make sense for them all to fulfil a set of predetermined criteria. The existence of such criteria would not necessarily support the advocates of a god theory, however: those born with a good immune system, for instance, are less likely to fall ill than their peers, and few claim divine intervention on that score.
One of the greatest myths surrounding magic is that it makes its users immortal. This is not the case: magisters are as vulnerable to falling objects, sharp implements and the wrath of Mother Nature as the next Nequus, if their powers cannot intervene to rescue them (such as the case of earth elementals turning their skin to stone when threatened, for instance, or seers sensing the intent behind a blow before it falls and thus avoiding injury). What a good magister is, though, can be best described as "almost timeless". Magic is a remarkable sustainer if a good balance is maintained, and many magisters have had their lifetimes extended to several times that of their mundane peers. Balance is key, however: too little magic in a mage's system will make them weak and faint, even causing death, and too much will cause them to flare off the excess in an unpredictable fashion, burning them as if by fire.
Illusion
An illusion, the art form of the illusionist mage class, is best described as a "living lie". The most common type of illusion is an optical illusion, a lie to the eyes. With the assistance of magic, light is reflected from a surface (solid or imagined) in such a fashion that a different surface appears. Optical illusions are therefore useless in complete darkness, but complete darkness is very difficult to produce. Other sensory illusions are possible to create, but less abundant in practice: auditory illusions are the next most popular, in which the illusionist creates and manipulates sound waves in order to synthesise a given sound, and illusions of scent, flavour and texture, while rare, are not unheard of.
Like all lies, illusions work better when mixed with truth. An optical illusion tied to something physical, the more similar to the target appearance the better, is far more likely to convince than one tied simply to thin air. Stones can be made to look like teeth, for instance, and a mundane river might be changed to a river of blood. In the case of auditory illusions, altering a sound is much easier than creating one: illusionists who focus on the auditory aspect of their craft will often become "masters of one thousand voices". It must be noted, however, that illusions can conceal as well as create. Tying the appearance of nothing to something is not as difficult as it sounds, but novice illusionists should probably try changing their colouring and build - a remarkably effective disguise if done well - before they attempt to make themselves invisible.
Any artist will find that their skills improve with practice. Illusionists are no different. The range, resolution and colour accuracy of an optical illusion will improve, as will the clarity and extra effects, such as an echo (reverb) or pitch bending, of an auditory illusion. The most important thing to remember about illusions is this: it is far more difficult to create something realistic than it is to create something fantastical. Thus, when trying for the scare factor, illusionists should not try to be too psychological - standard frights, such as running blood and walking skeletons, are usually far more effective than an image of the target's enraged father. It is far more difficult to trick an expert in their own field, so illusionists should stick to the unknown. After all, what nobody knows is only a matter of opinion.
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Posted: Mon Apr 16, 2007 4:34 am
Other People
"Katilenuck lands were nothing new to me. I had lived there, or near there, for most of my young life, in the care of parents who always seemed to be keeping some great secret from me. But to hear of the centre of the herdlands...it was a treat indeed. The Illusionist had then, as he has now, a wonderful way of telling stories. As he told me of each Nequus he remembered, he would create a little picture of them in the air for me to see. I felt privileged, confided in, almost as though I were living his life with him - and indeed I lived, laughing with the antics of the foals, leaping away from the mighty Patriarch as he thundered by, scowling at the foolish advisor, falling in love with the beautiful Queen.
But then he told me of their hateful, jealous stares, their whispered remarks, their cold shoulders turned too often toward him, and I believe I visibly seethed with rage, for he had to nudge my shoulder and tell me to be at peace..."
-- From "The Illusionist"
Key
Love - the best level of feeling, whether platonic, romantic or familial; reserved for the closest of relationships
Like - the ordinary good people, ones to get on with and laugh with
Indifferent - either not known well, occasionally liked and disliked, or simply undecided upon
Dislike - the less good people, ones to avoid and/or laugh at
Hate - reserved for the greatest enemies, hate invigorates and imbues with the power to destroy
The People
Mordrecai - like a son to me
Savit'Taren - beloved Queen
Mavasu - what a pillock... (eyeroll)
Ka - hardly know him, really
Yi - can be arrogant, but not a bad sort
Xla'lanin - uppity little bugger... ¬¬
Storm - ahahahaha. XD
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Posted: Mon Apr 16, 2007 4:37 am
The Servant
"It was only when I first set eyes upon the smaller tree that I began to see the truth of it all. There it stood at the foot of his mighty monument, a faithful pilgrim at the shrine of some ancient demigod. A pale tan trunk, whip-like willow branches and curling, fronded white leaves - it was all I needed to see. I knew at once whose birthplace this must be.
"This...this is my tree..."
The illusionist's slow nod was all the acknowledgement I received, but it was more than enough. It seemed to me in that moment that the world had unfolded itself before me - my very purpose in life was perfectly, abruptly clear.
"I was...born to serve you..."
And his eyes said yes, twinkling in their spheres: yes, my boy, you were..."
-- From "The Illusionist"
My Stats
Power: 5 PTS
Strength: 12 PTS
Intelligence: 13 PTS
Wisdom: 6 PTS
Courage: 11 PTS
Luck: 13 PTS
Speed: 14 PTS
Agility: 13 PTS
Adaptability: 7 PTS
Stamina: 7 PTS
And now, the portrait of a servant, in my master's words:
"I call him 'Cai. Skinny, but a good worker; a talented boy with a good head but still with a lot to learn. Brave as the next Nequus; tends to come out on top of a situation. He runs and dodges and flies with the best of them, but deals poorly with new situations and can't keep up his killer sprint for long. Good for me, or I'd lose track of him in a heartbeat..."
About Me
Name: Mordrecai
Also Called: 'Cai
Gender: Male, mostly
Age: Young yet...
Physical Description: 16h2, skinny, brindled buckskin paint, dusty tan body and wings with patches of white; curled white mane and tail, dark eyes, black knees and tear-marks
Personality Overview: Respectful - quiet, gentle, poetic, inexperienced, bright, helpful, avoids confrontation, takes orders well
My History
I was born to unremarkable parents who never seemed attached to me, and spent most of my young life in the outer lands of the Katilenuck. Upon my coming of age, though, I was swiftly sent to Shrilal for reasons that were not disclosed. It was there, not at all by accident, that I found Mordre's tree, and first set eyes upon the Illusionist himself.
Even then, in the first few minutes of knowing him, I became certain that he was one of the most wonderful Nequus in the world.
My tree stands at the foot of his even to this day. I cannot think it an accident, for - as he told me while we were walking back to Fyhi Tel Oren - I had been promised to him as a servant before I ever drew breath, before I was even a twinkle in my mother's eye. For some service, my father had foolishly promised Mordre his first born son: when the news of my birth reached him, the Illusionist came to collect.
I cannot despise him for it. Is that wrong? My parents never showed me any affection, and he treats me less like a servant than like an apprentice - even, I dare say, a son. What better life than this, and what better master in whose footsteps to follow?
My Duties
Unlike Master Mordre, I have no magic. That does not prevent me from assisting him in the field, however: many times I have served as an anchor for his more complex illusions, the better to conserve his strength. I am also responsible for watching his back, bringing him the news of the herd, and watching over his territory and belongings in his absence. He seldom leaves Fyhi tel Oren without me, but whenever he does the agreement between us is unspoken. There are some things that even his most trusted servant cannot know, and some places he ventures that I cannot go.
My Allies and Enemies
You may assume these to be the same as Master Mordre's, with the following exceptions:
Mordre: the best master and father figure I could ever hope for
Savit'Taren: a good queen, and one to whom I am loyal
And I, of course, am not on the list. ^^
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Posted: Mon Apr 16, 2007 4:39 am
Statistics
"Until that day I had never been a great believer in destiny. In a way, nothing has changed. I could easily have refused him, told him that I would live my own life and fled, but I chose not to. I chose to stay by his side and serve him, just as Jala seemed to have intended. He had made such an impression upon my young life that any other choice would have been ridiculous. Here was a Nequus who could teach me things, show me things no other could. Why should I be ashamed that I gave my life to him at once?
And if you remain a skeptic, dear reader, then let me tell you this: I have never regretted that my life belongs to the Illusionist. Not once, not in the slightest, not even for a fraction of a second.
If that is not the mark of a good decision, what is?"
-- From "The Illusionist"
RP Logs
- Journey's End: Mordre, Savit'Taren [IP]
- Illusions Never Lie: Mordre (+'Cai), Storm [C]
Journal Entries
(none yet)
Inventory
- Necklace
- Two bracelets
- Earring
- 'Cai
Music
- Metallica, "Enter Sandman"
RP Stats
Roleplays completed: 1
Posts made: 4
Average posts per roleplay: 4
Original stats: PWR 14, STR 11, INT 7, WIS 11, CRG 10, LCK 5, SPD 8, AGL 10, ADP 11, STA 13, CTR 5, EFC 8, REC 8
Stat points earned: 20 (included +7 INT, +4 WIS, +6 CTR, +2 EFC, +6 REC: 20 point "aging bonus" from journal contest)
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Posted: Sat May 12, 2007 7:58 am
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Posted: Sun May 13, 2007 6:41 am
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Posted: Sun May 13, 2007 6:46 am
EVENT! Mordre and Savit are expecting five children! Here are the fruits:
Needless to say, Mordre and Her Majesty are in for a bit of a shock... XD
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Posted: Sun Nov 11, 2007 11:40 am
Dawn was approaching, and the chorus was warming up in the trees of Shrilal. A faint, watery light filtered into the night sky, touching it around the horizon and turning it grey with age. Among the undergrowth, a pair of Rit tumbled over one another as they bounded along. It was unclear which one was chasing the other - at times they seemed to take turns, snatching at one another's tails and making squeaks and growls. If there had been anyone around, no one would have paid them any heed.
As they peeled away from the air and vanished, the illusion thrown back like a cowl, the emerging grey Jala was glad that no one hereabouts cared for the doings of felines.
The air was cool and slightly musty. The smell of damp leaves crept into his nostrils. Mordre snorted quietly. He avoided places like this, as a rule. They were too cold, too wet for his liking. Today, however, he had a job to do.
Judging by the marks on the trees at head-height, doubtless caused by the sharpening of curved horns, his target was not far away.
Katilenuck children were accustomed to death. Quarrels, plots, intrigue, all of it led to killing in the end. There was something about the deaths of those who ventured down to the foothills to feed, though, that was considered different. Perhaps because it wasn't brother fighting brother any more. That was one thing Mordre had never understood: a Katilenuck kills another and nobody bats an eyelid, but a Reya does it and suddenly everybody's out for blood. He rolled his eyes. Tch. Politics.
Still, who was he to question the orders of a Queen? Savit'Taren had been very clear about his mission - this particular group of horned ones were not to trouble the Katilenuck again, and clearly she thought he was the best person for the job. Or at least, that was what she wanted the Katilenuck to think. It made a kind of sense. Taking on a large group of Nequus either required another large group of Nequus or someone with an advantage, and an advantage he most certainly had. As if the spells themselves were not enough, he was still strong and healthy despite having survived far beyond his natural lifespan. Magic has a way of doing that to folk: integrating itself with their lives, augmenting them in ways unexpected. More control was required - having too much magic in his system burned like fire and scarred him, having too little left him weak and faint - but when the balance was kept just right, the years barely touched him.
Recalling the six other blessed ones, Mordre decided he was glad that none of them had possessed any magic. The turning of years, witnessing the deaths of all those they had known and loved while they lived on untouched, would have driven them to the brink of insanity.
His hooves took him through a small glade in the forest, the sounds of a river nearby coming to his ears in a whisper. There was an old, gnarled tree here, one that put him distinctly in mind of his birthplace in Shrilal. That was another thing the magic did for him: it kept his mind young as well as his body. His memories of those days were still fresh and clear, though the people in the images were long dead. Just foals, they had been, all of them. ...Foals. He would have to speak to the Queen about that when he got back: the Katilenuck were dwindling gradually. Not enough younglings born, not enough adults surviving the killings - it all added up. Or took away. There had to be some way to persuade the herd to multiply. As for protecting what was already there...well, that was what he was doing all the way out here, wasn't it?
And then the voices came.
"...stuck 'im right through, stupid bugger. Shouldn't've left his herd, should he?"
"Damn Katilenuck. They shouldn't come down off the mountain, yeah?"
"Sure. If they don't like what's down here, they oughtta all stay up there and starve."
"But still, they're fair game..."
"Gahah, yeah. Half of the folk 'round here lost foals to the devils, yanno? As slaves?"
"I heard they eat them."
"What? And spoil themselves with dirty blood? Kahahaha - naaaawww, they'd never do that!"
"Well, whatever. You're safe anyhow. Ain't nobody gonna get on your case about wasting a 'Nuck."
It was the last sentence that did it. The Reya - for it was definitely a Reya, he could see them through a gap in the trees - had made the Katilenuck sound like insects to be crushed. Make sure they never trouble us again, the Queen had said. Mordre had been ready to drive them off, haunt the woods and put the fear of death into them, but no longer. Anger bubbled up inside him, black and red and blinding. Oh, they would pay. They would pay dearly.
There were seven of them in the clearing, grazing, talking casually about death and destruction as though they meant nothing. The rational part of Mordre's brain instantly said too many. The rest, the part that was currently seething with rage, said what, only seven? He wasn't used to being angry. Annoyed, yes, but not angry. He hoped it would not cloud his judgement too far.
"REYA!"
The shout came from the other side of the glade. Mordre was glad, as the illusion stepped from among the trees, that he had learned to throw his voice as well as to alter it. It didn't look like him. It looked more like Mavasu, huge and powerful with eyes like two glittering diamonds. It bore the marks of the Katilenuck, and its feathered wings were spread wide in open challenge.
"You speak of murdering my people so lightly?" Mordre snorted, imitating the Patriarch's voice rather well. "Come, foal-killers, test your mettle against a true Katilenuck!"
That turned their heads. One of them was already lowering his horn, pawing the ground. "Oh, I'll fix you, 'Nuck," he growled. "I'll fix you good!"
As the charge came, as the illusion moved - no, not moved, shifted - two feet to the right, as the sickening crunch of ivory splintering wood splintering bone made every one of them cringe, the illusionist was sharply reminded of the first reason why one never lets one's temper win.
The Reya was dead before he slumped to the ground, red and grey seeping out of the round hole in his forehead. His horn was still lodged in the tree.
"So," the illusion laughed, "who else will stand against me?"
Two of the horned ones charged in from either side. This was too easy, Mordre thought to himself as he whipped the illusion out of their way. Perspective, however, had betrayed him: the two stallions ran harmlessly past one another, skidding to a halt and scanning the glade with maddened eyes. Well, he'd have to do better than that. Concentrating hard, he picked out another Reya in the glade and carefully laid the image of Mavasu over him. Ought he to apologise to the Patriarch later, he wondered, for using him as a target face? It worked like a charm, though, combined with a couple more hastily tied images: one of Prince Ka, though the eyes were wrong (as they often were with such things), and one of himself. It seemed somehow more blasphemous to use the mares for such purposes.
The three Reya collided in a flurry of horns and hooves, tearing into each other with deadly precision. Within seconds, all three had fallen. At least they would never know how they had betrayed their comrades, or how their comrades had betrayed them. The leader, however, a grizzled old stallion with a network of battle scars, was beginning to catch on.
"Hold it!" he snapped to the other two, looking around the glade. The deaths of his comrades seemed not to have troubled him at all. "Some s**t's mussin' us about. Some liddle s**t's got magic."
And then the emerald green eyes locked on to the silent grey figure, and they seemed to burn holes in his flesh.
"And I kin SEE 'im!"
The angry part of Mordre wanted to stay and fight. Thankfully, the rational part was in charge of his legs. He turned, picked a direction mostly at random, and fled into the trees. Oh, bugger, he thought to himself with dread. Shouldn't've tried to take them all on! Now they're angry, and just frightening them won't work any more. You've got to finish it, Mordre. Finish what you started.
He didn't know how he was going to do it until he burst out of the forest and into the open air. The plan wasn't fully formed until he reached the bottom of the small valley. Casting the illusion - and it had to be a big one, because this was a wide open space - came just in time.
By the time the lead Reya and his two cohorts crashed from among the trees, the landscape was as dark as midnight. The glass was stained purple-black, and the trees were bone-white as far as the eye could see. In the valley, a red river roared its way down towards the distant ocean. It was in this river that the illusionist stood to meet them. He watched with cold, hard eyes as the leader told the others to wait where they were. As the scarred stallion descended the slope to meet him, he lifted his voice and spoke.
"You shall not reach me!" he shouted. "This river of blood belongs to Jala, you wretch - sweet Jala, so brutally cut down - and nothing impure, nothing sinful, nothing tainted, nothing less than Nequus can cross it and live!"
But the old Reya kept coming, his notched horn lowered and his yellowing teeth bared. "I kin see right through you, 'Nuck," he sneered. "You're an illusionist. Ain't no damn river of blood there, and ain't no damn dead Jala gonna stop me from git'n you now!"
His rage-fuelled charge lasted only a few paces.
What he had failed to realise, as most non-magical folk do, is that illusions are like lies. They work much better when you tie them to something more truthful, more tangible. Just because the river of blood on the outside isn't real, in other words, it doesn't mean there isn't a river of water underneath.
The Reya tumbled in with a cry of shock and an almighty splash. Mordre was upon him in a heartbeat, driving both front hooves down on the thick neck and forcing the head beneath the rushing water. "DROWN!" he bellowed, his voice carrying like thunder. "DROWN IN YOUR SINS! JALA SHALL BE AVENGED! DROWN!"
In the end, the legs stopped thrashing and the beast lay still. He was dead. Quite, quite dead. The illusionist had drowned him in less than two feet of water.
In the distance, the last two Reya turned and fled.
Mordre let out a shaking breath as he waded from the shallows, the rush of the battle fading. That was it. Done. Over. Now he would have to go back, and everything would have to be all right. He would have to go back and somehow convince Queen Savit'Taren that he wasn't going to get himself killed. And then he would have to make sure he didn't get himself killed - by one of his own people, no less. He was more likely to die up there, at the hooves of a Jala, than he was down here among the horned ones. A Katilenuck was more likely to murder him than a Reya.
No wonder the infidel thought they were monsters.
Standing, staring into the water as the dark blood blossomed from his foe's head, he felt sick with grief.
"Oh, Jala," he moaned. "Sweet Jala...we need you... Help us!"
But she was dead, long dead, and the Katilenuck would have to help themselves...
The dappled sunlight shifted, catching the gleam of blood on the dead Reya's horn.
Mordre blinked. He had the distinct feeling that something - someone - had just hit him with an answer.
Slowly, he approached the fallen beast and peered at it. The horn had been broken in the fall, and now rested on a protruding rock. The water had touched it, but it had not been washed away.
"Some evidence doesn't wash off like blood," the illusionist murmured, a little rush of excitement catching him. That was it! He knew how to win the Queen over! He didn't need pretty words, he didn't need fine spells, he didn't need to dress anything up. He just needed the truth!
And the truth was here before him, and he could carry it home.
Reaching down, he caught the horn in his teeth and carefully - with a reverence meant not for the object itself, but for the ideal it represented - tucked it under his wing.
~*~*~*~
It was several days later when a smoke grey Jala colt made his slow and weary way up the final slope, his dignity, like a tattered cloak, made no less fine by the hardships it had borne. Katilenuck of all sizes and colours stepped from the path to let him pass, whispering amongst themselves as they stared after him. Their puzzlement was gratifying. Mordre took great care of his image around the herd, using the image of youth to further the myth of his immortality. It had worked well: even those who saw him as an adult were convinced that he, and not the child, was the illusion. This spell was second nature, so close to tangible that he might as well be the colt they saw. Just another kind of truth, in a way.
"Mother!" Yi's voice, sharp and shrill. "It's the magician!"
A snort that could only be Mavasu. "Faugh. That little pipsqueak again? I thought he was going to be gone a month at least."
Sure enough, the mighty Patriarch trotted heavily past him as he approached the plateau. He did not even deign to glare. Mordre grinned internally. Another bad day, Mavasu? You have too many. Ka and Yi were a little happier to see him, though - at least they were staying for the show.
"Illusionist?"
He knew that soft contralto. Turning his head, he watched as Savit'Taren stepped out of her cave. Jewellery dripped from her body, and a fresh embroidered cloth had been spread over her back. Had the humans come again to adorn her? She might as well have stepped out of one of their paintings, a goddess sealed in pale brown flesh.
"We did not expect you back so soon," she ventured, her voice betraying no feeling.
Feigning puzzlement, Mordre put his head on one side. "No, my Queen?" said a pure, high voice that had once been his. "I thought myself a little late - after all, I had to walk most of the way back..."
"Walk?" Yi echoed. "Whatever for?"
Ka gave him a condescending look. "Did you get hurt out there, kiddo?"
Kiddo? Oh, that was rich. He was going to enjoy this. "Not hurt, little master," he answered. "Just...a touch burdened."
And he spread his wings, letting the five severed horns tumble on to the earth around him. Gasps and exclamations of shock greeted this revelation - "he's killed them! Look at the horns!" - "But he's just a colt!" - "oh, Jala's mane, look at the blood..."
Through it all, the Queen stood silent. She too had an illusion to maintain, and even without speech it was slipping. Gotcha, Mordre thought grimly. Didn't see that coming, did you?
But Savit'Taren was coming to her senses. "Give us the place alone," she called to the assembled Katilenuck. "I must speak with the Illusionist in private. You too, Ka, Yi - go on, go. Go," when Yi seemed about to argue the point. "I haven't the patience for your nonsense now."
Grudgingly the heiress turned and followed the crowd, casting a faint scowl in the grey stallion's direction as she passed. Mordre ignored her. Approaching the bejewelled mare, he spoke in a low voice. Time to throw back the final illusions. She needed to know that he knew - had always known - her true reason for sending him away. The Katilenuck had been a race of liars for too long, and he had played their game until he could stand it no longer. Here, now, there had to be trust.
"Have I convinced my Queen," said he, his voice dropping to a rich baritone, his adult body emerging as the adolescent image melted away, "that I can take care of myself?"
He watched her swallow with some satisfaction: clearly he was still a sight for sore eyes. "...Quite adequately," she managed after a moment. "How did you - I mean - did you really...did you kill them all?"
"Five horns, five dead Reya," Mordre answered with a nod, "by various ways and means. That left two to run back to the rest of the group. I very much doubt they will trouble us again."
"Trouble us a-...oh, Mordre, you fool! Seven horned ones - you could have been slaughtered!"
"But I was not," the illusionist pointed out calmly, "as my Queen can see." His expression softened. "Be still, Savit'Taren, pride of Eden. Your servant lives yet, and lives to serve."
The Queen opened her mouth to speak, but, after a considerable pause, all that came out was a sigh. "You worried me sick, you know," she said quietly, "coming in unannounced like that, your coat all dusty and your wings drooping. I only meant for you to frighten them off, surely you understood that - was the little massacre you pulled off down there just to persuade me you were strong enough to survive here, to fight off challengers and dispose of assassins? And how did you know? The only person I told was - "
" - Xla'lanin, I know." And if you'd been there, my Queen, you'd've wanted to kill them too. "I overheard the conversation."
She snorted, but it was half way to a good-natured snort. "Eavesdropping so-and-so."
Mordre rolled his eyes. "To think that I have to resort to such dreadful practices just to be told anything around here. When did the Katilenuck become so dishonest? When did a liar and a cheat become closer to Jala than one who succeeds with truth?" Because his magic wasn't a lie, he thought bitterly, remembering the red river. It was what ought to be true. It was. He wasn't a liar.
She had the decency to look ashamed, and he had a nagging feeling that he ought to do so as well. "I was worried about you. The last killer came too close for comfort. And you can't tell me you'd have gone if I'd told you why - all of why."
"I might have done. But no matter. I dislike Xla'lanin in any case, the impertinent upstart. He has that irritating air about him of one who knows far less than he thinks he does, and is worth far less than he claims. Uppity little bugger."
This mild gripe provoked a chuckle from the Queen, which had been part of the mage's intent: the grumbling voice he had used always seemed to amuse her. "Don't worry, old man," she teased lightly. "He's not about to replace you."
By the time she had finished, Mordre was smirking inwardly. "Don't you 'old man' me," he said in a murmur, his tone suggesting that he meant it, but wasn't in the least bit angry. "My mind may be generations old, but I'm as hale and as hearty as any stallion you entertain."
A swiftly cast spell both duplicated his outer form and concealed him, allowing him to slip closer to her as he spoke without her noticing. The illusion of supernatural speed - created when the doppelganger vanished and the air parted to reveal the real Mordre - was very convincing, as evidenced by the soft gasp she gave when he began to whisper in her ear. This magic wasn't a lie. It was a part of him.
"I could prove that too, if you like..."
Savit'Taren jerked away and goggled at him. "You sauce!" she exclaimed, her voice and expression carrying that unique air of affronted delight that always follows a slightly risqué remark. "With me bound to Mavasu? Why, if he heard talk like that from you, he...there'd...th..."
Her voice trailed off into a series of trembling breaths as the illusionist's soft muzzle traced the line of her slender neck. Oh, by Jala's white mane, he thought with an internal smile, she smelled sweet as roses. By the time he reached the juncture of throat and jaw, her eyes were closed.
"There would come a reckoning," said Mordre, his voice a low rumble, "the like of which the Katilenuck have never seen. Fyhi tel Oren would tremble with his wrath...and blaze with my defiance of him."
He felt her shiver as he pulled away. Her eyes, open now, held a flicker of worry amidst the excitement. "...You would...fight Mavasu?"
Sometimes she was difficult to read, for all that she wore her heart on a golden chain around her neck. If his Queen had wanted him to, Mordre would have fought twenty of Mavasu. Without any indication of her true desires, he was bound and helpless. Everyone was lost without the truth. Shaking his head, he turned to leave. "...I know not. Have no fear, my Queen, I shall go - and take my sauce with me." He began to walk away.
"Mordre?"
The voice caught him just as he was about to leave the plateau. He turned his head. "Yes, my Queen?"
Savit'Taren shifted her wings awkwardly. There was still something hollow about the way she looked at him, he noted with a pang of guilt. "I...I'm sorry I doubted you."
Was that all that worried her? Dear creature - sometimes she did not know him at all. His gaze softening, the illusionist took a few steps back towards his mistress. Vivid red dust swirled around his hooves.
In his mind's eye it was a river of blood, enfolding his legs in a staining caress as he crossed, unhindered, to the other side.
Just another kind of truth.
"It is long forgiven, my Queen," he assured her in a soothing voice, gently nudging her nose with his and watching the sparkle return to her eyes. "After all...for a while I doubted myself."
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