65th of Ashan, Arc 717
Nathaniel,
You have a brother. Considering we are all Ellasin's children, this brother of yours is something of a brother to me as well. I may have never met him, but I share a sort of kinship with him as I do with you. The Coven looks out for its family -- and as Ellasin has called you her own for time immemorial, treating you and I as sons above the rest, I know in my heart that it would bring her great displeasure for you to lose a sibling of yours.
Your brother, a defender of the King, was here in Rharne... defending the King, perhaps in a way that the King hadn't even imagined, from a place he didn't envision needing defense from. Andraska, your sweet brother, had performed an act of great heroism for both the people of Rharne and the echelon of Rynmere. He had avenged blood with blood! All was well, in their eyes. The people.
Until it wasn't. Now, he rots in one of the city's cells, taken in for his presentation as a blithering, drunken fool. The prison they hold him in now is known as the Barley Cove. You, my dear, can do with this information as you desire. I have no words of advisory, nor any offers of help. Do as you must.
Effren Galien
The Barley Cove. He'd never heard of it before, though to be fair, he hadn't explored Rharne much. Patrick's home, the Hound n' Harlot, the Coven base and the market square... not much else had forced his interest in all that time. While the city was certainly unique, it was a city all the same, and Alistair had been through a hundred of the things. Rharne was not his land to explore. It was better suited for the world's worst drunks or rich, pubescent boys needing to get beaten in a tavern brawl to teach them humility. Alistair wasn't the first of these things, and he hadn't been the second in a very long time.
The stakeout lasted some time. He'd visited the prison under the guise of a concerned son seeking to see his father. He'd been turned away, told that they did not allow visitors. Each and every entry, each and every venture into the prison under these guises allowed to him by the Transformer's mark, he learned a different thing. Of the people, the guards, the layout, any... anti-magic safeguards they might have had. Nothing concerning -- not in the slightest.
Tonight, he decided to attack this prison. He entered fully clad in his masterwork, black leather armor, lined with zirconium scales and reinforced underneath. He wore a black mask with enough room for his eyes to glare, tied around the back of his head. Behind him were his two minions, already concealed as they always were . . . Icarus and Andreas, men with far more skill in combat than he imagined from any of these singular prison guards. He kept low, he attempted to balance his weight. He was not a great sneak, not by any means. In fact, he was incredibly below average in this regard.
However, he was incredibly lethal, and very capable of destroying anyone who might have found him.
Venturing into the prison, he already could see several of the night guards on patrol, both around the vicinity and inside the entryway of the building. He kept quiet and stuck to dark areas, his dark armor acting as natural camouflage. Eventually, he found the way to the inmates. The area leading deeper into the prison was blocked by a guard, with a sword and scabbard against his hip. Alistair nodded at Icarus, and the Revenant crawled forward, knocking an arrow and pulling back the string as quietly as he could. With a thud, he heard the guard fall, making an uncomfortable noise as he hit the ground.
The mage took a breath. Icarus went to his body and began to drag him down the stairs where the inmates were, preventing him from being seen by the other guards when they inevitably circled back to where he stood.
Except... he wouldn't be there. They would notice that. Alistair bit his lip, and then commanded Icarus to wear the man's armor. He quickly wiped off the blood beginning to ooze outward, then helped the Revenant fit into the equipment before sending him to stand before the doorway. He did so, and maintained the same stance and position the guard did, covering his face with a helm as much as he could to conceal the differences in expression. If anyone approached Icarus, Alistair had given him the mental command to feign being asleep on the job to delay any conversations. Revenants could only speak words they had repeated in life; words with meaning to them. Aye, Ser was likely not among such words.
Going further in, Alistair looked at the inmates within each cell in his attempt to find his brother. None of them seemed like they didn't deserve to be here. Madmen, drunks, vicious individuals. Some of them noticed him, some didn't. One came up to the bars and began to growl and yell, though he was far enough in that he didn't imagine any guards would hear. They didn't seem to be patrolling the inmates, anyway -- at least not at this time in the night.
Moving forward, he paid less and less attention to each inmate as he passed through, figuring that he would recognize Andras when he saw him. Yet, finally, he came across something notable. Someone interesting. Alistair saw someone that he recognized. A biqaj woman, he thought, with tan skin and black hair. Her features were something he'd seen before, in what felt like a vision or a dream. Then he remembered -- it wasn't a dream. It was the initiation; he'd initiated Patrick into the magic with the intention of finding his... partner or whatever the man was. As they zoomed across the sea, he'd seen this woman, though in far better shape.
Wearing a black mask and leather of similar tones, he imagined he looked something like a demon. His eyes, worst of all, were a bright and violent amber as a result of Syroa's favor. He stood before the cells where all else was dark, he himself appearing much like a shadow in the night, only with sun-colored eyes staring down at the sailor he'd seen so long ago.
He spoke.
"I know you," he said. His voice was not his own. It was dark, and empty, and vile. His tone was deep and brutal, and to end his words, his chords followed with a receding growl. He sounded as demonic as he appeared. The voice was another of the Immortal's gifts to him.
"You're a sailor, aren't you? Of some kind," he whispered. "I remember seeing you while you were far, far out at sea, standing by the sails and staring into the waves. You were heading west, to Ne'haer. Pity the return voyage didn't go so well."
Nathaniel,
You have a brother. Considering we are all Ellasin's children, this brother of yours is something of a brother to me as well. I may have never met him, but I share a sort of kinship with him as I do with you. The Coven looks out for its family -- and as Ellasin has called you her own for time immemorial, treating you and I as sons above the rest, I know in my heart that it would bring her great displeasure for you to lose a sibling of yours.
Your brother, a defender of the King, was here in Rharne... defending the King, perhaps in a way that the King hadn't even imagined, from a place he didn't envision needing defense from. Andraska, your sweet brother, had performed an act of great heroism for both the people of Rharne and the echelon of Rynmere. He had avenged blood with blood! All was well, in their eyes. The people.
Until it wasn't. Now, he rots in one of the city's cells, taken in for his presentation as a blithering, drunken fool. The prison they hold him in now is known as the Barley Cove. You, my dear, can do with this information as you desire. I have no words of advisory, nor any offers of help. Do as you must.
Effren Galien
The Barley Cove. He'd never heard of it before, though to be fair, he hadn't explored Rharne much. Patrick's home, the Hound n' Harlot, the Coven base and the market square... not much else had forced his interest in all that time. While the city was certainly unique, it was a city all the same, and Alistair had been through a hundred of the things. Rharne was not his land to explore. It was better suited for the world's worst drunks or rich, pubescent boys needing to get beaten in a tavern brawl to teach them humility. Alistair wasn't the first of these things, and he hadn't been the second in a very long time.
The stakeout lasted some time. He'd visited the prison under the guise of a concerned son seeking to see his father. He'd been turned away, told that they did not allow visitors. Each and every entry, each and every venture into the prison under these guises allowed to him by the Transformer's mark, he learned a different thing. Of the people, the guards, the layout, any... anti-magic safeguards they might have had. Nothing concerning -- not in the slightest.
Tonight, he decided to attack this prison. He entered fully clad in his masterwork, black leather armor, lined with zirconium scales and reinforced underneath. He wore a black mask with enough room for his eyes to glare, tied around the back of his head. Behind him were his two minions, already concealed as they always were . . . Icarus and Andreas, men with far more skill in combat than he imagined from any of these singular prison guards. He kept low, he attempted to balance his weight. He was not a great sneak, not by any means. In fact, he was incredibly below average in this regard.
However, he was incredibly lethal, and very capable of destroying anyone who might have found him.
Venturing into the prison, he already could see several of the night guards on patrol, both around the vicinity and inside the entryway of the building. He kept quiet and stuck to dark areas, his dark armor acting as natural camouflage. Eventually, he found the way to the inmates. The area leading deeper into the prison was blocked by a guard, with a sword and scabbard against his hip. Alistair nodded at Icarus, and the Revenant crawled forward, knocking an arrow and pulling back the string as quietly as he could. With a thud, he heard the guard fall, making an uncomfortable noise as he hit the ground.
The mage took a breath. Icarus went to his body and began to drag him down the stairs where the inmates were, preventing him from being seen by the other guards when they inevitably circled back to where he stood.
Except... he wouldn't be there. They would notice that. Alistair bit his lip, and then commanded Icarus to wear the man's armor. He quickly wiped off the blood beginning to ooze outward, then helped the Revenant fit into the equipment before sending him to stand before the doorway. He did so, and maintained the same stance and position the guard did, covering his face with a helm as much as he could to conceal the differences in expression. If anyone approached Icarus, Alistair had given him the mental command to feign being asleep on the job to delay any conversations. Revenants could only speak words they had repeated in life; words with meaning to them. Aye, Ser was likely not among such words.
Going further in, Alistair looked at the inmates within each cell in his attempt to find his brother. None of them seemed like they didn't deserve to be here. Madmen, drunks, vicious individuals. Some of them noticed him, some didn't. One came up to the bars and began to growl and yell, though he was far enough in that he didn't imagine any guards would hear. They didn't seem to be patrolling the inmates, anyway -- at least not at this time in the night.
Moving forward, he paid less and less attention to each inmate as he passed through, figuring that he would recognize Andras when he saw him. Yet, finally, he came across something notable. Someone interesting. Alistair saw someone that he recognized. A biqaj woman, he thought, with tan skin and black hair. Her features were something he'd seen before, in what felt like a vision or a dream. Then he remembered -- it wasn't a dream. It was the initiation; he'd initiated Patrick into the magic with the intention of finding his... partner or whatever the man was. As they zoomed across the sea, he'd seen this woman, though in far better shape.
Wearing a black mask and leather of similar tones, he imagined he looked something like a demon. His eyes, worst of all, were a bright and violent amber as a result of Syroa's favor. He stood before the cells where all else was dark, he himself appearing much like a shadow in the night, only with sun-colored eyes staring down at the sailor he'd seen so long ago.
He spoke.
"I know you," he said. His voice was not his own. It was dark, and empty, and vile. His tone was deep and brutal, and to end his words, his chords followed with a receding growl. He sounded as demonic as he appeared. The voice was another of the Immortal's gifts to him.
"You're a sailor, aren't you? Of some kind," he whispered. "I remember seeing you while you were far, far out at sea, standing by the sails and staring into the waves. You were heading west, to Ne'haer. Pity the return voyage didn't go so well."
