Auditions for Death

[zalbuu]

((So this is kind of sort of retroactive since I am a lazy person and don't make RP posts often. This should have happened a few months ago, though, right after the initial RP that kicked the arc off.))

Reese Langston was cleaning cups, eying the lone remaining customer in the bar. A regular, to be sure, and seeming to be one of the many companions his employer entertained. Reese had never been able to coax a decent conversation out of him, but he drank deep and tipped well, so he could not complain overmuch. This night he seemed especially withdrawn, barely even glancing at the mostly-full cup next to him. Reese did not think much of this, however; the Riders were a broody sort, and it was none of his business, truth be told. A few more minutes, no need to badger him to leave just yet, he thought. Almost as if he sensed his thoughts, the figure stirred, producing a coin sack which he set next to the cup. Perhaps he needs a bit less drink, if I am taking the last of his coin. The figure paused as he passed Reese, half turning to face him, features hidden beneath his rough-spun hood. The figure spoke, voice thick with an emotion Reese could not place. Anger? Sorrow? Fear? "Thank ye, Reese, fer yer fine services. Ah'll be sore missin' th' place. Ye take care o' yerself, ya hear?" Without waiting for a reply, the figure turned and slowly made his way out of the bar. Odd, quite odd, Reese thought as he went to collect the cup. When he reached for the purse, however, he was startled to find it was quite full. Puzzled, he opened it, expecting to see...what? A prank of copper pieces and buttons? When he pulled the strings open, however, he nearly dropped the bag in shock. It was filled with gold pieces, hundreds of them. Reese could not remember the last time he had seen so much money in one place. He dashed for the door, thinking there must have been some sort of mistake, but the figure had vanished into the summer night.

Nikova Raskol could not sleep. It was too bloody hot on these summer nights, so much you would sweat yourself to death even if you lay unclothed upon a bare bed. She had finally had enough. Rising from her bed, she padded across the room and tugged on a gown. Quietly, she made her way downstairs and slipped outside. The air was still warm, but the breeze was cool on her skin and she breathed a sigh of relief as the wind gently played across her skin. Perhaps a trip to the canals, to dip her feet in the water. She set off. She had not been walking long when she spotted a figure ahead, coming out of the Pig and Whistle. The frequenters of the establishment were not to Nikova's taste, so she paused and made a fuss of fixing something with her slipper until the figure was away enough she was sure the figure would not approach her. Following what she deemed a prudent distance, she continued. Of course, the arse was taking his sweet time, moving at what could more accurately be considered a bloody crawl, not a walk, and here and there would actually stop to look at Light knew what, before moving on. Finally, they arrived at the canals. But wait now, the figure had stopped again. Nikova waited for him to move on, but he did not. Well fuck you too, whomever you are. Inconsiderate ass. Nikova turned smartly on her heel and stomped back the way she had come, never once looking back.


It was past William's bedtime. Not that he cared, rules were so stupid. When he was a grownup, William's bedtime would be never. He knew when he eventually returned his mother would be cross and his father would beat him, but for now such things were far away. He pulled the apple he had stolen earlier from his pocket, along with his most prized possession: a small knife. No one knew about it, not even his stupid sister, and he had stolen it from right under that fat smith's nose. William carved off a slice of apple and popped it in his mouth and he wandered twords the canals. There was a figure on the bridge, just standing there. William stopped and considered it. The figure did not move. William was getting bored and about to leave, when the figure stirred. Reaching within the folds of its robe it withdrew something. William strained to see, but the figure's back was to him and he could not make out what it held. Suddenly, the figure hurled the object, sending it spinning along the length of the canal. William saw the object flash silver -- or perhaps gold! -- in the moonlight before it disappeared with a splash into the depths. The figure remained there for a moment, starting at what William could only suppose were the rapidly fading ripples in the water. A thought struck William then. Perhaps the figure had more gold. He glanced at the knife in his had. The figure was short, barely taller than William, and William was sure he had not been seen. Yes, with gold he could run away to Goldshire, or even Westfall! He could run away from his stupid school, his stupid parents, his stupid teacher. His grip tightened on the knife, he took a step forward. The figure turned, looking across the bridge to where William stood in the shadows. Looking right at him. Somehow William knew, even though the face was obscured in shadow. He balked, retreating the step he had come. The figure turned slowly, and just as slowly made its way across the canal, down a street, and out of sight. William breathed a sight of relief. Stupid thing probably didn't even have any stupid money. He would need a bigger knife anyhow, he decided. When he had gotten that, maybe he could use this one to nail stupid dolls to the ceiling....

Dane Lindgren was working late. Not by choice, mind you. Any sane man would be abed by now. Any sane man would certainly not be working a forge in this blasted heat. Unfortunately, Therum Deepforge was not a man, but a Dwarf, and Dane's objections had fallen on deaf ears. So here he was, alone, working a forge in the dead of night. Making what, iron bindings for crates? Dane knew he was no master, but this was just insulting. In his anger he barely noticed the hooded figure that passed by. He paid it only enough mind to note that it was probably a Dwarf, and that made him think of Therum, which made him angry all over again. Bloody Dwarves, bugger them all. The hammer rose and fell, and Dane Lindgren dreamed of getting even....

No one at all saw the hooded figure arrive at a small house tucked in the back of the Dwarven District. No one at all saw the knock on the door, the spyhole open, the brief and hushed conversation. No one at all saw the door swing open, saw the man in red within, saw the shadowy figure enter, to be swallowed by the darkness.

[Sunshine]

((More please.))

[zalbuu]

((Oh god realms are down! Unedited brain stream to follow.))
It was morning. At least, he liked to think it was morning, to picture sunlight breaking over the horizon to wash over the landscape, the people stirring, the small buzz of activity that gradually would become a dull roar as the city came to life. Down here there was no roar, no buzz, not even a squeak. There was only a bowl containing some unidentifiable slop that Zalbuu decided seemed more like breakfast than the previous one.

Solidarity was the Cult's latest test of faith. They had started with questions, progressing predictably through mind games, beatings, and torture. Clumsy attempts, all of them, practiced by hands that had only stories and fables to guide them in their attempts. The people here were mostly just folk that were angry at the world, and had been drawn in by the Cult, to be mindless drones, barely aware of the role they had in a grand designed that stretched beyond their comprehension. The exception to all of this was the man in red. In sharp contrast to the raw anger and frustration of the acolytes, the man in was cold, controlled, and reeked of evil. This was a man that knew the full extent of what he had bought in to, and had embraced the demise of his world with open arms. Zalbuu knew the true test would be against this man, not the blunt instruments he used to break most new recruits.
For the moment thought, he was alone with a bowl. To be honest, the solidarity was a welcome thing. While a cage would chafe at the raging souls normally confined there, this one found it an opportune time to gather his thoughts and begin planning ways of contacting the outside. He had seen much of the comings and goings of cult members, the rooms, chambers, closets. Here he began to piece them all together, to note places that could be accessed by an outsider, to construct the delicate social hierarchy within the cult, to note the subtle clues as to the limits of suspicious activity. It also allowed him time to heal from the torture attempts; down here, he dared not call on the Light. The acolytes would probably pass over the detail, but the red man missed little and less and he had come too far to risk exposure because of a little discomfort. A day passed, marked only by the arrival of two more bowls of unidentifiable grey matter, which Zalbuu labeled Dinner and Supper.

The door opened again. Zalbuu looked up, a bit surprised. Time was more fluid when you had nothing to mark it, but it seemed he had only just finished the latest bowl of slop... and then he saw him. The man in red stood outside the door, looking the same as ever. A voluminous blood red cloak, fringed with gold covered him from head to foot. The hood hid his eyes as ever. His skin was flawlessly smooth, and white as death. The razor thin line above his chin seemed a blemish upon his perfect skin, rather than a feature. When he spoke, it opened to reveal utter blackness, though Zalbuu always imagined he could see blood dripping within. The red man spoke now, a single word, accompanied by the soft wave of a bony hand. "Come."

He followed the red man, through the rooms he knew, down a spiraling passage to rooms he did not know. Down another passage, until they at last arrived at a great room. Inside were dozens of cult members, garbed in the robes of ceremony. Some were chanting fervently, while others stood still and silent as statues. Torches blazed all around, huge things that stood up from the ground, rather than be held in racks. In the center of the room stood an alter, surrounded by five braziers, lit and burning with an unnatural flame. Zalbuu idly wondered where all the smoke went. So now it is time for the red man's tests. So be it, he was prepared.

As he was led across the room, acolytes filled in behind them, closing ranks and shuffling, spinning in an ever tightening circle, like a serpent constricting its prey. As they set foot upon the dais surrounding the alter, the chanting stopped abruptly. Now a hundred silent witnesses stood around them, gaze unwavering upon the pair of figures. The soft footstep behind him was another acolyte, carrying a dagger. It was long and slender, and the blade reflected light at odd angles, or sometimes not at all. The man turned the blade over, offering the hilt to Zalbuu. It was etched with runic symbols, and when he took it, it was ice cold. He knew what this meant. This was among the devices he knew the Cult used as a final test. A point of no return, to forever ensnare their members, making the Cult their only home for the rest of their existence. As he turned back to face the alter, he saw two acolytes dragging a figure, bound and with a sack over its head, twords them. You knew this might happen. A life, measured against the fate of the entire world, what choice do I have? Steel yourself man, you mustn't hesitate, or he will know. As the figure was deposited upon the alter, one of its bearers, a big brute of a man, cuffed it roughly across the face, eliciting a muffled moan. The red man laid a hand upon the brute's shoulder, giving his head an almost imperceptible shake. Though his touch must have been feather-light, the brute recoiled as if struck, emitting a feeble whimper before retreating with his companion to rejoin the throng surrounding the alter.

The red man turned to face him across the alter, and for the first time Zalbuu saw his eyes, reflecting the unnatural light of the braziers. Two golden points of light in the darkness, boring in to him, studying his every move. Steady now. "You know what you must do." It was not a question. Zalbuu nodded, fingers tightening about the dagger. The red man's hand inched twords the sack covering the figure's face. Light, let it be some murderer they have picked off the streets, some theif unfit to join their ranks, some small solice of a blackened heart. The red man's hand jerked the sack away. The boy from the canals stared back at him. He had been gagged, beaten. If there had been tears, there were none now. He stared dully at Zalbuu. He knows what happens next. Light forgive me, and it must happen. The red mans wound of a mouth twisted into a smile. He suspects. And he also suspects this will be too much, this cruel joke of fate. But I have harnened my heart, to do what must be done. I must not hesitate. And so, Zalbuu drew the dagger back. He locked eyes with the points of light across the alter. I'll see you in hell, you bastard. The dagger fell, and he joined the Damned.