The Suffering. /Open RP

[DM_Absolution]

A Few Cycles ago

"Do not fail me male. I returned your miserable soul back into that maggot heap you call a body, i expect you to serve me even more faithfully now than before, if not i can easily send you back. I can't imagine it was pleasant where you were. After all, very few drow are as cruel and sadistic as you. "

He looks up at the female, his head pounding from just having been brought back. His clothes are stained with his own blood, and his strength is completely drained. His body aches, his eyelids are heavy and his mind racing.

"Yes mistress, i will not fail you."

The bloodstained male heads out of the throne room, leaving behind his calm and polite facade. he clenches his fists as he walks up the hall towards his room, his breathing increased to the point it borders on hyperventilating.

After he has readied himself and sheathes his sword, he takes a moment and looks into the mirror over his dresser.

"Oh they will be in for a world of pain! Oh yes mistress, so much pain"

He pulls out necklace from underneath his shirt and kisses the symbol. (Lore DC: 22 - it looks to be a cross between Loviatar and Lolths. Instead of the spider hanging down from a spiderweb, it is hanging down from a whip)

"Assaulting me in such a straightforward manner." Scoffs and spits on the mirror. "I will creep out of the shadows and kill you all" Slams his fist into the mirror shattering it. His face suddenly calms down to his "usual" calm facade.

"But not before i have paid my respects to my mistress and taken out every exquisite ounce of agony from each and every one of you."

Dramathiir walks out the room with renewed strength and purpose. He realizes the trip to Sshamath will be long and stop at the gates to the compound, he opens a pouch and counts the coins in it.

"Excellent, i couldn't stand the prospect of having to ride the whole distance"

[Selande]

The young jalil is humming an amused tune to herself as she wanders through the market. She stops at a stall and examines the wares, getting lost in her own thoughts as she does so. A few long moments pass by and a man speaks to her, a man she didn't notice until he spoke.

"Good evening, anything interesting catch your eye?"

Cyrithe turns to look at the hooded jaluk. She politely addresses him as she would any other man she met in the market.

She nods. "Not yet. Rarely do I find what I'm looking for when I come here. Items of value are as rare as information of worth. I'm something of a collector of both." She is subtly curt with the jaluk, not taking much of an interest in him as he is outwardly unremarkable. He is polite with her regardless.

"Ahh, well perhaps you'd care to share a bottle of Berduskan Dark with me. It's not everyday that I come across a suitable companion worth sharing it with."

Cyrithe grimaces slightly, attempting to be subtle, and before he can speak the jaluk notices. "Oh? Something wrong?"

She smiles politely at him. "Nothing wrong. I just usually prefer . . sweeter drinks. Never cared for bitter brews."

The jaluk nods. "I see. We'll see if there isn't something sweeter to share then. I know just the place." The jaluk says confidently.

Cyrithe regards the man a little more intently this time and nods her approval.. Her bardic curiousity piqued at the possible outcomes that could be presented from this offer. Immediately thoughts stir of her companions, which she has yet to hear back from. She has grown concerned for their wellbeing, having to stay behind on business. It's unlike them to not send word . . but it -was- like them to send a courier such as this man. If his message was to be discrete. Just another possibility to the jalil.

They walked out of the market and down some back streets towards Southern Sshamath. Along the way, the jaluk glances back towards Cyrithe . .

"I don't suppose you're one of those spider-loving bitches, are you?" He says with obvious loathe in his voice.

Cyrithe's hand immediately darts for her cloak, feeling the fabric. She is still wearing her Lolth-cloak from when she pretended to be the Matron from Ched Nasad.

"No." She says reassuringly. Before she could further her explaination, the jaluk nods his head slowly and looks forward once more. He nodded his head almost . . -knowingly-. Cyrithe sensed no deceit from the man, though the situation remained ever dubious to her.

They continued their path into Southern Sshamath, coming to the Great Elixer.

"Take a seat, I'll get us that drink." He says, motioning to a table and moving towards the bar.

Cyrithe complies, taking a seat closest to the entrance though she is rather at ease in the tavern. She's always felt safe around strangers in public places. She spends a lot of her time in taverns either reading or just listening. It's become like second nature to her.

The jaluk arrives at the table with a bottle of mead in his hand. He passes it to her.
"The barkeep assures me that this will be sweet. It's a truly rare find. Maztican Mead."

Cyrithe opens the bottle and smells the vapors from the opening. It does indeed smell rather sweet. She smiles slightly and glances to the male.

"Are we getting glasses or do you mind sharing right from the bottle?" She asks him with a teasing smirk.

Somewhat startled, the jaluk stands. "Ah, forgive my manners. I'll get us some glasses. One moment." He heads back towards the bar and returns moments later with two glasses.

Cyrithe pours them each a drink and the male immediately takes a sip. They exchange pleasant conversation though much of it is lost to Cyrithe. Her thoughts again wander, distracting her as they so often do.

The jaluk notices. "You should take a drink. I've been assured you'll like it. If not, I can go -speak- with the bartender. . " His voice carries a stern tone and Cyrithe is unsure whether he is joking or not. She is usually quite adept at sensing people and this man seems continually to elude her.

Shaking her head, she takes a small sip from the glass, her distracting thoughts being dismissed. The mead is sweet . . for a moment. It has a grotesque aftertaste. Very bitter.

She frowns at the beverage, attempting to be subtle yet the keen jaluk once again notices.

"Not to your liking?" He asks.

She smiles politely at him. "It is perhaps too fine of a drink for me is all. I'm not used to such rare beverages that likely the value of it is somewhat lost to me."

"Ahh." He seems disappointed.

"Perhaps if I knew more about it. How it should be appreciated . ." She offers with reassurance.
"Mmm." He nods. "You should take a larger drink and allow it to savor in your mouth. Swirl it with your tongue." He then demonstrates.

She glances back into her glass and considers for a moment. She doubts that any manner of drinking it would aid in the taste of the beverage, but after a long moment her curiousity takes her and she samples the drink as the jaluk described.

The bitter taste is much stronger now. Her head swirls as she swallows the drink. She feels like retching. Swaying in her chair, she manages to set the rest of her glass on the table rather roughly.

"Didn't like it?" She hears the jaluk speak though her attention is severely clouded. She speaks to the table as she struggles with the drink.

"It . . is perhaps . . too strong for me." She breathes heavily as the room continues to blur around her. Her senses dull and her attention drifting, she hardly notices anything around her at all.

"Perhaps we should go for a walk then." The jaluk sounds even more disappointed . . or angry. Cyrithe can't decided and before she knows it they're walking out of the tavern. The jaluk is holding her partially upright.

Turning down a road the two walk swiftly. At a seemingly random point he stops and Cyrithe stands on her own. She glances around looking for any landmark of importance, a feeling of dread passing over her as she realizes they're in a secluded section of the city. There are no other people within eyesight and she can't see any recognizable buildings.

The jaluk draws two short blades. The tone of his voice changes entirely. "The poison wasn't enough it seems. A pity. It was expensive." He stares at Cyrithe for a moment, as she silently stares back. "Do not struggle. This will be over soon." He plunges the blades into Cyrithe.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Eyes closed and head throbbing with pain, Cyrithe can feel and hear the crackle of a torch somewhere over her head. Or wait. It's behind her. She's laying down. Her arms are stretched out over her head and something has snared around her wrists. She tries to move a leg, absentmindedly and notices the same snare has taken her ankles as well. She's cold. She's unarmored.

She opens her eyes to see the back of the jaluk at the bar. He's attending to something on a bench. Her bindings rattle and he turns around.

"Good morning, sleepyhead." He says mockingly. "You probably feel awful, but don't worry, I didn't leave you out for long. It should pass enough for . . our purposes." He is holding a knife.

He leans over her and pops the buttons off her shirt with the knife. Brushing aside the fabric to expose her abdomen he gazes down at the jalil with a barely contained glee.

"We're going to have some fun."

Cyrithe opens her mouth to speak and immediately his finger is placed on her lips.

"Shhh shhh shhh... No talking. There will be time for that later. First, we need to get to know eachother." His steady hand holds the knife at an angle over her abdomen above and to the side closest to him of her navel. He slides the knife just deep enough into her flesh to cause a trickle of blood to roll down her side. She squirms with the injury, groaning in pain softly.

He drags the blade down her abdomen several centimeters. His steady hand maintains a calculated depth the entire way.

"Ahh.. Yes.. Shallow cuts. Bloody but not bleeding.. Mmm.." He seems to be taking great pleasure in his craft.

Cyrithe remains silent, glaring at him with all the anger she can muster. He meets her gaze and his expression shifts. He removes the dagger and turns towards the bench again. He sets the dagger on the bench and returns to face her with a green vial in his hand.

His tone again becomes serious. "Open your mouth." He demands, uncapping the vial.

Cyrithe opens her mouth . . *to be continued*

[pattu]

Cal is sitting behind his desk within his estate. He is replaying the events inside his head of the failed mission undertaken by Bregan. Questions plagued his mind. How did the mission fail so badly? What could the team have done differently in order to achieve success? The answers Cal formed to these questions were numberless, yet not one answer allowed his mind to rest. But maybe what pained his mind the most is the feeling he was forgetting something.. something was missing. He first had this strange feeling while he was familiarizing himself with the compound. The faern felt there was something out of place and not right, yet he could not put his finger on it. Unable to come to a realization of what this something was, caused him much anxiety and stress. A glass of wine would calm his nerves and so he left his estate to visit a place where he could leave such aggravating thoughts. Gloura's Wings.

Along Cal's trip to the feast hall, the faern passed through the market. Again the strange feeling hit him. He felt is brain pulsing with thought trying to figure out what was wrong. He stopped and scanned the market place trying to have something trigger an answer. Nothing provided the faern with the enlightened thought he sought. The feeling remained and the annoyed faern continued to Gloura's Wings.

Cal entered the feast hall and the strange uncomfortable feeling returned. The answer was on the tip of his tongue. What was missing!? What was out of place!? Oh the thought was maddening to the faern. Cal approached the bar where he leaned on the counter and waited to gain Gloura's Attention. The fey hostess smiled when she observed Cal waiting for her attention and she hovered over to him.

((Sylvan)) "You look miserable Cal" The fairy comments with a smile, but also concern "What can i get you to drink?"

((Sylvan)) "Just bring me a glass of wine Gloura.." The faern displayed his feeling of annoyance in his tone

((Sylvan)) "Do not give me attitude dear or you shall be washing fairy dust from your hair for weeks. Wait right there and I will get you your drink."

Gloura hovered away from Cal to pour him a glass of wine. It there was one person in the City of Sshamath Cal trusted it was Gloura. Cal had known Gloura for quite some time now, and the two had developed very casual relationship. When Cal was troubled he would go to Gloura. He valued her insight and views regarding topics and concerns.

((Sylvan)) Gloura returned with a glass of wine "So tell me Cal," her mouth formed a grin "Have you found a Jalil yet? Or are you still miserable?"

((Sylvan)) "That is none of your concern."

((Sylvan)) Gloura continued the playful assault "What about the pretty singing Jalil I have seen you speak with? What's wrong with that one?"

((Sylvan)) "The singing Jalil? You mean.." he paused for a moment "Cyrithe.." As the name rolled of his tongue the faern suddenly realized what had been missing.

Finding the answer he sought gave Cal great relief. He laughed quietly at his discovery, which only confused Gloura who simply observed. Cal remembered that the bard had been strangely absent from the mission and she was not present in her usual places. Odd, yet the faern was not at the moment concerned. More importantly, Cal had not yet thanked Cyrithe a second time for the gift she brought to Cal during his imprisonment. Normally Cal would not bother himself with giving foolish thanks, but the faern felt an uncharacteristic motivation to thank his Bregan Comrade.

((Sylvan)) *The faern stood up straight* "Thank you Gloura for your valuable insight as usual. If you will excuse me."

The faern departed Gloura's Wings to seek out and find Cyrithe.

Gloura was left to wonder, along with a full glass of wine.

[Kenshin]

While at the Gloura's Wings to arrange his meeting with Bregan's current employer, Guilhem took the time to ask after Cyrithe, one of his social acquaintances. When told by one of the proprietresses that the jalil has not been seen at the tavern for over a cycle the mage appeared to take the information in stride and turned his attention to a number of former colleagues from the School of Mages before finally taking his leave.

Once he had turned a couple of corners Guilhem's allowed his casual facade to fall and his pace quickened and became purposeful as he strode towards his tower. Once inside he headed for his study from whence he teleported to the Bregan guildhall without delay. Once up to date on the warnings left by several agents, Guilhem dispatches the following sending to Cyrithe:

"Vendui, jalil. Your valued talents are needed by the guild to rectify certain failutres. Move with care, danger is afoot."

Subsequently he goes about a mass sending to all of the guild's agents with an urgent update:

"It appears that we have turned from hunter to potential prey. We need to plan accordingly and account for all guild members. I await all of you at the guildhall."

While awaiting the arrival of his associates, Guilhem begins to pull together the framework of an action plan.

[Melisende]

She had been at the School of Divination for some hours now. Alienor had thought that for someone of her accomplishments and standing it would be relatively easy to gain assistance with her inquiries. It thus came as something of a surprise that while addressed politely and treated with difference she was passed from hand to hand.

As she sat in a provost's office considering the refreshments that a servant had brought for her, she came to the realization that she was being handled. She wondered at the speed with which the guild had been beset by problems... Her musings were interrupted by a sending mere moments before the smiling provost returned to her. His smile had a slight edge to it: a polite mask behind which the bearer was empowered to delay, obfuscate, and, if push came to shove, to turn away.

In any case, the message from her father now took precedence. A slight frown crossed Alienor's beautiful features as she strode past the unctuous mage with the barest of acknowledgement. She paid little heed to his polite good bye until his final words snapped her attention back to the moment.

"Perhaps you can return with the faern, Cal Baendar," was how the smug provost had concluded his farewell.

Yet another loose strand in a web of deceit, Alienor noted to herself with disgust.

[Thal]

The search for Cyrithe.

The first few days after the failed mission, Thal L'Nygurath spent them drunk. The drow, usually respectful to females even though very proud, shown none of his usual habits. Staying dirty and unkempt, letting the blood of whatever creature he killed to buy his next night of any strong alcohol he could get, the male's mouth often said things he shouldn't have. Though, nothing about Bregan came out of him, and nothing about the failed mission was said. The three weeks he spent in the Matron's chambers had affected him more than he would have thought. He didn't care about being tortured, he was used to that. But the surprise for him was to be used as a mating toy.

Wandering around in the dark caves, a bottle in hand, the large warrior met Alienor. He spoke a moment with her, though it wasn't in very good terms, as the male wasn't himself. The priestess told him to get a hold of himself, especially in the upcoming days and week, because she thought it wasn't over. The warrior simply shrugged it in his drunken state. They spoke a bit longer in the headquarter after that, Thal managing to get some more wine from the place. Free wine, this time. This is where he heard about Alienor's worries about Cyrithe, as the bard hadn't been seen in days, which is very unusual of her. The warrior didn't really care about it, he only cared about drinking the bottle.

When he woke up, Thal was still in the headquarters. Elves do not usually sleep, but the alcohol had made him. That, or he passed out, he didn't know. After getting rid of the headache, using a potion he had in his pack, the mercenary realised all the crap he had said in the last few days. He didn't speak out his reasons to anyone, but the 'letting go' needed to end. And to regain the trust of Alienor, he thought about finding Cyrithe for her. Someone probably had a clue about her whereabouts, somewhere..

And thus began his researches..

At the spider kiss, perhaps she had sang there in the past?





The barber shop. Cyrithe was keeping her hair short, perhaps she was a customer.





Perhaps she took a drink recently? The great elixir's barman might have a few clues.





Maybe she got into troubles with the Charnag.. But Alienor would have had news by now. Let's take a peek anyway.





Hmm.. I've seen her once at the auctioneer, she probably have stuff for sale there.





Maybe she needed healing recently? The Lolthite rarely heal, but for the right price or reasons..





She once hunted Illithids with me.. What if she became a thrall? Perhaps that Illithid merchant near the Gloura's knows something.




What if she died? Time to ask the necromancers. I'll start with Valshar.





Hmm.. Or the one near the Gloura's? I'm sure she sees more people than Valshar.





If.. someone killed her and just disposed of the body, personally, I would have thrown her in the Varralla's river. Let's see..

After searching for quite a while, Thal continues on any clues he might have found. If it leads nowhere, he simply returns to the Gloura's wing. The small creature places his usual heavy alcohol on the counter, hoping to do some nice business with him again today. The large warrior pushes the drink aside, and places a few coins near the small creature.

"Not today. But perhaps you can tell me the latest rumors. Have you seen ..."

[illithid]

Izzrar is seen delving through the magically sealed chests at the guild hall, he slowly builds up a collection of notes and parchments. Taking out another scroll tucked in his belt he begins to mutter in a rough arcane tongue, pointing to the scroll collection and releasing a spell. Seemingly satisfied with himself he drops the pile into a scroll case and delicately nestles a vial of green liquid in their midst. He returns the scroll case carefully to the chest, and locks it with the signet ring Guilhem gave him. As he moves towards the meeting chamber he mutters

"I must remember to let others know of the precautions I have taken"

[Kenshin]

After his meeting with Kal'zanor, Guilhem returns home to his tower to arm and supply himself for the tasks at hand. He was uncertain how Cyrithe was captured, but whether she was culpable for her own plight or not, Bregan D'aerthe could not and would not allow its members to be misused! The guild would not only respond with whatever force at its disposal to extricate Cyrithe from her captors but it would plan further actions against House Nasadra whether paid for such operations or not. Bregan's reputation for effectiveness and the inviolability of its agents demanded no less than a thorough illustration of what happens to those who would strike against the group.

The rescue of Cyrithe was a pressing matter with her life and the talents that made her invaluable both in grave danger. The operations against the Nasadran matron, on the other hand, could wait for the right opportunity. There was truth after all in the adage that revenge was a dish best served cold.

((Izzrar and Guilhem had a meeting yesterday with the guild's employer. It seems that the failed assassination attempt had resulted in shock waves one of which is that kidnapping of Cyrithe. The attacks by demonic spiders noted by some of our members were also aimed at a number of prominent citizens of Sshamath. Our employer is now quite keen to keep his involvement with our guild's failed mission in Ched Nasad a secret. There is more than a hint of prominent player in the city wishing to cover up a potentially embarrassing connection.

First and foremost we must effect Cyrithe's rescue. Subsequently there will be other matters to investigate and deal with but likely not as pressing as the welfare of one of our own.

DM Absolution wanted to try to get an event organized as soon as possible. He mentioned Tuesday and Thursday as possibilities. While from an RP perspective it would be best if we could get the rescue mission dealt with in a hurry, our varied timezones and availability during the workweek will make a midweek event a challenging proposition. Regardless, the key is Selande's availability. As the central character in this drama she has to attend.

Please post your interest and availability this week to take part in the rescue mission.

Thanks.))

[TalonofWindspeak]

Sly snaps out of a rather long Reverie... thinking about the Bregan he stops by the guild hall and catches up on any important news.

A member gone missing? *sighs* We should have some fail safe in these matters, we live in a city controlled by arcanists and we do not have the expertise to find lost members, important to our guild? Why can we not divine her location via a personal effect, a lock of hair, what have you?

Sly shrugs and stomps off to see his son and question him on some of this... nonsense...

It seems that his Reveries have gone on longer and longer, he was feeling quite rested and this problem seems to invigorate.. hmmm... am I truly getting old? He smirks as he breaks into the familiar jog, a runner just like any lower citizen delivering a note for pay..

[Selande]

*Continued*
Cyrithe opens her mouth, a cacophonic buffet blasting from her, slamming into Dramathiir. His hand clutches the open vial tightly so he doesn't spill a drop as his face contorts with pain. His free hand snaps up the dagger from the bench and violently plunges it deep into Cyrithe's thigh. The piercing shriek she's making takes a series of new tones as the grevious wound is agitated even further when Dramathiir begins twisting the knife, an uncouth action as his stance staggers.

Cyrithe continues her assault a few moments more until the jaluk releases the knife in her leg and slams his hand against her mouth, stifling her. He breathes heavily, shaking away his disorientation and leans in to whisper in her ear. He opens his mouth as if to speak and pauses like he's searching for words.

She tries to squirm against his steel grip of her jaw feebly. He exhales very softly, his warm breath just touching her ear as he snaps his jaw shut with a snarl. He straightens, reaching back to the bench to lean the opened vial against his other supplies. He plucks out a different vial and grabs a small swathe of cloth.

Regarding the stifled Cyrithe once more, he drops the cloth so that it opens partially onto her chest. He pops the vial open and empties it's contents onto the cloth. Cyrithe strains again, gainlessly trying to free herself from his grip, her eyes pinching closed with the agonizing pain from the knife in her thigh.

Setting the empty vial aside, he picks up the drenched cloth and dexterously switches hands, pressing the vaporous cloth against Cyrithe's mouth so that it covers her nose. It smells similar to strong spirits, slightly sweet. She tries to not breathe it in but the jaluk presses down on her chest forcing the air out of her.

She takes a forced breath, sustaining through the pungent cloth and immediately her limbs shoot numb, her hearing dulls as the sounds of her bindings rattling fade to inaudiblity. She closes her eyes as the struggle leaves her, another deep breath and her last thoughts before slipping into unconsciousness are about the pain in her thigh. Why does her thigh hurt? She can't feel her leg so why does it hurt? Her thoughts swiftly break down to only images and finally nothing.

~~~~~~~

Cyrithe wakes groggily as if she had been dreaming or deep in reverie. She stretches and her bindings rattle, dismissing the thought as a clenching dread reseizes her. She opens her eyes to the same waking nightmare.

Her thigh wound was apparently more serious than Dramathiir intended, as it's bandaged to staunch the bleeding. Her jaw is held tight by a tense cloth wrapped over her mouth and jaw, forcing her teeth to meet. The cloth continues along her jawline around the back of her head, the expertly tied knot causes no discomfort as she rests against the table. It would seem that her companion would want her to be comfortably in agony.

Dramathiir is seated across the room sharpening a knife as he rocks his chair on its hind legs, one foot on the table. He greets her awakening with only a sinister grin. Cyrithe groans softly at his sight.

Dramathiir spends a few more minutes examining the edge on his dagger in the torch light, occasionally taking a bite of something crisp on the table, out of Cyrithe's sight. She can smell it though, very faintly as the stale air lingers heavily in the room. She's unsure whether the sweet aroma is from his meal or one of the vials he's so fond of on the bench.

The time he spends honing his blade gives Cyrithe time to assess her situation as best she can. She's unaware how long she's been away, a cycle or two? Her body aches like she hasn't eaten in at least as long. She shivers and remembers how cold the room is. She can feel the splitering wood of the table she's bound press against her back.

Her usual equipment is nowhere to be seen, much of it precious to her. The tattered remains of her shirt sit on the edge of Dramathiir's bench, stained red with blood. She's still wearing her cloth leggings, which have only been sliced open where the knife entered her thigh. She's marred with several shallow cuts all over her torso and arms.

She winces as a new sensation graces her. A warm, throbbing ache like someone had set hot coals in spots just under her arms and one that had burned right through her chest and out the back. A searing, lingering ache.

And something else! Her skin feels as though something just beneath the surface were squirming and clawing it's way out, raking tiny talons across the insides of her unrent skin. She pulls on the bindings making them rattle as she groans at the new agonies she's facing.

Dramathiir chuckles darkly from across the room, setting his chair down heavily. The knife makes a metallic ring at the last strike from the whetstone, sickeningly soothing to the bard's ears. At any other time, she would relish in that sound. She's unsure which makes it worse, that she knows its about to taste her flesh again or that she would embrace the sound eagerly on a different cycle.

"Gave me a bit of a scare there. Thought I'd killed you." Dramathiir's boots sound heavy on the flooring as he strolls over to his bench. "You're surprisingly resilient for someone of your form. Very fortunate for me. I never liked being restricted to more delicate work."

"I hope you appreciate the comforts I've afforded you. Some of them are quite rare. Almost unheard of in the Dark." He moves the knife to indicate the palm-sized aches on her sides and the one on her chest. He leans forward towards Cyrithe, eyes fixed on a spot near her ribs where he places the tip of the knife. "An interesting ritual I learned about in my youth. I'm sure we'll have ample time for me to teach you all about it. I have faith that you will be an excellent pupil."

Cyrithe senses powerful magical glyph beneath her. She doesn't quite grasp it's purpose . . but she's granted a chance to study its effects firsthand.

~~~~~~~

Cyrithe slowly slips into despair over the next few cycles. Dramathiir plies his craft masterfully as he maintains disturbingly polite mannerisms with his young captive. He might as well have been sipping tea and discussing trivial matters with her, frequently asking her questions that receive only soft whimpering for answers.

Cyrithe goes without food, water and reverie, the effects of which are cumulative on the thin jalil. Fatigue seeps into her so much that she hardly reacts to Dramathiir's efforts, forcing the determined jaluk to take ever increasing measures to enjoy his time.

Blood oozes at her wounds but doesn't spill from them. Even in her depraved state she understands that the magic she's sensed enables her to sustain incredible wounds without lasting harm. A torturous boon. One of the comforts bestowed upon her.

She is occasionally granted a brief noxious rest when Dramathiir douses her with the vialed compound she inhaled. She awakens with no renewed energy and a lingering nausea. Her resiliencies are in slow decline with each passing hour.

~~~~~~~

Many cycles later, Cyrithe has long lost track of how many exactly, the sound of a door creaking in a far distance echoes in the chamber. The air stirs in the dank chamber. A thick stench of death and decaying flesh saturates the air so pungently that those of weak fortitude would likely retch. The bound jalil and her companion readily notice their approaching company.

Cyrithe whimpers despondently, anticipating no such rescue attempt. New things only bring her further suffering. Dramathiir places his finger on the cloth over her lips. "Shhh shhhh . . We'll have visitors soon. When they arrive, -then- you can make whatever sound you wish." Cyrithe shakes her head weakly at his touch. He wipes his knife on a cloth at the bench for a moment before taking a place behind her, resting the knife on her throat as he waits for his guests to enter the chamber.

Shuffling footsteps slowly draw closer, they seem to be taking great care with the route they chose for approach, often stopping immediately as likely some threat is discovered.

An echoing crack rings in the chamber as a trap is sprung and Cyrithe senses a familiar sense of glee from Dramathiir. He chuckles softly before pressing the knife tighter against her neck. "Come now, my little ravens, your friend is right here." He teases the approaching group, snickering silently.

Several silent moments later, Dramathiir lets out an annoyed sigh. He snakes the knife to Cyrithe's left ear and applies enough pressure leave a shallow cut, deep enough to allow brief rivulet of blood to trail across her cheek before the magical glyph stanches the bleeding.

"If you don't come out, I will simply CONTINUE TORTURING HER!" He bursts out laughing cruelly, antagonizing the group. More shuffling footsteps, very near now. "There you are my ravens. I do hope you appreciated my traps? It was quite an effort to lay them all down so perfectly." His knife returns to her throat . . . *More to be continued!*

[Thal]

They had gathered in the Bregan guild hall. Thal, Jarzyr, Izzrar and Alienor. When the large warrior heard the news from Izzrar, he felt a mix of anger and frustration. He wasn't the one to find out the information, and thus, he wouldn't get consideration for it. Now though, there was another mission ahead; to save her from the ennemy's hands. Alienor prepared wards, while Thal made sure his blade was sharp enough, thinking about the weaponmaster they'd face. Jarzyr spent his time 'posing' for an invisible artist, and Izzrar pondered a little longer about the tactic, even though we needed to act quickly, to keep some sort of surprise. The group went in different directions, to avoid arising suspicions.

Bregan members regrouped in a darkside road near the building where Cyrithe was supposedly held captive. Using sign language to share information, they entered, trying to stay silent, though obviously failing at it, considering they were carrying their weight in armors. As soon as they entered the place, most of them noticed something odd about the hall. Upon looking at it more closely, they agreed that the place was teeming with traps. There was only a small pathway in the middle, that one could follow without dying in atrocious suffering. Jarzyr went first to scout ahead, then the group followed.

"If you don't come out, I will simply CONTINUE TORTURING HER!"

When Thal's gaze locked on the scene in front of him, Thal's reaction wasn't what he anticipated. He actually found it fascinating. When females would usually do this to males, here it was the contrary. And on top of it, it was against her will, not because she requested it, which made the scene even more appealing to him. The large warrior would have just stayed there to watch and enjoy, but the attractive female was a part of Bregan. And seemingly, Bregan was the only place where he'd have some sort of futur after the mess in Ched Nasad. Besides, this weaponmaster seemed to enjoy life too much for Thal's taste. It needed to end.

Cyrithe's torso was all covered in scars and bruises. Larger scarifications could be seen upon the passed out female's skin. She was gagged and tied up. The weaponmaster was standing behind her, a knife close to her throat, ready to slice it open at any moment. He was smiling, while his captive didn't even seem able to feel anything anymore, uncouncious. The weaponmaster went on and on about his traps, and how he was happy to be out and serve the great house Nasadra.

"Why the dramatic, now?" Asked Alienor, probably in an attempt to mock the scene the host had prepared.

On the left side of the room, Jarzyr was trying to be stealthy. The rogue seemed slightly distracted in his attempt, but Alienor and Izzrar's discussion with their host about his loyalty to Nasadra seemed to help Jarzyr to keep his location hidden to the eyes and ears of the weaponmaster. Cyrithe's body seemed to shiver, and her eyes opened, to look down at her feet. She was concious and alive. At this moment, Jarzyr appeared like a ghost behind the weaponmaster, and tried to strike him down with his scythe. The weaponmaster dodged the attack just as if he knew it was coming, but the expression on his face told everything about his surprise. At this moment, Bregan members charged at the weaponmaster, and in less than a minute, the host, once in one piece, became a few. Alienor, standing in the bloody mess at her feet, turned to Cyrithe and casted a regenerate spell upon her, and then a greater restoration. Thal, on his side, seemed sadened about how easy of a prey he was to kill, when they heard noises coming from behind.

"Noooo! You stole our vengence!"

A few waves of spirit attacked the group. Bregan members were surprised, but at the same time they were ready for more against the weaponmaster, so they got rid of the ectoplasms real quick, before turning their attention back to Cyrithe. She was standing on a large glyph on the floor. Thal and Alienor instantly went to look at her wounds. The large warrior knew more about mondain medecine than he usually let others know, considering he had to heal himself without magic during all these years.

"We should avoid disturbing the glyph until we know more.." Said Alienor. The group agreed.

Jarzyr was sent to scout the area in case of more attacks. Izzrar casted a detect magic spell and inspected the glyph with Alienor, while Thal proceeded to bandage Cyrithe's wounds after Alienor cleaned them with holy water. "You can speak, bard?" The large warrior asked, before taking off her gag. "The guy is dead." The bard moaned in pain as her mouth was free. Her eyes filled with new fresh tears. Thal found it almost cute, but he then noticed that while she was under the effect of the regenerate spell, her wounds seemed to bleed even more.

The warrior frowned at it. "We should avoid using magical healing on her, as long as we don't know what is causing this. I'll try to stop her bleeding with bandages." He said, even though he realised that it didn't help much, as the blood kept bleeding out of her. Three scarred glyphs were on her torso, one under each armpit, and a third between her breasts. Bregan member started to search the room in case they'd find something that would help them cure the bard.

After a little while, Cyrithe was getting closer to death. While everyone was pondering about a way to solve the issue, Alienor used another regenerate spell on the bard, which brought her to her death. "Bloody!" shouted the large warrior, obviously angry. "I thought we agreed not to use magical healing." The favored soul seemed shocked, but recovered her wits quickly. Perhaps death would be less painfull for Cyrithe, and perhaps a resurection would solve the issue. Sadly, the magic was still on her corpse, and the glyph was still activated.

Nothing worked. Dispelling, removing curses, all the magic available wasn't enough. The glyph, holding signs of Loviatar, kept working. Thal grew impatient, and untied the bard, picked her up, and walked towards the bed with her, out of the Glyph. At this moment, another ghost attacked, which was easily killed by Izzrar, Jarzyr and Alienor. The large warrior layed down the bard on the bed, and pulled the blanket over her, to hide her nudity, while the group would think. The bard was so light in Thal's arms, as if she was a child. Probably because there wasn't any blood left in her at that point.

"We should inspect the body in care, first." Alienor went to the bed, removed all clothing and covering from the bard's corpse, and inspected her inch by inch, to search for anything that might have been missed. Meanwhile, Thal inspected the desk, and found a note of no importance to current matters. Cyrithe had another glyph onto her lower back, glowing with magic. Though, the magic seemed to become weaker and weaker, as if there was still an effect going on.

Several long minutes passed, without the inch of an idea. The group then decided to send Izzrar ask for help at the mage tower... (To be continued)

[pattu]

Cal Baendar arrives at the apartment building and walks inside the room.

Cal had learned to location of the apartment building after reviewing the mission plan notes. Other business had kept him away from leaving with the rescue team. With time available to him now, he headed to where Cyrithe was being held captive.

He enters the room quietly, hidden in the shadows in order to not alert his presence. He slowly makes his way to the party while observing the various tools and toys of the torturer being displayed on the table.
"Interesting... That one looks painful... and I do not even know what that one does, but I want one."

He steps out of the shadows revealing his presence to the party while holding and thoroughly studying one of the torturer's deadly carving knives. When the party acknowledges Cal, he sets down the knife and bows respectfully.
"Vendui, comrades. Please forgive my tardiness."

He momentarily listens to the updated of current events before his attention shifts to the nude body of Cyrithe laying on the bed.
"Oh my. What have you four been doing in here?"

The faern walks over next to Thal to examine the Jalil on the bed.
"What a beautiful piece of work." There is a short pause before he clarifies. "The cuts and the slashes are masterful. True professionalism."

Cal moves in closer to read the numerous glyphs crafted onto Cyrithe's body. He talks to her as he examines them.
"Fascinating. These are not good things to have written upon you Jalil. Xas, they are indeed very bad. No, no you are over-worrying. With time we will be able to remove them and return you to your pretty self. You are welcome Jalil."

He ends his conversation with the body, but continues to study the glyphs.
The faern chuckles "It is a good thing I arrived and prevented the use of positive energy. You did not try and use magical healing.. did you?" The long quiet pause answers his question and he let's out a sigh. "Well you definitely did not try a resurrection spell then." Cal could hear the silence emanating from the large Drow standing next to him. "You did..."


He turns and glares sharply at Thal then the three Drow behind him.
"Alright! You three take five steps back. And you," stares directly at Thal before motioning to a chair, "You will walk over to that chair, sit down, and concentrate on breathing. It is a miracle that you function."

He takes a moment to calm down.
"Now then, please allow me to read the glyphs further. If I am disturbed, I may risk touching something I am not supposed to and blow her arm off."

Cal returns his attention to Cyrithe.
"Now then my dear Jalil.. tell me a story. What has happened to you."


Spellcraft: Mod 32 (Unbuffed)