Twilight-Clad, She Stole Her Way

[Samoblivion 532]

 

Names have little meaning when you cast them off like old rags when sullied. She had cast off the name of Ravel many years ago, sullied by the streets and the pawing hands of man. She had cast off the name of Doomsinger four years back, sullied by a life of servitude and not strength as promised. Would she cast off the name of Maris one day, she wondered? Perhaps. Maris was a Scion, a Disciple, a defender of the South - she doubted she was any of those things. But the clawing muck of the life of Doomsinger would not scrub out with the change of a name. For those she had served only her death or submission, along with those of all in this world, could sate them. She had joined for power. Now she fought out of pragmatism - survival or death. Strength or weakness.

 

Clad in Doomsinger's robes she stole over the peaks of the southern North and surveyed the blood-lit valley below. How many times had Doomsinger trod those snows, she wondered? What trod in them now concerned her more. Arrayed in that valley were the Servants of her former Master, the charred skeletons of souls slain by the Wyrm in days gone by, torn from the void and pressed into service by the will of the Harbingers. They toiled in that valley, erecting fortifications for the battle to come or manning the walls that faced South. Twilight-clad she stole her way amongst the weak.

 

((Credit to ScarletDusk, deviantART))

 

She knew these wretches, had fought among them as their Sister - no longer. Doomsinger the Servant was dead, but her skin could be worn again. From her observations, these Servants lacked the direction of a Harbinger. They lacked the fury of those dragged into the world in battle and instead were more docile - but their fury if they found she was without the Blessing would be unbridled. As she passed through the valley the frostfire eyes of the damned crossed her. Creatures of slow wit when not directed, the Servants saw only a woman clad in the robes of the Cult of the Black Wyrm, the oldest cult. At this distance, and without a Harbinger to see her and delve her intent, the creatures were none the wiser as they went about their business.

 

Upon a shelf behind the main walls she found her prize. She had entered it a year before with her allies and was surprised to find that it still worked. She entered the dark and sought out her goal, taking care not to make the mistakes that her foolhardy friend had made.

 

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A day later at Ac'Talarah, Maris sent a letter to the Marshall at Cavan.

 

Geomancers or explosives may be needed. Either way, the plan should work.

- Maris

 

((Done in RP this morning, I cleared this all with Arzota and he said it was fine. If it isn't don't blame him, I'll be more than happy to make adjustments to this. Good luck to all on Sunday and no meta you Scourgey buggers ^.^ ))

[Hanrahan 2983]

Arnorian apologizes for his foolhardiness.