Ever creeping shadows

[KidKrinkles 2044]

*Uthor walks by making sure some Conscripts leave with the supplies and take the right route. An armed group of 15 Conscripts. As the Group leaves he hears Eze'kiel. "Ninth? " Uthor then chuckles and looks at his friend

"To my knowledge this is the twentieth Rebellion, I do not know why the lower class does such a thing, Taxes are down to a low, only the nobles are really being taxed, Denims is running free food at his lil' tower outisde the main gates every week, And no one has been hanged in years! Its like they want us to do that again and raise taxes!"

*Uthor sighs and shakes his head*

Grins to Uthor, he took a seat and sprawled his legs out, his robe rustling slightly and his weapons clanging together as they adjust to the new position.

"Ninth eh? I remember when we had rebellions fer' good reasons. Like the Phoenix Rebellion. The Purge even 'ad a good cause. I don't know why they're doin' this though- its stupid, blasphemy, nonsense, I don't got enough words fer' it. Ye' got a dictionary round 'ere? At any rate- the solutions the same as its always been. Kill te' pests. Hope they dun' return."

Eze'kiel grabbed a tuft of his hair and throws it back, showing his face and short beard some more and allowing him to look around more.

"Can ye' tell me about these 'Masks of the Damned"? I thought they were some sorte' punishments before. Like eh' brand. Seems I'm wrong."

[Chaqery 427]

Far away, in Krak du Rhoswen, word of the events makes its way to the mountain fortress of the White Rose. The men, as per usual, are spread out about the keep completing their daily chores. The sentinels casually stroll the battlements, peering out onto the landscape, and up in War Room Seneschal Ashford discusses the minute details of logistics and troop movements to Lord Peter. Below the great fortress, Forgemaster Arkus works steadily at his talent, a stream of expletives and raunchy metaphors streaming under his breath as he curses the footmen foolish enough to damage the blades he provided them, and now must repair. "Mini Mordie" as the group as named him, the resident pyrotechnic and engineer, goes about his work occasionally interrupted by a cackle of mischief at his maniacal contraptions. A busy keep, to say the least.

Lord Thomas, on the other hand, sits in his throne, slumped down and with his chin rested upon his fist. His feet lay sprawled before him, and he absently taps the fingers of his left hand against the arm of the throne. Captain Toov leans idly against a pillar in the main chamber, talking quietly with his wife, Tanith. Their conversation is ended abruptly as the Captain glances up upon hearing the rustle of armor near the entrance. The two halberdier guardsmen uncross their weaponry to allow the small, winded herald to enter.

The herald fumbles before the sitting Lord Chivay and bows low. He sputters out some anxious explanation and offers forth a scroll. Taking it (not without a small look of disgust at the Herald's unprofessional manner), Lord Chivay glances over it. A smirk forms at the corners of his mouth, and what might be said to be a sparkle shows in his eyes. He looks up, motioning Toov forward with the twitch of his fingers. He holds the scroll up as the giant reads it, trying to contain his glee.

Toov reads over it, frowning a bit as he reaches it's conclusion. Rolling it up he tucks it into his cuirass, patting the chestpiece afterwards. The work of the Inquisition never ends, it seems.

... That night, the soldiers of the White Rose feasted together in their large dining hall, as per usual. As the ale is handed out, Lord Thomas stands, holding up a hand to quiet the men. Silence fills the room as they all await the words of the Chivay brother. He announces the news of such heresy in Oren, describing the masks and figures to be sought out and purged. Lord Thomas is barely capable of completing his announcement before the room is filled with cheering and shouting.

Just another thing on the Rose's list.

[Temp 2006]

Carvings, words, a language long since forgotten, cover the walls and floors of Temp's home. His house remains nearly pitch black, even during the day. He keeps the doors locked, and hasn't been seen in days.

Temp lays on the floor staring up at the ceiling. The words seeming to shift about. They begin to whisper to Temp. Demanding action, demanding bloodshed, and demanding worship. The mask is long gone, and yet it's taint remains. Nearing madness, he covers his ears and curls into a ball on the cold floor. His mind resisting the clawing restless hands of insanity.

After hours of sitting in the darkness, Temp leaves his home, approaching Arethor. Looking for the mask. As he enters Arethor, a strange shadow-like figure is standing over the fountain. It stares off into nothing, entirely ignorant of Temp's existence. Initially Temp simply stares, but quickly looks away, as the figure looks in his direction. The figure quickly rushes to Temp's side, and begins whispering in his ear, "Have you come to find me? Do you know where I reside? You've sent me here, reclaim me, come for me. Take back what is yours" Being barraged by the figure, Temp leans against one of the lightposts, in disbelief, as the barrage continues he slides into a seated position. The figure still speaking. In a strange flicker of clarity, the figure appears to look exactly like Temp, but covered in shadow. Baffled, Temp stares into the face of the being, it never ceasing to ask about where it was, and when he'd retrieve it. As the face gets closer to his own, Temp is prodded by a cane.

The figure immediately fades, and as if in a dream, the world comes crashing back into view. Parizal kneels beside him, and a stranger he'd seen a few times but never spoken to stands over him. Baffled Temp stands, and says, "I've matters to tend to." Concerned, Parizal and Temp go to the Ale House and speak of matters concerning the mask. Eventually coming to the conclusion that Temp should seek out assistance in Normandor.

On the way to the shipyard, the shadowed figure seems to become more and more physical. It's appearance less shadow-like and more clearly defined. The figure literally reaches into Temp's head, a look of disgust across it's face, "You cannot simply avoid me. I am part of you, as you are part of me. There are many like you, too cowardly to act. Serve me, and you'll be rewarded. Seek out others, they know of you, just as you know of them. You know what you must do..."

[Temp 2006]

Feeling quite lonely, Laughter and Sorrow begin to search for their lost brother, Torment.

The masks had been brothers for far longer than any could remember. Lucky, Sorrow had managed to gain an owner, through a week of constant gnawing, and prodding, he'd convinced a young man to put him on, gaining control shortly after, Sorrow steals a bag from the young man's brother, shoves Laughter in it and sets off for Arethor, looking for their lost brother.

"Sorrow, this set of legs, are they fast?" Somewhat baffled, Sorrow, stops mid run. Standing just outside of Arethor, surrounded by fields of grain. "Have you grown dim Laughter? Personally I feel that I've grown quite dim... Weak perhaps..." Sorrow sniffles, depressed. Amused Laughter continues "The way this bag shifts about, I think we're doing quite nicely.. And to answer your question, Yes. You've grown quite dim indeed." Laughter begins chuckling. Whimpering Sorrow continues on to Arethor.

The two, well the one rather.. Begin to search high and low for their lost brother. Entirely spent, the two stand in front of the bank, thinking to themselves. Caught up in thought A man approaches them, Kais his name.

The man begins to speak to Sorrow. The entire time, Laughter spews madness to sorrow, demanding that he simply cut down the man, and continue his search. Hoping to bring the 3 back together Sorrow disregards Laughterher and simply "goes with it." After a rather "drawn-out" discussion, "Sorrow" is hung. His set of legs, dying. Hoping to bring the masks to Arethor, the two allow themselves to be bagged. Putting little effort into tainting those around them. They simply gnaw away at Blood while in his possession. Almost comedic in nature, the two argue amongst themselves, throwing pointless insults about, their influence slowly growing, but not quite fast enough to force change.

While being hauled away, the two chuckle amongst themselves, "Anger will not like this one bit, as a matter of fact, I'm quite sure he'll bring quite the following." Puzzled, Sorrow mutters, "Come to think of it, I couldn't feel Torment in Arethor. I think he's still out there somewhere. Maybe we'll see him again sometime soon? But I doubt it.." Now whimpering, "Come to think of it Torment never truly liked us.. He'd not come for us, so why did we go for him Laughter?" Laughter sighs, "Shut up Sorrow, you know the answer.." In an entirely different Tone, actually serious, sorrow sighs, "Of course I know brother, is it truly so distasteful of us to have a laugh?"

(A brief summary of what's occurred in game to this point.)

[SkyyoBee 249]

Moved to the Great Library. It shall be sorted into appropriate category shortly.