The Raven Unfurls her Wings.

[Lynesse {Celia/Jazzy} 398]

"From the shadows, comes a dark raven. It t'was always there, just unseen."

Lying on the floor, infront of the door to the Haelun'or inn lays a dead body. An arrow pierces the neck of the dead man. Upon further inspection you see that the arrow is a pure steely black and that a note is attached to it. Upon the note lies only a black raven.

The man's face is burnt and he clutches his citizenship application. He is obviously a mali'aheral that has just arrived to the city.

Attack 2

"The raven, a creature of mystery and darkness shows it's true colors during the night."

In the inn lies the organs of something, although it's unidentifiable what it is. The body and the skin have been removed. The organs are charred and look to be fairly rotted and do not look fresh. Blood is smeared all over the floors and the walls. Stuck to the body is another note. The Scyllan insignia of a black raven is on the piece of paper.

"Tranquility can be restored to your fair city in return for either your youngest child, your oldest and most wisest, or your leader."

~*~

Hours after the scene in the inn, a tall woman lurks in the tower of the marketplace building. She readjusts her mask. Her steely blue eyes locate her target. A tall male, standing straight looking over the railing of the red tower. He is accompanied by a woman and Scylla sees them talking. Scylla notches a dark black arrow into her bow. She still remains in the shadows, studying the two. Then she releases. The dark black arrow flies into the night sky and hits Lucion Sullas, piercing him in the forehead. Lucion falls to the ground, his eyes turning grey. Scylla goes behind the post again, notching another dark black arrow and aims it at the girl, who was taken in a moment of shock of Lucion being hit. The arrow hits Azorella in the shoulder and she yelps, drawing the attention of many others.

The assailant escapes. Lucion was killed by the assailant but brought back to life by the help of the Wilven Sanctuary Monks. Azorella was injured however not fatally or critically.

~*~

The current clues to the murders.

-The murderer has a large set of black weaponery.

-The murderer has a decent working and knowledge of the city.

-The murderer has stated that he or she will stop the crime if she is given the eldest citizen of the city, or the youngest citizen, or the leader.

-The murderer only attacks at night.

[Mithradites 1168]

A white coat stood outside the inn, its folds fluttering in the midday breeze. It stood over the grey mali'aheral; it's shining white a contrast to the dull ashen features of the still one. Resting against the coat's boot was a small, leather-bound book, dropped suddenly and left to rest where it was. The coat held the note from the arrow. It's sleeve was bloodied from retreiving the parchment; it had not bothered to avoid it. Blood was a constant in the world; a mere fact; it's location irrelevent. The coat had read the note, but it felt the need to re-read it several times. Its thoughts required considerable focus, and this situation demanded focus. There was a dead thing there. That dead thing was important to the coat. Very important. But what was the thing clutching?

The coat leaned down slowly, and its sleeve brushed against the thing's hand. The thing was clutching a piece of paper. Familiar paper; smooth, and clean-cut. The writing was unfamilair, though. New. Unknown.

The words?

The words were almost as important to the coat as the dead thing. They were legible, and correct in their assertions. They pleased the coat greatly. The thing was dead, yet the words were acceptable.

The coat straightened itself, and its unused sleeve shook slightly. The thing's words fell from the coat's sleeve and floated to the ground; landing in the pooling blood. The words became awash with red, and the letters obscured.

A voice began to form within the coat, and the sounds left it with a quiet murmur. They were not filled with malice, or hatred, or innate cruelty of any kind; more of reservation, and a sort of finality.

"Blood spilt on the streets in a city of tranquility. Sundered wrongly, was this tranquility; this quiet calm. Flesh torn. Innocence lost.

Destroyed was this thing. What purpose behind it? None. No logic. Irrational. Worthless.

Worthless things can be put to use; a broken chair to firewood, torn clothes to cleaning rags. This thing is dead. It had worth, and purpose. Both stolen. Spent for naught.

Unnacceptable."

The coat swayed slightly as the wind picked up again, and its folds flittered about. Yet, it remained perfectly still in the swirling air. There was no emotion in its words. It was monotonous, and quiet.

"The thief must be repurposed. The worthless shall become useful.

It shall be brought to a stone table, and clasped in shackles. Tight. Immovable.

It shall be opened at the mid-section; it's pulses and rhythms noted, and studied.

It shall be torn open further, and its parts removed one at a time, and catalogued.

It shall be arranged piece by piece in accordance with size, neatly, next to their original home.

It shall be stored in clear jars of vinegar for future studies, and reference. It's screams long forgotten. Its pleas for mercy long since taken by the winds. The gleem of its eyes dulled so long ago, and resting within a basement; forever gazing upon the fruits of its theft.

It shall be cleaved into usefulness.

As is said, so shall it be done."

Its words ended, the coat bent itself again, and retreived the book by its boot. It begin to walk away. The breeze continued to follow it, pushing its folds too and fro. And with its leaving, there was only silence of tranquility. A whistling bird could be heard; melodic, and refined.

[KannAllyEnd 12]

A cloak rustles, its hem skimming over the ground. It flutters, shimmering movement obscuring hurried footsteps with its waving sundry. The cloak halts, billowing out in a puff as all other motion ceases. A gasp tumbles from parted lips, tucked into the folds of the garment. The fabric bears the stains and memorials of so many emotions such as this. For this cloak is a friend as much as a shelter, in that it is practically a tapestry of experience. A warm weight against its faithful owners' shoulders, it is worth as much as two bracing hands. It wraps around the quivering chest and shivering arms beneath it--the cloak knows that death is the most penetrating cold, and tries to alleviate the chill as it clings and enfolds the silent wearer with its token protection.

The cloak crumples to the ground to accommodate kneeling, its hem brushed out of the way to prevent becoming dyed with the violent, murky crimson (this is an experience the cloak does not wish to commemorate with gory issue). An utterance is muffled by a comforting sleeve pressed against it. At length, a stray breeze lifts the cloak from a cheek, where a horror-stricken tear is blown off course.

"Larihei forbid." But it seemed She hadn't. The cloak began to realize that Larihei permitted a great many things. She was the Ancestor, and blood prevented nothing. It was so easily spilled after all.

The details are missed. The cloak shelters a pair of glassy eyes with the solace of shadowed depths. The cloak bears witness to an emptying of vile, acidic sickness, and much heaving and shuddering. It stops trying to provide warmth; there are no cloaks to guard heart from chill.

"Sleep, brother." It's a whisper, and only the cloak knows the secret of it. Not even the cloak however, can separate the pity and the fear.

The cloak moves off, to summon help in moving the body. The hood is drawn tighter, closer to the grieving face. The airy, protective fabric, ruffled by the jerky retreat bears the parade of tears with grace; sheltering the weary for a while beneath gauzy, familiar depths.

[Lynesse {Celia/Jazzy} 398]

"The raven, a creature of mystery and darkness shows it's true colors during the night."

In the inn lies the organs of something, although it's unidentifiable what it is. The body and the skin have been removed. The organs are charred and look to be fairly rotted and do not look fresh. Blood is smeared all over the floors and the walls. Stuck to the body is another note. The Scyllan insignia of a black raven is on the piece of paper.

"Tranquility can be restored to your fair city in return for either your youngest child, your oldest and most wisest, or your leader."

~*~

Hours after the scene in the inn, a tall woman lurks in the tower of the marketplace building. She readjusts her mask. Her steely blue eyes locate her target. A tall male, standing straight looking over the railing of the red tower. He is accompanied by a woman and Scylla sees them talking. Scylla notches a dark black arrow into her bow. She still remains in the shadows, studying the two. Then she releases. The dark black arrow flies into the night sky and hits Lucion Sullas, piercing him in the forehead. Lucion falls to the ground, his eyes turning grey. Scylla goes behind the post again, notching another dark black arrow and aims it at the girl, who was taken in a moment of shock of Lucion being hit. The arrow hits Azorella in the shoulder and she yelps, drawing the attention of many others.

The assailant escapes. Lucion was killed by the assailant but brought back to life by the help of the Wilven Sanctuary Monks. Azorella was injured however not fatally or critically.

~*~

[Birdwhisperer 1174]

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