Recent content by Vaezhasar Drakspae

Argós Seretha ibnat Rezhe Vaezhasar carved another prudent slice from the resting pig, chewed with the sober air of a man verifying a hypothesis, and swallowed. Grease shone on the rim of his gauntlet; he dabbed it away with the same care he might have applied to a smudged diagram. “I’ll...

Seretha’s remark drew a hearty laugh. The irony felt thick enough to carve. He tried to keep a straight face; the corners of his mouth twitched anyway. “I fear I’m exactly the sort of power-abusing fellow you dread putting that blade near,” he said, tone mild and unhelpful. "You might say I am...

Vaezhasar stifled a laugh. The helm caught the sound and stretched it into a damp echo. He pressed one hand to his breastplate and drew a long breath through the narrow slits. "Ah. You are serious," he said. "For a moment I took you for a wag." The baleful eye on his staff gave a mild...

Petrus Ritus Iskandar Vaezhasar snapped his fingers; from a brief fizz of octarine sparks there materialized a neat scrap of parchment. Pinched between forefinger and thumb, it looked less conjured than simply borrowed from some nearby bureau of records. He cleared his throat in the deliberate...

Petrus Ritus Iskandar Vaezhasar saw the chair and took it. He lowered his weight a notch at a time. The wood groaned, held, and earned his respect. The suit eased him down; the inner lining gripped and let go, neat as valves. He set the horned staff by the leg. It stood straight on its own. He...

Petrus Ritus Iskandar Vaezhasar went down the long hall. The marble lay bright and slick; some dutiful hand had rubbed it fit to blind a monk. Crystal hung above and winked. The walls held tidy landscapes—blue hills, tame rivers, a sunrise that kept its place and behaved. He approved; order...

Argós Seretha ibnat Rezhe “And what, exactly, did you intend with these artifacts?” Vaezhasar asked, his voice smooth but edged. “Are you hoarding for the sake of hoarding, or is there some greater design I have yet to see?” He leaned back, blue eyes narrowing. “I understand the knife well...

Seretha ibnat Rezhe Argós “The college,” Vaezhasar said, voice dry as parchment, “is a joke, and I say that as a man burdened with the title of Maester. Their grasp of magic is primitive, backwards, and worse, most of the faculty seems content to leave it so. That, of course, is how losers...

Seretha ibnat Rezhe Argós Vaezhasar's armored fingers drummed a slow, deliberate rhythm against the weathered wood of the tavern table. When Seretha's question landed, he gave a slight tilt of his horned helm, the motion almost imperceptible. A low, throaty chuckle followed, like the distant...

Seretha ibnat Rezhe Argós Vaezhasar settled himself into the chair with the slow, deliberate caution of a man who had, on more than one occasion, shattered tavern furniture merely by sitting. The seat beneath him groaned like a wounded mule, protesting the strain of so much articulated metal...

Seretha ibnat Rezhe Argós Vaezhasar let out a lofty chuckle that rang in the helm like coin in a coffer. “Well-spoken?” he echoed. “I’d sooner call it honesty, occasionally of the sandblast variety, and honesty, as reputations go, tends to strip varnish faster than acid. Most folk find that...

Vaezhasar closed the book with a soft clap the moment Jack and Pomrick drew near, the sound oddly final in the hush of the forest clearing. Beneath him, his monstrous perch gave voice to an unsettling noise—something between a frog’s throaty ribbit and a giddy, humanlike chuckle. Its nostrils...

Seretha ibnat Rezhe Argós Vaezhasar’s laughter rang out—a deep, resonant boom that sent a brace of pigeons flapping from a nearby cornice. Whether the sorcerer laughed from genuine delight or merely at the novelty of his company, none could say; the sound echoed about the plaza all the same...

Pomrick Bloomsfield Jack Thacker Dawn crept over Greyshore like a half-hearted apology—thin light filtering through brume, gilding the tide-flats and setting the river’s sluggish eddies aglow with tarnished brass. A stone’s throw beyond the last rotting jetty, in a pocket of scrub and alder...