- Messages
- 1,598
- Character Biography
- Link
Frozen Fractals Team 1
- Thread starter Raigryn Vayd
- Start date
-
- Tags
- winter 25
Threads related to the winter 2025 event
The Throne Of Stillness
Beneath the brittle hush of the chamber, Vyx’aria could feel it. It was something coiled, waiting, stitched into every flake of frost and carved into the walls themselves. Ancient magic, dormant but watchful, hung thick in the air like a lungful of powdered glass.
She stepped forward without hesitation.
The wide expanse of the chamber unfolded before her like a glacier cracked open. Pillars of ice reached toward the dark ceiling above, their edges carved with old glyphs that pulsed faintly. She could see old runes and wards, though she did not understand their meaning. They were likely cautionary wards she would choose to ignore for now.
Each footfall was measured and light against the frost-laced floor. Her twin blades remained in hand, not drawn in fear, but held with the ease of one accustomed to walking through danger.
The room had the shape of a throne chamber, wide and ceremonial, but the throne itself was nowhere to be seen. Only frost-shrouded recesses, silent alcoves, strange protrusions in the walls that might have once been torch brackets... or something far more sinister. She passed by one and noted the faintest glimmer of runic light etched into its base. There were also old ice statues of what looked to be ornate knights.
Perhaps these were traps or tests for any traveler foolish enough to venture in. The chill gnawed at exposed skin like hungry teeth, but she welcomed its bite. She could tolerate cold far more than she could tolerate extreme heat.
A glance proved she was still alone and did not have to share any spoils.
Good.
Let the others scurry like beetles for glittering scraps. Vyx’aria was no treasure-hunter. Her ambition was far more arrogant. She had not come for coin or trinkets. She had come for the one they whispered about. The one who made this place pulse with memory. The one sealed away in silence and frost, revered like a goddess, feared like a curse.
If she truly existed, then she was a claim waiting to be taken.
Vaezhasar Drakspae Szesh
- Messages
- 74
- Character Biography
- Link
Szesh Vyx'aria
There is a particular kind of entrance that announces itself before it arrives. It is the entrance of someone who has given considerable thought to the matter of presence, and has concluded that subtlety is what happens to other people.
Vaezhasar strode into the chamber slowly, but surely, his armored soles click-clacking against the ice.
The sound preceded him like an overeager herald, bouncing off pillars and ricocheting between frost-bitten walls with the enthusiasm of a rumor in a small village. Click-clack. Click-clack. Each footfall a small proclamation. Each echo a reminder that the proclamation bore repeating.
This was not strictly necessary. Nothing about it was strictly necessary. But there is a certain breed of individual who understands that atmosphere, like bread dough, requires kneading. The staff's eye-topped finial caught the dim runic glow and threw it back in fractured gleams, because even accessories, when properly selected, understand their role in the production.
The artificial muscles on the inside of his armor, which really, was more of an artificial exoskeleton in its nature, contracted and relaxed as they bore both him and the plated bulk.
He was, in essence, being worn by his armor as much as he wore it. A philosophical conundrum that Vaezhasar had long since stopped interrogating, on the grounds that the armor had never once complained about the arrangement, and one shouldn't go poking at functional partnerships with the sharp stick of introspection.
Ancient glyphs pulsed in irritated acknowledgment. The ice statues of ornate knights, who had presumably been expecting to stand in dignified silence until the eventual heat death of the universe, seemed to radiate a certain frozen disapproval. The sort of disapproval that said: we were having a perfectly good ominous ambiance here, and now there's this.
Vaezhasar spied a woman, who, by all means, was too scantily clad for the occasion.
The occasion being, to put a fine point on it, an ice cave. The kind of environment that typically encouraged layers, insulation, and perhaps a sensible hat. And yet here she stood, dressed as though she had somewhere warmer to be later and couldn't be bothered with a costume change. He would've mistaken her for an icy fairy...if not for the greyish hue of her skin, which designated her as a drow in Vaezhasar's mind.
Vaezhasar halted, brought an armored fist to his mouth, or, well, the place where his mouth would've been if not for the helmet covering it, and coughed theatrically.
It was the cough of someone who wanted it absolutely understood that they were now here, that the dynamic of the room had officially shifted, and that any pretenses toward solitary treasure-hunting had just become considerably more complicated.
The cough, like the entrance, was a formality. The sort of formality that contained, nested within it like a matryoshka doll of social convention, the following subtext: Good evening. I see you. You see me. Let us both acknowledge that whatever you were planning to do alone, you will now be doing in company. My condolences.
There is a particular kind of entrance that announces itself before it arrives. It is the entrance of someone who has given considerable thought to the matter of presence, and has concluded that subtlety is what happens to other people.
Vaezhasar strode into the chamber slowly, but surely, his armored soles click-clacking against the ice.
The sound preceded him like an overeager herald, bouncing off pillars and ricocheting between frost-bitten walls with the enthusiasm of a rumor in a small village. Click-clack. Click-clack. Each footfall a small proclamation. Each echo a reminder that the proclamation bore repeating.
This was not strictly necessary. Nothing about it was strictly necessary. But there is a certain breed of individual who understands that atmosphere, like bread dough, requires kneading. The staff's eye-topped finial caught the dim runic glow and threw it back in fractured gleams, because even accessories, when properly selected, understand their role in the production.
The artificial muscles on the inside of his armor, which really, was more of an artificial exoskeleton in its nature, contracted and relaxed as they bore both him and the plated bulk.
He was, in essence, being worn by his armor as much as he wore it. A philosophical conundrum that Vaezhasar had long since stopped interrogating, on the grounds that the armor had never once complained about the arrangement, and one shouldn't go poking at functional partnerships with the sharp stick of introspection.
Ancient glyphs pulsed in irritated acknowledgment. The ice statues of ornate knights, who had presumably been expecting to stand in dignified silence until the eventual heat death of the universe, seemed to radiate a certain frozen disapproval. The sort of disapproval that said: we were having a perfectly good ominous ambiance here, and now there's this.
Vaezhasar spied a woman, who, by all means, was too scantily clad for the occasion.
The occasion being, to put a fine point on it, an ice cave. The kind of environment that typically encouraged layers, insulation, and perhaps a sensible hat. And yet here she stood, dressed as though she had somewhere warmer to be later and couldn't be bothered with a costume change. He would've mistaken her for an icy fairy...if not for the greyish hue of her skin, which designated her as a drow in Vaezhasar's mind.
Vaezhasar halted, brought an armored fist to his mouth, or, well, the place where his mouth would've been if not for the helmet covering it, and coughed theatrically.
It was the cough of someone who wanted it absolutely understood that they were now here, that the dynamic of the room had officially shifted, and that any pretenses toward solitary treasure-hunting had just become considerably more complicated.
The cough, like the entrance, was a formality. The sort of formality that contained, nested within it like a matryoshka doll of social convention, the following subtext: Good evening. I see you. You see me. Let us both acknowledge that whatever you were planning to do alone, you will now be doing in company. My condolences.
- Messages
- 336
- Character Biography
- Link
Szesh did not trust wizards, nor magic of any kind. It was cheating, as far as he was concerned, ignoring the rules that others had to follow, and making mockery of traditional strength and cunning. Neither did he trust anyone who promised riches for the mere price of service. This put Grangomelle in a unique place to be despised by the large draconian. For a bounty hunter and sell-sword such as himself, one whose livelihood depended solely on such people promising payment for acts of violence, was this distrust irony? No, it was survival. If one were willing to pay for the death of another, they were usually willing to go back on deals. Szesh had all too many memories of dead men trying to weasel out of payment, or sending him into far more peril than discussed. With this sort of treachery expected, Szesh had been prepared.
And he always got paid.
Szesh's clawed feet moved over the iced floor with a softness belied by his size. His silver scales shimmered in the cold light, uncovered save for a belt and small bit of fabric about his loins. Camouflage was rarely an option for him, though glittering ice provided as good of a backdrop as could be expected. His breath steamed from his nostrils, for despite his reptilian appearance he was quite comfortable in the cold. Szesh had been raised in the Spine, amongst the chill and thin air. Draconian blood ran warm, with tough scales guarding against hot and cold in equal measure.
He knew there was another in the Throne Room, Vaezhasar was also not suited to stealth. He had no intentions of starting a fight, though he held his heavy war hammer loosely at his side as he walked through the door.
Eyes as black and inky as night surveyed the room invisibly. The large armored hulk was present, but he had not expected the dark elf. Though, if drow were anything like their arboreal counterparts, her stealth was not unusual.
He continued his stride, nodding to the both of them. A silence hummed in this chamber, the inaudible thrum of magic making Szesh's scales itch, and he glanced at the glowing wards with suspicion. It seemed a fair assumption that touching anything in here may wake them.
He didn't need to touch much, though, for they had one goal and one goal alone.
"Crystals?"
He voiced a single word to the pair, both questions and statement. The common tongue was difficult for his mouth to produce, and this one utterance was sufficient to ask if the others had found the treasured objects, while communicating that he himself had none.
And he always got paid.
Szesh's clawed feet moved over the iced floor with a softness belied by his size. His silver scales shimmered in the cold light, uncovered save for a belt and small bit of fabric about his loins. Camouflage was rarely an option for him, though glittering ice provided as good of a backdrop as could be expected. His breath steamed from his nostrils, for despite his reptilian appearance he was quite comfortable in the cold. Szesh had been raised in the Spine, amongst the chill and thin air. Draconian blood ran warm, with tough scales guarding against hot and cold in equal measure.
He knew there was another in the Throne Room, Vaezhasar was also not suited to stealth. He had no intentions of starting a fight, though he held his heavy war hammer loosely at his side as he walked through the door.
Eyes as black and inky as night surveyed the room invisibly. The large armored hulk was present, but he had not expected the dark elf. Though, if drow were anything like their arboreal counterparts, her stealth was not unusual.
He continued his stride, nodding to the both of them. A silence hummed in this chamber, the inaudible thrum of magic making Szesh's scales itch, and he glanced at the glowing wards with suspicion. It seemed a fair assumption that touching anything in here may wake them.
He didn't need to touch much, though, for they had one goal and one goal alone.
"Crystals?"
He voiced a single word to the pair, both questions and statement. The common tongue was difficult for his mouth to produce, and this one utterance was sufficient to ask if the others had found the treasured objects, while communicating that he himself had none.
She heard him long before she saw him. A cadence of armored footfalls echoing through the frost-laced chamber like the percussion of some poorly rehearsed parade. The kind of entrance that announced itself not in warning, but in arrogance. Vyx’aria did not turn to face him at first. She didn’t need to. The sound alone told her enough: heavy plating, theatrical gait, and a staff that gleamed more like jewelry than a weapon.
Then came the cough to add insult to injury as if his thunderous arrival wasn't audible enough. Vyx’aria’s jaw tightened. Her gaze finally swept to him, her expression as wintry as the room that encased them. “If you are suffering from a sickness,” she said coolly, “I would be happy to put you out of your misery. Quietly.”
But the quiet did not last. Another presence stirred at the doorway, a massive one. She felt it before she saw it. Her head turned just enough to catch the silver-hued draconian form cutting into the chamber. She didn’t bother hiding her grimace. He was a curiosity that should have remained buried in a mountain cave, not striding so brazenly into a sanctum of ancient magic.
Her weight shifted. Muscles coiled. If it bared fangs, she’d strike first. But then the creature spoke of crystals.
Vyx’aria didn’t sheathe her weapons. But she eased, just barely. She was weighing her misfortunes of being joined on this endeavor with those who had the social awareness of a warhorn at a funeral.
“Yes, crystals,” she said, voice like sharpened velvet, “Leave. Both of you. Go search the corridors for your little baubles.”
She stepped forward without waiting for a reply, blades at her side. Her feet crossed the carved circle inlaid at the chamber’s center, faintly glowing, rimmed with sigils.
The stone rumbled and her eyes snapped up.
One of the knightly statues lining the far wall twitched. A fracture split across its chest.
With a violent crack, the statue shattered outward, shards of ice and stone flying in all directions. And from its ruins rose a spectral form, not quite flesh, not quite air. A knight formed of blue fire and bitter death, armor rattling as if it still remembered breath and blood.
Vyx’aria hissed in vexation and stepped back toward the others, closer than she liked. Her gaze never left the specter as she raised one blade slightly, the point angled toward the floor, the other held in a defensive posture.
“It was quiet before you two arrived,” she muttered under her breath as if she wasn't the one responsible for triggering the knight.
Vaezhasar Drakspae Szesh
Then came the cough to add insult to injury as if his thunderous arrival wasn't audible enough. Vyx’aria’s jaw tightened. Her gaze finally swept to him, her expression as wintry as the room that encased them. “If you are suffering from a sickness,” she said coolly, “I would be happy to put you out of your misery. Quietly.”
But the quiet did not last. Another presence stirred at the doorway, a massive one. She felt it before she saw it. Her head turned just enough to catch the silver-hued draconian form cutting into the chamber. She didn’t bother hiding her grimace. He was a curiosity that should have remained buried in a mountain cave, not striding so brazenly into a sanctum of ancient magic.
Her weight shifted. Muscles coiled. If it bared fangs, she’d strike first. But then the creature spoke of crystals.
Vyx’aria didn’t sheathe her weapons. But she eased, just barely. She was weighing her misfortunes of being joined on this endeavor with those who had the social awareness of a warhorn at a funeral.
“Yes, crystals,” she said, voice like sharpened velvet, “Leave. Both of you. Go search the corridors for your little baubles.”
She stepped forward without waiting for a reply, blades at her side. Her feet crossed the carved circle inlaid at the chamber’s center, faintly glowing, rimmed with sigils.
The stone rumbled and her eyes snapped up.
One of the knightly statues lining the far wall twitched. A fracture split across its chest.
With a violent crack, the statue shattered outward, shards of ice and stone flying in all directions. And from its ruins rose a spectral form, not quite flesh, not quite air. A knight formed of blue fire and bitter death, armor rattling as if it still remembered breath and blood.
Vyx’aria hissed in vexation and stepped back toward the others, closer than she liked. Her gaze never left the specter as she raised one blade slightly, the point angled toward the floor, the other held in a defensive posture.
“It was quiet before you two arrived,” she muttered under her breath as if she wasn't the one responsible for triggering the knight.
Vaezhasar Drakspae Szesh
- Messages
- 74
- Character Biography
- Link
Szesh
Vyx'aria
Vaezhasar regarded the woman, but his face, concealed behind living metal, remained unreadable.
This was, it must be said, one of the advantages of a full-face helmet. It permitted a man to have expressions that would, in polite society, be considered impolitic. Behind the visor, Vaezhasar's features were currently arranged in the configuration of someone watching a small, furry creature hiss at its own reflection.
What was her deal? She reacted as if he had just strolled up to her, spat in her face and whacked her behind the ear with a stick. Whereas he had, in actual fact, merely coughed. Granted, it had been a cough with theatrical aspirations and a certain resonant menace, but still. A cough. The minimum viable social overture.
Some people, Vaezhasar reflected, went through life with their hackles permanently raised, perpetually braced for insults that had not yet arrived. It must be exhausting.
Nevermind that. His attention shifted to the spectral knight.
Now here was something worth examining. The apparition hung in the frigid air like a bad omen given form, all cerulean flame and ominous geometry. The sort of thing designed by someone who understood that presentation was half the battle, and had allocated half the budget accordingly.
Vaezhasar shifted his staff so the huge eye in the center of its head was aimed towards the knight.
The eye blinked, then opened wide, beholding the knight.
It was not a comfortable eye to be beheld by. It had the quality of a gaze that did not merely *look* at things but rather conducted a thorough audit of their fundamental nature, then filed the results somewhere for future reference. The eye cast a glow in hues that couldn't quite decide if they wanted to be neon yellow or neon purple or both simultaneously. It settled, eventually, on a compromise that satisfied neither preference and somehow managed to be more unsettling than either.
The eye analyzed the wraith wreathed in blue flames with its witch-sight.
A moment passed. The kind of moment in which someone who knew what they were doing confirmed that they did, in fact, know what they were doing.
Vaezhasar chortled, a gesture that starkly contrasted Vyx'aria's erratic, almost paranoid demeanor.
It was not a reassuring chortle. It was the chortle of someone who had just identified precisely what they were dealing with, and found the disparity between appearance and substance genuinely amusing. The architectural equivalent of discovering that the dragon guarding the treasure was made of papier-mâché.
"Fret not, fret not," he said, with the air of a man explaining that finding one or two worms in an apple wasn't anything particularly worrisome.
"It is an animated construct. A puppet of aetheric forces, nothing more. Yes, yes, very impressive lightshow, very intimidating cerulean flames, but it is mostly theatrics. Window dressing! A scarecrow designed to frighten off the magically illiterate."
He looked at Szesh, then at Vyx'aria.
"Distract it for a bit and I'll have plenty of time to undo the sorcery keeping it intact."
There was, in his tone, an implicit addendum: unless, of course, you'd prefer to continue being alarmed. That's also an option. I shan't judge.
Vyx'aria
Vaezhasar regarded the woman, but his face, concealed behind living metal, remained unreadable.
This was, it must be said, one of the advantages of a full-face helmet. It permitted a man to have expressions that would, in polite society, be considered impolitic. Behind the visor, Vaezhasar's features were currently arranged in the configuration of someone watching a small, furry creature hiss at its own reflection.
What was her deal? She reacted as if he had just strolled up to her, spat in her face and whacked her behind the ear with a stick. Whereas he had, in actual fact, merely coughed. Granted, it had been a cough with theatrical aspirations and a certain resonant menace, but still. A cough. The minimum viable social overture.
Some people, Vaezhasar reflected, went through life with their hackles permanently raised, perpetually braced for insults that had not yet arrived. It must be exhausting.
Nevermind that. His attention shifted to the spectral knight.
Now here was something worth examining. The apparition hung in the frigid air like a bad omen given form, all cerulean flame and ominous geometry. The sort of thing designed by someone who understood that presentation was half the battle, and had allocated half the budget accordingly.
Vaezhasar shifted his staff so the huge eye in the center of its head was aimed towards the knight.
The eye blinked, then opened wide, beholding the knight.
It was not a comfortable eye to be beheld by. It had the quality of a gaze that did not merely *look* at things but rather conducted a thorough audit of their fundamental nature, then filed the results somewhere for future reference. The eye cast a glow in hues that couldn't quite decide if they wanted to be neon yellow or neon purple or both simultaneously. It settled, eventually, on a compromise that satisfied neither preference and somehow managed to be more unsettling than either.
The eye analyzed the wraith wreathed in blue flames with its witch-sight.
A moment passed. The kind of moment in which someone who knew what they were doing confirmed that they did, in fact, know what they were doing.
Vaezhasar chortled, a gesture that starkly contrasted Vyx'aria's erratic, almost paranoid demeanor.
It was not a reassuring chortle. It was the chortle of someone who had just identified precisely what they were dealing with, and found the disparity between appearance and substance genuinely amusing. The architectural equivalent of discovering that the dragon guarding the treasure was made of papier-mâché.
"Fret not, fret not," he said, with the air of a man explaining that finding one or two worms in an apple wasn't anything particularly worrisome.
"It is an animated construct. A puppet of aetheric forces, nothing more. Yes, yes, very impressive lightshow, very intimidating cerulean flames, but it is mostly theatrics. Window dressing! A scarecrow designed to frighten off the magically illiterate."
He looked at Szesh, then at Vyx'aria.
"Distract it for a bit and I'll have plenty of time to undo the sorcery keeping it intact."
There was, in his tone, an implicit addendum: unless, of course, you'd prefer to continue being alarmed. That's also an option. I shan't judge.
- Messages
- 336
- Character Biography
- Link
Szesh felt his upper lip twitch and an involuntary rumble low in his throat at the drow’s words. They were at once insulting and… strange. Was she not here for the crystals the wizard had sent them for? Did she perhaps think the riches beneath the icy throne were more worth her time?
Another life-lesson of the contract killer surfaced: do not go beyond your agreement. If the job doesn’t require it, don’t do it. Too many would-be bounty hunters had lost their heads by trying to rob their marks after killing them, only to be set upon by hounds or guards. Worse yet, some had prices placed upon their own heads for clumsy collateral damage.
”Safer together,” he rasped. Szesh fully preferred to work alone, but the wizard had specified that this could be a group effort, and having a few other bodies between himself and whatever magic nonsense this place held was appealing.
The large armored man… or thing… had not reacted to Szesh’s entrance, but the draconian did not have time for further pleasantries. As if to illustrate his point, a spectral being burst into existence before them.
A true snarl escaped Szesh’s lips this time, and his body tensed and lowered into a fighting stance, hefting his hammer in one had. It had been years since magic flowed through the weapon, but it was still heavy. It could still destroy.
The armored one spoke confidently, and with irritating certainty. A lot of dead men thought they understood the world. For all their sakes, Szesh hoped this time that confidence was not misplaced.
The spectral knight lurched forwards. Its flames gave off no heat, and this worried Szesh even more. Magic broke rules that were not meant to be broken. Typical fire would not burn him badly… but magical flames? Who knew what this particular inferno would do to him? Best that it stay far away.
Szesh took two long strides in front of Vyx’aria, his claws carving small rents in the ice, and fully extended his argent wings. With a grunt of exertion, he beat them forwards hard to send a brief rush of air towards their attacker. Would it prove to be light as the flames it was, or heavy as the iron it mimicked?
Another life-lesson of the contract killer surfaced: do not go beyond your agreement. If the job doesn’t require it, don’t do it. Too many would-be bounty hunters had lost their heads by trying to rob their marks after killing them, only to be set upon by hounds or guards. Worse yet, some had prices placed upon their own heads for clumsy collateral damage.
”Safer together,” he rasped. Szesh fully preferred to work alone, but the wizard had specified that this could be a group effort, and having a few other bodies between himself and whatever magic nonsense this place held was appealing.
The large armored man… or thing… had not reacted to Szesh’s entrance, but the draconian did not have time for further pleasantries. As if to illustrate his point, a spectral being burst into existence before them.
A true snarl escaped Szesh’s lips this time, and his body tensed and lowered into a fighting stance, hefting his hammer in one had. It had been years since magic flowed through the weapon, but it was still heavy. It could still destroy.
The armored one spoke confidently, and with irritating certainty. A lot of dead men thought they understood the world. For all their sakes, Szesh hoped this time that confidence was not misplaced.
The spectral knight lurched forwards. Its flames gave off no heat, and this worried Szesh even more. Magic broke rules that were not meant to be broken. Typical fire would not burn him badly… but magical flames? Who knew what this particular inferno would do to him? Best that it stay far away.
Szesh took two long strides in front of Vyx’aria, his claws carving small rents in the ice, and fully extended his argent wings. With a grunt of exertion, he beat them forwards hard to send a brief rush of air towards their attacker. Would it prove to be light as the flames it was, or heavy as the iron it mimicked?
The armored one chortled. Vyx’aria did not look at him.
If he had it all figured out, he could handle it. She turned her attention from him, done with the performance.
The Drow shifted her grip on her blades and began to move to the side. Her eyes flicked toward the chamber’s far edges, toward the runes that glimmered faintly where the crystal veins curled like frostbite beneath stone. While the other two fixated on the knight, she would take what she needed and be gone. Let them flail in the spectacle. She had no time for illusions.
She began to slip past and then….the dragonkin. He stepped in front of her.
There was no hesitation in it. No barked command, no glancing back. Just the slow, deliberate tension of a trained combatant placing his broad, scaled form between her and the encroaching specter. Not to control her. Not to dominate her. But to shield her.
It made her pause.
Not from fear. Not from gratitude. From the unexpectedness of it.
He was not hers. Not bound by blood, oath, or brand. And yet, he acted without being told. As if her life had value by merit of being there. A strange, foreign logic. Alien, even.
She blinked. A gust from his wings surged forward, violent and sudden. The spectral knight reeled back, its cerulean flame fluttering under the force, losing form.
But not for long.
With a howl like a blade drawn across stone, the knight lifted its sword and cast a blast of that magic fire across the chamber, a molten streak of blue-white fury screaming through the air. It hurled toward where the armored mage stood, carving a molten path in the ice as it went. The impact sent arcs of magic crackling through the ground. If he didn’t jump out of the way or defend, it would scorch him where he stood.
So much for lightshows.
Vyx’aria cursed. She put one of her blades away. Her hands swept through the air with elegant precision, and from the space between her palms coalesced a weapon not made of steel, but shadow. A long, jagged lance of absolute darkness formed. Absent from light, forged from shadow.
She stepped out from behind the dragonkin and hurled it.
It screamed through the air like a spear flung by the night itself, aimed for the spectral knight’s torso, trailing a wake of corruption in its path.
Vaezhasar Drakspae Szesh
If he had it all figured out, he could handle it. She turned her attention from him, done with the performance.
The Drow shifted her grip on her blades and began to move to the side. Her eyes flicked toward the chamber’s far edges, toward the runes that glimmered faintly where the crystal veins curled like frostbite beneath stone. While the other two fixated on the knight, she would take what she needed and be gone. Let them flail in the spectacle. She had no time for illusions.
She began to slip past and then….the dragonkin. He stepped in front of her.
There was no hesitation in it. No barked command, no glancing back. Just the slow, deliberate tension of a trained combatant placing his broad, scaled form between her and the encroaching specter. Not to control her. Not to dominate her. But to shield her.
It made her pause.
Not from fear. Not from gratitude. From the unexpectedness of it.
He was not hers. Not bound by blood, oath, or brand. And yet, he acted without being told. As if her life had value by merit of being there. A strange, foreign logic. Alien, even.
She blinked. A gust from his wings surged forward, violent and sudden. The spectral knight reeled back, its cerulean flame fluttering under the force, losing form.
But not for long.
With a howl like a blade drawn across stone, the knight lifted its sword and cast a blast of that magic fire across the chamber, a molten streak of blue-white fury screaming through the air. It hurled toward where the armored mage stood, carving a molten path in the ice as it went. The impact sent arcs of magic crackling through the ground. If he didn’t jump out of the way or defend, it would scorch him where he stood.
So much for lightshows.
Vyx’aria cursed. She put one of her blades away. Her hands swept through the air with elegant precision, and from the space between her palms coalesced a weapon not made of steel, but shadow. A long, jagged lance of absolute darkness formed. Absent from light, forged from shadow.
She stepped out from behind the dragonkin and hurled it.
It screamed through the air like a spear flung by the night itself, aimed for the spectral knight’s torso, trailing a wake of corruption in its path.
Vaezhasar Drakspae Szesh
- Messages
- 74
- Character Biography
- Link
Szesh
Vyx'aria
Vaezhasar yawned.
It was, by any reasonable metric, the wrong response to being set on fire. The correct responses to being set on fire included, but were not limited to: screaming, flailing, attempting to extinguish oneself, and, in more literary circumstances, delivering a dramatic final soliloquy. A yawn suggested either profound miscalculation or profound confidence, and the universe generally preferred not to inquire too closely about which.
No noise was made sans for the crackling of blue flames which had, somehow, managed to set a portion of the ice-encrusted floor on fire.
Ice wasn't supposed to burn, right?
Natural philosophy had spent centuries establishing sensible rules about thermodynamics and combustion points and the general inadvisability of frozen water participating in conflagrations, and magic had responded by setting fire to the rulebook and then, just to prove a point, setting fire to the concept of rulebooks in general.
Quickly, the flaming torrent engulfing the spot where Vaezhasar stood began to shrink, and shrink, and shrink until Vaezhasar's form was no longer obscured by the flames.
What became evidently obvious was: 1. the large, jaw-shaped ornament on Vaezhasar's breastplate wasn't, well, just an ornament, since it was currently open and grinning, like, you know, an actual mouth and 2. it was sucking up the blue flames at a frightening pace.
There is a particular horror reserved for witnessing something that should be decorative reveal itself to be functional. It is the horror of the gargoyle that blinks, the door-knocker that clears its throat, the cherub on the fountain that follows you with its eyes. Vaezhasar's chest-mouth occupied this category with enthusiasm, gulping down spectral fire the way a parched man attacks a tankard of ale after a long day's threshing.
The mouth belched.
The belch echoed off the vaulted ceiling. Several ancient runes flickered in what might have been offense. The spectral knight, still blazing, appeared to be experiencing something analogous to confusion, the confusion of a predator that has just watched its prey season itself and request a napkin.
Vaezhasar made a 'so-so' gesture with his free hand.
"Seven out of ten for the fireworks,"
He pointed his index finger at the knight.
"Cease," he said, and the word came out deeper than his usual speech, if that were even possible.
It was not a request. It was not even, technically, a command. It was a statement of fact, a declaration of how things were going to be, delivered with such absolute certainty that reality itself felt obligated to comply rather than endure the embarrassment of contradiction.
(In actuality, this was simply what happened when a primitive arcane construct ran headlong into magic that had enjoyed several additional centuries of what practitioners liked to call "refinement" and everyone else called "finding new and exciting ways to make things increasingly difficult to comprehend."
It was, in essence, the same principle that had guided mortalkind's ascent from hurling rocks wrapped in animal hide to hurling arrows from warbows capable of punching through plate armor at two hundred yards.)
The knight hung suspended, cerulean flames guttering in impotent fury, frozen mid-motion like a insect in amber. It had, in the space of approximately fifteen seconds, gone from terrifying guardian of ancient secrets to target practice for two profoundly mentally unstable individuals and one humanoid dragon.
Vyx'aria
Vaezhasar yawned.
It was, by any reasonable metric, the wrong response to being set on fire. The correct responses to being set on fire included, but were not limited to: screaming, flailing, attempting to extinguish oneself, and, in more literary circumstances, delivering a dramatic final soliloquy. A yawn suggested either profound miscalculation or profound confidence, and the universe generally preferred not to inquire too closely about which.
No noise was made sans for the crackling of blue flames which had, somehow, managed to set a portion of the ice-encrusted floor on fire.
Ice wasn't supposed to burn, right?
Natural philosophy had spent centuries establishing sensible rules about thermodynamics and combustion points and the general inadvisability of frozen water participating in conflagrations, and magic had responded by setting fire to the rulebook and then, just to prove a point, setting fire to the concept of rulebooks in general.
Quickly, the flaming torrent engulfing the spot where Vaezhasar stood began to shrink, and shrink, and shrink until Vaezhasar's form was no longer obscured by the flames.
What became evidently obvious was: 1. the large, jaw-shaped ornament on Vaezhasar's breastplate wasn't, well, just an ornament, since it was currently open and grinning, like, you know, an actual mouth and 2. it was sucking up the blue flames at a frightening pace.
There is a particular horror reserved for witnessing something that should be decorative reveal itself to be functional. It is the horror of the gargoyle that blinks, the door-knocker that clears its throat, the cherub on the fountain that follows you with its eyes. Vaezhasar's chest-mouth occupied this category with enthusiasm, gulping down spectral fire the way a parched man attacks a tankard of ale after a long day's threshing.
The mouth belched.
The belch echoed off the vaulted ceiling. Several ancient runes flickered in what might have been offense. The spectral knight, still blazing, appeared to be experiencing something analogous to confusion, the confusion of a predator that has just watched its prey season itself and request a napkin.
Vaezhasar made a 'so-so' gesture with his free hand.
"Seven out of ten for the fireworks,"
He pointed his index finger at the knight.
"Cease," he said, and the word came out deeper than his usual speech, if that were even possible.
It was not a request. It was not even, technically, a command. It was a statement of fact, a declaration of how things were going to be, delivered with such absolute certainty that reality itself felt obligated to comply rather than endure the embarrassment of contradiction.
(In actuality, this was simply what happened when a primitive arcane construct ran headlong into magic that had enjoyed several additional centuries of what practitioners liked to call "refinement" and everyone else called "finding new and exciting ways to make things increasingly difficult to comprehend."
It was, in essence, the same principle that had guided mortalkind's ascent from hurling rocks wrapped in animal hide to hurling arrows from warbows capable of punching through plate armor at two hundred yards.)
The knight hung suspended, cerulean flames guttering in impotent fury, frozen mid-motion like a insect in amber. It had, in the space of approximately fifteen seconds, gone from terrifying guardian of ancient secrets to target practice for two profoundly mentally unstable individuals and one humanoid dragon.
Last edited:
- Messages
- 336
- Character Biography
- Link
The wind affected the construct, but only briefly and it seemed to do little more than anger the knightly apparition. Its howl was painful to the ears, though Szesh didn’t need the noise to tell him to move immediately. He dove to the side rolling heavily, though with more grace that one might expect from someone with wings. The blazing blue torrent ripped past. It felt distinctly wrong to not have more heat coming from it, while at the same time feeling his scales prickle at its nearness.
The torrent did not engulf their metallic ally… in fact quite the opposite seemed to happen. Szesh wondered what exactly the man was capable of, and felt an ever-deepening unease about him.
Vyx’aria threw her arcane hat into the ring, with a crackle of dark power that planted itself into the core of their attacker. Szesh’s black eyes reflected a wash of color as the blue flames deepened to purple where the darkness struck it. The purple area expanded, then contracted, then expanded again, as though the flames were fighting some lingering power from the attack.
The draconian felt quite useless in this instance. He was, essentially, a very large creature with a hammer. Oh, he had teeth and claws, he had thick scales, he even had fire at the ready. None of these things seemed particularly useful against incorporeal beings made of flame.
He was drawn out of his sour thoughts by the loud cracking of three more statues, from which three other apparitions manifested. Two more knights, one with a lance and one with a bow, and one comically large war hound.
The torrent did not engulf their metallic ally… in fact quite the opposite seemed to happen. Szesh wondered what exactly the man was capable of, and felt an ever-deepening unease about him.
Vyx’aria threw her arcane hat into the ring, with a crackle of dark power that planted itself into the core of their attacker. Szesh’s black eyes reflected a wash of color as the blue flames deepened to purple where the darkness struck it. The purple area expanded, then contracted, then expanded again, as though the flames were fighting some lingering power from the attack.
The draconian felt quite useless in this instance. He was, essentially, a very large creature with a hammer. Oh, he had teeth and claws, he had thick scales, he even had fire at the ready. None of these things seemed particularly useful against incorporeal beings made of flame.
He was drawn out of his sour thoughts by the loud cracking of three more statues, from which three other apparitions manifested. Two more knights, one with a lance and one with a bow, and one comically large war hound.
Vyx’aria’s crimson gaze narrowed as the arrogant mage flaunted yet another display of overwhelming force, his chestplate devouring flame like a beast uncaged, his voice bending the world to his will with a single word. Impressive. But not infinite. She knew the type. Power like that burned fast and hot, brilliant in the moment, but when the true foe arrived, if the Ice Queen herself showed her hand, the fool would be panting and hollowed, useless save for the smell of singed hubris.
Perhaps that would work in her favor.
The statues cracked. One by one, spectral figures emerged, knights clad in phantasmal steel and wreathed in the same blue fire. A war hound snarled into being, its shoulders broad enough to crush a man with a pounce. Vyx’aria’s lips twisted into a faint sneer as she stepped back to take in the chamber fully.
Then she saw them. “There,” she said sharply, her voice carrying across the room with authority. She gestured with one claw-tipped finger. “Four crystals, one in each corner. They feed the enchantment. We dislodge them, and the knights should cease to be. Nothing else is ending them.”
She flicked a glance toward Vaezhasar, cool and measured. “Perhaps, for once, I’ll agree with our armored flame-vacuum. We strike at the source.”
Turning to the others, her tone sharpened like a drawn blade. “I’ll retrieve the crystals. Stall the knights and keep them off me. I am the quickest among us, and this requires precision, not brute strength or magic.”
Without waiting for argument, Vyx’aria called upon the magic woven into her blood. Shadow enveloped her, sleek and serpentine, swallowing the glint of her armor and dimming her form to a near-silhouette. She moved like a whisper, swift, low, vanishing into the periphery as she jumped and darted toward the far right corner of the room. Her movements were silent but deliberate, honed from years of navigating both courts and crypts, where a single misstep meant death.
The first crystal glimmered ahead, wedged deep into a stone receptacle. She would reach for it, heart steady, trusting that the others had the sense, or at least survival instinct, to buy her the precious seconds she needed. All of them would have to work in concert for the strategy to succeed.
Vaezhasar Drakspae
Szesh
Perhaps that would work in her favor.
The statues cracked. One by one, spectral figures emerged, knights clad in phantasmal steel and wreathed in the same blue fire. A war hound snarled into being, its shoulders broad enough to crush a man with a pounce. Vyx’aria’s lips twisted into a faint sneer as she stepped back to take in the chamber fully.
Then she saw them. “There,” she said sharply, her voice carrying across the room with authority. She gestured with one claw-tipped finger. “Four crystals, one in each corner. They feed the enchantment. We dislodge them, and the knights should cease to be. Nothing else is ending them.”
She flicked a glance toward Vaezhasar, cool and measured. “Perhaps, for once, I’ll agree with our armored flame-vacuum. We strike at the source.”
Turning to the others, her tone sharpened like a drawn blade. “I’ll retrieve the crystals. Stall the knights and keep them off me. I am the quickest among us, and this requires precision, not brute strength or magic.”
Without waiting for argument, Vyx’aria called upon the magic woven into her blood. Shadow enveloped her, sleek and serpentine, swallowing the glint of her armor and dimming her form to a near-silhouette. She moved like a whisper, swift, low, vanishing into the periphery as she jumped and darted toward the far right corner of the room. Her movements were silent but deliberate, honed from years of navigating both courts and crypts, where a single misstep meant death.
The first crystal glimmered ahead, wedged deep into a stone receptacle. She would reach for it, heart steady, trusting that the others had the sense, or at least survival instinct, to buy her the precious seconds she needed. All of them would have to work in concert for the strategy to succeed.
Vaezhasar Drakspae
Szesh
- Messages
- 74
- Character Biography
- Link
Szesh
Vyx'aria
"Dislodge, yes, but do not break them. We can put the crystals to good use should they remain intact," Vaezhasar echoed.
His gaze settled on more animated wraiths dislodging themselves from the walls.
They emerged with the grinding inevitability of bad news, peeling away from the frost-rimed stone like nightmares deciding that the subconscious simply wasn't cutting it anymore and perhaps a more *hands-on* approach was warranted. Each one blazed with that same cerulean fury, that same ornate menace, that same fundamental misunderstanding of what it meant to be outnumbered.
The maw opened again. Vaezhasar reached in, retrieving a large, purple-green glowing feathered mace from the cavernous mouth.
The mace emerged trailing wisps of something that was definitely not saliva but fulfilled broadly the same aesthetic function. It hummed with the particular frequency of magic that has been designed to solve problems, where problems were defined as things that exist when you'd rather they didn't.
He flung the weapon at Szesh's feet. The handle of the mace had an array of ornately shaped, crystalline eyes embedded into it.
They stared upward with the glassy expectancy of things waiting to witness violence.
"Use that instead. The magic imbued into the mace will render the wraiths corporeal upon impact."
Which was to say: hit ghost, ghost becomes hittable, hit ghost again. Combat sorcery, at its core, was rarely more complicated than finding creative ways to make problems susceptible to percussive solutions.
He snorted, then gripped his staff with both hands and began his forward advance.
There is a particular way that heavily armored individuals move when they have decided that the time for caution has passed. It is not a charge, charges imply recklessness. It is more of a procession, the steady approach of someone who has weighed the tactical situation and concluded that the optimal strategy is simply to arrive at the enemy and make that the enemy's problem.
One knight came at him with an overhead swing, but Vaezhasar used his staff to parry the flaming blade as if the flames constructing it had both mass and solidity.
Which, to be fair, they now did. That was rather the point of having an implement designed to interact with things that had no business being interacted with. The staff caught the descending arc of azure fire and held it there, locked in a geometry of opposing forces that would have given a physicist conniptions and sent a theologian straight to the brandy cabinet.
He then leveraged his lower hand and whacked the knight across the face, diagonally, with an upward-sweeping blow of his staff's butt. The spear-shaped butt carved a permanent furrow in the wraith knight's visor, staggering it.
The knight stumbled backward in the manner of someone who had just been introduced to an argument it could not refute. The furrow in its visor smoked and sputtered, leaking spectral light like a wound that didn't quite know how to bleed.
Vaezhasar capitalized on this and shoulder-checked it square in the chest with one of his heavy pauldrons.
The impact rang out across the frozen chamber like a gong announcing that dinner was served and the main course was humiliation. The knight went sprawling, its elaborate flames guttering in confused indignation, looking like a tin soldier that had encountered an irritable child with a hammer.
Vyx'aria
"Dislodge, yes, but do not break them. We can put the crystals to good use should they remain intact," Vaezhasar echoed.
His gaze settled on more animated wraiths dislodging themselves from the walls.
They emerged with the grinding inevitability of bad news, peeling away from the frost-rimed stone like nightmares deciding that the subconscious simply wasn't cutting it anymore and perhaps a more *hands-on* approach was warranted. Each one blazed with that same cerulean fury, that same ornate menace, that same fundamental misunderstanding of what it meant to be outnumbered.
The maw opened again. Vaezhasar reached in, retrieving a large, purple-green glowing feathered mace from the cavernous mouth.
The mace emerged trailing wisps of something that was definitely not saliva but fulfilled broadly the same aesthetic function. It hummed with the particular frequency of magic that has been designed to solve problems, where problems were defined as things that exist when you'd rather they didn't.
He flung the weapon at Szesh's feet. The handle of the mace had an array of ornately shaped, crystalline eyes embedded into it.
They stared upward with the glassy expectancy of things waiting to witness violence.
"Use that instead. The magic imbued into the mace will render the wraiths corporeal upon impact."
Which was to say: hit ghost, ghost becomes hittable, hit ghost again. Combat sorcery, at its core, was rarely more complicated than finding creative ways to make problems susceptible to percussive solutions.
He snorted, then gripped his staff with both hands and began his forward advance.
There is a particular way that heavily armored individuals move when they have decided that the time for caution has passed. It is not a charge, charges imply recklessness. It is more of a procession, the steady approach of someone who has weighed the tactical situation and concluded that the optimal strategy is simply to arrive at the enemy and make that the enemy's problem.
One knight came at him with an overhead swing, but Vaezhasar used his staff to parry the flaming blade as if the flames constructing it had both mass and solidity.
Which, to be fair, they now did. That was rather the point of having an implement designed to interact with things that had no business being interacted with. The staff caught the descending arc of azure fire and held it there, locked in a geometry of opposing forces that would have given a physicist conniptions and sent a theologian straight to the brandy cabinet.
He then leveraged his lower hand and whacked the knight across the face, diagonally, with an upward-sweeping blow of his staff's butt. The spear-shaped butt carved a permanent furrow in the wraith knight's visor, staggering it.
The knight stumbled backward in the manner of someone who had just been introduced to an argument it could not refute. The furrow in its visor smoked and sputtered, leaking spectral light like a wound that didn't quite know how to bleed.
Vaezhasar capitalized on this and shoulder-checked it square in the chest with one of his heavy pauldrons.
The impact rang out across the frozen chamber like a gong announcing that dinner was served and the main course was humiliation. The knight went sprawling, its elaborate flames guttering in confused indignation, looking like a tin soldier that had encountered an irritable child with a hammer.
- Messages
- 336
- Character Biography
- Link
And then she was gone, melding into shadows where none were cast. Szesh blinked. He could somewhat make out Vyx'aria's silhouette, but once she moved he lost it. Like tracking a fly across a busy room, it would be nearly impossible to lock on to her position so long as she moved.
The wraith-knights advanced, one towards Vaezhasar and one towards Szesh. The draconian bared night-black teeth, backlit by a pulsing orange light. A heavy clatter at his feet distracted him, and he leapt back from the repulsive implement that the mage had thrown. It was other-worldly in appearance, and seemed to be looking at him as much as he stared at it.
Szesh could think of little things with less appeal than touching that implement. If it was not alive itself, it was at the very least drenched in magic. Vaezhasar had not built the level of trust Szesh would require to heft such an affront to normalcy. It had been explained what the mace would do to the enemy... but Szesh rather wondered what it would do to him.
The knight stopped its march, but not from fear. It drew back its bowstring and from its fingers spread an arrow of rippling fire and lightning. When it released, a thunderclap engulfed the room.
Szesh was already on the move, leaving the mace where it lay, not having had the time to pick it up even if he had wanted to. He felt the projectile explode behind him as he charged, rushing the apparition. The knight drew another ghost-arrow, but Szesh was already close enough to swing his hammer. It passed through the flaming arms and bow just like swinging through actual flames. The knight stepped back, but it seemed little more than annoyed as its form restored itself almost immediately.
Szesh huffed smoke from his nostrils. It was about as much as he expected, but it had been worth a try. In any case, he didn't have to kill this thing, he just had to keep it busy. The knight pulled back another incorporeal bolt, and Szesh answered with a plume of fire to its face. Blinded, the knight released, but Szesh was gone when the bolt exploded with another thunderclap.
He was above the knight, looking down from his wing-assisted jump. He hefted his hammer with two hands, roared, and brought it down as he fell, cleaving the fiery archer in two and smashing a spiderweb into the icy floor. The flames swirled, roiled, and regained their shape. As soon as they did, Szesh blinded it with fire again.
He kept at this, beating away its physical shape, obscuring its vision, and generally making it impossible for this archer to land a shot until, he hoped, Vyx'aria could remove the crystals.
But the drow had her own problems, for the flaming hound had not advanced upon Szesh nor Vaezhasar. Though unable to see her, the beast's fiery nostrils flared, and its great maw turned to track Vyx'aria by scent.
The crystal came free with a muted snap. Vyx’aria’s fingers closed around the shard, far too bright for her liking. Light spilled across her palm in unnatural colors as if the ice itself bled starlight.
The spectral knight Vaezhasar had struck vanished instantly. Not staggered. Not banished. Unmade.
But the moment of triumph soured. Across the chamber, other knights stirred violently.
Their helm-lights burned hotter, flames spiking in tongues of brilliant blue. The icy floor beneath them cracked from sudden motion. They turned as one toward her location. Toward the glow clutched in her hand. Vyx'aria grimaced.
She lowered the crystal. It struck the ground with a brittle clink, still radiating light like a flare in a void. A low snarl echoed behind her. She didn’t have to look.
The hound.
The wretched, flame-laced beast was tracking her by scent and leading the Knights right to her. A streak of flame tore past her, singing the air by her head. She ducked, rolled into a low vault behind a fractured pillar of ice, shards crackling beneath her as she tumbled and rose without pause. A second knight cast a gout of searing light that scorched the floor where she had been half a heartbeat ago.
The crystalline trail behind her glimmered like a beacon.
Too exposed.
She skidded across the ice, sprinting low and silent as she enveloped herself in darkness again, headed toward the second crystal now, her path a weave of evasions and sudden redirections.
A curse hissed through her teeth. She hated shouting. Hated needing to. But this was no longer about pride.
“Draconian! Flap your damned wings! Disrupt the air! It’s tracking me by scent!”
The words cut through the chaos, sharp and fast. She didn’t wait to see if he obeyed. Speaking had cost her seconds. She darted again, one leap, two bounds, sliding under the sweeping reach of another knight’s ethereal blade. She didn’t fight. She didn’t have time.
She sped toward the second crystal.
Szesh Vaezhasar Drakspae
The spectral knight Vaezhasar had struck vanished instantly. Not staggered. Not banished. Unmade.
But the moment of triumph soured. Across the chamber, other knights stirred violently.
Their helm-lights burned hotter, flames spiking in tongues of brilliant blue. The icy floor beneath them cracked from sudden motion. They turned as one toward her location. Toward the glow clutched in her hand. Vyx'aria grimaced.
She lowered the crystal. It struck the ground with a brittle clink, still radiating light like a flare in a void. A low snarl echoed behind her. She didn’t have to look.
The hound.
The wretched, flame-laced beast was tracking her by scent and leading the Knights right to her. A streak of flame tore past her, singing the air by her head. She ducked, rolled into a low vault behind a fractured pillar of ice, shards crackling beneath her as she tumbled and rose without pause. A second knight cast a gout of searing light that scorched the floor where she had been half a heartbeat ago.
The crystalline trail behind her glimmered like a beacon.
Too exposed.
She skidded across the ice, sprinting low and silent as she enveloped herself in darkness again, headed toward the second crystal now, her path a weave of evasions and sudden redirections.
A curse hissed through her teeth. She hated shouting. Hated needing to. But this was no longer about pride.
“Draconian! Flap your damned wings! Disrupt the air! It’s tracking me by scent!”
The words cut through the chaos, sharp and fast. She didn’t wait to see if he obeyed. Speaking had cost her seconds. She darted again, one leap, two bounds, sliding under the sweeping reach of another knight’s ethereal blade. She didn’t fight. She didn’t have time.
She sped toward the second crystal.
Szesh Vaezhasar Drakspae
- Messages
- 74
- Character Biography
- Link
Szesh
Vyx'aria
Vaezhasar wanted to facepalm, and he would have, if not for the fact that both his hands remained preoccupied with holding the staff, fully intent on using it as a bludgeoning weapon against their foes.
He couldn't wrap his head around the idea of someone refusing a FREE enchanted weapon, and in such a perilous situation too! Was the knuckle-dragging draconian really allowing his narrow-minded superstitions to supercede his self-preservation instinct?
This was, Vaezhasar reflected, in his own head, or helmet, the two were kind of clinging to one another, one of those moments that tested a man's faith in the fundamental rationality of sapient beings. Here was a creature, large, scaly, possessed of wings and fire and what appeared to be at least a rudimentary survival instinct, who had just watched an enchanted mace land at his feet and thought: no, I think I'll continue punching fire. It was the logic of a man offered an umbrella in a thunderstorm who declines on the grounds that he doesn't trust the handle based on its color.
The mace lay where it had fallen, unwanted, possibly sulking, but it had no mouth with which to convey that specific emotion.
Vaezhasar grunted, then angled his staff so that the horns jutting from its top were pointed towards the nearest spectral knight. The horns in question had the organic curve of things that had grown rather than been forged, tapering to points that seemed slightly too sharp for comfort and definitely too sharp for anything standing in their soon-to-be trajectory.
He thrust the staff forward, stabbing the magical apparition in the back with an audible SQUELCH.
The knight dissolved, flames sputtering and dying out, its elaborate cerulean raiment collapsing inward like styrofoam exposed to high heat.
Without much thinking, Vaezhasar spun on his heels.
He made a hand gesture, muttered something obscene in a language that sounded neither human nor particularly wholesome.
The words had edges. They scraped against the air on their way out, leaving the distinct impression that they'd been designed for hurting things. They were the linguistic equivalent of concaving someone's head with a rock and mugging them in the aftermath. Crude. Horrifying.
A bolt of neon-purple energy clawed its way into reality, then hurled itself towards the hound. Oh, and it was screaming. Not necessarily a human wail. It sounded decidingly more artificial, but it was a scream, nonetheless.
It made the room smell of ozone, seemingly warping the air around it as it cut a diagonal trajectory from where Vaezhasar was standing to where the spectral hound was heading.
Vyx'aria
Vaezhasar wanted to facepalm, and he would have, if not for the fact that both his hands remained preoccupied with holding the staff, fully intent on using it as a bludgeoning weapon against their foes.
He couldn't wrap his head around the idea of someone refusing a FREE enchanted weapon, and in such a perilous situation too! Was the knuckle-dragging draconian really allowing his narrow-minded superstitions to supercede his self-preservation instinct?
This was, Vaezhasar reflected, in his own head, or helmet, the two were kind of clinging to one another, one of those moments that tested a man's faith in the fundamental rationality of sapient beings. Here was a creature, large, scaly, possessed of wings and fire and what appeared to be at least a rudimentary survival instinct, who had just watched an enchanted mace land at his feet and thought: no, I think I'll continue punching fire. It was the logic of a man offered an umbrella in a thunderstorm who declines on the grounds that he doesn't trust the handle based on its color.
The mace lay where it had fallen, unwanted, possibly sulking, but it had no mouth with which to convey that specific emotion.
Vaezhasar grunted, then angled his staff so that the horns jutting from its top were pointed towards the nearest spectral knight. The horns in question had the organic curve of things that had grown rather than been forged, tapering to points that seemed slightly too sharp for comfort and definitely too sharp for anything standing in their soon-to-be trajectory.
He thrust the staff forward, stabbing the magical apparition in the back with an audible SQUELCH.
The knight dissolved, flames sputtering and dying out, its elaborate cerulean raiment collapsing inward like styrofoam exposed to high heat.
Without much thinking, Vaezhasar spun on his heels.
He made a hand gesture, muttered something obscene in a language that sounded neither human nor particularly wholesome.
The words had edges. They scraped against the air on their way out, leaving the distinct impression that they'd been designed for hurting things. They were the linguistic equivalent of concaving someone's head with a rock and mugging them in the aftermath. Crude. Horrifying.
A bolt of neon-purple energy clawed its way into reality, then hurled itself towards the hound. Oh, and it was screaming. Not necessarily a human wail. It sounded decidingly more artificial, but it was a scream, nonetheless.
It made the room smell of ozone, seemingly warping the air around it as it cut a diagonal trajectory from where Vaezhasar was standing to where the spectral hound was heading.
- Messages
- 336
- Character Biography
- Link
Yes.
Not to put too fine a point on it, but that was exactly what Szesh was doing. Not entirely without reason, mind you. In his life, long by some standards, short by others, he had seen many a cocky fool undone by grasping powers they did not understand. The magic his hammer once held he only used because it had been thrust upon him accidentally, and he had learned it would do no harm.
There was a possible future, a very possible branch of time, that would see Szesh graciously accepting the uncanny gifts of the hulking suit of armor. But Draconians were a stubborn species, and it would take some time to chip away at those walls.
So for the time being he continued to discorporeate and blind the ghosts. He saw many more appearing, and grit his sizable teeth. How much longer would this last?
His questions were cut short by a very large, loud purple beam. He had no choice but to shut his eyes against its light and turn from its heat. It made the air crackle and sting his nostrils. When he looked again, the knight he had been facing had vanished, as had two others in a line with it. He couldn’t see the fiery dog, but his vision was still blurred.
Hell with it. The mage could clearly handle the apparitions, but the crystals weren’t falling fast enough. Szesh coiled his powerful legs and leapt into the air, using his wings to extend his leap to a crystal and knocking it free with his hammer. He dropped, and jumped again. His powerful wings beat the air, he hoped enough to disrupt the monster’s sense of smell if it even still lived.
The spectral hound, once a relentless predator on her trail, had been reduced to smoke and ruin beneath the Vaez’s latest conjuration, a snarling arc of violet energy that tore through the air like an angry spirit set loose from some ancient tomb. The Drow didn’t smile, but there was a sliver of satisfaction beneath her calm exterior at the mage's efficiency.
Ahead, the draconian soared through the chamber with the kind of physical power she rarely saw outside of matron-guarded temples or elite slave pits in the Underdark. His hammer crashed into the crystal embedded in the wall, and in the instant it broke free, a ripple of spectral unraveling followed. The wraiths faltered, flickered, and then vanished, their forms collapsing into nothing. Only one knight remained, flickering at the edge of the chamber. She didn’t need to guess what would become of it. Vaezhasar would end it.
With swift steps and quiet certainty, Vyx’aria approached the final crystal. There was no hesitation, no dramatic flourish as she simply reached out and took it. The moment it left its resting place, the final knight dissipated into the air, leaving only stillness in its wake. The chamber, once a cacophony of clashing flame, echoing spells, and clattering steel, fell into a deep and unnatural silence.
She turned her attention toward the draconian, crossing the now-still floor to take a quick inventory of the crystals they’d gathered. Before she could assess them, the ground groaned with a deep, ominous resonance that caused a prickle down her spine. It was not a sound she could place and it felt seismic as though the palace itself were shifting beneath their feet. Her gaze darted across the frostbound chamber, and though she said nothing, her instincts prickled with sudden clarity. This was not over. Something had been triggered.
The floor split beneath them with a deafening crack.
There was no warning, no chant, no tremor to brace against. The ice gave way all at once, fracturing like glass and collapsing in a thunderous cascade that sent all three of them plummeting downward. She could have used magic, but there was a far more practical means of cushioning her descent. Without hesitation, she shifted her weight and leapt toward the dragonkin next to her, one arm hooking around his neck while her other hand braced against the ridge of his shoulder. She clung to him like a serpent, limbs secure and balanced, the maneuver executed not with desperation but with precision. Her face was close to his, her expression unreadable but sharp, and her voice, when it came, was low and entertained.
“Safer together,” she murmured, the words a deliberate echo of his earlier stated caution, combined with an amused smirk.
They landed moments later in a storm of ice and debris. The fall ended not in ruin, but in an eerily pristine chamber unlike the one above. Where the prior hall had been encased in age, this place bore no such scars. The air was still but warm with latent power, the light diffuse and strangely absent of source. The floor beneath them was smooth and unmarred. The crystals had landed nearby, none of them broken.
Ahead of them, seated atop an altar-like dais, loomed a throne of pale stone. Carved into it was a massive statue. It bore the shape of a woman crowned in ice, hands resting on the arms of the throne, gaze locked forward in eternal judgment.
And then, without ceremony or spectacle, a thin fracture appeared along the statue’s cheek. Another crept down from the collarbone. Across the body, hairline cracks began to spread with glacial patience, glowing faintly from within. Something behind the marble was moving. Something old.
Vyx’aria’s posture shifted as her hands dropped instinctively to her blades. Her eyes narrowed, and though her face remained composed, her mind was already calculating the shape of what might emerge.
The Ice Queen was waking.
Szesh Vaezhasar Drakspae
Ahead, the draconian soared through the chamber with the kind of physical power she rarely saw outside of matron-guarded temples or elite slave pits in the Underdark. His hammer crashed into the crystal embedded in the wall, and in the instant it broke free, a ripple of spectral unraveling followed. The wraiths faltered, flickered, and then vanished, their forms collapsing into nothing. Only one knight remained, flickering at the edge of the chamber. She didn’t need to guess what would become of it. Vaezhasar would end it.
With swift steps and quiet certainty, Vyx’aria approached the final crystal. There was no hesitation, no dramatic flourish as she simply reached out and took it. The moment it left its resting place, the final knight dissipated into the air, leaving only stillness in its wake. The chamber, once a cacophony of clashing flame, echoing spells, and clattering steel, fell into a deep and unnatural silence.
She turned her attention toward the draconian, crossing the now-still floor to take a quick inventory of the crystals they’d gathered. Before she could assess them, the ground groaned with a deep, ominous resonance that caused a prickle down her spine. It was not a sound she could place and it felt seismic as though the palace itself were shifting beneath their feet. Her gaze darted across the frostbound chamber, and though she said nothing, her instincts prickled with sudden clarity. This was not over. Something had been triggered.
The floor split beneath them with a deafening crack.
There was no warning, no chant, no tremor to brace against. The ice gave way all at once, fracturing like glass and collapsing in a thunderous cascade that sent all three of them plummeting downward. She could have used magic, but there was a far more practical means of cushioning her descent. Without hesitation, she shifted her weight and leapt toward the dragonkin next to her, one arm hooking around his neck while her other hand braced against the ridge of his shoulder. She clung to him like a serpent, limbs secure and balanced, the maneuver executed not with desperation but with precision. Her face was close to his, her expression unreadable but sharp, and her voice, when it came, was low and entertained.
“Safer together,” she murmured, the words a deliberate echo of his earlier stated caution, combined with an amused smirk.
They landed moments later in a storm of ice and debris. The fall ended not in ruin, but in an eerily pristine chamber unlike the one above. Where the prior hall had been encased in age, this place bore no such scars. The air was still but warm with latent power, the light diffuse and strangely absent of source. The floor beneath them was smooth and unmarred. The crystals had landed nearby, none of them broken.
Ahead of them, seated atop an altar-like dais, loomed a throne of pale stone. Carved into it was a massive statue. It bore the shape of a woman crowned in ice, hands resting on the arms of the throne, gaze locked forward in eternal judgment.
And then, without ceremony or spectacle, a thin fracture appeared along the statue’s cheek. Another crept down from the collarbone. Across the body, hairline cracks began to spread with glacial patience, glowing faintly from within. Something behind the marble was moving. Something old.
Vyx’aria’s posture shifted as her hands dropped instinctively to her blades. Her eyes narrowed, and though her face remained composed, her mind was already calculating the shape of what might emerge.
The Ice Queen was waking.
Szesh Vaezhasar Drakspae
- Messages
- 74
- Character Biography
- Link
Vyx'aria
Szesh
Vaezhasar's descent was notably less subtle, which is to say, he belly flopped onto the floor of the subterranean chamber that had just opened up beneath their feet.
He landed with a bang and a crash, metal-covered face digging into the ice. Cracks blossomed all around his prone frame, and even a small crater formed, courtesy of the combined bulk of his frame and the living suit he was wearing.
The staff had landed beside him, its spear-headed butt stabbing into the ice with the sort of finality that suggested it, at least, had managed to stick the landing. Small mercies.
Vaezhasar grunted, pushing himself off the fractured section of the floor.
His living suit had protected him from the worst of the impact. This was, after all, what living suits did, they lived, and in living, they absorbed the sort of punishment that would otherwise render their occupants significantly less alive. No broken bones, no concussions, no lacerations, a bruise or two, and a small headache, but nothing drastic.
The headache was mostly embarrassment. Embarrassment, when experienced by those with sufficient ego, tended to manifest as a dull throbbing behind the eyes and a fervent wish that the universe had been looking elsewhere for the past thirty seconds.
"I'm alive!" He exclaimed, all enthusiasm despite having plummeted into the cold, hard ground like a star struck from the skies.
This declaration carried with it a certain defiant optimism, the philosophical stance of a man who has decided that if the universe was going to drop him through a floor, the universe could at least acknowledge that he had survived the experience without becoming meat puree.
He used his armored hands to brush the bits of broken ice clinging to his breastplate, before grabbing the staff, leaned into it and, using it to support his weight, stand up.
And then he saw it.
He gazed at the statue of a tall, pale woman, a statue that was seemingly coming to life before his very eyes.
The statue moved with the grinding deliberation of something that had been still for a very, very long time and was now remembering what motion felt like.
He grimaced behind his helmet.
"We might be in a pickle here— Drow! Where are the gems? You must give them to me, and make haste. We've little time to waste."
There was urgency in his voice. He extended a hand, making a grabby motion with it, like a child demanding candy.
It was not, strictly speaking, a dignified gesture. Dignity, however, had taken one look at the animating statue and decided that it would be waiting outside until the situation resolved itself one way or another.
The grabby motion intensified.
Szesh
Vaezhasar's descent was notably less subtle, which is to say, he belly flopped onto the floor of the subterranean chamber that had just opened up beneath their feet.
He landed with a bang and a crash, metal-covered face digging into the ice. Cracks blossomed all around his prone frame, and even a small crater formed, courtesy of the combined bulk of his frame and the living suit he was wearing.
The staff had landed beside him, its spear-headed butt stabbing into the ice with the sort of finality that suggested it, at least, had managed to stick the landing. Small mercies.
Vaezhasar grunted, pushing himself off the fractured section of the floor.
His living suit had protected him from the worst of the impact. This was, after all, what living suits did, they lived, and in living, they absorbed the sort of punishment that would otherwise render their occupants significantly less alive. No broken bones, no concussions, no lacerations, a bruise or two, and a small headache, but nothing drastic.
The headache was mostly embarrassment. Embarrassment, when experienced by those with sufficient ego, tended to manifest as a dull throbbing behind the eyes and a fervent wish that the universe had been looking elsewhere for the past thirty seconds.
"I'm alive!" He exclaimed, all enthusiasm despite having plummeted into the cold, hard ground like a star struck from the skies.
This declaration carried with it a certain defiant optimism, the philosophical stance of a man who has decided that if the universe was going to drop him through a floor, the universe could at least acknowledge that he had survived the experience without becoming meat puree.
He used his armored hands to brush the bits of broken ice clinging to his breastplate, before grabbing the staff, leaned into it and, using it to support his weight, stand up.
And then he saw it.
He gazed at the statue of a tall, pale woman, a statue that was seemingly coming to life before his very eyes.
The statue moved with the grinding deliberation of something that had been still for a very, very long time and was now remembering what motion felt like.
He grimaced behind his helmet.
"We might be in a pickle here— Drow! Where are the gems? You must give them to me, and make haste. We've little time to waste."
There was urgency in his voice. He extended a hand, making a grabby motion with it, like a child demanding candy.
It was not, strictly speaking, a dignified gesture. Dignity, however, had taken one look at the animating statue and decided that it would be waiting outside until the situation resolved itself one way or another.
The grabby motion intensified.
Last edited: