Fable - Ask Peace of the Grave

[Sir Nathaniel]

It is said that once a man experiences the living dead for the first time, he is changed forever. A piece of him is lost to the madness and horror and he can never truly bring it back. Time will pass, wounds will heal and scars lost to memory, but there will always be a lingering feeling in the back of one's mind; a feeling, a fear of the soul being forcibly ripped from the body by black magic and inserted into a vile parody of a living being. That was how most mortal men felt when they witnessed the necromancers and death knights performing their ghastly spells and assembling armies of shambling corpses.

To the Paladin, Nathaniel Jameson, however, it was just like any other day on the crusade. His mission was simple, but he took it gladly. His brothers told him of a powerful death knight that had taken residence in the old Ixmus Graveyard. Although it had been abandoned for over a year, at least since the events surrounding the Helm of the Departed, the stink of dark magic had lingered, just waiting for the next powerful necromancer or sorcerer to make use of it for their own purposes.


When he witnessed the first of the filthy, ragged corpses lumbering towards him, his heart felt an odd mix of heaviness and relief. To him, it was easy. These things were the enemy; human no longer. They were tormented souls and to put them to rest and bring them eternal peace made him feel elated. True, he felt a great sadness at their terrible fate, but there was a satisfaction in undoing the work of evil that he could not deny.

The first of the creatures, which he knew were called wights started to rise from the ground and began to surround him. Pale, naked, rotting corpses of men, women and yes, even children all raised crumbling hands and moaned as they approached. Their eyes glowed green with soulless light.

Nathan drew his sword with a prayer on his lips to Nykios, the god of war, he went on the attack. Every movement was a blur as he brought it around in a two-handed side slash. The blade bit into the rotten flesh of the corpse just below the chin, right at the jugular and the head was neatly severed. As the spells woven into the blade took effect, the creature's body was set ablaze. A few more moments and the body was reduced to ash.

Just one leaf in a forest, as his brother Gale was fond of saying, but the minor victory excited him, especially as the others began to press in on him. With that, Nathan rushed forward, alternating between fast stabs and long, graceful swings. Every stroke from his glowing blade severed limbs and heads and cut down the dead like wheat before a scythe. In moments, his armor was stained lightly with gore from their tainted blood and his boots crushed and scattered the rapidly decaying ashes of those he killed.

"'The strongest race shall always be my Voice, and my will shall be revealed through them.'" Nathan quoted as he fought. A turn of his foot and he brought his left fist in a hook to the jaw of an attacking fiend as it tried to reach for him. The blow sent the creature stumbling. Moving like greased lightning, Nathan aimed a stab. The blade bit straight through its solar plexus and out through the other side. The body twitched and erupted into flame; boiling away the corrupted flesh as the light left its eyes. The wight was reduced to cinders as he withdrew, the sword already back in his hand, spinning, falling, cutting and burning away the filth.

"Amen." He intoned with a grin and a flourish.

 

[Mukbar]

In life he was Stonnard Barrows. A hedge knight of little note but The Master had made him again, gifted him power and bestowed upon him great purpose.
These dead were to weaken, serve and strike fear into the hearts of mortal and they had until the Knight Nathaniel came upon them.
Unlike lesser undead Stonnard retained much of what he once was, twisted and warped to serve evil he was still a Knight himself and, for lack of a better term, a "man" of honour.
"A NOBLE EFFORT, SER."
Stonnard revealed himself from behind the small mausoleum he was observing from.His voice was a pained whisper that roared like a waterfall. His eye alight with red demon fire and his old armour emitting an aura of unholy protection. Worst might be the blade of his sword, which left a faint green trail in its wake. Though clearly decrepit these items had been imbued with otherworldly fortitude and much like Stonnard who appeared frail where his armour had rotted away completely, was clearly stronger than it looked.
With a wave of his dead hand the wights ceased their attack and parted to form a path between the two knights.

"IT HAS BEEN AN AGE SINCE I WAS LAST TESTED. WOULD YOU DO ME THE SERVICE OF MEETING MY BLADE WITH YOURS?"
Stonnard even threw in a curt nod of reverence for his opponent, brief but respectful.
"I DO SO LONG TO FEEL THE CLASH OF STEEL AGAIN!"

 

[Sir Nathaniel]

Nathan watched with an impassive expression as the death knight made his appearance. He could already feel his presence before he stepped out. The unholy aura that he carried was akin to a powerful stench to Nathan's senses. Obviously there was more than just a run-of-the-mill necromancer operating here, if they could summon more than just the mindless dead. But then, was there truly a set standard for the unholy? Could any of them be truly called "normal"?

Dismissing the thought, Nathan listened intently at the death knight's challenge. A slight grin tugged at his lips.

"I accept your challenge." He said, raising Godsend in salute.

"Holy Avenger." He murmured, and after he shouldered the blade, the edge began to glow radiantly with brilliant light, one so intense the surrounding wights shuddered. Mindless though they were, the magic animating them gave them at least some sense of recognizing a potential threat. Some lost what little grip they had on their animation, breaking and dissolving, even though he had not laid a hand nor blade on them. Others turned aside and retreated, as if they were afraid, but Nathan knew their master had simply called them back, lest they be destroyed before they could fulfill their purpose.

"The light of dawn has come. The sun rises, bright as any other star in the sky." He intoned as he advanced.

He and the death knight circled each other, each eyeing and analyzing the other's movements. In a moment, the brief standoff was broken as Nathan lunged, his sword in a two-handed grip towards Stonnard's decayed throat. The death knight's own blade was bared and ready, turning the blow aside in a parry that was surprisingly graceful for one so rotten. Almost immediately, Nathan parried the counterblow and riposted, aiming a stab at his foe's midsection. Once again, in a movement that was swift enough to give lie to his decrepit appearance, the unholy sword turned it aside.

Time and again, steel sang and clanged as they went about their deadly back-and-forth. Each movement, footstep and strike and counterstrike was parried and met with equally deadly force in turn. No quarter was asked between either combatant and none given. No words were exchanged, for none needed to be said. Flashes of magical power flared with each blow, the energies they gave off dissipating and clashing and canceling each other out.

A stray, unfortunate wight found itself in the path of the combatants as they went about one of their exchanges. The golden light from Godsend ripped into it as its owner slashed and stabbed at an opponent that was no longer there. In the time it took for a man to blink, the creature was burned and crumbled into ash that was blown away by some unseen wind. Stonnard had stepped aside, just in time and narrowly avoided a blow that would have rent his skull from his shoulders.

All throughout the clash, Nathan was grinning, even as sweat dewed his brow. To his great joy, the death knight had already proved a worthy rival. Now, as they parted a moment to allow the other a chance to regain their bearing, he could not help but feel a twinge of respect for the man he must have been in life. If only he had lived. If only he had not been ensnared by the dark powers, he might have been a valuable ally.

Oh, well. Nathan thought as he readied himself for another round. One could always dream.

 

[Khasmina Zvonimir]

It was often said among the wide and scattered necromancer community that the Ixmus graveyard was a trap for those foolish enough to think they could conquer Death itself. The region’s mysterious penchant for reanimating the dead was enticing to anyone studying the dark arts, but at the steep cost of the practitioner’s sanity - if not their life.

There was a part of Khasmina that enjoyed the irony, even as she strolled among the wandering undead as if relaxing in a rose garden. Her benefactor had ensured that she would not come to harm in these unhallowed wastes, so long as she made sure his plans were not disturbed by either the dead or the living. Something she was content to do, so long as she could further her own goals.

A bare flicker of spirit caught her attention as she strode under an archway of leviathan ribs bleached white from the abuse of the elements. She stopped to glance at the empty space beside her with a confused expression, then a sigh.

“Prince charming shining bright?… our risen hero’s bane…? ‘Tis not the time for fairy tales!” she commented wearily into the air. She cocked her head as if listening to the rancid wind.

“Alright, alright!” she snapped at the silence. “I will look into it.” She retrieved a dagger from her belt and lightly cut into the palm of her hand, letting her crimson lifeblood drip into the lifeless ash at her feet while she incanted a spell. Suddenly she was elsewhere - or at least her mind was. Encased in a rotting body that was fleeing from a bright, burning pain. She forced the wight to turn its head and look at the source, then recoiled as her spell was broken by the wight's disintegration.

“Ugh. A paladin,” she said with a sour face. “With an ego to match that shiny sword, no doubt. The former is probably the most menacing part.”

She clenched her cut hand, which had promptly stopped bleeding, and wiped the dagger clean on a handkerchief stained with old blood before replacing it in its sheath. Her concerned frown turned to a smirk after a few moments.

“No, dear sister, I don’t believe we should join in their game just yet. Won’t it entertain you to watch the knights in their swordplay?”

If anyone was there to answer, only Khasmina knew. With a private chuckle, the necromancer made her way to a hiding place close enough to watch the battle unfold with her own eyes.

Sir Nathaniel Xarrall

 

[Mukbar]

The advantage of Stonnards position was made obvious. As Ser Nathaniel took breath Stonnard did not. His undead body could fight for hours, for days and never tire.
"FEELING WINDED SER?"
He gave a rasping taunt and pointed his blade at the Paladin.
"YOU ARE SKILLED INDEED. IN LIFE I THINK I MIGHT HAVE BEEN HONOURED TO FIGHT AT YOUR SIDE."
He readied himself again. A fighting stance that prioritised his shield. He could wait. Take his time and wear his opponent down.
"SUCH A SHAME WE MEET LIKE THIS!"
With that he advanced bashing forward with his shield and following up with quick lunges of his sword. Each one parried with skill from Ser Nathaniel.
He had no need to kill him yet, just tire him out and when he got too weak to lift his sword, finish him.

Sir Nathaniel Khasmina Zvonimir

 

[Sir Nathaniel]

"I revel in the thrill of battle." Nathan said, exhaling sharply; he felt it. The euphoria from the love of the fight; the adrenaline outshining even the stiff, sore feeling in his limbs.

With that in their next exchange, he battered aside every thrust, every counter he riposted and delivered a few swift strokes of his own. Before long, he and Stonnard parted again.

"Most enjoyable, but I'm afraid I don't have time for games anymore."

His grip tightened and the glow surrounding his blade expanded and intensified.

"Prepare to feel my true power!" He exclaimed in a voice that was not quite his own. "Blessing of Might."

At the last word, somehow, Nathan's body began to bulge underneath his armor. His already considerable muscle mass swelled and every bone and tendon expanded, even his veins grew more pronounced.

With that, Nathan charged, his powerful legs closing the distance with surprising speed despite his increased bulk. When he struck, his next blow was enough to dent Stonnard's shield. The death knight held on, just barely, as the paladin's assault continued. One strike turned into two, two into three and then a fourth that nearly jarred his wrists.

Throughout it all, Nathan's expression had turned into one of icy fury. His earlier joy had become bloodlust and the only thing one could make out from his eyes was pure, raw killing intent.

 

[Vardan]

At the peak of a nearby hill, Vardan was tangled in a dead tree. His skeletal limbs were jammed at awkward angles within the withered branches, though not so much as to totally restrict his movement. Indeed, the old lich had a spyglass held up to one of his empty eye-sockets. All the better to observe the conflict in the field below.​

​

The paladin shouted something. He could not hear it at this distance, but imagined some trite and holy proclamation. Whatever it was, it had the effect of swelling him into an over-muscled abomination. "Nnnh... Repugnant..." The paladin then fell upon the death knight with his new, feral strength. "...And artless. Fie."​

​

None of this was to say Vardan held hopes for the deathless knight to win. He rather hoped they would both fall over dead - or otherwise incapacitate themselves. Then he could move into the graveyard, as planned, and the true science could unfold.​

​

For now, he remained in his dead tree, occasionally sighing with impatience.​

 

[Sir Nathaniel]

Far across the graveyard, unbeknownst to any of the other players, except Khasmina, his 'partner', the true mastermind behind the present conflict was watching with great interest. An old adversary had invaded his newfound territory, a powerful lich bound, and a death knight, all in one place. Such a strange combination, but altogether not one unexpected. Nathan had an annoying tendency to draw attention to himself by his mere presence, and so of course, others might become aware of his actions. Still, there was use in such distraction, especially if it meant securing another ally and the potential to finally rid himself of his hated enemy.

He briefly pondered why most mortals thought a crystal ball was the best magical item for surveillance when a scrying pool did the trick just as well without running the risk of accidentally being discovered by unwelcome eyes or making an unexpected connection with another ball.

Watching the fight unfold further, thin lips parted and a flash of brown, decaying teeth were shown in a gruesome parody of a grin.

"Use up all your strength, would you, Nathan?" The figure asked rhetorically, knowing the paladin could not hear him. "Make yourself a nice and easy target. It will be all the sweeter if I could take you alive. Then the fun really begins."

He then turned back to the crypt in the center of the chamber, reminding himself that chance for fun or no, Nathan's presence was unimportant. What mattered was what lay within the coffin. Even if Nathan destroyed all the dead in the graveyard, it wouldn't matter, so long as he got what he wanted.

"Don't worry." He said softly to the stone coffin. As expected, the structure did not reply, nor did its sole, deceased occupant. "We'll be together again soon."

 

[Mukbar]

Being bludgeoned down was not as troublesome for Ser Stonnard as it would a living for but still his power was clearly outmatched by the raw might of his opponent.
"ENOUGH!"
Making a sacrifice no mortal man might ever dare he let a powerful overhead strike beat on his shield once, twice and when he had the measure of the third he lopped off his own shield arm and ducked out from under the blow as Nathaniel the Paladin gave a strike so sound it nearly split the shield in twain.
"TIME TO END THIS, DIE WELL SIR NATHANIEL!"
Now he attacked back with unholy speed, arcing the dreaded green power of his sword through the air with fury unbound he struck at Nathaniel with wicked precision in a viscous counter attack.

Sir Nathaniel

 

[Khasmina Zvonimir]

Husks of dead, twisted old trees huddled in a decaying copse provided Khasmina ample cover as she watched the fight unfold. She probably could have just stood in plain sight, so focused were the duelists on each other. Their shouting, and the sharp clang of weapon on shield, reverberated across the ash hills and bonepiles that were so accustomed to silence.

Khasmina had her doubts that the death knight would last, despite its clever tactic that momentarily denied the paladin's final blow. Now was the time for the decisive strike that would declare the victor.

Although... perhaps she could push the fight in a more favorable direction. Use the paladin's strength to her own advantage.

She retrieved a hefty tome from a bag at her side. It was bound in a strange grey material that looked like stone and leather at the same time. Deep green stones flecked with red glimmered in the dull light, inlaid into two solid bands of metal locking the thick book shut.

The Grimoire of Blood. A treasure Khasmina had taken from a vampire's lair. The creature had already been slain by some monster hunter, though they had not found the tome's hiding place. Khasmina had. Still, it was unfortunate she hadn't managed to acquire the curse as well, for her current mortal body could only produce so much blood. It was an aggravating limit to which spells she could use, and how strong they could be.

"Saniugnas a inimod!" the necromancer spoke, and the book snapped open. She flipped through the old but pristine hide pages for a moment until she found what she was looking for.

Once again her dagger went to work on her pale flesh, though she needed more of her own essence to power this particular spell. A series of quick cuts, a gasp of pain. The first of her blood flowed into the open book, running along the inside of the spine before vanishing without a trace. As if the book had drunk every last drop.

She muttered the spell between clenched teeth, reminding herself that the outcome was worth the pain, and flung her bleeding arm into the air. The crimson drops hovered in the air for a few moments, bubbling and coagulating as if drawing the water from the air into themselves. Each one divided, expanded and morphed, growing darker and more solid, until a swarm of hideous bat-like creatures hovered over Khasmina.

The blood bats shrieked and took off towards Sir Nathaniel at the necromancer's command, ready to feed on the strength and vitality of their prey.

Let him summon his strength. Let him call upon his 'holy light' to protect him. For what is one man against a ravenous swarm? Khasmina thought as she reached for her handkerchief and a roll of bandages.

Sir Nathaniel Xarrall Vardan

 

[Sir Nathaniel]

Nathan had already anticipated the counterstrike his opponent would make. In fact, he counted on it. A well placed stroke, to be sure, but even to his rage-driven mind, Nathan could still calculate the blade's trajectory and adjust his speed accordingly. True, he could not compensate for every contingency, but he could at least gauge a general idea of when and where the blade's edge would hit and he could still avoid the worst of it.

Just before contact, Nathan's musculature abruptly decreased as rapidly as it had swelled. He had deactivated the spell that increased his strength and let himself become a smaller, more mobile, moving target. Once he had done so, his clarity returned in full force and he just narrowly managed to swipe to the side, avoiding the strike with a half weave, half jumping motion that, to any outside observer would have seemed a move of desperation but was actually a calculated gambit. One that paid off as his right foot planted, solidly on the ground. His blade snaked out in an angle towards his opponent's exposed midsection, where he had severed his own arm.

With the shield gone, Nathan now had a perfect opening. His blade struck true in a side-slash and bit into rotten flesh - tearing through decayed muscle and tendon and bone and burning away the corrupted essence that made up his opponent. A lesser undead would have been destroyed instantly, but a death knight was far more; a bound soul that was corrupted and chained to the mortal plane by the will of its master.

Nathan's blade, Godsend, was blessed and enchanted to sever those very bonds and utterly destroy those dark magics. Through the strike he had landed, he could feel the threads that bound Stonnard to his unseen master dissipating and his soul release at last from its torment.

All throughout the surrounding area, the wights collapsed as if pushed by some invisible hands and began to shriek and writhe on the ground. They died, truly, in moments as the spell animating them was disrupted.

Once his stroke was complete, Nathan stood to his full height and exhaled sharply, reveling in his victory, at least for a moment, before he turned to his broken enemies. The wights had already begun to decay with unnatural quickness. The spells that raised them gone, they crumbled into dust in seconds.

"Rest in peace." He intoned quietly. "Amen."

A quick jerk of his head to the side and Nathan beheld another sight and incoming danger. Blood magic, he could tell. Powerful blood magic at that. A swarm of what he supposed were familiars, meant to drain his vitality and feed upon his life force. A quick examination of the direction they were coming from and he could make out exactly where they had emerged from. A necromancer, one he did not know, was standing just a short distance away. From the slender frame and the long, pale hair he could tell it was a female, probably a fellow human.

A surprise welcome, is it? He thought, just a moment before the swarm descended, I do love surprises.

Aloud, he spoke in a clear voice. "Blessing of Swiftness."

With that, Nathan turned aside and ran, just before the swarm of bats could reach him and took a leap, directly behind the nearest headstone before he called in a loud, clear voice.

"Greetings." He said. "Do us both a favor and surrender. I'd rather not scar that pretty face. There's no need for this to get bloody."

Khasmina Zvonimir Xarrall Vardan


((Xarrall, you may make a last post if you wish))

 

[Khasmina Zvonimir]

"Greetings." He said. "Do us both a favor and surrender. I'd rather not scar that pretty face. There's no need for this to get bloody."

Khasmina resisted the urge to roll her eyes as she looked from the paladin to the scarlet stains on her handkerchief. A little too late to avoid blood and scars, by her reckoning, though she was curious how the Tome of Blood would react to the sanguine essence of the self-proclaimed righteous.

"Oh yes, t'would be a tragedy to boast a scar upon my delicate countenance, my saving grace. I suppose if I was a hideous hag I would be twice dead already," she remarked innocently, letting her gaze follow the landscape of bones to where her blood bats floated, waiting for her next command. The heavy binds on the tome locked in place as it snapped shut in her hand. The bats shrank, lost their form, and fell to the ground in a crimson shower.

She cast a sideways glance at Sir Nathaniel with an amused smirk on her lips.

"Pray tell, Sir knight, then what would you do? Fly me up to a holy prison in the sun? Offer me up to your gods for a blessing? Mount my head upon your mantel as a trophy to display your prowess?"

Sir Nathaniel

 

[Sir Nathaniel]

Delicate countenance? Nathan thought with an amused smirk. Not the first thing he'd noticed about her. Rather, her aura was... different in a way. She was not truly evil in the sense that the undead and their master, and they positively radiated malevolence in a way that was akin to a powerful stench to his nostrils. Hers was far more... complex, perhaps? At the very least, she had dispelled the blood bats and so she was not truly intent on his death.

"Rest assured, my lady that if you were a hag, I would still like to try to speak with you. You are not my target here and so, there is no need for me to end your life."

At that, Nathan stood to his full height and, in a gesture of good faith lowered his sword before he turned directly to face her as he emerged from his cover.

"I shall do none of those things." He declared firmly. "I would no sooner wish harm upon you than on myself."

A cursory glance at her, and Nathan could tell she was younger than himself, perhaps by about a decade or so. She had long hair that was practically snow white with matching skin and dark brown eyes.

"Permit me to introduce myself. I am Sir Nathaniel Jameson, Paladin of Nykios, at your service." His tone was conversational, as if he was simply making a new acquaintance and he gave a minute bow of his head at the introduction. "And you, my lady are?"

Arms hanging loosely at his sides, Nathan awaited her response with a ghost of a smile at his lips.

 

[Vardan]

Oh, so the fight was over. What fun. And now the paladin was engaged with some sorceress, likely begging for his life. He couldn't hear. Vardan grunted and yanked one arm free of the branches, then the other, and after a great deal of swaying he fell out of the tree with an undignified thud.​

​

The wights in the yard all turned to dust, as such creatures were wont to do when their ringleader was slain. This was a great convenience. If the death knight had won, Vardan would have had to do it himself. He generally preferred not to carry out such tasks himself. But alas! His servants had forsaken him some time ago.​

​

Vardan shuffled down the hill and into the valley of the graveyard. He stowed his spyglass somewhere in the folds of his robes as he went, swapping it for a worn, silver flask. It was bound in old leather and bore a sinister rune.​

​

Good and loyal servants were hard to find, but one of the benefits of Vardan's expertise was that they could, instead, be made... Provided one possessed the right components.​

​

He arrived at the fringes of the graveyard and popped the cork off his flask.​

 

[Khasmina Zvonimir]

Khasmina regarded the paladin with quiet contempt. She had met his like many times before, back when she was merely another daughter destined to carry the Zvonimir name. She knew that bravado, that condescending authority sanctified by whatever bannerlord had forged his weapons and armor. Be it a paladin of Nykios, or an oathsworn of bloody princes... titles that only painted a thin veneer of goodness over a reality as tarnished as any murderous knave.

She'd be a fool to believe that his generous display of chivalry was anything but a demonstration of how easily he believed he could break her neck. Just as he'd be a fool to think she wouldn't slide a dagger across his throat at her first chance - if for no other reason than that unbearable tone of supremacy that reminded her so very much of her older brother Andric.

But she kept these thoughts behind a careful mask of curiosity. She wasn't yet aware of the lich meddling with the battlefield below, but she figured that, given time, the paladin's presence would attract some other shambling corpse to occupy his attention.

"And you, my lady are?"

"Khasmina Zvonimir." House Zvonimir was fairly well recognized in the more civilized regions of the Vale, and in a few other places beyond. She spoke her family name proudly - firstly because she relished defaming her house by declaring its relation to something as unsavory as a necromancer - and secondly to gauge his reaction. He looked like just the sort of man her family would hire to hunt her down. Even so, she doubted that his appearance had anything to do with her.

"It is not often that the Ixmus Graveyard plays host to a crusade. Dare I ask who or what has aroused the displeasure of... who was it again? Nylos?" she asked in a fictitious display of ignorance.

Sir Nathaniel Vardan

 

[Sir Nathaniel]

Nathan was not entirely unaware of the lich's presence, despite the considerable distance and the place they stood, and the fact the stench of malice and decay that lingered in the air. Likely, that smell would remain on Nathan's person long after his departure, he thought with an internal grin. Better to concern himself with one problem at a time, he thought, figuring it would not do to face off against three opponents all at once, especially considering Khasmina might yet be turned away from her folly and evil.

"I'm afraid I haven't heard of you or your family." He admitted in an oddly sheepish way. "Nonetheless, it is a sincere pleasure to make your acquaintance." A grin formed on his face. From his easygoing tone and the fact he lowered his sword even further, to the point where the tip nearly touched the ground, he obviously meant the compliment.

Per part of Nathan's upbringing as a nobleman, he was taught the basics of etiquette and how to read other people through the subtle signs they gave off, conscious or unconsciously. He considered her body language and her tone, the way she had deliberately mispronounced the name of the god, and other factors. She was attempting to rile him, to make him lose his temper. She was feigning ignorance and was trying to throw up walls to gauge his reactions.

He took that with good humor. In fact, he liked that. More of a challenge. All throughout, Nathan carried himself with a casual ease; his every subtle movement, from the tilt of his head, easy posture and the curl of his lips, to the slight slump of his shoulders he seemed utterly, palpably at ease.

"Nykios, the god of war." He replied softly. "That is the name of the God I serve. Yet, it is not quite a crusade. I am here for a far more personal matter."

His demeanor shifted slightly as he looked up towards the grand mausoleum near the center of the graveyard. There was something far worse up there, he mused. A presence he had not felt since...

He dismissed the thought. Better to cross that bridge when he came to it.

"And I think you are as well." He turned back to Khasmina. "I know you are a necromancer." He said in a low tone. "And that I am a Paladin. But then, that's no reason we need be enemies. If you would, indulge me." his tone seemed somewhat pleading. "Why are you here? What is it you hope to accomplish?"

_________________________________________________________________


Far away, in the central crypt, the shadowy figure watched the unfolding events with a mix of interest and strong distaste. For a while, after Stonnard had fallen, the figure was beside himself with fury and it took a great deal of strength to keep his temper under control. Although not unexpected that he would triumph, Nathan was far more powerful than he anticipated. That fight could have gone differently, he thought.

Once again, the figure turned to the coffin, reminding himself that it was the only thing that mattered, but if he suddenly found himself bereft of his 'partner', there was a very good chance his plan could fail. The cadaver within it could only be raised if everything was done in the right order. Even the slightest deviance or misstep would undo everything he was trying to accomplish.

The key element here was time, he recalled, allowing his temper to cool. Soon, the time would be right. Soon, he would be with her again and all would be well.

 

[Khasmina Zvonimir]

Spoken like an aristocrat at a ball, Khasmina thought with a measure of amusement. Somehow even out here in this rotting, gods-forsaken boneyard, she couldn't truly escape the nobility's ceaseless prattle and posturing. At least she believed Nathaniel's claim that he did not know of her house. In this case the amonymity would likely prove a boon.

The paladin's glance towards the mausoleum revealed more about his intentions than his words did. So it was her nameless benefactor that he was after. She didn't necessarily consider this a problem - to the contrary, their alliance had been formed merely for a temporary mutual benefit. Khasmina had heard through her personal grapevine of peers and information traders that the tempermental necromancer (or whatever he was) had one of the grimoires she sought. She had only arranged to assist him in the hopes that he'd let slip clues as to which tome he had and where he kept it. If he was up to what she suspected, he would likely need at least one of the books.

((not to imply that he actually has any of the grimoires in this character's bio, unless you wish to use that. She just believes he does))

She had never expected her 'ally' to part with the grimoire freely. In fact, she had fully anticipated him to turn on her the moment he discovered that she, too, possessed one part of the rare collection. If she played her hand well, the paladin might save her a great deal of trouble in obtaining it.

"It is, as you have observed, a personal matter," she explained. "A priceless family heirloom was stolen away. I believe it was brought here some time ago, so I have come to find it. Despite our differences, perhaps we have a more-or-less common goal."

Her gaze shifted to look disdainfully to her left for a moment before turning back to Sir Nathaniel. She slipped the book she'd been holding back into her bag.

If you weren't currently dead I would tell you to stop acting so childish! the necromancer thought to say but wisely kept it to herself.

Sir Nathaniel

 

[Sir Nathaniel]

Nathan waited for her to finish her explanation and raised one eyebrow. From the shift in her demeanor and the way she surreptitiously put away the book, he could tell what she was telling him was at least partially a half truth. A necromancer operating against one of their own was not unheard of, but one that was interested in reclaiming a lost family heirloom? Rather contrived even in the best of circumstances. There was no way she was that sentimental. Likely, she was after something powerful, probably in the enemy's possession.

"I must ask that you do not lie to me, my lady. Up to this point, I have been upfront and honest with you and I ask only for the same in return."

Nathan's words were blunt, but they were very gently spoken. His posture bespoke more of disappointment than outright anger, but the fact she had tried to deceive him, likely into doing her dirty work was irritating.

"With that aside, Lady Khasmina." His expression softened and his voice was even softer. "You are right in that our goals are aligned - and I will make you a deal. If you agree to do me a boon, I shall help you acquire what it is you seek. I swear upon the name of the God of War, if I am false, may I be stripped of my power and fall."

He hoped she understood the implication of what he was offering. A Paladin's word was his bond. To adhere to it so was to risk everything. If he were to go back on his word, he would lose his rank, his power and his honor. Nathan was fully prepared to commit himself to it, all in the hope it would lead to a greater good. And there was also the fact he was unsure if he could defeat his enemy alone. Someone who wielded strange power, like Khasmina would be of great benefit.

With that, in one smooth motion he turned his sword, point downwards and thrust it into the ground. Such treatment of a blade would have been unthinkable, but Godsend was no ordinary blade; one immune to rust and decay.

With his right hand now free, he outstretched it.

"Do we have an accord?"



Khasmina Zvonimir

Vardan

 

[Vardan]

Khasmina Zvonimir | Sir Nathaniel

​

Vardan shuffled through the cemetery, waving his empty flask in front of him as he went. From the motion, it looked like he was sprinkling something haphazardly over the ground. It was the opposite that occurred, of course: the rune on the flask burned a bright white, and the ash piles left by the vanquished ghouls stirred.​

​

The ashes rose into the air in thin tendrils and were sucked into the flask as Vardan passed them. Gone. The vessel showed no signs of filling even after several were claimed in this manner. Vardan only stopped what he was doing when he happened to bump into the grand mausoleum in the center of the yard.​

​

Vardan craned his neck up as if noticing the structure for the first time. Bones creaked. He put the stopper back on his flask and stowed it, then approached the doors. They were so richly decorated, carved with well-worn reliefs. A family history, maybe a founding myth...​

​

He traced one of the etchings with a bony finger. Oh, yes, very storied...​

​

This ought to be good. Vardan shoved the door open and waltzed on in.​

 

[Khasmina Zvonimir]

"I must ask that you do not lie to me, my lady.

"Lies are the crude tools of the incompetent," she retorted icily, reciting a past lesson from the harsh woman who'd been her childhood etiquette instructor. A woman who taught that there was no reason to lie in a world where words were so easily turned into beautiful half-truths. "But a lady never gives away all of her secrets, and a gentleman never asks."

A small smile crossed her face at his proposal. He'd offered his help - even swore an oath on the name of his warmongering god. The oath meant nothing to her, but it obviously meant a great deal to someone who bowed his head to the divine conspiracy. His words made her wonder... what would make a paladin fall from grace? Come crashing down into the lowest gutters of existence? How far could a paladin fall?

She stared for a long moment at his outstretched hand. "That depends. What boon would you ask of me?"

Sir Nathaniel Vardan

 

[Sir Nathaniel]

"I would simply ask that you join me for dinner once my own task here is complete." Nathan said cheerfully. "I was planning on regrouping with my brothers in arms at the Order's headquarters, but I think I can spare some time for a meal. And that aside, I am sure you are far from defenseless, but it would be a crime against chivalry to allow a lady to walk unattended." He finished kindly.

His hand did not stir and Nathan just waited patiently. A part of him was wondering exactly how his brothers would react if they found out. Arthur and Gale, he knew would lambast him for foolishly bringing an enemy into a civilized area instead of attempting to capture or simply kill her. Max would in all likelihood try to exorcise her, which amused him, given she was no demon and she showed a certain distaste for the god he served.

Elias, he thought finally, would probably grin and ask him where he had found such an attractive lady friend and probably attempt to flirt with her. Such was his nature.

_________________________________________________________________________

As the doors to the crypt opened, a voice boomed from its depths, baritone in its cadance and unbearably loud - as if the owner of the voice had a massive throat and lungs that were amplified by the cavernous interior.

"-WHO- ARE YOU!?!?"

A wave of green light briefly lit the chamber, giving the lich a brief glimpse of the figure standing near the old casket. A massive shape, easily twice that of a man stood there - wearing black armor and clutching an ornate mace.

"GET OUT!" The figure screamed in a furious voice. "LEAVE ME!"

 

[Vardan]

Khasmina Zvonimir | Sir Nathaniel

​

Vardan stood in the doorway, then made a gesture as if he were cleaning out one of his ears. "Nnnh, lower thy voice, blackguard. The dead are already quite awake..."​

​

He laughed at his own joke - a dry, rasping staccato - as he meandered further into the crypt. Like he owned the place. One of the benefits of lichdom happened to be perfect darkvision, so he navigated without issue.​

​

"A paladin has come to slay thee," Vardan said, scraping his fingers against his chest plate, "I imagine he will succeed after a fashion, unless thou'rt prepared to accept my providence."​

 

[Khasmina Zvonimir]

Khasmina chuckled, at first thinking the paladin's response to be some type of joke, and then nearly laughed herself to tears when she realized it wasn't. It took her a few moments to compose herself enough to properly speak.

"You genuinely wish to have dinner with me?" she asked, as incredulous as she was amused. "You, sir knight, strike me as well-read enough to know the great poet Paerkesesha's work - 'Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good''... yet you would ask for my humble if not sordid company. How utterly splendid!"

Though her imaginings of such a meeting left a bad taste in her mouth and was quite likely a trap, she recalled what she'd endured to get her hands on the first grimoire. She had never expected the others to be any simpler.

She nodded to Sir Nathaniel. "If you aid me in retrieving the item I seek, then I will acquiese to your request." She held out her hand for a moment, paused when she thought of something and then looked at her open palm.

"I hope you'll be agreeable to the time-honored custom of a blood pact," she said with a predatory smile as she slowly slid the dagger on her belt from its sheath.

Sir Nathaniel Vardan

 

[Sir Nathaniel]

For a long moment, Nathan stood watching her as she laughed, mesmerized by her joy and by the sound of her mirth, arms held loosely at his sides. When at last, she regained herself, he was pleased to see her so obliging so quickly.

"There also is another saying, my lady." He said calmly. "'Nature is more important than form''. And I am certain there is more to you than meets the eye. Though as I said before, yours is a pleasing appearance to my eye, I believe there is much we could learn from each other. Think of this as a chance for us to do so in a more... savory environment."

When she offered the blood pact, a part of him was wary of the thought of spilling blood, though in truth it was more his suspicion she still wanted to drive the knife into his heart than any apprehension. A blood pact was a very serious commitment, one not able to be broken, ever, by any power. But then, the thought occurred was that the agreement was that he would assist her in finding the item, not necessarily that he would help her to keep it. If it proved dangerous, it would be a simple matter to dispose of it before it could do harm to her or to him.

"We are agreed." He said finally after a minute. With that, he outstretched his arm and removed his gauntlet. Just above his hand, on his forearm were a number of faded scars; long healed to white and gradually starting to fade, but still visible to close examination.

____________________________________________________________________________


At the crypt, the figure stirred and glared long and hard at the lich. Fellow walking dead or not, he was an intruder and this matter was most delicate. It was in his nature to be wary of anyone, even those he might have called ally. No doubt even Khasmina would be a threat, given what he possessed and her own ambitions.

"If you truly wish to offer your assistance, then simply go and hold him off." Said the figure finally. "I need time to prepare. Midnight is almost upon us and if I do not act accordingly, he will succeed in disrupting my... my plan."

With that, a snap of his enormous, spiderlike fingers and several more of the undead filed into the crypt, behind the lich. Taller, stronger and much more heavily armored than his previous troops, these were utterly unlike the standard wights. These were his elite warriors; the grave-guard he called them, given they possessed a sense of sentience and had the tiniest spark of personality within their rotted brains.

"Minions." He addressed them aloud, even though he did not need to. They would follow any command telepathically. "You will accompany this lich and follow his instructions as if they were my own. A terrible threat to me has appeared. Until then, you will keep that whelp from interfering. I care not if all of you fall to his blade. Do not fear him, fear my wrath if you fail me!"

At this, they stood at attention and saluted with their skeletal palms to their ribcages.

Vardan Khasmina Zvonimir

 

[Vardan]

Khasmina Zvonimir | Sir Nathaniel

​

The old lich sat in silent disbelief for a long moment, until finally the blackguard's words sunk in and he entered an indignant rage. "Impudent, wretched fool," Vardan snapped, "Presumest thou to command me? I am not some low-bred scullion to be ordered about!"​

​

Vardan spat at the ground, but as he obviously lacked the requisite anatomy, nothing but the sound was produced. He was practically rattling with rage. "Midnight! Nhnngh! What a farce, that thy lackwit, feeble sorcery is bound to the hour. Pathetic workings. Thy fate is to be food for worms."​

​

He stormed off, flinging the doors to the mausoleum wide open as he left. Even after this dramatic exit, Vardan continued to skulk around near the structure, fists clenched, fuming.​