Private Tales The Baleful Light of Stars

A private roleplay only for those invited by the first writer
Jaken looked out of the room. It was located in the middle of a long hall illuminated with nothing but torches. The hall had a dirt-like brown tone, which made Jaken think they might be undeground, but nothing was sure until getting out. The hall was empty. IT was time to move in. The werewolf looked back at Isopel and nodded. Then, he walked silently out of the hall. Stealthiness was the best option to move around. He continuely glanced back at the boy, making sure that he stayed closed to him and that no one could attck them from the back.

"How far of are we to get this complete?" Jaken could hear from afar, maybe behind a door. Immediately, he stopped, bowing his head down to focus and listen better. It was that man that had 'talked' to Isopel. He uncounsciously growled at the Man's voice.
"We are close sir."
"Give me a number."
"Maybe an hour."
"MAYBE is not the same as EXACT." the man roared "Just hurry up. For HE needs to receive his energy now."
"<<The hell is he talking about?>>" Jaken thought.
The pair kept creeping on the hall, being as quiet as possible.
 
Isopel stalked behind Jaken, eyes ahead. As they moved, the child remained close, more afraid of being lost than of meeting one of the cultists. The orange torch glow was unnerving to Isopel, who far preferred natural light from the stars or sun. They shuddered, rubbing their arms, eyes staring up at Jaken.

They, of course, did not notice the sound, walking directly into Jaken and striking them, falling over with a thud. The sound was not loud, not particularly, and Isopel was glad that it alerted no-one. Such a mistake was unlikely to fall in their favour twice over, though, so as Isopel scrambled to their feet, the roaring man on the other side of the door so loudly going unheard, they stuck close to Jaken. They really didn't want to be drained of their power, or worse yet - sacrificed, though deep down, they knew that that was the worst case scenario in this time.
 
Jaken heard the thud behind him. Isopel had caused it, maybe by accident. But an accident could be the difference between life and death. Jaken almost forced Isopel's mouth shut aggresively, but then he remembered the whole 'touch the kid and you literally wither to death'. Yeah, maybe sometime later. Jaken made the sign to stay quiet at the kid. The pair continued with their path, avoiding looks and noises. If only Isopel could here. Maybe the kid would be more carefull than he had been.

Eventually, they entered a place high above where many cultist were supervising the area. There were slaves working, but different kind of slaves: these had the face of death. No emotions on their eyes, no will to live, they looked drugged or if the soul had been ripped out of them. THey look in eternal sufferement. Was this what Jaken would havegone through if Isopel had not broken them free? Jaken knew there are worse fates than death. And this was one of them. Doomed to be ann emotionless slave. "Damn bastards..." he growled "I'll kill them all."
 
Isopel tried as hard as they could to be silent. It was difficult, but they tried, stalking behind Jaken. They succeeded, even, as they made their way through the complex. Perhaps one would make the comment about how ironic it was, Isopel following like a lost puppy, but that was neither here nor there.

As they moved, staring down to the people, Isopel's eyes widened. They watched with a dim look on their face, quiet and contemplative. While Jaken's comment went unheard, Isopel would easily have agreed. The slaves beneath moved to draw ritual lines, chalk moving across the ground as cultists examined their tomes. It must be perfect. And while the mindshackled were not precise, there were many of them, and through sheer trial and error their task would surely eventually be completed.
 
The emotionless slaves were working on a symbol. He did not know what all that could be about. Neither did he recognized the symbols. He had seen a lof of symbols on his life as a bounty hunter: the symbol of cults, of scavengers, of politicians, but nothing like this. This was new, and if he took into account the situation they were in, it probably did not represented cute animals and flowers. Whatever it was, it could be dangerous. But what Jaken wanted to do was escape the place and never return again. Then, something popped in his head, some sort of dilema. "<<Should I stop whatever is going on or should I leave them be and get the fuck outta here?>>" He also remebered about Isopel. Could he be involved in all of this. If he could only know the sign language to communicate with the deaf child.

Maybe it was a good idea to stop this, after all, nothing ever happened in other days. So this was the beggining of something that mght change life as they knew it. Sometimes, new things can bring chaos and destruction. Besides, the Man gave a big emphasis on... HIM, apparently. He never said a name, only HIM or HE. Jaken deducted that there was some god plot going on. But what kind of god? For it to be needing the power of an undead child, it seemed that it wasn't a good idea for HIM to stuck around. There were all types of gods. Even these kind of nutjob gods.

Jaken signaled Isopel to stay close. Moving on from the scene, Jaken wandered if there was something he could do to stop the ritual immediately. There had to be something. Maybe an explosion, or fire, or maybe... mass murder. Something, ANYTHING.
 
Isopel stayed close, at the signal. It wasn't as if they were particularly thrilled by the prospect of going to meet with the other cultists. They stared out, down into the ritual room. The beings continued to draw their symbols, failing and erasing. The mindshackled were no good at complex things, but if they did it enough times eventually they would make it perfect. And then the ritual could begin. And it would be glorious.

Jaken could see that the room had supervising cultists, and the mindshackled. The runes were primarily drawn with chalk, but some parts were made with ink. With the care taken into the sigils, it was clear that it was the image that gave or bound the power, not the materials. If it were to be erased, then they would have to start all over. Or, if all the people were slain, the image could never be completed. Perhaps a flood of water could prevent the image from being drawn, as chalk and ink were not particularly well equipped to remain legible in water.

Staring down, Isopel squinted. They wondered if they could just release the miasma into the room. The blight would be hideously effective from a high perch, but it would give away their position easily. Decisions, decisions...
 
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