Private Tales The Sanctuary

A private roleplay only for those invited by the first writer
TMITM

TMITM

Megalomaniacal Arbiter
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A humongous circular, domed, stone building with the entire history of this world and many others chiseled on it's walls and ceiling. There is a great deal of empty space, however, for telling stories that are to come.
The Caretaker lives here, a friendly soul who guards and cleans The Sanctuary, and offers knowledge to all who ask. His soul is bound to The Sanctuary as he chisels out history for all time. He cannot leave. Nor does he want to.
Those with burning questions in their hearts are drawn to this place, seeking answers to all they ask. And the Caretaker will answer them. Be careful, though... you might not like the answer.

At the end of a long hallway, though, is a Door. Sometimes it leaks Darkness, sometimes it radiates Light. Always it is locked.
 
Chaceledon walked into the building. The dragon had one eyebrow arched, intrigued by the size and shape of such a place. The scattered scribblings in the walls looked random and yet clustered in some sort of insane organization... but the room wasn’t entirely empty either.

The dragon cut a figure who was entirely out of place. He was tall, and dressed in soft violet robes layered in blues and whites to reflect the shifting season. He’d decided on a theme of snowdrops this year, with glass flowers holding up hair he’d painstakingly dyed from copper to white. It was half-pinned, with long snowy sheets trailing down his spine. Blues around his purple eyes made them more vibrant, as did soft dustings of blue powder on his lips.

The dragon explored the room, his glass nails reaching out to touch the stories on the walls. Who had made all this?

TMITM
 
"Ah, welcome, Skulblaka," Said the Caretaker, turning from chiseling a small engraving on the walls. "Welcome to the Sanctuary." He abandoned the half-finished project and turned to spread his arms wide in welcome. "This is a place of knowledge and learning. I will not tolerate any fighting or bloodshed within these walls," He said, turning around and gazing upon his own work. "I am the Caretaker. If you have any questions, do not hesitate to ask."

Chaceledon
 
Chaceledon eyed the other man. “Skulblaka?” he asked with one delicately plucked eyebrow raised. He folded his arms across his narrow chest, long lashes waving as he looked the other up and down. “Excuse you, do I look armed?” the dragon lifted his chin and went to examine the walls again, frowning. The Sanctuary? Where exactly in Arethil were they?

“And exactly where is this Sanctuary? I was in Falwood the last time I checked.” Chaceledon remarked. “You spend all your time here frittering away at the walls?”

TMITM
TheCaretaker
 
The Caretaker smiled and nodded. "You know as well as I that you not being armed is no guarantee of safety." He turned and went back to his work. "You were in Falwood, but... you're here now." You can go back to Falwood whenever you please."
"Yes, for the most part, I do," He said, a small smile still on his face. "It is my life, but my passion is answering questions," He said, "And I think you have one."
 
Fine, if this one insisted on being vague, he’d play along. Chaceledon sighed. “I do. Where in Arethil are we, exactly? Surely you don’t live here. I would wager your home is behind that door.” he nodded to the door on the far end of the round room. He waited patiently for the man to answer his question. What sort of man simply went by ‘The Caretaker’? Someone his captor would have strung up by the testicles, he thought grimly.

TheCaretaker
 
The Caretaker smiled.
"Don't you get it? We are not really in Arethil at all. This is more... something else. A pocket dimension, I guess you'd call it." The Caretaker shook his head and smiled. "And you'd be right. My home is behind that door. But I share it with others, and one, in particular, is not fond of visitors."
Chaceledon
 
Chaceledon couldn’t raise an eyebrow any further but he imagined the first might have gotten stuck. “Right, well I could use your help then. I need you to make this room as warm as possible...whatever you are. It is freezing in here.” he looked around for somewhere to sit. Honestly who could stand living in a dank stone room with no decoration? Was logging tales really all this man did? Wasn’t paper more efficient and, most importantly, portable?

“If he’s not so fond of visitors then he can explain how I got here. Pocket dimensions of this size are rare. I’d say you need a lot of power to maintain something this big for this long. Compensating for something?” the dragon smirked and pulled some of the pins from his hair, letting the copper cascade down his back. He could separate and repin it, just to improve the style a little.

TheCaretaker
 
"Ah, sorry about that. I forget sometimes about environmental factors." The Caretaker waved his hand and the room's temperature went to a more comfortable one for Chaceledon. "You got here because something or someone wanted you to be here - or, no matter what you think, you wanted to be here."
Upon the last question, the Caretaker chuckled. "Not as much as you'd think. Once the pocket dimension is created, it doesn't take much power to maintain it - maintaining the door is the most taxing part."
"And no, trust me, you do not want to meet him."
 
Chaceledon felt the room warm. It was a temperature far hotter than most fae or men could stand; dragons were born in scorching deserts and sunny mountains. The kind of climate he preferred usually had every other race running to the water troughs.

The dragon frowned at the door. Well, he’d ended up here. He didn’t particularly want to be here, but at the very least if he was here it wasn’t in the hideous black cell his captor called an estate.

The dragon walked to a wall next to the Caretaker to get a better look as to what he was working on. “So you sequester yourself here scribbling...what in the walls, exactly? And for what purpose?”

TheCaretaker
 
The Caretaker chuckled slightly. "I 'scribble' history. The past, the present, and, very rarely, the future." The Caretaker shrugged. "All a matter of perspective."
"What purpose? Some say the purpose of studying history is so that we'll never repeat it," The Caretaker said, tilting his head slightly. "...But that hasn't stopped anyone. I suppose, however, it's easier to figure out where you're going by looking back at where you've been."
Chaceledon
 
Chaceledon smirked. History? Of course it was easier to study history than to repeat it, but this one acted as though he knew all. Who could write history chained in a small room with no experience of the outside world? Why write history instead of experiencing or making it?

He folded his arms across his chest. “So youre in here instead of out there, writing about what happens in Arethil. How do you know if you can’t see it or don’t speak to anyone? Let’s put your skills to the test then, in the interest of boredom. Tell me the history of my sons.” He challenged.

Something that very few people knew outside of himself, the Volkers themselves, and Oor. There had been a thousand rumors about his adopted children over the years, but very few of them were true. He considered it an experiment. If this one vomited up one of the ridiculous claims about Klaus being a demon or Ferenzi being a sidhe, he’d be satisfied in knowing the Caretaker’s knowledge was purely speculative or based on outside source.

If he spoke truly...well. That would indeed be interesting.

TheCaretaker
 
The Caretaker's face grew solemn and he pointed to an engraving directly behind where he was standing, a few years prior to the current date, which depicted Chaceledon caring for his adopted sons, overshadowed by a huge engraving of Oor.
"I have watched you and your sons for a long time, and I was happy to see you regain your hjarta, your heart, Menoa'Skullblaka," The Caretaker said, his friendly demeanor vanishing and replaced with a solemn face of intense familiarity.
 
Chaceledon chuckled as he walked up to the carving. “Regain my what, exactly?” he looked at it. Himself and Volker. He’d raised Rheinhard, and he considered many of the man’s ancestors his own sons. They had taught him humility and empathy, especially given their mutual poor situations.

“And when did you begin watching us, exactly? And how? I have to question the motives of a creature who had supposedly seen our suffering and turned a blind eye.” Chaceledon remarked. He touched the carving, and leaned forward to blow on it. Flames leapt from his mouth, violet heat cracking the visage of the dragon in stone.

What a ridiculous carving. It almost made them look like a family.

TheCaretaker
 
"Your heart, Menoa'Skulblaka."
The Caretaker waved his hand and the crack repaired itself. "I could not help you. I am gifted with knowledge of happenings beyond this room, but I cannot interfere..." The Caretaker's smile slowly returned. "...unless you came to me."
The Caretaker chuckled. "Do you really think you finding this place was an accident? Only five people, by my count, and my count is pretty reliable, have found this place, and all by my choice. This was no accident."
 
“Chaceledon. Not...whatever a blala is.” The dragon corrected, eyeing the carving. The crack repaired itself. His mouth set in a thin line as he looked at the other. “Cannot or would not? You’ve still not answered my question. You’ve told me nothing that isn’t public knowledge. Everyone knows I’ve raised the Volkers. My question was about specifics. When did you begin watching? Should be a simple question if you’re as omniscient as you claim.”

The dragon looked down his nose at the Caretaker, then walked to the door. “Ive always been a bit sick of people up and dragging me places.” He grasped the handle, and threw the door open.

TheCaretaker
 
Once the door was open, there was no stopping it. The Darkness inside seemed to suck everything in, reality itself folding, twisting, writhing, collapsing, into the dark expanse of...
Nothing.
Hurtling through nothing, maybe, maybe this wasn't such a good idea. As you shoot through the darkness, though, you begin to hear voices. A thousand, whispering voices that overlapped in an almost silent cacophony of whispered noise.
Holes of a different kind, Islingr.
He always comes back
Can you help me?
It was always you.
Eventually, the noise died down and you hear what seems to be a whispered conversation between a girl and a strangely deep voice surfaced.
Oh, we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad.
How do you know I'm mad?
The darkness rushed faster and faster.
You must be, or you wouldn't have come.
 
The Cool air on the balcony of a large cabin tickled the skin as a woman walked up behind you.
"Aren't you cold?"
The Woman's voice and presence has a strange soothing effect to them.
 
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