Open Chronicles Thirst of the Ascended

[Emmeline Hildebrandt]

Emmeline made no attempt to depart, unlike the companions she'd adopted in the descent into the cistern. Instead, as the battle ended, she returned her remaining blade to its home at her hip and watched in silence. The thief's departure didn't escape the Noct Yaegir's notice. Fully aware of her own crimes, and perhaps in a way duty-bound by her past employment as a member of the city's own watch, she opted to lag behind and await her punishment.

Pale green eyes swept over those present; however, rather than approach the house's commander herself, the woman went instead for the man she'd maimed that was forced to withdraw from battle. She could feel the bruise forming upon her shoulder from where he'd bashed her into the wall and while she felt bitterness in the wake of such aggression, Emma knew damn well she had no business being there.

"Apologies," the woman said quietly. Her tone was genuine, and the madness that twisted her actions and stare seemed to have calmed in the time since the battle's end. She reached out a hand to offer any aid she could, and personally ensured that the injured guard reached assistance among his own before she finally searched out Petrus.

Petrus Ritus Iskandar

 

[Karskgorak Fiend-Crusher]

Once it was clear that the only things that could threaten Afanas’ life were his current wounds, Kargorak left the lord commander’s side and sought out the acting leader of the guard to discuss what else would need to be done.

“Ho, good human fellow!” Karsk said approaching Petrus. “A guard has told me that you are in charge for the moment and-.”

“Ah! Yaegir Emmeline! I was wondering where you were. Don’t look so glum girl, the night is saved! the villains lie dead and we stand victorious and righteous in our actions. That’s hardly the situation one should be so close to tears! After all, they deserved it!”

Before Emmeline or Petrus could respond though, Karsk noticed the male Drow making his way for an exit from the cistern.

“Ancestors within me! The murderer is fleeing unstopped and unmolested!”

The old orc broke into a sprint, racing across the cistern to try and catch the Drow.

“STOP YOU FIEND, JUSTICE DEMANDS YOUR DEATH!!”

Karsk would chase the Drow out of the cistern and into the streets of Alliria, causing plenty of property damage along the way. Ultimately though, the trail would go cold and Karskgorak would be forced to give up the hunt several hours later.

 

[Forces of Iskandar]

While Petrus himself was not present Drystan would give a beaming smile at Karskgorak Fiend-Crusher and the finely-dressed servant of House Iskandar would chuckle as the orc seemed to get distracted as quickly as he made his introduction. He would then arch a brow as Emmeline Hildebrandt was directed to him. Rubbing his chin Drystan would glance at Afanas and hum.

"Let me think... you wounded one of the Lord Commander's men on our House's property. I suppose if the Lord Commander takes no exception we could see to the application of the law in the judicial sense. Buuuut...."

Drystan looked over at the vampire she had wounded, not quite re-dead and regenerating slowly, before clicking his tongue and sighing.

"... the Lord Commander's troops tend to not carry their wounds for long unless they're extinguished entirely. The grudges attached to said wounds...."

Drystan trailed off and shrugged.

"Very well. We will take you into House Iskandar custody, your compliance will be noted, and you can join this lovely Drow and I for our trip."

He would give an easy, charming smile to Feyrith as some of the House Iskandar troops would pull Emmeline's arms behind her back and cuff her.​

 

[Fraternitas Draconis]

The red plate moved like a thought through the damp, lantern-filmed dark—lacquer whispering, rivets ticking, the cistern’s breath rising in cold drafts that smelled of iron and old prayers. Two of the beasts—because that’s what their visors made of them, muzzled nightmares chiselled from heraldry—were at Afanas in a heartbeat. They lifted him as if he were both sacrament and specimen, lengthwise, one pair of gauntlets cinched at the ankles, the other at the wrists. He made no more blood: that river had run back into him or else withdrawn like a scandalized tide. Where his left lung and half his ribcage should have been was a clean, obscene crescent—an empty reliquary. White spars of bone showed like the hull-ribs of a wrecked ship; meat glimmered with the jeweler’s sheen of wet stone; threads of sinew tightened and slackened as though the body were a loom weaving itself a new gospel. His face, pallid and severe, tilted once toward the hole he’d torn in the wall, as if recognizing his own passage like a dog recognizes its shadow.

They bore him toward that rupture—a crude, mouth-like geometry in the masonry, lips of pulverized mortar and toothy brick—quickly, reverently, the way mourners sometimes hurry, wanting the awful pageant finished, wanting the coffin closed before the corpse remembers it can sit up and speak.

Behind them, steel feet repositioned with a surgeon’s lack of mercy. Close to a dozen of the red plates flowed to occupy the space between Zyndyrr and the exit, making a low, serrated crescent. Spears and swords leveled; the beasts’ faces came down with a hiss, snouts locked, incisors bared in hammered snarl. The lantern light flickered over them, and the visored men breathed in the measured animal rhythm of men who have learned to make their lungs obey a drum. Water plinked. Somewhere a rat—or a thought—changed direction.

The foremost stepped out until his shadow touched the drow’s boots. When he spoke, the voice came filtered through the wolfish mask, oddly intimate for all its steel: “Lord Commander will wish to speak with you, once he is back to his senses. If you fancy leaving the city with all of your limbs still attached to you, you’ll accept his interrogation.”

Zyndyrr K'yoshin
Karskgorak Fiend-Crusher
Forces of Iskandar
Emmeline Hildebrandt
Feyrith