Somnus

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Dawnbreak
Posts: 121
Joined: Sat May 21, 2016 2:27 am
Location: Canada

Somnus

Postby Dawnbreak » Sat Dec 24, 2016 1:00 pm

"I-'îl gelair fîr, si e gwanna menel... si gwannathon i amar, garel lass vi cammen. Shh, shh... that is it. That's just it."

Selgaunt's streets come alive at the midnight hours, if not with carousing and cheer, then elsewise with the less savory sorts of folk. A city built with the wealth of merchants on the shores of the Sea of Fallen Stars, its docks and piers were one such locale, frequented by rowdy sailors, and served home to seedy taverns. Though even within these parts, there were pockets of temporary calm. Of darkness and of respect paid to one individual, whose mournful keening permeated the air on several such occasions, with naught but eerie silence to follow. The alleys around him silenced, as if he was the lone occupant of those streets, for hours on end, and when the morning light shone, those same alleys and streets would host the soulless husk of his newest victim - a corpse wearing the visage of pure serenity. Its killer held a voice to be reckoned with, as sharp as the wide variety of light weaponry he wore, its impact would cut and pierce just as deep. An inhumanly lithe and graceful figure, and rightfully so, as the figure belonged to one of the People. A Silver Elf, with an uncharacteristic brown hue to his hair, though the rest of his kind's features were maintained; blue eyes flecked with gold, and pale skin tinged with an icy blue. His chiseled appearance was one that would belong in the most marvelous of tapestries, as most Elves would, and naught about him seemed repulsive to the eye, not at his most disfavorable times. Out of his kind's element, he wore garbs that fit the part - reinforced, earthen-colored leathers that kept a tight embrace to his form, the aforementioned weapons strategically strapped and hooked to various, easy to reach places.

Tonight, he once again held his victim in his arms, watching them drift off to sleep, a vague smile cresting his features.

Tonight was, perhaps only a touch different.


"Cormamin niuve tenna' ta elea lle au', Cyrielle." To the woman he held in his arms, these words meant nothing, for her heart already ceased its beat. Her visage was not far off his own, though she was Human and not Elven. Her skin was kissed by the sun more oft than his, and her brown hair was fuller, her hazel-blue eyes deeper; a fact he remembered despite that they were closed. A simple dress, she wore, not one fit for a lady but not one to dress a pauper with, either, though now it was stained with a slim slither of blood, a faint trickle that ran down from her lips.

Her murderer chuckled. "...Ah, my dear, ever have you longed to simply come out and see me, knowing my work, knowing my prey... just the sight was enough."

His eyes searched her face, quickly, while he bit down on his lip and murmured out. "Tonight was not the night for that. He paid me good gold, you know, and while I ache... I also know when to let go."

The words caused his seemingly pensive expression to dissipate, replaced by a cold, blank stare. And then he stood, dropping her from his knelt hold into the mud, beginning to straighten his collar as he looked down upon her for one last time.

From somewhere behind him came a pebble, colliding with the back of his head and dropping into a puddle with a soft clink.
Last edited by Dawnbreak on Sun May 07, 2017 2:23 am, edited 1 time in total.
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User avatar
Dawnbreak
Posts: 121
Joined: Sat May 21, 2016 2:27 am
Location: Canada

Somnus

Postby Dawnbreak » Sun May 07, 2017 2:22 am

Wooden floorboards creaked with every leather-padded step, the old rundown building seeming to buckle at any inkling of pressure. The slums and shantytowns of Tantras were in a decrepit state, almost crumbling into dust from decades of neglect - there was simply no coin to go around between the lower class, and it was not like the merchant elite truly cared. This was the lot of many living on the coast of the Dragon's Reach, or so Cyrielle had come to know.

Tantras was not much different to where she was born, and she knew this. There, too, the floorboards would feel as if they were a building's only support, as if the wrong step would bring all the woodwork down around her. She knew how to maneuver it all, how to keep calm and how to move to make the least amount of noise and how to cover the most distance. She knew, too, the sense of adrenaline that overtook her when she spotted her target.

Standing in the gloom of the house's den was a lone figure, slim and clad in a man's night clothes. She took another step, then entered a slow, mournful melody, her voice piercing the silence just so. A simple lullaby, were it not for the magically infused intonations and crescendos; her keening took a turn for the sinister, as the figure began swaying, slumping... Cyrielle's hand was already closed in on a dagger's sheath...

...Then she pounced, breaking off her magic! ...Only to be greeted by a sudden swing of an arm from the same figure, a fist embedding itself in her airborne gut. Falling to the floor with a thud, she writhed a moment in pain, gasping for hollow breaths to fill the empty space in her lungs; above her, the figure turned, angular features bending to stare down directly at her with a slight frown of disapproval. The brown-haired, blue-eyed Silver Elf, the same one that had killed the woman that may as well have been her mother (for she did not know for certain), an Elf that bore features that were strikingly similar to hers. There was no exchange between them over it, and she denied it fervently - but all logic pointed to the truth that she kept away from her mind.


"Sloppy. Very... sloppy." The Elf tutted, stepping away from the squirming half-blood to peer about the abandoned household they used for their training facility while staying in the Vashtar city. "At least this time, I couldn't hear you coming until you were just about ready for the Song - but, you started it too late, and ended too early. Easier prey would give way, but not any trained individual."

Slowly rising and seating herself while he spoke, the young girl sniveled and ran the back of her hand against her lips, ridding herself of the slight trickle of blood. She spoke in kind, with a weary breath, "...We have been doing this for twenty years-" only to be cut off by a firm scolding. "...And we will be doing it for twenty more until you succeed. I own you, Cyrielle, lest you forget... and your attempts at escape have been less than fruitful." He turned around, moving quickly to her to squat down with the building emitting a loud groan in protest despite the elf's lithe stature, his piercing blue, vulpine eyes narrowing and transfixing on her own - which took out a discomforted frown from the woman he raised to adulthood, making her avert her gaze as if obedient chattel.

"Just when will you start learning?" He asked, in a stage whisper.

"When you tell me why."

"Then we shall stay together, forever; for telling you will only ruin the point."

"...I will kill you when I learn." Turning her gaze back to him, the frown turning into a tight-lipped, vindicated stare, she spat. "...Kill you and leave you for the crows, so that they could taste of y--" She was interrupted, again, but this time not by a firm scolding - but by a fist clashing against her cheek, a punch thrown to silence. A task it completed, as Cyrielle fell limp to the floor, in an unconscious daze. Her captor, her mentor, her torturer and her father rose up, slowly, speaking his answer to her threat for the silent audience that was the nothingness in the abode,

"I am counting on it."
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