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Whispers in the Dark, Screams in the Night

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Siannen Darkmoon	Whispers in the Dark, Screams in the Night	Lead	[-]
Posts: 4 (12/06/10 11:21 PM) Sigil of Sinful Desires Order of the Arcane Reply Quote More My Recent Posts	Tags : None From the journals of Siannen Darkmoon, Duchess of Neriak April of 3218 I hear them. All the time now, I hear them. Whispers in the dark, screams in the night. My Dark Lord’s breathe an icy cold upon the back of my neck, his fingers cold and numbing down my back. Still they come unbidden, screams of agony, cries of the dying. How can one who embodies hate itself be so sensual. How can the whispers soothe the soul? Is this the beginnings of the slow descent into gibbering madness that befalls the gnomish people? To fear that which birthed you? To loathe that which sustains you? To … hate … that which fulfills you? Endless questions leading to answers that give birth to still more questions. As I wander through our ancestral home, I hear sounds in the waking world. I focus on them, attempting futilely to drown out the whispers and screams. I pass the armory where Sildarye and Jinila endlessly fight and train. No quarter is ever asked, nor is any ever expected. Sildarye is by far the stronger but Jinila’s ingenuity impresses her still. I watch silently from the darkness, listening to the clash of swords over and over. I close my eyes, allowing myself to fall into the peace of the ringing blades. With loss of vision though, other senses heighten. Now the coppery scent of blood assails me, a small disciplinary cut on Jinila’s midriff. The whispers become screams and shock me back to reality. I leave quietly, but quickly, not wanting to have the visions of blood start once more. My wanderings carry me to the study. In literature and stories, studies are portrayed as cozy, the fireplaces giving warmth and life to the rooms. Not so in the Hall of the Ebon Moon. There is no kindness or warmth here. Like many studies, the trophies of great hunts adorne the walls: the heads of dragons, griffons, and other vicious creatures rest eternally beside the skulls of Feir’dal, Koad’dal, humans, and all manner of “civilized” races. The irony is lost upon my sisters. Here, Utilaa, Taladrie, and Queili have their never ending arguments over the most effective application of the Weave. They beseech me to join in their discussion, to add my voice and my thoughts on the blackest of arts. Almost instantly, the whispers turn to screams. “Summon the dead in this room! Summon us to slay your sisters!” And to fall forevermore into the waiting arms of the Darkest Lord of Hatred. That part is not screamed at me. No, the smallest of voices in my head speaks those words. I decline without a word and continue my roamings. Finally, I come to the place I dread most and to the home of my final sister: the temple of Innoruuk. Fildiine is the High Priestess here. I stand near the back of the temple, just inside the massive doors of admantite. The doors were forged hundreds of years ago and bear images of Innoruuk’s hatred and his conquests. The temple is quiet. There is no sign of Fildiine here. I gaze upon the symbols of Innoruuk, Neriak and the Darkmoon family. There are no words for my feelings here. To say hatred would be an insult to the word. I turn to leave and the soft scent of night-grown lilacs strikes me. My sister is here. Her hands cold upon my shoulders, whether from the metal of her armor or something else makes no difference. “Come honored sister” she whispers. “Come join us”. I realize with growing dread just how much her whisper sounds like those in my head. With that very thought, my own whispers grow louder: “She has laid her hands upon you! Slay her! Rip the heart from her body!” I shrug off her hands and turn to face her. I manage to give her my most haughty stare. Should I tell her? Do my dreams begin here? Whispers in the dark, screams in the night. I leave without speaking. My answers are not here this night. I return to my bedroom, lock the door behind me and speak the words of binding. The dark shade glides silently forward and speaks in that most sibilant of whispers: “Your command, Mistress?” I can feel it’s power, waiting to be unleashed. The cruelest of ironies visited upon the Necromancers. To carry the bone chips of our lovers forevermore to summon the shades for battle. Whispers in the dark, screams in the night.
Siannen Darkmoon	The Winter Solstice	#1	[-]
Posts: 5 (12/15/10 7:37 PM) Sigil of Sinful Desires Order of the Arcane Reply Quote More My Recent Posts	From the journals of Siannen Darkmoon, Duchess of Neriak December of 3199 The winter solstice touches us this night. It seems only fitting this shall be a moonless night as well. Being the eldest of family I am called to the council meetings to discuss our celebrations. I learned long ago what celebration means to a Tier’dal. And it is far from pleasant. As per custom, I am escorted by two of my choosing. As my interest in such matters is less than enthusiastic to say the least, I chose to bring my two sword-wielding sisters. Donned in matching armor of plate, they make for an imposing sight. My fervent hope is that everyone at the council table will be so impressed with looking at them they will either not notice my extreme distaste or choose to ignore it altogether. It is not long before the feasting is at an end and my pleasant idle watching of the revealingly dressed servants is at an end. One thing I will say for Neriak is that it has extremely creative tailors. There have been times when meetings such as these have deteriorated into gatherings that would make Tholuxe Paells blush. Unfortunately, this was not to be such a night. Matters turned to business all too suddenly and the servants were ushered out, doors were locked and sealing spells were cast to guard from prying eyes and ears. Slavery is an accepted way of life in Neriak. However, Tier’dal are less than caring masters as a general rule and the life expectancy of most slaves is extremely short. Because of that, slave raids are quite common and have become so ingrained in our society that it has become something of a right of passage for the younger Tier’dal. Contests are held to see who can bring back the most, the youngest, the most powerful, the least damaged, and all sorts of other morbid categories. As I find the practice distasteful, I do not join the hunts, feigning other pressing matters. However, since slavery is expected in Neriak, I find our house to be filled with them anyway. I often wonder if our society would fail entirely with the sudden emancipation of our slaves. An intriguing thought. In any event, the council determined the Solstice celebration should culminate with a raid on Kelethin, the tree city of the Fier’dal and a favorite target of the raiders. Fier’dal were highly prized as slaves and the raid would draw a large number of volunteers. Indeed, I could sense my sisters excitement already. Plans were made, instructions given and all was made ready for the expedition the following evening. The evening of the raid in the Darkmoon house was a time of even more hustle and bustle than usual. I made some poor excuse of having to research some terrible life-stealing spell and was not to be disturbed. Instead, I retreated to my private study with a bottle of the finest brandy and sealed the doors. With only the fire in the fireplace giving light to the room, the shadows deepened and moved of their own accord. Those trained to listen like the Shadowknights can hear the shadows speaking. Those gifted, or cursed, like the Necromancers can understand them. And then there is myself. My curse is to be able to converse with them. Nearly everyone knows the frustration of haggling with a dwarf or giving instructions to a gnome. Both pale in comparison to trying to explain balance to a shadow. Without light, there can be no shadows. Without life, there can be no death. Cold fingers tracing along my cheek, they whisper to me to extinguish the flames, to destroy the light. I ignore them and stare into the flames, quietly sipping the brandy, waiting for the night to end. Sometimes I think I see deep blue sapphire above my mantle winking with a light it should not have, but as my gaze goes to it, it seems as dead as ever. Tear of Erollisi Marr indeed. Another useless trinket I was given in my youth. If anything is learned in Neriak, it is that love is bought and sold, never given freely. All too soon, the raid returns and from the whoops and shouts, it seems it was wildly successful. I hear my sisters’ names being shouted. It seems at least some of them have won some of the contests. I glance one last time at the tear. Why? A secret desire perhaps? I know not, and in any event, the tear is as dead as ever. With a sigh, I set down my glass and prepare to meet the victorious raiders.
Siannen Darkmoon	The Winter Solstice (continued)	#2	[-]
Posts: 6 (12/17/10 7:06 PM) Sigil of Sinful Desires Order of the Arcane Reply Quote More My Recent Posts	From the journals of Siannen Darkmoon, Duchess of Neriak December of 3199 Does anyone know their own heart until it is truly tested? I have heard the surface races throw the term “love” about with what seems like furious abandon. I have heard that it is easier for the so-called good races to love than it is for those of the darkness. I have heard the Gods of Light love their children so that is the explanation. I challenge anyone who believes such nonsense to come to Neriak after a slave raid and look upon the sea of faces I have seen to continue to believe. Who can tell me where the love of their gods goes when dark tunnels of the Undercity lock them away from the light forevermore? As I exit the house, my sisters are entering the compound with a trail of shackled, sobbing slaves being dragged by the house guards – huge ogres, slobbering orcs, and other such nasty creatures. I see the faint rays of hope die in the eyes of the captives as they see me. Do I exhibit such an air of malice that my mere presence is enough to quell the aspirations of freedom? It is my secret desire in the deepest reaches of my heart that this is not the case. The chattering and grunts slow and then silence as I walk down the line of slaves that are stood before me like a parade line. First in line are the men. Some look upon me with fear. These are the young, the untested. I try to gaze into the eyes of each, but all bow their heads in shame, refusing my gaze. Some look upon me with resignation. These are the old, waiting to find out when and how they will die, all hope already abandoned. Then comes a handsome young Fier’dal. He looks upon me not with fear or defeat, but defiance. Interesting. He is well built, the body of a warrior and one who has seen many battles. I circle him slowly, trailing my fingers across his broad shoulders, lightly tracing the faded scars there. To credit his bravery, he does not turn to watch me, but endures my touch with stoicism. One the guards points to a pile of armor and weapons and beautifully polished bow. The warrior is a Ranger, and an accomplished one at that. Rarely are Rangers captured alive in the raids so little is known of them in Neriak. I complete my circuit and return to face him. He is taller than me and I look up into his clear green eyes. He returns my gaze without hesitation. I could fall into those eyes and indeed, I begin to. A cough from the guard captain interrupts my pleasant reveries. With annoyance, I continue on my trek. Next are the women. My gaze lingering on the Ranger, I come upon a lovely Fier’dal with hair of flame holding a babe. She glares at me with anger in her eyes. I send my gaze quickly back to the Ranger and then once more to her. Ahhhh, the Ranger’s mate. Perhaps she fears the competition? A slight smile touches my lips. Jealousy is an emotion Tier’dal understand well. I am about to move on when something catches my eye. Stopping, I focus my attention on the babe in her arms. I look into her face and see her green eyes, small sparkles of silver mixed into the deep emerald. And again to the babe. That he is Fier’dal there is no doubt, nor is there doubt that he is the woman's child. But no Fier’dal ever had eyes of violet. No Fier’dal ever had my eyes. I gaze more closely. The woman attempts to shelter the child. I hold up my hand gently. The more I study the babe, the more chilled I become. I see the bone structure in it’s face. I see the delicate fingers. I close my eyes and place my hand upon it’s cheek. The soft coos are a sharp contrast to the quiet weeping coming from further down the line. The child’s blood speaks to me. The shadows only I can hear scream at me from around the palace, attempting to drown out the child’s voice. They do not succeed. I am too close. My eyes still closed, I begin to sway slightly. In my mind’s eye, I am rushed down bloodlines, speeding past me in flashes of color. So close, so close. A strong hand is placed upon my shoulder, breaking the blood-speaking spell. Only one of my sisters would have the temerity to touch me. I open my eyes and look up at Sildarye. She is big for a Tier’dal and she is favored among the warrior caste - from what the rumors I hear, in more ways than one - despite her dabbling in the necromantic arts. A skeleton bedecked in glowing armor stalks behind her, the remains of some past dalliance I suppose. She asks if I am well. Unfinished thoughts swirl in my head, like dreams half-remembered. This child bears a secret that will affect me. There is something just beyond the range of my vision. But I cannot see it now. My delay in answering Sildarye’s query begins to alarm her, so she asks again. I finally snap out of the semi-trance and focus again. Yes, yes, I assure her. I am fine. She continues to look at me and my return stare hardens. She drops her eyes in deference. My interest in inspecting our new slaves has disappeared, burned away like mist in the noonday sun. I turn back to the house is a swirl of robes and begin to walk away. I point to two of the more handsome young warriors. It is understood that they are to be sent to me after they have been cleaned appropriately. Without another backwards glance, I head back into the Darkmoon house, the sounds of the courtyard fading behind me.
Siannen Darkmoon	Innoruuk’s Screams	#3	[-]
Posts: 7 (01/01/11 8:45 PM) Sigil of Sinful Desires Order of the Arcane Reply Quote More My Recent Posts	From the journals of Siannen Darkmoon, Duchess of Neriak December of 3153 My life, as I know it, is now over. I have been removed from my household, literally over the dead body of my personal servant – a Halfling woman named Latara whom I had know my entire life. She nurtured me, soothed me when I was hurt, and made sure I was fed and clothed in only the best. The rumors around the household were that my mother had been assassinated and I looked too much like her for my father’s sanity. Regardless of Latara being a slave, I truly believe she had sincerely cared for me. Perhaps she was just mad and believed me to be her own daughter. It mattered little, as the long wooden spoon she brandished in my defense did nothing to hinder the huge troll soldiers the dark-robed figure had brought with him. The look of terror in Latara’s face, and yet defiance too, will never leave my dreams. As the trolls held Latara dangling upside down by one leg, the dark-robed figure glanced at my father. He turned away without a word. I can still hear Latara’s screams as the trolls dismembered her. At times as my thoughts flow freely, I sometimes believe the screams were my own. My next memories are a blur, being whisked away to the forbidding structure at the lowest levels of Neriak. I remember having robes of black thrust into my arms along with a book with empty pages, bottles of ink and quills. I was pushed into a small, sparsely furnished room – a room that I would come to know as my own for the next ten years. The sights, sounds, and smells I came to know there were horrible indeed. Day after day of the reek of sulfur and stench of rot. Creatures not of this world wandered the hallways at night, seeking out the curious or brave who violated curfew. None of those foolish few were ever seen again. Day after day of listening to the fanatics preaching of the power of hate. I truly believe I might have fallen into the same pit of despair as the other mindless lemmings had not the incident happened. At the time I thought it was insignificant. I would soon learn how wrong I was.
Siannen Darkmoon	The Ranger	#4	[-]
Posts: 8 (01/07/11 7:13 PM) Sigil of Sinful Desires Order of the Arcane Reply Quote More My Recent Posts	From the journals of Siannen Darkmoon, Duchess of Neriak July of 3200 The heat is oppressive this year on the surface. Beneath, however all is cool. The temperatures almost never vary in Neriak unless the council desires it. Ironically, that one constant is drawing more visitors to the city than any time in recent memory. My rooms occupy the tallest tower of the complex. I usually spend my free time, what little of it I seem to have, in the highest room of the tower. Neriak is a place of magic, and our ancestral home is no exception. This room has floor to ceiling walls of magic-strengthened glass. From the outside, it appears to be solid stone unless the occupant wishes otherwise. I spend too much time gazing out over the city, watching the people living their lives. Down in the courtyard, I see the house guards training. A favorite, though sometimes dangerous pastime for the guards is to arm a slave with a real weapon while the guard uses only a practice one. The penalty for killing a slave without the master’s permission is quite severe in Neriak. My sister Sildarye is down on the grounds overseeing the combat. I trust her to keep the guard from harming whatever hapless slave is thrown into the combat circle. I am about to turn back to my books when I notice the opponents. The guard is called Nel’kar, a handsome Tier’dal that I understand sometimes has my sister’s fancy. He is extremely muscular and moves like a jungle cat. Stripped to his breeches and boots, I can understand Sildarye’s attraction. But it is his opponent I am more interested in. The green-eyed ranger acquired in the raid several months ago steps into the circle. He appears calm, not at all nervous. He is offered his choice of weapons, and chooses two blades. Nel’kar takes up his wooden practice swords and steps into the circle as well. The two elves stalk around the circle, never taking their eyes off each other. The gathered crowd shouts encouragement and jeers. The first clash of weapons silences them all, and everyone watches the combat intently. Not being remotely interested in the martial styles of combat, I cannot name the thrusts, counter-thrusts, attacks, or parries. However, I too am impressed with the surface-dwelling elf. He has not fallen after several minutes, despite the best efforts of Nel’kar. I continue to watch when I see Sildarye begin to move. She seems worried. It does not seem she would need to be, as her champion seems to be pushing the ranger back each time. Confused I continue to watch. Suddenly, her concern is realized. It almost seems as if time stops for all except the ranger and myself watching from on high. I see the subtle shifting of his stance. I see Nel’kar moving to attack once again. Then I see the flashing of blades as the ranger steps forward, then back again. He lowers his weapons and stands quietly looking at his opponent. Not understanding, I look back at Nel’kar. He seems to be moving very slowly. One step, then two, then he falls to his knees. As I stand watching wide-eyed, I see the blood begin to pour out of the open wounds on his once pristine form. He falls over backward and all can see the gaping wound on his neck. He is nearly decapitated from the looks of it. The ranger looks up at the tower, right at me, a grim smile on his face. But that is impossible. He cannot see me. I back away from the wall instinctively. Shaken, it takes me a moment to gather myself before I realize I can use the windows to translocate myself to the courtyard. I snatch up my staff and walk through the wall and appear in the yard behind the crowd. I know what is happening, but I fear I will be too late to stop it. Instinctively, one my servants erupts from the ground and shoves it’s way through the crowd, clearing a path for me. I come to stand at the edge of the circle and see Sildarye facing the ranger. The ranger is inhumanly fast, but Sildarye is a far different combatant than a house guard, no matter his prowess. She moves towards him, long blade in her hands. He raises his swords to defend, but I can see the futility of the move. By unseen command, my servant places itself in my sister’s path. While I doubt my servant could defeat Sildarye, it’s mere appearance serves as notice of my presence. She halts her attack and backs up, looking at me with rage in her eyes. She wants blood, and she knows that I know it. I look to the ranger again. I see the defiance in his eyes. Now that he is armed, he will die here on this field. I tell him to drop his weapons. He merely looks at me and raises his head higher. The voices in my head scream at me to tear his heart from his chest. I ignore them. I again tell him to drop his weapons. He answers with a simple “No”. A strange sadness clutches me. I feel my eyes close and my servant withdraws, taking it’s place beside me. Madness in her eyes, Sildarye moves to strike. I hear the clash of blades and I open my eyes. The ranger is skilled. Then, without warning, Sildarye spins, her sword screaming through the air. The ranger attempts to deflect the blow, but his weapons are inadequate. She sheers through both swords and the ranger’s neck in one swift movement. His head rolls to my feet, those beautiful green eyes staring up at me, the light slowly leaving them. I close my eyes again, willing myself back to my rooms. As I fade away, I hear the quiet sobbing of the red-headed Fier’dal, the ranger’s mate. Strangely, I feel tears running down my cheeks as well.
Siannen Darkmoon	The Naming	#5	[-]
Posts: 11 (03/13/11 7:29 PM) Sigil of Sinful Desires Order of the Arcane Reply Quote More My Recent Posts	From the journals of Siannen Darkmoon, Duchess of Neriak January of 3224 I glance in the mirror once more. Strange that I would feel nervous. Facing dragons, demons and even deities seems easy by comparison. Once more joining a fellowship of souls dedicated to a common purpose is making my insides queasy. The whispers in my head are screaming at me to demand subservience. This I will not, I cannot, do. Nor do I wish to. I stare intently at the large emerald I procured at great expense. The emerald the color of the Fier’dal ranger’s eyes. Despite my granting of the Druid’s freedom and my subsequent friendship and even love with her over the intervening years, she never told me his name. Perhaps the reputation Necromancers have of using the power of true names enters into it. A tale for another time, however. Attendants bustle about the room, preparing my dress, polishing my jewelry. My servant stands in the corner, silently watching all. A flash of red draws my eyes back to the mirror. Was that a pair of malevolent eyes? I turn quickly. No, just a trick of the fire in the hearth. Looking at the mantle, the Tear winks merrily in the light. Tier’Dal Necromancers are taught from an early age the power of hate. While I learned my lessons from the grandest of tutors and have been called blessed by Innoruuk himself, I find myself without hatred. I find myself drawn to that most alien of emotions: love. For me, I have had to content myself with the physical, rather than the emotional. For these many years, it has been enough. I see my sisters’ devotion, in some cases – like Sildarye – almost fanatical devotion to the power of hatred. Taladrie is almost gleeful in her pursuit of trickery to get what she wants. I often wonder if she is not a Gnome in disguise. Utilaa has an indifference to her. Would she mourn my loss? Ah, no matter. My attendants respectfully keep their eyes downcast as deemed appropriate for their station in Tier’dal society. However, in the mirror, I catch one servants eyes on me as I dress for my Naming. I turn and look directly at him. What does he see when he looks at me? Lust? Fear? Hatred? Love? He casts his eyes to the floor quickly. In a blink, I am across the room in front of him. I draw one polished nail under his chin and give him my sliest smile. His eyes widen. With a puff of brimstone, I am gone, leaving him to wonder at my intentions. And in my head, mocking laughter, and the somehow certain knowledge that despite my intentions, I am following some grand scheme of the Lord of Hate.
Siannen Darkmoon	The College of Necromancy	#6	[-]
Posts: 13 (05/02/11 9:07 PM) Sigil of Sinful Desires Order of the Arcane Reply Quote More My Recent Posts	From the journals of Siannen Darkmoon, Duchess of Neriak July of 3154 Once again I have frustrated the attempts of Ger’Tar to have me ousted from the college. Why? I honestly have no idea. My hatred and loathing of this place is apparent enough for anyone to see. I have never concealed this. Why do I stay? Do I hope to one day teach here? Ha! Unlikely at best. My time here has been fraught with disappointment and revulsion. The constant smell of decay permeates the air. I wash my hair two times a day, often making me late for classes. Initially, my…idiosyncrasies…. made me the laughingstock of my level. The taunts, the jeers, everything said I would not be long for school. My station as part of the ruling class means nothing here. My only ally was a fellow first year student named Ger’Tar. While friendship is not unheard of in Neriak, neither is it common. I would not have named Ger’Tar my friend, but neither did I have problems with him, which made him an ally by default. I considered quitting. However, failure in Necromancy does not mean dropping out. It means death. I am not ready to die yet. So I endured the taunts, no matter how cruel. That changed soon enough. My third month of school started as my first two did. I took my meals in my room, mostly because I could not stand my classmates. I am beyond reasonably sure the feeling was mutual. As I carried my meal back to my room, I was accosted my third year students looking to make a name for themselves. My tray of food was knocked from my hands to the floor. They told me I needed to grovel in the dirt to know what it feels like to be a “real” necromancer. Leaving the food where it lay, I stepped over it and made my way back to my room, resigning myself to going to bed hungry. Alas, a quiet evening was not meant to be. I was followed back to my room. Just as I unlocked the door, a hood was thrust over my head and I was forced into my room. Many hours later, I awoke from my …. ordeal. I went to the schoolmaster for help after cleaning myself up as best as I could. In hindsight, I think he probably would have helped, had I been able to identify my attackers or there had been witnesses. As it was, I was told there was nothing to be done, except be more careful in the future. I attended no classes for the next two days. I would have continued to do so had I not received a summons to attend or be … expelled. Class was unbearable. The whispers and looks were clear. I could not concentrate; I did not even hear the teacher. And even then, all would have been my issue to deal with until I heard his voice: “Tonight”. I had heard that voice during my attack. Ger’Tar. I had not placed it until I heard it again. That was when the voices in my head began to scream. Tears running down cheeks, I squeezed my eyes shut. “KILL! KILL!” the voices screamed. Over and over, not stopping. Growing louder and louder. My eyes opened and I realized the screaming was coming from the class. As my eyes focused, I saw the specter. Huge and attacking everything in it’s way … except me. The teacher stood stunned. Wards and alarms were going off like mad, the result of an uncontrolled summoning. A small cloud of dark smoke appeared and the head master stepped out. The specter turned on him. A casual gesture from him and …. nothing happened. He looked shocked for a moment, squinted his eyes in concentration, and mumbled a stronger banishment spell. The specter vanished with a scream of rage and the smell of brimstone. One look was all it took. I alone was standing. Three students were dead. One had lost an arm – as good as being dead – and eight more severely wounded. As I stared around at the carnage, I saw something in their eyes that I had never seen before. Not loathing or hatred, but fear. I could smell it in the air. And the screams in my head had died down. They had died to a cruel, malicious laughter. So ended my torment at the hands of my fellow students and so began my private training with the best teachers in the college. And so ended my alliance with Ger’Tar. I was forbidden to seek further revenge while I was at the school, upon pain of death. Fear will not win you friends, but in Neriak it will win you respect.
Siannen Darkmoon	The Arrangement	#7	[-]
Posts: 16 (05/06/11 10:29 AM) Sigil of Sinful Desires Order of the Arcane Reply Quote More My Recent Posts	From the journals of Siannen Darkmoon, Duchess of Neriak October of 3203 The chill in the air is bitter and unwelcoming, even with the fire blazing merrily. I have been quite engrossed with a book of allegedly true ghost stories from the barbarian lands Tal brought me. She and Uti have ever been my closest sisters. Sildarye has all but left manor. She spends most of her time at the Academy, training some of the more promising students. The rage and hate in her eyes marks her a true daughter of Innoruuk. It is with a heavy heart I put down the book, gather my robes and throw closer around me and stare into the dancing flames. Chosen of Innoruuk indeed. A small knock comes to the door. I glance at the door and it opens in answer to my will. The lovely druid servant my sister captured those years ago enters bearing a tray of hot tea. How odd though. I never requested any tea. Immediately suspicious, I gaze at her without speaking. Sending servant on a suicidal mission to kill a house member is far from unheard of in Neriak. She comes to kneel before me. The screams in my head are oddly quiet, not altogether gone, but neither was I being warned of danger. “Mistress” she says with a soft, pure voice. In another life, she could have been a bard. “I felt your unease. If you allow me, I may be able to take the chill from you.” Once again, I am set on my guard. I glance at the tea. She sees my hesitation and reaches for the steaming cup. She takes a drink of the tea, her bright green eyes never leaving mine. She returns the cup to the tray and stands, backing away to the door. I hold up my hand to halt her. I take the cup and take a drink. The tea tastes of flowers and oak trees, of children laughing happily. It warms me to my core. It’s a shock to my system and I drop the cup. It shatters on the cold floor. The voices in my head are screaming “The wood witch has poisoned you! Tear her heart from her breast!” But I feel no ill coursing through my veins. I felt only the pleasant sensation of warmth spreading through my limbs. I am no longer cold. I force the screaming voices to quiet down. “It is on old family recipe. Your larders are well stocked to carry such ingredients.” She tells me. When I continue to look at her, she continues. “I have never been able to thank you.” My face betrays my question. “In sharing my loss when my nestmate was slain. I have never known Tier’dal to feel sympathy. I also know you returned our child to Kelethin. For this, I can never repay you. Ask from me what you will, and it is yours. My name is Leriane Moonflower.” She looks at me with those green eyes. I study her closely. There is no malice in her, not for me. None at all. It is yours. How often I have heard that before. But never has it been offered to me without fear behind the offer. And to offer a name? These Fier’dal must have so little comprehension of magic – especially necromancy - to offer such a prize willingly. The voices scream inside my head to slay the ignorant wench. My eyes narrow, and a smile touches my lips. The wood elf looks startled and begins to back up defensively. I raise my hand gently to stop her. In my head, the voices fall over themselves, not knowing where to begin. The voices know my intentions and they try to stoke my hate. “I ask for only one thing, Leriane Moonflower” I say. “I ask for friendship.”
Siannen Darkmoon	The Price of Knowledge	#8	[-]
Posts: 24 (06/04/11 10:25 PM) Sigil of Sinful Desires Order of the Arcane Reply Quote More My Recent Posts	From the journals of Siannen Darkmoon, Duchess of Neriak October of 3175 Darkness swirls about my feet. It moves about me as I walk the halls of Darkmoon Castle. Tonight, we are to have visitors. My sisters and the servants are more worried about the appearance and proper etiquette than I am, however. Handmaidens are following me all over the castle, attempting to make me…presentable. Sildarye has been in the courtyard for the last week, drilling the house soldiers until they appear ready to drop from weariness. I stop at a window long enough to gaze out over the veritable sea of toned bodies. I sigh, thinking there are far better ways to drive one to exhaustion. I continue my wanderings, much to the dismay of the army of handmaidens scurrying after me. Of course I realize they are there and they are doing what they are told, but that does not mean I have to be happy about it. I suppose in some way, Innoruuk’s influence is upon me, making me feel some small pleasure in their discomfort. That thought draws me to sudden stop with a nearly deafening clatter as the servants behind me tumble over themselves to avoid touching me. With a swirl of robes I head back to my quarters. There, I allow them to prepare me for the feast this evening. My hair is done up in elaborate layers and held in place with a multitude of silver pins. Earrings and finely wrought silver chains are draped upon me. I am robed in a silvery, almost translucent dress, layered upon me in the current style. I allow myself to be lost in the moment and to enjoy the attention. All too soon, I find myself sitting in the great room listening to the minstrels and bards singing their exaggerated tales of Tier’dal bravery and conquest. I am not really fond of my homeland’s music. Tales of betrayal, death, and slavery are played to tunes the surface dwellers would call spritely. To my ears, it clashes and jars. Ironically, I find the so-called “good” races dirges more pleasant. I see him staring at me across the wide expanse of table. I have been purposely avoiding his gaze all evening. Now I look into his eyes. I see all. I see lust, ambition, and greed. This warrior sees me not for what I am, but for what I can give him. His family is well connected and the union would make our joint family the strongest in Neriak. To rebuke him could throw us into a covert war that I doubt either side could win. Oh, he is handsome enough, well formed and strong. To offer anything less than their best would be seen as an insult to our family. But marriage is something I have no desire to pursue. I look around the crowd. My sisters are blending into the masses, making new alliances, arranging for later trysts, and generally maintaining the upstanding name of Darkmoon. I catch Tal’s eye and motion her over. Of all my sisters, Tal and Uti are the ones I connect with the most. Tal is quiet and careful, with a slightly playful streak I find I enjoy immensely. Uti and her mastery of the elements and her ever-present elementals are comforting. She always seems to smell of brimstone and lilacs. Somehow, she manages to merge the two divergent scents into a pleasant air. Tal joins me on the edge of my chair, holding my hands in hers in genuine affection. Her bright silver eyes have a merry twinkle in them. Her love and mastery of illusions makes me wonder sometimes if she really does become someone else. She whispers in my ear, congratulating me on my catch of such a fine specimen. I gaze at my betrothed once again. He is indeed a fine looking Tier’dal. And in that moment, the knowledge hits me, like an ogre-wielded hammer. The voices are silent. This union is being sought after by Innoruuk. He wants our houses joined. I stand up so abruptly, I knock Tal from the arm of my chair. She looks at me with a shocked expression. I can feel Sildarye’s narrowed red eyes on me. A plan forms in my head. The voices begin to scream, denouncing my idea. With a smile, I speak to the gathered assemblage. Tal gets up gracefully, melting into the background. “Lords and Ladies of the great city of Neriak” my voice is strong and confident. “We are gathered here to celebrate the union of two of the greatest houses this city has to offer.” There is some grumbling from the lesser houses in attendance, but all know it is true and the murmur of acceptance is stronger. “It is expected that my hand be given in marriage as the eldest as this is the tradition. However, I feel there is an insult to the houses gathered here. An insult I cannot continue to be a part of. My hand is not good enough.” There is a collective, shocked gasp at this. “I won’t say I don’t desire Lord Airen, just the opposite in fact. But this marriage, of all in Neriak, should be entered into with more than desire.” Some confused whispering at this. In Neriak, even desire is not needed for marriage. “To make our houses as strong as they can be, we need something more.” I gaze around the crowd, letting the tension build. “We need honesty.” I can hear Sildarye’s eyes getting bigger. Honesty? In Neriak? “This marriage, if entered dishonestly, would cause more infighting amongst our families than if we were at open war. No one in Neriak wants to see that.” The whispering begins to change from confusion to acceptance. Good. “I propose an alternative for the time being. Let us exchange members of our houses for a time. Let us learn from each other, learn our goals, so that we may enter into this union, in the future, with our eyes open and no secret desires hidden from each other.” A scattering of applause comes from around the room. It is quickly followed by others until the room is filled with it. I look around and see Tal. She give me a wink and moves her fingers down by her side. Bless you, Tal. “In the meantime, let us enjoy the party as only nobles of Neriak can.” I glance quickly at Lord Airen. His eyes narrow. I give him my brightest smile which seems to shock him. I see Sildarye looking at Airen, then back at me. I give her a slight nod of my head. Sildarye actually smiles at me. She approaches Airen and soon the two are deep in conversation. Hours later, we gather around the table. The guests are gone, the servants sent to bed. The seven Darkmoon sisters are laughing amongst ourselves. Fildiine, ever the pragmatic one, clears her throat. “You do realize of course that we will have assassination attempts and a covert war anyway? Airen will not take to being publicly rebuffed well at all.” The chattering of my sisters dies away. The voices in my head scream at me. I can feel Innoruuk’s fury. “Yes, sister, I know. But I have faith in our ability to survive a covert war more than an open one, which surely we would have when I killed Airen on our wedding bed. And you know I would do this, because Airen would not have accepted his family following ours.” Sildarye looks at me sharply. She nods slightly. I have won her respect this night. “Off to bed sisters. Tomorrow our war starts.”
Siannen Darkmoon	A Kindness Given	#9	[-]
Posts: 56 (02/15/12 8:56 PM) Sigil of Sinful Desires Order of the Arcane Reply Quote More My Recent Posts	From the journals of Siannen Darkmoon, Duchess of Neriak February 3156 The snow crunched beneath my footsteps. My skills in matters of stealth are all but non-existent. I cannot feel my fingers or toes and it seems years since I last could. I risk a glance up and am almost immediately blinded by the driving snow. Quickly lowering my head again, I push on against the storm. How the Barbarians live, let alone thrive, in this gods-forsaken land, I will never know. Nor do I have much interest in learning. I am here only to search for a tomb of some long dead wizard. The rest of my party consists of several troll warriors, quite a few Tier'Dal, and Barbarian slave who volunteered for the job to see his homeland once again. During the nights, the Tier'Dal warriors make the Trolls set up the tents, and then set up their tents downwind. They pounded a large stake into the ground and chain the Barbarian to it each night. By the second evening, I could not contain myself any longer and I ordered them to provide a tent to the Barbarian. After much grumbling and a few threats, they finally agreed. A week later and he still smiled at me when the others were not looking. We finally found the entrance to the tomb. In the first few moments of our descent, we were attacked by a horde of massive snowy white kobolds. Two of the Trolls and several of the Tier'Dal died in the first battle. Just when we thought the tide was turning, the Kobolds collapsed the entrance to the cave behind us, trapping us inside. We spent the next several hours fighting and trying to find another entrance, losing members of our group one by one. Finally, we found the tomb itself. However, the wizard, though long dead, had decided he was not quite ready to vacate this plane of existence. We managed to grab his staff and several other items before we once again lost the upper hand. By the time we had run as far as we could, our group was narrowed down to one Tier'Dal warrior, our Barbarian slave, and myself. As we hid in a narrow crevice, the howls and screams of the Kobolds filling our ears, the warrior began to lay out his plan of escape: wound the Barbarian so he could not run and leave him behind to delay our pursuers while we found another avenue of escape. True to bravery of his race, the Barbarian said nothing. I looked into his eyes, blue and cold as the ice surrounding us, and I saw no fear, nor any look of despair. I refused the warrior his plan and ordered him to release the Barbarian and to arm him. With a look of exasperation, he agreed and supplied the Barbarian with a blade. The tall warrior looked at me slowly, a small smile touching his lips. With a sudden burst of speed, he snatched me up like a ragdoll and burst from the crevice, running like the wind. The strength of his arm made me cease any struggle. With the Tier'Dal warrior running after us, he raced through the caverns, Kobolds howling behind us. It was then that I noticed a hole in the floor, a hole where the river rushed by beneath. My eyes widened in terror as I understood his plan. To jump into an icy river meant certain death! But he ran toward it and dove in without a moment's hesitation. The icy shock of the freezing water made me black out almost instantly. When I awoke to the smell of roasting rabbit, I was in a small cave, a warm fire dancing merrily. My clothes were laid out beside me, neatly folded and dry. I was bundled up in warm mammoth furs. There was no sign of another living soul. A sheet of my spell book had been torn out and laid on top of my clothes. In a crude hand, obviously unused to writing, was scrawled: "Kindness given, kindness repaid." I smile, and I wish my new Barbarian friend the best of luck.
Siannen Darkmoon	Slaughter	#10	[-]
Posts: 62 (03/09/12 10:33 PM) Sigil of Sinful Desires Order of the Arcane Reply Quote More My Recent Posts	From the journals of Siannen Darkmoon, Duchess of Neriak June 3205 The summer heat has been stifling above ground. The hot summer has all but eliminated the surface raids. Unfortunately, that leads to hot tempers below ground. Neriak is a powder keg of barely contained violence. Slaves are beaten for the slightest perceived mistake. The irony here is that killing slaves, which happens all too frequently in cooler weather, is frowned upon because of the lack of ... fresh supplies. I suppose there is logic somewhere in the morass the Tier'Dal consider ethics, though I freely, and wholeheartedly, admit to not understanding. Mages throughout the city have been drafted into service to keep the water supply clean and abundant. Our normal imports of goods not found in Neriak have slowed to a crawl. This was the situation when the council decided to perform a wholesale slaughter of a small village of wood elves nearby. Needless to say, my lone voice of opposition was lost in the vehement cries of agreement. While I knew I could not prevent the raid, perhaps I could ... mellow it. So I decided to make an advance journey to the village, to warn them of their impending doom. Ah, the best laid plans.... In retrospect, fading into view in the middle of the village was not one of my more brilliant ideas. The Fier'dal, to their credit were only momentarily stunned. I put on the most brilliant smile I could come up with. I think I was still smiling when the first arrow caught me in the shoulder. Honestly, I have no idea how warriors stay warriors. In all the tales, they shrug off such simple things as arrows and swords. Let me tell you the truth of it. Imagine a flash of pain so intense, you see nothing but white. No colors. You hear no sounds. Just ... white. It seems like it lasts forever. And then, with a suddeness that staggers the mind, everything returns to a focus so sharp you can feel your lifeblood pumping out of you, in what seems like gallons. You feel the shaft of the arrow protruding both in front and behind you. I have heard tales of spell casters working magic like never before, churning out spell after spell, draining their lifeforce in the process, killing themselves in a last glorious blaze of the arcane. That, however, did not happen to me. Necromancers have some horrible spells at their command. We can drain life from the living to refresh ourselves, rapidly or over time. Usually, that process kills the living. While I have, of course, used such spells, and often enough, I have not used them against the so-called "good" races. And I did not this time either. What I did do however, was transport myself back home, my word of warning unspoken. When I arrived in my room, I passed out from the pain of the arrow. Fortunately, servants were cleaning the room and were able to rush aid to me. The arrow was gently removed and my wound tended to. When I woke the next morning, my shoulder was completely healed, not even a scar visible. Stretching languidly, I strolled from my bed out to the balcony overlooking the courtyard. And there, upon the iron spikes of the gates, were the heads of a score of the Fier'dal villagers, their expressions forever frozen in terror and agony. As I stood upon the balcony, my mouth hanging open in horror, from the darkest recesses of my mind, I could hear mocking laughter. Last Edited By: Siannen Darkmoon 03/29/12 4:19 PM. Edited 1 times.
Siannen Darkmoon	A Question of Morality	#11	[-]
Posts: 64 (03/12/12 5:04 PM) Sigil of Sinful Desires Order of the Arcane Reply Quote More My Recent Posts	From the journals of Siannen Darkmoon, Duchess of Neriak October of 3220 What is evil? Evil is the murder of an innocent? Most civilized races would agree this is so. Would the definition of the slaying of that innocent change if it was known that the child would grow up to be the destruction of the world? Or a race? Or a million people? A thousand? Ten? Does morality have a numerical limit? For that matter, what is good? Savior of innocence? Whose? Who is to say children of Tier’dal are more or less innocent than the children of Fier’dal? Because we do not agree with the requirements given to morality by one race or another, is it our place to call someone good or evil? Is goodness or evil defined by the eye of the beholder? To place the weight of the world on the determination of the whim of the decider, whether that be king or slave, is to deify ourselves. Once that has been done, have we not committed one of the major sins of many of the so-called good races? Have we not assumed such supreme arrogance to be the one who determines not only the fate of those we view around us, but their history as well. We determine this criminal will live or die and we determine how his history will be written as well. We determine that he will be known as good or evil. I have been to the surface. I have seen the laws of the goodly races applied. I have been attacked to be slain simply because I bore the same skin as others who are determine to be” evil” by those considered to be kind-hearted and good. I have seen supposedly stupid, cowardly, and craven slaves take up arms to protect their fallen masters. I have seen powerful, renowned knights flee in terror from a battlefield while a simple squire is slain where he stood protecting a dying horse. The laws of a land are like the people of that land. Some are appropriate and necessary to protect the well-being and success of the inhabitants. Some are written to ensure the continued dominance of one or more individuals or groups. But laws are written by mortals. And once again we are brought back to the simple questions of “who is this mortal, this writer of laws, to determine what is or is not appropriately moral?” This day, we witnessed an execution in Neriak. As one of the council, it was my duty to bear witness. If any of the goodly races were to read my journals, I am sure their question would be “What petty crime had this individual committed that warranted their life in penance?” This is Neriak after all, so morality must be turned all around. The crime? The murder of slave children by a guard who believed he was protecting himself when the children were throwing mud. I am sure any reader of my journal would be shocked to see such. Execution of a citizen in defense of a slave? Indeed, a large portion of the citizenry turned out to protest the execution. I blinked back tears during the execution. I assume most people thought I was as outraged and saddened by this loss as the others. That however is not why I cried. I cried not because a citizen was executed for the murder of slaves. I cried because the execution was carried out simply because he was caught.
Siannen Darkmoon	The White Ghost of Kelethin	#12	[-]
Posts: 69 (03/28/12 10:12 PM) Sigil of Sinful Desires Order of the Arcane Reply Quote More My Recent Posts	From the journals of Siannen Darkmoon, Duchess of Neriak March of 3209 I think few people have truly visited the Fier'Dal city of Kelethin with open eyes and an open heart. True enough, the city is somewhat difficult to find, as it sits hundreds of feet in the air amid a dense forest. I have been there a few times, cloaked in arcane magic that renders me invisible. Sometimes, I wander the city and listen to the vendors selling their wares or the craftsmen plying their trade. I once spent an entire day, simply watching a master bowyer pour his heart and soul into a beautifully carved masterpiece. To call it a bow would be to shame it. I know very little of the martial arts, but even I could sense the strength and power in that weapon. Sometimes, I watch the dawn come up through the trees as I sit on the edge of a quiet remote platform. Something about the rays shining through the trees brings me peace, albeit temporarily. Kelethin, like all cities, has it's share of poor and downtrodden. There are drunks wandering the city like any other - although, stumbling down the wrong way in Kelethin can lead to a sudden and messy end with a misstep. There are also widows and orphans, oftentimes cause by my people, but Faydark Forest offers other dangers. Once I saw a young boy quietly arguing with his mother. They both looked tired and hungry. Something about the little warrior interested me, so I spent the better part of the day following them around. The mother spent the day looking for work, the young one offering to help. I saw many sad smiles, and small offers of charity, all of which were proudly refused. For several days I followed them around. Eventually, I could stand it no longer. I waited until the mother was cleaning out the kitchen of a tavern for meager scraps. The boy, as boys often do, was getting underfoot, so his mother sent him outside. He sat fearlessly on the edge of the platform, absently throwing twigs off the side. I had donned a completely white outfit, robes, boots, gloves, even a mask. I quietly leaned down behind the boy and placed a small bag of gold near him. Blowing softly on his ear, I caused him to turn and notice the bag. As he stared at it wonderingly, I allowed myself to become visible, several feet away. I winked at him, and rolled back over the edge of the platform, allowing my magic to render me weightless and invisible once again. Later, I heard him telling his mother about the white ghost with the purple eyes. I often wondered if she believed him. Over time, the White Ghost of Kelethin has made other appearances. Saving a group of children from a party of orcs, a small bag of gold for a poor family, a potion or salve to ease the pain of an old man. I harbor no doubts that were I to be caught, I would be slain instantly, without remorse. It matters not. What I do makes me feel...happy. In the end of all things, is that not what matters most?