The Seventh Stranger

Come, brothers and sisters, share with us your tales, from before your joined to today! Tell us of yourself and your travels and travails! (IC Please, OOC labeled!)

The Seventh Stranger

Postby -Aurik- » Wed Mar 10, 2004 12:46 pm

(( As I'm returning to Auriik as my main. Here is his origin story to entertain those unknown of Auriik. Enjoy! :D ))

The thunder of hooves upon the dirt trodden road announced themselves, breaking the howling wind as a carriage drawn by two mighty steeds sped through the night within the forest Campacorentin. The driver of the carriage never looked behind him, his eyes steady and to the front looking of any obstacles, or sharp turns in the road. The driver snapped the reins urging the horse to move faster if they had the speed within them to do so.

The pock-marked face of the balding Albion man that rode within the carriage peered out to the driver from a small window. Grifa Muldoon was a vile sort to work for, a known tomb raider and fugitive from Albion justice, the middle-aged scoundrel sneered as he opened his tooth-spotty mouth to speak. "How soon to Ulfwych?!" He shouted trying to make his voice louder than the horses hooves and that protesting wind.

The window was set into the carriage seat cushion level to the driver. He leaned to the side a bit, to better communicate with Muldoon. "Hard t'tell, m'lud." The driver shouted never taking his eyes off the road he could see. "This night's darker than it's usual." The young man snapped at the reins once more. "With what we be carryin', it didn't occur t'me t'time the journey once we left the plains."

Grifa snorted at the youth not appreciating the answer he was given.
The boy, Antwin McKeever, was barely into his twenties and lacked any experience in the type of job that Muldoon was in the midst of. He lacked coin even more-so, however. With a family and a beleagured farm to support, the youth was willing to do most anything to survive the tail-end of the Winter that they were coming out of. He seemed harmless and compliant enough to be given the role as driver, but his insecurity and carelessness in the task to-date gave Grifa cause to regret the decision.

"Smooth out this ride." Muldoon ordered. "Don't need you tipping us over at some sharp turn you're too shaky to judge proper."

"Y-yes, sir." Was all the lad could respond with as the elder gent slammed shut the small door of the window concluding his conversation. As if on cue, and in defiance to the cur within the carriage, a wheel struck something in the rode which made the carriage jolt up and those within to hop in their seats. The youth winced as Grifa shouted a few muffled choice curses at him from within.

Movement from within the box strapped to the top of the carriage after the bump gave cause for the driver to take his eyes off the road for the first time since the inception of their journey.
McKeever glanced back momentarily to ensure that the casket was still strapped down and tight...specifically tight. Though what lie within was assuredly dead, he had heard enough tales from so many firelight chats to make the little hairs on the back of his neck stand on-end as he recalled them.

A sharp crack sounding like lightning hitting a tree resounded throughout the wood and caused Antwin to face-front quickly minding the road before him. The driver pulled back on the reins sharply as an obstruction became apparent in the middle of the road as the carriage approached. The horses slowed in their run, but still kept charging forward. McKeever pulled back even tighter to get the beasts to whoa.

From within, Grifa Muldoon poked his head out from one of the windows along the carriage's side-face. He growled as the horses slowed. Curiously, with much irritation, the scoundrel looked ahead along the road to see what was keeping his near-intollerable associate from completing the simple task given to him. "Damn ya, boy!" Grifa hollared. "You'll be lucky if you come outta this with your skin intact, let alone any o' my coin. Run it down!" He ordered. "Keep movin'!"

Just as Antwin snapped at the reins to do as bid, another sharp lightning-crack resounded throughout the forest causing the horses to rear up on their hind legs. The boy could feel the impact of the sound as air along his flesh. His jaw gaped open as the obstruction in the road became more apparent.

Within the dark of night, dead within the center of the road, stood a seemingly bodiless entity. Of the thing before him, McKeever could only discern a blood crimson hooded cloak flowing about two arms and hands bathed in the same color. If the ominous figure had a mid-section or head, it was perfectly camoflauged by the backdrop of the gloomy evening.

The blood-red arms of the thing extended out to the sides of it. The fingers of the wraith curled as if grasping at something within the air. As the fingers seemingly caught that which they were searcing for, an orb of energy of the same hue as the cloak, arms, and legs exploded from the darkness of the thing's mid-section and surrounded the being. Soundlessly, the orb exploded sending out a ring of red magic in all directions surrounding the being. As the ring hit the horses, the beasts of burden squealed out in pain and fought against their harnesses to be free. Antwin caught the very crest of the ring of energy as it dissipated and cried out as cold, necromantic magicks pierced at his flesh, his very soul, like tiny daggers of ice.

Seeing that the horses, in their chaotic swagger, were trying to turn themselves and the carriage, the thing in the center of the road moved closer to it's prey.
Antwin held on for as good as he was worth as the horses fought against each other, then moved as one to try and escape the wraith which caused it pain. The young man had no control of the beasts as he had let the reins drop. All he could do was watch the thing as it neared the coach.

One blood-covered hand disappeared into it's obsidian middle to only reveal itself again holding something resembling a coiled snake in it's hand. With a flick of the wrist, the snake extended itself until the tip of the whip hit the ground. Motioning it's hand above where it's head should be, the wraith spun the whip in the atmosphere above him until the desired momentum was reached, and the thing let the length of the whip fly.

McKeever watched holding onto whatever part of the carriage he could to stabilize himself. The leathered skin of the whip wrapped itself around the neck of one of the horses. Tiny blades could be seen within the length of the flesh of the snake-like weapon as they dug into the meat of the beast-of-burden. The horse called out in protest as the steel and the whip cut into it.

Antwin's gaze shot over to the wraith as it continued to attack. The thing's free-hand wrapped itself along a portion of the whip close to the handle so it could better stabilize it's catch. As the wraith moved closer to the coach, the young man could finally see the form of the wraith as the black chain armor it wore gave evidence of legs, feet, and a torso along the relief of the cloak shrouded about it. Still, McKeever could not see the horror's face as it was well-hooded within the crimson blood coloring.

As if answering the mystery of what facial nightmare lay hidden within the hood, a glow of the blackest red radiated dimly, approximately where two eyes should be set. As the seeming eyes grew brighter in their dark radiance, the horse cried out drawing Antwin's eyes to it once more.

The horse fought against the whip as the thing held it fast, cutting deeper into flesh as it protested. It called out with a blood-curdling horror as the horse became drawn in appearance, as if something was sucking the mass from it, draining it like the sun withers a grape on the hottest of Summer days.

The eyes of the blood shrouded thing grew greater and darker red as it sucked the life from the horse until either: the thing could not feed anymore, or the beast had noting left to feed from. Either case, the death-delivered horse dropped stiff and lifeless to the ground dragging the other horse it was still tethered to, to the ground with it, effectively halting any escape of the carriage and those within it.

((((( continued )))))
Last edited by -Aurik- on Mon Mar 06, 2006 2:17 pm, edited 3 times in total.
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Postby -Aurik- » Thu Mar 11, 2004 2:47 pm

The wraith seemed more human-like as he stood close to the hobbled carriage, that fact did not ease the fears of Antwin as he looked to the eyes of the stranger, seeking them out within the onyx depth of the hood he wore.
To break the driver's curiosity, the mysterious figure dropped the handle of the bladed whip and reached around to it's back. McKeever wanted to question the man before him, issue some sort of bravado in the face of assured danger, perhaps even plead for a life that seem to be iminently fleeting, but the young Albion's voice was frozen. The only response he could muster was the waggling of his mouth as it opened and closed, seemingly trying to for some sort of word.

Making the most of the unpleasant situation, the crimson cloaked being leaned forward in a menacing gesture, arms astride his form and claws clenched intent to leap and strike at the young man. With a deep and raspy hiss, the mysterious stranger unfurled the animal flesh of another whip it had produced from behind it, and snapped it boldly into the air to the side.
Antwin jumped and shook his head; his quivering, voicless maw still opened and closed in jittery fashion. It was unknown if the young man was still breathing normally, if breathing at all.

"P-p-please...wh-whoever..." McKeever finally found his voice only to have it silenced by the hooded wraith with another sharp crack of the whip.

The faceless being met the indignation of being addressed by whirling the whip above it's head and sending the length of it deft toward the face of the driver.
Antwin shrieked as the snake-like weapon wrapped tightly around his throat. Whatever voice the young man found was quickly silenced as the leather constricted around the young Albion throat. McKeever grabbed at the length of whip with both hands and struggled to take in air. When both hand were secured upon the line, the crimson and black chain garbed predator pulled roughly at the line and hauled in his catch.
Antwin launched off the seat; partly by the efforts of the stranger, partly under his own accord not desiring a broken neck from stuggling against the taut tether choking him.

The driver, mid in flight from his seat on the carriage, found his shirt grasped by the wraith as it relinquished it's hold on the whip. Using the momentum of the move, the blood enshrouded thing twisted and drove the back of McKeever down the the unforgiving ground. Whatever breath lay still within Antwin's lungs was efficiently expectorated.

The wraith loosened the whipline from about the neck of the driver as it spoke in a dry whisper, the type of voice you would expect one to have after years lying dead in an arid tomb. "To whom do you take the body to?" It voiced as the Albion took in a deep lung full or rich, life-restoring oxygen.

McKeever shrieked as the brackish red glow of Hell illuminated the confines of the cloaked visage of the stranger.
The youthful Albion felt weak as if inwardly falling as the being who held tight onto his shirt drained a portion of his lifeforce, feeding from it. Antwin shut his eyes for fear that locking his orbs with the wraith's somehow facilitated the tapped vitality.

"I-I kn-kn-know nothing." The Albion wearily spoke; the sudden loss of himself made him nauseous. "Only the driver am I."

Whether by cowardice, or sought opportunity to strike, Grifa Muldoon emerged from the coach. The carriage door slamed against the wood of the vehicle as the tomb raiding Albion made his presence realized.
Within each of the elder Albion's earth toiled hands he held a stiletto.

"Off the pansy-arsed boy, y'stinken Reaver scum." Grifa growled. "Yer goin' nowheres with my catch." The elder Albion twirled the blades in-hand as he strafed about the scene of the stranger crouched over McKeever.

The Reaver roughly released his hold on the driver and focused it's obscured vision upon the scoundrel Muldoon. Hissing it's rancor for the defiler of the dead. The Reaver dryly issued it's curse upon the agent of Morganna. "No other soul will you rape. No other vessel of decayed flesh will you serve to your vile mistress. The night delivers the vengeance of Arawn unto you. You will suffer for your crimes and know the torture of those you expoit."

Muldoon grinned with those teeth still possessed in his mouth. Wasn't the first time Albion or Arawnite issued such a threat. He intended for it to not be the last as he charged at the Reaver.

((((( continued )))))
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Postby -Aurik- » Sat Mar 13, 2004 12:55 am

The servant of Arawn hissed viciously at the onrushing Albion trying to score a decisive mental victory over the thrall of Morgana and cast insecurity, maybe even a tinge of fear, into the step and/or blade swing of the elder.

Grifa was not so easily swayed. The tomb raider had faced many in his insidious career proporting themselves as agents of justice. To him, the gloomily garbed Reaver who impeded his path and package to the desired destination, was merely just another bump in the road.

The Reaver reached down to a holster attached to the side of it's leg and removed the wood and chain flail contained there-in. The wraith twirled it in-hand as it stood to meet the charging combatant.
Muldoon launched the first blow as he thrust the stiletto held in his off hand into the murky depth of the hooded Arawnite's face. The Reaver dodged the lunge deftly, but then felt the sting of the scoundrel's right-hand held stiletto as the Albion brought it up from below, piercing the obsidian chain adorned upon the Reaver's torso and deep into human flesh. The cool blood of the wraith spilled out from the wound and saturated Grifa's hand as he held the blade in place.

"So," Muldoon grinned victoriously, "ye are more deadite than man, afterall. Yer blood's cold, unnatural."

The Reaver hissed once more in response to the elder Albion's taunt and brought the flail up with a mighty swing, impacting the side of the tomb raider's skull.
The thrall of Morgana released his hold upon the blade inserted within the wraith's body and backed away some, bringing his hand up to favor the blow to the head. Grifa blinked a few times as his vision wavered and pain broke the scenery before him with flashing cracks of light, but he still held his ground as he shifted his hold upon the stiletto in his off-hand.

The wraith made good the advantage he garnered over his enemy and rushed toward Muldoon as the villain backed away to regain his senses.
Pulling the stiletto from it's side, the Reaver flung it to the ground and twirled the flail once more in his hand.

Grifa held the stiletto out toward the Arawnite. "Bring it, ye bastard. I'm not done with..."

The Reaver struck the tomb raider once more to the side of the head with the wooden and metal trimmed handle of the flail. The elder Albion dropped to his knees.
The Reaver struck again, and again, and again. All blows impacting and shattering the bone housing that encased the Albion's still vital, and pulpy brain.

Throwing the flail away after much good use of it, the wraith grabbed the scoundrel by the throat and threw the gnarled tomb raider to the ground. Muldoon roughly hit the dirt like a discarded rag doll.
Giving no pause for breath, the Reaver straddled the contemptuous man as he lay prostrated upon the ground. It put a hand to the wound at it's belly and drew away a hand-covered portion of it's blood. The Arawnite then covered the elder's face with the life fluid soaked palm, fingers out.

"The pain you cause in life will heal as you die." The Reaver said in a raspy whisper as black-red eyes glowed once more within the cowl of the crimson hood that hid his features.
Grifa Muldoon became withdrawn in appearance as his flesh shrunk and clung to his frame and bone structure as the Reaver fed upon the ebbing life-force of the beaten man. In no time, the thrall of Morgana was dead. The servant of Arawn leaned back as it sat upon it's kill and relished within the delicious life energy it had just stolen.

((((( continued )))))
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Postby -Aurik- » Sat Mar 13, 2004 11:13 am

Ecstasy gently released it's hold upon the Reaver as he sat upon the corpse of Muldoon. It was necessary for the Arawnite to feed upon the living, as it did, to sustain and keep it strong, but the addiction of injecting another's vitality to refresh it's own was like a secondary consciousness, constantly in the back of his mind, hovering about boundary of it's senses, whispering...incessantly whispering, tempting.

Antwin had drug himself across the ground to whatever safety he could find near the underside of the carriage at the inception of the battle between the two. He sat there horrified as he looked upon the Reaver through the spokes of one of the wagon wheels. The Albion tried to avert his eyes from the withered, lifeless husk of Grifa Muldoon, but some morose curiosity within him bit upon the lure of the morbid scene and pulled the young man's attention.

The Reaver felt along the side of it's torso where it was wounded. There was the blade-sized hole in it's obsidian chain, but any evidence of the incision in it's flesh was wiped away like so many scraps of fat and waste from a butcher's cutting board. Only the blood spilled that coated it's skin and chain mail hauberk gave any credibility that the wraith had been injured at all.

Rising from it's meal, the Arawnite turned it's attention to the roof of the carriage where the casket still remained tightly bound to the vehicle. Light and silent in it's step, the wraith quickly ascended the coach paying little mind to Antwin behind the wagon wheel, or the possibility that Grifa did not ride alone.
Pulling a small dagger from it's beltline, the Reaver cut away at the leather straps that held the coffin fast. McKeever could hear the wraith's exhaled breath as it cut away at the bindings.
Slamming the lock a few choice times with the hilt of the blade in it's crimson gauntleted hand, the Arawnite snapped it free allowing it access to the inner workings of the casket. The Reaver did not hesitate like one would when exposing a full coffin. Whatever grotesque malform of flesh that lay within the final resting place, the Servant of Arawn was eager to look upon it.

Antwin smelled the vile scent of rot and flesh decay almost instantly as the Reaver opened the casket. It was enough to make the boy vomit whatever was left within his quivering stomach, so he did.

The crimson cowled guardian of the dead looked upon the corpse, scanning it with purpose, as if seeking something in particular. The Reaver neither flinched, nor indicated that the death-worked decay of a former man that lay within the casket gave it pause from it's task.
The Arawnite reached out a hand, and with blood covered fingers, placed a gauntleted touch upon the corpse's forehead. If the Servant's face could be seen, it could almost be assumed that it looked upon the dead thing with a soft, caretaking embrace the way that the Reaver cocked it's head at the vision that lay before it.
The fingers left the dead man's forehead, trailed down the side of morbid flaked flesh that still remained at his cheek, down to the neck of the corpse. A gold chain adorned the grey, dry skin of the in-tact neck. The Reaver pulled at the chain with two fingers to look upon the charm attached to it.

Whatever moonlight managed to scantly light the dismal forest, caught itself upon the charm about the dead man's neck causing it to gleam within Luna's gaze. The Reaver eyed the gold cross of the Church of Albion as it manipulated it within it's two fingers.

"Rest sound," the Arawnite whispered, it's voice no longer a raspy hiss, it instead bore a more humanly soft and deep intonation. "You are free from any charm or mark of Morgana. Rest sound within the embrace of your God." In it's off-hand, the Reaver produced a small vile which it proceeded to pour upon the body of the dead man. Dropping the vile, once empty, into the casket, the Arawnite slammed it's wrists together. Upon one wrist, molded within the workings of the black chain gauntlet was a portion of flint; within the other was imbed a portion of steel. As the Reaver slammed the two together spark exploded from the clash of metal and stone. It lowered it's wrists and slammed them together once more. The sparks erupted and danced momentarily in mid-air as they fell upon the oil soaked flesh of the corpse. Quickly, the dry flesh, with the assistance of the vile of oil, took to flame and began to burn. The Servant of Arawn looked upon the body for a prolonged moment to ensure that the fire would sustain and consume the dead man within.

"Escaped you are, from a re-visitation of Morgana's minions." The Reaver whispered once more as it raised the blood-coated hand once more. The Arawnite then made the symbol of the Church of Albion cross in the air as it inducted the corpse to it's final reward, respecting the religion though not a follower of the faith.

Antwin jumped as onyx chained boots landed upon the ground from the top-side of the carriage. The driver sniffed at the air as the smell of decay burned away leaving only the scent of burning flesh in it's wake. He eyed the Arawnite for fear that he was next in line for the Servant's wiles, but the Reaver paid the young Albion little mind as it made it turned and walked away from the carriage scene, to it's next destination.

McKeever felt the refreshing comfort of heat as the unseen blaze atop the coach consumed the dead body and began to eat at the wood of the vehicle. It was then that the Albion realized what the Reaver had done. Quickly, the young man scurried from beneath the carriage and stumbled a safe distance from the burning, almost falling upon his hands as he did so.

"NO!" Antwin screamed as he fell to the ground on his back looking upon the fire as it kicked up in it's fury and intensity.

The horse still strapped and unmoving because of it's attachment to the beast dead beside it began to cry out in fear as the fire's spread and heat spooked the restrained animal. The horse could not escape in it's protestation, the most it was able to do was jostle the burning carriage around....and the being still within it.

McKeever jumped up from the ground and ran at the coach. The heat from the burning above, and the licking of flames as they ate at the wooded side of the carriage stopped the boy in his tracks. It was too intense, the Albion could not retrieve what still remained inside.
Antwin spotted one of Grifa's stilettos upon the ground. Quickly, the boy scooped it up in-hand and ran to the bucking horse. Struggling, the Albion cut away at the leather that kept the horse tethered-still to the carriage.

"THERE'S A GIRL STILL INSIDE!" Antwin yelled out to the dank darkness of the forest. Though alight by the fire of the coach, the Reaver could not be seen as he franticly scanned the blackness of the night-covered wood. "DAMN YOU!" He shouted boldly. "I CAN'T GET IN THERE, AN' SHE CANNOT GET OUT. SHE'S BOUND, GAGGED, AN' HOODED!" The boy yelled quickly as he freed the final piece of leather. The horse burst free of it's bonds knocking the Albion onto his back, and galloped fearfully away into the night on the road toward Salisbury Plain.

((((( continued )))))
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Postby -Aurik- » Tue Mar 16, 2004 11:43 am

Soundlessly, from the depth of the darkened wood, in the direction from which it disappeared, the Reaver broke through the dank, obsidian cover. It's crimson and black chain mail radiated by fire light.
The Arawnite turned it's still-hidden hooded gaze to Antwin. Though all facial expression was vacant, the Albion could feel resentment exuded from the featureless stare as the Reaver ran toward the burning carriage.

Giving no pause whatsoever to gauge the heat from the inferno, or position of the supposed girl within the temperature-increasing furnace, the wraith leaped into the coach. There, upon one of the seats writhed and bucked the hand and foot bound figure of a female. A black hood covered her head and upper-torso; ironically saving her life as it trapped what air it did on the inside and kept the smoke out. Her shrieks and cries for help, though bound and muffled by the hood, were quite loud and desperate. The heat of the fire was becoming unbearable within the small box compartment.

The Reaver grabbed the girl roughly and held her tight to him. She still cried out; though saved from incinerating death, the arms of who she thought were her abductor's were of small comfort in it's stead.
The Arawnite burst from the firey carriage holding it's charge within the embrace of it's quickly warmed chain. It's footfall to the ground was unsteady and the Servant of Arawn stumbled and hit the ground hard favoring the fall with it's back, as to no crush the female within it's arms.

Antwin rushed over and pulled roughly at the Reaver's crimson cloak. The faceless gaze shot once again to the young Albion. Had the coward waited for this opportunity to strike at it?

"Unfasten the're on fire!" McKeever shouted at the Arawnite sensing it's irritation at his handling.

The wraith did as bid once he lowered the bound, gagged, and hooded woman to the ground next to him. A blood-colored gauntlet of chain raised to it's neck and unsecured the clasping that held the hooded cloak in place.
The Albion wretched away the quickly catching material as the shroud became a dance floor to the waltzing flame. Tossing the covering to the ground, Antwin pounded upon the cloak with his boot, dousing the fire as it fought to feed and stay alive.

Quickly the Reaver unhooded the female paying little mind to what it would view as it uncovered her. The Arawnite's eyes sought for the gag that secured her voice. An errant eye trained upon the chestnut locks of the female's hair. Her face was a mixture of sweat and tears. Those strands of chestnut which invaded her features were matted to the flesh of her face soaked with the strain of her ordeal. Upon cheeks that might normally be smooth as porcelain small breaks in the skin, much like a rashing, speckled the continuity of her skin. The Reaver surmised that the slight red pock-marks were the result of her straining against her bonds and situation.

Once unmuzzled, the lass, who seemed barely shy of 17 Summers, looked upon the black helm of the Arawnite. Though her savior, she backed away fearfully casting a wary gaze at the wraith's similarly onyx-colored torso and lower body. Her orbs trailed as she fearfully studied the Reaver's arms and hands as they bore the appearance of being dipped into a vat of blood by their menacing hue.
It was only when she found an evidence of humanity deeply sunk within the protection of the obsidian helm did she stop from her retreat upon the ground. Curiously, the lass found two eyes as deep and rich as the blue sea cast within islands of white.

"Who are you?" Not, 'what are you?' was the choice phrasing the female chose to ask first amidst the tirade of questions that plagued her.

The Reaver paused a moment as if pondering the question, as if it did not know the answer. Blood-colored crimson gauntlets rose up and grasped the helm that housed and hid his features. Carefully, the Arawnite removed the covering and set it down beside him.
The female gasped with an edge of surprise as the horrorific wraith clad in black and blood was, in reality, nothing of the sort. Albion in appearance, the Reaver's skin was unblemished, taut, and cut sharply at the jaw-line. He bore the tanned hue of one who spent much of his time out of doors. The blue depth of orbs that gave her initial pause looked softly upon her. They were framed by strands of hair platinum in flax. The Reaver, by contemporary standards was remarkably handsome, regal even, as if clad in shining plate, he would cut a heroic figure worthy of the Defenders or Church of Albion.

"You are safe now." The Reaver said softly, setting a tone of comfort to it. "I mean you no harm." Aurik Darkefall looked to the girl before him. For many years he had withdrawn himself from care of the opinions and reaction of commonfolk, maintaining the vision of the wraith and revenge-filled Reaver to those who would serve Morgana.
Her reaction to the initial sight of him struck oddly, gave him pause to think and go off the page of his internal script. In other instances and conflicts it was necessary to maintain the vision and demeanor of the revenge-filled wraith to keep an edge, a mental upper-hand even, over his enemy; but she was not an enemy, and his reflection in her eyes disturbed him for the first time in his lengthy memory.

((((( continued )))))
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Postby -Aurik- » Tue Mar 16, 2004 3:27 pm

The girl's eyes trailed from Aurik over to Antwin. She had not seen the driver's face as Grifa Muldoon had abducted her before procuring McKeever's services. Though there were a few times that the driver had saved her from a beating from the gnarled Tomb Raider as she tried to call out sightlessly for help during the entirety of her ordeal, she still looked upon Antwin with a hardened gaze. No matter what his state, his spiral downward as he sought to acquire coin to maintain his family, the young Albion was as guilty in her eyes as Muldoon in the crime he enabled.
Antwin registered the hate that the abducted girl held for him and cast his head down, closing his eyes in shame at the man he had become as inspired by his poverty.

A sharp crack, like a heavy foot trod upon a bundle of brittle sticks muffled by the cover of wet foliage, changed the girl's expression like the stark turn of a page. Her face blanched white as she shook her head, terror registered within her gaze, but she was unable to voice it as she pointed to the direction where Antwin McKeever had stood.

Aurik stood from fearful female and turned about to the direction she pointed. In his face as he moved was the toothless grin of the freshly dead, Grifa Muldoon. The Tomb Raider's skull was indented disturbingly at one side where the Reaver had wailed upon it vigorously with the flail.
Beyond Muldoon, piled upon the ground with his neck angled unnaturally to where it rested upon the shoulder, lie the body of Antwin McKeever.
The abducted girl hyper-ventilated as she viewed the walking corpse, but was inspired as she witnessed the driver's neck twisted to his rear by the undead Muldoon.

"The boy's best left as food than any use as servant." Grifa whispered hauntingly in a voice not his own, in a deep, almost feminine register. The gnarled undead looked upon Darkemoor with orbs alit with a greenish murkiness. What Aurik did not see, that the girl did, was that a ring upon the finger of Muldoon glowed with the same hue as his eyes.

The Reaver felt about himself, secretly seeking a weapon within his arsenal as the Tomb Raider gazed hungrily at him. Every whip and flail Aurik possessed in his arsenal had been spent on the prior skirmish. His other weaponry was packed and upon the horse he left tied within the forest.

"Pretty one, you be. Morgana remembers you well." Muldoon sputtered, a puppet guided by the strings of a master far away from the scene laid out.
Without another word, the zombie brandished a length of spoke from one of the wagon wheels that had broken upon the horses' attempt to flee. Hissing with a hate and vengeance borne of the grave, Muldoon used it's other-worldly strength to plunge the point of the spoke deep into the heart of the Reaver, easily piercing the chain hauberk that Aurik wore to protect himself.
Darkemoor grasped at the length of wood that protruded from his body and fell to his knees crying out in pain at the surprise strike.

"Servant of Arawn," Grifa hissed, "whore of the dead. Crawl within your master's embrace and plague my minions no further."

Aurik was deaf to the thralls words as death introduced itself painfully to the Reaver. His blood ran cool from the pierced heart as the warmth, from the life which it fed from earlier, waned.
It had been many years since Aurik Darkemoor took up service as an agent of Arawn. Many of his lifetimes had passed. Long he did, for the comfort of the grave, to be coddled by the comfort of his god, Arawn; and become that which he had been guardian of lo' these many lifetimes. He just needed to let go, not fight to hold onto the existence that had been laid out before him. His pennance was done, it had to be.
Aurik struggled to take in breath, more from response than to prolong that which he sought to let go, the spoke through his innards wracked the Reaver's form with excruciating pain. All Darkemoor could do was curl up into himself, on his knees, and hold the muscle-ripping wooden stake stable in wait for the euphoria of death to overtake him finally.

The piercing cry of the girl echoed along the outskirts of Aurik's consciousness as he welcomed the faded hearing. She cried out desperately as the vicious Muldoon victimized her upon the ground where she lay frozen in fear.
Her wails for help and plea for life hung far off the Reaver's awareness like a tangling hook seeking to bait a hungered prey.

"God, help me, please!" Was the tether that sank deep into Aurik. The phrase, and all the forsaken desperation behind the voice, mirrored his own from a day and a scene long in the distant past, a day when a minion of Morgana took advantage of a selfish and vainglorious Duke; and sought make his wealth, power, and province tools for the vile mistress' own devices.

The Reaver cried out in a mix of excruciating pain and anger as he arched himself back and pulled at the stake within his torso with both blood covered gauntleted hands. His hollar echoed throughout the wood and shattered the silence miles away from where the fray took place.
Darkemoor looked upon the pointed spoke once free of his innard. He roared out once more, like some rabid beast as his blood and gore seeped down the length of the shaft.
Eyes of ebon-red fire alit the gaze of the Reaver as he threw aside the spoke and looked to where the undead Muldoon taunted the victimized young woman.

The female wept thankfully as the Reaver was once again, albeit wearily, on his feet looking to the two with a panged looked masked with the red-fire that radiated from his eyes. He clutched at the hole in his chest trying to stop the rush of life-fluid as it made it's escape like so much water from an exploding dike. The girl filled with a sense of dread as Aurik's orbs trained upon her...hungrily, it seemed.

"I am sorry," Darkemoor said apolgeticly, speaking through the pain of his wound, "but this is necessary." Extending a hand out to the girl, the Reaver's eyes gleamed brighter and his head tilted back as he began to pull at the vitality that coursed through the lass. His mouth opened in ecstasy as he fed upon the youthful life that sustained her.
As he drained his victim, the Reaver could feel his wounds knit themselves, and his own vigor recharge. Aurik focused his gaze once again on the girl. She began to take in that sunken appearance inherent to those he dined upon. The lass shook her head timidly as her life slipped away. Fatigue and cold overtook her and she collapsed to the ground.

The feeding was a ravenous experience and near-impossible to cease before the victim had been properly consumed. Darkemoor closed his eyes and withdrew his hand away from his prey. Interrupting the feeding was tantamount to a savage session of love-making, reaching the apex of one's wanton desire, only to have the iminent release of one's passion blocked and receded due to interruption by the appearance of one or the other's spouse.

The Reaver took in pained breaths as he broke his hold upon the young woman. Prone upon the ground, Aurik felt relief as he viewed the rise and fall of her heaving chest as she took in weak breaths. He did not empty the poor woman completely.

Grifa Muldoon charged at Darkemoor as deftly as the undead waste could upon legs that tightened with rigormortis. "DAMN YOU!" The flesh puppet cursed as it hobbled to have at the revitalized Reaver once again.

Needing no whip or blade, Aurik met the stride of the thrall and caught the undead Albion in the throat with his left gauntlet. Holding Muldoon fast, Darkemoor, twisted his handsome features and growled at the thrall of Morgana. His eyes bore the visage of every vile and evil act commited in her name that he was forced to witness as Servant and avenger of Arawn.

"I will rest when you are a bitter memory blown away by the wind, you hoary slut." The Reaver spat in the face of the tomb raider as he tightened his crushing grip about the dead man's throat.
Bringing his right hand up, Aurik plunged his hand, fingers crooked like claws out, into the pulpy mess that was the side of Muldoon's concaved skull. His fingers wiggled about and played within the housed brain matter. In most living dead, the brain, though bereft of activity, still acts as an agent, a battery if you will, for necromantic magicks to charge and animate the full form of the deceased flesh. Remove the powersource, and no matter how skilled the necromancer, the puppet falls and the dead revert to it's natural state.

Aurik Darkemoor smiled viciously into the face of Muldoon, seeing past him as if looking onto Morgana. His comely features twisted and vile with dark pleasure, the Reaver pulled hard upon the portion of brain his right hand grasped and yanked at if forcefully, ripping the organ free of the veins and sinew that held it in place.
The greenish glow faded slowly from the eyes of the tomb raider. Darkemoor held up the brain for his despised enemy to look upon as she lost her hold upon her thrall.

((((( continued )))))
Last edited by -Aurik- on Wed Mar 17, 2004 2:08 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Postby -Aurik- » Wed Mar 17, 2004 2:07 am

The young girl opened her eyes. Her mind was clouded as she emerged from her deep slumber. She barely bore cognition of her name; the play and succession of events in her recent past were a mystery to her as she looked about the encampment sleepy-eyed.
Close to her, where she slept on a bedroll, was a sizeable fire. Beyond the fire sat the flaxen-haired visage of Aurik Darkemoor still garbed in his obsidian and crimson chain mail. Darkemoor poked at the fire with a stick. The stick looked to be a broken spoke off of one of the wagon wheels of the carriage she was riding in.

Slowly, with that small recollection, her short-term memory began to poke through the haze of sleep that fogged her waking.
Pulling the blanket that had been covering her, up to her chin, she used the woolen material to shield herself from the Reaver; within two hands she clutched at it as she scanned encampment once more, noting it's serene change in scenery from the nightmare that she had recently spent her last waking moments within.

"Where are they all?" The lass asked softly. "The dead bodies, the horse, the burning carriage."

Aurik poked at the fire, the flame danced within his sea-blue orbs. "Taken care of, miss." His voice was soft and comforting, as if mindful of her condition. "The dead have been burned. They will trouble us no more this night. As for where we are?" The Reaver took advantage of assuming the next question. "I made this camp further into the forest, away from the road, so you might rest and get your strength back."

Aurik motioned his head, and pointed with the stick, to a spot on the ground close to where she slept. There, within hand's reach, was a skin of apple wine, some select fruit, a portion of a loaf of bread, and a hunk of cheese.

"You're going to be hungy." Darkemoor continued. "Eat. You need to regain your strength."

The young woman did not offer a response to the assumption; her stomach, on the other-hand, spoke up for her as it tightened and gurgled with pangs of hunger. Quickly she took up the bread loaf, cheese, and wine and ate famishedly.

The Reaver smiled slightly, more to himself than to her, as she accepted his hospitality despite what entailed back at the scene by the carriage. "You have a name?" He asked curiously.

The lass swallowed hard upon a poorly chewed hunk of bread and washed it down with the apple wine before answering. "De'anya." She said in a small whisper of a voice. "What did you do to me...back there?"

Darkemoor's brow etched weighty upon his expression as he thought how best to answer the inquiry. If she was ignorant to the type of creature that he was, was it wise to offer a full confession in her tenuous state? His gaze raised from within the intoxication of the dancing fire to look on her. De'anya was unmoved and would not accept a prolonged silence as an answer.

"I am a Reaver." Aurik began. "A servant to the god Arawn." She still kept her eyes upon him, her look nudging him to offer up an adequate response. Darkemoor sighed regretfully.

"I fed from you." He said softly in a lowered tone, as if ashamed of his nature. The Reaver heard the light gasp from the young woman as he took his eyes from her as he made the confession. "To heal my wounds and restore my strength, I took an intense portion of your light and made it my own."

Darkemoor's deep blue gaze met her's once more. He frowned a bit as her face masked a seeming expression of revulsion as he explained himself. Never before, in the decades he had traveled the Isles and Albion, had he ever been repentent of his disposition. "I am sorry, but it was necessry for me to do so to save your life."

De'anya brought a tiny bit of the cheese up to her full bottom lip and let it rest there a scant moment before taking a bite from it. The lass concidered his words and nodded slightly, barely noticeable. "What would you do with me now?" She asked carefully, fearing the answer.

"Do with you?" Aurik canted his head in either: misunderstanding in her meaning, or because the notion of the question had not even occurred him in the moments while he waited for her to wake. "What would you have me do with you?" He retorted.

"Am..." She stuttered as she worded her next, precarious to know the true response. "Am I to become a...regular feeding...vessal to you? you plan to take me back to your temple...and...sacrifice me to your god?"

The Reaver stared at her with a blank expression that gave the young woman much reason to concern. Then, all at once, his upper-torso bounced upward as his lips curled with a smile. Lightly, Aurik began to bounce as he chuckled soft and deeply at the ridiculous notion. "Is that your desire, mistress De'anya: to be food or sacrifice; or do you mean to be both?" It was cruel for the Reaver to tease the woman after the ordeal she had just endured, but the idea she suggested touched him ludicrously.

Though still tenuous and a bit fearful of the Arawnite, the lass was a bit offended by the jocularity in which he met her uncertainty with. "If given a choice, I would just assume you turn me free...with my gratitude for saving my life." Her head bowed down and she averted her tear-welling gaze from him as she recalled her abduction by Grifa Muldoon. De'anya did her best to hold back her sadness, but her body jolted a bit as a tear drifted down her cheek. She brought the woolen blanket up to her face and began to sob within it.

Aurik looked upon her as she let loose her sorrow. He felt as if he should stand and go to her, find some way to comfort her, assuage her fears, and reassure her safety; but he truly did not know how best to do so, so he remained seated on his side of the fire and watched her as she wept.
When he finally decided to speak up, it was when the lass looked to be at edge of the tears she could cry.

"At daybreak, I will take you to Caer Ulfwych and we will seek out the constable there." Darkemoor said in a tone trying to be reassuring. "The coin that the tomb raider carried with him is yours...for your pains at his hand. Tis a sizeable sum, if that offers you any solice."

De'anya lifted her face from the blanket and dried her tears with the rough material of the blanket. Her eyes had become puffy from her sobbing and her cheeks flushed with a reddness. The expression of waning sorrow matched with the way that her chestnut locks framed her face hit the Reaver with the answer to a nagging query that had plagued Darkemoor since his eyes took in the visage of the young woman.

A lifetime ago, as the Reaver recalled it, he could remember walking the halls of the ancestral estate he had inherited from his newly passed father. Lord of the manor, and decked out in the refinement and dress of a Duke, Aurik recalled strolling past a scene where two of his house servants were consoling a chamber maid who was weeping over the loss of her own father a fortnight prior to that day. Her lingering mourning and words of endearment for her patriarch gave the young Duke pause in his step to watch the trio. As De'anya's doppleganger eulogized sentiments of respect and love for her lost father between tear-filled longing, the young Duke could think nothing more than of a desire to bed the young chamber maid.
As she put voice to her sorrow, of how she would miss the last remnant of her family, Lord Darkemoor envisioned her underneath him, writhing in a fit of lust and lovemaking in a heated bed of their making.
When the vision was completed, the young Duke walked off, leaving the servants to their affairs, and attend to the frivolitry that filled his days being a young inheritor to old coin.

A week after the endearing scene that Lord Darkemoor was privy to, the scandalous Duke made his fantasy a reality and bed the young chamber maid; though she did so only to secure her employment as she had no other family, and nowhere else to go: a notion that the Duke pointed out while negotiating the loosening of her corset.

((((( continued )))))
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Postby -Aurik- » Wed Mar 17, 2004 12:35 pm

"M'Lord...ummm...Reaver...sir..." De'anya's subtle voice broke Aurik's reverie and the long forgotten memory as she spoke. "You seemed a little lost just then."

Aurik shook his head. "You reminded me of someone, is all."

The young woman picked at the pieces of fruit and finally settled on an apple. "A good someone, I hope. I've seen how you deal with those you don't like." She did not mean to sound comical, but her retort inspired a slight smile from Darkemoor.

"Aye, miss, a good someone; though someone I should've taken the time to know better, and perhaps not as well as I did." The Reaver's cryptic words confused the young woman, but she did not least not yet.

"Have you a name I can call you by," she inquired, "or do you wish for me to refer to you as 'M'lord' and 'Mr. Reaver, sir'?"

The Arawnite puffed lightly as he chuckled. "Course I have a name. You may call me 'Aurik' if it pleases you. My full name is: Aurik Darkemoor."

"Well, Aurik," she munched contently upon the apple trying out the sound of his name for size, "if you have no intention to harm me, then perhaps you can tell me a bit about yourself."

Darkemoor stoked the fire with the dry blood-covered wagon spoke, inspiring the flames to rise higher within the early morning night. "You should sleep, De'anya. Tis still a good length of road that we need to travel before Ulfwych."

The lass didn't mean to look beligerent by her response when she shook her head 'no', but that was the impression she received when the Reaver crooked a brow at her unwilling compliance to his request. De'anya sunk a little in her seat like a youngster scolded. "I am sorry, but I am much too 'awake' to think about falling asleep. Forgive me, but a paranoia still lingers in me."

Aurik looked back to the fire and nodded his head stoicly, acknowledging her answer. "Fine."

A long moment of silence passed between the two with only the crackle and snap of the campfire breaking the uneasy silence. Her strength renewed by the rest and food, the young woman felt more confident and sure than she had in days. Pulling from this resevoir of courage, De'anya pressed the issue she lightly touched upon earlier. "What is it about yourself that you are unwilling to share, m'lord Aurik?"

Darkemoor's gaze met with her's once again, full with inconvenience, as he fiddled with the fire more. "There is much about my past that is best left buried there, young lady. Despite out initial meeting, you might look upon me as some sort of Paladin. In truth, I am the furthest thing from it." He motioned his head to the bedroll she had been sitting on. "So lay yourself down; sleep, don't sleep, it matters not to me. Just cease with the prying. There is no story I can tell you that will quell any curiosity."

Having properly stoked the ire of the Reaver, the lass opted to not press the issue, and quietly laid down upon the length of blanket that would be her bed. De'anya rested her head upon another blanket rolled up into a make-shift pillow, and pulled the woolen blanket that she had cried into up over her shoulders, just under her chin. She laid there and looked upon the handsome, chisled relief of Darkemoor's face; at the way his platinum locks hung down into his face. De'anya wondered silently why this angelic-visage of a man tried so hard to play the part, and wear the mask of a demon.

"Were you a rapist...of women?" She asked tenaciously. The quesiton sounded ridiculous as it wasn't well-thought out. What other type of rapist would he be, if he were one at all? The lass pulled the blanket up around her mouth as she awaited the fierce outburst of a response, she devised was owed to her, for prying further.

Darkemoor wore a mask of uncertainty as he looked to De'anya in acknowledgement of her careless question. His deep blue orbs reflected a tinge of guilt as his thoughts returned to that memory of the past, and the chamber maid that De'anya reminded him of. It could be well construed that what occurred back then was rape, as the woman in question acquiesced to the young Duke's whims only to secure her employ.

It was then that Darkemoor realized how much introspection the simple 'yes or no' question stirred up within him. He softened his dour expression, took in deep breath and began his tale.

"Some 250-odd years ago, as measured by the calendar of the Church of Albion, I was Lord Aurik Darkemoor, Duke of Caer Darkemoor. I inherited the title, a fine castle keep, and a modest hamlet that thrived upon the Darkemoor lands. When my family was in power, the duchy resided within the Isle of Glass, about a day's ride from the great City of Avalon. These were the days before Morgana and her minions dominated the Isles, when she was just coming into power."

((((( continued )))))
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Postby -Aurik- » Thu Mar 18, 2004 1:23 pm

De'anya propped herself upon her elbow as the notion of the Reaver's age set in. "Two-hundred...and fifty years?" She asked incredulously. "If you do not wish to tell me your story, I will not pry any further. No need to spin yarns to appease my curiosity."

The Reaver curled the left side of his lip into a smirk as he watched the lass settle back into her bedroll. He would continue the story, if only to refresh himself of it.

"When I iherited my family's fortune, I was the age as you see me now." Darkemoor continued.

"You are what?" De'anya squinted her eyes through the firelight as she guessed his age. "Mid-twenties?"

For the sake of argument, Aurik simply nodded his head. "Aye. I was a brash youth in those days. Educated by the finest instructors, schooled on decorum and ettiquette; the proverbial silver spoon hand delivered on a platinum serving tray, and I appreciated none of it.
I was self-absorbed, debaucherous, and I abused the power and situation that I had been born into. Those who were set up as my advisors, ruled my province. I held little regard for functions of state, the church, community. Power and wealth were mine by right and luck of the draw. No one saw fit to speak against me, or correct me. I was left alone to spend my wealth and cater to my hedonistic desires."

The young woman nipped at a piece of cheese that she held left-over from her meal as she lay listening. "Sounds as if you were a horrid person....pardon me for saying."

Darkemoor shook his head as he fiddled with the fire a bit more. "An apt description, miss...quite apt." His features glazed over with an almost remorseful appeal. "Explains with good reason why I am as you see me today."

Chewing upon a morsel of cheese, she asked her query between bites. "How did a Duke.." The lass stopped herself in mid-question. "How did you come to such a state, from the lifestyle you describe?"

"As I said at the beginning," Aurik continued. "It was a time when Morgana was beginning to assert herself upon the realm.
Today, the dead rule the Isles, doing the bidding of their vile mistress, and those of power that serve under her. During my time, it was quite a different scene. The Church of Albion prevailed and held dominance over those who worshipped, while those of Arawn met in secret worship to the elder God. His children, the Iconnu, dwelled underground during those times, and were rarely seen by the Ablion citizenry."

Darkemoor reached for a wineskin of his own and took a pause to wet his parched throat. "Morgana set up agents within the greater provinces of the Isles. A swift and coordinated strike, her agents cut down the ruling heads of those regions, and brought them back to life through her necromantic witchery. The newly inducted thralls of Morgana, with the help of her loyal minions, slowly deteriorated those provinces. When she felt she was at her strongest, Morgana's armies of the undead swept through and took the Isles, infecting it like a plague.
Those Albions fortunate enough to escape the coup by the vile witch, crossed the border over to Albion proper, and closed the portal connecting Avalon Marsh to Gothwaite. For two centuries, Morgana ruled and raped the Isles making it a haven for the walking dead."

De'anya's attention was rapt as she looked to the Reaver wide-eyed. Whatever notion she had to dispute the age Darkemoor claimed to be, was tabled as she listened to the tale. "Was an agent set within Caer Darkemoor?" She asked tentatively.

Aurik nodded with a mournful expression to his eyes. "Aye. Her agent within cabinet of advisors that ran the duchy, while I whored and drank myself to oblivion, was resonsible for the deaths of my father and mother, the advisors themselves...and me."

The young woman ceased her chewing and lay there with her mouth hung open, completely drawn into his tale. Before she refuted the validity that he was a 250 year-old zombie, the Reaver continued on.

"Killing me was easy. The agent of Morgana simply poisoned my ale at the proper time, and watched me die." Aurik reached over to a satchel that lay close to him. Reaching deep inside the leather bag, he pulled out a ring and tossed it over to the lass. The ring landed with an earthly thud as the weighted piece of jewelry impacted the ground. De'anya jumped back a bit as she looked to what was tossed at her.

"The ring before you is the ring that Muldoon wore upon his finger." Darkemoor explained. "Upon my death, that same type of ring was to be thrust upon me, animating my form, to do whatever bidding that Morgana would have of me." He stopped for a minute as memory of his first death cleared away the clouding of years and took on a clarity.

"Once Morgana became bold, and less covert, in her over-taking of the Isles; the Iconnu emerged from their underground lairs and took up arms against her.
The Church of Albion she did not concider a threat. In her vanity, however, she never took into concideration the elder god, Arawn; whose children she exploited in her quest for power.
She affronted the Death God by snatching his children from his embrace, perverting their eternal slumber, and final reward, by making them walk the earth, doing her bidding, for all eternity."

De'anya broke her silence at the mention of Arawn. "I've heard of the Arawnite; out in the moutain region of Snowdonia. A vile sort they are."

The Reaver smiled at the sound and foreboding of her description of the followers of Arawn. "Much like the Church of Albion, the Arawnite are a splintered faction. Each caste believing devoutly in their god and what is expected of them as followers. The Arawnite in Snowdonia believe that their god requires sacrifice; In that vein and devotion, they are killers.
Not all followers of Arawn believe as that faction does."

The young woman simply nodded her head. Aurik smirked believing she truly did not understand his explanation, but he appreciated her interest in his tale none-the-less.

((((( continued )))))
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Postby -Aurik- » Mon Mar 22, 2004 12:18 pm

The question piqued at De'anya's curiosity, though she was quite fearful of the answer based on the information she already knew. Casting a sorrowed look upon the Reaver, she voiced herself. "What happened to you...once he killed you."

The normally stoic expression of the angelic Darkemoor turned thoughtful as he took in the young woman's words. "On the threshold of death, I was saved by a servant of Arawn; a Reaver like myself; an Iconnu. Because of her, I do not walk this realm like some flesh-decayed marionette."

De'anya's voice was small and tenuous. "But you still died?"

Aurik nodded his head simply. "Aye. There was nothing to forestall my demise. Nurra, was the Reaver's name. She charged the room where the thrall of Morgana saw fit to dispatch me." Darkemoor smiled a bit as he re-visited the memory. De'anya found it odd that he would smile recounting such a morbid past, but she did not comment. "T'was the first time I saw a whip in action." He continued. "Was also the first time that I witnessed the Reaver's ability to take the vitality from their enemy."

The fire waned a bit as it devoured the wood laid out initially for it to consume. Aurik tossed a couple more logs that sat near him and stoked at the fire vigorously. Sparks erupted and shot upward to the sky as the ever-hungering beast exclaimed it's delight as it was tossed more nourishment for it's flames to lick and eat away at.

"Nurra dispatched the thrall easily, then tended to me as I passed." Darkemoor leaned a bit closer to the campfire to feel it's warmth along his cool flesh. "She paused for a prolonged moment while I lay dying, as if caught in a trance. When she re-emerged from her state," he hesitated a moment allowing the Iconnu's voice fill him once more to properly relate what she said to him back then. "her only words to me were,

'Arawn knows you, Aurik Darkemoor; godless and hedonistic, your life has served only yourself. In His name, I offer you a chance to give the life wasted redemption and meaning.'

There was no question of my acceptance or denial, she simply sat there until I either: spoke up, or died." The Reaver's gaze drifted from the dancing flames of the fire to De'anya. He could not help but chuckle by the look upon her face. It looked as if she hung on, waiting for him to tell her which path he chose.

"I chose to serve Arawn." He stated the obvious with a quirked brow. De'anya nodded her head as if curiosity had been appeased.

Decided that he was done telling the tale, he pointed the wagon spoke that he stoked the fire with at the young woman. "Time for you to sleep. Dawn approaches. We will be moving early."

"One last question...if I may?" She asked softly, to which he nodded to her. "All Reavers...are you?"

Darkemoor shook his head. "I am unique." He adjusted his seating at the fire, trying to find a bit of comfort, as he had no desire for sleep. "I died, there was nothing to save me from that fate. My life had drained. Through Nurra's ministration, Arawn filled me with new life, but it was life with a cost. I must feed to sustain this undead life I live. Normal Reavers are taught to steal portions of the vitality of their enemy to heal their wounds in battle. I drain my victim whole when my hunger is at it's greatest."

"What would happen if you decided not to...feed?" De'anya abhorred the thought of having to live such a life.

His deep blue orbs illustrated the campfire against their glass-like appeal as he looked to it once more. "To not feed is like being ripped inside out. If I did not feed when the hunger took me, Arawn's blessing which keeps I am," he choose not to coin the term, 'alive', "would wither away an' dissipate. I would die, and I would be rejected by Arawn; a free vessal for Morgana to exploit." He glanced up to her again, this time registering an-almost pitiful look to her gaze. Darkemoor was not a pitiful person, and took insult to her eyes as he tightened his jaw; his demeanor in check, however, he did not voice the contempt he held for her stare. "I will rest finally when Arawn dictates." He finally announced with some irritation. "No more. Get some sleep."

The young woman shivered, though her blanket covered her warmly to the chin. The sudden ire from the Reaver spread from him like a plague, and she did not wish to press her luck with any further questions. She closed her eyes, but only for appearances sake. Though her savior, Darkemoor offered little notion of comfort and security. Mostly, she feigned sleep for fear of a visitation by the Reaver's hunger. De'anya desired the opportunity to run if Aurik found her more of value as a meal, than as a honorable deed done for a damsel in distress by delivering her to Ulfwych.

The final hours before dawn, Aurik Darkemoor simply sat and looked upon his charge in quiet contemplation. It had been a few hours since his last feeding, when he satisfied himself on her, to be exact. A gnawing desire piqued at him as he thought about how delectible her vitality had been when it coursed through him, nourished him.

The Reaver tightened his jaw as his gaze turned that to a predator's. Dawn, it seemed, might not come quick enough.


The Seventh Stranger -

"Those words are all remainders
Echos growing in the heart of twilight
They lay back laughing at naivety's star
Awaken all those whispers
The dusty shadow of a passing favour
I wouldn't say that you were ruthless or right
I couldn't see from so far
Was I chasing after rainbows
One thing for sure you never answered when I called
and I wiped away the water from my face
To look through the eyes of a stranger
for rumours in the wake of such a lonely crowd
trading in my shelter for danger
I'm changing my name just as the sun goes down
In the eyes of a stranger
Can't tell the real from reflection
When all thses faces look the same to me
In every city such a desolate dream
Some days are strange to number
Some say the seventh sounds a little bit stranger
A year of Sundays seems to have drifted right by
(I could have sworn) In one evening
I'm not seized in desperation
No steel reproaches on the table from before
But I still can feel those splinters of ice
I look through the eyes of a stranger
For rumours in the wak of such a lonely crowd
Trading in my shelter for danger
I'm changing my name just as the sun goes down
In the eyes of a stranger
I must be chasing after rainbows
One thing for sure you never answered when I called
And I wipe away the water from my face
To look through the eyes of a stranger
For rumours in the wake of such a lonely crowd
Trading in my shelter for danger
I'm changing my name as the sun goes down
Walking away like a stranger
From rumours in the wake of such a lonely crowd
Trading in my shelter for danger
I'm changing my name just as the sun goes down
In the eyes of a stranger"
RESTRAINING ORDER is another way of saying "I Love You"
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Postby -Aurik- » Mon Mar 06, 2006 12:48 pm

RESTRAINING ORDER is another way of saying "I Love You"
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