Topic: Walking In Shadows

Lord Ayreg

Date: 2006-04-03 16:03 EST
Jodiah Ayreg frowned, but he was satisfied. Kneeling upon the floor, he looked over his handiwork. A line of chalk extended up the wall before him, looking something like an arch. It wasn't perfect, but it didn't need to be, either. Flanking either end of the chalk arch were thick, heavy black candles, casting light across the floor and up the wall. Taking up his belt knife -- more tool than weapon -- he set it before him like some kind of sacred athame.

Rituals always required patience, and strict adherence to the way things were done.

He had intended for Talomar Longden to be with him when he made this trip, to help improve his chances of survival. The Count had been indisposed for much of the time since they spoke, though, and then he and the harpy got married. No doubt the Count was off somewhere, ravishing his new wife at the present moment, but Ayreg had already told him he was going to make this trip himself. He put it off for as long as he could, but with Alysia Skye being the winner of his... voucher of service... from those silly little Scoutgirls, he could delay no longer. She requested he create for her a suit of soulforged armor. Tricky business, but he was equal to the task.

He just needed the soulstock. Then Tara's sword could be finished, and he could get to work on Alysia's armor.

Beside him lay the rusted, tarnished remains of what might have been a greatsword. It was broken, ending just a few inches below the cross-shaped handguard of the hilt. He let his hand fall on the ruined thing,d evoid even of a leather wrap, and smiled in fond rememberance. "Grimthwacker" he said, softly. His old sword, even before he was a death knight.

It had taken some doing to find it.

Already having established the fact that it was an artifact through the use of shadow eyes, he knew it would be slim -- and, indeed, the only -- protection against what he knew lay before him when he finished the ritual.

In the Shadowlands, very few instruments were truly useful if they came from the Skinlands.

Tonight's sacrifice was brought to you by random chance. A rat, trapped in an overturned pot in the kitchen would suffice. The serving girl was grateful for his brave offer of assistance in the removal of the rat, but he doubted she knew just exactly what he had planned on doing with the thing. Taking his belt knife, he cut a tiny line across the rat's neck to collect some of its blood on the blade. He lifted the blade, then, flicking it onto the wall within the chalk outline.

He lifted his own hand, then, and cut a line across the tip of his finger.

He spoke evenly, an incantation that sounded ridiculous. It was originally devised in the tongue of Malfeas, though, and in that dark language it was far more mellifluous. In common, it was almost stupid.

"One death to open the door.
One sacrifice, and never more.
Let the shroud between worlds be tore,
with one death to open the door."

His own blood was flicked upon the wall next. It sizzled.

The arch shimmered, and the chalk began to glow. The space between was no longer the wooden wall he had been kneeling in front of, thoug. Now the arch looked like a mirror, and it reflected everything in the room. Except him.

The room on the other side was cold, lifeless, and gray, though much the same as it was on his side. Picking the remains of Grimthwacker, he reached toward the mirror.

Lord Ayreg

Date: 2006-04-04 23:21 EST
Jodiah Ayreg found himself in his room again. It was lifeless, and gray. The bed was broken, as was most of the glass in the window -- shattered beyond hopes, to be accurate. He rose to his feet, then, and turned. Grimthwacker was in his hand, still, but now the greatsword was its full length, and shimmered softly. He could see strait through it. Such was the way of artifacts -- items so powerful, so much emotion wrapped up in them in the living world that an echo of them remains in the Shadowlands.

He had entered the world of the dead.

He knew better than to try going down through the common room. Even in the Shadowlands, the Red Dragon had an echo. No doubt many heroes of the ancient lore of Rhy'Din might be down there, but he had no time to deal with old friends and enemies, now long dead. Most had probably fallen to Oblivion by now, but there was always the chance of someone recognizing him. They probably would not appreciate his presence, either. The Grim Legion took a dim view of any interaction between the living and the dead, and he did not care to cross the path of the Legion today. He looked out the window, scanning the alleyway behind the Red Dragon.

It seemed clear.

Opening the window, and sending pieces of glass flying down to the gray cobbles beneath the sill, he climbed out and dropped down to the ground.

Grimthwacker held at his side, Jodiah Ayreg began to stalk the back streets of Stygia -- the eternal, dead reflection of Rhy'Din. The main roads would be faster, but then he'd be seen far more easily. The living stand out like a sore thumb to the dead. He was by himself, and cutting his way through a phalanx of Legionnaires to reach the Soulforge did not appeal to him very much.

He desired to live too much to throw his life away so recklessly.

Lord Ayreg

Date: 2006-04-05 11:14 EST
Jodiah Ayreg had opted not to wear his armor, choosing instead the freedom of movement of only his boots, breeches, and the shirt. Even a coat would have restricted him a bit, and he needed to be quick and quiet as a shadow in the Shadowlands. Armor would not have helped a whit if a wraith had attacked him -- he may as well be naked, truth be told.

Every breath he released showed sickening, toxic fumes of yellowish haze. Everything in the Shadowlands was a reflection of death itself, and Jodiah Ayreg was quite comfortable with his tabac pipe. It was a disturbing thought to see those sickly fumes every time he breathed, but it was more disturbing to think that it would make him more noticable to the wraiths as they moved on about their daily non-lives -- who had no need of breathing, of course.

Wraiths were not undead like vampires, or zombies, or the like. They were most assuredly, completly, utterly, inexorably... dead.

Jodiah Ayreg skulked around side alleys through the ghostly reflection of the city, listening to the wailing drone of the spirits moving about the avenues and primary roads and streets. The world of the dead was not unlike the world of the living, in that most simply made their way in the world. The fact that they were dead, however, did not stop many of them from persuing the same goals they had in life. With the exception of those wraiths who joined the Legion, many had exactly the same professions, or they simply found a spot and sat until Oblivion claimed them, too tired to push along.

The Vamara Market was one of three in Stygia, each roughly coinciding with marketplaces in Rhy'Din itself. Despite the name, the huge square had nothing of the look of a market, no market stalls or displays of merchandise. Several hundred wraiths made their way though the thick and bustling crowd that might have been seen in any large city. Around the square, as at the necropolis' other two markets, the tall stone houses of bankers rubbed shoulders with slate-roofed quarters, and blocky windowless stone warehouses where their goods were stored, all jumbled in together and on top of each other. Stygia was a vertical city, sprawling though it may be, and any building ever built on a particular site in Rhy'Din remained in the ghostly manifestation in the Shadowlands.. only newer versions were built upward, connected with crude stairwork and complicated lifts.

Only the Red Dragon which, Jodiah mused, has stood near to the beginning of time, was short upon the ground. It was positively towered over by many of the other, more fluid, structures.

You are a fool for coming here! Madness! You have to get out! You've brought us here to die!

Jodiah blinked. He had been hearing the disembodied voice for some time, but never before had he heard it refering to both of them at once. Previously, it had been demanding actions and responses of him -- but not once did it imply it was in his head.

"Are you real?" he asked, softly. There was no answer.

Skirting through the side streets leading out of the Vamara Market, hearing the occasional ghostly businessman hawking his goods. Soulforged items, mostly, since that's what almost everything was made of when it came to amenities in the Shadowlands, but one he heard was trying to sell Relics -- items so powerful, with so much emotion tied into them in life that a ghostly reflection of them appeared in the Shadowlands when the item was destroyed.

Different from an artifact, like Grimthwacker, which existed in both planes at the same time. When the Skinlands version of Grimthwacker was finally destroyed -- say, melted down in a forge -- then the Shadowlands version would be destroyed as well. A Relic was eternal.

Soulforged ashtrays, only three Enoi apiece. Finest soulforged weapons in the Iron City -- the wraithly nickname for Stygia -- starting at a mere twenty-five Enoi. Deathmasks, popular amongst the older, more powerful, wraiths, for seventy Enoi.

Enoi were the coins of the realm. Silver did not exist in the Shadowlands, and a single soul of a single poor slob was hammered to make a single Enoi. The thought made him shiver, again, considering the possibility of spending the rest of eternity passed around between ghostly merchants and wraithly lords, as a form of payment. He could only imagine the madness inflicted upon those that found themselves in a lockbox, inside the strongroom of some Citadel, painfully conscience and aware of their existance.

Focus, you fool, or you will get us killed yet!

He grit his teeth, and silenced the voice in his mind. Ducking his head behind the reflection of a barrel, he paused to catch his breath.

He considered himself monumentally lucky he hadn't been seen so far, since Stygia was a city of billions, crowded in and around and on top of one another, cheek-by-jowl. Or, rather, he was lucky he hadn't been reported to the Legion yet. A few wraiths had stumbled across him in the alley, but Grimthwacker dispatched them easily enough, sending the remains of their spirit sweeping into the Tempest.

They could be back, perhaps, if they were not swept off to Oblivion.

He pushed the thought away. Idle thoughts could get him killed, here, and the status of those wraiths was inconsequential to him at the moment.

Across the broad square, on the opposite side of the Vamara Market, was his target. It looked unassuming, save only the billowing yellow-and-black smoke pouring from chimneys and air-stacks in the roof. It was roughly where the Dragon's Breath was, he noted with a small shudder, though the smoke was not given off by the carbonation of steel in a slow furnace, and the hammers ringing there would not be shaping metal.

It was a soulforge.

Charnel houses, even in the world of the dead. His green eyes cut left and right, eying the crowd warily and considering the best method of getting there.

Lord Ayreg

Date: 2006-04-07 12:51 EST
Jorbin was a soulsmith.

Shortly after his Reaping, Jorbin wandered the streets of the Iron City for almost an age. The last great Maelstrom convinced him to find a more dedicated purpose in life -- he had seen the spectres as they washed over the Shadowlands like a plague, unleashed from their bindings in the Tempest, and had made the conscience effort not to waste away in the world of the dead, pining for his beloved Evanna.

Jorbin was quite dead. Stampeded over by a wagon carrying goods between various places in Low Town, on the far side of the Shroud, his death was almost instantaneous. One arm hung limply at his side, twisted into an odd angle with a protruding bone that made him want to scream nearly every time he looked at it. Even now. One leg was also twisted, and he moved about the Shadowlands with a sickening crunch in every step. He felt no pain, of course -- the dead did not feel such things, generally -- but it was a major block every time he tried to rise the social rungs of Stygia.

He needed to be more fearsome. More respected. He had to have more notoriety. He had to look better, understand, for his beloved Evanna. She was the entire reason he still existed. He clung to his love for her so much, with so much passion, that his spirit remained in this accursed place when his body perished under the beating hooves and the clattering wheels.

So he joined the soulforge.

And it worked. Other wraiths steered clear of him now, the solid plasm making up what was left of his body was stained from the forgefires, as any soulsmith looks, and the rest of the citizens -- well, except for those who belonged to the Legion -- wanted nothing to do with him. It was a lonely life, but he was respected for his work.

As he stood there at his anvil, hammering away at one of those harvested to be stock for the soulforge. His useless arm hanging at his side as ever, he struck the hammer onto the anvil to the wailing screams of the harvested one. It wasn't a noble purpose this one had in store for him -- no great weapon held by a Legonnaire, no mask for a Praetor. No stockade or bar to keep the spectres locked away.

This one was going to be a paperweight on the desk of the Deathlord Unttraanix`is.

There was no pity to be felt for him. This is just the way it was, in the Iron City. Squeamish wraiths did not long survive Oblivion's pull, and Jorbin wished to exist as long as possible. He wanted to exist for Evanna.

Dead ears heard a door open, and there was movement in the corner of his eye. It was a fast trip, apparently, but it could be made in such time. Jorbin had sent his apprentice and `gopher,` Kornam, out to deliver a supply of brackets that had just been finished. For four Enoi, it was hardly enough to cover the cost of the harvested that had been melted, shredded, and hammered to produce them.

"Alright, Kornam, get back to work. I'll be finished with this paperweight here soon, and it needs to be boxed up and taken to the Iron Citadel. I have orders for it to be delivered directly to the Deathlord."

There was no answer. Movement in the corner of his eye told Jorbin that the one who entered was walking toward him, but something about him seemed... funny. He turned and looked.

In front of him, he saw... a man! A living man! His face was scarred, and he was breathing what appeared to be yellow fumes from his nose -- in life, it would have made Jorbin's stomach turn. Here, he had no stomach. In the man's hand, though, was the shimmering length of a long, broad-bladed sword. Relics didn't look like that. Neither did soulsteel. It had to be something else. Different.

Panic rose in Jorbin, as thoughts of the Legion finding out about this entered his broken head. He should run! He should report this man to the Legion, and the Legion will take care of him. He would most likely die, and be harvested on the spot. Perhaps this man, arrogant in his ways to tresspass into the lands of the dead, would make a fine paperweight on his own, considerably smaller, desk in the back.

The sword was raised before the cry of alarm, and a brutal downward slash cleaved the plasm into two. Jorbin's world twisted, and split, and he fell into darkness. The swirling madness of the Tempest greeted him, ever there just behind the facade of the Shadowlands, and he was swept away.

Jodiah Ayreg lifted the hammer from its place there on the ground, where the wraith had dropped it. Setting Grimthwacker to the side, he lifted the hammer over what was left of the whimpering wraith on the anvil, and began hammering away at it. A process that would be repeated multiple times -- he needed quite a few pieces of soulstock, and he did not wish to make this journey again.

Lord Ayreg

Date: 2006-04-08 12:35 EST
Be quick.

"Shut up."

Faster, fool. We must not delay.

"It is not a delay. I'm getting what I came for."

What you came for is death. Faster!

Jodiah blinked. That was the first time that bloody voice in his skull actually responded to something he said.

"Are you real?"

Are you real?

"Who are you?"

My name is Jodiah Ayreg.

The death knight... blinked. His molding and shaping of the poor, wailing soul on the anvil came to an abrupt halt, but it was only a brief pause. Troublesome as the voice was, it was right -- no delays would be possible. Soulforges were never crewed by one wraith alone, and the other would be back soon. Three bricks of soulstock had already been set aside, and the fourth would be finished soon. Two more, perhaps, should be enough.

"My name is Jodiah Ayreg."

Then you are a madman. Hurry, you fool!

Ayreg grit his teeth, and continued the shaping of the brick upon the anvil. Perhaps he really was going mad, what with all he's had to go through in his life. Perhaps he had a right to go mad. The human mind can only bend itself around so much.

Quit your musing and work harder, wretch!

"You're distracting me with your prattle. Be silent!"

Faster!

"I'd love to have you in front of me. I'd show you--"

You cannot feel love! It is lost.

"Is it?"

It is. You can only know hate. Peace is a lie.

He set the finished brick of soulstock onto the others, and turned to the blackened forge with the massive, soulforged tongs to pull another of the damned from its fires. It was not real fire, naturally, but the enchantment placed upon the soulforges softened the plasm that makes up the wraithly forms. So softened, they lack almost all control over their own 'bodies,' and become quite malleable. When they cool again, they become hard as iron. Sentient, but then put to a more useful purpose.

It was a cold, heartless thing. But, then again, the dead have no hearts.

Lord Ayreg

Date: 2006-04-09 13:16 EST
Jodiah Ayreg was hard at work on the last brick of soulstock. It had mostly been shaped now, and just needed to have a few final touches set onto it. It wouldn't do to solidfy in the wrong shape -- it would be impossible to get it melted down again to form into the coat of Tara's sword, or molded into Alysia's armor.

The voice in his head had, thankfully, been pushed aside. It sounded only like the buzzing of a fly, now. Ever-present and there, screaming at him to move faster, but there was nothing to be done for it.

His attention was stolen when he heard sound off to his right.

The door swung open, and in walked the other wraith he had been expecting. Wraiths could move through solid walls, of course, but it was painful for them to do so. They had no qualms about making such a sacrifice when it suited their needs, but generally they entered rooms like this one did.

Through the door.

When the wraith walked in, he blinked, staring at the death knight. It was returned. A silly thing, this, the living and the dead staring at each other like strange cats in a small room. Anger replaced shock, and outrage overrode fear, and the wraith shook with passionate hatred. "Legionnaires, alarm! Come! Legionnaires!"

Jodiah winced. He threw the just-unfinished brick of soulstock into a bag, and quickly collected up the other five. The wraith continued to scream, and from out the door Ayreg could hear the cry being taken up by more of the dead outside. The first one leaped toward him, then, but was fended away hissing by Jodiah lifting Grimthwacker.

It was a bluff. Greatswords could not be wielded one-handed.

Jodiah turned and fled, running out the other door into a side-street. Grimthwacker held precariously in one hand, and the sack of soulstock in the other.

Lord Ayreg

Date: 2006-04-10 11:48 EST
The voice in his skull had abandoned him for now, and for that Jodiah Ayreg was grateful.

Unfortunatly, he was most not grateful to be running nearly full-tilt through the winding, maze-like streets of the great necropolis of Stygia. Cries of alarm and angry shouts followed in his wake as he blew past and through passer-by wraiths. Normally he wouldn't have been able to move so freely on streets packed so heavily, but wraiths were not living, breathing persons. There was the slightest of resistance -- like walking through a sheet of flowing water -- but he was able to pass through the wraithly bodies like they were vapor. The dead did not appreciate it, though, as it was like becoming incorporeal to pass through a wall: it hurt.

Stepping out of an alcove ahead of him, Jodiah Ayreg's pace slowed as he saw a figure wrapped in flowing black robes, and holding what looked like some kind of scythe-like sword. A legionnaire.

Flinging the sack of soulstock to the ground, he brought Grimthwacker around in a wide arc. The wraith -- evidentally not having been expecting the living human to come barreling toward him on the narrow street -- had attempted to block with its relic weapon, but it was too late. Passing through the body of the wraith, the sword struck the nearby wall with a loud clang, and the legionnaire vanished before his eyes, sucked down into the Tempest.

He turned, but stopped. The blade of Grimthwacker was stuck, and protruded from the wall like some kind of strange, glowing work of expressionist art. He sneered, but the mob of writhing, angry wraiths behind him convinced him it was time to leave. He picked up the sack he threw to the ground, and hefted it over his shoulder. Taking one last, final look at Grimthwacker, the death knight continued his mad dash through the streets.

He had gotten turned around when he left the Soulforge, and the layout of Stygia wasn't exactly like that of Rhy'Din City. He'd need to keep ahead of the mob behind him, avoid any more legionnaires he had to face, find the ghostly reflection of the Red Dragon Inn, somehow get past the crowd that was sure to be filling its common room, get up the stairs to room three, force his way in, and get back out through the mirror-door.

Somewhere in the back of his head, he could hear the voice cackling with maniacal glee.

Lord Ayreg

Date: 2006-04-13 12:30 EST
Jodiah Ayreg was lost.

The streets of Stygia were a reflection of Rhy'Din, but they were not exact. Buildings loomed and leaned in ways that would cause them to topple over in the "real" world; foundations and walls were cracked and split enough to cause any engineer fits.

He couldn't exactly stop and ask for directions, either.

Rushes of sickly yellow fumes puffed quickly now from the death knight with every labored breath. The dead might not grow tired from exertion, but he certainly did. His feet hurt from pounding against the streets in his soft-soled boots, his back ached, and his legs felt like they were cast in some flexible sort of iron. The crowd behind him, surging on through the streets, shouted and cursed, but a quick glance behind showed more legionnaires were taking up the persuit with arms at the ready, and others had started to herd the pulsing mob away. It was a matter for the Legion, now, and civilians were being told to give over.

They were not yelling. The Legion was nothing if not disciplined. They were simply obeyed.

Eventually, the narrow, winding street opened into a broad, though nearly empty square now. He blinked. The soulforge and the banking houses were there. He had circled back into the market.

His eyes scanned across the streets and passages quickly, once again leaping off at a run across the square until he found what he was looking for. A barrel, two in fact, side-by-side that he had peered out from behind earlier. He knew the way, now. Ayreg would just have to back track to make it back to the wraithly equivalent of the Red Dragon.

Hopefully his heart didn't burst out of his chest before he had the chance to make it home. It was beating rather hard, now, and quite the compliment of his ragged breath and burning muscles.

It was hard to tell how far behind him they were, now. The legonnaires following him didn't scream and shout as the mob had. They trooped after him in silence.

The death knight wondered idly if his heart wouldn't just stop if this kept up for much longer. Then his troubles would really begin.

Lord Ayreg

Date: 2006-04-14 09:57 EST
The death knight did not have time to stop and examine the scene in front of him. The Red Dragon -- rather, it's ghostly equivalent -- stood before him. Behind him, the tromping steps of the legionnaires could still be heard echoing off the tight, looming walls around him.

Panther would never let the Red Dragon get to such a state. Then again, Panther wasn't dead, so he didn't really have a choice as to what the place looked like in the world of the dead. Broken might be a good word. Almost every window was shattered, the timbers of the walls rotten, and the stones of the floor and foundation were cracked, and split. Cobwebs stretched across bannisters and rails, and they would always. It was a strange thing -- spiderwebs connected between quite a few corners and lurking places in the Shadowlands, though there were never any spiders. Destroy one web, and another will have replaced it the next day.

Ayreg was fairly confident that it was the result of some kind of magic, or enchantment, or maybe a metaphysical constant that symbolized something else. Whatever it was, he didn't have the faintest hint of evidence, and neither did any of the wraiths that inhabited the Shadowlands, save perhaps only the Deathlords.

And they haven't spoken to anyone other than themselves for an Age. Not since the war with the Jade Empire, anyway.

The sack filled with soulstock was starting to grow quite heavy as he sprinted from the outlet leading into the Iron City and toward the Red Dragon's shattered porch. Judging by the sounds of the cobbles behind him, he estimated the legionnaires to be less than ten paces behind him.

Jodiah turned his shoulder, exploding in through the front door like a fury. All around him faces looked up in alarm -- and a few even startled recognition of the human -- but he didn't bother to stop and try to explain himself. He flowed through the room like water, avoiding only the broken tables and empty chairs, bursting through any wraith in his path like they were made of vapor. The stairs at the far end of the bar was his target.

The sound of soulsteel being drawn yanked his eyes to the side. A creature, shoulders nearly as broad as he himself was tall, held a soulforged axe in its massive, black-skinned grip. One of the Goblinoid Horde, no doubt, from the Golden Age. Ayreg never interacted much with them, save only to kill a few here and there. Perhaps this was one of them.

Perhaps it wanted revenge.

Feet rose, legs burning and heart pounding like a kettle-drum in his chest, and he ascended the stairs. The long-gone heros of Rhy'Din taking up persuit with the legionnaires that came flooding into the common room behind him. Perhaps some of the heros wanted to talk of old times, and catch up, but more than one would like nothing more than to flay him before the legionnaires got to him.

God, the pain was nearly unbearable.

Only a little way to go, now.

Almost home.

Yes... almost safe. Fly, you fool!

Lord Ayreg

Date: 2006-04-15 17:22 EST
Much to Jodiah Ayreg's chagrin, the door was held fast. His chest heaved with the exertion of even taking a breath at this point, but his hand clung the knob and tried again.

It was as if it were made of stone. Unmoving.

Although the wood that made the door was cracked in several places, and appeared to be withered in others, he didn't have the strength to batter the door down. At least, not without an hour of rest and, perhaps, three good tries at it.

The death knight didn't even have to glance over his shoulder. The heavy sound of footprints had crested the top of the stairs, and the heavy foot falls on the rotting floorboards behind him announced the fact that he was being pressed down upon. Jodiah Ayreg was tired. Even if he still had Grimthwacker, the sprint across the length of Stygia had taken almost everything he had left. It was a miracle his ribs were containing his heart, with how hard it was beating.

He could feel it without pressing his hand to his breast.

The sack of soulstock slid down off of his shoulder, falling to the ground with a great cacaphony. Behind him, the black-skinned goblinoid lifted its long-handled axe. The hallway was not large, but it did not need to be a broad swing when made by soulforged steel. The slightest scratch killed as surely as if his head was removed.

Nearly beaten now, Jodiah Ayreg slumped down to his knees, and fell over. In the same instant he dropped, though, the heavy axe came swinging down where his chest had been just seconds before, and the already-cracked wood of the door splintered apart, bursting inward as if it had been made of glass. Ayreg stared, peering into the now-open doorway, and wraiths of all sorts stood around him, muttering and growling. Behind them, the legionnaires had been pushing their way to the front. It was their duty to ensure the laws of Stygia are enforced.

The civilians wanted to kill him for trespassing. The legionnaires wanted to kill him for trespassing.

It was like a choice between the headsman's axe, or the guillotine. The smelly feet of a passenger in your car on a long trip, or the likeness of a smelly feet contest while taking the bus.

Neither turned out well, dear readers. And neither would this.

The goblin made the choice for him, though. A snarl was released, and the axe brought back up, held high. It would be only a singular downward attack this time, though with room enough to add the goblinoid's considerably strength to the arc of the axe.

Jodiah Ayreg was going to be cleaved into two.

Lord Ayreg

Date: 2006-04-19 20:33 EST
The axe was dropping.

And then it wasn't.

The only thing Jodiah Ayreg could see was a figure, wrapped in black like most of the other wraiths in the Shadowlands. This figure, however, looked remarkably more solid than the others did. Long black hair flowed with movement, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Jodiah knew that he had come from his left, and moved to there on his right.

Except he didn't see him, before.

"Fly, you fool!"

It was the Voice. The same voice, rather, but now it was most certainly coming from this figure. The figure was grappling with the wraith of the massive goblinoid, and the axe tettered in the air above them as they wrestled for control of it.

Jodiah Ayreg blinked. Twice. The door was open. The legionnaires and the wraiths were struggling to see who got to kill him first, and this strange person was keeping the much-closer goblinoid wraith from killing him.

The door was open.

A surge of strength, driven by hope and a chance at living, powered aching, tired muscles. He grabbed the heavy bag with the bricks of soulsteel, and rolled to his feet. It was a slow thing, but he made it. The Legionnaires pressed forward, even as he stumbled into the room. The black-skinned goblinoid roared, and the axe embedded itself into the frame of the door where his head had just been. Apparently the figure was gone now.

Get out!

The Voice was back, though.

He reached out, weighted down by the bag of soulstock. He feel to one knee, tired, aching, and sore. His heart kept trying to break free from his ribs, but he had to go.

Only a bit farther to go.

Loud footsteps behind him approached quickly. One, first, then more. The legionnaires had apparently made it past the civilians, now. Jodiah fell forward. The goblinoid had his axe raised high already, and it was cutting the air with a faint whistle as it fell onto the death knight. The legionnaires, spears and swords brandished, were about to be next.

Jodiah's finger lightly grazed the mirror as he fell.

Lord Ayreg

Date: 2006-04-20 14:17 EST
( "Bert Raccoon" is something I remember from the old days of my much-younger youth. If anybody recognizes the line reference, do please post in my OOC folder and lemme know where it came from. )

An axe, its keen blade that would have killed the living with the smallest of cuts, cleaved through the air, and down, crushing strait through to the floor and burying half its wicked, half-moon blade here.

Soldiers of the Legion of Stygia came down next, swords and spears pointed at where the axe had buried itself.

Jodiah Ayreg, however, was gone.

The light graze against the mirrored surface was all it took. He raised his head, weakly, looking up at the mirrored surface in front of him, between the glowing lines of chalk. The black-skinned goblinoid stared through the mirror, as did the legionnaires. A kind of satisfied smile crossed his face, then. He moved his hand, knocking over one of the thick, black candles that had been left burning during the ritual, and the mirrored surface vanished with a faint shimmer, once more wooden wall lined with chalk.

He rolled onto his back, taking in deep, oh-so-deep breaths of air. His lungs burned, and his heart still felt like it was trying to escape his chest, but he was home now. The relative saftey of his room -- he supposed it was never truly safe, what with all of the women that keep breaking into his room at night. Tara.. Rhaine.. Am'thyst.. well, the last didn't really break in - she had thought enough to grab the spare key from the box downstairs. The Priestess of Asmodeus didn't truly break in, either. And, of course, Tara had picked the look, near as he could tell.

Alright, but the fact remained: it was safer than a room full of wraiths who wanted to rip him to pieces for trespassing in the land of the dead. He shook his head, wondering about that form he saw grappling with the massive, black-skinned goblinoid. He had saved him, but why? The form looked familiar. Sounded familiar, too.

If that form was The Voice, then it was most certainly not Jodiah Ayreg. Never in his life, even in his younger days, did he look like that, even from the rear and flank. The ears were different, you see. No, it wasn't himself.. but the visage was familiar.

He didn't dwell on it for long. Clutched in his hand, still, and heavy from the weight of its contents, was a burlap-like sack. Inside he knew were several bricks of raw soulstock, ready to be forged. Tara's sword could be finished, at last, and then he could make good on his promise to the Scoutgirls of Rhy'Din's silly little auction. Alysia Skye had used that auction to commission herself a suit of soulforged armor.

A tricky thing, but he could do it.

His head turned, and spied the corner of his room. A barrel, closed for now, was right where he had left it. Some days ago he had won his own auction, with that angel, Tetronus. It was a simple, laughable thing, but it was the best way to get angel's blood.

Ayreg closed his eyes, and breathed in panting gasps through his mouth. Tommorow. Or the next day. Yes. That's when he'd get back to the forge and finish Tara's soulforged sword, and begin work on Alysia's soulforged armor.

For now, though?

He'd simply lay there, and try very hard to move as few muscles as he possibly could.

Rest.

Repose.

Peaceful. Serene.

And Bert Raccoon better not wake up anytime before tommorow.