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.
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.