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Post by Oleander Azarov on Aug 4, 2016 1:08:01 GMT -5
To most, the beach would be a quiet, serene place to gather one's thoughts--nothing but the waves of the sea as it crashed upon the shore and the cries of distant seagulls. But this beach had always been different, not least for the young man standing upon it.
It was alive with the voices of the dead for necromancer Oleander Azarov. He could hear them calling, asking to be resurrected with the promise of service and protection . He could do it, too. It didn't seem to matter to them that they would be little more than walking skeletons, bound in service to him until such a time as he either ran out of energy or chose to release them into the afterlife. They just wanted to come back. Oleander sighed, ruffling his dark hair. Today was not the day that these dead would return. It would only be a last resort to call upon them. Nevertheless, he felt he owed it to them to stand vigil here, to keep them company even if the time had not yet come to raise them.
A strange rattling purr interrupted his thoughts, and Oleander reached out absently to pet the dead cat that doubled as his best friend. It was mostly bone by now, but it didn't matter to him. He still loved the cat as dearly as he had when it had been fully alive and covered in fur, and the feeling was mutual.
He sighed, feeling the breeze off the ocean bringing cool air to his face. He was tired, he thought as he opened and closed his bone arm. It took a lot more energy than even he liked to admit to keep it functioning. He needed to eat twice as much as a normal person, and he was supposed to sleep twice as much too. That was boring, though. What was the point in being alive if you spent the whole time asleep or eating? So instead, he'd come out here.
The beach smelled bad, but Oleander was long used to the stench of death and decay. By now, it smelled like home.
A shadow suddenly appeared behind him and he didn't bother turning around to see who it was; he already knew. "The dead are noisy tonight," he said, "I thought I'd keep them company for awhile."
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Post by Wisteria Azarov on Aug 5, 2016 3:22:17 GMT -5
Ever since she had lost her eyes in a bet with a demon, the world had looked a bit different to Wisteria. He had promised to replace them with something better, which had been a deciding factor in why she’d taken the bet. It had been a win/win scenario.
But still. Very different.
It was as if all the light and darkness had been switched. The peachy skin tone of her brother now registered as an eerie blue and grey color. His dark curls, white and grey. The blue sky turned red, and she found herself more nocturnal than ever. Daylight burned her eyes, now completely black, with starry galaxies hidden inside. Her vision in darkness though, was better than even her brother’s vision in daylight. In a way, they had been better than before.
Just different.
She didn’t know how she felt about it. She longed to see things as they had been. To look at her brother and not see the ghostly negative of him. But she liked the power it gave it. The aversion people respected her with when they saw her.
She sighed and sat down the mirror on her dresser in the pitch black room. She had never been one to care about her appearance much. When you grew up on the streets of Ilynka City in the worst hostile takeover and economic recession the city had ever seen, none of that mattered. Food mattered. Shelter mattered.
Stomach cramps, like she had now, were a matter of life. If you were hungry, you were alive. You were fine. If you weren’t hungry, you were either richly wealthy, or so beyond starvation that there was little hope left. She hadn’t been hungry much as a child.
But things were different now. She didn't need to eat much anymore. Her magic made her resilient. Her past gave her strength. And the thought of her brother, who was already much bigger and taller than her, and needed to consume more than ever because of his magic fatigue, received the same share of rations from the captain as her, made her uncomfortable.
Cursing herself and her sudden vanity, she threw on her shredded grey smock, the same one they’d fled Ilynka in, and packed up what was left of her dinner: a half a loaf of tack bread, some hard cheese, and a shriveled green apple. It wasn’t much, but that deep gnawing need to take care of her brother pushed her to wrap it up anyway and depart her room.
She hadn’t realized how hot and stuff it was in there until she’d already left. And the cooler breeze wafting through the halls of the fort made her feel fresher. But as soon as she went outside, and the combination of decaying animals, salty sea air, and bright beachy sunlight gave her a headache.
Honestly she would have been more irritated by it, if she hadn't become so used to it already.
Her magic, shadows and darkness, was distinctly different from her brother’s necromancy, but they were still related. It was easy for her to cast out invisible tendrils of magic and find the vibrating source of green fire that she knew to be her brother. And of course, he was at the beach, standing on a field of bones, just inside the periphery of the death veil. She really shouldn’t have wasted the magic.
As she’d though, silently walking up to him, he was on the beach, staring out at the waves. Or maybe the bones. She wasn’t sure. But he wasn’t alone. His cat, Henry, was with him. The boney feline with eyes made of the same green fire was circling his legs, letting out silent meows.
She hovered for a moment, unsure if she should join him. He wasn’t always waxing philosophical. He was a much more outgoing and people friendly creature than she was, so she respected his need to be alone. But apparently he had already sensed her presence.
"The dead are noisy tonight," he said. The unexpected sentence made her back stiffen. She had been so quiet. "I thought I'd keep them company for awhile."
The shock faded in an instant. His powers must be growing nicely here. She was proud.
“The dead are always noisy,” she replied, stepped up beside him and staring out to sea with him. The bastard was a foot taller than her. “Henry would make an awful predator if he still needed to eat. I can hear his clanking and grinding bones running across the fort most nights. And your left hand going crrrk crrrrk crrrrk crrrrk crrrk for fifteen minutes every night is just as bad,” she joked.
She shoved the bag of food at him and slid down to the ground, sitting on the bones underfoot and trying to get comfortable. “If you weren’t a necromancer, I’d be more worried about the company you keep.” For the first time today, she looked up at her brother’s face and stared into his eyes. The shape was the same, but the colors were all wrong.
A smile grimaced across her face though, her best effort. “But they probably laugh at your jokes just as heartily as the living do.” She let it hang in the air and turned back to the sea. Her brother loved to think of himself as a witty bastard, and she was going to test him this night.
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Post by Oleander Azarov on Aug 24, 2016 23:55:37 GMT -5
Oleander felt his lips upturn as he sensed his sister's surprise. He had learned a trick or two since coming to the Mistmeadows (a silly name, he thought) but in this case, it had just been her shadow on the beach of bones that had given her away. He chose not to mention it, however. Let her be impressed with him a little longer, because he knew that she'd be making fun of him in no time so this was really his only chance to be smug for a bit.
"The dead are always noisy," she stated as she stepped beside him and he felt a swell of pride at how much taller he was than his sister now. “Henry would make an awful predator if he still needed to eat. I can hear his clanking and grinding bones running across the fort most nights. And your left hand going crrrk crrrrk crrrrk crrrrk crrrk for fifteen minutes every night is just as bad."
Oleander laughed at her joke, shaking his head. "Please. You're too busy calling out to your demon lover to hear anything I may or may not be up to. Besides, why would I use my left hand for that? Bones are not exactly sexy. No offense to you lot," he added offhandedly to the dead, who moaned in acceptance of his apology.
He took the bag of food that Wisteria handed him without question and sat down with her. He had grown accustomed to the sacrifices she made for him, and knew that no arguing would change her mind. He really did need the food, anyway, and he trusted her to know her own limits. He began eating, not caring about the taste. After all, when you'd grown up the way they had, taste hardly mattered.
“If you weren’t a necromancer, I’d be more worried about the company you keep," she said, to which Oleander couldn't help but roll his eyes.
"What are the alternatives? A drunk, that grouchy commander, a creepy Sky-Elf, a chirpy little spy, and that priestess? No thank you, I'll stick to the dead. And you of course." Oleander returned his sister's smile. He had maintained his positive attitude beyond what anyone who had lived the life he had should, and the main reason for that was his sister. He knew she gave up a lot for him, that her own losses and sacrifices had taken their toll. He knew how hard it was for her to smile and to just be happy--so he did his best to do that for her.
“But they probably laugh at your jokes just as heartily as the living do," she added onto her prior joke.
"Oh, har har. Just because you don't have a sense of humor doesn't mean I'm not funny. I'm hilarious, I'll have you know," he returned, sticking his tongue out at her.
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Post by Wisteria Azarov on Sept 10, 2016 19:25:05 GMT -5
Oleander laughed at her previous joke, shaking his head. "Please. You're too busy calling out to your demon lover to hear anything I may or may not be up to…” She zoned out from the rest of what he said and hid her flinch well. It was half true. Ever since she lot her bet to Adrammelekh, he had frequently visited her in her dreams. “Demon Lover” was an apt description, though not one she would have chosen. He whispered to her, about her past, her present, even her future. The dreams in which he imposed his will over her mind, and “loved” her, were the most pleasurable ones. Mostly because she wasn’t screaming in agony from the dream version of hellfire.
She was his mistress, and she would never, ever let her brother know how difficult it was. He would only blame himself.
Ollie continued talking with his mouth full of food. “"Oh, har har,” he responded to her jest. “Just because you don't have a sense of humor doesn't mean I'm not funny. I'm hilarious, I'll have you know," he returned, sticking his tongue out at her.
When a hairy, and not altogether clean hand reached over her and literally grabbed the tongue flapping from Oleander’s mouth, she inhaled sharply and rolled away, betraying the agility her fragile looking frame possessed, honed from years of theft in the slums of Ilynka.
Her runed silver dagger was in her hand and she was already on one knee before she managed to recognize the figure in the dying light.
“I heard ye talkin’ aboot me, the grouchy drunk, righ’?” The man slurred. Her brother had already wildly flapped his arms and extricated himself from the man, in a most ungraceful way. Not, it appeared, he had really been trying to hold on all that hard.
“Arolyn?” She asked, her heart still thudding in her chest from the surprise.
“Aye, he said, curtseying like a girl in a tavern, before stumbling. “And I’ll be sure not to surprise you again, little witch,” he said, eyeing her drawn dagger. “But,” he continued, “I brought rum!” She watched, confused, as he hefted a glass bottle above his head full of dark liquid. She had no idea what rum was, but considering how far gone the short, half elven mage was, it was probably some sort of spirit.
She waved him off “No, thanks.” Her eyes fell on her brother, silently asking him the question, Well? You gonna take the liquor from the crazy drunk wizard?
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Post by Oleander Azarov on Sept 13, 2016 23:53:53 GMT -5
Oleander nearly choked as the putrid, hairy hand clenched his tongue. He hadn't expected it in the least, and it was incredibly unpleasant. He knew he was physically well-trained. He knew that, if he chose, he could fight back. He might even hurt the hairy elf. But he also knew that magic-wise, he would lose quickly unless Wisteria helped him. Plus, Arolyn was kind of funny (but only kind of) and it would be a shame to lose that sense of humor from the world. So instead of reacting with violence, he flailed his arms and twisted away clumsily, nearly breaking his bone hand in the process.
Arolyn had better be thankful he wasn't nearly as jumpy as his sister. For all that they came from the same place, she had always been there protecting him. She had given up her trust and honed her paranoia, while Oleander was afforded the opportunity to trust people to an extent...and charm them, if need be. She was far too cold to charm anyone because she could seldom see any good in anyone besides him, and charming required one to see things altogether unpleasant in a rather more pleasant light. Only then could you appeal to their egos and get what you wanted without killing and making a mess.
“I heard ye talkin’ aboot me, the grouchy drunk, righ’?” Arolyn slurred drunkenly.
"Uh, no. I said the commander was grouchy. You're literally just a drunk," Oleander said, spitting a little on the ground and wiping his tongue. "When was the last time you fucking washed your hands, you brute?"
Wisteria seemed to have regained herself, finally recognizing the half-elf for who he was.
As he curtsied and nearly fell over, Oleander scoffed. He wondered what Arolyn would be like sober. Probably scary.
Arolyn proferred rum like the old pirate he was, offering it as a bit of a peace offering. Wisteria predictably declined, but Oleander accepted it. "I need this to wash the taste of him off my lips," he muttered, almost defensively before taking a big gulp. He made a face as the overly sweet liquor went down, then passed it back. "What are you doing here, anyway?"
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Post by Wisteria Azarov on Oct 10, 2016 0:14:52 GMT -5
Wisteria grimaced when the drunken elf answered her brother’s question. “Ach, I ain’t washed them since I last took a bath.” Honestly, from the smell of him, that probably wasn’t too long ago. None of them at the fort were exactly clean fresh. But ‘not long ago’ was relative, when you went months without it sometimes.
Oleander accepted the drink from the other mage. "I need this to wash the taste of him off my lips," he muttered to her, giving her the side eye before taking a big gulp. How precious was that? Her little brother still felt the need to justify his alcohol imbibing? Or, was it more than that?. "What are you doing here, anyway?” Her brother asked, turning his attention back to Arolyn and passing back the bottle.
She, too, was curious as to why he was at the beach. She saw him out here sometimes, but usually he stayed away from the death veil, and stood ankle deep in the tide waters, looking out to sea.
Honestly, it took him a lot longer to respond than it should have. “Nuffink. I was just out, walkin’. Saw ye two hobgoblins out here and thought I’d do the polite neighborly thing and offer ye some rum.” He shrugged dramatically and winked at Wisteria. “But I guess only one of ye has an iron stomach. And it’s this strapping young laddie,” he said, clapping Oleander on the shoulder before taking another drink and passing it back to her brother.
Unbidden thoughts popped into her mind. Eating city pigeons and rats to survive. Balancing poisonous tubers with poisonous leaves, which when combined negated the poison, if you did it right. Some nights she didn’t do it right. Even the taste of the wine, so strong most people had to dilute it with water, but which she and Oleander drank plain to sate their thirst and make the rotted food less likely to make them sick.
Instead of defending herself though, she defended her brother. “Yes. Oleander does have an iron stomach.” She waved a hand at her brother, indicating that he should stay put. “Have fun partying with Grog the Pirate, I need to summon Tharja and…. Things.”
She didn’t want to be a party pooper. Honestly, but sometimes she felt so uncomfortable with people. Her brother’s banter, so easy and quick with even someone like Arolyn, was envious. He was magnetic and just attracted people. She, was also magnetic, but much more likely to be repellant. He deserved to have a good time here, and make friends where he could. He didn’t need his big sister smother and hovering because he was drinking. He could do what we wanted.
“I’ll see you back tomorrow morning?” She said it as a question to Ollie, but made it rather pointed to Arolyn that he was not to let him get too drunk, either. Or he could. It was his fault if he had a raging hangover. She turned, boots crunching into the boney beach wrapping her thin, ragged black cloak tighter about her, against a chill wind only she could feel.
“Aight, sleep well Dark Princess,” she heard a slurred voice behind her call out. “I’ll watch the Dark Prince for you, make sure he comes back in… one… piece…”
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Post by Oleander Azarov on Oct 13, 2016 15:13:31 GMT -5
Oleander thought it rather unlikely that the drunk had just come over because he saw them. Most of the Corpse Brigade actively avoided he and Wisteria, suspecting (somewhat rightly) that they were more than what they appeared and likely dangerous. But weren't they all? And it was doubly unlikely that someone would come over when they saw the two of them together. Most knew not to interrupt him and Wisteria when they were talking. But he supposed Arolyn was a bit different--still, seemed odd that he would come over and talk to them just to be "neighborly" and offer them rum. But Ollie was finding it difficult to discern his ulterior motive, so he shrugged it off for now.
“But I guess only one of ye has an iron stomach. And it’s this strapping young laddie,” Arolyn said. Was he...flirting? Ollie narrowed his eyes at him. Very few people had dared call him 'strapping,' least of all in front of protective Wisteria.
“Yes. Oleander does have an iron stomach,” Wiz said almost defensively.
Ollie rolled his eyes at the comment. As if she didn't have an iron stomach? Please. They both had eaten things that would kill normal people; they both had stomachs of iron, because the alternative was absolute death. Still, he understood that she liked to pretend he was different. Special, somehow. But the only special person in their family was her. Nobody else could do what she did. Nobody else had gone to the lengths to protect them both. She was the one who was special; he was just Ollie, and the only reason he existed was because of his sister. She needed him, whether she admitted it or not. Nobody else looked out for her.
“Have fun partying with Grog the Pirate, I need to summon Tharja and…. Things," Wisteria said.
"Make dirty sweet love to yourself?" he teased, returning to their earlier joke. "And abandoning me to a ruthless pirate in the meantime--some sister you are."
“I’ll see you back tomorrow morning?”
"Probably more like tomorrow afternoon," he said, knowing that once he passed out there would be no waking him for a long while. "And be careful, Wiz."
As she began heading back towards the fort, Arolyn said, “Aight, sleep well Dark Princess. I’ll watch the Dark Prince for you, make sure he comes back in… one… piece…"
Ollie rolled his eyes at the poor attempt at flirting. "Wiz and I are the furthest thing from royalty, you know," he said. "Pass the rum."
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