From quinn@fazigu.org Thu Feb 01 11:14:00 2001 Received: from holder35.net57.block16.connectsouth.net (yami.57thstreet.com) [66.16.57.35] by requiem.netsville.com with smtp (Exim 3.22 #1 (Debian)) id 14OMMx-0001lm-00; Thu, 01 Feb 2001 11:13:59 -0500 Received: (qmail 30978 invoked by uid 1502); 1 Feb 2001 16:13:57 -0000 Received: from localhost (HELO moo.ghostmoo.org) (127.0.0.1) by localhost with SMTP; 1 Feb 2001 16:13:57 -0000 Date: Thu, 1 Feb 2001 10:13:57 -0400 From: "Quinn@Ghostwheel" To: quinn@fazigu.org Subject: Ghostwheel Message(s) 44 from *storylines (#5236) X-Mail-Agent: Ghostwheel (moo.ghostmoo.org 6969) Message-Id: Status: RO Content-Length: 4173 Lines: 82 Message 44 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Sun Dec 10 02:19:58 2000 EST From: Sen'ei (#25130) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: Moving In--Claiming The Dark Tower Of N'Orleans N'Orleans was quiet. The sort of quiet that came with ghosts and goblins, vampires on Bourbon Street. The kind of quiet that was just soft enough to reveal every tiny noise in the distance, every soft clatter of the window pane, every tiny little thing that made a sound out beyond a man's vision. And strange, there /was/ a ghost walking the streets of N'Orleans. Not that this was a too-uncommon thing; far to regular, perhaps, for some of the local's comfort. Not that it mattered to this ghost-who-walked, this robed figure from the wastes. He had broken with his 'master'. While the debtor's stamp still glimmered behind the ornament on his brow, he had cut with this man, this 'Rathe', and had come seeking-something. Something out here in the dark, something of the shadows to call his own. After all, if he was to be a damned, dead automaton, then he would be a damned, dead automaton on his own terms. Besides, She was in this city. The girl with the frightened eyes, the fragile, china-doll face. The one he'd almost stolen a kiss from, the one he'd rescued from the Dragon Wolves. Oh, the Eagle would have taken Her into his claws, but why ruin such pretty flesh, if just for a little while? Sen'ei knew death's embrace-it was nothing to be desired, nor wished on a doe-eyed innocent like Her. And so, he trekked through the city, a stranger in a strange land. Whores watched him sweep through the darkened allies; they didn't offer their services to the strangely-dressed Seeker. He was not for them, they knew it with a glance. His ashen eyes sought only Her face, and he didn't find Her among them. After a night of searching, he tired. While the body he inhabited could hardly be called truly 'living', it still had a finite energy. He was tired. He was angry. He was frustrated. And he was far, far, from the 'home', the Poisoned Garden he had been made a part of. Part of his spirit sung for the mist-threaded thorns, but he denied it to spite himself, spite the man that had drawn him into this half-life. He wasn't going to be on anyone's leash. A fledgling necromancer, after all, had no desire to stay among another man's dead toys. He would plant his own garden here-in time. In his wandering, he came to an over-grown lawn, enclosed about a strange tower. Some strange aristocrat had built it, but it had been abandoned some time ago. Whoever it's last master had been, it had been left in great disrepair. There was a cathedral nearby, and the view was nice enough for a man who didn't care much for such things. But he came to the door; it yielded with a firm push, it's lock broken. He would have to see to that, he mused idly. Entering into the antechamber, he found himself looking upon a spacious enough room; stairs wound upward, and there were other places. It was as he headed toward the library that he heard the moan. It was a human enough sound, a groan of displeasure, of frustration. Was he not alone in this place? Was there someone else here? Breaking from his explorations, he moved back, toawrd the stairs. Upstairs-it had come from above. It sounded again. Closer, as if the source was approaching, heading down the stairs, toward him. He waited, tensed. And then, there she was-not Her, but another woman; clad simply, if well, for someone that might've lived decades before he had been born. She looked to him, held out her hands in supplication, and then faded from view just as quickly as she came. He blinked as the spectacle faded. Small, to be sure, but if it was a hint of things to come of what this house might hold... He smiled--not a pleasant thing--and flexed his hands in his billowing sleeves. This was just the place to settle, and begin his studies of Necromancy, indeed. He swept onward, toward the library, intent on settling in to this new space with a certain finality. Somewhere, the spirit moaned again. This, she and her kin knew, could not be beneficial for their state. --------------------------