Topic: Mab - The Sun Rises

Mr. Howe

Date: 2009-03-27 15:27 EST
Preface

Several months ago"

The building looked shabby, neglected, in sad disrepair. Once perhaps it was a sight to behold, a glorious temple to a God now forgotten but on this day it holds only desolation. A heartbreaking memory lost to the sands of time. Located on the riverbank in Rhy"Din's Temple District, the crumbling old wreckage still holds a hint of its past glory. Marble slabs were chiseled into steps and laid as flooring; hints of opulent murals linger on fragmented walls. It is the walls and interiors that have taken the worst of damage. They lay in a mass of misshapen ruins scattered haphazardly as if the ground had been violently shaken.

The ruin whispers of past tragedy; holds the air of loss and great sorrow. But it is that which lies beneath that holds the true interest, making this land most desired. Three ley lines throb beneath the marbled ground. Crisscrossing one another they make for a superb power source for those qualified to access such. Yes, it is the perfect location, the Demonic Attorney hadn't lied.

The Priest of the Sun is a tall Elven male. His silver hair and sunfire eyes mark him as a creature of granted power; he is the Avatar of the Goddess Mab, an Elf with more than a bit of a twist. He claims more power than most of his race. His stature is strong, if willowy, his confidence written in the classic elven features; he is a commanding presence that exudes authority. The regal figure stands in the middle of the cobblestone street staring at the building Mister Howe has brought him to.

"As ya can see, it has everything the lady requested." Howe emphasizes the word "lady" as he paints a genuine-seeming smile on thin lips. Whatever he may be thinking he's keeping it to himself. Howe doesn't trust the Priest of the Sun, and he's pretty sure the male feels much the same towards him. But both have much to gain from this alliance so Howe will present himself as any gentleman would.

The Priest of the Sun nods once. Only once, it is all that is necessary. "We shall take residence immediately. Have the wards prepared."

Howe's beady eyes shift off towards the ruins, away from the God-enhanced Elf. "I don't want to be the bearer of bad tidings, but there ain't no walls. Don't ya want me to send in my work crews" Get the place habitable before ya'll move in?" The bottom line " Howe wants the building contract.

"That won't be necessary, Mister Howe." The tall regal Elf peers down his nose at the hefty little human-looking man. Disdain twists at the Priest's lips but it is a flash of emotion and quickly replaced with an indulgent sneer. "We have our own work force."

"Here ya go and take my card too, just in case you need something." Howe offers the Priest the deed and other official paperwork in a long brown envelope.

The Priest takes the offering and turns away from the demonic attorney, dismissing him. With sure steps he moves off into the ruins and in mere seconds Howe feels the pulse of rising power emanating out. Something magical, something fay, Howe recognizes then shakes his head slowly in disgust. Howe never has trusted that kind of magic, he considers it fickle at best. Whatever the Elf is up to, Howe has no taste for it. He turns and heads back towards his carriage, muttering darkly under his breath. He hates having to travel in such primitive ways but it is part of the cost of having lost everything. Howe vows he will have it all back and then some. Today is the first step, he's fairly certain. If all goes as planned, soon enough he will be "God-Touched" too.

(*edited: rewrite of last paragraph, that's all folks!)

The Hag

Date: 2009-04-11 22:37 EST
Part I - The Tale of the Temple and the Hag

Some believe that the stroke of midnight heralds in the Witching Hour, a time of ghosts and other supernatural predators. It is as if a doorway in-between opens and anything may pass unheeded from that other, darker side into reality as we know it. We may not be able to see or hear them but on odd occasion we may feel them. The hairs on the backs of our necks prickle, a chill crawls over the flesh, or perhaps a sense of impending doom descends like a heavy cloud shrouding us. With spirits of extraordinary talents something violent and inexplicable may manifest. We call these beings from those dark shores monsters. We dub them evil because we are their prey. They come upon us in our darkest hours when we feel our most vulnerable. But keep in mind not everything is as it seems. Sometimes, the kindest faces can hide the worst monsters. One might never see it coming until it is too late.



Three Weeks Later"

The night sky is moonless, a sparkle with stars, winter's fingers ride in the brisk winds blowing in off the river. Spring is here, but none would know it. Winter, unwilling to relinquish its hold, retains a firm grasp and the air is an icy tingle. Across the street from Mab's new Rhy"Din Temple a gas lamp flickers and flares. In the near distance the WestEnd clock chimes the stroke of midnight. Suddenly the lamp dies and in the darkness an ancient-looking woman appears. Dressed in old rags, wrapped in a torn burial shroud, and bent over like a broken branch, she is sheathed in grays, colorless. Here and yet' somehow not. She stares towards the Temple with hungry eyes; gnarled hands begin to twist together with anticipation.

It is the Witching Hour and the doorways to the Beyond have yawned open wide. But tonight is different, something else is afoot. As the last chime from the Clock Tower echoes haunting and sad through empty streets, this new nightmare surveys unexplored hunting grounds and behind seemingly vacant eyes lurks another. A rider clocked inside the Hag.

Most of the denizens of the Temple District are sleeping, but not all.

At the Temple of Mab there is much activity. Ordinary-looking Elves move through their chores with contented smiles of genuine warmth. They seem happy and content to be here. They are followers of the Goddess Mab. They have been called to make this pilgrimage from Lands far away. In pursuit of a Holy cause; the desire to serve their Goddess breathed back to life. Since Mab had gone missing nearly two years past, there has been much unrest among her Followers. In recent days, their exodus could not be ignored or overlooked; they made it distinctly obvious. But the politics of Elfhame mean little here in Rhy"Din. Rhy"Din has its own agenda and it has little to do with the Fay Lands literally worlds away.

The Hag watches as hordes of workers scramble about busy as ants in their tasks of rebuilding. A crooked smile twists wrinkled features. It is a grimace of a smile. The Hag can sense she's nearing tonight's supper. She hasn't seen the Temple before; she could not know how far they've come in transforming the place. The Temple's exterior is round and high domed. It gleams snowbird white wrought with intricate designs in Elven silver. To trained eyes, the designs look suspiciously like Elven wards. The Temple itself is a spectacle to behold; a beacon of brightness in an otherwise failing neighborhood. The grounds surrounding the Temple remain unfinished, currently used as a work area for a sizable crowd.

There are so many elves buzzing about. The Temple doesn't look large enough to house even this midnight workforce. But the Hag doesn't care; her concern is to get inside, where she may enjoy a tasty repast. The other with her tonight has come for answers. The other is worried over the numbers of Mab's followers that are doubling daily. Mab called and they came but many of them are not mere common folk as the serene sight before them suggests.

No.

Many are trained and seasoned Warriors, whom have fought in Mab's petty wars for centuries. The Hag shakes her wizened head her expression a reflection of another's disgust. Odd this physical exchange, forcing control over another's body, pushing aside their will; the other is cautious not to overstep for there are consequences to everything. Instead the hold is released, allowing the Hag more freedom over her own shell. Better to conserve for later.

From their shared vantage point, neither rider nor Hag could spy a warrior, soldier or even a casual guard. The rider knows this is merely an illusion; much is being done to protect this place. It is easy for the rider to recognize; the distinct lack of power that should pulsate from the lei lines. Something is sucking up that energy. The Hag isn't interested in any of this; she has her own set of talents to rely on and so far nothing hinders her passage. The Hag's intention is clear and without further ado, she's moving forward.

To be continued...

The Hag

Date: 2009-04-12 14:45 EST
The Hag drifts across the street as ethereal as any ghost and as they near the boundary of the demonic wards the other begins a slow withdrawal, sinking deep into the psyche of the Hag. The rider notes that the circumference of the wards is wider and stronger than anticipated; it would cost a lot of energy to maintain. And these wards are but one of many hurdles that have been built-in for security. The rider knows well the tricks of Mab, although demonic wards do surprise. Interesting the alliances the exiled will tolerate.

The rider knows Mab will be overly cautious, to the point of paranoia. She will use every protection available to her. Mab prides herself on being as much a tactician as Corwyn.

Mab and Corwyn" this is what brings the Hag and her rider here tonight. Mab and Corwyn; they are but two sides of the same coin.

For the Hag this is nothing more than mere whispers that drift through her; they hold no meaning or relevance. The Hag doesn't know or care about elven gods. The Hag is here because she's been brought and there is only one thing the Hag wants; something tells her it is inside that Temple. The rider drives this need; the influence is kept to subconscious urges, to soft pressing against instinctual needs. It works quite well; the Hag is a lovely subject. The locale may not be typical, but dinner is always the same. The rider is pleased as she burrows ever deeper into the Hag and away from the spirit's consciousness. For them not to get caught, the rider must be secreted deep.

Mab has always been more about herself than the goodwill of the whole. Even from their shared origins, Mab has tended towards destruction to gain power and control rather than rely on creation. It has been a source of great conflict between all of them for longer than the rider cares to recall. Mab is irreverent for everything save what Mab wants. The rider knows Mab is planning war. She must be stopped. Mab and Corwyn are not the only ones who have learned nifty little tricks over the centuries. The rider can use the Hag to gain entrance and, later, subtlety influence the chosen prey.

The Hag is not a ghost, rather a cursed spirit. Not all Hags are the same but, few in numbers and explained away by advancing sciences, they have fallen into mythos. Each Hag is unique. This Hag has fay origins; it is a sad tale of ego and vanity, too old to be recalled by even the most long-lived elves. The Hag's talents are varied and suited for jobs that require subterfuge and stealth. She is the perfect vessel. The reason is obvious as the Hag nears the Temple passing blithely through each layer of hidden security.

She is not something any attempt to defend from. That is, until the subject of her visits grows ill to the point of death then perhaps with a good Healer one might figure it out. Even then, few know the charms that will drive her away and keep her out. Rhy"Din isn't her typical stomping grounds, and elven adults not her typical fare but, neither will any be expecting her here. No preparations would have been made to keep her out.

The Hag proves the rider's theory true as she glides past elf after elf, not even a glance is spared her way. Few have the talents to see beyond the veil, human or elf. The Hag easily moves through the enchantments cast for protection, fay or otherwise, they mean nothing to this spirit. Until at last she stands before the Temple's grand doors; tall enough that a giant could pass and wide enough to accommodate two brown dragons side-by-side. A smaller pair of doors is inset within the larger; the commonly used doors apparently as it is through these the workers pass. The Hag slides right through the doors as if they weren't there.

Once inside, however, the Hag comes to an unexpected stop. Even spirits it seems can be impressed and this is beyond anything she's ever witnessed before. She stares in awe and wonder around her, certain some kind of miracle has occurred. Confusion sets in; the Hag isn't sure where to go or what to do next. Outside she was in a foreign realm; the smell unfamiliar, the air unfamiliar, the town sights all something out of a vague tale never told her. Here, inside, she's back on familiar ground.

The splendor of the Lands carries on the temperate breeze that rolls over the forest encompassing the expansive, picturesque glade. It smacks of magic and smells of Summer at dusk. The twilight hue of the sky reflects a rainbow of colors, the Sun hanging just out of sight of the horizon, still radiating enough warmth to chase away night's chill. A quaint elven village sits at the heart of the clearing, the largest building a grander scale of the Temple seen outside from the street. Save this temple has no walls, the snowbird white domed roof is held up by columns of marble. Set at the apex of the dome is a largish round red translucent gem. Larger than a basketball, it shimmers with prisms of light that seem to come from inside. It pulses, like a living heartbeat, waves of power; even the Hag feels its pull.

The rider doesn't recognize the power stone. It is an unexpected find, however not surprising. Mab has likely already begun collecting items of power; she's always been a bit of a glutton and her behavior tends towards the predictable. She wants to have all the best toys; tipping the odds in her favor. It begs to question if Mab has found her prophet yet' Certainly she's seeking it otherwise. Mab would never allow Corwyn an upper hand, and he's already got his.

Why isn't she moving?!

To be continued...

The Hag

Date: 2009-04-13 14:19 EST
The Hag starts swaying to and fro to music unheard. It is odd that the creature would fall into a trance like this, especially with the rider directing her consciousness. The rider suddenly realizes the Hag needs more than subtle stroking. It will require more intrusive control unfortunately to get the creature moving and that will eat away at the rider's resources. The rider can sense their objective is near, in one of the grander abodes set closest to the Temple. It is simply too tantalizing to ignore. Without any further hesitation, the rider slides into the driver's seat, seizing control of the Hag's shell. The Hag is pushed aside and left to dance inside of herself, not that she minds; the music fills her and quiets her needs. Whatever has bewitched her; the Hag doesn't seem to care and the rider doesn't have time right now to worry about.

The experience is not one the rider will easily forget. The spirit's form moves like air, floating rather than walking. It passes through the physical without touching, without breath, having no impact; nothing more than a specter unseen. Yet there is still an ethereal substance to this creature. The rider doesn't like the sensation of being but not that haunts the Hag. It is a promise that will never be fulfilled. An unconscionable cruelty; stuck in this half-life of non-interactive existence. The rider has little choice and forays forth.

Nearing the temple details come more easily into view. A grand throne of silver is set high atop a marble pedestal, shimmering elven silk curtains in shades of orange and yellow dance lightly in the warm evening breezes. The throne is currently empty and although the temple is grand and eye-catching it is what lies beyond that holds the rapt attention of the rider.

So this is where Mab's army hides.

To the untrained eye, the charming buildings would be reminiscent of medieval towns of old Germany. But the training grounds would give it all away. Even at this late hour warriors practice their arts in small spaced out groups. The training is varied, from hand to hand to multiple weapons of choice. It seems aerial practice may be reserved for daylight as their area seems quiet and empty. But the archers are hard at work. The war machine is being kept well oiled.

This is no small army. The numbers are easily in the tens of thousands. Whatever Mab has in mind, she obviously plans on winning, if not through her ingenuity then through sheer strength in numbers alone.

The rider wonders how all these mouths are being fed. This information could prove mighty useful.

The rider pauses just outside of the fancy elven crafted home. Yes, tonight's prey is just inside, the rider can sense him. Suddenly the memory of his taste comes poignantly into focus. It is crystal clear this recollection, enhanced somehow, but nevertheless disconcerting. It throws the rider off guard. The Hag freezes in place, this time because it is the rider's turn to hesitate. Something is going on, a spell or an enchantment the rider doesn't yet know, but there is another influence at work here. It tugs at the sentiments, pulls at the emotions, gently, subtly, much like a feather tickles the skin this strokes at the mind and soul. A tricky spell, cunningly devised to remain nearly hidden, most would assume these feelings are from themselves. Only the astute of mages would realize the intensity is being fed by an external force. It explains why all of Mab's followers seem so happy and content!

Trickery always has been Mab's forte. It seems in that she has not changed.

The rider pushes aside the stirring of emotions threatening to overwhelm. What once was; is no more. No spell or enchantment will make the pain of it better. The Hag glides through the unlocked door and into the house where Camthalion Anwaman?, Mab's most revered general, lives.

To be continued...

Mr. Howe

Date: 2009-09-15 17:36 EST
As night deepens, Howe sits in an oversized, comfortable chair before a flickering fireplace. It is early fall in Rhy"Din with a touch of summer shimmering around the edges. It is temperate outside, not cold or too warm. Yet here in a warehouse lost somewhere inside the district known as WestEnd, the heat of the parlor enfolds like a hot, smoldering blanket. Howe lounges contentedly, relaxed here within the Demonic Attorneys" den. Thin lips curl into a cruel smile as pudgy, short fingers toy with the swirling, red orb.

The orb was a gift from the infamous Bone Dragon, Daugolozan. It holds the vampiric essence of a notable Blood and slaver, Markus Tanner. It is now to be wielded as the instrument of Howe's personal sadistic revenge. Howe's smile widens as cold, beady eyes turn to stare into the middle distance between him and the merry dance of flames. He isn't only comfy and cozy; he's fairly radiating contentment. His foul heart satisfied only by the cruelest of twists. Howe sees his plan folding out before him and it makes his vicious soul sing.

Howe's been busy. In the past few months he's made some pretty impressive deals. He's aligned himself with powers beyond any expectation he could have easily imagined. At this moment, Howe feels very proud of himself. His arrogance blooms alongside his vanity overfilling him with joy. Yes, today he revels in his sins, basking in the power they have, at last, brought upon him. Soon enough he will hold all he needs to gain the upper-hand and abolish his enemies, each and every one of them.

Just as they deserve!

"You are a sly one, Mister Howe," The golden-haired Goddess had said with that girlish twinkle of a laugh, "truly a power worthy of my blessings."

"Why, thank you, My Lady Mab. It is an honor to serve under your auspicious generosities. I shall not let you down." Howe had practically purred his response, tickled by his ability to manipulate himself into such a position with one so perfectly powerful. A more suitable ally could not be had. Especially when challenging Long Lankyn, and all those under his care and influence. Who better than one whom knows the weakness of the Progenitor of the Bloods himself"

The deal he'd worked with Mab has regained him some of the power he lost from DeMuer's atrocious betrayal and the hostile takeover by Corwyn. Takeover"! No, more like blackmail. Howe will see the Elven Lord pay for his haughtiness. Mab is just one more step towards that goal.

Howe considers Mab quite the catch. He can see clearly through the machinations of the self-proclaimed Elven Deity. Her demeanor may be that of an innocent girl, but the cold calculation in her eyes gives her away. Those sunfire eyes speak the dark truth of the utter corruption of a soul. Her lust, no, obsession for vengeance makes her particularly vulnerable for the likes of him. He understands how easily she may be manipulated and that only enhances their budding relationship.

Daugolozan is a different matter entirely. The Bone Dragon is more wily and sly than even Howe can lay credit. Howe is fairly certain that Daugolozan sees through him as he does through Mab. That twist of the screw doesn't rest easy upon the Demonic Lord but rather niggles at his thoughts a constant reminder of caution. He does not wish to be a pawn in this game of chess between the Ancients. No, he prefers to view himself as the Black King, using all those near to gain him protection and ever growing power. Daugolozan could derail Howe if the demon isn't careful. And, yet, it is the deal he's struck with Daugolozan that gives him a true sense of accomplishment. The Bone Dragon does not trust easily, nor negotiate useless alliances. He must see something in Howe to have forged any kind of bond and that bodes well for their shared desire to see the Bloods fall.

If he plays his cards right, he may well ally all the Bloods" enemies under one large banner. The arrogance alone of each will allow Howe to gain ultimate control. Yes, the way Howe views it, no matter which side wins; he wins. That is; as long as the Bloods fall.

A knock at the door brings Howe from his reverie. His expression brightens perceptibly. "Enter." He barks without moving from his comfortable lounge before the fireplace.

The man shambles in, dressed rather like a migrant worker; loose dyed cotton shirt and worn trousers. His boots crusted with dirt and mud. Howe frowns at the man's feet as he beckons the fellow closer.

"Ah, Mister Wakes, do stay off the carpet, yes?" Beady eyes move from the man's face down to his dirty shoes then back up again, making his point clear. "Perhaps you can afford a new pair after tonight's business." A jovial smile spared to the nervous, middle-aged looking man. A nod of his head accompanied the gesture of his hand towards the desk, only a few steps from Mister Wakes. "You'll find all of the information in that brown envelope there. When you've accomplished the" ah"....collection' return here for your payment."

The man walks over to the desk and picks up the only brown envelope in sight. He takes out the paper and unfolds it, obviously able to read. A frown settles on his face and he looks up at Howe with shocked surprise. "Ah, pardon me, Mister Howe?" He waits a beat of his heart before continuing. "But this grave still gets visitors, sir. Perhaps I could suggest another, less attention grabbing choice?"

Howe springs to his feet, a fat man moving as dexterously as a predatory cat; a dichotomous and frightening visage. "NO!" thunders through the room with an ugly resounding impact. "I will take only this specimen." He states in an icy tone as he stalks closer to the now sweating human meatball. "It's on you to make sure no one notices. You dig up the damn grave, you take out what?s in the coffin, and you put everything back so that no one knows anything has happened. You bring the contents to me. That's what I am paying you to do. Get it"!"

"Yes, Sir!" Wakes is barely able to stammer, quaking in those dirty shoes. "Right on it, sir!"

"That's more like it, worm. Now get outta here. I need you to be done before dawn." Howe turns his back on Wakes and lazily strolls over towards his recently vacated chair. The smile is back on thin lips, beady eyes shiny with greedy light. Triumph tastes sweet and thick upon his tongue. "So, the pup still visits her grave. How utterly delightful!" Howe's laugh chases the poor Mister Wakes right out of the room. "Wonder how's he's gonna take my next little trick."