Post by Desdemona Ladouceur on Feb 25, 2020 17:57:42 GMT
The small tavern lay deep beneath an odd store located off the darkened streets of Taras. An old shop run by a blind witch who looked old enough to turn to dust at any moment. She was an ancient sorceress who dabbled mostly in herbalism and functioned as a sort of 'off the cuff' saleswoman of simple ails.
Scurvy? She had a potion for that.
Wart? A salve for that.
Arthritis pain? A tonic to ease the discomfort.
That was what she did in the eyes of the general public, but she always knew how to make...other things.
Hard to trace poisons that had little to no taste or concoctions to coat your blade that could make their bite have delayed, deadly, effects.
To the town of Taras, she was a quaint little old woman who only wished to ease people's pains, but in truth, her morals were so much more grey than that and 'The Order of Lilith' had found a valuable asset in her companionship- for a price, of course.
A cut of every contract made within the Order's hideout, far beneath her shop, went to the witch, Giselle.
She acted as a gate keeper as well.
One had to simply know to ask her for "the spider's black vial" and they would be shown the hidden stairway behind her bookcase full of herbalist tomes on alchemy.
The passageway to the dark cellar where 'The Order of Lilith' lay in wait.
The Ice Queen of the Order sat there now, Lady Venom, as most who did not know her on any sort of personal level called her.
Desdemona sat in the darkness of the stone room, flickering lights of lanterns casting horrific shadows across her angled features, stirring her drink with a clawed finger-ring that resembled a small, silvery piece of armor that, when worn, turned her finger into a metal talon.
"My lady--" the young man's words caught in his throat when a dagger sailed through the air and planted firmly in the wooden post mere inches from his wide, stricken eyes.
He could only let loose a quivering sound of fear, having noted how close he'd come to losing an eye, a thin trail of blood trickling down his cheek from where the blade had, ever so slightly, nicked him.
She hadn't even looked up, most hadn't even noticed the movement, but she had the room's attention now. Her eyes that glowed with an otherworldly light staring intently into the liquid of her cup.
"You're late," she stated so simply, so flatly.
"Y-yes, m'lady," the man finally finding his voice once more as he tentatively moved towards her.
"The target yet breathes," Des spoke again, finally letting her stare meet the young man's who felt goosebumps raise all across his skin in the face of such a cold look. Her gaze was like staring into the depths of the Nordic version of hell, Helheim, where ice burned as painfully as any flames, if not more so.
"Y-yes-" he stammered.
"Then why are you here?"
"We- we were unable to kill him. Swiftfoot- he...lost his life, trying."
That caught her attention. Swiftfoot was such a young elf, still such a sweet boy, even for an assassin. Her cup froze in her grasp as anger was almost palpable in the air surrounding her, the cup shattering into shards of frozen ceramic. The fairy boy who'd been speaking with her winced when she approached him, her hand cupping his face to meet her stare where he thought, for certain, he would witness death coming for him, but...that's not what he saw in pale-blue depths. Instead, he saw- sadness. Pity and sorrow swirled into one as her clawed finger dragged gingerly down his jawline.
"I am sorry we lost him, Stryx," she sounded sincere, even though her tone was still void of much in the way of emotion.
"Swiftfoot was a sweet boy. Stay here. Rest," she turned to the man behind the bar who was covered in scars and donning an eye patch over his left eye, doing little to hide a massive gash the stretched out of his face beneath it.
"Tusk," she spoke to the large were-boar, "Add whatever Stryx desires to eat or drink to my tab. I will return."
The gruff man offered her a curt nod as she strode away, pulling her furred cloak from where it hung by the doorway leading upwards and draping it around herself, the hood pulled low over her face.
This mercenary had a hefty bounty on his head, but more than that- he'd slaughtered an elf who'd barely come to know this world.
She would tear this monster's skull free from his neck with her bare hands.
"Goddess guard your back," Giselle called after her when the Demoness strode by the woman and out the door.
"Be well, Mona."
The Goddess-...Gods meant nothing to her, anymore. Perhaps decades ago, when she was still a human, she might've cared what the Gods thought, but they had not been the ones to take her hand when she fell to the depths, reaching upwards for someone, anyone to take her hand.
No, that was all Alastair. The demon who had saved her.
Given her a second chance to live- and only at the cost of her soul.
The heels of Desdemona's boots clicked against the stone walkway, purpose and determination evident in their swift movements as she waltzed through the desolate side streets of Atelus's Capitol.
"You-" she hissed, paying no mind to any potential witness as she slammed the body of a large man into the stone siding of a building, the rocks cracking with the force and the man cried out in surprise.
"Wh-what the hell, bitc--" his words shortened as her hand pressed into his jaw, clawed finger breaking his skin and her touch like frostbite.
"Where. Is. Your boss?" The Demon snarled, a murderous edge in her voice that nearly sounded like two voices speaking in perfect unison. Herself. And her demon-form. Both lashing out and screaming to pry the jaw free from this fool's face.
But not before he answered her.
Scurvy? She had a potion for that.
Wart? A salve for that.
Arthritis pain? A tonic to ease the discomfort.
That was what she did in the eyes of the general public, but she always knew how to make...other things.
Hard to trace poisons that had little to no taste or concoctions to coat your blade that could make their bite have delayed, deadly, effects.
To the town of Taras, she was a quaint little old woman who only wished to ease people's pains, but in truth, her morals were so much more grey than that and 'The Order of Lilith' had found a valuable asset in her companionship- for a price, of course.
A cut of every contract made within the Order's hideout, far beneath her shop, went to the witch, Giselle.
She acted as a gate keeper as well.
One had to simply know to ask her for "the spider's black vial" and they would be shown the hidden stairway behind her bookcase full of herbalist tomes on alchemy.
The passageway to the dark cellar where 'The Order of Lilith' lay in wait.
The Ice Queen of the Order sat there now, Lady Venom, as most who did not know her on any sort of personal level called her.
Desdemona sat in the darkness of the stone room, flickering lights of lanterns casting horrific shadows across her angled features, stirring her drink with a clawed finger-ring that resembled a small, silvery piece of armor that, when worn, turned her finger into a metal talon.
"My lady--" the young man's words caught in his throat when a dagger sailed through the air and planted firmly in the wooden post mere inches from his wide, stricken eyes.
He could only let loose a quivering sound of fear, having noted how close he'd come to losing an eye, a thin trail of blood trickling down his cheek from where the blade had, ever so slightly, nicked him.
She hadn't even looked up, most hadn't even noticed the movement, but she had the room's attention now. Her eyes that glowed with an otherworldly light staring intently into the liquid of her cup.
"You're late," she stated so simply, so flatly.
"Y-yes, m'lady," the man finally finding his voice once more as he tentatively moved towards her.
"The target yet breathes," Des spoke again, finally letting her stare meet the young man's who felt goosebumps raise all across his skin in the face of such a cold look. Her gaze was like staring into the depths of the Nordic version of hell, Helheim, where ice burned as painfully as any flames, if not more so.
"Y-yes-" he stammered.
"Then why are you here?"
"We- we were unable to kill him. Swiftfoot- he...lost his life, trying."
That caught her attention. Swiftfoot was such a young elf, still such a sweet boy, even for an assassin. Her cup froze in her grasp as anger was almost palpable in the air surrounding her, the cup shattering into shards of frozen ceramic. The fairy boy who'd been speaking with her winced when she approached him, her hand cupping his face to meet her stare where he thought, for certain, he would witness death coming for him, but...that's not what he saw in pale-blue depths. Instead, he saw- sadness. Pity and sorrow swirled into one as her clawed finger dragged gingerly down his jawline.
"I am sorry we lost him, Stryx," she sounded sincere, even though her tone was still void of much in the way of emotion.
"Swiftfoot was a sweet boy. Stay here. Rest," she turned to the man behind the bar who was covered in scars and donning an eye patch over his left eye, doing little to hide a massive gash the stretched out of his face beneath it.
"Tusk," she spoke to the large were-boar, "Add whatever Stryx desires to eat or drink to my tab. I will return."
The gruff man offered her a curt nod as she strode away, pulling her furred cloak from where it hung by the doorway leading upwards and draping it around herself, the hood pulled low over her face.
This mercenary had a hefty bounty on his head, but more than that- he'd slaughtered an elf who'd barely come to know this world.
She would tear this monster's skull free from his neck with her bare hands.
"Goddess guard your back," Giselle called after her when the Demoness strode by the woman and out the door.
"Be well, Mona."
The Goddess-...Gods meant nothing to her, anymore. Perhaps decades ago, when she was still a human, she might've cared what the Gods thought, but they had not been the ones to take her hand when she fell to the depths, reaching upwards for someone, anyone to take her hand.
No, that was all Alastair. The demon who had saved her.
Given her a second chance to live- and only at the cost of her soul.
The heels of Desdemona's boots clicked against the stone walkway, purpose and determination evident in their swift movements as she waltzed through the desolate side streets of Atelus's Capitol.
"You-" she hissed, paying no mind to any potential witness as she slammed the body of a large man into the stone siding of a building, the rocks cracking with the force and the man cried out in surprise.
"Wh-what the hell, bitc--" his words shortened as her hand pressed into his jaw, clawed finger breaking his skin and her touch like frostbite.
"Where. Is. Your boss?" The Demon snarled, a murderous edge in her voice that nearly sounded like two voices speaking in perfect unison. Herself. And her demon-form. Both lashing out and screaming to pry the jaw free from this fool's face.
But not before he answered her.