Post by The Master Tactician on Mar 21, 2013 5:02:45 GMT -5
White hot steam rose up from the teacup, swirling, twirling, an opaque mass, dreamlike fog against the dimness of the room. Crimson eyes drooped as The Master Tactician stared it down, considered the buttered toast that lay behind it, freshly warmed upon its silver platter. But at the thought of food, a wave of nausea rolled over him. He hung his head, pressed a trembling hand into his chest, from which that familiar ache radiated, spread: a wicked chill within his lungs, a weight upon his shoulders, a stitch in his back with every breath.
The Grand General shut his eyes. "Please," he whispered to the darkness. "Please, not tonight." His other hand balled into a fist upon the desk, veins bulging. Silence met his plea. He trembled bodily, either with rage or malady--or some combination of the two. "I just want ONE NIGHT[/i] of peace!" He roared, slamming his fist into the desk. His explosion of frustration rang out through the bedchamber, echoed down the upper halls of Darkbourne Hold. Beatrice clucked quietly from her bedside perch.
The single candle upon the mantelpiece flickered out. Peace, Jericho?[/color][/font] A growl--Its growl--rang out in his head. He slumped against the desk, pressed his clammy forehead to its surface in the darkness, shook uncontrollably against the sudden chill that swept the room. You know what is required of you.[/font][/color]
Gnarled fingers interlaced with thinning hair. "The Void!" Swain choked out. "In Freljord. We are still rebuilding from the Vengeance's assault. I've men training in Zaun, troops readied for Ionia, forces on construction of The Wall, of the railway." He seized his hair and tugged, as though attempting to wrench the pain from his withered body, the feverish thoughts from his mind. "I don't have the men to send that far north! Nor the time! Impossibly costly, a wa--"
Wracking pain forced the Grand General upright in his chair. Crimson eyes went wide. He sat convulsing, working furiously to swallow, but despite his efforts bile burned the back of his throat. Agony. The radiating pain in his chest became a thousand shards of shattered glass, inching inwards through muscle, bone, lungs. Every labored breath seemed to rend his core asunder.
Tearing down his shroud, Swain lunged forward. The plate of toast clattered to the floor; the teacup shattered, its contents spreading hot over the marble. There, dry heaving over his desk, sweat dripping from his forehead, the Master Tactician stood, quivering from head to toe. Beatrice watched on, her feathers ruffled in apparent dismay.
Rot. At his jawline, pus mixed with sweat, streamed down over the glistening black flesh of his neck. Sores dotted his cheeks, open pockets of decay. His mouth hung open, crooked, as though melted: a jagged maw. He gagged, retched, shut his eyes against the agony of his affliction.
NOT the Freljords, Jericho. The Freljords are only the beginning. The component will arrive upon your doorstep.[/color][/font]
A violent surge of nausea coursed through him. He collapsed to his knees in the spilt tea, palms pressing into shattered glass, powerless to rise. "M-my doorstep? Here?" Swain barely managed to choke out before it came: a torrent of black ooze, a blinding pain. Blood and bile streamed from his lips, mixed with tea upon the stone. Tears of exertion formed in the corners of his eyes as he heaved and heaved again.
The growl rang out in his head over the raucous sounds of retching: Not Noxus, no. Maintain the patient vigil. The Sacrifice will find you.[/font]
Another splattering of bile echoed through the bedroom. Breathless, trembling on his hands and knees, The Master Tactician wiped his cracked lips on the sleeve of his robe. "I.." he rasped, eyes closed, wavering over the puddle of his own expulsion. "I have been so patient." Drip, drip, drip, blood from his sliced palm splashed into the vomit. He heaved again. Dry retches, rasps over the sour-soaked toast. Exhausted, drained, Swain's shrunken form folded over the rancid mess, sleeves soaked to the elbow in grime. He whispered a final plea to the shadowed room, "I need more direction. How can I plan without the bigger picture...?" and cradled his head in his hands.
Ionia, Jericho.[/font][/color]
Luminous eyes sprang open. "Ionia?"
And you will be there, won't you. To deliver them from evil.[/color][/font]
Still curled upon the floor, the Grand General steeled himself against his lingering pain, croaking, "I will." Comprehension swept over him like rain over the desert. He forced himself up out of the fetid pool, the bell-sleeves of his military ensemble dripping with tea and blood and bile. Vertigo washed over him and he shut his eyes, willing himself to remain upright.
You know happens from there, don't you, Jericho?[/color]
Slowly, arduously, one hand on his chair and the other upon his desk, Swain struggled to his feet. He leaned over the desk to steady himself, whispering, "I do."
And you know what you must do.[/color][/font]
"...I do."
Still unsteady, he took up his cane, picked his way gingerly towards the bathchamber. There upon the cold marble, he shed his robe, exposing his cadaverous form, ghostly in the darkness. He drew another house-robe from the cabinet--navy with a charcoal ascot--and wrapped it tightly about himself. Outside, the sky had turned a pale gray; it would soon be dawn.
The Raedsel barracks were quiet... eerily so, but for Senka, it was the perfect silence. While her others slept, she sat in a corner, a single candle burning lightly, casting a shadow of her cross legged form. Her eyes were closed, her breathing slow and steady. She enjoyed silence like this, it gave her time... to think, to simply be alone with her thoughts. She had simply sat, running over thoughts in her mind that she never had time for during the busy hours of the day.
"I just want ONE NIGHT of peace!"
Sapphire eyes shot open as her thoughts were quickly broken. Senka stood up and stretched, having been in that position for hours, her muscles had fallen asleep. Quietly, she made her way down the steps of Darkbourne hold. Dressed in her dark purple training outfit and socks. The Raedsel woman silently made her way to the balcony.
"Grand General." She simply said once she made out Swain's form in the darkness, bowing to him. "I know it is not in my job description to converse with you, but it is my job to make sure you are alright... so are you?" The statement was flat-toned.
Post by The Master Tactician on Mar 21, 2013 19:15:07 GMT -5
Safely re-shrouded and robed, Swain emerged from the shadows. His face was pale, clammy, but his eyes burned with the ardent flame of purpose. He limped wordlessly towards Senka, the rhythm of his of his uneven strides punctuating the silence that followed her inquiry: kah-thunk, thunk, ka-thunk, thunk. He paused before her and sunk his cane into the carpet between them. "'So are you, sir,'" he corrected, his tone completely even, without heat.
Then the Grand General turned from her, strode across the room to a bookshelf, where he pulled down a single leatherbound volume. "I am well. I hope you've slept. We leave for Zaun this afternoon." He flipped open the book in his hand, thumbed through it, then added, "You will wake me a maid to clean this place and gather the laundry. Then you will return to your quarters and pack for a ten day journey." Crimson eyes flitted up from the page upon which he lingered, locked onto the dis-uniformed Raedsel. "Is that understood?"
Senka watched as he hobbled over to her, silently standing with her hands behind her back, her sapphire eyes tracking his movements. When he corrected her, she cursed herself inwardly; however, she simply remained silent afterwards, listening to him speak. "It seems even the Grand General has his demons..." she thought to herself.
She has slept, though not for a long time; however, meditation helped her more than sleep, she thought. After he finished, Senka nodded her head. "Yes, Grand General." She replied. "Will that be all, sir?" She then asked, still standing like a statue in the semi-darkness of the room.
Post by The Master Tactician on Mar 21, 2013 23:08:35 GMT -5
The book in his hands snapped shut. He lifted his chin as he addressed her, his face the inscrutable mask of propriety he always wore. "It will. You're dismissed." He turned to place the book, Geography and Provinces of Ionia upon his desk with a soft thud. Deskside, he folded his hands over his cane and awaited her salute and departure.
Beatrice fluttered over to the desk and perched herself above her master's work, a shadow with six crimson orbs boring into the guardswoman in the doorway.
Senka simply nodded once more and gave a sound salute before turning on her heels and making her way to the maid's quarters, her hands still behind her back. Once she reached her destination, she knocked on the door just loud enough to be heard from within the room. "The Grand General wishes the place clean, and the laundry gathered." With that done, she head quietly back up the steps towards the Raedsel barracks.
Silently, she simply began to pack her things, and slip into her armor...
Post by The Deceiver on Mar 23, 2013 0:56:27 GMT -5
The moment Senka left, Swain would feel a familiar presence fill the room. No illusions, no shadows, nothing showy. This time, the Grand General of Noxus could feel LeBlanc's arms wrap around his waist from behind him. She nestled the back of Swain's head, while she whispered to him. "I heard you the moment you started to speak. Forgive my tardiness, Jericho, I did not wish to disrupt your image in front of another."
The Deceiver released her embrace on the general, quickly composing herself. She crooned in Swain's ear, "Forgive me for my concern. Do you need anything from me? Tea, company, information on our pawns? How can I be of service to you, dear?"
Last Edit: Mar 23, 2013 3:31:58 GMT -5 by The Deceiver
Post by The Master Tactician on Mar 23, 2013 1:51:44 GMT -5
Brows knit at her embrace; blazing eyes drooped closed. He laid a gnarled hand over The Deceiver's dainty ones as his constant barrier of composure weakened. She dropped the embrace. As she fawned, he turned to face her, an uncharacteristically despondent expression upon his wizened visage. "My dove." The Master Tactician rasped, bringing his hand to LeBlanc's silken cheek. Calloused fingers caressed the side of her face. "Your presence is my reprieve."
The Grand General's hand dropped, as did his gaze. He limped past her, to the nearby four-poster bed, and lowered himself to sit upon its undisturbed surface. He could not recall the last time he'd pulled back those blankets to sleep. He ground his palms into his eyes, shoulders hunched, still trembling. "Perhaps all of the above," came his hoarse invitation.
Post by Alexis 'Mute' Lindser on Mar 23, 2013 19:08:02 GMT -5
Alexis wakes from her light slumber to a brisk, quiet knock at the door. Her dreams of powder-white bones and black feathers vanish into so much aether, and she swiftly forgets them, hearing the soft orders of an unknown person. "The Grand General wishes the place clean, and the laundry gathered."
At the order, she stands from her thin mattress, and quickly gets into her uniform. In a moment of rare vanity, she smiles before the mirror; the crisp white apron against the proper black dress makes a pleasing contrast, and while it's hardly glamorous against the gowns of their guests, it's certainly the nicest thing she's ever worn.
On the other hand, keeping the General waiting would be a bad idea, especially as new blood, so she hurries down to the chamber she hoped would be correct, one hand on the paper and pencil in her apron pocket. The orders certainly weren't clear, but... I presume she meant his chambers. As she passes the supply closet, she fetches a bucket and a few rags, filling it with water and lemon-scented soap.
A very slight tremble indicates nervousness in her thin shoulders as she pulls open the door, and her nose wrinkles slightly as the scent of vomit hits it- but the expression vanishes from her face as she sees the General and Leblanc. Her eyes shift down, and she bows deeply before going to her knees, carefully avoiding the shards as she soaks up the black bile in an old rag.
The scent of the tea and the blood mingling in the air bring tears to her eyes- not from any sadness, but from the triggering of her gag reflex. It's a disgusting smell, not that it isn't one she's used to... images of her father stooped over the sink, retching into it and sobbing, enter her mind unbidden before she dips the rag into the clean water, the sharp citrus aroma clearing the miasma somewhat.
Post by The Deceiver on Mar 23, 2013 20:34:15 GMT -5
The Deceiver grinned at Swain, and waited for him to take to his bed. Each step she took, a section of her clothing would shift, transform. Instead of her usual attire, within a few steps she would be wearing a pale purple, sleeveless, knee long nightgown. "First, a little company, a little information, and some sleep for you, Jericho. Then, when you awake, I will personally prepare you tea."
LeBlanc would slide onto his bed and take her place next to his right. She wrapped her left arm around his shoulders and rested rested her head on his shoulder, her circlet curiously missing.
Then the maid walked in.
A flash of anger ripped across LeBlanc's facial features. The Deceiver raised her hand, violent violet magic roaring from it. She slammed it downwards, and with it, an entire section of the room, along with the maid, was wiped completely clean of absolutely everything. It was a void in space that remained there rather than a room. Slowly but surely, the floorboards reemerged, the walls returned, the door was placed back in place, but the mess and the maid were gone.
The loud sound of a lock snapping in place rang out from the doors, and the Deceiver nuzzled herself comfortably into place once more. She sighed aloud, "Jericho, be a dear and remind me to bring your maid back when you awake. Can't blame the poor woman for doing her job."
The Deceiver made a mental note that she would have to rewrite some of the maid's memories before returning her.
Post by The Master Tactician on Mar 24, 2013 0:32:46 GMT -5
The Grand General hardly moved throughout the ordeal; his head barely lifted from the pillow to watch the desk-side of the room fade into nothingness and reform. "I will remind you," he said wearily, shutting his eyes as she re-settled herself on his shoulder. "She should know to knock."
Gingerly, he pressed his face into the top of her head. It would have been a kiss, but with his shroud as a barrier between her hair and his marred visage, he contented himself that he could still detect her scent despite the decay spreading over his features. Sandalwood and roses. Subtle, yet unmistakable.
Her graceful hand lay splayed across his chest; he took it in his own. "What news, Evaine." It was almost a businesslike request, but reticent, desperate, as though the necessity of her presence and the comforting chimes of her voice reduced him to tenderness. "Speak to me."
Beneath the blankets, behind the four-poster's sheer curtains, Noxus' leader seemed to deflate, to abandon his mask of regal poise in exchange for the utter weariness that weighed upon his shoulders. A draft from the half-open balcony door disturbed the curtains. A rustle in the darkness. A gentle cooling breeze over feverish flesh: nature's calming echo of his mistress' embrace, her sweetly cooed words in private. No formality. No façade. Only the solace of her embrace.
Post by The Deceiver on Mar 25, 2013 21:48:59 GMT -5
LeBlanc started to hum, thinking of what she should speak of first. "Well, first and foremost, Twitch is still a vile rodent. Shaco is being...special in whatever corner of the world he's in, my eye is closer on him than I am saying now so no reason to worry your handsome head over it. Graves I have set to antagonize the Radiant Dawn because he was being a naughty br'er lapin. There's a good chance it will kill him, but oh well. The Black Rose is blooming more beautifully than ever before, our subordinate acting as the good general has not stumbled, and the plans in Ionia are already bearing fruit. The Freljords are still in turmoil, Demacia is wary, the League's attention is divided, all while we prosper."
The Deceiver started to titter and grin. Her laughter sounded almost like the gentle sway of bells, mingled with a cool breeze whispering over the lips of fine crystal glass. "Ah, when you ask me to present you news, it pains me to say that I do not have a lot of dramatics to reveal. So much good in so little ti...Oh!" LeBlanc drummed her fingers on Swain's shoulder. "I had the most exhilarating conversation with our little Ionian, Daichi, the other day. I gave him a stern talking to about how he should respect his gardener more, lest you choose to cut him loose."
She reached over and started to gently rub Swain's chest. Though many would see it as a sign of intimacy, and they would not necessarily be incorrect, it was to also help the Grand General breathe easier. It was one of her few signs of her matronly nature, and one that only one other person aside from the Deceiver herself knew.
------------------------------------
Mute would awaken in her room a few hours later in mid step. She would be disoriented at first, as though she were ripped out of reality and hurtled through time and space. That would be impossible, would it not be? She would try to remember what she was doing, she was cleaning the Grand General's room. And then...what? She had other duties to do, right?
If she went through her mental checklist, she would remember doing all of her allotted tasks up to this point, hence why she was in her room. To get...something? Who was in the room with the Grand General? She thought she remembered LeB-
A spark would shoot through her mind, quickly silencing the thought. Mute had her duties to attend to, did she have something to eat? She remembered she did, but her stomach growled most fiercely. Mute would shake her head, her memories hazy, as though it were all but a dream.
Post by The Master Tactician on Mar 27, 2013 3:28:14 GMT -5
Seizing lungs relaxed beneath the warm glow of her palm. The general allowed himself a sigh of relief as some measure of the tightness in his chest relented, as the labored in-and-out of drawing breath grew easier, as pneumatic fluid loosened in his lungs. He brought a fist to his shroud, turned his face from the matron's as a brief fit of bronchial coughs overcame him. When the episode had passed, he resettled himself upon the pillow, eyes shut, lingering on the brink of sleep as he considered her words.
"I dearly hope the impeccable execution of our plans hasn't left you feeling dissatisfied. I know you've a penchant for drama--but surely you didn't expect differently of me?" It was in part his subtle humor, in part a self-satisfied reminder of how far they'd come, and in part a veiled inquiry over public climate. Did LeBlanc consider the plot to have progressed too smoothly?
Gentle rays of dawn crept in through cracks between the suite's heavy curtains. "I hope you didn't reprimand him too harshly." A smirk spread over his face. Eyes still closed, nearly dozing, he stroked her snow-white arm with his calloused left hand. "He serves his purpose for a while yet. And Shaco, my dove? I've a part for him to play as well. How are his little tasks coming along?"
Post by The Deceiver on Mar 31, 2013 14:28:20 GMT -5
The Deceiver laughed at Swain's statement of efficiency. She considered to rub his chest as she replied. "I am glad how everything has been falling into our favor, Jericho, darling. Do not mistake that, ever. But without proper care, dedication, and a constant vigilance, that our march will continue unhindered. Once the League is able to take notice again, Kolminye will become an issue to say the least." LeBlanc leaned over and gently pressed her face against his, not caring of the fact that he could erupt in a fit of coughs at any time. "That is why I hope our plans continue displaying the same, efficient, expertise that we both know you are so adept at, dear."
Upon hearing about Daichi and Shaco, LeBlanc let out a small sigh and rolled her eyes. "Daichi, I simply told him where his place is, and he should keep mindful of it. He has thoughts of speaking with Zed, though I will personally assure he will not jeopardize that endeavor. And in regards to Shaco...he's currently trying to get his hair dyed in Zaun...Not terribly efficient at the moment. Simply leaving him to his own machinations while obeying the rules of the tasks, so not controlled yet completely manipulated." She squeezed his left hand lightly. "I will have him brought in whenever you wish, dear."
Post by The Master Tactician on Apr 1, 2013 5:33:45 GMT -5
Kolminye. The name shot through him like wild electricity. He grit his teeth, pursed his lips behind the charcoal shroud. Crimson eyes sprang open, glared towards the ceiling. His body seemed to tense. His hold upon her dainty fingers tightened as she spoke, clustering them together. Furious fire flared in his stare, burning holes in the canape above. He bore down until the cartilage of her knuckles popped in his grasp. Then, at the sound of her cracking knuckles, his vice grip released her altogether.
His gaze fell from the ceiling. The dimming of his eyes, a quiet exhalation of breath, served as his wordless apology. Again, his form deflated. He leaned his head against LeBlanc's. "I want to sleep now," he said soberly. Dawn's rays through parts in the curtains flared, a bright reminder of the hour. "But only for two hours, matron. Wake me after that."
Blazing eyes drooped shut again, too weary to stay open, staring. "There's much to do today." This proclamation came as no more than a resigned whisper.
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