Post by Markal Cassalantar on May 13, 2013 10:36:46 GMT -5
11th May, 23 CLE
Despite the still-darkened morning sky looming across the city of Noxus, some of its denizens have already stirred awake and began their daily routines diligently. The streets were still lighted by the lamps as peddlers set up their stalls and the more respectable merchants opened up their shops.
But just as any respectable, working man would start their day so, why would necromancers be an exception to this rule?
Whatever people that were walking through the main street scurried to the sides as a tall, slender man made his way right through the middle. His robes were as black as night, save for the distinctive, red velvet material fastened to his shoulders, with countless golden trinkets and expensive gemmed brooches, which clinked ever-so-softly with each movement.
His posture was straight and as stiff as a board, holding his chin up high in a prideful, almost arrogant manner - nobody could dare doubt his stature as a noble of high importance. Despite his soundless steps, his staff - an elegantly-carved thing with a clean, pristine-kept human skull at the top - was thunking softly against the cobblestones as he walked at a slow pace.
His expression was blank, unreadable - the portrait of nobility, with aquiline features crowned by neck-length cropped, silvery-white hair and a trimmed pickedevant. His venom-green eyes focused on a point on the horizon, seemingly ignoring the present world surrounding him.
That changed, however - he stopped in his track, and obstacle in his path. A child - no less than five, no more than seven - had let his rubber ball roll in the street and had finally caught it, holding it victoriously in his hands. The happiness had faded, however, quickly wilting underneath Markal's severe gaze, having broken his straight posture to look down upon the child.
The boy's pupils were dilated to large, black discs in their grey-blue pools - an eye color to die for, really. His little heart had slowed down from its usual rhythm, a fact Markal found delightful - if the boy held his breath any longer, his body will soon suffer from lack of oxygen. And yet, here he was, frozen - no doubt, in fear - before him.
A woman's muffled cry was heard from somewhere in the crowd - no doubt, the mother, the child's life-giver.
But nobody dared breathe a sound.
Nobody dared raise a finger.
What can one do to save a child standing before Death's Harbinger?
...
Markal's lips curled up to a small smile - a cruel, knowing smile.
Ignorant fools.
Death does not reap until the crop is bountiful.
His eyes saw more than others could - the child was but a feeble whelp. His bones - fragile and easily shattered. The skin - too tender, easily torn through. And the heart? Well, it does seem to be defect, considering how slow it is beating now ...
From the sleeve of his robes, Markal took a coin - a golden coin, the kind of currency that opens a great deal of possibilities to those that have it - and know how to use it. With a flick of his wrist, he flipped the coin down to the child - surprisingly, he reacted swiftly to it and clumsily caught it in one hand while still clinging to the ball for dear life with the other.
Hmm. Good eye-hand coordination and surprisingly fast reaction time. His brain has ... potential. Duly noted.
Markal would raise the butt end of his staff and unceremoniously shoved the child from his path before he proceeded forward, with not a single glance thrown back.
The grave-still silence that had pressed the streets during those moments had been broken by the cries of the mother as she retrieved her child and the crowd finally remembering to breathe.
Markal resumed his initial demeanor, but his smile did not fade - on the contrary, it seemed to have widened to a grin, a most sardonic one.
It may have seemed like kindness, that much is true...
But it is kindness, too, when cattle is being raised, fed and tended to, only to send them to the butcher's to be slaughtered?
Ah, yes ... morals. Such an ironic joke.
Witherwood Academy lived up to its name and reputation. A total of six hundred and sixty five trees formed a 'wall' around the academy's perimeter. They were of a most exotic kind, their bark ghostly-white, their branches lacking any kind of greenery or signs that they were, in fact, alive.
From the distance, they looked like pale, skeletal hands jutting out of the ground, having clawed their way out from the dirt and now extended their bleak, twisted fingers towards the sky and beyond, a silent cry of victory of the dead.
Markal proceeded through the main gates of the Academy Grounds, which began creaking and swinging shut behind him as soon as he passed. At the entrance, however, a sight that wiped Markal's smile off his face - a stick-thin lad, with a mass of unruly black hair and a pair of glasses that have been broken and repaired multiple times, his dirty-grey robes twice the size of his frame. A small, brass pin on his collar, a lone, withered tree - an apprentice of the Witherwood Academy.
And, unfortunately for the both of them, Markal's assigned assistant.
Approaching him, he could see that Andrei's appearance was less than satisfactory - his glasses were sitting crookedly on his nose, his hair disheveled and and messy, his robes creased and wrinkled... then again, Markal was not surprised - it wasn't the first time Andrei would appear so.
The first thing he did was to greet his assistant with a painful jab, the butt end of his staff connecting to his foot. The boy let out a yowl and winced in pain, but otherwise kept his head bowed in humility. He was used to it by now, and he dared not risk scorn the Professor any more. Markal scoffed, his words dipped in venom as he articulated them in his usual manner of speech.
I will not ask why you present yourself before me in such a pitiful state, Andrei, for the answer will disappoint me more than your present appearance, I'm sure.
Rather, I would want to ask - why are you waiting for me - here. And now. Must you ruin my day from its very first hours?
Andrei kept his head bowed and his lips sealed, only raising his hand, holding an envelope of no visible signs. Markal swiped it from his grasp with a smooth, lightning-fast gesture, which made the boy flinch in surprise. He shook his head disapprovingly and without another word, opened the door and entered the Academy, the folds of his black robes trailing after him as he quickened his pace towards his office.
Markal let out a sigh of relief as he finally entered his sanctuary of knowledge, welcoming the cool, dark atmosphere with open arms. He stepped down the small staircase and placed his staff on a small stand next to the hanger, where several heavy, black cloaks lined with plush red velvet were resting.
He would carefully place his hands on the skull, lightly nudging it to dislodge it off the staff. He held it reverently before him, his eyes shining in the darkness as he smiled fondly at it.
Another mind-numbing, soul-crushing, back-breaking day for us, isn't it dear?
He kisses the smooth surface of the skull before he walked further in the chamber, where several round tables were arranged around, filled with books and tomes of variable sizes, towers of papers and folders neatly stacked around and dozens of quills with their respective ink well placed in tactical spots as not to lose precious time finding something to write with. At the very back of the room was a large, semi-circular desk, its wooden surface covered with a select few paper folders, a large, silver, twelve-armed candelabra, the wax candles having long melted on their stands.
The lack of illumination did not bother Markal, for he knew his office as well as the back of his hand - he placed the skull on a small, cushioned pedestal resting on the right side of his desk before he would turn his attention to the folders he had left on the desk for a further inspection. He did not seem to pay attention as the skull several steps away from him began to shimmer - the ghostly hand of a woman extended out of it, slowly pulling herself out of the skull until she fully materialized, letting out a shiver-inducing, ghostly gasp of relief and exhilaration. Markal, however, let out a hum, keeping his gaze fixated on the papers he was holding.
Hmmm. And what is it that is bothering you now, Estelle?
The banshee lightly hovered over the ground as she would step behind Markal, coiling her arms around his shoulders and neck, seemingly pulling herself up as to let her lips rest against his ear. She whispered, her voice hollow and shrill that sounded like nails dragged across a blackboard.
You. Are a fool, Markal.
The man raised his chin, an eyebrow quirked as his nostrils flared - he did not seem amused by the comment and lightly turned his head towards her.
And what could have possibly made you think that, my dear?
She pushed herself away from him, choosing to hover high in the room instead.
Andrei gave you a letter - and you act as if it did not exist! How dull can you be?
Markal snapped the folder shut and sniffed in an affected manner.
My dear - I am anything but dull for you. I do not see why you get so excited over such ... things. You know well what I think about letters - you either see a man's face as you speak, look him into the eyes - or you do not. Simple. But if you insist, then let us see it ...
Markal let out a sigh, a disapproving scowl on his face as he pulled out the envelope from the sleeves of his robes. Estelle let out a giggle, which faintly sounded like glass breaking in the distance before she hovered over Markal's shoulder, her milky-white, pupil-less eyes eagerly watching her husband's hands as they opened the letter ...
Despite the still-darkened morning sky looming across the city of Noxus, some of its denizens have already stirred awake and began their daily routines diligently. The streets were still lighted by the lamps as peddlers set up their stalls and the more respectable merchants opened up their shops.
But just as any respectable, working man would start their day so, why would necromancers be an exception to this rule?
Whatever people that were walking through the main street scurried to the sides as a tall, slender man made his way right through the middle. His robes were as black as night, save for the distinctive, red velvet material fastened to his shoulders, with countless golden trinkets and expensive gemmed brooches, which clinked ever-so-softly with each movement.
His posture was straight and as stiff as a board, holding his chin up high in a prideful, almost arrogant manner - nobody could dare doubt his stature as a noble of high importance. Despite his soundless steps, his staff - an elegantly-carved thing with a clean, pristine-kept human skull at the top - was thunking softly against the cobblestones as he walked at a slow pace.
His expression was blank, unreadable - the portrait of nobility, with aquiline features crowned by neck-length cropped, silvery-white hair and a trimmed pickedevant. His venom-green eyes focused on a point on the horizon, seemingly ignoring the present world surrounding him.
That changed, however - he stopped in his track, and obstacle in his path. A child - no less than five, no more than seven - had let his rubber ball roll in the street and had finally caught it, holding it victoriously in his hands. The happiness had faded, however, quickly wilting underneath Markal's severe gaze, having broken his straight posture to look down upon the child.
The boy's pupils were dilated to large, black discs in their grey-blue pools - an eye color to die for, really. His little heart had slowed down from its usual rhythm, a fact Markal found delightful - if the boy held his breath any longer, his body will soon suffer from lack of oxygen. And yet, here he was, frozen - no doubt, in fear - before him.
A woman's muffled cry was heard from somewhere in the crowd - no doubt, the mother, the child's life-giver.
But nobody dared breathe a sound.
Nobody dared raise a finger.
What can one do to save a child standing before Death's Harbinger?
...
Markal's lips curled up to a small smile - a cruel, knowing smile.
Ignorant fools.
Death does not reap until the crop is bountiful.
His eyes saw more than others could - the child was but a feeble whelp. His bones - fragile and easily shattered. The skin - too tender, easily torn through. And the heart? Well, it does seem to be defect, considering how slow it is beating now ...
From the sleeve of his robes, Markal took a coin - a golden coin, the kind of currency that opens a great deal of possibilities to those that have it - and know how to use it. With a flick of his wrist, he flipped the coin down to the child - surprisingly, he reacted swiftly to it and clumsily caught it in one hand while still clinging to the ball for dear life with the other.
Hmm. Good eye-hand coordination and surprisingly fast reaction time. His brain has ... potential. Duly noted.
Markal would raise the butt end of his staff and unceremoniously shoved the child from his path before he proceeded forward, with not a single glance thrown back.
The grave-still silence that had pressed the streets during those moments had been broken by the cries of the mother as she retrieved her child and the crowd finally remembering to breathe.
Markal resumed his initial demeanor, but his smile did not fade - on the contrary, it seemed to have widened to a grin, a most sardonic one.
It may have seemed like kindness, that much is true...
But it is kindness, too, when cattle is being raised, fed and tended to, only to send them to the butcher's to be slaughtered?
Ah, yes ... morals. Such an ironic joke.
Witherwood Academy lived up to its name and reputation. A total of six hundred and sixty five trees formed a 'wall' around the academy's perimeter. They were of a most exotic kind, their bark ghostly-white, their branches lacking any kind of greenery or signs that they were, in fact, alive.
From the distance, they looked like pale, skeletal hands jutting out of the ground, having clawed their way out from the dirt and now extended their bleak, twisted fingers towards the sky and beyond, a silent cry of victory of the dead.
Markal proceeded through the main gates of the Academy Grounds, which began creaking and swinging shut behind him as soon as he passed. At the entrance, however, a sight that wiped Markal's smile off his face - a stick-thin lad, with a mass of unruly black hair and a pair of glasses that have been broken and repaired multiple times, his dirty-grey robes twice the size of his frame. A small, brass pin on his collar, a lone, withered tree - an apprentice of the Witherwood Academy.
And, unfortunately for the both of them, Markal's assigned assistant.
Approaching him, he could see that Andrei's appearance was less than satisfactory - his glasses were sitting crookedly on his nose, his hair disheveled and and messy, his robes creased and wrinkled... then again, Markal was not surprised - it wasn't the first time Andrei would appear so.
The first thing he did was to greet his assistant with a painful jab, the butt end of his staff connecting to his foot. The boy let out a yowl and winced in pain, but otherwise kept his head bowed in humility. He was used to it by now, and he dared not risk scorn the Professor any more. Markal scoffed, his words dipped in venom as he articulated them in his usual manner of speech.
I will not ask why you present yourself before me in such a pitiful state, Andrei, for the answer will disappoint me more than your present appearance, I'm sure.
Rather, I would want to ask - why are you waiting for me - here. And now. Must you ruin my day from its very first hours?
Andrei kept his head bowed and his lips sealed, only raising his hand, holding an envelope of no visible signs. Markal swiped it from his grasp with a smooth, lightning-fast gesture, which made the boy flinch in surprise. He shook his head disapprovingly and without another word, opened the door and entered the Academy, the folds of his black robes trailing after him as he quickened his pace towards his office.
Markal let out a sigh of relief as he finally entered his sanctuary of knowledge, welcoming the cool, dark atmosphere with open arms. He stepped down the small staircase and placed his staff on a small stand next to the hanger, where several heavy, black cloaks lined with plush red velvet were resting.
He would carefully place his hands on the skull, lightly nudging it to dislodge it off the staff. He held it reverently before him, his eyes shining in the darkness as he smiled fondly at it.
Another mind-numbing, soul-crushing, back-breaking day for us, isn't it dear?
He kisses the smooth surface of the skull before he walked further in the chamber, where several round tables were arranged around, filled with books and tomes of variable sizes, towers of papers and folders neatly stacked around and dozens of quills with their respective ink well placed in tactical spots as not to lose precious time finding something to write with. At the very back of the room was a large, semi-circular desk, its wooden surface covered with a select few paper folders, a large, silver, twelve-armed candelabra, the wax candles having long melted on their stands.
The lack of illumination did not bother Markal, for he knew his office as well as the back of his hand - he placed the skull on a small, cushioned pedestal resting on the right side of his desk before he would turn his attention to the folders he had left on the desk for a further inspection. He did not seem to pay attention as the skull several steps away from him began to shimmer - the ghostly hand of a woman extended out of it, slowly pulling herself out of the skull until she fully materialized, letting out a shiver-inducing, ghostly gasp of relief and exhilaration. Markal, however, let out a hum, keeping his gaze fixated on the papers he was holding.
Hmmm. And what is it that is bothering you now, Estelle?
The banshee lightly hovered over the ground as she would step behind Markal, coiling her arms around his shoulders and neck, seemingly pulling herself up as to let her lips rest against his ear. She whispered, her voice hollow and shrill that sounded like nails dragged across a blackboard.
You. Are a fool, Markal.
The man raised his chin, an eyebrow quirked as his nostrils flared - he did not seem amused by the comment and lightly turned his head towards her.
And what could have possibly made you think that, my dear?
She pushed herself away from him, choosing to hover high in the room instead.
Andrei gave you a letter - and you act as if it did not exist! How dull can you be?
Markal snapped the folder shut and sniffed in an affected manner.
My dear - I am anything but dull for you. I do not see why you get so excited over such ... things. You know well what I think about letters - you either see a man's face as you speak, look him into the eyes - or you do not. Simple. But if you insist, then let us see it ...
Markal let out a sigh, a disapproving scowl on his face as he pulled out the envelope from the sleeves of his robes. Estelle let out a giggle, which faintly sounded like glass breaking in the distance before she hovered over Markal's shoulder, her milky-white, pupil-less eyes eagerly watching her husband's hands as they opened the letter ...
