dmronny
Lurker
- Joined
- Nov 10, 2008
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Berenice nodded her head in agreement and followed behind her brother and their guest towards the main hall. Despite the young mortals meekness she certainly possessed many of the qualities of a noblewoman, a birthright that Vezina had yet to truly fulfill. Though she knew it would only be a matter of time, already she had begun to make insinuate herself among the high clans of the court. The diablerie of the warlock was another step in many she would take to fulfill her birthright.
Vezina's mind slowly began to wander as she was gallantly led into the main hall of her host's manor in Lambeth. Even as she sat down and listened to the small talk of her mortal hosts it continued to drift. Such unimportant matters were of little interest to one such as she. The brief time she had spent as an undead queen of the night slipped before her eyes as she traveled back through time. The journey across the sea, the attack on her master's caravan, all the way back to the months before they had even left.....
Suddenly her eyes flapped open on something she would never see again, the dim light of a winter sun shining on a small game trail far below. A thorn tore at her shoulder, sending a droplet of blood coursing down her arm. Despite the unpleasant feeling of pain she did not react. Kneeling in the brambles somewhere nearby was the master's brutal servant, Scorylo.
Scorylo had gathered a handful of the best archer's from her master's herd the previous morning and driven them to this spot on the edge of her master's lands. It could mean only one thing as he commanded them to hide among the brambles and not make a sound. She was to aid in an ambush of the foreign soldiers under the black cross. To ruin her master's plan would only invite pain of an unimaginable sort to befall her. Unending torture in what was commonly known as the pit of despair deep beneath the earth of her master's castle.
She had been down to the depths once before to deliver food to those who had found displeasure in her master's eyes. The unceasing moans and screams of the tormented souls seemed to come from the damp earth itself. Every room she passed brimmed with some new horrid sight. Once strong men and women twisted and bent into unimaginable shapes by their abuses, and the ever-present scent of blood that had soaked the soil to the very roots of the mountain itself.
The sharp call of a raven cawing beckoned her attention back to a distant bend in the trail. The signal she had expected came whistling across the winds to prepare herself.
Vezina's mind slowly began to wander as she was gallantly led into the main hall of her host's manor in Lambeth. Even as she sat down and listened to the small talk of her mortal hosts it continued to drift. Such unimportant matters were of little interest to one such as she. The brief time she had spent as an undead queen of the night slipped before her eyes as she traveled back through time. The journey across the sea, the attack on her master's caravan, all the way back to the months before they had even left.....
Suddenly her eyes flapped open on something she would never see again, the dim light of a winter sun shining on a small game trail far below. A thorn tore at her shoulder, sending a droplet of blood coursing down her arm. Despite the unpleasant feeling of pain she did not react. Kneeling in the brambles somewhere nearby was the master's brutal servant, Scorylo.
Scorylo had gathered a handful of the best archer's from her master's herd the previous morning and driven them to this spot on the edge of her master's lands. It could mean only one thing as he commanded them to hide among the brambles and not make a sound. She was to aid in an ambush of the foreign soldiers under the black cross. To ruin her master's plan would only invite pain of an unimaginable sort to befall her. Unending torture in what was commonly known as the pit of despair deep beneath the earth of her master's castle.
She had been down to the depths once before to deliver food to those who had found displeasure in her master's eyes. The unceasing moans and screams of the tormented souls seemed to come from the damp earth itself. Every room she passed brimmed with some new horrid sight. Once strong men and women twisted and bent into unimaginable shapes by their abuses, and the ever-present scent of blood that had soaked the soil to the very roots of the mountain itself.
The sharp call of a raven cawing beckoned her attention back to a distant bend in the trail. The signal she had expected came whistling across the winds to prepare herself.