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CERAMIC D.M. the final judgement is in!
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<blockquote data-quote="astralpwka" data-source="post: 614060" data-attributes="member: 7469"><p><strong>Aria</strong></p><p></p><p>Alanador arrived in Parize under the cover of night, and thus the mercenaries hired to enforce the quarantine never saw him. Not that Alanador made it a point to sneak in, it didn’t prove anything, but like life, it was just another fun test of his skills. Soon elvish eyesight had led him to the miserable excuse for an inn where he now played his lute for an unappreciative audience.</p><p></p><p>Audience, he chuckled dryly, looking around the inn. Three of the Man race sat at a table nursing their drinks. If they had said two words to each other all night, the elf hadn’t seen it. The bartender too seemed a bit occupied with his focused rumination, a dry rag resting beneath his hand. The serving wench, Alanador decided, must be the cook too; she hadn’t come out of the back room since he arrived. </p><p></p><p>The last note fell quiet from his instrument. No applause. Maybe with the new day, there’d be a new audience. Sighing, he let a hand drift to his belt pouch. Though light, he could feel the handful of silver shift. Might as well pay for the room, he thought, I’m not pulling in a crowd tonight.</p><p></p><p>He hopped down from his makeshift stage (two tables pushed together), flipped the two silvers to the innkeeper (who looked up from the counter with a start), and made his way to his room. He slipped through the doorway, making an entrance for nobody but himself, cloak fluttering from his arm with a flourish to catch the single chair. He sighed heavily, this town might as well be dead.</p><p></p><p>“I caught your performance.” The feminine voice caught him off guard, as his vision rapidly adjusted to the dark. A cloaked figure stood next to the window, to the side, preventing herself from being silhouetted against the starlit sky.</p><p></p><p>Alanador smiled. Finally some appreciation! He stepped forward, bowing grandly, arms sweeping out. “My lady, I don’t believe I saw you in the common room tonight, nevertheless, I am flattered by your company.”</p><p></p><p>The woman reached into her cloak. Still bowing, Alanador watched her carefully, and rose up smoothly as she pulled out a scroll. The daggers in Alanador’s hands disappeared as quickly up his sleeves as he had flashed them out. Palmed, she wouldn’t have even noticed. “I would like for you to perform for me and some guests tomorrow,” she extended the scroll to him.</p><p></p><p>“Invitation?” he mused, opening the scroll. <strong>(picture #4)</strong>.</p><p></p><p>“Sheet music,” she replied, “An aria. I’d like for you to perform it tomorrow night at Lord Arrin’s Castle. All of the nearby nobility are there. I’ll see you there, I know.” </p><p></p><p>The elf dropped the scroll onto the side table next to the bed, and followed her to the door, flashing his most charming smile. “My lady, if it pleases you I have composed an ode to you. Might I delay your departure, for but one ode? All I lack is a name.”</p><p></p><p>“Tomorrow night,” she replied firmly, and she exited through the door.</p><p></p><p>Alanador sighed and picked up the scroll. He unrolled it, studying the music. He read the title out loud to himself, “Pestilence: An Aria”. </p><p></p><p>Alanador aroused from his mediation to the cry of “Bring out yer dead! Bring out yer dead!” There was something about starting a day to those words that hinted strongly of bad things to come, he was sure. Peering through the shutters, there was the wagon, filled with corpses. The corpses were strange, as though the villagers had been keeping them locked in their closets too long, and mummified. </p><p></p><p>Soon the elf was out in the sun, making his way across the village. He noticed, with rising foreboding, the strange makeshift fence surrounding the settlement. It had been constructed hastily, and he’d not paid it too much attention when he’d arrived. He strolled easily to the one gateway leading out, and nodded to the three mercenaries blocking his way. <strong>(Picture #3)</strong>. </p><p></p><p>Finding himself turned around, he strolled casually away, stepping around the stray mysteriously mummified corpses that now lay about the street. “Going to find me a paladin first thing,” he murmured to himself. <strong>(Picture #2)</strong> As soon as he was out of sight of the three mercenaries, he slipped between two buildings and over the fence, disappearing in a field of neglected wheat.</p><p></p><p><strong>(Picture #1)</strong> That night, despite a very encouraging voice in his head telling him to run far away, Alanador found himself let in to Lord Arrin’s castle by the small handholds of the castle’s stone walls. From there, the kitchens allowed easy access to the festivities. The large receiving room brimmed with the lesser nobility from the Man village, aristocrats from the village who hid from the plague within the castle’s walls. Their families seemed lost in an endless holiday, with children rushing between the legs of the servant stepping nimbly through the crowd. </p><p></p><p>Alanador struck the first note of the aria upon his lute. A score of heads fell silent and turned to face him. Whispers flew amongst the crowd, inquiring who had invited the elf. Through the crowd he spotted his patron, and nodded. She nodded back, letting her cloak slip from her shoulders.</p><p></p><p>His nimble fingers moved on their own, for now he stared. The woman walked through the crowd, it parting easily before her. Her face was shallow, eye sunken deep into their sockets. Her blue lips cracked for a smile of teeth with gums receding, elongating them grossly. Her figure, now revealed from her cloak was that of the corpses that littered Parize. </p><p></p><p>The crowd, he realized, did not part. They collapsed as she past, as though a strong breeze blew them over. With each step, two of the Man race fell, until she stood before him, the two of them alone in a room of mummifying corpses. His fingers quickened with the aria, moving of their own accord, sweeping the melody toward its inevitable conclusion.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="astralpwka, post: 614060, member: 7469"] [B]Aria[/B] Alanador arrived in Parize under the cover of night, and thus the mercenaries hired to enforce the quarantine never saw him. Not that Alanador made it a point to sneak in, it didn’t prove anything, but like life, it was just another fun test of his skills. Soon elvish eyesight had led him to the miserable excuse for an inn where he now played his lute for an unappreciative audience. Audience, he chuckled dryly, looking around the inn. Three of the Man race sat at a table nursing their drinks. If they had said two words to each other all night, the elf hadn’t seen it. The bartender too seemed a bit occupied with his focused rumination, a dry rag resting beneath his hand. The serving wench, Alanador decided, must be the cook too; she hadn’t come out of the back room since he arrived. The last note fell quiet from his instrument. No applause. Maybe with the new day, there’d be a new audience. Sighing, he let a hand drift to his belt pouch. Though light, he could feel the handful of silver shift. Might as well pay for the room, he thought, I’m not pulling in a crowd tonight. He hopped down from his makeshift stage (two tables pushed together), flipped the two silvers to the innkeeper (who looked up from the counter with a start), and made his way to his room. He slipped through the doorway, making an entrance for nobody but himself, cloak fluttering from his arm with a flourish to catch the single chair. He sighed heavily, this town might as well be dead. “I caught your performance.” The feminine voice caught him off guard, as his vision rapidly adjusted to the dark. A cloaked figure stood next to the window, to the side, preventing herself from being silhouetted against the starlit sky. Alanador smiled. Finally some appreciation! He stepped forward, bowing grandly, arms sweeping out. “My lady, I don’t believe I saw you in the common room tonight, nevertheless, I am flattered by your company.” The woman reached into her cloak. Still bowing, Alanador watched her carefully, and rose up smoothly as she pulled out a scroll. The daggers in Alanador’s hands disappeared as quickly up his sleeves as he had flashed them out. Palmed, she wouldn’t have even noticed. “I would like for you to perform for me and some guests tomorrow,” she extended the scroll to him. “Invitation?” he mused, opening the scroll. [B](picture #4)[/B]. “Sheet music,” she replied, “An aria. I’d like for you to perform it tomorrow night at Lord Arrin’s Castle. All of the nearby nobility are there. I’ll see you there, I know.” The elf dropped the scroll onto the side table next to the bed, and followed her to the door, flashing his most charming smile. “My lady, if it pleases you I have composed an ode to you. Might I delay your departure, for but one ode? All I lack is a name.” “Tomorrow night,” she replied firmly, and she exited through the door. Alanador sighed and picked up the scroll. He unrolled it, studying the music. He read the title out loud to himself, “Pestilence: An Aria”. Alanador aroused from his mediation to the cry of “Bring out yer dead! Bring out yer dead!” There was something about starting a day to those words that hinted strongly of bad things to come, he was sure. Peering through the shutters, there was the wagon, filled with corpses. The corpses were strange, as though the villagers had been keeping them locked in their closets too long, and mummified. Soon the elf was out in the sun, making his way across the village. He noticed, with rising foreboding, the strange makeshift fence surrounding the settlement. It had been constructed hastily, and he’d not paid it too much attention when he’d arrived. He strolled easily to the one gateway leading out, and nodded to the three mercenaries blocking his way. [B](Picture #3)[/B]. Finding himself turned around, he strolled casually away, stepping around the stray mysteriously mummified corpses that now lay about the street. “Going to find me a paladin first thing,” he murmured to himself. [B](Picture #2)[/B] As soon as he was out of sight of the three mercenaries, he slipped between two buildings and over the fence, disappearing in a field of neglected wheat. [B](Picture #1)[/B] That night, despite a very encouraging voice in his head telling him to run far away, Alanador found himself let in to Lord Arrin’s castle by the small handholds of the castle’s stone walls. From there, the kitchens allowed easy access to the festivities. The large receiving room brimmed with the lesser nobility from the Man village, aristocrats from the village who hid from the plague within the castle’s walls. Their families seemed lost in an endless holiday, with children rushing between the legs of the servant stepping nimbly through the crowd. Alanador struck the first note of the aria upon his lute. A score of heads fell silent and turned to face him. Whispers flew amongst the crowd, inquiring who had invited the elf. Through the crowd he spotted his patron, and nodded. She nodded back, letting her cloak slip from her shoulders. His nimble fingers moved on their own, for now he stared. The woman walked through the crowd, it parting easily before her. Her face was shallow, eye sunken deep into their sockets. Her blue lips cracked for a smile of teeth with gums receding, elongating them grossly. Her figure, now revealed from her cloak was that of the corpses that littered Parize. The crowd, he realized, did not part. They collapsed as she past, as though a strong breeze blew them over. With each step, two of the Man race fell, until she stood before him, the two of them alone in a room of mummifying corpses. His fingers quickened with the aria, moving of their own accord, sweeping the melody toward its inevitable conclusion. [/QUOTE]
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