ashmer returns

Brass Monkey Imports. (lost) (Spinesreach.) (5581)
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Resting on the ground is a cube-shaped silver sigil. An elegant obsidian cup has been left on the
ground here. A sigil in the shape of a small, rectangular monolith is on the ground. There are 4
thin black bands here. Hands folded in the sleeves of his dark, voluminous robes, a cabalist stands
ready to guard his city.  You see a sign here instructing you that WARES is the command to see what
is for sale.
You see exits leading east (open pine door) and down (closed pine door).
Unmapped: down

Your pose is now set as:
Eleanor leans against the bar, in conversation with the tender.

She is a wise Idreth and is a somewhat disorienting creature to look upon. Ambient light seems to
simply fall away into her, rendering her shape down to a black silhouette which seems to lack depth
from any angle, despite still occupying a three dimensional space. The silhouette is humanoid and
feminine in shape, delineating a broad-hipped and stocky build, but little else is discernible. The
only feature readily recognisable are her eyes- two blazing points of blue-white essence stare out
at the world like twin stars in an otherwise empty night sky. She walks with the blessing of Maghak.

                         (on the left hand) : a silver wedding ring, inlaid with dark opal
                       (covering the torso) : a high-collared, black leather top
                         (worn on the feet) : fur-lined combat boots
                        (covering the body) : a formal longcoat of the Cabal
                         (worn on the legs) : fitted, black leather trousers
                        (worn on the hands) : a fitted leather gauntlet

Ashmer arrives from the east.

He is an undead intelligent Grook and is a disturbing sight to behold. Smooth skin of a sickly
malachite hue clings to his thin frame, which seems to absorb and trap the surrounding light in its
tenebrous contours. A webbed crest, like a blade of skin, cuts down across the back of his head,
having taken on a murky grey tint, nearly white on the broad flaps of skin between the thin spines.
The same murky, smoky grey swirls across the skin of his wrists and palms, slipping through the gap
between his long, thin fingers. Thin, white scars lash across nearly every inch of his visible skin,
contrasting violently with the malachite hue. His right eye is a dull yellow, which glints eerily in
the available light, revealing jagged, crimson flecks interspersed throughout the golden orb.  His
other eye, however, is a frightening sight. The skin and flesh that surrounded it have been
completely stripped away, leaving a pale, bloodshot orb, devoid of any discernible iris and pupil,
anchored to the exposed bone of his ghastly eye socket with slight sinews. The glistening muscle
entwines and turns as the orb shifts its gaze eerily, independent of his other eye. There is no
audible hint of his presence, and his chest barely rises and falls with each faint breath that
passes his lips.  His movements are smooth and measured,  giving him a disturbingly ghost-like
appearance, and he stands at an odd angle, not quite perpendicular to the ground, seeming to sway
hypnotically to some unheard rhythm. With the parting of his thin, malachite lips, his ebon teeth
are revealed, which glisten eerily in any available light. A sinister emerald glow issues from a
grim, chaotic marking, seared into the flesh above his right eye. A faint wisp of smoke rises from
the scar, dissipating into the air with an otherworldly hiss.


As he steps, hunched, through the door, Ashmer's flesh wavers, wisping away in wisps of oily black
smoke before taking on visible definition once more a moment later.

You have emoted: Eleanor looks over her shoulder, the blazing pinpoints of her eyes settling on
Ashmer. She has no readable expression, her stillness bordering on eerie as she considers him.

Ashmer's white lips work as he utters something beneath his hissed, rattling breath, and he traces
the rune seared into his forehead with one thin, pale finger.

The same, belabored breath turning into a barely-audible hiss, Nephilim Ashmer Ras'valyra, Blackwind
Prophet says to you, "Conduit."

Ashmer inclines his head politely to you.

You have emoted: "Asssshhmer," Eleanor replies at length, as if testing the word on her tongue.
There's a long pause, and more careful inspection of Ashmer's appearance. Then, dryly, as if to
break an awkward silence, she adds, "You're looking well."

Ashmer is entirely undisturbed by the sudden appearance of a shadowy nightmare, as it blinks into
existence behind him. Oily black smoke pours from its nostrils as it snorts and scrapes one ichor-
caked hoof against the floor.

Ashmer's thin chest inflates with a raking gurgle, and he coughs deeply, expelling a spatter of
black ichor onto his white lips. After a convulsive twitch, he wipes at his mouth with one bony arm.
Nephilim Ashmer Ras'valyra, Blackwind Prophet says to you, "Thank you, Conduit."

Your pose is now set as:
Eleanor stands at one end of the bar, leaning casually on an elbow.

You have emoted: Eleanor tilts her head, her eyes glimmering faintly. "So, then. You wanted words.
Let's hear it."

Ashmer tells you, "((I don't know if we still use tells for OOC communication, but I'm afk a sec,
sorry.))"

You tell Nephilim Ashmer Ras'valyra, Blackwind Prophet, "//That's fine."

His head following the tilt of your head in an eerie mirror of the gesture, Nephilim Ashmer
Ras'valyra, Blackwind Prophet says to you, "Centuries have passed, Conduit. How fares the Cabal?"

Ashmer tells you, "((Hey, didn't you draw that bad ass picture of Ashmer for me, way back when?))"
Ashmer tells you, "((Or was that someone else?))"
You tell Nephilim Ashmer Ras'valyra, Blackwind Prophet, "//I drew you forever ago, yes."
Ashmer tells you, "((If I recall, I owe you a desc.))"
Ashmer tells you, "((Or, like... twenty-five descs, depending on the interest rate for debt
avoidance. :P))"

You have emoted: Eleanor sniffs, and rolls her shoulders. "It's quiet," she says after a moment. "It
was already fairly quiet, then it caught a bad case of stupid which drove it essentially to the
grave. Now it has too few hands on deck to really make a difference." She shrugs. "It's quiet," she
summarises, again.

Laughter and revelry can be heard on the winds, coming from the patrons of the Wintersbreeze Inn.

You tell Nephilim Ashmer Ras'valyra, Blackwind Prophet, "//hah, probably beyond the statute of
limitations by now."

Ashmer tells you, "((Hahahah.))"

Bone crackling noisily, Ashmer rolls his shoulders in a mimic of Eleanor's motion, and his dry skin
splits along one side of his chest. Thick black ichor oozes slowly from it as it closes, the
malachite flesh knitting smooth once more.
With a tilt of his chin, Nephilim Ashmer Ras'valyra, Blackwind Prophet says to you, "Much as we left
it."

Ashmer tells you, "((Y'know, I quit before they actually implemented the changes to Tweak I wrote.
Is it any good?))"
You tell Nephilim Ashmer Ras'valyra, Blackwind Prophet, "//cabalist class is still crap and broken."
Ashmer tells you, "((It was always crap and broken.))"


You have emoted: Eleanor doesn't seem impressed, though it is visible as nuance in posture, rather
than any sort of readable expression. "Hardly," she comments, still dry. "But that was some time ago.
"

Ashmer tells you, "((Still need any descs done? I don't like leaving that shit hanging out, and you
were justifiably pretty fucking mad at me.))"

Ashmer inclines his head politely to you.

You tell Nephilim Ashmer Ras'valyra, Blackwind Prophet, "//I may be able to think of something if
you're planning on sticking around, but I don't have anything in mind that desperately needs written
just at the moment."

After forcing another rattling breath past his throat, Nephilim Ashmer Ras'valyra, Blackwind Prophet
says to you, "We would welcome an exchange, Conduit."

You have emoted: Eleanor rubs her jaw idly with her fingertips, the darkened appendage blending
seamlessly with the black shape of the rest of her. "An exchange," she invites, her tone expectant.

Nephilim Ashmer Ras'valyra, Blackwind Prophet says to you, "The Spheres - they taste... different,
to us. We require a place to study, and gather the bits of this corpse cast to shrill winds. In
return, we offer our mind and words."

You have emoted: Eleanor seems to survey Ashmer for a time. "...You want to rejoin the Cabal," she
paraphrases, a questioning tone to the end of her statement.

After a long pause, Nephilim Ashmer Ras'valyra, Blackwind Prophet says to you, "If that is what that
requires, Conduit."

You have emoted: Eleanor holds her hands palm-up. "You could be asking me for an apprenticeship,"
she points out.

His amber eye squinting, Ashmer cants his head to one side, causing his neck to crack loudly beneath
his thin flesh.

You have emoted: Eleanor crosses her arms over her chest. "After this long, there will likely be
little reason to refuse you," she says, but then makes a small, disapproving sound in the back of
her throat. "The Cabal is not the creature you left behind, anymore," she cautions. "We are no
longer chanting, robe-wearing charlatans. Ritual has been replaced by procedure. Magic, with science.
 Rhetoric with reason." There's a pause, then she adds, "It might not suit you, unless you plan on
changing as well."

The slits where his nose should be flaring slightly as he forces the words past his throat, Nephilim
Ashmer Ras'valyra, Blackwind Prophet says to you, "We are changed, and changing, Conduit... but even
that past creature was cast behind us. We offer our voice, in return for a place to... heal. Lgakt
cannot be contained."

You have emoted: Eleanor seems to weigh up this statement. "I will speak to the Commissar," she says,
 finally. "If you're lucky, he'll choose to forgive the grief you caused him and we'll admit you to
the Cabal."

You say, "The way it works for mature and return entrants is that you will complete some manner of
task, rather than the standard baby-steps that the novices complete for third rank."

Ashmer inclines his head politely to you.

You say, "The task is negotiable depending on the interests of the applicant. Many choose to write a
paper, but it is largely up to you."

You say, "You'll want to think on your proposal for a task while you're waiting for the Commissar's
decision."

With another incline of his chin, his dry flesh crackling, Nephilim Ashmer Ras'valyra, Blackwind
Prophet says to you, "We will await your word, Conduit."

You have emoted: Eleanor nods, shortly. "Was that all you wished to speak about?"

Flesh begins to dissipate, and Ashmer turns on his heel as oily black smoke envelops his hunched,
diminished frame.
Ashmer grows still and his lips begin to move silently.
Ashmer is enveloped in translucent fire for a moment and is gone, his soul safe until he returns to
Aetolia.

You have emoted: Eleanor pinches the bridge of her nose. "Right then."