Logs

Rijetta is preceded by a terrified rabbit, though it doesn't remain terrified for long: a sand-colored hound leaps upon it, breaking its neck viciously and tucking in for a hard- earned meal. Just behind the hound walk two more, heads low and ears flat against their skull, and finally, their master rounds a tree, snow just beginning to collect on the shoulders of jagged, Lochian armor. A rut is dragged in the snow behind her, the tip of a cruel-looking bardiche leaving a trail as she holds it low. She stops some distance from the cabin, inclining her head, the messy sounds of her hound's meal filling the air.

You have emoted: Aisling snaps his head up at the first approach, rising to his feet, fur bristling. He snarls back at them even as they tear into the rabbit, a sharp, instinctive response, teeth bared, and it doesn't go away, not when he spots Rijetta, especially with the weapon in the Consanguine's grip. "Empress." He greets, unable to keep the snarl from underlying his words - the charm remains in his grip, held tightly.

Rijetta swings her bardiche in a wide arc around herself, kicking up snow and setting herself in a somewhat more passive stance. With a whistle, she commands her hounds, who attend her immediately, leaving the half-eaten corpse to rot. The one who'd been eating is breathing heavily, blood around his muzzle, and with every breath, frost forms in the air in front of him. Rijetta approaches, a sly half- grin on her face. "Oh, I forgot this was here. Just out for a hunt with my boys, Fear. They do get hungry, you know." The clanking of her armor is compounded by some extra clanking -- tools of torture hanging from the starry belt at her waist, matched by a hideous warhammer across her back. She's geared up for something. "I do too."

You have emoted: Aisling's jaw sets, and he seems to make an effort to stop baring his teeth, lips closing best they can around tusks. He steps down from the porch, onto the snow, eyeing the hounds, eyeing Rijetta - this isn't normal, he realizes, and it shows as he pockets the charm, keeping his hands free. "There's nothing for you here. The blood of animals does not suit you. " He rumbles, deep and low, "Leave, Empress." A warning.

Rijetta smiles a bit wider, extending her hand out to the side. There's a flash of green on her shoulder, something beneath the armor burning through, and that sickly green becomes a sliver which snakes down to her hand, forming into her soulstone. She brings it to her lips, whispering something to it, but her whispers are carried by the screams of the damned contained within. "Abi. Kelo. Azudim." A prayer, eliciting a cold chill around herself, colder than the snow. Her hounds start to stand up, the hair on their backs raised, their lips curling up in clear defiance of your challenge. As the soulstone shatters and slams itself into Rijetta in three different places, she starts to advance. "Nothing could bid me leave such a holy mission. You should know this."

You have emoted: Aisling doesn't step back, he stands firm, legs bending slightly as he raises his fists defensively, gaze darting between Rijetta and each of the hounds. He breathes in deep, "Rijetta." The name comes almost soft - betrayal, almost. "Why me?" His gaze is gold, and he grows colder and colder, out of anxiety, each small shift of his stance bringing the crackling of frost, "We talked. We..."

You say, in Jaziri, "I let you in my home, I've seen you. Don't let Her do this to you."

Rijetta narrows her eyes at your words, her grip tightening on her weapon. Her hounds perk up at the words, looking a bit confused, but a sharp whistle and they're right back to their focus, moving to encircle you, pawing silently across the snow. The diminutive vampire doesn't speak for several moments, but when she does, she speaks in her mother tongue, smooth, melodic, soft. "You whisper in my ear your deceit. Dendara this, cycle that. You send your cronies to injure me with demands to change my very being. To abandon myself." She slams the hilt of her bardiche into the snow, the very blood in her veins boiling. "She reminds me of the truth. Of who I'm supposed to be." The mark on her shoulder is burning brightly, now, clearly visible as a butterfly with unfurled wings, stamped beneath a wicked scythe. "To wo Esityi", comes the title, carrying a heavy desert accent, her Kalsu clearly learned there. "Fear."

You have emoted: "Cronies? Rijetta, I've never sent anyone after you." Aisling rumbles, his fists still raised, defensively. He breathes in deep, exhales slow, shoulders slightly raised in tension. "I know you. I know too much of you - I was you. I speak because I -was- you." The words come in the Consanguine's language, easily, but there is so little of aggression, it's almost startling. "I don't wish to hurt you."

Rijetta furrows her brow, clearly angry, but there are other emotions rolling around behind her yellowed eyes. The butterfly in her cage spasms, panicking and slamming itself against the bars, but Rijetta pushes forward, gritting her teeth and advancing ever closer to the mighty monk before her. "That will make this much easier." In a flash of motion, she begins -- she barks a command in Jaziri, a simple "Go!", and her hounds listen, one leaping forward to attack with rotted fangs, dripping foul infection. She, however, unleashes an entirely different weapon from her bardiche: her hammer is thrown, a glimmering blue chain of fell energy attached to it as it spins through the air, hurtling towards you.

You have emoted: Aisling grunts, sidestepping the leaping hound to slam a forearm against the side of its muzzle, away from him. His ear twitches as he hears the chains, and the hammer nearly hits him full on, but he stumbles away, an arm darting out to try and grab it, causing the weapon to spin and wrap around his arm. There is a moment of pause as he regains his balance, and he sharply tugs on it, drawing the chain taut.

Rijetta charges forward as the chain is pulled taut, closing the distance with surprising speed, for someone wearing such heavy armor. Her bardiche is already coming around, spun around her body with practiced expertise, kicking up a spray of snow as the blade flicks this way and that, trying to gore you anywhere it can. The glint of foul venom is obvious on the tip of the blade, and its hunger can be felt even from a distance, desiring to shear straight through the inner core of any being and rip away what should be Dhar's right. "Why try?! You know me, don't you? Just let me take Her prize!"

You have emoted: Aisling hunkers down, letting the bardiche slam on his arm, the blade sinking in deep into his bicep, nearly enough to go through. He doesn't cry out, but the way his gaze unfocuses for a moment betrays the near- blinding pain. The man breathes deep, and there's tension in his frame – he could kick Rijetta, but he does not, true to his word. "Because I need you to know." He says, between harsh breaths, one arm impaled, the other tense and bent, to keep the chain wrapped around it and the hammer unusable, "I need you to look at me, and know you will overcome this." His legs shake a hint, but he stands firm.

You murmur to Rijetta, in Jaziri,  "You'll do things you'll regret, and  you'll hurt, and cry, and fear deeply,  Rijetta, but you will come out of this -  and I will carry you out when it comes,  if I have to."

Rijetta seems a bit put off by how easy it was for her blade to hit home. Its hungry edge licks at something deep inside you, but Rijetta almost seems ready to let go of it -- a mix of anger and surprise on her face as she speaks, "What are you doing?! Stop that!" She pulls back, baring fangs, screeching, "There's nothing for me to come out of!" Her hounds rush forward, two of them aiming to take your legs from under you. She moves to yank her bardiche free, too, flying into a rage almost immediately. "I regret nothing I do for Her! You're just a traitor! To the Blood! To Mother!"

You have emoted: Aisling does cry out when the blade is torn from his muscle and flesh, stumbling forward, his torn, wounded arm hanging limp at his side, the other still tense. A loud snarl rises in his throat, booming, surprising, and it's possible to see his muscles tense, all over, even as the hounds sink their teeth into his legs, he stands. Kai, the energy working off of the aggression the hounds offer, keeping him standing in motes of verdant light. He stares back at Rijetta, shaky, unsteady. "We're friends." He says, repeats your words back to you, once said, "Aren't we?"

Rijetta wavers, the antithesis of a Carnifex. She takes a step back, completely put off by your words, her mouth left a little agape. She stumbles over her words a bit, not very imperious and entirely lacking any vampiric, otherworldly grace. She seems more like a child caught in a lie, trying to worm her way out of it as quickly as possible. She can't speak, though, only make noise, until finally, she mutters, "We can't be." She stares down at her feet, and one of her hounds, the unoccupied one, starts to bark at her, trying to get her attention, the loyal creature. "I can't come back here, after this." Her soulstone, in three pieces, begins to flare blue, and chains start to fill the area, clawing and reaching and trying to wrap around anything they can get: trees, animals... you. "If I can't do this..." The chain attached to her hammer shatters, no longer kept in form by her will. "... then I can't be Hers." She strides forward again, still staring at the snow.

You have emoted: Aisling watches, his breathing still harsh, labored, blood staining most of him, body growing weak, and as your aggression eases, his Kai slowly drains and makes him shake. The man shakes his head, watches as the chains come to wrap around his limbs, unable to run, not from his own home or you. "My door is open." He says, each word coming with thick wisps of frost as his form grows weaker, "If I hurt you, I can't save you." He drops to his knees, heavily, wavering, a broad, muscular man, sure, but none of the threat he'd usually pose, nothing, and even throughout this attack, he does not sound angry, no snarl, no instincts to accompany this, "I forgive you. When you are ready, Rijetta, I'll carry you." The name comes fondly, sincere.

Rijetta continues her inexorable advance, reaching up to nervously clutch the cage at her neck, as if it might give her strength. The butterfly, having ceased its panic, merely flutters its wings in response, unconcerned. Rijetta, meanwhile, casts aside her bardiche, letting it fall to the snow. Her hound retrieves it, and the others release you, moving to stand with their master as she retrieves a horrid-looking tool from her waist. Pronged and ugly, it is this thing which will end the night. As she approaches, she raises it up, and her target becomes clear: your left eye. The prongs open at Rijetta's ministrations, her intent dreadfully clear.
You have emoted: Aisling's breathing only grows harsher in sight of the odd tool, there is finally strain against the chains, more a tensing of his body, preparation, than proper thrashing. He stares up, eyes wide, and as you approach, his gaze returns to its clear, white hue - he stands alone, no wolf to will him up. The Monk can't speak, nothing comes.

Rijetta shuts her eyes tight, hardly looking as she presses the tool against its intended target. She doesn't apply enough pressure, at first, confused as to why nothing is working, but the frustration and the knot in her stomach cause her to press forward, shoving the tendrils into your eyesocket, prying your eye away enough that the next part can begin. The tool is doing its work -- it is designed to be excruciatingly painful, not a surgeon's tool but a torturer's, and as Rijetta plies the levers, a needle is thrust forward. Her own eyes remain tightly shut, unable to watch, her face turned away. She actually begins to breathe -- an old holdover from Siaern's lessons, a ragged, disgusting sound, shriveled lungs being forced to take in cold, biting air. The noise is pitiable, but even so, she does her devil's work, meaning to fully impale the eye and begin the laborious process of... well, pulling it out. She mutters something in Jaziri all the while, a single word, a mantra, repeated, something she doesn't even realize she's doing. "Sorry", goes the mantra.

You have emoted: This, this is enough. Aisling screams, loud, heartwrenching, a howl too different from a wolf's, but it silences all others in the area all the same. There are only pauses for breath, desperate, and his body remains tense and still beyond it, of such a delicate part of him being pierced, that scares him of hurting himself further. His ears lower, even the torn one managing a forceful press against his hair in the mindnumbing pain that comes. The words could be lost on him, between his screaming, and the sharp sound of frost, of ice, spreading under him as his body enters into a desperate state to express his pain. It is pulled out, a mess of torn nerves, of blood, but it is torn out, and the Monk crumbles down against the chains, hands tugging, not to be set free, but to touch at his face. To cover the bleeding hole useless eyelids now cover.

Rijetta stumbles backwards, her hounds retrieving her weapons as the chains shatter, her will no longer strong enough to control souls in such a way. She has no words, only a strange emptiness, a certain lack of the confidence she usually feels. She holds the tool in her hands, staring down at it, staring at the eye now contained within, and immediately doubles over, dry-heaving and retching, her body convulsing unhappily. When she regains her composure, though, she runs. Her eyes hold something entirely different from Fear -- it's a certain poignant Despair, as if she's horrified at her own actions. She spares little time, she spares no honor, she thinks little of how she looks: she just runs, trying to escape the area and her own actions, rather than look at what she caused.

You have emoted: Aisling covers his bleeding face with a hand, shaking, trembling whole, and watches the woman stumble, nearly vomit, stares at her hounds, stares at the bloodstained snow under her feet. He stares, because his vision is different, and perhaps because shock has overtaken him. He watches, saying nothing, as she moves too far for him to see.