Honey and Sulfur

The falcons squawked madly as Jealous and Mortivus came upon the large, spacious aviary. Val was accustomed to visiting her falcons daily and insisted on feeding them herself. Anticipating the fact that the falcons had not been fed in days, Jealous had brought with him several live mice which he let loose on the aviary's floor before entering, when the mice were gone and the falcons had fed themselves, the pair entered as the birds went wild, somehow, they knew something was wrong. Jealous was weraing a leather sleeve on his left arm, Mortivus another, “Hold your arm out,” he told Mortivus looking back at him, “after I let Temespt land upon my arm, Lucy should follow and land upon yours. Val trained them expertly.” Jealous extended his arm and, almost as though he had heard, Tempest flew right to the tifling and landed upon his arm, “You see? Now you.” Mortivus did as he was told and Lucy flew to him just as well.

“Jealous, what are you planning?” Mortivus asked.

“These birds are like Val's children. She once told me that if they could speak they would call her 'Mistress'. I mean to use them to find Val, if that's even possible. If not, the worse that could happen is they fly off to be free. I think they will take us to her, though, wherever she is.”

“Are you certain?” asked Mortivus leering cautiously at Lucy.

“Not at all, but its worth a shot.”

“I suppose.” said Mortivus.

“Let's go, then.” Jealous said as he walked toward the aviaries exit.

As they left, the birds stayed clamped to their arms as they were trained. Jealous didn't bother with the cages this time as the birds were likely never coming back to the castle. When they reached the gates, Jealous gave Mortivus a look and said, “Are you sure you want to come?”

“Without a doubt.” said Mortivus with a stern expression.

“Then we will walk to the edge of town before letting them fly.”

The two of them drew suspicious looks as they walked through Tryston with falcons clinging to their arms, women scurried to scoop up their staring boys and clutched crying daughters protectively to the hems of their skirts. Men stared vacantly as they passed but none made to accost the pair as they walked, some clearly recognized the castellan, those that did must have thought him insane. They at last came to the road that led south out of Tryston and exited into the Court Woods. Jealous relaxed his arm and launched Tempest with a deft expertise, “If Val could have seen that.” He said looking at Mortivus, “Now you.” Mortivus launched Lucy just as well, having been falconing many times before but with birds with which he was more familiar.

The two raptors swirled in the air for a moment, Tempest leading his smaller sister into a downward spiral before breaking it off mere feet from the ground. They glided out over the woods and, after a while, circled several times over an expanse of trees. All of a sudden, Tempest darted back toward Jealous, screeching like mad and beatig his wings furiously/s. Jealous extended his arm and Tempest landed once more. He looked at Jealous and screeched several times, Jealous gave the bird a knowing look and launched him again. The tiefling looked back at Mortivus and said, “Looks like we have something.” As Tempest flew farther south, Jealous broke off into a run, following the birds as best he could. After a short while they came to a dimly lit area of woods through which a stream ran beneath a dead, fallen tree. Jealous saw the crude mound before he heard Tempest screech above him from his perch amongst the branches. “There.” he said, pointing to the mound of sodden dirt. The two of them rushed to the mound and began digging with their hands, both of them having thrown off the falconing sleeves which they had been wearing.

It took nearly an hour before they finally uncovered the dirty, rolled up carpet. Jealous sat up and put his hands on his thighs as he said, “Val's carpet.”

“Jealous, we don't have to...”

“Yes, we do, Mortivus. I have to see it for myself.” Jealous said raggedly as he continued to frenetically unearth the wet carpet.

A thin voice echoed from behind them stopping the pair cold, “Jealous, dear,” it whispered in a weak cadence, “do not, for the love you bear me, open that carpet.”

Donaldo watched as the gangly boy with shoulder length hair the color of thin dirt left Count Tryston's office and exited the adjoining vestibule, he thought the boy looked vaguely familiar for some reason. The young man carried something that he had not taken in with him. It was a longsword with the oddest blade the high priest had ever seen, it was clear like glass but seemed to dance in the light with a disgusting, latent malevolence. Don made a small gesture with his hand and muttered a prayer to Quilos, asking for insight. A faint black shimmer began to play about the sword as Don's prayer was answered. The sword was forged from magic borne of pure evil, of that there was now no doubt. “Why am I not surprised.” Don grumbled under his breath as the boy passed through the antechamber doors, leaving only two Thorns to guard the foyer.

Don tugged back the hood of the gossamer silver cloak he wore and felt the weave of divine magic suck back into the enchanted overgarment. The Thorn's eyes grew wide as the old man materialized out of thin air. Before they knew what was happening they were dropping their deadly rose-like morningstars to the ground while Don's eyes shone with a blinding gold light, “Grovel beneath the light of the Gilt-Forged God, wayward souls.” Don whispered the command evenly. “Now, stay.” He said, turning to open the doors to Count Tryston's office.

Don noticed a squirming in the air around him as the tangy scent of dried blood crept up into his nostrils, the air was patently colder in this room, Don noticed, as he checked off yet another suspicion. The ofice was empty, however, except for a grandiose desk, an equally lavish high-backed chair and an odd mirror in the corner. There were no other doors or noticeable points of egress, which was passing odd considering he had watched Tryston enter but had never witnessed him leave. Looking back at the still submissive Thorns, Don closed the office's doors and moved studiously toward the full body mirror set in the corner of the office. The mirror had a pewter frame wrought in the most libidinous carvings the humble priest had ever laid eyes upon. Some of the things those soft metal figures were doing made Don flush with rage and embarrassment. The Priest reached out and stroked the mirror's surface with the back of his hand but withdrew just as quickly when the obsidian black surface of the mirror began to ripple like a calm pond when a pebble was tossed in.

Tryston stood behind a twisted stone balustrade and looked out over the shadowy landscape that stretched for miles before him. Strange winged creatures flew to and fro, bathed in a sickly light shed by a fearsome moon that hung precariously in the black, starless sky. As he watched the tepid fields below he saw vast hordes of undead creatures milling about aimlessly, wandering without direction as a cowled man wielding a bladed scourge flayed the rotted, fetid skin from their backs. The grotesque figure was trying to corral as many of the loathsome creatures as he could into a dry rotted wagon covered with a tattered, black canvas roof.

Tryston loved it here, he always had. The Darkrealm held a certain aesthetic that appealed to his more base desires. There was no sun, only the dark moon around which hung a barely visible lycanthropic shroud. From the jagged peaks that surrounded this morbid twin of Castle Rose, which here he called Castle Blackthorn, he could here reticently the cold howls of werewolves stalking whatever unfortunate soul had doltishly wandered into the Darkrealm.

Tryston heard soft steps climbing the battlements so he turned to the wide stairwell and waited. Shortly, a rotund man with a hunched back emerged from the stairs, he wore a drab green sleeveless tunic that was belted with a cracked leather belt with a tarnished silver buckle. Atop his head, stringy blonde hair hung out from beneath a tattered cap. The man cringed under Tryston's glower, rearranged his musty hat and cleared his throat with a gurgling cough, “My Lord Tryston,” he groaned sheepishly, “I regret to inform you that your daughters mortal coil has escaped our, um, snares.”

“Escaped, Rilgor? How, pray tell, did her soul escape?”/s

“Well, Lord, trapping coils is not easy work, you see. My brother and I tried our best but her cord was far too willful. Whatever ties she has back on the Material must be awfully fierce.”

“Indeed.” Said Tryston without emotion. “So what are you two worms doing to get it back, Rilgor?”

“G-get it back?” Stammered Rilgor. Why, I don't...”

“Stalling for an excuse are we? Never mind, Rilgor, I am sure the two of you will find a way. We have time. Now, on to other matters then? What did He have to say regarding the tiefling? Does He miss it yet? I understand that wretched cleric raised him yesterday.”

“He did Lord Tryston. Gorebaliax greatly regrets losing his newest toy and promises favors if you can return it to him. Apparently this tiefling is more than ordinary.”
---

...And that is all I have thus far. Thanks for taking the time to read this any suggestions made will be taken into account and yu have my word that once this tale is fully crafted I will post the conclusion as soon as I can.

Yeesh, was it that bad or are all the writers just asleep at the wheel here? Well, thanks to the four people that flagged, anyway!

a reply to: CagliostroTheGreat

Damn, nice story.

You look different by the way. Lol

Quantum12

lol

Damn man, I actually finished this story, Sheesh I totally forgot I even posted this here, ha! Unfortunately its trapped I my laptop until I can get it fixed. This here is a really rough first draft of the story. Damn. Once I can manage it I'll post the finished version.