Old January 10, 2012, 02:58 AM   #1 (permalink)
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Rose Crushcrushcrush [Private]

Timestamp: Melora, Era XIX


Bathed in moonlight, clad in blood, Éclair all but purred. Smiling from ear to ear the Jorelite’s delicate fingers twined, clasped together as she stretched upon her perch. The softest of crackles prompting from the lazy movement, the sound deafening to the Draconess’ ears within the silence of the Concordia. “Better?” came the musical whisper from a voice disused to utterance, quiet and melodic. The unanswered query bringing a slump to her shoulders as Éclair relaxed, her hands dropped to her thighs.
Mister Jorel… Better?

An answer would have been nice.
Better?

The sharp sob from beneath Éclair brought about a frustrated little sigh, even as her crimson lips twitched with malice. Sister Selina Madelene. Alive. More or less. Éclair wasn’t sure on the precise knife-edge that separated living from dead, enticed, curious, but not yet keen to traverse such a path just yet. Not yet. Not until she was certain that Her Mister Jorel would be there to catch her when, finally, inevitably, she fell. But as knife-edges went, there was no doubt in Éclair’s mind that Selina was taking a rather literal stance on the whole subject.

Beat.

Robes, once white were drenched in cooling blood that poured from the Not-quite-dead woman’s chest cavity; ribs torn asunder and broken apart like a lobster before Éclair; revealing more than anyone could hope and still survive such injury. Wriggling forwards, straddling Selina with a smile, Éclair but traced a finger lazily over the girl’s beating, exposed heart; threading the finest trace of the Essence of Death within, slowing it, transferring but an iota of Éclair’s own existence into the child. Not allowed to die. Not yet. Mister Jorel wasn’t done with you!

Beat.

Amplify. A new word for a new Technique. Blood. So much blood. If only all of it had been Seline’s. If only. Yet not all that stained the floors of the Concordia of Diana was crimson. Black ichor puddle about the central room, footprints, slick with the Draconess’ own blood marked the legacy of the evening. A sullied sword lay but a scant few feet away; Seline’s fingers clawing uselessly against the stone floor in a futile effort to claim the burnished blade. Paladin in training. Éclair hadn’t anticipated that. Poor, silly Seline. But don’t worry – Mister Jorel was watching. Mister Jorel would make everything better

Beat.

oocAdept Necromancy - GM Krait
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Old January 16, 2012, 01:27 AM   #2 (permalink)
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Try as Éclair might, reality had a delightful tendency to prove stranger than anything that the Jorelite could concoct. Now any practitioner of Aetheria could possibly claim that such chance and unpredictability could be ‘design’ rather than Her Mister Jorel in action was ludicrous. What were the odds of multiple playthings in what Éclair had believed to be an abandoned Temple to the Harlot. Hadn’t the rag of the Herald been filled with the denials and hasty refusals to associate with the Harlot Goddess? And yet, here the devout stood.

Well.
Lay bleeding profusely from a chest wound or hobbled slowly with a cane.
Still!
Curious.

Father Jose Antoni. The Islander Priest was curious; however fleeting Éclair considered the Priest’s existence. If only because the guised Dracon couldn’t quite figure out just what had happened to her last spell. Worse, her shiny New Weave had proven useless to the point where Éclair’s time would have been better spent finding a New Rock for Her Mister Jorel to bless. Such was life. If everything worked sensibly, then there would be no place for her or Hers.

What would Mister Jorel do...

Black blood continued to trickle down Éclair’s forearms, waving cheerfully at Jose even as the old man advanced. Slowly. The sound of the cane impacting upon stone and the lazy footsteps being the only noise that could be heard within the Temple. The cheer though turned into puzzlement as her friendly approach took a turn towards the understanding that Éclair wasn’t going to be able to gain a New Friend this brightening. Shame.

Twisting, wriggling through her mind.
Shame.

Light began to curl about Jose’s fingertips, his hand rising with a painful weariness. The formation of the spell did not even hasten in the slightest as Éclair planted one foot upon the butchered Paladin-Hopeful’s knee before giving it a none-too-gentle twist that elicited further music. Waiting patiently. Curious. If only for the moment as instead Éclair’s fingernails scratched against the tingling scarring upon her right wrist where the mark of Telos had been inscribed upon Éclair’s flesh.

What next. What.

Distracted. The Spear of Light formed rapidly, lashing out at Éclair with a haste that defied Jose’s languid movements. Some tricks though, were anything but new as Éclair continued to study the world in shades of black and crimson. Smiling all the while; Éclair simply stepped over her broken Toy as the blade of light flared. A simplest twist of the wrist, an almost habitual Evocation as Éclair allowed the spell safe passage – Impelling the weave with a redirect of the very basic principles of her most staple of spells – Drain Life. Embracing the spell that under less controlled circumstances would have torn her apart rather than prompted a pleasant tingling sensation.

Throbbing.
The beat of her heart.
Rebirth.

And for your next spell?
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Old January 21, 2012, 07:37 AM   #3 (permalink)
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Biting down upon her bottom lip, the taste of blood mingled with that of mead as Éclair straddled her Sacrifice. Nuzzling against the butchered Sister Madelene, still the Jorelite toyed with her precious carving knife; resting her forehead against the Sacrifice’s own. Beat. Savoring the continual throb of the Not-Dead Dianite’s pulse as the shattered ribcage exposed the young woman’s core to the world. Alive. Barely. The effect brought about only through Éclair’s own lazy beginnings of a Dark Compact designed to draw from the Draconess’ own life force.

So many butterflies.
So pretty…
So very, very pretty….

Euphoric. That the Promotion had worked was splendid. That it had left Éclair with visions of Him – so delicious – so much the better. Still. Éclair smiled. Content as she straightened upon her chosen seat, for better or worse – and really, how could such an evening be worse? – it was time to get back to work. Mister Jorel couldn’t be kept waiting, not when His gift had yet to be wrapped. So long as the Temple remained standing, pure, as a monument to the Harlot that had distracted Him so – such was entirely unacceptable.

Just couldn’t sully things…

No Death.
No Lust.
No Madness.

The soft, musical peals of laughter escaped Éclair as if of their own accord – concert with the stifled whimpers and cries of the Sacrifice. The sated smile frozen, manic, cheerfully so. No. The other Aeternian’s would, whether Éclair liked it or not, gain their pitiful table scraps. So long as there was Chaos. Just so long as there was Him. Death? But a side effect of Mister Jorel no longer requiring one’s services. Lust? For Him, for anarchy, for always. Madness? Sanity was overrated. The creatures that crawled within her mind and body were Friends.
Can’t speak.
Not a word.
Not a whisper.

The girl must live…

Abjuration and Alteration, the simple hallmarks of Éclair’s Necrosis weave as the Jorleite began to cast the foundation of the spell. Weaving it carefully, integrating the spell within her Carving Knife. Settling upon the most base of Imbuements as the guised-Human settled upon fashioning her first true creation as an Adept of Necromancy. No. For all that the Dianite would have to be kept alive, Éclair saw little value in keeping the woman intact. It was time for a little surgery…
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Old January 21, 2012, 08:15 PM   #4 (permalink)
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Missed.
Did I?

Failure was always an option. Still, it remained a bitter pill to swallow. As failure after failure after failure took place, it was becoming evident – even to Éclair – that she was more or less outclassed. For all that her newfound strength was leaps and bounds above her prior capabilities, still the Caned Priest managed to disable the Shiny New Spells. On the bright side, at least Her Mister Jorel had to be happy – the Sacrifice still remained where Éclair had left her, and the Temple to the Harlot wasn’t quite as tidy as it had been but candlemarks earlier.

A flash of dimples as Éclair grinned, her feet delicately tracing a path through the bone and blood littered floor. Each step precise, moving with all the elegance of a dancer as the Jorelite strove to keep herself between the Sacrifice and the Caned Priest. Striving to delay any potential rescue until Éclair herself chose to deliver the silly pair to Her Love’s embrace.

Shouldn’t be here…
Run.
Run Now.
Run: Something Is Wrong.
Run: Something Bad Is Coming.

The Priest was smiling. The snake-like grin was… unsettling, not least of because Éclair couldn’t figure out the cause. Mister Jorel was on Her side after all. Mussing up her hair habitually so that the bangs didn’t quite fall before Éclair’s copper colored eyes, still the world remained so delightfully simple.
Flicker…

A single rune flared upon the ground beneath the shattered remnants of Éclair’s earlier Skeletons; a second that she could recognize was the Elemental rune for ‘Fire’. The third that winked into existence was absolutely Life, which left the Jorelite with a profound understanding that her instincts had been right. The time for Running was at hand. The where though was yet to be seen as rather than hanging around, Éclair suddenly span. Falling, scrabbling as Éclair dropped to her hands and knee before pushing herself upright once more and began to dart towards the corridor that led to the left.

Drawing upon the Essence of Fear as Éclair hit the doorway; clasping the edge of the wooden frame to brace herself and gain a brief understanding that more and more of the golden runes were burning their existence into the stone floor. Alteration, Conjuration and Divination in turn were woven hastily, a fledging creature, all style and completely lacking in power given Éclair’s haste – a distraction set upon the doorway to buy her more time. A Grim.

Definitely, should not be in the Harlot’s Chamber when the Caned Priest got to business!
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Old January 21, 2012, 10:00 PM   #5 (permalink)
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One foot forwards. Then the next.
One foot forwards, then the next…one foot…

Pain.
Rubbing her eye with her knuckles, Éclair winced as the already bruising flesh responded in the typical – Ow, please stop doing that – manner that only led the Jorelite to push harder. Irrational. But as ever, Éclair bore her injuries with pride – acknowledging each and every one as a personal punishment from Her Mister Jorel and a counter to His Affection. The fickle and random nature of punishment and reward, of pleasure and pain was….comfortable. Mister Jorel’s embrace and torture as welcome as a blanket on a cold winter morning.

Limping.
Bleeding…
So much….better

There remained a spring to Éclair’s step, a bounce to the blood-clad Jorelite’s movements as she ran an ichor stained hand across the once-white walls of the Harlot’s Basilica. Relishing, savoring the fleeting high of traversing the boundaries of her limits; the second Amplification of the brightening – one that had (briefly) allowed her to experience something… new. Shiny. More powerful than the Bastard Ezekial. Soon. Soon she would have her vengeance and turn the Bastard into nothing more than a Doll to abuse and consign to Éclair’s chosen form of punishment.

One step forwards… but first, last. A farewell. One more spell before the high failed and the butterflies fled. One more spell… one more.
…so much blood.
…twitch?
Why was the world so… so…

Glancing up through a mass of blood-clotted dark hair, Éclair’s broken and torn lips curved into a mischievous little smile. Lazily her hand stretched forth; twisting, turning as Éclair took note of the design that ran across her palm and forearm before her fingers clenched into a fist. The simple gesture flowing in tandem with Éclair’s will as she worked a combination of a Conjurarion, Alteration and an Evocation to send forth a bilious cloud of acid towards the stained glass roof. Forcing the heavens directly above the Harlot’s Temple to rumble and voice their protest as the first droplets of a Acid Rain began to pitter-patter down upon the colored canopy.
Sizzling, burning through the symbolism of the Harlot and sending forth broken shards of glass spiraling downwards…

…the catch of light… like butterflies.
…so pretty…
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Old January 22, 2012, 12:18 AM   #6 (permalink)
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Stop.
Run!

Indecision. Stand and fight. Run and take flight. Both. Wanted to do both, especially given that the Angel’s advance through the Harlot’s Temple was providing as difficult to slow as de-flea-ing a Katta. (Presumably – Éclair’s method involving more lantern oil and flint than anyone else could ever deem safe). Running; run run running… and still, Éclair’s heart raced as she tore through the Temple. Fingertips brushing against the wall, the blood-stained digits fashioning a path through the halls in a gory parody of breadcrumbs in the forest.
Stop?
Run.

Light.
Star light, star bright, couldn’t you go away for the night?
Blinding, forcing Éclair’s flight to halt quickly as she rounded into a Spartan chamber that consisted of nothing more than whitewashed walls; a singular cushion and a bronze framed mirror. Strange. No. Wrong. Bronze cast brazier’s high above, the roof revealing more stained glass, a scene that sent Éclair’s head tilting ever so slightly to the side as she couldn’t help but be curious. Perplexing. Mister Jorel most certainly did not look like that – she’d Seen Him! More-over, why wasn’t Diana enjoying herself? Huh.

Fingers twined with her dark tresses, the hue changing ever so slightly across the lock to a fairer shade as she studied the glasswork before quickly reverting back to the coffee-brown with an indignant shake of her head. No.

Footsteps, the familiar rustle of feathers brushing against the floor – the sound that had once followed every step Éclair too had made when partaking of her Juive’len guise. How she missed the pretty feathers… but still, had to lie low after the Shiny City and the sillies of Jaedaxia. Angel was coming…

…not good.
…no more running.
Kiss and Catch…?
Catch and Kiss…
Oh, why oh why couldn’t you be Mister J?

Spinning around, Éclair backed into the wall hard as she drew upon the Essence of Death. Manipulating the Ara around her, fusing it with her Vis to draw the necessary reaction from Her Mister Jorel’s realm. Conjuring forth specters and those that inhabited the Plane that acted as a Necromancer’s Toolkit before hastily Altering them about the Sparkly Angel. Binding the Delightful Abomination in place with a none-too-gentle Spirit Shackle as Éclair prompted a little forward momentum into the weave – throwing the Supposed Aetherian into the opposite wall.

Hold still!
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Old March 12, 2012, 04:49 AM   #7 (permalink)
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Tilting her head quizzically to the side, Éclair’s bottom lip was raw from where she nibbled and chewed at the soft flesh. Curious as the horde of skeletons continued to amble forth. Curious at the effects of the Caned Priest’s spell as it flowed throughout the dozen skeletons, tearing through the Necromatic spell Éclair had wrought. Lashing out, tearing at the fabric of the Jorelite’s hastily crafted spell that was more power than finesse. A weave that, had Éclair known better, would have recognized as Expel Undead.

Cracks.
Fragmentations.
Breaking Point.
Soon, with each plodding, shuffling step, the pile of bone fragments grew within the chamber. Soon, with each plodding step, Éclair’s present means of keeping the Caned Priest at bay long enough to figure out her next (erratic) move, her skeletons were going to be naught but dust.

With a flash of dimples as Éclair grinned from ear to ear, the Jorelite drew upon the Essence of Death. Manipulating her Vis and the Ara around her, combining the two in perfect balance, twisting and twining the Essences of Death and Decay to flow towards her mustered, fragmenting skeletal guards. Combining a series of Evocations to further undo the damage that the Caned Priest’s counterspell brought about, Abjuring the flow of energy to best replace the bone shards that the Essence of Life tore from her spell.

And all for nothing.
Wrong.
Had done something Wrong.
Had she?
Had He?

Barely a meter away from the Caned Priest, so close, and yet so frustratingly far away, the dozen skeletons unraveled – cascading to the ground as nothing more than bone dust. The Expel Undead having proven far superior to Éclair’s own feeble, first efforts at constructing a Calcify spell whilst maintaining the Summoned Horde. Well. Next Plan!
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Old March 15, 2012, 12:36 AM   #8 (permalink)
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“…”

Mouth agape, even without Éclair’s normal issues regarding the spoken word, the Jorelite found herself at a loss. That the conflict had escalated in such a fashion had been entertaining, but now? Now the Human guised Draconess didn’t know what to think. Self-sacrifice wasn’t a concept that fit with Éclair’s own worldview, and the notion that the Priest would have done as he had in a bid to stop her and save the butchered Sister Selina was… abhorrent.
Angel.
Stop Staring.
Move!

Gold and silver…
Interesting…

Grinning, Éclair’s copper eyes held no mirth as instead it came to the inevitable part of any Adventure. It was time to Run! Dying here and now wasn’t going to do her, or Mister Jorel any good what so ever. Certainly not Her. What was needed was Not-A-Plan, but an opportunity… and if all else failed, quite possibly Her Love stomping on the golden creature that had been born from the Caned-Priest’s spent, decaying life-force. Stupid Priest! Spoiling everything!

Tearing her gaze away from the shimmering creature as it glided forth, Éclair settled on Not-A-Plan &. Run! Really fast! Which resulted in the Jorelite hastily spinning around as she sought out Clara once more. Drawing from her Vis and the Ara around her, forming the two together as her slipper clad feet found purchase upon the blood drenched stone floor. Half running, half sliding as Éclair ran beneath the stained glass canopy of the chapel, seeking out the one doorway that led further within the ‘hallowed’ grounds of the Harlot Goddess. Molding the Arcalysis until Éclair could draw from the Essence Plane of Death.

Shadows wrapped around Éclair, temporarily flicking the Jorelite out of view as the beginnings of a Convocation of Shadows formed; twisting the weave with a desparate Alteration and Abjuration, concluding with an Evocation, for but three seconds Éclair fashioned her entire body out of nothing more than a chaotic miasma of thoughts and shadows. Rushing at the doorway as the Shadow Form spell reached its conclusion and the barred portal before her provided a barrier against nothing as Éclair slipped between the narrow frame of the exit before the poorly constructed spell shattered.
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Old March 15, 2012, 01:23 AM   #9 (permalink)
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Beat.

Better… was subjective. But that too was acceptable. So much blood. The smell hung in the air, mixing with the stale incense that in times long past, had always brought about a fit of sneezing and sniffling. Incense. The word Éclair found strange, suspecting that it was an error on some scribe long past and over the countless generations – not one soul had been willing to call the terminology a mistake. A supposedly purifying, calming substance, named after agitation, frustration, rage.
The smell was certainly foul enough…
…still. A mistake.
Surely?
Beat.
Were you watching?

Tutting in disapproval as Seline’s hand continued to struggle, crawling towards the sword in a delightful display of futility, Éclair shook her head in a cursory, No. Clara was sought out as an afterthought as a bloody digit found its way into Éclair’s mouth, chewing on the broken nail thoughtfully, distractedly. Drawing upon her Vis and the Ara around her, molding the spells components together with reckless abandon. That which was released from the Amplification Rite would be more than sufficient for the task this evening, of revealing the depths of Mister Jorel’s Shadows that lay within her. A

A whisper of a word beneath her from Seline, ill-formed and barely heard within the Temple of the Harlot Aetherian. Éclair’s response only that of a patient smile as she stuck her tongue out at the Priestess, her copper eyes hidden behind the coffee-colored locks of hair. Channeling a minute amount of Acid Essence upon the tip of her carving knife, reshaping the pattern, allowing it to flow into the symbol of Uram. Deadening the nerves as an afterthought, culling any pain that should have run concurrent with the Rite.
Silly.
Pointless distractions…

“Why…?” Seline’s word, finally breaking above a whisper as Éclair pressed the knife to the left side of her throat, etching the first mark of Her Mister Jorel’s purpose.
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Old March 15, 2012, 05:06 AM   #10 (permalink)
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…now what?

The narrow corridor lay before Éclair, illuminated only by the dull flickering of damp torches that crackled from the green word and cast their embers about without care. Thick black smoke rose to the ceiling on either side of the only path that lay before the Jorelite. The steady drip of blood that splattered untidily upon the cobblestones, the garish prints left behind with each and every step that Éclair took as her run petered out into more of a skipping exploration.
Angel.
Don’t forget!
Concentrate!

Run!

One foot forwards, then the other. One foot forwards, then the other. Fingers, stained with Sister Selina Magdeline’s blood traced a grim path across the walls. The tell-tale marks of Éclair’s path being accompanied by footsteps that bore little resemblance to a trail marked by string or breadcrumbs. Doors, right, left, right, left… barred. Biting down upon her bottom lip until she tasted blood, the crunch of the barred door behind her brought a hastening to Éclair’s step. Angel. Coming. Run… then kill… how? One foot forwards, then the other!
How?
Trap!

Laughter, nervous and pleased bubbled forth from Éclair, reveling in the predicament that she’d found herself within. Resting against the nearest doorway, fingertips drummed ‘Pop goes the weasel!’ against the aged wood. The shimmering light of the advancing Angel, the silver and gold glow, the measured footsteps that followed Éclair’s blooded pathway. Oh yes. Run! Not yet! Soon.
With barely a thought, Éclair simply went through the motions, weaving the spell Defoliate through the integrity of the barrier that blocked the Jorelite’s path. Waiting patiently, humming to her song as the door behind her slowly crumbled into nothing more than dust and rotted wood pulp.

What to do… new tricks, old tricks… what to do…
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Old March 19, 2012, 01:01 AM   #11 (permalink)
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Or not.
Watching with the faintest inkling of a smile, Éclair barely gave Selina a thought as she idly strode upon the butchered Priestess. The Jorelite’s slipper finding footing in an area that was going to prove most difficult to clean the leather shoe even as it prompted a garbled whoosh of escaping air and a comforting, agonizing scream from the girl.
Much better!
Twisting in her heel, Éclair’s balance shifted as she rose instead upon the ball of her foot in a mockery of a ballerina’s pirouette.

The longer the sport lasted between her and the Caned Priest, the more likely that it was that Selina was going to require healing from Éclair or the Aetherian annoyance. At least, presuming Mister Jalat didn’t claim victory this evening over the Fallen Harlot or Her Mister Jorel.

Twining her fingers together, the snap, crackle and pop of Éclair’s knuckles paved the way for the pseudo-Human’s spell. Drawing upon her Vis and the Ara around her, striving to work that little bit faster than the Caned Priest as the man’s steady thud of wood impacting upon the stone floors provided a curious counterpoint to Selina’s cries and whimpers. Whatever it was that the Caned Priest was doing, Éclair had no basis for comparison as a shield of light surged about the elderly man.

Éclair’s methodology was rather straight forward, for all that the Jorelite held most poisons and acids in distain. Sooner or later however, Mister Jorel would surely provide the means for eliminating the Caned Priest. Sooner or later, there had to be an area of Necromancy that the Caned Priest lacked the appropriate Lore for countermeasures. Or not. Poison Blast was constructed with all the deftness of the inexperienced (and it showed), Éclair humming happily in time to the fresh course of torture Selina uttered and the thud of the Caned Priest’s cane.

With but a flick of the wrist, the Poison Blast was sent sailing towards the Caned Priest, Éclair’s advancement hesitating, one foot still inside Selina’s sternum as the other floated scant inches above the bloodstained stone floor.
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Old March 19, 2012, 01:48 AM   #12 (permalink)
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Sparkly.
But, most certainly not an Angel

It was a simple enough mistake, of that Éclair silently reassured herself thereof. Not that the Jorelite was particularly knowledgeable about just what the creature the Caned Priest had summoned forth – only a rather embarrassing revelation that she’d been running from something that was no more dangerous than her Shadow Knight. Someone, somewhere, was surely laughing at her mistake. Someone, somewhere, was surely going to regret such as well once Éclair figured out just where she’d gone wrong.
Hmph!
Well then…

Pressed against the wall, bound by the Spirit Shackle was a creature of gold and silver lights, flickering as it remained constrained against the chapel wall. Solid. Ish. There was certainly a measure of corporeality to the creature, more so than the guised Human thought possible given that Éclair could see right through her, him… it? Oh Mister Jorel. The Elf dilemma all over again. A creature fashioned of light; a Shiny! Lucetura being a concept that the Jorelite was entirely unfamiliar with.

Fingertips twitched, dancing against Éclair’s thigh as she hummed the Magpie Song. Curious at the bound creature of light, but not enough to do much about it beyond contemplate its annihilation. Or rather, its corruption. Mister Jalat, Éclair doubted, would ever have anything much to do with this one. Physical form though the Lucetura might have, the Jorelite couldn’t figure out how a creature could be translucent and yet still bleed. Black and red. Red and black. Neither beautiful shades of life did the Caned Priest summon have.
Shame.

Fingertips twitched, her blood-soaked hand resting comfortably, briefly upon the hilt of her carving knife.
Would you bleed?
Would you?
You?

With a melancholy sigh, Éclair’s hands froze. The sound of footsteps creeping through the halls that the Draconess had fled through. Huh. With a disconcerting smile, warmth washed across Éclair’s angelic visage. Striding forth, drawing forth the appropriate Arcalysis. Striving to Conjure into the Lucetura, Altering throughout its hallowed composition before tearing at its lifeforce with an Evocation. Funnelling the spent Essence torn from the creature within her; smiling peacefully as the acid-etched wounds upon Éclair’s ribs, throat and forearm closed over as the Extract Life worked its way to completion.
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Old March 19, 2012, 02:03 AM   #13 (permalink)
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A spell that Éclair saw no point in waiting for the Caned Priest Jose’ to complete as her heart raced, beating furiously from the hastily Impelled weave that filled her chest with a tingling warmth. Honey mead. Almost. All that was missing was the taste… and the inevitable inability to walk in a straight line – but rather the wonderful meandering of Mister Jorel’s own chaotic streak.

Rather, Éclair concentrated, more or less, upon her own task. Hasty. Everything was hasty, lacking in formalities and precision as she balanced her Arcalysis reactions on sheer faith in Her Mister Jorel (and of course, what experience she’d garnered since Éclair’s education from the Bastard Ezekial). One Zombie? Nuh. Legions! Armies! She would unleash a veritable horde of monsters to tear the Caned Priest apart for his intrusion in Éclair’s Rites. But for starters, three or four would work. Would. Would! Maybe.
Possibly.
Blood… can taste blood…

Raising a blood soaked fingertip to her bottom lip, the flesh had long since been gnawed raw. The tip of Éclair’s tongue had been bitten through at some point in the conflict against the Caned Priest. Black. Ichor. Possibly. Black. So much of her own blood matched that of Selina’s Red. So little of the Caned Priest’s life had been spent, even if Jose’ Vis was depleting at an astonishing rate.
How unfortunate.
Would the Harlot Goddess shed tears for you?

Whatever the Caned Priest was constructing, Éclair as ever couldn’t fathom the Thaumaturgical weaves. Her own experience with Magics lay squarely within the boundaries of Necromancy’s Sphere of Arcana.

As the Summon Horde wove its way to fruition. One by one, Skeletons were constructed, animated with a spark of the Essence of Death. Animating more than the initial three that Éclair had hoped for. Rather a dozen of the dead creatures had risen to the Jorelite’s beck and call. Shambling slowly, lifelessly towards the Caned Priest as his own spell drew towards a violent crescendo. Her bottom lip raw, the bow of her top cracked. And still, innocently, curiously, Éclair nibbled upon the chipped fingernail of her index finger.
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Old March 19, 2012, 02:19 AM   #14 (permalink)
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Blood dripped down Éclair’s forearms; a cool, slick sensation trickled down the Jorelite’s throat. Nearly done. Three of Mister Jorel’s marks had been completed. Nearly done, just two more… two more… two more. Or not. Or so. Dedication. It wasn’t quite the same as Faith – not quite. Of they shared a few synonyms, a few core concepts, but ultimately? Éclair knew the difference was a simple affair. Mister Jorel was Hers. She was Mister Jorel’s. Faith had nothing to do with it, rather Éclair Knew that it was Reality.
Or was it?
Yes? Everything would work out.
Everything always did…
Except…

Smile.

Ikos symbology. Letters of an ancient text, that of the language of the Ancients. Heralds of Her forefathers, of the Cyraxians. Those that Mister Jorel had perverted for His own cause. Magics inherent that even the inane Church of the Faith had persecuted. Round and round and round we go, round and round and. Lopeter.

With a wistful sigh, Éclair’s hands remained steady for all that her forearms ached so very much. The grip upon the carving knife held, maintained only by a faint leeching of Selina’s redirected, circular and strangely sustained life-force. Time, Miss Kalendryas, was most certainly not upon the Priestess Selina’s side. Or was it Seline? Éclair couldn’t quite remember what of the girl’s name was correct, if ever she’d known such. Had she? Would it matter? No matter.

The Rite of Amplification had to be Perfect!
Mister Jorel Demanded!

The square, etched cleanly upon the pale flesh. The series of three lines within that completed the mark. And a bodice that no amount of cleaning was ever going to result in her blouse being suitable for public escapades. The price of her Dedication, for what it was.
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Old March 19, 2012, 02:31 AM   #15 (permalink)
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Aaaaand… the doorway was closed. Well, that was hardly unexpected, for all that Éclair hadn’t, at that point in time, expected such an inconvenience. Mister Jorel worked in deliciously strange and wonderful ways. But now, then and there, here and now, was not the moment for doors. And still the Caned Priest remained. Still, Éclair realized as she pushed off against the door and pirouetted upon one blood and bile soaked slipper – still, one should not have to…

Halfway there.
What?
Are you certain?
This feels like it should be happening later…

…What?
Exactly.

…to, watch the Grim find itself turned inside out and then explode in a shower of torn Death Essence and what, Éclair suspected, had been a very small axe. Weird.
Right.
Running would come later, there was something else that had to happen first. Escape, however viable, was not allowed while the Caned Priest remained functional. Allowing the Priestess Selina to survive, to receive the healing she needed before Her Gift to Mister Jorel was acknowledged, was unacceptable. Not. Allowed! No. oN.

Clapping her hands together, Éclair was… less than spotless. Her blouse stained with dried blood; her skirts fared little better – especially around the knees. White stockings had not been even remotely sensible. Cheeks bore fingerprints, stained like a child’s painting where Éclair had inadvertently touched her face. Only the young woman’s hair remained pristine, the strands of coffee-colored hair miraculously remaining perfect, immaculate through all the carnage Éclair had wrought within the Temple of the Aetherian Harlot.

Improvise.
What?
...a very good question.
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