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Solivar
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re: [Open RP] Helping Hands

Deathguards are flooding the overgrown streets and rubble-strewn courtyards of the ruined capital even as Steadfast takes to the air, flying a course the keeps them concealed among the trees and between the minarets until the group crosses the wall on the Lordamere side of the city. Making no telltale silhouette against the sky, they leave the growing alarum behind them, skimming across the lake a few feet above the mist-breathing water, taking altitude only after they come into the Alterac foothills on the far side, setting a course to avoid contact with the Forsaken as much as possible. Near dawn, the group lays over briefly at Chillwind Camp on the edge of the Western Plaguelands, to refresh themselves and the spells binding Solivar.

He remains quiescent throughout, in a state that in a living being would most closely resemble sleep. Once or twice during the course of the journey his eyes open briefly, empty and unfocused, only to close again moments later. He offers no resistance, wrapped as he is in layers of controlling magic, resting curled in the folds of Lady Koszephyrus' cloak.

The white walls of Light's Hope Chapel come into view as night is beginning to fall and, as you land, a delegation of Ebon brothers and Argent knights hurry forward to bring you under cover -- a pavilion prepared for your use well out of view of the main thoroughfare, guarded by grim-faced senior knights, many of whom you recall from the campaign in Northrend. Pages hurry in with hot food and mulled wine, basins and pitchers of wash-water with which to refresh yourselves, and camp chairs for all.

Baron Silver waits until you have refreshed yourselves to enter, offering an abbreviated bow. "The Highlord Mograine will be joining us momentarily. In the meantime...I would dearly love to know what has happened to bring this about."


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Darren Tereos
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re: [Open RP] Helping Hands

The whole interchange upon the rotting ramparts of the ruins above the Undercity had been baffling to Darren, who had remained hidden in the shadows, shadows that seemed to move around him the closer he got. Shadows hadn't always done that, he was fairly certain.

There had been a few people that he didn't know, then a broken person that he did, then a person he had known, but wasn't sure if he still did. Being Forsaken, Darren was no stranger to the dead walking. But this one was different and walked in a way he was sure that most dead things didn't. There was shouting and at a few points, it looked like a fight was going to break out. These things often did when there was shouting. The rogue found it better to skip the shouting bit, since it was typically going to lead to fighting no matter what. But the fighting never happened and the group took flight with the broken one and the other Not-Scourge-but-Not-Real-Undead-but-Now-Rabbit, that had collapsed at some point and been turned into a rabbit.

The Deathguard had told him to find the group, that they were to be captured or killed for their crimes against the Undercity. Darren had tried to write the instructions down, but the Deathguard told him that he didn't have time to write a letter to anyone and that they were likely getting away and it was going to be on his hide if they did. So Darren had moved through the shadows, searching the ruins above the city and had found them.

There was something he was supposed to do. He looked for a note that might grant him a clue, though nothing was written on the first one he pulled from his satchel. He stared at the paper, looking for the slightest trace of writing, then looked to the group in front of him, and back to his note. Finding no answers anywhere in sight, he resigned himself to watching. The flicker of recognition at the one Death Knight's frost-ridden arrival was squashed when the voices echoed about the courtyard and perhaps even inside of Darren's head. And then they were gone, taking to the skies.

Shrugging, Darren returned to the depths of the Undercity. Perhaps he would ask that Deathguard what he was supposed to do again.


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Darchala

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re: [Open RP] Helping Hands

Koszephyrus shifted about as the company crossed into the Chapel grounds, as though the site itself made her uncomfortable.

The mage took a seat with the ensorcelled rabbit in her lap and went searching through her knapsack. She picked through phials and pouches of herbs while the others settled in, muddling them together in the bowl of an ornate pipe. After a few draws of the smoke, the vaguely pained expression that has she'd been wearing on and off since the altercation on the walls had faded altogether.

Whatever her misgivings about the place were, they did not seem to extend to the proffered food, much less the wine. She did not answer the Baron herself, but bit down on the edge of her cup to try and stifle a grin as she glanced at Solivar.


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re: [Open RP] Helping Hands

Folami is silent throughout the journey to Light's Hope. If she is spoken to, she answers with either nods, grunts, or when that won't suffice, the bare minimal of words necessary. Hesneri remains by her side, the demon's expression unreadable save for the brief moments when her brow creases with concern. She tries to engage the warlock in conversation, but fails the same as everyone else. When they arrive in Light's Hope, the demon is dismissed and Folami joins the others for a small meal and something to wet her travel-parched throat. Afterward, Folami mumbles something about meditation, which looks like it might be a good thing given the bags under her eyes.

Among all the chaos and the amusement and bemusement over a Death Knight turned into a fuffy rabbit, Folami's disappearance likely goes unnoticed for quite some time. If investigated, a traveler or guard may recall seeing a cloaked figure riding a "fiery mount" north on the path leading to the Thalassian Pass.


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Solivar
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re: [Open RP] Helping Hands

The wine was from one of the good bottles that had arrived with the last supply drop from Stormwind, a rich, full-bodied red that stood up well to the mulling spices and packed a subtle but evident warming kick all its own -- sufficient to fur tightly strung nerves, which was really what Keldris needed at that moment.


"You might want to sit down for this, Baron." He tipped a nod in the direction of snow white rodent sleeping in the mage's lap. "That's Solivar."

The look that came to the face of the Highlord of the Ebon Blade's commander of intelligence operations was easily one of the transient wonders of the world and it took all of his strength not to laugh at it, mostly because he had no idea where laughter would lead. "He paid us a visit while we were trying to recover the memories he left in the capital. Well, for certain values of 'him,' at least. Skyspear and Foehand pulled him down and the Lady Koszephyrus was quick on the draw with a snare. He's been pretty quiet since." A second nod, at Foehand. "Foehand there is...carrying a piece of an Old God in his arm. Yeah, that sounds pretty insane to me, too, but considering that piece was riding around in Solivar's body prior..." A shrug. "Please tell me that you can do something with this."

The Baron blinks rapidly several times, and turns to Lady Koszephyrus. "May I examine...him?"


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re: [Open RP] Helping Hands

The mage nodded, clutching the pipe in her teeth as she scooped up the drowsy rabbit with both hands and held him up for the Baron's inspection. "I don't know if his puppeteer is still too weak to get the hooks in again after what Foehand did to it, or if it simply can't abide the indignity. Either way, he's been surprisingly docile."


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Solivar
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re: [Open RP] Helping Hands

The Baron withdraws a device from the baggage he brought with him -- a pair of thick goggles, titansteel frames inset with saronite runes, multiple sets of lenses incised around their edges with engraving too small to be read with the unaided eye. He slips them on, the glow of his eyes rendered even more eerie by the effect of viewing it through layers of inscribed glass as he examines the drowsing not-rabbit, muttering under his breath in a language that is not Thalassian.

"Docile is not the word to describe this." The goggles slide up forehead and into his mess of disorderly red hair. "Brother Oxblood!" One of the guards, a Tauren death knight, pokes his head in the pavilion door. "Return to Acherus -- I require the forge-laboratory cleared and cleansed immediately. Under no circumstances is Lady Allistra to be informed. Inform Siousxie that I will require the entire level sealed against external or internal intrusion once we are inside. Go." The Baron scoops the rabbit out of Lady Koszephyrus' hands. "Gather what gear you wish to bring with you. We must get him to the laboratory as quickly as possible."


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re: [Open RP] Helping Hands

Outside the laboratory stands an ever faithful guard of Acherus, one who knows just enough about the predicament with Solivar and wishes to see him live. One who won't report whatever he overhears or manages to see with those bright azure eyes of his to anyone who desires differently. The large Orc Death Knight stands tall and waits patiently for the guests to enter, keeping his two handed, gnarled, and bloodstained axe at the ready.
Solivar
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re: [Open RP] Helping Hands

Siousxie, damn her eyes, could not stop laughing.

Admittedly, were the situation slightly less dire, Silver could even have acknowledged the humorous potential himself. It was not, after all, that one was confronted with the sight of a brother of the Ebon Blade transformed into adorable white rabbit form -- not even this one, who did not seem to so much look for trouble as attract it by virtue of leaving his dwelling in the morning. The circumstances did not, however, allow for much in the way of lightheartedness, and so he fixed Acherus' chief of security with a quelling glare -- that completely failed to quell her in any meaningful way -- and tried to keep matters on course. "The laboratory is prepared?"

"Yes." The Banshee forced the corners of her mouth down in a belated attempt at professionalism. "I hand-selected the guards from among those who served under him in the past, or who have no particular love of Allistra. Amal'Thuzad is waiting to close the wards at your signal."

"Allistra?"

"Sir Tyrosus is keeping her busy with an exceptionally large number of personal attention requests related to matters touching upon her specialty." A slightly wryer smile. "I hope she doesn't kill him."

"He's survived worse." The runecloth wrapped bundle in his arms stirred slightly as they crossed the threshold into the Ebon Hold proper, one pale blue eye opening, not quite focusing, closing again. "I may require your assistance. Please stay."

"My -- ?" Siousxie inclined a brow. "What are you going to do, Silver?"

"Lady Koszephyrus' binding magic is reducing the necromantic bleed but pure arcane force cannot control the loss indefinitely." The guards parted without ceremony and he swept past them with a sharp nod, into a laboratory freshly prepared, work-surfaces scrubbed in the dust of innocent blood and bone and chilled with a cold no mere act of weather, no mortal winter could touch. "I will have to break her magic to begin comprehensive treatment and, when I do that, he may wake -- and I may require your assistance in...restraining him."

"Restraining him?" The wards snapped into place around them, isolating the laboratory as effectively as walls of saronite-banded stone, the lich floating across the floor to join them as he laid the runecloth bundle on the reconstruction stage. "He shouldn't even be able to move much less give you a real fight, Silver -- "

"Woman, have you ever, in the history of the world, known one of our kind to answer to the laws of nature? Particularly when we have excellent reason to ignore them?" Silver asked, with not inconsiderable asperity. "Make ready."

The Banshee chuckled softly and unbuckled her harness, laying the axe she wore aside, and cracked her knuckles.

The reconstruction stage had already been prepared, runes of containment and binding frozen into its surface, and the bundle stirred again at the touch of them, curling toward their comforting cold. Silver unfolded the runecloth blanket carefully -- Siousxie, blessedly, did not burst into giggles again -- and Amal'Thuzad absorbed the sight without the slightest race of emotional reaction, reaching down with taloned fingers to stroke the white fur. "His necromantic framework is severely compromised, Silver, moreso than it was months ago."

"I am aware of that." He opened the shackles, satisfied himself as to their soundness. "Some of it is the metastatic damage from the injury he received. I suspect that the rest is the inevitable result of carrying even the fragmentary essence of an entity as...limitless...as an Old God -- and then having that essence extracted by force."

"Doubtless." Cold and dry. "You realize that the intervention you propose may succeed in simply speeding his disintegration should the frame not be strong enough to tolerate the stress?"

"Yes. But our other options involve creating linkages that could be externally disrupted." It was at moments like that Silver wished there had been some way to recover Navarius and his twisted genius -- he would have looked at this as another complicated necromantic engineering puzzle to solve and had a solution, with two or three alternatives, prepared before anyone had even begun formulating objections. "Is the mechanism prepared?"

"To your specifications."

"Good." He rested his hand in that pale fur and sketched the invocation with his fingertips -- runes of unbinding, reshaping, necromantic energies leaping between the small body and the surface of the reconstruction table as it abruptly regained size and mass, took on its true form again.

For an instant he lay perfectly still, eyes closed and unmoving as the last of the binding spells released their hold -- but only for an instant. The last of the magic boiled away and limbs twitched back to life, ice-blue eyes only barely glowing snapped open, lips peeled back from teeth bared in a snarl that was equal parts pain and desperation. Siousxie did not hesitate and leapt in at once, as did Amal'Thuzad, to restrain him physically. Silver himself caught one arm and was astonished by the effort it took to wrestle the slender, saronite-clad wrist into the restraint. Siousxie staggered back from the force of a blow that struck her only glancingly; Amal'Thuzad, no fool, floated back with a gesture that deepened the cold so sharply that Silver felt it sapping at his own strength, as well.

"Stop fighting, damn you." Siousxie re-entered the fray grimly and helped him with the remainder of the restraints -- and it required their combined strength to accomplish, even weak as he was, so mindlessly persistent were his struggles against them, even with Amal'Thuzad's ice-binding slowing him. "Shouldn't he be too damned weak to fight this hard?"

"Yes." Silver locked and sealed the last of the restraints, watched their magic take effect, the necromantic energies still pulsing out of him in waves not unlike the beating of a heart, watched the restraints try, and fail, to catch it all and redirect it back into the fractured web of deathly energies that comprised his being. "Amal'Thuzad -- help me with the apparatus."

Primordial saronite decoagulated and resumed its natural, liquid form at a temperature unattainable without arcane intervention, and could not sustain that form without continuous necromantic containment. No simple forge could melt it, no ordinary smelting vessel contain it for long, no mere hammer shape it. The necromantic containment and defense methods used in its handling had preoccupied the Ebon Blade's entire engineering corps for months on end during the war, the necrotic energy it contained so dense that even undead flesh endured prolonged exposure to it poorly. The heavily enchanted titansteel apparatus they drew to the edge of the reconstruction table contained a significant quantity, kept circulating to maintain liquidity, not hard enough to risk destabilizing the internal energy matrix and provoke an explosion.

Silver removed the breastplate by virtue of cutting every strap he could reach, pulling it away with care -- the flesh beneath was already fragile, showing signs of deterioration around both the older scars and the more recent, where he had been wounded, where he had permitted the necrosurgeons to reopen his thoracic cavity to insert the new Scourgestone. The transmission lines slid beneath the bones of the clavicle and directly into his chest, anchored in place by warded titansteel pins.

"Amal'Thuzad, the containment is intact?" At the lich's affirmation, he opened the valves that allowed the transfusion to commence, an admixture of liquid primordial saronite and the fluid necromantic storage medium that could carry it in stable form.

It burned. That much was clear. Mercy, whose struggles had almost ceased, writhed in agony as pure necrotic energy poured into his body, visibly flowed beneath the surface of his skin in eye-searingly brilliant threads of power. Silver watched, intently, waving the others back. The in-flow was not consuming him at the primordial level -- his flesh was tolerating the influx, albeit painfully. The out-flow was not stopping -- or even slowing -- but now there was more that could be afforded lost. Equilibrium.

Silver breathed a sigh of something close to relief. "Keep the forge primed. Until we are certain of his rate of consumption, we will need to keep at least a full ingot at sustained liquid temperature at all times. I will inform the Highlord."

“Silver.” A pained, hollow whisper. An astonishing whisper, given the circumstances.

He turned, and found Mercy’s eyes open, focused, full of pain.

“Be quiet,” He murmured, resting a hand on a shackle. “Save your – “

“Stop him.” Another bare whisper, chest heaving with the effort of even drawing air. “Keldris. Stop him.

“Sir Pellegrin? What – “

Silence. Silver glanced at Siousxie. “Send a messenger to Mardenholde – if they have any idea where Pellegrin and Mercy’s comrades in arms are, we need that information.”


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Solivar
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re: [Open RP] Helping Hands

Breathe. One breath in. One breath out. You can do it. Just think about that, and nothing else. One in. One out.

The Windspeaker’s healing tasted like the cool mountain breeze at dawn, sweet with the ice of winter and the tang of evergreen, like the breath off a pollen-rich field of flowers in spring, summer leaves, autumn incense of loam and smoke. He held onto it as long as he could, let it flow through him and work on him, in him.

One in, one out.

Eventually, the death-rattle coughing stopped, no more blood, fresh or otherwise, forced its way up his throat, even the worst of the wheeze eased away, leaving behind only a hard, tight knot of pain, directly below his breastbone. That he could deal with, almost without thinking -- that pain, or a near cousin to it, had been his constant companion since Ulduar, sometimes a low, throbbing ache as though every breath he drew in were thick and hot, sometimes sharp, stabbing, all ground glass and acid and poisoned knives in the ribs. This was somewhere in between, a steady constant that neither faded nor flared no matter how deeply or shallowly he breathed, and so he ignored it, packaged it up and pushed it to the back of his mind, behind more important things.

They had, as far as Keldris could determine, possibly the worst luck in the history of this or any world, possibly exceeded only by people who’d decided to buy retirement real estate in the peaceful climes of Darkshore. Even from a safe distance, up on the ridge of the Tirisfalen hills, it was clear that the Undercity was in a full-blown state of alert. Admittedly, that could have been a result of the season -- the Forsaken hosted the largest and most important of the yearly Hallow’s End celebrations, a holiday that was in one a festival of the last autumn harvest, apples and squash and pumpkins and the beasts that would go to slaughter for winter salting and smoking, part time to honor the spirits of the dead, part celebration of the freedom from bondage, conducted with greater and lesser emphasis on points of purpose the world over. A between-time, when seasons changed and the wheel of the year turned and the peacefully dead could walk again.

A stirring in the back of his mind, and a red-hot poisoned knife of pain in his chest, a catch in his breathing, a stutter in the beat of his heart. The shaman notices -- because of course he does, it’s his calling to notice these things -- but says nothing, at least for now. They’ve got too much ground to cover, to find safety, and now is not the time.

The deathguards were out in force, patrolling the roads on foot and on the sad, skeletal remnants of horseback, occasionally leaving the roads to poke at the more common footpaths through the forest, stopping groups of travelers larger than two or three together. The entire upper part of the Undercity, the ruins of the old capital itself, was thronged with masked and costumed revelers, as as Brill, every spare place a camp could be pitched blossoming with tents and campfires.

“I think I have an idea...”


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re: [Open RP] Helping Hands

Folami has been quiet save for the occasional spells where she mutters things to herself. When spoken to, she seems alert and able to understand and more "herself," but as soon as soon as she's no longer engaged in conversation, she withdraws into herself once more.

She wanders up next to Keldris, her eyes surveying the same scene as him. "We'll be watched," she says, her words followed by an unnerving giggle which abruptly stops. She shakes her head and frowns.

"If you have an idea, Paladin, I'm sure we would be more than happy to hear it. I somehow doubt charging in banners waving is a good idea at the moment."


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Solivar
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"Well, no. Banners waving would be suicidal." Lambent green eyes slide sideways, watchful. "And becoming dead, frankly, isn't what I had in mind. Well, not really dead at any rate." A gesture. "But what notice would a few more weather-beaten travelers in costumes attract? We go down by twos, mingle about for a couple hours, eat some candy, drink some cider, and meet at a prearranged location, once we're sure we've lost any tails."


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re: [Open RP] Helping Hands

Folami studies Keldris for a long moment, the corners of her mouth alternately moving up and then back down as if she can't decide if he's serious. When she finally comes to the conclusion this is a legitimate plan, she asks, "Can I be a pirate?"


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The guard hearing the events occurring inside the laboratory can't help but look over his shoulder to the inside. Once the Death Knight sees Solivar, or now called Mercy once again, he gives a sad frown to his current state. With an almost entirely silent sigh that turns into a hacking cough as he turns his head back around to stand at attention.

A nearby guard of Acherus snaps at his direction, an annoyed look upon his undead face, his exposed jaw flapping at the nosy onlooker.

"Stick to your business unless you wish to face the consequences of someone who puts their nose into the private affairs of Siousxie. Remember the last one who did that? Thrown off of Acherus for his curiosity...it's best to avoid having that fate."

The Orcish Death Knight nods at the formerly Forsaken guard before responding in a hushed tone.

"Yes...thank you, I will keep that in mind." The Orc coughs again, louder this time, into his hand as he switches to hold the axe with the other. The palm of his armored hand is now covered in blood. The guard's green skin turns to a paler hue as he sees the product of his labor. Luckily, the other guard doesn't seem to care all too much about the coughing, having already said his peace about curiosity.

The Orc shakes his head, grabbing hold of the axe with both hands as he whispers in a very low volume to himself. "It won't be much longer now..."
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re: [Open RP] Helping Hands

Koszephyrus sways in the saddle as her hippogryph stag ambles up the hillside to join them. Her shoulders have begun to droop in clear exhaustion, and despite having been silent throughout the last leg of their travels, she perks up upon hearing the paladin's plan.

"We'll likely have to use something mundane as far as costumes go, given that I'm a piss-poor illusionist." Her mouth twitches briefly before breaking into a grin as she glances at Folami. "And while I don't think that 'rabbit' is quite the solution this time, 'parrot' might not be out of the question."


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