Re: MORITURI TE SALUTANT!! [S!4]
11-15-2012, 04:37 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Sanzh.
Il Maledicta was built to house thousands of occupants in its main theater alone; many more past that clamored into its side chambers and backstages, dreaming of a day when their talents would earn them the privilege of sitting in sight of the main stage. While the vast aisles of ornate chairs had been stripped away as the legendary opera house transitioned into a settlement for the anarchic, bohemian society it housed, some of the hierarchy once provided still existed. Along the lower levels-- the audience partitions once intended for the poor and aspiring bourgeois-- resided the stalls and shacks for what constituted a lower class. Higher balconies, themselves leviathan slabs of marble and carpeting, housed the more promising thespians, those who had proved themselves as being worthy of Il Maledicta's grandeur. For a small elite, the palatial box seats acted as their estates-- clinging desperately to the unfinished walls of the opera house, fed by a network of scaffolding and basket elevators after stairwells had either remained incomplete or collapsed under the strain.
The most prestigious of the box seats sat to the side of the stage, so far above the parterre that its inhabitants were insignificant dots. A palace unto itself, the seat comprised a perch above the stage and back rooms intended to provide comforts away from the rabble below. It had never been fully completed-- few of the lavish decorations intended for it were present. Whatever scaffolds had once led to it had long since been peeled off their supporting wall, cannibalized by the performers below to serve other purposes. If a set of stairs led that far up, it was lost underneath the theater's labyrinthine design and the centuries of decay. Where monarchs and dignitaries once sat remained an inaccessible roost, a curious mystery.
Imago Dei resided within, silently looking down upon the spectacle below. His quiet vigilance was broken by a few creaking, stumbling steps behind him and the stretch of fine silk fabric as someone moved.
"You need not bother with that." He scolded.
His manservant stopped before he could continue his gesture, the hovering sigil of light he had traced against the dusty air quickly fading as he did. He bowed his head deferentially, his hands folding together in a hasty expression of penance.
"I cut out your tongue for a reason. Servants are to be seen, not heard, Avox. And using that gift of yours is a voice you are not permitted." Imago said, shifting his attention away from the theater below and towards his attendant. His face remained an enigmatic mask-- his mouth was a still, self-assured smile even as he spoke. Avox was one of the few affectations the Court did not permit, a rare delight he was forced to save for when pressing matters did not require his attendance. As unbecoming of a habit as it was, Imago experienced a private joy from the occasional reprieve from Court affairs.
Imago's countenance, his vulturous posture-- all these went unseen by Avox, but the servant did not need his long-lost vision to quiver with palpable dread. The time before Imago blinded him-- a punishment for the servant's myriad offenses-- did not go unforgotten, and his voice carried a disquieting menace that made up for whatever was lost by his blindness.
"I already know of the matter you intend to bring to my attention-- our visitors, and the game they are pawns in." Imago continued. "Come." He hastily added, his spindling frame already taking a few predatory steps away from balcony and into the cluttered space of his cloister. The manservant quickly followed behind, not eager to experience the repercussions for a failure to appropriately serve.
The remaining rooms were filled with an eclectic collection of items-- at one point they had remained stacked along the walls, but with years of acquisitions they had encroached onto the meager floorspace. Nearly all of them were worthless by the standards of anyone besides Imago himself. Mediocre paintings stretched across deteriorated canvas, chunks of broken statuary, the half-rotten proscribed works of now-dead iconoclasts-- these items were only a small selection of his accumulated wealth. Separate from the ostentatiousness were three beings, the jewels of Imago's collection. They remained still, paralyzed in the postures they had when he had abducted them; they were living statues, frozen in a perpetual stasis for Imago's own amusement.
"It is below a king to respond to pawns, Avox. And we both know I am far above a king, do we not?" Imago taunted, putting a sardonic twist on his question. Avox shuddered slightly, recalling his time prior to his service and the mistakes he had made.
"But that does not mean I am above using pawns of my own."
Imago approached one of the paralyzed figures-- a woman, wrapped in several layers of a well-worn robe and a hooded cloak. Her face was contorted into a serene half-smile-- an uncannily frozen expression where she was forced into a statuesque stillness, where not even the slightest twitch was possible. It was only with the barest confidence that an observer could say she was alive-- all of the motion and vivacity that someone living would express was gone.
"It will be a shame to part with her-- but, as much as I prize her position in my collection, I do think that her performance will be, mm, worthwhile." Imago said. The living statue did not respond in return; any cognizance of his words was wholly invisible. Imago Dei turned to look at her directly. Her eyes remained an unfocused, vacant stare-- unable to adjust to express the terror she would be experiencing, were she conscious or not securely locked in her immobilized state.
"You are to find these visitors, these pawns. You are to sow discord among them-- kill them, drive them irrevocably insane, use whatever methods you deem necessary. I care not whether you live or die, but know this, Lavi Lannon."
For all of a fraction of a second, an infinitesimal sliver of barely-perceptible time, Lavi had some awareness of her surroundings. Even as her ears felt deaf to Imago's words, the warnings he gave were burnt into her memory, the premonitions and commands a vague echo of a half-formed thought.
"Know that I can promise you a fate that will make death seem merciful should you fail."
As Imago finished, Avox felt a familiar pulse and rush happening near him. He did not need his eyesight to know that Imago had teleported his guest down into the theater below.
---
Lavi's senses refocused-- she was awake, but felt as though as she had lapsed into unconsciousness and had only now reawakened. She stumbled forward, almost losing her balance adjusting to the sudden change in environment. As she regained her footing, she examined-- first herself, checking that she still had her belongings, that she had not changed. Then she looked around-- trying to pierce together where she was, hoping something would elucidate how she had gotten here. Memories drifted in as Lavi attempted to recollect what had happened, but nothing seemed clear-- her last thoughts were far from here, and nothing readily came to mind; she recalled no journey, no passage of time that served as an explanation.
A vague thought-- half-formed, unfamiliar, but wholly malevolent-- crossed her mind. Lavi shuddered, quickly dismissing the notion.
The room Lavi was in was unfamiliar-- dust covered in the walls and floor in thick layers, swirling with even the lightest motion. Rows of moth-eaten, deteriorated costumes hung off racks or collected in strewn-about piles; dim lights flickered from cracks in the door and ceiling. Lavi knew that where she was inhabited, at least-- the ceiling creaked and strained with occasional movement from the floor above, with each step being accompanied by a few flecks of grime drifting down. Lavi extended a hand, holding it above a patch of flaky silt. She had little understanding of her current state-- she wanted to confirm her talent had not somehow been taken from her during her period of fugue.
Blue-tinted flickers of light coruscated around her hand, dimly illuminating the room. With a twitch of her hand, the sparks discharged, hurtling towards the ground with a jolt of light. The cloud of dust coalesced in response, going from a flat pile to a billowing cloud, to finally a crude approximation of a short humanoid figure-- still hazy and immaterial, its form unbounded and vapor-like, but still animate. The newly-created dust golem waited expectantly, anticipating some form of instruction.
"Is someone there?" A voice called out, responding to the flash of light.
Lavi immediately dismissed the golem, its animating energy invisibly dispersing and the dust comprising its form collapsing and settling to the floor. Until she was certain as to where she was and the company she was with, her gift would be something best kept secret.
Lorenzo opened the door with the slightest hint of apprehension. "Hello?" He said.
"O-oh! Uh, hello." Lavi reluctantly stammered in response, her brogue coming off somewhat stronger than she had anticipated. Under any other circumstance she would have approached the conversation with more confidence, but she still had yet to acclimate and adjust. She swiftly appraised the stranger, noting the tattered uniform-- and the woman behind him, frail and quiet.
Sam was making her own assessment as she silently watched-- something drew her mind to to make precise observations, to note a myriad selection of details. This woman was out of place, that was for certain-- the soft accent stressing her words made that much readily apparent. There were a host of other facets she was inexplicably drawn towards, like how for a split-second she saw a root-like structure underneath the hems of her robe. Sam's voice came close to rising in accusation, of indicting her of being out-of-character, but a vague memory pressed itself into her mind just enough to stop her from issuing such an unspeakable insult.
The woman was looking back now, Sam realized. She averted her gaze, shying away and hoping she would go unnoticed for now.
"You seem very lost, bambina. It is quite rare to find others in these corridors." The soldier-- or actor who had deluded himself into thinking he was a soldier-- said.
"I am, yes. Do you, um, mind telling me just where I am?" Lavi replied.
Lorenzo's face shifted to incredulous disbelief immediately. "Mia cara, you do not know you are in Il Maledicta? Truly, you must be lost. Please, come with me-- I must offer my hospitality, show you where you are-- it would be rude for a Gagliardi to offer anything less!" He exclaimed, his voice a bombastic tenor.
As much as Lavi wanted to go off by herself, she was still bewildered and lost-- having a temporary guide would not hurt. "Alright, I'll do so." She said, hoping her trepidation was not readily apparent. She stepped out of the room into the still-dim hallway, and began to follow the two as they made their way through the corridors.
And as they walked, she focused on the woman accompanying the soldier-- and for all of a tiny slice of time, that loathsome thought once again crossed her mind.
Il Maledicta was built to house thousands of occupants in its main theater alone; many more past that clamored into its side chambers and backstages, dreaming of a day when their talents would earn them the privilege of sitting in sight of the main stage. While the vast aisles of ornate chairs had been stripped away as the legendary opera house transitioned into a settlement for the anarchic, bohemian society it housed, some of the hierarchy once provided still existed. Along the lower levels-- the audience partitions once intended for the poor and aspiring bourgeois-- resided the stalls and shacks for what constituted a lower class. Higher balconies, themselves leviathan slabs of marble and carpeting, housed the more promising thespians, those who had proved themselves as being worthy of Il Maledicta's grandeur. For a small elite, the palatial box seats acted as their estates-- clinging desperately to the unfinished walls of the opera house, fed by a network of scaffolding and basket elevators after stairwells had either remained incomplete or collapsed under the strain.
The most prestigious of the box seats sat to the side of the stage, so far above the parterre that its inhabitants were insignificant dots. A palace unto itself, the seat comprised a perch above the stage and back rooms intended to provide comforts away from the rabble below. It had never been fully completed-- few of the lavish decorations intended for it were present. Whatever scaffolds had once led to it had long since been peeled off their supporting wall, cannibalized by the performers below to serve other purposes. If a set of stairs led that far up, it was lost underneath the theater's labyrinthine design and the centuries of decay. Where monarchs and dignitaries once sat remained an inaccessible roost, a curious mystery.
Imago Dei resided within, silently looking down upon the spectacle below. His quiet vigilance was broken by a few creaking, stumbling steps behind him and the stretch of fine silk fabric as someone moved.
"You need not bother with that." He scolded.
His manservant stopped before he could continue his gesture, the hovering sigil of light he had traced against the dusty air quickly fading as he did. He bowed his head deferentially, his hands folding together in a hasty expression of penance.
"I cut out your tongue for a reason. Servants are to be seen, not heard, Avox. And using that gift of yours is a voice you are not permitted." Imago said, shifting his attention away from the theater below and towards his attendant. His face remained an enigmatic mask-- his mouth was a still, self-assured smile even as he spoke. Avox was one of the few affectations the Court did not permit, a rare delight he was forced to save for when pressing matters did not require his attendance. As unbecoming of a habit as it was, Imago experienced a private joy from the occasional reprieve from Court affairs.
Imago's countenance, his vulturous posture-- all these went unseen by Avox, but the servant did not need his long-lost vision to quiver with palpable dread. The time before Imago blinded him-- a punishment for the servant's myriad offenses-- did not go unforgotten, and his voice carried a disquieting menace that made up for whatever was lost by his blindness.
"I already know of the matter you intend to bring to my attention-- our visitors, and the game they are pawns in." Imago continued. "Come." He hastily added, his spindling frame already taking a few predatory steps away from balcony and into the cluttered space of his cloister. The manservant quickly followed behind, not eager to experience the repercussions for a failure to appropriately serve.
The remaining rooms were filled with an eclectic collection of items-- at one point they had remained stacked along the walls, but with years of acquisitions they had encroached onto the meager floorspace. Nearly all of them were worthless by the standards of anyone besides Imago himself. Mediocre paintings stretched across deteriorated canvas, chunks of broken statuary, the half-rotten proscribed works of now-dead iconoclasts-- these items were only a small selection of his accumulated wealth. Separate from the ostentatiousness were three beings, the jewels of Imago's collection. They remained still, paralyzed in the postures they had when he had abducted them; they were living statues, frozen in a perpetual stasis for Imago's own amusement.
"It is below a king to respond to pawns, Avox. And we both know I am far above a king, do we not?" Imago taunted, putting a sardonic twist on his question. Avox shuddered slightly, recalling his time prior to his service and the mistakes he had made.
"But that does not mean I am above using pawns of my own."
Imago approached one of the paralyzed figures-- a woman, wrapped in several layers of a well-worn robe and a hooded cloak. Her face was contorted into a serene half-smile-- an uncannily frozen expression where she was forced into a statuesque stillness, where not even the slightest twitch was possible. It was only with the barest confidence that an observer could say she was alive-- all of the motion and vivacity that someone living would express was gone.
"It will be a shame to part with her-- but, as much as I prize her position in my collection, I do think that her performance will be, mm, worthwhile." Imago said. The living statue did not respond in return; any cognizance of his words was wholly invisible. Imago Dei turned to look at her directly. Her eyes remained an unfocused, vacant stare-- unable to adjust to express the terror she would be experiencing, were she conscious or not securely locked in her immobilized state.
"You are to find these visitors, these pawns. You are to sow discord among them-- kill them, drive them irrevocably insane, use whatever methods you deem necessary. I care not whether you live or die, but know this, Lavi Lannon."
For all of a fraction of a second, an infinitesimal sliver of barely-perceptible time, Lavi had some awareness of her surroundings. Even as her ears felt deaf to Imago's words, the warnings he gave were burnt into her memory, the premonitions and commands a vague echo of a half-formed thought.
"Know that I can promise you a fate that will make death seem merciful should you fail."
As Imago finished, Avox felt a familiar pulse and rush happening near him. He did not need his eyesight to know that Imago had teleported his guest down into the theater below.
---
Lavi's senses refocused-- she was awake, but felt as though as she had lapsed into unconsciousness and had only now reawakened. She stumbled forward, almost losing her balance adjusting to the sudden change in environment. As she regained her footing, she examined-- first herself, checking that she still had her belongings, that she had not changed. Then she looked around-- trying to pierce together where she was, hoping something would elucidate how she had gotten here. Memories drifted in as Lavi attempted to recollect what had happened, but nothing seemed clear-- her last thoughts were far from here, and nothing readily came to mind; she recalled no journey, no passage of time that served as an explanation.
A vague thought-- half-formed, unfamiliar, but wholly malevolent-- crossed her mind. Lavi shuddered, quickly dismissing the notion.
The room Lavi was in was unfamiliar-- dust covered in the walls and floor in thick layers, swirling with even the lightest motion. Rows of moth-eaten, deteriorated costumes hung off racks or collected in strewn-about piles; dim lights flickered from cracks in the door and ceiling. Lavi knew that where she was inhabited, at least-- the ceiling creaked and strained with occasional movement from the floor above, with each step being accompanied by a few flecks of grime drifting down. Lavi extended a hand, holding it above a patch of flaky silt. She had little understanding of her current state-- she wanted to confirm her talent had not somehow been taken from her during her period of fugue.
Blue-tinted flickers of light coruscated around her hand, dimly illuminating the room. With a twitch of her hand, the sparks discharged, hurtling towards the ground with a jolt of light. The cloud of dust coalesced in response, going from a flat pile to a billowing cloud, to finally a crude approximation of a short humanoid figure-- still hazy and immaterial, its form unbounded and vapor-like, but still animate. The newly-created dust golem waited expectantly, anticipating some form of instruction.
"Is someone there?" A voice called out, responding to the flash of light.
Lavi immediately dismissed the golem, its animating energy invisibly dispersing and the dust comprising its form collapsing and settling to the floor. Until she was certain as to where she was and the company she was with, her gift would be something best kept secret.
Lorenzo opened the door with the slightest hint of apprehension. "Hello?" He said.
"O-oh! Uh, hello." Lavi reluctantly stammered in response, her brogue coming off somewhat stronger than she had anticipated. Under any other circumstance she would have approached the conversation with more confidence, but she still had yet to acclimate and adjust. She swiftly appraised the stranger, noting the tattered uniform-- and the woman behind him, frail and quiet.
Sam was making her own assessment as she silently watched-- something drew her mind to to make precise observations, to note a myriad selection of details. This woman was out of place, that was for certain-- the soft accent stressing her words made that much readily apparent. There were a host of other facets she was inexplicably drawn towards, like how for a split-second she saw a root-like structure underneath the hems of her robe. Sam's voice came close to rising in accusation, of indicting her of being out-of-character, but a vague memory pressed itself into her mind just enough to stop her from issuing such an unspeakable insult.
The woman was looking back now, Sam realized. She averted her gaze, shying away and hoping she would go unnoticed for now.
"You seem very lost, bambina. It is quite rare to find others in these corridors." The soldier-- or actor who had deluded himself into thinking he was a soldier-- said.
"I am, yes. Do you, um, mind telling me just where I am?" Lavi replied.
Lorenzo's face shifted to incredulous disbelief immediately. "Mia cara, you do not know you are in Il Maledicta? Truly, you must be lost. Please, come with me-- I must offer my hospitality, show you where you are-- it would be rude for a Gagliardi to offer anything less!" He exclaimed, his voice a bombastic tenor.
As much as Lavi wanted to go off by herself, she was still bewildered and lost-- having a temporary guide would not hurt. "Alright, I'll do so." She said, hoping her trepidation was not readily apparent. She stepped out of the room into the still-dim hallway, and began to follow the two as they made their way through the corridors.
And as they walked, she focused on the woman accompanying the soldier-- and for all of a tiny slice of time, that loathsome thought once again crossed her mind.