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Played by Offline Raeym. [PM] Posts: 33 — Threads: 6
Signos: 260
Night Court Soldier
Male [he/him/his] // 3 [Year 500 Winter] // 16.3 hh // Hth: 8 — Atk: 12 — Exp: 10 // Active Magic: Umbrakinesis // Bonded:
#1



THE ELYSIUM.
located in the night markets, a shopfront has been renovated - complementing the cobblestone streets.
a sign on the door reads: the elysium is temporarily closed for renovations.

THE ELYSIUM is simple at its first sight – a rustic vision, with its cathedral ceiling that hangs wrought iron lanterns with flickering candlelight, hardened wax drip clinging to the corners like bone white stalactites. The floor is a smooth but uneven tile of pressed sandstone, cut to imprecise edges that are buffered by lines of grey-tan grout where they do not meet perfectly. The light that filters through the hammered glass windows is changeable by the weather, but the amber glow that hides in the nooks and crannies of the place give off a vibe of relaxation, of rest, a place to drink and lounge. And drink indeed – a cabinet stands heavy with an assortment of wine to the far left wall, as far as the wall will stretch. To the right, a section of cabinetry holds mead just past the stand of four polished tables, candlelit lanterns dancing their light across the veneer over old, darkened oak faces. There are crate stands that fill the room with the smell of fresh tea bags, tailed by heady tobacco and mint where cigars and cigarillos sit neatly in a row. The tavern is fresh, aromatic pleasure, and it is of no loss when the bartender, polishing a crystal glass behind a rough-hewn granite slab, grins and softly notions to the broad cabinet behind him stocked of wines, whiskeys, scotch, and meads. “An'thing I can help y'with today?” his voice is warm, a full welcoming breath of hospitality and grace, and he wears his age well – a great, wide-shouldered man with a whiskered grin and copper eyes. You came for one thing, but you can't help but oblige his congeniality, so you ask for a taste of the amber bottle he still has placed on the ledge behind him. “Ah,” he forgot, he plays, grasping for the neck and plodding softly on the bar, “Gud choice, I'd say.” the amber laps into the curve of a half glass, a shot of sunlight that settles like honey. You take a shot and tell him you were invited here, to see what was beneath the cellar. For a small glimmer of a second the bartender's eyes scrape across the empty tavern, and sharply return to you. “'Fraid there's no'ing to be seen dere, love. Rocks n' dust, may.” his voice is as welcoming as before, but there is a terseness that rises from its former homey warmth – a slice of chill, a subtle threat of impatience. 

How could you forget? 

Your mind grasps at a pewter coin in your bag. It is light, silvery, softly hammered metal that chinks softly against the bar, and it stands out from the rest of your signos. On its face, an ornamental T is pressed. When flipped, a skull grins at your fortune. The warmth returns to the bartender's eyes and he accepts the tip with mirth, a longer glance spent to be certain that no customers lingered behind the crate towers of tea or tobacco, or loitered in the spaces between the glassware cabinets on the far wall. Once sated, the knotty door at his side clicked and creaked open, and he nods in its direction. “Down 'ere. Second barrel, t' the right.”

The cellar is in the same fashion as the tavern above. It smells sweet and humid, the smell of pungent wine and meade. Far down is a bookshelf with jars of dried leaves and jars of honey, beside it a table with some parchments that, when you squint, you can see hold recipes. But you aren't here to spy – no, you know the consequences. You have been told the rules, and you know that eyes rest on you from every corner, from every shadow. Just within the past couple weeks they reported two bodies found, days from each other, an ornamental symbol (shaped like something that should resemble a T if you knew to look) etched deep into their gullet. Soon as their founders had run and told the rest of Denocte, the search party returned to nothing but an empty prairie and a space that a body once laid in. Once rumors of the body had spread, you knew the nature of their deaths. The dead fools, while alive, had mentioned Tartaros in a drunken stupor, in some dim lit bar after gambling their wages away. Perhaps they thought themselves in well enough company, but you knew what to do in the situation that you overheard mention of the underground in a public space. You were to report it, if you didn't want to get your own hands dirty. Otherwise, you were free to deal with them as you pleased, but the responsibility what happened after rested on you. Either way, no traitors were left whole.

Behind the second barrel to the right stood a door just a stoop's length from the ground and tall enough to comfortably fit a titan of a shire. If you had entered the cellar without knowing its exact location, you may have been fit to ascertain, in the way the room was arranged, that there must be a way to enter from the outside instead. Its concealment meant a simple deterrent – who would want to search through all the heavy, some tightly-packed, wine barrels? Who would care to spend the time moving the monumental bookshelf, spilling its jars, to see if a tunnel rested behind it? But you know, because you are welcome. The bartender, if otherwise, may have fit to see you dead and stuffed into one of the barrels before finding the door as it is. So you open the door on its lacquered hinges, staring into the dim, candlelit tunnel, and you aspire to venture where outsiders deemed a myth.



TARTAROS.

TBA.


art


In the works. More to follow, as well as possibly updated images. Please see this page at the time for current details.




[Image: YKsvZVZ.gif]

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