Clan Wars: Chapter 1 - Assassin's First Congregation
 

((Its up now.

Bio and Discussion thread here))

~Excerpt from the Diaries of Silvermoon, Heaven’s Clan spy~
I may not have any time. Not now, not ever again. Even now, I fear that what I am writing will not get into the rightful hands of the Council of the Eight. I do not know what is happening outside of the Fortress of the Crescent Clan, nor do I wish to. I only know this: that whatever I am writing MUST NOT get into the hands of our enemies. These creatures, their power. I have seen the Crescent, and I weep for those that try to come for it. They will be tempted beyond their wildest dreams when they see it, but they will be consumed because of it.
I fear my time is almost up. The power has gotten into my head, has sought me out, has begun feeding on my powers. I am weak now, my power almost gone. There is no word to describe the abject terror of being forced to bind my life to it eternally… or to die…

His footsteps echoed down the darkened hallway, his torch sending dancing shadows in front of his darting eyes. He watched warily, pulling his thick black cloak about him with his free hand, shivering from the strange coldness that seeped into the stone and dirt surrounding him in a claustrophobic tunnel. In the distance, a steady dripping of some liquid into an ever-increasing pool was heard.

The man’s feet faltered, then stopped. He turned to a wooden door inset into the right side of the tunnel, and produced a set of heavy keys in a shaking hand. He plucked the right one before inserting it into the elaborate lock and turning. There was a click, then a whirring. Then the door swung inward voluntarily, to reveal a richly furnished room glowing orange from the light cast by a warm fireplace.

He did not see it, however. Suddenly, his nervous demeanour disappeared, and he straightened to an imposing height of 7’. He closed the door behind it, and the mechanism locked automatically. Then, he rapped on the nearest wall to him a series of knocks.
Suddenly, the fireplace disappeared, revealing what lay within the illusion: an assassin’s haven. The walls were irregular and pitch black, swallowing the light from his weak torchlight. Angles jutted outwards at awkward positions, hiding other parts of the wall from view. Perhaps the only visible objects standing out from the stark black contrast of the shady walls was a simple desk and stool, to which the man strode. He pulled the stool out and sat down with a heavy sigh, before producing a roll of parchment, upon which the writings was scrawled:

Gnosis
Shroud
The Shadow
The Spider
The Griever

A good deal of blankness preceded after each name, and what was to be written on the empty spaces was known only to the man, who produced a quill and a capped ink bottle, which he settled onto the table as well.
Then, he waited. They will come at their own pace, and then the meeting will start.

~**~

A figure waited in the darkness, face obscured by the mask of stark contrasting black and white. Fingers clung upon the wall, as if held there by some unknown force, seeking purchase upon the smallest of crevices in the tunnel.
Her eyes, a deep black pit of nothingness, suddenly flared into life, reflecting the almost nonexistent light within the darkness, and glowed with opalescent light. This she sent down towards the door that obscured her view from what was within in a narrow, dim beam.

Yet, it did not light up the physical realm. It was the mind that conjured up the light, and the mind that could direct it whichever way the creature pleased, invisible to those whose minds are not as open and as powerful as her’s.
Those eyes rested upon the mechanism that held the door firmly in place, her mind tracing it’s elaborate outline, probing slightly into the deep recesses into which the key was supposed to be inserted.

There was the rustling of a parchment. The being produced a wrinkled, small sheet of yellowing paper. On it was written:

“Enter the Black Door. Do not disturb the Waking One within.”

She knew all assassins were given this single slip of paper. She knew they would all attempt to enter at their own discretion, not allowing the One within to detect their entrance. Some of them will stand no chance against this test of skill. Others, - and there was a flicker of cold amusement in her eyes, quickly extinguished – would fare better, and be discovered too late.

The Griever scuttled to a position on the ceiling of the tunnel so that she faced the door at an angle. Then, she allowed herself a slight reprieve by ‘floating’ down ever so slightly, until she clung tenuously onto the frame of the door.

The door would be loud to open, she deduced, from the beginning where the man entered. She sensed him even now, her otherworldly sight piercing through the shroud of illusion to see the confident glow of human aura. The man had marked the table and the stool as his own, sending his aura confidently down both objects so far that it bled even into the floor at his feet. Judging by his position and tenseness, he was facing the door, his eyes fixed steadily upon it.

She knew that he would be easy to fool, and set to it, her mind working, her body clinging there, cloak barely touching the floor as she worked her mind’s magic into her victim. He would hear nothing, see nothing, and feel nothing after she is done with him.

Then, with a little click, the door’s mechanism whirred to life and swung inwards, prodded on by the Griever’s mind.

The man did not stir. He did not see the door open, nor did he see a human swathed in the darkest shadows of night crawl in upon the ceiling. His eyes still saw the closed door. His ears heard nothing but the crackling of torches. He did not feel the lightest of breezes brush his face as the door swung inwards. He was ensnared in her mind’s spell.

Suddenly, he sniffed. Loudly. The Griever froze, crouched precariously on the irregular ceiling. Then the man spoke, his voice a rich, deep bass.

“Impressive, Opal. I would have expected nothing less of you. However, you forgot to mask your scent. Take your place,” the man picked up the quill, dipped his pen into the ink well, and scratched something next to her name.

The Griever, silent, continued into the room, shutting the door with a soft, mental push and reactivating the complex mechanism for the next assassin in line to be judged. If she had any reaction to the man’s comment to her professionalism, she didn’t show it. Instead, she found an ideal corner, and concealed herself in it, hiding herself from view. Her hood obscured the white part of her mask, and she waited.

OOC: Welcome to the beginning. Your characters will all have had a message regarding the meeting place. Come in at your own secrecy. Try not to make it too godmoddy, and at one point or another, you WILL be discovered. Only the Walkers and Mist clanners can enter without being detected until too late.
The man will not reveal your clan's identity. He will only give a comment.

The sudden chill in the surrounding air foretold the coming of the Shadow, followed by what may seem to be the sudden materialization of a man who was previously not there, for the Shadow blended in with the darkness with unrivalled skill. Today, his agenda was simple, "Enter the Black Door. Do not disturb the Waking One within." was his instructions, and this is what he must do.

Moving with grace that showed years of training, the Shadow glided down the hallway towards the wooden door at the end. The hallway there was dark, no light at all was visible, except the faintest glow from under the door. "Enter the Black Door. Do not disturb the Waking One within." Did that mean there is someone on the other side? Definitely. So the challenge was to enter this door without alerting the person who guards it.

A quick touch of the lock revealed the secret, a mechanism that would produce enough notice to alert even a drunken guard, this meeting proved to be no walk in the park.

An instant later, the Shadow disappeared from sight. If any light was available, a pool of shadow without any apparent object to cast it would be visible on the floor. The Shadow moved across the stone floor underneath the wooden door, passing unseen into the room. Inside was a lightless void save for a small flame which illuminated a simple table and stool on which sat a man observing the wooden door, which he just by passed. On closer observation, the shadows revealed a masked woman, concealed within the corner, for all purposes invisible save for those whom have lived their lives in darkness. The man showed no indication of knowing the deadly assassin that just entered, as he continued to watch the door.

A sudden thought flashed across the Shadows mind, 'worthless cretin, what use is a guardian if he cannot even spot the entrance of those whom he is suppose to look out for?'

Materializing behind the man, the Shadow soundlessly drew one of his Kodachi and levelled it towards the back of his skull, then calling onto his innate ability to change any metal, he moulded the cold iron to shoot out at lightning speed attempting to skewer him for his lack of vigilance.

The attack should have been too fast for even a trained assassin to detect and dodge, yet as calm as he ever was, the man moved his head to the side at the last instant.

'Well done,' the man's voice rang out, 'any guardian who cannot even detect their prey's entrance deserve nothing but death. But your presence was known long before your attempted attack.' Dipping his quill into an inkwell, the man scratched something onto a piece of paper, and indicated that the Shadow should find somewhere to sit and await the coming of the next assassin.

Noting the superior skill of what formally seemed to be an incompetent guardian, the Shadow returned his Kodachi to its original shape and sheathed it. Moving off to a dark corner to await the arrival of the next participant, the Shadow wondered, didn't he see someone in the corner of the room when he entered?

OOC: First RP post for a first time RPer, please have mercy on my soul^^

A man slowly appeared out of the shadows of the hallway. He stepped into torchlight near the door and eyed his obstacle carefully. The Spider looked around the hall in order to see if there was any key, hidden or otherwise, that would unlock the door. “Enter the Black Door. Do not disturb the Waking One within.” Simple instructions, but this will prove to be more difficult than I'm used to.

The Spider did not like this hallway, there was something he couldn't put his finger on, but he had an uneasyness while walking through it. He didn't like not being in nature for this strange mission. There wern't as many of his usual abilities to be exploited here, least of all passing by a loud door to a possibly powerful guardian on the other side. He knew nothing of the "Waking One" as the note had put it, but he was used to the unknown.

He looked around again, and making sure that there were no hints of a key or unlocking mechanism, he reached his hand into his pouch. He pulled out his hand in the form of a fist and kneeled down to the bottom of the door. Unfurling his hand, a small red scorpion appeared and moved around in his palm. He set the scoprion down at the base of the door and it crawled underneath the crack at the bottom of the door.

The Spider stood up and looked at the device again, checking it and figuring out the best way to open the door with the least amount of sound. He placed his hand on the wall and closed his eyes. He could feel his scorpion moving across the floor in the next room. He focused more and he could feel some of the sensations of the scorpion. He felt the presense of the man as the scorpion neared its target. If all went to plan, the scorpion would sting the man which would release a slight neuro-toxin which would temporaraly numb and paralyze him and allow The Spider to get through the door as undetected as possible.

Focusing more on the scorpion, he could even begin to hear the sounds inside the room. It was silent, which could mean that no one else was in the room. He didn't want to bank on the fact that he might be first, but it didn't really matter. Suddenly The Spider heard a voice from inside the room through the scorpion.

"An interesting tactic, but your little "pet" would not be able to leave me undisturbed if I was stung. Although I am a bit disappointed, enter the room and take a seat." With that the presense of the scorpion was no longer felt by The Spider. He let out a slight sigh as he manipulated the lock with surprising deftness, and resulted with the lock being undone much quieter than expected, even by the guardian inside the room. Yet if the guardian was shocked, he did not show it as he scribbled something onto a piece of parchment. Looking down, The Spider noticed a slight smudge near the man's foot, upon closer examination, he noticed that the smudge was the result of his crushed scorpion. The Spider slunk into the shadows and noticed the presence of two others inside the room. Looking around, he noticed the two others slouched in darkness. He thought that he recognized one of them, and perhaps the other, but there was not enough detail in the darkness for him to make out their figures, or any distinct markings.

Gnosis glides silently down the darkened corridor, his thick footpads muffling his lightstepped walk. His robe swirling about him Gnosis stops his eyes fixed on the ornate door before him, his objective behind it would lie the Waking One. One pale silvery hand stretches out to the door but hesitates, Gnosis has glimpsed the future and is puzzled by it. His eyelids flicker as his mind passes over the shards of futures yet realised.
Then he scowls.
He stands before the door for some time, twin shades spiralling bound by the vials of earth who's familiar weight he feels in his pocket.
Slowly Gnosis turns away from the door, he takes one step and then a second before charging at the door, his body flickering between the veil. He shoots through the door his robe billowing as he charges the seated figure. A smile etches itself on Gnosis's face as he hears the shink of a blade sliding into the Waking's hand, that was good, he had expected no less. Continuing his reckless charge he again flickers, passing through the seated figure the sight of many futures and many deaths skimming the surface of his mind. Coming to a wall Gnosis slips into a body roll, using his momentum to bound from the wall, upwards into the shadowy corners of the room. Clinging in Widower's Stance Gnosis launches a ball of purplish flame at the figure who neatly twists around it, the turbulent energies clinging at the aged floor before vanishing into the nether. Gnosis drops again rolling into an easy crouch before the figure before swiftly dipping into a perfunctory bow.
The Waking One seems puzzled for a moment before he speaks;
"Take heed, I would not hesitate to kill others for less,"
"That I well know, but if I failed here then my life is forfeit,"
The Waking One raises one hand to his face as if in thought before continouing,"You knew you could not outwit we and yet you continued, why?"
"If it was my fate to die I will not cross the veil a coward"
"hmm, I see, take your place."
Gnosis rises silently, beneath his calm facade a turbulant hatred of this man, a man who even with his gifts he knew he could not yet defeat, festers.

Shroud slips through the hallways, a pale shadow in the night. He moves like some otherworldly spectre, gliding along in great silent bounds. Not even the slight draft in the halls gives a hint at his passage as flows unhindered by him. Thus far it had been easy, no traps or guardians to slow him. Knowing there are no watchers, here outside the great oaken portal, he steps up to inspect it.

Shroud seems like a creature of moon shadows, garbed in clothes of pale and twilight hues. His masked face gives him an alien quality and hides his humanity. With precise, economical movements, he examines the door and its complex locking mechanism and considers what may lie on the other side. He had been given a note bearing a simple message, "Enter the Black Door. Do not disturb the Waking One within.”

Shroud's mind runs through a myriad number of subtle strategies for evading the Waking Ones. But it is just a trained reaction for he had already chosen what he would do as he had gazed at the stars before entering this place. Then he straightens, pushing his clay mask back to reveal his true face. He smiles slightly and then with a delicate twist of a lockpick, he sets the door's mechanism in motion.

From the perspective of those inside, the door swings inwards with a slight sound as it is meant to and a person stands outlined against the doorway and slowly steps in. The other assassins can't help but be at least a little intrigued. Is this some devious strategy to distract the Waking One? Surely no one would be stupid enough to just walk in. Unless that was what they wanted you to think...

The Waking One speaks, his face expressionless "You do realise this is a test, do you not?" His quill hovers over his piece of parchment.

Shroud's soft reply has an enviable amount of calmness to it, "Indeed I do. We both know what you desire to achieve with such artifice. And so I make my point." He meets the Waking One's gaze steadfastly as one who has seen the ghosts of futures play out in the starry heavens.

The Waking One makes a note on his parchment, "Take your seat."

The man – the Waking One – flipped over the parchment with a deft flick of his hand. The other side of the parchment bore three more names:

Vapour
Dragonchild
Ony

They came in swiftly, each to their own magic and ability. Yet, each was caught deftly in their ministrations, their stealth and forms unfailingly picked out and deftly revealed by the Waking One’s sharp senses and a note taken next to each name.
They came in, and hid, and the party was complete. The Waking One then coughed slightly, and pushed his stool back, standing to his full height. He rolled the parchment up, and his eyes searched the darkness, picking out every single assassin hidden so well within the shroud of darkness [pun intended, Arhra].

He coughed again, and then spoke in a clear, ringing, but soft voice, as if what he is to say must be kept in confidentiality at all times.
“I formally welcome you to the Assassin’s Conclave. I will not waste further time with introductions, as those have already been made. If you do not understand, then you are not fit to attend this dire cause.”

The Griever’s lips twitched beneath the mask, almost – mind, almost – curling into a smile. It never made it thus far, and nobody would’ve seen it, either. Oh, she had understood the Waking One’s words perfectly. The test did not stop when you took your place, no. It was ongoing, and if you came in first, or near the beginning, you had a better chance of passing.
The Griever took notice of the others’ hiding places. The Serpent’s clan (whom she had deduced from when he entered and made the attempt attack) was well-hidden, save for the tell-tale odd static from his aura. The others, she also knew well now, and though she was puzzled at first by the Heaven’s Clan’s entrance, his guarded reply was enough to assuage her. Besides that, if he was merely a projection of himself, then he would have no aura. She knows more about the Heaven’s Clan assassin than any of the others, and she believes that all others know the same. He had given it away in his voice.

Out of all eight assassins, she was perhaps the most mysterious. And she enjoyed that immensely.

There was no response from all the other members of the future party. She knew there wouldn’t be. But abruptly, the aura of the Stallion Clan’s member flared and extended in the form of a glowing hand visible only to her sight. A dagger, marked with his scent, his magic, silently sliced through the air and embedded itself delicately into the grain of the table. It didn’t even make a sound upon impact.
The man picked up the quivering dagger and unrolled the parchment of paper from the handle. The Griever’s eyes picked out the distinct scrolling writing. The assassin was left-handed.

However, the Waking One wasn’t impressed with what the contents revealed. “Don’t be a smartass, assassin,” he spat out the words, his voice suddenly venomous. He scrunched up the parchment and placed it into the burning torch. It vanished into black ashes and smoke.

Then his demeanour lightened, and the Griever frowned. What she noticed would not matter at this time or place, but she filed it away for later scrutiny.
“Each of you have been chosen – bred – for a single task. You know what that task is. Your mission has not begun now. It had begun since the moment you were born into the world of Hammara. And it will not end even when your task is done. Take note of the seven others in the room with you apart from me. You will be working with them from now on. You will need to trust each other. You will need to work together in order to complete half of your task. Teamwork is essential… no, vital to your own perseverance and survival.
“From now on, you are no longer assassins of the Highest Orders in each Clan. You are now members of a group called the ‘Lunar Plight’ and will remain so until your object of the mission is fulfilled. If you turn on each other openly before then and kill each other outright, then your mission will automatically fail, and the years of breeding the weapons that will see the death of the Eight Clan’s oppressor would become meaningless.”
The man produced another object, – it seems like his ability to store things within his thin cloak was endless – a parcel, wrapped in ordinary browning parchment, tied delicately with grass-rope. He opened it to reveal eight identical, gleaming needle-thin daggers, obsidian in colour and gleaming with hidden fire, and placed them separately on the table.
“These are your items of communication, enchanted courtesy to the Master Elders of the Stallion Clan. Each of you receives one, and it is up to you to figure out how to work this item. Each one is specifically coded to respond to one master. Each one is specifically charmed to find its one master if it ever gets lost in whichever way possible. You will not choose your dagger. The dagger will choose you. Using this item, you will be able to communicate with each other a far way off if you ever get separated. Use it with care.
“My job is almost done here,” the man said as he turned towards the door, but paused before activating the mechanism that would swing the door out, “but before I leave you to… communicate, it is just to say that you have a few days to prepare for the journey into enemy territory. The daggers will give you access to all clan facilities save for the more advanced areas. Your official date for beginning is the Fifth day of Winter, three days from now.”

Then, with a click and a whir, the man disappeared through the open doorway, carrying the only source of light in the room. The door swung softly back into position, plunging the irregular room into absolute darkness.

There was a silence, as each assassin contemplated their next move. It was then that the Griever spoke up, her melodic voice a lonely soloist in the silence.
“Since the time has arrived where we have been stripped of our previous titles, it is time we contemplate our next motive. But first…”
There was the sound of movement: the slightest rustle of clothing, and the whisper of air that was displaced in the Griever’s stealthy movement. Then, to her eyes alone, she sensed the tell-tale pulse of an aura beginning to flare.
Pulse. Darkness. Pulse. Then…
The dagger flared brilliant gold as her fingers closed around the delicately hewn handle. Then it was dark again, the dagger a deep emerald in her hands, already sheathed beneath her cloak.

OOC: get the daggers but remain in the room for now. We’ll slowly make our way outside soon enough.

The Spider sat in a near medative state as the Waking One went over his instructions. His eyes were open as he observed the others attempt to enter the room, each with their own style. It is good that I only arrived third, I can learn something from these other assassins before we work together. He looked over to the Greiver for a moment. Then over to the Shadow. I missed their entrances though, it puts me at a disadvantage, but nothing that I cannot overcome.

The Spider rose up fluidly as the Waking One placed the obsidian daggers on the table. He continued to observe the other assassin's actions as the Waking One continued to give intructions. He tried to pick up on things, and managed to pick up on a few extra traits of the other assassins, but it proved difficult since they wern't doing much other than watching the Waking One. As the Waking One exited the room, darkness made its presence felt, but only for a moment.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and allowed him to continue observing the others. He reached into his bag and pulled out his cloak, wrapping it around his neck. He paused once again, but stopped as a green light appeared on the table where the daggers were. Closing his eyes, The Spider tried to feel something in the room. Yet as soon as he closed his eyes, he opened them again as he felt the presence of Gaia. That must be my dagger then. He slowly walked up to the table and felt the dagger in his hand give off a final flash before it became a constant beam of energy from Gaia. As his hand passed over his chest, he sheathed the dagger in the strap on his bag.

Gnosis sat still in the darkness as the man spoke, his mental perceptions shifting uncomfortably as he attempted to dislodge the loathing which had settled. Slowly the unsettling emotion melted away, replaced with a familiar and cold numbness.
His eyes could not adjust to the darkened surrounds - even the wisest owl needs some light by which to see and so he sought out his surrounds using his uncanny perception. The salty scent of humanity accosted his nostrils, he felt them crouched about him in the shadows and scowled - he had no love of the living and in return they had no love of him.

He could guess at their castes, the way the one who felt to Gnosis' mind like fiery velvet, reacted to things that weren't there and there was none of the coldness of a Spiritwalker or the mint feeling of Heaven’s. Thus, to Gnosis, they could only be Opal. There was a hint of acid to another one and thus they were marked as Scorpion Tree. Yet another reeked of the mint sensation; this was the one which intrigued Gnosis, another fate reaper like himself but one that lacked the steely tang he sensed from the other assassins. That assassin didn’t possess the same edge of brutality that the others, as a whole, shared.

Shaking his head from his musings, Gnosis rose and moved silently to the table where he could hear the dull cry for blood that all daggers shared. He closed his eyes, the twin wraiths coiled about him as he passed his hand over the blades. As his hand alighted on the third of the daggers a chill passed through him - a hungry void he immediately felt a kinship with - yes, this dagger must be his.

"We are all members of the Lunar Plight, we will work together in order to complete half our tasks," thought the Shadow, "and that will happen on the same day Serpents and Stallions walk arm in arm as brothers." Each assassin knew instinctively that co-operation was to be maintained only as far as the others no longer proved useful, and each was studying his 'allies' in preparation for that day.

The Shadow waited, before him 3 assassins have claimed their daggers. Each assassin seemed to have chosen his or her dagger almost instinctively, as if the daggers itself held some unknown property that beckoned to its master.

Rising from his hiding place, the Shadow moved over to where the remaining 5 daggers lay. He placed his hand on the first dagger, then the second, then the third. Each dagger gave off the feel of enchanted artefacts, metallic in property but defying the Serpent clan's ability to mould the metal.

At the forth dagger, the Shadow found his target. This dagger, whilst identical in appearance to the rest, felt different; the dagger repelled the dark chill that permeated his body, yet felt as if made of the very shadows as he touched it.

The Shadow walked back to his dark corner with his prize in hand, further testing will be needed to determine its true abilities, but right now he had his communication device.

Shroud walks softly across the pitch black room, deep in reflection. He can make guesses at the other assassins' clans but that knowledge is not particularily important. Far more important is judging the character of the others. He knows that many feel this alliance will only last for as long as it takes for them to reach their ultimate goal. From some of his preliminary impressions, this could very well be true. But Shroud is not someone who dwells on the bleak side of things and the possibility of strengthening the links forged from desperation. There is always the hope that the ties that bind them will endure through to the very end.

The presence of the others moves aside as he approaches the table. All of the assassins are trained in reading subtleties in the sounds and movements in the air and so it is no surprise. He pauses right in front of the table, going by the memory of the room he had from when it had been lit. Such meticulous study of his surroundings is virtually instinctive.

The Waking One had said that the dagger would choose him and so this would be simplicity itself. He simply lowers his hand down to the surface of the table and moving it slightly to the left, his fingers close around the hilt of a dagger. He feels it warm to his touch. Yes, this must be it.