A Heart Wrapped in Shadow

[Morathor]

A one-on-one RP between Morathor and Back-Alley Shadow.
If you are neither Morathor nor Back-Alley Shadow, you may look, but don't touch.

---

Name: Serafina
Age: 24
Species: Half-elf/half-human
Appearance: Sera is normally seen wrapped in her own shadow. In this state, only her build can be easily determined: a slender frame with subtle curves, just shy of five feet tall. Her shadow also binds her long hair into a manageable ponytail. She carries a longsword with a narrow hilt in a foreign style.
Beyond the darkness.
Magic: Shadow
Personality: Reserved and unemotional. For the most part, Sera speaks only when spoken to, doesn't have strong opinions, and never raises her voice. The only exception to this is if anyone tries to help her--she will refuse their help and become agitated, or even begin to panic if they persist.
History: Serafina was born in the nation of Dasia, far to the west, but has no memory of it. She has been told that her mother was an elven judge who died giving birth to her. She has heard how her sister wanted to give her up to be raised by a lower class family, how her brother ran away with her and traveled to Lucenia, searching for her father--a human merchant.
But her earliest memories are living with the Black Falcons, a team of elite mercenaries. From a very young age, she learned to fight, sneak, and steal from the best. Magic was a bit trickier, since none of the Falcons shared her shadow talent, but once she had learned to read she managed to teach herself from their extensive library. At the age of sixteen, she was officially accepted as a Falcon, alongside the leader's son, who was assigned as her partner.
Four years ago, in the closest thing to a failure the Falcons have ever known, Sera returned home without her partner. She has refused to explain the exact details to anyone. Since then, she has cut herself off from the rest of the Falcons, spending most of her time shut in her spare time shut up in her room.

Name:Modya Bal'Kuznet
Age: 72
Species: Elf
Appearance: 6'6" and lightly built, Modya does his best to appear imposing through his stern demeanor and aggressively cut clothing. He is very muscular for an elf. Just your average elf.
Magic: Earth
Personality: Modya is very stern and viewed as a 'grump' by the rest of the Falcons. He wants lots of peace and quiet, which the rowdy band of mercenaries never gives him. Despite his frosty demeanor, Modya is a very compassionate man, and does not like to see anyone suffer.
History: Modya was born in Dasia, the son of a judge and a noble of the Bal caste. His youth was comfortable, and the best education in Dasia was open to him from a young age. Of the various facets of Earth magic, Modya was most interested in becoming a healer.
A few decades ago, Modya's mother fell in love with a trader from Lucenia. A fling like that was enough to embarass the family, but when she concieved the human's child it was a major scandal. It did not help that the father of the child seemed to have vanished.
Despite Modya's best efforts, his mother died giving birth to her second daughter. Modya's elder sister, the new head of the family, wanted to immediately put the shame behind them and give the newborn to another family to raise. Modya opposed this plan, since the newborn was still their sister, but he had no authority to do so. Instead, he took his sister and fled the country. He went to Lucenia, looking for the girl's father, but never found her.
Eventually, he ended up with the Black Falcon mercenaries, who needed a healer. His education also made him the best qualified for a number of necessary tasks--stocking and organizing the library, managing the finances, even reviewing and writing contracts. Even though he was not officially the leader, he more or less ran the business side of the Black Falcons.
Several years ago, his sister came back from a mission without her partner. She seemed shaken, but try as he might Modya has been unable to get her to talk about it. As traumatized as she was, the leader of the Falcons--who had been the father of the lost partner--took it much harder, his health failing as he barely ate or slept. When he died, Modya became the de facto leader of the group.

 

[The Waiting Disaster]

Name: Audric Bourdette.
Age:52 years old.
Species: Werewolf.
Appearance: Audric does not have an appearance really matching his noble origins: wearing rather simple but effective clothing most of the time, with shaggy honey-blonde hair, and a thick stubble on his chin. Not to mention he almost always seems to be smoking -- something most of the time. On "the job".
Magic: Fire.
Personality: Audric is very much a "heart on his sleeve" sort of soul, with a soft spot for those in need, and a healthy dose of confidence so strong it comes across almost as arrogance. He feels he is one of the best, so it was only natural that the Black Falcons accept him in to their ranks, and now he can push himself to be even better -- at least how he tells it.
History: The son of nobility, Audric's mother was the head of the Fire House. Yet it seemed that the life of the noble courts wasn't really for him. To the disappointment of his parents, he took more to the life of a mercenary, and had set out to be an independent mercenary. Though, as one might have expected, misfortune befell the young eighteen year old noble when he ran afoul of a werewolf. Barely surviving the encounter in one piece, he himself became infected with the disease, and found himself afflicted by the curse of the beast. If anything this drove him on, using his new-found immortality to practice magic more and more. His parents were shocked, to say the least, at this development, and despite his father's protest his mother still claimed their son as the primary heir.

Yet what kind of effect would an immortal heir have on the family line?

 

[Morathor]

As the capital of the world's most prosperous nation, the city of Senvale is full of extravagant wonders. At the very center of the city is the Palace of the Sun, the home of the royal family and the seat of government, whose proud white towers can be seen for miles around. Outside the walls of the palace you will find some of the most expensive homes in the world--some extravagantly flaunting the wealth of their owners, some refined and tasteful and all the more expensive for it. Going out farther you'll find the service districts, an entire economy of tailors, jewelers, artists, actors, all of whom make their living off the nobility. Still farther from the center are more humble and diverse establishments, whose prices are more within the range of the middle and lower classes. Then at last you have the slums, clinging to the outer walls of the city like a parasite, where desperate people struggle to survive any way they can.
If you continue on the road south out of Senvale, past even the slums, and take a narrow path that branches off to the west, you will eventually come upon a most unusual structure--more a cave than a building, whose rough stone walls seem to have risen from the dirt of their own accord. At the front of this building are double doors of fine wood, with a large stylized falcon of the blackest iron affixed to the left door. On the right door is a small golden plaque, on which are engraved the words:

"Black Falcons
Success Rate: 100%"​

 

[The Waiting Disaster]

It had been with little interest that Audric Bourdette had watched his surroundings while he had traveled.

Though it had been a while since the heir to the Fire House had visited his home, the independent mercenary had come to his homeland with an express purpose, and it had not been to examine or admire the local architecture and countryside. No, it hadn't even been to enjoy the familiar local culture, or even to visit his aging family. He had come for an express purpose, not just for nostalgia. So he had paid little mind to the locals. Even those who recognized the eternally unaging heir were paid little mind, despite their calls for his attention, or secret stares and wonderment at what run-away royalty was doing back in the country which he had supposedly abandoned. However, despite his lack of concern his heightened senses took in all the pieces of his surroundings as he traveled. In the inner city, the smell of pottery freshly crafted and fine wines being crafted drifted lightly in to his nostrils. As he reached to the middle-class areas of town, he smelt the distinct scent of honey on the air coming from the nearest meadery, and as he entered the outskirts of town he had been assailed with the smells of farm-work and manure until he had hit the country-side. There, out in the country, he could smell animals out in the woods hunting, or being hunted, and the smell of fresh-growing plants carrying through the air in the breeze. Sharp green eyes watched his surroundings as he had walked down the side of one country trail or another. Not that he really had much to pay attention to.

He had but one goal.

It wasn't until he laid eyes on it that his rather slow and relaxed pace almost imperceptively quickened. He made his way to the door. It was there where he came to a stop, checking over himself once again. The leather, strapped boots he wore were faded and dusty-looking: ones that had lasted him quite a while. The pants were a dark brown, with a variety of pockets sewn on, and layered knees for durability. His shirt was a leather and cloth variety, nothing that would be the desire of a noble of the court, but more for a mercenary desiring practicality. On a heavy-looking leather belt was one thing of note: a trio of pistols, heavy-looking wood and metal devices, with one at either side, and another tucked in to the small of his back to be hidden from view. Yet from that belt also was a pair of books, bound in leather, and held in satchels: books of complex fire magics learned over the years. In fact, the only excentric thing about him was his hat: a wide-brimmed black leather deal, with a trio of brass rings through it that gave it a slope to the front and right, and a white feather tucked in the dark brown leather band about the hat. The only thing that really stood out, though it was a case of personal choice.

He felt little concern for his appearance. His record would speak volumes more for these sorts than what he looked like, he felt.

Reaching up with one hand clad in a black leather glove, he gave three solid raps on the door, and waited. Unmoving on the doorstep, his ears listened, and he observed his surroundings without moving. After all, he didn't want any surprises should they try to "test" him as some groups had done in the past when he had sought membership with them.

 

[Morathor]

Whatever he was expecting, it probably wasn't for the door to shatter as someone was thrown through it from the other side, landing on the ground and rolling along the ground. As they did, the shape of their body changed radically, flowing like water. A head and torso rose from the swirling mass, and what remained nearest the ground formed into legs.
Another man who stood just inside the building examined the broken door and gave a low whistle. "Moe is not going to be happy to hear that you broke the front door."
"I broke it? You're the one that threw me."
"Yeah, but it was your body that actually hit the door and broke it." At this point, the man still inside took notice of Audric and gave him a slight nod. "Do you need something? Got a job for us?" He pointed towards a passage to his left. "You need to talk to Modya. He's that way. Oh, and I hope you're rich." Without paying Audric any more mind, the two men resumed their debate over whose fault the shattering of the front door was. The Black Falcons were best known for their flawless track record, but almost as well known for their complete disrespect for their clients. Only the wealthy could afford their services, and most of the Falcons had been born in poverty, so they rather enjoyed lording over the upper classes when they had the chance.

 

[The Waiting Disaster]

"Oh, I'd say I'm quite rich friend." A wolfish grin spread across his slim and pointed jaw, "If not just for the treasury of the Fire House, my own accounts would more than suit -- were it that I wished to hire you."

Brushing away some of the dust generated by the shattering of the door, he spared both men a simple nod, and tip of his hat. Stepping through the now conveniently opened door, a development which had been most assuredly unexpected, his walk had slowed once again. Slow and methodical, the heels of his boots had metal strips that had been added for durability, and traction: they now made a slow clicking on the floor as he walked. He was wary, to say the least. He was stepping in to their home, their den. One of the most successful outfits of mercenaries in -- anywhere. Few could boast a reputation like that of the Black Falcons. Those that could were usually quite large, and quite exclusive. The kinds who would happily take nobility in to their ranks, but who would more than hesitate at the prospect of taking a werewolf on amongst them. These men and women were different. They knew what worked, which was attested to by the fact that they were alive, well-established, and likely had more than enough gold coming in to supply them with what they needed and desired. Heading down the passage to his left, he removed his hat, and tucked it under one arm as he reached his destination: eyes locking on the first person whom he saw who looked at least midly important.

"Are you Modya?" He began, "I am Audrice Bourdette, mercenary, magic user, and --" He smirked, shrugging slightly in his self-assuradness. "-- a fantastic lover of fine women."

 

[Morathor]

The green-haired elf glanced up from the book he had been reading, then resumed his reading. "Audric Bourdette... the next Duke of Elhar." Since so many of the Falcons' missions were at least partly political, Modya thought it prudent to keep track of the major players. And this man had made quite a stir. "You are, as you've said and I've heard, a fairly competent mage and mercenary yourself. I wonder what you might need of us that you cannot accomplish yourself."
After a moment's pause, he lowered the book again, his brow furrowing. Had he heard a crash a little while ago? He'd learned to tune out any noise that didn't sound catastrophic. Even then, he had precious little quiet time to himself. "Those idiots broke the door again, didn't they?" He sighed and dropped the book on his desk. He couldn't concentrate on reading when he knew he had to replace the door, and he couldn't deal with the door until he dealt with this potential client.
Modya got to his feet, his grey eyes looking down on the man. He had lived in Lucenia more than twenty years, but it never failed to amaze him how short humans were. Even the ones that were considered tall were just less short. Dasia was populated almost exclusively by elves, orcs, and hybrids of the two, all of whom averaged six and a half feet.
"Word is you've been out of the country. What business brings you back to Lucenia? And if it has anything to do with your comment about women, I doubt we can help you."

 

[The Waiting Disaster]

With a shake of his head, Audrice grinned, "For some of the most successful mercenaries of the world: you really all are quite assuming." He shook his head, "Watching you in an ambush would be humurous."

Looking up to the elf, the nobleman-turned-mercenary seemed rather nonplussed about the height difference between he and the elf before him. He had spent time in Lucenia, briefly traveling, do mercenary work where it paid, and even catching the eye of a young Elven baserving girl for a time. Yet despite his outward appearance, it was still a sight to behold when an pure-blood Elf stood at full height. Fishing beneath his cloak, he retrieved one of his hand-wrapped cigars, placing it lightly between his lips, and producing a bright flicker of orange flame on his palm to light it. Quickly extinguishing the flame, he took a relaxing drag of the tobacco, and leaned casually against the wall while still maintaining eye contact (though he had to look up to do so) with Modya. Letting out a wispy cloud of smoke, he finally spoke again after a long moment of silence.

"If I were in need of handling a problem, I doubt I would be so lacking in skill as to need to outsource it." He shrugged, "As well as the simple fact that nobility does not oft' help their reputation to be seen in the company of mercenaries, even ones such as yourself, and so it would be far more prudent of me to work through a messenger should I wish to hire your services."

He took another relaxing drag of the tobacco.

"I do not wish to hire you, Modya." He shook his head, that same wolfish grin still present, if slightly diminished, "I heard you are in need of -- helping hands?" He quirked a brow, punctuating his statement with another drag of his cigar before leaving it hanging there between loosely closed lips.

 

[Morathor]

"...I see. You wish to join us?" Modya sat back down, crossing his fingers and looking thoughtfully at Audrice. "It is very rare for us to take new members. So few live up to our standards, you see. You have quite a reputation yourself, but from what I've heard of your accomplishments, you still have a ways to go. And that's assuming your exploits haven't been embellished along the way. Still... I think you've earned the chance to try, at least." He sat in silence for a little longer, then lifted a small crystal bell from his desk and rang it quietly.

In the center of the basement of the stone complex, in a room where the light of a single candle glimmered off a polished blade, a second bell rang. The bells were enchanted, their identical crystal facets linked by magic, so that the ringing of one bell would sound the other at any distance.
The sound of the bell signaled that a prospective client needed to be removed from the building--because they were being disrespectful, or making threats, or because Modya simply found them distasteful.
The sword was carefully lifted from its stand, the light waving erratically. A pair of pale pink lips drew near to the candle and gently blew it out.

In Modya's office, a shadow that fell just behind Audrice seemed to thicken, as a dark silhouette rose silently from the darkness. An owl would have been jealous of the person's stealthy approach; not even the air was ruffled as they emerged from the shadow, jet black save for the silver sliver of their blade.

 

[The Waiting Disaster]

As silent as her approach was, subterfuge could only cover so much.

With the honed senses of a werewolf, he detected something off in the air moments after the bell rang. His eyes narrowed almost imperceptively, nostrils flaring, and pupils dilating. As the shadow began to solidify behind him, he acted. His hat was dropped, not caring for it in this moment, and in a moment his cloak was shed as he twirled on the balls of his feet. In that moment, one of those heavy pistols was drawn, and leveled at the shadow. His other hand, still gloved, was ablaze with a crackling ball of flaming energy. Though he went no further, catching himself. His cigar fell to the ground at his feet, disregarded in the moment. His eyes flickered between Modya and the shadowy figure now before him. A deep growl, inhuman in tone and depth, emerged from his throat. The grin had disappeared, one corner of his mouth tugging up in a snarl, and revealing the subdued pearly white fangs.

"What is the meaning of this trick, Modya?" The fiery energy at his fingertips was pointed rather accusingly in the elf's direction, "I do not like when shadows are sent behind my back." The pistol was trained on the shadowy figure in question.

 

[Morathor]

Modya seemed unperturbed by the fireball blazing in front of his face. He did take note of the man's fangs--apparently certain rumors about Audrice were true. But he didn't let that show on his face either; it was important to remain calm and appear in control of the situation. Besides, he was fairly confident in the slender figure he had summoned to the office. If anything, he was now more concerned for Audrice. Troublesome customers were normally removed without lasting injuries, but if they were to actually pose a threat to any of the Falcons, more extreme measures would be taken. And of all the Falcons, Modya was the weakest by far; he had no way to defend himself from Audrice.
Of course, if Audrice was even worth Modya's time, he would not go down easily, but if he wasn't... well, Modya would rather this ended without anyone getting hurt. He spread his hands to show he was unarmed. "You detected her presence before her blade was at your throat. Quite impressive. I see you favor pistols... an effective weapon, though I find they lack elegance. However, I believe you may have erred." He nodded at the shadow. "You might have been better off pointing the pistol at me and the fire at her."
Black tendrils crept out of the chinks of the pistol, the deep shadows inside the barrel given life. They curled around the firing mechanism as the silvery blade was lifted to Audrice's throat.

 

[The Waiting Disaster]

To think he was disarmed would be a mistake.

"You think me a mage of only one arm?" He growled.

The pistol was dropped, no longer Audrice's concern since the weapon had been rendered useless by the shadow. Though they were one of his prized possessions, he was practical enough to know when it had been rendered useless. His hand, now free, was ignited, and for a moment the heat-treated leather of his glove crackled at the sudden change in temperature. It stopped the offensive blade short, catching them all at an impass. Were his attacker to continue, he could simple burn Modya like paper, and incinerate his attacker's face. Were his attacker to stop, they would be at an impass where both sides would have to concede to a draw. The only problem? Audrice was far too prideful to concede to an attacker who had to resort to shadows and back-stabbing in order to succeed.

"Elegance is reserved for the women, Modya." Audrice spoke once again, that same inhuman growl staining his voice from the dark depths of his throat, "Not for cowards who hide in the dark depths of fake night."

He now stood, flaming energy at his finger-tips pointed to either potential attacker, and his eyes gained a more feral appearance: slitted, and narrowed. He was an angry man, bordering on the verge of being a beast. A most undeniably negative trait of his race.

 

[Morathor]

Modya was sweating now, mainly due to the heat. "I must say, you're not making a very good impression so far. You lose your temper too easily. And do you think direct confrontation is the only way to do things? There is value in subtlety. If you can not understand that, then we have no business." He gave a subtle nod to the shadowy figure.
The blade of the sword seemed to shrink, although a close examination would show that it was being drawn into the shadow hilt first. When the sword had completely vanished, so did the shadow.
The figure reappeared from Modya's shadow, completely hidden from sight by his stature. They grabbed their shoulder and pulled the shadow from their body, sweeping it over Modya like a cloak in a sleight of hand trick. As they whipped it around, Audrice caught a brief glimpse of pale, slender limbs and long green hair before the darkness curled back around their body.
All this had transpired in a fraction of a second; Modya had disappeared, leaving Audrice alone with the shadow.

Modya scowled as he picked himself up. Did she really have to drop him into her room? It was probably easiest, the place he was most familiar with, but she kept it so dark in here, and he couldn't find the walls, let alone the door, short of walking into them. Also, she kept the floor littered with candles. Even if he managed not to trip on them, he knew he would knock some over and break others while looking for the way out.

 

[The Waiting Disaster]

"Well, if you think it's unjustified for my anger at this attack --" Audrice shrugged, "-- then anger at the murderers must leave you baffled."

Though he find himself alone with attacker from before. He turned to have his full attention to this strange atttacker, quite obviously a mage of shadow, and in the process of turning to face her the tip of one of his boots crushed the cigar that was still on the floor. Those eyes were still in their beastly state, keen vision focused on the figure, adrenaline surging through his veins as fast as his blood could ferry it, and both hands now focused on the shadow. He still paid little attention to his hat and cloak that rested on the floor. That snarl was still ever-present on his usually confident and relaxed-looking features. The heat seemed to not even phase him, something he had been used to for a long time, and the fact that he was a werewolf meant that he was gifted with a naturally higher body temperature than other humans, or other species. For him, the blazing heat at his hands was hardly noticeable -- though it made it a pain when selecting what kind of clothes to where, or at least it had when he had been younger that had been the case.

"Then come at me, stranger." He looked to where the eyes would be, approximately, "Even if you can't show your face, you couldn't be so cowardly to pass up the first move."

Both hands focused on her, as he squatted down low. The fire did gift him with at least one thing: stripping the area immediately about him of any particularly advantagious shadows for his enemy to use against him.

"If you wish to test what I am capable of, so be it." He shook his head, "Even if you win this once, I've had many a year to fight, and I have eternity to perfect myself. Can you say the same?"

He was ready to fight: nostrils flaring, eyes narrowed, and body poised to strike.

 

[Morathor]

Despite his taunts, the shadow didn't attack at first. They circled him slowly and cautiously, watching how he reacted, sizing him up. Then, without any warning or shift in posture, they charged in, remarkably quickly considering that they were attacking from a defensive stance. Their sword seemed to sing as it swept through the air, its polished blade gleaming in the firelight, shining it in Audrice's eyes as they approached. Their sword whirled around at blinding speeds--most swordsmen would have dismissed their style as a frivolous spectacle, but a careful eye would see the precision and efficiency of each strike.

 

[The Waiting Disaster]

To think his opponent's movements random would have been far to callous for even as self-assured and confident a man as Audrice.

No. His attacker was trained.

Yet the style was different, if the movements were anything to tell it by. Simply looking at the way the blade twisted through the air, he was perceptive enough to know that the blade could not have been of a local make. The swords of the area were far too formal and fancy, with fine jewels, and basket guards not suited for rotation about the hand. Not to mention the blade proper, what Audrice had seen of it thus far, was of a different style than those of the duelists, or nobility. It was a soldier's blade, proud and true. Nothing to complex or uneccesary for it's functions. A deadly weapon to be sure. Yet the most noteable thing was her magic of choice. The Houses of Fire and Shadow were rather well-affixed opposites if one were to place the powers on a wheel: if only due to the fact that one harshly illuminated all things about it, and the other covered all things undesirable to the eye in a thick blanket of darkness. One thing had stuck with Audrice, despite his dislike for the life of nobility, and that had been his opposition to darker (literally, in this case) magics. He knew his attacker could not be trusted. Every move the shadow figure (who he would, for the sake of ease of communication, decidedly refer to as "she") made could be a deception, or a deception within a deception. So many layers.

Yet his mind focused.

The benefit of the adrenaline coursing through him.

He too, abstained from the first move. While not always inherently disadvantagious, as some believed, it would likely let him give in to his anger if he were to strike first. If he were to give in to his anger, then he would give in to the beast.

If he were to give in to the beast then, well --

One blazing point of energy tracked her, the other kept behind his back to reduce her ease at disabling both arms at once should she attempt it. Not that he didn't have use of his legs, of course.

 

[Morathor]

The shadow ducked under the fire at his hand, using her small size to her advantage to maneuver in close and swing her blade upward towards his armpit, aiming to sever his arm from his shoulder entirely. Though his tough clothing might have provided protection against Lucenian rapiers, it would make little difference against this heavier, edged blade. He would either have to move or lose a limb.