• None
  • Default
  • Light
 

The Investigator - 'scribbles' of Evirea Velacel

9 replies
Posts:
294
Sweetrolls:
+1,562
Inspired by the threads of Mercer, Riivy, Amari, and Ravnie, and having done these sort of 'bursts of inspiration' posts in various guild threads, I thought this would be a lot of fun! Just post a prompt in the form of a gif, an image, music, or anything else you might find and I'll use it to write a little story about my investigator, Evirea Velacel.

This is gonna be fun! :d
Evirea_Mood_board_art1.png
Posted Jul 1, 18 · OP · Last edited Jul 1, 18
Sweetroll
x 9
x 9
List
Undo
Posts:
177
Sweetrolls:
+439
PC-NA
Aldmeri Dominion
Gold Coast
Summerset
274c14a0bf1c0bb4a8c65c3f28f367fb--superman-v-superman-wonder-woman.jpg
Posted Jul 1, 18
Sweetroll
x 2
x 2
List
Undo
Posts:
546
Sweetrolls:
+1,674
Spared a Coin
PC-NA
Daggerfall Covenant
Gold Coast
3d494d6bcced5876349672ff8b16f391.jpg
Posted Jul 2, 18
Posts:
663
Sweetrolls:
+1,322
Spared a Coin
PC-NA
Aldmeri Dominion
Daggerfall Covenant
Gold Coast
x7ousaF.gif

"Welcome my friend, sit down. I have a story to tell you about a woman who rose from the embers of nothing and created something beautiful."
-
The Covent | Dibellan Roleplay
Spirits Of Lore | Forum
-

Posted Jul 2, 18 · Last edited Jul 2, 18
Posts:
294
Sweetrolls:
+1,562
wrote:

The place smelled of mold and dirt and dead things that very much prefered to be left alone. She crawled hand over hand, for the cavern’s walls loomed low above her, so much so that she could feel the ceiling pressing down against her spine like the stone finger of a giant. The feeling of being so trapped, a rat stuck in its own hole, sent her stomach to violently churning. Her breath grew short and her heartbeat was a hammer so loud she feared it would give away her position.

Be silent, she willed it, and it slowed.

Ahead she could hear laughter, see the flickering light of a torch. She knew this passageway widened because of the way the voices echoed. It was not a sinister sound - reality was not akin to storybooks, and the merriment of a criminal was just as bright and animated as anybody’s. She’d always thought that made it all the more chilling - there was no difference between a chuckle over a joke made or blood spilled.

Forward she crept, and finally the crushing cavern walls fell away. She was still smothered in shadows, for which she was grateful. They were only thieves, as far as she knew, but a thief could be spurned to murder under the right circumstances. Many a corpse littered the main thoroughfares between Anvil and Kvatch to support this fact.

Her heart picked up again, beating, beating, though the emotion that flooded through her wasn’t fear. It was familiar to her by now, the rush of adrenaline, the alertness, the vivacious aggression. Sometimes she wished that they would discover her. Sometimes she hoped that they would turn, torch aloft, and spot her there, lurking in the dark corners, waiting to apprehend them or lead local guardsmen directly to their lair. She counted with an eagerness, one, two, three, and wagered if the cards were in her favor. If she could manage to take them all right there, on her own. She would not say (or admit) that her wish was to kill them - a man’s life was worth more than a few bits of pretty gold - but she knew if it came down to it, she wouldn’t hesitate to kill for her own life.

Was it bloodlust? She couldn’t say. She could only say it made her feel alive.

“You hear some’in?”

The first man whirled on his heel, staggering slightly. Only then did she notice the scent of thick liquor on the air, from his breath, from the opened bottles in the crate by his feet. The odds had suddenly been stacked against them. There was a certain relish in the feeling, in the realization that they’d inhibited themselves. There would be an almost certain victory now, assuming they were all drunk enough.

He swept the torch a few times, but she skittered back into the shadows too far for the light’s reach. The second man snorted at him derisively.

“Oi. Enough o’that. Gimme some o’th’good stuff, willya?”

From the other corner of cave came the third voice, and this one was sharp, absent accent or slur, and Evirea knew immediately that he was the leader.

“Give me the torch, then.”

It was passed without question. Evirea’s heart lurched again, the eagerness biting at the bit, and the same excitement which had flooded her at the potential of victory clawed back to the surface at the promise of a challenge. Yes, it whispered. This is what I need.

She squelched it and brought a potion to her lips. The effects let her vanish better into her surroundings, though it would only last for a few minutes time. This time the light did touch her, but it revealed only the stone on the floor. For the two drunken men, this would have been enough.

But for this other, with crisp alertness and bright green eyes, it was not.

He crouched down, and there in the molded dust he found the trace of a single footprint. Far too small to belong to one of his men. Far too fresh to have been from some other party which could have wormed their way down the throat of this place. Evirea was moving before he even had the chance to rise again - she had to even the odds before he began a more aggressive sweep of the place, for he was going to be a difficult one.

The first man fell to the ground with a grunt. The back of his head was bleeding, and the blow the investigator dealt him was helped by the blunted pommel of her dagger. He would not die, but she would not envy the concussion.

The leader jerked his head towards the sound and hissed, “Rickson, to me.”

But Rickson was already shrieking, clawing at his face as the chemicals Evirea had just splashed into his face burned with an agonizing insistence. His screaming filled the tavern to a near-disorienting degree, and she could see that for a moment the thought of haunts and spirits and the deep primal fear which lives in man started to slide its way up the leader’s spine.

And then he saw another of her footprints in the dust, nearer now, and the blossoming fear evolved into anger.

He drew his blade. His arm was steady, and she doubted he’d so much as sipped from the whiskey. It made a wicked singing sound as he brought it down dangerously close to his own man, who still writhed on the floor, shouting for Tristan! to help him.

“Well,” said Tristan, addressing the darkness and she-who-lurked-within. “Come out, then.”

Still hidden from his sight, Evirea felt a grin tugging at her lips, a secret joy which she would admit not even to herself. She did not want power in the usual way - gold nor riches meant little to her, and influence over others was something that she never found herself longing for. Yet this feeling, to outwit her adversary, to stand above them having proven that she was the better of the two in mind and form - that she longed for, in her heart of hearts. To prove this. To prove what she had become.

And when that feeling was sated, when she had watched this thief waver long enough with his blade held up defensively, she stepped into the light.
Posted Jul 4, 18 · OP
Sweetroll
x 7
x 7
List
Undo
Posts:
101
Sweetrolls:
+262
15cj6n4.jpg
Posted Jul 26, 18
Sweetroll
x 2
x 2
List
Undo
Posts:
111
Sweetrolls:
+365
PC-NA
Daggerfall Covenant
f165dPQ.jpg
Posted Jul 31, 18
Sweetroll
x 3
x 3
List
Undo
Posts:
294
Sweetrolls:
+1,562
Spoiler: Show

The boy with the stick was lanky and lacked the muscle to hold a real sword. He circled his adversary - another boy, still young but far less green - and as she watched she could see the way the first boy's feet fumbled over one another. Kicked up dust. Killed the surety of his movements. She wondered for a moment if he would survive long enough to learn such surety or if perhaps he would be put too early on a patrol, as they sometimes were, and sent to scour the roads of bandits or stray packs of wolves.

They came rolling back in wagons with burlap tarps to cover their failures. Once, she'd seen a hand slip out from beneath, three of the fingers missing, bitten off by man or beast. She'd stared at it until her mother, gasping and paling and tittering something nonsensical, covered her eyes.

There was a cruel justice to it. Learn or die. The natural world was run in such a way. The fawns did not gain succor because of innocence. The lambs did not avoid the wolves with infancy. The children were not spared.

In the ring, the boy fell hard to the ground, and there was a sicking crack, and for a moment the lean slip of a Breton girl standing at the fence thought he had broken his arm. Learn from that, learn or cease to be.

But it was only the stick, crushed beneath his own arse. The two laughed together, the one reaching out to help the other climb back to his feet. They cajoled and clapped one another on the back as though they were playing at a game rather than preparing for what was to come. Pups fighting over a strip of meat. Tug of war.

She climbed over the fence nimbly and walked into the field, dress fluttering. Her hands reached for the broken bits of wood and she held them up, studying them, imagining that their ends could easily be sharpened into daggers. Into thorns.

She was a child, but the wolves had already set in, dug their teeth into her flank. She had not been spared, and instead of romance and flowers and pretty things she dreamed of the day when her fangs would grow out. When she, in turn, would spare none. When she would show no mercy.

The girl curled her fingers until they were white-knuckle tight around the bit of shattered oak, and knew her time was coming.

Posted Aug 5, 18 · OP · Last edited Aug 5, 18
Sweetroll
x 5
x 5
List
Undo
Tor
Posts:
171
Sweetrolls:
+441
Spared a Coin
xxxxxxxxxx616b5343033cad1cbaee0528bc3cd68d.jpgxxxxxxxxxx
Necromancy is unequivocally evil.
Change my mind.

Tor#1625
Posted Aug 6, 18
Posts:
294
Sweetrolls:
+1,562
Spoiler: Show

The light was sparse, spilling shy puddles over the ground and driving back shadow by the flickering of two torches. The cell nestled between those two torches was of no great quality or size: a small, shallow hole in the wall with bars of rusted iron. In the corner, where the light could not quite stretch, I saw a man. He was hunched forward, hugging his legs, the arch of his spine pressing hard into the pale flesh of his back in the way only malnourishment could. I couldn't see his face, but I could see his fingers, bloody from clawing at the walls of stone. There were tracks of red in that corner of the cell, ruddy and telling.

Beside me, an armored Imperial clanged the hilt of his sword viciously against the bars.

The prisoner turned, and I knew then he was not a man any longer.

His eyes, red-veined and sunken into his face, seemed to stare right through me. The gaze traveled up my form in some twisted perversion of lust, trailing towards the pulse beating steadily at my throat. Revolted, I struggled against the urge to draw the silver-coated dagger at my hip.

“He hasn’t turned yet,” said the Imperial. He was staring into the cell as well, and I could see him out of the corner of my eye, though much of his face was concealed behind a helmet of unfeeling steel. “Wanted to be sure nothing could be done, before doing what cannot be undone.”

The man - or what once had been a man - was still shrieking, throwing himself forward, stretching out a hand and clawing. He reeked, smelled of feces and urine and other things that I did not want to think about. Past his mouth and down his thirsty throat I could see still-fresh stains of blood where he’d been fed by some childe of the night to keep him biddable. So that he could be drunk from again, and again.

The scars, from the kiss of fangs, were telling enough to that end.

“You knew him?” I inquired of the guard.

I saw him shrug, heard the creak of that armor. “Hardly, ma’am. But you’re more learned than I about these things, or that was my understanding. Just wanted to be sure.”

I stared into the cage, and for a moment the man’s shrieking was drowned out by a voice in my head, high and taunting. That will be you, it whispered. That’s you. A week. A month. A year. Eventually it will be you. It will be.

“He can’t be helped,” I said, my voice hoarse. I cleared my throat and straightened. “I can kill it with the silver on me, if you prefer. Just to be certain.”

The guard merely gave a sharp nod, not bothering to look away. I didn’t hesitate. I stepped forward and my dagger flashed, a pretty glint of metal through the soft underside of the jaw, towards the brain. For a moment the prisoner’s gaze went lax, unseeing, pupils shrinking and then dilating as his eyes rolled loosely in his head.

I let the dagger slip free and began to wipe it clean of the blood, careful not to get any on me. I did not bother to speak to the Imperial who stood silent and sentinel and unmoving, and I can’t say if he even tried to speak to me.

I needed to leave before the lump in my throat could turn into traitorous tears.

When he’s done with you, there’ll be nothing left but ash and bone.
Posted Aug 12, 18 · OP
Sweetroll
x 5
x 5
List
Undo
NoticeNotices