In shades of Gray

[sandcastles]

Gray

To the public eye

A shrouded individual standing still and quiet, unassuming heavy robes obscuring their figure. At 5'5"; there is little offered to be seen aside from gray upon gray.

With a low pulled cowl over top a gauzy veil that drifts down to overlap a scarf that hides the face it seems that this person greatly values their secrecy, privacy, or perhaps both. Cloth wrappings even hide the fingers that peek out of the ends of the thick sleeves.

Now and then movements may reveal enough of the figure to lead to the conclusion that it is a woman, yet it is speech that is more likely to give that fact away.


A Painful Voice

Whenever the gray figure speaks it is in a thick Waterdhavian accent that is further marred by a scathing rasp, as if her throat were full of phlegm. Her voice manages to reveal that she is indeed a woman. She rarely speaks loudly, typically in lower tones, or whispers when able. Often clearing her throat with hacking rasping coughs to no avail, time would reveal the malady she suffers from is not one that is passing.


Behind the Scenes

Gray has many skeletons in her closet and we will hear about them in further posts. However the following postings should be considered OOC information unless discovered in game. This is not a 'journal' but a collected work of the inner thoughts of Gray and her perception of the realm around her.

A big note on disguises

Gray is often in disguise. If you don't recognize her outfit you probably don't recognize her at all. Gray goes to great pains to conceal each of her various identities, using many different methods to conceal her comings and goings, from mundane stealth to invisibility potions allowing her to depart unseen as someone else, then return once again unseen to her room and leave as she came.

If you wish to ferret out the truth of her identities please don't hesitate to inform me of your investigations, or a dm, so that such can be handled in a reasonable fashion. Do not simply assume that you can figure her out on a whim because you've interacted with her once or twice under different guises.

Some notes on the pains taken to convey these disguises :

• Multiple incredibly different outfits and color schemes.
  
• Different portions of the body revealed to distract and confuse.
  
• Makeup to change the look of her eyes, add freckles, moles, etc.
  
• Wigs to alter her hair.
  
• Often hides portions if not all of her face, often uses deep cowls for shadows.
  
• Entirely different mannerisms and body posture.
  
• Uses different languages to mask her accent.
  
• Applies different medicinal treatments to sooth the roughness of her voice.
  
• Will self mutilate for the sake of her disguises believability.
  
• Wields entirely different weapons and applies different fighting styles.
  

[sandcastles]

Water sloshed and left a filmy red residue on the edge of the wash basin. Thin hands clasped a rough cloth and were slowly wiped dry. Gray watched the water slosh back and forth, finding the rhythmic swirls of cleansed blood oddly hypnotic. Her guard dropped, thoughts detached, she didn't hear the soft footsteps that approached until the cold breath tickled the hairs on the back of her neck. The words whispered echoing in the back of her mind forced her eyes shut. Gray was no more in the small inn room in the Six Shields, but elsewhere, in a time passed by. She lurked as a helpless observer in the shadows of memory.

-----

... a long time past, in Waterdeep ...

1360 DR

Emmalynn

It was far too early by the young girls reckoning for her to need to be awake. Yet she was being screamed at and so she quickly scampered off her thin hay-stuffed mattress. Itching all over her back and side she did her best to ignore it as she stumbled her way up the narrow cellar steps and pushed back the heavy oak door. The crisp air of the kitchen burned her throat after her sleep in the dank underground and she began to cough. Immediately she ducked as she staggered forward, just enough to soften the blow that clipped the top of her head and rolled past.

"Getcher ungrateful backside inter the common room an' fix up tha mess in 'ere. We open fer break'fas in an hour!"

Blindly hurrying to obey in her half asleep state she hurried forward, then suddenly fell flat on her face. The rapacious laughter of her tormentor rattled in the back of her mind as she struggled not to cry. His meaty hand grabbed her by the leg and she heard the cold metal snap of the heavy manacle being released. Her foot tingled as the blood flow increased. She struggled forward though, squirming her way across the floor and pushing herself up immediately, as she knew the price for lingering. In the common room she found one of the other servants, an older woman, hurriedly moving about righting chairs and cleaning off tabletops.

'He said breakfast' the girl thought as she painfully bent to pick up a chair. It was no wonder she was tired, she'd been working well into the night. They had another morning girl. Unless.. well, she didn't want to think of reasons why the timid and frail morning girl might be missing. Doing her best to ignore the protests of her body she made her way about the room, gathering a wide scrub brush and bucket of grimy soap water to scrape up vomit that coated a section of the floor. 'At least I'll get some food then'. She smiled as she plucked the blessing out of the torment. Her mother always told her that there was good in just about everything and so long as she looked for it there wouldn't be a day that would go by in misery. Despite the circumstances that surrounded her the young lady's blue eyes were bright to match the smile that rested on her filthy emaciated face. 'Maybe even a bit of sausage!' she dared to hope.

"Emmalynn! Get over here girl, and help me with this. Come on, don't dawdle," called the older woman.

"Yes Malinda, I'll be right there," Emma called back, pushing her bucket aside and taking a quick moment to tuck back her rebellious hair. The thick black strands never seemed to want to stay in her pony tail, always haphazardly tumbling free in her face.

She hurried over to Malinda who waited with an impatient look on her worn face. The woman's tattered threadbare dress was hitched up around her knees and her sleeves were rolled back. Emma's eyes went with some dismay to the issue at hand. Sprawled half under a back table was a body. On its side the rumpled figure rested on a thick stain that coated the floor a deep ruddy brownish red. Immediately Emma fought back bile, looking away to hide her watering eyes.

"Oh come on girl, it's ney the first time. Get 'is legs an' don' drop 'im or we'll have a werse mess than we a'ready do."

-----

Late that night as Emmalynn collapsed onto her mattress she was surprised to encounter Crissabell. The older serving girl was rarely out of the tavern before the wee hours of the night, and her serving rarely had to do with meals and drinks. Something was wrong, proven instantly by Crissabell's hasty approach and urgent whispers.

"Don't ask questions Emma. Just do what I say. Tarl will come soon to find me, he's going to come here cause I took off cryin'. You need to hide by the door. You know how to look small. You don't want him to notice you, Emma. When he comes for me, you need to hit him. Hard. With this." A scraping noise on the floor caused Emma to glance down to the skillet Crissabell passed her. "You hit him right over the head. You just think of all the times he's smacked you, add em all together, and wallop him good. You understand me?"

Emma swallowed hard and nodded as she curled her fingers around the skillet handle. All over her body throbbed from the day's abuses, pinches and slaps, shoves and grabs. She was exhausted beyond sense. And now frightened. She was used to following instructions without hesitation though and she pushed herself back up and numbly shuffled towards the door. 'This will be the end of us all' her mind murmured. Emma tucked carefully against the wall under the stair below the door. It was a narrow crack but as thin as she was she could slip through easily. Her thoughts flashed to her mother who was undoubtedly rushing plates of food from kitchen to tables. Those thoughts were interrupted by the slam of the cellar door being thrown back and heavy boot falls rushing down the stairs. The wooden steps sagged heavily, brushing against Emmalynn's hair as she held her breath.

Emmalynn felt a hand grab her wrist suddenly and knew exactly who held it. In the dark under the stairs, so silent, it had to have been Gray. While Emma cringed at the touch and her heart beat faster she was also relieved. Gray was an enigma to her, but even though the shrouded woman often seemed cold, her actions and words always seemed to shelter Emmalynn. Gray's iron grip forced Emma's hold on the skillet to loosen, and the improvised weapon was given over without a word spoken. Crissabelle may have trusted Emmalynn to the violent task, however both Gray and Emma knew she couldn't do it. She was too weak, too afraid.

"Why you imperta'nin' littl' wench!" Tarl growled angrily as he hastened forward. Focused entirely on the now cowering green eyed Crissabell he didn't have any sense of the danger that was sneaking out right behind him. Even as he reached out to grab his victim he became the victim instead. The resounding 'THWANNGGGGGGGG' echoed painfully even as his inert body tumbled with a heavy thud to the floor. A second heavy 'THWANNGGGG' rang out as the skillet hit the floor, spinning repeatedly before wobbling to a stop next to the unconscious body. Timidly thin figures crept out of the darkness behind Crissabell, as other servants that had been cringing terrified in their filthy bedding edged forward to regard the goings on in mute horror. Gray stepped back into the shadow of the stair even as Emmalynn edged forward.

Crissabell wasted no time however. Ignoring the shocked faces and the trembling moans of terror she swiftly began forcing the massive man over enough to get at the keys on his belt. Within moments all the slaves in the basement were free. Huddled close together they listened to the quick words their apparent savior whispered. Some of them shook harder while others became resolved at her words. Plans of escape. Freedom. Fire. Before doubts could cloud resolve or questions could cause disruption screams began to echo above. They waited only a moment longer before in a rush, all six of the frail slaves rushed up the narrow stairs and burst into the kitchen. Turmoil greeted them as people ran too and fro. Crissabell immediately began moving stealthily around the room, slipping to those servants chained to workstations. The rest, including Emma, joined the rush of bodies running to the common room. While many had buckets, the slaves did not and much to the surprise of the hired workers, the once spineless wretches tripped, shoved, and otherwise did their best to spill those buckets while fleeing.

The common room was ablaze. Flames roiled up the entire stretch of the back wall and licked the ceiling for half the length of the room. Several tables were host to angry infernos fueled by strong alcohol. Crowded as it was, some people were in blind panic smashing out windows for escape, while others scrambled for the door. Drunken men trampled each other. A few sorry cases sat at their tables in stupors so deep they wouldn't notice the danger until they were already alight themselves.

"Ma!," Emma screamed as she pushed her way through the crowd of men. "MA!" Emma knew she hadn't seen her mother in the kitchen. She had to be out here somewhere. The crowd was too thick! The smoke stung her eyes and made them water. "MA!" Her desperate cries went unanswered. Suddenly a firm grip was dragging her away, and dizzy from exhaustion and smoke, Emma couldn't fight it. Crissabell dragged her out into the street and quickly ushered her away into the night, through the confusion of city guard struggling to fight the fire against the flood of drunkards and gamblers trying to escape it.

-----

Several days later Emmalynn stood in a shadowed alcove across the street from the gutted tavern. She hugged herself in a vain attempt to keep warm in the damp evening sea air. The thin tatters of her clothes did little to protect her from the breeze. It wasn't the cold of the air that chilled her though. After searching, calling, asking, and crying, she had failed to find any hint that her mother escaped the blaze. Forlorn, Emmalynn knew that she was alone, something that in all her life she had never been. The rest of the servants had darted off in various directions, not willing to risk chance of being claimed back for old debts. While Emmalynn wasn't sure where to go, she whispered her own goodbyes and turned away.

In a cold shadow under one of the many docks, Emma washed her face with rainwater collected in an old discarded barrel. Despite everything, she grinned at the thought of getting clean. The water sloshed back and forth, almost hypnotically as she inspected her thin hands for residue. Focused as she was, Emma did not hear the silent footsteps approaching until the hot breath tickled the back of her neck. Words spoken in a whisper that echoed in her mind as her eyes shut, both frightened and comforted by Gray's bitter sounding assurance.

"Don'cher werry Emmalynn. Ye ain' as 'lone as ye thin'."

[sandcastles]

... in the Present ...

A shrouded figure had sat alone for hours while nursing a cup of tea that was never sipped from. Though often the mug was lifted to lip, a scarf and filmy veil barred the passage of the spicy drink, though it seemed the aroma still offered some measure of enjoyment. In truth this was a long practiced ritual of the gray garbed woman, a silent homage to a grave left behind with no marker, a private offering to the skeleton rattling in the closet in hopes to keep it quiet.

Her throat ached. Gray had been telling lies aloud of late, as well as in silence. She was certain now that she had escaped vengeance himself after leaving him her own gift of retribution. Gray wasn't done though, and as she brooded silently, she took a quiet satisfaction in savoring the memory of hot blood spilled from pristine flesh, perfection ruined with the twist of a blade. More would come, treacherous liars by nature would be stripped of life, even as Emmalynn had been. The thought of Emma caused Gray to clench her teeth under her veil, and slam her mug down, hot tea spilling out across the table and her fingers, seemingly unnoticed.

---

Tea cold and set aside, Gray listened to the people around her as she recovered from a long day spent playing games. Something someone had said to her was rattling loudly in the back of her mind. It was a painful memory, a haunting voice that begged and pleaded to be heard. With a dry swallow, Gray pushed the skeleton back behind her mind's eye and strode out of the inn.

'... People are like traps, you just have to figure out how to unravel them.'

[sandcastles]

... in the past ...

1361-1364 DR

Emmalynn

Emmalynn had found life on the streets of Waterdeep exciting more than anything else. The vast plethora of sights and sounds were a never ending cascade of adventure in which she flourished. There were times, of course, when she was afraid, hungry, and found herself crying, yet those were the times Gray would appear, with her sharp words and bitter determination. Emma could count on the mysterious and taciturn woman to keep away the worst of hurts, the coldest nights and the threat of hunger. The better times though, which were many, passed without ever seeing her shadow of a companion, and so Emmalynn roamed about with a cheerful abandon, enticed by the stories and rumors, until the day she decided she wanted to have a true adventure. So it was that Emma walked away from Waterdeep intent on finding her way to Cormyr.

If anything though, Emma proved to be a haphazard traveler, more often than not joining random caravans and adventuresome troops on the road regardless of where they were headed. Emma lost her map and her way more than once and on stretches where she was alone, Emmalynn knew hunger and fear. Gray was absent it seemed, and as time passed, Emma came to believe her cold guardian had remained in the great city. Luck seemed to always scrape her by, coming across a sign or helpful travelers to keep her journey moving ever onwards. Others would often benefit from Emma's passing. A young hunter was overjoyed to find the bow she'd misplaced, as he'd broken his own. A wayfarer found her campsite, including her bedroll, a fine reprieve after having taken a tumble while fording a creek. He was a bit surprised when no one returned to claim them. Though he'd ponder the dire reasons, in truth, distracted by an exciting encounter while she was looking for firewood, she'd taken to walking with a group of folk and had simply forgotten.

Eventually, half starved and without a penny in her pocket yet still overly cheerful, Emmalynn found herself in the beautiful city of Silverymoon. Over her shoulder, she thought there was a presence that watched her, but in looking about, Emma could find no one that paid her particular mind.

In deeper shadows, Gray watched the youth wander through the gates, knowing again she would be needed, for the city was no place for the innocent, and Emma was nothing but innocent.

[sandcastles]

... in the past ...

1365 DR - 1367

Gray

Emmalynn was crying. Gray watched silently, twisting cold in rage. The girl couldn't hear her, wouldn't hear her. The tangle of events that had caught Emma were destroying the girl day by day as she pined and clung to a need for something Gray could not fight. It was maddening, and in the dark where none could hear her, Gray seethed and swore, and insisted that people were traps, liars, deceivers. Emma heard those whispers when she was alone and suffering from doubt and confusion, yet when so much was in turmoil, Emmalynn refused to seek comfort even in Gray's cold embrace.

The girl had made friends, surrounded herself with people and their promises, and left herself open to their treachery. Some wooed Emmalynn, some read her poems, and more than one promised to stay, friends forever. A knight said he would always be by her side, and yet he vanished. A woman said she cared about her friends, yet told their secrets despite the harm it would cause. Yet it was her mentor that hurt Emma the most. Emmalynn fell in love with that one, an aloof and evasive elven ranger, and each day he came to her, she became more and more devoted. He was cunning, sly, and he accepted her adoration without returning it. He embraced her on the nights it fancied him, trained her in archery on days he had the time, and abandoned her without word or consideration when he was distracted. He bid her to love him only if she would accept that he would not love her back, and so Emma did. And day by day it destroyed her.

Gray hated him, for he was the wall between herself and Emmalynn. He was the poison that closed the young woman's ears and swept her away on mad dashes from joy to deep depression. Gray lurked in the shadows of frustration as Emmalynn wore her fingers to the bone practicing with her bow to please the elf that would never care. Gray clenched her teeth as the girl spoke praises of the source of her greatest pain. Then came the day that Emmalynn did something no one could have expected. Death came for her mentor and the heartsick girl decided to jump right into its way.

[sandcastles]

... in the present ...

Gray

Gray stood behind the mirror and observed her features, pushing a teasing smile onto her lips as she forced herself to express amusement. For a moment the expression remained, then faded back into a cool look of indifference. A minute passed and she forced the smile back onto her lips. Practice would make perfect, or near enough, anyway.

On her bed lay several different outfits. Carefully tailored, each represented a different person, crafted to lend a different shape to her body, each leaving her revealed, yet hidden in plain sight.

The green sleeveless tunic with matching leggings and sturdy bracers went with a woven cloak and hood with bandana--the outfit of a cheerful ranger whose bright eyes smiled over the cloth that hid her lower face. Daggers and throwing knives were the trademark weapons, sure sign of a quick fighter and sure aim.

The frilled blue spaghetti strap dress with its flowing forearm slips went with a purple mantle that matched the dress's highlights, its large hood providing a deep shadow even in the best of light, and her raven hair pulled down to frame her face further lent mystery to her features. This noble woman was haughty, with severe expressions that would make her face seem lean when enough light framed the edges, the look of an aristocrat.

A skimpy honey golden outfit, a tight corset and short skirt with white borders made her skin seem pale, accented further by the long silk white gloves. Topped by a white mantle and light hood that covered her hair, her face paint was of rosy cheeks and pink lips. Except for a dagger strapped to one bare thigh, she otherwise bore no weapons, though wind pipes were evident in her belt. A bard surely, or a dancer, for with her lithe figure her graceful swaying movements were ever enticing.

Then there was the long black skirt highlighted in red, the top no more than a sash to cover her chest. Pale golden arm bands for her biceps and fingerless gloves. A charcoal mantle lined with blood red was deep and within it an ivory mask that could be pulled down, a faceless visage with two dramatic eye slits and a red scar down the left side. The golden studded belt that cinched the robe held a vicious rapier in sheath on one hip and a cruel dagger on the other. With them went a longbow of redwood wrapped with black cloth to match the red fletched arrows. The outfit left taught abdominal muscles exposed and the arm bands accented the shape of her strong arms; well suited to the large bow that was never out of the archer's reach. The colors of the cowl along with a bit of face make-up made her features gaunt and angry, the fierce gaze of a predator glinting in determined blue eyes.

Each of these made up individuals who would play their parts in days to come. For the moment Gray bent and gathered her bland unassuming robes and fit them on, taking several minutes to wind her hands into the soft cloth. Then she tied her scarf over her nose and draped the large veil over her head to hang overlapping the scarf, drifting down her back. Then her heavy cloak that further added shaplessness, drawing up the cowl to pin the gauzy veil in place. Gray was nothing like the people she made with colored cloth and face paint. No. Gray was a figment, the cold haze of fog and false impressions that hid the monster just beyond the watcher's vision. She hid away daggers and gathered her shortbow and slipped down the stairs. It was time to listen again. Time to find prey.

[sandcastles]

... In the past, in Silverymoon ...

1366 DR

Emmalynn

Emmalynn was distinctly unlucky.

Born a human, cursed by fate, she was hopelessly destined to fall short before her feet ever found their way to the ground.

Nothing in her perilous upbringing was enough to give her a shield for this. Her heart leaped up in hopes to soar only to find untested wings too weak and wet to catch wind. Desperately grasping for purchase in the thermals of cherished affection, it found only icy clouds to sharpen the sting of its deathly descent.

"You are not what I need," were the simple words that shattered her bright hopes into a myriad of scattered fading motes that died like fireflies to the warm glow of flame. How could she ever be enough? Worthless little wench Emma who couldn't even tend a table properly. Who was she to think she could ever be anything to someone like him? How could she, so weak and insignificant, no more than a slave, and a rotten one at that, ever give comfort to an elf lord?

Emmalynn had been angry, she had been sad, she had been elated and excited, she had been a myriad of emotions spanning from the fright of the fugue to the joy of hitting her first bullseye. A sickening empty swell rose up like bile inside.

Luck, if anything, was a lie. Gray watched from the shadows, but Emma wouldn't look her way.

But then there was a glimmer of hope. A turn of phrase made on bitter tongue to strike the mourning pyres aflame drew instead the reaching arms of explanations and reasons that could be made into something just tangible enough to snatch a hold of.

"I will share this much with you, but no more."

In that moment the embers born to burn down dreams were turned aside and set down amidst coals where they would alight a smouldering warmth. Emma grasped for that thread with tenacity and coiled it about her fingers with a rapid dexterity befitting one in danger of being swept away by the tides. That narrow strand would snake down from her fist and wrap her wrist, a sure hold that would lift her up from the swirling maw of emotional oblivion that had threatened to swallow her whole. Rescued from the brink, Emmalynn found herself fleeing the edge with a reckless abandonment that left her breathless.

There was a quiet lull, the storm of wants and needs passed, to leave a warm sense of contentment Emma never knew she could experience. In the quiet morn that dawned, a peace would steal into her heart, leaving her finally understanding some of those vague concepts that bards sang about so frequently. There were faint lines drawn that were perhaps important but nothing seemed as pivotal to Emmalynn as the smile she awoke to. A distant future held no substance with the whimsical girl, and she grasped onto this beautiful now with a glad eagerness that diminished all the concerns that had swirled about her in the passing days.

Yet even as she let herself be swept along, a cold voice echoed in the dark of nights, a cold and bitter warning that would one day prove devastatingly insightful.

"He gives ye his passion, Emmalynn, bu' ney 'is 'eart nor 'is care. 'e'll turn on ye an' leave ye withou' a glance back, an then ye'll be bac' cryin' ter me, an' ye be'er 'ope I'm goin' ter be willin' ter lis'sen."

[sandcastles]

...in the present....

Gray

Lenka's throat was easy to slit. The green garbed girl with all her throwing knives was made and destroyed in a matter of days, and as Gray watched the embers of the fire in her private room consume the remnants, a sinister smile of satisfaction curled the corners of her lips. Everything had gone exactly as planned.

"I must warn you, for your name has been spoken to dangerous people by an elf that wished to trade your life for the sake of his own," she had said in dry elven, her breath thick with the scent of soothing honey.

After Lenka had brought her supposed words of warning to the amber eyed warrioress, words truly meant to do no more than plant the seeds of doubt and betrayal, the ranger claimed to depart to the north, but truthfully only into the oblivion that was Gray's careful plot. Elves could not, should not, be trusted. Now there was one more that knew that truth.

Then it was the Guide. Charcoal blacks and reds, a sinister bow and an utter silence were the hallmarks of the slave that would emerge for the next task, leaving the persona of Gray unfettered. While Spider stalked into the depths under the earth, there was a fictional battle played, questions asked in the mystery of silence, and murder done. Lenka died by poison and a knife without ever having lived, and while Gray murdered her the Slave led the companions that would learn of these things deep and back again.

When Gray returned to them, Spider having vanished into the throngs of Llork, she told them of the things Lenka had learned, impressions of the foe they believed to have in the amber-eyed warrior. Questions expected were answered; she had gleaned this information from a scout whom she saw meeting with the amber eyed woman. After stalking her some to the north the trap was set, and the prey caught. The scout was dead now, murdered once all to be had was learned.

Each visage masked the next, providing a time and a place, an excuse to be in three places at once. None could question it.

As the embers died Gray's smile faded. With one disguise used so quickly she'd have to fashion the next to take its place. And there was so much more to do. Her hunt had gone poorly. Distracted by the matters of the motley assortment of associates she had been testing, Gray had yet to find a kill. It had been weeks since she had arrived and an angry dull throb echoed in the back of her mind. It sounded like someone pounding on a door. A ghost desperate to be heard. A skeleton seeking to claw its way out of the closet.

Thud, Thud, Thud.

Gray drew up her scarf and pulled down her veil. It was time to go hunting, before that sweet soft voice got any louder.

... "When you like someone, they're a friend, don't you think? You like them, don't you? Couldn't you have a friend?"

[sandcastles]

... in the present ...

Gray

As Gray sat in her tidy inn room, she calmly shredded a parchment. Piece by piece the letter was fed to the single burning candle that dimly lit the room. As the last scrap crumbled into ash, she blew out the candle and sat in the darkness, her fists silently clenching as she fought the seething rage.

".. he sacrificed himself for you.." Those words rang in her ears and she hated them. Hated the lie.

".. It would be better if you stayed away.." He spoke as if to protect her from a doom only he could predict. She hated him for it, the lie of his affection. A lie he couldn't see through, even though she could.

People were always making bonds, claiming ties, forging chains to one another. Yet the truth was that these subtle connections were no more than self sanctioned submissions to slavery, self sacrifice expected of those tied by ephemeral notions stronger than solid steel collars. Each leash held would be pulled taut, insistent and demanding, until the day came inevitably when the lead would be severed. People used people, and people let people go when they no longer suited. That was the true nature of relationships. Gray slammed her fist against the table once, then again, snarling viciously as she rose to lean into the blows, pummeling the wood until her knuckles were a mess of blood and splinters, struggling to drown out the whispers of the ghost that haunted her.

"... People hurt people. I can help people."

... in the past ....

1366 DR

Emmalynn

Staring at the ceiling above her, Emmalynn had the strangest notion that it was staring back. The bed she lay on was like a sea and she had sunk into it with the vague notion of drowning amidst the turmoil that had enveloped her day. The deep and dreamless sleep that overtook her was a blessing and a curse. Emma woke alert yet feeling hollow, lacking any motivation to rise and see the day, and had simply lain in still silence for the passing of an hour. Rolling slowly onto her back she dully noted that the usual spots of pain were only vague shadows of their typical ferocity. Emmalynn wasn't sure if it was due to her mentors ministrations or if it was simply part of the bottomless sensation that kept her from rising. A hollow cold voice seemed to whisper in the dark, but Emma didn't want to listen, least of all to Gray who would only tell her painful things she didn't want to hear.

"Fol's jes' use 'chother, Emmalynn...

If people were like traps, they were certainly the trickiest type of trap there was. Real traps quietly waited, biding their time, and left you alone unless you were silly enough to bother them. Uncannily people seemed to flail about recklessly hoping to be stepped on. They would open their mouths and seemingly ask consequences to come hurtling down. Emmalynn's sense of loyalty would prove to disassemble one such outreaching individual. Trap sprung in secrets shared, the recourse had been both long and trying. While Emma felt a profound guilt for the misery the woman suffered she knew there was no way around it. The truth was simply the truth, and trust was a lot like a promise, not to be broken. It seemed obvious to Emmalynn, yet the turmoil that had come to a boil around her proved that perhaps honesty wasn't as straightforward as it seemed. Emma was glad that peace had been made yet she couldn't help but feel that she had failed miserably to sidestep what could have been disarmed in a better fashion. She had only spoken the truth. Wasn't that supposed to be a good thing? She wasn't going to tell lies after all. That thought brought a voice flitting up from the back of her mind.

"Goodbye Emma."

Echoing in her head those words told her that sometimes friendship was a lie. Wrapped around promised affection was the tight grip of abandonment. Emmalynn had many friends in passing over the year gone by, but until Silverymoon her attachments were as transient as the wind. She would wander off when her attention was taken and while she might recall fond moments, there was no true sense of loss along her course. Emma of course understood the loss of death in those fellow servants that had perished in the Pitt but she had never been betrayed by a friend. A whimsical traveler, the true fact was, that Emmalynn was a stranger to the true concept of friendship. Grasping at the notion Emma was quick to like those around her, especially those that she adventured with. There was an expectancy in her that friends were people you liked, and everyone you liked was probably therefore your friend, and she found it difficult to accept that people could then turn away from that. The bone man had been a rude awakening. Not all friends were really friends--sometimes they might seem nice, but they were nothing but liars. The Knight though was another matter entirely. He had written deepest affections on parchment tied with wishes for words spoken kindly. Yet every time they spoke, his words would turn to venom. Emma liked him a great deal even though she didn't agree with how sour he could be. He was fun, brave, and seemed a fantastic person. Well, aside from his obsession with horses and his constant poor words about her mentor. Despite those ripples, she still thought of the Tormtar as a friend. Yet even after claiming to care, he turned and walked away. Something inside Emmalynn unraveled as she realized that dying wasn't the only way to lose people. It hurt so profoundly that she had screamed, heedless of the rest of the Inn, knowing only that this was the meaning of betrayal.

"You're a LIAR."

After that revelation she had fled in tears to the room in which she now lay, miserable in the dark, and desperate to shake the bitter feeling that accompanied the knowledge that Gray's silent judgement was right. People made ties and broke them as readily the weather changed. With a silent sob Emmalynn dragged a pillow over her head and pressed it against her ear, hoping to silence the resentful scathing whispers that demanded she stop fooling herself into thinking there were friends to be had and people to love. The world couldn't be so cold. It was just too painful to live thinking that way. Too alone.

[sandcastles]

... in the past...

1366 DR

Emmalynn

Emmalynn didn't practice. Emmalynn didn't eat. Emmalynn didn't smile.

Instead she sat by the water, leaned against cold stone, letting the ache of it seep into her bones. She was tired but did not sleep. She was lonely but did not seek. Instead she dwelt in silence. Emma wore that silence like a blanket in the dark of the night and the world itself might have forgotten that she remained. Emmalynn may have forgotten herself as well for her thoughts rested steadily on others.

The elves had shared so many words. She shared so few. They talked around her. Emmalynn, as always, had listened and wondered what it would be like to be able to speak. This was her trap. Surrounded by things she didn't understand, Emma knew her escape from the turmoil would be found in remaining unnoticed and forgotten. And it was more than that. The words spoken held deep meaning. Something was starting to sink in. Each of them left with their concerns aired. She stayed. Littered about her were fine filaments of snapped copper trapping wire.

"What's a friend?" She asked of the last remaining.

"I like to think it is what we've been all this time," he responded.

It seemed to Emmalynn that friends were the people that claimed to care while forgetting about you. The folks that would tell you something nice or listen to what you said only to turn around and use those words to spring devastating traps around others. Friends were the people that smiled at you while they readied the twist of the knife. Friends were liars, Gray had whispered, so quietly that only she could hear.

"Then I don't want any friends."

There was only one person that mattered to Emmalynn. Her mentor would come and go as he pleased and she knew now how little she meant to him. Yet he would still smile in briefly shared moments. That was the only reason she stayed. Emma was steadfast in her honesty, even to herself, and as the truth was made clear, she resigned herself to its fate. They had called her his puppy dog. They decided her feelings for her. The warden himself set a clear boundary she was not to cross. So she sat in the quiet and accepted what was. When the son had spoken of how her heart would surely be broken he had failed to realize a painful truth. Emmalynn's heart was already broken. Bound to find her joy in giving joy to another, a man who would never return the sentiment, she was trapped in a cage of her own innocent making. Yet Emmalynn did not rail against those bars. She looked upon them with a mournful smile, knowing that at least while she sat so confined, she could still reach out and do her best to give the warden reason to take brief respite from his hardships. Emma would gladly be sad and alone for the rest of her life for the simple sake of the tiny chances she might have to reach between the bars and give him something to smile about, albeit briefly. For while it had been forbidden it had always been too late. Emmalynn had loved the elf since the day they had met on the roadside. And that simple truth would never change. Over the water she could hear words spoken softly, but she let the gurgling flow drown them out. She didn't want to hear.

".. yer lettin' 'em destroy ye, Emmalynn, why ain' yer lis'sen ter me? I ain' ev'r lie te ye, ye nee' ter see tha' 'e's killin' ye.."

[sandcastles]

... in the past ...

1367 DR

Gray

She was a helpless observer. She was a guardian bereft of a shield. She was a protector chained to a wall watching her ward be strangled to death. As much as Gray screamed, raged, pleaded and whispered Emmalynn would not hear. As often as her cold words rang true, they were pushed aside, ignored for the sake of a hope that had no truth.

Gray watched the elven Warden lead Emmalynn down a road of teasing passion, and gritted her teeth as the girl lapped it up, clinging to every thread dangled with cunning cruelty, strung along from one lie to the next with a sickeningly obvious want for more. More than just that, the other companions that Emma cultivated, elves most often, were prone to all manner of betrayal. In one single conversation even Gray was shocked at the audacity presented by once such 'friend'.

"I love you, Emmalynn, I won't leave you," the elf chimed, pledging his care to comfort her tears at yet another betrayal by her mentor.

Yet in mere moments the knife was twisted, the elf seeing he would gain no lusty response, no eager embrace.

"The Emmalynn I know is dead, you won't see me again." Had Gray not been so carefully hidden away she would have slipped a blade betwixt his ribs right then and there, but as it was she was forced to watch him stalk away as she listened to Emmalynn's labored breathing as she struggled not to cry.

The girl was always crying now. Each promise made and broken sent her into fits of despondency. The puzzle book she loved taunted her with so many pages untouched, after having been so excited to work on them with the Warden that swore he would visit and do them with her. And then the worst of it all, when another had informed her of the reason for the long absence the Warden had taken from the cities of men.

"He's married to an elf of the woods. Well, mated, he said, but it means the same thing."

Gray would have laughed if Emmalynn hadn't been so completely ruined by that single statement. Instead Gray grew silent, cautious, and intent on the seething rage that had overtaken the girl. This could be her chance. Perhaps Emma would listen now. Surely this proved the nature of the liar she loved. For the elf claimed he would never love, yet off he was, binding himself to another so shortly after telling Emma that he would return to her. Ah, liar, liar, blood afire, burning hopes and dreams upon the pyre.

Gray whispered in the night, and spoke from the shadows, urging Emma to come to grips with the truth, to open her eyes to the lies, and accept that people hurt people, and trust was a blade to the heart. That love was a poison that would kill her unless she spat it out. Instead, Gray watched in shock as Emmalynn swallowed.

An enemy came, seeking the Warden, a cult of dragon worshipers that tied their promises to the undead. They sought to use the girl to bring him out, and when she told them he would never come, for he did not care, they told her that guilt was a powerful weapon. It was a cunning trap, and Gray winced as Emmalynn fell right into it. Gray screamed at her for being stupid enough to believe, to hope, that the Warden would come. If he was guilty, he did care. If he cared, that was all Emmalynn needed.

And he did come.

Upon the field he was a sinister glory, the black robes that were cinched at his waist dark as the night he stood in, his matching mantle and deep cowl a stark contrast to the blood red feathers that rose up over his shoulder--the fletching that marked his deadly arrows. Upon his chest was the intricately tattooed symbol of Sheverash, and his face covered by an ivory mask adorned by a single red scar across the left eye.

Gray watched in cold anticipation as Emmalynn ran towards him, her captors not bothering to keep her bound. She was screaming desperately for him to flee, so glad to see him, yet terrified too, for Emma had discovered what was to come. Yet it came all too soon, before Emmalynn could reach him. The bone dragon landed, and bellowed a single damning statement; a statement that rung true to the girl even though she had strove to warn the Warden away and stop him from coming to aid her.

"Well done, child."

Then it began to move, shifting its massive body towards the Warden. It was then that Emmalynn did what Gray never would have anticipated. A futile gesture, a hopeless and insane decision made by a tormented heart desperate to prove it's devotion in the face of what must seem a terrible betrayal. More than one voice echoed in the night, screaming the same phrase.

The elf commandingly, sharp and angry, knowing death would follow.
Gray, horrified, knowing this would be the end.
Emmalynn, in hysterics, wishing only to save the elf from the trap that she blamed on herself.

"No!"

Gray's world went dark then as she tried to knock Emmalynn aside. Emmalynn's voice was silenced with a single snap of vicious jaws. The battle that followed was unknown to them, but somewhere in cold gray silence two figures stared at each other as they listened to a whisper that urged them back.

"I won' le' ye, Emmalynn. Yer te' weak, yer jes' goin' ter suffer. Loo' wha' ye did ter us wit' yer foo'ish heart.'
I'm goin' ter help ye 'he only way I can, fer ye ain' hear me ney more. 'm doin' ye a mercy, an' ye shou' than' me fer ih. 'm 'elpin' you Emmalynn, s'time ye leh go."

Emmalynn's tears did nothing to stop Gray as she drove her loathing blade into the girl's soul, leaving her squirming in the haze, desperately trying to crawl towards the voices while Gray strode ahead, letting the distant call urge her back to the land of the living.

Emmalynn never came back, but when Gray looked in the mirror of her inn room, she saw the girl's face, the lingering sadness in blue eyes, the dimples of a once frequent smile and the faint crease of a newly found constant frown. She had struck the mirror with such force that it completely shattered, glass scattering about the room, deep cuts marring her knuckles. Terrified, Gray had looked in more mirrors that night, seeing again and again the visage of a face she had left buried in the fugue. Emma was haunting her, as plain as day, and anyone that looked at her face would surely know what Gray had done. That night Gray had found herself a gauzy veil and thick scarf, and devised a heavy set of robes that masked her figure. No one could see. No one could know. It was a lie anyway, for in truth, she hadn't killed Emmalynn. The Warden had. And he would pay.

[sandcastles]

... in the present...

Spider

She wore the collar of a slave and bore the resentment of one long abused plainly upon her visage. Her tongue throbbed and mouth ached from the sharp silver barbs that bound her in silence. A creature of malice made in the reflection of one she had both cherished and loathed, Spider was two parts lie, three parts truth, bound together with insidious intelligence.

It was a dangerous game she played, exposing her face yet masking it, constantly wearing a sinister expression that turned faint dimples of the past into the sharp edges of a cruel smirk. A narrow eyed glare bunched her cheeks and added a sharp line betwixt her brow, further burying the notion of a once cheerful visage into one of continual suspicion and anger. Such hateful expressions rested easily upon her face, for it was no farce, Spider had to only glance at her own garb to seethe with a feral rage, as she wore the garb of a murderer. Her murderer. The one that killed Emmalynn.

Spider could recall days of Emmalynn's life, dark times long past in a home made of chains and brutal punishment. She could picture the girl curled on her hands and knees under a chair while a slender figure of black skin and silver hair issued venomous demands in a spidery tongue. In the darkest under rooms of The Pitt narrow passages reached into the world below, and from there dealers of sinister goods and dark deeds came calling. It was the fate of slaves to serve and obey silently, acting as both hostages if valuable enough, and translators if clever enough to learn the languages. Such was to be Emmalynn's use, for even at a young age she was quick to pick up the tongues spoken around her. Spider flinched at the memory of the kiss of the scourge upon Emma's flesh and brought her attention to the present.

Gray had needed eyes to see what she could not. Gray needed to offer something attached yet independent of herself, a force that could be considered volatile enough to turn on yer, yet was indefinitely loyal despite all appearances. A tool that would help seed doubt and encourage betrayal. So she wove a tapestry, taking bits of the bitter past, elaborating on facts to create a believable, if exotic, fiction. Thus Spider was born. Spider shared all of Grays aspects, but Gray gave Spider aspects of her own, and bit by bit she was made into an intricate persona that came alive each time the cruel tongue ring was threaded into place. Yet while it stilled her tongue the cruel device did not leave her without plenty to say.

It was an intricate challenge that she found herself enjoying. The consideration put into each gesture, the satisfaction of seeing the puzzle unraveled. It was easier to lie with no voice, but equally hard to be truthful. The wizard was the keenest of them, quick to pick up on her more convoluted displays whereas Acca was apt to become frustrated or miss her meaning. She found a barbaric Shameness entirely entertaining, especially when her simple gestures wore a rift between the tribal and one of her companions. That she could incite such discordance without a spoken word would have made Spider laugh, but she dared not for risk of further damage to the already tender roof of her mouth.

The web she danced upon the most though was one of venomous seduction. Spider loathed people in general, but men in particular were a sore spot. Yet she vied for their attention, craved the note of appeal in their eyes, the huskyness of their voices when she swayed just so. It quickened her blood to tease them, drawing close, and satisfied her immensely to witness their shock and hurt when she slipped away, often violently, leaving them empty armed and cold lipped. More and more she enjoyed plying one against the other, her whims as much as happenstance dictating the arm she would hang off, but in the end she always slipped away without giving more than a teasing kiss, or a cruel touch of her cutting tongue, the sharp metal leaving it's mark on unsuspecting throats and cheeks.

But then something happened that Spider didn't expect. He had strong arms, and his desire was a fire alight in his eyes. She found herself without an escape, at the mercy of her own cruel intentions, when a shiver of terror crept up her spine.

"I don't ever want anyone else to love me, just him, only him."

It was a terrified pleading, a child that had known only known one lover amidst a world of abusive captors, and Spider was overwhelmed by the utter torment that carried on that silent cry. It nearly shattered her meticulously kept demeanor, and enraged she tried to respond to the one who held her with an ardent passion. Yet he knew, she knew he knew, for he suddenly pushed her away. His words were many. She heard few.

"You should go."

Spider knew he saw her. Quick as a snake she lashed out, striking his face. When he tried to stop her escape she turned, twisting like an eel out of his grasp, a dagger quick to hand and thrown with little care to aim. She was bitterly furious, but also frightened. If Spider was caught with the corpse, Gray would be as well. She slipped out as rapidly as she could, not pausing to consider what she left behind, and slammed the door. Her flight from Llorkh was swift, taking her back to a quiet refuge of stone and trees in the wild. There Spider was laid down for rest and Gray sat silently in her place. Healing tonics sipped slowly gave rise to a single muttering as the vague figure huddled next to dull embers of a poorly tended fire.

"Now 'ow am I ter fix yer mess 'is tim', Emmalynn? What'cher thin' yer doin', showin' yer face?"

[sandcastles]

... in the past ...

1366 DR

Emmalynn

"...You are angry because you feel frustrated and powerless.
As you look at the world you do not understand why it works the way it works.
You sit before a puzzle so complex your every attempt to understand it has only blown up in your face."

Those were the words of the son who looked so much like his father. Elves a hundred years apart yet nigh identical. Emmalynn smiled a cold smile as she walked her way down the dingy lane.

"You can help people now. You can make a difference."

Those were the words of the father, spoken in a commanding tone when she had given into a sense of futility. Despite all the praise for her swift learning she gleaned from others he was swift to disassemble her pride, turning her success into a debt to others.

As Emmalynn stalked the streets the words of the son mixed with the words of the father twisting intent and purpose into a dedication that boiled with a dangerous fervor. Gray whispered in the dark, from the shadows of archways, keeping hidden from all but Emma. A sinister suggestion subtly played in Emmalynn's frustrated mind. People hurt people. People were traps. Her mentor had asked her what one should do with a trap that was too complicated. While she initially cautioned that they should be left alone Emmalynn considered another option. A trap could be set off carefully and made to destroy itself. Destroyed traps couldn't hurt anyone else. Neither could destroyed people by that logic.

"When they take, take back from them."
"I don't want you to think about what I want."
"When they hurt, hurt them back."
"I want you to think about what you want."
"When they kill, kill them in turn."
"You'll always lose, Emmalynn. Shouldn't they lose too?"

[sandcastles]

...in the present...

Gray

Notes. Little letters. Slipped into pocket, shoved into hand. A deceptive way to let them know she was watching. A pointed way of reminding them that they couldn't see her unless she wanted them to. Yet the tables were turned. The little parchment she toyed with was not one she wrote, nor intended to deliver. It had been delivered to her and she had not been aware. It was a warning she could appreciate. A subtle suggestion she could recognize and heed. She was a stranger in Llorkh, and though she had goals and intentions, there were steps to take, dues to make, and respects to pay.

Gray was a methodical person at heart, and though she did not doubt there would be times that she would have need to slip around the constraints of the powers that may be, her self professed professionalism demanded her attention. As such she did not act, and instead waited. She stalked and watched, but never gave chase. She lingered in a dozen guises, walked the streets as a pomp noblewoman and shuffled alleyways as a grubby beggar. She sipped wine and quaffed ail and sat at the tables of elves but spilled no blood.

"We know your desires."

Who could know? Who had told them? What had they witnessed or heard?

"We know of you"

What could they know? Had stories passed lips all the way from Everlund and Silverymoon of the scattered corpses she had left to taunt the elf, who swore his life in the defense of his pathetic people? Let him weep blood over the bodies that bore her mark, carved into flesh in a mocking twisted style after his very own tattoo. She had fled, whisking away after her sudden assault. The time spent in the cities had given her a keen knowledge of the inns and outs, but she knew she stood no chance if she remained. She had left her message and escaped as swiftly as the night would allow. What words escaped with her? Had she somehow been identified? The Warden was cunning but he would have kept the matter with the elves, silent, secret, spiteful. So what was it? What secret did they have? Or was it only a bluff? With these people, people of silence and shadows, it was impossible to know.

A cold chill itched along Grays spine. Did they know about her? Did someone trace Emmalynn's disappearance and tack it onto her trail? Who could know what happened in that secret haze? Who could have seen when she could not, when the only things that existed in what seemed like an endless void were her and that insufferably heartbroken girl? Grays fingers clenched, crushing the letter in her palm.

"Do not cross us.,"

Gray had no intentions of crossing the illusive figures that ruled from the depths of the night, from secret and lingering threat. She was not a creature of partnership, nor teamwork, but business was a term she related to well. A cold and formal structure that insisted on times and places. So she waited, trying to mollify her impatience with distractions.

She had a distraction, a true one, that fit her calling. Lethal poison. A delicacy fit for a king. Cloth wrapped fingers flipped open a book in the back recesses of the Loudwater Library. Herbology was a lengthy study, but she had time to fill.

[sandcastles]

... in the present ...

Gray

In the snow and the cold Gray hunched, willing her body to overcome the wracking shudders that accompanied each gust of wind as she struggled along. The glacier was treacherous, a damnable place she never should have come to. Yet she was there, and so she had little choice but to slog along.

Everything had been well enough until the fortress of ice, worked into the side of the mountain. Gray had urged against it, but the wizard was as ever, eager to go spelunking for whatever lore might be found. What a fool. His inability to grovel had sealed their fates, trying to talk down to a malevolent creature that had likely seen centuries or more. Would it have been so demeaning to bow the knee just once? Of course it would, so instead of being humble the wizard had tried to convince the undead arcanist that there was use in the flesh, use that hadn't been recognized since the being had shed it's own skin.

Gray knew better. As soon as the wizard had opened her mouth she was on the move, plotting, planning. If she could make a sacrifice of the wizard to the lich perhaps it would convince the creature, if only out of amusement, to be lenient. She would have no qualms with grovelling, she merely needed the chance. The ancient had egos of thick heavy coals, ever burning, but they always brightened when stoked. Elves taught her that. Surely it applied to other long lived creatures.

Things though happened too fast, the assault sudden, sending the warrior scrambling away in terror. Gray sprang into a dead run, and cursing as she did, sipped a potion. As lich unleashed death in the background, Gray grit her teeth and ran faster. This was the wizards fault. He'd pay with his corpse and maybe that would buy back the warrior. Even if it didn't it would be worth the pleasure of seeing him on his knees.

He couldn't see her coming as he fled. Gray was surprised at the haste he managed to make, it lacked his typical hubris, and made him seem more a man than ever. Less a calculated statue. Less of an investment in the future. His pace was no match for hers, less intent on fleeing for her life, and more intent on ending his as she was. Her invisibility potion coupled by his lack of heed to his heels allowed for the perfect strike. A sudden slam to his calve sent him sprawling and her blades found their way home, sinking into the flesh again and again, working rapidly to overcome whatever meager magics he had left upon him.

Disaster struck Gray as quickly as she had struck the wizard. Blue scales, and the scent of burnt flesh, suddenly she was forced to flee. Another potion, swift as a cat, she drank, but the creature had her scent and the snow offered her footprints readily enough. The wizard's body was appeared innert at a glance, so Gray ran, dodging and ducking through the terrain until she was finally able to confuse her tracks enough to leave the beast lost in the white expanse.

When she could finally return the body was gone. No wizard. Just a few scuffs in the snow, obscured by the wind and whitefall that rained down in a lazy haze. A white, cold, nothingness. In the gathering dark it seemed gray. Gray like that endless realm where Emmalynn laid buried.

That changed everything. So as Gray lurked carefully along the icy glacier she pondered two things. How and if she could recover the warrior with no soul to offer in trade. How she would deal with the wizard who was most certainly alive. He was a keen hand at tending to injuries and his intellect sharp as a knife. It was a sure bet he would be able to discern her stabbing blade wounds from the slash of claws. He couldn't have seen her after being knocked down into the snow, but logic didn't have to leap far to come to conclusions given the remote location and the method of execution. He had seen her do it to mages before.

Gray decided to take her time. Considering options and taking a futile seeming assessment of the frozen palace that housed corpses and ice. She was relatively certain that the warrior was lost, but it wouldn't hurt to look around. No. It would only freeze.