Content Warning: Brief but explicit violence.
He stood in the mouth of the catacombs, staff tucked under his arm. As Bel padded away, the runaway slaves conferred in low voices. What would become of them now that their advocate was gone? Tiberius could not afford to care, only lingering long enough to steal their memories of Lyric and himself from their minds before he walked away into the dark. The wisps he had summoned trailed after him in confusion until they were banished by a sharp gesture.
You cannot help anyone while damning yourself. At least, that is what he told himself. Clearly, Lyric would not agree – supposing she had thought of the future at all.
The tunnels beneath Minrathous honeycombed the whole island. Tiberius was no expert at navigating them, only following the signs of Lyric’s flight. Blood here, a shattered crossbow bolt there, a scrap of cloth or lost shoe. He did not want to think about what he needed to do, the violence he must reach for against the Archon’s loyal soldiers. Not darkspawn, not foreign provocateurs, not the oxmen. Their plain human voices carried far down here, giving him time to prepare.
Tiberius formed his illusion with care: a phalanx of soldiers in the Archon’s own livery, a mirror to those he hunted, anonymous in their full helms. While their bodies were ultimately insubstantial, their blades were real enough to cut. He cloaked himself in invisibility and followed after.
Calls and demands came, as the true soldiers caught sight of the false. You there, report. Have you seen them? His illusions were silent, and they fell upon their task in a frenzy of muddled light. When it was over, Tiberius walked among the dead and dying and cut their throats with a blade of ice, lest anyone command these bodies to speak.
It took hours to make the journey home. A stolen smuggler’s skiff, circling the city until he was below the cliffs that backed the Umbra estate. A long climb up hidden, worn down stairs. He should have woken his armsman, Ursus, and reported the night’s events but he could not bear it. If he did, the seneschal would see Lyric as nothing more than a troublesome child ever again.
Instead, Tiberius took a bottle of wine from the cellar and let himself into his bedroom. Lyric was there, asleep. He dropped into the armchair by the hearth and drank from the bottle, tasting nothing but the wine’s sourness. He rarely drank to get drunk and now found little to recommend the process. Tiberius struggled out of his jacket and waistcoat, wincing at the noise. He glanced back at the bed and saw Lyric awake.
“Why?” He stood, limned in the firelight. “Did you know one of them? I don't understand. Why would you put our family – your own daughter – in danger for a bunch of strangers?”
@Lyric Oatshield
He stood in the mouth of the catacombs, staff tucked under his arm. As Bel padded away, the runaway slaves conferred in low voices. What would become of them now that their advocate was gone? Tiberius could not afford to care, only lingering long enough to steal their memories of Lyric and himself from their minds before he walked away into the dark. The wisps he had summoned trailed after him in confusion until they were banished by a sharp gesture.
You cannot help anyone while damning yourself. At least, that is what he told himself. Clearly, Lyric would not agree – supposing she had thought of the future at all.
The tunnels beneath Minrathous honeycombed the whole island. Tiberius was no expert at navigating them, only following the signs of Lyric’s flight. Blood here, a shattered crossbow bolt there, a scrap of cloth or lost shoe. He did not want to think about what he needed to do, the violence he must reach for against the Archon’s loyal soldiers. Not darkspawn, not foreign provocateurs, not the oxmen. Their plain human voices carried far down here, giving him time to prepare.
Tiberius formed his illusion with care: a phalanx of soldiers in the Archon’s own livery, a mirror to those he hunted, anonymous in their full helms. While their bodies were ultimately insubstantial, their blades were real enough to cut. He cloaked himself in invisibility and followed after.
Calls and demands came, as the true soldiers caught sight of the false. You there, report. Have you seen them? His illusions were silent, and they fell upon their task in a frenzy of muddled light. When it was over, Tiberius walked among the dead and dying and cut their throats with a blade of ice, lest anyone command these bodies to speak.
It took hours to make the journey home. A stolen smuggler’s skiff, circling the city until he was below the cliffs that backed the Umbra estate. A long climb up hidden, worn down stairs. He should have woken his armsman, Ursus, and reported the night’s events but he could not bear it. If he did, the seneschal would see Lyric as nothing more than a troublesome child ever again.
Instead, Tiberius took a bottle of wine from the cellar and let himself into his bedroom. Lyric was there, asleep. He dropped into the armchair by the hearth and drank from the bottle, tasting nothing but the wine’s sourness. He rarely drank to get drunk and now found little to recommend the process. Tiberius struggled out of his jacket and waistcoat, wincing at the noise. He glanced back at the bed and saw Lyric awake.
“Why?” He stood, limned in the firelight. “Did you know one of them? I don't understand. Why would you put our family – your own daughter – in danger for a bunch of strangers?”
@Lyric Oatshield
02-09-2025, 09:57 AM
