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The following is a transcribed Discord RP scene between my villain (Claret) and Razas’ (He Who Walks Behind, or HWWB). Raz doesn’t have an active WoW subscription but that doesn’t mean he can’t be evil! Enjoy a contextual scene between two ancient enemies. ))

Note: These two are available to be invited into RP. They are powerful but have sets of OOC and IC rules as to prevent OP roleplay. That said, invite at your own risk… ))

A shadow moves in time to a beat. Hidden, unseen, it sets the table, humming a maddening tune in a voice that vibrates the very bones of mortals, something that turns brave men cowardly, and strong women weak. It is unseen, this shadow, except out of the corner of an eye. But the places are set. The glasses are poured. The exquisite table, grown from twisted bone and agonized stone into a form of sanguine suffering, made mundane and yet artful and horrifying all at the same time. Two melancholic chairs are grafted from the nothingness of what the shadows occupy, another grotesquery made beautiful in the mockery of form and function. Glass stained with maddened faces take the form of delicate wine flutes, a tasting of pain. And, almost as an afterthought, an exquisite mirror of finely crafted silver and lined with gold takes its place on the other chair, revealing nothing but blackness and a sliver of light that the table is lit with, a small, ever so flickering candle… that doesn’t exist on the table.

He has set the table. Now He waits for his guest. He has been waiting, and He is Prepared. A whisper across cosmos, across eons. “Lady Claret. Your table is ready. As Am I.”

She appears, her figure that of a human woman of exquisite breeding, every delicate curve of her body perfection. Her dress is white and sheer in places, asymmetrically cinched at the waist and the neckline ending just below the hint of her breasts. Her hair is worn long, curled at the ends, and rich auburn in color. Her eyes are dark, with barely a contrast between iris and pupil. She smiles at the shadow, though her gaze is less fond. It’s more the gauging gaze of one predator to another.

She sits at her designated seat at the table, a pale finger tracing the rim of her wine glass. “My dearest and oldest acquaintance. Does the Agreement of Tarask still stand?” Her eyes watch him.

The thing in the Mirror wraps a twisted semblance of a claw and hand around the wine’s neck, uncomfortably close to her own in the mirror, and a voice that reminds one of snapped bones and the foulness of a day old corpse in the sun replies. He Who Walks Behind lifts the glass, sipping the wine, impossibly delicate for something so horrific. “The Agreement of Tarask stands, Lady. Ny’alotha falls, and Ny’alotha rises. The Eldest are paying attention, now.”

Only after the first words of his reply does Claret lift her own glass and sips the wine, regarding him with a slight incline of her head. “As they would. But mere mortals will soon freely walk Ny’alotha, my dearest acquaintance, and not in the way it was intended,” she watches him. “I am certain the Eldest are not pleased with such a…” she carefully delivers the word, her hooded eyes watching him over the lip of her glass. “…poor, performance.”

A tip of the wine glass, and the fanged dip of the head, as the mirrored roiling flesh of tentacle and bone and tooth and eye acknowledges the truth of her words, and the biting rebuke that it contains. “As much as it pains us to admit, there is truth to your words. Not the end that we foresaw, but secondary goals were achieved. Less was lost than one may think. A pawn, a sacrifice. The game continues.” Several slitted eyes focus in on Claret, curious, as the horror considers. “And what of your game, and your goals, my dearest enemy?”

Claret smiles, “The Legion is gone. I so very briefly enjoyed watching it die. To think, we could have celebrated that victory together,” she sips her wine, the smile fades entirely. There’s an inhuman darkness to her face, the expression betraying the illusion she often so carefully maintains.. “But alas, there will always be so much keeping us apart.”

The mask slips back on: the perfectly crafted cheek bones, sculpted nose, even a youthful blush. Only in her eyes does the darkness remain. “You know my goals, my dearest acquaintance, and you know I do not tip the cards of my game. Though I do enjoy your guessing.”

The thing grins, a shark’s dream or nightmare of teeth, a promise of violence and rending, but not directed at her. Simply that there is always that promise. “Ah, true, my greatest friend. But, as some of the mortal’s have said, it does not hurt to ask. A weaving of blood and souls and pain we could have done together, but our pride keeps us apart. We believe it may be why we respect you so, that and Tarask. Then, to our next question, we offer a small thing. No string to be attached, as our realm recuperates, except request for consideration of recompense.” The grin grows wider, fanged maw dripping ooze. “Aid for the game, if you so wish. Something of your target, we offer a bit of our specialties.”

Claret raises a perfectly plucked brow, “An offering? With no strings? My dearest acquaintance, is this to earn my good graces while you recuperate?

There’s a long suffering sigh, and the wine glass in Claret’s vision comes down with a bit of a clink. “Call it what you wish. As we have said, more wheels and plans within plans. Offering this aid, whether you accept or not, furthers my aims, though it shall be ever so more enjoyable for me if you accept. The Eternal Ones consider and see this as the best way for both our aims to be met, and wished us to continue this broken path.” It pauses, for a moment. “Unless, you are willing to accept our previous, standing offer at Tarask, prior to the Agreement. Never let it be said that we do not have long memories.”

“I will consider your new offer once it is laid bare. You know my thoughts on the standing offer. The Agreement stands, and our… game, continues. You know how I love to live by my own will and devices. And thoughts on… other things.” She sips her wine, leveling her gaze at the creature. “And your promise of it deepening our game does tempt me.”

“My assistance, should it be asked. Nothing physical. A word placed here or there, a driving of someone or something to another. We are, after all, opposing sides, why would we help each other, they might reason. A spinning of webs for those you have targeted.” The thing leans close, anticipating her answer. “It is, of course, purely optional. I will obey the letter of your request, should you make it.”

Claret takes a slow, long sip of her wine, considering. Her eyes never leave the creature. “Does this offer have an expiration, my dearest acquaintance? As you know, our memories — and lives — are long.”

“A single year from Azeroth’s standpoint. From this moment in that reckoning to the last. For at the end of that year and the beginning of that moment my efforts shall be devoted elsewhere.”

“Games within games,” Claret gazes into the remnants of her wine, slowly swirling her glass. “Where will your efforts be devoted, dearest? I will be amiss if you are distracted,” she watches the creature.

“For the year, should you accept, will be devoted as you wish. If not, there are other things that will acquire my attention. It is your choice.”

The little wine glass in its claws lifts, as it drains the wine. “Ultimately, it is your choice, and that is so what you enjoy, is it not?”

Claret smiles. It’s not a pleasant one. Again, the mask lifts ever-so-slightly. But the moment is there and gone in an instant. The perfect visage returns. “You know me so well. I accept. I do not want to turn down this latest chapter of our game. How could I miss out on one positively thrilling year?” She raises her glass. “To old acquaintances.”

It raises its glass, somehow refilled. Both of theirs is refilled, actually. “To old acquaintances, and new chapters, Lady Claret. We so look forward to it.”

The glass is drained. Rising from her appointed seat at the table, Claret smiles at the creature. It’s partly affectionate, though still carries that air of one predator to another. “I must return to my own workings. One day I will return the gesture, my dearest acquaintance. And you know I am good on my word,” with the tiniest bow of her head, she turns to depart.

There’s that fanged, predatory grin of inhuman proportions in the mirror. “We do. Good evening, my lady.” And the setting in the void fades as she departs, and the creature returns to the ever shifting abominable nightmarish horrors it is part of.

Author Ari
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