#rakshe

Aesthetics of my dark ally mentor Rakshe. He there is his own bloody blog - @99rakshe99

Meet Pheo! (I did not do the background- it was a stock image I found a VERY long ago...) She's an older digital art drawing I did, almost a year old now. Just happened to find it again in the midst of all my files. She's a sweetheart, loves getting headpats, scritches, all the works- But if you have spikey hair? Or anything spiky on your head period? That 'sweet girl' is mauling your hair-

Flashes of orange precede the rapid succession of thunderbolts echoed in the underground tunnel. The priest staggers back as his rune covered wrappings are set a flame. A leather clad man yells in fear and frustration as he tries to fend off the mummified corpse biting into his neck. Dark  ichor spreads up from the bite and his veins darken before the man screams in agony as he turns to black dust. The ground is littered with an array of clothes and gear once worn by men of the expedition a few minutes ago.

The greenskins and humans swarmed over the corpse like ants. Hacking away meat and sinew with saw toothed blades. A few begin the process of skinning the massive serpentine shape. Gold scales sway under the movement of so many. Already the bones have begun to reveal themselves. Ribs the height of a grown man, a seemingly endless line of spinal columns. The dragons crimson heart is the size of a horse, it’s other organs of comparable size. The warlocks and oni have already begun the process of trapping the wyrms soul on this plane of existence. Trenches are dug around the body to irrigate the blood into large vats and barrels. None of it will go to waste.

Even the youngest children and the weakest elder are offered some of the meat. Some hungrily devour the dense blood rich meat, some decline the offer; uneasy at the concept of devouring a sentient creatures flesh. The bones are cracked and the marrow removed before being placed around fires to dry out.

The temple grounds are razed and the catacombs are raided. The Pagoda is stripped of its tiles and the underlying structure is an ossuary of dragon bone. Over ten thousand pounds of bone, some of it fossilized are ground into a fine grey powder that stinks of sulfur and charcoal.

This process takes two days, the powder is put into hollowed out bamboo containers and barrels. The injured are tended to and the dead are put to rest, replacing the dragons in the catacombs. The temple grounds are transformed from a peaceful place of meditation to a scorched wasteland. The earth is stained black and red from the blood and fire of the battle.

"They took everything from me, my future, my family. So now I'm going to take everything from them, their assassins, their empire and their lives" Purple light flickers off the white mask as the agitated wearer paces in the large tent.

A stooped figure dips strings on a rod into a large vat with melted wax. The scent of honey suckle and fresh soil fills the canvas structure. The half elf straightens to look at the obviously irritated man.

“Calm yourself. Do not flicker violently lest you wish to sputter out”. The masked man exhales deeply and unclenches his fists. “Darius you should take up a hobby, it helps me when I become perturbed” The Half-elf gestures to the candles he pulls out of the vat.

“Is that what you call this? It has nothing to do with them?” Darius motions to the candles flickering with eerie purple light. The half-elf shrugs. “I didn’t say that. Generally one is encouraged to partake in an activity that they enjoy doing. I enjoy making candles” The half-elf dips the candles again, refreshing the scent of honeysuckle and fresh soil in the enclosed space.

“Chandler, I wasn’t talking about the candles.” Darius makes an exaggerated gesture at the candle holders. The candle maker looks over and scrutinizes the figures. “Oh. That’s not my hobby. That’s business.” The man adjusts his mask before rubbing his temples.

“What does Manny think of your hobby?” Darius fidgets with the basket of the rapier at his side as he asks the question. Chandler pulls the candles from the vat and places them on a cooling rack nearby. “You know, I’ve never asked him. He does seem a tad put off by them though”

Darius chuckles under his breath “I wonder why?” “You say something?” The masked man waves his hand dismissively. The candle holders remain still, like rotten statues with purple flames in place of their eyes along with a burning candle on each head.

Darius didn’t feel anything but low embers of hatred for these creatures. Once they had been his enemies, assassins paid to kill anyone who got in the way of the Shinimoto clan. They killed merchants to establish a monopoly on all trade coming into and out of Luu. They killed foreign diplomats who stood in the way of the Shinimoto clans ambition.

When the dragon awoke it began to terrorize those that disturbed its centuries old slumber. It was funny, how the greed of the halflings drove them to dig into the glacier and they bothered the one thing that was greedier than they were. Salabyr laughed at the memory, a deep croaking noise.

As always, “heroes” formed and they went to fight the wyrm, they of course failed as most “heroes” do. Like clockwork, more foolhardy adventurers filed in to fight the dragon. A few wandered off the path and Salabyr along with his brother had to “deal” with the interlopers.

Some time passed, Salabyr and his brother didn’t notice the passage of time as much as the natives of this plane did. Frodla had attempted to bring more brethren in to this world, but something about the constitution of these small folk made them resistant to these attempts.

The troglodytes they found were better suited as servants than as spawning vessels. Salabyr wasn’t sure the degenerated humanoids could even be infected as they lived in the filthiest dens. One day, a troglodyte informed Salabyr that the dragon had been severely injured by some heroes and was now recuperating. Killing the dragon, was easier than anticipated. The beast was almost comatose from it’s wounds. Arrows and burn marks coverings its ivory hide. When Frodla sunk its wrist barbs into the beasts neck, it tried to roar, but only succeeded in spewing forth blood onto the ice. The nova of flame explodes from Salabyrs webbed fingers, disintegrating the flesh of the wyrms head. The dragon’s hoard wasn’t focused on gold, gems, or jewelry. There was a substantial amount of that, but in one corner of the lair, heaped one on top the other, comprising a massive shaggy bed were furs. Great white pelts from the ice bears, striped feline pelts of the tundra tigers, massive shaggy brown mammoth hides, other bears, wolves, rabbits, wolverines, weasels of various sizes. Even an unusual number of walrus hides.

A few bones, the choicest of ivories from the mammoths, the walrus tusks and teeth of the tundra tigers still embedded in the skulls were found. Standing near the dragon are frozen statues of those that had brought the dragon so low. They provided the opportunity that Salabyr now had. Preserved and through a series of attempts, Salabyr was able to change his shape into one of the heroes. The dwarf would be the easiest, they were gruff and not very talkative. Perfect for what Salabyr had in mind. He needed arcane texts and a supply of materials to bring more brethren into this world. 

The halflings, so trusting, so thankful didn’t press the silent dwarf for too much information. He had brought back, gold, hides and white dragon scales. Luckily the halflings spoke his new name for him. “Are you Wilhorf Saltbeard? Did you slay the dragon?”

He did what any enterprising dwarf would do, he created a tavern and served simple food and drink at whatever people wanted to pay him. This was not meant to be profitable or to stand out. He was able to acquire tomes for alchemy and arcane practitioners. Salabyr carved a basement out of a small series of tunnels created by the giant ice toads. He kept them well fed, even domesticating them by creating a spawning pool. From the texts he learned to cultivate the toadstools that were so deadly to these humanoids. He didn’t want to kill them, some of them he even enjoyed seeing their antics.

But he had a dedication to his brethren, he needed to bring them from the otherside. To create more of his race, it was instinct. Salabyr didn’t languish at his inherent desire and obligation to his brethren. He was no more capable of escaping these desires than it was for the halflings to escape theirs.