Facing The Faceless - Lizalfos' Swansong (Open, Lizalfos' last plotline)

Ongoing roleplay and fiction.
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Lizalfos
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Facing The Faceless - Lizalfos' Swansong (Open, Lizalfos' last plotline)

Post by Lizalfos » 07/23/17

((This storyline will culminate in the permanent death of Lizalfos. All are welcome to share and participate! This thread will coincide with some events in game I am planning for the next few weeks!))

Stagnant, decayed air greeted the equally decayed snout of the Iksar as he strode, silent as death, through the dark Qeynos sewers. No glimmer of light permeated this labyrinth by night, save the guttering oil lamps of Vermin Snye’s more permanent tenants. Polished obsidian scales, flecked and frayed with grey, the decrepit creature kept his robes pulled almost as tight around him as the shadows he bent to his will. His eyes, twin lanterns of baleful yellow light crossed with black, serpentine pupils, scanned the dark almost nervously as he approached a particularly worn, grimy grate.

How had it come to this? He’d only been back around Norrath for a few months, at most. Most of that time, he’d kept underground. The Teir’Dal proved, as he had suspected the moment she awoke, to be more trouble than she was worth.

Typical. Failure to recognize the dangers past the allure of the potential opportunity. Failure to anticipate his own arrogance. Failure to fear what ought be feared. Was he not a chosen of Thule? Why was fear so alien a concept for his brain to process?

He blamed Lichdom, pushing the grate up in echoing, murky silence. There was the swish of a large, crocodilian tail, and he vanished himself through the grate. Surely, his inability to be permanently killed had dulled his sense of self-preservation. How could that be true, he wondered, removing a loose brick from the masonry of the innocuously blank sewer wall.

With a subtle, almost muffled grinding sound, the remainder of the wall seemed to retract in upon itself, splitting down the middle and parting to reveal a secret passage. Not the only one down in these sewers, Lizalfos almost knew with certainty, but definitely the one he valued most.

After all, hadn’t he gone further than any before in preserving himself? Had he not mitigated, with plodding and deliberate redundancy, any possible attempt upon his unlife? The wall slid closed behind him, bricks interlocking seamlessly. He flicked a claw with an irritated growl, the hidden door across the damp chamber unlocking audibly.

Zorgin. Xelanna. Two people who vexed him plenty individually, let alone together. Then you add Jerimin. The meddlesome snake, Gannor. The whole Smallcorners brood. The Dame. Who knows who else. All posed significant threats. He had to sow discord between them, lest they unite to destroy him. He needed to weaponize their own fear before they became his.

“Gravelord, she still isn’t eating.” The vampire, Vladius, spoke as the door shut squeakily behind the iksar. Lizalfos blinked, nodding distantly, not truly hearing him. He glanced passively at the jar on the table, a severed index finger floating in the pale, green, viscous fluid within.

“I think…” the iksar began, settling into his chair and drumming his cracked, molting claws on the arm.

“It is time to remind them all who they are dealing with.”

Who was he to hide? From what, really, was he hiding? His caution and his arrogance warred viciously in his mind. He settled on the old compromise of misdirection.

“Fetch me Nachtemortem. I’ll need hisss forgery sskillss.” He snarled. Vladius bowed deeply, pausing.

“What do you intend to forge, Gravelord…?” he asked curiously. Lizalfos barked a short, malicious laugh.

“We can’t allow our enemiesss to trussst one another, now can we?”

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