Daimon Worship/The Library of Truth

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Roleplay

Firebalt was on fire. Again. Dancer and his captain slipped through the chaos, just more peasants running through the choked streets. In the confusion of a monster attack, his captain had broken him free from the dungeons deep under the keep. "Sir, we really should go, those monsters won't hold out for too long." Dancer glanced at the captain, and took a left, quickly moving down a small abandoned side street. "We have to do something first. That Paxwax was surprisingly helpful in bringing me here." Some guards came around a corner, and started down towards the pair, excitedly chattering about the battle on the walls. Dancer ducked into the nearest alleyway, dragging the captain with him. The guards passed, none the wiser. Dancer continued, with more haste, "We need to get into the archives. No reason to waste this opportunity, captain." The captain looked puzzled. "Arn't the archives normally in the keep sir? We are going the wrong way for that, and I don't think we'll make it in after we barely got out, Lord Dancer." Dancer took another sharp turn, this time down a thin strip between disused buildings. "Not the city archives, captain. They are stripped by each new regime anyway. I need access to archives that haven't been molested." Dancer stopped suddenly, shoulders nearly touching both sides of the ally. He reached out, and continued down the alley, dragging his fingers along the left wall. The captain quietly trailed behind him, mentally lamenting about signing on with this madman. After several minutes of awkward silence, Dancer stopped suddenly, the captain nearly running into him. "Sir?" Dancer ignored the man, instead feeling up and down the wall, at about chest height. The captain looked on in concern. They really needed to get going, before the battle outside was over, he thought. Just as he was about to try convince his lord again, Dancer stopped stroking the wall, a small smile on his face. Dancer pulled out a small scarf from his pack. It had been white, at one point, but spots of rusty brown stains covered it. Dancer stepped back, braced himself against the opposite wall, and deliberately placed his unoccupied hand on the wall, mumbling something guttural under his breath. A spike as thick as a thumb shot out from the wall, impaling Dancer's hand. He didn't falter in his chant, and his smile grew larger. The spike receded, and red lights began to travel from Dancer's hand, leaving a deep red line. They traveled outward, making a sharp turn a few feet in each direction. Around they went, slowly making a circle, as if to summon something infernal right then and there. A slight hiss echoed down the alley as the lines met. Dancer finished his mutterings with a low growl, taking away his hand and quickly wrapping it in the scarf. Red began to leak through almost immediately, joining the older, darker stains. The captain stood, dumbstruck, as the circle on the wall grew brighter. The lines flashed bright red, and went out. A dark hole stood yawning in the alley, stairs disappearing into darkness. Dancer waved his uninjured hand. "Captain, welcome to the archives. Stick close to me, or perish." The threat hung in the air as both men made their way down the abyss.