Scene #4149: Jus Primae Noctis

Owner	Pose
Count Kord	Yveltal Peak - Courtyard It's overcast. Based on the area around the mountain, it could be surmised that every day is overcast, or rainy, or stormy, or just unpleasant. The only plants here are rough and there are creatures living on the mountains that appear fierce and dangerous even at a distance... because some of them are fighting using enormous blasts of energy that would crush a normal human being. And in the middle of the mountains at the top of a stony path is a castle. A castle covered in gargoyles shaped like Yveltal itself, with stones dyed black, with windows of smoky white, with flags of deep bloody red. It has a wall with a big thick iron gate that leads into a courtyard, a courtyard that seems to be the only easy way to get into the castle and, consequently, an easily defensible area that could turn into a kill box if people were placed up on the walls. There are soldiers along the walls and in towers, wearing ramshack uniforms. A large number of Murkrow and Zubat seem to roost here, giving the place even more of a bleak and dark touch. Kord is sitting on a bench in the courtyard when his guest gets let inside. His own Murkrow is seated on his shoulder, apparently asleep, while the man in concealing armor waits with all the eerie patience of a statue. This is not a pleasant place to visit. There's no opulence, aside from the intimidating statues, and the only plants growing in the courtyard seem to be hearty farm plants.
Drowned Ophelia	The world of pokemon was a place where all beasts were magical and intelligent; At least, most had some form of intelligence. In some regards, the twisted amaglamation of torture devices or vehicles with animals that inhabit the Brutal Lands is an approximation. Of course, the massive six legged Hextaons with their mammoth metal tusks would never submit to being controlled beyond shocking the shit out of them and grabbing hold. So maybe it was more appropriate than otherwise thought. Either way, up along the path comes - The Hearse. One part hot-rod, one part cadaver carrier, the oversized rear wheels tear up the earth behind it as it roars along. A rolling temple to Death Metal, composed of the brutal elements: Noise, Fire, Metal and Blood. Fire ripples from high gold blower, a crackling explosion of noise to rattle bones and quiver guts - and Drowned Ophelia herself, sitting upon the purple upholstery as she twists the wheel in a ravaging spin up and around corners. Far too fast - far too reckless, causing the coffin in the back to slide about in its straps. At last it crests the final turn, screaming to a halt in the courtyard, leaving a wake of scorched earth behind it. There it idles as its Mistress ascends the steps, a beast awaiting only the call to action. Quasi-life, like all in the Drowning Doom. The Queen of Tears herself pauses before the armor clad figure, before resting an elbow in the crook of her other palm and grinning. "Love the atmosphere. You decorate it yourself?"
Count Kord	Kord's head turns. The spectacle is different than the subdued atmosphere, the vehicle unnerving each and every one of the soldiers. They were ordered to keep the gates open but that doesn't mean they'll be happy about some weird vehicle roaring into the courtyard and burning up the ground. About two dozen crossbows are trained on the vehicle as Ophelia comes out to greet the Count. "No." It's a terse reply, colored by his disapproval of the tracks the vehicle left on his land. His head turns to note the damage, and he breathes a slow sigh, but says nothing directly about it. The sound just echoes in his helmet. "The castle was built by Yveltal itself, or so the story goes," he explains, "As a place for the soldiers that fought Regigigas to congregate and plan their next moves during the darkest moments in history." He looks up at the dark stones, watching a black-feathered creature leer down at him suspiciously. "I do have the soldiers maintain it, and they do a good job," he tells Ophelia. "I don't know what I was expecting, but you sure have left an impression already. What was the instrument you intend to teach to me?" A couple of the soldiers look at each other, the surreal nature of this meeting getting to them. She's here to teach him how to play music? That's absurd!
Drowned Ophelia	Eyes flick up to the crossbow bolts trained on her form, and the Queen of Tears shows that cruel smile; Teeth seeming all the whiter for their placement behind her black lips and blue skin. "Yveltal? Never heard that one." And then she twists a blackened claw, tapping it against he upper lip for a moment as she takes in the older 'Count'. She was but a young woman when she drowned, after all - and now she's something else entirely. Still, it's hard to think of anyone over twenty five as anything but 'older' or 'old'. At last she turns, crooking a finger in a 'follow' motion as she speaks. Heading towards the rear of The Hearse, which still shudders as its huge and arcane engine churns. "Impression's part of the equation, Count; Summoning, controlling Metal is about pleasing the ****'ing Metal Gods. It's a powerful force, but it knows no master." A glance aside, and a sultry little smile. "Kinda like me." The rear of The Hearse is opened, clawed finger sinking deep into the coffin's wood as she slings it out. Letting it crash to the ground, lid bouncing. "And there's lots that go into it. Drums, bass, rigging... but for a leader? For the higher caste? There's only one proper instrument." As if on cue, the coffin lid swings open to reveal - a six stringed terror of his own, the edges still glowing as if freshly molted from the heart of some dread volcano. Fitting for a black castle with a red motif. http://goo.gl/xlmmSQ "There can only be -one- lead guitar in a band." A glance up at the 'crew' that The Count had put together, the ramshackle soldiers. "And you've got the band."
Count Kord	Kord sounds old. His voice is deep and carries the qualities of someone that has lived a long life, and the way he moves when he stands to follow her over to The Hearse suggests the aged laziness that comes with people that are well past the peak of their lives. But it feels like a carefully engineered facade. Despite his mild behavior, there's this consistent undercurrent to him, like he's just saving his energy for a real fight. When he rests his eyes on the instrument she had brought to him, he seems taken aback by the impressive display. She had come to give him a gift, a great deal more personal than he was expecting, or at least that's what it appears to be. The soldiers don't seem as on-board with the idea of being a part of a band, but that's because Ophelia scares them half to death. Kord reaches in to retrieve the guitar. He doesn't fear the glow, because it wouldn't make sense for it to harm him. "Metal. It's a form of music, but for you, it's a supernatural force," he murmurs, marveling at the observations there, like a scholar comparing different ideas aloud. He holds the instrument in his hands, eventually finding the comfortable position when he places a foot against The Hearse and props the instrument against a leg. He strums the strings once, and looks at Ophelia thoughtfully, and then up to the soldiers. "These are simple, agrarian people. Few have travelled outside of these lands," he explains to her, "Music and art are seen as frivolous." He leans in and says more hushedly, "They just aren't very fun." His Murkrow makes a soft 'rrrr' noise and cracks open an eye, still perched there on her master's shoulder.
Drowned Ophelia	"I've seen what guitars from other worlds do." States the creature dismissively, flicking a claw aside. "Strapped to cables like puppets, borrowing juice from some distant beauracracy. Where I come from, music is more than simple noise; Metal is power. The Titans used it to reforge my world in their image; Even beyond the lands touched by the death of Ormogodden, the echo of that power can be heard thrumming through the multiverse. This is a guitar touched by that, forged in the heart of an awakened volcano and cooled by the blood of bound demons." When Kord plucks a few strings, the slow down-ward sweep of the guitar sings like a falling angel right down the octaves. The edges glow - but do not burn the wielder, although flickering ash floats away. There's a power locked away in there, obvious to anyone with enough magical knowledge as Kord does - but like any arcanist device, it requires thorough practice. "Frivolties? Love and joy are frivolous. I deal in -power-, Count-" Claws fingers close to a fist, squeezing slowly as the Black Tears drip downwards from the back of her hand. "And that's what I offer as well, if you can master it. So!" Sarcastically cheerful once more, Drowned Ophelia holds out her hand - the Six Stringed Sorrow forming in thin air in her fingers. Slender than Kord's own, from the spider-like body up the long neck and the wake candles for machine heads. Blue flames slowly flickering to life. "Let's begin with the basics; Tuning. 'Eddie Ate Dynamite, Good By Eddie'." She plucks each string in turn, wake candles flaring as their note comes up. E, A, D, G, A, E.
Count Kord	"Power." Kord repeats that word, intrigued, his predatory gaze focused on Ophelia through those deep eye sockets in that helmet. He then does another strum of the strings, his head lowering and tilting to take in the sound of the instrument. He doesn't really know what he's doing, but he does know a magical object when he's holding it. He can feel the tingle through his fingers. It isn't resonating with him, not yet, and that would come with time and practice. He tries to draw on the dark power in the instrument as he grows familiar with it. He listens to the sound of each of her strings, and carefully tries to match the tone. It takes a few tries, a bit of tweaking, until he can get it just right. The mystical instrument hums a faint sound after a while without needing a strum of the strings, an ominous noise like the mystical forces were fighting him. The sound makes Kord freeze. The shadows in the courtyard grow deeper. Or is it just a trick of the light? "And that instrument is what you bring into battle?" he wonders, turning his gaze to the Six Stringed Sorrow.
Drowned Ophelia	The progression of simple tuning chords continues - spiked by Ophelia's personal 'meme' for remembering the tune, of course. Eddie Ate Dynamite, Good Bye Eddie. Eddie Ate Dirt, Good Burial Eddie. Eddie Always Dies, Great Ballad Everyone. Eddie's A Dumbass, Gobble Balls Eddie. E, A, D. G, B, E. When the new guitar hums - when it is properly -tuned-, if not -attuned-, Drowned Ophelia's eyes flick up to Kord's own. That soft little smirk growing a little wider as she tilts her head. "I bring myself into battle, Count. This? This is so much more than a simple weapon. It's a communal; It's an altar. It's the link between the music and myself, that lets my inspiration - my tears - drown every living light in the multiverse. Eventually." Another toothy flash. "Let's try a simple chord, hm? Nice and easy. Keep your fretting hand up top, on the neck .." The stained creature shows the grip, grinning. "It'll take a long time to learn how to balance it - don't fret too hard a first. **'s sake, I had to drown before I could learn to keep my **'ing thumbs off the top line." She lowers her head for a moment, feeling the strings as the wake candles flicker slowly dies.. And then plays a real slow, heavy tune - armor marching, hammers falling, the inevitable walk of a juggernaut. One foot stomps aside at the first gut wrenchng hit - stones rattle. The other leg swings up and hits down right on note, the rattling becoming a full on rumble as the ground shudders. Just a slow, heavy couple of chords before she lets the sound die away - and with it, the rumbling of the earth in the immediate area. "Good practice to start with; But it's not all technique. Metal needs to be in the blood; If you can't feel it, neither will your axe." A nod towards the magma guitar, before she grins. Wicked and harsh. "Did you name her yet?" TPOWERCHORD: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-_6g3RKHSNE -- Just the first few seconds.
Count Kord	If Kord is anything, he is a patient student. It's hard to tell how deeply he's listening to Ophelia until he starts following her instructions on how to handle the instrument just right, until his eyes watch with a hawk-like fixation on her own to note the chords she makes. He's momentarily distracted by the power her strumming invokes. He listens to the chords and watches them as well. He pops his neck. Crkk. Then he starts trying to strum out the chords himself. He lets himself get lost in practicing. He isn't particularly good at it, but one couldn't expect him to be a savant. As the instrument fights him, as an instrument of Metal may do, he fights through the growl with the fury that hides beneath his layer of calm. Not a stubborn frustration but a commanding fury. "It's too early for that," he eventually tells Ophelia, as if he was hoping the practicing would let him find the instrument's name. After he says that, he starts experimenting with chords at random, to see what works and what doesn't. Some make nice sounds, while others are discordant. Like a child learning how to walk, compared to what she does. "I will have to find my inspiration," he admits, "It cannot hide too far from my heart, could it?" Another strum, his eyes glimmering behind the helmet, the shadows deeping to an inky abyss around his feet and visibly writhing. Animate evil shadows. She has the Tears, and he has elemental darkness. "Even if I never master this art, I will enjoy every second of trying," he decides, having come to this conclusion thanks to her very colorful introduction to the guitar.
Drowned Ophelia	The Queen of Tears watches with the amused expression of someone watching a toddler walk; She may be helpful on occasion, but she's always going to be a black hearted bitch about it. At last her eyes flick up, wincing at the occasional discordant note before that cruel little smile reappears. And she unfolds an arm, the Six Stringed Sorrow bubbling away to nothingness as she presents the pale blue skin of her wrist; And then digs a claw in, dragging it upwards to the elbow. "Up the sidewalk, not across the street~" She singsongs. Black ichor flows where blood should be, hissing as it strikes the ground - forming the same 'practice chord' that the two had just tried. Six vertical lines, four horizontal lines, and thirteen strikes. She shakes her wrist like someone who couldn't find a towel after washing hands, and waggles her clawed fingers. "I'd start here; Work on technique first, but don't forget that metal -is-. Find your hate, find your sorrow, find your -drive- and let it empower you. And then please the ****'ing Metal Gods." She then moves to climb back into The Hearse, the engine rumbling back up from idle with a gut lurching roar. Before she leans her head over, and calls. "You know what? She sounds like jus primae noctis to me." A flash of white teeth. "The Right of the First Night." The engine ROARS, a beast unleashed, and the Hearse rips out of the courtyard as quick as it came. The thundering sound heard long after the vehicle is a small speck curling around corners..