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Post by Admin on Oct 1, 2012 15:57:03 GMT -6
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Post by Skalp on Oct 1, 2012 19:18:01 GMT -6
The inner circle of the market district is a bustle of ostentatious nobility, rich merchants and the rare well to do civilian. The crowds stroll past the stores at a hedonistic pace, dancing to whatever complex hierarchy of fashion is reflected by the hellish courts. Here they flaunt their superiority over others and indulge in the freedoms and decadence elevated status requires. At least while the Legion’s City Guard can keep the riffraff out anyway.
Crouching amidst the erotic smelling markets and gilded stores is a cancerous mountain of architecture. Whatever the building originally looked like is lost beneath a patchwork of extensions and renovations that grows up and out over the neighbouring guild halls. Every era of Demonic history was present in that chaotic mansion, and even now Demonlings scrambled over bone scaffolding, moulding a haphazardly placed balcony that more closely resembles the modern style. Countless windows and fenced apertures litter the building like so many eyes and mouths, but only one small red door faces the street. Above this tiny door hangs a single creaking sign that simply reads; The Materia Medica.
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Post by Deleted on Oct 16, 2012 10:32:41 GMT -6
His ears fold down as he pushes open that small door, tail lashing every couple of seconds. His nose wrinkles at the assault of smells. Satarel grumbles as he steps into the Materia Medica, pausing in the doorway. His hands are folded loosely together and he waits patiently for his eyes to adjust.
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Post by Skalp on Oct 18, 2012 21:06:26 GMT -6
Satarel is not alone in this. As light spills into the obsidian hallway a large grey iris moves rapidly inward to replace a single retreating pupil. The eye, which must have been around the size of a skull, contemplated the devilcat for a moment longer with intense, emotionless interest. Without warning the gelatinous orb pivots on its spine, which dangled delicately from the ceiling, and swiftly glided down the maw of the Medica running smoothly along the oiled tracks in the roof.
The air inside the building is cold and dry, but far from being sterile. Like some kind of artic rain forest the store was heavy with the scent of life, in all its forms of decay. The hallway thrummed rhythmically with the steady beat of distant drums, or perhaps it was the sound of some immense heart, laboriously pumping fuel to the weak light of the flickering mana lamps.
“Your… uhhh… weapons please.”
An armless creature, woman, dragged its body from a cleverly disguised orifice in the glassy black walls to come before the Medica’s newest customer. She could have been a devil or lady rachet, but only in the loosest sense. Below her naked waist the creature’s body was huge and bloated, wrapped up tight with restraining black rubber. Its skin was pale, but covered in stains, like the freckles on the shell of a bird egg. What looked like chitinous plates protected its modesty, but movement soon reviled a swarm of crustaceous mites clinging to the swell of her breasts.
“You will not need them here uuhhh… in this a place of healing,” when the beast spoke, her musical voice interrupted by moans, a viscous jelly that might have been tears would roll unchecked down its cheeks.
“Please…” the creature indicates with its head toward the crevice it came from, where there is a chute fixed into the wall. “Then if you would ahhhhh… follow me? Please do not stray.”
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Post by Deleted on Oct 23, 2012 22:52:59 GMT -6
Satarel's eyes narrow as the creature asks him to remove his weapons. He unbuckles his short sword and places it scabbard and all into the crevice. A brace of throwing knives follows, unstrapped from his wrists, as his ears swivel back against his head. He looks at his guide, his face blank.
"Very well. Show me the way."
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Post by Skalp on Oct 24, 2012 7:01:16 GMT -6
It turns, quietly moaning, the unformed mass of her lower half straining against the black rubber that contains it. Fingers, feet and feral faces become defined as they stretch against the seal that barely contains them, laboriously hauling the bulk of the chimera forward.
The door keeper sets a slow pace down the dark glass halls of the Medica, and Starel has ample opportunity to admire the rooms they pass. Most are well lit, their walls covered with either bottles or books or both. Other rooms, sometimes even whole hallways, are tapped off with a bright yellow ribbon. These restricted passages always appeared completely empty, save one which was completely on fire. The silently weeping woman didn’t seem to find this odd and passes the roaring inferno without changing her sluggish pace.
Soon the devilcat is lead to a small anteroom, which was obviously some kind of reception. The word ‘reception’ (and scribbles that could only be the same word in different languages) was scrawled all over the place in a childish hand, often complete with backward letters and spelling mistakes. The walls are home to countless shelves, piled with strange objects and dust. Satarel could comprehend a black stone that gave off some kind of violet corona and the fetus of a dragon suspended in formaldehyde, but everything else was just too alien to describe.
Toward the back was a large display case turned desk, covered completely in mountains of parchment. Seated behind the towers of paper was a Nightmare draped in the tattered robes of a magi. The flames from its green mane had seemed to have burnt away the flesh of its face, and the hollow eyes of the equine skull rose to behold Satarel.
“Welcome valued customer, I am Thurston. How may I help you?”
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Post by Deleted on Oct 24, 2012 22:40:24 GMT -6
His ears twitching in an intricate emotive dance, the devil cat strolls behind his guide, glancing from room to room as he goes. Once or twice he lifts his head a little, lips parted and at one point he sneezes violently and mutters under his breath the rest of the way to the reception room.
He regards Thurston for a moment, turning away to prowl around the room and examine the strange contents of the shelves. He turns after a moment back to the nightmare, his voice firm but not haughty.
"I've come on the order of my master, and I'll speak to yours and no one else of his concerns." Satarel shifts his footing slightly, his ears pricking forward.
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Post by Skalp on Oct 25, 2012 6:22:38 GMT -6
Thurston chuckles, leaning forward on his chair and rests a blazing chin on crossed fingers. There’s a clicking sound from up high as the huge eye Satarel first met unwinds itself and dangles from the ceiling like some over ripe fruit. The Witching Eye pulses gently on its spine stalk as it focuses itself on the Devilcat, seeming to look more then just at him, but into him. A louse the size of his thumb scurries its way across one of Satarel’s boots.
“Of course, the master will be pleased. He has always welcomed the Thief King’s subjects since before the reign of de’Lucifers,” if the Nightmare had lips he’d be grinning, surely, but as it was Thurston always smiled.
“The waiting room’s just through there…” he gestured to the only other exit from the anteroom, a passage between two shelves of what could have been spice, but if you could bottle melancholy and ‘quivering’, it’d look like those spices. “Just take a couch by the coffee table. Would sir like something to eat or drink while he waits?”
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Post by Deleted on Oct 29, 2012 10:26:45 GMT -6
"No, thank you..." Satarel watches the Witching eye as he moves across the room, sparing half a glance for the remains of the nightmare. His tail lashes once or twice before stilling and he stops, half turned to the doorway, still able to move towards the two other beings in the room if need be. One hand rests on his hip as he looks down the hallway.
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Post by Skalp on Oct 30, 2012 2:57:53 GMT -6
The hallway exiting the anteroom is short and immediately opens up into a large well lit lounge. The Devilcat can clearly make out a few pale leather couches surrounding a small coffee table and a huge window from where the light pours in. The wall of glass appears to separate the lounge room from some kind of greenhouse of emerald ferns and intricately laced vines.
“As sir wishes,” Thurston smiles, the Nighmare’s teeth clapping together as he speaks. With that he turns his fleshless head back to the desk and resumes shuffling through papers, the green flame of his mane licking in and out of his empty sockets.
Satarel’s guide, the armless creature, remains planted by the dark passage that leads toward the exit. Her eyes are down cast, weeping silently as the imprisoned host below her waist thrashes about.
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Post by Deleted on Nov 12, 2012 20:31:02 GMT -6
Satarel hesitates a moment longer before he moves into the waiting room. He sighs and shakes himself before moving over to the window to look out over the city. One ear remains cocked back towards the room however and he crosses his arms, tail lashing.
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Post by Skalp on Nov 17, 2012 19:33:06 GMT -6
Satarel isn’t waiting long before his keen hearing picks up the brisk click of claws echoing off the hard tiles behind him. There is the glint of metal in the darkness as a Demonling emerges from deep within the shadows of the honeycombed Medica. The small demon’s movements were at once rapid and precise, like those of a spider as it scurried across a web on the tips of its toes. The pointed dome of the Demonling’s skull captured the Devilcat in its reflective surface.
“We’re terribly sorry about your wait Mr. Customer sir,” the Demonling says as he makes his approach, the plain white coat he wore hanging awkwardly from his skeletal frame, its hem just tickling the floor. “But I’m afraid our current master is… errr,” he bows his head apologetically, so that his pointed face almost reaches the ground “… a bit under the weather. My fault, actually, begging your forgiveness.”
The Demonling lifts his face from the floor and folding his hands behind his back asks; “Is there something I mights help you with instead?” Then noticing the bare table looks curiously toward Satarel. “Didn’t Thurston offer you any refreshments? The chef’s quite tasty.”
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Post by Deleted on Dec 4, 2012 22:49:36 GMT -6
"My condolences on your masters illness, I understand how such things can cause difficulties." Satarel turns and bows as well, though his gaze never leaves the demonling. His tail lashes once more and then is still.
"I was offered most graciously, of course. But my master will dine when I return and he prefers that I dine with him. I'm sure you understand."
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Post by Skalp on Dec 24, 2012 9:28:32 GMT -6
The Demonling nods along as Satarel speaks, the artificial flames of the mana lamps bouncing up and down off his skull as he does so. “To be sure, to be sure. Of course you’re welcome to stops by anytime should you change your mind. Time’s are tough, but food is plentiful here at least…”
The short demon brings a claw to his pointed chin, and seems at once to be focused on something far away “… It’d be easier to release an airborne contagion that balances the fluctuation of leptin and ghrelin hormones in Pandemonium, eliminating the motivation to consume food altogether.” Razor finger tips whistle quietly as they cut the air, idly tapping away. “Or perhaps something that destroys the limbic system all together… I’ll need volunteers… the master’s sedated so I’ll have a control… perhaps something in the tea? ...You!”
Suddenly the Demonling snaps his attention back to Satarel “I don’t believe we’ves had the chance to be properly introduced. I am Skalp,” he says with an exited flourish “the Medica’s residential Apothecary! Didn’t you say you were thirsty? I can fix you up!”
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Post by Satarel on Mar 14, 2013 12:06:56 GMT -6
Satarel growls slightly, his tail lashing once before stilling. "No, thank you. I do have a pretty puzzle for you however, Skalp. Your expertise is well known in the city. Master and I could think of no one else who would be able to unravel this tangle and cure our compatriot."
His ears flick and he tilts his head to one side. "It's going to be quite challenging and of course, pay quite well. Not to mention word will doubtless get out and bring you more... patients." The devilcat smirks as he says the last.
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Post by Skalp on Mar 18, 2013 4:55:14 GMT -6
“Hmm? Oh...” Skalp clicks his forked tongue distractedly, the lipless scales of his mouth pulling over a row of reptilian teeth that split his face in half. It might have even been a smile. “Well then, by all means master.” The demonling bows again, his pointed cowl scraping the cold obsidian tiles of the floor. “It woulds be my pleasure. Please,” he gestures back towards the Medica's ceaselessly labelled reception.
“Thurston will help you with the paperwork,” Skalp lowers his voice so it won't carry “He's a sticklers for 'protocol' and 'release forms', whatever those are. But we don't get many customers and are always in need of funds, so don't let him bully you onto a bad deal or anything. ”
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Post by Satarel on Mar 27, 2013 14:54:57 GMT -6
One of Satarel's ears flicks as he turns back towards reception. "I'm no fan of paperwork myself." He sighs both ears flattening out. His tail swishes as he walks back towards Thurston's desk. "Alright... paperwork. What do you need me to sign?"
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Post by Skalp on Mar 31, 2013 5:31:12 GMT -6
“It's a patient Thurston! A patient! Have Elsperth prepare my operating table.” Skalp bounds up to the desk with a clattering sound like it was raining sewing pins.
The fleshless features of the Nightmare remain unchanged, however the glee in Skalp's voice seem to fuel the fire of it's mane. “Would sir be admitting himself or a third party today?” Thurston's voice is calm and even, however the Demonling doctor's excitement seems to radiate through him.
As Thurston draws forth a document from the pile of paper at his desk and hands it to Satarel, a restless and eager energy echoes from within the shadows of the Medica. The distant beat of the building's pulse quickens.
“A third partys Thurston,” Skalp chimes in, clapping his hands together like a pair of shears.
“I see, you are in luck sir, it seems the doctor has an opening just for you... today. Will sir be requiring transportation for the patient?... Sign here and list you relationship with the patient here...”
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Post by Satarel on Apr 3, 2013 9:33:18 GMT -6
He looks over at Skalp, eye's narrowing. "Let me be clear, surgeon. I will attend the examination and if you even so much as consider cutting into the patient I will make sure that you get no custom for a hundred years. And I will be the least of your troubles." Satarel takes the paper and looks it over, then turns to Thurston. "These terms, here and here do not suit." He taps the paper with a claw. "In lieu however I will pay double the price stated."
The devilcat looks from one being to the other. "Do we have an agreement?"
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Post by Skalp on Apr 4, 2013 9:27:27 GMT -6
A slender, fine-edged finger delicately strokes the apothecary's narrow chin as Thurston revises the document. With a creek, the Nightmare leans toward Skalp “Master, do you agree to treat the patient only with methods that have passed their experimental stages?”
The Demonling looks up with a genial smile, full of needle like teeth “For the last time Thurston, I'm not your master. I'm your friends. And I suppose so.”
“Indeed Master. Oh and before I forget, it appears Belladonna is here.”
“Oh dear, that is troublesome.”
“Quite.”
“I don't suppose she's beens through quarantine recently?”
“Afraid not Master.”
“I see...” Skalp brings his hands together in a steeple. As he addresses Satarel he seems to shrink on himself, the Demonling fidgeting sheepishly in his long coat. “Good news Master, I've decided to treat your friend for free!”
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