[The Harbor] Pulsers and Corpses

[Orinei]

20th of Winter, 512 AV As per usual in the harbor of Sahova, boats were coming and going all day, bearing supplies, meager amounts of food for those alive to eat it, the occasional being (living or dead) that was determined to study under a Sahovan wizard, and frequently, corpses for Nuit inhabitation. At present, one of those very corpse-bearing ships was docking in the harbor, several members of its crew rushing to drop anchor and tie up the boat so that its cargo could be unloaded. Several others were visible in the distance. It seemed as if Amaryllis was stocking up. On the dock nearest the ship stood a woman who seemed to be the Citadel’s liaison for its cargo. Perfect, Orinei had thought when Amaryllis had informed her she’d be dealing with some corpse shipments today. Another golem-worthy job. But, nonetheless, she had donned her black cloak and boots, hood pulled up, and set out in a carriage to the harbor. The same one, perhaps, that she had arrived in 20 days ago, now. The twenty days she’d spent serving Amaryllis had begun to take very slight effects on her. Of course, she was still as insolent and uppity as ever—she was just a little better at keeping it to herself. Minutely, almost imperceptibly better, perhaps, but she was making an effort. “Greetings,” she said, almost sounding sarcastic in her formality. “Welcome to Sahova. If you’ll unload the cargo, I will inspect it and you can be on your way. Bring out just a few at first. How fresh is this shipment?” She found that the more efficient she sounded, the quicker the pulsers running these corpse ships would unload them. It’s probably just because they want to get out of here, she thought, smirking. Perhaps they weren’t all wrong in wanting to do that. The captain nodded to her curtly, shouting something at his crew. They brought perhaps a half-dozen wood, human-size boxes out to her, dropping them unceremoniously at her feet in a line on the dock. Immediately, the smell off the boxes became overpowering. Orinei wrinkled her nose in distaste, sighing resignedly. So pointless, she thought. It’s like they think just because we don’t have heartbeats we can jump into any rotting thing they bring us. Gingerly, she slid back the lid of the first box. Holding her nose, she peered inside. As I expected. This box contained the bloated, blue body of a rather portly man who looked as if he’d drowned. “No.” she said curtly, moving to the next box. She repeated the procedure, sliding back the top of the box to peer inside. This one, too, held an unusable body. Getting more and more irritated, she walked down the row and opened the end box. Shyke. This box contained a more-or-less perfect corpse—a young human man, obviously very recently dead, the only blemish on him a stab wound to the heart. And that could easily be fixed, at least for use as a temporary body. These were the worst kinds of shipments—if they were all bad, she could turn them all away. If they were all good, she would take a chance and take them all. But when it was split like this—some perfect, some terrible—she’d have to inspect most of the cargo individually. “I’ll probably only be able to take half of these. Maybe less,” Orinei said firmly, staring into the captain’s face, trying to look as angry and incredulous as possible. “From the looks of these, most of them are beyond my help. You’ve got to know by now that we can’t use just any corpses. They have to be fresh. You do realize that, right?” She sighed again, rolling her eyes at the man. “If you’re going to captain a corpse ship, for Tanroa’s sake, bring us adequate corpses. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to inspect the rest of the cargo before accepting the shipment.” The captain, as irritated with her as she was with him, flamboyantly gestured for her to come aboard. “By all means, miss,” he said, “inspect my cargo. Bring your bad luck straight on board, if you please.” She wasn’t sure if he was referring to her being a woman, or being a Nuit—she supposed it could have been either. This is going to take forever, she thought, envisioning the possible number of corpses on that ship. She gave a quick glance around the docks, looking to see if some meek pulser apprentice was around—she wasn’t above bullying one into helping her. OOC : Wasn't sure how to end it so they'd meet obviously...maybe he can offer to help her or something? I can edit this if you want

[Wrenmae]

It had been coincidence Wrenmae was caught by a nuit who had need of a living back and pumping blood. The gaunt creature had looked him up and down, sneering, and simply ordered him to report to the docks. There he would assist an 'Orinei' with corpse acquisition, inspection, and transportation. Of course, in the world of the nuits, the only limitation they had was the dependence they shared for hosts. Without bodies, the nuits would become as so much white, viscous liquid, capable of nothing and slowly rotting to shadows and silence on some laboratory floor.

Truly, to trade immortality for an eternal dependence on the demise of others, it was cosmically ironic.

But he had no call to ignore a nuit and without a full knowledge of the stronghold's hierarchy, he dared not insult one who might supersede Rayage. So it was that he found himself escorted to the docks, painfully aware of the smell long before the ship loomed above him. Several of the bodies were already on display, the worst of them like carrion meat in their individual boxes...food for the hungry sharks that circled the docks with eager anticipation.

Sneering, the mage strode up the gangplank, giving the captain a knowing nod of exasperation before descending to the hull where this...Orinei would be waiting.

He was pleasantly surprised to find her in a fresh body, one that could be mistaken for life were it not for her unblinking stares, pale flesh, and the lack of vibrant flutter to her throat and breasts.

On approaching he gave a short bow,

"Wrenmae Sek, of Rayage," he introduced, "I've been given orders to assist you here." Looking up, his nose wrinkled and he gazed on the stacked boxes with obvious distaste.

"From Sunberth I imagine...new victims of violence and the freshest will be for when the boatman was casting off with five too many crew."

[Orinei]

Orinei, resigned, prepared to board the ship. She had a fold of her cloak pulled up over her nose and mouth. I might be dead too, she thought, but this is just ridiculous. She was, of course, referring to the smell. It wasn’t getting any better, she supposed, so she had turned toward the ship, steeling herself to go it alone. She turned away once more from the boat momentarily, trying to at least capture one last trace of the scent of fresh air before she boarded the ship. It was a futile effort; the docks almost always had a trace of eau de cadaver to them. She walked the gangplank, shooting daggers from her unsettlingly unblinking eyes at the lingering crewmen as she boarded the ship, making her way to the hull. The smell was amplified tenfold by the cramped quarters she found herself in. It wasn’t as if she had to breathe, but the stench was too powerful for that to make a difference. She felt it permeating her very pores; she dreaded the thought of how it would cling to her clothes and hair once she was off this god-forsaken boat. She took in her surroundings: the hull was crammed, floor-to-ceiling, with the same simple wooden boxes the crew had brought to her on the dock. She sighed, attempting to steel her resolve (and her stomach—it was empty, but that wouldn’t stop her from retching) as she began to slide open the box nearest her. That was when she heard him coming. She thought it was one of the crew, come to tell her to hurry up; she whirled around, perfectly prepared to serve the man with a stinging remark. However, she was surprised to find that it was not a corpse-shipman. Pleasantly surprised, even. She marked him as human from the start—he moved far too quickly to be a Nuit. She assumed he was here to help her, and she nearly shot an order at him, but she found herself silenced by the sight of him. She let the fold of cloak fall from her face, and tilted her head slightly as he spoke, appraising him. He was certainly attractive, she thought, and that was a tad confusing to her. Attractiveness wasn’t exactly a common quality on the island of the undead. The most interesting thing about him was that he seemed to be healthy—and compared to the coughing, sickly humans she’d encountered so far during her time in Sahova, that was something to be questioned. Did he say Rayage? The thought floated across her mind, vaguely trying to remember where she’d heard the name. Most likely in passing, somewhere in the Citadel. She had to put quite a few thoughts out of her head in order to answer, but like a dog shaking off water she shook off the momentary shock he’d given her, returning quickly to a colder demeanor. She nodded curtly. “I’m Orinei. I’ll be sure to thank whoever sent you.” She couldn’t help but let her eyes linger on him, almost imperceptibly, before she turned to look at the boxes before her. Beauty is fleeting, she reminded herself, when you’ve only got one life to live. She then realized he might need some instruction. Having never seen the man, she could only assume he was fresh off a boat from the mainland—and judging by his healthy glow, that was precisely what she thought. She glanced back over her shoulder at him. “We’ll be sorting these bodies for use by Nuits. Slide the box open, use your common sense—if it looks like shark food, let it be so. Do you have a knife, or anything? Mark the boxes we’ll be taking with us with an X.” With the last shortly spoken instruction, she returned to the boxes in front of her, trusting he would follow her lead.

[Wrenmae]

“Orinei,” Wrenmae said aloud, tasting the name as he rolled the syllables around in his mouth, “A pleasure.” Without further words he descended into the bowels of the ship to inspect the cargo. A rank smell floated up from the hold where crowded boxes shuddered atop eachother. There were boxes here, too many boxes, and barely kept up. Many were splintered and oozed unseemly blackish rot that painted the coffins beneath them in a deathly stain. The smell was overpowering and Wrenmae felt his stomach roll into his mouth, and release the precious food he’d had this morning onto the deck. It was only a drop in the overpowering stench.

For the first time in years, he felt sick.

Leaning against a row of the coffins, the hypnotist drew a dagger and weakly pried lids from their barely affixed places. Most of the bodies were bloated, some less than others. What had begun as a simple inspection on wares became a game of compromise. This or that corpse did not look SO awful, if one would simply cut away or mask the darkening skin where rot spread ghostly tendrils. He marked boxes hesitantly, leaving the ones on the bottom untouched. Quality had obviously diminished with this shipment, but so long as nuits existed in their current state, they would always require bodies. To an extent, the ship captains knew this. So it was that the game between both powers was one of bargain. The captains could raise the price of their wares by small increments, but if the nuits ever felt cheated, they’d send a message with their bodies. Of course, that could scare away the other business, leaving the dead without hosts.

It was a conundrum.

Personally, Wrenmae suspected there was a process in the citadel for choosing bodies. The pulsers that performed the least or made the most mistakes would often find themselves in a higher rank, albeit at the price of their life. So far Wren had seen one Pulser elevated in such a way…mewling mass one day and…strolling down the hall with little breath and commanding confidence the next.

Life was short, life was cruel, and he had been eyed by the nuits already.

The golems saw to an uneasy peace in the castle, but food was scarce and poison was easy. Wren had taken to hypnotizing rodents to try bits of his food first, to make sure none of it was tainted. It would not do for him to die here, far from his goals and in this wretched state. The undead walked with too much pomp, too much pride. Many could scarcely boast the extents of his talents with all their centuries of work.
And yet they ruled here in their kingdom of decomposition.

He could bear no more.

Throwing himself from the hold, he clawed onto the deck and out onto the docks, retching nothing as the sailors laughed. Most had grown used to the smell of carrion, smelled of it themselves…and others had clamps upon their noses and kerchiefs around their face. They feared disease…perhaps, or the superstition a ghost would soar up from the body if it made eye contact and seep through your nose and into your mind. In any case, the hypnotist was not made for this sort of charnel work.

“I yield,” he breathed with a shudder, staring up at Orinei with watering, red-rimmed eyes, “I can’t take the stench.”

[Orinei]

Wrenmae was not alone in his nausea as the two, pulser and Nuit, worked together to mark the boxes that would be leaving the ship to enter the Citadel. Orinei, though, being as preoccupied as she was with appearance, was perhaps slightly pickier about the bodies whose coffins she marked; a blue cast of dead blood could be covered by makeup, but blackened hands would not do. She continually reminded herself that these bodies weren’t for her—sure, she might fret at the sight of a finger lost to rot, but the Nuits of Sahova that burned through bodies like firewood cared little for aesthetics.

Orinei was a daintier creature altogether. Truthfully, this was her least favourite part of the job; she could watch Amaryllis paint on layers of makeup like it was oil paint, and indeed she could draw eyeliner on her own lids til the end of time. She hadn’t seen much surgical embalming yet, but had heard whispers of it among the other apprentices—mostly gossip and tall tales about Master Farke’s “custom modifications.”

But this? Poking through the offal of humanity, packaged up not-so-neatly in these boxes? This was grunt work. This was not what she had signed up for. Her stomach was empty, but the human gag reflex still hadn’t left her. She wasn’t breathing, but the mere sight of the absolute grotesquerie before her was enough to turn her insides out. Eventually, she hoped, she would no longer have to do such work…hopefully some new apprentice would come along and relieve her of this wretched duty.

Disgusting. It was the only thought she could bear to think as she turned away from the sight, eyes watering as she clamped them shut. As she turned, though, she watched Wrenmae bolt for above-decks, and couldn’t help but smirk. She followed him, though at a much slower pace than he’d taken. The poor boy had been looking green the whole time they’d been down there, but she’d thought little of it. His sickness had only served to further her very incorrect thought that he was quite new to Sahova—even the humans, she supposed, had to get used to the smell of decay sometime. This one, though…she pondered as she watched him retch over the side of the boat, feeling what passed for pity in her book. He’d make a good Nuit. Strong, healthy-looking. He wouldn’t be one she would choose as a host—not quite feminine enough—but for someone else…

The look on her face as he spoke swam somewhere in the realm of pity and mocking. “I see,” she said, nodding slowly, finally clearing her nose of the scent of putrefaction. “It’s something else, I’ll agree. Not for the faint of heart. I suppose you’ll get used to it, though.” In effect, she was commenting on the fact that if he was doing this type of work, he must not be too high in the hierarchy of Sahova quite yet. Neither was she—but being undead gave her slight advantage in that particular area.