The Tattooing Ritual

The large Thayan man was siting quietly, alone in his room at the inn. Sergul Zalff did in the privacy of his room what he liked the most: He read. The days at the festival had been interesting, to say the least, given his duties as guard for the small Thayan shop and all the gossip and exposure to the locals and their strange customs. Too much chaos to his liking. The locals called it fun, he called it folly. They devoted themselves to leisure and joy, too easily forgetting the pain and suffering that made it possible.

But for the time being, he himself sat leisurely, as leisurely as one can be on a hard wood, cushinless chair, by the window, and read a particular tome on elven deities that he had found during his many recent troavels. The room was neatly kept, sparse in it's decoration. Mr. Zalff led a rather ascethic life. He had few posessions, and most of them were his personal effects, armor, personal items of torture and blades. He was used to it. The rigors of his own training and devotion to the Maiden of Pain, the Willing Whip, Loviatar, left him little interest in the joys and pleasures of life, save those of the flesh, and the ocasional feasting and drinking. After all, true pleasure could only be found through pain. He read because he enjoyed the activity, but more importantly, he read because he was waiting for someone, and he often read on the eve of performing important rituals to clear his mind.

He had sent Malik a letter, to make an appointment for the evening. The days after the public punishment of Imperceptor Wuuq, Mr. Zalff had been deep in through and spiritual meditation. He had witnessed firsthand the devotion of the man to his Black Lord, and found his personal request appropiate. Perhaps, even flattering.

Few people were familiar with Tatoo Magic. In the lands of Thay, tattooin took an important aspect, both for social and practical matters. It was the distinctive tatoos of the Red Wizards that most westerners were familiar with, and the magical aspect of them was well known to most sages. Some Tattoing traditions carried over from Rashemi lore and communion with the Spirits of the Land, corrupted and decayed by the Thayan Red Wizards. They were often made in order to bolster one's own magical talents, provide protections and wards, even to inscribe the spellbook of mages into their very flesh.

But deep within Thay, darker, more ancient and abominable traditions made heavy use of them... worshipping of devils and demons, human sacrifice, bargaining with outsiders in exchange for dark knowledge and fouler, vile things were often associated with the practice. But indeed, the most formidable was the blasphemous, full body tatooing that was inscribed into one's own flesh with magical ink, revolting show of one's own dark zeal to obtain power through any means. Sergul Zalff knew of it from a young age, and come of age, after scarring his own flesh into a repellent pattern associated with the diabolic rites of a dark warrior, he had rigurously studied and undergone one such marking.

He wore it proudly, as the proccess was pure torture. It took several days to perform, and one had to know how to do it well, lest one risk damaging beyond hope nerves, muscles and tendons. He had learned how the proccess worked, and over the years had made small additions to himself until the work was retouched to suit his own needs, and desires. Truly, the foul magic had served him well over time, as his Masters desired. Now, he was ready to inscribe one such tatoo on a willing recipient, one man whom walked himself a dark, parallel road. He would arrive in time, and they would begin the ritual by midnight. The pain he would inflict would be exquisite, he had seen the brutality with which Malik Marduk had flayed Imperceptor Wuuq, and Mr. Zalff understood then that Loviatar favored the man in some way, even if he served the Black Lord himself. But such were the ways of the Gods, beyond mortal ken.

Mr. Zalff closed the book and gently lay it on the nearby table. The garish light of day dwindled steadily as dusk arrived, and he stood up, stripped himself of his clothing, which he neatly folded and placed on the bed, and lit the many candles he had prepared and set about the room for the ocassion. He performed the Candle Rites, as was his custom every twelfth day, and danced and sang for the space of an hour or so around the candles, flaying his naked flesh with a small cat-o-nine tails made of hardened leather and barbed with sharp pieces of bone and iron. He passed his arms, hands and feet over the lit candles, chanting praises to the Goddess in a dark and blasphemous language in ecstatic bliss, and once he finished, he extinguished a large candle at the center of the room with a small quantity of consecrated wine.

Then, he cleaned himself up, got dressed, and sat once again by the window to await in silence and contemplation.

Malik sat in his room, one he was given by the High Inquisitor and Sergeant Desrah Asher. The room was not large, but it was tidy, almost pedantic, as the Hooded Menace prefered it. Spartan, so to speak. Quite different from most tieflings, order was something he had always kept around him.

He wondered if he should leave the pattern up to the Thayan Knight, Sergul Zalff, but then again... the Loviatan symbols would just be too much, even for the Banite priest, who spent a few moments every now and then, tossing her a prayer. Perhaps a mix. A black hand with whips trailing out over his limbs, to make the tattoos magic as successful as possible. With a shrug, he opened up his bag and sat down in the corner. He carefully folded his personal letters and papers, before opening a drawer and placing them neatly inside. Malik took out his bag, and placed a shattered sapphire, a vial of blood, a bat fang and a few black vials on the desk, apparently filled with oil. The scent from the oil vials quickly filled the room.

He shook his head at the irony, of being tattooed by a Thayan. It was in Thay, he first learned the arts of the dark oils he coated not only his mean looking two handed greatsword, but also himself, and the strange obscure arts of self mutilation to toughen his own body. Then again, if anyone would know the tattooing ritual, a Thayan Knight dedicated to Loviatar would. Sergul would certainly know.

When the bat fang was grinded, methodically, and slowly, as Malik prefered it, he put the mortar and pestle down, before pouring the contents in to a larger vial. Sapphire dust, a few vials of oil, he paused, looking down at it. He held up a vial of blood and smiled as he did. Virgin blood. The priest put a hand to his beard and stroked it carefully. Would it matter if it was or wasn't? The blood, in this ritual would likely not matter, as long as it was elven, human or dwarf blood. He shrugged again, and poured the blood in to the container, while he used a glass rod to mix it down in the oils.

The hard part, would be enchanting it. Malik closed his eyes, and let himself be filled with fear. He prayed to the Dark Lord, as he so often did, however, this time, past midnight, as he had already visited the half built cathedral for his midnight prayers. The large vial hummed as divine magic shielded it. He smiled to himself, as the vial shimmered in black light. Spell resistance.

He stood up, and strapped the vial to his potion belt. Large. Clumsy. Awkward. No matter he thought, as he would only be going across the street more or less, to the quarters of Sergul. He glanced to his mithrial full plate crafted by the Thaumaturge Hector, and swore to himself. Never leave home without a plate, even if you're only crossing the street. He covered his head in this black hood, drawn deep to hide his horns, as he had gotten used to so long ago, even if Shadowdale were somewhat tiefling friendly. Old habbits die hard. He opened the door out of his room and looked around, listening. No Desrah, no Sallack, no Valerian. Home alone. He opened the second door and strode out, locking the door behind him, and tucked the key away before leaving the apartments.

Standing outside Serguls door, he looked down to his feet, thinking ”It can't be worse than letting Vanguard Lendrick scarify you. Really!” before grinning and knocking on the door, awaiting Sergul to open it.