The narrow alleys twisted and turned in endless shadows, the scent of damp stone and old parchment lingering in the stagnant air. Malrik moved with measured steps, his tailored black robes flowing around him, the silver embroidery glinting beneath the dim torchlight. The symbols—ancient, powerful—whispered their own history, stitched into the very fabric of his existence.
Knockturn Alley had always been a haven for the forsaken and the ambitious alike. Tonight, he was among them, though he carried himself with a poise that set him apart from the skulking figures darting between storefronts. His presence was not desperate, nor reckless. It was deliberate.
His gaze, sharp and calculating, scanned the shop windows, searching for something beyond trinkets for the common collector. The crude hexed amulets and second-rate cursed relics would not do. He sought knowledge—the kind that promised eternity.
Malrik’s fingers ghosted over the handle of a door before he pushed it open, stepping inside a shop reeking of burnt herbs and old magic. The shopkeeper barely looked up, but Malrik had already decided—if they had what he was looking for, they would talk. If not, he would move on.
The night was young, and his search was far from over.
--------------
OOC: Open to anyone who wishes to cross Malrik’s path—shopkeepers, buyers, or those who lurk in the shadows.
Lurking in the Shadows of Knockturn Alley
-
Malrik Dreadmore
- Dark Arts Scholar
- Player: Annalee
Lurking in the Shadows of Knockturn Alley
"Power is not inherited, nor is it gifted to the fortunate. It is seized by those with the will to take it, shaped by those with the wisdom to wield it, and kept by those ruthless enough to protect it." — Malrik Dreadmore
Alic had been leaning in the alleyway, just sort of watching those who were coming and going, keeping an eye on what he considered his domain at this point. He had a good number of the people here ready for any notice of them getting the chance to stir up trouble.
However, he raised a brow as he watched Malrik walk by, pushing his hood off his head as he passed, watching the shop he went in. He smirked a little before walking towards the shop as well, stepping inside a few moments after this interesting figure, "You don't look like someone who needs things from this shop, no offense," he said to the shop keep, "There's one a bit further down the way that has much more potent... products," he chewed on which word to pick for a moment, watching this newcomer to see their reactions to someone they didn't know stepping in like this. Some would be indignant. Some would ignore him. The ones that got his attention were ones who asked him where, the ones who did not bend and did not bark.
This one seemed like he'd be interesting. Like he could draw him into the fold and have another strong ally on his side. Many more and he might just start making waves...
"How about I show you the way? I was just wondering if the keep had something I was interested in."
However, he raised a brow as he watched Malrik walk by, pushing his hood off his head as he passed, watching the shop he went in. He smirked a little before walking towards the shop as well, stepping inside a few moments after this interesting figure, "You don't look like someone who needs things from this shop, no offense," he said to the shop keep, "There's one a bit further down the way that has much more potent... products," he chewed on which word to pick for a moment, watching this newcomer to see their reactions to someone they didn't know stepping in like this. Some would be indignant. Some would ignore him. The ones that got his attention were ones who asked him where, the ones who did not bend and did not bark.
This one seemed like he'd be interesting. Like he could draw him into the fold and have another strong ally on his side. Many more and he might just start making waves...
"How about I show you the way? I was just wondering if the keep had something I was interested in."
From the depths of injustice, rises the strength of change.
-
Malrik Dreadmore
- Dark Arts Scholar
- Player: Annalee
Malrik remained poised, his expression unreadable as he let his fingers brush against the surface of a faded grimoire, its once-powerful enchantments long since bled dry. The shop smelled of old parchment and something deeper—something rotting beneath the weight of forgotten magic. Dust clung to the air, swirling in the dim glow of candlelight, settling over relics that had long lost their purpose. A hollow collection. Worthless.
The shopkeeper, a withered figure hunched behind the counter, barely acknowledged them. He had seen men like them before, searching for things no longer meant to be found. Or perhaps he had simply stopped caring who came and went, so long as coin was exchanged.
Malrik’s gaze drifted across the room, taking in the stranger with calculated precision. He did not recognize him—his stance was too self-assured for a mere bystander, his words too intentional. There was an edge to him, a man who measured those around him as Malrik himself did. A familiar game.
“You speak as if you know the worth of things.” His voice was low, deliberate, each syllable touched with the distinct cadence of his Korean accent. He did not rush his words; they carried weight, slow and sharp. “And yet, you stand in this place, same as I.”
He allowed the silence to stretch, observing, testing. The stranger had made the first move, stepping into Malrik’s path uninvited. Now, Malrik wished to see how he would proceed. His dark eyes flicked toward the door, a subtle shift of acknowledgment.
“Lead the way, then.” His tone betrayed nothing—neither trust nor suspicion. Just the quiet patience of a man who had walked into darkness before and knew well enough how to navigate it.
The shopkeeper, a withered figure hunched behind the counter, barely acknowledged them. He had seen men like them before, searching for things no longer meant to be found. Or perhaps he had simply stopped caring who came and went, so long as coin was exchanged.
Malrik’s gaze drifted across the room, taking in the stranger with calculated precision. He did not recognize him—his stance was too self-assured for a mere bystander, his words too intentional. There was an edge to him, a man who measured those around him as Malrik himself did. A familiar game.
“You speak as if you know the worth of things.” His voice was low, deliberate, each syllable touched with the distinct cadence of his Korean accent. He did not rush his words; they carried weight, slow and sharp. “And yet, you stand in this place, same as I.”
He allowed the silence to stretch, observing, testing. The stranger had made the first move, stepping into Malrik’s path uninvited. Now, Malrik wished to see how he would proceed. His dark eyes flicked toward the door, a subtle shift of acknowledgment.
“Lead the way, then.” His tone betrayed nothing—neither trust nor suspicion. Just the quiet patience of a man who had walked into darkness before and knew well enough how to navigate it.
"Power is not inherited, nor is it gifted to the fortunate. It is seized by those with the will to take it, shaped by those with the wisdom to wield it, and kept by those ruthless enough to protect it." — Malrik Dreadmore
"I've learned the worth of things from seeing them from beneath," Alic mused, "Once you've seen the belly of a beast, hypothetically, it's no longer quite so... special," he shrugged. When Malrik told him to lead the way, he gave a bow of the head in a gracious "Of course" gesture before turning and walking from the shop, passing no more looks towards the shopkeep.
Some men would consider it foolish to turn your back on someone in this alleyway, but Alic was not one to be so worried about that. For one, he knew the allies he did have wouldn't let such a slight occur, but also, he had that much confidence in his own abilities to not be afraid.
Plus, this fellow didn't seem the type to do something like that unprovoked, and Alic hadn't provoked yet.
"The shopkeep of this new place is more... talkative than that one," He said almost in warning over his shoulder, assuming Malrik was indeed following, leading him down the alley to a shop. It was the same size as most shops here, but the trinkets in the second window showed he had enough wares to fill two floors. The outside of it was weathered stone with strange creatures carved into them here and there and vines somehow growing along the walls. Above the door, in elegant, silver letters, it read "Nightshade Curiosities".
Inside, rows of shelves were crammed with items, spell books, and potions, but Alic didn't wander into them. He stopped by the desk at the front and rang the bell. It took a moment or two before the curtain that led into what seemed like a storeroom pulled back, and out stepped Jasce. "Ah, one of my favorite customers," he said with a tight smile to Alic, "And you brought a friend," he raised a brow at Malrik.
"He seems to be searching for something, and I knew your "competition" up the way wouldn't likely have what he needed," Alic explained, "I'll head on back if you two want to... talk shop. " He smirked a bit before giving a nod to Malrik and walking into the twisting rows of shelves towards a door that was half tucked behind an odd statue that was for sale.
Jasce crossed his arms, "I've got just about everything around here," he mused, "Are we looking for the kinds of things that are fine to have on the shelves if meddling Aurors come poking about?" he raised a brow, "If so, it'll likely be on one of these shelves either on this floor or the next. If no, we'll need to follow Alic. And if I don't have it, well, I am not above commissions for retrieval," he shrugged.
Some men would consider it foolish to turn your back on someone in this alleyway, but Alic was not one to be so worried about that. For one, he knew the allies he did have wouldn't let such a slight occur, but also, he had that much confidence in his own abilities to not be afraid.
Plus, this fellow didn't seem the type to do something like that unprovoked, and Alic hadn't provoked yet.
"The shopkeep of this new place is more... talkative than that one," He said almost in warning over his shoulder, assuming Malrik was indeed following, leading him down the alley to a shop. It was the same size as most shops here, but the trinkets in the second window showed he had enough wares to fill two floors. The outside of it was weathered stone with strange creatures carved into them here and there and vines somehow growing along the walls. Above the door, in elegant, silver letters, it read "Nightshade Curiosities".
Inside, rows of shelves were crammed with items, spell books, and potions, but Alic didn't wander into them. He stopped by the desk at the front and rang the bell. It took a moment or two before the curtain that led into what seemed like a storeroom pulled back, and out stepped Jasce. "Ah, one of my favorite customers," he said with a tight smile to Alic, "And you brought a friend," he raised a brow at Malrik.
"He seems to be searching for something, and I knew your "competition" up the way wouldn't likely have what he needed," Alic explained, "I'll head on back if you two want to... talk shop. " He smirked a bit before giving a nod to Malrik and walking into the twisting rows of shelves towards a door that was half tucked behind an odd statue that was for sale.
Jasce crossed his arms, "I've got just about everything around here," he mused, "Are we looking for the kinds of things that are fine to have on the shelves if meddling Aurors come poking about?" he raised a brow, "If so, it'll likely be on one of these shelves either on this floor or the next. If no, we'll need to follow Alic. And if I don't have it, well, I am not above commissions for retrieval," he shrugged.
From the depths of injustice, rises the strength of change.
-
Malrik Dreadmore
- Dark Arts Scholar
- Player: Annalee
Malrik stepped into Nightshade Curiosities, his presence as quiet and deliberate as the shifting of shadows in the dimly lit shop. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment, dried herbs, and the faint metallic tang of something far less benign. Shelves bowed under the weight of forgotten relics—spellbooks bound in cracked leather, vials of dark, swirling substances sealed with wax, and artifacts that hummed with dormant power. The space was cluttered yet curated, the careful chaos of a collector who knew the worth of what he stocked.
Unlike the last shop, where trinkets had long since been drained of their potency, this place still breathed. The weight of magic hung in the air, subtle but undeniable. Malrik’s gaze moved over the rows of wares, his sharp eyes registering the peculiar details—the way the dust lay untouched on some objects, while others had clearly been handled recently. Everything here told a story, but he wasn’t here for stories.
From the back of the shop, a man emerged, his expression carefully neutral, though his eyes lingered on Malrik just a fraction too long. A merchant’s gaze—one that measured worth not in coin alone but in knowledge, in power, in what could be traded beyond simple currency.
Malrik did not shift from where he stood. His posture remained composed, hands resting neatly at his back, the dark folds of his robes settling around him like shadowed armour. Silver embroidery along his sleeves glinted under the dim light, an intricate weave of ancient symbols. He had watched carefully as the first man had opted out of the conversation and made busy inside the shop, Malrik's dark eyes followed him until he was out of sight.
"The things I seek do not belong on shelves," Malrik said at last returning his attention back to the shopkeeper, his voice measured, each word placed with care. His accent was a quiet undercurrent, threading through the syllables like something sharp beneath silk. "If Aurors could find them so easily, they would not be of use to me."
His words hung in the air, settling between them like the dust that floated in the low light. It was not a question, not an idle curiosity—it was a test. The merchant would understand that.
Malrik’s gaze flicked briefly to the man who had led him here. He still had no name for him, nor did he trust the ease with which he had moved through the alleyways moments prior. Confidence could be a tool, but it could also be a flaw. Malrik was watching, waiting, learning.
"But I do not chase fairy tales," he continued, his focus shifting back to the merchant. "Many peddle trinkets that whisper of power, but true artifacts—” his eyes narrowed ever so slightly, reading the man in front of him as one might read an ancient text “—do not stay in one place for long."
Silence stretched between them, not empty but weighted with possibility. Then, with the faintest tilt of his head, Malrik added, his voice a low murmur beneath the flickering lantern light:
"Tell me, merchant. Do you deal in relics of permanence? Objects that endure beyond flesh and time?"
He did not speak the word aloud, but it was there, unspoken yet unmistakable. Immortality. A dangerous pursuit. A dangerous question. But Malrik had no patience for men who hesitated. If this one was worth his time, he would already understand what was being asked.
Unlike the last shop, where trinkets had long since been drained of their potency, this place still breathed. The weight of magic hung in the air, subtle but undeniable. Malrik’s gaze moved over the rows of wares, his sharp eyes registering the peculiar details—the way the dust lay untouched on some objects, while others had clearly been handled recently. Everything here told a story, but he wasn’t here for stories.
From the back of the shop, a man emerged, his expression carefully neutral, though his eyes lingered on Malrik just a fraction too long. A merchant’s gaze—one that measured worth not in coin alone but in knowledge, in power, in what could be traded beyond simple currency.
Malrik did not shift from where he stood. His posture remained composed, hands resting neatly at his back, the dark folds of his robes settling around him like shadowed armour. Silver embroidery along his sleeves glinted under the dim light, an intricate weave of ancient symbols. He had watched carefully as the first man had opted out of the conversation and made busy inside the shop, Malrik's dark eyes followed him until he was out of sight.
"The things I seek do not belong on shelves," Malrik said at last returning his attention back to the shopkeeper, his voice measured, each word placed with care. His accent was a quiet undercurrent, threading through the syllables like something sharp beneath silk. "If Aurors could find them so easily, they would not be of use to me."
His words hung in the air, settling between them like the dust that floated in the low light. It was not a question, not an idle curiosity—it was a test. The merchant would understand that.
Malrik’s gaze flicked briefly to the man who had led him here. He still had no name for him, nor did he trust the ease with which he had moved through the alleyways moments prior. Confidence could be a tool, but it could also be a flaw. Malrik was watching, waiting, learning.
"But I do not chase fairy tales," he continued, his focus shifting back to the merchant. "Many peddle trinkets that whisper of power, but true artifacts—” his eyes narrowed ever so slightly, reading the man in front of him as one might read an ancient text “—do not stay in one place for long."
Silence stretched between them, not empty but weighted with possibility. Then, with the faintest tilt of his head, Malrik added, his voice a low murmur beneath the flickering lantern light:
"Tell me, merchant. Do you deal in relics of permanence? Objects that endure beyond flesh and time?"
He did not speak the word aloud, but it was there, unspoken yet unmistakable. Immortality. A dangerous pursuit. A dangerous question. But Malrik had no patience for men who hesitated. If this one was worth his time, he would already understand what was being asked.
"Power is not inherited, nor is it gifted to the fortunate. It is seized by those with the will to take it, shaped by those with the wisdom to wield it, and kept by those ruthless enough to protect it." — Malrik Dreadmore
-
Jasce Nighteye
- Master Thief / Proprietor
- Player: Nova
Jasce listened as this newcomer spoke, a smirk slowly curling along his lips as he continued. "Interesting," he said. "Beyond flesh and time, huh?" he mused, pulling open a drawer in front of him and seeming to look through a bunch of different keys. "Something like that would certain be worth a pretty penny or... rather a pretty galleon." He paused and corrected himself, considering his audience, pulling out a very old key, closing the drawer back, "I don't like to show my... private stock without a little... insurance. After all, I nearly lost my head trying to get some of these items, would hate to lose it to someone who doesn't understand honor among thieves," he smirked.
Jasce stepped back, moving towards the thin space he had to slide out to get out from behind the counter with how full the first floor was. He walked over toward the front door, locking it shut, "I have many, many vaults below this place my friend, some that would make the goblins in Gringotts blush, but I won't show those to just anyone. There are a lot of things that can outlast time, but it's a matter of how much time you're talking about. Getting to the really good stuff costs a lot more than coin."
He dropped the key into his pants pockets, wearing a rather muggle looking outfit of jeans and a long sleeved tee shirt, but as he crossed his arms, he scrutinized how Malrik himself was presented, "I've had a lot of... ambitious buyers- everyone wants to cheat death after all, but you see, you have to ask if Immortality is willing to grant itself to you," he said and started towards the door that Alic had gone through, "And what you're willing to sacrifice to try and convince her you're good enough," he turned, stopping and facing Malrik once more.
"So what are you willing to show me to get down these stairs. You can talk big, and if you threaten me, well. Everything down there and up here will just..." he made a disappearing motion, "And it really will be in a vault in Gringotts. Insurance policies and all that. How can I trust you're not an Auror in disguise? Or that you're worthy of seeing what I have?"
Jasce stepped back, moving towards the thin space he had to slide out to get out from behind the counter with how full the first floor was. He walked over toward the front door, locking it shut, "I have many, many vaults below this place my friend, some that would make the goblins in Gringotts blush, but I won't show those to just anyone. There are a lot of things that can outlast time, but it's a matter of how much time you're talking about. Getting to the really good stuff costs a lot more than coin."
He dropped the key into his pants pockets, wearing a rather muggle looking outfit of jeans and a long sleeved tee shirt, but as he crossed his arms, he scrutinized how Malrik himself was presented, "I've had a lot of... ambitious buyers- everyone wants to cheat death after all, but you see, you have to ask if Immortality is willing to grant itself to you," he said and started towards the door that Alic had gone through, "And what you're willing to sacrifice to try and convince her you're good enough," he turned, stopping and facing Malrik once more.
"So what are you willing to show me to get down these stairs. You can talk big, and if you threaten me, well. Everything down there and up here will just..." he made a disappearing motion, "And it really will be in a vault in Gringotts. Insurance policies and all that. How can I trust you're not an Auror in disguise? Or that you're worthy of seeing what I have?"
Behind every jest lies a hint of truth, and within every shadow, a sliver of light
-
Malrik Dreadmore
- Dark Arts Scholar
- Player: Annalee
Malrik's eyes glinted with a quiet understanding, a flicker of amusement dancing behind the cool mask of his expression. He remained still, the weight of his presence filling the space between them, his posture unbroken. The shopkeeper’s words—clever and guarded—were not lost on him.
The shopkeeper had no illusions of the stakes involved in their dealings. Malrik could respect that. The game they played was one of caution and careful manoeuvring. Trust was a currency in short supply here, and it would not be freely given. But trust, like all things, could be bought—for a price.
When the shopkeeper spoke of vaults and hidden treasures, Malrik’s thoughts remained focused, calm. This was a test of patience, a test of wit, and above all, a test of endurance. For immortality was not something to be rushed into—it was something to be earned, slowly, painfully.
"I am no stranger to the price of knowledge," Malrik said, his voice smooth, as if he had already considered every possible outcome. He met the shopkeeper's scrutiny with unwavering gaze, his tone carefully chosen. "You are right, of course. Immortality does not reveal itself to just anyone. It waits for those who truly understand the cost."
Malrik allowed a faint smile to tug at the corner of his lips, just a hint of it, a shadow of something far darker. He took a step forward, his movement deliberate but unhurried, his eyes never leaving the shopkeeper’s. "You question my worth, my identity. Understandable, given the world we live in." His voice grew a shade colder, more measured. "But let me assure you, I am no mere pretender. If I sought only to cheat death, I would not be standing here asking for your wares. I would not waste time with words."
His hand moved, fingers brushing against the silver embroidery of his robes, letting the faint sheen of ancient symbols catch the light as if to emphasize the weight of his words. "I have already sacrificed much—more than most would ever dare. But for what is worth more than life itself, I will sacrifice more still."
Malrik took another step forward, now closer to the merchant, his presence imposing. "As for your question—whether I am worthy of what you offer—I leave that answer to you." His gaze was unreadable, but there was a steeliness to it now, something that could not be ignored. "But I assure you, I am not in disguise, nor am I some masked fool chasing trinkets."
He allowed a pause to linger in the air, the tension hanging like a blade waiting to fall.
"If you believe in honour among thieves, then we are already on the same parchment."
Malrik’s gaze flickered briefly to the door where the other man—Alic—had disappeared. But his focus remained firmly on Jasce. "I am not here for games. Show me what I need to see, and I will ensure your 'insurance' is honored. If not, I leave empty-handed and you return to the shadows, where you belong."
He straightened, his tone resolute. "But know this—those who stand in my way are not known for their longevity."
The shopkeeper had no illusions of the stakes involved in their dealings. Malrik could respect that. The game they played was one of caution and careful manoeuvring. Trust was a currency in short supply here, and it would not be freely given. But trust, like all things, could be bought—for a price.
When the shopkeeper spoke of vaults and hidden treasures, Malrik’s thoughts remained focused, calm. This was a test of patience, a test of wit, and above all, a test of endurance. For immortality was not something to be rushed into—it was something to be earned, slowly, painfully.
"I am no stranger to the price of knowledge," Malrik said, his voice smooth, as if he had already considered every possible outcome. He met the shopkeeper's scrutiny with unwavering gaze, his tone carefully chosen. "You are right, of course. Immortality does not reveal itself to just anyone. It waits for those who truly understand the cost."
Malrik allowed a faint smile to tug at the corner of his lips, just a hint of it, a shadow of something far darker. He took a step forward, his movement deliberate but unhurried, his eyes never leaving the shopkeeper’s. "You question my worth, my identity. Understandable, given the world we live in." His voice grew a shade colder, more measured. "But let me assure you, I am no mere pretender. If I sought only to cheat death, I would not be standing here asking for your wares. I would not waste time with words."
His hand moved, fingers brushing against the silver embroidery of his robes, letting the faint sheen of ancient symbols catch the light as if to emphasize the weight of his words. "I have already sacrificed much—more than most would ever dare. But for what is worth more than life itself, I will sacrifice more still."
Malrik took another step forward, now closer to the merchant, his presence imposing. "As for your question—whether I am worthy of what you offer—I leave that answer to you." His gaze was unreadable, but there was a steeliness to it now, something that could not be ignored. "But I assure you, I am not in disguise, nor am I some masked fool chasing trinkets."
He allowed a pause to linger in the air, the tension hanging like a blade waiting to fall.
"If you believe in honour among thieves, then we are already on the same parchment."
Malrik’s gaze flickered briefly to the door where the other man—Alic—had disappeared. But his focus remained firmly on Jasce. "I am not here for games. Show me what I need to see, and I will ensure your 'insurance' is honored. If not, I leave empty-handed and you return to the shadows, where you belong."
He straightened, his tone resolute. "But know this—those who stand in my way are not known for their longevity."
"Power is not inherited, nor is it gifted to the fortunate. It is seized by those with the will to take it, shaped by those with the wisdom to wield it, and kept by those ruthless enough to protect it." — Malrik Dreadmore
-
Jasce Nighteye
- Master Thief / Proprietor
- Player: Nova
Jasce just kept smirking, even as his eyes never missed a single movement that Malrik made. He didn't cower, didn't flinch. In fact, his smirk only turned into a smile before he gave a laugh, "Oh buddy, I've tusseled with bigger fish than you, you do not scare me. You really think I'd have something like a key to immortality down here without having also used something for myself?" he put his hand on his chest, "I'd be an idiot, truly, to make sure I couldn't protect myself against people who think their wands are impressive," he snorted before turning and opening the door.
"Try and keep up," he added as he started down the stairs.
The base of the long dark stairwell was probably not what Malrik was expecting. Jasce had said he vaults, but what he didn't mention was that he seemed to have taken over part of an abandoned section of Gringotts itself, "Some "freak" cave cut off the rails that get their little cars about in," he made air quotes as he walked, finding Alic sitting on a plush sofa, reading an ancient tome by latern light, "Gloves, dude," he said, tossing a set of cotton gloves at Alic from a table
"Ah yes, apologies," Alic said, pulling the gloves on.
"Apologies mean nothing if your greasy digits smear the ink," Jasce snorted before walking towards a set of stairs that spiraled down. "This way," he said to Malrik.
"Ah, going for the really good wares?" Alic smirked as he watched them, "Good luck," he mused.
Jasce led them down and down until they reached another landing, one that looked like it had been carved out in a more crude way that the rest of the vaults, and the door was intense, charmed, and warded. He pulled out his key, walking over towards the door, "I'd say this is your last chance to turn back, but I'm starting to gather you don't appreciate my humor," he said as he used the key to unlock several different spots, a small pop occurring each time, another thing put it place to protect or keep this thing in going away.
Jasce inserted the key into the last lock, twisting it slowly. The air around them seemed to thicken as the final ward clicked into place with a soft, almost reluctant sigh. The door creaked open, revealing the object at the center of the room.
“You may have thought I was talking in metaphors earlier about Immortality choosing you, but I wasn’t,” Jasce said, his voice quieter now, but still carrying that same dangerous edge. He looked back over his shoulder, his smirk returning, though it held a touch of something darker. “This thing is sentient, alive. It can deny you. Let’s see if you keep being so suave.”
The air grew heavier as Jasce stepped aside, revealing the artifact in full—a shifting, pulsing mass wrapped in ancient cloth, with a faint, glowing core that seemed to be watching them. The very atmosphere in the room seemed to hum with the power of the relic, the energy shifting, truly almost alive in its own right.
"Try and keep up," he added as he started down the stairs.
The base of the long dark stairwell was probably not what Malrik was expecting. Jasce had said he vaults, but what he didn't mention was that he seemed to have taken over part of an abandoned section of Gringotts itself, "Some "freak" cave cut off the rails that get their little cars about in," he made air quotes as he walked, finding Alic sitting on a plush sofa, reading an ancient tome by latern light, "Gloves, dude," he said, tossing a set of cotton gloves at Alic from a table
"Ah yes, apologies," Alic said, pulling the gloves on.
"Apologies mean nothing if your greasy digits smear the ink," Jasce snorted before walking towards a set of stairs that spiraled down. "This way," he said to Malrik.
"Ah, going for the really good wares?" Alic smirked as he watched them, "Good luck," he mused.
Jasce led them down and down until they reached another landing, one that looked like it had been carved out in a more crude way that the rest of the vaults, and the door was intense, charmed, and warded. He pulled out his key, walking over towards the door, "I'd say this is your last chance to turn back, but I'm starting to gather you don't appreciate my humor," he said as he used the key to unlock several different spots, a small pop occurring each time, another thing put it place to protect or keep this thing in going away.
Jasce inserted the key into the last lock, twisting it slowly. The air around them seemed to thicken as the final ward clicked into place with a soft, almost reluctant sigh. The door creaked open, revealing the object at the center of the room.
“You may have thought I was talking in metaphors earlier about Immortality choosing you, but I wasn’t,” Jasce said, his voice quieter now, but still carrying that same dangerous edge. He looked back over his shoulder, his smirk returning, though it held a touch of something darker. “This thing is sentient, alive. It can deny you. Let’s see if you keep being so suave.”
The air grew heavier as Jasce stepped aside, revealing the artifact in full—a shifting, pulsing mass wrapped in ancient cloth, with a faint, glowing core that seemed to be watching them. The very atmosphere in the room seemed to hum with the power of the relic, the energy shifting, truly almost alive in its own right.
Behind every jest lies a hint of truth, and within every shadow, a sliver of light
-
Malrik Dreadmore
- Dark Arts Scholar
- Player: Annalee
Malrik stepped forward, his movements slow, deliberate. His gaze locked onto the artifact, drawn in by the pulsing glow at its core. The energy radiating from it wasn’t just powerful—it was alive. He could feel it, a presence in the air, something aware, watching, waiting. Unlike the lesser trinkets scattered throughout the other shop, this was no mere object of power. This was something far older, far more dangerous.
His breath was steady, but there was an undeniable sharpness in his eyes as he murmured, “The Everbinding Relic…” The name felt heavy on his tongue, weighted by centuries of myth and secrecy. He didn’t reach for it—not yet. He knew better. Artifacts of this magnitude were never simply taken.
He exhaled, gaze shifting to the Shopkeeper, considering him with newfound scrutiny. “You never intended to sell me just any artifact.” There was no accusation in his tone, only recognition of the layers at play. “This is beyond that.”
His attention returned to the Relic, watching the cloth shift as if breathing, the ancient runes flickering faintly in the dim light. He could almost hear the hum of power, resonating just beyond the threshold of understanding. Sentient. A judge, not a tool. His mind worked quickly, pulling from fragments of forgotten texts, whispers of a relic that did not grant power freely, but chose its wielder.
“It decides,” he murmured, voice softer now, almost thoughtful. “Immortality, but only for those it deems worthy. And those who fail…” His gaze darkened slightly. He already knew what happened to those who weren’t chosen. The Relic did not tolerate the unworthy.
Straightening, he turned his full attention back to the Shopkeeper, curiosity burning behind his usual guarded expression. “So tell me—what does it take to be chosen? What does it demand?” His words were careful, but there was an unmistakable hunger beneath them. A hunger for knowledge, for understanding, for the power the Relic could offer.
A beat passed before he shifted his weight, his tone quieter now, more probing. “And why keep it here?” He gestured vaguely at their surroundings, at the concealed vault deep beneath the shop. “Are you its guardian… or are you waiting for it to choose you?” Malrik questioned thoughtfully.
His breath was steady, but there was an undeniable sharpness in his eyes as he murmured, “The Everbinding Relic…” The name felt heavy on his tongue, weighted by centuries of myth and secrecy. He didn’t reach for it—not yet. He knew better. Artifacts of this magnitude were never simply taken.
He exhaled, gaze shifting to the Shopkeeper, considering him with newfound scrutiny. “You never intended to sell me just any artifact.” There was no accusation in his tone, only recognition of the layers at play. “This is beyond that.”
His attention returned to the Relic, watching the cloth shift as if breathing, the ancient runes flickering faintly in the dim light. He could almost hear the hum of power, resonating just beyond the threshold of understanding. Sentient. A judge, not a tool. His mind worked quickly, pulling from fragments of forgotten texts, whispers of a relic that did not grant power freely, but chose its wielder.
“It decides,” he murmured, voice softer now, almost thoughtful. “Immortality, but only for those it deems worthy. And those who fail…” His gaze darkened slightly. He already knew what happened to those who weren’t chosen. The Relic did not tolerate the unworthy.
Straightening, he turned his full attention back to the Shopkeeper, curiosity burning behind his usual guarded expression. “So tell me—what does it take to be chosen? What does it demand?” His words were careful, but there was an unmistakable hunger beneath them. A hunger for knowledge, for understanding, for the power the Relic could offer.
A beat passed before he shifted his weight, his tone quieter now, more probing. “And why keep it here?” He gestured vaguely at their surroundings, at the concealed vault deep beneath the shop. “Are you its guardian… or are you waiting for it to choose you?” Malrik questioned thoughtfully.
"Power is not inherited, nor is it gifted to the fortunate. It is seized by those with the will to take it, shaped by those with the wisdom to wield it, and kept by those ruthless enough to protect it." — Malrik Dreadmore
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