Fantasy A Lament for Lleris - RP

[Deadbeard]

As the sun slinks behind the horizon, offering the last of its rays to rushing peasants and impatient merchants, the sky begins to darken. Its frigid blue clashes with the warm orange of the diminishing sun; the moon begins to bare its teeth. Selnyth lies dormant, home only to small creatures of the night that squeak and chitter as they navigate the empty streets. Silence engulfs the city. Only the docks offer some comfort with the lapping of the waves against the wooden pier. Boats creek as the tide pushes and pulls them to and fro. A solitary boat makes its way towards the pier; it battles with the waves to reach its destination.

The owner scrambles from the boat, throwing his bag of supplies onto the pier and leaving his vessel to the tide. He flops face first onto the wooden planks, huffing and heaving, exhausted. For several minutes he lies there. Only the sound of approaching footsteps rouses him from his self-induced coma. The sight of chainmail and a spear are foreign to the young man, and his eyes flash with momentary fear.

"Good evening, sir. I trust you've a permit for boarding here?" the portly stranger asks, addressing the young man. "Any citizen who wishes to use the dock must produce a valid—"

The stranger stops, noticing the symbol hanging around the young man's neck. Glances are exchanged; both men eye each other up uneasily. Eventually, the stranger breaks the silence. "Good evening." He turns on his heel and walks away, leaving the young man alone on the pier. The young man picks up his bag, slings it over his shoulder and moves stealthily into the night. An owl swoops down from the sky; a miniature scream shatters the silence.

---------------------

MrThe enterelysium Looking forward to reading your posts!

 

[enterelysium]

The sun shrinks below the shattered windows of the slums, shafts of light slowly retreating from the barely livable room killian is cooped up in. shards of glass cover the floor, resting upon blood stains and dust. A half-orc is nursing a large gash in his upper arm, congealed blood leaking from it, sitting upon the floor in the corner most liveable.

A sturdy hardwood door set into the wall of the room bursts open, a burly human busting through, his beady eyes scanning the room and settling on the half-orc. the half-orc is roughly pulled across the shattered floor, and out of the dilapidated room.

The stench of humanity and alcohol and smoke and blood and shit floods over him, a familiar concoction, pounded into his mind by all of the brutal beatings he's been subject to in his time here. a crowd of jeering men from all walks of life stare at him as he is dragged into the room, the crowd parting like skin under a blade. yanked to his feet and pushed into the center of the room, a makeshift arena, blood already staining the cobble.

His opponent stands across from him, a fit, healthy elven boy. an unfair fight. the half-orc forces himself to get to his feet, his ribs prominent in his chest, his body already battered and broken. He feebly raises his fists and prepares for a fight. the crowds cheering turns into a countdown that he cant clearly hear, his heartbeat pounding in his ears with his bodies feeble attempt to stay conscious. the cheering surrounding him disorienting, dizzying, assaulting him.

The countdown ends and cheering breaks out again, he feels the breath of the burly human on his neck, and he is shoved towards the elvish boy. He stumbles, falls. something inside of him breaks as he hits the ground, and the wind is taken out of him. the elvish boy siezing the chance and battering the half-orc with all of his strength. tears leak from his aching eyes as he feels his life seep out of him with every hit he takes. he curles into a feotal position, conscious thought not governing his actions any more.

After minutes of beating, the elvish boy gives up, the crowd dissatisfied with the half-orcs poor performance. He feels their contemptuos stares on his back as the mob dissapates, leaving the endless pain and the stench behind. The half orc feels his life escaping his body, his organs hiccuping and giving up. his mind clouds over, and he almost lets himself escape into the painless void that death promised.

No. This isnt how I die. He feels his body aching, and he grabs onto the sensation and cherishes it. Because life is pain, and feeling pain means being alive. He forces himself to his feet, and begins limping down the road. Fury blazing in his chest, and tears streaming down his face. He walks out of town and into the darkness.

perhaps it would be better in the next town.




(sorry if there are any capitalisation issues)

 

[MrThe]

Miles was often in the poorer districts, many there could not afford the price of a proper physician and so frequently quite preventable diseases and treatable wounds would ravage the less fortunate. He often served in the free hospitals during his time as an initiate and so was used to the situation. But ever since the "Dutiful Razing" as they called it these days the poor were in a constant decline regarding their situation. Of course, some of the more generous among the burghers and nobility would attempt to fulfil some of the Charity work that once was the duty of the Belgarite Church, but they never had the same effect.

Moreso these institutions would often turn away those non-humans who needed their services. Miles would frequent the fighting rings most often, they were quite barbaric and had little in the way of medical care for the combatants. They would even force the fighters to go back into the ring when seriously injured, knowing that if one died they could simply replace them with another. They were also most often non-humans, few humans would risk this line of work considering the dangers and the handful of coins you would earn.

It was near just one such so-called Arena at the edge of town that he found him, a battered and broken Half-Orc. It wasn't really an Arena, it was simply an Alley where they set up a makeshift ring but it had a reputation as one where particularly bloody fights were organized. When Miles came across him the Monk was surprised he could stand, much less walk. Without immediate treatment, it was likely the man would not survive. He had several broken ribs, a gash along his arm that looked like the start of an infection and he possibly had internal injuries.

"My oh my. You seem to be in a terrible shape dear friend. Allow me to help, I'm a healer and you seem to be in need of one right now. My name is Miles Melmidoc, and some call me the Mild-Mannered Monk. Worry not, whilst you are in my hands, I will do all I can to help you. Do not move please, and do not speak if it causes pain." Miles immediately sets to work trying to assess the true extent of his injuries and treating the most visible ones. "Here, drink this." He uncorks a bottle of spirits and helps the Half-Orc drink to dull the pain. After that, he pours some of it on the nasty cut on his arm to clean it and guard against infection. enterelysium

 

[enterelysium]

Searing pain flows through Killian's body, the gash in his arm the main source, but the multitude of other injuries adding to it. His body feels like it's on fire as he feels the alcohol pour onto his arm, he throws up, hacking violently at the pain. He looks up at the old man, tears streaming from his eyes and cutting tracts down his grimy face, past his tusks caked with his own blood.

He is surprised that the man doesn't flinch when he moves, His smile unwavering. "Th-Thank you sir... but why would you offer such kindness..." He does his best to stay conscious and wait for an answer, but slips into a shallow sleep.

Really sorry about how this one is a bit shorter and less quality, I've been super busy and just want to get an answer out so this RP doesn't die