Fantasy (Closed) Retough IC

[0stinato]

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For a time, it was the fashion amongst those who practiced Prehlaam to give their children one-syllable names, with the argument being that addressing someone with a sound so short would save time. This fell out of fashion quickly when clans began to run out of one-syllable names.
•••​

While Sohrab wasn’t looking to take the guard’s head off, he found himself disappointed that the man gave up so easily. Though, maybe that was to do with the various approaches made by the others after he rushed the guy. While Sohrab waited for the others to catch up – electing to swing back onto his horse as it passed him rather than backing off – he considered where the darkness in his mind was welling from. He had been readied for his past vocation with the knowledge that he would always look towards death, but in no way did that death need to be married to violence. He used to prepare a corpse: did he now just want to put men down instead?

No, no. His life was upset from his norm. It was bound to create the odd rush of desire for an adrenaline spike, and what would bring that on more than wanton violence? He decided he would let the feeling dissipate without further self-interrogation: he had other things to focus on: Wexem was unknown territory to him and, while Lera may know what lay ahead, he had to view his progress into the place as information gathering.

When he was on his horse, ten or twenty paces after the guards who were reluctant in their allowance of movement, Sohrab decided to doff the mask from his face, and to only wear one arm-blade. Maybe that was the problem: having perfect steel so readily at hand would inspire anyone’s mind towards possibilities, no matter how theoretical.

His skin was grateful for the air. He even took a thumb and began to rub the war-paint off his cheekbones. An attempt should be made to appear presentable, especially because…

Sohrab navigated his horse nearer to Lera, who was so much more confident in the saddle than he was. The sooner he got off this beast the better.

‘Lera,’ Sohrab said, voice low. ‘I’m not certain how far my reputation has got, but I know Praetum has its posters about me. What do you advise I do if I am recognised in Wexem when we arrive? I’m not keen to make trouble.’

--
Interactions: Solar Daddy

 

[Dragongal]

Danny watched the interaction before him with a smirk before climbing back up into Hickroy's saddle. There was always a particular glee he got from scaring bullies. It was even more fun with a group of like-minded people on his side, especially a mage, and especially one with a sense of humor. Danny had to bite back a laugh at Maldorn's comment about frogs, but he did a very poor job of hiding it.

It's no place for travelers and spellers alike nowadays. You'll all hang by morrow-week.

Danny winked and tipped his head to the side with a, "that was what they said last time, too," as he rode past. But this point, he had lost track of how many fake "guard stations" and "toll roads" he had passed on his travels. They didn't seem to be common in any one particular country either, just anywhere the road was long enough and merchants came through. For as many as he had seen, though, he had yet to find one that couldn't be handled with a little planning, rope, pine tar, and flint struck against his bracer.

These men were more legitimate than most, though that bar was closer to the ground than a mouse's stomach. Most often, Danny just dealt with bandits, these men actually answered to a higher power. There was a formality in it. Strange. Almost foreboding. But not something that was going to stop this team.

 

[Solar Daddy]

"Why, thank you kind sir. I wouldn't worry too much if I were you though, we won't be troubling you again." . . . "Lest I'd urgently require some frogs."

Gurt took another step back from the Syndicate as they passed, his grip on the polearm tightening out of fear. Wexem was filled to the brim with superstitious types; threats and idle imagination would take them far should they choose to wield it against future opponents. Even one of the soldiers that hadn't heard most of the conversation, the scrawniest of the bunch with a helmet three times the size of his head, fumbled his weapon to the ground with a loud clatter. He scooped up the polearm quickly, quick enough to reveal his jittery nerves, and nearly lost his helmet when bending over. He pressed himself back against the wall wordlessly, wide eyed, scraping his toes against the soles of his boots as if enjoying the last few moments he'd have with them before turning into a frog.

‘Lera,’ Sohrab said, voice low. ‘I’m not certain how far my reputation has got, but I know Praetum has its posters about me. What do you advise I do if I am recognised in Wexem when we arrive? I’m not keen to make trouble.’

Lera looked over to the orc beside her with a raised eyebrow. She hadn't so much as given the passing soldiers another glance; she knew common thugs such as these weren't the type to try their luck after the balance of power was tipped so heavily against them. Hell, they could probably raid their little camp for supplies without so much as a yelp. But Lera wasn't a thief, and if no one else felt the need to hoard, she was sure they'd make do. She tried not to visibly notice the musk of Sohrab's pungent paint. She couldn't even place the kind of smell she was picking up. Sohrab's ways were entirely foreign to her, not in practice, but in execution.

"There's few who wander Wexem of Orc descent. Too risky, with all the pogroms these isolated towns like to practice. We'll likely encounter resistance no matter your current standing with Praetum, but we'll deal with it as it comes. I hope you're good at coming up with aliases," Lera left a pause to ensure Sohrab knew the importance of that hint at advice. "Maybe stow the mask and the paints for now, if they're a part of your profile posted around Praetum. We could pass you off as some other Orc passing through. People'll want you dead no matter what, but we can make sure they don't have another reason to bring on a riot. If your identity is discovered, we'll..." She paused before encouraging herself with a nod. "We'll stick by your side. We won't let anyone pry you from the Syndicate." She tried giving a smile to ease the topic, but it felt disingenuous. She knew many Praetians were stuck in their old ways, where Orc raiding parties long past used to threaten the stability of almost everyone. Few escaped the horrors of the third Orcish-Human war untouched. Many of those scars still last today, even if the conflicts have long since passed.

"that was what they said last time, too,"

Sargash didn't respond, idly watching as Danny passed atop his horse, waving him through the checkpoint with the blade of his weapon, the pommel of his polearm stuck in the mud. When they all had passed, Sargash spat on the ground in their direction. "Fuckin' mages... Bartash, get word to Alwyn. They's meanin' to cause trouble, they are."

"We don't have any messenger birds," Bartash said after a pause, holding his hands up as if to prove he wasn't hiding any behind his back.

Sargash groaned. "You, Bartash. You warn Alwyn. Run on, try and get ahead of 'em 'fore they reach Crim."

"But they's on horses! How'm I to outrun horses?"

"Take one of the fuckin' horse we have," Sargash said through gritted teeth, about to sock Bartash if he were close enough. He pointed over his shoulder, through the ruins of the checkpoint, where two mounts were tied out of sight. "And ride through the swamps. Don't run across 'em. Now go. 'Fore I decide I need someone competent to deliver the news."