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caecgirl

Junior Member
426d7c9ce5554b1ca8524df369e36747.jpegThe Tyvvor town tavern is dimly lit by candles and the air smells of tabacco, beer, and other scents you can't make out. It is loud as men and women alike are playing dice, cards, eating, and gettting drunk as well as into fights the bouncer is trying his best to break up. The bartender and proprietor is a bearded man with a pot belly.
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Tavern Wenches are here and there taking orders, flirting, and serving food and drink to hungy and/or thirsty patrons. There is no entertainment at the moment but your eyes are drawn to a table where sits a man in a brown tunic and carrying a mandolin.

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Caesura stoops to pass through the doorway of the small tavern, unnatural height merely another among the litany of transformations wrought by whatever had empowered her. Behind her, taller still at an imposing eight feet of glistening steel, two servitors make what might in other circumstances be comical contortions to fit through a door meant for ordinary mortals. They are constructed of sturdy bone, joints reinforced with iron, wrapped in fine linen, richly perfumed, and covered almost entirely in steel plate, their feet clanking loudly in the sudden silence that follows her entrance. The armour had proven necessary after one too many village fled in terror or attempted to prostrate themselves and throw their meagre wealth at her feet when she arrived.

She wears a long hooded travelling cloak bisected with white above and black below, a black tree extending up into the white and a white tree extending down into the black. Beneath the shadow of the hood sctintillating eyes that seem constantly to subtly shift in colour shine unnaturally in the low light, set in brown skin flecked with green and perhaps brighter colours still towards the back. She surveys the crowd in the tavern, and her eyes settle on the man with the mandolin. "I seek the hero Orrin. He of fists of iron. Are you he?" she asks, softly but with the tone of one not accustomed to being denied.
 

caecgirl

Junior Member
Caesura stoops to pass through the doorway of the small tavern, unnatural height merely another among the litany of transformations wrought by whatever had empowered her. Behind her, taller still at an imposing eight feet of glistening steel, two servitors make what might in other circumstances be comical contortions to fit through a door meant for ordinary mortals. They are constructed of sturdy bone, joints reinforced with iron, wrapped in fine linen, richly perfumed, and covered almost entirely in steel plate, their feet clanking loudly in the sudden silence that follows her entrance. The armour had proven necessary after one too many village fled in terror or attempted to prostrate themselves and throw their meagre wealth at her feet when she arrived.

She wears a long hooded travelling cloak bisected with white above and black below, a black tree extending up into the white and a white tree extending down into the black. Beneath the shadow of the hood sctintillating eyes that seem constantly to subtly shift in colour shine unnaturally in the low light, set in brown skin flecked with green and perhaps brighter colours still towards the back. She surveys the crowd in the tavern, and her eyes settle on the man with the mandolin. "I seek the hero Orrin. He of fists of iron. Are you he?" she asks, softly but with the tone of one not accustomed to being denied.
The stranger rises from his seat, a broad smile forming on his lips: "No, lass. Sadly no. Zaal's me name. Mayhaps I could be your hero, though." He bows, eyeing her protectors all the while. His hat nearly falls from his head. His hand shoots up, reseating it atop his head. The bow and recovery were all one motion. (random should wait for everyone else to post, though)
 

Tachyon

Not a bird
Roleplay Type(s)
Kritas had spent one day and one night in the sleepy town of Tyvor, much to his chagrin. Although his visions had led him here he did not know why, and sometimes he was mistaken in his scrying. The thought of wasting time here when there was so much to do wore on his nerves.

So it was a great relief when he spotted wonderous-looking woman and her enchanted servants make her way through town. She was obviously something extraordinary, and very likely to be part of his vision, if not the cause of it. Ever-cautious, he clad himself in the illusions of simple robes and followed her down the street, until she entered the tavern. He let his illusionary clothing fade, and clad in golden robes and masks enter the building slightly after her.

He arrived in time to catch their short conversation, and gave the properiator a nod in greeting before adressing Zaal and the mysterious woman.
"I believe Orrin is quite well-known in these parts, madam, but something tells me you are not a local?" His voice is soft and melodic, and there is a hint of humor in his tone. He strides elegantly over to a table and sits down. "You are in the right place though, I doubt it will take long for him to make an appearance." His green eyes travel rapidly between Caesura and her servants, trying to study all three at once.
 

Sizniche

The Greatest Ever
"'Hero' might be a bit of a strong word, don't you think?"

A tower of muscle and veins stands in the doorway of the tavern, having been drawn from outside by the sounds of the servitors' metallic march. At a little over six and a half feet, he stands just shy of the strange woman's immense height, but far more than makes up the difference in sheer bulk. An assortment of small scars cover his body--memories of past combats--with only a simple pair of trousers for his attire. After all, what more did he need?

"I'm just a local fighter, in the grand scheme of things. Why, are you a new challenger?"

He would approach the woman and her ironclad entourage, sizing up their potency as warriors.

"As far as challenges go, this would be a rather strange 'un. What say you, fellas?" He asks, directed at Zaal and Kritas.
 

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Caesura examines Zaal dispassionately, expectations clearly low, but with time to kill, "Mayhaps you can. I hear tell the hero Orrin can shatter steel with his bare hands, and defeat a hundred men at once. Can you say the same?"

Her eyes widen when the man dripping in gold makes his entrance and addresses them both, and she's more than a little bit taken aback. Something tells him I'm not a local? If they melted down all the gold everyone in this village had ever seen in their entire lives, still it wouldn't be enough to make that outfit. You're hardly a regular here, but at least you aren't boring, and you know how to make an entrance. "My thanks, and my compliments to your goldsmith," she replies warmly, eyes guarded but curiosity piqued, "You have my attention. What do you want?"

Her attention is yanked away yet again as a tower of muscle occupies the doorway and addresses the room. He certainly looks the part. She pauses to consider for a moment before replying softly, "A new employer, perhaps, if you can do what they say. I pay well." She glances back at Monsieur Gold and Zaal. "If you would excuse me for a moment, gentlemen, I have pressing business to attend to." And the patrons are already sufficiently terrified.

She turns back to Orrin and gestures outside, "Please. Step outside with me. This interview will be brief, but best not performed indoors." In the unlikely event you pass, the innkeeper will thank me.
 

Tachyon

Not a bird
Roleplay Type(s)
Kritas rises calmly. Things were getting interesting, and perhaps there is something to be gained here.
"Mr Orrin, I would encourage you to accept the offer. If I am not misremembering, you always enjoyed a good brawl, and she seems to already be aware of your reputation as a brawler, and thus has us at a disadvantage. Win or lose, indulging her would allow us to learn something about this strange guest."
Assuming Orrin would see the wisdom of his words, or rather that he wouldn't pass up a fight offered to him, Kritas began to stride towards the door.
 

caecgirl

Junior Member
Zaal laughs,"No, I certainly can't do that, but i can make myself useful in any situation but my talents lie more in guile." Zaal follows Caesura's gaze first to the man bedecked in gold then to the mountain of a man doing his impression of a door. "Things are certainly getting interesting," he says to no one in particular, putting Kritas' thought into words. He joins everyone outside to watch the show.
 

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Caesura casts a wary calculating glance at Monsieur Gold as he rises. "It seems we find ourselves at a mutual disadvantage," she observes dryly. So, he is an associate of Just a Local FIghter Orrin. That complicates things. She scans the room. People are looking at him in all that gold. He isn't invisible. No one's fled screaming. Impossible to know what they're seeing if he's some kind of sorcerer. He could be compelling them to calm. He feels safe wearing that much gold in a small village like this with no guards. He's very confident he can take care of himself. If this is the company Orrin keeps, suddenly these rumours seem considerably more credible.

"My apologies. If you and Mr. Orrin have a prior arrangement, I have no wish to intrude." She turns back to Orrin, who is very effectively blocking the primary means of egress, "My name is Caesura. I merely sought to enlist your services to fight for me. Locally." I could possibly outbid him, but I hardly need more powerful enemies. No one's made any hostile moves, let's see if we can't get out of this without a fight.

"I commend you on your universal utility, Mr. Zaal. Guile is a rare and admirable strength; rarer still to find one who remarks upon it possesses it. Should I require your heroic intervention, I'll know where to find you." I very much hope I do not.
 

Sizniche

The Greatest Ever
Orrin looks to the crowd of observers forming in the tavern. "Well, employment's one thing, but we can talk 'bout that later. It'd be a shame to disappoint the crowd, though." S'pose the time to be coy is over, 'specially if she expects me to fight... those things. Dunno where the rumors came from, though--only done stuff like that alone.

Orrin steps aside, unblocking the door for Kritas and Caesura to pass through. "After you."
 

caecgirl

Junior Member
Caesura casts a wary calculating glance at Monsieur Gold as he rises. "It seems we find ourselves at a mutual disadvantage," she observes dryly. So, he is an associate of Just a Local FIghter Orrin. That complicates things. She scans the room. People are looking at him in all that gold. He isn't invisible. No one's fled screaming. Impossible to know what they're seeing if he's some kind of sorcerer. He could be compelling them to calm. He feels safe wearing that much gold in a small village like this with no guards. He's very confident he can take care of himself. If this is the company Orrin keeps, suddenly these rumours seem considerably more credible.

"My apologies. If you and Mr. Orrin have a prior arrangement, I have no wish to intrude." She turns back to Orrin, who is very effectively blocking the primary means of egress, "My name is Caesura. I merely sought to enlist your services to fight for me. Locally." I could possibly outbid him, but I hardly need more powerful enemies. No one's made any hostile moves, let's see if we can't get out of this without a fight.

"I commend you on your universal utility, Mr. Zaal. Guile is a rare and admirable strength; rarer still to find one who remarks upon it possesses it. Should I require your heroic intervention, I'll know where to find you." I very much hope I do not.
Zaal can see one or two low-lives trying to work up the courage to try and abscond with some of that finery, but without success. Must be the mountain of a man blocking the doorway, or one of the others in the vicinity.

"You aren't getting rid of Zaal Torvin that easily, Miss...?" he inwardly winced as he heard himself say that, realizing how that might sound, and added a playfuol smile to reinforce the jovial interprutation rather than the potentially sinister one.

He follows the others outside.
 

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Caesura relaxes slightly as Orrin steps out of the way and she steps out into the night, the two hulking constructs of bone, iron, and steel clanking along behind her, "Just Caesura, Mr Torvin. One name is enough for my people. There aren't so many of us."

She leads the eclectic assemblage out into the centre of a nearby field not yet sown. "Mr. Orrin. Folk tell tall tales, but sometimes they tell them true. There are strange things in this world. I met a man named Fulrick and his companions two days down the road, and they swear you're so strong you can shatter steel with your bare hands, and have defeated a hundred men in battle. I would ordinarily start with more prosaic tests, but you keep such extraordinary company I'm unusually inclined to believe you truly can perform remarkable feats. I should like to see these things. I do not have a hundred men, but I have a sword here I'd like you to break, if you would be so kind."

She glances at the servitor to her left, "Otek, your sword."

A low voice like the grinding of bone echoes from within the armour, "M'lady," and an with the whisper of metal on metal it draws a steel blade ornately decorated with motifs of vine and flower from its scabbard and holds it out in both hands.
 
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Sizniche

The Greatest Ever
Orrin takes the blade from Otek with a hint of reservation. Is this all? Is there something about the blade she is not telling?

He places his hands on the blade near the hilt only a few inches apart, taking care to avoid being cut by it by only holding it at the flats of the blade, and, with a quick flick of his wrists, twists the blade in two. A few smaller fragments of the blade fall to the ground, but Orrin hands the two large pieces back to Otek. The task was clearly effortless to him.

"Welp, I broke yer blade," Orrin said, "But, I take it you're not here to see carnival strongman tricks."
 

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Otek holds one half of the blade in each hand, both servitors peering down at it nonplussed. "Didn't think he could do it," he mutters.

Caesura's eyes widen in shock, and a sudden surge of excitement animates her. It's a rare day one of these rumours turns out to have more than a grain of truth to it. Perhaps this can work after all. Perhaps this time she will be successful. If he's more than just strong, if that strength is paired with skill... "'Just a local fighter', is it? I think I must concur, Mr Torvin. Things are, indeed, 'getting interesting'. Please, Mr Orrin. One more carnival trick, for my edification. Then the matter of terms of employment." If this is what passes for a carnival trick in these parts, I need to see more carnivals. Urgently.

"Otek, spar with Mr. Orrin. Mr. Orrin, do not hold back. I wish to see if your martial skill rivals your strength."

"Oy. I didn't volunteer for this, milady," grumbles the servitor. "A blood touched or a half giant is one thing, but he snapped that steel like a twig, and I've no mind to get snapped. I like these bones in one piece, I do." The servitor opposite him emits a low deep rhythmic grinding sound that might be laughter.

Caesura rolls her eyes, "What are you afraid of, death? I will rebuild you. No matter his strength, I can protect your wardstone." She looks down at the broken steel and pauses to consider, "I'm almost certain. I need you to test him. Mr. Orrin could be exactly what we're looking for, and you've faced worse."

"Just a barrel o' confidence you are, milady. Right then, let's be about it," he mutters, resigned.

Caesura takes the shattered halves of the sword from Otek, gathers up the larger fragments, and retreats to a safe a distance to sit and observe, the other servitor standing vigil over her.

Otek takes a fighting stance, and from behind his back and within the linen wrapping his bones he unfolds two extra pairs of arms, gauntleted like the pair extending from his shoulders but otherwise unarmoured. He raises all three pairs of arms and nods to Orrin.

While she watches Caesura superheats the steel with a touch and begins idly reforging the sword with her bare hands, addressing Kritas as he draws near, "How long have you had the pleasure of our illustrious local fighter's acquaintance, Monsieur Gold, and how did you come by such a stroke of fortune?"
 
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caecgirl

Junior Member
Zaal sees Orinn break the sword and whistles, "I had heard of Mr. Orrin of course, but I had thought the rumors exageration. You are really something Mr. Orrin." then he sees Caesura use her hands to repair the blade. Zaal gasps in suprise, taking off his hat, holding it over his heart. "By the gods...You two might be just like me. I thought I was alone..."
 

Tachyon

Not a bird
Roleplay Type(s)
Kritas studies Orrin's display of strength carefully. Although he makes no outward sign of it, he finds the feat impressive, and inside his mind the wheels start turning. Equally fascinating is of course the interaction between Lady Caesura and her servants. Their... artificial appearance had led Kritas to assume they were without will, but the short argument between mistress and servant proved otherwise, at least to an extent. Funny that, how deceiving appearances can be.

"For.. a while." is Kritas' imprecise answer to Caesura's question. "There are many events, factors and individuals on which my mind dwells. Orrin is but one of them, but lately he has taken more of my focus. I must admit to being as curious about his performance in these tests of yours as I was on the tests themselves, and your reasons for doing them." He notably glances at Otek. "The Order wou-" suddenly Zaal's gasps commands his attention.

Like him? Kritas thinks. On behalf of the Order as well as the city of Camblin, Kritas tried to keep a finger on the pulse and be aware of any power factors present in the immediate area. This humble proprietor may be than he seems.

"Like you, Master Zaal? Would you do us the honor and elaborate?"
 

caecgirl

Junior Member
"Did I say that outloud? Maybe I misspoke...well now I should at least explain, "Having powers nothing short of...miraculous. I awoke one morning to find my mind opened to possibilities I never thought of before and I knew that I had powers that could shape the world. I am afraid to practice my craft," he indicates his mandolin, "Because I fear how it might affect those who listen. My powers are not showy like theirs, more subtle yet powerful. Really? I had not thought of that." He said that last part as if talking to someone unseen. Then he addressed everyone, "I appologize now for what I do. I mean it not as agression but as demonstration. Please continue as you were, but if u find yourselves unable to, please do not be alarmed." He begins to tell the tale of Sisyphus, a man condemned to attempt to roll a rock uphill for all eternity in the underworld.
 

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As Zaal speaks his words weave vivid images in her mind's eye, so intense she reaches out in a futile effort to halt the falling boulder as it tumbles downhill, heart breaking as she's powerless yet again to stop it, the unfinished sword slowly cooling in her lap, it and the world completely forgotten. She can feel the exhaustion, the strain of putting everything into his - her - great work. The pain of watching it inevitably crumble away to nothing - to ash - and the horrible undeniable exciting invigorating compulsion to try again. Because the gods command it. Because the world is broken and it must be fixed.

She weeps openly, tears falling freely, hissing as they boil on contact with the still faintly glowing steel. "Thank you, Mr. Torvin," she says softly, breath hitching with stifled sobs, wiping the tears from her eyes, a faint smile on her lips. "That was beautiful. When I have finished my next workshop, I shall make you an instrument as thanks. I hope you will find it worthy of your voice."
 
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Tachyon

Not a bird
Roleplay Type(s)
Kritas could feel the words of the performer reach into his heart and mind, like a riptide threatening to pull him under. It was akin to when he first fell theurgy burn in his soul, and all-consuming feeling of creation from which there could be no escape. Except, it could. He had been there before and prevailed, and he would do so again. He takes a step back, staggered by the performance but not incapaciteted. Beneath his mask his eyes are wide with wonder and amazement. By reflex his mutters some protective charms under his breath, cautious to not interrupt the performance. Eventually, he would speak aloud when an opportunity presented itself.

"Mr Zaal.. What is that? What do you mean?" his voice has lost all of it's detached, sophisticated candor. His tone was worried, maybe even frightened, but also intrigued.
 

Sizniche

The Greatest Ever
Orrin would stand opposite to the construct he now knew to be called Otek, taking a fighting stance of his own--he would raise his fists up to guard his face and torso, in the fashion boxers typically do.

"So, Otek, you worry about bein' broken?" Orrin would ask. "Don't worry, I'll take it easy on ya."

Right out of the gate, the moment he finishes speaking, he charges in to close the distance to Otek, getting in close as fast as possible to minimize the great servitor's immense reach advantage. Otek tries to get a hit in in the 'goldilocks zone' of his own reach, swatting at the side of Orrin's head while he is still too far to strike back in kind, but Orrin anticipates it and swats it away with his forearm and moves in for a rapid flurry of strikes.

The blows strike with a sound not unlike that of thunder, and with the swiftness of its accompanying lightning. So much talk had been made of his great might, and even his resilience and stamina to some degree, but what the rumors failed to mention is that he is quick. Really quick. Every time Otek appears to find an opening--where he can counterattack the boxer and perhaps gain some breathing room--a block seems to be awaiting the striking appendage rather than a clean hit. It is rare to see even an elf so nimble, let alone a human man approximating the size of a bear. It is not necessarily clear from this display alone if it is supernatural, but, having seen the previous displays of supernatural ability and being intelligent folk, Caesura and Kritas would likely have a hunch.

Re-assessing his strategy, Otek takes a step back in an attempt to regain his reach advantage, giving a straightforward, center-mass jab to Orrin in order to keep him at bay as he does so. However, instead of blocking or taking the hit, or any similar action that might slow him down, Orrin evades the blow by letting it pass between his left arm and torso as he steps forward, taking advantage of the split-second error in judgement to grapple the appendage and use his might to swing the servitor to the ground at his side.

In no time flat, he was atop the servitor, pinning it to the ground with his own weight. Orrin knew better that Otek could easily lift him off the ground and escape, but he also knew from fighting experience that Otek would be too focused on self-preservation to consider that option before it was too late if Orrin kept up the pressure, so that is what Orrin did, directing his mighty strikes at the closest thing Otek had to a head while it attempted in vain to strike back.

As a final coup de grace, Orrin raises his arms up and clasps his hands together for a two-handed strike. However, before he could bring it down upon the poor construct's chest, Orrin hears something. An entrancing tale, that almost magnetically compels him to face the storyteller; one of hubris in the face of the gods, one of punishment and the eternal torment of seeing your work undone every day. He can almost feel the ache in his muscles of moving the stone himself, though that might just be the exhaustion of the fight catching up to him as the adrenaline wears off.

The momentary distraction is enough for Otek to come to his senses and push Orrin off, knocking him to the ground as well.
 

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"That's enough, Otek," says Caesura, just loud enough to carry. Some of the souls in her servitors died in her service, the bodies beyond repair, but many were ghosts fished out of often long forgotten battlefields, still tied to this world. She would find the finest warriors still lingering in that liminal space and bargain for their service. She knew not what ancient empire Otek had fought for, but he knew his trade. She knew exactly how capable her servitors were against the horrors from beyond at this point, and that Orrin could so casually toy with one quelled any lingering doubts she had. This was her best opportunity yet, and she must seize it.

Caesura speaks with a quiet intensity, the world itself seeming to still as it leans in to better catch her words, her eyes alight with an unnerving fervor, "Thank you for the demonstration, Mr. Orrin. I wish to retain your services to fight for me against nothing less than the horrors from beyond. They and I have something of a personal vendetta." Her lip curls with disgust, her fingers digging into the steel in her hands like clay. "This is not a task I request lightly, and I am willing to pay you generously to secure your services, for in you I see a man who could not only fight but survive and, dare I say it, win. I can pay you in piles of gold or jewels fit to draw the envy of kings. I can make for you any material possessions you desire, from palaces to plowshares, with quality to awe the finest of artisans. I can ensure your family never wants for food for as long as they hold your ancestral lands. I can grant you immortality itself. Name your heart's desire, and if I think the price is fair and it is within my power, you shall have it."
 

caecgirl

Junior Member
As Zaal finishes his story, a look of suprise and regret are on his face, "Sorry, Orrin. It is little consolation, but I guess I don't know my own strength." He turns to Kritas, "You are best to ask Caesura." and then to Caesura. "I wouldn't mind accompanying you if you are sure you want someone unsure of their power. I suppose the rest of you could teach me what I need, but still..."
 

Tachyon

Not a bird
Roleplay Type(s)
"I see.." Kritas says in response to Zaal's statement, and turns his attention to Caesura and Orrin.

"That is high payment to offer, Lady Caesura. Then again, it is a dangerous task you ask." His gaze falls upon Orrin. You are much more powerful that I expected, or dared to hope. Camblin has much need of you. "But before Mr Orrin accepts, there are questions. I think.. I think the four of us need to talk." Kritas steps to the side and sits down on as a chair manifests beneath him. He looks at Orrin and Zaal, the immense difference in height of the two men almost straining his neck.

"Orrin, your power seem.. immense. Zaal, whatever you just did was no simple mind-charm, I've been exposed to enough of those to know the difference. As good citizens of Camblin, I am sure you realize how helpful your efforts could be to our beloved nation, do you not?"
He then looks up at the towering Caesura. Why must everyone be so tall? "Then there is you, Lady Caesura. The one who's loyalties are less obvious." He removes his mask, revealing a well-groomed face wearing a diplomatic expression. "My name is Kritas Velken, Magus of the Camblin Arcane Order. It falls within the duties of my office to find and investigate magical phenomena which may be of use to the lesser races of Camblin. Understand that Zaal, Orrin and yourself fall under that purview, and I cannot allow you to simply pluck him away from those that need him." He once again looks between Caesura and Orrin. "I will match the fair lady's price, Mr Orrin. However, perhaps a bidding war can be avoided? Please, Lady Caesura, would you kindly enlighten us about the nature of your conflict with the horrors from beyond? Perhaps our interests align."
 

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"The stories we tell ourselves are the most potent of antidotes to that most terrible of poisons for any cause: Fear. You are a singularly gifted storyteller Mr. Torvin. You are welcome in my company."

Ah, I've stepped on the local authority's toes. Very inconvenient. The perils of an audience - when you find what you most want, so do they. She plants the partially reforged blade in the soft earth and rises to her full and rather imposing height as Kritas speaks. "My conflict is simple, Magus. It is my nature to create. It is their nature to destroy. Mutually inimical, our hatred follows. Fate has decreed one of us must be annihilated. You'll understand, then, my interest in deciding the question of whom."
 

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