Qazi
Qāżī Saʿīd Qumī
OLD BEASTS
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Fantasy Old Beasts (ACCEPTING)
- Thread starter Qazi
- Start date
Qazi
Qāżī Saʿīd Qumī
LEAVES OF LOTTERY
THE RED, DARK, EXPOSED marrow—of the boundaries, walls, countries and the cities of those countries. . . in a junction beyond the mortal and ebbing strips in the infinite, strange mobius past the sleep of reason—of Lonio's port is dressed from the top in a bespoke attire: there is wood from the seas and brine from the land. There are spots in shades of savage gulls, iron-soled anchors pulled or pushed out starboard and trails of grease and boiling sugar—he takes to some shameful fondness the smell of candy—sliding side by side in pots handled by stiff-backed warriors moonlighting out from their decks and their watery homes for a copper or two, crying wolf every now and then as the ships come and go, beside the crystal cities and the lead roads and the envious-seeming plants that decorate the pavements and the sides of the pavements alongside potteries and posts where the lamps are hung and lit to illuminate the city: Lonio, water city, land city, glows from fathoms deep into the ocean and scares all the fish and has that menacing look that you can see if you go way around and into the frontiers and the extremes of Ashkhar.
It's one of the ways to describe the city, the other being the towers that are visible from afar, two of them hidden by walls and portcullis gates and drawbridges over open sewage canals that subsequently serve as the moat. A hundred copper-green chimneys spew out visible smoke, connected to the mineral oil pipes and heating the buildings and the roads. From their veranda, the people of the palisades ruminate on the waters and the winding paths of the dhows and the tides, watching slowly as the troopers march along to their courtyard every morning to blow their trumpets in morning reveille. They're paid in salt by Eurydice, prince of the city; they sell the salt or use them to brush their teeth. Eurydice goes out on the streets on the weekends which is when the soldiers take leave and earn more than their pay by playing sterling silver pipes that wail with razor-sharp tones. The prince is accompanied by the Sefirot. Their halls are near the great crystal summit: Eurydice's tower at the very top, nestled against the wall of a cliff. The whistling arcades—the soldier flutes harmonize together to make a sort of distinct sound—lead up through stairways and cog-pulled elevators that seemingly never end, pulling away in fractals and tangents that are roads to places elsewhere and unbound along the palisades and the stratifications down the cities, further down and down. It is a strange loop.
The price of the maps will bite your purse.
To the east of the port proper, around the quayside looking out to the waters, there is a woman dressed like a first mate on a small vessel pissing into the ocean. She has a helmet that looks like a pot lid, the flat of the surface bent outwards to accommodate her head. Another on her right is throwing upon the doors to their shop—the great, big, white sign says SHARK FINS FOR SALE—, and on the other side there is a man fishing; he says, “It's them that keep coming back. Not me,” but there is no fish in his bucket. The lights scare them away. Only maggots remain.
Front of the port is a kaleidoscope that tickles the feet like a bed of punji sticks: the wooden bed shakes in tremors at the weight of dozen-deep bodies moving, some excitedly and some languorously, exchanging their gold coins for new boots, straw hats and vestments from the lands of Ozymandio and Falian, as far as that. They tell stories. What stories? That all the people there contain Nothing. That's it. . . nihil, a flood of black ice, abyss, cypher. Nothing.
His last memory of the city is a decade old and rotting. Like spent magic the impression is sticky. The city shows him nothing to change his memory or his mind.
Farther out on the shores beyond the ports, where one can see the sands slowly erode to the waves of time rippling, emerge the dust devils from their desert haunts. Down the caves beneath the sand which the elders of Sefirot cut to their own disposal for secret travels throughout the shadowed city, looking over the men and the occasional non-men like hunters of the dark, deeply formed and scrambled like a diamond centre-piece for an unformed crown, yet formed but of the natural breed unformed again by the masters. From the wood comes the stone pavements and slabs. Nearer walks the naked physiques of the shipmen with their marionette theatre on blocks of melting ice and their choked voices screaming words without consonants with a viscosity thicker than honeydew minutes, frigates and monies (reserved for whores and all manners of drink) accompanied by the hollow-eyed travelers—they have the look of refugees—and their moribund luggage taken up the quay and steps like a funeral procession complete with the oceans playing the dirge harpsichord. In that, a fire running through the strings resonating with dissonance. Invisible lightning across the skies and the world down below. Forking, splintering, thousand crashes, void of sound. But the sea is calm today and the only sway and motion is the gentle rocking of a cradle or those new swivel chairs or the ugly fall of a sand sled betrayed. No dunes. Only adobe, iron, brick and blackwood towers.
The sun is like a sword cutting into an open sheath, folding back into the outer depths of the world. The end of the world. He puts a hand on his hilt and walks along, a warden examining his prisoners, though he had no claim on superiority. Not that day. His sword is featherweight light to the grip.
“A SPECTACLE,” SAYS he. He is the approaching figure in black with an iron helmet removed and a red cape lined with golden silk, black-skinned armor polished to a shine complementing his blacker-still hair and beard. He is rattling his teeth against a sun not too high up but just setting down at the moment of dusk, at this place and hour he's stuck in of some mild tragedy unbeknownst to all beside him and his company, watching nothing but the rhythmic slap of the people and othersand the chaos and sounds and the blustering humdrum surrounding this small world like a pair of invisible thumbs enclosing around a solitary insect: Knight Lohengrin of the 186th Kaurdas Compainie, of late confined to some business in Aranvar at the behest of Spzulcher, castrating the otherwise fertile lands of those few people, scorching the fields of dissidents and marauding at what may have been a matter of consequence, never mind the disreputable denouement—uglier than thou, thus spake his lips—that still gives him a bitter taste in the mouth.
He checks his ribbed cuffs, his gauntlets dented from wear and tear and tightens the clasp of his cloak. Everyone is watching. Nobody wears that much iron but he's nobody either. He doesn't care. He soaks in the warmth of the shallows even more as he penetrates the staring crowds—the hilt and guard of his sword stands out from the scabbard, of some not-too uncommon occurrence these days however—and he wishes for some resolution that he knows isn't there at all.
A welcome change from all the hypnotic fear.
THE SWORD DISAPPEARS into the Swallower's throat. It slides down like a slow, amorphous snake—as if he's merely teasing the viewers—, moving down a path of byzantine labyrinths and tunnels; in this instance, the Sword-Swallower's body, wholly naked save for a loincloth and a skin smooth as prepared steel.
The courtiers are watching with apprehension. They say he has many throats, more than one, more than everyone. He looks at them and he reveals the sword again: it is clean, dry, with no indication that it had very recently entered a body. There is no blood.
Everyone claps.
THE CASTLE OF Lonio's noble prince—your highness, Eurydice, a name easy to grow weary of, rusting, eroding and throbbing with pulsating popularity—is a whole town constantly exposed to the weeping monuments of nobles in sofas and cushions, jesters in hoses and parade colors, the lattices of citizen guardsmen and the hulking Sefirot towers moving silently—almost hovering—that do not hide the extravagance or taint them, the giant and long shadows of the columns and the chandelier alit in tones of yellow, gold and grey that lends itself to the purple tints of the windows and the beaded curtains and paper trestles and the forked gold-leaves buttresses and galleries and walls and the windows that look out to the cupola belvedere and pavilions next to the prince's observatory. Innumerable hexagonal halls echo the sounds of orchestras and chamber arrangements, across mildew-encrusted walls and sweating silvers, across the gaiety of the dining assembly and the noble-bloods ascending through the stairway to the atriums and the art parlors and the court at the end. The invasion of air and the drafts set hairs on end and bring out the smell of freshly-spun clothes and perfume. There's people everywhere.
Lohengrin rubs his eyes and looks at Eurydice on his throne. “About that. . .”
Eurydice is sitting like a philosopher, brooding presumably, but his eyes are on him. He's wearing maroon robes threaded with saffron silk. “I sense a dangerous and turbulent lunacy out there, knight Lohengrin. Do you not?”
He squints. “I confess, I do not understand your point.”
“A tapestry that is threatening to tear down.”
“Of what cause?”
“The revelation of a desperate fugitive, weak but eager to revenge its years spent in captivity.”
“It? I sense mischief.”
Eurydice smiles—he's always smiling but this one is broader. “You've fought their lot.”
“I've fought sheep and calves, feral beasts and men. Pray, speak with a clearer disposition.”
“On the second count—”
“Calves?”
“Feral beasts.”
Lohengrin clears his throat and says, steadily and with pauses to think, “What plot of yours have. . . palled to suffer the continuous assault of this. . . feral beast?”
“Of late, I've been in the business of certain sports and have managed to acquire within my knowledge a public deal—but private—by chance that involved a conveyance. A trade. Of creatures captured by Thehal hunters to the north. They're pox, croaking ravens, some of them—I told them to have done! The visit was a coincidence after all but a wilde drake happened—”
“So it's a wild drake? A rampant one?”
“Our dear revenger.”
“And you want my company to deal with this beast?”
“In return, I forgive your infamy.”
“That so? I must ask for some assistance then.”
“Why hide your thoughts? Tell me then.”
“It involves, in brief, and I'll try to be as unpresumptuous as possible: a vat of Arswn acid, ballistae, arms and swords, some bait—”
“Bait?”
“Loud and living, preferably. I would rather battle a drake on my own terms.”
“I have a harpy in my acquisition too. An irritable beasts that refuses to be broken. She screeches in raucous tones.”
“And so it is; I'll have anything for a want to money and scarcity, honest.”
“And I'd rather not cheat you and your fine sensibilities, knight Lohengrin.”
“And what else?”
Lohengrin looked at the prince, kept that look for a while and then shrugged his shoulders and pauldrons.
AT THE COURTYARD of the Duomo, past the walls of the palisades and gates, down the public halls and courts, along the lines of beggar streets and pauper slumyards, through the rows of stalls and shops off some ways the Satornibus Circle—there's the smell of scented candles and incense, rose and herbs, above the hanging stench of piss, sweat and people, complementing the jewellery, crystals, souvenirs, spices, ornaments and leather-bound books on display—, there's the palais de dense of commotion and crowds gathering, held off by the soldiers present and at arms, in gleaming ceremonial armor and the accompanying frills and swords at scabbard stand-by. They're between the lines.
There is an ominous energy in the air. You can feel it: something bad is going to happen.
Lohengrin trims through the fat, arriving at the front of the crowd; steel and iron on his body, his armor still on, deters the living obstacles. He touches the border and ends up staring into the slits of a full helmet. The soldier shrugs. He groans and inches to the side, looking at the scenario from there. He sees the fading marble tiles giving way to the fields of empty floor, buildings on the sides but far away enough that there's no shadow to scissor the whites. There's a fountain at the end but it's not watering and it does not take away from the main drama: Prince Eurydice on his own two feet for once, the robust red of his own ceremonial clothing—finely tailored to fit a lithe figure, silk and satin threads gossamery—allying swimmingly with his pale, sallow skin. He's smiling, ceramic teeth against ruddy lips, sweeping his gaze over the audience.
There's a man beside him, leaning and in chains. He's held down by two soldiers. His coat has been ripped off. The remnants are hanging down in strips from his callous belt.
Another arrival in tangerine clothes and a tricorn hands Eurydice a cornucopia object. It's made of metal. The end has blades on it. It's a tool meant to torture. The prince's expression takes a grim turn but there's still the ghost of a smile—or is he imagining it?—, and then he holds up the device and looks at the people. He says, with regal volume: “Look and despair!”
Lohengrin steps back, bumping into another body—eyes are affixed to the stage, not with wonder or anxiety but an odd bemusement—that is caked with slaked lime. The grime latches on to the sides of his gauntlet. He almost grunts a curse but what's the point?
The immediate events draw his attention elsewhere. Eurydice with his cornucopia and the man below on his knees. The soldiers to his head sides take his head to hold it in place. It's an iron grip with no escape to it.
The chalk-crimson prince takes the device, the sharp end, and gouges out the eyes.
The blood—the bits of whites and the core pupil, the veins and nerves, flesh and eyelid skin—pours out the other end. There's a screaming through those killing fields. A triumph of death. The soldiers look uncomfortable, like they haven't seen it, but the helmets protect their dignity.
Eurydice is splattered in blood, smiling with sadistic pleasure, and it doesn't ruin his narcissus appearance. Lohengrin loathes to admit it but it's true—he's strikingly beautiful.
Tricorn hands him a pincer. Eurydice exchanges utensils, sloshing his booted feet through the mess downstairs.
Then out goes the other eye—more screams, the sort that dislodges the gullet from so it drops down into the torso below and into the diaphragm.
The lungs tear open with laborious chaos.
Behind him, the audience is cheering—it's an odd cheer, the kind that grimaces, not smiles—, while he watches with laconic interest: it brings out an evocation of violence and he's already accustomed to the analysis of it. There's the air, effervescent; the complete expression of Eurydice, etched like the face of a stone tablet, devoid of passion but overflowing with the satisfaction of logical congruence. To him, this is a dialogue, a series of escalating events as if a work of literature to be unfolded like an enigma puzzle. He forces himself to be discerning more so than the eyes of the others even when there's no case for such deliberate introspection. But he lacks the passion because he has yet to realize the art of astonishment is achieved through chance and travel, not rote repetition or through engineering the events to purposely resemble a set piece, in which case that obstinate pursuit of anesthetic aesthetic becomes merely a result of anxiety and insecurity and a sort of death. . .
RIGHT THEN THIS red prince looks at the growling-mad spectators and sees Lohengrin in the midst of the mists. He lifts the eye and puts it inside his mouth. He has enough courtesy to chew with his mouth closed.
He winks at him.
Lohengrin bites his lips and draws out the taste of blood. It's a real theatre, he thinks, a real one.
AT THE WILD ROVER, there lies the Company in a state of beer-induced lassitude.
Not all of them. Some. Disturbing the local population, no doubt.
A man coughs into his hand and says, curtly like a soldier: “Look at this: the earth feels clenched inside, the strings tightened with a tension that does not bend to serenades. I can scarce coop up the rankling, festering swart, that consort of peace and nothin'ess outside, that 'ticed those men's hearts, and that which I propose we amain from as far as we can and as soon as aught will allow. I could write a book on it: but, tomorrow! Tomorrow never arrives!”
“In short, Tristan?”
He inches forward, hands on, head tilting. “When's campaign season, Captain?”
He's speaking of the tedium. True. Everything is cane syrup nowadays.
“I'll not smother any speech: it's night again here, some grim darkness. I fear we'll have our fight sometime soon,” he says.
“Nightmare last night and when it's that rotting-sour, I'm crying tears of rainwater. And when it's that—that bad, like puerile flanges—all the hurting comes like good news, Captain. Present occupations. Blunts the edge.”
The third man wedged between these two rear wheels is saying something along the lines of, “Nobody's trying to kill us for once,” but they're not putting their ears on the line.
There's the Captain sitting at the center. He's next to Parsifal's world-weary gaze plunging outside the main entrance and the backdoors leading away from the counter. To the left is Tristan, painted red and soggy from the heat. The front is occupied by Stabreim tapping the table with his fingers, his Hypatii dark skin an oddity in the crowd.
Rheingold is having a game of dice at the end of the room with some familiar faces from the company. She's winning by shaves, cheating probably, and celebrating with howls. Everyone tells her to shut the fuck up, Parsifal included and that man never swears. Almost never.
Parsifal mumbles a needless apology.
“Headcount?” the Captain says.
Parsifal speaking with an alcohol-dry drawl: “Two hundred soldiers, Lohengrin.”
“The wizards?” he probes further.
Tristan interjects. “I saw Zara. . . diaphanous figure, really, often escapes the eyes.”
“That just means she's doing her job well. More than Rheingold's quarrels. What about the others?”
He grins. That evil thing with teeth and red gums on. “Wherefore blot I her name? You can speak with Zara herself, rest assured, more'n you'd find company in the others. As for Sire and Marsyas. . . they have disappeared.”
“Where?”
“I heard talk that Marsyas confined herself to a brothel in some search of exquisite pleasure.”
Lohengrin and his tumult-borne sigh. “What about Sire?”
Tristan grunts.
“He excused himself,” says Stabreim, the taciturn man from the south. Some darkened fellow.
Tristan raises a deck of cards. There's a hole through it the size of a ring. “And he's wilder and tougher withal than beasts or birds. With a mind to boot. No chance of smoking him out.” He raises a brow. “But you never ask for him anyway. Captain, what exactly are you thinking?”
“We've got a job. The wizards are going to have to earn their pay.” His voice begins to curl. He's struggling for words and that also never happens. “He's willing to harbor the Company for a favor. We can get the smell of the seas off our skin and away with this exercise.”
Rheingold finally folds. She has the money and she doesn't care anymore. Wimpy and Pistol stand up to her with threats of violence. She kicks Wimpy in the shins and punches Pistol on the jaws. Someone else is screaming but nobody knows who. There is smoke. People are throwing punches. The chorus sound of pewter mugs and glass bottles against bone cranium. . . everywhere.
Parsifal and Stabreim rise from their seats. They move to apprehend Rheingold's psychotic break. Parsifal is reluctant. Stabreim looks like he doesn't care.
LOHENGRIN IS UNFETTERED. He says, “The winds make my bones croon.”
“I scorn the presence of winds,” says Tristan. “On a bad day, makes me shiver. Especially when it carries the scent of magic.” He continues: “You never call for Sire, Captain.”
Lohengrin eyes him and shrugs. “It's all theatre. You have to wait in line like everyone else.”
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Historical Storyteller
Four Thousand Club
At the quiet side of the Wild Rover there sat a lone young man who hogged a table all for himself. He gulped down mugs of cheap beer while leaning back lazily on the hard wooden chair staring up at the cracked old ceiling lost in a sea of thoughts. Occasionally, when the laughter got too loud, when something crashed on the ground or when a fight broke out, the man would be shaken out of his stupor and he'd observe the commotion for a while before returning to his thoughts. A fight did break out with screams and curses and the sounds of fists and feet smashing men and boys, only this one fight was unusual, for a lady, the rough sort of lady, fought off two men much taller and stronger than she and now two more came to stop her.
The man drinking cheap beer turned to the barmaid, a pretty blond lass with blue eyes, and he asked, "Who're they?"
"Beats me," she shrugged, "Ask them."
He scowled and narrowed his eyes, "Like 'ell I would." He pointed a finger at them, "They're fighting!"
She paused, looking first at the young man for a second then looking at the brawl, ". . . You. . ." She trailed, "You can ask them later."
He leaned back, stretched his legs and relaxed, "That's a plan. . . I'm going for."
The man drinking cheap beer turned to the barmaid, a pretty blond lass with blue eyes, and he asked, "Who're they?"
"Beats me," she shrugged, "Ask them."
He scowled and narrowed his eyes, "Like 'ell I would." He pointed a finger at them, "They're fighting!"
She paused, looking first at the young man for a second then looking at the brawl, ". . . You. . ." She trailed, "You can ask them later."
He leaned back, stretched his legs and relaxed, "That's a plan. . . I'm going for."
Jabu
Pls help I’m tired
The city of Lonio was an interesting place. Not that Ien Ralos would know. He traveled between three places in the same order everyday and rarely made any detours. After all, there was no time for exploration with what he was working on. The young man had been allowed to borrow a forge from an older gentleman with the exception that he worked for it, which was no challenge in Ien’s eyes. It didn’t take long for people to begin to take notice of his skill and how much he truly loved his craft. There was no place he would rather be than standing in the heat of the forge. Though, of course, he still had Mayra to look after. She could handle herself, but she never strayed too far away. With her little fear of humans and others in general, she was comfortable in the city for periods of time. Everyday she would arrive at the same few times, as though checking on her partner.
For the day, he was done working at his temporary job and working on his own personal project. Mayra always accompanied him on his walk to the Wild Rover, perched on his shoulder pad that was specifically designed to keep her talons from digging into his skin. He’d learned his lesson awhile ago and had the scar to prove it. In his left hand he clutched a shittily crafted leather bound book of blank pages. Leather work certainly wasn’t his forte.
Ien was shirtless and a bit sweaty when he made his entrance at the bar, shirt wrapped around his waist, the weight of Mayra shifting on his shoulder as she seemed a bit startled. The sight of the unruly brawl made the armourer recoil as well for a moment before shuffling over to the less rowdy side of the room. It seemed there wasn’t an open table that hadn’t already been occupied or thrown or deemed unsuitable in some other way. Being the social butterfly he was though, Ien had no issue asking to borrow a seat at an occupied table.
Eyeing a young man around his age, the armourer sauntered over. “Mind if I borrow a seat?” He asked over the noise. If they sat together, he didn’t have any intention of bothering this person if he didn’t want to talk. But this person seemed like he had a story or two, so he found himself curious.
For the day, he was done working at his temporary job and working on his own personal project. Mayra always accompanied him on his walk to the Wild Rover, perched on his shoulder pad that was specifically designed to keep her talons from digging into his skin. He’d learned his lesson awhile ago and had the scar to prove it. In his left hand he clutched a shittily crafted leather bound book of blank pages. Leather work certainly wasn’t his forte.
Ien was shirtless and a bit sweaty when he made his entrance at the bar, shirt wrapped around his waist, the weight of Mayra shifting on his shoulder as she seemed a bit startled. The sight of the unruly brawl made the armourer recoil as well for a moment before shuffling over to the less rowdy side of the room. It seemed there wasn’t an open table that hadn’t already been occupied or thrown or deemed unsuitable in some other way. Being the social butterfly he was though, Ien had no issue asking to borrow a seat at an occupied table.
Eyeing a young man around his age, the armourer sauntered over. “Mind if I borrow a seat?” He asked over the noise. If they sat together, he didn’t have any intention of bothering this person if he didn’t want to talk. But this person seemed like he had a story or two, so he found himself curious.
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Rurnur
One Thousand Club
"E-Excuse me! Excuse me!"
The shrill voice cried out from amongst the regular bar-goers in response to the eruption of violence within the Wild Rover. The complaints appeared to originate from a small, cloaked figure, gripping a large mug filled with milk. His screeching was rather loud, but incomparable to the chaos radiating from the other side of the bar. It was likely that only the quiet, self-respecting patrons would be made to listen to his outbursts, despite his intentions.
"My word! What sort of establishment is this, where such violent behavior is tolerated! Was I a fool to think one would be able to enjoy a quiet drink, without being subject to.. to this!"
He said before slamming his mug down onto the table in frustration, the liquid contents sloshing from side to side, spilling at most, two drops of milk onto the wooden surface. This individual then proceeded to pull back his hood, revealing the flattened face and snow white feathers of one of the Orii people. Hafet twisted his head from side to side, looking about the bar as he regained his breath, before he instead focused in on the mess he had made, his eyes now growing wide and dark.
"Oh dear, it appears I have made a scene. Forgive me."
The Orii spoke solemnly, and went on to lower his head in shame, just as a bottle flew directly over his cranium and shattered against a nearby wall. He gasped, holding a small clawed hand to his chest in shock. One would think that after almost a year of travelling the ever violent lands of the Humans, you would become accustomed to the way things were. However, that wasn't the case with Hafet; for he simply refused to accept violence as the norm, no matter how hard this world would attempt to drill the opposite into his head.
"Did anyone see that!? That was an attack I say! an attack!"
The shrill voice cried out from amongst the regular bar-goers in response to the eruption of violence within the Wild Rover. The complaints appeared to originate from a small, cloaked figure, gripping a large mug filled with milk. His screeching was rather loud, but incomparable to the chaos radiating from the other side of the bar. It was likely that only the quiet, self-respecting patrons would be made to listen to his outbursts, despite his intentions.
"My word! What sort of establishment is this, where such violent behavior is tolerated! Was I a fool to think one would be able to enjoy a quiet drink, without being subject to.. to this!"
He said before slamming his mug down onto the table in frustration, the liquid contents sloshing from side to side, spilling at most, two drops of milk onto the wooden surface. This individual then proceeded to pull back his hood, revealing the flattened face and snow white feathers of one of the Orii people. Hafet twisted his head from side to side, looking about the bar as he regained his breath, before he instead focused in on the mess he had made, his eyes now growing wide and dark.
"Oh dear, it appears I have made a scene. Forgive me."
The Orii spoke solemnly, and went on to lower his head in shame, just as a bottle flew directly over his cranium and shattered against a nearby wall. He gasped, holding a small clawed hand to his chest in shock. One would think that after almost a year of travelling the ever violent lands of the Humans, you would become accustomed to the way things were. However, that wasn't the case with Hafet; for he simply refused to accept violence as the norm, no matter how hard this world would attempt to drill the opposite into his head.
"Did anyone see that!? That was an attack I say! an attack!"
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Remembrance
Nothing is louder than overthinking after midnight
Cato was a natural born traveler when it came to having to move around a lot, he didn't enjoy having to change his location close to every break of dawn, but Cato grew accustomed to the lifestyle. Lonio, a city that amazed Cato, filled with various different shades of infamy and the monsters of mankind. The infamous don't flood the streets but instead peer out of the shadows and observe with eerie intent. Cato hadn't arrived to the place just to move his location, he went there also for his own personal project, a goal that'd give him what he desired and wanted most. He didn't like to admit what he wanted, he thought if he admitted it, it'd become all the more real than he needed it to be. For now, he could rest easy without having to know how serious everything could become.
His personal project was far from completion and he had spent far too long focusing on it. And while the sun was still out and the shadows still cast, Cato wasn't safe from the thieves and killers hiding in the dark. Cato figured he could let himself ease up at a bar, it'd also be good to talk to citizens of Lonio to better understand the city itself and how everything works within it.
Into the bar and he saw more than he could've imagined. The bar was split in twain as if it was a log milled in half. One half was loud and rowdy, the other was dark and fairly silent. The atmosphere felt different at each side. Cato walked towards the counter where a man wielding a cloth and a mug moved hastily to clean up the messes of mugs and supply the many people ordering drinks. Politely asking for a drink prompted the man to get a clean mug, fill it from the barrel, and set it down on the counter close to Cato. A reply gifting thanks to the man and Cato was off to explore the divided space before him.
Cato had lots of suspicions towards the people in the bar, they didn't quite look like the safest people to be with. However a table with a shirtless man shouldering a bird and a man sitting down gave Cato some amount of relief. He values trust and from the looks of it, these people seemed like they were willing to give more trust than every other lurker in the bar combined. Cato approached the two men, hoping for at least some friendly people to spend his time with.
"Do you two mind if I join?" Cato asked with a slight leer.
His personal project was far from completion and he had spent far too long focusing on it. And while the sun was still out and the shadows still cast, Cato wasn't safe from the thieves and killers hiding in the dark. Cato figured he could let himself ease up at a bar, it'd also be good to talk to citizens of Lonio to better understand the city itself and how everything works within it.
Into the bar and he saw more than he could've imagined. The bar was split in twain as if it was a log milled in half. One half was loud and rowdy, the other was dark and fairly silent. The atmosphere felt different at each side. Cato walked towards the counter where a man wielding a cloth and a mug moved hastily to clean up the messes of mugs and supply the many people ordering drinks. Politely asking for a drink prompted the man to get a clean mug, fill it from the barrel, and set it down on the counter close to Cato. A reply gifting thanks to the man and Cato was off to explore the divided space before him.
Cato had lots of suspicions towards the people in the bar, they didn't quite look like the safest people to be with. However a table with a shirtless man shouldering a bird and a man sitting down gave Cato some amount of relief. He values trust and from the looks of it, these people seemed like they were willing to give more trust than every other lurker in the bar combined. Cato approached the two men, hoping for at least some friendly people to spend his time with.
"Do you two mind if I join?" Cato asked with a slight leer.
Historical Storyteller
Four Thousand Club
“Mind if I borrow a seat?” said a stranger.
The young man simply nodded his head.
"Do you two mind if I join?" said another.
He closed his eyes, bent his head down and shook it then he tapped the table twice with his fingers. The man looked up to see the fight in progress, his dark eyes trained squarely on every face. He pushed himself up and leaned on the table, left hand resting on his forehead and right hand flat on the table. As the brawl continued he rubbed his chin in deep self-reflection, raised his eyebrows when surprised and nodded his head every now and then for no apparent reason.
The young man simply nodded his head.
"Do you two mind if I join?" said another.
He closed his eyes, bent his head down and shook it then he tapped the table twice with his fingers. The man looked up to see the fight in progress, his dark eyes trained squarely on every face. He pushed himself up and leaned on the table, left hand resting on his forehead and right hand flat on the table. As the brawl continued he rubbed his chin in deep self-reflection, raised his eyebrows when surprised and nodded his head every now and then for no apparent reason.
Cosmo
Does Not Know Kung-fu
Lonio, the city of pirates, the cavern city, the piss stained jewel of the desert, it was a beacon of 'civilization' among the great sand dunes around it. A cavern of shade and commerce in the dry arid landscape that sought to devour it. It could almost be called beautiful, the blue waters of the ocean and the ocean of sand that it met, a meeting of two worlds that could never be so far apart even as they caressed one another. Ships came and ships went, the buzz of conversation filled her ports and streets, but it was the smell of sweat and baking shit that really captured one's attention. Thousands of people working in confined spaces, the shade offering a little protection from the harsh rays, but never enough, the occasional shout of warning before a chamber pot was emptied out the window into the ground below. Sewers were nice, for those who could afford to be near it, but the poor and desperate in the slums were not so lucky, but it didn't matter so long as the smell didn't carry too high, to the perfumed rooms of the wealthy. The occasional huffs and grunts that escaped alleys as men and women plied their trade for a spattering of coin, the screams and pleas for help that would go unanswered as a man met his end under a mugger's dagger... A beacon of 'civilization' indeed and how Cormac hated it. He hated the people, he hated the buildings, he hated the smells and sounds, he hated the heat that bore down on his back from an unforgiving sun, oh, how he hated this cesspit of wretched creatures that called themselves people.
Cormac's heavy steps echoed down the cobbled streets, occasionally emitting a grinding sound as the coarse sand from the dunes inevitably made it into the city and he had yet to get used to the sound of the sand rubbing against the stone, a thoroughly unpleasant sensation that sent a long shiver down his spine. The people of this city gave him questioning looks as they passed, a few youths would take his measure and contemplate bumping into him to show off to their friends, but a low rumbling growl was always enough to dissuade them from their questionable life decision, an ability Cormac had no doubt the parents of this shit pile wish they could lay claim to. The smell of fish, stale bread and the faint hints of spice was carried by the wind and brought a slight rumble to his stomach, it had been some time since he late ate, rationing of coin demanded a stretching of meals. He would need to spend what little coin he had left for food. He glanced up towards the blue sky as he cursed the southlands.
He had come for the hunt, traveling by way of hired guard for a caravan seeking to ply their goods at the port city, and he had quickly found that the desert did not suit him. It was hot. An obvious statement, but no less true. Cormac was a man of ice and winter and his mood had been foul, even more so then usual, during the last few weeks increasing with every bead of sweat that rolled down his spine, however, the desert had not been without its uses, he had hunted one of the great fire salamanders, tracked down a sand stalker to its burrow and killed the monstrous scorpion and claimed pieces of its carapace for his own armor, he had brought low a great Roc that had thought him prey, the last mistake the great bird would ever make... However he had learned that all three were entirely uneatable. Yes, the desert, for all its faults and pains, had offered him foes enough to keep him around, but none of them had granted him what he wanted most. Rumors existed of even greatest beast that lay deeper in the desert, but Cormac had not managed to track down solid information on them, only whispers and rumors from the old and infirm.. He had not the experience to head deeper into the sea of dunes looking for myths and legends, to attempt such a journey would end in a death as the heat and sands claimed him and that death was not worthy of a Slayer. Cormac wasn't sure where his next search would take him, but he was eager to be gone from the sands, but there was a problem: Gold. The pay from the Caravan had not been much and was long gone, the extra he had gained from the stalker's poison gland and salamander gall had bought only a small amount of time.
The small coin pouch that held anything anymore that lay on the inside of his belt was starving and held only a few coins of worth. So, his choices were to find another caravan to scratch out a tiny amount of coin that would not last him long or sign up for mercenary work again, neither option was all that alluring. Mercenaries were wretched beings, greedy two-bit warriors that gathered under vain glorious captains with delusions of importance. They always had tales of the great deeds they did in the past, most of them false and made up by their predecessors. Claimed discipline and martial power but were more akin to drunk brawlers flailing wildly at the foe throw to the wolves by employers with a simple fact in mind, dead mercenaries didn't require pay. How Cormac hated mercenaries. Even the guards of this shit pile of a city held some semblance of purpose that mercenaries lack, but mercenary work paid enough that a few months of it was enough to buy him several months of wandering and beast hunting, a necessary evil and annoyance. Over the decade, he had lost count of the bands he had worked for from the Forgotten Sons, Forest Wardens, Bastard Company, Rusted Arrows, among others... Yes, all the same when one got down to the details, although some were more successful then others.
With a massive sigh that escaped his chest, his eyes found a sign with a mug on it, a common mark of a tavern or pub. He had no idea what the name of it was, the scratching on the sign above alien to him as all writing was, Cormac pushed into the building, the smell of sweat even stronger but hints of the sweet aroma of ale and pork filled the air. He spotted a few people brawling, and the corner of his mouth lowered into a grimace as he released a low growl of annoyance, the heat of this land seemed to bring out the fools by the dozen. The room was crowded, most watching and hollering at the fight, and the tables were taken, tables he had no intention of joining. Cormac muscled his way through the crowd, glaring and growling at those drunk or stupid enough to raise complaint until he made his way to the counter and to the mousy woman behind it, experienced enough to ignore the bar fight and leave it to the other's that no doubt had the job of stopping it or preparing the bill to hand them for any damage.
"Food," Cormac said, his deep voice like two slabs of granite rubbing against one another, deeper then normal thanks to the hot, arid air of the city. He pulled off his helmet to let his long, sweat mattered hair fall down his back as he set it down on the counter with a heavy clank and dropped his satchel by his feet.
"S-Sure," the mousy woman said, glancing up at him and taking note of his mismatched armor cobbled together from errant metal plates, leather straps and fur pieces, but what really caught the eye was the... other pieces. Large sections of bone, scale and even some kind of black plate that looked like it was pulled from a massive insect was unusual, to say the least, "Anything in particular strike your fancy?" she asked as she placed her small hand on the dirty cloth on her hip, offering services he had no interest in.
"No. Food," Cormac repeated and dropped two coins onto the counter, "Now."
Cormac's heavy steps echoed down the cobbled streets, occasionally emitting a grinding sound as the coarse sand from the dunes inevitably made it into the city and he had yet to get used to the sound of the sand rubbing against the stone, a thoroughly unpleasant sensation that sent a long shiver down his spine. The people of this city gave him questioning looks as they passed, a few youths would take his measure and contemplate bumping into him to show off to their friends, but a low rumbling growl was always enough to dissuade them from their questionable life decision, an ability Cormac had no doubt the parents of this shit pile wish they could lay claim to. The smell of fish, stale bread and the faint hints of spice was carried by the wind and brought a slight rumble to his stomach, it had been some time since he late ate, rationing of coin demanded a stretching of meals. He would need to spend what little coin he had left for food. He glanced up towards the blue sky as he cursed the southlands.
He had come for the hunt, traveling by way of hired guard for a caravan seeking to ply their goods at the port city, and he had quickly found that the desert did not suit him. It was hot. An obvious statement, but no less true. Cormac was a man of ice and winter and his mood had been foul, even more so then usual, during the last few weeks increasing with every bead of sweat that rolled down his spine, however, the desert had not been without its uses, he had hunted one of the great fire salamanders, tracked down a sand stalker to its burrow and killed the monstrous scorpion and claimed pieces of its carapace for his own armor, he had brought low a great Roc that had thought him prey, the last mistake the great bird would ever make... However he had learned that all three were entirely uneatable. Yes, the desert, for all its faults and pains, had offered him foes enough to keep him around, but none of them had granted him what he wanted most. Rumors existed of even greatest beast that lay deeper in the desert, but Cormac had not managed to track down solid information on them, only whispers and rumors from the old and infirm.. He had not the experience to head deeper into the sea of dunes looking for myths and legends, to attempt such a journey would end in a death as the heat and sands claimed him and that death was not worthy of a Slayer. Cormac wasn't sure where his next search would take him, but he was eager to be gone from the sands, but there was a problem: Gold. The pay from the Caravan had not been much and was long gone, the extra he had gained from the stalker's poison gland and salamander gall had bought only a small amount of time.
The small coin pouch that held anything anymore that lay on the inside of his belt was starving and held only a few coins of worth. So, his choices were to find another caravan to scratch out a tiny amount of coin that would not last him long or sign up for mercenary work again, neither option was all that alluring. Mercenaries were wretched beings, greedy two-bit warriors that gathered under vain glorious captains with delusions of importance. They always had tales of the great deeds they did in the past, most of them false and made up by their predecessors. Claimed discipline and martial power but were more akin to drunk brawlers flailing wildly at the foe throw to the wolves by employers with a simple fact in mind, dead mercenaries didn't require pay. How Cormac hated mercenaries. Even the guards of this shit pile of a city held some semblance of purpose that mercenaries lack, but mercenary work paid enough that a few months of it was enough to buy him several months of wandering and beast hunting, a necessary evil and annoyance. Over the decade, he had lost count of the bands he had worked for from the Forgotten Sons, Forest Wardens, Bastard Company, Rusted Arrows, among others... Yes, all the same when one got down to the details, although some were more successful then others.
With a massive sigh that escaped his chest, his eyes found a sign with a mug on it, a common mark of a tavern or pub. He had no idea what the name of it was, the scratching on the sign above alien to him as all writing was, Cormac pushed into the building, the smell of sweat even stronger but hints of the sweet aroma of ale and pork filled the air. He spotted a few people brawling, and the corner of his mouth lowered into a grimace as he released a low growl of annoyance, the heat of this land seemed to bring out the fools by the dozen. The room was crowded, most watching and hollering at the fight, and the tables were taken, tables he had no intention of joining. Cormac muscled his way through the crowd, glaring and growling at those drunk or stupid enough to raise complaint until he made his way to the counter and to the mousy woman behind it, experienced enough to ignore the bar fight and leave it to the other's that no doubt had the job of stopping it or preparing the bill to hand them for any damage.
"Food," Cormac said, his deep voice like two slabs of granite rubbing against one another, deeper then normal thanks to the hot, arid air of the city. He pulled off his helmet to let his long, sweat mattered hair fall down his back as he set it down on the counter with a heavy clank and dropped his satchel by his feet.
"S-Sure," the mousy woman said, glancing up at him and taking note of his mismatched armor cobbled together from errant metal plates, leather straps and fur pieces, but what really caught the eye was the... other pieces. Large sections of bone, scale and even some kind of black plate that looked like it was pulled from a massive insect was unusual, to say the least, "Anything in particular strike your fancy?" she asked as she placed her small hand on the dirty cloth on her hip, offering services he had no interest in.
"No. Food," Cormac repeated and dropped two coins onto the counter, "Now."
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Jabu
Pls help I’m tired
As the seat was given up, Ien smiled and nodded to the young man before taking a seat. He noted that he seemed a bit quiet. Pulling his chair up closer to the table, he placed the book down and opened to the page marked with a short pencil. On the outstretched pages there was a detailed drawing of his personal project, which happened to be a rather nice short sword. Everything had been planned ahead of time to the last detail.
The work never stopped as long as the ideas kept flowing. Everything could be improved and something better could always be made. At least that was how he thought about things. Ien wondered if he’d actually get much work done with all that was happening. It made for a good distraction. The outburst from the Orii man especially and the arrival of another young man around his age.
When they were joined by the newcomer, he moved his chair over a bit in a silent invitation. Both of these people seemed rather interesting. As the original bar goer leaned over the table, Ien watched him and raised a brow. “You look like you’ve got something on the mind,” the armourer noted over the noise once again. He leaned back in his seat, dropping his hands in his lap as he watched the young man in deep though, flicking his gaze between both table mates from time to time.
The work never stopped as long as the ideas kept flowing. Everything could be improved and something better could always be made. At least that was how he thought about things. Ien wondered if he’d actually get much work done with all that was happening. It made for a good distraction. The outburst from the Orii man especially and the arrival of another young man around his age.
When they were joined by the newcomer, he moved his chair over a bit in a silent invitation. Both of these people seemed rather interesting. As the original bar goer leaned over the table, Ien watched him and raised a brow. “You look like you’ve got something on the mind,” the armourer noted over the noise once again. He leaned back in his seat, dropping his hands in his lap as he watched the young man in deep though, flicking his gaze between both table mates from time to time.
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Archon
Friendly Neighborhood Gem-Collector
Zara's appetite for blood, well known and viciously honed under the glistening of steel under the shadowbinder's rays, had met with unfamiliar seasoning that settled in the deepest pits of the soul's most sacred sanctum. The taste of defeat, long absent, now blackened the tongue with the plagues of despair. Misbegotten hazel eyes flicked over the spiraling stones, arrayed together - in the spearman's phalanx - to form the destitute shit-ridden rats nest that was Lonio. How her mind wandered; gently cooing the songs of blood; promises of Chaos; a knife to the throat; bleeding fluorescent crimson. How she wished she could drown this rat's nest under the oppression of the waters, how she wished to watch them squeal and cry and scurry about.
Weakness. The City was rank with it.
The illusionist bore her breath with the heave of a giant; the sea-ridden air tickled the back of her throat. She sat bleary-eyed and astute, perched on the edges of Lonio's harbour, armoured legs swinging in the daylight breeze. When they'd arrived to Lonio, Lohengrin took it upon himself to act as the Kardas Comapny's own royal envoy. Zara was of a more... intelligent disposition. She'd spied the lighthouse from the seas and marked it her home from the moment they'd disembarked. In the event Eurydice - Lonio's esteemed Prince - decided to massacre the Company and grant their gently-maintained heads to Vethek's hounds upon an adorned silver platter, one death-bearer would yet live. Her. The waves, clad in natural fury, smashed against the harbour, casting great floods over the rag-tag men and women unfortunate enough to work there, teeth-rotted with shades of brown and black, clothes shredded, scattered sewing weaves reopened, some sporting wounds and infection - gangrene - cursed by the sea, Zara thought.
The hour had passed, she'd sat in the embrace of darkness for no small time, her eyes did not deceive; for below, the ill-fated sight of the boisterous and incessant spilled out onto the street, tumbling from some nameless hive. A flurry blood and teeth, flesh battered flesh in a violent alcohol-infused struggle for dominance. Strangers, they were not: the culprits bore her colours. They were not to be executed, what price did Lohengrin extract for this mercy? It mattered not, she would soon found out. Zara's exile from her hiding place took no time at all, walking past the guards and sailors with nary a flicker of clandestine blue; her sleek form fluttering in a majesty of light as if she wasn't truly present at all. Dispelling her translucent field wasn't a necessity, but oh how she delighted in the envious gazes and imaginative minds that fell upon her glorious bearing. Each step through the salted dock earned hushed stares and whispered tales, her tribal-adorned steel mesh was beyond the mismatched get-up of a common battlefield scavenger; The Kardas Company had contacts and acclaim all throughout the realm, and she'd been at Lohengrin's side for the better part of a decade - more even. Her name was as cemented as his. Trickster. Witch. Shadowbinder. Fearsome names forged by fearsome folks, the stories write themselves.
Breaching the door to the tavern, an ugly sneer reared across her travel-weary features at the disheveled display laid forth. The small brawl in the streets was a pale showing of the mayhem spiralling within, half of the patrons locked in religious battle with fist, stool and tankard - everything short of a sharp blade, a thing only rearing to be unsheathed at the whim of a vengeful drunkard knocked on his hide in shame. Miraculously, the other half of the tavern seemed to be orderly and disciplined, stony-faces buried in mugs of hard ale, card stacks and jeering sailors, the slap of dice and the visceral laughter of drunken song. The chaos was unseen by the more hearty patrons. Was this the life of a Lonio citizen?
Through self-made fortune manipulated upon the tide of reality; not an eye was cast to the Illusionist, her visage took upon the bland appearance of a well-built dockhand with rough tan-skin that shaded the dim-lights of the tavern, blue eyes encrusted like jewels. A stranger's face. Lohengrin danced in the corner of this mask's sight, would he recognize the roguish infiltration?
It mattered not. Uninterested, or perhaps unwilling, to be embroiled in the chaotic melee, she made her way to the bar front, there was time yet to return to business under Lohengrin's directive; for now she fancied a drink. Zara mired a wicked smirk at her own deviance; taking hiding in plain sight to an entirely literal meaning. To her side, a looming barbarian adorned with trophies of past kills stood stoic, his bearing resembling a staunch mountain among the screeching winds. To him, she was Zara, disillusioned of her glimmering mind tricks that inflicted the straying eyes of the unwelcome that would prey upon her unassuming frame. She ordered ale from the bar woman as if a General drilling his soldiers; command and authority seemed to drape from her figure like a gilded gold cloak, yet there wasn't a shred of cloth to be seen on her back - further tricks? "You're not one of ours," She blanched in an all-too challenging tone, heavy gauntlets laid to rest against the oaken counter. "Long way from home." She stated flatly, her knowledge of geography wouldn't hold up to a proficient navigator, but Zara was smart. Perceptive. She could spy the touch of frost that claimed his skin, the iron-forged axeheads that clinged to his back, no man of the south forged those behemoths; he was a man of the north.
Cosmo
Weakness. The City was rank with it.
The illusionist bore her breath with the heave of a giant; the sea-ridden air tickled the back of her throat. She sat bleary-eyed and astute, perched on the edges of Lonio's harbour, armoured legs swinging in the daylight breeze. When they'd arrived to Lonio, Lohengrin took it upon himself to act as the Kardas Comapny's own royal envoy. Zara was of a more... intelligent disposition. She'd spied the lighthouse from the seas and marked it her home from the moment they'd disembarked. In the event Eurydice - Lonio's esteemed Prince - decided to massacre the Company and grant their gently-maintained heads to Vethek's hounds upon an adorned silver platter, one death-bearer would yet live. Her. The waves, clad in natural fury, smashed against the harbour, casting great floods over the rag-tag men and women unfortunate enough to work there, teeth-rotted with shades of brown and black, clothes shredded, scattered sewing weaves reopened, some sporting wounds and infection - gangrene - cursed by the sea, Zara thought.
The hour had passed, she'd sat in the embrace of darkness for no small time, her eyes did not deceive; for below, the ill-fated sight of the boisterous and incessant spilled out onto the street, tumbling from some nameless hive. A flurry blood and teeth, flesh battered flesh in a violent alcohol-infused struggle for dominance. Strangers, they were not: the culprits bore her colours. They were not to be executed, what price did Lohengrin extract for this mercy? It mattered not, she would soon found out. Zara's exile from her hiding place took no time at all, walking past the guards and sailors with nary a flicker of clandestine blue; her sleek form fluttering in a majesty of light as if she wasn't truly present at all. Dispelling her translucent field wasn't a necessity, but oh how she delighted in the envious gazes and imaginative minds that fell upon her glorious bearing. Each step through the salted dock earned hushed stares and whispered tales, her tribal-adorned steel mesh was beyond the mismatched get-up of a common battlefield scavenger; The Kardas Company had contacts and acclaim all throughout the realm, and she'd been at Lohengrin's side for the better part of a decade - more even. Her name was as cemented as his. Trickster. Witch. Shadowbinder. Fearsome names forged by fearsome folks, the stories write themselves.
Breaching the door to the tavern, an ugly sneer reared across her travel-weary features at the disheveled display laid forth. The small brawl in the streets was a pale showing of the mayhem spiralling within, half of the patrons locked in religious battle with fist, stool and tankard - everything short of a sharp blade, a thing only rearing to be unsheathed at the whim of a vengeful drunkard knocked on his hide in shame. Miraculously, the other half of the tavern seemed to be orderly and disciplined, stony-faces buried in mugs of hard ale, card stacks and jeering sailors, the slap of dice and the visceral laughter of drunken song. The chaos was unseen by the more hearty patrons. Was this the life of a Lonio citizen?
Through self-made fortune manipulated upon the tide of reality; not an eye was cast to the Illusionist, her visage took upon the bland appearance of a well-built dockhand with rough tan-skin that shaded the dim-lights of the tavern, blue eyes encrusted like jewels. A stranger's face. Lohengrin danced in the corner of this mask's sight, would he recognize the roguish infiltration?
It mattered not. Uninterested, or perhaps unwilling, to be embroiled in the chaotic melee, she made her way to the bar front, there was time yet to return to business under Lohengrin's directive; for now she fancied a drink. Zara mired a wicked smirk at her own deviance; taking hiding in plain sight to an entirely literal meaning. To her side, a looming barbarian adorned with trophies of past kills stood stoic, his bearing resembling a staunch mountain among the screeching winds. To him, she was Zara, disillusioned of her glimmering mind tricks that inflicted the straying eyes of the unwelcome that would prey upon her unassuming frame. She ordered ale from the bar woman as if a General drilling his soldiers; command and authority seemed to drape from her figure like a gilded gold cloak, yet there wasn't a shred of cloth to be seen on her back - further tricks? "You're not one of ours," She blanched in an all-too challenging tone, heavy gauntlets laid to rest against the oaken counter. "Long way from home." She stated flatly, her knowledge of geography wouldn't hold up to a proficient navigator, but Zara was smart. Perceptive. She could spy the touch of frost that claimed his skin, the iron-forged axeheads that clinged to his back, no man of the south forged those behemoths; he was a man of the north.
Cosmo
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Divon
ʜɪʀᴇᴅ ғᴏʀ 500 ɢᴏʟᴅ
[Class=Notes]
// Forward slashes are comments //
//and do no show up in the final design,//
// these are to help you find everything easily//
//and explain some code as well. //
// These comments must be with in a class or script tags//
// in order to be hidden, from what I know//
// Long URls are images//
// # followed by letter and numbers are Hex codes//
// or color codes.//
// This code does not show breaks unless is shows the
code// // When typing responses to rps, be aware that when you press enter// // it will not show that you did. you'll have to use the
tags// // Square sized images also will look best// // but if you have a non square image it'll still work// // Don't worry// [/class] [class=Info] Font-Family:Acme; color:Black; padding:20px; padding-bottom:5px; background-color:#D8BFD8; width:85%; margin: Auto; // This is the mainly background and the font// // If the Font does not show up // // use the typical bbc font tag in one area to make it show up// // you'll notice I've done so with the Name// // I don't know why it won't work 100% of the time with out doing this// // but since its just a simple thing to add// // I figured it wasn't to much to do to get the font I wanted// //if you want a more modern look I suggest using the font Anonymous Pro// //just don't forget to change it in the font tag on the name so it'll work// [/class] [class=Line] border-bottom: 1px SOLID #000000; //this is the line under each section // To get the double line I just added a style to it// //as you'll be able to see below// [/class] [div class=Info][Div class="Line" style="border-top: 1px SOLID #000000; height:3px;"][/div]
Interacting:
N/A
[Div class="Line"][/div] Mentioned:
Rurnur
[Div class="Line"][/div] Location: Wild Rover
Action: Fight club fight club fight--
[Div class="Line"][/div]
Nirva Buldeer || You call this a bar fight? [Div class="Line"][/div]
[Div class="Line" style="border-top: 1px SOLID #000000; height:3px;"][/div]
Coded by Agwordsmith
[/div]
code// // When typing responses to rps, be aware that when you press enter// // it will not show that you did. you'll have to use the
tags// // Square sized images also will look best// // but if you have a non square image it'll still work// // Don't worry// [/class] [class=Info] Font-Family:Acme; color:Black; padding:20px; padding-bottom:5px; background-color:#D8BFD8; width:85%; margin: Auto; // This is the mainly background and the font// // If the Font does not show up // // use the typical bbc font tag in one area to make it show up// // you'll notice I've done so with the Name// // I don't know why it won't work 100% of the time with out doing this// // but since its just a simple thing to add// // I figured it wasn't to much to do to get the font I wanted// //if you want a more modern look I suggest using the font Anonymous Pro// //just don't forget to change it in the font tag on the name so it'll work// [/class] [class=Line] border-bottom: 1px SOLID #000000; //this is the line under each section // To get the double line I just added a style to it// //as you'll be able to see below// [/class] [div class=Info][Div class="Line" style="border-top: 1px SOLID #000000; height:3px;"][/div]
N/A
[Div class="Line"][/div] Mentioned:
Rurnur
[Div class="Line"][/div] Location: Wild Rover
Action: Fight club fight club fight--
[Div class="Line"][/div]
Nirva Buldeer || You call this a bar fight? [Div class="Line"][/div]
Sounds of a busy city was drowned out by the cacophony of the waves that captured her attention for who knew how long. It whispered sometimes, and roared when it felt like it.
Nirva could feel the refreshing yet unnerving power of it running down her spine; flecks of seaspray battering her cheeks and painting her leather with its wake. It stung her eyes, but the dwarf let her gaze be enveloped by the sea; like if one was in a willing trance.
The world was vast, most of the time she'd forgotten that the earth beneath her wasn't the only traverseable mass.
The city of Lonio surrounding her was...nothing too special. To her this was just another passing location, another destination to finish up a request and then resume looking for more work.
Horgruff rattled the barrel Nirva was leaning against. The reptilian hybrid of a dog noticed her uncharacteristic idleness. She instinctively shook it back, the slight wiggle of her elbow smacked the wet wood against Horgruff's snout, to their dismay. Nirva soothed the grumbling whine of her animal companion with a rough rub of their stiff bristled head as an apology, and went back to trekking the wasted streets of Lonio with a pack that burdened her back.
Her earthy palette blended well with the scruff; her height helping her with being inconspicuous and uninteresting. Yet it put her at a disadvantage when asking for directions.
"Mercenary's just a title, ain't it Horgruff? A label. People thinkin' of em as bodyguards and "public" assassins -- defeats the purpose of an assassin,right? -- yet I'm out here... delivering packages." The dwarf muttered as she tightened her grip on the straps of her pack. She looked up at the bar, its paint weathered down by the elements but miraculously still decipherable.
The Wild Rover.
The old geezer that offered her free grub, shelter, and tending to Horgruff as a reward for her ridding the pests that "inconvenienced" his cattle, had another request. Nirva had opened the package of course, it was just a drink of some kind. Most likely a brew to sell in the bar or a gift to the owner of it; she couldn't care less, she wasn't much of "bar drinker".
She clicked her tongue and Horgruff sat down by the entrance, a quiet slip of their forked tongue tasting the air.
"Won't be long, I think. If someone tries to take ya, leave some of 'em for me, 'kay?"
And she entered the bar, package in hand, and Horgruff watched her go with their head fitted between their paws.
The atmosphere was electric on one side, yet it still managed to get Nirva's blood pumping. Logic drove her to hurry and drop off the package before the clicking timebomb of her fight responses would kick in.
She would've congratulated herself if she had the time, a quick sigh of relief uttered as she plopped it down on the counter. Before she could call out for the recipient, a blow to the side of her forehead triggered a flash of red.
Ah shit. Here we go again. It wasn't like she was opposed to these "shindigs" but --
--Before the loose cannonball of a tankard that had hit her had even neared the floor, the parcel in her hand suddenly disappeared from the counter, and into the nest of fleshy hornets.
"Ya drinks stay on your fuckin' tables, dimwits!" Nirva hissed, but quickly covered her mouth with a gloved hand at what she had just done.
Mayhaps the old geezer would never find out. It's not like she was going to see him again anytime soon.
Her thoughts were interrupted by her reflexes, where she hopped back a few steps as a drunken barbarian went for a grapple; and she hit the side of a table with an oof. Nirva bit her lip with a glimpse of a toothy grin, and grabbed the small mug of the patron of the table, and hauled it at the barbarian.
No effect. She bared teeth at the pathetic clunk it made against the hardened flesh of her opponent. What kind of weapon was that?
"What kind of small-ass mug was that?!"
She glowered as she shuffled behind the table, almost knocking the smaller patron aside.
Nirva could feel the refreshing yet unnerving power of it running down her spine; flecks of seaspray battering her cheeks and painting her leather with its wake. It stung her eyes, but the dwarf let her gaze be enveloped by the sea; like if one was in a willing trance.
The world was vast, most of the time she'd forgotten that the earth beneath her wasn't the only traverseable mass.
The city of Lonio surrounding her was...nothing too special. To her this was just another passing location, another destination to finish up a request and then resume looking for more work.
Horgruff rattled the barrel Nirva was leaning against. The reptilian hybrid of a dog noticed her uncharacteristic idleness. She instinctively shook it back, the slight wiggle of her elbow smacked the wet wood against Horgruff's snout, to their dismay. Nirva soothed the grumbling whine of her animal companion with a rough rub of their stiff bristled head as an apology, and went back to trekking the wasted streets of Lonio with a pack that burdened her back.
Her earthy palette blended well with the scruff; her height helping her with being inconspicuous and uninteresting. Yet it put her at a disadvantage when asking for directions.
"Mercenary's just a title, ain't it Horgruff? A label. People thinkin' of em as bodyguards and "public" assassins -- defeats the purpose of an assassin,right? -- yet I'm out here... delivering packages." The dwarf muttered as she tightened her grip on the straps of her pack. She looked up at the bar, its paint weathered down by the elements but miraculously still decipherable.
The Wild Rover.
The old geezer that offered her free grub, shelter, and tending to Horgruff as a reward for her ridding the pests that "inconvenienced" his cattle, had another request. Nirva had opened the package of course, it was just a drink of some kind. Most likely a brew to sell in the bar or a gift to the owner of it; she couldn't care less, she wasn't much of "bar drinker".
She clicked her tongue and Horgruff sat down by the entrance, a quiet slip of their forked tongue tasting the air.
"Won't be long, I think. If someone tries to take ya, leave some of 'em for me, 'kay?"
And she entered the bar, package in hand, and Horgruff watched her go with their head fitted between their paws.
The atmosphere was electric on one side, yet it still managed to get Nirva's blood pumping. Logic drove her to hurry and drop off the package before the clicking timebomb of her fight responses would kick in.
She would've congratulated herself if she had the time, a quick sigh of relief uttered as she plopped it down on the counter. Before she could call out for the recipient, a blow to the side of her forehead triggered a flash of red.
Ah shit. Here we go again. It wasn't like she was opposed to these "shindigs" but --
--Before the loose cannonball of a tankard that had hit her had even neared the floor, the parcel in her hand suddenly disappeared from the counter, and into the nest of fleshy hornets.
"Ya drinks stay on your fuckin' tables, dimwits!" Nirva hissed, but quickly covered her mouth with a gloved hand at what she had just done.
Mayhaps the old geezer would never find out. It's not like she was going to see him again anytime soon.
Her thoughts were interrupted by her reflexes, where she hopped back a few steps as a drunken barbarian went for a grapple; and she hit the side of a table with an oof. Nirva bit her lip with a glimpse of a toothy grin, and grabbed the small mug of the patron of the table, and hauled it at the barbarian.
No effect. She bared teeth at the pathetic clunk it made against the hardened flesh of her opponent. What kind of weapon was that?
"What kind of small-ass mug was that?!"
She glowered as she shuffled behind the table, almost knocking the smaller patron aside.
Qazi
Qāżī Saʿīd Qumī
MORE LEAVES
THE STRIPED AWNING outside the windows sheds a moulting darkness in the room as the sun begins to dip down further, turning the sky a dim purple that seemingly borders on blue but never seems to arrive there. It looks like an interminable waterway with no beginning or end. It's the whites that stand out, like the shuffling froth on ripple waves or the algae and lotus on stagnant ponds, blinking in and out, a tease of stars revealed by glimpses through the flaws in reality—conservative minds with a vested interest in familiarity or perhaps the beauty of the gardens laboriously constructed although there is no plausible way of determining the true quality or value of the effort save for an analysis of the denouement and the monetary costs.
The stars are misplaced but the levanter breeze isn't and Lohengrin relishes the cool after the claustrophobia of his armor and the people who stick impassively to the armor on his ventures into the deeper, crowded ends of the multifarious, capricious streets of Lonio and the plains past Lonio throughout the canyons, plateaus, steppes and the rolling plains where the occasional shrubbery or a gathering of godetia and lilacs sprout. The city is the shadow of years past, the elements deprived of their vitality, but some glimmer remains. He isn't sure if that glimmer is worth protecting—even with history at stake?
He thinks about it: willingly, he might volunteer to whip or scalp the ivory of a temple born from the ashes of a dead empire. He shares the sentiments of those empires. They do not want to be remembered.
STANDING ON VELVET CARPETS Lohengrin thinks: “I must have lost myself, I swear, walking on these halls,” because a sudden misplacement strikes him. He feels surreal almost. The impulse to violently lash out rings inside his head. He turns to look at Eurydice who he sees has been conversing one-sidedly with him—words he couldn't pick up—with a parasol in the cradle of his arms to protect him from the lamp-light drawn by the chronicler of the court. He says the person who lights the lamp is at present confined to his bedroom to suffer in solitude an assailant disease purportedly caught from mishandling the mineral oil that passes for fuel in the city. He is a lamp-burner—plenty of chance for that.
“And do you require anything else, my errant knightsman?” He smiles. “You have the best of my wishes, Lohengrin, and the permission to ask freely for whatever assistance I can offer.”
Lohengrin looks down at the hilt of his sword. He pulls it out of its scabbard, revealing a half-steel with nothing save the hilt, ending at a jagged cut at the base of the cross-guard. He raises it for the prince to see.
Eurydice raises a brow. “What of that?”
“A sword that is broken.”
“How so?”
“I tried to strike down a warlock.”
“And dare you claim—confidently, I might add, or without any misgivings at least—that you can strike down a dragon?”
“The warlock is past. The dragon is present. A good sword will refuse to break, I'm sure, when put to the anvil of a drake's scales.”
“As long as there isn't any. . . deep moral renewal involved.”
“Presumably, the drake will be attempting to kill me and my company in earnest at our attempt at subjugation and elimination. It is that I find it hard to fight while philosophizing—on ethics and morality, at that—, your Highness.”
A momentary silence. From Eurydice with a shrill consonance: “Is that so? Well,” accompanying a snap of the finger.
One of his attendants—a man in orange hoses and a tricorn hat—arrive to attention, presenting a golden-hilt sword to Lohengrin.
“This?” says the Captain.
Eurydice tilts his head. “Don't be a boor.”
Lohengrin takes the sword and unsheaths it from its scabbard. It is. . . finely made, he thinks though he struggles to find words to describe the workmanship. He is too accustomed to the pragmatic nature of combat to appreciate the ceremonial aspect of it.
Eurydice inches forward in his chair. “Isn't this a fine quest, errant knight, for you and your company?”
THE WILD ROVER is brimming at the counter with a certain set of specialists, new arrivals, who are also strangers to each other, the remnants of the bar and themselves. Nobody knows what to make of it because nobody's watching either. The spectacle is something else.
AT THE BAR—the first stranger pointed at the fighting lady with his chin. “You don't often get a woman who can brawl like a man. I'm curious about her.”
The second stranger turned his attention in the direction of the woman and nodded slowly. “I can see why you’re curious,” he said. “Planning to go greet her afterwards?”
The man shook his head. “No, I've seen more than enough.” He looked up straight at the other men, “Those men're mercenaries. All of them are. You can tell by how quick they are to thoughtless violence. They scamper from place to place thinking they're lords of the land, as anybody would think they are given how well-armed these fellows are. But try it alone and you will quickly land in trouble with the law.”
“These men aren't so bad,” coming from the third stranger moving in to join the conversation. Sitting down, he took his mug and held it up to his mouth. A quick sip and he was satisfied with what he had procured. “The mercenaries here may do an awful lot to disturb the peace of the lands they visit but they hardly do it for no reason.” He slouched down into his chair, peering over his shoulder to view the brawling ruffians on the other side of the bar. “I concur. Them fighting amongst themselves is possibly the best outcome in this scenario. Let's just hope they don't decide to venture out of their own comfort.”
The first man recoiled—his name was Abbadon and he was from streets wide and rolling plains next to the wafting stench of rotting fish under the sun and the heave-ho of the oceans—and rolled his head back. His eyes opened wide. “Not so bad?” He let go of his mug. “You ain't seen nothing yet, junior. They seem tame now. . .” He paused. “But give them a chance to fuck you up and they will take it.”
“Interesting,” the second one mumbled, though he didn’t seem particularly interested in the behavior of mercenaries—he was an armourer after all, only interested in the compliments of war and not the affairs. Peace doesn't sell. “But junior?” The armourer seemed amused by the nickname bestowed on the other. His own name was Ien and he was a sort of bastard in a sense. He didn’t dwell on it as he was sure what else was said was true. “You sound like you’ve had a personal experience or two with a mercenary.”
“Too much.” Abbadon turned to the armourer. “Mercenaries cause trouble in town, engage in banditry, steal property, break into homes, kill people. . .” He took a deep breath: inhale, exhale. “It's more than enough to make you hate their bones.”
He looked up at the mercenaries again, and continued, “But I don't hate 'em, not all of them that is. . .” he trailed off, collecting his thoughts for a moment. “It's just that they're a rowdy lot. Any one of them could. . . kill you, fuck you, take everything you have and spit on you on top of that. Always keep an eye out for that lot. Everybody does. Not all of them are well-behaved. Some are, a lot of them are, but the few who cause trouble bring out that wrath, you know. Remember. . . pay any one of these enough coins. . . and they will kill for you. But if he gets paid even higher. . . you're the one who gets fucked.”
“Lesha,” he called to the barmaid. “Give me another mug.”
“Before you continue, I feel as though you have a skewed perspective of some of the mercenaries who are out there just trying to make a living.” This was Cato. The third man. He shifted his head and stared at Abbadon. He clearly had no care for those looking to get a living and attempting to survive in the harsh world, albeit in a bad way of course. Why blame those who resort to moral gray territory just to live comfortably? “I mean, we aren't all our own people. Some shop owners get paid to deliver goods, some blacksmiths get paid to do a piece of metalwork.”
Cato took a deep breath. He added: “Pay one of those higher than the other, you may get better quality or better care. A fact of life we'll have to accept. Some mercenaries are trying to make a living. Maybe they get a taste of villainy and decide to pursue it, but then I propose: how much are you willing to still call them a mercenary?”
Abbadon looked at Cato for a moment before smiling, teeth and all. Lesha, the barmaid, arrived and took his empty mug.
“You both make interesting points,” Ien said. “I don’t have much to add since my interactions with mercenaries up close and personal have been limited. Ah, but, none of us have introduced ourselves. I’m Ien and I’m an armourer. I’m working not too far from here.” He held up the detailed sketch in his book as though to prove that his trade was in fact weapon making.
“Abaddon.” The man offered his hand for a shake. “I'm a guardsman.”
Cato put his mug up to his mouth, taking another sip before setting it back down. “Oh, pardon me. I must've forgotten to put my name out to this pleasant bunch. Cato, I'm a traveler.”
As Abaddon held out his hand, Ien gripped it firmly and gave a nod. He nodded to Cato as well before leaning back once more. “Nice to meet the two of you,” he said. “I suppose I should introduce my friend as well.” The large bird had been surprisingly quiet. She was waking up from her nap. “This is Mayra. She’s my partner and certainly a better hunter than I’ll ever be.” Amusement lined his voice.
Abaddon raised an eyebrow, “What did she catch so far?”
“Tons of rabbits. They must be her favorite. She’s caught plenty of smaller things on her own like rodents and the occasional fish. But she knows how to flush out deer. They’re too large for her to take down herself so we work together.”
“Impressive.”
Cato turned his head towards Ien and his perched bird. “You talk as though it is its own person.” Cato grew a smile onto his face. “Who's the real master here? Bird or man?”
“She is her own person,” Ien assured. “She doesn’t need me and I don’t keep her tethered, so if she wanted to go off on her own she could. Sometimes she does actually, but she always comes back. We just work together and we both get something out of the process.”
Abaddon nodded. “She's something between a cat and a hunting dog. Going off on her own yet coming back every time. She provides her own set of services instead of freeloading. And on top of that she seems loyal.” He kept nodding his head, once, twice, thrice. “You have a friend, a true companion. . . better than most animals we got.”
From Cato: “Like Abaddon here, I can see the trust between you two, despite how you speak of it. I'd say you two have a friendship and companionship many desire and lack.”
“You think so?” Ien looked between the two before at Mayra. She looked at Ien before stretching her wings and settling back down. “She’s a good girl. It took time to get our bond this solid. Maybe if you two are ever interested in a bird can help you start out.”
“I am,” Abaddon said. “First, where do we get these birds?”
(COLLABORATION | WRITERS:
Historical Storyteller
Jabu
Remembrance
| EDITOR:
Qazi
)EURYDICE is exchanging his coat now, swapping the blood-splattered one for a clean simulacrum. Tricorn is wiping his face with a towel, the blood and drool dripping down his chin. He still looks good. But Lohengrin again finds it a suffering to describe the prince's effervescent countenance. They both look at each other, their eyes catching. Lohengrin refuses to look away. Eurydice seems amused.
ON THE COURTYARD, the man is convulsing. They're pouring salt down the holes where his eyes used to be.
THE THREE STRANGERS were dithering out of existence then with their gap-tooth smiles and their wandering eyes when they encountered the suspicion of the owl-man with his milky beaks and blackening eyes.
So there was this Orii sitting cross-armed at the table across from them. “Away with you! Go! Go!” He said while weakly flapping his hands in the falconer's direction. "Begone, you company of these violent men! To the winds!"
Abbadon was the first to speak: “Why don’t you come join us? We'll even throw in a pint of beer for you. Better than screeching out in the open with no friends.”
The owl-man lurched forward, spraying milk across the wooden table. “No friends? You'd think I'm so desperate as to. . .” He turned back to see the two rough-looking men he shared the table with, their scraggly beards dripping with milk, scowling. One was balling his hand into a fist on the table. “Well, well, if you insist upon it, the company of others would do no harm in such a dangerous environment as this, I must admit!” He pushed himself off the seat, grabbed his mug in both hands and scurried to the other men's table, before he resumed sipping on his milk contentedly.
“So. . .” Abaddon began, “Where in hell's ass do you come from?”
“I do not know what you are inferring good sir! That non-men are some sort of aberration of nature? Mere animals compared to the majesty of humanity? Hah! I hail from high upon the. . . I mean, the great city of—oh. . . nowhere! I'm from nowhere! But you!” He swiveled his head around unnaturally to face the man with the falcon. "Slave master! You may speak up! The evidence of your cruel nature lies right upon your shoulder for all to see!”
“Says you. Haven't you heard?” Abaddon pointed a thumb at Ien and Mayra. “They're practically friends. It ain't a slave-master relation at all.”
Ien raised a brow before shaking his head. “It’s as Abaddon says. We’re partners. If I kept her as a slave I’m sure she would’ve slit my throat by now.”
“Friends! Hah! Surely you jest! You've just gone and conned the poor bird! Tricked its simple brain into believing this 'partnership' is the best way to survive! When in actuality. . . it. . . likely is the best way to survive. . . but that isn't my point!”
“And why've you come to Lonio anyhow?” Abaddon narrowed his eyes.
“Why, that is. . . certainly not your business!” The owl-man eyed Abaddon sternly, before lowering his gaze dejectedly. “Ah, it matters not where I take my business! Everywhere I go, it's all the same!”
Lesha arrived, carrying six mugs at a time, and handed Abaddon a mug. He turns to her and says, "Could you give him beer too?" He points to the Orii.
“You're making a bird drink?” said Lesha.
Abaddon smiled and threw his hands up. “Well, yes!”
The owl-man twisted his head around to face Lesha, his eyes widening in shock. “Oh! 'A bird' is it? Is that all that I am to you people? Tch!”
Lesha eyed the bird, stared at him, and then silently stepped away.
Abbadon turns to the owl-man again. “Can you actually hold your liquor?”
“Foolish man! You think you can demonstrate your superiority over me with nothing more than your ability to stomach this vile spew? Think again! It's common knowledge that birds—I mean, the Orii are able to handle their liquor better than mere humans!” Squinting at the mug of foul liquid, his face began to scrunch up in disgust, before he waved his hand at Abaddon dismissively. “You will not have me partake in your childish pursuits, for I am already in possession of—” Hafet said while reaching out, attempting to grab hold of his mug of milk.
“Lesha, make it quick!” Abaddon called out across the bar. “I'll even pay you extra.”
“Bribery won't work on me, Abaddon,” she replied from afar. “You wait your damned turn.”
“Guh.” He grit his teeth and looked away.
“You ought to talk to a lady nicer than that, Abaddon.” The armourer said. As though he had so much experience.
Abaddon merely raised his eyebrows, his forehead coming up and down. A facial nod of sorts.
(COLLABORATION | WRITERS:
Historical Storyteller
Jabu
Remembrance
Rurnur
| EDITOR:
Qazi
) “VERSUS!” GROWLS PARSIFAL as he faces the raving madman Rheingold with her gauntlets up and her eyes dithering away, looking up at him with that demon-tick stare. He hates it. He hates to fight needlessly. He looks at Stabreim who nods at him. They both understand each other: no mess. Quick, clean, efficient.
Parsifal's toe kick connects with the sides of her leg. Unfazed, she lunges at him but is stopped by another kick that hits her groin. Taking the brief window of opportunity, Parsifal grabs her head—she has little hair to speak of—and smashes her face-down into his knee. Stabreim arrives with an elbow to the nape of her neck which effectively puts her out of action. She drops down to the ground like a knot of ropes off a ship-head decommissioned.
He wipes hands. Wimpy and Pistol are getting up now. They're both bruised, battered and angry. Stabreim scares them with his belt knife.
“Take her to Argus—yourself too. You know where he is,” says Parsifal. He turns to the rest of the spectators after that and adds, “And the lot of you, back to your seats!”
jigglesworth
“THERE'S SOME STRANGE madness here,” goes Tristan as he slouches against the chair.
“One of your intuitions?” says Lohengrin.
Tristan takes a roll of sot-weed from his pockets and shoves it inside his mouth. He chews that thing and, then, he says, “Why are we here?”
“What's that you're chewing?”
“Tabac.”
“A drug?”
“More like leaves. Local.”
“Well, we're here to find this man called Abbadon. We're supposed to meet him here at the Wild Rover.”
“Where is he?”
“Not in front of us, certainly.” Lohengrin gets up from his seat. Tristan does too but the Captain says he doesn't need any muscle.
It's true. He doesn't need any muscle. But he might. And he knows there's Parsifal and Stabreim too. They're licking their wounds but they can fight whenever there's the call for it. They've traveled the trials together. He trusts them.
But not with his money, he briefly muses. Never.
THE HALLOWED HALLS of the Pasha's iron dungeons—sitting on the reclining down-belows past the prince's palace and the Sefirot quarters—are engraved into the stone faces of the valley sides. Inside is a glade of barred rooms and lamps and an ice touch to the temperature. The Pasha himself wears a coat in his excursions to the deepest halls of the dungeons—long strips connected together by alleyways and routes, and like a circle going around and around until some unknown center is hit. A center even he isn't aware of. He feels like a tunnel rat whenever he's forced to scurry through the maze. Only he knows the ways. He knows them like the back of his hand. The thought makes him angry; decades spent in this shithole, he thinks and it's true: there's the acid tang of piss, bilious vomit, rotten shit, mostly flung from cell to cell by some of the wilder denizens of the prisons.
He has no trouble handling these “wilder denizens.” Before he became the Pasha, he was a beast-master at a circus troupe and had some attunement to them. . . well, he got kicked out for assaulting and later perishing the life of some youth lion. His strings ran down after that and the spiral of disappointment went further down. Then he became the Pasha. There's no story to it. Not any he remembers.
To relieve some stress, he occasionally takes a detour to torture the beasts that irritate his sensibilities. He checks his list for tonight—there's the harpy there. That screeching whore.
Her entrance salutation was a scar on his hand.
WALKING DOWN THE aisle of Tristan's “strange madness,” he bumps into the slippery, greased feet of two small creatures in the middle of a scuffle apparently, both outraged in their own ways: a midget bird-man and a dwarven waif.
Lohengrin immediately apologizes, not out courtesy however but some personal sympathy. “Is there anything wrong?” he says, more so at their shared fury.
Rurnur
Divon
THE PASHA CARRIES his torch down to the harpy's cell. The tinnitus of her screams are not around anymore.
He loosens the knot of his belt, opens the door with his long skeleton key and then carries the torch inside.
“Time to die.”
frenchie.
Rurnur
One Thousand Club
Hafet froze as his claws gripped empty air, until slowly his head spun around to gaze upon the perpetrator of this most despicable deed. What he saw was a Dwarf, cursing and roughhousing, completely oblivious to his presence. The Orii couldn't help but take note of her height, smaller than the humans around them, but undoubtedly greater than his meager 3'11. But it was of no real concern of his, he'd entered altercations with entities twice- no, three times his size!
"My.. you just.."
He stuttered before almost tumbling onto the floor due to the Dwarves carelessness. It didn't take much to knock the small fellow off his feet, but nevertheless, he was continuously shocked by the utter disrespect he'd had thrown in his direction during the mere minutes he had spent in this godforsaken bar. No, in this godforsaken country! It was only expected for those of higher stature than himself to treat him as some sort of child or worse, a novelty, but for a Dwarven woman such as herself, he expected more for some reason. Perhaps thanks to there being at least some level of familiarity with her position.
"How dare you!"
The Orii spat while hopping off his seat to confront his aggressor.
"What gives you the right to interrupt this conversation with my good friends, by taking that which belongs to me! You will be purchasing me a replacement beverage at once! Is that understood!?"
While in the process of making his grievances known, Hafet found himself interrupted once again, this time by yet another Human, who looked to be in the company of the thugs responsible for all this chaos. Looking aghast at the situation he'd found himself in, the Orii gave a sigh of frustration towards the man.
"Why, yes! Something is most definitely wrong! Are you acquainted with this hooligan? Because I need someone to explain to me why innocent, upstanding civilians such as myself, must be constantly on guard in even the most seemingly peaceful places, so as not to be harassed and assaulted by these cursed thugs!"
Hafet explained with various exaggerated hand gestures, and left himself breathing heavily upon completion of his rant.
Qazi
Divon
"My.. you just.."
He stuttered before almost tumbling onto the floor due to the Dwarves carelessness. It didn't take much to knock the small fellow off his feet, but nevertheless, he was continuously shocked by the utter disrespect he'd had thrown in his direction during the mere minutes he had spent in this godforsaken bar. No, in this godforsaken country! It was only expected for those of higher stature than himself to treat him as some sort of child or worse, a novelty, but for a Dwarven woman such as herself, he expected more for some reason. Perhaps thanks to there being at least some level of familiarity with her position.
"How dare you!"
The Orii spat while hopping off his seat to confront his aggressor.
"What gives you the right to interrupt this conversation with my good friends, by taking that which belongs to me! You will be purchasing me a replacement beverage at once! Is that understood!?"
While in the process of making his grievances known, Hafet found himself interrupted once again, this time by yet another Human, who looked to be in the company of the thugs responsible for all this chaos. Looking aghast at the situation he'd found himself in, the Orii gave a sigh of frustration towards the man.
"Why, yes! Something is most definitely wrong! Are you acquainted with this hooligan? Because I need someone to explain to me why innocent, upstanding civilians such as myself, must be constantly on guard in even the most seemingly peaceful places, so as not to be harassed and assaulted by these cursed thugs!"
Hafet explained with various exaggerated hand gestures, and left himself breathing heavily upon completion of his rant.
Qazi
Divon
Divon
ʜɪʀᴇᴅ ғᴏʀ 500 ɢᴏʟᴅ
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tags// // Square sized images also will look best// // but if you have a non square image it'll still work// // Don't worry// [/class] [class=Info] Font-Family:Acme; color:Black; padding:20px; padding-bottom:5px; background-color:#D8BFD8; width:85%; margin: Auto; // This is the mainly background and the font// // If the Font does not show up // // use the typical bbc font tag in one area to make it show up// // you'll notice I've done so with the Name// // I don't know why it won't work 100% of the time with out doing this// // but since its just a simple thing to add// // I figured it wasn't to much to do to get the font I wanted// //if you want a more modern look I suggest using the font Anonymous Pro// //just don't forget to change it in the font tag on the name so it'll work// [/class] [class=Line] border-bottom: 1px SOLID #000000; //this is the line under each section // To get the double line I just added a style to it// //as you'll be able to see below// [/class] [div class=Info][Div class="Line" style="border-top: 1px SOLID #000000; height:3px;"][/div]
Interacting:
Bird-brain && Metal Wall
[Div class="Line"][/div] Mentioned:
Rurnur
/
Qazi
[Div class="Line"][/div] Location: Wild Rover
Action: Drinks, you say?
[Div class="Line"][/div]
Nirva Buldeer || Why cry over spilt milk [Div class="Line"][/div]
[Div class="Line" style="border-top: 1px SOLID #000000; height:3px;"][/div]
Coded by Agwordsmith
[/div]
code// // When typing responses to rps, be aware that when you press enter// // it will not show that you did. you'll have to use the
tags// // Square sized images also will look best// // but if you have a non square image it'll still work// // Don't worry// [/class] [class=Info] Font-Family:Acme; color:Black; padding:20px; padding-bottom:5px; background-color:#D8BFD8; width:85%; margin: Auto; // This is the mainly background and the font// // If the Font does not show up // // use the typical bbc font tag in one area to make it show up// // you'll notice I've done so with the Name// // I don't know why it won't work 100% of the time with out doing this// // but since its just a simple thing to add// // I figured it wasn't to much to do to get the font I wanted// //if you want a more modern look I suggest using the font Anonymous Pro// //just don't forget to change it in the font tag on the name so it'll work// [/class] [class=Line] border-bottom: 1px SOLID #000000; //this is the line under each section // To get the double line I just added a style to it// //as you'll be able to see below// [/class] [div class=Info][Div class="Line" style="border-top: 1px SOLID #000000; height:3px;"][/div]
Bird-brain && Metal Wall
[Div class="Line"][/div] Mentioned:
Rurnur
/
Qazi
[Div class="Line"][/div] Location: Wild Rover
Action: Drinks, you say?
[Div class="Line"][/div]
Nirva Buldeer || Why cry over spilt milk [Div class="Line"][/div]
Earth-brown eyes flickered to the incessant and indignant chirping of the speaker. Her mind a haze; a red curtain that almost dropped to signify the end of her logic, and the beginning of a backstage scuffle.
Nirva's inner tempest died down a fraction, seeing the inconvenienced other was... well, she could relate somewhat to.
Scar riddled ears turned a warm pink as she gave the avian a one-shouldered shrug and a flimsy half-grin; her intended message being 'hey, sorry, but you're in a bar, its bound to happen', yet is more likely to be received as a kind 'nope, fuck you.'
Nirva then remembered her drunken opponent. A split second of panic, stance tense; gaze darted back to the chaotic side of the Wild Rover.
Instead of the barbarian she had thrown the useless cup at (no use crying over a spilt drink), another stood before her and the avian.
Gods damn tall folk and their inevitable ability to always get in the way of her trajectory.
"Move, ya metal wall..." Nirva grumbled as her fingers dug into the wood as she strained to see past the looming man.
However, the barrage ofvalid complaints spat by the bird-brain managed to douse the fire within her veins, where it slowly withered a few embers and smoke.
A frustrated growl clawed its way from her throat and she begrudgingly turned to the smaller one.
"Right, alllllright -- I can't get your drink back but the least I can do is be on my way. The way ya talk puts ya on thin ice for a a good pummelling, buddy." She turned turned her face away, with a roll of her eyes, from the human man and the avian. It was also an attempt to hide a pout. She hated the fact she did that, you know, she reminds her brain to not do that, but there goes her lips.
Also the package. Holy shit, the package.
Nirva cupped her cheek into a gloved hand, the rough texture rubbing against heated skin. Yeah, a short brawl would've knocked the guilt right out of her system in more ways than one. After a few beats she decided, on a whim, to do what she just said she wouldn't do.
"Ah...shiiii--oot. Guess I'll get ya that drink after all, or whatever. Make it cheap though,"
Nirva faced the area of the barkeep, but peeked through her dusty locks to glimpse at the human knight.
"But I don't owe you one, metal wall, so forget about it. I'm out of here afterwards."
And quickly too, before she could be given the chance to re-join the fray.
Nirva's inner tempest died down a fraction, seeing the inconvenienced other was... well, she could relate somewhat to.
Scar riddled ears turned a warm pink as she gave the avian a one-shouldered shrug and a flimsy half-grin; her intended message being 'hey, sorry, but you're in a bar, its bound to happen', yet is more likely to be received as a kind 'nope, fuck you.'
Nirva then remembered her drunken opponent. A split second of panic, stance tense; gaze darted back to the chaotic side of the Wild Rover.
Instead of the barbarian she had thrown the useless cup at (no use crying over a spilt drink), another stood before her and the avian.
Gods damn tall folk and their inevitable ability to always get in the way of her trajectory.
"Move, ya metal wall..." Nirva grumbled as her fingers dug into the wood as she strained to see past the looming man.
However, the barrage of
"Right, alllllright -- I can't get your drink back but the least I can do is be on my way. The way ya talk puts ya on thin ice for a a good pummelling, buddy." She turned turned her face away, with a roll of her eyes, from the human man and the avian. It was also an attempt to hide a pout. She hated the fact she did that, you know, she reminds her brain to not do that, but there goes her lips.
Also the package. Holy shit, the package.
Nirva cupped her cheek into a gloved hand, the rough texture rubbing against heated skin. Yeah, a short brawl would've knocked the guilt right out of her system in more ways than one. After a few beats she decided, on a whim, to do what she just said she wouldn't do.
"Ah...shiiii--oot. Guess I'll get ya that drink after all, or whatever. Make it cheap though,"
Nirva faced the area of the barkeep, but peeked through her dusty locks to glimpse at the human knight.
"But I don't owe you one, metal wall, so forget about it. I'm out of here afterwards."
And quickly too, before she could be given the chance to re-join the fray.
Cosmo
Does Not Know Kung-fu
Cormac waited for his food, watching as the mousy women bounced around the tavern weaving through the brawls to get to the actual patrons with a surprising amount of finesse, likely from years of experience. From the corner of his eye, Cormac watched as a drawn dagger slid across a young man's arm, the red line of blood bled through the yellow stained shirt. The fear crept into his eyes as he clutched his arm to stop the flow, the man who did it, an older man with dirt and a bruise that had made its presence known on his jaw smiled at the youth, if one could call that a smile. It had more gum then teeth and the gums were black, likely from chewing the leaves that Cormac had discovered was so popular among the people here. A revolting habit for the inhabitants of a revolting city. The toothless man's eyes were wild with fury, a look Cormac had seen before while the youth's were wide with panic. The youth had not expected this, a brawl, yes, but for people to draw weapons? Well, the young tended to jump into situations without thought. His gaze jumped to a dwarf that had nearly barreled over a small, what Cormac could only assume was a child, who was looked to be in the midst of a tantrum. He wasn't sure what kind of parent would bring a child to such a place, but they shouldn't have spared the rod on the unruly thing. A woman who had been doing reasonably well, for a southlander fighting southlanders, was quickly dispatched by another man who told the others to sit. Some did as they were bidden, some stood in defiance of the upstart that tried to tell them what to do, the liquid courage in their bellies stronger then the reason in their mind, Cormac noted the man with few teeth was among their number.
His observations were interrupted by a woman who claimed the open spot next to him, a spot that no other had dared to attempt to. He assessed the woman from the corner of his eyes but wasn't sure where to place her. She wore metal armor which seemed well made but some of the other parts would not protect her from a strong breeze much less an arrow, so he could only hazard the pieces were ceremonial.. perhaps vanity fueled. Tattoos lines her face, arching under the eyes in strange bars. Tattoos lacked true meaning in the southlands unlike the frozen hearth, so he wasn't sure why she had them, perhaps it was once again vanity, a bit of intimidation and whatever petty reason a southlander could conjure. Her voice was strong and crisp as she ordered the mousy woman around, she was no soldier though. No woman under arms of this shit stained city wore armor like that, so either she was an adventurer, which was unlikely given how relatively clean her gear was, or she was a mercenary like many of the others here were. Given the slight air of arrogance she wore, he would put money on a mercenary. Perhaps they were all part of the same company here to show the great mercenary valor in a bar brawl which was about equal with his expectations.
She spoke to him, her tone filled with an unknown challenge. Cormac did not respond to her statements because that is what they were. She did not ask him, she was telling him, making observations although why she was bothering him still waited unanswered. As Cormac examined the woman, the mousy woman returned, a mug of something in her hand but, more importantly, a large bowl in her other. She set the bowl in front of him and the drink before her. It was some kind of gruel, small bits of meat poked out from the gray goo and there was a large hunk of bread resting against the rim. His large hands came up, the heavy chain wrapped around his right that led to one of the axes on his back clanked with his movements, to grip the bread. It was stale, the crust hard and as he brought it to his nose for a sniff, he could smell the slight settling of mold, but it didn't matter. Food was food, he tore the bread in two and dipped it into the goop filled bowl. Cormac wasn't sure what the meat was, but as he considered the state of the bar, he would place coin he no longer had on some kind of rodent.
"What do you want?" Cormac asked as he crunched into the hard bread, his mouth filled with warmth from the gruel. Despite the bland, unappetizing taste and strangely watery texture of the somehow thick goop, it settled fine in his stomach, a pleasant change to the emptiness that had gnawed away at it earlier.
Interacting:
Archon
Mentioned:
Qazi
Divon
Rurnur
His observations were interrupted by a woman who claimed the open spot next to him, a spot that no other had dared to attempt to. He assessed the woman from the corner of his eyes but wasn't sure where to place her. She wore metal armor which seemed well made but some of the other parts would not protect her from a strong breeze much less an arrow, so he could only hazard the pieces were ceremonial.. perhaps vanity fueled. Tattoos lines her face, arching under the eyes in strange bars. Tattoos lacked true meaning in the southlands unlike the frozen hearth, so he wasn't sure why she had them, perhaps it was once again vanity, a bit of intimidation and whatever petty reason a southlander could conjure. Her voice was strong and crisp as she ordered the mousy woman around, she was no soldier though. No woman under arms of this shit stained city wore armor like that, so either she was an adventurer, which was unlikely given how relatively clean her gear was, or she was a mercenary like many of the others here were. Given the slight air of arrogance she wore, he would put money on a mercenary. Perhaps they were all part of the same company here to show the great mercenary valor in a bar brawl which was about equal with his expectations.
She spoke to him, her tone filled with an unknown challenge. Cormac did not respond to her statements because that is what they were. She did not ask him, she was telling him, making observations although why she was bothering him still waited unanswered. As Cormac examined the woman, the mousy woman returned, a mug of something in her hand but, more importantly, a large bowl in her other. She set the bowl in front of him and the drink before her. It was some kind of gruel, small bits of meat poked out from the gray goo and there was a large hunk of bread resting against the rim. His large hands came up, the heavy chain wrapped around his right that led to one of the axes on his back clanked with his movements, to grip the bread. It was stale, the crust hard and as he brought it to his nose for a sniff, he could smell the slight settling of mold, but it didn't matter. Food was food, he tore the bread in two and dipped it into the goop filled bowl. Cormac wasn't sure what the meat was, but as he considered the state of the bar, he would place coin he no longer had on some kind of rodent.
"What do you want?" Cormac asked as he crunched into the hard bread, his mouth filled with warmth from the gruel. Despite the bland, unappetizing taste and strangely watery texture of the somehow thick goop, it settled fine in his stomach, a pleasant change to the emptiness that had gnawed away at it earlier.
Interacting:
Archon
Mentioned:
Qazi
Divon
Rurnur
Donut Fret
About It
"Here's to you kid," said the sailor, right before plunging his grubby hands into the tattered corner's of the goblin's robe. Caressing the leaflet fold within the robe, he splashed a mischievous mist. The scent, no aroma, poked at Flipy's nose. Her goblin comrade now tainted, she sneezed, "Achoo." Snot drenched the inner nose, allowing it to pour slowly with the viscosity of a snail's pace. Unlike the goblin's usual smell, this fragrance contained a remarkable change.
As Flipy wiped her nose clean, the goblin, Greenie, grinned at the mishap. While the man poured his icky picky seawater perfume, the goblin sneaked a score. The score bearing remnants of employment; merely, the sea hand's pay. Such joy, cradled slightly in an adjustment within his other pocket in the robe. The deformity presenting the goblin a kin to a sickly child, and so when he ended the exchange with two coughs; one for the show, and the other for the road, he attained good will from the sailor's words, "Do your best, you two." Unfortunately, the pocketed hand was no more safely secured, for Flipy yanked the goblin straight forward past the docks.
Wood laid flat with alarming cracks that frightened the footsteps to slow a pace. Flipy wanted out. After all, the rest of the crew likely headed to the meeting. Although, a rush made no difference, she disliked the sea. Too many terrible memories, one that involved an owl man, caused her stomach to churn. Rot beckoned forth an upbringing inside her esophagus. Woman and child looked sickly together temporarily.
"No, thank you," her words spoke in daggers, edging inside the ears of homeless spectacle. He simply asked for a few coffer hand-downs. Grimy and greasy, his leather faced turpitude shooed. Before the proposal, he saw them hand-in-hand, a lovely parent and child. Yet they hurt his poor heart, even if it ached for liquor. With a few coins, he could drown. A parent ought to tend to their deformed child rather than enter taverns. He was doing them a favor. Still, the woman, he found oddly scary. She outright declined him. So behind another corner, a few meters from the tavern, he planned with a serrated blade.
Their eyes locked onto each other, like how a sea lion gazes upon fermented oyster, only it's a goblin and a drink. Greenie pondered away, allowing a whistle to escape his lips. The dull noise crept on Flipy's outer ear, clawing at her to pay attention to her partner's distraction. Knocking away Greenie's slight titter, "Yeah, yeah, I know what you want," she called for the barmaid, "Give us two Bumbling Bee."
Clipped nails, mostly due to a habit, Flipy's teeth gnawed once again. Stress lingered over her in a shade. All around her, the company's members present, but no announcement. She wondered how long the goblin could be entertained by the drink. Even though the crowd provided ample amusement in drunken stupor, she craved something else; something magical. Hairs ruffled as the sea breeze entered the tavern's open windows. Tingling her backside, she no longer slumped, and sat straight. Flipy came to her senses. Placing the coin at the table, she then handed the young goblin his alcoholic beverage.
Her blonde hair shadowed in the tavern's interior, it colored in a crisped light brown. A sitting, talking cabinet brush, so she seemed, staring at her reflection within her own Bumbling Bee drink glass. She grasped the drink, jerking it hard, wanting to crack it open, and spill the contents all over the damn floor that stank more than the goblin's seawater special. Fortunately, the windy sounds died down, once the pounds of fists echoed in the tavern. Her eyes shriveled, and her ears perked in correspondence, "Whazzah," a simple mutter.
Slurp and sip, the clank, as the goblin landed its glass onto the hardwood table. The remaining water dew clung to the table's surface. He sighed in relief, "Ahh." Pleasurably welcoming, and an exclusionary drift to happiness, the Bumbling Bee buzzed Greenie. Watching the fight, he pictured a dance of lilies, trying to eat one another's petals. "Mhmm, so soft," he licked the dew from the glass' side.
The wild rover was certainly wild, but Flipy couldn't be all gloom. She needed to interact, be social. Yet the seas always taunted her. In her mind, she questioned why they even bothered to travel by water, but she understood the answer. There was no point wallowing, she finished her drink in a few gulps, and bounced to a nearby mercenary.
She pointed at the man, Cormac, "You there, you." Finger crippled slightly, upon noticing his stature. She pulled away, slightly embarrassed at her aggression. A few moments later, she spoke again, "I mean you there, yes," now stretching the finger at Zara. Another intimidating figure, but compared to the man, her armor felt safer and formal to Flipy's eyes. Pacing around, she tried to find a seat, but ended up claiming none. Instead she stood, "Anyone try the fish here?"
Meanwhile, Greenie continued to fantasize about petals. He giggled, "I want to pick the flower next." So, the goblin uprightly from the bar stool provided a stance, for which he trotted directly at an owl man and dwarf. The young goblin attempted to pick at them, but due to his drunkenness, his hands touched beer-sickened air.
Cosmo
Archon
Divon
Rurnur
As Flipy wiped her nose clean, the goblin, Greenie, grinned at the mishap. While the man poured his icky picky seawater perfume, the goblin sneaked a score. The score bearing remnants of employment; merely, the sea hand's pay. Such joy, cradled slightly in an adjustment within his other pocket in the robe. The deformity presenting the goblin a kin to a sickly child, and so when he ended the exchange with two coughs; one for the show, and the other for the road, he attained good will from the sailor's words, "Do your best, you two." Unfortunately, the pocketed hand was no more safely secured, for Flipy yanked the goblin straight forward past the docks.
Wood laid flat with alarming cracks that frightened the footsteps to slow a pace. Flipy wanted out. After all, the rest of the crew likely headed to the meeting. Although, a rush made no difference, she disliked the sea. Too many terrible memories, one that involved an owl man, caused her stomach to churn. Rot beckoned forth an upbringing inside her esophagus. Woman and child looked sickly together temporarily.
"No, thank you," her words spoke in daggers, edging inside the ears of homeless spectacle. He simply asked for a few coffer hand-downs. Grimy and greasy, his leather faced turpitude shooed. Before the proposal, he saw them hand-in-hand, a lovely parent and child. Yet they hurt his poor heart, even if it ached for liquor. With a few coins, he could drown. A parent ought to tend to their deformed child rather than enter taverns. He was doing them a favor. Still, the woman, he found oddly scary. She outright declined him. So behind another corner, a few meters from the tavern, he planned with a serrated blade.
Their eyes locked onto each other, like how a sea lion gazes upon fermented oyster, only it's a goblin and a drink. Greenie pondered away, allowing a whistle to escape his lips. The dull noise crept on Flipy's outer ear, clawing at her to pay attention to her partner's distraction. Knocking away Greenie's slight titter, "Yeah, yeah, I know what you want," she called for the barmaid, "Give us two Bumbling Bee."
Clipped nails, mostly due to a habit, Flipy's teeth gnawed once again. Stress lingered over her in a shade. All around her, the company's members present, but no announcement. She wondered how long the goblin could be entertained by the drink. Even though the crowd provided ample amusement in drunken stupor, she craved something else; something magical. Hairs ruffled as the sea breeze entered the tavern's open windows. Tingling her backside, she no longer slumped, and sat straight. Flipy came to her senses. Placing the coin at the table, she then handed the young goblin his alcoholic beverage.
Her blonde hair shadowed in the tavern's interior, it colored in a crisped light brown. A sitting, talking cabinet brush, so she seemed, staring at her reflection within her own Bumbling Bee drink glass. She grasped the drink, jerking it hard, wanting to crack it open, and spill the contents all over the damn floor that stank more than the goblin's seawater special. Fortunately, the windy sounds died down, once the pounds of fists echoed in the tavern. Her eyes shriveled, and her ears perked in correspondence, "Whazzah," a simple mutter.
Slurp and sip, the clank, as the goblin landed its glass onto the hardwood table. The remaining water dew clung to the table's surface. He sighed in relief, "Ahh." Pleasurably welcoming, and an exclusionary drift to happiness, the Bumbling Bee buzzed Greenie. Watching the fight, he pictured a dance of lilies, trying to eat one another's petals. "Mhmm, so soft," he licked the dew from the glass' side.
The wild rover was certainly wild, but Flipy couldn't be all gloom. She needed to interact, be social. Yet the seas always taunted her. In her mind, she questioned why they even bothered to travel by water, but she understood the answer. There was no point wallowing, she finished her drink in a few gulps, and bounced to a nearby mercenary.
She pointed at the man, Cormac, "You there, you." Finger crippled slightly, upon noticing his stature. She pulled away, slightly embarrassed at her aggression. A few moments later, she spoke again, "I mean you there, yes," now stretching the finger at Zara. Another intimidating figure, but compared to the man, her armor felt safer and formal to Flipy's eyes. Pacing around, she tried to find a seat, but ended up claiming none. Instead she stood, "Anyone try the fish here?"
Meanwhile, Greenie continued to fantasize about petals. He giggled, "I want to pick the flower next." So, the goblin uprightly from the bar stool provided a stance, for which he trotted directly at an owl man and dwarf. The young goblin attempted to pick at them, but due to his drunkenness, his hands touched beer-sickened air.
Cosmo
Archon
Divon
Rurnur
Last edited:
frenchie.
Dog
Darkness is a stifling force. Harpies feared it, man feared it; there didn’t see to be an intelligent creature alive who didn’t fear it, as least that Aso knew. You couldn’t see in the dark, or rather see what could be lurking there. That threat - of something crawling from the dark to snatch you up - was one very common one in harpy culture. Hens would often use the story of the wayward hatchling to scare little eyas into staying in their nests at night and going to bed.
Aso wasn’t that type of harpy though. She was a wanderer at heart, needing naught but the wing beneath her wings and her sharp talons to feel confident and roam the countryside of her birth. The darkness didn’t scare her, in fact she relished in it. Darkness was comforting, quiet, peaceful…
But not this darkness. The darkness of her cell was stifling, harsh, and anything but peaceful. In the subterranean dungeon, there must be dozens of other strange creatures rattling about in their cells, whining, scratching, and howling at all ours of the day and night. Sleeping was improbable, and to get a moments peace impossible.
However that was not the worst of it. The absolute worst thing about the whole ordeal was not the putrid, not being captured, not the darkness of the dungeon - it was the lack of room. The cell Aso was being held in was tiny, allowing barely more than 6 feet of movement, in any direction, and only slightly more straight up. The harpy was feeling nauseous and panicked just being in the enclosed space - something men call claustrophobia. As much as she could she would try to stretch her wings, but the pitifully small cell did not allow it. Every bone and muscle of her ached to stretch, to run, to fly.
But the sudden clanking noises in the walls drove the creature from her contained inner panic into a newer, more urgent one. When she first arrived she couldn’t see much from her cell, her neck and legs chained to the wall and floor, limiting movement, but she was strong, having bent and broke though the rusted metal with ease. Peeking through the bars, she watched as the wall on far side of the room burst open, creating short, straight-edged opening. From the faint light beyond the opening, a man carrying a roaring stick of fire walked down the steps, lazily, walking straight toward her cell.
For a moment Aso wasn’t sure what to do, looking around her cell for something to grab, but found nothing but crusty shite and scare tuffs of straw. Quickly she decided to take up a crotched position right up to the back of the wall like she was in before she broke her chains. She watched the man saunter over to her cell, adjusting his smooth-fur-looking legs and pulling a ring of jingly poke-y bits from the edge of his not fur, opening the door.
“Time to die.” he spoke with a smugness to him.
But he was a fool. Either he hadn’t been looking or didn’t care to look, he didn’t notice her chains were broken, and she was, in a sense, free. This “Pasha”, this man, barely had a second to realize that the harpy was free of her bounds, as the moment they locked eyes, she sprung to life once more with a horrible shriek. The Pasha tried to fight her off, thrusting the torch he was carrying towards her in an attempt, but that was all it was, an attempt. Though it did catch her feathers, she merely screeched some more, and the two screams became one, as Aso tore the Pasha’s neck to bloody ribbons with her razor-sharp talons.
However she wasn’t done. It has been a couple days since she last eaten, and after shrieking for prolonged periods of time and beating her wings against the cell walls, she was hungry. With little hesitation, Aso turned her attention to the once man’s abdomen, using one of her sharp talons to rip open the layers of flesh before tearing into his intestines with her teeth. The act didn’t bother her much - it was not the first time she had torn open a man’s belly for a quick meal, and she doubted it would be her last.
Having consumed stomach, liver, and what intestines she wanted, Aso left the cell, closing the barred wall behind her. Finally she could stretch; and the harpy took her ample time, making sure to pop any joints she could before deciding to continue. Luckily the foolish man left the wall broken open. This should be like catching beached fish…
…
But it was not. Once she left the dark underground, all hell seemed to break loose. Running from soldiers, being assaulted by spears and arrows… It was bad surely, but maybe her luck would turn once more, like with that dumb man?
As soon as she was thinking that though, flying over some buildings towards the coast, a sharp pain filled her shoulder as a particularly nasty arrow hit her right below the crest. With a howl, she fell to the top of a building, rolling and tumbling to the ground with painful thuds. Getting up just as quickly as she had fell, Aso was about to fly off again, but had pause when a group of people came rushing out of the building adjacent to her crash site.
Aso wasn’t that type of harpy though. She was a wanderer at heart, needing naught but the wing beneath her wings and her sharp talons to feel confident and roam the countryside of her birth. The darkness didn’t scare her, in fact she relished in it. Darkness was comforting, quiet, peaceful…
But not this darkness. The darkness of her cell was stifling, harsh, and anything but peaceful. In the subterranean dungeon, there must be dozens of other strange creatures rattling about in their cells, whining, scratching, and howling at all ours of the day and night. Sleeping was improbable, and to get a moments peace impossible.
However that was not the worst of it. The absolute worst thing about the whole ordeal was not the putrid, not being captured, not the darkness of the dungeon - it was the lack of room. The cell Aso was being held in was tiny, allowing barely more than 6 feet of movement, in any direction, and only slightly more straight up. The harpy was feeling nauseous and panicked just being in the enclosed space - something men call claustrophobia. As much as she could she would try to stretch her wings, but the pitifully small cell did not allow it. Every bone and muscle of her ached to stretch, to run, to fly.
But the sudden clanking noises in the walls drove the creature from her contained inner panic into a newer, more urgent one. When she first arrived she couldn’t see much from her cell, her neck and legs chained to the wall and floor, limiting movement, but she was strong, having bent and broke though the rusted metal with ease. Peeking through the bars, she watched as the wall on far side of the room burst open, creating short, straight-edged opening. From the faint light beyond the opening, a man carrying a roaring stick of fire walked down the steps, lazily, walking straight toward her cell.
For a moment Aso wasn’t sure what to do, looking around her cell for something to grab, but found nothing but crusty shite and scare tuffs of straw. Quickly she decided to take up a crotched position right up to the back of the wall like she was in before she broke her chains. She watched the man saunter over to her cell, adjusting his smooth-fur-looking legs and pulling a ring of jingly poke-y bits from the edge of his not fur, opening the door.
“Time to die.” he spoke with a smugness to him.
But he was a fool. Either he hadn’t been looking or didn’t care to look, he didn’t notice her chains were broken, and she was, in a sense, free. This “Pasha”, this man, barely had a second to realize that the harpy was free of her bounds, as the moment they locked eyes, she sprung to life once more with a horrible shriek. The Pasha tried to fight her off, thrusting the torch he was carrying towards her in an attempt, but that was all it was, an attempt. Though it did catch her feathers, she merely screeched some more, and the two screams became one, as Aso tore the Pasha’s neck to bloody ribbons with her razor-sharp talons.
However she wasn’t done. It has been a couple days since she last eaten, and after shrieking for prolonged periods of time and beating her wings against the cell walls, she was hungry. With little hesitation, Aso turned her attention to the once man’s abdomen, using one of her sharp talons to rip open the layers of flesh before tearing into his intestines with her teeth. The act didn’t bother her much - it was not the first time she had torn open a man’s belly for a quick meal, and she doubted it would be her last.
Having consumed stomach, liver, and what intestines she wanted, Aso left the cell, closing the barred wall behind her. Finally she could stretch; and the harpy took her ample time, making sure to pop any joints she could before deciding to continue. Luckily the foolish man left the wall broken open. This should be like catching beached fish…
…
But it was not. Once she left the dark underground, all hell seemed to break loose. Running from soldiers, being assaulted by spears and arrows… It was bad surely, but maybe her luck would turn once more, like with that dumb man?
As soon as she was thinking that though, flying over some buildings towards the coast, a sharp pain filled her shoulder as a particularly nasty arrow hit her right below the crest. With a howl, she fell to the top of a building, rolling and tumbling to the ground with painful thuds. Getting up just as quickly as she had fell, Aso was about to fly off again, but had pause when a group of people came rushing out of the building adjacent to her crash site.
Luqueasaur
New Member
Shilah'an Ud-Ifwa
Ud-Ifwa, Locwencyn, Northwestern Ashkar.
The winds that usually blew in northwestern Ashkar were an uncanny climatic contradiction to the sunny, cloudless even skies. Exhaled from the cold tundras of Glazură, the current makes its way through the vast Thehal barrenness of shrubs to Locwencyn and surroundings; in Ud-Ifwa, for instance, nowhere among the lifeless alleys and decrepit memoirs of what were once houses did it not find its way. But Shilah'an enjoyed that gelid whiff Zephyr puffed at his face. Differently from the civilized wimps, he could withstand the frigidity swimmingly. He was, after all, a child of the steppes, taught to endure its frost with the very own frost. He was also taught how to bear prolongued solitude, for the endless of Thehal grasslands demanded robust psychological endurance for one to survive without succumbing to lunacy. But it wasn't the state-of-the-art education the Thehal men boastfully claim to have acquired; the animals, dancing grasses and occasional geomorphological oddities broke an otherwise maddening sameness; in fact, they were no better trained than the puny civilized men. And Shilah'an realized that when his grit was put to challenge with Ud-Ifwa's bleakness.
Ud-Ifwa has less souls than rainfall.
Azoic, blandness, engulfed in abandonment. Arid, lifeless. Infernal.
Shilah'an was unsettled. Slowly embracing insanity. How could he not? A man of the horde. Lonesome by nature, or so he thought. But the solitude of Ud-Ifwa was corroding him. Either his nature failed him, or he failed it. Perhaps it was a curse for his ambitions. He extrapolated the boundaries the Thehal men innately had, which were these of civilized men's lands. A Thehal is to roam in Theha, to live in Theha, and to die in Theha, and only trespass in the civilized reigns if he is to make a quick buck and immediately regress to the plains he belongs. The gods, whoever they might be, and whatever might be their vile intentions, were livid with a boldacious transgression such as Shilah'an's. To dwell so long in the Midlands? Presposterous. And since his soul was enthralled by the debauchery of the sedentaries, it is only fair his body to be as well: his punishment to be, most fittingly, sedentarism - which is for a Thehal a painful demise in life - and somewhere that fostered the cruel monotony of Theha without its biogenic warmth - its people, its animals, its caravans, raiders and killers. Ud-Ifwa. That way, he would learn his place.
Curse. Curse. Curse. He's cursed.
Every now and then, he'd climb the slopes and drop by the limbous, decrepit dungeons he had remained after his capture, or stroll the strawy hills gazelles and other preys grazed, but his amusement tours were always interrupted by some cultist that spawned from nowhere warning him his eyes and body should be devoted to the hamlet, and the hamlet's surveillance only, and not its vincinities, the pastures, or the hellhole foreigners are left to rot. And thus he'd return to Ud-Ifwa, partially crestfallen, partially revolted, and partially imprisoned. His time as a captive was atrocious but at least he was just a prisoner - devoid of his freedom temporarily, until only his release or assassination. Now, however, he was free, but wasn't; he was a slave, and time wasn't his ally any longer, he was to be forever stripped of his freedom, forever shackled on guarding the worthlessness of Ud-Ifwa's ruins.
One day he realised. His misery was not product of divine intervention as he thought. His chains were not physically restraining nor divinely sustained but wholly consensual. Culturally speaking, the Thehals are grateful people. Mercy is a scarce commodity in Theha, and one that is welcomed with an equal demonstration of nobility - through gratitude and bondage, usually, even if unwillingly. Such case was his. This thought gave him a bit of peace, he hadn't betrayed his nature - in fact, he was zealously obedient to it - and the gods were not chastising him, but it also brought a new question: what is generating his inquietude? Surely he could remain at Ud-Ifwa's monotony and enjoy the idle life his occupation provided?
One another day, he understood the whole picture. Sedentarism was his tormentor. For a Thehal, quietude is the antithesis of peace. Only movement, ambition and exploration can make life worth living, things the cultists deprived him of. Their kindness was camouflaged bondage. They were not worth his gratitude. And if earlier Shilah'an was reluctant to escape, now, cognizant his nature was vexed by Ud-Ifwa, he had no doubts about it.
One last day, the winds permeated through the corners of Ud-Ifwa, as usual. But this time, Shilah'an wasn't there to greet them. He departed a few days ago, but left Zephyr's children some farewell keepsakes: corpses and bloodied trails, his cathartic unfettering to the psychological calaboose the cult locked him in.
Such is the way a Thehal says thank you.
--------------------------------------------------
Eel, the Mercenary
Lonio, outskirts of Vulcan & Semonia, Southeastern Ashkar
Could such a port skidrow hold the key to the Ganu's hunt?
As Eel strolled past the miserable, the smell of piss and other bodily horrors, and other abject elements that littered Lonio's alleys, the mercenary pondered whether his loitering throughout the slums and the grimiest corners of this already sleazy pigsty was going to be indeed useful or just a masochistic experience. After a few minutes of contemplation, he concluded the mariner whom he met in the docks was perhaps maddened in ale or plain and simple jesting with him to recommend a pawn shop in such decrepit outskirts. (Really, Eel despised with every fiber of his beings the whereabouts he was meddling at. Loathsome adjects don't make justice to his disgust.) When the seaman first suggested such place Eel thought of it as a sozzled proposal, but what if not? Should I take his tip for granted?
...
... damn aye I should have. This place is foul.
He gave up looking.
A wise decision - the ongoing dusk rescinded more and more the sunlight, with the alleys growing more and more murky, and regions with questionable security and nightly darkness never mix well.
While jogging back to the docks - albeit carefully, he wasn't wearing any protection and his exposed sole was subjected to the street's uncivil surface's shards, bodily horrors and whatnot - his mind was uneasy. Port cities home variety, and it's impossible none of the bastards that live or are docked here not to know anything about the mask. There is a clue somewhere. But where? He hasn't enough time to thoroughly investigate the city. After all, despite its (unavoidable, but) disseminated squalor, Lonio is a thriving and volumous settlement.
I should have started with the sailors. Seascum usually have a lot of stories to tell. With that... rascal that fooled me. For what? A laugh?
No reason to cry over the spilled milk, though. Somewhere anywhere in Ashkar hid Illy's Mask (and contrarily to his Ganu folks' beliefs, certainly not in Uqbar, considering Söster's failure to find clues about it), and whining about bad experiences won't bring him anywhere closer to it.
You know what will?
That... thing. That screechy freak that suddenly collapsed from the skies, somewhere a bit far from the Ganu, but whose loudness drew his attention, like a moth to a lamplight, or an inventor to an epiphany.
No time to tread carefully anymore. That harpy was his key. Eel bolted towards the possible crash site. And I mean it. He was fast. Passersby he bumped into blasted down, robbing his momentum and spilling at him slurs, scratches and blows. But these were fews - he was fast and agile, dashing by the crowd like a 2-meters-tall green lurching gelatine. He made it there quickly enough to spot the landed shooting star before the circle of bystanders was too thick to squeeze by. And with cautious distance, he marveled that thing. A brownish harpy. A lot taller than he recalled. Quite a sight. A rare sight. A wounded sight, with blood leaking delicately from an undelicate stick puncturing its body. A dangerous sight, the wary Ganu figured - pedestrians usually don't shoot at creatures at random, regardless of the public interest they generate (Eel knows that by experience), and thus the harpy was meddled in a fishy situation Eel would be thrown into should he contact it. But his chirking curiosity demanded a briefing of the situation. It said:
Forget the city - the harpy's your key. The harpy's your key!
The harpy could be his key.
So it was only natural he'd need a liaison stooge. Who?
...
A spark from his brain's synapsis unveiled his best shot.
But where was he? Damn, where would he be?
...
Along the others. But where were the others?
...
His shrunken eyelids inspected the boards. Give me a sign that says inn on it, for damn's sake!
...
...
......
Onlookers clustered. The Ganu's head swung around a bit more frantically. His eyes hastened, his reading skills sharpened. A sign. Please.
...
No inns in this side of the street...
...
......
...
......
Sounds like somewhere you'd drink 'til you piss alcohol.
As much - if not more - as quickly as before, Eel stormed past the door. Fights, blood, booze, yelling, dwarves, Oriis, a kaleidoscope of eclectic attractions, yet he was searching for a mundane, well-behaved, old man.
....
The man chattering with the dwarf and the riled up owl?
Yes. There you are.
Deep breath. Mask your excitement.
"Lohengrin, cut the crap with these runts and come see this - a bloody harpy that few from the skies."
He did mask his excitement.
Mentioned:
Rurnur
, @Devon,
frenchie.
Interacted:
Qazi
Ud-Ifwa, Locwencyn, Northwestern Ashkar.
The winds that usually blew in northwestern Ashkar were an uncanny climatic contradiction to the sunny, cloudless even skies. Exhaled from the cold tundras of Glazură, the current makes its way through the vast Thehal barrenness of shrubs to Locwencyn and surroundings; in Ud-Ifwa, for instance, nowhere among the lifeless alleys and decrepit memoirs of what were once houses did it not find its way. But Shilah'an enjoyed that gelid whiff Zephyr puffed at his face. Differently from the civilized wimps, he could withstand the frigidity swimmingly. He was, after all, a child of the steppes, taught to endure its frost with the very own frost. He was also taught how to bear prolongued solitude, for the endless of Thehal grasslands demanded robust psychological endurance for one to survive without succumbing to lunacy. But it wasn't the state-of-the-art education the Thehal men boastfully claim to have acquired; the animals, dancing grasses and occasional geomorphological oddities broke an otherwise maddening sameness; in fact, they were no better trained than the puny civilized men. And Shilah'an realized that when his grit was put to challenge with Ud-Ifwa's bleakness.
Ud-Ifwa has less souls than rainfall.
Azoic, blandness, engulfed in abandonment. Arid, lifeless. Infernal.
Shilah'an was unsettled. Slowly embracing insanity. How could he not? A man of the horde. Lonesome by nature, or so he thought. But the solitude of Ud-Ifwa was corroding him. Either his nature failed him, or he failed it. Perhaps it was a curse for his ambitions. He extrapolated the boundaries the Thehal men innately had, which were these of civilized men's lands. A Thehal is to roam in Theha, to live in Theha, and to die in Theha, and only trespass in the civilized reigns if he is to make a quick buck and immediately regress to the plains he belongs. The gods, whoever they might be, and whatever might be their vile intentions, were livid with a boldacious transgression such as Shilah'an's. To dwell so long in the Midlands? Presposterous. And since his soul was enthralled by the debauchery of the sedentaries, it is only fair his body to be as well: his punishment to be, most fittingly, sedentarism - which is for a Thehal a painful demise in life - and somewhere that fostered the cruel monotony of Theha without its biogenic warmth - its people, its animals, its caravans, raiders and killers. Ud-Ifwa. That way, he would learn his place.
Curse. Curse. Curse. He's cursed.
Every now and then, he'd climb the slopes and drop by the limbous, decrepit dungeons he had remained after his capture, or stroll the strawy hills gazelles and other preys grazed, but his amusement tours were always interrupted by some cultist that spawned from nowhere warning him his eyes and body should be devoted to the hamlet, and the hamlet's surveillance only, and not its vincinities, the pastures, or the hellhole foreigners are left to rot. And thus he'd return to Ud-Ifwa, partially crestfallen, partially revolted, and partially imprisoned. His time as a captive was atrocious but at least he was just a prisoner - devoid of his freedom temporarily, until only his release or assassination. Now, however, he was free, but wasn't; he was a slave, and time wasn't his ally any longer, he was to be forever stripped of his freedom, forever shackled on guarding the worthlessness of Ud-Ifwa's ruins.
One day he realised. His misery was not product of divine intervention as he thought. His chains were not physically restraining nor divinely sustained but wholly consensual. Culturally speaking, the Thehals are grateful people. Mercy is a scarce commodity in Theha, and one that is welcomed with an equal demonstration of nobility - through gratitude and bondage, usually, even if unwillingly. Such case was his. This thought gave him a bit of peace, he hadn't betrayed his nature - in fact, he was zealously obedient to it - and the gods were not chastising him, but it also brought a new question: what is generating his inquietude? Surely he could remain at Ud-Ifwa's monotony and enjoy the idle life his occupation provided?
One another day, he understood the whole picture. Sedentarism was his tormentor. For a Thehal, quietude is the antithesis of peace. Only movement, ambition and exploration can make life worth living, things the cultists deprived him of. Their kindness was camouflaged bondage. They were not worth his gratitude. And if earlier Shilah'an was reluctant to escape, now, cognizant his nature was vexed by Ud-Ifwa, he had no doubts about it.
One last day, the winds permeated through the corners of Ud-Ifwa, as usual. But this time, Shilah'an wasn't there to greet them. He departed a few days ago, but left Zephyr's children some farewell keepsakes: corpses and bloodied trails, his cathartic unfettering to the psychological calaboose the cult locked him in.
Such is the way a Thehal says thank you.
Eel, the Mercenary
Lonio, outskirts of Vulcan & Semonia, Southeastern Ashkar
Could such a port skidrow hold the key to the Ganu's hunt?
As Eel strolled past the miserable, the smell of piss and other bodily horrors, and other abject elements that littered Lonio's alleys, the mercenary pondered whether his loitering throughout the slums and the grimiest corners of this already sleazy pigsty was going to be indeed useful or just a masochistic experience. After a few minutes of contemplation, he concluded the mariner whom he met in the docks was perhaps maddened in ale or plain and simple jesting with him to recommend a pawn shop in such decrepit outskirts. (Really, Eel despised with every fiber of his beings the whereabouts he was meddling at. Loathsome adjects don't make justice to his disgust.) When the seaman first suggested such place Eel thought of it as a sozzled proposal, but what if not? Should I take his tip for granted?
...
... damn aye I should have. This place is foul.
He gave up looking.
A wise decision - the ongoing dusk rescinded more and more the sunlight, with the alleys growing more and more murky, and regions with questionable security and nightly darkness never mix well.
While jogging back to the docks - albeit carefully, he wasn't wearing any protection and his exposed sole was subjected to the street's uncivil surface's shards, bodily horrors and whatnot - his mind was uneasy. Port cities home variety, and it's impossible none of the bastards that live or are docked here not to know anything about the mask. There is a clue somewhere. But where? He hasn't enough time to thoroughly investigate the city. After all, despite its (unavoidable, but) disseminated squalor, Lonio is a thriving and volumous settlement.
I should have started with the sailors. Seascum usually have a lot of stories to tell. With that... rascal that fooled me. For what? A laugh?
No reason to cry over the spilled milk, though. Somewhere anywhere in Ashkar hid Illy's Mask (and contrarily to his Ganu folks' beliefs, certainly not in Uqbar, considering Söster's failure to find clues about it), and whining about bad experiences won't bring him anywhere closer to it.
You know what will?
That... thing. That screechy freak that suddenly collapsed from the skies, somewhere a bit far from the Ganu, but whose loudness drew his attention, like a moth to a lamplight, or an inventor to an epiphany.
No time to tread carefully anymore. That harpy was his key. Eel bolted towards the possible crash site. And I mean it. He was fast. Passersby he bumped into blasted down, robbing his momentum and spilling at him slurs, scratches and blows. But these were fews - he was fast and agile, dashing by the crowd like a 2-meters-tall green lurching gelatine. He made it there quickly enough to spot the landed shooting star before the circle of bystanders was too thick to squeeze by. And with cautious distance, he marveled that thing. A brownish harpy. A lot taller than he recalled. Quite a sight. A rare sight. A wounded sight, with blood leaking delicately from an undelicate stick puncturing its body. A dangerous sight, the wary Ganu figured - pedestrians usually don't shoot at creatures at random, regardless of the public interest they generate (Eel knows that by experience), and thus the harpy was meddled in a fishy situation Eel would be thrown into should he contact it. But his chirking curiosity demanded a briefing of the situation. It said:
Forget the city - the harpy's your key. The harpy's your key!
The harpy could be his key.
So it was only natural he'd need a liaison stooge. Who?
...
A spark from his brain's synapsis unveiled his best shot.
But where was he? Damn, where would he be?
...
Along the others. But where were the others?
...
His shrunken eyelids inspected the boards. Give me a sign that says inn on it, for damn's sake!
...
...
......
Onlookers clustered. The Ganu's head swung around a bit more frantically. His eyes hastened, his reading skills sharpened. A sign. Please.
...
No inns in this side of the street...
...
......
... neither this side.
...
......
Then they rested a bit further up the road.
The Wild Rover.
The Wild Rover.
Sounds like somewhere you'd drink 'til you piss alcohol.
As much - if not more - as quickly as before, Eel stormed past the door. Fights, blood, booze, yelling, dwarves, Oriis, a kaleidoscope of eclectic attractions, yet he was searching for a mundane, well-behaved, old man.
....
The man chattering with the dwarf and the riled up owl?
Yes. There you are.
Deep breath. Mask your excitement.
"Lohengrin, cut the crap with these runts and come see this - a bloody harpy that few from the skies."
He did mask his excitement.
Mentioned:
Rurnur
, @Devon,
frenchie.
Interacted:
Qazi
Last edited:
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