Title: This is a holdup!!!
Date: 2008-04-15 14:21:18
Type: Logs
Synopsis: In Zalanthas, life sucks--and then someone tries to steal your sid.
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*****Working for House Kadius had its ups and downs, as this burgeoning merchant discovers.*****
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You think:
"Fuck storms. Always happening up here...why is it so bad here?"
Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
You think:
"It's not fucking Red Storm."
The Main Room of the Bard's Barrel [NSW]
A myriad of grinning skulls, each painted with bright colors laid
over the pallid bone, stare down from the broad wooden shelf that lines this
spacious room at eye level. Splashes of blue, green and red cover the clay
brick walls in an enthusiastic but inexpert abstract mural, some spatters of
the same paint dotted across the red tiled floor. The room is filled with
clamor: the clink and clatter of dishes and drinks, instruments being tuned,
scraps of song, and a general constant roar of conversation. A small wooden
stage sits along the northern wall, two ragged velvet curtains framing it,
looped back with blue-dyed ropes. A wide archway leads out onto the dusty
street, while a smaller one to the west provides a glimpse of a smaller,
quieter chamber.
A wall here is designated as a message board.
The solemn, club-footed man limps slowly along here.
The small, dark-haired man sits at a table in the back, staring into his drink.
The bald, muscular woman slouches at a large table, drinking ale.
The huge, sun-bronzed man surveys the room casually from a table here.
The husky, weatherworn dwarf is here, seated at a large table, drinking ale.
A tall, amber-eyed woman polishes glasses behind the boxy wooden bar.
A lean, spike-haired elf drums softly in the corner.
A lean, grey-eyed bard leans against the stage.
The figure in a dusty drab, weathered stormcloak has arrived from the north.
The figure in a dusty drab, weathered stormcloak starts cleaning.
The figure in a dusty drab, weathered stormcloak dusts herself off.
The figure in a burned drab, weathered stormcloak walks south.
Sighing as he sits back down at a boxy wooden bar, you say, in sirihish:
"Fuck tha'."
You sit at a boxy wooden bar.
eq
You are using:
You start cleaning.
You dust yourself off.
The figure in a burned drab, weathered stormcloak has arrived from the south.
The figure in a burned drab, weathered stormcloak starts cleaning.
The figure in a burned drab, weathered stormcloak dusts herself off.
The figure in a burned drab, weathered stormcloak brushes her self off, sprinkling dust onto the floor.
The female wearing a burned thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap lowers the hood of a burned drab, weathered stormcloak.
The female wearing a burned thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap sits at a boxy wooden bar.
Tugging it down to her neck, the sinuous, olive-skinned woman stops using her burned thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap.
At your table, you say in sirihish, shifting his gaze to regard the sinuous, olive-skinned woman:
"Evenin'."
It is late at night on Yochem, the 161st day of the Low Sun,
In the Year of Jihae's Reverence, year 34 of the 21st Age.
At your table, the sinuous, olive-skinned woman says in sirihish:
"Evenin'."
At your table, the sinuous, olive-skinned woman says in sirihish, half-turning in her seat to look out at the plaza:
"Bad storm out there."
The tan, blonde man has arrived from the north.
At your table, you say in sirihish, with a half-hearted grunt:
"Yah. I noticed...got m' ass back in here."
At your table, the sinuous, olive-skinned woman says in sirihish:
"Yeah."
The tan, blonde man suddenly pulls out a crossbow.
The tan, blonde man exclaims, in sirihish:
"This is a holdup!"
The tan, blonde man exclaims, in sirihish:
"Hands in the air, packs on the ground!"
The sinuous, olive-skinned woman looks at you.
The sinuous, olive-skinned woman looks up at the tan, blonde man.
The tan, blonde man looks down at the sinuous, olive-skinned woman.
The tan, blonde man exclaims, in sirihish:
"I'm not messing around here!"
Pushing up from her seat, the sinuous, olive-skinned woman stands up from a boxy wooden bar.
The sinuous, olive-skinned woman draws an obsidian-headed polished-bone mace.
The sinuous, olive-skinned woman draws an obsidian halfsword.
The tan, blonde man steadies himself and takes aim.
The sinuous, olive-skinned woman narrowly avoids a dusty small cynipri crossbow fired by the tan, blonde man.
The sinuous, olive-skinned woman swiftly dodges the tan, blonde man's hits.
The sinuous, olive-skinned woman swiftly dodges the tan, blonde man's hits.
The tan, blonde man attempts to flee.
The tan, blonde man runs west.
The sinuous, olive-skinned woman walks west.
The sinuous, olive-skinned woman has arrived from the west.
The dusky, curly-haired man peers up towards the west with an incredulous expression on his face.
Scratching her head, the sinuous, olive-skinned woman says, in sirihish:
"Bizarre."
You look up at the sinuous, olive-skinned woman.
A light, short scar marks the base of this woman's chin and extends
diagonally to just under her jaw. The rest of her face is comparatively
unremarkable, set with a small nose, dull brown eyes, high, stern-looking
cheek bones, and thin eyebrows. Well-groomed though unbound brown hair
falls down to the middle of her back, curled carefully behind her gently
pointed ears at the sides so as to be kept of her sight. Beneath her olive
skin is lean, sinuous musculature, conspiring with her slender frame to lend
her a fluid, graceful look.
The sinuous, olive-skinned woman is in excellent condition.
The sinuous, olive-skinned woman is using:
She is carrying:
nothing obvious
At your table, you say in sirihish, blinking:
"did...wh...did you kill him?"
Shaking her head, the sinuous, olive-skinned woman says, in sirihish:
"No. I don't know where he went."
You think:
"I'll find his ass."
The sinuous, olive-skinned woman sheathes an obsidian-headed polished-bone mace.
The sinuous, olive-skinned woman sheathes an obsidian halfsword.
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*** Time passes ***
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At your table, you say in sirihish, frowning deeply:
"Hmm..."
The sinuous, olive-skinned woman sits at a boxy wooden bar.
At your table, you say in sirihish, frowning towards the sinuous, olive-skinned woman:
"I saw 'im run out inta the storm."
At your table, the sinuous, olive-skinned woman says in sirihish:
"You did?"
A wide archway leads out onto a busy, dusty plaza.
[Very far]
The figure in a dusty set of hooded, silver-slashed robes is standing here.
The tanned, red-haired girl stumbles along here, looking unwell.
[Far]
A rag-clad elvish child runs along, playing with a ball.
A line of lizards is carved atop a red sandstone wall.
[Near]
A clay-stained human potter sits here on a woven mat of grass.
A lithe, obsidian-eyed woman lounges near the tavern entrance.
The figure in a dusty set of hooded, silver-slashed robes has arrived from the north.
The figure in a dusty set of hooded, silver-slashed robes starts cleaning.
At your table, you say in sirihish, bobbing his head in agreement:
"Or at least, heard 'im. I dunno if ya ken jump offa th' balcony...but..."
The figure in a dusty set of hooded, silver-slashed robes dusts himself off.
At your table, you say in sirihish, shrugging:
"'eard a clutter off t' the north. Figgered it might be him."
At your table, the sinuous, olive-skinned woman says in sirihish:
"Huh."
The figure in a set of hooded, silver-slashed robes steps further into the room and pulls a chair back from a broad table of scarred agafari wood.
The figure in a set of hooded, silver-slashed robes sits at a broad table of scarred agafari wood.
At your table, you say in sirihish, sighing:
"Didja get a good look at 'im?"
At your table, the sinuous, olive-skinned woman says in sirihish:
"Yeah. Blue eyes, crooked nose, light hair."
At your table, the sinuous, olive-skinned woman says in sirihish:
"Fairly non-descript, otherwise."
You think:
"I wonder..."
At your table, you say in sirihish, rubbing at his temples as he glances down to a stone-tipped bone bolt:
"Shit. Think we shoul' find a templar's mind?"
The sinuous, olive-skinned woman stands up from a boxy wooden bar.
The sinuous, olive-skinned woman picks up a stone-tipped bone bolt.
It is before dawn on Huegel, the 162nd day of the Low Sun,
In the Year of Jihae's Reverence, year 34 of the 21st Age.
The sinuous, olive-skinned woman sits at a boxy wooden bar.
At your table, the sinuous, olive-skinned woman says in sirihish, looking her stone-tipped bone bolt over:
"If you know any."
You suffer from use of the Way.
You are unable to reach their mind.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You are unable to reach their mind.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You are unable to reach their mind.
You think:
"Well fuck, come on. Templarate? Heeeeello?"
You are unable to reach their mind.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You contact the auburn-haired, blue-robed templar with the Way.
The sinuous, olive-skinned woman stands up from a boxy wooden bar.
The sinuous, olive-skinned woman peers around at the crowd.
The sinuous, olive-skinned woman intently scans the area.
The sinuous, olive-skinned woman stands at a boxy wooden bar.
The sinuous, olive-skinned woman leans her hip against the a boxy wooden bar.
Pulling it up to her nose, the sinuous, olive-skinned woman places her burned thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap onto her
face.
At your table, the female wearing a burned thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says in sirihish, with a smirk:
"Ah well. This bolt'll sell for at least twenty 'sid."
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the auburn-haired, blue-robed templar:
"There's a fella out running around trying to rob people!"
At your table, you say in sirihish, touching his temples with one hand:
"Foun' a templar...yanno, th' one stationed on Caravan Way. Jus' east o' the Gaj? Mebbe we can go explain things up t' them."
You dissolve the psychic link.
The female wearing a burned thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says to you, in sirihish:
"Really? Yeah, alright."
The female wearing a burned thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says to you, in sirihish:
"I think the man was just crazy, personally. It may not be worth the time of the templarate ... but who knows."
The female wearing a burned thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap raises the hood of a burned drab, weathered stormcloak.
The figure in a burned drab, weathered stormcloak asks you, in sirihish:
"Does he have time to talk to us?"
The tall, brutish man has arrived from the west.
You stand up from a boxy wooden bar.
Shrugging, you say, in sirihish:
"Not sure. We ken try."
It is dawn on Huegel, the 162nd day of the Low Sun,
In the Year of Jihae's Reverence, year 34 of the 21st Age.
The figure in a burned drab, weathered stormcloak falls in behind you.
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****They walk to where the templar is.****
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Caravan Road [EW]
Stretching itself out here is a long road, paved in rough yellowy
brown sandstone, covered with reddish dust and sand, and wide enough that at
least four caravans could pass through. The sun-browned backs of slaves
march along, carrying goods. The sky's blood-red glory shines from above
the main gate, highlighting its ominously smooth stones.
The auburn-haired, blue-robed templar is standing here.
The thick-limbed, leather-skinned dwarf drags a cart behind him here.
The figure in a dusty drab, weathered stormcloak has arrived from the east.
The figure in a dusty drab, weathered stormcloak whispers to you, in sirihish:
"I think you should probably do the talking."
The dusky, curly-haired man nods to the figure in a dusty drab, weathered stormcloak, clearing his throat and bowing
towards the auburn-haired, blue-robed templar.
You look up at the auburn-haired, blue-robed templar.
Long locks of auburn-brown hair adorn this human woman's head, falling to
the small of her back. Her face is dainty and elegantly-lined, with high
cheekbones and thin, dark brown eyebrows. Her pale gray eyes survey her
surroundings, at the same time somehow seeming melancholy and devoid of
emotion. Her shoulders are fairly broad, and her frame appears athletic,
though not heavy or particularly muscular.
The auburn-haired, blue-robed templar is in excellent condition.
The auburn-haired, blue-robed templar is using:
She is carrying:
nothing obvious
The figure in a dusty drab, weathered stormcloak bows to the auburn-haired, blue-robed templar with you.
The figure in a dusty set of hooded, silver-slashed robes has arrived from the east.
The figure in a dusty set of hooded, silver-slashed robes walks west.
The black-eyed, elven man has arrived from the east.
The black-eyed, elven man walks west.
Clearing his throat once more, you say to the auburn-haired, blue-robed templar, in sirihish:
"My Lady Templar....ah...we kinna ran inta this fella tryin' t' steal our shit. He ran off, though..but..."
The black-eyed, elven man has arrived from the west.
The black-eyed, elven man walks east.
Blinking a few times towards the auburn-haired, blue-robed templar, you say to the auburn-haired, blue-robed templar, in
sirihish:
"Err...well, I'll come find a templar 'at's not busy, sorry t' bother ya, my Lady Templar."
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**** The two head back to the Bard's Barrel. ****
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The Main Room of the Bard's Barrel [NSW]
A myriad of grinning skulls, each painted with bright colors laid
over the pallid bone, stare down from the broad wooden shelf that lines this
spacious room at eye level. Splashes of blue, green and red cover the clay
brick walls in an enthusiastic but inexpert abstract mural, some spatters of
the same paint dotted across the red tiled floor. The room is filled with
clamor: the clink and clatter of dishes and drinks, instruments being tuned,
scraps of song, and a general constant roar of conversation. A small wooden
stage sits along the northern wall, two ragged velvet curtains framing it,
looped back with blue-dyed ropes. A wide archway leads out onto the dusty
street, while a smaller one to the west provides a glimpse of a smaller,
quieter chamber.
A wall here is designated as a message board.
The tall figure in a dusty hooded, dun-colored dustcloak is standing here.
The figure in a dusty hooded, dun-colored dustcloak is standing here.
The solemn, club-footed man limps slowly along here.
The small, dark-haired man sits at a table in the back, staring into his drink.
The bald, muscular woman slouches at a large table, drinking ale.
The huge, sun-bronzed man surveys the room casually from a table here.
The husky, weatherworn dwarf is here, seated at a large table, drinking ale.
A tall, amber-eyed woman polishes glasses behind the boxy wooden bar.
A lean, spike-haired elf drums softly in the corner.
A lean, grey-eyed bard leans against the stage.
The figure in a dusty drab, weathered stormcloak has arrived from the north.
Shaking his head, you say, in sirihish:
"Guess we'll wait till we fin' someone."
You sit at a boxy wooden bar.
You start cleaning.
You dust yourself off.
Looking her stone-tipped bone bolt over, the figure in a dusty drab, weathered stormcloak says to you, in sirihish:
"I'm going to see how much this fetches."
The figure in a dusty hooded, dun-colored dustcloak looks down at you.
The tall figure in a dusty hooded, dun-colored dustcloak starts cleaning.
The tall figure in a dusty hooded, dun-colored dustcloak dusts herself off.
The figure in a dusty hooded, dun-colored dustcloak starts cleaning.
The figure in a dusty hooded, dun-colored dustcloak dusts herself off.
Gazing around the room, the figure in a hooded, dun-colored dustcloak says to the tall figure in a hooded, dun-colored dustcloak, in sirihish:
"Might be we'll find someone in th'Gaj lookin ta join. It's just th'regulars here taday."
The figure in a hooded, dun-colored dustcloak walks north.
The tall figure in a hooded, dun-colored dustcloak walks north.
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The sinuous, olive-skinned woman sends you a telepathic message:
"I found him, he's in the Bazaar. I don't know what to do, though."
You suffer from use of the Way.
You contact the sinuous, olive-skinned woman with the Way.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the sinuous, olive-skinned woman:
"Hmm...keep track of him? I'll keep trying to find a templar."
You dissolve the psychic link.
You think:
"Hmm...fuck, we -do- need a templar."
You suffer from use of the Way.
You contact the sinuous, olive-skinned woman with the Way.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the sinuous, olive-skinned woman:
"No luck yet. I don't know what to do, either..."
You dissolve the psychic link.
The sinuous, olive-skinned woman sends you a telepathic message:
"He's gone."
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You suffer from use of the Way.
You contact the sinuous, olive-skinned woman with the Way.
The sinuous, olive-skinned woman sends you a telepathic message:
"I found him again, he's out in the wastes. A gemmer and I have caught him."
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the sinuous, olive-skinned woman:
"Oh, good. Well, do what you want. I'll be glad to have him out of comission."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
You dissolve the psychic link.