Original Submissions
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Touched by Krath - Edit by Jalden
Added on Mar 3, 2010A nursery rhyme sung by poor children in Allanak. This rhyme is sometimes sung while playing a game where the children form a circle, and a child is selected to go in the middle in a "duck", "duck", "goose" type fashion. Then she or he is briefly (usually) pushed or spun around within the circle.
Out in the sun.
Three days in a row.
Mininz not fun
Too bad you don' know
Touched by Krath
Touched by Krath
Now you'll get, touched by Krath
Out on the flats
Krath landed a blow
Saltinz for rats
This songs not for show
Touched by Krath
Touched by Krath
Now you've been, touched by Krath
Heads a little dizzy
Feelin' little warm
So stop bein' busy
Need ta conform
Touched by Krath
Touched by Krath
You're dizzy, touched by Krath
Still be afraid
Will not lie
Water n' shade
Or you'll dieOut in the sun.
Three days in a row.
Mininz not fun
Too bad you don' know
Touched by Krath
Touched by Krath
Now you'll get, touched by Krath
Out on the flats
Krath landed a blow
Saltinz for rats
This songs not for show
Touched by Krath
Touched by Krath
Now you've been, touched by Krath
Heads a little...
Continue Reading...Armageddon Black Moon Wallpaper by James de Monet
Added on Mar 3, 2010Armageddon logo (black moon variant) widescreen wallpaper. 1680 x 1050
Touched by Krath by Jalden
Added on Feb 26, 2010A nursery rhyme sung by the poor in Allanak.
Out in the sun.
Three days in a row.
Mininz not fun
Too bad you don' know
Touched by Krath
Touched by Krath
You're a gonna get, touched by Krath
Out on the flats
Krath landed a blow
Saltinz for rats
This songs not for show
Heads a little dizzy
Feelin' little warm
So stop bein' busy
Need ta conform
Don' be afraid
Not gonna lie
Water n' shade
Yuh might not die
Touched by Krath
Touched by Krath
Now you'll prolly die, touched by KrathOut in the sun.
Three days in a row.
Mininz not fun
Too bad you don' know
Touched by Krath
Touched by Krath
You're a gonna get, touched by Krath
Out on the flats
Krath landed a blow
Saltinz for rats
This songs not for show
Heads a little dizzy
Feelin' little warm
So stop bein' busy
Need ta conform
Don' be...
Continue Reading...Kalea by Bast
Added on Feb 14, 2010A portrait of the Council's last Krathi Speaker.
That Rascally Kishime by Arithon
Added on Feb 14, 2010In this scene, Lord Templar Kishime Fale is having a conversation with a fellow Blue-Robe, Lord Templar Didrik Tor. Lord Didrik had recently found a magickal necklace on an expedition outside the city, and had claimed it as his prize. Today, Kishime asks him if he has fully deciphered its meaning yet. When Lord Didrik answers 'no', Kishime asks politely if he may see the necklace in order to inspect it. It's a trick.
Lieutenant's Quarters [NE]
The furnishings of this apartment style section of the barracks are
quite sparse. The red stone bricks of the city wall form the southern
wall of this room, setting a backdrop for the simple wooden furniture
which clutters it.
A sturdy looking door to the north, and a flimsy one to the east
appear to be the only exits.
An elegantly curved, ivory scroll receptacle rests against the wall.
A coatstand, made of bone and antler, sits here.
A bone sided chest sits here.
A bulging basket, woven of numut vines, sits here.
A heavy baobab chest rests here upon its broad feet.
The solid, asperous woman casts a watchful eye on her surroundings.
The thickset, heavy-limbed templar is standing here.The thickset, heavy-limbed templar gives you a shimmering amulet of mountain stone.
You think:
"What a fool."You hold the amulet.
The garish, turquoise-plaited templar closes his hand around the stone, lifting it to inspect the face closely.
You think:
"That was easy. He has no claim to this."
Speaking in a soft kind voice as he tucks the stone into his pocket, you say to the thickset, heavy-limbed templar, in tatlum:
"Lord Didrik. I deem you unfit to bare this relic. You are endangered by it, and are wasting the true scope of its potential."
Frowning darkly and massaging a scarred knuckle, the thickset, heavy-limbed templar asks
you, in tatlum:
"What power do you have to make this decision, and what have you based it from?"
Pushing from the wall to casually saunter towards the exit, you say to the thickset, heavy-limbed templar, in tatlum:
"We are hardly peers. You're much inferior to me. I base it on the incompetance you've shown. "You stop leading the thickset, heavy-limbed templar.
<Kishime walks outside>
Morning's Road [NES]
This wide road marks the very southernmost edge of Allanak. The dry
red stones of the city wall rise up abruptly here, and over them stretches
the eternal sky, filled with whirling sand and wind. Buildings line the
road, some actually built into it, while others are free-standing structures
of their own. The road itself is hard-packed dirt for the most part, with
circular flagstones of dull reddish yellow sandstone placed at widely
interspersed intervals.
A human soldier of Tektolnes stands watch, before a stone building.The thickset, heavy-limbed templar has arrived from the south.
The solid, asperous woman has arrived from the south.The thickset, heavy-limbed templar falls in behind you.
The garish, turquoise-plaited templar glances over his shoulder at the thickset, heavy-limbed templar with a sweet smile and innocent batting of his lashes.
Raising his voice angrily, the thickset, heavy-limbed templar exclaims to you, in tatlum:
"You are addled by spice, Kishime! I have Lord Templar Marsellus' permission to do
with that stone what I will!"The garish, turquoise-plaited templar giggles softly, tugging his robe closed around himself.
Gently, you say to the thickset, heavy-limbed templar, in tatlum:
"If he orders me to return it, I shall. Otherwise, I plan to make full use of it.
It's wasted on you."Jabbing a meaty finger at you, the thickset, heavy-limbed templar exclaims to you, in tatlum:
"You are unfit to wear that -robe-, and you endanger Allanak itself!"Softening his tone lovingly, you say to the thickset, heavy-limbed templar, in tatlum:
"Hush, tiny Templar. I will share the fruits of this with you, if you see reason."Extending his hand firmly, the thickset, heavy-limbed templar says to you, in tatlum:
"Return the stone."Speaking even softer, you say to the thickset, heavy-limbed templar, in tatlum:
"Don't make a scene."You stop leading the thickset, heavy-limbed templar.
<Kishime walks into a building on the other side of the road>
A human soldier unlocks the door with a sturdy steel key.
A human soldier opens the door.
A human soldier bows his head, placing a sturdy steel key about his neck.
A human soldier exclaims, in sirihish:
"All hail the Servants of the Highlord!"Stonework Building [SU]
This small stonework building is simple in design and function. Set
into the stonework of the meticulously kept northern wall is a large jade
cross on an obsidian field. A large, oval rug sprawls out in the center of
the floor. A sturdy door in the south wall provides the only other entrance
to this building. A large, semi-circular desk rests beneath the jade cross
on the northern wall. A split staircase ascends up from this foyer on both
the eastern and western walls, meeting at the center, high above the jade
cross.
A diminutive, white-robed templar sits at a semi-circular desk.The thickset, heavy-limbed templar has arrived from the south.
The solid, asperous woman has arrived from the south.<Kishime walks up the stairs>
A Well-Lit Stairwell [EWUD]
Fixed securely to the walls, small oil lamps keep this hallway well lit
despite the fact that there are no windows. The walls of this hallway are
lined with doors, and where they are not, small ornaments hang, mostly
sigils from one of the various noble houses of Allanak. A set of stairs
lead down towards the main entryway of this building, as well as lead
further up into the building's interior.The thickset, heavy-limbed templar has arrived from below.
The solid, asperous woman has arrived from below.The garish, turquoise-plaited templar sways his hips as he skips up the stairs nimbly.
Clutching his hand into a fist and planting it into the small of his back, the thickset,
heavy-limbed templar says to you, in tatlum:
"I will report this to Lord Templar Marsellus immediately."The thickset, heavy-limbed templar says to you, in tatlum:
"I'm sure that he will also like to hear about the stench of your clothing."The garish, turquoise-plaited templar twirls his hand in front of himself daintily, dipping into a graceful half-bow/half-curtsy.
Softly, you exclaim to the thickset, heavy-limbed templar, in tatlum:
"So assertive!"Grinding his teeth, the thickset, heavy-limbed templar says to you, in sirihish:
"Good day, Kishime."The garish, turquoise-plaited templar giggles femininely.
The garish, turquoise-plaited templar wiggles his fingers in a wave.
The thickset, heavy-limbed templar walks up.
The solid, asperous woman walks up.Lieutenant's Quarters [NE]
The furnishings of this apartment style section of the barracks are
quite sparse. The red stone bricks of the city wall form the southern
wall of this room, setting a backdrop for the simple wooden furniture
which clutters it.
A sturdy looking door to the north, and a...
Continue Reading...Creating and Playing a Complex Character by Zoltan
Added on Feb 14, 2010Some tips and tricks to creating a character with some extra "meat" to their personalities, and how to play them to their fullest.
Creating and Playing a Complex Character, or “Zoltan’s Guide to Drama King/Queen Supremacy”
What’s the point?
I’m going to go ahead and assume that anyone that reads this and is interested in input on this subject actually wants to make a complex character and enjoys that kind of play. I won’t go into why I find these characters desirable to be around and to play, who they could be fun for, or how they affect the game world. I’m just going to lay out some tips I’ve found and continue to find helpful in playing a multifaceted character.
Disclaimer: Everything in this article is purely my opinion, based solely on my own experiences.
Chargen
The Dramatic Approach
First off, what kind of story do you want to tell with your character? In Armageddon, chargen is about the only thing you have total creative control over. This includes their background, descriptions, and guild/subguild; but it can include so much more. Manners of speech, pre-formed opinions, desires, fetishes and fears are a part of any person, and so too can bring a lot of life to a character. I know some players like to let these things develop over time, and that’s actually a very good way to go about it. However, I’m writing this article to address making a complex character straight out the gate; “veteran” characters are always going to grow and change in natural ways.
So, again, what is the story you want to tell? For me, this is the single most important thing. If I have an OOC story-telling purpose to my character, everything else falls into place. I like to incorporate the literary features of theme and mood.
For illustrative purposes, I’m going to refer to the character that I first really fleshed out this approach with. He was stored some months ago, but I went through this process of writing him in March ’08, if I remember correctly. In the interest of not compromising current IC information, I’m going to limit my references to him to only his background (virtual events) and the techniques I used to try to bring him to life in an interesting way, straight from chargen.
Theme:
In relation to Arm PCs, this is the “point” of the character. It can be anything at all: an ultimate goal, an internal struggle, a conflict with the setting due to the nature of the character, a RL concept you want to explore through RP; anything. This could very well change as your character lives, or as you change IRL. It’s not something to be set in stone forever, but it’s a very useful guideline of sorts to get your character on track and to flesh them out.
In my case with that character I mentioned, I was trying out my karma options for the first time and wanted to roll up a wind mage. Seeing as that would be my very first magicker, I wanted to kick it off with a deeper-than-my-average-PC character. My very first task was to find that theme to him, the whole point, the part that would make it more interesting to me than just exploring the magick code. As I was pretty much completely ignorant of magickal stuff, I stayed extremely vague. I went with the idea of Undoing Ruin because that happened to be the name of the metal album I was listening to when my last character died.
So, what did I have from there? Well, I had almost all of the basics down: race, guild, etc. and my theme left a lot of room for interpretation. All I was sure on is that 1) this guy had a bad life, or some trauma, or is broken inside and 2) the character will have a desire to make things better. He was already taking on more form than many of my other characters, and this was just in my head getting ready to write the application. As I began writing him up, I began to add texture – a mood I wanted to convey to myself and others as I played him.
Mood:
This is kind of the “feel” you are going for in your play. Now, Armageddon as a whole is a beautiful game and has a variety of moods in itself: in the room descs and NPCs and the societal constructs. What makes all of these things good is their attention to atmosphere and immersion. Each and every PC can make an impact on the mood similarly in how they are played. Being conscious of mood on an OOC level can make your character complex and engaging on a deeper level than just their IG demeanor and actions.
So what do I mean, exactly? With my Whiran, I decided I wanted to try something else I had never done and make a middle-aged character. With that settled, and with my theme of undoing ruin in mind, I resolved that not only would he be an older, beaten-down man, but that my emotes, says, thinks, feels and descs would all subtly (and in some cases later on, not so subtly) convey that feeling of weariness, regret and uncertainty.
His mdesc came together very quickly after that. His skin was weathered and made rugged from exposure to the elements. He had scars and was missing some fingers. He was tall, but he had begun to take on a slight hunch under the weight of his years and experiences. He may have been quite handsome once, but the events of his life and his way of coping with it had chiseled away at his features; his slate-grey eyes had become cold, and they had that Clint Eastwood squint to them. And in what is probably my greatest indulgence in subjective desc writing, I capped it off with “his thin lips do not look accustomed to smiling.”
I notice this kind of thing all the time IG and I only point it out in this article to call attention to the fact that those words you write for your mdesc and sdesc are likely going to be the very first thing another player experiences in your character. It’s a good opportunity to set the tone for IC interactions. Clearly, this is not the end all be all of complex interaction, but it’s something I definitely keep mindful of in adding shades of meaning to PCs.
Anyway, having my theme and mood established more or less enabled me to make the final addition to my app: the background.
Background/Virtual IC History:
This is a part I thoroughly enjoy, though it can take a lot of creative investment. I know that many players aren’t fond of the idea of putting all kinds of work into a character just to know that they can be killed in a few hours’ playtime. While I wouldn’t say that a super-detailed background is absolutely vital for a complex character, it certainly doesn’t hurt. If you know where your character’s been, it’s easier to send them where they’re going. And I find that for myself, I just can’t play convincingly and engagingly if I don’t have direction. And again, for me, I need this direction right out of the gate. Nothing is as guaranteed to do this as an interesting background. It doesn’t mean you have to go over the top, though. Let me bring up that Whiran of mine again.
I knew he was older, and according to my theme, he had a rough life. So, just by filling out some vital details, I had myself the beginnings of a decent story on my hands. How come he was a mage and had never used his powers/got gemmed by the time he was thirty-eight? Well, he found out when he was fifteen and endeavored to suppress it all of his life. How did he do that? He had near-fanatical denial and the aid of drugs such as spice and alcohol. Oh, he must have had some favorites? Yes, some varieties worked better for him: I laid them out. How did he survive? Hmmm, well, he was a grebber, and he was raised as a hunter by his mother, who he loved dearly, in the ‘Nakki
Boom, that took me all of ten minutes or so to figure out and suddenly my character was ready to go. Granted, at that point I had had some knowledge and experience with the game world, so the details were considerably easier than when making my first PC. The point is, I knew what had brought him to that point in his life where I’d start playing, and I knew the very first thing I would try to do and why I would do it: that Whiran found his way of life untenable, so he caved in, decided to face himself, and went to ‘Nak in search of a gem. And there I was, playing, and because of my clarity in theme, mood and virtual history, I felt pretty much no transition at all from my previous character to playing him. Everything happened very fast and very fluidly after that and because I found my character to be fun to play and intriguing to develop, I think others had a good time as well. What could have been a very boring, grindy foray into mage-playing turned into what I feel is still my best character.
But now on to the considerably trickier part: actually trying to play a complex, engaging character.
Role-play
Consistency, Balance and Vulnerability
So you get in game, and then it’s time to play out and project that story you thought up. There is no “right” way to RP besides what is laid out specifically in the rules of the game. However, there are some techniques I’ve picked up and which I see others use that greatly aid in portraying a character and can seriously enhance your fun and that of others. When playing, I try to keep my character’s attributes in mind at all times, as well as the fact that not only is my character interacting with other characters, but that I am trying to tell an engaging story to other players through that interaction.
Character Attributes:
This is absolutely essential. What I mean by a character attribute is a thing that makes your PC what they are. Attitude, bearing, sense of humor, sexuality, virtual history, thought patterns; the whole shebang. These are the things you have to keep consistent with to make a character approachable from many angles by many players. Everyone will have their own level of detail on those things; the key is adherence to those details you put in. This is who your character is, and though your PC by no means needs to be an open book for anyone to read, they should be pretty much figured out in your mind to facilitate a seamless portrayal of them.
For example, the biggest character attribute for me to hit on and flesh out the soonest is my character’s speech patterns and voice. In my case, everything follows from that. With my Whiran, I knew that he was this old hunter type, so in my head he spoke with a gravelly, Old West drawl. I figured out in short order exactly how I would convey it through text, I latched onto his favorite curse words and sayings, and just how he would articulate certain concepts and subjects. I decided early on that he would be a man of few words to the “normals” and most everyone else (partially from an OOC desire to keep my magick out of others’ mundane fun). However, I knew that if he was ever actively engaged by someone or made some friends, he would be a real rambler. So, right there in just how he talked I had a framework with which to interact with other players through.
A lot can be written on character features and quirks, those gems for other players to dig up in your character. However, that could be a whole article in itself. Instead, I’ll go on to techniques useful for playing an engaging character.
Depth:
When I say “depth” in relation to a character, I don’t necessarily mean profound philosophies of theirs or shocking revelations. My concept of character depth is the idea that other players should have to dig a little bit into your character to start seeing them for what they are. This is desirable for two reasons: 1) people enjoy figuring stuff out and learning tidbits and secrets, no matter how small and 2) it adds realism to your character. The easiest way I have to think about this is how people in real life have their public, professional faces and then they are different with their friends and loved ones.
Don’t just lay out everything about your character at the drop of a hat. Make other players dig, even just a little. It will make your character feel real. You just have to roll with the fact that not everyone will have the opportunity or desire to do so. You can rest assured that those that do start digging are likely going to enjoy it.
This idea can further be split up into two categories: character-revealed attributes and player-revealed attributes. Those attributes revealed by your character are those that they flat out tell other PCs about, or are otherwise fully conscious of revealing. Player revealed attributes are those character quirks and features that you at the keyboard subtly reveal by the way the character is played. I’ll try to show you what I mean with examples from my Whiran.
Character-revealed attributes: My character would often tell his story (both virtual histories and events played out IG) to those he started getting close to. It was likely clear to them that he had had some serious drug and family issues. His changing views on magick, from distrust and fear at the beginning to total acceptance at the end, were also pretty obvious to most he talked to.
Player-revealed attributes: When I played that guy, there were of course many underlying things in his psyche that he was unable or unwilling to be candid about, but which I as a player tried to subtly reveal through his actions. I had no way of knowing, for example, if others picked up that his harsh spice addiction shifted to magick addiction in the middle of his career, or that he was pretty negligent of his children (leading to one of their deaths), or that there was a definite sexual undercurrent in his relationship to his element. Those were some of the juicy details that kept me extremely entertained, but were only evident to other players if they carefully observed and got to know my character.
Revelation:
All of this character depth is useless to everyone besides yourself and staff if you don’t demonstrate at least a little of it. And really, I believe that’s the point of playing for many of us: interacting with and engaging other players with your character. Sometimes you have to be vulnerable to allow some of your character’s secrets to not be so secret. I’m not suggesting that emotional tell-alls are the solution for all, not even most. What I’m saying is that even your most uptight, stoic character is going to reveal something at some point. The think, feel and hemote commands are very useful for this. However, sometimes you just have to put them out there and have them blurt out what they’re thinking, or something along those lines. The point is, yes, you can play the ultimate locked-down steel vault of a character, but you may have trouble engaging other characters. Sometimes you have to give up a little to get anywhere and to entice other players to dig deeper.
Final Thoughts
Always stay true to your character. They will grow and change and your OOC goals will too, but if play consistently and portray your character honestly, you can’t go wrong.
People aren’t always going to “get it” or click into your character. Just roll with it. Those times when your character and others’ get into it deep are well worth the wait.
Have fun. Fun is contagious. The goal isn’t to play some super deep, awesome character – it’s to have fun because you are playing that character, or playing with others. If it it’s not fun, don’t do it!
When in doubt, play dangerous, awkward or intense situations to the hilt, every time. You’ll always get a story, or make/break IG relationships. That’s what Armageddon is all about.
Creating and Playing a Complex Character, or
“Zoltan’s Guide to Drama King/Queen Supremacy”
What’s the point?
I’m going to go ahead and assume that anyone that reads this
and is interested in input on this subject actually wants to make a complex
character and enjoys...
Continue Reading...Interrogation of a 'Rinth Rat by HaiWolfe
Added on Feb 14, 2010A half-breed 'Rinthi, newly inducted into the Guild, suddenly finds himself in over his head when picked out of a southside crowd for interrogation by a templar.
It is before dawn on Nekrete, the 214th day of the Ascending Sun,
In the Year of Lirathu's Slumber, year 11 of the 21st Age.
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 trim, sorrel-haired man is sitting at a boxy wooden bar.
The one-eyed, white-haired half-elf is sitting at a boxy wooden bar.
The goateed, orange-eyed man is sitting at a wobbly baobab table.
The misshapen, lucent-eyed man is sitting at a wobbly baobab table.
The lithe, dark-haired man is sitting at a broad table of scarred agafari wood.
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 relaxes at a table here, clay mug in hand.
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 trim, sorrel-haired man sits quietly at his stool, tugging on his beard with a
distracted expression.
Your new ldesc is:
The scrawny, half-breed teen with a badly swollen wrist leans here on a crutch.
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar has arrived from the north.
The sallow, top-knotted half-giant has arrived from the north.
The one-eyed, white-haired half-elf stands to his feet quickly.
The scrawny, half-breed teen turns to see the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar with wide
eyes.
The one-eyed, white-haired half-elf bows deeply to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar,
his cloak dragging the ground.
The scrawny, half-breed teen bows before the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, barely
keeping his balance.
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar passes through the northern entrance, flanked by the
imposing figure of the sallow, top-knotted half-giant.
The trim, sorrel-haired man rises to his feet, and bows gracefully to the oddly-bent,
yellow-skinned templar, his eyes lowered before retaking his barstool after a moment's
pause.
The one-eyed, white-haired half-elf sits down at a boxy wooden bar.
The misshapen, lucent-eyed man glances up at the sounding sound of scraping bar stools
before spotting the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar.
Ignoring the majority those bowing him, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar's gazes falls
in harsh interrogation of a few faces.
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar looks down at you.
The scrawny, half-breed teen shrinks back against a wall, keeping his gaze lowered.
Rising halfway out of his seat, the misshapen, lucent-eyed man bends respectfully at the
waist towards the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar before reseating himself.
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar looks down at the lithe, dark-haired man.
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned man sends you a telepathic message:
"Tell me of the Statue."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
Seeing the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar's attention upon him, the lithe, dark-haired man
quickly stands and bows before retaking his seat.
Passing through the parting crowds the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar's eyes lock onto
you, his yellow-spotted lips curling lightly into odd smile.
The scrawny, half-breed teen nearly falls to his knees, but catches himself and presses
himself against the wall.
The misshapen, lucent-eyed man looks up at you.
You think:
"Kade must've told him!"
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar curls his finger a few times in your direction,
beckoning for you to follow.
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Come along...Ish."
Staring at the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar's feet, you say, in sirihish:
"I-I... "
You now follow the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar.
The trim, sorrel-haired man looks up at you.
The scrawny, half-breed teen reluctantly steps toward the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned
templar.
The lithe, dark-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
"Be respectful and don't piss off Rezaul."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You contact the lithe, dark-haired man with the Way.
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar glances once to the lithe, dark-haired man his eyes
lingering there for a few moments before making his way west.
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar walks west.
You follow the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, and walk west.
An Antechamber of the Bard's Barrel [EU]
The sallow, top-knotted half-giant has arrived from the east.
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar walks up.
You follow the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, and walk up.
A Wide, Spacious Room [ED]
The sallow, top-knotted half-giant has arrived from below.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the lithe, dark-haired man:
"He wants ta know about th' figurine!"
You dissolve the psychic link.
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar walks east.
You follow the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, and walk east.
A Wide, Spacious Room [EW]
The sallow, top-knotted half-giant has arrived from the west.
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar walks east.
You follow the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, and walk east.
A Wooden-Railed Balcony [W]
This wide balcony overlooks the street below, providing ample view of
the passersby, as well as a general vista of the sprawl of the Commoner's
Quarter. A railing of polished thuja wood surrounds it, carved with a
pattern of tumbling coins in bas-relief. Sounds of singing and raucous
revelry float up from somewhere below. An arched doorway to the west leads
back inside the building, covered with a curtain of bright red canvas. A
heavy stone bench is firmly affixed to the wall, while along the top of the
balcony, clay planters have been fastened, each one holding several small
plants spilling over with dusty green leaves and tiny, fragrant white
flowers.
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar is standing here.
The sallow, top-knotted half-giant has arrived from the west.
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar closes the curtain.
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Well then....explain."
The scrawny, half-breed teen swallows hard.
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar takes a few steps toward a heavy stone bench, and
slides onto it, watching you firmly.
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar sits down on a heavy stone bench.
Shaking his head, his voice light, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar asks you, in
southern-accented sirihish:
"You are aware of what I did to your friend Kade?"
The scrawny, half-breed teen shakes his head mutely.
With an idle shrug, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar asks you, in southern-accented
sirihish:
"Seen him about of late?"
Licking dry lips, you say to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
"I.. I nicked a figurine, a small one.. Kade helped. It was a test."
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"A test? Given by whom. "
Adding quickly, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar asks you, in southern-accented
sirihish:
"Don't blame Kade for ratting on you...You'd have done the same if I had you fingers
and tongue removed, hmmm?"
The scrawny, half-breed teen twitches his head.
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"So, a test...a figurine. Continue."
You say to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
"A gang, westside... in the 'rinth. Called th' Third Eyes... they offer protection..."
You say, in sirihish:
"Fer a price."
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Ah? And how did you meet Kade?"
You think:
"(is terrified, but a small part of him is frantically hoping that this is another test
arranged between Vel and the templar)"
The lithe, dark-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
"Tell him what you will. The black figurine wouldn't be something for you to die over."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
You say to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
"I-in th' Gaj, Lord Templar."
Out on the plaza, the lithe, dark-haired man has arrived from the south.
Out on the plaza, the lithe, dark-haired man walks north.
Shaking his head and gesturing to the sallow, top-knotted half-giant, the oddly-bent,
yellow-skinned templar asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Do you know how I found out about you?"
You say to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
"Kade..."
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Yes of course. For every lie, Kade told me...Mgran pulled off one of his pinkies.
Perhaps you require the same coaxing?"
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"You work for Vel."
You exclaim to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
"N-no, I ain't lyin'! I know what 'appens ta rats git caught an' don't tell th' truth!"
Glancing to the sallow, top-knotted half-giant, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar asks
you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"How were you injured?"
You say to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
"I was jumped inna alley, eastside."
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"By whom?"
You think:
"I told Kade! I told Kade Vel's name!"
Shaking his head jerkily, you say to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
"I dun' know... some hooded skinnies.."
You think:
"Ish ya dumbshit yer dead, dead!"
Shaking his head lightly, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-
accented sirihish:
"You know something you're not telling me half-breed."
Without much interest, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to the sallow, top-
knotted half-giant, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Tear off his arms or something..."
The scrawny, half-breed teen stands rooted to the spot, stone-still in fear.
The sallow, top-knotted half-giant glances to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar with
surprise for a moment and then with a shrug lumbers toward you.
The scrawny, half-breed teen works his lips silently as he stares at the floor.
The sallow, top-knotted half-giant reaches out at you with a large meaty hand.
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar gives the sallow, top-knotted half-giant an order.
The sallow, top-knotted half-giant subdues you, despite your attempts to struggle away.
Kicking and flailing, you exclaim, in sirihish:
"Eyaaargh!"
Frantically, you exclaim to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
"I'll tell ya.. I! Whaddya wanna know!"
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Who was the figurine stolen from and why."
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Who ordered it."
The red moon, Jihae, rises over the streets of Allanak.
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar sighs shaking his head with annoyance.
You exclaim to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
"D-dice! Fella named Dice!"
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Dice? Tell me about Dice."
With a sigh, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to the sallow, top-knotted half-
giant, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Should he utter a word about not knowing something, just pull it off and toss it over
the ledge."
The sallow, top-knotted half-giant nods once affirmatively to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned
templar, your arm head tightly in his closed fist.
The words spilling from his mouth, you say to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in
sirihish:
"He's got th' tattoos, he an' Siltwind, they th' leaders of th' gang."
You think:
"I shoulda used th' mul! Too late too late!"
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Gang?"
You say to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
"They, they.. call'emselves th' Third Eyes cause they put a tattoo of a eye on their
forehead. Yeh, gang. Every'un in the 'rinth's talkin' bout'em, they're real strong."
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Oh? And the black fist?"
You say to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
"Tha's another gang, I thought Kade knew some'un who was innit."
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Vel. Where does he fit. I know you're lying about this Dice fellow..."
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to the sallow, top-knotted half-giant, in
southern-accented sirihish:
"Twist...."
You exclaim to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
"I can 'xplain!"
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I know. Thats why we're here."
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar stands forcefully, his peaceful, placid demeanor
bursting into a fiery anger.
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar pushes off of a heavy stone bench and rises to his
feet.
In a smooth motion, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar slides a topaz-pommeled ivory
dagger out of a leather and chitin strap-sheath.
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar brandishes a topaz-pommeled ivory dagger.
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar marches toward where the sallow, top-knotted half-
giant holds you.
You exclaim to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
"I ain't lyin'! I seen Vel aroun' in the 'rinth a few times, he always kickin' me
round. 'alf-breed do this, clean that up, ya worthless!"
The scrawny, half-breed teen grows panicked as he squirms in the sallow, top-knotted half-
giant's grip.
His voice a harsh rasp, his eyes fills with hatred, placing the tip of his topaz-pommeled
ivory dagger under your left eye, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar whispers to you in
sirihish:
"Listen to me you filthy lying half-breed....Do you think I want to be in your presence
any longer? Tell me *everything*."
You exclaim to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
"So I needed Kade ta help me do th' job... th' nickin'! An' Kade was askin' all these
questions 'fore he would do it! But Dice tol' me ta not spill his name, so I tol' Kade Vel's
name instead!"
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar straightens for a moment as if shocked, he seems to
lose his concentration and takes a step away from the sallow, top-knotted half-giant.
A ragged sob tears itself from the scrawny, half-breed teen's throat as he slumps forward.
Hunched for a moment, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar's eyes widen as he glances
downward at his hands in awe.
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar straightens, still not looking at you or the sallow,
top-knotted half-giant, he turns his eyes raging with some mad pleasure.
As he approaches you again, his eyes awash with determination and he snatches your face, the
oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you in southern-accented sirihish:
"I am His Will."
The scrawny, half-breed boy twitches involuntarily.
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar asks you in southern-accented sirihish:
"What does Dice look like?"
Screwing his eyes shut, you say to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar in sirihish:
"He's a-a... a big fella, tall, strong."
Voice calm and even as the tip of his topaz-pommeled ivory dagger is placed again under
your eye, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you in southern-accented sirihish:
"More..."
You say to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar in sirihish:
"Got dice tattooed on'is hands, an' the eye on'is forehead."
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you in southern-accented sirihish:
"What is it worth to you? For me to not tell Vel, or your arrangement with Dice?"
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you in southern-accented sirihish:
"What have you to trade besides this eye?"
You exclaim to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
"I-I.. they'll kill me!"
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Of course they will."
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I'm the only one who can keep you alive now....treat me well...."
You say to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
"I got less'an fifty sid.. jus' what I'm wearin'."
Presses the top of his topaz-pommeled ivory dagger just a touch into the flesh under your
eye, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Do you think I require funding?"
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"What can you offer me aside from this eye?"
Sweat rolling down his face, you exclaim to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in
sirihish:
"Whaddya want!"
A final glimmer of light marks the white moon Lirathu's slow descent.
Simply, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Information. "
You exclaim to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
"I ken get ya information!"
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar twists the tip of his topaz-pommeled ivory dagger
lightly digging a small nich in your skin.
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"No....now."
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar lifts his chin to the sallow, top-knotted half-giant.
The sallow, top-knotted half-giant begins pulling forcefully at your arm.
Stifling a scream, you exclaim to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
"Eyaa--- ask me a question!"
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Armless, eyeless....a pitiful way to live."
Laughing, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Was that an order? Simply talk...."
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Just talk, talk, talk."
His face soaked with sweat and tears, you say to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in
sirihish:
"Dice an' Siltwind, they been 'round the 'rinth a few months now, they started off
small..."
Looking bored the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar removes his topaz-pommeled ivory dagger
slipping it back into his burned leather and chitin strap-sheath.
You say to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
"But they gitted a reputation th' way they din't take no shat from skinnies."
You say to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
"Whole eastside hates'em but they don't care 'cause they got th' west on their side."
Lifting his chin, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to the sallow, top-knotted
half-giant, in southern-accented sirihish:
"This is pointless....Let him go. I'm bored of Rinth politics,"
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar gives the sallow, top-knotted half-giant an order.
The sallow, top-knotted half-giant releases you, and you immediately move away.
The scrawny, half-breed teen falls to the ground in a heap.
With a sigh gesturing to you idly, the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says to you, in
southern-accented sirihish:
"Your arm and eye are now owned by me. You've three months to bring me two pieces of
information that will purchase them back. I'll see you soon."
The scrawny, half-breed teen quickly scrambles up using your worn wooden crutch and nearly
falls again as he bows deeply to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, then shuffles
toward the curtain.
You say to the oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar, in sirihish:
"Yes Lord Templar, I do everythin' ya say, thank ya Lord Templar."
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar wets his yellow spotted lips turning to look out over
the balcony.
The oddly-bent, yellow-skinned templar says, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Off with you..."
The scrawny, half-breed teen backs through the curtain, bent at the waist.It is before dawn on Nekrete, the 214th day of the Ascending Sun,
In the Year of Lirathu's Slumber, year 11 of the 21st Age.
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...
Continue Reading...Bako Pt. 1 by Is Friday
Added on Feb 14, 2010A militia Corporal thinks about her bad decisions in Red Storm.
Bako stared at the dirty stones of the alley lifelessly. It was pure
speculation at this point if she was going to die or not, but she
certainly felt as though she deserved to.
Her blink came at a dead-hang, the slow struggle of a fluttering pair of
eyelids that would just not keep open without a brutal fight. Soldiers that
went to sleep when they were bleeding out did not wake up, and Bako was not
about to become one of them. And speaking of brutal fights, oh how the alley
reflected what had just taken place. She thought she'd fucked those necker
bitches up worse than she had gotten it. They was the dead ones, after all.
(Or maybe they was just bleeding out where she couldn't see, like she was.)
Bako thought about how stupid she'd been to come to Storm. The fuck was in
Storm, anyhow? Spice. Shit, spice you can -get- in nak! Just have to ask. But
no, you wanted Sergeant, you stupid shit. You wanted Sergeant so you decided
to "play it safe" by coming to Storm to sniff your good fuckin times,
Corporal. You even -thought- it was a bad idea halfway here, and look, not
trusting your gut got you crammed up the ass like a rinthi whore.
Putting all of her strength into a push against the grimy, reddish mud that
had developed the tinge with compliments of her tattered body, Bako slowly
rolled over onto her back. Shuddering and clumsy hands attempted to unstrap
her breastplate, missing the clasp several times before finally gripping it
with some certainty, and then expending her easily exhaustable burst of
energy by twisting it unlatched. Instead of pushing the breastplate off of
herself, she slipped her quivering hands beneath it to her gruesomely
impaled abdomen, where a jagged knife had slipped up and under the shell.
Bako clenched her teeth and gripped the hilt of the knife with a whine
growling out from her wheezing throat. She knew what she had to do, but she
fucking hated it. She hated herself, and she hated her weakness to find a
knife in her gut when there was only three neckers. Should have fucking
yanked it out during the scuffle and stabbed that bitch longneck in the
throat with it. Maybe bleed out like a real big fucking hero with some
dignity, instead of this pathetic bullshit.
The wound was torn anew as Bako tightened her grip around the knife and
yanked it from inside her, the small jagged edges along one side of the
blade carving through her like a raptor's teeth. She wailed like it was the
last thing she could do, her voice cracking and strained. Her body buckled
as though it wanted to convulse; to offer one last twitch and give in.
Vision blurred, darkness crept up, the sky was spinning (without the
assistance of spice,) and she felt at peace for once in her life.
Fuck that, she thought. Out from her lips poured a whispered incantation
that might have been the appropriate words, and as though the Suk-Krath had
landed in the pit of her stomach, the hand over her gushing wound ignited in
a ball of furious flame. Bako screamed bloody flaming murder, and at once
the fire vanished in a plume of smoke around her body, slowly drifting up
toward the sky where the Suk-Krath might be waiting tomorrow morn--prepared
to accept some offerings of her burnt flesh.
Exhausted and drained, she probed at the burn with a finger gingerly. She
could not feel it very well, but she assumed the wound had shut. At least
she was no longer taking in any of the dirty necker sand that would be the
end of her with this wind.
Bako had kept this a secret for entirely too long a time, but that was all
right. She also kept stupid shit like sniffing spice in Storm a secret.
Secrets were easy.Bako stared at the dirty stones of the alley lifelessly. It was pure
speculation at this point if she was going to die or not, but she
certainly felt as though she deserved to.
Her blink came at a dead-hang, the slow struggle of a fluttering pair of
eyelids that would just not keep open without a...
Continue Reading...Bako Pt. 2 by Is Friday
Added on Feb 14, 2010Introspective whoring. *This story contains sexual themes and references*
It was hard to think clearly when in the middle of a good fuck, that much
was certain. A mediocre fuck, you could ignore what was going on for a
while, come back during the brief yet relatively lackluster 'better' parts,
and then continue your conversation with yourself.
Bako liked this whore because he didn't talk much, unlike all the other
whores she'd dealt with in her time in the militia. Most thought that
because you were a woman, you loved to talk before and after--well bullshit
on that, all Bako needed was some dick, not a bard. If she wanted some song
and dance, she'd have gone to the tavern, not that certain part of the
bazaar. Now a nice kiss and some touching, that was nice. Bako considered
herself quite sexually cultured nowadays, compared to how she started out.
Used to be that she got right to it. Enjoying the finer things in life was
an acquired taste, she supposed, and she was slowly appreciating a few more
things.
Another thing she liked about this whore is that he never wanted his dick
sucked. That was one thing Bako never felt comfortable doing, being on her
knees. You never knew what you were going to 'get' with some of the poorly
made mul mix some of these cheap whores were buying. Not that this
particular whore was cheap, but some gut feelings had convinced her to make
it a 'rule' to not suck any whore dick. A lot of women she knew liked doing
it, but Bako could never figure out why. Anyway, she preferred being on top,
but might settle for other things every once and a while, if she was feeling
rather drunk or tired, (like now.)
Bako's head suddenly swam with a dizzy excitement as she panted, unable to
do anything in her helplessly blissful state but squirm. Black curtains
pulled over her vision.
"Bako?"
A hand nudged her back into consciousness, and she blinked a few times.
Staring at the ceiling for a moment, before turning her head toward the
voice, she saw Grek beside her on the cot. He was just as beautiful as he
had been before they started fucking and she was slobbering drunk--which was
the terribly addicting part of his services. (She did take note that he bore
the physical signs of strain and exhaustion, with a healthy coat of sweat
over his pretty dusky skin.)
Still feeling slow and drowsy, Bako reached out toward Grek's ear to give a
faint tug.
She said to him, "Grek?"
Grek reached up with a much larger hand, (a shame he had not become a
soldier, for he had the build to be a small mul,) and clapsed it around
hers. He stroked her casually, regarding her with barely seen brown eyes in
the perpetual darkness that came with the sandstorms. (She was lucky that
they had managed to get inside just before this one had kicked up.)
Grek whispered, "You passed out again?"
Bako nodded her assent, biting her bottom lip. It had happened quite a few
times, now. She did not know why, but this man... this man was capable of so
much it sent her right back to being a recruit smashed on the head by the
Corporal--knocked out cold. Naturally, she had to have drank a little most
times, but it happened regardless without the firebreather at times.
"Ya, I'm fine, ya sissy fuck," she reassured affectionately, words holding
no malice in them despite her gruff choice in them.
"Eh. Time for ya to be goin, Sergeant?"
She was to be taking the helm of Sergeant next month, so she quietly and
privately enjoyed the title spoken to her. He was right though, there was a
slowly creeping dawn upon them.
As she was finished getting dressed Grek approached her, still bare-assed.
She held out a hand to halt him bluntly, narrowing her brow at him with a
quick clench in her jaw.
She sharply told him, "I'm wearing the cloak, ya silly fuck. Ya aint touchin
me. We talked bout this shit last time, Grek."
Grek gently pushed aside her hand, which seemed a routine and easy maneuver
because of his greatly underappreciated strength. He stepped toward her,
tracing a finger down her cheek. This sent her in a conflicting storm of
emotion. She wanted to fuck him senseless, but also wanted to shove her
thumbs into his eye sockets for disrespecting her. (She was nearly a
Sergeant!)
If she stayed, she would surely be late again. Her Sergeant that she was
supposed to replace would likely beat the shit out of her. Again. She might
lose Sergeant.
She thought, Fuck that, I'm going to hit him.
And she did, but then she couldn't help but grab at his dick, and the choice
had been made in that single lustful motion. There wasn't any going back,
she was halfway out of her cloak and shoving him onto the cot. They wouldn't
miss her at morning drills--she could come up with some bullshit excuse
about wall duty, anyway. They sometimes bought that. It was a pretty decent
gamble.It was hard to think clearly when in the middle of a good fuck, that much
was certain. A mediocre fuck, you could ignore what was going on for a
while, come back during the brief yet relatively lackluster 'better' parts,
and then continue your conversation with yourself.
Bako liked this...
Continue Reading...Bako Pt. 3 by Is Friday
Added on Feb 14, 2010Corporal Bako serves one of her punishments.
Bako rushed through the courtyard, dragging a bag of obsidian slag as
best she could manage. The burden crunched loudly with each shift in
weight, a bulbous deformation to her form--which could be somewhat
similar to a mutation. It certainly set her apart and held her in a
discouragingly disgusted regard to the rest of the unit.
The Corporal took her first step into the training yard, hunched over
and struggling. Her legs quivered like a necker's in front of some
cruel templar with each movement. She was often called a few
favorable things during a morning of training for her brutality and
strength, but she was at the last dregs of her endurance as she
slowly staggered to her destination. She felt pathetic--she felt
weak--she felt humiliated.
Sergeant Bace stood with his arms crossed, watching her with a
particularly bored stare as she approached. His expression did not
change as she dropped her load, and began the series of formalities
required of her.
Bako straightened her crushed form, a cracked and worn series of
limbs with a tangled mess of hair. She saluted her Sergeant wearily,
barely able to bring a loose fist to her breast before sputtering the
rest of it.
"Necker whore slime Corporal Bako reporting in with one more bag of
obsidian, Sergeant!"
With that, the impeccably dressed and groomed Sergeant snapped his
fingers. Two large Corporals moved in on her, shoving her to the dirt
again. This was the... thirteenth time today. With each load of
obsidian, she recieved a beating. Bace wanted to use Corporals from a
different unit, in order to make it as emotionally painful as
possible, and so he called upon the two Corporals who had proven
themselves early in their careers--just as Bako had.
The stark difference being that these two Corporals, (who were laying
down strikes with their knees and elbows to Bako's writhing form,)
were at the very beginning of their careers. In different units they
were going to become Sergeants soon, and possibly Lieutenants. They
were like Bako was, before she had found out her terrible disease.
She was a great fucking Corporal before she found out she had been
born a disgusting wiggler. Fuck you if you think that finding that
out was easy to deal with, or hide. (Oh how difficult it was at times
to hide.)
Sergeant Bace, who had been her Sergeant for ten... (or was it
twelve?) years now was tired of his Corporal. His Blue Robe would not
assign him a different one, citing that it was the Sergeant's fault
his incredibly promising Corporal turned sour. Bace had been denied
promotion quite a few times because of Bako, she was sure. No one
stayed a Sergeant that long if they were as good as Bace was. (As
good as she was, if not for her affliction.)
The punishment ended, possibly to begin again later after the next
bag. Gripped roughly by her filthy mat of bloody-streaked hair, eyes
half-lidded as she fought passing out, Bako was held upright on her
knees. Her form swayed and would have surely toppled if not stretched
to proper form by the consistently agonizing pull on her hair. She
bled from her face, her neck, her gut, her limbs, (and she certainly
felt as though she bled inside. She was hoping she might cough up
blood, to give her a sign that it would all be over so very soon.)
Sergeant Bace squatted down in front of her, cold gaze narrowing. The
both of them were terribly conflicting sights. He was organized,
trimmed, freshly sand-bathed, and refreshed. She was torn apart,
messy, smelled of sweat and piss, and nearly dead.
"You've cost me a lot, you piece of shit. You are lucky I cannot kill
you." Bace drew a knife, holding it out to one of the future
Sergeants. "Needless to say, you are not making Sergeant. Again. I am
done with you." He turned a placid gaze from her to the one holding
her. "Give her a hair cut."
The simplicity of his words troubled her, and she had to think on it
for a dreadfully long time before her thoughts processed. Bace cannot
kill her, she lost her chance at Sergeant, (again,) Bace is done with
her--wait, what does he mean by 'done'? What was he doing? Was he
leaving the militia, now? Was he getting rid of her somehow?
The dull blade scraped across her scalp. The knife was more of an
annoyance than anything. This was a new trick for reducing her. She'd
seen it done before, but it normally was reserved for those being
punished severely--as with lashings.
Bako suddenly smiled as her drenched locks fell past her sight, the
red along her teeth causing Bace some pause in his expression. The
Sergeant opened his mouth as though suddenly distressed, seeing the
severity of her wounds all at once. She wasn't about to be sent to
the Sawbones before she endured the worst of his punishments, so Bako
thought quickly and attempted to form some course of action that
would keep her from being cared to.
Bako's throat gurgled for a moment, and she spit on Sergeant Bace.
The drool and blood trickled down her own form, but she did not care.
She had landed a good amount on Bace, and that was pleasing enough to
see his reaction. Unfortunately, he was having none of it, and
instead of continuing to call for Sawbones, he simply knocked her the
fuck out.
Oh well. At least she'd have a full haircut by the time she woke up,
instead of half of one like she might have if she had been given to
Sawbones. She considered herself genuinely successful.
She just had a really great fuck, a decent bit of wine, and stuck her
fist up Bace's ass all in one day. It was a fairly decent day to die.
(Krath, if only she were ever that lucky.)Bako rushed through the courtyard, dragging a bag of obsidian slag as
best she could manage. The burden crunched loudly with each shift in
weight, a bulbous deformation to her form--which could be somewhat
similar to a mutation. It certainly set her apart and held her in a
discouragingly...
Continue Reading...A Tor Scorpion by Biscuits
Added on Jan 31, 2010One of Tor's Red Scorpions.
Behind Thrend Lyksae by Tarx
Added on Dec 29, 2009Biographies of Thrend Lyksae, edited to remove some IC information that probably should not be shared. Hopefully this will give some insight into a noble role.
Initial Background
It was late morning on Cingel, the 70th day of the Descending Sun
In the Year of Drov's Agitation, year 35 of the 21st AgeThrend has been raised up in the war-like House of Lyksae, trained in
warfare and in commanding soldiers for the majority of his life. A shrewd
man, he is more intent on finding long-term solutions to problems rather
than short-term, temporary fixes. He prides himself on his ability to think
through situations and use his mind, even though he is (what he considers,
at least) an ample combatant. This, coupled with the Lyksaen dislike of
writing, has led him to pick up what languages and cultural knowledge that
he could--knowing the mindset of possible opponents (and allies) would be
invaluable, in his opinion. A self-proclaimed strategist, he is entirely
open to unconventional means of fixing problems--whether they be in battle,
in treaties, or in everyday life. He does have a quirk of personality: he
is always conscious about fashion and keeping himself looking proper, clean,
and unruffled, almost to the point of being effeminate. In fact, some of
his flamboyant gestures have, in the past, put people entirely too
comfortable with a person that has no compunctions with sliding a blade
between ribs himself.Diplomacy and Tact
It was late morning on Huegel, the 30th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Ruk's Peace, year 37 of the 21st AgeAfter more than three years serving as one of the primary representatives of
House Lyksae, Thrend has accomplished a great deal. He is the current governor
of the Southwestern Scrub and the Red Sun Commons. He has orchestrated the start
of several peace / alliance talks with different tribes of the Northlands.
Thrend is now on good terms with the Jul Tavan, the Benjari, and the Tan Muark.
Part of this is due to his skill at understanding differing cultures and their
languages, as well as how they perceive threats. His chief problem now
is the threat of the (information removed by author).
Thrend has also managed to deploy a Horde of Lyksaen Warriors to
operate out of Ayun Iskandir. Soon, he will begin using these forces as leverage
to put pressure on the regions thereabouts (Tan Muark homelands, Elan Pah, etc).
He is working fervently to increasing the influence of his House and himself
both within and outside the walls of the Ivory City.
(next entry will show details)Influence and Intimidation
It was late afternoon on Huegel, the 30th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Ruk's Peace, year 37 of the 21st AgeThrend has begun to amass support amongst the commoner populace of the Northlands,
portraying himself as a noble figure in one sense, but as a charismatic commander
as well. He takes great care to be calm and cool about any decisions made publicly,
and keeps up with his training of personal combat, tactics, and reviews of strategy.
By doing all of this, he hopes to create a strong support base of commoners outside
of House Lyksae. Some will hopefully respect and listen to him out of his considerable
diplomatic and economic influence (alliances, treaties, influence he -can- hold over
Merchant Houses by taxing any goods sent out of the Commons or Scrub).
The rest? They should respect and listen to him because he tries to be intimidating.
(Whether or not they do remains up to them, of course.)Stance on Magick?
It was dusk on Huegel, the 30th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Ruk's Peace, year 37 of the 21st AgeHouse Lyksae has a strong stance against magick--in fact, rumored to be one
of the most anti-magick groups in Zalanthas. As such, Thrend has lived most
of his life in a very black-and-white world in which all magick should be
destroyed, whatever the cost, as soon as possible. However, Thrend's work
with the Faithful and continued reports from the field have led him to begin
compiling at least a working understanding of how abominations "work." He
still hates the thought of even dealing with 'gickers, but he has lately taken
a slightly different viewpoint. Magickers will be killed and destroyed--on
his own terms, at a time and place of his choosing...not when they are ready
for such an attack. Needless waste of life, he has determined...
Interestingly enough, (information removed by the author). This naivete to
how the world really is may end up causing him problems one day.Ritual of Fire
It was high sun on Nekrete, the 126th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Ruk's Peace, year 37 of the 21st AgeThrend has only given scant thought to any forced confrontation against
the (information removed by author) and anything they can summon. While this
may be surprising, he has been far too busy trying to gather forces
and strategy to consider the event in question itself. Only recently
has he paused to consider the War that the Sun King has foreseen.
What will his House do? Undoubtedly, against a foe like (removed) they will be called upon to participate in some
dangerous and costly missions, resulting in many dead Warriors,
and likely his own death. To prepare himself for this, he has
decided to participate in a fire ritual to prove his loyalty and his
dedication to leading forces against the force of (removed).Foe, or...foe?
It was late morning on Cingel, the 158th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Ruk's Peace, year 37 of the 21st AgeThrend took it upon himself to visit the Elan Pah and discuss terms of
dealing with (removed) with them. Unaware that he would be
facing so many magickers so blatantly, it took an excessive amount of
self-control for Thrend to sit through the meeting, and frequently he
bit his tongue before saying anything potentially dangerous.
While the trip was not entirely without gain, Thrend admitted himself
that he did not think of the risks involved. Had he been killed, it
would have severely set back any agreements or treaties with the
Elan Pah. By committing himself to a dangerous trip, though, he
learned several things:
While the Templarate frequently worked with Thrend and expected
him to tell them everything he heard about, they did NOT
reciprocate this information. Much of what Thrend set out to
discuss was already determined among the Templarate. Having
previously viewed Serilla and Elithan as friends, Thrend is a
bit more cautious around the two of them, for they were very much
against the trip and adamant about his importance.
He does feel that the trip made a difference if only that in
recent memory, none of His Chosen or His Faithful have been
to visit the Pah directly.
The question: will Lyksae accept the Pah's proposal for a
more direct alliance? Likely not. Thrend hates the thought of
being allied with a magicker, especially after seeing what they
do in person. Their talk of peace and love and compassion
grates so much against Thrend that he is willing to go along
with it as a complete deception and launch an attack at the
most opportune moment.(title removed by author)
It was late morning on Dzeda, the 174th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Ruk's Peace, year 37 of the 21st AgeWars have not been fought or lost over weapons, as far as Thrend knows,
but they sure do help. The (removed by author) has been missing for many years.
A fine weapon in its own right, Thrend has recently developed an obsession
with finding it and restoring it to the House (and hopefully his own hand,
fitting his ideals of attempting to become the -next- (removed by author)).
With the silver from the medallion of Tektolnes that he currently "owns,"
Thrend believes he has a good bargaining chip for finding (removed by author).
He's mentioned his interest in finding the original, and knows its last
location was (removed by author)...New Priorities
It was late afternoon on Dzeda, the 141st day of the Low Sun
In the Year of Whira's Vengeance, year 38 of the 21st AgeAfter some time spent figuring out his plans, Thrend is once again
pushing for agents working outside of His City, people that can be at least
marginally trusted to bring in useful information. It appears that the Lady
Tor wishes to meet up with him down in Luir's... While the offer looks
legitimate, Thrend is wary of making the journey.Affirmation: The Pah Alliance
It was high sun on Abid, the 91st day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Whira's Vengeance, year 38 of the 21st AgeThe Elan Pah proposed their alliance some time ago. Thrend has
grudgingly accepted on behalf of the House. He has sent Utakr Ehrick of the
Lyksaean Warriors to secure this alliance with Kija. His conditions will be
to only work directly with the non-magicker scouts, and just trade
information otherwise. This alliance will be in effect only until whatever
confrontation with the Dragon is met. Beyond that point? Thrend has darker
interests in mind... The Elan Pah court alliance with magick and magickers.
They must all be destroyed.A Magicker killed
It was high sun on Abid, the 91st day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Whira's Vengeance, year 38 of the 21st Age(removed) was her name. An innocent face, a loyal facade put forth to
sway me, to make me see past the obvious taint she had.
She was, of course, tainted by abominable magicks.
We deceived her, to be sure--but I have learned that the best way to
destroy those that use such dangerous arts is to choose the time and place
of destruction appropriately. They have weaknesses. Utakr Ehrick is
determining what those are even now, among them. A truly detestable job...
I will be surprised if he is not promoted for simply maintaining such
composure and self-control among such adverse conditions.
We beat her head in after confronting her in the Estate. Our Kaffter
Kahs were stained by her blood.
The Sun King is once again victorious.The Alliance for the Grey HuntIt was early morning on Abid, the 25th day of the Low Sun
In the Year of Dragon's Slumber, year 39 of the 21st AgeI never expected him to REALLY win the Grey Hunt, but he had the best
chance. Rokov-da Kurac, we knew, was a favored choice... So we sponsored
him, quietly. Lyksae put their full political backing behind this candidate
for the Hunt. I met with him and he agreed to the alliance in exchange for
predetermined spice discounts along a broad range for House Lyksae. In
return, we offered any help that we could that would not cause harm to our
interests. I met personally with His Faithful and others of His Chosen and
mentioned how favorably I found this person to be. I only told His Faithful
of the official stance of Lyksae, which was "unofficial" and not publicly
known.Defensive agreement with the Tan Muark
It was early morning on Abid, the 25th day of the Low Sun
In the Year of Dragon's Slumber, year 39 of the 21st AgeI heard from Utakr Ehrick that Zharal, one of the Tan Muark, had greatly
impressed him--and he had greatly impressed her, I later found out. It was
unexpected. We rarely let on the tribal nature of the House, and for her to
discover it may have been a boon. I am beginning to reconsider my stance on
the tribes... Maybe I should have approached them from the beginning to
appeal to their tribal nature and show them our roots, if only a scant
amount of them. The Pah are a hopeless cause, but the Muark are
interesting. Ehrick thought it wise to broker a tentative agreement of
defense between himself and any Warriors, slaves, or partisans he took on
patrol and the Muark that may be out on patrol. I find it equally wise, and
I will push to make it more widespread and include all within my
Sept--perhaps all within the House, if the elders so choose. If we run into
trouble, we can call them for assistance. If they run into trouble, they
can call us for assistance. I hardly expect them to do so, and I hardly
expect any of the Warriors to readily ask for assistance, but the appearance
of such an agreement is what matters.His Glory Shines on Us
It was late morning on Abid, the 25th day of the Low Sun
In the Year of Dragon's Slumber, year 39 of the 21st AgeThe Sun King filled my thoughts with love, devotion to me, and
determination. I knew before that He cared for His people, but now... I
have laid eyes on Him myself. I know it to be true beyond faith. This
truly is a momentous time for the House, for He Chose Rokov-da and Zharal
Himself, before all. He spoke of His prophecy, and I took it to heart: I
must gather the tribes. I must gather them... And if they are unwilling, I
will have to persuade them of the best course of action. It seems as though
every person will matter. If it comes down to it, we will have to push
aside those that stand in the way of His Will.Lyksae's Victory: The Grey Hunt
It was late morning on Abid, the 25th day of the Low Sun
In the Year of Dragon's Slumber, year 39 of the 21st AgeThe largest victory that our House has had, and few will ever know.
We supported Rokov-da. We had an agreement with Zharal beforehand,
though not for the Hunt. I even personally endorsed Thiza al'Seik, who
trusts me enough to die for me. Her trust and devotion is similar to that
of the Warriors, though she is unblooded. I plan to make her a citizen, and
officially, a Warrior in training. I trust her more than the others...
The point? We hedged our bets, and all of them turned out well. Rokov
was Chosen by HIM, and it cannot be mistaken that He knew that Chosen Lord
Rokov would choose Zharal as his consort, which I did not expect.
I think that our King must have known the work I put into this. He has
seen that we made the right choice, to support those that He would Choose.
I met with the Chosen Lord and Lady only last week. They were in
agreement: Lyksae is going to be a great ally to them. Perhaps I will bring
it before the elders to marry them into the House at a later time. For now,
it is good that they enjoy their newfound status. Any that He Chose Himself
are good people. I told them so, and have pledged my Sept to protecting
them.And thus begins my mistake: Uaptal
It was early afternoon on Yochem, the 205th day of the Descending Sun
In the Year of Vivadu's Defiance, year 40 of the 21st AgeSoon after He showed His face... She showed hers. I fell for it.
Uaptal women. Let it never be said that they are not beautiful, nor let it
be said that they are not crafty. Shara Uaptal certainly wasn't the first
of His Chosen that I've been enamored with, but she certainly was the most
recent.
A brief fling it was, and she was interested in a relationship with no
political ties. I won't deny that the prospect was interesting, and I even
went along with such a notion with this in mind. She was nice enough, and I
could stand to be around her.The alliance plan
It was late afternoon on Yochem, the 205th day of the Descending Sun
In the Year of Vivadu's Defiance, year 40 of the 21st AgeOnly a brief month after things began to escalate between the Chosen
Lady and I, the ruthless line from the point where I was to the point that I
wished to be became clear.
I saw it now. The North and South had allied, and I couldn't be less
annoyed by it. He had called for it, to be sure, but I never expected that
it would ever occur. It is inevitable that ambassadors would be sent. I
thought to hedge every possible bet. Oh, my plan was exquisite and lacked
any flaws!
A permanent marriage between her and I. She would join with Lyksae, and
bring her territories with her. It would increase our prestige in exchange
for whatever it was that Uaptal would wish for children. The crux of the
power play came with this: if one or the other of us were to be sent to the
South as an ambassador, the other could manage the qynar and striasiri, and
keep things going in the North.The unknown variable: stupidity
It was dusk on Yochem, the 205th day of the Descending Sun
In the Year of Vivadu's Defiance, year 40 of the 21st AgeThe only variable I had no control over was the woman herself, and an
unexpected, unforeseen development: she was a complete idiot.
She lacked any political savvy. Her intentions were greedy, and her
ideals were such that would damage the Ivory's relations with everyone. The
first mistake she made was not even acknowledging my political experience.
Rather than listening, she forged on stubbornly, deciding on licensing any
hunting within the grasslands in order to "prevent overhunting." A stupid
move: she has no force to patrol the grasslands. However, I thought to
move forward and press the issue--after all, I have Warriors under my
command that could easily enforce these regulations.
Her second mistake? Preventing the Warriors from patrolling the
grasslands by Qynar law. Oh, it was more complicated than that, but at this
point, my desire to enter in a marriage contract had faded and had been
replaced by a desire to rid myself of her...The Final Mistake
It was late at night on Yochem, the 205th day of the Descending Sun
In the Year of Vivadu's Defiance, year 40 of the 21st AgeShe no longer wanted to go through with the marriage contract.
Besides acting like a bitch in general, she had turned into some greedy,
selfish creature that was only interested in her own wants and needs and how
she looked to the rest of the world.
Unfortunately, how she looks to the rest of the world is not how she
thinks she looks. She is a complete fool politically. I forced her to make
the decision. She chose to make Qynar law that borders on illegality with
the Qynar Authority, and then I instructed my own Warriors and partisans to
be aware of the law, but ignore it in seriousness. She has no one to
enforce even a law that prevents the Warriors from patrolling the
grasslands.
My answer to this will have to be political sabotage and subterfuge,
something the Chosen Lady has little skill in. She believes that she can
disagree with me and still be a "friend," and have a relationship.
This was the mistake that broke me. My interests are to protect His
City, to protect the striasiri as I have always done, and to make sure that
we are working against (removed). She is impeding this.
If His Chosen can be so naive, then they must be tested by fire. Only
the loyal will withstand His Burning Light.Surrounded by fools
It was late at night on Yochem, the 205th day of the Descending Sun
In the Year of Vivadu's Defiance, year 40 of the 21st AgeI'm surrounded by fools. Shara Uaptal is more concerned with learning
about animals than about defending His City. Analyse passed out from using
the Way whilst IN Allanak. Leisara put the entire delegation in jeopardy.
Cammul Kassigarh is insane, and a borderline heretic. Aylishia Tor tries to
order me around, as though I were a pet kurtok. Mallor Tor pretends to know
things I've known for months.
What is the answer? Why has the Sun King put me through such a trial? I
am weary of the stupidity of others. I take heart in spending time among
His Faithful, for they know the Sun King's true will, and they have not
failed.Chosen Lady Shara's Death
It was high sun on Dzeda, the 174th day of the Low Sun
In the Year of King's Reverence, year 41 of the 21st AgeI wasn't surprised. It removed the thorn from my side. The Sun King
watches over me, and protects me--and has poured out His wrath on those that
would come against me, either openly or covertly. May His Radiance shine
down on those that serve Him, and burn up those that are heretics.Leisara: The Chosen Consort
It was early afternoon on Dzeda, the 174th day of the Low Sun
In the Year of King's Reverence, year 41 of the 21st AgeThe gypsy Chosen. Adept, yet unskilled in the subtleties of His City.
I wondered about this one originally. I threw my support behind Rokov-da,
and also behind Thiza al'Seik. Rokov won, but sickness has taken him. He
is a weak man, physically. His ties to Kurac have strengthened my ties with
Kurac, but he is scarcely able to leave his bed and Estate.
The problem with her is her ambition. She is not controllable, not docile.
In many ways, her stubbornness reflects what I saw in Shara--only in a more
reasonable light. She seems to enjoy company with me, as we share many
things in common...yet I know the truth of her ways. I trust her. I trust
her to be herself, and her nature is one that looks out for her and her own
folk. She is still Muark at heart.
I've put on airs that I am disconcerted by her, and possibly interested.
This was only helped by one drunken evening spent talking about things. If
she thinks I am easily swayed by feminine wiles, she will be caught
off-guard when it does not succeed. She is pleasant enough, I suppose, and
something of a Chosen, but still a commoner in many ways. Until she refines
herself, I can't see myself pursuing anything other than business relations
with the woman.
She's damn infuriating. Luirsfest: Relations with the South
It was late afternoon on Dzeda, the 174th day of the Low Sun
In the Year of King's Reverence, year 41 of the 21st AgeI hate Southerners.
I really do. They're uncouth, dull-witted, and the majority of them do not
command any respect from me. The only one I've seen of any sort of decency
has been the Great Lord Samos Rennik, and him only because of the influence
that he wields so well. I respect him, at least.
Unfortunately, he did not come to the Festival. The only people to show
from the South's "highblood" ranks were Mallor Tor, Aylishia Tor, and
Sedarin Oash.
Aylishia Tor I rendered a fool within moments of meeting her
face-to-face. She kept harping on about the "alliance." There is no such
thing. I made it painfully clear to her.
Sedarin Oash was, simply put, far outmatched. He should have stayed in
Allanak until he was old enough to speak more eloquently and with more
intelligence.
Mallor Tor...I thought him to be repugnant. I nearly challenged him to a
fight within the Kuraci Fighting pits, which would have been magnificent.
However, Faithful Lady Serilla interfered, as she always does... Luirsfest: Relations with the North
It was late afternoon on Dzeda, the 174th day of the Low Sun
In the Year of King's Reverence, year 41 of the 21st AgeI am beginning to despise the Lirathan Templarate. Specifically, the
Faithful Lady Serilla Uaptal. She has meddled in my affairs before, and I
have remained cautiously optimistic that she was not dangerous.
She seems to think that an alliance between the North and the South is
what we need in order to (removed). I am of a different mind: I think
that we should let (removed) destroy the South, then sweep up the remains of
both in a glorious conquest afterwards.
While that seems far-fetched, so is the thought of Tuluk and Allanak
working as allies. If any such thing officially comes to pass, I will
be -very- irate.Death of Vraj Dasari
It was early morning on Dzeda, the 152nd day of the Low Sun
In the Year of Lirathu's Peace, year 44 of the 21st AgeHe was a great man for the short time I got to know him. Vraj
Dasari... Interesting fellow, to be sure. I respected him, even though he
was much younger than me. He respected my experience, and that made me
pleased. The week the biters took him, we were holed up in the Fortress,
fending off the biter attacks. I dragged a Legion soldier back down the
road with my own strength, warding off the biters with my mace.
I killed several of the biters...(removed by author) There will be vengeance against them. We
held Vraj's memorial service aboard the Araba, deep, deep in the grasslands.
I have the full support of three Jihaen Templars and Faithful Lady Serilla
to do what is necessary to defeat these halflings.Belinta Lyksae's death; a new (removed by author)
It was high sun on Dzeda, the 152nd day of the Low Sun
In the Year of Lirathu's Peace, year 44 of the 21st AgeWe've hit a bit of a snag, it seems: one of my kin, Belinta Lykase,
was killed in the Grey Forest on scouting missions. As one of the (removed),
she was directly over me, though I usually report to my uncle, Lirst Lyksae.
Belinta was replaced by Arisu Lyksae, my firebrand of a cousin.
The woman is a terrible creature to behold. Her beautiful features mask
insanity, I'm sure. I fear for my life when the daughter of the (removed)
is in the room with me. Not only is she completely spastic, she is half my
age and lacks experience in leadership, in my opinion.
I've learned from Shara, though: never trust beauty, and never trust
first impressions. She may very well be a boon in the future.Forging Ahead
It was late morning on Cingel, the 37th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Suk-krath's Defiance, year 54 of the 21st AgeMy House has given me the task of scouting out the Grey Forest for the
purpose of a protracted Lyksaen campaign in the area. I understand that
this likely will be something the House will push for, with or without the
support of other Houses or the Templarate. Those who fail at their
accomplishments in Lyksae typically do not get pushed ahead to delve into
more, so I relish the chance to prove myself.
I have spent nearly all of my political capital gained over the years of my
life in garnering support for this scouting party. I pulled in Kurac for
their renowned fieldcraft. I pulled in the Jihaen Templarate, citing (removed).
I secured a map from the Lirathan
Templarate, generic as it may be. Kadius was willing to join in for the
sake of Morin's Village. I even pulled in a contingent of Bynners to act as
targets.
My plan was not complicated. However, it was completely insane, and likely
to produce casualties. No other sort of plan would work against the biters
in their own territory. The plan? I divided our forces into two groups.
One would harry the biters at the south end of the Grey Forest, near the
Span. The other would plunge into the Grey, heading towards (removed). The scouts would leave the second group at this point,
(remainder removed by author).The Aftermath
It was high sun on Cingel, the 37th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Suk-krath's Defiance, year 54 of the 21st AgeWe were successful.
The plan did not go as intended, but the goal was still achieved. However,
we took on casualties. I estimate that we left with three quarters to four
fifths of the forces we entered the mission with. The Byn took on losses,
as did Kadius, but the ones I noticed most were the Legions and my own
Warriors. We lost Faithful Lord Aupholt Negean to a halfling dart, and I
lost my protege partisan-turned-Warrior, Caprice.
The biters did not act as I predicted. They were much more ferocious, and
seemed to be more aware of my scouting party than I expected. They were not
long fooled by the diversion to the south, and had the numbers (apparently)
to aggressively take on both forces.
I pushed my forces into the Grey. Once we arrived, I sent off
the scouts. We were determined to hold position there, but the biters were
beginning to wear on us with their darts and arrows. I made the decision to
pull back, trusting to the work of the scouts to keep themselves hidden in
their work, and rejoined the other group of soldiers. At some point, the
Jhinya Ake appeared to harass us, but we managed to fight them off as well.
I awaited reports from the scouting party.
Meanwhile, it seemed that some rogue magickers were actually helping the
biters--if not directly, then by somehow passing information. Eventually,
my scouting party reported to me via the Way that they had achieved their
objective of scouting the area, and saw many halflings, but were worried
they'd be cut off (removed). That was all I needed
to know--that a dedicated team COULD (removed).
I made one last push with the whole of our forces. We managed
to secure our end, but Faithful Lord Aupholt fell. Then I heard the
chilling news that Caprice had fallen, and that the other two scouts, Kaliya
al'Seik and Sergeant Nahkt of Kurac were separated and in need of
assistance. I left about half of the forces and
took the rest--including Faithful Lord Elithan--to rescue the scouts. We
succeeded, and managed to return relatively unharmed to our beleaguered
defensive force. We then extracted ourselves.Uncharacteristic Reactions
It was early afternoon on Cingel, the 37th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Suk-krath's Defiance, year 54 of the 21st AgeI wasn't expecting the Templarate to call the mission a failure. By all
accounts--well, by my accounts--we achieved the goal we set out for. We had
scouted the (removed) Grey Forest, and knew it was possible to (removed).
If warriors and soldiers are not ready to die when they enter into a mission,
then they have not been trained well enough. I emphasized this point to the
Templarate, but it was no use. High Templar Serilla was displeased with the
way things had turned out, despite my explanations that casualties were
expected in advance.
It was a sore blow to lose Caprice. I had grown very attached to that woman,
and her work over the years was invaluable.
The next biography has not been included.Initial Background
It was late morning on Cingel, the 70th day of the Descending Sun
In the Year of Drov's Agitation, year 35 of the 21st AgeThrend has been raised up in the war-like House of Lyksae, trained in
warfare and in commanding soldiers for the majority of his life. A shrewd
man, he is...
Continue Reading...Fecked a Fruit by Taven
Added on Dec 29, 2009This is the craziest party (with the possible exception of a certain Fale party) any of my PCs has ever attended. It's so crazy, you have to consent to read it. Just be glad you're not the fruit.
It’s a long log, to get you into the mood of the scene. I apologize for the crappy formatting, but it’s the crazy Arm Original Submissions doing it, not me.
-------
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man has arrived from the north.
At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, glancing around:
"Discard if ya've still got a card, mates, an' here we go."
Calling over, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:
"Cactus, grab a drink, but no getting drunk."
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals himself a Kruth card.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the slender, obsidian-eyed man.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the willowy, grey-streaked man.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the rugged, dusk-toned man.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card: the Sun of Life to you.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the scarred, ebony-haired woman.
Rolling his eyes, the willowy, grey-streaked man discards his Kruth card: the Water of Death.
At your table, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says in sirihish, eyeing her card solemnly:
"Damn."
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the willowy, grey-streaked man.
At your table, the scarred, ebony-haired woman says in sirihish, tossing her Kruth card: the Wind of Deceit to the table:
"New one, Farran."
The rugged, dusk-toned man grins a large grin, glancing down to his card.
The slender, hack-haired man smiles at your card.
At your table, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says in sirihish, pointing at the willowy, grey-streaked man:
"Makarim!"
The scarred, ebony-haired woman discards her Kruth card: the Wind of Deceit.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the scarred, ebony-haired woman.
At your table, the furrowed, stubbled man says in sirihish, to the burn-scarred, curly-haired man:
"Fergot me."
Grunting, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man discards his Kruth card: the Water of Kings.
At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, glancing to the furrowed, stubbled man:
"Yeah. Who th' fuck are ya, anyway/"
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man salutes the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette and nods obediently as he weaves his way over to a broad table of scarred agafari wood.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals himself a Kruth card.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man gets his small stone shotglass from a broad table of scarred agafari wood.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man gets his small stone shotglass from a broad table of scarred agafari wood.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the furrowed, stubbled man.
At your table, the furrowed, stubbled man says in sirihish, with a shrug:
"Jus' some fek. Names Yaroch."
The scarred, ebony-haired woman frowns at her card.
At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:
"I'll stay."
Tilting his head back, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man downs his small stone shotglass.
At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, shrugging:
"Aye, very well. Anyone else?"
At your table, the furrowed, stubbled man says in sirihish:
"Another."
At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, dipping a nod:
"Gotta discard it first mate."
The furrowed, stubbled man discards his Kruth card: the Wind of Death.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the furrowed, stubbled man.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man smacks his lips a few times and eyes his small stone shotglass.
At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, glancing around:
"Going... goin'... gone. Flip 'em."
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman flips over her Kruth card: the Sun of Fate.
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette absently turns over her Kruth card: the Stone of Death.
The furrowed, stubbled man turns over his Kruth card: the Stone of Truth.
Flipping it over, the scarred, ebony-haired woman discards her Kruth card: the Sun of Deceit.
Grunting, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man discards his Kruth card: the Wind of Truth.
The willowy, grey-streaked man discards his Kruth card: the Sun of Truth.
The slender, obsidian-eyed man discards his Kruth card: the Stone of Fate.
The furrowed, stubbled man discards his Kruth card: the Stone of Truth.
At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:
"Safely in tha middle... "
Tossing it down with a large grin, the rugged, dusk-toned man discards his Kruth card: the Stone of Life.
Swallowing hard, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man lifts the second glass and gulps it down unflinchingly.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man drinks brandy from his small stone shotglass.
At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, smirking:
"So far, it's Horus winnin' and Laila loosin'."
At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, shaking his head:
"Jenneth's winnin' that is."
Making a wry face as he eases it back onto the table, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man discards his small stone shotglass.
At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, to you, with a frown:
"Well, fuck you."
At your table, you say in sirihish, to the rugged, dusk-toned man with a slight smirk:
"Love to. You pick the place, or should I?"
At your table, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says in sirihish:
"Turnabout's fair play, Jenneth, what's it to be?"
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man shuffles a deck of Kruth cards.
Stepping over, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man tosses his dark, hooded cloak into a crate half-packed with debris and trash.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man walks south.
At your table, you say in sirihish:
"Anybody got a good idea?"
At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:
"Table dance!"
At your table, the willowy, grey-streaked man says in sirihish:
"Regardin' Laila? I got -dozens- of good ideas fer Laila."
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man shuffles a deck of Kruth cards.
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman grins at the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette.
At your table, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says in sirihish:
"I'm hard to embarrass too, unless Cera's around."
At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, to the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman:
"Tha's... yer idea -every- time."
At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish, to the rugged, dusk-toned man:
"An yer complainin why?"
At your table, you say in sirihish, to the willowy, grey-streaked man with a chuckle:
"Well, spit 'em out. N' no, we don't want to watch more foreplay n' shet with you two."
At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, to you:
"Make 'er beat th'piss out've Farran! I want t'watch that sibling rivalry shit."
At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, pursing his lips:
"I want a story."
At your table, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says in sirihish, pointing her clay bottle at the willowy, grey-streaked man:
"And I doubt the Sergeant's ideas are legal in public."
At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:
"They are, and Fale pays double if they get ta watch."
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman grins at the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette.
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette laughs at the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman.
At your table, the furrowed, stubbled man says in sirihish:
"Who's gonna arrest ya?"
The scarred, ebony-haired woman chuckles, shaking her head.
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman nods to the furrowed, stubbled man.
At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:
"Excellent point"
At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:
"I won't."
At your table, the willowy, grey-streaked man says in sirihish:
"Like -you- fuckers get to see what I'm gonna do t'Laila later."
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette leans over the edge of the table, still laughing.
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman fans herself, glancing sidelong at the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man wrinkles up his nose.
At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, jamming a thumb into his chest:
"My idea is th'best."
At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, sagely:
"I don't -want- to."
At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish:
"Siblin' brawl."
At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish, to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette:
"I know what yer birthday present is.. Yer gonna be walkin' bowlegged fer weeks."
At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, to the burn-scarred, curly-haired man:
"Then don't fight back. Jus' let 'er beat th'fuck out've ya'."
With a wink, the slender, obsidian-eyed man says to the willowy, grey-streaked man, in sirihish:
"You never know who might be watching."
At your table, you say in sirihish, chuckling:
"I agree with Farran. I -don't- want to see that."
At your table, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says in sirihish, waggling her eyebrows at the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman:
"Let's hope."
At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, rolling his eyes at the rugged, dusk-toned man:
"Wasn't talkin' about that."
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman grins at the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette.
At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, peering at you:
"Pick summat."
Pursing his lips, you look at the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette.
The confident carriage of an athletic physique, healthy glow of bronze
skin, and clear gaze of this young woman combine to radiate an aura of
vitality and energy. Tall for a human, her body bears the sleek, taut
musculature of one trained in physical arts, clearly seen in strong
shoulders, sculpted arms, and long, shapely legs. Modest but womanly curves
are accentuated by a slim waist, and she has large, capable hands with
slender fingers. A single lock of brunette hair falling to the left side of
her face has been ornamented with a lustrous strand of small, smoothly
rounded jade beads ranging in hue from dusky to brilliant green; at the end
of this length dangles two slightly larger beads painstakingly carved in the
shapes of a lushly blooming rose and a wickedly barbed thorn. Haphazardly
woven into the remainder of the waving mane that frames her round face is a
fringe of dozens more jade beads which clack gently with movement and gleam
in ambient light. The soft depth of warm brown eyes and sensuous sweep of
wide lips are countered by emphatically dark eyebrows; a straight, firm
nose; and a resolute set to her squared chin. Etched at the corners of
mouth and eyes, faint lines are beginning to give testimony to laughter and
care.
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette is in excellent condition.
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette is using:
<worn in hair> a jade hairclasp
<face> branching fiery temple veins
<worn in left ear> an earring of glittering black glass
<worn in right ear> a small jade earring
<worn around neck> a jet-colored, chitin gorget
<worn about throat> a jade and ebony cross
<slung across back> an obsidian-headed, jade-emblazoned mace
<worn across back> a new jade-emblazoned, hoplite shield
<right shoulder> a black-inked tattoo of a sprawling city
<left shoulder> a wicked jade warrior tattoo
<worn on arms> a pair of black, cloth armbands
<worn around wrist> a tortoiseshell bracer
<worn around wrist> a dragon-carved spiked bracer
<worn on hands> a pair of fine, black suede gloves
<worn on forearms> a dragon-emblazoned armsheath
<worn around body> a black, hooded militia dustcloak
<worn on legs> a jade-trimmed reinforced leather skirt
<right ankle> a small, jade songbird tattoo
<worn on left ankle> an obsidian anklet set with jade studs
<worn on feet> a pair of polished, black leather boots
She is carrying:
nothing obvious
At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, nodding:
"Oh. A'right, then."
At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, to you:
"My idea's th'best, y'know."
At your table, the willowy, grey-streaked man says in sirihish:
"Let's have somethin' Jenneth."
The dapper, pony-tailed woman has arrived from the south.
The sinewy, emerald-eyed man has arrived from the south.
At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:
"Jes don' make me think again.. that hurt"
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman grins.
At your table, you say in sirihish, waving a hand to the burn-scarred, curly-haired man:
"'S goin' to be a table dance. I'd make it a table -strip- dance, but the feckin' Gith won't go for that, eh?"
Tipping it back, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man drinks brandy from his small stone shotglass.
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman grins.
At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, smirking:
"I wouldn't go for a strip dance. Since it's my sister an' all."
You get your small portion of a small roasted erdlu breast from your pouched belt.
It is very light.
At your table, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says in sirihish, looking down at herself:
"I could take off my cloak...weapons...shield...but yeah."
At your table, the willowy, grey-streaked man says in sirihish, to you:
"Think you was mistaken. Think you meant to say that there's no way you'd ask her to strip."
Pacing through the crowd behind the sinewy, emerald-eyed man, the dapper, pony-tailed woman claims the chair him draws back for her at a round, blue-painted table and settles down, crossing her legs)
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman thumps a booted foot against the floor to set a steady beat for the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette.
The dapper, pony-tailed woman sits at a round, blue-painted table.
At your table, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says in sirihish, nodding to you:
"Highly recommend that's what you meant to say."
At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:
"No threatenin when we're playin!"
The rugged, dusk-toned man snickers, shaking his head.
Tilting his head back, the sinewy, weather-worn man drinks ale from his miniature barrel.
At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, chuckling:
"Jenneth's just fond of strip dance in general for some reason. I doubt it has anythin' to do with Laila doin' it."
At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:
"Jen made NADIM strip.. tha man's got no limits."
Scraping her chair back, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette stands up from a broad table of scarred agafari wood.
Pushing back in his chair, the sinewy, weather-worn man stands up from a wobbly baobab table.
At your table, you say in sirihish, chuckling:
"Nadim -did- get to keep his pants on."
As she straightens, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says to the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman, in sirihish:
"Tell Cactus he can have my chair, I'll sit on the Sergeant's lap. When I'm done."
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman nods to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette.
At your table, the furrowed, stubbled man says in sirihish, nodding to you:
"Ya got the right idea, Jenneth."
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette steps up on her chair, placing a booted foot firmly, and then onto a broad table of scarred agafari wood.
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman keeps thumping out a rhythm, pounding a heel against the floor.
Leaving it behind on a wobbly baobab table, the sinewy, weather-worn man discards his miniature barrel.
With a glance from the northern archway, the gaunt, ivory-toned lad looks down at the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman.
With a flick of a gloved hand, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette sweeps her black, hooded militia dustcloak over her shoulders and catches a fistful of it.
The scarred, ebony-haired woman claps her hands, matching the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman's heel thumps.
The willowy, grey-streaked man leans back in his chair and folds his arms over his chest, looking up at the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette with a grin.
With a squint as a head breaks the usual swarm of patrons, the dapper, pony-tailed woman looks towards the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette with a curious eye expression.
The sinewy, weather-worn man steps forward through the tavern, slowly making his way to a broad table of scarred agafari wood.
Matching the rhythm, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette smiles down at the willowy, grey-streaked man as she clicks bootheels on a broad table of scarred agafari wood, keeping her gaze on him as she turns in a slow circle.
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman drinks brandy from her small stone shotglass.
Tossing it back onto the table after slamming it down, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman discards her small stone shotglass.
The sinewy, weather-worn man places a hand on the back of the rugged, dusk-toned man's chair and crouches down to his level.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man pounds the table with the side of his fist, in rythym with the other encouragements.
Twisting her hand, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette sweeps her black, hooded militia dustcloak out to brush toward the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman's face as she turns, heels pounding out the rhythm on the table.
At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish, adding loud clapping to the steady thump of her heel:
"OOOH! Tha's our Laila, if her blade won' kill ya, her sexiness .. or jealous mate.. will."
Still watching the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette, the willowy, grey-streaked man gets his small stone shotglass from a broad table of scarred agafari wood.
At your table, the willowy, grey-streaked man says in sirihish:
"Probably th' last one."
The willowy, grey-streaked man drinks brandy from his small stone shotglass.
The furrowed, stubbled man pats his knee in time, his head bobbing up and down.
At your table, the scarred, ebony-haired woman says in sirihish, calling out:
"Work it, Laila!"
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette laughs and slides a foot forward, tapping her heel and then continuing her turn with a sinuous swing of her hips.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man covers his eyes.
The slender, hack-haired man chuckles at the burn-scarred, curly-haired man.
Arching her arms over her head and clapping along with the rhythm, gloved palms thudding quietly, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette asks the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman, in sirihish:
"Am I done yet?"
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man has arrived from the north.
The scarred, ebony-haired woman giggles and reaches out to pat the burn-scarred, curly-haired man shoulder.
At your table, the willowy, grey-streaked man says in sirihish, to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette:
"I reckon you are. Git down here."
At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish, with a grin up at the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette:
"Jen made tha terms.. gotta ask him!"
At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, from behind his hands:
"Please be done!"
Weaving through the crowds, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man moves over to a broad table of scarred agafari wood.
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman laughs at the burn-scarred, curly-haired man.
Casting a glance to the archway, the dapper, pony-tailed woman looks up at the gaunt, grungy-bearded man.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man sits at a broad table of scarred agafari wood.
The slender, obsidian-eyed man's head wavers slightly, his eyes squeezing shut in pain.
The furrowed, stubbled man chuckles.
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette stomps her feet a last time, then hops down from a broad table of scarred agafari wood next to the willowy, grey-streaked man.
At your table, you say in sirihish, chuckling:
"Alright, you're done, if only for Farran's sake."
Sliding it back onto a round, blue-painted table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman discards her clay bottle.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man glances thoughtfully down at the collection of shotglasses then shakes his head with a faint grunt.
At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, with a happy sigh:
"Thanks Jen. Alright, next round? All cards been discarded?"
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette settles sideways on the willowy, grey-streaked man's lap and hooks an arm around his shoulders.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man shuffles a deck of Kruth cards.
At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, nodding firmly:
"Next round. Hup!"
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals himself a Kruth card.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the slender, obsidian-eyed man.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the willowy, grey-streaked man.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the rugged, dusk-toned man.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card: the Wind of Truth to you.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the scarred, ebony-haired woman.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the furrowed, stubbled man.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man.
The willowy, grey-streaked man wraps a long arm around the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette's waist, snagging a card with his free hand.
At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:
"I'll stay"
At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, rpusing his lips:
"Keepin'."
At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish:
"Keepin'."
Wordlessly, the slender, obsidian-eyed man rises to his feet, moving hurriedly into the plaza.
At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish:
"Actually.."
The willowy, grey-streaked man discards his Kruth card: the Stone of Deceit.
Tossing it away, the rugged, dusk-toned man discards his Kruth card: the Stone of Fate.
At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish:
"What th'hell? Another."
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the willowy, grey-streaked man.
At your table, the scarred, ebony-haired woman says in sirihish:
"New one, please"
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the rugged, dusk-toned man.
The scarred, ebony-haired woman discards her Kruth card: the Water of Truth.
At your table, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says in sirihish, glancing down at his card:
"I dunno how to play."
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man deals a Kruth card to the scarred, ebony-haired woman.
At your table, the willowy, grey-streaked man says in sirihish:
"Not bad. Not bad."
At your table, the furrowed, stubbled man says in sirihish:
"I'll stay. Don't have a clue which is fekin' which, but it looks alright."
The scarred, ebony-haired woman frowns intently at her card.
At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, snickering:
"MUCH better."
At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, glancing to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man:
"Ranks are Life, Truth, Fate, Kings, Deceit, and Death. Suits are Wind, Sun, Stone, and Water. Ranks before suits."
At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, raising his finger:
"You can discard once."
At your table, you say in sirihish, with an appreicatve nod to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette:
"You do a nice dance. You dance often? Not, of course, that I'm suggestin' -anythin'-, Sarge."
[Background: Jenneth loves to dance, it's one of his passions, so he's actually not suggesting anything by it]
The rugged, dusk-toned man discards his Kruth card: the Wind of Death.
At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish:
"I think I lose."
At your table, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says in sirihish, glancing at the burn-scarred, curly-haired man:
"They any 'sid involved?"
Flipping it onto the table, the willowy, grey-streaked man discards his Kruth card: the Sun of Truth.
At your table, the willowy, grey-streaked man says in sirihish:
"That's mine."
At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, shaking his head:
"Nah, just dares. Flip!"
Tossing it to the table, the scarred, ebony-haired woman discards her Kruth card: the Wind of Deceit.
Pointing at the burn-scarred, curly-haired man, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says to you, in sirihish:
"We used to see the Arabeti dance at Luir's. I learned a bit then."
Flipping it, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man discards his Kruth card: the Water of Kings.
The furrowed, stubbled man turns over his Kruth card: the Sun of Life.
Flipping it, you discard your Kruth card: the Wind of Truth.
The furrowed, stubbled man discards his Kruth card: the Sun of Life.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man discards his Kruth card: the Water of Death.
Turning it over, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette discards her Kruth card: the Water of Fate.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man slides the card back to the burn-scarred, curly-haired man and makes a beckoning motion.
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette laughs and points to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, shaking her head.
At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man:
"Fuck you. I want t'win, or lose, or SOMETHIN'."
At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, chuckling:
"Yaroch's on top, Cactus lost."
At your table, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says in sirihish:
"We can't trade in a card?"
At your table, the scarred, ebony-haired woman says in sirihish, laughing:
"I'm with Horus. I want -something- to happen."
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man looks at the rugged, dusk-toned man.
At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, wryly:
"Ya missed th' deadline, mate."
Uncrossing her legs to rise, the dapper, pony-tailed woman stands up from a round, blue-painted table.
At your table, the furrowed, stubbled man says in sirihish:
"Well I'll be. Who's cactus?"
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man points to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man.
Lightly rubbing at her temple and giving a grunt, the dapper, pony-tailed woman moves towards the northern plaza, the sinewy, emerald-eyed man in tow.
The dapper, pony-tailed woman walks north.
The sinewy, emerald-eyed man walks north.
At your table, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says in sirihish, showing his nasty teeth with a half grin:
"I can think of a few somethins for you t'do, sir Kurac."
The caramel, alabaster-haired woman walks north.
At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, waggling his brows at the scarred, ebony-haired woman:
"I make shit happen."
At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, chuckling:
"You should make 'im kiss Horus. Since Horus almost lost. An' he sucks at kissin'."
At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, smirking:
"With tongue, I might add."
At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, to the burn-scarred, curly-haired man:
"I don't suck at kissin'. I suck at kissin' when I'm piss drunk, an' kissin' YOU."
At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says in sirihish, rolling his eyes:
"As far as I know, ya fuckin' suck at kissin' worse than anyone I've ever kissed in m' life, and ya haven't proven otherwise yet."
The furrowed, stubbled man gets his fleshy blue fruit from his dusty bone-studded backpack.
At your table, the furrowed, stubbled man says in sirihish:
"I want Cactus here ta stand up, and in front'a the bar seduce this here fruit like it was the hottest fekin' woman he's ever seen."
The slender, hack-haired man bursts into laughter.
The furrowed, stubbled man tosses his fleshy blue fruit to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man.
The rugged, dusk-toned man chortles, shaking his head.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man looks at the furrowed, stubbled man.
The willowy, grey-streaked man laughs loudly, putting a hand to his stomach.
At your table, the scarred, ebony-haired woman says in sirihish, chuckling:
"This should be interesting."
At your table, the willowy, grey-streaked man says in sirihish:
"Fuckin' -right-, lad."
At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish:
"It'll pro'lly be th'prettiest thing he's ever seduced."
At your table, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says in sirihish, eyeing the furrowed, stubbled man dubiously:
"The most extent of seducin' I ever done, fella, is passin' twenty sid to a whore."
At your table, the furrowed, stubbled man says in sirihish:
"Then this should be good."
At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, flatly:
"Jus' stick yer dick in it, then."
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman chuckles.
The scarred, ebony-haired woman snickers.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man shuffles a deck of Kruth cards.
At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:
"Fek it an cheat it of half tha sid afterwards then."
The furrowed, stubbled man leans back, watching the gaunt, grungy-bearded man.
Calling over, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette exclaims to the reedy, sorrel-skinned woman, in sirihish:
"Cera! It's my birthday, have a drink, damnit!"
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette waves to some glasses on a broad table of scarred agafari wood.
At your table, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says in sirihish, looking at the rugged, dusk-toned man, eyes slivering:
"I ain't about to fuck no fuckin' fruit in front've the whole fuckin tavern, fella. Have another drink."
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man stands up from a broad table of scarred agafari wood.
Smiling, the reedy, sorrel-skinned woman asks the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Wull no shit, yeh an adult yet ya pretta thin'?"
The reedy, sorrel-skinned woman pushes away from a boxy wooden bar.
As he holds up his fleshy blue fruit, clearing his voice, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says, in sirihish:
"Hey, scumbag."
Waggling her eyebrows, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says to the reedy, sorrel-skinned woman, in sirihish:
"I'm all woman, Cera."
At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, shrugging:
"I've done worse."
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man bursts out laughing.
With a dramatic sigh as she moves to the table, the reedy, sorrel-skinned woman says to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Don' ah wish ah knew."
Addressing his fleshy blue fruit with a dour, coarse voice, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says, in sirihish:
"Fifty sid? You gotta be smokin' some've that bad shit, y'nasty fuckin wench. Twenty 'sid or I'm takin' this cock further on down the road."
The scarred, ebony-haired woman watches the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, chuckling.
At your table, the furrowed, stubbled man says in sirihish:
"Cactus get all the ladies with that line I bet."
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman chuckles.
The willowy, grey-streaked man laughs.
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette bursts into a laugh at the gaunt, grungy-bearded man.
At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:
"yeah.. he's a real ladies man"
The slender, hack-haired man chuckles.
Smiling and tipping her head, the reedy, sorrel-skinned woman says to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"ah'll be back. Got an erran' ta run."
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man pounds his fist on a broad table of scarred agafari wood, laughing uproariously.
The rugged, dusk-toned man suddenly bursts into a laugh, watching the gaunt, grungy-bearded man.
Nodding, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says to the reedy, sorrel-skinned woman, in sirihish:
"'s'fine."
Lobbing his fleshy blue fruit over to the furrowed, stubbled man, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man grins nastily and retakes his seat.
Tossing it at the head of a passing half-elf and missing, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette discards her clay bottle.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man gives his fleshy blue fruit to the furrowed, stubbled man.
At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man:
"Shoulda' fucked it."
At your table, the furrowed, stubbled man says in sirihish:
"No he shouldn'a...I wanna still eat this."
The willowy, grey-streaked man says to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:
"Real good, Cactus. Real good."
At your table, the scarred, ebony-haired woman says in sirihish, grinning at the rugged, dusk-toned man:
"At least the fruit would've enjoyed -that-, I think."
At your table, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says in sirihish, eyeing the rugged, dusk-toned man:
"Three small and I'll even fuck it in the ass."
At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, to the furrowed, stubbled man:
"You woulda' ate it still."
At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man:
"Two small an' it's a deal."
The rugged, dusk-toned man opens a dusty expansive, crimson-fist emblazoned backpack.
At your table, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says in sirihish:
"Two and a half."
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman chuckles.
The scarred, ebony-haired woman shakes her head.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man eyes the rugged, dusk-toned man shrewdly.
At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, nodding:
"A'right."
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man stands up from a broad table of scarred agafari wood.
The rugged, dusk-toned man pulls a bag from his pack, grinning.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man says to the furrowed, stubbled man, in sirihish:
"Hey, I need that fruit."
[Another game round has started, and he strives to get people's attention...]
At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish, shaking his head:
"WAIT! Cactus is gonna fuck th'fruit."
Dubiously, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette asks the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:
"How are you going to fuck a fruit in the ass?"
At your table, the rugged, dusk-toned man says in sirihish:
"For two an' a half small."
The scarred, ebony-haired woman blushes, then blinks.
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman nods to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette.
Extending his mangled hand, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says to the rugged, dusk-toned man, in sirihish:
"My mammy didn't raise no fool; I need that sid up front."
At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:
"I have ta say.. was thinkin' tha same thing."
The rugged, dusk-toned man asks the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:
"How're y'gonna do it?"
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man says to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette, in sirihish:
"Like a savage fuckin beast, sir."
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man asks the rugged, dusk-toned man, in sirihish:
"What, don't ya'll Kuraci ever fuck in the ass?"
Bursting into a laugh, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette buries her face against the willowy, grey-streaked man's shoulder.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man again bursts into uproarious laughter.
At your table, the furrowed, stubbled man says in sirihish, looking down at the fruit:
"Fek, yer a juicy one too. At least he'll enjoy it."
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man says, in sirihish:
"All's you gotta do is turn it around and do it from behind."
Smirking, the rugged, dusk-toned man says to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:
"A'right. "
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman slaps a palm against the table, laughing hard enough to almost lose her seat.
Tossing the sack over, the rugged, dusk-toned man gives some coins to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man shrugs his gangly shoulders helplessly, callous hand still extended toward the rugged, dusk-toned man.
The rugged, dusk-toned man opens a dusty expansive, crimson-fist emblazoned backpack.
The rugged, dusk-toned man puts his pile of allanaki coins into his dusty expansive, crimson-fist emblazoned backpack.
The furrowed, stubbled man gives his fleshy blue fruit to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man.
At your table, the willowy, grey-streaked man says in sirihish:
"I ain't sure I want to see this."
Amusedly, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says, in sirihish:
"I thought the boot-licking was good, but -this- is -good-."
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man gets his small stone shotglass from a round, blue-painted table.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man gets his small stone shotglass from a round, blue-painted table.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man gets his small stone shotglass from a round, blue-painted table.
At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:
"I think I'm about ta be scarred fer life."
The rugged, dusk-toned man watches the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, leaning back.
Patting her chest, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says to the willowy, grey-streaked man, in sirihish:
"I'll hide your eyes for you. Sir."
At your table, the scarred, ebony-haired woman says in sirihish, grinning at the gaunt, grungy-bearded man:
"Be nice...this is the fruit's first time, ya know."
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man scowls and rummages around the table for a full glass.
At your table, the willowy, grey-streaked man says in sirihish, to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette:
"Might be you'll have to."
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man stares at the gaunt, grungy-bearded man with full interest.
At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:
"No wonder he's fekkin' tha fruit.. if he drank that many shotglasses."
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says, in sirihish:
"He better not have, I told him not to get drunk."
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man tilts his chin up and drains his small stone shotglass with a bit've a flinch.
At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:
"Cactus.. leave some fer tha rest of us ya fekkin' greedy shit."
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar has arrived from the north.
The rugged, dusk-toned man exclaims to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:
"Get to it!"
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman glances at the rugged, stubble-bearded templar and doubles over in laughter, trying to stand and salute but laughing so hard she misses her chest.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man places his new stained spiky helmet on his head.
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says, in sirihish:
"I hope this isn't how long it usually takes him."
At your table, the furrowed, stubbled man says in sirihish:
"S'called foreplay"
The willowy, grey-streaked man asks the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:
"You havin' trouble gettin' it up, lad?"
Unstrapping his stained leather swordbelt, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man drops his leggings to his knees.
At your table, the furrowed, stubbled man says in sirihish:
"You saw how he seduced it...what ya expect?"
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette eases up off of the willowy, grey-streaked man's lap, bows and salutes to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and then settles down again.
At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:
"In front of tha Lord.. templar...."
The scarred, ebony-haired woman exclaims to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:
"Let's see some action!"
The willowy, grey-streaked man says to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:
"Try talkin' dirty to it."
Staring fascinatedly at the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says, in sirihish:
"He's really gonna do it."
The slender, hack-haired man chuckles.
At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish, idly to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette:
"Won' hurt the fruit that much from tha looks of it."
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man says, out of character:
"Consent needed."
The rugged, dusk-toned man says, out of character:
"yes, rofl."
The scarred, ebony-haired woman stands and gives a slightly off-balance bow to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar before retaking her seat.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar says, out of character:
"Ooh, me me! What am I consenting to again?"
The furrowed, stubbled man says, out of character:
"Given"
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says, out of character:
"go for it, that's my call."
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man says, out of character:
"Uh, yeah."
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says, out of character:
"Go ahead."
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man says, out of character:
"Fruit sex."
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says, out of character:
"You'll see :)"
Snickering, the rugged, dusk-toned man says to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette, in sirihish:
"I -did- pay for th'shit."
The scarred, ebony-haired woman says, out of character:
"Go for it!"
You say, out of character:
"Given."
The reedy, sorrel-skinned woman says, out of character:
"yay for consent"
Tilting her head as she stares at the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette asks the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman, in sirihish:
"Is that all of it?"
At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish, tilting her head sideways:
"I think so..."
The willowy, grey-streaked man says, out of character:
"I'm not sure the fruit is consenting... but go for it."
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar pauses in the entryway, trying to make sense of the scene.
After playing with himself for a moment, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man manages a rather feeble erection.
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette tilts her head even farther, staring blatantly at the gaunt, grungy-bearded man and the hapless fruit.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man grunts and shoves his thumb deeply into his fleshy blue fruit, pushing a hole out through the other side.
The furrowed, stubbled man shakes his head silently watching the gaunt, grungy-bearded man.
The scarred, ebony-haired woman snorts in laughter, watching the gaunt, grungy-bearded man with the fruit.
At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:
"Shit.. the whores tha been chargin' him twenty sid been overchargin' tha man."
The rugged, dusk-toned man watches the gaunt, grungy-bearded man quite closely, laughing the whole time.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man stands from his chair, staring at the gaunt, grungy-bearded man with a can't-look-away-fascination written on his face.
In an artifically high voice, the willowy, grey-streaked man exclaims, in sirihish:
"No! Please! Aiee!"
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman falls out of her chair laughing at the willowy, grey-streaked man's comment.
The slender, hack-haired man laughs loudly at the willowy, grey-streaked man's comment.
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette begins laughing helplessly, batting at the willowy, grey-streaked man's shoulder.
The scarred, ebony-haired woman bursts out laughing.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man eases his fleshy blue fruit onto his dick and begins to slide it back and forth, face taut with concentration.
The reedy, sorrel-skinned woman moves to the table seeming completely lost at what is going on, but breaks into a guffaw as she draws close enough to see.
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman crawls back into her seat, laughing so hard tears are rolling down her cheeks.
Amongst her laughter, the scarred, ebony-haired woman says to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:
"Say something to it...show it you love it."
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar's jaw goes slack.
The rugged, dusk-toned man leans back, still laughing.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man clutches his stomach, laughing so hard he falls back into his seat.
Between laughs, the rugged, dusk-toned man exclaims to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:
"Talk dirty to it!"
The furrowed, stubbled man coughs, holding his stomach.
Grunting loudly, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man smacks the side of his fleshy blue fruit, his hips gyrating rhythmatically.
The slender, hack-haired man glances over at the door way, sees the rugged, stubble-bearded templar's face and nearly falls off his chair laughing.
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman holds her side, wheezing for breath between laughs.
The reedy, sorrel-skinned woman drops to her knees and clutches her stomach, laughing herself to tears.
Laughing helplessly, the willowy, grey-streaked man says, in sirihish:
"Oh... shit... he should've at least bought it dinner first..."
Tears gleaming in her eyes and face flushing, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette just keeps laughing.
The rugged, dusk-toned man holds his gut, shaking his head as he continues to laugh.
The scarred, ebony-haired woman gasps for breath, laughing so hard that tears come to her eyes.
Moaning down at his fleshy blue fruit, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says, in sirihish:
"Aw baby, mmm.... fuckin'.... yeahhhhhh.... you're almost as good as that kalan I had last week.. Ohhh.. ughh..."
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man rubs helplessly at one streaming eye at a time, his face crimson as he continues to laugh, almost choking.
The willowy, grey-streaked man screams out his laughter, nearly dropping the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette from his lap as he rocks back and forth in his chair.
Tears coming down his cheek, the furrowed, stubbled man says, in sirihish:
"Oh krath."
The slender, hack-haired man clucthes his sides, hanging onto his chair so he wont fall off in his mirth.
Gasping, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says, in sirihish:
"Hope she took mul mix, I do -not- want to see the product of this union."
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar just stares on in disbelief, speechless.
The scarred, ebony-haired woman slaps her thigh, laughing helplessly.
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman gives in, just resting her arms against the tabletop, laughing and crying as she watches in helpless fascination.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man vigorously pumps himself a few more times into his fleshy blue fruit before finally exhaling and hunching over, his face flushed and slick with sweat.
Barely able to get the words out, the furrowed, stubbled man asks, in sirihish:
"Anyone hungry?"
To the fruit with a low, slurred drawl, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says, in sirihish:
"Hope it was as good f'you as it was f'me.."
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette bursts into a fresh gale of laughter at the furrowed, stubbled man's question.
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman bursts into more laughter, rubbing the back of a sleeve across her eyes.
The willowy, grey-streaked man exclaims, in sirihish:
"F...f....fruit salad!"
The slender, hack-haired man gets another look at the rugged, stubble-bearded templar's face, looks back to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man and finally looses the battle, falling off his chair and hitting the floor with a thump.
Finally managing to call out, the rugged, dusk-toned man exclaims, in sirihish:
"One small to whoever eats it!"
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man says to the rugged, dusk-toned man, in sirihish:
"Two."
Silently, the tall, amber-eyed woman comes around the bar and drops her white linen towel upon the tabletop.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man lowers his forehead to a broad table of scarred agafari wood, hiding his face in the crook of his arm, still choking on laughter.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man suddenly turns, noticing the rugged, stubble-bearded templar and paling.
The tall, amber-eyed woman puts her white linen towel onto a broad table of scarred agafari wood.
Bowing swiftly, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man salutes the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, his pants still at his knees.
Just as silently, the tall, amber-eyed woman walks back to her station behind the bar.
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman bursts into more laughter, slapping a hand against her knee and whimpering in helpless merriment.
The scarred, ebony-haired woman laughs, tears streaming down her face.
The reedy, sorrel-skinned woman wipes tears from her face, still shaking from laughter as she collects herself from the floor.
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette stares at the tall, amber-eyed woman, laughing and wiping her eyes.
Staring over in awe, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar asks the tall, amber-eyed woman, in sirihish:
".. 's anyone ever done anythin' more ridiculous 'n this in yer bar?"
Still on the floor, the slender, hack-haired man clucthes your sides in mirth, rolling with laughter.
The rugged, dusk-toned man bursts into renewed laughter, leaning into a boxy wooden bar.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man looks down at the rugged, dusk-toned man.
Gravely pouring herself a drink, the tall, amber-eyed woman says to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, in sirihish:
"Not for a good many years, Lord Templar."
At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish:
"oh.. oh.... oh.. it hurts..... "
The scarred, ebony-haired woman clutches at her stomach, her breath coming in short gasps.
The willowy, grey-streaked man eventually catches his breath, burying his face in the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette's chest as he wheezes and gasps.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man lifts his face from a broad table of scarred agafari wood, wiping at his streaming eyes and just shaking his head.
Squinting over dubiously, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man asks the rugged, dusk-toned man, in sirihish:
"So do I get two small for eatin' this shit, or what?"
The rugged, dusk-toned man exclaims, in sirihish:
"Best... 'sid... I -ever- spent!"
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman chuckles at the rugged, dusk-toned man.
Yanking up his pants, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man cinches his stained leather swordbelt about his waist.
At your table, the furrowed, stubbled man says in sirihish:
"Best fruit I ever picked."
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette pulls the willowy, grey-streaked man against her, her laughter quieting and shoulders shaking.
Licking at his lips, and finally managing to stop laughing, the rugged, dusk-toned man says to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:
"Hmm.. one small. I a'ready gave ya' two an' a half, y'greedy fuck."
His voice muffled, the willowy, grey-streaked man says, in sirihish:
"I ain't sure there's any point in playin' anymore. Ain't nothin' gonna top that."
The scarred, ebony-haired woman shakes her head, and wipes her eyes.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar looks down at the furrowed, stubbled man.
At your table, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says in sirihish, between giggles:
"Have.. ta... agree.. with that."
The reedy, sorrel-skinned woman pants for breath, a hand still clutching her stomach as she stares at the table in disbelief.
The slender, hack-haired man's laughter slows, and he is able to climb back up on your chair.
Indignantly as he tilts up his bearded chin, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, in sirihish:
"One and a half."
Shaking her head slowly and wiping her eyes, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says, in sirihish:
"I think we're done with Whira's Luck for the night. That was the best ever."
Shaking his head, the rugged, dusk-toned man says to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:
"Fuckin' deal."
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man puts his deck of Kruth cards onto a broad table of scarred agafari wood.
The furrowed, stubbled man continues coughing as he wipes the tears from his cheek.
Frowning with disappointment, the caramel, alabaster-haired woman asks, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Wha'I miss?"
Tossing it over, the rugged, dusk-toned man gives some coins to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar turns away, holding a hand to his face.
The rugged, dusk-toned man exclaims to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:
"EAT IT!"
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette exclaims to the caramel, alabaster-haired woman, in sirihish:
"Cactus fucked a fruit!"
Teras of laughter drying on her cheeks, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says to the caramel, alabaster-haired woman, in sirihish:
"Righ.. here."
Slapping her forehead, the caramel, alabaster-haired woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Oh krath..."
Just as soon as he takes the coins, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man takes a big bite from his fleshy blue fruit and gnashes away at it unflinchingly.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man eats a portion of his fleshy blue fruit.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man eats a portion of his partially eaten fleshy blue fruit.
Adding, with renewed laughter, the rugged, dusk-toned man says to the caramel, alabaster-haired woman, in sirihish:
"Now he's gonna ea-"
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man eats a portion of his half eaten fleshy blue fruit.
The rugged, dusk-toned man stops talking, and just laughs.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar turns back and looks toward a broad table of scarred agafari wood, his face red.
Shaking her head with a somber tone, the caramel, alabaster-haired woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Y'jus' ruined y'chances, Cactus. Y'dumbass."
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man eats a portion of his small portion of a fleshy blue fruit.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man snickers helplessly into his hand.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man says to the caramel, alabaster-haired woman, in sirihish:
"I'd take a ginka over you any day, baby."
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette stares at the gaunt, grungy-bearded man.
The reedy, sorrel-skinned woman breaks into a fresh round of uncontrollable laughter, hand grasping at the nearest chair back to steady herself.
The scarred, ebony-haired woman laughs.
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman leans against your side, snickering now and then as she watches the gaunt, grungy-bearded man.
The furrowed, stubbled man groans, shaking his head slowly.
Bellowing out, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar shouts, in sirihish:
"FIRST UNIT, AT ATTENTION."
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman stands up from a broad table of scarred agafari wood.
The caramel, alabaster-haired woman snorts softly, giving cactus a disbelieving stare.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man stands up from a broad table of scarred agafari wood.
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman stands up, snapping to attention.
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette hops from the willowy, grey-streaked man's lap.
Abruptly, you stand up from a broad table of scarred agafari wood.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man snaps to attention.
The caramel, alabaster-haired woman snaps to attention.
The scarred, ebony-haired woman remains seated, her laughter fading away.
The reedy, sorrel-skinned woman scurries out of the way, still laughing hysterically.
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette straightens to attention, gaze going to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man suddenly stiffens to attention, facing the rugged, stubble-bearded templar.
The rugged, dusk-toned man looks up, his laughter suddenly stopping.
Straightening his squaring his shoulders, the willowy, grey-streaked man stands up from a broad table of scarred agafari wood.
The slender, hack-haired man stands at attention, gaze on the rugged, stubble-bearded templar.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar looks at the gaunt, grungy-bearded man.
Barking out, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:
"You a soldier or a prostitute, son? GET YER FUCKIN' PANTS BACK ON."
You think:
"Hey, it's not me for once."
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man makes sure his belt is tightly secured.
Flicking a glnce over, you look at the gaunt, grungy-bearded man.
A pair of broad, black obsidian eyes squint forth from slanted sockets
set widely across this tall man's face. Nicks and scrapes adorn his head
from it having been crudely shaven, and aside his from a small rat-tail
dangling down his scrawny neck, his only mane is a gritty sheen of black
stubble. All of his hair has been dispersed around his thick, scabby lips.
A full, stiffly bristled beard puffs out; it is matted with grease, bits of
debris, and is rigid with dried sweat. He is young and mostly free of
scars, although his hands and forearms have numerous lacerations, some more
severe than others. A wound has claimed the tips of the forefinger and
middle finger on his left hand, leaving callous stubs. A crudely-inked
tattoo of a woman, eyes wide with shock, taking it in the rear from a cactus
has been scrawled amongst the scars on his forearm.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man is in excellent condition.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man is using:
<worn on head> a new stained spiky helmet
<worn around neck> a stained inky-black leather collar
<slung across back> a double-edged bone shortsword
<worn across back> a round black shield
<worn on left shoulder> a black leather patch with a jade cross
<worn on arms> a pair of leather-reinforced sandcloth sleeves
<worn around wrist> a studded bone bracer
<worn around wrist> a spiked leather bracer
<worn on hands> a set of mesh-covered, tembo-hide gloves
<forearms> a pair of pitted, deep looking scars
<worn around body> a long, hooded aba of black sandcloth
<worn on legs> a pair of leather-reinforced sandcloth leggings
<worn on feet> a pair of knee-high dark leather boots
He is carrying:
nothing obvious
Pointing northwards, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar shouts, in sirihish:
"I'm out there workin' t' get gith killed and yer all in here -- laughin' about some dumbshit havin' sex with FRUIT? You men soldiers or Bynners? For FUCK SAKE!"
Stammering out the words, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, in sirihish:
"Th-th-th-they're o-o-on, M-m-M'lord Templar"
The slender, hack-haired man lips twitch.
Flatly, the willowy, grey-streaked man says to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:
"Shut up."
Staring, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:
"Did YOU just talk out 'f order? Yer th' LAST one I wanna hear shit from."
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar asks the willowy, grey-streaked man, in sirihish:
"Sergeant! Yer men are t' run three laps between here and th' Gaj, then report to barracks fer inspection. That clear?"
The caramel, alabaster-haired woman glances between cactus and templar with her eyes.
Pursing his thick, busted lips, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man bows his head low and locks his eyes on the ale-stained floor.
Jerking his hand out towards the plaza, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar exclaims to the willowy, grey-streaked man, in sirihish:
"ON THE FUCKIN' DOUBLE!"
Simply, the willowy, grey-streaked man says, in sirihish:
"Fall in, y'all."
The willowy, grey-streaked man bows to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar's in passing, his expression neutral.
The willowy, grey-streaked man nods at the caramel, alabaster-haired woman.
The willowy, grey-streaked man walks north.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man nods at the caramel, alabaster-haired woman.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man walks north.
The caramel, alabaster-haired woman walks north.
You follow the willowy, grey-streaked man, and walk north.
[they do some laps]
His expression still blank, the willowy, grey-streaked man says, in sirihish:
"Think I'm gonna call you Fruits from now on, lad."
The caramel, alabaster-haired woman snickers loudly before covering her mouth with her hand.
Hoarsely, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says to the caramel, alabaster-haired woman, in sirihish:
"That shit'll sober a fella up quick, m'dear."
As she jogs, breathing evenly, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette sings, in sirihish:
"And ooh, Jade Saber lasses, now they're the real thing,
The fiercest, finest, toughest girls that e'er a sword did swing."
Pointing back at the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette sings, in sirihish:
"Untold pleasures you'll achieve if you get one into bed,
Though I'd advise you satisfy, or you'll quickly end up dead!"
Flatly, the willowy, grey-streaked man says, in sirihish:
"One."
In a lowered voice as he jogs along, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man says to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette, in sirihish:
"I got a cadence, sir."
The willowy, grey-streaked man says, in sirihish:
"Two."
The willowy, grey-streaked man loops yet again.
The willowy, grey-streaked man says, in sirihish:
"Double-time."
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette sings, in sirihish:
"He's a veteran of many years, as you will quickly tell,
When he kicks the enemy's ass up one side, then back down into hell!"
The willowy, grey-streaked man runs north.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man runs north.
The caramel, alabaster-haired woman runs north.
You follow the willowy, grey-streaked man, and run north.
[eventually they enter the Barrel again]
The veins buldging from his neck, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man shouts, in sirihish:
"Left, right, left, right, left, right... KILL!!"
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman chuckles.
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette laughs and stumbles a step.
The reedy, sorrel-skinned woman collapses into laughter at the shouts.
As he lopes along, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man shouts, in sirihish:
"Left, right, left, right, you know I WILL!"
The scarred, ebony-haired woman giggles again.
The willowy, grey-streaked man jogs right through the tavern, leading a large group of giggling soldiers.
The rugged, dusk-toned man begins to laugh again as the group steps in, despite himself.
The willowy, grey-streaked man runs south.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man runs south.
The caramel, alabaster-haired woman runs south.
You follow the willowy, grey-streaked man, and run south.
The willowy, grey-streaked man opens his right hand, revealing his small stone shotglass.
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman grins at the willowy, grey-streaked man.
Tossing his head back, the willowy, grey-streaked man drinks brandy from his small stone shotglass.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man shouts, in sirihish:
"Oh me, we're the infantry -- Oh me, we're the infantry!"
Tossing it over a shoulder as she jogs, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman discards her small stone shotglass.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man shouts, in sirihish:
"Gunna show the gith!"
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man shouts, in sirihish:
"What we're trained to be!"
The willowy, grey-streaked man exclaims, in sirihish:
"Hup, two, three four! I'm th' fuckin' hero of th' Copper War!"
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette cheers and whoops.
Singing out as she paces along, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman shouts, in sirihish:
"An' if they ain' scared of us like they should be;We'll paint like a belshun an set Cactus free."
The willowy, grey-streaked man exclaims, in sirihish:
"Five, six, eight, ten! I killed me a dozen Tuluki men!"
Singing out as she paces along, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman shouts, in sirihish:
"An' if they ain' scared of us like they should be/We'll paint em like a belshun an set Cactus free."
The slender, hack-haired man chuckles, as he jogs along.
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette presses a hand to her side, laughing and wincing.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man chortles breathlessly.
The willowy, grey-streaked man exclaims, in sirihish:
"Seven, nine, three, two! I killed me one'a them templars too!"
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man's narrow chest rattles with a ragged bout of snickering at the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman's words.
The willowy, grey-streaked man slows as he approaches the dusty, brown-haired soldier.
The willowy, grey-streaked man says, in sirihish:
"Right. Even out, children. Take a minute to catch yerselves."
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman moves over to the side of the road, brushing herself off.
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette nods to the willowy, grey-streaked man and bends over, catching her breath.
The dusty, brown-haired soldier stops using her carru-horn key.
The dusty, brown-haired soldier unlocks the gateway with a carru-horn key.
The dusty, brown-haired soldier opens the gateway.
The dusty, brown-haired soldier steps aside, allowing the willowy, grey-streaked man to pass.
The willowy, grey-streaked man walks north.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man walks north.
You follow the willowy, grey-streaked man, and walk north.
Sparse sands blow across your path.
A Stonepaved Courtyard [NES]
The stones paving this courtyard are newly cut, rough edges waiting
for the wear that will smooth their grey and black surface. To the east
sits a large barracks, the arms of House Tor carved above them and gleaming
with fresh paint. Along its side is an animal pen, made of wood, which
leans into the shelter of the larger building. Stone walls surround the
courtyard, topped with broken glass to keep away the worst of Allanak's
notorious thieves. A large mural, depicting the siege of the city by
rebel dwarves, their short, squat forms fleeing in terror from Tektolnes'
might in the final stages, has been painted onto the blank stone of one
wall, apparently to serve as inspiration for the troops training here.
The willowy, grey-streaked man is standing here, looking a bit winded.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man is standing here, looking a bit winded.
- he is carrying a jozhal-hide backpack.
The bushy-browed, gangly half-giant slouches here.
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman has arrived from the south.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man has arrived from the south.
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette has arrived from the south.
The dusty, brown-haired soldier closes the gateway from the other side.
Panting raggedly, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man lopes slowly around in a circle for a while, cooling down.
Passing a few, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette gives some coins to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man.
Sparse sands blow across your path.
A Roomy Barracks [NEW Quit Save]
The thickness of the dull red mud bricks of which this barracks has
been built provides it with a coolness which resists the worst of the
Zalanthan sun. The furnishings are simple: neatly ordered cots sit in rows,
a few with footlockers built into one end, while a large weapons rack hangs
on the wall underneath a wooden frieze depicting the desert, gith, jozhals
and scrabs moving through the dunes. Below the frieze, extending down the
walls and covering the floor, are ceramic tiles composed of all the hues of
the desert: vermilion, bronze, amber, rust, tawny yellow, and ochre. The
tiles are laid in an abstract, undulating pattern reminiscent of rolling
dunes.
Under the weapons rack, a cracked stone storage bin is filled with mismatched armor pieces.
Pushed against a wall, a bone sided chest is filled with desert survival equipment.
Pushed against a wall, a simple wooden chest is filled with raw materials.
The willowy, grey-streaked man is standing here, looking a bit winded.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man is standing here, looking a bit winded.
- he is carrying a jozhal-hide backpack.
A human soldier of Tektolnes walks along here.
A human soldier of Tektolnes walks along here.
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman has arrived from the west.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man has arrived from the west.
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette has arrived from the west.
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:
"Happy birthday to me."
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman grins at the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette.
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette, in sirihish:
"Yer birthdays gonna be tha talk of the town fer a long long time."
The willowy, grey-streaked man says, in sirihish:
"Shaddup, y'all."
The willowy, grey-streaked man says to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette, in sirihish:
"Tell th' Lord Templar we're here."
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette grins at the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman and then looks back to the willowy, grey-streaked man.
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman moves over to formation, snapping to attention and clasping her hands behind her back.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man opens his mouth toward the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette then clamps it shut, dark eyes shiting to the willowy, grey-streaked man.
The caramel, alabaster-haired woman sighs, lowering her eyes with a dreading expression.
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette nods to the willowy, grey-streaked man, her gaze growing distant.
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says to the willowy, grey-streaked man, in sirihish:
"Message relayed, sir."
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man steps into line, motioning to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man and the caramel, alabaster-haired woman.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man swallows hard and stands at parade rest, hands clasped behind his back.
The caramel, alabaster-haired woman steps beside the burn-scarred, curly-haired man, sighing as she places her body into its appropriate position.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar has arrived from the west.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks north.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar closes the door from the other side.
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette's gaze follows the templar's path before snapping straight ahead again.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar opens the door from the other side.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar has arrived from the north, stalking out with a steel-edged glare.
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman keeps her eyes dead ahead, not even twitching.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man stares forward with glazed, reddened eyes.
The willowy, grey-streaked man folds his hands at the small of his back.
Looking back and forth, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar asks, in sirihish:
"I'm in the militia barracks, right? This ain't the Byn?"
Looking at the rugged, stubble-bearded templar for just a moment, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette nods.
Looking up and down the line, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar asks, in sirihish:
"You men ARE soldiers? YES 'R NO?"
Firmly, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman exclaims, in sirihish:
"Yes sir!"
Firmly, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Yes my Lord."
Emphatically, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, in sirihish:
"Yes, my Lord."
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man shouts, in sirihish:
"Yes Lord Templar!"
The willowy, grey-streaked man says, in sirihish:
"Ayuh."
Snapping up even straighter, you exclaim, in sirihish:
"Yes, Lord Templar!"
The caramel, alabaster-haired woman exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Yes Lord Templar!"
Glaring up and down the line, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says, in sirihish:
"That's YES LORD TEMPLAR. Least -some- 'f you got 't right."
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar shoots the willowy, grey-streaked man a look, stalking up and down the line, his hands clenched into fists.
After a moment, the willowy, grey-streaked man says, in sirihish:
"Yes, Lord Templar."
The caramel, alabaster-haired woman purses her lips for a moment, before wiping away expression from her features.
With a clenched jaw, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man stands rigidly and stares at a wall with a hard, near unblinking gaze.
Pausing in front of her, barking into her face, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar asks the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman, in sirihish:
"This funny, Nae? You havin' a good ol' time?"
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman exclaims, in sirihish:
"No Lord Templar.. not anymore Lord Templar!"
The slender, hack-haired man eyes slide over to view the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman and the rugged, stubble-bearded templar.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar grunts and walks on down the line, stopping again in front of the caramel, alabaster-haired woman.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar asks the caramel, alabaster-haired woman, in sirihish:
"Do you even know how t' talk proper yet?"
With a steady tone, the caramel, alabaster-haired woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Yes Lord Templar, I speak proper."
With a roll of his eyes, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says to the caramel, alabaster-haired woman, in sirihish:
"Proper if yer some kinda Arabet, mebbe."
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette clears her throat very quietly, obviously suppressing a smile.
The caramel, alabaster-haired woman says, in sirihish:
"I do not think so, Lord Templar."
Pointing over at him, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says to the gaunt, grungy-bearded man, in sirihish:
"And YOU. You are the craziest fuckin' person in this barracks, and that's sayin' a LOT."
Wheeling back, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar exclaims to the caramel, alabaster-haired woman, in sirihish:
"I say anything to you, soldier?!"
The slender, hack-haired man mouth twitches a moment, then moves back straight.
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman's eyes shift to the caramel, alabaster-haired woman briefly before snapping back ahead.
Staring forward unblinkingly, voice crisp, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man shouts, in sirihish:
"Yes, Lord Templar!"
Staring ahead with a swallow, the caramel, alabaster-haired woman says, in sirihish:
"No, Lord Templar, you did not."
Gruffly, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says, in sirihish:
"On yer knees! Both 'f you! Take them patches off and toss 'em down in front of ya."
Kneeling down and unstrapping his patch, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man sits down.
Dropping to her knees and reaching for her black leather patch with a jade cross, the caramel, alabaster-haired woman sits down to rest.
Putting it on the ground before him, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man gives his black leather patch with a jade cross to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar.
Quivering, the gaunt, grungy-bearded man kneels, head hung low.
Dropping it promptly, the caramel, alabaster-haired woman gives her black leather patch with a jade cross to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man continues to stare forward expressionlessly.
Looking back up the line, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says, in sirihish:
"And the rest of you, you all ought t' KNOW better. I really thought y'would. Fuck sake, I want ALL 'f you down."
Kneeling at the rugged, stubble-bearded templar's command, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette sits down.
Dropping to his knees, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man sits down.
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman drops to her knees, eyes closing briefly.
Kneeling expressionlessly, you sit down.
Dropping to a knee, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman sits down.
Staring at a point just over the rugged, stubble-bearded templar's shoulder, the willowy, grey-streaked man sits down.
Letting out a grunt (or maybe a snicker?), the rugged, stubble-bearded templar looks up and down the kneeling line, wordlessly.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar asks, in sirihish:
"Y'all remind me of my old unit, them farmboys out 'n MENOS. Y'know what th' only difference I can see right now is?"
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette shakes her head very slightly.
Tonelessly, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man says, in sirihish:
"No Lord Templar."
Finally busting out into laughter, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says, in sirihish:
"Those fuckers woulda TOLD me afore they got their 'cruits t' do shit that funny."
Quietly, the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says, in sirihish:
"No Lord Templar.."
The slender, hack-haired man blinks at the rugged, stubble-bearded templar.
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette bursts into a quiet laugh, dropping her head.
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman glances up briefly, a startled expression on her face.
The caramel, alabaster-haired woman furrows her brow, glancing to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar.
The burn-scarred, curly-haired man smiles broadly, dipping his chin.
The willowy, grey-streaked man tilts his head back, exhaling with a huff.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar laughs and shakes his head for several moments before dropping a hand down into his burned oversized black backpack.
Clearing her throat and looking up to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, the caramel, alabaster-haired woman asks, in sirihish:
"Ah... Lord Templar...?"
Amusedly, the willowy, grey-streaked man says, in sirihish:
"Didn't nobody think he was actually gonna -do- it 'till he went and dropped his drawers, Lord Templar."
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar pulls a dustcloak out of a burned blue, hooded templar's robe.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar pulls a dustcloak out of a burned blue, hooded templar's robe.
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman nods in silent agreement with the willowy, grey-streaked man's words.
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says, in sirihish:
"Then we was laughin' too hard ta really think, Lord Templar."
The caramel, alabaster-haired woman lowers her eyes, her lips twisting.
Kneeling but straight-postured, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette watches the rugged, stubble-bearded templar with a wide smile.
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man keeps his eyes locked on the floor and continues to kneel tensely.
His angry expression from a few moments ago gone completely, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says, in sirihish:
"You men 'r a unit now, I can see that much. That's good, that's what we need against them gith. You fight together 'n fuck around together, you'll all live."
------------
Everyone gets promoted, and gets badges for service. It's only later that Jenneth finds out after they left the Barrel, the Lord Templar Samos was cracking up so hard, he was literally rolling around on the floor. But shhh, he made everyone swear not to tell. ;)
It’s a long log, to get you into the mood of the scene. I apologize for the crappy formatting, but it’s the crazy Arm Original Submissions doing it, not me.
-------
The gaunt, grungy-bearded man has arrived from the north.
At your table, the burn-scarred, curly-haired man...
Continue Reading...Memoir #16 - The Faithful Lord (Elithan) by Rairen
Added on Dec 29, 2009A Jihaen High Templar investigates a brutal murder.
The Road of Poets [EW]
Blue-tinged stones, each speckled with a variety of multi-hued flecks, have been cut into even and symmetrical squares before being cobbled into the path that forms this road. Numerous buildings can be seen dotting the landscape on either side of the road, workers and various artisans scurrying to and fro between the structures. To the south lies the old city wall, its scars a reminder of the city's history.
Sprawled in the middle of the road, the headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute lies here.
A well-built, golden-haired man walks briskly along the street.
A scrawny onyx-haired boy stands eyeing passersby.
Slowing, the ethereal, fair-haired woman stares down at the headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute, features expressionless.
Features impassive, blank, the ethereal, fair-haired woman kneels down distant from the headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute.
You think:
"... What... the..."
You feel disgusted.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman takes in a calming breath through her nose.
You contact the ancient, brutally-scarred man with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:
"*with a wave of nausea* Elithan, someone... beheaded a... woman in the middle of the street..."
The tall figure in a hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster has arrived from the west, riding a war beetle.
A war beetle walks east, carrying the tall figure in a hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster on its back.
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The ancient, brutally-scarred man sends you a telepathic message:
"Where did this occur?"
You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:
"Poets' Road. Just near the market."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
(Much uncomfortable scanning and looking ensues.)
The ethereal, fair-haired woman folds her arms across her waist, attention travelling most anywhere but on the headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute.
The browned, jallal-curled man has arrived from the east.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman stands motionless in the street, arms folded across her waist.
The browned, jallal-curled man's form grows rigid and his eyes wide as he joins the small crowd of people around the headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute.
Blinking a few times, the browned, jallal-curled man asks you, in sirihish:
"What happened?"
Jaw tensing when she touches a hand to a golden-haired boy's shoulder, you say, in sirihish:
"... Back. Go on with you."
With something like resignation, you look at the browned, jallal-curled man.
This man's face is prematurely tanned by Suk-Krath, browned lightly into the color of the desert near dawn; slightly cracked and wrinkled by the erosion of not a few sandstorm winds. His eyes are a dark, cunyati brown, their sparkle betraying his relative youth. His eyebrows are thin, dark and defined, and sit above his eyes in a dignified manner. A short, kinky brown beard falls from his chin about an inch, tied at the end with a thin, golden thread. A small cascade of loose, jalall toned curls fall from his head in a large, roughly spherical halo. Grit and sand are intermingled with hair, contributing to a desert-hardy appearance. His lips are thin and well shaped, and they curl up in one corner; perpetually giving him the appearance of a wry, knowing smile. His body is thin and wiry, and though he is not exceptionally strong, he has some decent musculature. His hands are rough and calloused, his fingers long and thin. A tattoo of a setting Jihae sits on his left shoulder.
The browned, jallal-curled man is using:
<worn on head> a loose white linen surmud
<worn around neck> a carved ivory pipe
<worn across back> a raptor-leather, darkly-stained satchel
<worn around wrist> a thin obsidian cuff
<worn around wrist> a thin obsidian cuff
<worn on right finger> a turquoise-set horn ring
<worn on left finger> a dune-carved, black onyx ring
<worn around body> a hooded, coal-black sandcloth dustcloak
<worn on legs> a pair of sleek-cut, ivory silk pants
<worn on feet> a pair of shaggy quirri-hide boots
With a light shake of her head, you say to the browned, jallal-curled man, in sirihish:
"I don't know, beyond the obvious. His Legions are coming presently."
The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar has arrived from the west.
The one-eyed half-giant Tuluki soldier has arrived from the west.
The browned, jallal-curled man stares down at the headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute, pursing his lips and shaking his head before noticing the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar and dipping him a deep nod.
The golden-haired boy looks to the ethereal, fair-haired woman's hand, squirming a bit before moving away from the slowly gathering crowd around the headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute.
The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar approaches the scene with a staunch expression, his gaze panning towards the headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute.
The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar looks at the browned, jallal-curled man.
When the crowds start to step aside for him, you look at the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar.
With a polite, crisp tilt of her chin, you say to the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar, in sirihish:
"I found her such, High Templar..."
You think:
"... Disgusting..."
Your mood is now revolted.
With a dip of his head, the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar asks you, in sirihish:
"Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Seeker. How long has she been like this?"
The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar turns his attention back to the headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute.
The browned, jallal-curled man steps towards the back of the small crowd, conversing in hushed tones with a few in it he seems to recognize and shrugging at their questions.
Pale eyes sweeping over the crowd, you say to the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar, in sirihish:
"There were already people here when I came. I... couldn't say, but I... it wasn't a few hours ago that I came this way last. I would have seen."
The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar crouches down and looks for tracks.
Case sitting on the street at her side, the ethereal, fair-haired woman watches over the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar, arms wrapped across her waist.
The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar walks slowly around the headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute silently.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman watches the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar, not the headless body.
You feel gravity washing over you.
The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar shakes his head as he looks to the one-eyed half-giant Tuluki soldier.
The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar gives the one-eyed half-giant Tuluki soldier an order.
The one-eyed half-giant Tuluki soldier picks up the headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman flicks a glance up to the one-eyed half-giant Tuluki soldier before letting her attention watch over the crowd, which no longer tries to encroach on the scene.
Along with a few others, the browned, jallal-curled man begins to start off on his way again, heading west.
The browned, jallal-curled man walks west.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman leans down, picking up your creamy white, leather instrument case.
The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar says to the one-eyed half-giant Tuluki soldier, in sirihish:
"Come Private, let's take her out of here."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman offers the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar and the one-eyed half-giant Tuluki soldier a respectful, grave nod in thanks, stepping back from the blood-stained stones.
With a shake of his head, the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar says, in sirihish:
"No one deserves to die like this."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's jaw tenses.
You think:
"Who could... stomach such an act?"
The gray-stubbled, wiry man has arrived from the west.
Looking over those assembled, the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar asks, in sirihish:
"Will any witnesses come forward?"
The gray-stubbled, wiry man looks around, his eyes falling on the headless corpse.
Watching the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar, features impassive and serene, the ethereal, fair-haired woman glances briefly to the few people who glance back to her and to the others around her.
The crowded street grows oddly quiet around the ethereal, fair-haired woman and the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar.
The gray-stubbled, wiry man walks west.
The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar pauses as his gaze sweeps over the quieted crowd.
To the ethereal, fair-haired woman's side, a golden-haired boy keeps just away from her skirt, peering up at the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar.
The one-eyed half-giant Tuluki soldier cradles his headless body of a sleek, jakhal-eyed prostitute in his arm covering her mutilated and naked form in an attempt at modesty.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's jaw works to one side, posture stiff with tension.
Flicking a glance skyward, the ethereal, fair-haired woman pushes a gloved hand back, finding the golden-haired boy's face and pushing him further behind her back.
The golden-haired boy raises a muffled complaint into the ethereal, fair-haired woman's gloved hand.
A lanky, hazel-eyed man grips the golden-haired boy's shoulder, pulling him back from the ethereal, fair-haired woman's hand.
Frowning, the ethereal, fair-haired woman snaps her head back to look to the lanky, hazel-eyed man, brow creasing.
Motioning back to the woman held in the one-eyed half-giant Tuluki soldier's arms, the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar says, in sirihish:
"This is the work of an animal, any information leading to its capture will be rewarded."
The golden-haired boy squirms and fights being taken back from the ethereal, fair-haired woman - before scrambling up the lanky, hazel-eyed man's thigh, finding purchase there.
With the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar's words, the lanky, hazel-eyed man stops glowering at the ethereal, fair-haired woman to cast him a somber - and pensive - look.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman gives a curt nod to the lanky, hazel-eyed man and to the golden-haired boy, attention travelling over the serious, hushed crowd.
The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar draws in a slow breath as he turns sharply to walk down the road, the crowd parting to give him a pathway.The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar walks east.
The one-eyed half-giant Tuluki soldier walks east.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman shakes her head, letting out a quiet breath.
You think:
"I could well use a drink."
The Road of Poets [EW]
Blue-tinged stones, each speckled with a variety of multi-hued flecks, have been cut into even and symmetrical squares before being cobbled into the path that forms this road. Numerous buildings can be seen dotting the landscape on either side of the...
Continue Reading...Memoir #15 - The Tan Muarki (Zharal) by Rairen
Added on Dec 29, 2009An escaped slave and the gypsy who escorted her home speculate on the best way to spend one's free time.
It is late afternoon on Nekrete, the 214th day of the Low Sun,
In the Year of Whira's Vengeance, year 38 of the 21st Age.
Atop Lucky Ghaati, Overlooking Poet's Circle [D]
The adobe roof of the teahouse furnishes a surface here for several small tables and benches in a rooftop garden that overlooks the main sweep of Poet's Circle to the north. Halved wine barrels have been planted with crimson-flowering cacti. The edge of the roof is surrounded by white tiled, raised half-walls. On the street below, crowds swirl and eddy, making their way along the Circle's concourse.
At your table, you say in sirihish, in her bemused, crystal-like voice:
"And I've rarely had so pleasant a trip. I'm also pleased to see that I have at least one type of tea left for you to try before you weary of my company."
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, chuckling shortly:
"Try me."
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, to you:
"There's plenty I'm curious about, and plenty I could ask of you."
You notice: The short, dusky woman's eyes narrow in a brief wince.
At your table, you say in sirihish, mock-sobriety falling over her features:
"I've charmed you for... hm, three meetings now, but you'll soon see through my idle chattering. We've talked of mutual interests, of tea... Will there be enough to last through another serving, though?"
At your table, you say in sirihish, levity warming her tone:
" I'm uncertain... and therefore must insist to share your next with you, at your leisure, to discern the truth."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes study the short, dusky woman's features with accustomed calm and a brief flicker of curiosity.
You notice: The short, dusky woman's expression remains distantly distracted, though she glances from time to time at you.
Features serene, you sip from your small wooden cup.
This tea smells and tastes strongly of fragrant mint.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks down over the Circle as she drinks from your small wooden cup, contentment settling into her posture as she rests and elbow on the back of her chair.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's pale eyes kindly occupy themselves away from the short, dusky woman, untroubled.
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, re-focusing on you:
"Well, I'm a dull girl. Not much to me. So I rely on others to provide me witty banter and stories to tell."
At your table, you say in sirihish, with a relaxed half-smile as she pulls her attention back to the short, dusky woman:
"Oh? Mm, then we have a problem. I'm a better listener than conversationalist, by half, I think, and witless to be sure, unless I can steal it from another."
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, with a thoughtful expression:
"Then I'm forced to wonder where all these words are coming from."
At your table, you say in sirihish, with a slight gesture of your small wooden cup in the short, dusky woman's direction:
"It is a mystery, to be sure. I'd blamed a gypsy's talents, but it seems she denies them."
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, to you:
"Perhaps we've caught each other stealing wit and fencing it off?"
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, waggling a finger, then plucking up a wooden cup to take a measured sip:
"I knew there was something about you I hadn't quite uncovered."
At your table, you say in sirihish, the corner of her mouth lifting:
"If so, I swear not to tell your secret. What a peculiar circumstance it is, then, when two dull, spiritless sort meet for tea and cause such... amusement."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's pale eyes sparkle with mirth as she drinks her tea.
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, taking in a long breath and letting it out in a sober sigh:
"A mystery. Mmm, now that's something else I enjoy."
At your table, you say in sirihish, with a soft, reluctant sigh of her own:
"... I have so few secrets, and you'd seek to tear them all from me. Cruel, cruel woman."
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, glancing out toward the circle:
"Cruel? I prefer 'curious'. As I've so recently stated, a mystery is irresistible to a dull girl like me. It fills my empty head with intrigue."
At your table, you say in sirihish, head canting to one side as she studies the short, dusky woman:
"Hm. And if a secret enthralls you so, it could only mean a greater presence in the Ivory if we can provide them - which means I may have to devise some, true or otherwise."
Out in the Circle, the sinewy, bald-headed man walks east.
You think:
"... The sun about shines off his head, doesn't it?"
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish:
"I was always good at putting puzzles together. Finding the pieces that fit, watching the picture slowly take shape... an enjoyable diversion."
At your table, you say in sirihish, with a soft murmur as she savors her tea:
"Mm. Puzzles. I think we share a common interest there. I find with most others that they lack the... hm, patience for such a pursuit. Does it trouble you?"
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, her attention lingering, still, on the busy circle:
"Sometimes I lose patience, or find that the picture isn't to my liking."
(hemote) Brief and, oh, so sardonic amusement flits across the ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes as she speaks, gaze distant a moment.
At your table, you say in sirihish, crystalline voice serene as she takes up studying the Circle as well:
"That happens to the best of us. We can't be faulted for the picture's deficiencies. What do you find makes for the most entertaining puzzle?"
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, pensively:
"I've always enjoyed portraits. What about you?"
At your table, you say in sirihish, with a thoughtful frown:
"As have I, to be honest, though broader landscapes have their appeal, too."
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, wavering a hand side to side:
"Those are usually the most complicated and frustrating. I often find that many pieces have gone missing."
At your table, you say in sirihish, gaze falling to the short, dusky woman's hand:
"I enjoy the game of finding the missing ones, I think. It becomes a puzzle within a puzzle."
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish:
"That said; the harder the challenge, the sweeter the taste of success."
At your table, you say in sirihish, with an approving smile as she dips her cup in the short, dusky woman's direction:
"Precisely."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman sips from your small wooden cup.
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, at length, staring off at the horizon:
"Sometimes a simple, dull-witted girl tires of puzzles."
Glancing into it before laying it to the side, you discard your small wooden cup.
You think:
"But where is one of those here?"
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, to you, during a pause between two gulps from her teacup:
"Too much of a good thing."
The short, dusky woman drinks fruit tea from her small wooden cup.
At your table, you say in sirihish, in her soft, crystal-like voice:
"As a fellow simple, dull-witted girl, I can agree. I've missed them, though, when I haven't... had access to them."
At your table, you say in sirihish, lifting an assuring hand:
"That said, I often find that I have too many puzzles to sort through, or too few. A... pleasant balance would be more desirable."
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, with a brief, leisurely grin:
"There's the trick of it, isn't it? I admire those who have a neatly organized puzzle collection. I suspect it's a rare circumstance."
At your table, you say in sirihish, with an equally relaxed smile:
"Impostors, all of them. I can't see it as possible."
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, a lazy jadedness in her voice:
"Sometimes, I get the urge to just throw them all away and find some other past-time, like.. oh, needle-work."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's pale eyes flash with cautious irony as she looks at the short, dusky woman.
At your table, you say in sirihish, mouth quirking:
"Mm, an honored pasttime. I've never had the skill for it. My sister was better gifted."
You notice: Weary cynicism mixes with amusement while the short, dusky woman regards you.
The last rays of the red sun fade over the Grey Forest.
(hemtoe) The ethereal, fair-haired woman meets the short, dusky woman's eyes with a slight nod before looking over to the sunset.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances to the sunset, her smile easing with quiet contentment.
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, agreeably, relaxed in her chair while she takes in the fading sky:
"It takes dedication and a deft hand."
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish, sitting up, straighter:
"On that note, we've seen a sunrise, and we've seen a sunset. Nearly full-circle, and I'd better see my bedroll between now and the complete turn."
At your table, you say in sirihish, with a quiet smile as she looks back to the short, dusky woman:
"You took the words from my mouth, as sad as they are to me."
To you, tilting her chin up, the short, dusky woman asks, in sirihish:
"We wouldn't want the quality of our company to suffer. 'Til next?"
With a respectful nod to her, you say to the short, dusky woman, in sirihish:
"Until next. I'll pass on your gifts and send you word of them, if we don't meet before then."
Unhurriedly, the short, dusky woman stands up from a small wooden table.
Flashing a smile as she walks for the stairs, you say to the short, dusky woman, in sirihish:
"His Light guard you, gypsy."
Following, the short, dusky woman says to you, in sirihish:
"Good fortunes to you and yours."
It is late afternoon on Nekrete, the 214th day of the Low Sun,
In the Year of Whira's Vengeance, year 38 of the 21st Age.
Atop Lucky Ghaati, Overlooking Poet's Circle [D]
The adobe roof of the teahouse furnishes a surface here for several small tables...
Continue Reading...Memoir #14 - The Tuluki Soldier (Sid) by Rairen
Added on Dec 29, 2009While in a lesson, a blunt tool of the northern Legions teaches a too self-assured Circle bard a lesson in humility.
"The Tembo's Tooth" - Tavern [EWD Quit]
Smooth, sanded cylini planks have been laid across the floor of this
cramped room, their polished surface flickering in the lights of the candles. Dark stains splatter the wooden floor at odd intervals, disrupting the otherwise smooth contour of the wood with slight warps and bends. A curved bar, formed from what appears to have once been highly polished agafari wood extends from the northern wall. Spaced around it are several bare, ascetic wooden barstools. A sturdy trapdoor has been set in the floor behind the bar. Several rows of shelves have been inset into the wall behind the bar and contain a variety of local ales and liquor. Willowy, vine-like plants drape from rounded clay bowls, the gloss of their leaves reflecting the dim light of the candles spaced around the room. Rows of booths line the northern and southern walls while the center of the room is occupied by two rounded tables.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman dips a nod to the robust, head-shaven man after finding a path to the bar.
The figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard has arrived from the west.
The figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard tugs back her hood.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman leans back against the bar - and then catches sight of the figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard with narrowed eyes and a smile.
The spangled-blond, muscular woman lowers the hood of a long, hooded red and white tabard.
Pushing in her direction, you say to the spangled-blond, muscular woman, in sirihish:
"Sid, good to see you well."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman beats dust from her tabard as she walks.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman pauses at the spangled-blond, muscular woman's side, touching a hand to her elbow.
The spangled-blond, muscular woman says to you, in sirihish:
"And you."
Tilting her head in the direction of the other room, you say to the spangled-blond, muscular woman, in sirihish:
"Perhaps you'd care for a quieter booth? I'll confess to my own foolishness, as I left home without a ‘sid to my name."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman dips her head to you before peering around her, eyes the rougher looking patrons suspiciously.
(hemote) The crisp aroma of mint lingers in the air around the ethereal, fair-haired woman.
The spangled-blond, muscular woman says to you, in sirihish:
"Lemme see if I'm fixed any better"
The spangled-blond, muscular woman gets her pile of coins from her sunburst-buckled, hardened leather sword belt.
With a rueful twist to her smile, you say to the spangled-blond, muscular woman, in sirihish:
"I'll owe you, hm? It's a terrible oversight, I know."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman asks, in sirihish:
"We can't even afford an ale. How bout we sit and talk, dry?"
The ethereal, fair-haired woman gives a soft, incredulous laugh as she bows her head in the spangled-blond, muscular woman's direction.
The spangled-blond, muscular woman says to you, in sirihish:
"Unless you think you can charm him into giving us one for eight sid? You've got a more winning way than me."
the robust, head-shaven man has the following goods to trade:
09) a rough clay mug of ale for 10 obsidian coins.
The spangled-blond, muscular woman tilts her head toward the bar, indicating the robust, head-shaven man.
Glancing over to the robust, head-shaven man, jaw working to one side, you say to the spangled-blond, muscular woman, in sirihish:
"Hm... I wonder if I could. It seems we travel to match - I'm carrying eight on me, too."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman lifts up a finger to the spangled-blond, muscular woman, pale eyes narrowed with mirth as she pushes back toward a curved, agafari bar.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman pushes herself up on a curved, agafari bar, leaning forward to share hushed words with the robust, head-shaven man.
The spangled-blond, muscular woman crosses her arms, relaxing into a slump.
The robust, head-shaven man angrily insists on keeping the price the same for a rough clay mug.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman pushes a few coins in one hand as she offers the robust, head-shaven man a rueful, wry smile.
Amused, you whisper to the robust, head-shaven man in sirihish:
"Next time, next time. I'll not forget this, friend."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman slings your leather-strapped, rich purple satchel over her shoulder again as she rejoins the spangled-blond, muscular woman with a helpless shrug.
You notice: Standing in a lazy slouch, the spangled-blond, muscular woman seems amused, the slight twitch of a smile giving her away.
The spangled-blond, muscular woman says to you, in sirihish:
"You can pretend you're a soldier. Eat some rations. Drink some water been in the skin long enough to get that taste."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman falls in behind you.
Mirth to her tone, still, you whisper to the spangled-blond, muscular woman in sirihish:
"To think he couldn't do a bard a favor. I'll find a way to get even with him, I promise."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman asks you, in sirihish:
"Where'd you want to sit?"
As she finds a 'clear' path toward the next room, you say to the spangled-blond, muscular woman, in sirihish:
"... Oh? I doubt even rations and water could make me a soldier. Remind me to tell you of southern foods, by the by, sometime. It makes rations seem a feast."
A Secluded Alcove [S]
Separated from the main room by a curtain of beaded fringe, this booth
provides a small measure of privacy. The haze of sweet spice smoke mixed
with the exotic seasonings of the food combine in an aroma that is almost
intoxicating by itself. Benches made of thickly stuffed, dun-colored tandu leather line each side of this booth and a sturdy table made of thick cylini planks stands between them. The walls behind the benches are covered with a worn sandcloth tapestry depicting a raging sandstorm on one side and a wagon caravan on the other. Hanging from the wall in between is the bleached skull of some large grasslands creature.
With a glance over her shoulder, shrill voice pitched to carry, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says to you, in sirihish:
"That's fine. When you're flush he won't be the one you tip."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman laughs, gesturing to one bench for the spangled-blond, muscular woman as she reaches for the curtain.
The spangled-blond, muscular woman seems unable to completely repress a grin, as she slides her bulk onto a bench.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, a knowing smile dancing at the corner of her mouth:
"You already seem an expert on politics, Sid. What by all that is good do you need me for?"
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Seriously, don't tip the fucker. Why? Cause I'm always curious about shit there ain't no one to ask."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Ain't like I can question the chosen or the Faithful, and no one explains nothing to me, cause it ain't gonna help me catch thieves or break up fights."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a soft breath, very nearly a laugh:
"Point very truly taken. I'll do what I can then, to be that... resource for you - and if I can't answer the question, I can assuredly attempt to do so through my own means."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, glancing to the ceiling for a moment, smiling still:
"As for the tipping, I don't intend on it, until it becomes more pertinent to do so. As it is, I could likely get us six drinks from a penitent Kuraci, no? "
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Likely so. In the end, might have been a favor he done you, poor fuck."
(hemote) No small amount of ironic amusement lingers in the ethereal, fair-haired woman's pale eyes.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a quiet nod to the spangled-blond, muscular woman:
"Is there something on your mind, then, in particular? Politics is a... vast topic, if interesting one."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Lots of things. Lots of questions. Like, what's the tax on the grasslands about?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a mild lift of her brow:
"A very, very good question. It's a question I'm... researching, although I haven't learned the answer yet. My understanding is overhunting."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"I know Uaptal, put it out, and it's aimed at the merchant houses, just the four big ones or all of them? They all piss off Uaptal or just a couple? And how do the other chosen feel bout it?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a slight lift of one hand:
"Fewer animals bring more dangerous ones closer to the city and so on."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Oh. Well, that seems more practical than political."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman pauses glancing from the spangled-blond, muscular woman to one gloved hand before she cracks a smile.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, in a softer tone, her nod careful:
"It does seem that, but as with many things... political, they often have more than one motive."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"So, if tomorrow you decided that you just had to chase down a tregil, you have to hand over a leg?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, her tone assuring, unconcerned:
"I'm not certain the full terms of it, but yes, it seems that in most cases there will be taxes paid for it - to House Uaptal, as you said."
You think:
"... Just be careful, little Aja."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"When a hunter asks me if they got to pay a tax, what do I tell them? Go find Chosen Lady Shara?"
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, taking a breath than sighing:
"Sorry, I ain't hardly giving you time to answer. I hope I ain't gonna leave you feeling interrogated."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a hint of a smile, still:
"That would be my advice. I would also inquire of His Faithful if you are responsible for enforcing the taxes of the Chosen Governors."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman nods a few times.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, tone assuring, again, as she lifts a mild hand:
"Please, it is good practice for me, I promise you that. My Masters are even quicker tongued than you, friend."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a slight shrug of her slender shoulders:
"As a point of fact, I'd be curious as to their answer on that, as well. Given how many questions are arising about this tax, it might help... spread word more effectively."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"If I asked you for your -opinion- of what the tax is about, could you give me a less polite answer with a bit more meat to it? Or would that just make you uncomfortable, and get me more of the same?"
Pale eyes trailing over her as she offers her a languid smile, you look at the spangled-blond, muscular woman.
White and silver threads, interspersed through the shades of gold and
yellow, create the illusion of sparkle in a blunt, shoulder-length,
perfectly straight growth of thick hair. Her brows and lashes are just
plain white. The darkness of her nut brown skin is marred by lighter
scarred flesh. An odd shade of greenish blue, her eyes look like a marriage of jade and moonstone trapped in slanted almond crescents. This woman's face is completed by a low bridged nose, and narrow mouth. The hollow of her neck is deep, while the muscles stand out, like a foreshadowing of the bulging sinewy brawn that covers long limbs. The softness of her breasts and hips in no way detract from air of strength that emanates from this woman.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a softer tone as she adjusts the clasp to your hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak:
"I can, if you like, though I would not have my supposition taken - or spread throughout the city - for fact. If that is not unacceptable, then I can give my... conjecture."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman looks back, levelly, expression disclosing nothing but curiosity.
(hemote) he ethereal, fair-haired woman studies the spangled-blond, muscular woman, pale eyes pensive.
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, lips moving finally into a slow smile:
"I keep my mouth shut."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"I ain't quite as foolish as the bartender. I can think ahead to next time I want a question answered."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, returning the spangled-blond, muscular woman's smile:
"And I am a servant to His Faithful and an instructor to His Legions. My largest question about the tax is what will be done with the coin it collects."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman's eyebrows slowly climb as the seconds beat off in the aftermath of your statement.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, her voice taking on a tutorial, patient cadence:
"While taxes can be prohibitive, I find it unlikely that the value of additional coin has gone unnoticed."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Yeh, well, there's an interesting question I'd have never thought of."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, glancing to the curtain which blocks sight of the noisier room beyond:
"I know House Uaptal and House Lyksae enjoy a rivalry between those Houses, and I know House Lyksae has shown prominence of late in service with the Alliance."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, smile relaxed:
"To what ends House Uaptal will use it, I don't know. Perhaps simply to have the ability to do so."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman glances too at the table and turns back to you head moving in a slow nod.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a tilt of her head to the spangled-blond, muscular woman:
"But if I were to start... looking further into this, I would question current development projects sponsored by House Uaptal as well as the rivalry with House Lyksae."
You think:
"But why not Dasari? Why, why..."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"So, listen..."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, after a pause, glancing back to the spangled-blond, muscular woman:
"... Always. Go on."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Sometimes, if I wanted to know what someone's up to, maybe I don't ask them nothing."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Maybe I let them ask me, and what they're asking, it shows something you know?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, a smile warming her tone:
"Yes, I know. You do this often, Sid?"
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"But sometimes it don't. And I got a lot of time to think, sometimes I'm patrolling the old quarter, and I'm just thinking."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman crosses her legs beneath your flowing white linen skirt, pale eyes watching the spangled-blond, muscular woman with quiet interest.
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"So, you think, Who pissed of Uaptal and from there, next thing you know, you're wondering if it means the Kadian's are going to be cutting back on blue. Or..."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"So, I thought I'd ask stuff, and then I thought if I ask, maybe it sounds like I know shit I don't."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Or I'm implying shit I ain't."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"And what would be made of that?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, giving a soft breath as she tilts her head from one side to the other:
"Valid concerns, particularly in your position, where justness is so important."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, trailing off and then shaking her head:
"I ain't overburdened with no one asking me to do much more than make sure there ain't no one robbing the stores or getting drunk and throwing up on the Chosen's shoes."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, after a longer pause as she touches a hand to her chest to still the glass bells chiming there:
"... And that does leave a great amount of time to think, doesn't it?"
contact shara
You contact the svelte, top-knotted woman with the Way.
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"So, no, I don't question too many people. But before I was a Legionnaire, I been on my own, and you learn to take what advantages you can, when you got to."
You send a telepathic message to the svelte, top-knotted woman:
"My pardon for intruding on your mind, Chosen Lady. I've been receiving numerous questions regarding the recent tax on the grasslands, and I'm not certain how to answer them or who to direct them to."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Yeh, so I guess I'm just curious about what ifs."
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
You send a telepathic message to the svelte, top-knotted woman:
"If you or House Uaptal have a preference, I would be more than happy to direct people in the appropriate ways."
The svelte, top-knotted woman sends you a telepathic message:
"Good Morning Aja? Tax on the grasslands? Who has been asking about this particularly?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a hint of a smile still as she studies the spangled-blond, muscular woman:
"Hm. Well. I suppose it sounds as though you wish you had more answers and less... intangible things to think on. I can suggest strategies, of course, though none will be... perfect."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Like if them two houses ain't getting on, does it mean they smile or snub? Did it all break out before or after the ball to honor the new Chosen Lord and Consort? And if it happened after would Chosen Lord Thrend still have gone?"
You send a telepathic message to the svelte, top-knotted woman:
"Hunters in the Sanctuary, Chosen Lady, among others."
You think:
"... And we are all curious, I know."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, leaning toward you, expression intent:
"Could you? And I wouldn't get in trouble with em?"
The svelte, top-knotted woman sends you a telepathic message:
"Well, hmm, the only entity I have spoken with about a hunting -license- is House Kadius thus far."
The svelte, top-knotted woman sends you a telepathic message:
"And Kelsin - actually, so I'm not entirely sure where all of this is springing up, but while a future license is being discussed to prevent over hunting.... nothing has been finalized yet."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a curious smile:
"I could, of course - though if I might ask, when you said would Chosen Lord Thrend still have gone... Has he gone?"
You send a telepathic message to the svelte, top-knotted woman:
"Intriguing. I fear I am as at a loss as you, Chosen Lady. Thank you for the clarification, and I apologize then for troubling you over such a minor matter."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's brow creases, ever so slightly.
The svelte, top-knotted woman sends you a telepathic message:
"Oh no, thank you for enlightening me Aja - you're very helpful as always. I'm still hoping you can give a group etiquette lesson soon. I shall meet you for payment soon as well."
The svelte, top-knotted woman sends you a telepathic message:
"What was our total again?"
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, shaking her head:
"Meant Chosen Governer Shara gave the ball, and Chosen Governor Thrend attended."
You send a telepathic message to the svelte, top-knotted woman:
"We're just a small, Chosen Lady, and I'll look forward to working more closely with your House in the future."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Did he attend even though they ain't getting on? Or were they in a better cheer with each other at the time?"
The svelte, top-knotted woman sends you a telepathic message:
"Wonderful! High Templar Elithan wise as usual, was quiet keen to snatch you up so quickly as a partisan Aja."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a slight nod:
"Yes, of course. My pardon for that - and I don't know when the rivalry began to truly intensify. I've only noticed it recently in discussions with His Chosen."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"And what's it mean to be a governor?"
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, sighing:
"See? One question gives rise to the next, and there ain't no end to it."
You send a telepathic message to the svelte, top-knotted woman:
"Thank you for your kind words, Chosen Lady. I hope I might always work to deserve them."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"And this is just in the time we're sitting here."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a hint of a smile:
"... I enjoy it, although not everyone does. It's a bit of a puzzle, trying to put all of the pieces, all of the questions in place."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"But, see, you're a bard. You're supposed to be curious."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"I'm meant to shut up, and do what I'm told, quick and quiet. I ain't supposed to think too much."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, laughter in her tone:
"... Am I, now? You speak of us like you would that tregil you were going to hunt down in the grasslands. It does happen, though, that I enjoy puzzles."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a softer, fonder tone:
"And no, His Faithful would never want you mindless, thoughtless, Sid. That's how the southerners work."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, another grin coming reluctantly at first:
"I ain't thought of it that way. I meant no offense, you know."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, wryly:
"And you can see what good it's brought them. His Faithful want you to think, Sid, they want you to know and to be able to help. And you're very smart, which would make it a shame to waste a gift."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman offers the spangled-blond, muscular woman a smile and shake of her head.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman studies the spangled-blond, muscular woman with pale, thoughtful eyes, most of her easy levity never reaching them.
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"I'm flattered you think so, I don't think it's an opinion much shared. It might be it renders you unique."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, smile quirking:
"May I always be unique, and perhaps I am a bit overindulgent where my students are concerned, but I enjoy a person who asks good questions. Who ask questions at all, truly, as too many never do."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman grunts softly with another quick nod.
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"And then I wondered too, bout the merchants, who're on the receiving end, of the tax."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"I wondered what it means to have the power of trade, and how much liberty it gives em."
(hemote) The sleeve to your loose-cut white linen blouse slips down the ethereal, fair-haired woman's shoulder.
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"What if... say Kurac did something that wasn't against the law, not that I think they did or anything like that, but say they did."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"And it was something that wasn't exactly illegal, but unpopular, what would happen?"
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"What if... say Kurac did something that wasn't against the law, not that I think they did or anything like that, but say they did."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"And it was something that wasn't exactly illegal, but unpopular, what would happen?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, linking her gloved hands in front of her face as she nods:
"I suppose it would depend on how it impacted the rest of the city. No longer supplying theodeliv would be unpopular in the extreme... but not punishable."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, smiling behind clasped hands as she touches them to her lips:
"Though, perhaps then House Tenneshi would stop having them cater parties... and so on, and so on."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Let's say one of the chosen had a pet ratlon that got lost. And they were out on the road near the post and decided to spit it and roast?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a slight shrug of her shoulders:
"If it was Kuraci outriders, I would say that they may get slapped on the wrist, at worst, but only if an Agent is brought in and the Chosen's House decided to leverage this against them for relative gains."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Let's say it was Brethel. He's got an appetite. I bet he could eat the better part of a ratlon, no matter how tough it might be."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman grins.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a sudden, genuine smile:
"... Your point is noted. Assuming it to be an Agent of Kurac and assuming they knew and ignored that it was a pet of His Chosen and assuming His Chosen learned of it accurately - all significant assumptions, by..."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, pale eyes narrowed, thoughtful:
"By the by. I would imagine that he would claim it an accident or that the animal was lame or that it was done for desperate need. And likely repay the loss in ale and Kuraci spice."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, brow creasing:
"Would the Chosen House actively seek reimbursement? I doubt House Kurac would give them time to."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Let's say for the sake of argument that all the things you said as ifs were so, except that last. Let's say it was clear that it was done with some malice."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"And would it matter which Chosen's pet it was?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a hint of reproach to her smile:
"Sid, for what reason would an Agent of Kurac maliciously harm a pet of a Chosen House? If that be the case, then yes, the actions would be more severe, on His Chosen's part and on House Kurac's."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, tapping a thumb to the table as she nods to the spangled-blond, muscular woman:
"And yes, it would. Very much so.
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Well, they wouldn't."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Here, this question, I ain't asking you what I really want to know."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"I ain't asking cause ..."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"What I want to know's been all settled.... and what I wondered about wasn't so, when I was thinking about it."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, sighing:
"That make sense to you?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a soft murmur:
"... I think so. Are you worried about wanting to know the possibilities for outcomes as well as the truth of them? In case it ever arises again?"
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Got nothing to do with Kurac or ratlons. Just something went missing and before we knew where it went I wondered if we might piece it together."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"And if it had turned up, in a place that seemed possible, how much trouble would it have caused."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"But it didn't. It's all just wondering."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, fondness creeping into her tone:
"You are part poet and part tactician, Sid, I swear it. If -I- might ask a question, why? Why do you ask the questions? To prepare yourself? For simply the sake of... imagination?"
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Cause when it happened I wondered. And there was no one to ask. And then it turned out not to be the case, so there was no way to ever know the answer."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"And it plagues me like an itch I can't reach."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, tapping her four-fingered hand against the table, mouth quirking:
"I understand that well enough. In the future if these... suppositions occur, I'd be more than glad to listen, even if I can't offer anything but an open mind to you."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"I'd appreciate that."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, eyes narrowing:
"You know what I'm talking about?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a soft breath of laughter:
"... And by all that's good, yes. We have... similarities. I like to listen to people, and I like to ask them questions, to learn. And, in the process, they tell me things - for better or worse."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, wryly, touching a hand to the back of her neck:
"And it becomes an itch, wanting to know the entire story, because there is always... a bigger piece."
It is late at night on Terrin, the 90th day of the Low Sun,
In the Year of Vivadu's Defiance, year 40 of the 21st Age.
You think:
"Eight years. Eight -years-, Aja."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Right."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"It ain't cause I have any business knowing."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Or cause knowing would do me any good."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"It's just that not knowing is so fucking uncomfortable."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Like the whole story with the taxes? What is that?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, working her jaw to one side as she lowers her hand:
"Sid, I can only say again that I know exactly what you mean. You are a soldier. Unknowns do not... suit you."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, after a pause, before she laughs, soft and low:
"I thought we might circle back that way. I had a brief chat with the Chosen Lady while we were speaking."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, inclining her head to the spangled-blond, muscular woman:
"While I don't know if I can add further enlightenment, the Chosen Lady Shara was most surprised that I was inquiring about the tax on the grasslands."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman laughs, the sound a soft warbling screech, that dies away quickly.
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"But, why?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a soft murmur, assuring:
"I did not mention you, Sid. Thankfully, there was a second person asking me of it, a hunter that I'd never known."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"I mean, if you start taxing people, it ain't like a secret. It's a tax. It's levied."
At your seat, you say in sirihish:
"As to her surprise, she said that the only people she'd mentioned this to were House Kadius and Kelsin, the partisan to Faithful Lord Vraj."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Well, they ain't the only ones who know."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Some big old hunter was asking me."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Up from Nak, she was, I think."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a soft breath, nearly a laugh:
"Yes, I know, and I'm surprised that the Chosen Lady did not know that, which makes me think that she does not wish me to publicize this."
At your seat, you say in sirihish:
"This tax, that is."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"So, once Naki hunters know about your tax, it can't be called a secret, can it?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, mouth quirking:
"No, I suppose not. Her assurance, however, was that she had only mentioned a hunting license - not a tax, if I caught her terminology correctly - with House Kadius."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, shaking her head:
"Aja, this is a fucking disappointment. Not you. Not you at all."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"This whole the more you know the no fewer questions you have."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Like reaching back to scratch and the itch moves."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a curious tilt of her head, laughter in her pale eyes:
"... It is a disappointment. Try to find pleasure in the answers when you can, or in using them well. Spice can't take away an itch, but it can... distract you by making other parts feel good, that is."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"But it does answer some questions. Like they ain't all pissed off the Chosen Governor in unison. It's just the one house that's got her angry. And that's easier to fathom."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Or maybe not her. Maybe House Uaptal."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a hint of a nod:
"It does answer some questions. She also said that nothing had been finalized."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"But one house makes more sense than all of them."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a slight lift of one hand:
"To return to one of your other earlier questions, the Chosen Governors are selected from their House to oversee parts of the Ivory and the surrounding lands."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a tilt of her head:
"Such as House Uaptal with the grasslands, or House Lyksae with the Red Sun Commons."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"The Faithful have no hand in the selection?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, pale eyes narrowed with thought:
"The first were chosen by His Faithful, and I've assumed that it has continued to be done in that fashion - but I can look more into that for you."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Well, it ain't worth upsetting anyone over. Just interesting. "
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a second, slight nod:
"It is, and I should be more... current in such affairs, as you aren't the only one who asks me of it. Foreigners, in particular, are always interest in learning the intricacies of Tuluki politics."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"I hope I ain't asked or said nothing I shouldn't have. Nothing that'd upset none of the Faithful or Chosen."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a slight shrug of her slender shoulders:
"You haven't, and I'd likely inform you - again, as your instructor - if I saw anything remiss in your behavior."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"That's appreciated."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, smile lingering as she glances to the spangled-blond, muscular woman:
"It is a... benefit to being a teacher, being able to be so frank with those you are close to."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, tone thoughtful:
"Are we?"
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, with a shrug:
"I ain't close to many people, so... I ain't always sure how close works."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, taking in a slight breath, tone thoughtful:
"It is not a truth universally held, but in my family, in my Circle, such honesty is crucial to being able to help another learn and improve."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, after pausing, her murmur non-committal:
"Hm. Let's see... I still don't think of myself as knowing you well, Sid, although I surely would enjoy doing so. Regardless, however, because I am hired on as your teacher, you must be close to me."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, in a softer voice:
"Honesty is a... deep sign of trust, both in your ability to hear it and in mine to... lower some guards that might otherwise exist."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Well, alright. I guess yeh, I'm putting down some guards. And hoping I don't end up hurt for having done it."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, suddenly grinning:
"Curiosity is a dangerous vice."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Both cheaper and dearer than spice."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, exhaling softly, a few strands of hair flying up from her face as she does so:
"Yes, I... feel the same, be assured in that. And yes, curiosity is a delightful vice - although apathy is a vice, as well, and less delightful, hm?"
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Do you suffer from apathy?"
You feel as though you hate her for asking that question.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a soft breath of laughter:
"Me? No, I enjoy puzzles too much, as I said. Although my... curiosity is not evenly distributed. I have some interests greater than others."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"So..."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"We close enough I can be rude and ask something with no thought of tact?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, trailing off before she offers the spangled-blond, muscular woman a serene smile:
"Of course, Sid. Feel free."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"How come you're more talented than lots of them seekers and you ain't one?"
The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks across to the spangled-blond, muscular woman and then laughs, soft and serene, the bells at her neck chiming.
You feel as though you didn't need to be asked that today.
The spangled-blond, muscular woman watches you, gaze level, until finally she shrugs sheepishly.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a wry shake of her head:
"Thank you for prefacing that with a question. Most do not. First, I must also thank you for the compliment for it is deeply appreciated."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Well, cause I wonder."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a hint of nod:
"The reasons are... two-fold, I think. The first is that I was gone for several years, Sid. Even I cannot deny that I did not... improve in many areas during that time."
You think:
"Eight year anniversary."
As she listens, the spangled-blond, muscular woman looks at you.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, smile quirking, a hint of ironic amusement flashing across it:
"The other is that not all... Circles advance at the same rate. The Driamusek Circle has very high standards. As such, it is the greater honor to be a Seeker for us."
(hemote) Two of the ethereal, fair-haired woman's fingers - one on each hand - are missing; the fabric of her gloves hangs empty where they should be.
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Does it bother you? If not you're a finer person than me. It'd bother me, I think."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, taking in a soft breath, jaw working to one side:
"It does in some senses. Not... everyone understands our ways, and so it seems odd to them, a partisan to a High Templar being but a poor, troubled Apprentice."
You feel as though it seems odd to you at times, too.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a hint of a smile to the spangled-blond, muscular woman:
"It helps when they ask, as you have, to allow me opportunity to explain."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Who you're partisan to, aside, you give a performance audience feels like they seen a performance."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Ain't that the whole point of being a bard?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, pale eyes narrowed with amusement:
"One of the greatest points, without doubt. I enjoy the performances that no one notices, but that is an entirely different topic of conversation."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with practiced patience:
"However, we are all... skilled differently. A performance from a Master is unlike anything a novice could create. It is part of our... auditions, our advancement, just as you must learn a better dance with swords."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"No, I don't."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, shaking her head:
"If a criminal is running away, I got to stop them."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"I don't got to impress them with how I stop them."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a curious smile as she pulls tangled hair back from her face:
"True. My pardon."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"I just got to get them into a cell."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"If I go into battle, I got to kill more enemy than kills me."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"I ain't got to impress them either."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a quiet nod:
"And your ability to... continue killing enemies, to capture thieves is dependent on... what, experience, I'd say?"
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Well, if I was talented with a blade it would depend on outfighting em."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"If I was smart, it'd depend on outsmarting them."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a slight nod, a smile teasing the corner of her mouth:
"... And...?"
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"And some days it just comes down to throwing a rock at them, before they run too fast and get away."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"End of the day, I don't have to be good. I just have to get the job done."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"If I can make it pretty, that's nice."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"If I can't..."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman shrugs.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a touch of incredulity to her tone:
"But isn't getting the job done -being- good?"
At your seat, you say in sirihish, fond levity in her tone:
"My dear friend, there are many sorts of... proficiency. Beauty is only one of them."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, shaking her head:
"I don't know. I don't know the answers."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, tone softening as well as her smile:
"Then I believe it is. Being able to survive and succeed - those are marks of His Legions. It is the same with us. Time and experience teaches us how to survive and succeed."
At your seat, you say in sirihish:
"But my criminals are instead sharing drinks with His Chosen. My wars are dances on a stage."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a thoughtful frown:
"And I don't suppose you have any rations on you that you might be willing to spare? I left home without food as well as 'sid."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, digging through the bag:
"I do, but I doubt you'll thank me. They're..."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman gets her bundle of leaf-wrapped rations from her leather tool bag.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, interjecting smoothly:
"... better than roasted scrab head and crusty cheese. My thanks to House Tor of Allanak for those experiences."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, producing a bundle:
"Well, they're filling at least"
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"I'd trade the rations for crusty cheese and heads. I hate rations."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman gives you her bundle of leaf-wrapped rations.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a soft breath of laughter:
"I'm spoiled to a core, then. A few weeks of... stew, I think they called it, although I'd hardly be so generous with the name, and I was missing dry bread."
After lifting it to the spangled-blond, muscular woman in thanks, you eat part of your bundle of leaf-wrapped rations.
You think:
"... Admittedly, these -are- quite foul."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"I'd kiss the cook if he made stew. I explained stew to him...nothing."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"I think it's an insult to all cooks to call him one. I never actually seen him -cook- anything."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a dry glance to the spangled-blond, muscular woman:
"I wish I'd've known your recipe for it. I've assisted cooks, but my own... talent for it is less than satisfactory, and there are few tyrants in this world like a cook in a kitchen."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Take the meat he's throwing in the rations and put it in a pot with some water and some ocotillo, the fruit from the rations some water from the barrel and put the pot on the hearth."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"It doesn't have to be good. It just has to be ... something but this."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman laughs, lifting both gloved hands up in a helpless gesture.
At your seat, you say in sirihish:
"I submit, my friend. I submit. If I were your cook, I would do as you commanded in all things."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Have a talk with him, Aja. Have a talk with the man."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a wry tone:
"I couldn't seduce two tankards of ale from a friendly bartender. I doubt a hardened cook to His Legions will be any softer swayed."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Well, threats and taunts ain't moved him, maybe a bit of sweet would do it."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a dip of her head in thanks:
"I will do what I can, but I'll not make promises, sadly. Perhaps I could at least get him to use spices on the rations?"
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"He could piss on them, and they could only be improved."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, touching a hand to her mouth, her smile amused:
"Where I used to live, every Detal we would receive a fresh shipment of kalan fruit. There were few pleasures in this world such as a week of... mush followed by a few hours of fresh kalan."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, inclining her head to the spangled-blond, muscular woman:
"If nothing else, perhaps... perhaps... we could get something special to liven your days."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"That'd be a fine addition."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, cracking a smile:
"... And then I shall see to it, if you would be so kind as to permit me to take my leave. I fear I have other duties less pleasant to see to than this."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"Your time is appreciated."
At your seat, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish:
"I hope I wasn't too much of a trial to you."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, smile lingering:
"Your questions are always appreciated and... please. Please. Believe me when I say that my time with you is no trial. If nothing else, believe that I've taught too many southerners through their ignorance."
Sliding free of the booth, you stand up from a baobab booth.
The spangled-blond, muscular woman says to you, in sirihish:
"His Radiance upon you, Aja."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman stands up from a baobab booth.
With a respectful nod, you say to the spangled-blond, muscular woman, in sirihish:
"And His Light grace you, as ever, Sid. I'll look forward to hearing from you, and will check in after a month or so, if no new questions arise on your end."
(hemote) Mirth flashes across the ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes.
"The Tembo's Tooth" - Tavern [EWD Quit]
Smooth, sanded cylini planks have been laid across the floor of this
cramped room, their polished surface flickering in the lights of the candles. Dark stains splatter the wooden floor at odd intervals, disrupting the otherwise...
Continue Reading...Memoir #13 - The Lirathan Santa Claus (Serilla) by Rairen
Added on Dec 29, 2009Whatever happened to the gift that Raven promised?
The Bahamet's Maw Tavern - Main Room [ESU]
Half a dozen tables are scattered throughout this diminutive tavern.
Despite the lack of lavish decor, the bar exudes a feeling of being anything but paltry. The walls are coated in a layer of vivid tan paint, and occasionally a framed painting hangs from their glossy surfaces. The floorstones below are simple squares of red sandstone, haphazardly inlayed into the level ground. Just above the elongated bar on the northern wall hangs a luxurious tapestry, the tedious embroidery of a fiery sunburst stitched onto a white background.
The cramped entrance to the east leads out to a road, while the room snakes away to the south. A polished baobab staircase is affixed to one end of the bar to carry patrons to an upper level dormitory.
The gurth-bellied half-giant soldier looms here, gazing intently about.
The earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar is sitting on a long, darkly-stained cynipri bar.
The bristling red-streaked kurtok paces here, growling for no reason.
You lower the hood of a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak.
Lifting a warm smile, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar looks up at you.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman takes in a calming breath.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks over to the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar with a smile in greeting as she crosses the tavern.
Beckoning, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says to you, in sirihish:
"Aja, do join me."
With a respectful nod to the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar, you sit on a long, darkly-stained cynipri bar.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, as she sits:
"Of course, Faithful... Lady. I hope the day finds you well?"
You feel your heart racing - and like you need a home closer to the Heart.
At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish, nodding deeply:
"It does, indeed. It has been a provident day in His Light."
At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish, giving her wide-mouthed purple glass candy dish a pat:
"It seems I've a gift for you that is long overdue, my dear."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, her smile lingering as she looks to the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar:
"... A gift."
You think:
"... Raven?"
At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish, settling her wide-mouthed purple glass candy dish onto the table:
"Indeed. Tell me what you know of the one called Raven who you mentioned to me once before."
The earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar gives you her wide-mouthed purple glass candy dish.
At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish:
"It is from her."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, reaching for your wide-mouthed purple glass candy dish, a gloved finger tracing over it:
"... I know little, Faithful Lady. She is a slave to the Lord Templar Samos of Allanak, but I do not know her through... that city."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, looking back to the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar with a shake of her head:
"She says she knew of me, when I... served the Tor Warlord, but I do not recall such a woman."
You think:
"How, by all that is good, did she get this to you?"
At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish:
"What sort of questions has she asked you? She seems to have takena great liking to you."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's thumb traces over your wide-mouthed purple glass candy dish.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, tone rueful as well as wry:
"I... wish I knew, Faithful Lady. She was lonely and found my mind. Her own is... troubled. Mad, you might say, although I've seen no harm in her."
The earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar chews at her lower lip, studying your face.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, pausing before she gives a slow shake of her head:
"She asks how I am, if I'll tell her a story. She asks advice on getting to know others... and mostly talks on nothing at all."
You think:
"I... don't know. I'm sorry."
At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish:
"Do me a great favor, Aja. Find her mind and let her know I've finally gotten your gift to you. And inquire as to why she has kept up with you. I am quite keen to find out."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a soft clearing of her throat after she nods:
"Of course, Faithful Lady. I... thought this gift was a figment of her imagination. She said she'd given one to you, was... angry that I hadn't received it. "
At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish:
"A slave of Samos the Red sending gifts to a Driamusek family member? It is a bit odd... ah, yes. Funny story, that."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, jaw working to one side:
"Mm. It is how I had the pleasure of an introduction to that man. I do not know... if I'll be able to find the answers you seek, Faithful Lady."
At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish:
"Someone thrust that dish into my hands some months ago and said nothing of who it was for. I thought it was some sort of present for me until this woman Raven found my mind."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's brow creases. Deeply.
You think:
"Incredible..."
You feel at a loss.
At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish, nodding to you:
"Let me know when you've reached her again. I trust I need not stress the importance of giving nothing about His Ivory away."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a quiet inclination of her head:
"Of course, Faithful Lady. I'd dislike being a puppet to a southerner - even an ally."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman adds the last three words with just the barest of pauses.
You think:
"... I'll have to seek her out."
You feel incredulous. And concerned.
At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish, nodding her head firmy:
"Quite so, quite so. All the more reason to find out what her motives are. Mere slaves do not usually act in such a matter."
You think:
"If she could reach the Faithful Lady so easily..."
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a soft murmur:
"She is more than just a slave. He think highly of her, I believe."
At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish, with a quiet smile:
"Have we anything else to go over? I am afraid I am needed in the Heart. Ah.. yes."
The earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar's lips curls distastefully.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, returning the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar's smile:
"No, Faithful Lady, I do not think so. I appreciate you taking the time to provide this to me."
At your seat, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says in sirihish, chuckling ruefully:
"I am only sorry it took me so long. His Light, Aja."
The earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar stands at a long, darkly-stained cynipri bar.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman dips a slight nod down to your wide-mouthed purple glass candy dish.
In a smooth motion, you stand at a long, darkly-stained cynipri bar.
The bristling, red-streaked kurtok sniffs at you with a single wag of his bushy tail.
With a respectful nod, you say to the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar, in sirihish:
"His Light grace you."
l in dish
In a wide-mouthed purple glass candy dish (carried) :
a lavender blossom
a silky blossom
a bright red fruit
a piece of wrapped candy
a spun-sugar spider
a piece of wrapped mint
a dark-red, oval lozenge
a huge crimson blossom
a stuffed ginka fruit
a tiny bark lantern
a piece of honied candy
a few brandy-filled candies
a necklace of glass bells
a gem-adorned chain belt
You feel overwhelmed.
You think:
"... I'll... have to find her."
The Bahamet's Maw Tavern - Main Room [ESU]
Half a dozen tables are scattered throughout this diminutive tavern.
Despite the lack of lavish decor, the bar exudes a feeling of being anything but paltry. The walls are coated in a layer of vivid tan paint, and occasionally a...
Continue Reading...Memoir #12 - The Long-Distance Troublemakers (Raven and Samos) by Rairen
Added on Dec 29, 2009For weeks having been visited by the mad, unsettling voice of a southern slave, Aja manages her way into a conversation in which she learns more about her guest than she ever wanted to know. Oops?
It is early afternoon on Yochem, the 95th day of the Low Sun,
In the Year of Dragon's Slumber, year 39 of the 21st Age.
You are Aja, of many people. (type 'tribes' to see your tribes).
You are 27 years, 1 months, and 0 days old,
(While chatting in the Sanctuary...)
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I sent you a present."
You contact the blind, wine-haired female with the Way.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I remembered."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"A present, Raven? That is... so sweet of you. I thought you were staying... indoors?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't need to leave to send things."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"I... see. Do I get to... that is, pardon me, do I get to know what it is you sent?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"... Serilla has it."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"The Faithful Lady? I... didn't know you knew her."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I hope she gives it to you."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"I'm... not to know what it is, Raven? You tease."
You feel uneasy, uncertain.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm not entirely sure myself."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... My, what... a mystery."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"I am... charmed that you would remember me, Raven. "
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"*slightly wistful* Are you just saying that but not meaning it? I think you do that a lot."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes are distracted, her smile never quite reaching them.
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Say things without meaning them? I certainly hope not. It would be unkind to you."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"It's all right if you do. You're tricky though."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Tricky? *soft amusement* I hope not, too. Why would I trick you?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't know. *confusion* Everyone tricks. Politics. Always. You need to do this and then they'll do the other thing."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Yes, it can be... challenging. You do not like such puzzles?"
You dissolve the psychic link.
contact serilla
You are unable to reach their mind.
contact wine
You contact the blind, wine-haired female with the Way.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"No."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Shh... I know many who do not. What do you enjoy, then?"
You feel helplessly linked to this woman.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I like to walk sometimes."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Do you? Where do you walk?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't know."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Everywhere."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Mm. And what do you look at? The sky?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't look at anything."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"How could I?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... How could you? I... don't understand."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm..blind. I can't really look at anything, can I?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... What of your other senses, Raven? I knew a woman once, blind as you are... but she could always tell it was me coming to visit her."
You feel like you need to push harder on this mystery.
You think:
"Just a little, Raven... Let me push a little closer."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Looking means eyes."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"I apologize for my lack of clarity, Raven. What do you feel, then?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Everything."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Even me, so far away?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't.."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Who was the girl?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... The girl?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"The blind girl. Your friend."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"*carefully* Her... name was Kaevya."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Oh. I remember that name."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... Do you? Do you know her, Raven?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"She was killed. In the alleys."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... Was she? It... was more than a year ago. I didn't know what happened to her."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Is it bad to...to let someone live...if they want to kill you?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Raven, what... do you mean? Does someone mean to harm you?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Lots of people, probably. But I'm not talking about that."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... Then, I don't... know. Someone spared my life once, thinking I meant to kill them. I dare say I owe them for that."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I just want to know if it's bad. And what's a better word than alluring? Everytime I say it to people, they draw the wrong conclusion."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"It can be either, Raven. It's not a question I can answer and..."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... *with a brief flaring of amusement* Ah... try charming?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Charming?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Yes, you can call their company charming, if they mistake you for a seductress."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"They all did."
Sliding from her stool in a smooth motion, you stand up from a black-painted bar.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes are troubled, distant.
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"All? Oh, my. I'd not realized."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Me neither."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... How many, if I might ask?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"They didn't really though."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Just...two or three. They all said I was using the wrong word."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Hm. Do I know them, Raven?"
You feel like you are perpetually grasping at the air around this woman.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't think so."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman inclines her head to the svelte, top-knotted woman before turning, reaching for her hood.
(Strolling off to somewhere quieter to concentrate.)
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Such a pity. How... did you know Kaevya?"
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"*mental voice subdued* Aja... I hope everything was alright."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"And I'm listening, dear. Please pardon my distraction."
You dissolve the psychic link.
contact ehrick
You contact the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"Alright? What is it?"
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Mmm? No, no... I mean... I hope you are alright."
You feel lightheaded.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"Me? Of course, Ehrick. I'm never unwell."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I...*faint confusion*"
You dissolve the psychic link.
You contact the blind, wine-haired female with the Way.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't remember. Please. Talk to your friend. I should go."
A Wooden Path Within the Garden [NEW]
Mottled stones, flecked with speckles of brown and red, have been set
into the ground to form a cobbled road that winds a circuitous path around
the perimeter of this garden. The air surrounding the pathway is filled
with the earthen aroma of moisture. Newly planted herbs and other forms of flora, situated so as to create a patterned burst of color, explode from the soil on either side of the path. Clumps of yellow-blossomed purslane tuck themselves under the soft, bluish-green leaves of Lady's Mantle while delicate pymlithe trees rise up behind them.
A wooden bridge, delicately carved from heartwood, has been set within
the center of the garden, encircling an immense, marble statue.
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... Yes, Raven?"
Pulling herself onto the bridge's railing, you sit down.
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... Shh... I'm sorry for startling you. Please, forgive me."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Oh, someone told me about her."
The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak closes her eyes, hands pressed to the railing.
You think:
"... Dizzy..."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"It's not your fault."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"... of course not. My apologies - with the patrol and such, I am still on edge."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm sorry, it's getting very crowded in here."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Are you certain, Raven? In that case, be well. It was so kind of you to remember me."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I hope she gives it to you, that's all."
The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak takes in a deep, calming breath through her nose.
You think:
"... I don't understand..."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Thank you for the new word."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"If that doesn't work, I'll... try to think of a new one for you."
You dissolve the psychic link.
(hemote) The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak's shoulders tense, rigid.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Oh, *pleased* thank you. very much."
(hemote) The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak gives a soft groan, deep in the back of her throat.
You think:
"... Breathe, little Aja. Breathe."
contact ehrick
You contact the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"Not at all, Ehrick. I know how such things affect those patrolling. Was all well on the Road?"
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"*an eerie feeling weaving through his words* Well enough, I suppose. Just a... pack of gortok. They hardly gave me pause."
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"... Ehrick, I'm a bit lightheaded, I won't lie to you. However, are... you certain that is all?"
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"*mental voice firm, nearly commanding* That was all."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"You're... lightheaded? Are you sleeping well?"
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"*imperiousness crossing her thoughts - and quickly, very quickly suppressed* ... I... see. And it's merely from trying to walk and use the Way. Such dizziness can be... distracting."
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"*a quick burst of heat interweaving his thoughts* We could always go for a lesson, if you've time... teacher."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"My... owner... says I can't use charming. He says I should use interesting instead."
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"I... believe I might have time, but perhaps give me an hour or two. Some distractions are more easily chased away than others."
You dissolve the psychic link.
contact ehrick
You contact the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man with the Way.
The last rays of the red sun fade over the Grey Forest.
The red orb of Jihae, the red moon, begins to vanish as it slowly sets.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"Your owner? Hm, they and I should have words. Interesting is a good word, however, as well."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Certainly. I'll inform him that you wish to speak to him. Any particular subject I should relay?"
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"I..."
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"... beg your pardon. That was not intended for you."
You feel completely and utterly mortified.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"A thousand pardons, Ehrick."
You dissolve the psychic link.
You contact the blind, wine-haired female with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"*mortification faint in her thoughts* Yes... I... feel as though your owner and I should speak if that is the case. However, interesting is a good word, as well."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"So, ka. There is... no need to apologize, Aja."
The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak lifts a hand, pressing a thumb and forefinger to her eyes.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"..Are you...what's wrong?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Nothing, dear. Nothing. I'm fine. Merely... clumsy."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"No you're not. You're very graceful."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"And I am... charmed by the compliment. "
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"It's ok. I've got lots of others at home."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Other compliments or other graceful people?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Other...compliments."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Then I hope I can earn them all, in time. Does your owner know of me, Raven?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Yes. He doesn't hurt my friends."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"I'm... glad to hear it. Does he have a name? I... feel left out, him knowing me but I not able to make my introductions."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I will ask."
You think:
"... Dizzy."
You feel as though you'll need to lie down.
You think:
"... Please. I need to know."
The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak sits motionless on the railing of the bridge, the material of her cloak fluttering about her face.
You lower the hood of a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak.
You feel comforted by the evening air.
You think:
"Pymlithe and cool winds..."
You feel at home.
(Waiting...)
You think:
"Let me have your name. Let this be done."
(... and more waiting...)
You feel impatient.
You think:
"... Come, Raven. Please."
(... and yet MORE waiting...)
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
You think:
"... Mm."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Well that took forever."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"It's fine, Raven."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Did you have any luck?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Hi there, Aja."
You contact the rugged, stubble-bearded man with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Good... evening. That is, how do you do - and I beg your pardon, but have we met?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"*a slightly disbelieving pause* Uh. Yes."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"No, we haven't, though I was a friend of Kharad's."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"... Oh, I see. You know Raven, too."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I do. You're very intelligent to catch that so quickly."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"I thank you for the compliment, stranger. Might I ask the pleasure of your name? I never thought to hear you contact me directly."
You feel tense.
Your mood is now uneasy.
You think:
"... Oh, Sweet Krath, who is this?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Raven thought you wanted to introduce yourself."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"My name is Samos."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman goes... very... very... still.
You think:
"Oh..."
You think:
"... -fuck-."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Samos."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"That is... it's... a pleasure to meet you, then. Raven has spoken so little of you - but has apparently given you my name, in return."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"She's a sweet creature. I hope you do not mind me speaking with her?"
You think:
"Oh... this is bad. This is... very... very bad."
You feel like you remember Paryl saying, "Lord Templar Samos says... Hi.".
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't. She.. likes having someone she can talk with."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Then I will... attempt to entertain her, still. It was... so... kind of you to offer to find my mind. As I'd said, I'd not expected it."
You think:
"And this is so... so... bad."
The enormous sun rises above the barren plains in the east.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman stares down blankly at the bridge in front of her.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I like catching people off guard now and then."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"*with quiet, arch amusement* Then I believe your mission is accomplished... Samos."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I met Elithan last week. He seems like an honorable enough man."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Elithan is an honorable man, by all accounts, it is true. You are in the northlands, then?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Heh. No, darlin', I don' think I'm welcome there quite yet."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"*with soft laughter* No more than a Faithful Lord of Tuluk is welcome in the south, surely."
You feel like you're going to be sick.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Not in the now. In the future, who's to say... but anyway."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm led to understand you had a stay in Allanak yourself, and then returned home."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"An interesting notion. Yes, that is true. We were both... friends... of the Warlord of Tor."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I wanted to let you know that we'll not hunt you or try to bring you back."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"*with sudden stillness* How kind of you."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"It's a small gesture for me to make, I'm sure for you it must be a larger worry lifted."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"If you'll pardon my frankness... Samos, I often worry about small gestures."
You think:
"Oh... for pity's sake. Why me?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Why would you? I gain nothing in trying to chase you down, and I'd hope Elithan would do the same, for one of mine."
You think:
"... Oh, this is false."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"And you're Raven's friend. I take that seriously."
You feel rigid, angry, frustrated.
You think:
"This is the Ivory and you have no place here."
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Ah, I hope I am not intruding, Aja."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Then I am... overwhelmed. It is a pity that I did not have the pleasure of making your acquaintance while in the Black."
You feel like bashing your head into a tree a few times over.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Maybe you might if you come with Elithan to our next meeting. If not... at least now you know me."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"... I see that I am. I'll await a touch in my mind, but otherwise my time is free."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
You think:
"Ehrick, that is... such... an understatement."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"I've... heard of you, as you undoubtedly know by now, but I do not believe the Faithful Lord is in the habit of bringing his partisans to such... auspicious meetings."
You feel like you really need a drink.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Perhaps not."
You think:
"You have a fondness for taking fingers."
You feel bitterly amused.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I feel like I'm probably not who you were expecting to hear from. Didn't mean to unsettle you this much."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"In my experience with your kin, I... often found that unsettling was what they enjoyed best. But no, I... assuredly was not expecting you."
You feel like this is just a fantastically perfect way to spend your seven year anniversary since your exile.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm not like many of the others, I think I can safely say. And I wouldn't hurt a friend of Raven's. Who was it who enslaved you, when you were here?"
You think:
"I don't want to talk about this..."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"... Hm. Shiran Oash led the interrogation, but it was my Lady the Senior Lady of House Borsail that took me in her protection. And then the Warlord, after her."
You feel at a loss. You feel like you could truly use Elithan here RIGHT NOW.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I've heard a good deal of interesting things about old Shiran."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"I heard he died to the Warlord and Senior Lady, but I fear our acquaintence, itself, was... brief."
You feel a touch of pride at that.
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"... If I may, do you often show such interest in escaped slaves, or simply the northern ones who know the Faithful Lord Elithan?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Raven says she just wanted you to be happy. And I just wanted to reassure you, if you were worried, that I'm glad you returned home."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"You're not an escaped slave, and no, I don't often. Actually, I only thought to say hello because she asked."
You think:
"... What woman is this, to have such power?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I hope you didn't take all this as some sort of threat. That's really not how I work at all."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"*with lingering amusement* ... Oh? How do you work, Lord Templar?"
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman takes several deep, calming breaths.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I defend my city and my flock. I don't threaten."
You think:
"Don't believe, little Aja."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Your words remind me of the Warlord. I can see why you would be friends."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"We didn't always agree, but neither of us saw point to causing pain needlessly."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman rolls her shoulders, idly.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"You spoke of a Borsail Lady... was that Lady Ceylara? The senator? She was his lover, I think."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"She... was, I believe, though it was never said openly."
You think:
"... Why in the name of all that is good is he still talking with me?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"He always seemed devoted to her when we spoke."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"She was... on his mind, often, yes. He took her promotion to the Senate reluctantly at best."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"It was a shame, the Warlord's death. His rivalry with the Guild only grew in intensity during my time there."
You think:
"... I... should not be doing this."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I tried to prevent it. I saw where it was going."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"They.. killed most of his other servants."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Yes, I'd known many of them, in my time there. It seems I was the most fortunate of them all. How did you fare during the assault by the gith, Lord Templar?"
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"The Warlord was fond of them, as a race."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm glad they didn't get you. And it was an honorable thing, not to leave while he lived. I took a few bruises from the gith, but I survived."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Thank you for the words and the compliment. It is a pity the Warlord never spoke of you."
You think:
"Or I would know what is going on."
You think:
"Must they always try to kill me with kindness?"
You think:
"... Elithan... couldn't you... walk by soon?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Yeah. Same to you. I've other things to do, so I'll let you go. It was good to meet you."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Likewise, Lord Templar. It was an... unexpected pleasure."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Be well. Send Elithan my regards when you tell him about this."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"... I'll tell him you said 'Hi', Lord Templar."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Heh. Alright, then."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
You dissolve the psychic link.
contact elithan
You are unable to reach their mind.
You think:
"Oh, Sweet Krath."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman takes in a long gasp of air.
You think:
"... Oh, sweet... Krath... who do I tell about this?"
It is early afternoon on Yochem, the 95th day of the Low Sun,
In the Year of Dragon's Slumber, year 39 of the 21st Age.
You are Aja, of many people. (type 'tribes' to see your tribes).
You are 27 years, 1 months, and 0 days old,
(While chatting in the Sanctuary...)
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I sent you a present."
You contact the blind, wine-haired female with the Way.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I remembered."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"A present, Raven? That is... so sweet of you. I thought you were staying... indoors?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't need to leave to send things."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"I... see. Do I get to... that is, pardon me, do I get to know what it is you sent?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"... Serilla has it."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"The Faithful Lady? I... didn't know you knew her."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I hope she gives it to you."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"I'm... not to know what it is, Raven? You tease."
You feel uneasy, uncertain.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm not entirely sure myself."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... My, what... a mystery."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"I am... charmed that you would remember me, Raven. "
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"*slightly wistful* Are you just saying that but not meaning it? I think you do that a lot."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes are distracted, her smile never quite reaching them.
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Say things without meaning them? I certainly hope not. It would be unkind to you."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"It's all right if you do. You're tricky though."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Tricky? *soft amusement* I hope not, too. Why would I trick you?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't know. *confusion* Everyone tricks. Politics. Always. You need to do this and then they'll do the other thing."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Yes, it can be... challenging. You do not like such puzzles?"
You dissolve the psychic link.
contact serilla
You are unable to reach their mind.
contact wine
You contact the blind, wine-haired female with the Way.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"No."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Shh... I know many who do not. What do you enjoy, then?"
You feel helplessly linked to this woman.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I like to walk sometimes."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Do you? Where do you walk?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't know."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Everywhere."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Mm. And what do you look at? The sky?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't look at anything."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"How could I?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... How could you? I... don't understand."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm..blind. I can't really look at anything, can I?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... What of your other senses, Raven? I knew a woman once, blind as you are... but she could always tell it was me coming to visit her."
You feel like you need to push harder on this mystery.
You think:
"Just a little, Raven... Let me push a little closer."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Looking means eyes."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"I apologize for my lack of clarity, Raven. What do you feel, then?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Everything."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Even me, so far away?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't.."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Who was the girl?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... The girl?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"The blind girl. Your friend."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"*carefully* Her... name was Kaevya."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Oh. I remember that name."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... Do you? Do you know her, Raven?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"She was killed. In the alleys."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... Was she? It... was more than a year ago. I didn't know what happened to her."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Is it bad to...to let someone live...if they want to kill you?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Raven, what... do you mean? Does someone mean to harm you?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Lots of people, probably. But I'm not talking about that."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... Then, I don't... know. Someone spared my life once, thinking I meant to kill them. I dare say I owe them for that."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I just want to know if it's bad. And what's a better word than alluring? Everytime I say it to people, they draw the wrong conclusion."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"It can be either, Raven. It's not a question I can answer and..."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... *with a brief flaring of amusement* Ah... try charming?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Charming?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Yes, you can call their company charming, if they mistake you for a seductress."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"They all did."
Sliding from her stool in a smooth motion, you stand up from a black-painted bar.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes are troubled, distant.
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"All? Oh, my. I'd not realized."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Me neither."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... How many, if I might ask?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"They didn't really though."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Just...two or three. They all said I was using the wrong word."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Hm. Do I know them, Raven?"
You feel like you are perpetually grasping at the air around this woman.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't think so."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman inclines her head to the svelte, top-knotted woman before turning, reaching for her hood.
(Strolling off to somewhere quieter to concentrate.)
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Such a pity. How... did you know Kaevya?"
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"*mental voice subdued* Aja... I hope everything was alright."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"And I'm listening, dear. Please pardon my distraction."
You dissolve the psychic link.
contact ehrick
You contact the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"Alright? What is it?"
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Mmm? No, no... I mean... I hope you are alright."
You feel lightheaded.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"Me? Of course, Ehrick. I'm never unwell."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I...*faint confusion*"
You dissolve the psychic link.
You contact the blind, wine-haired female with the Way.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't remember. Please. Talk to your friend. I should go."
A Wooden Path Within the Garden [NEW]
Mottled stones, flecked with speckles of brown and red, have been set
into the ground to form a cobbled road that winds a circuitous path around
the perimeter of this garden. The air surrounding the pathway is filled
with the earthen aroma of moisture. Newly planted herbs and other forms of flora, situated so as to create a patterned burst of color, explode from the soil on either side of the path. Clumps of yellow-blossomed purslane tuck themselves under the soft, bluish-green leaves of Lady's Mantle while delicate pymlithe trees rise up behind them.
A wooden bridge, delicately carved from heartwood, has been set within
the center of the garden, encircling an immense, marble statue.
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... Yes, Raven?"
Pulling herself onto the bridge's railing, you sit down.
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... Shh... I'm sorry for startling you. Please, forgive me."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Oh, someone told me about her."
The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak closes her eyes, hands pressed to the railing.
You think:
"... Dizzy..."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"It's not your fault."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"... of course not. My apologies - with the patrol and such, I am still on edge."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm sorry, it's getting very crowded in here."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Are you certain, Raven? In that case, be well. It was so kind of you to remember me."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I hope she gives it to you, that's all."
The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak takes in a deep, calming breath through her nose.
You think:
"... I don't understand..."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Thank you for the new word."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"If that doesn't work, I'll... try to think of a new one for you."
You dissolve the psychic link.
(hemote) The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak's shoulders tense, rigid.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Oh, *pleased* thank you. very much."
(hemote) The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak gives a soft groan, deep in the back of her throat.
You think:
"... Breathe, little Aja. Breathe."
contact ehrick
You contact the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"Not at all, Ehrick. I know how such things affect those patrolling. Was all well on the Road?"
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"*an eerie feeling weaving through his words* Well enough, I suppose. Just a... pack of gortok. They hardly gave me pause."
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"... Ehrick, I'm a bit lightheaded, I won't lie to you. However, are... you certain that is all?"
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"*mental voice firm, nearly commanding* That was all."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"You're... lightheaded? Are you sleeping well?"
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"*imperiousness crossing her thoughts - and quickly, very quickly suppressed* ... I... see. And it's merely from trying to walk and use the Way. Such dizziness can be... distracting."
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"*a quick burst of heat interweaving his thoughts* We could always go for a lesson, if you've time... teacher."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"My... owner... says I can't use charming. He says I should use interesting instead."
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"I... believe I might have time, but perhaps give me an hour or two. Some distractions are more easily chased away than others."
You dissolve the psychic link.
contact ehrick
You contact the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man with the Way.
The last rays of the red sun fade over the Grey Forest.
The red orb of Jihae, the red moon, begins to vanish as it slowly sets.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"Your owner? Hm, they and I should have words. Interesting is a good word, however, as well."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Certainly. I'll inform him that you wish to speak to him. Any particular subject I should relay?"
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"I..."
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"... beg your pardon. That was not intended for you."
You feel completely and utterly mortified.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"A thousand pardons, Ehrick."
You dissolve the psychic link.
You contact the blind, wine-haired female with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"*mortification faint in her thoughts* Yes... I... feel as though your owner and I should speak if that is the case. However, interesting is a good word, as well."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"So, ka. There is... no need to apologize, Aja."
The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak lifts a hand, pressing a thumb and forefinger to her eyes.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"..Are you...what's wrong?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Nothing, dear. Nothing. I'm fine. Merely... clumsy."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"No you're not. You're very graceful."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"And I am... charmed by the compliment. "
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"It's ok. I've got lots of others at home."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Other compliments or other graceful people?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Other...compliments."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Then I hope I can earn them all, in time. Does your owner know of me, Raven?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Yes. He doesn't hurt my friends."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"I'm... glad to hear it. Does he have a name? I... feel left out, him knowing me but I not able to make my introductions."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I will ask."
You think:
"... Dizzy."
You feel as though you'll need to lie down.
You think:
"... Please. I need to know."
The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak sits motionless on the railing of the bridge, the material of her cloak fluttering about her face.
You lower the hood of a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak.
You feel comforted by the evening air.
You think:
"Pymlithe and cool winds..."
You feel at home.
(Waiting...)
You think:
"Let me have your name. Let this be done."
(... and more waiting...)
You feel impatient.
You think:
"... Come, Raven. Please."
(... and yet MORE waiting...)
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
You think:
"... Mm."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Well that took forever."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"It's fine, Raven."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Did you have any luck?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Hi there, Aja."
You contact the rugged, stubble-bearded man with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Good... evening. That is, how do you do - and I beg your pardon, but have we met?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"*a slightly disbelieving pause* Uh. Yes."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"No, we haven't, though I was a friend of Kharad's."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"... Oh, I see. You know Raven, too."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I do. You're very intelligent to catch that so quickly."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"I thank you for the compliment, stranger. Might I ask the pleasure of your name? I never thought to hear you contact me directly."
You feel tense.
Your mood is now uneasy.
You think:
"... Oh, Sweet Krath, who is this?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Raven thought you wanted to introduce yourself."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"My name is Samos."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman goes... very... very... still.
You think:
"Oh..."
You think:
"... -fuck-."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Samos."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"That is... it's... a pleasure to meet you, then. Raven has spoken so little of you - but has apparently given you my name, in return."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"She's a sweet creature. I hope you do not mind me speaking with her?"
You think:
"Oh... this is bad. This is... very... very bad."
You feel like you remember Paryl saying, "Lord Templar Samos says... Hi.".
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't. She.. likes having someone she can talk with."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Then I will... attempt to entertain her, still. It was... so... kind of you to offer to find my mind. As I'd said, I'd not expected it."
You think:
"And this is so... so... bad."
The enormous sun rises above the barren plains in the east.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman stares down blankly at the bridge in front of her.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I like catching people off guard now and then."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"*with quiet, arch amusement* Then I believe your mission is accomplished... Samos."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I met Elithan last week. He seems like an honorable enough man."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Elithan is an honorable man, by all accounts, it is true. You are in the northlands, then?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Heh. No, darlin', I don' think I'm welcome there quite yet."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"*with soft laughter* No more than a Faithful Lord of Tuluk is welcome in the south, surely."
You feel like you're going to be sick.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Not in the now. In the future, who's to say... but anyway."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm led to understand you had a stay in Allanak yourself, and then returned home."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"An interesting notion. Yes, that is true. We were both... friends... of the Warlord of Tor."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I wanted to let you know that we'll not hunt you or try to bring you back."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"*with sudden stillness* How kind of you."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"It's a small gesture for me to make, I'm sure for you it must be a larger worry lifted."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"If you'll pardon my frankness... Samos, I often worry about small gestures."
You think:
"Oh... for pity's sake. Why me?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Why would you? I gain nothing in trying to chase you down, and I'd hope Elithan would do the same, for one of mine."
You think:
"... Oh, this is false."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"And you're Raven's friend. I take that seriously."
You feel rigid, angry, frustrated.
You think:
"This is the Ivory and you have no place here."
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Ah, I hope I am not intruding, Aja."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Then I am... overwhelmed. It is a pity that I did not have the pleasure of making your acquaintance while in the Black."
You feel like bashing your head into a tree a few times over.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Maybe you might if you come with Elithan to our next meeting. If not... at least now you know me."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"... I see that I am. I'll await a touch in my mind, but otherwise my time is free."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
You think:
"Ehrick, that is... such... an understatement."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"I've... heard of you, as you undoubtedly know by now, but I do not believe the Faithful Lord is in the habit of bringing his partisans to such... auspicious meetings."
You feel like you really need a drink.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Perhaps not."
You think:
"You have a fondness for taking fingers."
You feel bitterly amused.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I feel like I'm probably not who you were expecting to hear from. Didn't mean to unsettle you this much."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"In my experience with your kin, I... often found that unsettling was what they enjoyed best. But no, I... assuredly was not expecting you."
You feel like this is just a fantastically perfect way to spend your seven year anniversary since your exile.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm not like many of the others, I think I can safely say. And I wouldn't hurt a friend of Raven's. Who was it who enslaved you, when you were here?"
You think:
"I don't want to talk about this..."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"... Hm. Shiran Oash led the interrogation, but it was my Lady the Senior Lady of House Borsail that took me in her protection. And then the Warlord, after her."
You feel at a loss. You feel like you could truly use Elithan here RIGHT NOW.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I've heard a good deal of interesting things about old Shiran."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"I heard he died to the Warlord and Senior Lady, but I fear our acquaintence, itself, was... brief."
You feel a touch of pride at that.
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"... If I may, do you often show such interest in escaped slaves, or simply the northern ones who know the Faithful Lord Elithan?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Raven says she just wanted you to be happy. And I just wanted to reassure you, if you were worried, that I'm glad you returned home."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"You're not an escaped slave, and no, I don't often. Actually, I only thought to say hello because she asked."
You think:
"... What woman is this, to have such power?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I hope you didn't take all this as some sort of threat. That's really not how I work at all."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"*with lingering amusement* ... Oh? How do you work, Lord Templar?"
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman takes several deep, calming breaths.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I defend my city and my flock. I don't threaten."
You think:
"Don't believe, little Aja."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Your words remind me of the Warlord. I can see why you would be friends."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"We didn't always agree, but neither of us saw point to causing pain needlessly."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman rolls her shoulders, idly.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"You spoke of a Borsail Lady... was that Lady Ceylara? The senator? She was his lover, I think."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"She... was, I believe, though it was never said openly."
You think:
"... Why in the name of all that is good is he still talking with me?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"He always seemed devoted to her when we spoke."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"She was... on his mind, often, yes. He took her promotion to the Senate reluctantly at best."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"It was a shame, the Warlord's death. His rivalry with the Guild only grew in intensity during my time there."
You think:
"... I... should not be doing this."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I tried to prevent it. I saw where it was going."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"They.. killed most of his other servants."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Yes, I'd known many of them, in my time there. It seems I was the most fortunate of them all. How did you fare during the assault by the gith, Lord Templar?"
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"The Warlord was fond of them, as a race."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm glad they didn't get you. And it was an honorable thing, not to leave while he lived. I took a few bruises from the gith, but I survived."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Thank you for the words and the compliment. It is a pity the Warlord never spoke of you."
You think:
"Or I would know what is going on."
You think:
"Must they always try to kill me with kindness?"
You think:
"... Elithan... couldn't you... walk by soon?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Yeah. Same to you. I've other things to do, so I'll let you go. It was good to meet you."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Likewise, Lord Templar. It was an... unexpected pleasure."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Be well. Send Elithan my regards when you tell him about this."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"... I'll tell him you said 'Hi', Lord Templar."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Heh. Alright, then."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
You dissolve the psychic link.
contact elithan
You are unable to reach their mind.
You think:
"Oh, Sweet Krath."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman takes in a long gasp of air.
You think:
"... Oh, sweet... Krath... who do I tell about this?"
It is early afternoon on Yochem, the 95th day of the Low Sun,
In the Year of Dragon's Slumber, year 39 of the 21st Age.
You are Aja, of many people. (type 'tribes' to see your tribes).
You are 27 years, 1 months, and 0 days old,
Continue Reading...The Kids who Tricked the Whore by Rhyden
Added on Dec 15, 2009Jet hires Xeraz, the male whore, to show himself nude to Cross. The kids explain their treachery to embarass Xeraz pantless, but ever furious, the Bynner-whore insists his sid be paid.
***
Turning his gaze sharply, you say to the dark, green-gazed youth, in sirihish:
"Yeh watchin'? That's extra."
Motioning to you, the dark, green-gazed youth says to the dirty, scar-tattooed youth, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"This is a friend of mine."
Crossing his arms, the bronzed, dark-dreadlocked man peers down at the dirty, scar-tattooed youth with a lifting brow.
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none tell jet (turning his gaze from ~dirty) We've met...does she...know what she's doin' here?
Turning his gaze from the dirty, scar-tattooed youth, you ask the dark, green-gazed youth, in sirihish:
"We've met...does she...know what she's doin' here?"
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none
The dark, green-gazed youth whispers to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I'll pay you fourty since I found you the business and ten extra to watch. Fifty."
Flatly, the dirty, scar-tattooed youth says to the dark, green-gazed youth, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Ah'm -not- gettin' nakked in some alley so Ah can be stabbed."
The dark, green-gazed youth begins guarding the dirty, scar-tattooed youth.
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none tell jet (nodding once) Deal.
Nodding once, you say to the dark, green-gazed youth, in sirihish:
"Deal."
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none l
A Shadowy Alleyway [EW]
A narrow, small alley twines its way between small crumbling buildings
made of mudbrick, their aging bulk casting long shadows across the
hard-packed, sandy dirt which surfaces it. Thick with shadows, it smells of
decay and urine. A multitude of noises from the bustling outside filter
into its confines, resounding against the ancient, timeworn bricks.
To the west, the looming mass of the outer walls of Allanak
overshadows the broader expanse of Wall Road.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth is standing here.
The dark, green-gazed youth is standing here.
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none l self
Long, brown plaits of hair have been twisted tightly into ropy dreadlocks
that snake down the sides and back of this man's head. His dreaded mane has
been sun-bleached, leaving several of his braids with a frayed, russet color
while his roots remain brown. His darkly bronzed face is strong boned with
sharply angled brown brows and severe, blue eyes surrounded by dark lashes.
His sturdy nose steeps to a point with umber colored bristles curving over
his lips and across his solid chin in a close-cut beard. His sinewy neck
stretches down to his wide shouldered frame. His brawny arms are ripped
with musculature, veins winding down his forearms and ending with callused
hands. His legs make up most of his height, looking to be robust like the
rest of his toned body.
The bronzed, dark-dreadlocked man is in excellent condition.
<worn on head> a simple black helm
<worn around neck> a studded hide gorget
<worn about throat> a black sandcloth bandana
<slung across back> a blackened serrated bone warsword
<worn across back> a black crescent shield
<worn on left shoulder> a grey, obsidian fist-sewn patch
<worn around wrist> a studded bone bracer
<worn on hands> a pair of shell-backed gloves
<worn around body> a hooded, brown military aba
<worn on legs> a pair of light-brown pants
<worn on feet> a pair of low-cut, brown boots
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none em Turning around, @ begins to unbuckle ~belt, whistling as he begins to unroll ~pants.
Turning around, the bronzed, dark-dreadlocked man begins to unbuckle your leather swordbelt, whistling as he begins to unroll your pair of light-brown pants.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth backs away from you, looking a bit alarmed.
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none sing (as his pants drop to his ankles) Dum dee dum.
As his pants drop to his ankles, you sing, in sirihish:
"Dum dee dum."
With a shake of his head, the dark, green-gazed youth asks the dirty, scar-tattooed youth, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"You won't get stabbed, Gosh everyone is so paranoid. Am I that scary?"
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth says to the dark, green-gazed youth, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"This ain't a good idea. Ah think we should go now."
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none rem pants
You stop using your pair of light-brown pants.
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none drop pants around a bronzed, dreadlocked man's ankles.
You drop a pair of light-brown pants. Shown to the room as:
A pair of light-brown pants is here around a bronzed, dreadlocked man's ankles.
With a shake of his head, the dark, green-gazed youth says to the dirty, scar-tattooed youth, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I understand, its educational for you Cross."
The dark, green-gazed youth says to the dirty, scar-tattooed youth, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Remember all those questions? This will like answer half of them."
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none say (as ~aba flutters in the alley's breeze, showing his naked legs) Umm...
As your hooded, brown military aba flutters in the alley's breeze, showing his naked legs, you say, in sirihish:
"Umm..."
Tugging her wrist away, or trying to, the dirty, scar-tattooed youth says to the dark, green-gazed youth, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Ah can learn latah. -Much- latah."
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none tell jet (watching ~dirty with a smirk) Heh, if she's scared now, she'll be frightened when she sees my little templar.
Watching the dirty, scar-tattooed youth with a smirk, you say to the dark, green-gazed youth, in sirihish:
"Heh, if she's scared now, she'll be frightened when she sees my little templar."
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none tell jet (holding a hand out, palm up) I expect half pay if she flees.
Holding a hand out, palm up, you say to the dark, green-gazed youth, in sirihish:
"I expect half pay if she flees."
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none l
A Shadowy Alleyway [EW]
A narrow, small alley twines its way between small crumbling buildings
made of mudbrick, their aging bulk casting long shadows across the
hard-packed, sandy dirt which surfaces it. Thick with shadows, it smells of
decay and urine. A multitude of noises from the bustling outside filter
into its confines, resounding against the ancient, timeworn bricks.
To the west, the looming mass of the outer walls of Allanak
overshadows the broader expanse of Wall Road.
A pair of light-brown pants is here around a bronzed, dreadlocked man's ankles.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth is standing here.
The dark, green-gazed youth is standing here.
Releasing again, the dark, green-gazed youth asks the dirty, scar-tattooed youth, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Hey, cross, I thought you wanted to learn?"
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none say (placing his hands on his hips, shifting his bare legs, glancing upwards at the darkening sky with a shake of his head) Waste of my time...
Placing his hands on his hips, shifting his bare legs, glancing upwards at the darkening sky with a shake of his head, you say, in sirihish:
"Waste of my time..."
Looking releaved as her regains her wrist, the dirty, scar-tattooed youth says to the dark, green-gazed youth, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Uh. Mebbe latah. Other things ter learn fist. Ain't no rush."
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none get pants (bending over)
Bending over, you pick up a pair of light-brown pants.
It is very light.
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none wear pants (pulling them up)
Pulling them up, you wear your pair of light-brown pants on your legs.
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none l self
Long, brown plaits of hair have been twisted tightly into ropy dreadlocks
that snake down the sides and back of this man's head. His dreaded mane has
been sun-bleached, leaving several of his braids with a frayed, russet color
while his roots remain brown. His darkly bronzed face is strong boned with
sharply angled brown brows and severe, blue eyes surrounded by dark lashes.
His sturdy nose steeps to a point with umber colored bristles curving over
his lips and across his solid chin in a close-cut beard. His sinewy neck
stretches down to his wide shouldered frame. His brawny arms are ripped
with musculature, veins winding down his forearms and ending with callused
hands. His legs make up most of his height, looking to be robust like the
rest of his toned body.
The bronzed, dark-dreadlocked man is in excellent condition.
<worn on head> a simple black helm
<worn around neck> a studded hide gorget
<worn about throat> a black sandcloth bandana
<slung across back> a blackened serrated bone warsword
<worn across back> a black crescent shield
<worn on left shoulder> a grey, obsidian fist-sewn patch
<worn around wrist> a studded bone bracer
<worn on hands> a pair of shell-backed gloves
<worn around body> a hooded, brown military aba
<worn on legs> a pair of light-brown pants
<worn on feet> a pair of low-cut, brown boots
As he points at you with a grin, the dark, green-gazed youth whispers something to the dirty, scar-tattooed youth.
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none say (leaning his shielded back to the wall, lifting a boot to rest against a few grimy bricks) Anythin' else yeh little huns wanted?
Leaning his shielded back to the wall, lifting a boot to rest against a few grimy bricks, you ask, in sirihish:
"Anythin' else yeh little huns wanted?"
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none l in aba
In a hooded, brown military aba (used) :
a pile of allanaki coins
a chunk of yellow scented soap
a pile of coins
the heart of a fleshy green plant
a crumbling red tablet
a translucent green tablet
a small yellow tablet
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none l in belt
In a leather swordbelt (used) :
a sharp bone knife
an unlit simple, leather-wrapped bone torch
a stitched, obsidian-dyed ticket
Skeptically, the dirty, scar-tattooed youth whispers something to the dark, green-gazed youth.
The dark, green-gazed youth laughs in amusement as his gaze shifts to you.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth says to you, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Uh. No. We're good."
With a grin, the dark, green-gazed youth says to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"This was actually a prank, to get yer pants down and embarass yourself. hahahaha"
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none say (taking a step towards ~jet, holding a hand out) Where's my sid?
Taking a step towards the dark, green-gazed youth, holding a hand out, you ask, in sirihish:
"Where's my sid?"
The dark, green-gazed youth laughs heartily as he places his hands onto his knees.
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none em chuckles, unamusedly.
The bronzed, dark-dreadlocked man chuckles, unamusedly.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth stands, looking uncomfortable.
The dark, green-gazed youth exclaims to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I only pay sid to an agreed apon ammount, I'm not paying you for not doing your job! Bad seducer!"
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none tell jet (leaping forwards with a grunt) Where's my sid!?
Leaping forwards with a grunt, you ask the dark, green-gazed youth, in sirihish:
"Where's my sid!?"
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none subdue jet
You subdue the dark, green-gazed youth, despite his attempts to struggle away.
The dark, green-gazed youth stops guarding the dirty, scar-tattooed youth.
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none shout (giving ~jet a shake against the wall) Where's my sid!?
Giving the dark, green-gazed youth a shake against the wall, you shout in sirihish:
"Where's my sid!?"
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth shouts, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"LEt 'im go!"
The dark, green-gazed youth struggles against you and breaks free.
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none l
A Shadowy Alleyway [EW]
A narrow, small alley twines its way between small crumbling
buildings made of mudbrick, their aging bulk casting long shadows
across the hard-packed, sandy dirt which surfaces it. Thick with
shadows, it smells of decay and urine. The quiet night air sweeps
through its confines, brushing sand grains in a eerie rasp against
the ancient, timeworn bricks.
To the west, the looming mass of the outer walls of Allanak
overshadows the broader expanse of Wall Road.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth is standing here.
The dark, green-gazed youth is standing here.
The dark, green-gazed youth draws a slim bone rapier.
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none em lets go of ~jet, brows furrowing.
The bronzed, dark-dreadlocked man lets go of the dark, green-gazed youth, brows furrowing.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth gets her black-dyed bone throwing knife from her dusty dark, hooded cloak.
With a grin, the dark, green-gazed youth says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Back off."
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none rem shield
You stop using your black crescent shield.
The dark, green-gazed youth begins guarding the east exit.
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none es shield
You hold your black crescent shield.
The dark, green-gazed youth stops using his chitin-decorated wooden shield.
The dark, green-gazed youth holds his chitin-decorated wooden shield.
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none tell jet (reaching a hand back to ~warsword) I'll ask yeh once more.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth brandishes her black-dyed bone throwing knife.
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none Reaching a hand back to your blackened serrated bone warsword, you say to the dark, green-gazed youth, in sirihish:
"I'll ask yeh once more."
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none draw warsword
You unsling a blackened serrated bone warsword from your back.
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none l e
l w
To the east is a Shadowy Alleyway.
[Near]
A midden heap sits off to one side, stinking of decay.
West of here is a Shadowy Alleyway.
[Near]
A midden heap sits off to one side, stinking of decay.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth steps back, clutching her black-dyed bone throwing knife.
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none say (eyes narrowing tightly) Where. Is my sid?
Eyes narrowing tightly, you ask, in sirihish:
"Where. Is my sid?"
The dark, green-gazed youth whispers something to the dirty, scar-tattooed youth.
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none say (turning, swinging ~warsword in a curving arc at ~jet) Fine, yeh little rinth bastard.
Turning, swinging your blackened serrated bone warsword in a curving arc at the dark, green-gazed youth, you say, in sirihish:
"Fine, yeh little rinth bastard."
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none kill jet
You slash the dark, green-gazed youth very hard on his head.
The dark, green-gazed youth reels from the blow.
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking fighting: the dark, green-gazed youth riding: none
You slash the dark, green-gazed youth's body.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth shouts, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"No!"
The dark, green-gazed youth attempts to flee.
The dark, green-gazed youth runs west.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth runs west.
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none l w
To the west is a Shadowy Alleyway.
[Near]
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth is standing here.
The dark, green-gazed youth is standing here, bleeding heavily.
A midden heap sits off to one side, stinking of decay.
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none w
A Shadowy Alleyway [EW]
A narrow, small alley twines its way between small crumbling
buildings made of mudbrick, their aging bulk casting long shadows
across the hard-packed, sandy dirt which surfaces it. Thick with
shadows, it smells of decay and urine. The quiet night air sweeps
through its confines, brushing sand grains in a eerie rasp against
the ancient, timeworn bricks.
To the west, the looming mass of the outer walls of Allanak
overshadows the broader expanse of Wall Road.
A midden heap sits off to one side, stinking of decay.
Some broken pipes, largely obscured by a midden heap, reveal a gaping hole.
The dark, green-gazed youth is standing here, bleeding heavily.
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none l w
To the west is Wall Road.
[Near]
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth is standing here.
The pale, slender slave walks along quietly here.
The filthy little boy stands here, looking around plaintively.
You hear a woman's voice shout from the west in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Pearl!"
From the mouth of the alley, you see the dirty, scar-tattooed youth shouts something.
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none shout (roaring as he walks) Where's my sid?!
Roaring as he walks, you shout in sirihish:
"Where's my sid?!"
From the mouth of the alley, you see the dirty, scar-tattooed youth runs east.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth has arrived from the west.
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none l jet (nostrils flaring)
Nostrils flaring, you look down at the dark, green-gazed youth.
Weathered black hair, smooth and about shoulder length is worn on this
young boy's head with green and purple bone beads tied at the ends. His
bright green eyes stand out brilliantly from the contrast of his dark hair
and deeply tanned skin. His hands are worn and calloused and his elbows and
knees are full of scars. His body is hairless and skinny, bursting into
puberty by the development of cut muscles.
The dark, green-gazed youth is in moderate condition.
The dark, green-gazed youth is using:
<worn in left ear> an orange feather earring
<worn in right ear> an orange feather earring
<throat> a jade cross tattoo
<worn on torso> a loose, off-white sandcloth robe
<worn on left shoulder> an airy knot of scarlet feathers
<worn around wrist> a green-dyed bone bracelet
<worn around wrist> an intricately etched bone bracelet
<primary hand> a slim bone rapier
<secondary hand> a chitin-decorated wooden shield
<worn on forearms> a set of broad, painted bone bracelets
<worn on right finger> a red onyx ring
<worn on left finger> an etched obsidian band
<worn as belt> a black belt
<hung from belt> a small bag
<worn on legs> a pair of black sandcloth pants
<worn on right ankle> a green bandana
<worn on feet> a pair of shiny black leather shoes
He is carrying:
nothing obvious
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth begins guarding the dark, green-gazed youth.
The dark, green-gazed youth sheathes a slim bone rapier.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth steps between you and the dark, green-gazed youth, clutching her knife.
The dark, green-gazed youth holds his hand to his head, blood dripping down from it filling his hair.
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none say (roaring, his chest heaving) Yeh little thieves! This is thievery! Where are my sids!
Roaring, his chest heaving, you exclaim, in sirihish:
"Yeh little thieves! This is thievery! Where are my sids!"
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth trembles, keeping her knife pointing at you.
127/127 121/136 103/116 walking standing riding: none l
A Shadowy Alleyway [EW]
A narrow, small alley twines its way between small crumbling
buildings made of mudbrick, their aging bulk casting long shadows
across the hard-packed, sandy dirt which surfaces it. Thick with
shadows, it smells of decay and urine. The quiet night air sweeps
through its confines, brushing sand grains in a eerie rasp against
the ancient, timeworn bricks.
To the west, the looming mass of the outer walls of Allanak
overshadows the broader expanse of Wall Road.
A midden heap sits off to one side, stinking of decay.
Some broken pipes, largely obscured by a midden heap, reveal a gaping hole.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth is standing here.
The dark, green-gazed youth is standing here, bleeding lightly.
127/127 121/136 103/116 walking standing riding: none sheath warsword back
You sling a bloodied serrated bone warsword across your back.
As his eyes begin to glaze over, the dark, green-gazed youth says to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"You hit me Xeraz."
127/127 121/136 106/116 walking standing riding: none tell jet (advancing quickly) And I'll do it again if yeh don't pay up. Nobody stiffs me!
Advancing quickly, you exclaim to the dark, green-gazed youth, in sirihish:
"And I'll do it again if yeh don't pay up. Nobody stiffs me!"
127/127 121/136 106/116 walking standing riding: none subdue jet
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth tries to protect the dark, green-gazed youth but fails!
[ You stop using a black crescent shield. ]
You drop a black crescent shield.
You subdue the dark, green-gazed youth.
The dark, green-gazed youth stops guarding the east exit.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth takes a step or two back, eyes wide with fear.
127/127 117/136 109/116 walking standing riding: none say (roaring as he slams ~jet against the alley wall) Where are my sids!
Roaring as he slams the dark, green-gazed youth against the alley wall, you exclaim, in sirihish:
"Where are my sids!"
127/127 117/136 115/116 walking standing riding: none get shield
You pick up a black crescent shield.
It is very light.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth exclaims to you, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Don't! Ah got 'em! Let 'im go!"
127/127 117/136 115/116 walking standing riding: none say (lifting a fist threateningly) Yeh don't want to fuck with me, kids. I need that sid...I...I...need sid.
Lifting a fist threateningly, you say, in sirihish:
"Yeh don't want to fuck with me, kids. I need that sid...I...I...need sid."
The dark, green-gazed youth kicks his feet at your groin to try and escape.
The dark, green-gazed youth struggles in vain against you.
Pleading, the dirty, scar-tattooed youth says to you, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Ah got it. Let 'im go."
The red moon, Jihae, rises over the streets of Allanak.
127/127 117/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none tell dirty (clutching ^jet scruff with one hand, other fist raised) Give it to me!
Clutching his scruff with one hand, other fist raised, you exclaim to the dirty, scar-tattooed youth, in sirihish:
"Give it to me!"
The dark, green-gazed youth struggles in vain against you.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth opens a dusty leather backpack.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth gets her small leather pouch from her dusty leather backpack.
The dark, green-gazed youth struggles in vain against you.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth gets her pile of allanaki coins from her small leather pouch.
127/127 117/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none em slams ~jet against the wall
The bronzed, dark-dreadlocked man slams the dark, green-gazed youth against the wall.
127/127 117/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none tell jet (eyes narrowing to slits) Quit it.
Eyes narrowing to slits, you say to the dark, green-gazed youth, in sirihish:
"Quit it."
The dark, green-gazed youth screams as he is crushed agaisnt the wall.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth says to you, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Ah... Ah dunno how much yer supposter get."
The dark, green-gazed youth exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Xeraz yer dead!"
The dark, green-gazed youth struggles in vain against you.
tell dirty (tone calm as he holds ~jet against the wall) Twenty-five sid.
Crossly, the dirty, scar-tattooed youth says to the dark, green-gazed youth, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Shut th' fuck up."
127/127 117/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none Tone calm as he holds the dark, green-gazed youth against the wall, you say to the dirty, scar-tattooed youth, in sirihish:
"Twenty-five sid."
***
***
Turning his gaze sharply, you say to the dark, green-gazed youth, in sirihish:
"Yeh watchin'? That's extra."
Motioning to you, the dark, green-gazed youth says to the dirty, scar-tattooed youth, in tribal-accented sirihish:
...
Continue Reading...Kadians never forget. by Brandonempting
Added on Dec 15, 2009Sharlo and Rhys Kadius head to the apartment of Gage Gritshaw to interrogate someone who had information on the death of a much loved employee.
A Narrow, Dim Hallway [NS Save]
A hallway wide enough for two humans abreast runs to the north into
the building and south to the street. A rounded ceiling of brown mud forms
an arch connecting the walls, which are dingy with dirt and grime. The dirt
floor is littered with small fragments of bone and stone mixed into dusty
sand half an inch deep. Several doors branch off of either side of the
hallway along its length. A small desk sits off to one side of the
corridor.
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak is standing here.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak is standing here.
The stout, bald young man leans up against a wall, arms folded over his chest.
The black-haired man leans against the desk here.
The black-haired man intently scans the area.
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak lumbers over to the stout, bald young man and nods once.
The stout, bald young man looks at the short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak.
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak says to the stout, bald young man, in sirihish:
"Let's go."
Gruffly as he pushes off the wall, the stout, bald young man says to the short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Sharlo, eh? A'ight."
100hp 115mv 89st |standing|walking|cavilish|unarmed|l (Briefly) stout
Briefly, you look at the stout, bald young man.
A raptor-like build characterizes this sturdy young man's stout form,
with lean, hard muscle forming taut sinewy cords beneath his sun-darkened
skin. Not a single stone of spare fat evident anywhere on his broad frame.
His head is completely bald, and hanging off the end of his strong,
masculine jaw is a long, coarse black goatee, its braided length reaching
to his chest before being tied off with a small strand of leather. His nose
at one point might have been aquiline in shape, but now holds more than a
few breakages and dents to its bridge. His left eye is missing completely.
A few light burn scars surround where it now remains permanently sealed shut
with a nasty-looking scar. His remaining eye is beady, and holds a bullish
countenance to it's muddy brown iris. His large hands are heavily
calloused, with protruding knuckles and several scars about them.
The stout, bald young man is in excellent condition.
The stout, bald young man is using:
<worn on head> a dusty leather and jet-colored chitin coif
<worn on face> a dusty black leather eyepatch
<worn in right ear> a dusty twisted yellow bone earring
<worn around neck> a dusty stiff, black-leather gorget
<worn about throat> a dusty water gourd
<slung across back> a dusty bone-handled, obsidian hawkblade
<worn across back> a dusty rope-strapped canvas backpack
<worn on left shoulder> a dusty scrab-shell shoulder plate
<worn on arms> a pair of leather-reinforced sandcloth sleeves
<worn around wrist> a spiked leather bracer
<worn around wrist> a spiked leather bracer
<worn on hands> a dusty pair of fingerless, black leather gloves
<worn around body> a dusty hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster
<worn on legs> a pair of black leather pants
<worn on right ankle> a dusty charcoal sandcloth bandana
<worn on left ankle> a dusty small leather pouch
<worn on feet> a dusty pair of darkly-stained, knee-high raptor-hide boots
He is carrying:
nothing obvious
The black-haired man hands the stout, bald young man a key.
The stout, bald young man walks north.
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak walks north.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak walks north.
You follow the short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak, and walk north.
A Narrow, Dim Hallway [NESW Save]
A hallway wide enough for two humans abreast runs north and south
through the building. A rounded ceiling of brown mud forms an arch
connecting the walls, which are dingy with dirt and grime. The dirt floor
is littered with small fragments of bone and stone mixed into dusty sand
half an inch deep. Several doors branch off of either side of the hallway
along its length, the closest a door of bone and leather along the west
wall.
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak is standing here.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak is standing here.
The stout, bald young man is standing here.
The stout, bald young man walks north.
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak walks north.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak walks north.
You follow the short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak, and walk north.
A Narrow, Dim Hallway [NESW Save]
A hallway wide enough for two humans abreast runs north and south
through the building. A rounded ceiling of brown mud forms an arch
connecting the walls, which are dingy with dirt and grime. The dirt floor
is littered with small fragments of bone and stone mixed into a thin layer
of dusty sand. Several doors branch off of either side of the hallway along
its length. Splotches of color dot the ceiling, the faded remains of a
mural.
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak is standing here.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak is standing here.
The stout, bald young man is standing here.
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak looks around, expression tautly drawn.
The stout, bald young man walks north.
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak walks north.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak walks north.
You follow the short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak, and walk north.
A Narrow, Dim Hallway [NESW Save]
A hallway wide enough for two humans abreast runs north and south
through the building. A rounded ceiling of brown mud forms an arch
connecting the walls, which are dingy with dirt and grime. A couple of hide
sconces for torches are on either side of the hallway across from each
other, the walls blackened by soot just above them. The dirt floor is
littered with small fragments of bone and stone mixed into a thin layer of
dusty sand. Several doors branch off of either side of the hallway along
its length.
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak is standing here.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak is standing here.
The stout, bald young man is standing here.
The stout, bald young man unlocks the door with a notched stone key.
The stout, bald young man opens the door.
<look west>
A door to the west leads to a Simple, Plain Room.
The door is open.[Near]
The hulking, rip-scarred man is sitting on an etched-bone framed bed.
The dusky, jet-curled young woman is sitting on an etched-bone framed bed.
100hp 115mv 90st |standing|walking|cavilish|unarmed|
The stout, bald young man walks west.
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak walks west.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak walks west.
You follow the short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak, and walk west.
A Simple, Plain Room [E Quit Save]
A few old blankets have been heaped into the northwestern corner of
the room; a jumble of faded colors and frayed edges. Several crude charcoal
drawings are scrawled onto the wall near the makeshift bed of blankets. A
stone table is in the middle of the room, its surface smooth and polished
but chipped in several places along the edges. Strips of leather have been
fastened to the tops of each of the table's legs, and hang from there to the
floor. A small stone chest has been pushed into the northeastern corner,
several cords away from the leather tarp serving as a door.
Dark black stains, sticky in texture cling to the floor in a large
darkened blotch.
A sanded bone-framed bed is here pushed against the wall with the rest of the scant furniture.
A hefty wooden barrel is here stuck in a corner.
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak is standing here.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak is standing here.
The stout, bald young man is standing here.
The hulking, rip-scarred man is sitting on an etched-bone framed bed.
The dusky, jet-curled young woman is sitting on an etched-bone framed bed.
The hulking, rip-scarred man moves fowards as if to begin kissing the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
The stout, bald young man closes the door.
The stout, bald young man locks the door with a notched stone key.
Hopping out of bed quickly, the dusky, jet-curled young woman stands up from an etched-bone framed bed.
Slanting his gaze over to an etched-bone framed bed, you look at the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
What may have once been this young woman's beautiful face is now enshrouded
by several long, crisscrossing scars. In fact, most of the dusky skin that
masks her athletic frame is riddled with scar tissue. While some are faint
lines only visible with the inspection of a sharp eye, others are deep ruts
that burrow like the tread of a wagon's wheel. Sharp and angular, her face
is crowned by high cheekbones that hug tightly her sunken viridescent eyes,
her ebon lashes nearly reaching the lines of her trimmed, blade-thin brows.
They angle towards her peaked hairline, from which rolling cascades of jet-
black hair part and fall to her shoulders, framing her face. Perched below
a single stray curl is her small hook nose, the sharp tip pointing downward
at her full, baobab-hued lips. She is a scrape above the height of average
women, with a modest chest and figure to match. Though she may bear a soft
curvature along her trunk and hips, the defined muscles of her limbs allude
to a rather rough lifestyle.
The dusky, jet-curled young woman is in excellent condition.
The dusky, jet-curled young woman is using:
<worn on head> a blue bandana
<worn in hair> a scrap of cloth
<face> a few faint, crossed scars
<worn around neck> a crystal teardrop pendant
<worn about throat> a crystal charm
<arms> a pair of pitted, deep looking scars
<worn on right finger> a grey stone ring
<worn on left finger> a grey stone ring
<worn on left finger> a black granite ring
<worn around body> a hooded, black sandcloth longcloak
<worn on legs> a simple, lace-trimmed sable skirt
<worn on feet> a pair of black leather sandals
She is carrying:
nothing obvious
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak plods heavily into the room and looks around.
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"No, seriously. Have a seat."
Simply, starting to rise from an etched-bone framed bed, releasing the dusky, jet-curled young woman, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Abou' time."
Loudly, her hands gripping for the neckline of her bone-clasped black sandcloth shirt, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says, in sirihish:
"The FUCK."
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak looks at the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
Simply, rising off an etched-bone framed bed, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"I'm jus'a dope dame...business is business though."
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak glances around for a moment.
Beelining it for the door with a quick glance, the dusky, jet-curled young woman looks at you.
The hulking, rip-scarred man sighs faintly as he stands leaning his back against the doorway of the room.
Resting a hand on your ivory-hilted, obsidian-bladed dirk as he nears at the short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak's side, you say to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
"Thanks for the heads up darlin'..."
The dusky, jet-curled young woman opens a grey tregil-hide belt pouch.
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Hey.. you need to sit down. For real."
The hulking, rip-scarred man leans back against the doorway quietly.
The worn man with wild, curly hair lowers the hood of a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"We're gunna have a small chat."
The hulking, rip-scarred man caually pulls his dusty long-hafted, spiked hammer from his back as he watches the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak keeps you pulled about it's body, gazing outward from under the dark of it's hood.
The hulking, rip-scarred man unslings a dusty long-hafted, spiked hammer from his back.
Slowing his drawl down, you say to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"I'd listen to the man were I you darlin'."
Backstepping away from the doorway, the cord to her grey tregil-hide belt pouch wobbling visibly in her grasp, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says, in sirihish:
"Wha.. wha.."
The worn man with wild, curly hair ambles over to a large stone table and drags out a chair, then motions across the table from him.
The stout, bald young man leans his back against the opposite side of the doorway, watching on.
You lower the hood of a purple-trimmed, hooded black silk cloak.
100hp 115mv 82st |standing|walking|sirihish|unarmed|l
A Simple, Plain Room [E Quit Save]
A few old blankets have been heaped into the northwestern corner of
the room; a jumble of faded colors and frayed edges. Several crude charcoal
drawings are scrawled onto the wall near the makeshift bed of blankets. A
stone table is in the middle of the room, its surface smooth and polished
but chipped in several places along the edges. Strips of leather have been
fastened to the tops of each of the table's legs, and hang from there to the
floor. A small stone chest has been pushed into the northeastern corner,
several cords away from the leather tarp serving as a door.
Dark black stains, sticky in texture cling to the floor in a large
darkened blotch.
A sanded bone-framed bed is here pushed against the wall with the rest of the scant furniture.
A hefty wooden barrel is here stuck in a corner.
The stout, bald young man is standing here.
The worn man with wild, curly hair is standing here.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak is standing here.
The hulking, rip-scarred man is standing here.
The dusky, jet-curled young woman is standing here.
The worn man with wild, curly hair sits at a large stone table.
Easing into it with a shocked expression, the dusky, jet-curled young woman sits on an etched-bone framed bed.
Turning out a chair, you sit at a large stone table.
Your mood is now excitement, nervous, and full of fun.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Table, not bed. Come on over, darlin, before I start havin' Gage move you for us."
You think:
"This en't like me but it's fuckin' not half bad... I could learn from my older cousin."
The worn man with wild, curly hair eases back into his chair, his slivered, watery-blue eyes fixed intensely on the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
The hulking, rip-scarred man quietly watches on with a stoic expression on his gruesomely torn face while he leans against the door.
Her face flushed, though she does manage to throw a smirk the hulking, rip-scarred man's way, the dusky, jet-curled young woman stands up from an etched-bone framed bed.
The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Okay.. Now, you're fuckin' around. Usin' the Way, are you?"
Appearing to calm down a little as she gestures cuttingly through the air, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"Nah. Won't even get in touch with Edom."
Annoyedly tugging out a seat, the dusky, jet-curled young woman sits at a large stone table.
At your table, you say in sirihish, murmuring as he shakes his head:
"What you want wit' Edom? This en't got shit to do wit' the man."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Good, because I'm sure an Oashi would care a great deal about yer rancid fuckin' snatch."
At your table, the worn man with wild, curly hair says in sirihish:
"That's besides the point."
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak moves slowly toward toward a nearby wall leanning against it, keeping it's hood up as it remains silently watching the worn man with wild, curly hair and the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
The delicate, soot-braided man purses his lips as he lifts his arms to cross over his chest.
At your table, the worn man with wild, curly hair says in sirihish, with a firm nod at the dusky, jet-curled young woman:
"If you want to leave this room.. not in a bag.. then you will be professional with us. What we want, is information regardin' the fucker that gave you the scroll and the key."
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, to the worn man with wild, curly hair, pressing a snort through her nostrils:
"Rancid snatch. I can't imagine you think I'm really a whore, if you're starting such a festival?"
Glancing warily, the stout, bald young man looks at the figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak.
You begin speaking cavilish.
At your table, the worn man with wild, curly hair says in sirihish:
"Now.. that's not very professional."
At your table, you say in cavilish, emitting a quick stream of words:
"I got a weird feelin' 'bout this cuz... but I'll follow your lead."
You think:
"Not a whore.. then what is she?"
Remaining silent, the figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak looks at the stout, bald young man.
With a roll of his meaty hand, the worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"So, tell us.. who did you get the scroll and the key from?"
The dusky, jet-curled young woman lifts her elbows from a large stone table, arms raised to cross at her chest. She mumbles quietly, looking the worn man with wild, curly hair up and down with apparent thought. Struggled thought.
The worn man with wild, curly hair casts a long glance over at the hulking, rip-scarred man.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
"I think we might have to start breaking fingers, boss."
The stout, bald young man brings his hand up and begins chewing on his thumbnail idly as he glances over to the table, then to the wall opposite of the door.
Simply, catching the worn man with wild, curly hair's glance, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Give tha' word."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
"Go ahead and grab her hand."
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, her fingers instinctively curling into a fist, tucked beneath her armpits:
"Nope!"
The worn man with wild, curly hair nods and shifts his attention back to the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, loudly:
"Give me a fucking chance, here. Krath."
Muttering under his breath, the stout, bald young man says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Hmph.... You get ta have all th' fun."
The hulking, rip-scarred man moves over to pull out a chair beside the dusky, jet-curled young woman casually.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says, out of character:
"Do we all consent to torture here?"
The stout, bald young man says, out of character:
"I do."
The hulking, rip-scarred man says, out of character:
"If it gets there yes."
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak says, out of character:
"I consent. I like watching torture."
The dusky, jet-curled young woman says, out of character:
"Fine by me."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says, out of character:
"Awesome."
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak says, out of character:
"Only, I withdraw if it gets sexual."
You say, out of character:
"I'm down like Charlie Brown."
At your table, the worn man with wild, curly hair says in sirihish, looking over at the dusky, jet-curled young woman:
"Okay.. Here's your chance."
The hulking, rip-scarred man says, out of character:
"No sexual for me either thanks. Just incase."
Your mood is now nervous but dedicated to his position.
The hulking, rip-scarred man squats down next to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, offering his open palm to the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
Simply, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Gimme' yer' hand girl...Or I'll start with mah' hammer on knee caps...yer' choice."
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, green eyes welling shut, her palm faced out at the hulking, rip-scarred man, though not offeringly:
"A customer pulled them off a dead guy, for me. I think his name was Dorian."
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak grins darkly under it's hood, watching those at a large stone table with intent.
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, rolling a gesture with her other hand:
"A gemmer. So, naturally, not much of a ..customer. Girl fucks a gemmer, she gets some interesting pay."
The hulking, rip-scarred man reaches up to lock his strong fingers around the dusky, jet-curled young woman's wrist, pulling her appendage down to his chest level as he squats.
The delicate, soot-braided man lip twitches to the side a few times spastically, his teeth gritting as he stares across at the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
At your table, the worn man with wild, curly hair says in sirihish:
"You are fucking full of shit. That servant of the void near bore the gem."
The hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Speak up folks...I need ta' know if I need ta' start breakin' fingers..."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says, in sirihish:
"You are fucking full of shit. That servant of the void near bore the gem."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Try again."
Shaking his head slowly, the worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"I don't think you want to be wrong, this time."
Towards the dusky, jet-curled young woman, his tone grave, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Nah', she don'."
You think:
"Well, he can do it..."
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, dully, to the worn man with wild, curly hair, her hand sunk within the hulking, rip-scarred man's grip:
"Gem's aren't hard to come by, you know."
The worn man with wild, curly hair winces.
You think:
"I can watch... and this bitch is feedin' us kank-shit."
Raising a brow as he turns his head, you ask the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
"Kank-shit?"
The worn man with wild, curly hair looks over at the hulking, rip-scarred man and nods a bit.
You begin speaking sirihish.
Dipping his own head, you say to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
"Ayup, kank-shit darlin'."
You begin speaking cavilish.
The hulking, rip-scarred man lifts up his opposite hand, the one not securing the dusky, jet-curled young woman's wrist and grabs ahold of her right pinky.
Exhaling through his flared nostrils, the worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"So let's try this again.. who gave you the key and the scroll?"
A very faint *snap* accompanies a sudden twist of the hulking, rip-scarred man's hand and he lowers his grasp, the tiny digit veering off in a sickening right angle now away from its brother philanges.
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, her eyes welling shut immediately as the hulking, rip-scarred man's twists it .. at an angle:
"I.. fuck, Gage Gritshaw."
The worn man with wild, curly hair bares his teeth and kind of grimaces as he watches the dusky, jet-curled young woman's finger contort unnaturally.
His nose wrinkled up tightly as he winces, you say, in cavilish:
"Shit."
The stout, bald young man winces slightly, exhaling a faint chuckle and shaking his head as he watches the hulking, rip-scarred man break the finger.
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, gulping, her upper body shivering visibly:
"Why would you do that..?"
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak remains silently watching a large stone table from under it's hood.
The hulking, rip-scarred man watches the dusky, jet-curled young woman's face as he squats before her. His own expression holding the casual absentness of a being who is no stranger to mutilation.
Running a hand through his matted, frizzy curls, the worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Let's try this /one more time/... who gave you the scroll and key?"
You think:
"Talk bitch... jus' talk."
You begin speaking sirihish.
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, hunching forward, her brow palmed in the hand that isn't held captive:
"What name do you want me to give! You obviously know more than I do!"
Wetting his lips as he shifts his crosses arms, you say to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"It'd be in everyone's best interest to let us know everythin'... down to the way he fucked if you can still remember. And I'd try."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"I am dead fuckin' serious.. if you don't start answerin' these questions a bit more quickly, Gage will move from fingers, to toes, to limbs, until you are like a sack of hides on the floor."
The hulking, rip-scarred man looks questioningly towards the worn man with wild, curly hair, lifting his opposite hand up once more.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Now.. we want to know who gave you the scroll and the key, is all."
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, as a bead of sweat manages to pass the line of her brow:
"Okay.. okay.. it was.."
The worn man with wild, curly hair holds a finger up to the hulking, rip-scarred man, his watery-blue eyes fixed tightly on the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
You think:
"I know at this point... I'd be speakin' whatever."
You think:
"Krath, I need a drink... and a trip to storm."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Speak up."
The hulking, rip-scarred man watches the worn man with wild, curly hair, his hand now gripping the dusky, jet-curled young woman's primary index finger.
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, with a slow shake of her head:
"Ah, this guy from the Gaj.. ah.. Salarr cloak."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"This client confidentiality kankshit will get you nowhere but dead, darlin."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"That's real specific."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says, in sirihish:
"Fuck, Gage, get the next one."
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, loudly:
"Hold on!"
The worn man with wild, curly hair snaps his fingers and shakes his head, motioning sharply at the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, murmuring quietly, her hand shaking within the hulking, rip-scarred man's grasp:
"No.. no.. no.."
Another dull *snap* like a muffled dry twig under foot permeates the room as the hulking, rip-scarred man twists his wrist, pulling his grip away to reveal the dusky, jet-curled young woman's newest "L" shaped finger.
The delicate, soot-braided man breathes in a deep breath and releases it slowly, shaking his head as he glances across at the dusky, jet-curled young woman with hooded eyes.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak adjusts it's hands under his dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak, keeping an intentful gaze locked upon a large stone table watching the hulking, rip-scarred man and the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
The worn man with wild, curly hair scratches at the side of his pockmarked nose, gaze set expectantly on the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
The dusky, jet-curled young woman presses her brow against a large stone table as she lets out an agonized huff, her captivated arm bent at a right angle, not unlike a couple of its fingers.
Simply, you say to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Know better darlin'... you en't goin' to be missed, but it will hurt on the way to oblivion."
The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Do you honestly expect me to believe that a Salarri would give a whore some rather.. unique things.. from the corpse of a Kadian lead hunter?"
In a passing glance, the figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak looks down at the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
The hulking, rip-scarred man keeps an iron grip on the dusky, jet-curled young woman's right wrist with his own left hand, his massive form squatted down to put himself eye-level with her.
The stout, bald young man idly spins his bluish-black stone ring about on his finger as he watches on, his usual scowl returning to his face.
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, quietly, her speech muffled by the table's surface in front of her face:
"..Edom."
Slamming his meaty fist against the table as he leans forward, spitting out the words, the worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"I know for a FACT that at least one of the people who found Silif's corpse was a Guild member."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"And there were two."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"So you are telling me that an Oashi Elite Guard was romping around with a Guilder, and they both turned in Silif's corpse? Kankshit."
Gently, leaning his head forward as he smiles weakly, you say to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Edom en't here darlin'... and if he were, I think he'd suggest you talk."
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, shaking her a little, nose twisting back and forth against the table:
"Don't know any Guilders."
The hulking, rip-scarred man peers down at the dusky, jet-curled young woman's right hand, her pinky finger turned out halfway down its length to point away from her other finger. her pointer finger broken to bend off towards her thumb.
The worn man with wild, curly hair's eyes grow unfocused, though they are still rather evenly leveled at the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, ponytail, tied back by her scrap of cloth, falling limply around her ear:
"..I don't know where Edom got 'em, but that's where -I- got 'em.. go to him.."
You begin speaking cavilish.
As he squats holding the dusky, jet-curled young woman's wrist in a hand the hulking, rip-scarred man casually pops some meat into his mouth from the chest on the floor next to him, chewing with the nonchalant visage of a man at work.
The dusky, jet-curled young woman bites at her lip as the hulking, rip-scarred man's grip around her hand shifts, heaving a dull grunt through her half-clenched lips.
The worn man with wild, curly hair leans back, sliding a hand across his sweat-glistening brow.
Aside, you say to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
"She might be tellin' the truth, I had a fella' I was payin' on the side... he got some dirt on another Oashi. Name starts wit' A... lookin' for people to get their hands dirty."
Exhaling wearily, the worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Well, darlin.. Looks like Edom is claimin' that he's never even held a scroll, nor has he seen any bahamet-carved keys lately."
The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"So.. we've went from... Void magicker.. to Salarri... to an Oashi Elite. Who're you gunna finger next, Great Lord Samos?"
Reaching up his other hand to the dusky, jet-curled young woman's middle finger, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Finger it is."
The hulking, rip-scarred man's grip finds the dusky, jet-curled young woman's middle finger and repeats the now familiar process, except this time bending back to break the appendage with a sickening *snap* at the base knuckle.
Hefting a shoulder lightly as he turns his gaze back to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, you say to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
"Jus' a thought. Aziz.. that was the name o' the one, bringin' in some shady types under the table for whatever."
The loud -snap- of the bone echos briefly through the small, sweat-stench ridden room.
The delicate, soot-braided man blanches as he turns his face to the side, brow knitting and nose wrinkling as he shakes his head.
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, quietly, flinching as another of her fingers is torn to shreds:
"Myehhr.."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Seriously. If you ever want to use those fingers for a handjob again, I'd start fuckin' talkin."
You begin speaking sirihish.
Raising her free shoulder, her breaths steep and shaky, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"..not gonna believe anything I say, anyway. Could've been any of the three."
The delicate, soot-braided man sucks in another breath, nearly chokes on it as he coughs it out, his watery eyes turning back to the suspect.
You think:
"She's obviously full o' shit... but everyone has a breakin' point."
The worn man with wild, curly hair's throat rattles with a low, irate growl as he runs a hand through his curls.
You think:
"Myself included..."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"You're being extremely unhelpful, you know. All we fuckin' want.. is the name of the mother fucker who took my hunter's shit."
At the sound of the worn man with wild, curly hair's displeasure the hulking, rip-scarred man lifts up his right hand again, this time grabbing the dusky, jet-curled young woman's already broken pinky and twisting, like the top off of a screw-lid bottle so that the digit grinds on the already broken bone.
The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Did he tell you anything about the items when he handed them over?"
Spitting out the words, the worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Such as, "This is some shit I got from a feckin Kadian I axed"?"
The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Fuckers with small dicks like to brag about shit like that. Reckon yer client had a small dick, neh?"
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, quietly:
"He's not a client."
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, struggling to keep her mangled hand still:
"..and I'm not a whore."
You think:
"That is goin' to heal fucked up..."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Then let me say this again, it would behoove you to tell me who the fuck did it."
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, spitting into the surface of the table:
"What the -fuck- does behoo.. ugh.."
You feel a sense of nausea wash over yourself.
The worn man with wild, curly hair shakes his head and looks over at the hulking, rip-scarred man.
You think:
"Breath in and out Rhys... steady yourself."
The worn man with wild, curly hair gets his dusty dujat-tooth longknife from his dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"I'm afraid we just might have to start cuttin' on you, now."
The hulking, rip-scarred man looks over towards the worn man with wild, curly hair, nodding a single time.
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, defeatedly:
"All right. I'll tell you he's up North. His name is Ron. Real skinny guy."
His tone casual, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Rannick...come hold tha' bitch's shoulders, she ain' gonna' be smart abou' it I don' think."
In the room:
1.rannick - the stout, bald young man
Leaning forward, eyes slivering tightly, the worn man with wild, curly hair exclaims to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Tell me what he fuckin' looks like!"
The stout, bald young man grunts, swaggering forward towards the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"He wears the shit with grey veins, neh?"
The hulking, rip-scarred man slings a dusty long-hafted, spiked hammer across his back.
The worn man with wild, curly hair holds up a hand to the stout, bald young man.
Raising his voice as he explodes forward from his seat, smacking the dusky, jet-curled young woman across the face, you exclaim to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"WHY didn't you say that before I had to watch your fuckin' hands get mangled you -bitch-!!"
The stout, bald young man rests a heavy hand on either of the dusky, jet-curled young woman's shoulders.
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, eyes peering out to her mangled hand before scooting back down to the table's surface:
"..because."
You think:
"Calm down..."
The delicate, soot-braided man turns from the dusky, jet-curled young woman and a large stone table, pacing over towards the door and leaning forward against the wall, bracing himself up with a hand as he breathes heavily and sweat falls from his face to the stone floor.
The stout, bald young man takes a step back as you strikes out at the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
You feel a twinge and your nausea clears and is replaced with dull anger and resentment.
Speaking in a slow, coarsely-toned voice, the worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"You had better answer the question. Describe his attire."
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, quietly, her voice a rasp between shaky breaths:
"You said it. Wears the Guild gear. Not a guilder, though."
Pulling it up casually like a tool of the trade, the hulking, rip-scarred man gets his bloodied yellowed bone skinning knife from his dusty leather swordbelt.
The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"How do you know he's not a fuckin' Guilder?"
You think:
"It's not supposed to be like this. But since I started... perhaps it is."
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, annoyedly raising her head to look at the worn man with wild, curly hair:
"I guess I -don't- fucking know, do I?"
Glancing over, the worn man with wild, curly hair says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
"She's talkin.. ease up for a moment, chief."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says, in sirihish:
"As you were.."
As he sits squatting before the dusky, jet-curled young woman the hulking, rip-scarred man holds her wrist with his left hand, glancing to the worn man with wild, curly hair with a nod as he casually rests his bloodied yellowed bone skinning knife on his right thigh in his opposite hand.
The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"You just won't let me cut you any breaks, will you?"
Straightening up and tugging at your snug, deep blue silk vest with purple trim, the delicate, soot-braided man swivels on his heels and steps back to the table, retaking his seat as he wipes a hand across his face and slings the sweat to the ground.
The dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"I told you already, Guy, he's not a Guilder."
The dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"He's not a rinther. He's not a Guilder. Nor is he a rinther."
The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"What is he, then? Who's he work for, and why the fuck is he in Tuluk?"
Clearing his throat as he pipes in, the stout, bald young man says, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Wouldn't be th' first Guilder from th' South...."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the stout, bald young man, in sirihish:
"No kiddin."
Without pause, though her voice still shakes, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"Wanted to see what the sand was like."
Lifting her free shoulder, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"Maybe see what the pockets were like up there."
The stout, bald young man glances over to the hulking, rip-scarred man out of the corner of his eye, nodding shallowly once.
The worn man with wild, curly hair shifts his gaze over to the hulking, rip-scarred man, brow tightly knit.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
"Let's start this off with a toe, Gritshaw."
You think:
"I need to be checkin' into this stuff myself.. guild, a contact is what I need."
A Simple, Plain Room [E Quit Save]
A few old blankets have been heaped into the northwestern corner of
the room; a jumble of faded colors and frayed edges. Several crude charcoal
drawings are scrawled onto the wall near the makeshift bed of blankets. A
stone table is in the middle of the room, its surface smooth and polished
but chipped in several places along the edges. Strips of leather have been
fastened to the tops of each of the table's legs, and hang from there to the
floor. A small stone chest has been pushed into the northeastern corner,
several cords away from the leather tarp serving as a door.
Dark black stains, sticky in texture cling to the floor in a large
darkened blotch.
A sanded bone-framed bed is here pushed against the wall with the rest of the scant furniture.
A hefty wooden barrel is here stuck in a corner.
The stout, bald young man is standing here.
The worn man with wild, curly hair is sitting at a large stone table.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak is leaning here, against a nearby wall.
The hulking, rip-scarred man is standing here.
The dusky, jet-curled young woman is sitting at a large stone table.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
"We'll work our way up."
The hulking, rip-scarred man catches the worn man with wild, curly hair's gaze and nods a single time.
Simply, reaching down towards the dusky, jet-curled young woman's right foot with his free hand, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Rannick...hold'r."
The worn man with wild, curly hair holds up his hand.
The stout, bald young man steps up behind the dusky, jet-curled young woman again, firmly holding her by either shoulder as the hulking, rip-scarred man reaches down.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says, in sirihish:
"She wants to talk."
The hulking, rip-scarred man nods to the worn man with wild, curly hair and casually begins to remove the dusky, jet-curled young woman's boot.
The hulking, rip-scarred man looks down at the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
The worn man with wild, curly hair looks at the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
The hulking, rip-scarred man nods to the worn man with wild, curly hair and casually begins to remove the dusky, jet-curled young woman's left sandal..
Blinking her eyes as him reaches for a sandal, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
"Calm down, will you? Fucking hurting my hand even more."
At your table, the worn man with wild, curly hair says in sirihish, lowering his tone a bit:
"No dice. It's just me an my cousin here.. so speak freely."
The hulking, rip-scarred man sits a single sandal aside on the floor next to him with a slow methodic motion then places the dusky, jet-curled young woman's left foot between his knees for leverage as he squats, her toes facing up.
At your table, the worn man with wild, curly hair says in sirihish:
"Let's hear all these secrets of yours before we get blood all over the fucking place."
At your table, you say in sirihish, biting at his lip as he turns his chair forward, to the dusky, jet-curled young woman:
"And please don't make me watch your fuckin' toe get snapped off either."
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, between clenched teeth, eyes shut tightly:
"I'm.. telling you."
At your table, the worn man with wild, curly hair says in sirihish:
"No over the fuckin Unseen Way you aren't."
Doing her best to hunch over the table while the boys mess with her sandals, the dusky, jet-curled young woman whispers something to the worn man with wild, curly hair.
The delicate, soot-braided man arches a brow at the worn man with wild, curly hair as he glances between him and the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak remains silent, watching a large stone table intentfully with it's hands absently shifting under his dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak. It grins darkly under it's hood, watching the hulking, rip-scarred man with the dusky, jet-curled young woman's foot.
This large, plain table is made of a round of once-polished stone, grown
cloudy with decades of use. Colored a ruddy brown, streaks of creamy yellow
race through its surface. It is supported by four blocky legs. Chips mark
the edges of this table.
The worn man with wild, curly hair is sitting at it, on a ladder-backed bone chair.
You are sitting at it, on a ladder-backed bone chair.
The dusky, jet-curled young woman is sitting at it, on a chair with a high back of woven bone.
There are a few spaces at it.
On a large stone table (here) :
a wooden spoon
a clay bottle
an empty squat ceramic bottle
an empty water gourd
an empty clay jug
a couple of empty tall ceramic mugs
a red stone pestle
a dusty stone-headed glasshacker
a black hide belt
The stout, bald young man glances down at the dusky, jet-curled young woman, allowing her head at least the freedom to whisper to the worn man with wild, curly hair.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"That is the biggest load of kankshit that's been shoveled my way all week. You are telling me.. that some random jackass gave you a scroll that had been WRITTEN on, for no apparent reason."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"You need to start makin' more sense, sweetling."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
"Aight, go ahead and put the knife to her toe."
Lifting her shoulder against the stout, bald young man's palm, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"We keep our stuff in the same apartment. Nothing is 'his' or 'hers', it's the group's."
The delicate, soot-braided man cringes as he leans back, gulping in another large breath of the dense and steamy air as he frowns at the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
The stout, bald young man tightens his hold on the dusky, jet-curled young woman as the worn man with wild, curly hair speaks.
Once more at the sound of the worn man with wild, curly hair's displeasure, before even getting the "go ahead" the hulking, rip-scarred man lowers his bloodied yellowed bone skinning knife down to the pinky toe of the dusky, jet-curled young woman's left foot.
The dusky, jet-curled young woman grimaces as the knife presses against her pinky toe, that leg squirming minimally as she grips the edge of a large stone table with her 'good' hand.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"So you live with a group of people whose names and identities you don't even know, and one of them randomly passed this fuckin' scroll off to you."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
"Fuck, cut it off already."
Between clenched teeth, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"No.. I told you.. Name's Ron.."
The bone-edged knife not holding the sharpest edge, being bone the hulking, rip-scarred man braces the dusky, jet-curled young woman's shin with his other hand, her foot between his knees and roughly saws off her pinky toe, the process suprisingly swift with a flex of his bulky arm.
Slowly, the severed pinky toe rolls away from the skinning knife.
Through clenched teeth, strained, you say, in sirihish:
"Kank-shit... cut it off, we can feed her piece by piece to the beasts in the stables for all I care."
Throwing her head back, the dusky, jet-curled young woman looses a loud grunt as she is separated from a tiny digit.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to you, in cavilish:
"Ron is a fella in Guild gear who has been spotted in the Ivory.. speaking with nobility in the Ivory."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to you, in cavilish:
"Though, he goes by Cameron."
The worn man with wild, curly hair shifts his attention back to the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
The delicate, soot-braided man lifts your pair of black, knee-high boots quickly from the floor and the spurting of the blood, crossing them underneath himself as he reaches out and grips the table.
You think:
"If she does die... we keep our promise."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"You made the mistake of speakin' about a group, darlin. I plan on havin' the identities of other members of this "group" before you leave here alive."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"So do us both a big favor and pass them on over."
The dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"I told you.. they're.. small groups.. Our Master comes at night.."
Squatted with the dusky, jet-curled young woman's foot between his own bare knees the hulking, rip-scarred man's right thigh begins to slicken with a small amount of her crimson blood from the stump of her pinky-toe-stump.
You begin speaking cavilish.
The dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"Cameron and I havn't seen his face.."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Kankshit. You can do better than that.. your toes are telling you to."
Uproariously screaming towards the ceiling, the dusky, jet-curled young woman asks the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"Fucking KRATH I tell you the ONE secret that I've -ever- kept, and you want to cut off my FUCKING toes!?"
The hulking, rip-scarred man cocks his head to the side, studying the dusky, jet-curled young woman's foot with a workman's contemplative expression, then moves his bloodied yellowed bone skinning knife towards the next toe in line.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"What the fuck are y'talkin about, regardin' this "master?""
Out of the corner of his mouth, shifting his long, thing body awkwardly atop a chair, you say to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
"This bitch is insane Sharlo. Insane and likely to end up dead... master... fuck.."
Gesturing wildly with her free hand, the dusky, jet-curled young woman exclaims to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"I'll show you the damn apartment! I'll let you hide out until he shows up!"
The hulking, rip-scarred man takes the next to in line between his thumb and bent forefinger, his opposite hand bringing the dull edge of his bone knife to rest against the digit.
The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"What, he's a magicker?"
The hulking, rip-scarred man holds his dull bone knife against the digit, looking questioningly towards the worn man with wild, curly hair, awaiting confirmation.
You think:
"What does any of this has to do with Sharlo?"
The worn man with wild, curly hair glances over at you and nods agreeingly.
Sighing defeatedly, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"I'm done. I can't explain this to you, because you won't listen. Just cut off all my toes, or kill me, or whatever. With me dies the secret."
With a rolling motion of his hand, the worn man with wild, curly hair says, in sirihish:
"Death will not be so easy for you, darlin. Gage.. the next toe, please."
Simply, as if offering up advice, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Torch her eye...Even when they want ta' die...ya' torch thier eyes, they'll talk."
Towards the stout, bald young man, taking the initative, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Light up a torch."
The worn man with wild, curly hair glances over and nods firmly at the stout, bald young man.
The dusky, jet-curled young woman says, out of character:
"Let's just FTB if that's going to happen. Not something I want to play out."
Blinking as he brings a hand to his face, cupping his eyes then dropping it to look at her, you say to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Before... you die. You would die? "
The stout, bald young man grins crookedly down at the hulking, rip-scarred man as he releases the dusky, jet-curled young woman, bringing his dusty rope-strapped canvas backpack around infront of him.
You begin speaking cavilish.
The stout, bald young man gets his unlit rag-wrapped bone torch from his dusty rope-strapped canvas backpack.
As if it was obvious, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to you, in sirihish:
"I ... was bred that way."
Spitting off towards the dusky, jet-curled young woman as he shakes his head, gesturing across at her, you say, in cavilish:
"Pathetic."
Looking over his unlit rag-wrapped bone torch, the stout, bald young man says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Eh.... 'Bout to burn out, buy ya only really need a coal anyhow."
The stout, bald young man kneels down to a knee, reaching into his dusty small leather pouch.
The stout, bald young man gets his crude flint-strike kit from his dusty small leather pouch.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"I assure you, we're all ears about this "secret" of yours. So please, let us in on it. I'm kinda fond of secrets."
Pressing her good thumb against her sternum, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"I, as in me, Seli.. I.. I am from.. a family.. a family that deals in crime."
The stout, bald young man hums an off-key tune to himself as he strikes a piece of flint against a length of roughened granite, a shower of sparks landing on his unlit rag-wrapped bone torch.
Gesturing broadly with one hand, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"Wee... gather in groups.. To keep secrecy.."
The stout, bald young man holds his unlit rag-wrapped bone torch.
The stout, bald young man lights an unlit rag-wrapped bone torch.
Slipping it away before getting back up to his feet, the stout, bald young man puts his crude flint-strike kit into his dusty small leather pouch.
Shaking a finger as if speaking to a small child, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"But we don't know who the Master of our circle is, because that would be a threat to the family."
As he watches the stout, bald young man and the hulking, rip-scarred man for a moment, the worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"So, who are the members of your group, aside from Ron?"
Holding up two good fingers at him, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"So we know one or two members of our circle.. namely Ron, who is in Tuluk, and operate based on our Master's teachings."
The dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"Just Ron, as far as I know."
Looking towards the stout, bald young man, speaking as though he doesnt hear the conversation, his tone casual, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Hold it down so it burns with tha' flames comin' back on tha' haft...let tha' end get red, then blow it out down to a coal."
/just/ beginning to hold his dim rag-wrapped bone torch upside down, the stout, bald young man says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Way ahead ah' ya...."
Softly, you ask the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"What are his teachin's darlin'? What 'crime' is so important you'll go blind, deaf, limp, and dead for?"
The stout, bald young man's torch flickers weakly, about to go out.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"What the /fuck/? You just told me that there were many people who shared yer fuckin' apartment."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Answer him, Krath."
Palming her brow, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"..assassination, break ins, that sort of thing."
The hulking, rip-scarred man tips his head once to the stout, bald young man, still squatting infront of the dusky, jet-curled young woman's with her foot between his knees, as though it were forgotten there.
The stout, bald young man brings the small, glowing stump of his very dim rag-wrapped bone torch to his face, blowing out the burning fire and leaving a pointed stick of glowing embers.
The stout, bald young man extinguishes a very dim rag-wrapped bone torch.
The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Now answer me. Why did y'get confused about there bein' more than one person who shares yer fuckin apartment?"
As he reaches down for your ivory-hilted, obsidian-bladed dirk, you say to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Then you, my dear, had a /very/ shitty teacher..."
You draw an ivory-hilted, obsidian-bladed dirk.
You begin speaking cavilish.
His face calm and relaxed as he turns, you ask the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
"I'm goin' to punch a hole in her chest soon cousin... well, I'm thinkin' 'bout it. Do we know where her apartment is?"
The dusky, jet-curled young woman sits still within her seat, shrugging a shoulder as her lips tighten around her teeth.
You feel the realization that life is happening fall around you.
The stout, bald young man looks from his unlit rag-wrapped bone torch, to the hulking, rip-scarred man, to the worn man with wild, curly hair, then to the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
You think:
"It's another day... and I'm alive."
The hulking, rip-scarred man motions towards the stout, bald young man's haft of wood, one end glowing red and smoking lightly.
The hulking, rip-scarred man lifts up a hand to recieve the stout, bald young man's smoldering haft.
The stout, bald young man reaches down infront of the dusky, jet-curled young woman, passing his unlit rag-wrapped bone torch off to the hulking, rip-scarred man.
The stout, bald young man stops using his unlit rag-wrapped bone torch.
The stout, bald young man gives his unlit rag-wrapped bone torch to the hulking, rip-scarred man.
You think:
"I thank Tek and my house for lettin' me have sense and a purpose in life.."
His bushy brow lifting, the worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Can't think of nothin?"
You feel calm.
The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Where's yer fuckin' apartment?"
Your mood is now strangely relaxed despite the circumstances.
Focusing her eyes on the torches flickering flame, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says, in sirihish:
"I don't know."
The worn man with wild, curly hair glances at the smouldering haft that the hulking, rip-scarred man holds.
The hulking, rip-scarred man stands back straight, dropping the dusky, jet-curled young woman's foot from between his knees to rise to his full towering height, a haft of wood, one end smoldering a soft red glow in his right hand.
Bubbling out a brief laugh as he shakes his head, you say, in cavilish:
"I was a bit sick at first, but I tried to hold it in... prove myself to you cousin. Now it's gone past irritation to acceptance. She is a fool. We break her then we kill her."
With a brief shrug as he grins crookedly, you ask the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
"What else is there for her or ourselves?"
Readily reaching up to secure her head, the stout, bald young man says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Gonna hafta hold 'er down fer 'dis f'sure..."
Towards the stout, bald young man, his tone methodic, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Hold her by'ere hair."
You feel a snap as your mind crashes back in sync with your body and things return to the normal rhythm of life.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to you, in cavilish:
"Aye, we're gunna have to fuckin' kill her. This foolish' fuckin' pride of hers will come back to haunt us if we don't."
The stout, bald young man nods to the hulking, rip-scarred man, reaching up and twisting a handful of the dusky, jet-curled young woman's hair about one hand and pulling it taut.
The stout, bald young man looks down at the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
The worn man with wild, curly hair shifts his attention back to the hulking, rip-scarred man.
The hulking, rip-scarred man says, out of character:
"If you would now please assume that Gage used the burning haft of wood in a manner you can imagine yourself, on your PC's eye, and RP accordingly, within the bounds of your comfort, it would be appriciated."
The dusky, jet-curled young woman says, out of character:
"Got it."
Shaking his head as he growls, blinking, you say to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
"Krath! I zoned out for a bit there... it was as if everythin' slowed down. I'm wit' it now, and yes. I think so."
As a thick smoke curls upward from her mangled face, the dusky, jet-curled young woman throws her head back in pain, jaw slackening in agony.
The hulking, rip-scarred man steps back from the dusky, jet-curled young woman, lowering his smoldering haft of wood, his jaw clenched slightly as he watches on with a deathly-cold expression.
Passing your ivory-hilted, obsidian-bladed dirk from hand to hand as he forces his attention on the dusky, jet-curled young woman, and the two men beside her, you say to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
"I didn't think I would get quite this angry cousin... a learnin' experience."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"So, are you sure you don't know where this fuckin' apartment is? Your eye's got a hole in it now, and I figure the other one's startin' to get a little jealous."
You feel yourself forcing your gorge back down as you accept what is happening.
Barely able to croak the words, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"Shut.."
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak emits a quiet chuckle, as it watches the scene at a large stone table. It shakes it's head slowly, the quiet sound of 'tsking' noises escaping the confines of it's hood.
The stout, bald young man releases the dusky, jet-curled young woman's hair, remaining behind her chair. A scowl set on his face liks stone.
You think:
"Fool, this isn't funny... but it's necessary."
You think:
"Perhaps that is what I should take from this.."
You think:
"Righteous anger... my anger, and my families and friends... that is ok."
You think:
"This I know."
The worn man with wild, curly hair frowns darkly as he regards the dusky, jet-curled young woman, his posture slouched but tense as he stares across the table.
As her stinking, smoldering flesh begins to lose the red glow around the edges, the dusky, jet-curled young woman shakes her head weakly from within her seat.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Any day now.."
Weakly, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"Already.. said too much."
Finally speaking, as it looks toward the woman, the figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in northern-accented sirihish:
"Could've avoided the lot of this, if you'd jus' tell us, woman."
Spitting loudly, her partially burnt lip slurring her speech, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"Fuck off, githkisser. Now you'll never know."
With a deep, wistful sigh, the worn man with wild, curly hair looks over at the hulking, rip-scarred man.
Quietly as he dips his head, breathing only from his mouth, you say to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in cavilish:
"Food for our beasts then..."
Looking towards the worn man with wild, curly hair, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Tha' always works...all I got left will hurt more...but it'll kill'r fer' sure."
The hulking, rip-scarred man shrugs lightly as if awaiting the worn man with wild, curly hair's instruction with a stoic expression.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
"Stick that fuckin' haft through her eyesocket all the way into her grey matter, Gritshaw."
Looking over with a sigh, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
"..let's hope."
The hulking, rip-scarred man nods once a single time then lifts up his smoldering haft of wood with arms, pressing forwards with a sneer on his torn face, the force obviously aiming to shoot through the dusky, jet-curled young woman's head completely, or as far as he can anyways.
The stout, bald young man quickly grabs another handful of the dusky, jet-curled young woman's hair, securing her head down for the hulking, rip-scarred man.
The dusky, jet-curled young woman slumps back into her seat at the force of the hulking, rip-scarred man's blow.
With a sickening -crack- the smouldering stick touches the back of the dusky, jet-curled young woman's skull.
The dusky, jet-curled young woman cries out in pain.
The dusky, jet-curled young woman crumples to the ground.
The delicate, soot-braided man runs a thumb along the hilt of your ivory-hilted, obsidian-bladed dirk as he forces himself to watch the body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
A Simple, Plain Room [E Quit Save]
A few old blankets have been heaped into the northwestern corner of
the room; a jumble of faded colors and frayed edges. Several crude charcoal
drawings are scrawled onto the wall near the makeshift bed of blankets. A
stone table is in the middle of the room, its surface smooth and polished
but chipped in several places along the edges. Strips of leather have been
fastened to the tops of each of the table's legs, and hang from there to the
floor. A small stone chest has been pushed into the northeastern corner,
several cords away from the leather tarp serving as a door.
Dark black stains, sticky in texture cling to the floor in a large
darkened blotch.
The body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman lies crumpled on the floor.
A bloodied severed toe lays here in the dust.
A sanded bone-framed bed is here pushed against the wall with the rest of the scant furniture.
A hefty wooden barrel is here stuck in a corner.
The stout, bald young man is standing here.
The worn man with wild, curly hair is sitting at a large stone table.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak is leaning here, against a nearby wall.
The hulking, rip-scarred man is standing here.
The stout, bald young man grunts once, releasing the body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman's and letting her body slump to the ground.
For several moments, the body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman kicks around.
You sheathe an ivory-hilted, obsidian-bladed dirk.
In a stiff, reflex action, the body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman's foot lands in the worn man with wild, curly hair's groin.
The worn man with wild, curly hair grunts, falling back out of his chair with a dull, heavy *thud*
The worn man with wild, curly hair stands up from a large stone table.
Sprawling clumsily out of his chair, the worn man with wild, curly hair sits down to rest.
The stout, bald young man tries hard, but ultimately fails to hold back a laugh.
As he regains his composure, looking around for a moment, the worn man with wild, curly hair says, in sirihish:
"Well."
The hulking, rip-scarred man leaves the haft of the torch potruding up from a bloodied body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman's ocular socket, resting his hands on his hips as he watches it flop about.
Turning from a bloodied body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman to the worn man with wild, curly hair, the delicate, soot-braided man shakes his head from side to side as he lets his body let loose a strained laugh.
The stout, bald young man clears his throat, any look of amusement on his face replaced by the previous scowl.
The worn man with wild, curly hair inhales deeply and gathers himself upright.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak emits a loud, hoarse laugh as a bloodied body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman drops to the ground. It pushes it's hands from under the tail of cloak, with a slow clap as it regards the corpse.
Body spasming briefly, the worn man with wild, curly hair asks, in sirihish:
"What the... fuck!?"
Nodding to the worn man with wild, curly hair, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Yeh', sometimes they do tha'."
You stand up from a large stone table.
The worn man with wild, curly hair runs his hands over his torso, back and limbs in rapid succession, shuddering involuntarily.
Sucking at his teeth as he stands over a bloodied body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman, you say to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
"Well... that was somethin'."
The hulking, rip-scarred man shrugs faintly, a malicious grin on his features as he regards the worn man with wild, curly hair.
A Simple, Plain Room [E Quit Save]
A few old blankets have been heaped into the northwestern corner of
the room; a jumble of faded colors and frayed edges. Several crude charcoal
drawings are scrawled onto the wall near the makeshift bed of blankets. A
stone table is in the middle of the room, its surface smooth and polished
but chipped in several places along the edges. Strips of leather have been
fastened to the tops of each of the table's legs, and hang from there to the
floor. A small stone chest has been pushed into the northeastern corner,
several cords away from the leather tarp serving as a door.
Dark black stains, sticky in texture cling to the floor in a large
darkened blotch.
A bloodied body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman lies crumpled on the floor.
A bloodied severed toe lays here in the dust.
A sanded bone-framed bed is here pushed against the wall with the rest of the scant furniture.
A hefty wooden barrel is here stuck in a corner.
The stout, bald young man is standing here.
The worn man with wild, curly hair is reclining here.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak is leaning here, against a nearby wall.
The hulking, rip-scarred man is standing here.
Nodding a few times, the stout, bald young man says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Yeh... Sometimes 'dey twitch like 'dat fer days."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says, in sirihish:
"Fuck, gents.. Shield your fuckin' mins."
The hulking, rip-scarred man raises a brow towards the worn man with wild, curly hair.
The delicate, soot-braided man lifts a few fingers in the air as he nods at the worn man with wild, curly hair, stepping back in forth in front of a bloodied body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
The worn man with wild, curly hair exclaims, in sirihish:
"What the fuck!"
Eyes narrowing tightly, the worn man with wild, curly hair asks you, in cavilish:
"Did you fucking hear that?"
Swiveling his head so quickly it pops, you say to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
"What is it cousin!? Fuck! "
Shaking his head as he shudders and shivers, you say to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
"No, I didn't hear shit... I've had a shield up the whole time."
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak pads slowly from the wall, to examine the corpse closer.
Turning from side to side as he glances about the room, you ask the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
"What was it you heard?"
The stout, bald young man steps back from a bloodied body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman, allowing the figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak plenty of room.
The worn man with wild, curly hair leans against the tabletop, his jaw clenching as his eyes sliver tightly with concentration.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says, in cavilish:
"Krath. Fucking. Damn."
You think:
"Fuck... should I back up... should I help..."
The worn man with wild, curly hair paces back and forth for a moment, his sweat-slick expression darkened considerably.
The delicate, soot-braided man lifts his hands awkwardly in front of himself, biting at his lower lip as he takes two steps back from a large stone table.
The worn man with wild, curly hair snaps his wide-eyed stare over to the hulking, rip-scarred man.
The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
"Do you have this fucking stiff under control?"
Looking towards the worn man with wild, curly hair, raising a brow as he stands with his hands on his hips, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Fuck Sharlo...Tha' bitch is dead already. A'course."
Looking from a bloodied body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman to the worn man with wild, curly hair, the figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak asks the worn man with wild, curly hair, in northern-accented sirihish:
"Hm..So, now what, sir?"
Sweat pouring over his sandworn features as he fumbles around in his cloak, the worn man with wild, curly hair says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
"Then, for the love of Krath, let me the fuck outta here."
Gesturing towards the door, you say to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
"Let's go cousin, back to the compound... the Estate even."
Looking towards the stout, bald young man, speaking quickly, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Let'm out Rannick."
The worn man with wild, curly hair finally manages to tug a sack of coin from his pocket and tosses it over to the hulking, rip-scarred man.
Stepping over to the door, the stout, bald young man says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Wan' me ta let 'im-- A'ight."
The stout, bald young man unlocks the door with a notched stone key.
The stout, bald young man opens the door.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says, in sirihish:
"Krath fucking damn.."
The stout, bald young man steps aside for the worn man with wild, curly hair.
Sucking at his lip as he steps over and puts a hand on his shoulder, you say to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
"Come on, we're movin' and you'll be fine..."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
"With me, if you can.. I gotta stop by the Nenyuki."
Eyes widening as he yells, you exclaim to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
"I'll pay 'em.. how much is it? Let's jus' get you back inside!"
Towards the stout, bald young man, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Watch tha' bitch till I get back...then we'll take care of tha' body."
The worn man with wild, curly hair's hands shake noticeably at his sides, panic plastered across his expression.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to you, in sirihish:
"Half a large."
The hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Keep tha' door locked."
You get your pile of allanaki coins from your large, gemstone-embroidered bag.
There were 408 coins.
It is very light.
Nodding, the stout, bald young man says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"You got it."
You get your pile of allanaki coins from your large, gemstone-embroidered bag.
There were 1200 coins.
It is very light.
Tossing it over quickly, you give the hulking, rip-scarred man 500 coins.
You put your pile of allanaki coins into your large, gemstone-embroidered bag.
You begin speaking sirihish.
The hulking, rip-scarred man catches the sack from you with a single, blood-dried hand.
Dipping his head, you say to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
"We're square for now Gritshaw. I'm goin' to get my cousin back to the compound. Shade and profits... whatever."
A Narrow, Dim Hallway [NS Save]
A hallway wide enough for two humans abreast runs to the north into
the building and south to the street. A rounded ceiling of brown mud forms
an arch connecting the walls, which are dingy with dirt and grime. The dirt
floor is littered with...
Continue Reading...Dour Barbarian by Briar
Added on Dec 8, 2009Watercolor, ink and oil crayons.
The Ballad of High Lord Templar Elithan and the Wyvern by Yseulte
Added on Nov 23, 2009Performed by Pia Konviewdu for Chosen Lord Ranak commemorating the High Templar's fight with the Wyvern.
The sands shaken, the Wyvern did waken,
Its wings unfurl’d and hauled its scaly grey bulk throu’ winds ‘at whirled.
Eyes like the bloody moon up high, it rasped and did cry:
"You're but food, I’ll end you like a kank-fly."
Throu’ visored helm ‘gainst an awful glare did our High Templar stare,
And his fate did now he saw began to glow on the Wyvern's claw.
Power ain’t ‘ford him no shield ‘gainst a light so bright,
Blindin’ him of sight, all moon-white.
With power ‘at split the red sky and laid our legions low as scrubs do lie,
Upon ‘em the abomination did fly.
Inna rush o’ beatin’ wings and a fearsome growl,
The nectar of its maw did spit upon our ranks an ichor so foul.
In multitudes did His soldiers fall, buildin’ a wall o’ blackened flesh,
Crisp'd meat, a dike o’ dead, insufferable heat.
Yet through befoulin’ wafts of tainted smoke,
Tho’ reel our folk might, and scream and choke,
Our crossbows were let fly, loud as any storm's cry,
And the air did sigh with the fall o' our Templar up High.
Inna rush o' steps did drum a sea o' His Common come,
Ain't shield in hand nor spear, we carried His Faithful Lord clear.
Tho' torn and beaten he be, his heart and hand done quicken,
And when his sword done lifted, the beast lay dead and stricken.
‘Ere stood we, a shield ‘round His Faithful Lord,
The shinin’ Common o' His Light.The sands shaken, the Wyvern did waken,
Its wings unfurl’d and hauled its scaly grey bulk throu’ winds ‘at whirled.
Eyes like the bloody moon up high, it rasped and did cry:
"You're but food, I’ll end you like a kank-fly."
Throu’ visored helm ‘gainst an awful glare did our High Templar stare,
And...
Continue Reading...Elves of the Hand by Yseulte
Added on Nov 23, 2009Performed by Pia Konviwedu.
Elves be tricky, sticky, see,
Long-fingered dancers of the night,
Quick and lithe, like riitikki be.
With necks and ears high of height.When you got your money, honey,
Hold it closed and ever so tight.
Their heads be a-bobbing like menelli be,
Quick little fingers, dancing out of sight.When you're walking, talking,
With your sweet one on the street.
Nigh silent, shadows come a-stalking,
Dancers dancing, fleet of feet.Elves be glancing, dancing, see,
Long-legged hunters of the night.
Tapering high, like a marilla tree,
With sharp eyes and teeth that do bite.Elves be tricky, sticky, see,
Long-fingered dancers of the night,
Quick and lithe, like riitikki be.
With necks and ears high of height.When you got your money, honey,
Hold it closed and ever so tight.
Their heads be a-bobbing like menelli be,
Quick little fingers, dancing out of sight.When you're...
Continue Reading...Black Crowns by Yseulte
Added on Nov 23, 2009A song performed by Pia Konviwedu about assassins.
Blood in the breeze,
Blood in the sand,
In the land of dancing trees,
Cold blade in my hand.I creep through the night,
Silencing in mind.
To be the last sight,
Of those I am set to find.I dance in the dark,
Moons above do not betray.
I do seek my mark,
Cutting an end to his day.I swirl from behind,
I sweep with my knife.
To his pain I am blind,
As I bleed out his life.As he draws a last breath,
I look to his face.
I'm the dealer of death,
Crowned in black and grace.Blood in the breeze,
Blood in the sand,
In the land of dancing trees,
Cold blade in my hand.I creep through the night,
Silencing in mind.
To be the last sight,
Of those I am set to find.I dance in the dark,
Moons above do not betray.
I do seek my mark,
Cutting an end to his day.I swirl from behind,
Continue Reading...The Firestorm Pub by Yseulte
Added on Nov 23, 2009A song performed by Pia Konviwedu for Kadius.
At the Firestorm Pub a bottle or ten’ll be found,
Open them up and drink round after round!We’re drinking to life, drinking to death!
We’re drinking til ain’t one coin to be left!
We’re winding our way through all and more!
We’ll drink til we’re floored like an Allanak whore!Raise up your bottles, folks!
Drink til your fat and Light! Roll up a smoke!Put on a smile, put a bottle in your fist!
Drink til you ain’t remember who you've done kissed!We’re drinking to Light, drinking to song!
We’re drinking til we ain’t remember what we've done wrong!
We’re winding our way through all Kiiren’s store!
We’re gonna drink til we ain’t can drink no more!Raise up your bottles, folks!
And Light! Someone give me a smoke!At the Firestorm Pub a bottle or ten’ll be found,
Open them up and drink round after round!We’re drinking to life, drinking to death!
We’re drinking til ain’t one coin to be left!
We’re winding our way through all and more!
We’ll drink til we’re floored like an Allanak whore!Raise up your...
Continue Reading...
