Original Submissions

• 

  Don't Fuck a Half-Breed by Spawnloser
  Added on Nov 23, 2009

  Song from an anonymous Nakki bard.

  ---

  Songs
  
  Don't Fuck a Half-Breed
  
  (chorus)
  Don't fuck a half-breed,
  That's something you don't need.
  Don't fuck a half-breed,
  They'll taint you where you pee.
  
  A friend of mine he tells me,
  Them halfling girls are so sweet.
  I tell him, sure they are,
  While they're chewing on your meat.
  
  (chorus x1)
  
  He retorts, now a half-giant,
  Mighty fine and sturdy chicks.
  Oh, of course they are.
  But inside?  My whole head fits!
  
  (chorus x1)
  
  A runner, a skinny broad,
  Legs to wrap around you twice.
  Yes, but below their navels,
  They're all riddled with lice.
  
  (chorus x1)
  
  He tells me, them stumpies,
  So smooth, like a child.
  Oh, but tell them they don't have to kneel?
  They all get pretty riled.
  
  (chorus x1)
  
  Finally, a breed, he says,
  Grasping for a win.
  If ever I want to fuck a breed,
  I ask you now, stab me in the eye with a pin.
  
  (chorus x2)
  

  Songs
  
  Don't Fuck a Half-Breed
  
  (chorus)
  Don't fuck a half-breed,
  That's something you don't need.
  Don't fuck a half-breed,
  They'll taint you where you pee.
  
  A friend of mine he tells me,
  Them halfling girls are so sweet.
  I tell him, sure they are,
  While they're chewing on your meat.
  Continue Reading...

• 

  A Song of Dancing Moons by Yseulte
  Added on Nov 23, 2009

  A song between lovers of Jihae and Lirathu.

  ---

  It happened one night beneath a sky so bright.
  When the leaves danced down from the trees.
  And the next thing I knew,
  I was up right beside you.

  With my bloody red face,
  With your silver smiles and grace.

  And we danced, hand in hand slow all across the sands.
  A sultry breeze flowing through the musical trees.

  You in your silver gown and silver crown.
  Me in red, dressed in blood and dread.

  Will you dance away the night and into the light?
  Long after the trees have surrendered their leaves?
  Will the next thing I see,
  Be you right up beside me?

  With my bloody red face,
  With your silvers smiles and grace.

  It happened one night beneath a sky so bright.
  When the leaves danced down from the trees.
  And the next thing I knew,
  I was up right beside you.

  With my bloody red face,
  With your silver smiles and grace.

  And we danced, hand in hand slow all across the sands.
  A sultry breeze flowing through the...

  
  Continue Reading...
• 

  Roll Away by Yseulte
  Added on Nov 23, 2009

  A song of caravans performed by Pia Konviwedu.

  ---

  Gather your belongings.
  Tend the wounds and heal the scars.
  The horizon ain’t far beyond us,
  And a new life ain’t ever far.

  Surrender to the beat, to the dance, to the flames,
  Surrender to the call, to the drink, to the games.

  Leave the night far behind,
  Let a new dawn light the way.
  Come away with us,
  Rolling in a wagon by dusk and by day.

  Surrender to the beat, to the dance, to the flames,
  Surrender to the call, to the drink, to the games.

  We know of your sorrow.
  We have felt your pain.
  Come away with us,
  And ain’t feel it again.

  Surrender to the beat, to the dance, to the flames,
  Surrender to the call, to the drink, to the games.

  Come away with us, come away,
  Rolling in the wagon by dusk and by day,
  Roll away.

  Gather your belongings.
  Tend the wounds and heal the scars.
  The horizon ain’t far beyond us,
  And a new life ain’t ever far.

  Surrender to the beat, to the dance, to the flames,
  Surrender to the call, to the drink, to the games.

  Leave the night far behind,
  Let a new dawn light the way.
  Come away...

  
  Continue Reading...
• 

  A Story of Dancing Moons by Briar
  Added on Nov 23, 2009

  Falkren and his mate, Pia. Watercolor, ink and oil pencil.

  
• 

  Rah Rakal by Briar
  Added on Nov 23, 2009

  Watercolor, ink and oil pencil.

  
• 

  Gree of Soh Lannah Kah by Me
  Added on Nov 23, 2009

  Rendered digitally using photoshop and wacom.

  
• 

  Luir's Outpost Auction & Arena Event [Part 1] by Mansa
  Added on Nov 15, 2009

  In 2004, there was a Recommended Playing Time to play Armageddon, and the event was an Arena Game and Auction in Luir's Outpost. Agent Oseres Kadius, always a party whereever he goes, shows up for fun and to make some deals with House Kurac. This is a -long- log, and is rather raw, but it shows what sort of things happen during a busy event.

  ---

  >look
  The Higher Tier Stands [E]
     These are the western and more opulant stands of the fighting pit of
  Luir's Outpost, whose black stone walls and strangely horned buildings are
  visible to the east.  While the walls of the pit below are built of stone,
  the stands are wooden.  Rows of benches fill the lower section of this area
  of the stands, with cleared areas for hawkers and those taking and making
  bets.  A gracefully canopied section against the uppermost row of the stands
  has properly cushioned chairs and is obviously set apart for those of some
  standing.  
     A terrace staircase opens up to the east and leads out of the seating
  area and the view below is of the red-stained sands of the fighting pit
  itself.  
  A shadow falls over the area, driving off the uncomfortable heat.
  Lined up with the best view of the stage is a cloth-padded wooden bench.
  The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak is standing here.
  The trim, amber-locked woman is sitting on a cloth-padded wooden bench.
  The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak stands by a figure in a leather duster.
  The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak is standing here, looking a bit winded.
  The very tall figure in a dusty orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak is standing here.
  
  >l tables
  At 1) a cloth-padded wooden bench are:
        the trim, amber-locked woman, and a few empty seats.
  At 2) a cloth-padded wooden bench are:
        the effeminate, pompadoured man, and a few empty seats.
  At 3) a cloth-padded wooden bench are:
        a few empty seats.
  
  >l e
  To the east is the Terrace Overlooking the Fighting Pit.
  [Far]
  The callous, thorn-inked man is standing here.
  The pale, vermillion-eyed man is standing here.
  The horribly thin young woman is standing here.
  The thick, war-braided young man is standing here.
  The flint-eyed, jasper-haired man sits here, smelling strongly of spice.
  The slender, raven-haired man is standing here.
  The ruddy-hued brown-haired woman is sitting on a long wooden bench.
  The horribly scarred, blind man is sitting on a long wooden bench.
  The huge figure in a desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak sits quietly on a bench, atching the crowd.
  The tall male wearing a thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap is sitting on a long wooden ench.
  The tall figure in a dusty set of hooded, shadow-grey robes sits in a bench here.
  The small, tanned dwarf sits in the center of the first row of benches.
  The blue-eyed dwarven woman oversees the stands here.
  [Near]
  The tall, willowy woman is standing here.
  The tall, spindly man is standing here.
  The aquiline, blond man stands sentry here, his blue eyes watchful.
  The opaline, frost-haired half-elf is standing here.
  The huge figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak is standing here.
  The gargantuan, blonde-haired man is standing here.
  The rugged, dusty-blonde haired man is standing here.
  The ragged-maned half-giant is standing here.
  The wiry, war-braided young man is standing here.
  The weathered young man is standing here.
  The tattooed female dwarf is standing here.
  The plaited, emerald-eyed woman is standing here.
  The small-headed, dark gray dwarf is standing here.
  The young gangling man is standing here.
  The decrepit-looking, worn dwarf is standing here.
  The lithe, brown-haired young man is standing here.
  The buxom, red-haired woman is standing here.
  The slight, blonde-haired man is standing here.
  The whipcord thin man stands here, eyes narrowed.
  The fire-haired, ruby-eyed man stands near the railing to the pit.
  The rugged, goateed man is standing here.
  The runic, blood-toned half-giant is here, looking extremely tense and wild eyed.
  The fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf is standing here.
  The burly, cobalt-skinned dwarf is standing here.
  An obese, beady-eyed man moves around, hawking items from a tray of food.
  
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "I'll probley be out of the match first round."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "You're entering?"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "I guess it wouldnt hurt for maybe a round."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Five hundred coins per entry, one thousand per team of two."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "I'll also need names, either stage or real."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "And I should pay you, sir?"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Barvel and my self sir"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "For five hundred coins?"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "You and barvel?"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Yes sir, as a team"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Is that how much it costs to register?"
  
  The trim, amber-locked woman lowers the hood of a sleek, crimson leather duster.
  
  The trim, amber-locked woman tugs down her hood, her features set into hard lines as she gazes down into the fighting pit.
  
  >l fianna
  A thick mane of dark amber hair falls past this human woman's shouldersin waves, save for her bangs which are trimmed in spiky chunks to frame theperidot-hued orbs of her glittering eyes.  A feral, yellow-green in color,they peer past the long veils of her golden lashes above the refinedcrescents of her cheekbones.  A sensuously full mouth resides beneath theaquiline ridge of her nose, shadowed lightly by the slight flare of hernostrils.  Accenting the otherwise feminine features of her face with astrong, square line is a stubbornly-set jaw that leads down to her tonedneck and shoulders.  Beneath the covering of her tawny-gold skin, her petiteframe is shaped with a layer of toned muscle, giving her small body a solidbut graceful appearance.
  The trim, amber-locked woman is in excellent condition.
  The trim, amber-locked woman is using:
  <worn in left ear>       an earring of glittering black glass
  <worn in right ear>      an earring of glittering black glass
  <worn around neck>       a bejeweled, black leather choker
  <worn across back>       a black silk shoulder bag
  <worn on right shoulder> a grey leather pauldron
  <worn on left shoulder>  a grey leather pauldron
  <worn around wrist>      a twisting, jade serpent
  <worn around wrist>      a silvery woven, black silk wrap
  <worn on right finger>   a chunky, topaz-set bone ring
  <worn on left finger>    a jet-inlaid marble signet ring
  <worn around body>       a sleek, crimson leather duster
  <worn on legs>           a pair of tightly-stitched scarlet leather pants
  <worn on right ankle>    an onyx serpentine anklet
  <worn on left ankle>     a silvery woven, black silk wrap
  <worn on feet>           a pair of calf-high scarlet leather boots
  
  The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak stares down towards the pit.
  
  Down in the pit someone opens the doors from the other side.
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul has arrived from the south.
  Down in the pit the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban has arrived from the south.
  
  Down in the pit The largest of a pack of wild gortok, a beast with feral red eyes turns toward the southern doorway, eyeing a wild-eyed mul.
  Down in the pit A wild-eyed mul is shoved roughly onto the sands.
  Down in the pit someone closes the doors from the other side.
  
  Down in the pit A wild-eyed mul moves back to back with the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban, staring at the pack of gortoks.
  Down in the pit A pack of wild gortok circles toward a wild-eyed mul's shout, each beast crouching low and baring its teeth.
  
  >emote slides down along ~bench, crossing an aisle, and over to %fianna bench
  The effeminate, pompadoured man slides down along a cloth-padded wooden bench, crossing an aisle, and over to the trim, amber-locked woman's bench.
  
  >sit with fianna
  [Standing first]
  You sit down on a cloth-padded wooden bench.
  
  The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak looks down at you.
  
  The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak stares down at you, his hand dropping to your shoulder.
  
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Next?"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Hmm, teams of two..."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "I wish to sign up."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "One or two."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "never mind, I need to save my coins"
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Stand together"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Aye, no teams of three like the last one?"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "aye"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Not unless there is enough interest."
  
  >talk (flashing a grin towards ~fianna) Hey love.
  At your seat, you say in cavilish, flashing a grin towards the trim, amber-locked woman:
       "Hey love."
  
  Lifting a black eyebrow, the tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak asks you, in sirihish:
       "Yeh there. Th'Advisor tell yeh ya could sit wi' 'er?"
  
  Down in the pit A wild-eyed mul moves forward, slashing out at the lead gortok.
  
  Down in the pit Suddenly, as if on-signal, a pack of wild gortok lunge.
  
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul slashes a pack of wild gortok's leg, connecting hard.
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  
  Down in the pit the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban heroically joins a wild-eyed mul's fight!
  
  Down in the pit the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban pierces at a pack of wild gortok's body, nicking him.
  Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok swiftly dodges the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's whips.
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul slashes a pack of wild gortok on his arm, wounding him.
  Down in the pit the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban tries to kick a pack of wild gortok in the chest, but he steps aside.
  Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok swiftly dodges the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's pierces.
  Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok swiftly dodges the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's whips.
  
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  Down in the pit the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's blow bounces off a pack of wild gortok's tough skin.
  Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok swiftly dodges the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's whips.
  
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  
  Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok swiftly dodges the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's pierces.
  Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok swiftly dodges the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's whips.
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul slashes a pack of wild gortok on his leg, wounding him.
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "See you dfown in the ring sarg, good luck."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Yeh and meh eh? or yeh want teh do singles?"
  You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Indeed, this shall be legendary."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "How about both?"
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Stand fast!"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "You and me then?"
  
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  Down in the pit the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's blow bounces off a pack of wild gortok's tough skin.
  Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok swiftly dodges the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's whips.
  
  Down in the pit One of a pack of wild gortok snaps onto a wild-eyed mul's arm, but is easily thrown aside.
  
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul slashes a pack of wild gortok's hand, connecting hard.
  Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok lightly hits a wild-eyed mul's foot.
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  
  Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok swiftly dodges a wild-eyed mul's slashes.
  Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok solidly hits a wild-eyed mul's wrist.
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "'kay."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "I'll register."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Yeh teamin' up wit one o' yer 'Bynners?"
  
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  Down in the pit the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's blow bounces off a pack of wild gortok's tough skin.
  Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok swiftly dodges the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's whips.
  
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  Down in the pit the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban pierces at a pack of wild gortok's leg, nicking him.
  Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok swiftly dodges the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's whips.
  
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul viciously slashes a pack of wild gortok on his waist.
  Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok swiftly dodges the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's pierces.
  Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok swiftly dodges the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's whips.
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul slashes a pack of wild gortok's hand, connecting hard.
  Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok avoids being bashed by a wild-eyed mul, who loses his balance and falls.
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  
  The tall, spindly man has arrived from the east.
  The opaline, frost-haired half-elf has arrived from the east.
  The aquiline, blond man has arrived from the east.
  The tall, willowy woman has arrived from the east.
  
  >say (turning around, glacing about the bunch of orange-cloaked figures) Who said that?
  Turning around, glacing about the bunch of orange-cloaked figures, you ask, in cavilish:
       "Who said that?"
  
  The trim, amber-locked woman lifts a small, golden hand, making a subtle waving gesture.
  
  The very tall figure in a dusty orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak looks down at you as he shifts his dark gaze away from the pit.
  
  The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak dips his head to the trim, amber-locked woman and steps back, retaking his protective position at her back.
  
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
  
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul slashes a pack of wild gortok's leg, connecting hard.
  Down in the pit A pack of wild gortok begins, as a unit, to back away from a wild-eyed mul and the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban.
  Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok claws a wild-eyed mul's body, inflicting a grievous wound.
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul gets up and stands to his feet.
  
  Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok swiftly dodges the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's pierces.
  Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok swiftly dodges the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's whips.
  Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok claws a wild-eyed mul on his leg, wounding him.
  Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok viciously claws a wild-eyed mul on his body.
  Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok brutally claws a wild-eyed mul on his body.
  Down in the pit a thick obsidian longsword clatters to the ground as a wild-eyed mul releases it.
  Down in the pit an used large round shield clatters to the ground as a wild-eyed mul releases it.
  Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul crumples to the ground.
  
  Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok viciously claws the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban on her body.
  Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok swiftly dodges the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's pierces.
  Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok swiftly dodges the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's whips.
  Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok claws the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's body, inflicting a grievous wound.
  Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok brutally claws the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban on her arm.
  Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok viciously claws the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban on her body.
  Down in the pit the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban cries out in pain.
  You hear someone cry out in the distance.
  Down in the pit a barb-headed, wooden longspear clatters to the ground as the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban releases it.
  Down in the pit a wickedly barbed net clatters to the ground as the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban releases it.
  Down in the pit the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban crumples to the ground.
  
  The opaline, frost-haired half-elf follows along the tall, spindly man, tring hard not to look into the pit.
  
  Leaning over the rail, the tall, spindly man shouts, in sirihish:
       "That -had- to hurt!"
  
  Down in the pit Half of a pack of wild gortok begins to tear at a wild-eyed mul as the rest of the creatures round toward a wild-eyed mul.
  Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok claws a wild-eyed mul's body, inflicting a grievous wound.
  
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Your name, either stage or real?"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "I got it..Thanks though."
  You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "We're all doin' singles."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Sergeant Seron, of the Tenneshi Guard."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Good luck to you, Sergeant.  I will call you from the pit when its time."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "How much is it teh enteh both tournaments? A large or five hundred?"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "I wish to register."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Five hundred coins and your name."
  
  The trim, amber-locked woman looks up at the tall, spindly man with a flick of her eyes, their gaze hard and jewel-bright.
  
  >eq
  You are using:
  <worn on head>           a large black and white hat
  <worn on face>           a smooth bone eyebrow ring
  <worn around neck>       a black silk collar, clasped with an ivory brooch
  <worn about throat>      a small, wooden whistle
  <worn across back>       a black silk shoulder bag
  <worn on torso>          a bloodied tight black silk shirt
  <worn on arms>           a pair of blue and purple armbands
  <worn around wrist>      a black silk wrist-wrap
  <worn around wrist>      a black silk wrist-wrap
  <worn on hands>          a pair of black silk gloves
  <secondary hand>         a leather-wrapped glass flask
  <worn on right finger>   an amethyst-set black bone ring
  <worn on left finger>    a bone ring
  <worn on right finger>   a ruby-set black bone ring
  <worn on left finger>    an embossed, silver signet ring
  <worn as belt>           a broad, obsidian-buttoned black silk belt
  <worn around body>       a black hooded silk greatcloak
  <worn about waist>       a svelte, black spice-kit
  <worn on legs>           a pair of tight black silk pants
  <worn on right ankle>    a deep black silk bandana
  <worn on left ankle>     a deep black silk bandana
  <worn on feet>           a pair of high, polished black leather boots
  
  >talk (looking back to ~fianna, offering up ~flask) Drink?
  At your seat, you say in cavilish, looking back to the trim, amber-locked woman, offering up your leather-wrapped glass flask:
       "Drink?"
  >i
  You are carrying:
  187 obsidian pieces
  an irrig lamp
  
  At your seat, the trim, amber-locked woman says in sirihish, her voice a quiet hiss:
       "No thank you."
  
  The tall, spindly man winks to the trim, amber-locked woman.
  
  You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "The Byn is here when ye can get to us, Qeric-da."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "I am Joshua Klestion....the wanderer."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "'Dat was meh plan.. buh seein' yeh beh givin' meh cause tah ask yeh."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Good luck to you, I will call you when its time."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Next!"
  
  Down in the pit Half of a pack of wild gortok begins to lose interest in the body of a wild-eyed mul, rounding to the body of a dusty elf.
  
  >emote twists the cap back on ~flask, putting it away
  The effeminate, pompadoured man twists the cap back on your leather-wrapped glass flask, putting it away.
  
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Many thanks."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "I wish teh register."
  
  >rem flask
  You stop using a leather-wrapped glass flask.
  >open bag
  Ok.
  >put flask bag
  You put a leather-wrapped glass flask inside a black silk shoulder bag.
  >close bag
  Ok.
  
  Handlers rush in below, surrounding the pack with long spears as they herd them south.
  Down in the pit someone opens the doors from the other side.
  Down in the pit A pack of wild gortok growl and snap at the handlers, eventually being herded away.
  Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok runs south.
  Down in the pit someone closes the doors from the other side.
  A crew moves in, dragging the bodies and gear from the blood stained sands below.
  
  The tall, spindly man walks east.
  The opaline, frost-haired half-elf walks east.
  The aquiline, blond man walks east.
  The tall, willowy woman walks east.
  
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "If I want teh enteh both, I have teh pay how much?"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "I give ya coins?"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Aye, alright."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Five hundred and your name again.  I'm afriad I've forgotten it this day."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Guess ah'll beh seein' yeh on deh battlefield, eh?"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Hmm..Little Giant...Dat is meh name"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Ah ain't doubtin' yeh gonna beh 'dere."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "I have your name and coin already, Regular."
  You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Aye, been too long since we locked blades."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "And he is my partner in the teams match"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "South and then east."
  
  >open kit
  Ok.
  >l in kit
  In a svelte, black spice-kit (used) :
  a small, leather-wrapped bone ember box
  a booklet of rolling papers
  a pinch of black, viscous spice
  a dragon-carved, ivory dagger
  
  >talk (to ~fianna) Smoke?
  At your seat, you say in cavilish, to the trim, amber-locked woman:
       "Smoke?"
  
  The trim, amber-locked woman's hands fall to ball the leather of her duster beneath them.
  
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Your name and coin?"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Hiroshi."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "The singles and team are seperate.  Each will be five hundred if you wish to enter both."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Ok...Deh Singles den."
  You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "We have there enterin' the singles competition, Veric-da."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "I'd like to register"
  
  At your seat, the trim, amber-locked woman says in sirihish, her gaze flitting sidelong toward you:
       "Tho'?"
  
  >nod fianna
  You nod to her.
  
  At your seat, the trim, amber-locked woman says in cavilish, nodding quietly:
       "Yes, please."
  
  >talk (with a grin) From my brick you haven't had time to see.
  At your seat, you say in cavilish, with a grin:
       "From my brick you haven't had time to see."
  
  >take booklet kit
  You get a booklet of rolling papers from a svelte, black spice-kit.
  It is very light.
  >take pinch kit
  You get a pinch of black, viscous spice from a svelte, black spice-kit.
  It is very light.
  
  >emote pulls out a piece of paper, then fills it with ~pinch, rolling it
  The effeminate, pompadoured man pulls out a piece of paper, then fills it with your pinch of black, viscous spice, rolling it.
  
  At your seat, the trim, amber-locked woman says in cavilish, shaking her head quietly:
       "I've been very busy."
  
  >make smoke booklet pinch
  You carefully roll a pinch of spice with a booklet of rolling papers.
  
  >talk (with a grin) So have I, love.
  At your seat, you say in cavilish, with a grin:
       "So have I, love."
  
  >put booklet kit
  You put a booklet of rolling papers inside a svelte, black spice-kit.
  >i
  You are carrying:
  187 obsidian pieces
  a solidly packed tube of spice
  an irrig lamp
  
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "How many for the byn?"
  You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Three."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "One moment."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Fifteen hundred and the names."
  You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Akasha o' the T'zai Byn."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "I know your name, Lieutenant.  I meant the other two."
  You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "An' these two can title themselves."
  You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "And why would we want to do that/"
  You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Trooper Lyndra, sir."
  You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Give 'em yer coin an' names, Byn."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Trooper Marook, Byn"
  
  >give smoke fianna
  You give a solidly packed tube of spice to the trim, amber-locked woman.
  >take box kit
  You get a small, leather-wrapped bone ember box from a svelte, black spice-kit.
  It is very light.
  
  The trim, amber-locked woman holds a solidly packed tube of spice.
  
  >give box fianna
  You give a small, leather-wrapped bone ember box to the trim, amber-locked woman.
  
  >talk Light?
  At your seat, you say in cavilish:
       "Light?"
  
  The trim, amber-locked woman lifts a small coal from her small, leather-wrapped bone ember box, blowing gently on it to incite it back to a sullen, orange glow.
  
  The very tall figure in a dusty orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak is gone bathroom.
  
  Bringing the coal to her smoke with the tongs, the trim, amber-locked woman puffs deeply, holding the smoke in her lungs as she hands the coal and box over to you.
  
  The trim, amber-locked woman gives you a small, leather-wrapped bone ember box.
  
  A thin trail of rich, heady smoke trickles from the trim, amber-locked woman's mouth as she smokes a solidly packed tube of spice.
  The trim, amber-locked woman's eyes become glassy-red and half-closed.
  
  >put box kit
  You put a small, leather-wrapped bone ember box inside a svelte, black spice-kit.
  >close kit
  Ok.
  
  >listen on
  You are already listening.
  
  >talk Do you have any Salarri's entering, love?
  At your seat, you say in cavilish:
       "Do you have any Salarri's entering, love?"
  
  At your seat, the trim, amber-locked woman says in cavilish, shrugging lightly, her jaw still set in a hard expression:
       "One. We're not here for pleasure."
  
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Five hundred coins, please."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Yes please."
  You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "We wait east until matches are announced?"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "I'll call your names, matches are not to the death and there will be a one thousand coin fine for unneeded killing."
  You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Which was is into the pit?"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "You can wait in the stands and enjoy the matches.  Someone will lead you down."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Next!"
  
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "I'd like to register."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Five hundred and a name, please."
  You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Thankee."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "I have you down."
  
  >talk (nodding lightly, a tired expression about his face) You need to relax, love.  Which one is yours?
  At your seat, you say in cavilish, nodding lightly, a tired expression about his face:
       "You need to relax, love.  Which one is yours?"
  At your seat, the trim, amber-locked woman says in cavilish, simply:
       "The elf."
  
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "I'd like to register a team and myself for the singles."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Wha' bout 'im?"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Fifteen hundred and the names then."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "You as well."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Grog of the Sun Legion and Altin of Nenyuk."
  
  >l tall
  Hard muscle straps over the stalwart form of this man, coiled visibly
  beneath the deeply-bronzed covering of his skin.  Thin, black dreadlocks
  sprout from his scalp to his lower back, and while most are tied away from
  his face with a thin braid of grey leather, a few hang into his narrowed,
  crystalline-blue eyes.  His features are chiseled and planar, with a craggy
  brow, high, jutting cheekbones and a beaky nose that bears a slight hook at
  its tip.  A shadow of dark stubble traces the square line of his jaw,
  defining its strong lines.  Twined about the thick muscles of his neck is a
  detailed tattoo of a serpent, done in simple black lines.  The snake rests
  in coils that band about the human's throat before climbing on the right
  side to his cheek, where the head of the creature opens in a fanged display
  of attack.  
  The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak is in excellent condition.
  
  The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak is using:
  <worn on head>           a blackened horror-visaged helm
  <worn on face>           a carved, skull-shaped black onyx stud
  <worn around neck>       an orange-banded, grey chitin gorget
  <worn across back>       a black-hafted wooden spear
  <worn on right shoulder> a black epaulette with one grey shield
  <worn on left shoulder>  a black epaulette with one grey shield
  <worn on arms>           a set of tentacle-branded grey leather sleeves
  <worn around wrist>      an orange-banded, grey chitin bracer
  <worn around wrist>      an orange-banded, grey chitin bracer
  <worn on hands>          a pair of spiked, chitin-backed gauntlets
  <primary hand>           a blackened basket-hilted rapier
  <secondary hand>         a blackened basket-hilted rapier
  <worn around body>       an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak
  <worn on legs>           a set of tentacle-branded grey leather leggings
  <worn on feet>           a pair of spike-toed, thigh-high leather boots
  
  The athletic, serpent-tattooed man lowers the hood of an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak.
  
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Alright.  I'll call your name when its time.  Good luck."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Matches are not to the death, there is a one thousand coin fine on accidental death."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Thank you, Veric-da."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "YOu are the solo, correct?"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Aye, and a team with Grog."
  
  Down in the pit the scarred, leathery woman opens the doors from the other side.
  Down in the pit the tall, spindly man has arrived from the south.
  Down in the pit the opaline, frost-haired half-elf has arrived from the south.
  
  >l 2.tall
  Her body is small but her movements graceful.  Dark green eyes peer out
  through ebony lashes, a slight tilt to their outer corners.  Her skin is
  soft and only lightly tanned, lips the deep color of crimson.  Silken
  midnight blue hair falls in soft waves to her knees, brushing over a slim
  waist and gently curved hips.  Pointed ears poke out from under the delicate
  locks of hair.  
  The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak is in excellent condition.
  
  The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak is using:
  <worn on head>           a thick, pale-green cap
  <worn on face>           a thin, obsidian nose ring
  <worn in left ear>       a spiral-carved moonstone earring
  <worn in right ear>      a purple and blue feather earring
  <worn around neck>       a gurth shell collar
  <worn across back>       a slender agafari longbow
  <worn on right shoulder> a black epaulette with one grey shield
  <worn on left shoulder>  a black epaulette with one grey shield
  <worn around wrist>      a glossy, jet-colored shell bracer
  <worn around wrist>      a green chitin archery brace
  <worn on hands>          a bloodied pair of fingerless sandcloth gloves
  <worn around body>       an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak
  <worn on legs>           a pair of dark leather leggings
  <worn on right ankle>    a purple sandcloth bandana
  <worn on left ankle>     an onyx serpentine anklet
  <worn on feet>           a pair of knee-high fringed moccasins
  
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "What's the prize?"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Fourhundred of the coins from every beaten enemy and some nice gear from our crafters for the overall winners and best combatants."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Five hundred and your name, please."
  
  Down in the pit Stepping over a few damp spots, the tall, spindly man moves to look up at the stands.
  Down in the pit The tall, spindly man nods thoughtfully.
  Down in the pit The opaline, frost-haired half-elf moves in softly behind the tall, spindly man, pulling up her cloak and the hem of her dress from the ground as she walks.
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Welcome Guests!  "
  
  Down in the pit The opaline, frost-haired half-elf quirks a faint hint of a grin.
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "While the combatants prepare, I would like to begin the Auction!"
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "A few items of Kurac's finest!"
  
  The trim, amber-locked woman's gaze flicks eastward.
  
  With a lift of a signet-ringed hand, the trim, amber-locked woman brings her solidly packed tube of spice to her lips, inhaling deeply.
  
  A thin trail of rich, heady smoke trickles from the trim, amber-locked woman's mouth as she smokes a solidly packed tube of spice.
  The trim, amber-locked woman's eyes become glassy-red and half-closed.
  
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Do you wish to enter?"
  You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "You the one I enter with?"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Yes."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Aye, I'd like to register"
  
  Down in the pit The opaline, frost-haired half-elf nods her head and sets a bag down by the tall, spindly man.
  Down in the pit the opaline, frost-haired half-elf drops a large bag.
  Down in the pit the opaline, frost-haired half-elf walks south.
  
  >talk (speaking softly) You don't seem to be enjoying yourself, love.  Is there anything I can do?
  At your seat, you say in cavilish, speaking softly:
       "You don't seem to be enjoying yourself, love.  Is there anything I can do?"
  
  At your seat, the trim, amber-locked woman says in cavilish, her gaze sliding back to you, her hand betraying a faint shake, voice momentarily rough from the smoke:
       "No. There's nothing that can be done."
  
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "I need five hundred coins each and a name to call you by from the pits."
  You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Darani"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Good luck.  I'll call you when its time and there is a one thousand coin fine for accidental deaths."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Five hundred and your name>"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Cadet Issek"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Fighting for Salarr as well, correct?"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Aye, but solo"
  
  The horribly thin young woman has arrived from the east.
  The horribly thin young woman looks about hesistantly.
  The horribly thin young woman strolls through the ample crowd over towards you.
  
  >l horribly
  You see a thin girl with curly, red hair that appears sparse from lack of
  nutrition.  Her eyes are inky black and seemingly hollow.  Her body is
  evenly Krath-tanned.  Her nose is plain and small.  Her lips are chapped and
  curved.  She has a round chin, dimpled cheeks, and a freckled face.  The
  rest of her frame is still that of a young girl.  
  The horribly thin young woman is in excellent condition.
  
  The horribly thin young woman is using:
  <worn on head>           a wide-brimmed green and black hat
  <worn in hair>           a handful of mauve blossoms
  <worn around neck>       a crystal teardrop pendant
  <worn across back>       a colorful, glass-beaded shoulder bag
  <worn around wrist>      a sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap
  <hands>                  a six-pronged star
  <worn on left finger>    a black marble ring
  <worn on right finger>   a garnet inlaid bone ring
  <worn around body>       a hooded, coal-black sandcloth dustcloak
  <worn on legs>           a svelte, black spice-kit
  <worn on right ankle>    a string of clay beads
  <worn on feet>           a pair of leather-thonged sandals
  
  As she nods politely and handing over her sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap, the horribly thin young woman whispers to you in sirihish:
       "A gift from the Kurac family."
  The horribly thin young woman gives you a sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap.
  
  >emote nods once towards ~horribly
  The effeminate, pompadoured man nods once towards the horribly thin young woman.
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "I am offering now a complete set of the Famous Kuraci Desert Gear!"
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Complete!  Boots, leggings, jacket, gloves, sleeves, cap, collar, facewrap and Greatcloak!"
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "The Very Finest made!"
  
  The very tall figure in a dusty orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak's eyes widen, peering down towards the pit.
  
  The horribly thin young woman strolls through the ample crowd over towards the trim, amber-locked woman.
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in cavilish:
       "One hundred!"
  
  >examine wrap
  Undyed, beige sandcloth has been folded double to form this simple
  wristwrap.  The double folds have been sewn together, apart from an opening
  on the inner side of the wrap, which functions as a pocket with two bone
  buttons to close it.  The front of the wrap is adorned by a simple picture
  that has been printed upon the sandcloth using dye.  The picture shows a
  crimson circle symbolizing the red sun, crossed by a stylized sword printed
  in black dye.  
  In a sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap (carried) :
  nothing
  
  The horribly thin young woman whispers something to the trim, amber-locked woman.
  
  >value wrap
  a sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap would seem to cost about 33 obsidian pieces.
  a sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap would seem to weigh 2 stones.
  This item appears to have been crafted by the Merchant House of Kurac.
  
  The horribly thin young woman gets a sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap from an expansive, crimson-fist emblazoned backpack.
  The horribly thin young woman gives a sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap to the trim, amber-locked woman.
  
  As she stands, the horribly thin young woman says to the huge figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "I am just passing out gifts on behalf of the Kurac family. It is nothing to be concerned with."
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "We will do this auction for only  a few minutes!"
  
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "No matches to the blood, aye?"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "To the blood yes, to the death, no."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Aye then, thanks - I'll wait my turn"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "All will be given quarter when asked."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "What beh deh bid?"
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Please shout your name when you bid, we can't make out faces from down here."
  
  At your seat, the trim, amber-locked woman says in cavilish, relaxing back onto her seat as she looks over her sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap:
       "Two of them are fighting."
  
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Anyone else?"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Hmm...my turn?"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Five hundred and a name, please."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Kune, of Kadius."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Good luck, I'll call you when its time."
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in cavilish:
       "Jom!  One hundred!"
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "How much deh bid!?"
  
  >open bag
  Ok.
  >put wrap bag
  You put a sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap inside a black silk shoulder bag.
  >close bag
  Ok.
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Please make all bids in the common tongue!"
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "One hundred?  I sells for twenty times that!  Give me more!"
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Two!"
  
  Looking up, the trim, amber-locked woman asks the huge figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak, in cavilish:
       "Will you be fighting?"
  Clearing her throat, the trim, amber-locked woman asks the huge figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak, in sirihish:
       "Will you be fighting?"
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Four, 'Cruit Gresh!"
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Give me a name and FIVE!"
  
  >shout Five hundred, Mister O!
  You shout in sirihish:
       "Five hundred, Mister O!"
  
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "There is a one thousand coin fine for killing your opponent."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Aye....We will be directed when it is time?"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Yes."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Next!"
  
  The wiry, war-braided young man has arrived from the east.
  The wiry, war-braided young man inhales deeply through his nose as he makes his way around a few benches.
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Someone.... name and SEVEN?"
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Six.. Jom!"
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Seven?"
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "800 kalm.... one large?"
  
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Anyone else entering?"
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Last call for registering for the matches!"
  
  The wiry, war-braided young man sits down on a cloth-padded wooden bench.
  
  >talk Should we bet?
  At your seat, you say in sirihish:
       "Should we bet?"
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "One large for the Complete Set?"
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Once..."
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Twice"
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Nine..  Jom!"
  
  The wiry, war-braided young man looks down at the trim, amber-locked woman briefly before turning his attention toward the pits.
  
  The slender dark-eyed elf lowers the hood of an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak.
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Nine...."
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Once"
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "twice"
  
  At your seat, the trim, amber-locked woman says in sirihish, shrugging:
       "We have no need for them. My house makes the best leathers, plates, chains, and we even make cloth armor as well."
  
  >shout Thirteen Hundred, Oseres Kadius!
  You shout in sirihish:
       "Thirteen Hundred, Oseres Kadius!"
  
  The horribly thin young woman walks over near the huge figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak.
  The horribly thin young woman gives a sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap to the huge figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak.
  
  The horribly thin young woman whispers something to the huge figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak.
  You overhear the huge figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak whisper to the horribly thin young woman, grinning in sirihish:
       "Uh. thanks"
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Thirteen for Oseres Kadius!  Very Good!"
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Once!"
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Twice"
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Sold!"
  
  >emote claps his hands together, grinning.
  The effeminate, pompadoured man claps his hands together, grinning.
  
  At your seat, the wiry, war-braided young man says in northern-accented sirihish, wiggling his brows alternately as he glances at you:
       "Good job, Mr. O."
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "And an excellent deal, at that!"
  
  The horribly thin young woman moves heading towards the athletic, serpent-tattooed man.
  You overhear the horribly thin young woman whisper to the athletic, serpent-tattooed man, handing over her sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap in sirihish:
       "A gift from the Kurac family."
  The horribly thin young woman gives a sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap to the athletic, serpent-tattooed man.
  
  Down in the pit the tall, spindly man picks up a large bag.
  
  >l fianna's wrap
  Crafted meticulously from a black-dyed silk, this piece of fabric wraps
  around an inner lining of thin, supple leather and can be wrapped about the
  wearer's arm or shin.  The silk is woven with a thin, shimmering underlayer
  of silken threads set in a complex pattern, and is layered so that it can
  loosened or tightened to fit snugly by a pair of black ties.  Upon close
  inspection, a small flap of silk can be seen above an area with a small
  amount of extra padding.  
  
  >talk (leaning in close to ~fianna) Fianna, love.  Where'd you get that wristwrap?  From one of my cousins?
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, leaning in close to the trim, amber-locked woman:
       "Fianna, love.  Where'd you get that wristwrap?  From one of my cousins?"
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "I will bring your purchase to you, Oseres Kadius."
  
  >shout I'll have more!
  You shout in sirihish:
       "I'll have more!"
  
  Down in the pit the tall, spindly man walks south.
  
  The horribly thin young woman wanders through the crowd.
  
  The horribly thin young woman gives a sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap to the tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak.
  
  The horribly thin young woman gives a sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap to the very tall figure in a dusty orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak.
  
  Taking the wrap, the tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak glances towards the horribly thin young woman.
  
  To the guards near the trim, amber-locked woman, the horribly thin young woman says, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "A gift from the Kurac family."
  
  The huge figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak smiles and bobs his head once towards the horribly thin young woman.
  
  The well-toned, blonde woman has arrived from the east.
  
  Looking over the crowd, the well-toned, blonde woman makes her way towards the trim, amber-locked woman.
  
  The well-toned, blonde woman sits down on a cloth-padded wooden bench.
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Regular Nogen and Trooper Marook, please come the center aisle!"
  
  One of the wiry, war-braided young man's's legs bobs up and down rapidly, his thoughtful gaze locked onto nothing in particular.
  
  The horribly thin young woman looks about the stands.
  
  At your seat, the trim, amber-locked woman says in sirihish, arching a brow:
       "I do not think your cousins could stitch such a wristsheathe. This is Salarri. I hope you didn't think we only made bulky, unattractive things."
  
  >talk (shaking his head to ~fianna) Naw, love.  Looks something I would wear.  I like it.
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, shaking his head to the trim, amber-locked woman:
       "Naw, love.  Looks something I would wear.  I like it."
  
  The dusky, jade-eyed man lowers the hood of a dusty orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak.
  
  The trim, amber-locked woman stops using a silvery woven, black silk wrap.
  The trim, amber-locked woman fastens a silvery woven, black silk wrap around her wrist.
  
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Where beh 'dis 'ere Marook?"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Trooper Marook here"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Gentlemen, please come with me."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Yeh's git yerself ah small 'ead."
  
  The horribly thin young woman moves over near the well-toned, blonde woman.
  The horribly thin young woman looks down at the well-toned, blonde woman as she approaches.
  
  The horribly thin young woman whispers something to the well-toned, blonde woman.
  The horribly thin young woman gives a sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap to the well-toned, blonde woman.
  
  Her brows lifting, the well-toned, blonde woman looks over at the horribly thin young woman.
  
  At your seat, the trim, amber-locked woman says in sirihish, retying the length of soft black leather and shimmering silk around her wrist with deft fingers:
       "You don't want to know how much we sell them for."
  
  The trim, amber-locked woman looks at you with a wan smile.
  
  >talk (with a grin for ~fianna) Awe, love.  How much?
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a grin for the trim, amber-locked woman:
       "Awe, love.  How much?"
  
  The horribly thin young woman moves from the isles, walking away.
  The horribly thin young woman walks east.
  
  The well-toned, blonde woman looks at her sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap carefully.
  
  The slender dark-eyed elf raises the hood of an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak.
  
  You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Have you see Merchant Danu?"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "he's alittle bit of everywhere"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Try the noble stands"
  
  At your seat, the trim, amber-locked woman says in sirihish, smiling faintly at you:
       "Two thousand for each one."
  At your seat, the trim, amber-locked woman says in sirihish, wetting her lower lip:
       "And that's with a discount."
  
  The well-toned, blonde woman gurgles a broken chuckle.
  
  The tall, spindly man has arrived from the east.
  The aquiline, blond man has arrived from the east.
  The tall, willowy woman has arrived from the east.
  
  The tall, spindly man moves, smiling to approach you.
  
  The tall, spindly man puts a pile of allanaki coins inside a pair of black sandcloth sleeves.
  
  >tell danu (shaking his head) Danu, You should just get me after.
  Shaking his head, you say to the tall, spindly man, in sirihish:
       "Danu, You should just get me after."
  
  The tall, spindly man nods politely to you.
  The tall, spindly man says to you, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "I will await your convenience, Oseres."
  
  >tell danu (nodding) I'll probably be getting more, and we'll both have to go to the Nenyuk.
  Nodding, you say to the tall, spindly man, in sirihish:
       "I'll probably be getting more, and we'll both have to go to the Nenyuk."
  
  The tall, spindly man dips his head politely to the trim, amber-locked woman, then turns to watch the match.

  >look
  The Higher Tier Stands [E]
     These are the western and more opulant stands of the fighting pit of
  Luir's Outpost, whose black stone walls and strangely horned buildings are
  visible to the east.  While the walls of the pit below are built of stone,
  the stands are wooden.  Rows of benches fill...
  Continue Reading...
• 

  Luir's Outpost Auction & Arena Event [Part 2] by Mansa
  Added on Nov 15, 2009

  In 2004, there was a Recommended Playing Time to play Armageddon, and the event was an Arena Game and Auction in Luir's Outpost. Agent Oseres Kadius, always a party whereever he goes, shows up for fun and to make some deals with House Kurac. This is a -long- log, and is rather raw, but it shows what sort of things happen during a busy event.

  ---

  Down in the pit the slight, blonde-haired man has arrived from the south.
  Down in the pit the whipcord thin man has arrived from the south.
  Down in the pit the buxom, red-haired woman has arrived from the south.
  Down in the pit The slight, blonde-haired man walks to the center of the pit.
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to announce the first of our pit matches!"
  
  The huge figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak flicks a look down into the pit, then raises his eyes again, glancing around quietly.
  
  The dusky, jade-eyed man raises the hood of a dusty orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak.
  
  The very tall figure in a dusty orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak looks down at the wiry, war-braided young man as he adjusts his hood.
  
  The well-toned, blonde woman leans forwards noticably, her attention locked onto the pit.
  
  The wiry, war-braided young man spares a brief glance to you before turning his attention toward the center of the pit.
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "On this side we have a man -undefeated- in all of his previous matches!"
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Especially the ginka sauce matches!"
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "The one!  The only!  Reeeegggullaaar Noooogggeeen!!"
  
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf has arrived from the south.
  Down in the pit The slight, blonde-haired man nods a few times as dozens and dozens of dun clad soldiers hoot and hollar, cheering the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf on.
  
  >talk (to ~fianna) You know I'll take it, love.  I always buy what you have to offer.
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, to the trim, amber-locked woman:
       "You know I'll take it, love.  I always buy what you have to offer."
  
  At your seat, the trim, amber-locked woman says in sirihish, nodding toward you:
       "Do you want a pair? Or just one?"
  
  >talk (to ~fianna, his greenish-hued gaze shifting over towards the pit) If you lower the price, I'll take two.
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, to the trim, amber-locked woman, his greenish-hued gaze shifting over towards the pit:
       "If you lower the price, I'll take two."
  
  At your seat, the trim, amber-locked woman says in sirihish, nodding toward you:
       "I'll sell you two for thirty-five hundred."
  
  Down in the pit The fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf trundles out into the fighting pit, raising his free arm up to the crowd as his other holds up his enormous shield.
  
  >emote leans in close to ~fianna
  The effeminate, pompadoured man leans in close to the trim, amber-locked woman.
  
  >whi fianna (grinning) How about an exchange for something, other than coin, love?
  Grinning, you whisper to the trim, amber-locked woman in sirihish:
       "How about an exchange for something, other than coin, love?"
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "'Dis beh ah dwarf tah dwarf match! Ain't gettin' better 'den 'dis 'ere!"
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "And on this side, the scourge of the south!  Women love him and men would love to be him!  Trooper Marook!"
  
  Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf has arrived from the south.
  Down in the pit The fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf reaches down beneath the folds of his dun-colored cloak, grasping the hilt of his obsidian blade.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf draws a dusty curved obsidian sword.
  Down in the pit The small-headed, dark gray dwarf raises his maces over his head.
  Down in the pit The slight, blonde-haired man looks between the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf and the small-headed, dark gray dwarf.
  
  >emote breathes in slowly, leaning back to look towards the fighting pit.
  The effeminate, pompadoured man breathes in slowly, leaning back to look towards the fighting pit.
  
  The trim, amber-locked woman whispers to you in sirihish:
       "Like what?"
  
  >tell fianna (with a tired grin) After, love.  After.
  With a tired grin, you say to the trim, amber-locked woman, in sirihish:
       "After, love.  After."
  
  The trim, amber-locked woman brushes her silvery woven, black silk wrap with her fingertips.
  
  Down in the pit The small-headed, dark gray dwarf slowly circles left.
  Down in the pit The slight, blonde-haired man raises his left hand high.
  Down in the pit The fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf grunts with a nod as he crouches down behind his massive shield, twirling the sword at his side.
  Down in the pit The slight, blonde-haired man steps back, dropping his left hand.
  
  Down in the pit the slight, blonde-haired man walks south.
  Down in the pit the whipcord thin man walks south.
  Down in the pit the buxom, red-haired woman walks south.
  
  >emote takes a double take, glancing to ~toned, before looking back towards the fighting pit.
  The effeminate, pompadoured man takes a double take, glancing to the well-toned, blonde woman, before looking back towards the fighting pit.
  
  The tall, spindly man moves to sit on a bench and lean over to watch the pit match.
  
  Her fingers tapping on her leg incessantly, the well-toned, blonde woman watches the pit with her complete attention.
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Begin!"
  
  The wiry, war-braided young man rests his forearms on the stone railing, hunching over as he watches the pit intently.
  
  >listen on
  You start trying to listen.
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Fer deh fists o' stone!"
  
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
  Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf parries the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf's attack.
  
  Down in the pit The small-headed, dark gray dwarf side steps and kicks.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf nimbly avoids the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's circle kick.
  
  Down in the pit The fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf sneers as he rears his helmeted head back from the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's backhand, his cuff barely missing his face.
  Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf parries the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf's attack.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
  
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf slashes the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's body, connecting hard.
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "there ya go Noggen"
  
  >contact veric
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You contact the slight, blonde-haired man with the Way.
  
  >psi Is this to first blood?
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the slight, blonde-haired man:
      "Is this to first blood?"
  
  Down in the pit The fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf grunts as he brings his obsidian blade over his head, slamming it down against the haft of the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's mace, then twists to give him another side slash.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
  Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf tries to kick the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf in the chest, but he steps aside.
  Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf parries the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf's attack.
  
  The well-toned, blonde woman lets out a low whistle.
  
  The tall, spindly man shouts, in sirihish:
       "Come on, Noggen!"
  
  At your seat, the wiry, war-braided young man says in northern-accented sirihish, pressing his lips to one side in a slight purse:
       "So how do we know if we're fighting for first blood or not?"
  
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
  Down in the pit The fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf squints as he brings up his shield defensively, knocking away the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's smash as it rings off his knobby-shelled shield.
  
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
  Down in the pit The small-headed, dark gray dwarf slides right and swings a backhand as the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf passess.
  
  >psi You're doing well, Veric my friend.
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the slight, blonde-haired man:
      "You're doing well, Veric my friend."
  
  The tall, spindly man looks at the well-toned, blonde woman.
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Show 'em what Kurac's made of, Nogen!"
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  The slight, blonde-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
      "Until one yields."
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  Down in the pit The fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf brings up his stumpy boot as the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's fist just misses him.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf's kick at the small-headed, dark gray dwarf is partially absorbed by his bracer.
  
  Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf doubles over in pain from the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf's powerful side kick.
  Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf parries the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf's attack.
  Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf tries to kick the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf in the chest, but he steps aside.
  
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
  Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf parries the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf's attack.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
  
  >psi Are all of them that way?
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the slight, blonde-haired man:
      "Are all of them that way?"
  
  >talk I think All of them are until first yield.
  At your seat, you say in sirihish:
       "I think All of them are until first yield."
  
  >cease
  You dissolve the psychic link.
  
  The well-toned, blonde woman chews on her lower lip.
  
  At your seat, the wiry, war-braided young man says in northern-accented sirihish, slowly nodding as he watches the pit intently:
       "I see.."
  
  Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf parries the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf's attack.
  Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf tries to kick the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf in the chest, but he steps aside.
  Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf parries the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf's attack.
  
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
  Down in the pit The small-headed, dark gray dwarf charges forward, his shoulder lowered.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf evades the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's charge, who loses his balance and falls.
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "'Dis one 'ere, ain't no slouch!"
  
  The tall, spindly man winces.
  
  A thin trail of rich, heady smoke trickles from the trim, amber-locked woman's mouth as she smokes a solidly packed tube of spice.
  The trim, amber-locked woman's eyes become glassy-red and half-closed.
  
  Down in the pit The fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf brings up his boot at the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's stomach.
  Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf nimbly avoids the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf's circle kick.
  
  Down in the pit The small-headed, dark gray dwarf rolls right and stand.
  Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf gets up and stands to his feet.
  
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
  Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf tries to kick the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf in the chest, but he steps aside.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf slashes the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's wrist, connecting hard.
  
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Someone goin ta be hurtin, and I don' think it goin ta be Nogen"
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "That had to hurt!"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "A good shot."
  
  Down in the pit The fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf twists his body as he brings his blade dodwn hard against the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's wrist.
  Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf parries the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf's attack.
  Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf tries to kick the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf in the chest, but he steps aside.
  
  >shout Hurry up!
  You shout in sirihish:
       "Hurry up!"
  
  The trim, amber-locked woman crushes the end of the smoke beneath the sole of her boot.
  
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf viciously slashes the small-headed, dark gray dwarf on his wrist.
  Down in the pit The fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf rushes forward at the small-headed, dark gray dwarf with his shield lowered, his boots kiocking up loose earth.
  
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
  Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf evades the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf's charge, who loses his balance and falls.
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Altin and Gargon, please come to the center aisle!"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "several"
  You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Nice bet, Lutenant."
  
  Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack on the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf is absorbed by a new enormous, concave tortoiseshell shield.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
  Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf bludgeons the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf on his leg.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
  
  The wiry, war-braided young man's features contort into a mock grimace as he watches blood spew onto the sandy floor of the pit.
  
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf nimbly avoids the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's circle kick.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
  
  Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf parries the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf's attack.
  Down in the pit The fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf grunts as the small-headed, dark gray dwarf slams his mace into his leg as he falls, turning to rise to his feet at the last instant.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf gets up and stands to his feet.
  
  At your seat, the trim, amber-locked woman says in sirihish, her voice slightly harshened:
       "Is this to the death?"
  
  The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak walks east.
  
  At your seat, the well-toned, blonde woman says in northern-accented sirihish, shaking her head:
       "None of em are I think"
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "ALtin and the little giant, rather!"
  
  >talk (nodding, his attention on the fighting pit) There's a thousand coin fine, if one dies.
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, nodding, his attention on the fighting pit:
       "There's a thousand coin fine, if one dies."
  
  The trim, amber-locked woman nods.
  
  Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf tries to kick the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf in the chest, but he steps aside.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
  Down in the pit The fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf leans to one side, favoring one foot before bringing up his wavering leg.
  
  Down in the pit The small-headed, dark gray dwarf moves in closer.
  Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf tries to kick the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf in the chest, but he steps aside.
  
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf's kick at the small-headed, dark gray dwarf is absorbed by his leggings.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
  
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
  Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf parries the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf's attack.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
  
  Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf attempts to disarm the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf, but finds his attack reversed!
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf knocks a obsidian-spiked mace from the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's hands and sends it flying west.
  
  A mace comes flying in, landing with a tud.
  
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf knocks a studded, short-handled mace from the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's hands.
  
  Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf panics, and attempts to flee.
  Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf tries to flee, but is too exhausted!
  
  Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf panics, and attempts to flee.
  Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf tries to flee, but is too exhausted!
  
  Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf panics, and attempts to flee.
  Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf runs south.
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Well done, Nogen!"
  
  The tall, spindly man shouts, in sirihish:
       "Kurac"
  
  >rem whistle
  You stop using a small, wooden whistle.
  >hold whistle
  You hold the whistle.
  >emote blows loudly on ~whistle, producing a loud, shrill sound.
  The effeminate, pompadoured man blows loudly on your small, wooden whistle, producing a loud, shrill sound.
  
  The well-toned, blonde woman purses her lips.
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Hurrah fer Nogen and Kurac!"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Woaa!"
  
  Down in the pit The fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf raises both his arms up as the crowd begins to cheer wildly, the two maces lying forgotten on both ends of the arena floor.
  
  The tall, spindly man pushes off of a cloth-padded wooden bench and rises to his feet.
  
  The tall, spindly man walks east.
  The aquiline, blond man walks east.
  The tall, willowy woman walks east.
  
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Any objections to you two matching up next?"
  
  >look
  The Higher Tier Stands [E]
     These are the western and more opulant stands of the fighting pit of
  Luir's Outpost, whose black stone walls and strangely horned buildings are
  visible to the east.  While the walls of the pit below are built of stone,
  the stands are wooden.  Rows of benches fill the lower section of this area
  of the stands, with cleared areas for hawkers and those taking and making
  bets.  A gracefully canopied section against the uppermost row of the stands
  has properly cushioned chairs and is obviously set apart for those of some
  standing.  
     A terrace staircase opens up to the east and leads out of the seating
  area and the view below is of the red-stained sands of the fighting pit
  itself.  
  A shadow falls over the area, driving off the uncomfortable heat.
  A obsidian-spiked bone mace lies here.
  A couple of cloth-padded wooden benches are here.
  The well-toned, blonde woman is sitting on a cloth-padded wooden bench.
  The wiry, war-braided young man is sitting on a cloth-padded wooden bench.
  The huge figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak stands near the amber-locked woman.
  The athletic, serpent-tattooed man stands watchfully here, his arms crossed.
  The trim, amber-locked woman sits on a bench stiffly.
  The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak stands near the amber-locked woman.
  The very tall figure in a dusty orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak is standing behind the trim, amber-locked woman.
  
  The wiry, war-braided young man grunts softly as he glances down at a obsidian-spiked mace.
  
  >say (shaking his head) Shit.
  Shaking his head, you say, in sirihish:
       "Shit."
  
  You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Are you fighting?"
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "He beh puttin up ah good fight, buh ah git deh bigger head!"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Who'm I fighting?"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Your man was lucky with that last move.. A fine showing regardless."
  
  The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak stops guarding the trim, amber-locked woman.
  The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak begins guarding the trim, amber-locked woman.
  
  The wiry, war-braided young man begins applauding quietly, its noise quickly lost in the bustling atomosphere around him.
  
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf sheathes a dusty curved obsidian sword.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf picks up a studded, short-handled mace.
  Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf walks south.
  
  >tell kune (pointing over towards ~mace) Kune?  Be a dear and pick that up?
  Pointing over towards a obsidian-spiked mace, you ask the wiry, war-braided young man, in sirihish:
       "Kune?  Be a dear and pick that up?"
  
  The wiry, war-braided young man nods simply.
  The wiry, war-braided young man pushes off of a cloth-padded wooden bench and rises to his feet.
  
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "If you two spar regularly then I will rematch, otherwise it is you two."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "I have faith in him"
  
  The wiry, war-braided young man picks up a obsidian-spiked mace.
  
  >rem whistle
  You stop using a small, wooden whistle.
  >wear whistle about throat
  You tilt your head forward and fasten a small, wooden whistle about your throat.
  
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Aye, suppose we can have the final right away."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Is it too late ta.. y'know, enter?"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Appreciate it"
  
  The wiry, war-braided young man makes his way back toward a cloth-padded wooden bench, offering his obsidian-spiked mace to you.
  
  The wiry, war-braided young man sits down on a cloth-padded wooden bench.
  
  Frowning as the mace soars into the room, the trim, amber-locked woman asks, in sirihish:
       "Are they -insane-, tossing weapons about?"
  
  The hearty, thin-lipped man has arrived from the east.
  
  The hearty, thin-lipped man grins.
  
  The hearty, thin-lipped man asks, in sirihish:
       "Who grabbed the mace?"
  
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "No, I will put you in if there is time."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Aye...First teh disengage from combat eh?"
  You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "I heard you swing a might blade?"
  
  >l hearty
  This muscular human's body is well-muscled, hours of training evidenced
  in the bulging muscles of his arms and legs and neck.  Skin burned dark by
  Suk-Krath's unforgiving rays wraps his form in a coppery coating, marred and
  broken by numerous scars, some faded while others appear more recent.  Hard,
  emotionless eyes are set beneath thin dark eyebrows and his lips are so
  narrow that they are barely more than a darker line of color against the
  copper-hue of his face.  
  The hearty, thin-lipped man is in excellent condition.
  The hearty, thin-lipped man is using:
  <worn on arms>           a pair of grey sandcloth sleeves
  <worn on hands>          a pair of thick grey leather gloves
  <primary hand>           a bone bastard sword
  <secondary hand>         a bone longsword
  <worn around body>       a hooded, dun-colored dustcloak
  <worn on legs>           a pair of dark grey sandcloth trousers
  <worn on feet>           a pair of knee-high grey leather boots
  
  The hearty, thin-lipped man says, in sirihish:
       "That needs ta go back to the contestant."
  
  The wiry, war-braided young man raises his obsidian-spiked mace as he glances toward the hearty, thin-lipped man.
  
  The hearty, thin-lipped man nods.
  
  The flint-eyed, jasper-haired man has arrived from the east, striding along smoothly.
  The flint-eyed, jasper-haired man looks around briefly, then grunts.
  
  To himself, the flint-eyed, jasper-haired man says, in northern-accented bendune:
       "Shit, missed him again."
  
  The hearty, thin-lipped man walks east.
  
  The hearty, thin-lipped man says, in sirihish:
       "Gotta love a good pit fight"
  The hearty, thin-lipped man grins.
  
  The hearty, thin-lipped man says, in sirihish:
       "I'll return his wepaon to him"
  
  The wiry, war-braided young man looks up at the hearty, thin-lipped man with a faint nod as he extends his obsidian-spiked mace.
  
  The hearty, thin-lipped man holds out a hand to the wiry, war-braided young man.
  
  The wiry, war-braided young man gives a obsidian-spiked mace to the hearty, thin-lipped man.
  
  The flint-eyed, jasper-haired man turns to leave.
  Striding along smoothly, the flint-eyed, jasper-haired man walks east.
  
  Down in the pit the tall, spindly man has arrived from the south.
  Down in the pit The tall, spindly man looks quickly around at the stands.
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Next item.... a complete set of Kurac's "
  
  >shout I already have that!
  You shout in sirihish:
       "I already have that!"
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Tembo-Mesh Armor!"
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Jom!  One hundred!"
  
  With her full lips pressed together, the trim, amber-locked woman leans back into her seat, stroking her silvery woven, black silk wrap.
  
  The huge figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak grins briefly, refocusing his expression as he glances about.
  
  The stout, grey-bearded man has arrived from the east.
  The hunched, red-skinned mul has arrived from the east.
  
  >talk (to ~kune, with a tired grin) How much did yours go for?
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, to the wiry, war-braided young man, with a tired grin:
       "How much did yours go for?"
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Jom.  Three."
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Six pieces.... pus a fine matching cloak!"
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "name five?!"
  
  At your seat, the well-toned, blonde woman says in northern-accented sirihish, thoughtfully as she taps her knee:
       "Tembo Mesh eh?"
  
  The trim, amber-locked woman looks up at the wiry, war-braided young man with a sidelong flick of her jewel-hard eyes.
  
  The wiry, war-braided young man looks up at the stout, grey-bearded man with a brief glance.
  
  The stout, grey-bearded man looks around quietly.
  
  At your seat, the wiry, war-braided young man says in northern-accented sirihish, in a simple tone as he runs his fingers along his dusty mesh-covered, tembo-hide gorget:
       "I got this and my leggings for six fifty I think.."
  
  The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak has arrived from the east.
  
  The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak wanders back over to the trim, amber-locked woman's side.
  
  Dipping into a lavish bow, then offering a stiff salute the tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak strides to the trim, amber-locked woman side ripping down his hood.
  
  >talk (with a smirk towards ~kune) And, you're not bidding?
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a smirk towards the wiry, war-braided young man:
       "And, you're not bidding?"
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Gresh at four!"
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Five Jom."
  
  The stout, grey-bearded man walks east.
  The hunched, red-skinned mul walks east.
  
  The trim, amber-locked woman looks up and nods as the cloaked figures move back in to her.
  
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Fine show Noggen"
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Jom Five!  Give me seven!"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Tank yeh."
  
  At your seat, the wiry, war-braided young man says in northern-accented sirihish, in a simple, lucid tone as he turns his attention back toward the pits:
       "I have everything I need."
  
  The cruel-eyed, flaxen-tressed man lowers the hood of an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak.
  
  The cruel-eyed, flaxen-tressed man begins guarding the trim, amber-locked woman.
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Five.... going once!"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Ah beh needed back down."
  
  >shout Six!  Mister O!
  You shout in sirihish:
       "Six!  Mister O!"
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Seven, Jom."
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Once on seven!"
  
  With a faint smile, the trim, amber-locked woman says to the cruel-eyed, flaxen-tressed man, in sirihish:
       "Hello, sergeant. Glad you could make it."
  
  >shout Seven-fifty, Mister O!
  You shout in sirihish:
       "Seven-fifty, Mister O!"
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Once of Seven-fifty for Mister O!"
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Eight, Jom"
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Twice"
  
  The well-toned, blonde woman looks up at the cruel-eyed, flaxen-tressed man with a twist of her head.
  
  >shout Nine!  Mister O!
  You shout in sirihish:
       "Nine!  Mister O!"
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Nine-fifty, Jom."
  
  >emote grins, watching towards the fighting pit.
  The effeminate, pompadoured man grins, watching towards the fighting pit.
  
  The very tall figure in a dusty orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak looks down at the cruel-eyed, flaxen-tressed man.
  
  With a beaming grin, the well-toned, blonde woman says to the cruel-eyed, flaxen-tressed man, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "Congratulations Sargeant"
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "I have sold this same set to some of you for two large..... give me one large!"
  
  >shout One thousand!
  You shout in sirihish:
       "One thousand!"
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "One large for the mystery man!"
  
  Gesturing to the cruel-eyed, flaxen-tressed man, the trim, amber-locked woman says to the well-toned, blonde woman, in sirihish:
       "Sergeant Darani, Captain Kella has promoted Sergeant Cord. He'll be replacing Sergeant Ferathule when he leaves."
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "One and one, Jom."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Wha' do ya' think, should I give a crack at tha', Sir?"
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "eleven for Jom... Once!"
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Twice!"
  
  >talk (grinning) I should really stop.
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, grinning:
       "I should really stop."
  
  With a dip of his head, the cruel-eyed, flaxen-tressed man says to the well-toned, blonde woman, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "Thank you Sargeant."
  
  At your seat, the well-toned, blonde woman says in northern-accented sirihish, nodding her head to the trim, amber-locked woman:
       "Good, where is Fer goin?"
  
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Might be too late, you should speak with Veric-da immediately"
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "Sold to Jom"
  
  >talk What a deal.
  At your seat, you say in sirihish:
       "What a deal."
  
  You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
       "One and one, Jom.... congratulations."
  
  Down in the pit the tall, spindly man walks south.
  
  The cruel-eyed, flaxen-tressed man dips his head to the huge figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak turning back to surveying the surroundings.
  
  The slender dark-eyed elf lowers the hood of an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak.
  
  
  >l cruel
  A set of sinister, shooting, cobalt eyes perch above a hooked nose.  Longand well-kempt ivory hued hair settles about his head, neat and maintained,while sideburns dissipate as they near his clean-shaven jaw line.  Richebony skin fills in the remaining hues of color about his face, excludingthe single depression that rests in the middle of his chin remains ivorycolored.  Noticeably powerful shoulders are woven into the frame of thisman, while thick beefy arms drape down from them.  Connected to the arms arelarge calloused hands with neatly trimmed fingernails at each fingertip.  Achiseled, barrel chest rides atop a flat toned stomach, while below thatrests his proportionate hips.  Two legs, like small trunks, hold this man aloft obviously powerful in nature. 
  The cruel-eyed, flaxen-tressed man is in excellent condition.
  The cruel-eyed, flaxen-tressed man is using:
  <worn on head>           a stained spiky helmet
  <worn around neck>       a spiked duskhorn collar
  <worn on right shoulder> a black epaulette with two grey shields
  <worn on left shoulder>  a black epaulette with two grey shields
  <worn on arms>           a set of spiky arm guards
  <worn around wrist>      a polished duskhorn bracer
  <worn around wrist>      a gurth shell bracer
  <worn around body>       an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak
  <worn on legs>           a set of spiky leg guards
  <worn on feet>           a pair of spiky boots
  
  You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "I can fight you Pendeh."
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "You.. fight me?"
  You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "Do you think I can take him?"
  You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
       "possibly"

  Down in the pit the slight, blonde-haired man has arrived from the south.
  Down in the pit the whipcord thin man has arrived from the south.
  Down in the pit the buxom, red-haired woman has arrived from the south.
  Down in the pit The slight, blonde-haired man walks to the center of the pit.
  
  You hear a...
  Continue Reading...
• 

  Mija by Briar
  Added on Nov 15, 2009

  Watercolor, ink, and oil crayon.

  
• 

  Honey by J
  Added on Nov 15, 2009

  Portrait of an Allanak mage showing off his flower.

  
• 

  The Grey Hunt - Part 2 by Adhira
  Added on Nov 15, 2009

  Precentor Rysha announces the winner of the Grey Hunt - with an unexpected conclusion.

  ---

  Scene:  The Silverwood Estate.

  Event: Announcement of the Grey Hunt winner.

  Note: Since this was logged by staff thinks and feels which are normally only viewable by the character in question have been left in.

   

  <! As seen by High Precentor Rysha Uaptal>
   
  Whistling lowly, the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden  looks up at the short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar.
  
  Nodding deeply to the short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar says, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "And High Precentor Rysha Uaptal, show them the same attention you have kindly showed to me."
  
  The trim, ashen-skinned man leans back against a long wooden bench and sits up little straighter.
  
  The svelte, top-knotted woman dips her head respectfully to the group approaching the stage.
  
  
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman's posture straightens, watching the pearl-haired Lirathan templar and the short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar with a respectful, deep inclination of her head.
  
  
  Bowing his head low as he turns his attention, the stocky, clean-shaven man looks up at the short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar.
  
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man clears his throat and lowers his head, bending at the waist slightly as well.
  
  
  The very short and thick male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask twitches slightly then looks over and seems to relax.
  
  
  With a deep bow of her head, the short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales looks up at the short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar.
  
  
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden bows her head completely, but still claps wholeheartedly.
  
  
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "Rysha Uaptal... why did I think the High Precentor was Faithful Lady Fyloria?"
  
  
  The trim, ashen-skinned man thinks:
       "Oh fuck."
  
  
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar lifts her hands for silence, tilting her head gracefully to the newly-entered group.
  
  Someone thinks:
       "I... am in the presence of a High Precentor Faithful Lord. I am truly blessed by the Light."
  
   
  His eyes focusing keenly, the swarthy, aging man looks up at you.

  
  The dusky, sorrel-curled woman thinks:
       "Don't look at them!  Just sit in their ...fucking serious presence."
  
   
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman sucks in a gasp, and deeply bows her head.

  
  The short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar clasps her hands before her, standing in front of the small stage.
  
  Someone thinks:
       "Eh, I gotta keep better track of this stuff. Could mis-address someone and end up in a real uncomfortable situation."
  
   Short, straight black hair hangs down around this woman's face and falls
  around her cheekbones. Her eyes are a rich jade color, round and wide
  in shape. She is very taut in stature, with long limbs and delicate
  hands and features.
  The short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar is in excellent condition.
  
  <neck>                   a blue and purple inked band
  <worn across back>       a glossy-grey knapsack
  <worn around wrist>      a whitened bone key
  <left wrist>             a silver moon
  <worn on hands>          a pair of red silk gloves
  <worn around body>       a hooded, white and gold-trimmed templar's robe
  <worn on legs>           a pair of white-trimmed, red sandcloth pants
  <worn on feet>           a pair of soft, white silk boots
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man swallows then lowers his head once more to the arriving group of templars with a slight tilt at the waist.
  
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden thinks:
       "High Precentor!  What an honor, y'know?"
  
   
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man eats his small portion of a thick sausage and cheese sandwich.
  
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man keeps his gaze lowered, staring directly at a long, white painted table.
  
   
  Retaking her seat, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar sits at a long, white painted table.
  
   
  With curiously wrinkled brows, head inclining ever so faintly, hesitant, the scruffy, brown-haired youth looks up at you.
  
   
  The pearl-haired Lirathan templar glances around the crowd, returning a few nods lightly.
  
   
  With a deep, respectful bow of her head, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette looks up at you.
  
   
  The short, dusky woman seems still out of shock for a while, among the crowd, then mimics those around her in showing respects toward the templars.
  
   
  Dipping off in a nod, the spindly, grey-haired man looks up at you.
  
   
  << The stocky, clean-shaven man feels really, really, really fucking nervous. >>
  
   
  << Someone feels curious indeed. >>
  
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man clears his throat and leans forward, his elbows on his knees.
  
   
  Unclasping it and letting sweat-tangled hair fall to her shoulders, the ethereal, fair-haired woman stops using her black and red fringed headdress.
  
   
  << Someone feels gleeful. >>
  Someone thinks:
       "How many of my brothers and sisters would love to be able to see this?"
   
  
  The spindly, grey-haired man looks up at the pearl-haired Lirathan templar.
  
   Tossing her head, her black hair cascading back over her shoulders, you say, in sirihish:
       "Citizens of Tuluk... Guests... we come now to the announcement of the Hunt."
  
     
  Dusting the last few crumbs from his hands, the lofty, cunyati-tanned man bows very deeply, to the point of essentially kneeling along with many others in the crowd.
  
   
  << The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels a bolt of excitement in your breast. >>
  
   
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden thinks:
       "I don't even know who all entered!"
  
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "The Hunt?"
  
   
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar smiles proudly to the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar.
  
   
  The very short and thick male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask  perks up.
  
   
  At a long wooden bench, the willowy, brown-haired young man speaks, nodding to the short, lithe young man.
  
   
  Someone thinks:
       "Here we go."
  
   
  << Someone feels keen, interested excitement. >>
  
   
  
  << The ethereal, fair-haired woman feels dazed.  Utterly and completely dazed. >>
  
  The very short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales thinks:
       "Rokov. It's gotta be Rokov."
  
   
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man gives his spiced steak to the freckled, light-skinned man.
  
   
  As the crowd falls silent, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar fastens her attention on the stage.
  
   
  As surreptitiously as he can, the freckled, light-skinned man begins to chew on his baguette of brown bread.
  
   
  Smearing her spindly hands together the svelte, top-knotted woman casts a glance to the freckled, light-skinned man and then back at the stage.
  
   
  Dipping her head in the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar direction, you say, in sirihish:
       "Faithful Lady Serilla. Join me."
  
   
  The dusky, sorrel-curled woman thinks:
       "Not Rokov.  Not Rokov."
  
   
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman thinks:
       "She's using the lack of decoration to good effect. It looks dignified on her, rather than plain."
  
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man eats a portion of his baguette of brown bread.
  
   
  The tiny, reed-like Jihaen templar folds his arms over his chest, staring at the crowd with a somber stoicism that is in direct contrast to his appearance.
  
   
  Lifting her brows with a gracious nod to you, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar stands up from a long, white painted table.
  
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man nods slowly to you, quickly straightening his posture and gazing forward fixedly.
  
   
  The tall, muscular man watches quietly, one corner of his mouth quirking in a faint smile.
  
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man eats a portion of his half eaten baguette of brown bread.
  
   
  Someone thinks:
       "Fuck me."
  
   
  Sliding off his shoulder before easing back down, the trim, ashen-skinned man stops using his dusty steel grey duffel bag.
  
   << Someone feels dazed, dull shock. >>
   
  Her hands clasped behind her back, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar steps down the slope to join you, standing back a pace quietly.
  
   
  The stocky, clean-shaven man thinks:
       "There's no second place. At least this won't drag on."
  
   
  Plopping, the trim, ashen-skinned man sits on a long wooden bench.
  
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "You're in trouble"
  
   
  The dusky, sorrel-curled woman thinks:
       "......"
  
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "I never thought I would ever see them."
  
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "The High Precentor?"
  
   
  Dipping her head towards her, you say to the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar, in sirihish:
       "We thank you for the festival you have provided his citizens. As primary recorder for this Hunt we ask that you call each entrant to stand before us."
  
   
  Nibbling quickly, masked gaze fixed on the stage, the very short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales eats her half eaten ball of soft white cheese.
  
   
  The tall, muscular man's eyes shift to you as she speaks.
  
   
  The willowy, grey-streaked man nods over to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette.
  
   
  Handing over, the trim, ashen-skinned man gives his dusty steel grey duffel bag to the very short and thick male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask.
  
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden thinks:
       "Where's Valin?"
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man tips a nod to the very short and thick male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask in a slow manner.
  
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden begins looking around uncomfortably, her eyes searching the crowd.
  
   
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar remains stading amidst the crowd by a long, white painted table, his reserved and reverant gaze set on the stage.
  
   
  Nodding deeply to you as she steps forward, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar says, in sirihish:
       "In order of recording."
  
   
  << Someone feels nervous. >>
  
   
  Voice lowering, the short, dusky woman whispers something to the sinewy, bald-headed man.
  
   
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman looks down at the tall, muscular man.
  
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "Thought she meant just leave her alone... obviously not."
  
   
  
  The chubby, brown-haired man glances to the stocky, clean-shaven man.
  
  Someone thinks:
       "Keep quiet, you shit, or you'll get a beating."
  
   
  << The trim, ashen-skinned man feels humbled, hopeful. >>
  
   
  The sinewy, weather-worn man's head turns in causual survey of the crowd, a faint grin on his lips.
  
   
  Someone thinks:
       "Bad fucking timing GO AWAY, woman!"
  
   
  << The ethereal, fair-haired woman feels a touch of sympathy for Vash. >>
  
   
  Shaking his head, as he speaks quietly, the sinewy, bald-headed man whispers something to the short, dusky woman.
  
   
  Her voice ringing out, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar says, in sirihish:
       "Vejaan A'jinn of the A'jinn Academy."
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man thinks:
       "Just keep it together, keep Aja in yer thoughts, she trained ya some 'fore all this happened."
  
   
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar looks down at the tall, muscular man .
  
   
  The ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man steps forward proudly, moving over near the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar.
  
   
  The ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man stands up from a long wooden bench.
  
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden thinks:
       "Hasn't his family won before?"
  
   
  The short, dusky woman whispers something to the sinewy, bald-headed man .
  
   
  Curiously, the spindly, grey-haired man looks up at the ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man .
  
   
  Inclining her head to the ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar says, in sirihish:
       "Master Bard Adarana Irofel."
  
   
  The stocky, clean-shaven man thinks:
       "Vejaan's a serious contender. Can't discount him. ALL of these people are potentially going to be pissed at me if I win this."
  
  Someone thinks:
       "Huh. Was wonderin' who that guy was."
   
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man thinks:
       "Ahhh, Aja... will that be the one?"
  
   
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman looks down at the tall, muscular man.
  
   
  The sinewy, weather-worn man thinks:
       "All this hubub just ta get t'the announcement?  Krath, Kurac could do it better."
   
  The short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar keeps her hands clasped before her, watching each contestant as they approach.
  
   
  Hesitantly, the sinewy, bald-headed man whispers something to the short, dusky woman.
  
   
  Someone thinks:
       "Grey hunt? I really ought to listen more closely to what's happening."
  
   
  An amethyst-eyed, golden-haired woman has arrived from the east, hurrying in.
  
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden thinks:
       "Good grief!  I should have at least entered, with a list of names like that."
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man licks his lips quietly as he watches the quiet procession.
  
   
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar smiles to an amethyst-eyed, golden-haired woman, inclining her head.
  
   
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar says, in sirihish:
       "Advisor Rokov Kurac."
  
   
  The ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man remains silent and proud, standing with his hands clasped behind his back.
  
   
  The svelte, top-knotted woman's brow raises in surprise.
  
   
  The tall, muscular man's eyes move along the entrants as their names are called out.
  
   
  The short, dusky woman whispers something to the sinewy, bald-headed man .
  
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden thinks:
       "Oh, like he needs to win anything!"
  
   
  The stocky, clean-shaven man takes a breath and makes his way down the aisle, approaching the stage.
  
   
  An amethyst-eyed, golden-haired woman takes her place beside the ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man with a sheepish, nervous smile.
  
   
  The swarthy, aging man, gives the stocky, clean-shaven man a quick pat, grinning.

  
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman looks up at the ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man.
  
   
  The sinewy, bald-headed man whispers something to the short, dusky woman .
  
   
  The very short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales shoots a smile at the stocky, clean-shaven man, tipping an encouraging nod.
  
   
  At a long wooden bench, the chubby, brown-haired man speaks, chuckling after.
  
   
  Someone thinks:
       "Losing is... so difficult. I have trained my entire life. My tribe has given me strength, wisdom, fortitude. But all these things mean nothing to you."
  
   
  The stout, heavily-scarred dwarf grins up at the stocky, clean-shaven man , clapping briefly.

  
  << Someone feels like you are trying to calm your nerves. >>
  
   
  The short, dusky woman nods once at the sinewy, bald-headed man , straightening the lapels of her sleek, crimson leather duster.
  
   
  Quietly grabbing his arm, the sinewy, bald-headed man whispers something to the scruffy, brown-haired youth.
  
   
  Face set in a serious expression, the stocky, clean-shaven man bows his head deeply to the Faithful and moves to stand beside an amethyst-eyed, golden-haired woman.
  
   
  The spindly, grey-haired man looks up at an amethyst-eyed, golden-haired woman.
   
  
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "Advisor? What kind of a title is that for a hunter..."
  
   You feel a growing sense of anticipation.
  
   
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth nods softly, swallowing hard.
  
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "Ah well..."
  
   
  The pockmarked, well-toned man looks up at the stocky, clean-shaven man .
  
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "You know, there are so many people here..."
  
   
  The swarthy, aging man chuckles at the chubby, brown-haired man .
  
   
  The grey-haired, fiery-eyed woman smiles fondly at the ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man from her seat on the bench.
  
   
  A thin trail of rich, heady smoke trickles from the chubby, brown-haired man 's mouth as he smokes a naked harlot spice pipe.
  
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "If they were to just all drop dead and freeze in time, I'd learn more now than most people in a lifetime."
  
   
  After a beat, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar  says, in sirihish:
       "Recruit Valin of the Sun Legions."
  
   
  Someone thinks:
       "It's tough to read the Chosen Lady though..."
  
   
  Someone thinks:
       "Valin? Seriously?"
  
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden thinks:
       "He's not here, stupid, I don't know where he went..."
  
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
       "I have no idea how she'll take to my... hobby."
  
   
  Someone thinks:
       "Now wouldn' be the best time ta attack.  Not with everyone's attention fixed."
  
   
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar thinks:
       "Private Valin."
  
   The short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar tilts her head, gaze shifting over the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden .
  
   
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth's jaw flexes and relaxes, his youthful features tense though he attempts the faintest of smiles to offset, gentle brown hues locked upon the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar  as they speak.
   
  << The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man feels a sense of resignation. >>
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man thinks:
       "So, ka. If that be my life in His service, then so be it. But know that my heart aches for your smile."
  
   
  The caramel, alabaster-haired woman stands up from a long wooden bench.
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden clears her throat softly, her eyes unmoving from the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar .
  
   
  Her tone formal, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar says, in sirihish:
       "Thiza of the Al'Seik."
  
   
  The caramel, alabaster-haired woman walks east.
  
   
  The pearl-haired Lirathan templar glances over at the sinewy, weather-worn man for a long moment.
  
   
  Hopping to her feet quickly, the dusky, sorrel-curled woman stands up from a long wooden bench.
  
   
  The dusky, sorrel-curled woman's head inclines deeply as she walks along, falling in line.
  
   
  The stocky, clean-shaven man thinks:
       "So that's who she is."
  
   
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar says, in sirihish:
       "Ani and Zharal of the Tan Muark."
  
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden thinks:
       "Stupid, stupid man.  We could have won.  I could own this place.  And renovate it.  And make it beautiful.  And me beautiful.  And have Hlum babies.  Beautiful ones.  But stupid skips out on us."
  
   
  << The stocky, clean-shaven man feels shock. >>
  
   
  The sinewy, weather-worn man meets the pearl-haired Lirathan templar's gaze for a moment before his attention drifts back through the gathering.
  
   
  << The trim, ashen-skinned man feels nervous as Drov. >>
  
   
  Someone thinks:
       "I guess Thiza's pretty nice. Wouldn't be too disappointed if she won it..."
  
   
  Her face registering clear surprise, then a respectful nod given, as she steps forward, the short, dusky woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
       "Just.. Ani, Faithful Lady. But I will stand for her as she is not here."
  
   
  << Someone feels claustrophobia easing in as the crowd tenses. >>
  
   
  With a milld nod to the short, dusky woman, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar says, in sirihish:
       "Those are the completed entries recorded officially in the books of our Order."
  
   
  << The sinewy, weather-worn man feels a sudden sense of dread. >>
   
  The sinewy, weather-worn man thinks:
       "Krath, that was just brilliant."
  
   
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth curls his lips inward, hesitantly taking a half-step forward beside the short, dusky woman before he controls himself, remaining silent beside the sinewy, bald-headed man .
  
   
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar says, in sirihish:
       "I believe Vash of Salarr has completed the second task, as well."
  
    
  Her expression gone completely stiff, the short, dusky woman just nods, managing another more polite one as she steps up onto the stage.
  
   
  Uncertainly, after a moment's pause, the trim, ashen-skinned man stands up from a long wooden bench.
  
   
  Her shoulders completely tense, the short, dusky woman whispers something to the stocky, clean-shaven man .
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man makes his way slowly, humbly, through the crowd to stand by the short, dusky woman, giving the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar and the others a slow, polite nod.
  
   
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar inclines her head to the row of entrants, turning back to you.
  
   
  With a benevolent smile, you say to the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar, in sirihish:
       "Thankyou Faithful Lady."
  
   
  The dusky, sorrel-curled woman's eyebrows rise over her pair of dark-lensed sunslits then immediately drop.
  
   
  With a smile, the svelte, top-knotted woman looks up at the dusky, sorrel-curled woman.
  
   
  << The trim, ashen-skinned man feels nervous as all get out. >>
  
   
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "Oh, it'd be pretty wine if Vash won too, I guess."
  
   
  The stocky, clean-shaven man drops a fraction of a nod as he stands stiff, eyes ahead.
  
   
  Taking a step away from the stage, motioning to the space on the grass before her, you say, in sirihish:
       "As I call you, please step towards me."
  
   
  Someone thinks:
       "PLEASE be Rokov-da or Thiza.  They should've chosen one or the other...I hope."
  
   
  The very short and thick male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask leans over his new dusty tortoiseshell and black-leather shield watching the stage carefully.
  
   
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar steps to the foot of the stage, watching closely.
  
  Someone thinks:
       "How are they doing this, I wonder?"
  
   
  Glancing at the assembled notables, the swarthy, aging man looks up at the pearl-haired Lirathan templar.
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man straightens up and eases his dusty tortoiseshell and black-leather shield to his side, hand held flat against the other hip.
   
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden leans against the stage as she watches, eyes bright with activity.
  
   
  With a glance towards the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar, you say, in sirihish:
       "First we note that Private Valin made admirable effort, and has proven his loyalty to His Legions and His service. We regret that the Private is no longer considered in contention."
  
   
  Shifting a bit closer, the very short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales  sits on a long wooden bench.
  
   
  Gaze settling on an amethyst-eyed, golden-haired woman, you say, in sirihish:
       "Master Bard Adarana Irofel, please stand before me."
  
   
  Someone thinks:
       "...it just needs to be those two.  One of them."
  
   
  An amethyst-eyed, golden-haired woman moves gracefully to stand before you with a bow of her head.
  
   
  The pearl-haired Lirathan templar blinks at the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar.
  
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man clears his throat, eyes flitting to the stocky, clean-shaven man briefly.
  
   
  Extending a hand, your ruby crystal pyramid set atop her palm, you say, in sirihish:
       "Master Bard, we thank you for your entry, and your loyalty and service to Him. We regret that you are no longer considered a contender."
  
   
  With barely any sound at all, the stocky, clean-shaven man whispers something to the short, dusky woman .
  
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden  thinks:
       "No longer considered?  But-- why?  I don't understand."
  
   
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man stands perfectly still, gaze ahead, chest barely lifting with each breath.
  
   
  You say to an amethyst-eyed, golden-haired woman, in sirihish:
       "Take this as a token of your entry, and achievement."
  
   
  You give your ruby crystal pyramid to an amethyst-eyed, golden-haired woman.
   
  The chubby, brown-haired man taps his naked harlot spice pipe with a finger as he watches.
  
   
  The short, dusky woman nods shallowly, staring at the proceedings.
  
   
  His hand slipping from his pocket, the scruffy, brown-haired youth snaps his gloved fingers softly before placing his hand at the small of his back.
   
   
  Looking over to the trim, ashen-skinned man, you say, in sirihish:
       "Vash, please step before me."
  
   
  An amethyst-eyed, golden-haired woman accepts her ruby crystal pyramid gracefully and moves offstage.
   
   
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar stands solemnly looking to you with an appreciative nod before turning his attention back to the stage.
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man tips a very slow nod before taking a breath and careful, determined strides to stand before you.
  
   
  For a brief moment, the willowy, grey-streaked man looks at the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar .
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man tips a low, polite nod to you.
  
   
  Someone thinks:
       "I knew he wouldn't win, but I was impressed with his efforts none the less.  I am glad he was given consideration."
  
   
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar thinks:
       "I will have to do something nice for him in honor of it."
  
   
  Attention focused on her boots, the very short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales chances only the occasional glance to the stage.
  
   
  The svelte, top-knotted woman touches her hand to the freckled, light-skinned man's only briefly as she studies the event on stage.

  
  With a smile, her gaze set on him, you say to the trim, ashen-skinned man , in sirihish:
       "Your effort in this hunt has been noted and appreciated. Know that Tuluk considers you a fine contestant."
  
   
  Easing onto a seat beside the tall, muscular man, an amethyst-eyed, golden-haired woman sits on a long wooden bench.
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man starts to lift his gaze to you but instead tips an even deeper nod.
  
   
  Holding your ruby crystal pyramid towards him, you say to the trim, ashen-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "Take this as a token of your achievement and appreciation, you have done well in His eyes."
  
   
  You give your ruby crystal pyramid to the trim, ashen-skinned man.
  
   
   
  The stocky, clean-shaven man thinks:
       "... she didn't say he lost."
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man slowly lifts his hands and accepts his ruby crystal pyramid with claw covered hands, a warm smile creeping over his lips.
  
   
  With a nod, you say to the trim, ashen-skinned man, in sirihish:
       "We regret that you are no longer considered a contestant."
  
   
  The robust, coppery-curled teen has arrived from the east.
  
   
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "Dang, nice prizes. I should just enter this every year."
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man tips another nod to you then slowly steps back and off to the side.
  
     
  << The trim, ashen-skinned man feels content, happy, you did this and you did it well. >>
  
   
  Looking to the ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man, you say, in sirihish:
       "Vejaan A'jinn, please stand before me."
  
   
  The pockmarked, well-toned man glances to the chubby, brown-haired man, quickly returning his eyes to the stage.
  
   
  The ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man steps forward, bowing his head respecfully.
  
   
  Tiptoeing in unobtrusively, the robust, coppery-curled teen sits on a long wooden bench.
  
   
  For a moment, the very short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales looks up at the ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man.
  
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man glances towards the ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man, the corners of his mouth turning downwards.

  
  The trim, ashen-skinned man lifts a finger to carefully trace over the edges of his ruby crystal pyramid as he stands some distance from the group of attention.
  
   
  Her gaze solemn, you say to the ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man, in sirihish:
       "Vejaan A'jinn you have lived up to the name of your family. You were a fine entrant and He was pleased."
  
   
  Leaning over, the robust, coppery-curled teen whispers something to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man .
  
   
    Extending your ruby crystal pyramid to him, you say to the ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man, in sirihish:
       "We regret you are no longer considered a contestant, take this as a token of our appreciation."
  
  The ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man nods his head deeply to you, taking the pyramid.
  
   You give your ruby crystal pyramid to the ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man.
  
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man covers his mouth with a gauntleted hand, coughing.
  
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "YES!"
  
   
  Leaning close, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man whispers something to the robust, coppery-curled teen.

   

  The svelte, top-knotted woman clasps her hands tightly in front of her.
  
   
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth's index and middle fingers remain crossed at the small of his back, the other hand still tucked deeply within the pockets of his desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak.
  
   
  The tall, muscular man stretches, sauntering up towards the stage.
  
  

  
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "Zharal, then.  Odd."
  
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
       "Odd choice..."
  
   
  The short, dusky woman glances sidelong to the stocky, clean-shaven man , flashes a brave smile, then steps forward to show respects to the short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar.
  
   
  The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden  thinks:
       "When did Zharal get beat out?  So it's Ani and Rokov?  Gee.  What great choices.  Not even a citizen among them."
  
   
  The stocky, clean-shaven man takes a deep breath and steps forward toward the short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar.
  
   
  Watching the tall, muscular man approach the stage, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette looks at him.
  
    
  Someone thinks:
       "Fuck.  At least we have some sort of defensive agreement between each other."
  
   
  The tall, muscular man steps up onto the stage, moving between the short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar and the stocky, clean-shaven man and the short, dusky woman .
   
  The willowy, grey-streaked man tilts his head, watching the tall, muscular man.
  
   
   
  Her brow raising, the svelte, top-knotted woman looks up at the tall muscular man.
  
  
  The chubby, brown-haired man looks up at the spangled-blond, muscular woman.
  
   
  The stocky, clean-shaven man pauses, a hand reflexively going beneath his cloak.
  
   
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar thinks:
       "A twist?"
  
   
  The stocky, clean-shaven man looks up at you.
  
   
  With a slightly narrowed gaze, the scruffy, brown-haired youth looks at the stocky, clean-shaven man .
  
   
  Glancing over quickly at the lanky, indigo-tressed woman, the willowy, brown-haired young man quietly exhales and leans forward.
  
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man looks up at you.
  
   
  The short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar nods slightly as the tall, muscular man approaches.
  
   
  The chubby, brown-haired man looks up at you.
  
   
  The short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales thinks:
       "The fuck?"
  
   
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar tucks her hands into her sleeves, watching silently.
  
   
  With a curious shift of his gaze, the sinewy, bald-headed man looks up at the tall, muscular man.
  
   
  The freckled, light-skinned man quirks an eyebrow briefly.
  
   
  With a glance over, you say to the short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar, in sirihish:
       "This one is mine."
  
  

  Scene:  The Silverwood Estate.

  Event: Announcement of the Grey Hunt winner.

  Note: Since this was logged by staff thinks and feels which are normally only viewable by the character in question have been left in.

   

  
   
  Whistling lowly, the...

  
  Continue Reading...
• 

  Grey Hunt - Part 1 by Adhira
  Added on Nov 15, 2009

  A festival is held in Tuluk to celebrate the Grey Hunt. Amos-Malik attends the celebrations in time to see the end of a very Tuluki show.

  ---

  Armageddon - Monday, November 12, 2007, 1:03 PM
  -----------------------------------------------
  
  

  Scene: The Silverwood Estate.

  
  <!—As seen by Amos-Malik, the tall, muscular man -->
  
  This man possesses a stature that is quite elevated and a physique of
  apparent might, sun-tanned, lightly-scarred musculature creating a weighty
  cornerstone to bear him up through life.  His chiseled features cradle nose,
  mouth, and eyes that are neither brown nor green, all of appropriate and
  unremarkable proportions to his face.  Wavy hair of a completely average,
  mousy-dun color caps his head, a slight wave to the thick locks.  His
  shoulders are broad, his torso likewise, though it tapers to narrow waist
  and hips in an almost triangular fashion.  His face is shaven, though a few
  faint scars along his jawline suggest he is not as skilled at this practice
  as he could be.  
  The tall, muscular man is in excellent condition.
  
  The tall, muscular man is using:
  <neck>                   a blue and purple inked band
  <worn on torso>          a rugged, long sleeved white shirt
  <worn around wrist>      a yellow-stained, sun-carved bracelet
  <hands>                  a tattoo of a six-pronged star
  <secondary hand>         a mask of supple white cloth
  <worn on legs>           a pair of brushed, sienna-hued knee pants
  <worn on feet>           a pair of dark-brown, flame-beaded moccasins
  
  
   An Amphitheater [69077]  [INDOORS LIT] [ES]
     The garden path runs along the top edge of this open air amphitheater.
  A backdrop of bright white stone curves around, while white stone tiers rise
  up, providing seats for spectators.  In three places, steps descend down the
  eight tiers to the floor below.  The stage at the bottom is also of gleaming
  white stone.  Two doors in the backdrop provide places that actors might
  enter and leave the stage by.  
     The path continues on the east and south.
  An assortment of casks and baskets of food are scattered around the amphitheater.

  A garland of white roses rings the clearing, petals gleaming.
  A few single white flowers have been woven into a massive garland over the clearing.
  The trim, ashen-skinned man is sitting on a long wooden bench.
  The spangled-blond, muscular woman is sitting on a long wooden bench.
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman is standing here.
  The short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth stands ont he stage, performing.
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man is sitting on a long wooden bench.
  - he is carrying a leather strapped, traveling knapsack.
  - he is carrying a leather-strapped, rich purple satchel.
  The spindly, grey-haired man lingers at the back, watching the proceedings.
  The very short male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask is sitting on a long wooden bench.
  The sinewy, weather-worn man is standing here.
  The stocky, clean-shaven man is standing here.
  The sleekly-muscled, auburn-haired woman stands here, deceptively at ease.
  The swarthy, aging man is sitting on a long wooden bench.
  The lanky, indigo-tressed woman stands here, easily at attention.
  The svelte, top-knotted woman is sitting at a long, white painted table.
  The willowy, brown-haired young man is sitting on a long wooden bench.
  The sinewy, obsidian-haired man is sitting on a long wooden bench.
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth is standing here.
  The short, dusky woman is standing here.
  The sinewy, bald-headed man is standing here.
  The short, barrel-chested dwarf stands here, scowling faintly.
  The chubby, brown-haired man is sitting on a long wooden bench.
  The stout, heavily-scarred dwarf is sitting on a long wooden bench.
  The short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales loiters near a bench.
  The ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man is sitting on a long wooden bench.
  The grey-haired, fiery-eyed woman is sitting on a long wooden bench.
  The freckled, light-skinned man is sitting at a long, white painted table.
  The caramel, alabaster-haired woman is sitting on a long wooden bench.
  The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette is standing here.
  The willowy, grey-streaked man is standing here.
  The pockmarked, well-toned man is sitting on a long wooden bench.
  The gurth-bellied half-giant soldier looms here, gazing intently about.
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar is sitting at a long, white painted table.
  The bristling red-streaked kurtok paces here, growling for no reason.
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man is standing here.
  A half-giant Tuluki soldier looms here in staunch silence.
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar is sitting at a long, white painted table.
  A human Tuluki soldier is here, patrolling.
  The short, lithe young man is sitting on a long wooden bench.
  The dusky, sorrel-curled woman is sitting on a long wooden bench.
  A half-giant Tuluki soldier looms here in staunch silence.
  
   
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth shuffles forward towards the short, barrel-chested dwarf, scrawny form slipping through the crowds with ease.
  
   
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman grins with triumph as she skids to a stop, the tassles of her headdress whirling about her face.  And then she looks down... at her empty hands.  Her features fall, disbelieving.
   
  The hulking, gurth-bellied half-giant soldier watches the ethereal, fair-haired woman worriedly, completely engrossed.
  
  The short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth  stands with a smile as she holds the small, yellow-painted ball in her hands, its vivid color standing out against her white gown, showing no sign of movement.  She shrugs in comic helplessness.
  
  The tall, muscular man looks over the gathered crowd, making his way through the press of people towards the benches.
  
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks from her hands to the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth&apos;s own and then stands, jaw set, as she storms back to her side.
   
  Hooking the claws of the other hand into the trim, ashen-skinned man &apos;s cloak and pulling, the very short male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask  whispers something to the trim, ashen-skinned man.
   
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar looks up at you.

  
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar chuckles quietly as she watches the play, the thin trains of the accompanying music rising from the sides of the stage.
  
   
  Her set jaw shifting into a simpering, playful smile, the ethereal, fair-haired woman gives the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth &apos;s shoulder a playful nudge as she holds out a hand for the small, yellow-painted ball.
   
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth moves back towards the short, dusky woman , taking a drink as he maneuvers through the thick crowds.
  
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth drinks horta wine from his festively-carved drinking horn.
  
  As he passes through the crowd, the sinewy, weather-worn man looks at you.
   
  Raising her brow at the ethereal, fair-haired woman , the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth  remains standing perfectly-postured and unmoving save for a small &apos;hmph.&apos;
  
  At 1) a long wooden bench are:
        the trim, ashen-skinned man ,
        the very short male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask ,
        the grey-haired, fiery-eyed woman ,
        the ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man, and some empty seats.
  At 2) a long wooden bench are:
        the willowy, brown-haired young man ,
        the short, lithe young man , and several empty seats.
  At 3) a long wooden bench are:
        the spangled-blond, muscular woman ,
        the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man ,
        the caramel, alabaster-haired woman ,
        the sinewy, obsidian-haired man ,
        the dusky, sorrel-curled woman , and some empty seats.
  At 4) a long wooden bench are:
        the swarthy, aging man ,
        the chubby, brown-haired man ,
        the stout, heavily-scarred dwarf ,
        the pockmarked, well-toned man , and some empty seats.
  At 5) a long, white painted table are:
        the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar ,
        the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar ,
        the freckled, light-skinned man ,
        the svelte, top-knotted woman , and a couple of empty seats.
  At 6) a long, white painted table are:
        some empty seats.
  
  
  With the marked lack of success, the ethereal, fair-haired woman &apos;s features become stern as she steps close to the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth , staring down at her with her extra inches of height.  She extends her palm again, flat, with uncompromising demand.
  
  The short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth  looks up from the ethereal, fair-haired woman down to the yellow painted ball, letting out a little chuckle as she sidles one step to the right.

  
  Watching the ethereal, fair-haired woman closely, the short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales  drinks ginka wine from her white-painted wooden cup.
  
  The willowy, grey-streaked man looks at you.
   
  The tall, muscular man pauses, a brief grin cracking his lips as he makes his way to the basket, bending over to look inside.
  
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks up, jaw working to one side before she finally reaches out, elf-quick, to snatch the accursed ball from the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth &apos;s hands.
  
  Inclining her head faintly before returning her attention to the stage, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar looks up at you.
  
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks down at the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth  with no small amount of smugness, the ball held in both hands now as she lifts it above her head.
  
  The sinewy, weather-worn man smirks toward the chubby, brown-haired man from the edge of the crowd.
  
  In a single, swift motion, the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth  grabs the neck of the ethereal, fair-haired woman &apos;s collar and lifts her off the ground, brow creasing deeply.
   
  The ball falls from the ethereal, fair-haired woman &apos;s hands as her eyes widen, astonished, with the grip on her collar.
  
   
  
   
  The small, harmless, innocuous yellow-painted ball rolls across the stage behind the ethereal, fair-haired woman and the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth.
   
  The short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth  jerks the ethereal, fair-haired woman toward herself, her teeth clenched, but looks down at the *clank* of the ball dropping and watches as it rolls away-- still effortlessly dangling the ethereal, fair-haired woman in the air.
  
   
  The short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth &apos;s face contorts into a look of horror as the ball disappears and in its place appears a large, yellow-clad figure, almost as if out of nowhere.
  
  The tall, muscular man moves over to a bench, sitting down on the end.
  
  The bristling, red-streaked kurtok reaches his neck out to sniff cursorily at you from beneath a long, white painted table, growling contentedly.
  
  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man walks east.
   
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman stares, even as she is held on tip-toe by the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth &apos;s grip on her shirt collar.
  
  Briefly, the stocky, clean-shaven man looks down at you.
  
  After a startled pause, the ethereal, fair-haired woman looks down at the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth  and then up to an invisble figure.  And then she points to the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth  with a shrug of innocent helplessness.
  
  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar looks at you.
   
  With a loud scoff of protest, the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth  looks toward large, yellow-clad figure and instantly releases the ethereal, fair-haired woman .  She sets forth a flurry of gestures at the ethereal, fair-haired woman .
  
  With a silent gasp of astonishment, the ethereal, fair-haired woman whirls to look down at the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth, headdress flapping at her face, as she points a finger, jabbing it at her chest.
  
   The grey-haired, fiery-eyed woman watches silently, leaning against the ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man&apos;s side.
  
   
  The short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth turns toward the large, yellow-clad figure, ignoring the ethereal, fair-haired woman, and holds up both hands, her lips turning downward as she begins to whine and pout.
  
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks at the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth  and then drops to both knees and crawls forward, hands clasped in front of her face as she elbows her way to the front.

  
  At a long, white painted table, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar speaks, clapping her hands together softly, her smile tinged with delight.
  
  The large, yellow clad figure holds up a single one of its hands, and snaps-- both the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth and the ethereal, fair-haired woman fall to the ground.
  
  At your seat, you say in sirihish, glancing along the bench:
       "Good show?"
  
  The svelte, top-knotted woman chuckles at the display on stage, looking amused.
  
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar leans forward intently, her attention on the red and white-clad figures on the stage floor.
  
  After a long, dramatic pause in which both actors keep themselves still, the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth turns, takes the ethereal, fair-haired woman&apos;s hand, and lifts herself into an elegant bow.
  
  The trim, ashen-skinned man lifts his hands and gives a careful, then more obvious clap to the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth  and the ethereal, fair-haired woman while gazing at the stage.
  
  Cracking a smile, the ethereal, fair-haired woman pushes herself to her feet, one hand clasping the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth &apos;s own.
  
  The scruffy, brown-haired youth draws his gloved hands together in gentle applause, his festively-carved drinking horn tucked under his shoulder.
  
  The hulking, gurth-bellied half-giant soldier stands up from his bench, applauding with serious glee to the stage.
  
  The tassles against the ethereal, fair-haired woman&apos;s forehead flutter in a slight breeze.
  
  The chubby, brown-haired man leaves his naked harlot spice pipe to dangle in
  his mouth as he claps.
  
  The short, dusky woman starts clapping among those cheering in the back, sending a smile toward the stage.
  
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar joins the cheers and hollers of the crowd, lifting her hands to applaud.
  
   
  Pushing it off her sweat moistened face, the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden stops using her mask of supple white cloth, revealing a blue teardrop, superimposed over a white half moon.
  
  The grey-haired, fiery-eyed woman lifts her hand in loud applause.
  
  The freckled, light-skinned man claps boisterously, letting out a chuckle.
  
  The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
       "Un. Interesting."
  
  With a firm smile as she approaches, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar  whispers something to the ethereal, fair-haired woman .
   
  A wide smile gracing her lips as she raises her voice, the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden  says, in sirihish:
       "Worthy only for a gathering of the red, the white, and the yellow."
  
  The sinewy, obsidian-haired man blinks quickly, then starts clapping with the rest of the crowd, his thick carru and cheese sandwich in his mouth as he does.
   
  The tall, muscular man blinks, bringing hands together to clap.
   
  The willowy, brown-haired young man observes the crowd before nodding and applauding quietly.
   
  Proudly, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar whispers something to the ethereal, fair-haired woman.
  
  Holding out a hand to the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar, the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden  says, in sirihish:
       "But I think it may be the Faithful Lady&apos;s turn to talk."
  
  The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks to the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar and gives a gracious nod, her black and red fringed headdress swaying.
  
  The dusky, sorrel-curled woman rests her elbows on her knees, leaning forward.
  
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar walks slowly down the slope, her skull-adorned ruby bracelet gleaming in the lamplight.
  
  At your seat, the very short male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask  says in tribal-accented sirihish, to the trim, ashen-skinned man :
       "When we get our auction shit?"
  
  Holding his position as the short, dusky woman moves, the scruffy, brown-haired youth  looks down at the swarthy, aging man .
  
  Inclining her head deeply to the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden  and the ethereal, fair-haired woman , the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar  says, in sirihish:
       "Let&apos;s have a round of applause once more for our bards."
   
  Looking around, a pleased grin splitting his lips, you say, in sirihish:
       "Lot&apos;s of people here. Heard it was a good show."
  
   
  The short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar has arrived from the east.
  The pearl-haired Lirathan templar has arrived from the east.
  The tiny, reed-like Jihaen templar has arrived from the east.
  The skeletal, dark-skinned Jihaen templar has arrived from the east.
  
   
  The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar claps softly again to the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden , smiling broadly.
  
   
  Lifting her eyes to the pearl-haired Lirathan templar with a deep, respectful bow of her head, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar says, in sirihish:
       "If I may now present my elder Faithful Sister Halle."
   
  Eyes widening as he spies the skeletal, dark-skinned Jihaen templar&apos;s group walk in, the lofty, cunyati-tanned man eats a portion of his thick sausage and cheese sandwich.
  
   
  The trim, ashen-skinned man looks to the group of templars arriving from the east and slowly lowers his applauding hands and tips a nod.
  
   
  The short, dusky woman claps very absently, her eyes trained on the entering group of templars.
  
   
  The sinewy, obsidian-haired man starts clapping once more loudly but suddenly comes to an halt as he turns toward the many templars walking in.
  
   
  The tall, muscular man swivels around on the bench, looking towards the incoming group of Templars.
  
   
  The sinewy, weather-worn man turns his full attention to the group clad in red and white robes and bows his head deeply.
  
  The grey-haired, fiery-eyed woman looks at you.
  
  A large entourage following her, the short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar goes to stand by the small stage.
  
  

  Armageddon - Monday, November 12, 2007, 1:03 PM
  -----------------------------------------------
  
  

  Scene: The Silverwood Estate.

  
  
  
  This man possesses a stature that is quite elevated and a physique of
  apparent might, sun-tanned,...

  
  Continue Reading...
• 

  poster by Rakeart
  Added on Nov 15, 2009

  I worked on this you can use this however you want to. I give full permission for armageddonmud to take full claim of it. http://i34.tinypic.com/14pvdh.jpg

  
• 

  The Serpent's Dance by Briar
  Added on Oct 28, 2009

  Watercolors, ink, and oil crayons.

  
• 

  Memoir #9 - The Bynner (Marek) by Rairen
  Added on Oct 27, 2009

  In the incident that leads to him becoming Aja's most fascinating student, an Allanaki-born Byn Sergeant illustrates how easily an outlander can upset the fragile calm of Tuluki upper-caste society.

  ---

  You are Aja, of many peoples.

  Objective: To learn to fight - and still be thought weak.

  You are 27 years, 1 months, and 206 days old,

   

   

  The Sun King's Sanctuary [NESWUD]

     A polished, white marble floor covers the ground of this expansive room, gleaming under the light of a large glass chandelier that hangs overhead.  A semi-circular bar, made of hard-grained wood painted a deep black, extends from the eastern wall, several high-backed barstools sitting around it.  The walls of this room are brightly decorated, with several elaborate paintings placed carefully for unobstructed view, and shelves holding many exotic potted plants, blooming with bright red and white flowers.  Two large stained-glass windows, decorated with elaborate sun symbols, adorn the northwest and southeast corners of the room. 

     Several decoratively carved tables fill this room, while a polished leather couch nearly ten cords in length sprawls along the northern wall.  A stately spiral staircase sits in the center of the room, winding upwards toward the common rooms of the second floor.  The sounds of laughter and music can be heard from a doorway along the western wall, while the scents of cooked meat waft in from the east.  A small, straight stairway sits along the northern wall, ending at a slightly raised loft and a large carven baobab door sits in the southern wall, leading out onto the North Road outside. 

   

   

   

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman nods down to each of the others, a glass of wine deposited in front of them.

   

  You give your finely made glass goblet to the short, dusky woman.

  You give your finely made glass goblet to the freckled, light-skinned man.

  You give your finely made glass goblet to the spangled-blond, muscular woman.

  You give your finely made glass goblet to the robust, coppery-curled teen.

  You give your finely made glass goblet to the sinewy, obsidian-haired man.

  You think:

       "... I'll be poor but popular."

  The dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man has arrived from the south.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman relaxes back against the bar with elegant negligence, falling silent as she looks down to the spangled-blond, muscular woman, the robust, coppery-curled teen, and the others at the bar.

  Stiffly, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man walks towards a black-painted bar.

  With a sigh, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man sits at a black-painted bar.

  At your table, the robust, coppery-curled teen says in sirihish, chuckling at the sinewy, obsidian-haired man:

       "The thought counts, though."

   

  Draining it, the short, dusky woman puts her finely made glass goblet onto a black-painted bar.

  With a slight lift of her brow when she notices him and a polite nod in greeting, you look at the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man.

   

  Raven black hair has been twisted tightly into thin braids that dangle down this man's angular head.  At the ends of the long braids, his hairs curve sharply, resembling curling claws.  An intricate purple inking of a dragon has been tattooed into his dark flesh.  The beasts head rests below his right eye and the long body crosses his cheek, the tail curving over his chin and up to his forehead, the tail ending where his hairline starts.  His dark brows lay over his light hazel colored eyes on either side of his long nose.  His jawbone is covered in dense black stubble which becomes more sparse as it trails down his thick neck.  His wide shoulders spread out and hold a pair of heavily muscled arms, scarred forearms and callused hands. His torso is slender and chiseled with long, muscular legs.  His features are darkly tanned to an ebon hue except for a few pale scars etched into the rest of his dark skin. 

   

   

  Turning his head, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man looks at you.

  At your table, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says in southern-accented sirihish, smiling at you:

       "Aja."

   

  At your table, the sinewy, obsidian-haired man says in sirihish, dipping his head into a quick nod, grinning:

       "Still, knowing that we both drank from stolen cups only add to the evening."

  At your table, you say in sirihish, returning the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man's smile:

       "Marek.  A pity, you just missed me buying a round of drinks.  You'll have to wait until I can gather the courage to do it again."

  The dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man gets his leather waterskin from his leather swordbelt.

  At your table, the robust, coppery-curled teen says in sirihish, giggling at the sinewy, obsidian-haired man:

       "Two misplaced cups for two misplaced people."

  At your table, the sinewy, obsidian-haired man says in sirihish, smiling faintly as he sips quietly from his finely made glass goblet:

       "I wish it only took courage and not 'sids to be able to afford a round of drinks, 'round here.."

  At your table, you say in sirihish, glancing back to the sinewy, obsidian-haired man with his words, amusement in her pale eyes:

       "... Courage and 'sid seem to be synonymous, in this case."

   

  At your table, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says in southern-accented sirihish, eyeing you before unplugging his leather waterskin's stopper:

       "Well, yeh'll have t'offer me somethin' else, then."

  At your table, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, head coming up:

       "Huh?"

   

  The dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man looks at the sinewy, obsidian-haired man.

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman glances at you.

   

  At your table, the sinewy, obsidian-haired man says in sirihish, chuckling softly as he shakes his head in the robust, coppery-curled teen's direction:

       "Everyone commented on our dancing, I'm going to assume that we were not as misplaced in the crowd as we might wish we were.."

  At your table, you say in sirihish, head turning as she looks at the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man, her smile inescapably polite:

       "... Is not the pleasure of my company - and of the company of this room - enough to sate you?"

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's jaw tenses.

   

  At your table, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says in southern-accented sirihish, lifting a hand to scratch his short beard, leaning over his fist, elbow on a black-painted bar:

       "Well, yer company's fine...but I'd be a lot more sated if th'rest of th'company wasn't 'bout."

  You think:

       "Such... a bold... flirt."

  The short, dusky woman flicks ash from her solidly packed tube of spice, staring with droll, dark amusement at the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man.

  At your table, the robust, coppery-curled teen says in sirihish, arching a brow at the sinewy, obsidian-haired man:

       "Really?  Wasn't expectin' that."

  At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish:

       "Somehow, I doubt that, Marek."

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks at the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man, and then laughs, a gloved hand lifting to her lips, muffling the sound.

  
  A thin trail of rich, heady smoke trickles from the short, dusky woman's mouth as she smokes a solidly packed tube of spice.

  The short, dusky woman's eyes become glassy-red and half-closed.

   

  The dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man chuckles softly, lifting his other fist to meet the other under his chin.

  At your table, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says in southern-accented sirihish, glancing at the short, dusky woman:

       "Oh, I'd invite yeh too, Chosen Lady, but tha'd be illegal."

  At your table, you say in sirihish, after inclining her head to the short, dusky woman:

       "... I believe the Chosen Consort is correct, Marek, though it's been too long since we've spoken.  You've been well, I trust?"

  At your table, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says in southern-accented sirihish, with a twisted smile:

       "Shoulda approached me when yeh had th'chance."

  The short, dusky woman's expression darkens with anger and disgust as she stares at the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man, silently grinding a spice tube out on the bartop.

  You think:

       "... Soothe, soothe."

  At your table, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says in southern-accented sirihish, lifting his shoulders back into a shrug:

       "Eh, not as many contracts up here as I'd expected."

  At your table, you say in sirihish, in her calm, crystal-like voice as she does... not... look in the short, dusky woman's direction:

       "... And I'm sorry for it.  Perhaps you would walk with me?  I... find I need to stretch my legs."

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman taps gloved fingers on the bar, glancing between the short, dusky woman and the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man.

  A foreign presence contacts your mind.

  Slowly arching a brow, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man looks down at the short, dusky woman.

  At your table, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says in southern-accented sirihish, dipping his head to the short, dusky woman:

       "'Scuse me, Chosen Consort, no offense meant."

  At your table, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says in southern-accented sirihish, to you:

       "Aye, let's walk."

  In a smooth motion, your flowing white linen skirt

  fluttering about her legs, you stand up from a black-painted bar.

  At a black-painted bar, the freckled, light-skinned man speaks, nodding towards the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man.

  At a black-painted bar, the short, dusky woman speaks, snapping out.

  At a black-painted bar, you overhear the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man say in southern-accented sirihish, eyeing the short, dusky woman, nodding:

       "I was merely statin' tha' yer above me, Chosen Consort...apologies."

   

  The short, dusky woman sends you a telepathic message:

       "Is this man valuable to the northern templarate in any way?"

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman's steps slow... and then she turns, offering the short, dusky woman and the freckled, light-skinned man a polite nod in passing.

  You contact the short, dusky woman with the Way.

  At a black-painted bar, you overhear the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man say in southern-accented sirihish, to the freckled, light-skinned man:

       "An' we can do most anythin', Chosen Lord. Scout, hunt, kill, gather, I'm sure we'd be much easier t'place than th'soldiers of Lyksae..."

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman's posture changes, tensing and coiled.

  You send a telepathic message to the short, dusky woman:

       "I fear that they do not confide such matters to me, and I do not know how valuable he is to the Byn."

  The dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man stands up from a black-painted bar.

  You send a telepathic message to the short, dusky woman:

       "For now, I can take him away from you, though, while you... decide."

  The short, dusky woman sends you a telepathic message:

       "I see."

  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.

  The robust, coppery-curled teen attention lingers on the contents of her finely made glass goblet as she fidgets uneasily.

  Adding curtly, the freckled, light-skinned man says, in sirihish:

       "And all of the Warriors in my Sept can do that, and keep civil tongues in their heads."

  Shrugging his shoulders, the freckled, light-skinned man says, in sirihish:

       "Small wonder you have difficulty finding contracts."

   

  You contact the sinewy, obsidian-haired man with the Way.

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman stands up from a black-painted bar.

  You send a telepathic message to the sinewy, obsidian-haired man:

       "My apologies for having to depart so abruptly.  I'm certain you understand."

  With a smirk, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man asks the freckled, light-skinned man, in southern-accented sirihish:

       "Aye, perhaps I should turn around'n head back home, hm?"

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman moves down the bar and pauses near the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man.

  Inclining his head deeply, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says to the freckled, light-skinned man, in southern-accented sirihish:

       "Find m'when yeh think of anythin'."

  The dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man looks down at the spangled-blond, muscular woman.

  Touching a hand to his elbow, you say to the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man, in sirihish:

       "Not without walking with me first."

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman lowers her hand, glancing up to the spangled-blond, muscular woman, as well.

  The dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man nods to you, beginning to walk to the doorway.

  The short, dusky woman fingers the hilt of her razor-sharp, hawk-etched halfsword, then drops her hand smoothly to the bartop, maintaining a silence.

  In her strange thin falsetto, giving weight to the first few syllables, the spangled-blond, muscular woman asks the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man, in sirihish:

       "No offense, Sergeant, but I think you're creating a small disturbance. Perhaps you'd step out and return another time?"

  You contact the spangled-blond, muscular woman with the Way.

   

  At a black-painted bar, you overhear the sinewy, obsidian-haired man say in sirihish, smiling curiously in the freckled, light-skinned man's direction, tilting his head to the side:

       "Surely you have a stable or two that needs cleaning, Chosen Lord?"

  You send a telepathic message to the spangled-blond, muscular woman:

       "I'll keep an eye on him, Sid, and let you know where he is if you need him."

  Sternly, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man looks down at the spangled-blond, muscular woman.

  Voice cool, calm, level, the short, dusky woman says to the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man, in sirihish:

       "I would have found that insulting before I was Chosen, Sergeant. Watch your tongue more carefully. You're obviously unfamiliar with northern customs."

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman's gaze locks calm and steady on the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man.

  Turning, eyeing the spangled-blond, muscular woman a moment before speaking, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says to the short, dusky woman, in southern-accented sirihish:

       "Perhaps yeh could enlighten me."

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's hands reach for her hood as she glances between the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man and the spangled-blond, muscular woman.

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman asks the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man, in sirihish:

       "Like I said, no offense. Just trying to keep the peace. But then too, I'm straight serious. Come back another day, huh?"

  The dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says to the short, dusky woman, in southern-accented sirihish:

       "'Cause I don't know th'diference between a compliment'n an insult here. They's both seem t'come'n go th'same way."

  The short, dusky woman says to the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man, in sirihish:

       "Perhaps you should walk with apprentice Aja Driamusek before you put your dung-covered boot further into that mouth of yours, Sergeant."

   

  Frowning, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man walks south.

  You follow the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man, and walk south.

   

   

  North Road [NESW]

     The stark white of this wide stone road lies nestled between the rise and fall of a conglomerated jumble of eclectically styled buildings. Passing through the city, the road is kept clean of any blowing sand and forest debris.  The pale backbone cuts a decisive line east across the

  bustling metropolis towards what remains of the Old City. 

     The pale white of the road merges with a newer road just to the east. Further in the distance, the crumbled ruins of the old city can be seen rising up above the newer walls that have been built up around them.  Set on the north side of the road is a large two-story tavern.  On the south side of the road is a large wagon yard. 

   

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman relinquishes her hood, accompanying the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man with formally correct posture.

  The dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man raises the hood of a hooded, brown military aba.

  The tall figure in a hooded, brown military aba asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:

       "Where yeh wanna walk to?"

  His purple-inked dragon-tattooed features twisting into a dark grimace, the tall figure in a hooded, brown military aba says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

       "Allanak'd be a good place t'begin, I'm thinkin'."

   

  The spangled-blond, muscular woman sends you a telepathic message:

       "Your solution was a lot more elegant than mine, Bard. Thank you for the help."

  With a fixedly polite smile, you ask the tall figure in a hooded, brown military aba, in sirihish:

       "... Have you had opportunity to tour the city during your time here?"

  The tall figure in a hooded, brown military aba says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

       "No."

  You send a telepathic message to the spangled-blond, muscular woman:

       "Elegant, though I would have enjoyed yours more if it could have provoked him into being thrown into the jails.  And please, call me Aja.  Or Apprentice, if you will use my title."

   

  With a slight nod as she looks out over the commons, you say to the tall figure in a hooded, brown military aba, in sirihish:

       "Then let’s walk to the gardens.  They've calmed hotter heads than yours."

   

  You are Aja, of many peoples.

  Objective: To learn to fight - and still be thought weak.

  You are 27 years, 1 months, and 206 days old,

   

   

  The Sun King's Sanctuary [NESWUD]

     A polished, white marble floor covers the ground of this expansive room, gleaming under the light of...

  
  Continue Reading...
• 

  Memoir #8 - The Siblings (Ilune and Chaska) by Rairen
  Added on Oct 27, 2009

  In the midst of the vibrant, crowded King's Age Celebration for Elithan Winrothol, two tribal guests pull the templar's partisan aside for a quieter performance.

  ---

  You are Aja, of many people.

  Objective: To find a purpose.

  You are 33 years, 0 months, and 89 days old.

   

  It is late morning on Dzeda, the 185th day of the Descending Sun,

  In the Year of Jihae's Vengeance, year 45 of the 21st Age.

   

   

  A Large, Airy Gallery [S]

     This portion of the huge tent is draped in swags of colorful silk and strung with flickering glass-sided lanterns.  The entire northern wall's white canvas has been painted into a striking mural depicting a tablelands scene: towering red spires and cliffs overlook regions shaded in hues of yellow, grey, and orange.  To the south can be seen a stage with seating arranged around it. 

  A low circular sparring platform decked out with red and white silk is here.

  The stocky, burgundy haired man is standing here.

  The strapping, burnished-haired man is standing here.

  The curvy, baobab-haired woman is standing here.

  The willowy, krath-kissed woman is standing here.

  The sinewy, onyx-haired woman is standing here.

  The bulging, grey-skinned dwarf is standing here.

  The scarred, dark-skinned half-elf is standing here.

  The tall, spare, dark woman is standing here.

  The thick, curly-haired half-giant stands here.

  A squat, tattooed guard stands here.

  The delicate, soot-braided man is standing here.

  The husky, onyx-haired man is standing here.

  The worn man with wild, curly hair is standing here.

  The delicate, lofty woman is standing here.

  The athletic, olive-skinned man is standing here.

  The young, slender half-elf woman is standing here.

  The slender, lavender-eyed man is standing here.

  The tall, whiskey-eyed woman is standing here.

  The slim, copper-haired young man stands in the crowd, watching the spectacle.

  The mustard dwarf is standing here.

  The sinewy, weather-worn man is standing here.

  The tawny, braid-crowned half-giant is standing here.

  The braid-tressed young woman is standing here.

  The lofty, deeply-bronzed woman is standing here.

  The tow-headed, one eyed half-elf is standing here.

  The pepper-stubbled, olive-skinned man is standing here with arms folded.

  The small, dark-skinned young man is standing here, looking tired.

  The short, dusky woman loiters near the back of the room, observing.

  The lean, wild-looking man is standing here.

  The limber, krath-ruptured man is standing here, looking a bit winded.

  The supple, jasper-curled young man is standing here.

  The gurth-bellied half-giant soldier looms here, gazing intently about.

  The earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar is standing here.

  The one-eyed half-giant Tuluki soldier is standing here.

  A half-giant Tuluki soldier looms here in staunch silence.

  The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar is standing here.

   

   

  Looking inside a low circular sparring platform, you see:

  Within a Sparring Platform [Leave]

   

     Roughly twenty-five cords across and raised a cord or two from the ground, this platform is crafted in sections of wood that can be broken apart and pieced together.  The combat boundaries are denoted in red and white intertwined lines dyed into the leather mats atop the platform.  The platform itself appears to be quite springy despite its mostly wooden structure.

  A light wooden sparring axe lies here.

  The tow-headed, one eyed half-elf is standing here.

  The bulging, grey-skinned dwarf is standing here.

  The stout, crook-nosed man is standing here.

   

  You feel a headache coming on.

  The delicate, lofty woman has arrived from the south.

  The delicate, lofty woman strolls in casually, a hand on her hip with her other playing with her hair.

  Shaking her head, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar, in sirihish:

       "Apparently I'm not good at this betting thing."

  On a platform, the stout, crook-nosed man says, in sirihish:

      "Nex' up...  Dargan an' Rannick."

  Glancing wanly into her bracelet of twisted red and white feathers, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says, in sirihish:

       "Two on Dargan."

  The delicate, lofty woman approaches you, tapping your shoulder.

  You send a telepathic message to your favorite southern diplomat:

       "It may not be immediate, but I can see for a pulse of it within the Circle.  A good bard is..."

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman turns her head, looking to the delicate, lofty woman with a curious smile.

  Tilting her head a little, you whisper to the delicate, lofty woman in sirihish:

       "... What can I do for you, my dear?"

  Leaning in, the delicate, lofty woman whispers to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I is wondering if you is wanting to play music for brother of mine and I so we can dance, friend Seeker."

  With a slight crease to her forehead, you whisper to the delicate, lofty woman in sirihish:

       "Inside?  If you wish it, of course."

  You feel such overwhelming relief!

  On a platform, still grinning, the stumpy, gnarled dwarf says to the stout, crook-nosed man, in sirihish:

       "Ah always wanted ta get me ass beat by a female stump."

  Nodding, the delicate, lofty woman whispers to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:

   

       "I is letting brother of mine know."

   

  You send a telepathic message to your favorite southern diplomat:

       "... My pardon, as I was saying, a good bard can make a home for themselves in most places."

  The delicate, lofty woman turns and walks southward through the crowd.

  The delicate, lofty woman walks south.

  s (edging along the wall)

   

  A Large, Airy Gallery [NW]

     This portion of the huge tent is dominated by a low stage with seating arranged around it.  The billowing canvas walls of the tent are lined with swags of colorful silk, as well as a variety of murals painted straight onto the canvas walls.  Glass-shaded lanterns are strung about to give off a delicate glow at night, or supplement the sunlight filtered through the tent's walls during the day. 

  A couple of empty large purple wine casks are here by the table.

  A bleached wooden cask with a cork stopper stands here.

  A bleached wooden cask is here in a corner.

  An empty cask of strong purple belshun wine sits here.

  A cask of purple belshun wine is here in a corner.

  A large wooden cask, etched with flames, rests here.

  An empty large wooden cask, etched with flames, rests here.

  Painted in a myriad of colors, backed by a huge silt-horror shell, a large, well-lit stage is here.

  Atop an intricately carved table is an oblong, etched obsidian tray.

  An oblong obsidian tray has been set here.

  Bracketing the stage on the right side is a low, oval maroon baobab table.

  Bracketing the stage on the left side is a low, oval maroon baobab table.

  Near the center of the room is a long, pale-veined marble table.

  A rectangular tray made of cylini wood sits here, etchings adorning its sides.

  A carved wooden tray lies here.

   

  You hear a man's voice from the north say, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I take that."

  You hear a woman's voice from the north say, in sirihish:

       "Two whites on Dargan?"

  (And the chatter from the fighting contest continues northward.)

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman rubs the back of her neck with a silk-gloved hand, the other still holding a drink.

  The delicate, lofty woman smiles to you, touching her temple.

  With an easy smile to the delicate, lofty woman, you sip from your sun-adorned, red stone cup.

  Plucking one up, you get your fruit-stuffed tart from an oblong, etched obsidian tray.

  A look of relief on her features, you take a bite of your fruit-stuffed tart.

  Honey lends this pastry a sweet taste, while fruit and nuts make it rich, the flavors mingling together for delicious satisfaction. 

  The delicate, lofty woman smiles as she glances west.

  Trotting, the delicate, lofty woman walks west.

  To the west is an Airy Entrance.

  [Near]

  The delicate, lofty woman is standing here.

  The dark-skinned, scarred man is standing here.

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman waits, looking into the next room and walking through the sparse crowds here.

  Relaxing into a seat, you sit at a highly polished table.

  Your favorite southern diplomat sends you a telepathic message:

       "I think it would be good. If we're to seek peace and acceptance, cultures should be exchanged, albeit slowly."

  Your favorite southern diplomat sends you a telepathic message:

       "Naki are traditionally skeptical of anything foreign."

  You send a telepathic message to your favorite southern diplomat:

       "... Precisely.  It is not something that can change in a year, or even in our lifetimes, perhaps, hm?  But it is a worthy cause, nonetheless."

  You send a telepathic message to your favorite southern diplomat:

       "*amused* They come around, given time.  Particularly if we send some of our rougher performers."

  (The political niceties drift into more serious topics, while Aja waits.)

  You think:

       "... My, what an orator he's turning out to be."

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman crosses her legs beneath your swirling skirt of gauzy blue sandcloth.

  The delicate, lofty woman has arrived from the west, tugging along the athletic, olive-skinned man by the hand.

  The athletic, olive-skinned man has arrived from the west.

  Glancing up to the delicate, lofty woman and smiling, you sip from your sun-adorned, red stone cup.

  To you, waving a hand to you, the delicate, lofty woman exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Us is here, Seeker!"

  You send a telepathic message to your favorite southern diplomat:

       "... You are a very cruel man.  I think I will enjoy our... relationship."

  The athletic, olive-skinned man sighs deeply and shyly as he follows the delicate, lofty woman's by the hand, glancing around as he steps into the crowded room.

  Gently tugging back at the delicate, lofty woman's without much effort, the athletic, olive-skinned man exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "..I not want to dance.. I is shy!"

  With a quiet chuckle, starting to stand, you ask, in sirihish:

       "Where would you have me, Ilune Jal Tavan?"

  Obviously excited as she stops, both her hands behind her, holding the athletic, olive-skinned man in place, the delicate, lofty woman exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Here!"

  With a flickering smile and shake of her head, you look up at the athletic, olive-skinned man.

   

  Proud and lofty of stature, this young man's body is lean and muscular, with broad shoulders and an athletic frame.  His skin is fittingly tanned; his dark olive skin has begun to wear smooth, yet retains its youthful structure.  Thick brown-black hair falls past his shoulders, bound away from his face in a tail at the base of his neck by a dark leather cord.  His eyes, often shaded by a few roguish locks, are of a like color to his hair, and yet, subtly, speckled with light violet and pale blue.  His face has a proud forehead and a slender nose, flared slightly at the nostrils.  His high cheek bones and a clean shaven jawline match the rest of his regal look. 

   

  The slender, lavender-eyed man has arrived from the north, rubbing his forehead.

  The delicate, lofty woman whirls around, her ruffled blue silk blouse fluttering with the commotion.

  As she pulls out her silvery-gray lute, you say to the athletic, olive-skinned man, in sirihish:

       "Chaska, my friend, don't be shy for me."

  With a tender hand, you get your silvery grey pymlithe lute from your light brown, leather instrument case.

  The slender, lavender-eyed man gets his sun-adorned, red stone cup from an intricately-sculpted marble table.

  Laying it aside, you put your light brown, leather instrument case onto a highly polished table.

  To the athletic, olive-skinned man, tapping a finger to his lips, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I is waiting for this for all those months I was gone, brother of mine."

  Sighing deeply and miserably as he slides a hand to the small of the delicate, lofty woman's back and another in her hand, the athletic, olive-skinned man exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "..I not know how to dance.. Is so crowded..!"

  The slender, lavender-eyed man drinks ginka wine from his sun-adorned, red stone cup.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman brushes a gloved hand over the strings while the other twists idly at some of the wooden pegs that line its neck.

  With a glance to the delicate, lofty woman, amused, you stop using your pair of short midnight-blue silk gloves, revealing a tattoo of a six-pronged star.

  Sadly, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "But I is so happy that us is going to dance, brother of mine..."

  The delicate, lofty woman sighs, her eyes dipping down to her pair of shaggy quirri-hide boots.

  Revealing her missing two fingers in the process, you put your pair of short midnight-blue silk gloves into your fine red sash.

  The slender, lavender-eyed man grins a bit, face reddened slightly.

  With a mock-reproving frown, you say to the athletic, olive-skinned man, in sirihish:

       "Chaska, look how you've hurt her feelings.  Don't be cruel."

  Lowering his head some before coming up with a bright smile as he nods slightly in the delicate, lofty woman's direction, the athletic, olive-skinned man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I is happiest when you is happy, beloved sister of mine, you is knowing that.."

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman twists in her seat, pushing it back to allow her arms room.

  The delicate, lofty woman leans her cheek on the athletic, olive-skinned man's, placing a hand on his hip and her other wrapping around his neck.

  The slender, lavender-eyed man holds his sun-adorned, red stone cup loosely, glancing between you and the athletic, olive-skinned man.

  Calling over to her, you ask the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:

       "Slow or quick, my dear?"

  His words a bit loud but not quite slurred, the slender, lavender-eyed man asks, in sirihish:

       "Are we listening to -the- Aja play?"

  The delicate, lofty woman gestures at herself, pressed close to the athletic, olive-skinned man.

  Lifting her chin to call out, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "What you is thinking, Seeker? Us is ready to dance slow."

  Perking up at the sound of the slender, lavender-eyed man's voice, the ethereal, fair-haired woman cracks a wry smile in his direction.

  The delicate, lofty woman rests her cheek against the athletic, olive-skinned man's chest.

  Voice a murmur as she lets her hands brush over your silvery grey pymlithe lute's strings, you say, in sirihish:

       "As you wish..."

  The melody that sings from the ethereal, fair-haired woman's lute is a soft one, even a sad one, rich and unhurried.

  Taking a few steps back and then forward once more, holding the delicate, lofty woman to him by the waist, chuckling merrily as he guides her around briefly by the hand, the athletic, olive-skinned man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Maybe quick would make misery of I end faster.."

  The delicate, lofty woman nudges the athletic, olive-skinned man, grunting.

  Swaying to the melody, the slender, lavender-eyed man says, in sirihish:

       "Oh..."

  A look of contentment settling over her like a veil, the ethereal, fair-haired woman plays a quiet melody, pale eyes following the athletic, olive-skinned man and the delicate, lofty woman.

  The delicate, lofty woman steps to each side in turn, her hips swinging under her long purple linen skirt.

  Voice soft beneath the gentle, unhurried song, you say, in sirihish:

       "There need not be only two dancers..."

  The delicate, lofty woman takes a step back from the athletic, olive-skinned man, her fingers trailing along his jaw before she hops three steps back to him.

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman cracks a quiet smile.

  The athletic, olive-skinned man rests his chin on the delicate, lofty woman's shoulder as he hums the quiet melody, swaying her gently back and forth as he carries her around in a slow dance around the crowded area.

  You think:

       "Always the player and never the dancer."

  (hemote) Beneath her breath, the ethereal, fair-haired woman hums a harmony to the melody beneath her hands.

  The delicate, lofty woman spins around on her heel, pressing her back to the athletic, olive-skinned man with her hand curling up to cup the athletic, olive-skinned man's cheek.

  Feeling impulsive, you think:

       "... Oh, why not, Aja?"

  To herself, pale eyes thoughtful, peaceful, you sing, in sirihish:

       "They say the wind blows over the plains, softly...

        ... softly, softly...."

  You sing, in sirihish:

       "And the tall grass bends, and the low trees too...."

  Her touch light against your silvery grey pymlithe lute, you sing, in sirihish:

       "And all the while my heart's out there,

        ... wandering, wandering...."

  The delicate, lofty woman leans her head back against his chest with her eyes closing. She lets out a soft, contented sigh.

  You sing, in sirihish:

       "Looking for something by the name of you."

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman's melody rises and falls beneath her hands, in time with her quiet breathing.

  You sing, in sirihish:

       "They say the wind blows over the plains,

        ...wildly, wildly...."

  The slender, lavender-eyed man slowly salsas toward your table, cup in hand.

  The athletic, olive-skinned man presses a hand to the delicate, lofty woman's stomach as she comes spinning back into his arms against him, swaying left and right with slow footsteps as he murmurs quietly in her ear.

  Voice quiet, fragile, lacking strength but not trying for it, you sing, in sirihish:

       "They say the wind blows over the plains,

        ...wildly, wildly...."

  The delicate, lofty woman swivels from side to side, placing her hand over the hand of the athletic, olive-skinned man's on her stomach.

  You sing, in sirihish:

       "And the nighthawks screech and the wild kanks too."

  Looking up to the slender, lavender-eyed man, surprised for a moment, you sing, in sirihish:

       "And all that while, my heart's out there

        .. calling, calling...."

  You sing, in sirihish:

       "Looking for something by the name of you."

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman casts a flickering smile up to the slender, lavender-eyed man, features composed, tranquil.

  You sing, in sirihish:

       "And the wind blows to and the wind blows fro,"

  The athletic, olive-skinned man smiles warmly into the delicate, lofty woman's eyes, lost in her gaze and the embrace before gently sending her forward in a playful but gentle motion, before pulling her back to him, sliding his arm back around her waist.

  The slender, lavender-eyed man sways a bit by the table, moving rhythmically.

  The delicate, lofty woman kisses the athletic, olive-skinned man softly under his chin, beginning to press against him with her hip's dipping motions.

  You sing, in sirihish:

       "And my heart's held in my hand,"

  You sing, in sirihish:

       "And the wind blows warm, the wind blows cold,"

  Biting down on the edge of her lip, you sing, in sirihish:

       "As I look for a place to stand."

  The delicate, lofty woman's hand strokes along the side of the athletic, olive-skinned man's face affectionately, her green eyes glazing over as she stares up at him.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman trails off, looking to her hands as they carry the melody with fluid ease, the song ising, strengthening.

  As easily, the wistful song quiets and the ethereal, fair-haired woman takes in a soft breath, words slipping from her mouth.

  You sing, in sirihish:

       "They say the wind blows over the plains,

        ... always, always...."

  The delicate, lofty woman whispers something to the athletic, olive-skinned man.

  Looking back to the athletic, olive-skinned man and the delicate, lofty woman, eyes softening, you sing, in sirihish:

       "And the dry sand blows, and the red dust too."

  The slender, lavender-eyed man flops down into a chair next to you, low-lidded eyes gazing off into nothing.

  The athletic, olive-skinned man closes his eyes slowly, murmuring a few more words into the delicate, lofty woman's ear as both hands reaches down, cupping the delicate, lofty woman's backside, swaying to the rhythm of the music being played by you.

  Dropping her eyes to the floor, you sing, in sirihish:

       "And all that while my heart's out there,

        ... lonely, lonely...."

  You sing, in sirihish:

       "Looking and searching for something like you."

  The delicate, lofty woman murmurs back to the athletic, olive-skinned man, her entire body swaying into a rhythmic swing.

  Too-long, tangled strands of hair falling across her face, the ethereal, fair-haired woman lets her melody ease, slipping away beneath her hands while she turns her head to look to the slender, lavender-eyed man.

  You feel touched by the emotion.

  The delicate, lofty woman reaches down for the athletic, olive-skinned man's hand at her back, moving it to one of her hips.

  As he quietly repeats the words being sang by you as he continues to sway back and forth, holding the delicate, lofty woman close to him in both arms, ignoring the rest of the crowded room, the athletic, olive-skinned man whispers something to the delicate, lofty woman.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman plays with quiet grace, half-watching the athletic, olive-skinned man and the delicate, lofty woman and half giving them privacy, her melody continuing long after the words fade away.

  The slender, lavender-eyed man glances to you briefly, shadowed eyes distant, before taking another swing of his sun-adorned, red stone cup.

  Staring at him lovingly, the delicate, lofty woman whispers something to the athletic, olive-skinned man.

  You think:

       "What an elusive emotion."

  The slender, lavender-eyed man puts his sun-adorned, red stone cup onto a highly polished table.

  The tawny, braid-crowned half-giant has arrived from the west.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman takes in a slow breath, chest rising and falling beneath your loose-cut white linen blouse while she plays, slow and sweet for the dancing couple.

  The delicate, lofty woman halts in her dancing suddenly, her eyes flitting open toward you.

  Pushing past a couple of elves, the tawny, braid-crowned half-giant walks north.

  The athletic, olive-skinned man smiles warmly up at the delicate, lofty woman's as he gives her a lingering kiss to her forehead, then, after slowly stepping back from her, his fingers still intertwining into her own, he takes a slight thankful bow in your direction.

  Meeting the delicate, lofty woman's eyes, the ethereal, fair-haired woman lifts her hands away from the strings of your silvery grey pymlithe lute, the song fading from the hall.

  The delicate, lofty woman bows slightly to you, a pleased smile on her face.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman returns the delicate, lofty woman's bow, the tilt of her head deep with respect.

  The delicate, lofty woman whispers something to the athletic, olive-skinned man.

  You feel a chill.  A good chill.

  With a self-conscious straightening, the ethereal, fair-haired woman sits up and reaches for the gloves tucked unceremoniously into her sash.

  To you, taking a step away from the athletic, olive-skinned man with his hand held tightly, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I is real happy now, Seeker. You is great friend."

  You get your pair of short midnight-blue silk gloves from your fine red sash.

  At your table, the slender, lavender-eyed man says in sirihish, lazily in his chair, a hand on a highly polished table, tone concentrated and quiet:

       "Well played... you composed it...?"

  Smiling warmly as he approaches you, reaching for his huge, darkly-stained sandcloth knapsack with his free hand, the athletic, olive-skinned man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I is thanking you again for beautiful melodies of yours, Seeker friend, them always make I remember best memories of mine, shared with sister of mine."

  The athletic, olive-skinned man gets his pile of allanaki coins from his huge, darkly-stained sandcloth knapsack.

  The athletic, olive-skinned man gives you (a healthy number of) coins.

  Her voice soft, still, you say to the athletic, olive-skinned man, in sirihish:

       "I did think you would be.  Enjoy your happiness, friend."

  The athletic, olive-skinned man presses a few coins in your hand and then inclines his head thankfully once more.

  At your table, you say in sirihish, with a simple shake of her head to the slender, lavender-eyed man:

       "I did not.  It is a song of the north, but it is not mine."

  To the athletic, olive-skinned man, turning from you, the delicate, lofty woman asks, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Us is wanting to do something else now, brother of mine?"

  Accepting the coins with a gracious smile, you say to the athletic, olive-skinned man, in sirihish:

       "Your words are honor enough, Chaska, but I do thank you for this."

  With a sidelong smile to him, you say to the slender, lavender-eyed man, in sirihish:

       "It's been one of my favorites since I was a girl..."

  The slender, lavender-eyed man leans over in his chair lazily, glancing north.

  Dipping his head into a quick nod to the delicate, lofty woman as he glances around, before smiling once more to her, the athletic, olive-skinned man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Yes, us go do something else while us wait for next auctions? Maybe someone will tell us when it begins.."

  At your table, the slender, lavender-eyed man says in sirihish, glancing to you:

       "It is a lovely song..."

  Lifting her pale eyes to her, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:

       "... I hope it pleases you, Ilune.  Please say if I can play for you again.  I do enjoy watching you dance."

  At your table, you say in sirihish, meeting the slender, lavender-eyed man's eyes:

       "It is."

  Masking her missing fingers, you pull your pair of short midnight-blue silk gloves onto your hands.

  To you, glancing over, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I is wanting to dance much in this city of yours. I is sure you will, friend Aja."

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman smiles to the delicate, lofty woman, quietly, and offers her a deep nod of thanks.

  The slender, lavender-eyed man's features falter at your gaze seemingly as he glances away.

  The athletic, olive-skinned man smiles warmly once more in your direction before gently dragging the delicate, lofty woman away from the crowd and towards the exit.

  The athletic, olive-skinned man walks west.

  The delicate, lofty woman walks west.

   

   

  You are Aja, of many people.

  Objective: To find a purpose.

  You are 33 years, 0 months, and 89 days old.

   

  It is late morning on Dzeda, the 185th day of the Descending Sun,

  In the Year of Jihae's Vengeance, year 45 of the 21st Age.

   

   

  A Large, Airy Gallery [S]

  Continue Reading...

• 

  Memoir #7 - The Student (Peloquin) by Rairen
  Added on Oct 27, 2009

  The escape from Allanak buying her status and a Jihaen patron, Aja uses a mix-up over cloaks to test her most favorite student.

  ---

  The short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap = Peloquin
  The bronzed, stubble-bearded man = Corporal Valin of His Legions

  It is dawn on Nekrete, the 181st day of the Low Sun,

  In the Year of Whira's Vengeance, year 38 of the 21st Age.

  North Salt Road [NSW]

  Rows of pale stones form the backbone for this broad avenue, settled into the ground with graceful fervor.  Decorating the edge of the street, the buildings and storefronts are universally adorned with garish and tawdry sculptures, bas reliefs, and murals.  The road is filled with a continual throng of humans and demi-humans alike as they scurry about the bustle of daily life. 

     The sounds of a rowdy commotion spills out onto the streets from the building to the west.  A trio of humanoid sculptures are caught before the junction between two roads, the crowds passing around them.  An odd-looking sculpture surrounds a stone bench off to one side of the road. 

  It is a warm day.

  Gritty sand blows in from the west, piling in small dunes.

   

  You raise the hood of a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak.

  The bronzed, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:

       "The barracks are slow of late. Thought I could offer you a drink or something? Unless that sounds boring -"

  The short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap has arrived from the west.

  You send a telepathic message to the bronzed, stubble-bearded man:

       "Slow?  In truth... Oh, were... you resting recently?"

  Steps a touch slower as she lingers in the intersection, you look at the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap.

  Here is a short lissome young man still in the teenage years of development. His soft skin holds a deeply-bronzed tone, making it apparent the young man isno stranger to the savage rays of Suk-Krath.  A mass of thick chocolate hairhangs loosely from his head in a slight shag with the occasional clump coveringhis curious deep green eyes which are covered with barely noticeable goldspeckles.  Beneath his fine nose lies a soft, gentle-lipped mouth.  His chin isslender, with a vaguely squared jawline and completely lacking in any noticeablefacial hair.  The young man's slim build shows off what limited muscle he has. His legs are slightly toned and limber however, most likely due to a life ofrunning errands.  The short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap is in excellent condition.

   

  The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak casts the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap a shadowed smile.

  The bronzed, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:

       "I've been busy in the warrens, why?"

  You send a telepathic message to the bronzed, stubble-bearded man:

       "A giant roc was seen flying over the city."

  The short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap inclines his head politely to you.

  The bronzed, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:

       "...Roc?"

   

  You send a telepathic message to the bronzed, stubble-bearded man:

       "Yes, a roc.  It's a giant... hawk, for lack of better description, if you are unfamiliar with the creature.  His Faithful believe it to have been a one-time sighting, but are, I understand, reviewing it."

  The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak glances skyward, for a moment, with a rueful shake of her head.

  You think:

       "Valin, decide where you need me."

  With a hidden smile, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says to you, in sirihish:

       "It was a wild roc."

  Glancing down to him a moment before she smiles, again, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:

       "... It was.  It was."

  You think:

       "And that was not what I was thinking."

  The bronzed, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:

       "When, might I ask?"

  With a bemused shake of her head, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:

       "... And I should learn to confine my use of the Way to when I am sitting."

  You send a telepathic message to the bronzed, stubble-bearded man:

       "Yesterday.  Just after high sun."

  With an apologetic tone, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says to you, in sirihish:

       "I am sorry...I've met you before but your name eludes me."

  (hemote) The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak fights a smile.  Oh, does she fight a smile.

  With a soft click of her tongue, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:

       "... Oh, it's no problem at all.  The name's Ameli."

  You feel oh, so amused.

  You think:

       "Let this be a test."

  Reaching for his facewrap, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says to you, in sirihish:

       "I am Peloquin."

  The short, lithe young man stops using his dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap.

  The bronzed, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:

       "It is dangerous then...?"

  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.

  Looking down at the short, lithe young man, face shadowed by her hood, you ask the short, lithe young man, in sirihish:

       "Oh, that's right.  Aren't you an Aide to a Chosen or some such?"

  You send a telepathic message to the bronzed, stubble-bearded man:

       "That is what His Faithful are endeavoring to discover, but I do not believe they think so."

  With a slight smile, the short, lithe young man says to you, in sirihish:

       "Faithful Lord Elithan, Miss Ameli."

  With a long, drawn out 'oh' sound, you ask the short, lithe young man, in sirihish:

       "I see, I see.  That's an honor, now.  Aren't you a little young to be serving one like him?"

  You think:

       "This is oddly amusing.  I should feign voices more often."

  With a sheepish chuckle, the short, lithe young man says to you, in sirihish:

       "Probably...but he took me in when my mother died, otherwise I would be homeless. I suppose it is the only thing he could think to do with me until I am old enough to serve the Legion."

  With a quiet, rough laugh, you say to the short, lithe young man, in sirihish:

       "Is that the way of it?  Stuck in the city?  Better you'n me, boy."

  The tall figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard has arrived from the south.

  Sidelong, the tall figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard looks down at the short, lithe young man.

  You send a telepathic message to the bronzed, stubble-bearded man:

       "Do not recognize me."

  The short, lithe young man looks up at the tall figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard.

  You send a telepathic message to the bronzed, stubble-bearded man:

       "Pass by me without a glance.  I'm... giving a test to the Aide."

  Along with the short, lithe young man, you look up at the tall figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard.

  With a firm nod, the short, lithe young man says to the tall figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard, in sirihish:

       "Good day Recruit."

  The tall figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard tips his head amiably to the short, lithe young man after a moment.

  The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak dips her chin down as she nods to the tall figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard.

  Calmly, after a moment, the tall figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard says to the short, lithe young man, in sirihish:

       "Find my mind later, if you wish to get some training in."

  The tall figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard walks west.

  You feel highly amused.

  The short, lithe young man forms his mouth into a slightly crooked grin in the direction of the departing figure.

  The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak glances down the road with a snort of laughter.

  Turning to look down at him again, you ask the short, lithe young man, in sirihish:

       "Is that the sort you want to be like?"

  The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak straightens her shoulders, puffing out her chest for 'militaristic' posture.

  You send a telepathic message to the bronzed, stubble-bearded man:

       "You have my deepest thanks, my friend.  I believe I owe you a drink when this is done."

  Tilting his head halfway, the short, lithe young man says to you, in sirihish:

       "No, I don't think I could be as grouchy as Valin."

  Making a soft 'Ah...', you ask the short, lithe young man, in sirihish:

       "So grouchy, is he?  He seems the sort.  What are you going to be, then?  Have a stick up your arse?"

  You think:

       "I... don't know how long I can keep this up.  Oh, my."

  Brightening his deep green eyes, the short, lithe young man says to you, in sirihish:

       "I am going to be a good honest man who works for the good of the Ivory and its people."

  You think:

       "A good answer, a good answer."

  A foreign presence contacts your mind.

  The bronzed, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:

       "Just doing my job, miss Aja."

  The bronzed, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:

       "Good luck with him."

  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.

  Starting to walk again and beckoning to him, you say to the short, lithe young man, in sirihish:

       "Right, of course.  A real noble sort.  Like I said, better you'n me, that's to be sure.  Me, give me the grasslands and I'm happy."

  The short, lithe young man falls in behind you.

  n (with long, quick strides)

   

  North Salt Road [NS]

     Rows of pale stones form the backbone for this broad avenue, settled into the ground with graceful fervor.  Decorating the edge of the street, the buildings and storefronts are universally adorned with garish and tawdry sculptures, bas reliefs, and murals.  The road is filled with a continual throng of humans and demi-humans alike as they scurry about the bustle of daily life.  

     The murals here are especially well-colored, the bright dye calling attention to a row of exaggerated daily scenes.  An enormous sandstone sculpture of a mantis looms over the road from before one of the eastern buildings. 

   

  The short, lithe young man places his dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap onto his face.

  Cloak wrapped tight about her body, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:

       "It's the world out there, boy.  The world out there that you're missing. And -"

  The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak takes a few more, long paces and then comes to a quick halt, whirling to look down at the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap.

  You ask the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:

       "Wait, wait.  So you ain't a soldier yet?"

  Shaking his head, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says to you, in sirihish:

       "I can't be until I am sixteen."

  After a stunned silence, you ask the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:

       "... And so, you're wasting your life in here?"

  The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak shakes her head, moving forward again with long strides.

  (Walking onward and "Ameli" always half a step in front of him...)

  The Road of Merchants [NS]

    Squat, mud-brick structures adorn either side of this dust-covered street, rising up from the ground at varying intervals.  Wide ranging colors can be seen splashed across the vast majority of them, most appearing as brightly painted murals or colorfully woven carpets and tarps.  The road itself is comprised of a sullen, yellow sandstone that has been chiseled into neatly rounded blocks before being cobbled into the ground. 

     A thick wall composed of agafari beams rises up to the east, preventing travel in that direction. 

   

  With a slight shrug, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says to you, in sirihish:

       "No. I am allowed to leave as long as I have someone with me. I can usually get a guard, the Faithful Lord or a recruit to take me out to hunt and such."

  The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak slows down near a group of people gathered near one wall, one of them gesturing wildly to the sky.

  Still walking forward, you ask the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:

       "Oh, right.  A guard.  So I suppose you're too kank-shit scared to come out with a real hunter?"

   

  The Road of Merchants [NS]

     Squat, mud-brick structures adorn either side of this dust-covered street, rising up from the ground at varying intervals.  Wide ranging colors can be seen splashed across the vast majority of them, most appearing as brightly painted murals or colorfully woven carpets and tarps.  The road itself is comprised of a sullen, yellow sandstone that has been chiseled into neatly rounded blocks before being cobbled into the ground. 

     A thick wall composed of agafari beams rises up to the east, preventing travel in that direction. 

   

   

  The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak glances over her shoulder and then steps close to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, shadows falling over her face.

   

  You whisper to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap in sirihish:

       "I'm going to go kill that fucking bird."

  The Road of Merchants [NES]

     Squat, mud-brick structures adorn either side of this dust-covered street, rising up from the ground at varying intervals.  Wide ranging colors can be seen splashed across the vast majority of them, most appearing as brightly painted murals or colorfully woven carpets and tarps.  The road itself is comprised of a sullen, yellow sandstone that has been chiseled into neatly rounded blocks before being cobbled into the ground. 

     A path of cobbled, blue-hued stones runs east. 

   

  With a distinct frown, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says to you, in sirihish:

       "I can go...but I don't want to kill the roc. It's too beautiful and there are so many other purposes for such a creature."

  Stopping again with stunned silence, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:

       "Better purposes?  Name one."

  Ruffling his thick chocolate hair briefly, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says to you, in sirihish:

       "It could be trained and watch over the passage to the Ivory from atop the fortress to the west."

  Silent, again, as she clicks her tongue a few times, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:

       "Trained, huh?  Bet His Faithful would pay a pretty 'sid for something like, wouldn't they..."

  With a meek shrug, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in sirihish:

       "Probably."

  Shoulder almost touching his own, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:

       "Well, here's a deal.  I take you with, Faithful Aide, we find a roc.  I give it a clip to its wing and you help me get a commission with the Faithful."

  The short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap asks you, in sirihish:

       "Is it safe for me out there Miss Ameli?"

  Stopping to spit off to one side, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:

       "Sure'n its safe, if you stay with me and don't do nothin' stupid."

  You say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:

       "I've been hawk trainin' since you were on all fours.  You stay back and down, and ain't nothin'll harm you."

  The short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap asks you, in sirihish:

       "Well I've got some things to do before I can go on such a big trip...maybe you could wait and I could find your minds in a few days?"

  With a slight nod, you ask the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:

       "I think I can wait that long.  We agreed?  You'll speak for me?"

  You feel suddenly overwhelmed and ill from the heat.

  The short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap asks you, in sirihish:

       "Yes, but you understand the roc is bigger than you and it's not at all going to be easy to clip?"

  The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak nods, throwing back her cloak to offer the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap a white linen-gloved, four-fingered hand.

  The harshness in her voice giving way to something softer... and more crystalline, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:

       "Yes, I think I know exactly that, Aide."

  With a surprised widening of his eyes, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap asks you, in sirihish:

       "...Aja?"

  The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak lifts her hands, pulling back the long hood of her cloak.

  You lower the hood of a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak.

  You feel a sudden wave of nausea.

  Pale eyes studying his face, you ask the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:

       "... Yes?"

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman's lips form a thin line.

  The short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap looks at you.

  You think:

       "Keep... it together..."

  You get your leather waterskin from your leather-strapped, rich purple satchel.

  Slowly, you drink the water.

  Still looking at the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, you put your leather waterskin into your leather-strapped, rich purple satchel.

  Slouching his shoulders subtly, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap asks you, in sirihish:

       "Was that a test?"

  With a slight nod, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:

       "Mm-hmm."

  You think:

       "I'm going to be sick, but... this lesson is too sweet..."

  Rubbing a partially healed wounded on his cheek, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in sirihish:

       "Busted..."

  With another, slight nod, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:

       "Mm-hmm."

  Her voice softening as she looks to the sky, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:

       "I know you must... have things to attend to.  We can speak on this later."

  You think:

       "Please, don't let me faint..."

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman’s skin pales, sweat glistening on her skin.

  With a gentle sigh, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says to you, in sirihish:

       "Yes Aja...Light Guide you..."

  With a polite nod, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:

       "And you... Peloquin."

  The short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap walks east.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman waits until the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap is out of sight before she slumps against the wall.

  The short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap = Peloquin
  The bronzed, stubble-bearded man = Corporal Valin of His Legions

  It is dawn on Nekrete, the 181st day of the Low Sun,

  In the Year of Whira's Vengeance, year 38 of the 21st Age.

  North Salt Road [NSW]

  
  Continue Reading...
• 

  Memoir #6 - The Warlord (Tor) by Rairen
  Added on Oct 27, 2009

  Following on his Silver Scorpion's announcement, the Warlord of House Tor demonstrates his interpersonal "soft skills". Ish.

  ---

  It is before dawn on Abid, the 3rd day of the Descending Sun,

  In the Year of Ruk's Peace, year 37 of the 21st Age.

   

  You are Aja, Apprentice of the Bards of Poets' Circle.

  Objective: To survive Allanak.

  You are 24 years, 2 months, and 138 days old,

   

   

  A Broad Barracks [ND Quit Save]

   

  A wide staircase cuts a square well in the middle of the broad chamber, railed off by neat ranks of baobab wood topped by a pale thuja banister.  Placed around the stairwell is an inner formation of slender beds, each with a chest at its foot.  Spread out in a neatly ordered square facing towards the walls is another rank of beds, this one more numerous.

   

  All told, there would be around twenty beds resting in careful precision throughout the spacious barracks.  Two silvery banners, almost six cords in length, hang from the vaulted ceiling proudly displaying a brilliantly

  detailed scorpion in red and black standing victoriously beneath an anakore,its barbed stinger embedded deep into the belly.  Placed on the western wall are two large racks, for holding weapons and armor. 

   

   

  You contact the warbraided, smoke-eyed man with the Way.

   

  You think:

   

       "... It's him?  What an unexpected pleasure."

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman reclines on a plain agafari bed.

   

  You send a telepathic message to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:

   

       "Pardon my intrusion on your thoughts, my Lord."

   

  A foreign presence contacts your mind.

   

  The warbraided, smoke-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:

   

       "Yes, I do."

   

  You feel ruefully amused.

   

  You send a telepathic message to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:

   

       "There were a few minor matters I hoped to inquire with you over, but nothing of any pressing concern.  I've explained them to Emissary Erzsebet, as well, should you have a moment less active than your usual."

   

  The warbraided, smoke-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:

   

       "So many words to say something so simple.  I shall come speak with you this morning."

   

  You send a telepathic message to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:

   

       "A northerners curse, is it, my Lord?  To enjoy the sound of our thoughts so much as to put them into as many words as possible?  I look forward to your visit."

   

  You dissolve the psychic link.

   

   

   

   

  A Large Work Room [NS Save]

   

  Tall walls of red stone rise upwards proudly, proclaiming their protection of the entrance hall to a large building.  The floor is made up of tightly fitted black stone slabs, carefully hewn into square tower shields.  Upon each of the shields is a finely etched scorpion, the small grooves kept free of sand by constant vigilance.  A long table of baobab

  runs north to south, before the western wall.  Upon the table are a variety of tools for repairing armor and weapons.  Before the eastern wall is a long counter, topped with grey slate acting as a work area.  Positioned carefully along the east and western walls are jade sconces cupping small crystals, casting a pale green light across the chamber.

   

   

   

  The warbraided, smoke-eyed man neatly folds his pair of dark-lensed sunslits and tucks them away.

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman steps inside the entryway, shifting into a respectful bow in the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's direction.

   

  The warbraided, smoke-eyed man looks down at you, and studies you in thoughtful silence.

   

  As she straightens, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "How do you do, my Lord?"

   

  Rasping softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "Not terribly unwell, Aja."

   

  (hemote) The bitter aromas of sweat and lye linger in the air around the ethereal, fair-haired woman.

   

  With a careful smile, hands clasping in front of her, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "I see.  It is always a pleasure to have you here, my Lord.  Is there anything I might do for you?"

   

  As he steps over to a solid counter made of baobab and surfaced with slate and casually looks in the large container there, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "Have your squash seeds taken?"

   

  Turning her head to glance to a solid counter made of baobab and surfaced with slate with a soft shake of her head, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "No, my Lord.  Not these last ones, at least.  I was thinking of restarting with a fresh batch."

   

  Glancing around, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "Perhaps someplace with sunlight."

   

  Turning to face you and folding his arms over his chest, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "What 'minor things' do you wish to speak about?"

   

  With an inclination of her head in the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's direction, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "Yes, my Lord.  I will attempt that, next.  As for the minor things, I've been working with the inventories kept here, and I'm worried that if the collection of shells and armor grows..."

   

  As she glances to a heavy agafari chest, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "... that there will be no room to store them."

   

  With a simple shake of her head, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "It is always possible to make do with what is currently here, but I have no desire to let your storeroom turn into a shambles, my Lord, without giving you proper warning."

   

  Speaking in a low hoarse voice as his gaze sweeps the room, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "Your worry and warning are acknowledged.  What is the next 'minor thing'?"

   

  Gesturing to a blue-striped keg with a thin, four-fingered hand, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "... The Barracks once provided a cleaning liquid that helped in caring for your armor.  There is no more, and I wondered if it would be possible to attain a new supply?"

   

  Shifting his gaze to a blue-striped keg, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "It would be beneficial, but I am uncertain where to obtain more.  I obtained that supply by a unique circumstance."

   

  Walking closer to the counter and leaning one hip against it, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "Good that you told Erzsebet.  Perhaps she can locate more.  There is a third 'minor thing'?"

   

  Inclining her head in acknowledgment as she resumes her attentive posture, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "Of course, my Lord.  I will see what wonders soap and persistence can do in its stead."

   

  The warbraided, smoke-eyed man smirks faintly.

   

  After the slightest of pauses, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "... I believe that is all, my Lord, at this moment.  You asked that I remind you of the shortage of chairs in the other room, but that is hardly pressing.  Company is rarely entertained here."

   

  (hemote) A brief smile flickers across the ethereal, fair-haired woman's lips.

   

  You think:

   

       "... What to do about Erzsebet..."

   

  Nodding pleasantly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "You misled me, then, by saying 'a few' instead of 'a couple'."

   

   With the faintest flicker of warmth in her eyes, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "So it would seem, my Lord.  I beg your pardon."

   

  Beckoning with one spike-knuckled hand as he steps away from the counter and walks southward, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "Come with me."

   

  (While he eats, they chat about work and materials until interrupted by his aide's arrival.)

   

  The figure in a hooded, scorpion-embroidered black windcloak moves quietly into the room, pulling her hood down.

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances to the figure in a hooded, scorpion-embroidered black windcloak, from her spot to one side of the warbraided, smoke-eyed man.

   

  The delicate, tribal-inked woman lowers the hood of a hooded, scorpion-embroidered black windcloak.

   

  The warbraided, smoke-eyed man looks down at the delicate, tribal-inked woman.

   

  The delicate, tribal-inked woman walks over and bows before the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, a small smile offered as she stands upright again.

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman inclines her head to the delicate, tribal-inked woman with a polite motion.

   

  Favoring the delicate, tribal-inked woman with a smile and nod, then addressing both her and you as he gestures vaguely, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "If either of you hunger, satisfy."

   

  Lifting a finger as she shakes her head, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "Thank you, my Lord."

   

  The warbraided, smoke-eyed man looks down at you.

   

  Smiling and shaking her head a bit, the delicate, tribal-inked woman says to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:

   

       "I do not want for food, thank you though Warlord."

   

  Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to the delicate, tribal-inked woman, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "I would like to find Aja a hooded cloak and a pair of gloves."

   

  The delicate, tribal-inked woman whispers something to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man.

   

  You feel overjoyed.

   

  (hemote) A touch of interest enters the ethereal, fair-haired woman's polite, pale eyes.

   

  After swallowing his last bite and dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to the delicate, tribal-inked woman, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "That decision is yours."

   

  The warbraided, smoke-eyed man beckons for the delicate, tribal-inked woman to follow.

   

   You think:

   

       "... Why now?  Will the expedition progress?"

   

  You think:

   

       "... Perhaps I'll at least look the part of a living creature..."

   

  The delicate, tribal-inked woman falls in at the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's flank.

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances to the ceiling, one hand brushing at your scorpion-emblazoned slave's collar.

   

  As he turns around and secure the stopper, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks the delicate, tribal-inked woman, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "You wished to speak on some matter.  Can it be discussed in front of Aja?"

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances to the delicate, tribal-inked woman, features serene.

   

  Chuckling slightly, the delicate, tribal-inked woman says to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:

   

       "Well, I was going to ask you questions she had herself so I would not mind."

   

  (And the trio goes off on, of all things, an expedition about the Academy looking for suitable clothing for their – in Erzsebet’s teasing words ‘unpresentable’ - northern slave.)

   

  As he walks over to a locker near the middle of the row, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "Surely we have a pair of gloves somewhere.  So then... have either of you had an interesting experience lately?"

   

  Quietly as she pulls at her cloak, the delicate, tribal-inked woman says to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:

   

       "I ran down to Luirs early this week to spread the word of you looking for dwarves in preparation of your arrival. Since no one had heard of it at all."

   

  The warbraided, smoke-eyed man closes his eyes.

   

  The delicate, tribal-inked woman says to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:

   

       "Of course I did not mention our trip."

   

  Softly with his eyes still closed, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to the delicate, tribal-inked woman, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "And I wish you had not mentioned it now."

   

  To one side, the ethereal, fair-haired woman clears her throat softly, hands remaining folded beneath her cloak.

   

  You think:

   

       "... Luirs.  Please, let me go home."

  Opening his eyes, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "I did not want you to know our destination.  I did not want to tempt you so close to home.  Tell me honestly now, how knowing will affect you."

   

  Looking to him with her pale, calm eyes, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "My Lord, I've given you my word.  I will not broach it, even if you took me within the Heart of the Ivory."

   

  The delicate, tribal-inked woman swallows, looking at the floor.

   

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's hands tense beneath your hooded, red sandcloth windcloak.

   

  Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "You could easily find Elithan's mind now and alert him, if you want to see my party slaughtered.  We will finally see if your words match your.. inaction."

   

  Voice remaining soft, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "Yes, my Lord."

   

  Chewing his lip thoughtfully, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to the delicate, tribal-inked woman, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "Or she could remain here and I could postpone the trip..."

   

  The delicate, tribal-inked woman blinks rapidly, eyes darting away with shame.

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman watches the warbraided, smoke-eyed man with calm serenity, gaze focused on his face.

   

  You feel saddened, immeasurably.

   

  The warbraided, smoke-eyed man purses his lips, deeply thoughtful as he considers.

   

  You think:

   

       "There is nothing more I can do."

   

  Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to the delicate, tribal-inked woman, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "Erzsebet... do calm yourself.  It is that Aja inspires trust, I know."

   

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes flicker closed and then open as she lets out an inaudible breath.

   

  Glancing thoughtfully at you, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to the delicate, tribal-inked woman, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "I was content to never put it to the test, though."

   

  You feel helpless.

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman continues to look to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, pale gaze softer, if still serene.

   

  Looking back to him, her face splotchy, the delicate, tribal-inked woman says to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:

   

       "Warlord, May I be dismissed until you are finished speaking with Aja please."

   

  Rubbing the fingers of his left hand together pensively for a moment before he answers, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to the delicate, tribal-inked woman, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "I suppose you may be.  What's done is done, and probably for the best.  You need not fret."

   

  Bowing quickly, the delicate, tribal-inked woman says to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:

   

       "Thank you for dismissing me Warlord."

   

  The warbraided, smoke-eyed man nods to the delicate, tribal-inked woman.

   

  The delicate, tribal-inked woman turns quickly as she stands, practically bolting for the door.

   

  The delicate, tribal-inked woman walks west.

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman inclines her head to the delicate, tribal-inked woman's back in a polite motion before looking back to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man.

   

  Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "It would seem I do not need to reprimand her for the slip.  She will do it herself."

   

  In a soft tone, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "She... has often treated me with great warmth in the past.  This lesson will be a valuable one for her."

   

  (They walk together through the Academy in silence for a short time, before he decides to change the subject.)

   

  The warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "Have you made progress with any new musical pieces?"

   

  After a thoughtful pause, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "One or two.  It doesn't often occur to me to apply myself in that area, although your piece continues to be a puzzle to me, I will confess, my Lord."

   

  Gruffly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "How could I make it less puzzling?"

   

  A smile crossing her lips, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "How can you make the man less puzzling?  I know not, my Lord.  It is no credit to my talent or training, but I hope you will not criticize my kin for my failings."

   

  Grinning crookedly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "That is an amusing concept.  You souring my good opinion of Circle Bards.  The reality is the complete opposite."

   

  Returning his smile with a touch of warmth mixed with embarrassment, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "... My Lord is too generous and must have had a low opinion of my kin, indeed."

   

  Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "As the only other two I met wished me dead, my opinion has been colored."

   

  Clearing her throat softly, behind one hand, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "I... see, my Lord.  My pardon for not realizing."

   

  (Gossiping a bit of mutual acquaintances, Aja gives her millionth slip up of the day and mentions their difference in ages.)

   

  Grinning faintly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "During your childhood.  You do make me feel old.  How many years have you seen now, Aja?"

   

  The warbraided, smoke-eyed man walks up.

   

  Her smile growing thoughtful as she glances to the ceiling, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "I... must be nearly twenty-five, my Lord."

   

  Gesturing to a chest, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "Take what you wish to bring with you, and guess my age.  I just celebrated another year."

   

  A motor tic briefly contorts the left side of the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's face.

   

  Casting him a smile over her shoulder as she moves to her cot, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "... Given your experience and comfort in leadership, I would guess you to have lived some... thirty-five years?"

   

  With an unusually tender hand, you get your dark-stained baobab lute from a scorpion emblazoned chest.

   

  As he reaches up to massage at his spasming cheek, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "Thirty three."

   

  Her smile remaining gentle as she toys with her bag, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "... There, not too much of an overestimate on my part.  My congratulations, as well, on having seen another year.  Did you celebrate it?"

   

  Adjusting your sizeable leather backpack on her shoulder, the ethereal, fair-haired woman crosses the floor back to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's side.

   

  With a smile of thanks, you look up at the warbraided, smoke-eyed man.

   

  This man has his tidy black hair tied with worn leather and braided

   

  into a style worn for battle.  Tightly plaited, his warbraid is centered and hangs between his neat tapered shoulders.  His build is trim and sinewy, and what he lacks in imposing size he makes up for with volatile, jumpy reflexes.  The sun's glare has touched his skin, leaving his complexion a mild bronze tan.  Strong features are cleanly shaven, centered by a slightly oversized aquiline nose.  The swirling essence of smoke is captured in the grey-blue irises of his eyes. 

   

  The warbraided, smoke-eyed man is in excellent condition.

   

  Shaking his head, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "I did not.  When I said I did, it was only a colloquialism."

   

  Inclining her head up to him, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "Of course, my Lord.  It is a pity, given how many men of your profession have not had your skill."

   

  Arching a brow, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "Men of my profession?  Against whom are you judging me?  Lyksaes?"

   

  With a creased brow, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "No, my Lord.  Those who take a soldier's life, waging wars and learning the arts of combat.  Nobility or common, it is not an easy life."

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman tilts her head back, craning it to look up to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's eyes.

   

  Shaking his head softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "I lead soldiers, but have never claimed to be one myself.  I am a strategist... a tactician."

   

  Walking to the northern door again, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "You never met my cousin Lord Palimus.  Now that was a noble soldier."

   

  Fondness warming her crystal-like tone, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "As you wish, my Lord.  How you spend your moments of celebration should always be in the manner you most desire, even if it is in quiet."

   

  The warbraided, smoke-eyed man smiles softly over at you.

   

  Falling a step behind him, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "... I did not have the pleasure, it is true.  A noble soldier?"

   

  Gesturing to a tun of water, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "Top off the skin I provided for you.  Yes, Lord Palimus could not be defeated in single combat.  He would personally slay many men on the battlefield.  In truth, I am an exception to the rule in my family, leading from the back as I do."

   

  As she dips the waterskin into the barrel of water, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "... You have alluded to your family's military prowess - both in combat and tactically - in the past.  It is a pleasure to hear of the stories that prove it."

   

  Leveling a finger, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "But my victories are the cleanest.  I lost not a single man in the eradication of the renegade mul outpost."

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman presses a finger to her lips, drying the loose droplet of water there.

   

  The warbraided, smoke-eyed man nods at you.

   

  Glancing to his finger, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "... Exceptional, my Lord."

   

  The warbraided, smoke-eyed man nods at you.

   

  Voice softening, after a pause, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "... Is there anything you would like me to know, during this journey, my Lord?  Appropriate behavior, duties..."

   

  Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "Well... I had done well to keep you unaware of our destination.  I shall have to reconsider some things now that you are."

   

  Gesturing to the rotund, cheery-eyed cook, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "Gather some rations for yourself.  There is food and water on the wagon, but if you can sustain yourself without breaking open those supplies, all the better."

   

  Inclining her head up to him, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "... Yes, my Lord, and I understand your caution."

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman casts the rotund, cheery-eyed cook a polite smile as she crosses over to a solid counter made of baobab and surfaced with slate.

   

  The warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "The lizards are quite hardy, and keep well."

   

  With a polite smile, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "Yes, my Lord.  Thank you for the recommendation."

   

  With a glance back to him, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "... May I ask the anticipated length of this excursion?"

   

  You put your small, roasted barakhan lizard into your sizeable leather backpack.

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman stands at the agafari counter.

   

  Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "It is open-ended.  The duration will be dictated by the completion of my objectives, and not by time spent away from Allanak."

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman nods, closing her bag as she returns to her place at the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's side.

   

  Pausing thoughtfully, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "I shall have someone feed your birds.  Syure will be along, and probably best they not be."

   

  With a soft murmur of agreement, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "I would appreciate that, my Lord, deeply."

   

  (And, again, they are off... but this time not back to the barracks as Aja expected.  He takes her outside the Academy gates and, presumably, toward the wagonyard.)

   

   

  You raise the hood of a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak.

   

  From beneath the relative protection of her hood, the figure in a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak tilts her head to glance through loose grains of sand to the sky.

   

  Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "There are a number of newly transferred Templars, each trying to make a larger name for himself than his fellows."

   

  Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "Best, I think, if you are unobtrusive as we walk."

   

  After a pause, her voice soft, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "... Yes, my Lord."

   

  The warbraided, smoke-eyed man glances over at the blockish, olive-drab dwarf, giving him a wordless signal with his eyes.

   

  Your mood is now uneasy.

   

  The blockish, olive-drab dwarf nods silently and takes a step back to walk near you.

   

  (hemote) Tension lingers in the figure in a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak's shoulders beneath your hooded, red sandcloth windcloak.

   

  You think:

   

       "... Why did I wish for this?"

   

  The warbraided, smoke-eyed man looks critically up and down the road, then sets off to the west.

   

  You think:

   

       "... Why am I doing this?"

   

  The warbraided, smoke-eyed man looks down at you.

   

  The figure in a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak watches the passing stones below her feet from beneath the shadows of her hood.

   

  The warbraided, smoke-eyed man walks along quietly beside the keg-bellied female dwarf.

   

  You think:

   

       "... I hate... this..."

   

  The warbraided, smoke-eyed man steps out onto the plaza and cuts a path across it.

   

  The figure in a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak walks in silence amidst the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's guards.

   

  The warbraided, smoke-eyed man nods over to the silver-haired, narrow-eyed man in passing.

   

  The keg-bellied female dwarf uses her shield to clear a loitering group of peasants near the intersection of roads.

   

  Jerking his chin at a mid-sized, dark-wood argosy, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "Salarr."

   

  The figure in a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak glances to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man from beneath her hood and nods.

   

  You think:

   

       "... Please, let me go..."

   

  The warbraided, smoke-eyed man walks to the back of a small, black-hide and mekillot-rib wagon.

   

   

   

   

  On a Boarding Plank [U Leave Quit Save]

   

     This large semicircular deck allows for the boarding of this caravan wagon, and is equipped with a guardrail and a small alcove for a guard.  A round trapdoor leads upward into the wagon, and a small extendable ramp eases the way off of the wagon.  Tangles of casting lines and giant hair

  ropes provide a netting for climbing upwards and also for securing the wagon against the vicious sandstorms which whip across the deserts. 

   

   

  (hemote) The figure in a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak lets out an inaudible breath.

   

  The warbraided, smoke-eyed man nods firmly to the wiry, scar-laden man as he crosses the deck and approaches the portal.

   

  Stopping at the back of the cargo hold and looking out over it, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "Alright then..."

   

  The figure in a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak turns, craning her head back to look up to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man - her hood sliding back from her face in the process.

   

  You lower the hood of a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak.

   

  Your mood is now anxious.

   

  Pointing to a padded cloth hammock, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "That hammock and the chest beneath it comprise my personal space."

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances to a padded cloth hammock with a nod of acknowledgement.

   

  You feel as though it would be easier to look at the Warlord without a slave's collar on.

   

  Pointing to the chest by the table, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "Food stuffs are stored there"

   

  Following his hand, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "... Will a cook be responsible for preparing meals?"

   

  Shaking his head, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "No.  There is a grill there we can pull out onto the deck, but most of the food is already cooked and will keep a while."

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman makes a soft murmur of agreement as she resumes her 'inspection' of the Cargo Hold.

   

  Walking over to the chest near the back of the hold, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "And here is the general supply chest."

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman joins the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, keeping to his side as she looks through the contents of a bone sided chest.

   

  Nodding to the chest, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "You may use one of the bedrolls within"

   

  With a flickering smile, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "... Thank you, my Lord."

   

  Gesturing around, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "Find a place to settle down for the night, and store it neatly during the day."

   

  Again glancing over the room, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "I'll keep out from underfoot, my Lord."

   

  Nodding to the hulking, white-maned man, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "Silver Scorpion Kabbot is in charge here.  If you have a problem, ask him.  And do not be shy to alert him when you need to pour out the chamber pot."

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman greets the hulking, white-maned man with a respectful nod.

   

  Looking back to him, her features untroubled, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "Of course, my Lord."

   

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman brushes a thumb along the hem of her cloak.

   

  (He gives her lengthy instructions on caring for the supplies, materials, food, and various other stuffs left laying around.)

   

  Offering you a smile as he walks to a padded cloth hammock, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "Now then... I find I sleep better here than most places.  You may get aquainted with your surroundings, quietly, while I rest."

   

  You say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "... If I may, I don't know how many will be accompanying you on this trip.  Are there restrictions to my interactions with them?  I have no desire to overstep my bounds, but I do not wish to leave a responsibility unfulfilled."

   

  Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "Only Erzsebet and one Cadet are expected."

   

  A faint smile on her lips as she glides into an eloquent bow, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "Thank you, my Lord.  I bid you a pleasant rest."

   

  Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "The Cadet will have more restrictions than you, and should not even be in here without accompaniment."

   

  Lifting a finger, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "I will warn you."

   

  As she straightens, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "... Yes, my Lord?"

   

  Rasping softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "Luirs is not my only stop.  If you have any ideas of leaping off the wagon when it stops, and making a dash, you may well find yourself in gith territory, or some other unknown and outlandish wasteland."

   

  Her tone patient, calm, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:

   

       "... I wouldn't dream of it, my Lord."

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman watches the warbraided, smoke-eyed man with thoughtful, pale eyes.

   

  Removing his scabbards and pulling himself up into the hammock, speaking behind the wall created by the keg-bellied female dwarf and the blockish, olive-drab dwarf standing shoulder to shoulder in front of him, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:

   

       "I shall speak with you soon, dear Aja."

   

  The warbraided, smoke-eyed man has departed from the land of Zalanthas.

   

  You think:

   

       "... Was this a mistake?"

  It is before dawn on Abid, the 3rd day of the Descending Sun,

  In the Year of Ruk's Peace, year 37 of the 21st Age.

   

  You are Aja, Apprentice of the Bards of Poets' Circle.

  Objective: To survive Allanak.

  You are 24 years, 2 months, and 138 days old,

   

   

  Continue Reading...

• 

  How to Get Involved in Plots by Taven
  Added on Oct 24, 2009

  Time and time again questions that have plagued players have been "How do I get involved in plots?" or "How do I make this role more excited and prevent boredom?" and they've had a whole host of answers. Answers that often get repeated or overlooked because of the sheer amount of other threads and posts on the GDB, making answers almost impossible to find. This article is meant to be a resource for players, where the answers can be easily and quickly found. It uses suggestions from many players in a large range of posts from the GDB, sometimes keeping the original language. Please note that this is player advice and ideas; it's not hard fact supported by staff.

  ---

  How to get Involved in Plots

   

  • How to get sucked into Plots

  • Make your Own RPT

  • Involving Yourself in Your Clan

  • Don't Forget the vNPCs

  
  Time and time again questions that have plagued players have been "How do I get involved in plots?" or "How do I make this role more excited and prevent boredom?" and they've had a whole host of answers. Answers that often get repeated or overlooked because of the sheer amount of other threads and posts on the GDB, making answers almost impossible to find. This article is meant to be a resource for players, where the answers can be easily and quickly found. It uses suggestions from many players in a large range of posts from the GDB, sometimes keeping the original language. Credit is given under the heading of each section, in italics. Please note that this is player advice and ideas; it's not hard fact supported by staff.

   

   

  How to get sucked into Plots

  Most of this comes from the work of Gimfailsette, with some contribution from FiveDisgruntledMonkeysWit.
  
  It's really not HARD to get involved, provided you're not in some incredibly isolated role. Joining a clan can be helpful, but some people join clans and still don't get involved; why is that?
  
  The sekret key to getting sucked into plots: RELATIONSHIPS
  
  If you do not have enough involvement with other PCs, you will not get brought into plots, it's just that simple. It's not that the AREA is boring...it's that you're boring, because you're not connected! So, here's how to get involved with other PCs:
  
  1. Join an active clan as an employee or partisan.
          Joining a clan puts you in a position to be noticed by the clan leaders, it gives you an immediate connection to the other employees in the clan, and it gives you potential connections to customers/users of the clan's goods or services. Clans give relationships of all kinds a kick-start.
  
  2. Play in a consistent time frame for a consistent quantity of hours.
          If you only have two hours per day to play, fine. But don't then play sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon, sometimes late at night. Playing those two hours per day at or near peak time, consistently, will assure that you are seeing the same characters on a regular basis and will allow you to develop relationships with them.
  
  3. Play a marginally interesting character.
          If you are Redshirt Guard #15 (or Mage #87) who is constantly stoic and doesn't laugh and appears to have nothing to talk about, you will be easily overlooked. Don't be that person. It's not hard to be just a bit more interesting by emoting some, having some quirks, and having some opinions about things. PCs like to hang out with other PCs who are interesting, and it's the people you hang out with who will get you into plots.
  
  Here are a few helpful ideas along those lines:

  • Don't be just a merchant. Be a merchant/performance artist!

  • Don't just be a soldier. Be a soldier/fortune teller!

  • Don't just be an aide. Be an aide/crafter/physician/linguist/assassin/you get the point, this is a ridiculously versatile role.

  • If your character is only good at one thing then do it for two different people, and be a spy!

  
  
  4. Cozy up to the clan leaders.
          Imm-generated plots are disseminated through clan leaders, who then involve their minions in the plots. If you're not in a clan, or you're not close to the clan leader, you will not be able to take advantage of this connection for getting involved. Making nice with the clan leader is not difficult; it doesn't require ass-kissing or bribery. Mostly what it takes is #2, #3, and #6 on this list; do those things and you will be Right-Hand Minion in very little time.
  
  5. Don't make your character be all about sparring or hunting.
          If you log in to spar in the Zalanthan morning hours, but then log out in the afternoon/night because there's "nothing to do," you will miss out. Ditto with hunting. You MUST get your character involved with other characters in order to get included in the fun stuff. Develop rivalries or friendships, find enemies or love interests, sell or buy things from PCs, however you can get involved in relationships with other PCs, DO IT.
  
  6. Ask your clan leaders for things to do.
          At first, they will give you completely unimportant but necessary tasks, like buying or selling something at a shop for them. Later, they will give you tasks that necessitate you getting in contact with other PCs, which then gives you a potential opportunity to develop relationships with those PCs. And still later, when you've become trusted, they will give you neat stuff to do like carry sekret messages or spy on someone. EXTRA BONUS to doing tasks for clan leaders: The smart, competent clan leaders will usually give you a nice tip of coinage for your work!
  
  7. When given a task, complete it correctly within the allotted time frame, then immediately report back.
          If you're given tasks and you don't complete them, you will never gain the necessary trust with your leaders to be given more important tasks. If you don't report back on your work, you miss out on the opportunity to build trust and also to potentially get 'sids coming your way for a job well done. Plots require lots of things to be done in game, so if you're there to help with the tasks, you'll get involved in the plot.
  
  8. Attend RPTs.
          If your clan is having an RPT, then the likelihood is that your presence would be really helpful to the clan leader. (It's hard to accomplish RPT goals when clan members don't attend.) RPTs are often where interesting plot-related information is passed, or seriously freakin' cool stuff happens. So don't miss them.
  
  9. Live a while.
          If your character dies immediately, you won't get involved in plots. If your character lives for an RL month or more, then you start to have a much better chance of getting involved in interesting stuff. Other characters are not interested in your character until they've seen them around at least three times in, say, an RL week, because there are just SO many insta-dying characters around, and it's a waste of time and energy to invest in totally new characters...usually. So prove you can live, and relationships and plots will follow.

   

   

   

  Make your Own RPT
  Written completely by Taven.
  
  RPTs, HRPTs, I think what this is all about is having fun in a way that involves other players or clans with some steady, dependable fun events taking place and happening. I agree 100% that it is NOT solely the leader's job to do this. You can think of your own fun and crazy ideas to try and go for. If you don't succeed, then you can say you tried. Here's a few ideas that can lighten up any scene.
  
  Game Night
  Having a clan game day/night every few weeks is awesome, too. Kruth, Tek's Tower, whatever. Just go to your nearest tavern, hijack a table, and show all those other sorry little idlers how awesome your clan is. Furthermore, there are things and ideas to do WITHIN that that can be a game night, or any time.
  
  Impromptu Song Contest
  Tulukis, find a location for some public singing or dancing. NPCs do it all the time, don't you go telling me it isn't subtle enough. Also, singing and dancing is not just for Tuluki. Making up silly songs on the spot in the group and forcing each other to sing them publicly could be TONS of fun. Dance with someone at the Gaj. Aspire to find a Nakki bard to come and teach you songs, or some tribal to teach you exotic dances. Let other people know of your plans, set up a time.
  
  Impersonation of other city contest/activity
  We do silly things like this making fun of the various cities respectively all the time. Starting this up at a dull day in the Gaj (or Sanctuary? Tooth?) would provide a break from the long boring periods. It's also easy to combine with any of the above ides.
  
  Have clan gossip sessions
  You think I'm kidding. I'm not. Players often loose interest in clans because they don't SEE anything going on. Tell them just about what they missed, make them want to play more! Make it so Amos down the bar wants a piece of the action, too. Alternately, have just-clan meetings. Talk about policies, about information you know that they should too. Talk about weather or not that new Salarri IS actually crazy, or if so-and-so has a crush on that half-elf.
  
  Tell stories of ages long gone
  That's right. You, crazy Fale, you know we commoners can't read. Impress us with your tales from ages past of great Fale parties. Tor, tell your Silvers some war tales so it will trickle down back to the common folk. You, there, old grizzled Bynner! Tell us of days gone by when you had to walk up hill both ways in a sandstorm and fight off defilers. Tuluki, same goes for you. Remember when those 'Nakki invaded? We may be at peace now, but back in my day...
  
  Play "bother the elf" (Or Foreigner, as the case maybe)
  Seriously, people. These are ELVES. They aren't PEOPLE. They aren't HUMAN. You Tuluki made subtle snide remarks. 'Nakkis, start a fight! Throw some insults. And beer mugs. Be more creative then the bar-fight echoes. Also, power in numbers. Have a large support group to back you up. Elves seem, to me, to mostly get ignored. Breeds, too. SNEER MORE, PEOPLE. Interact. See just how far you can insult that breed before they loose it and tackle you.
  
  Learning and Teaching
  I'm not kidding. Getting taught things is great. Set a clan day (approve it with your leaders, or on the fly) to teach about whatever you can do. Geography, what ARE those cures for anyways, tricks elves might do, wrestling... Don't make it all about the CODE make it about interaction. I have had stellar times where the routine "training" was broken up by some absolutely incredible lessons on these things. I've given some lessons myself.
  
  Alternately, start a teaching group for your spare time. Maybe you always wanted to learn about Geography, and have traveled in your time. Make a group, trade stories and tales. Healer? It's not all about TABLETS. Rumors of cures, charms, and special "remedies" that may or may not have coded value are perfectly good. In the movie Gladiator, they use maggots to eat away the diseased flesh. How come I've never heard even a whisper of someone using that technique ICly? Also, slapping a bandage on something isn't always good. Tell gruesome stories about infection, and talk about how to clean a wound or set a break properly.
  
  Learn about some foreign culture. Ask that Tuluki about why they have those tattoos... Then mock them for it. Is it true that Gith can actually TALK? Go ask that tribal over there. Learn a language. Insult people in that language while claiming it's praise (use with caution, and beware negative side effects). Learn tribal slang or phrases.
  
  Worship your City's King
  Yes, that's right. Remember dear old Tektolnes who decides if you LIVE OR DIE? Those people in front of the Dragon aren't kneeling there because it makes them feel good. What about the Sun King? What have you done to show appreciation for HIS Glorious Light, lately? Make a cult. Inspire worship. Make up your own odd rules and beliefs that you spread to others. Do your odd ideas publicly.
  
  It doesn't have to be traditional worship. Dance to the Highlord, or kill a halfling for the Sun King. Be creative. Look at RL and how many religious variants there are. Not in a big city? What do you worship? What's a new way you can worship this?
  
  Host An Event
  Yes, even you, Commoner Amos, can Host an Event. Don't have enough food and wine for everybody? Make it a potluck. Don't have the money for l33t prizes? Talk to your local GMH member and discuss making a raffle for an item. How many Maliks would toss fifty 'sid into the pot for a chance at that awesome sword? Or that insanely cool outfit? If they don't go for it, collect the pot first and then get the item.
  
  Organize Co-Clan Games/activities
  Ever get to be in a spot where whatever clan you're in seems devoid of all people, but the other similar clan is hopping? Coordinate with your leader and theirs, set up some friendly cross-clan games. Archery contest? Well, our Malik is better then your lame-ass Amos! You could even ask a Templar about setting up some friendly non-bloody Arena games. Everybody who enters will probably have fee to get in, and if the Templar was motivated, they could charge the viewers to watch, too. However, that does open up the opportunity for ‘Sid prizes, ranging from fifty ‘sid to even a large, depending on the event. It's a fun thing for multiple clans, and it gets a Templar 'sid. Who doesn't like that?
  
  Even if it doesn't work, showing interest and ideas is a good start. Just remember, everyone likes money!  If there’s other people participating then it makes sense for them to chip in for costs, too. Convince your leader that while you might not have any archery ranges, this clan might, and wouldn't it be good to practice? I'm sure there's non-combat oriented ways to do this too, but usually a clan has at least one combat aspect to it.
  
  Explore
  Oh, woe is YOU. You're stuck inside your city, how can "go exploring" POSSIBLY apply to you without getting your PC in trouble? Actually take a moment to look at your city-state with a fresh eye. Those room descriptions? Read them again, sometimes you'll be surprised. For example, just who ARE those templar statues of? What sorts of carvings are in the Gaj-- Are they lewd? If there aren't any lewd ones, why not? Shouldn't you make one? Alternately, exploring doesn't have to be physical. "Explore" your PC's past. What are their vNPC relatives up to? Is it something that can make for an interesting plot in PC-land?
  
  Summing It All Up
  I think more challenging then a leader not wanting to get all the work, or a minion struggling to create a RPT/event despite their lack of power is when you just don't HAVE minions/underlings, or a leader. There's a lot of things you COULD do, if there were more people around. I think that's one of the reasons that things never actually happen. Trying to plan more cross-clan events would help solve this, I think. The trouble with that, of course, is that with more people to get "okays" from, then longer everything takes. But it doesn't have to be a BIG thing, it can start small and go from there. It's so easy to get discouraged or bored, it's HARD to plan things and involve others. Keeping at it is an important thing to do. I'd also say that it's easier if you've been in your clan awhile, and have a feel for how things work. It's hard to make things new or exciting if you don't have a good grasp of what "normal" is.

   

   

  Involving Yourself in Your Clan
  Work from Helix and Fathi's post.
  
  Characters:
  
  So, if this is a post about plots and clan involvement, then why is the first section about characters? One of the major barriers to  having a good time with clans is that oftentimes characters aren't developed enough for them to operate independently of their clan. One of the most important part about playing in a clan is also knowing when not to be working on clan stuff, and that requires having a developed character.
  
  Personality:
  
  As a leader, it can be frustrating to have PCs under you with no ambition or life beyond their clan rank and station.  People also seem to expect that they be given these nebulous 'things to do' - often a series of easily (or not so easily) accomplishable tasks that lead up to a bigger task that is an overall goal for the clan or some of the PCs involved in it. Many times what a PC needs to keep 'busy' is simply a more developed personality.
  
  In this case, "personality" is more than just likes and dislikes. It means fleshing out the background - who did your character know, before they were a PC? Who were their friends, their family, where do they come from and what do they want? Goals. Goals, even lofty nearly impossible goals, do more for character development than anything else. This also helps you actually bond with other characters... if you think about how it works in real life - you have the deepest connections with people that you can talk to about a variety of subjects. In Arm - the key is coming up with believable experiences for your character to enable them to have the deep bonds that keep you from getting bored (as the people whom become your characters good friends will often draw you into plots).
  
  The caveat with this is that if you join a clan where there's only two people and you have a strict schedule, you're going to have this problem unless you really, really enjoy solo RP.
  
  Goals:
  
  A range of goals for a character is best. Not just 'I want to become..." type goals, but also character development goals - where do you want your character to go? What do you want your character to accomplish? Allow your character to be shaped and evolve from the events that happen to him. Flesh the character out with thoughts and feels - deciding how they would react to something goes a long way in determining what they want to accomplish. If they 'like' something, they're much more likely to want to pursue something that brings them into contact with what they like. The opposite is true for disliking things.
  
  There's also the concept of having "Things To Do." However - what's much more useful and appreciated is knowing what's going on. Say I'm a clan leader. I have goals X, Y, and Z that I need to accomplish in t amount of time. If you - my loyal and fearless clanmate - know that, then you find an opportunity to advance those goals - in a sense, you're getting "Things To Do" by acting on your own capability and innovation. Rather than sit and wait to be 'assigned' to work on something - figure out what your clan is currently engaged in and then its easy to figure out what you need to be working on - without having to wait for "Things to Do."
  
  Independence:
  
  Don't be afraid to be independent from the clan, either. If you're in a clan that has a tight training schedule but there isn't ever anyone around - address it either IC or OOC on your clan boards. Email your Imm.
  
  Also - mentioning that Storytellers are busy and everything... if you email your imm and say, "Hey, can I do x?" and they don't respond then take what IC steps you need to make it happen, as long as its IC for you to do so. Even if its a 'bad thing', chances are the imm is going to enjoy roasting you alive. If they come back later and say you can't do that, or you shouldn't do that then take that as a lesson learned. But at least you're doing something, and really, if you send in an email about it, they probably aren't going to be (too) angry with you.
  
  Leaders:
  
  As a leader of a clan, here is some extra advice as to what helps with success.
      

  • Have goals:

  Have an idea of something that you want to get accomplished. This isn't as easy as it sounds... leaders have to have all the stuff above - they have to be normal characters AS WELL AS be capable of coming up with things for everyone to do. You should have both personal goals and clan goals.
      

  • Be online:

  You'd think this was a given. You'd be surprised how many people get intimidated by not really knowing what to do and just stop logging in. Leading characters in Arm is about creating and resolving conflict. You can't do either of those things unless you're online. That's not to say that you can't take time off, or you have to play every day. But you should at least be around fairly frequently. Also, make your leader PC accessible by the rest of the clan. Granted you don't have to be buddies with them, and of course a lot of clans have social structures that would prevent outright friendship or snuggles, but don't isolate yourself from your clannies' PLAYERS. Be around in places where they can find you if they need you or just want to interact some.
      

  • Have a trusty sidekick:

  Having a trusted lieutenant goes a LONG way, in my experience. Once you have this - you can direct 'overall' direction for your clan, and allow the lieutenant to be the one who really digs into the details and gets things done. In this way you can focus on higher-level tasks (handling the templars and other nobility) while your lieutenant deals with the scum of the universe (your employees). In this way, you're working as a team at all levels of Arm society. That's hugely important for getting things done, and getting them done fast.
      

  • Be social:

  Especially at first, when your character isn't involved in very much... be social. This will quickly embroil you in the political plots of the place that you choose to reside in. Don't be afraid to make blood enemies, and don't be afraid to make trusted friends. Both of those things will generate plots for your players - especially if they feel that their actions are influencing the clan's overall position. Everyone likes to feel important, and everyone likes to feel that their character is doing something large for the clan.
      

  • Delegate:

  Giving your underlings jobs and responsibilities not only gives them Things To Do, but it creates a sense of hierarchy and importance. Don't let any members of the team feel like they're stuck in a position where they would be prevented from stepping up and contributing more if they expressed desire to.
      

  • Do things together:

  As cheesy as it may sound, palling around with your clannies establishes a sense of unit identity and makes them more likely to stick in the clan long enough for things to develop. Also, I'd imagine any friendly neighborhood staffers would be more apt to play around with six PCs on a hunt in the same place than six PCs in pairs scattered all over.
      

  • Create Atmopsphere:

  Develop a clan atmosphere that encourages contributions from the lowliest underlings up to the top of the tower of power. Don't make your clan meetings into "the apped in leaders sit around while everyone else types 'guard man.'"
      

  • Keep staff informed:

  Let your clan staffers know what you're up to! If you plan on going out to investigate That Place In The Grasslands/Tablelands/Salt Flats with your hunters, instead of just going out one day, turn it into a mini-RPT. You'll get more people and you're far more likely to get staff attention when your imms know when and where you're gonna be somewhere.
      

  • Stick it out:

  There will be rough patches, there will be boring stretches, and there will be stress. But despite all this, there's a special kind of enjoyment that comes from building a group of players from the ground up, sticking together through thick and thin, and cultivating something interesting, multifaceted, and eventually badass.
  
  And one thing, too, that both leaders and minions can keep in mind: clan staffers are here to help you, not screw you out of having fun. If you're bored and you're unable to stir up anything interesting with your PC boss, try emailing your imms and setting something up with an NPC to get some work on the side. Plot AGAINST your PC boss and your imms might just help you out if he's doing that horrible a job.
  
  Don't be afraid to come to the staff with questions, concerns, and frustrations--just sitting around and letting it fester while you play less and less doesn't help anyone in the end, and chances are your admins will have at least -some- input on how to better the situation.

   

   

  Don't Forget the vNPCs
  From a post of Tisiphone’s.
  
  Develop your vNPC environment. There was one thread, by way of example, an encounter between one of his characters and that character's father. They didn't get along, and the character was in a foul mood for the rest of the week.
  
  As far as getting into exciting things rather than personal quirks, make mistakes. Get totally sloshed because you're upset with your new life and puke on a noble's shoes. If you're a southerner in Tuluk, bow to a templar; nod to one if vice versa. Fall into a hole, get robbed, go mad (this must be done with utmost care as madness is difficult to fake and only compelling if done correctly), fuck a fruit for money, act bigoted towards elves/'rinthis/gemmers/southrons/northrons/dwarves/all of the above at the same time. Have an emotional breakdown.
  
  Do all of those things at the same time.

  How to get Involved in Plots

   

  • How to get sucked into Plots

  • Make your Own RPT

  • Involving Yourself in Your Clan

  • Don't Forget the vNPCs

  
  Time and time again questions that have plagued players have been "How do I get involved in plots?" or "How do I make this role more...

  
  Continue Reading...
• 

  Memoir #10 - The Man in the Ivory Mask (???) by Rairen
  Added on Oct 24, 2009

  The Circle holds a festival, and it closes with improv games on the final day lead by the delighted Driamusek Seeker - who gets the last and final joke, played on her.

  ---

  Note:  This has been HEAVILY editted for spam and length.

  It is late afternoon on Terrin, the 2nd day of the Low Sun,

  In the Year of Ruk's Reverence, year 48 of the 21st Age.

   

   

  Lucky Ghaati Teahouse [U Leave Quit]

     Screens, made of oiled paper printed with swirls of red and yellow lozenges, block out the sandladen wind while allowing light into this high-ceilinged, echoing chamber.  Bubbles of glass holding oil and wicks hang suspended from the rafters at varying heights.  Low, round tables are scattered across the floor, each surrounded by threadbare cushions that serve as seats.  From the back of the room comes a constant hiss of boiling water and steam from a ceramic samovar, pitted with age, that towers behind a low wooden counter.  A red-railed wooden staircase leads upwards. 

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks over the room, her smile dividing between the spry, blithe-faced man and a fat-bellied, brown-haired woman.

  The spry, blithe-faced man hefts his sturdy canvas bag through the room, taking it to an unoccupied portion that is clear of tables and chairs.

  Calling over to him, voice warm with greeting, you say to the spry, blithe-faced man, in sirihish:

       "Good day, Master Bard.  Some food, courtesy of the Chosen Lord Ranak."

  Leaning in closer, the spry, blithe-faced man whispers to you, in sirihish:

       "Did you want to lead this one like you did the last time?"

  With a quizzical look to him, you whisper to the spry, blithe-faced man in sirihish:

       "I could, yes, at least the games I know."

  You feel like you could be quite pleased in that role, as point of fact.

  With a deep tilt of her head, you whisper to the spry, blithe-faced man in sirihish:

       "I am at your service.  When shall we commence the torture?"

   

  The spry, blithe-faced man dips a few shallow nods, merry gaze locked on you.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman meets the spry, blithe-faced man's eyes... and smiles, her own slender and dearly amused.

   

   

  (People crowd into the room throughout.)

  Wagging his brows, the spry, blithe-faced man whispers to you, in sirihish:

       "Don't be afraid to call on me if you need me."

  With a soft breath, so very nearly a laugh, you whisper to the spry, blithe-faced man in sirihish:

       "Master Bard, you make a temptation that will be terribly hard to resist."

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman spares the spry, blithe-faced man a last conspiratorial smile before looking over the room, greeting a few of the patrons with polite nods.

   

  The spry, blithe-faced man chuckles and winks at you, and backs away toward the gathered tables around the clearing.

  You think:

       "Still not good enough for Bard, hm?"

  You think:

       "... Don't mess this up, Aja.  Not a third day in a row."

  Pulling herself onto its edge, legs resting on a chair, you sit at a square beige table.

  Lifting her voice, smile arch with delight, while she looks

  over the room, you say, in sirihish:

       "Good day, friends and guests, both, and welcome to the Circle for the third day of our gatherings."

  The spry, blithe-faced man turns his pale gaze to you, a jovial smile overtaking his features.

  Perched on the edge of a table, posture correct while she flicks a smile in the trim, ashen-skinned man's direction, you say, in sirihish:

       "You've joined us in competition and performance... and on the third day we play."

  The trim, ashen-skinned man offers a wink in return to you and a faint tip of his head.

  The short, dusky woman sits at a long, vine-etched baobab table, sinking down in a chair by the trim, ashen-skinned man.

   

  Humor to her tone while she crosses her legs beneath your flowing white linen skirt, you say, in sirihish:

       "Bards are very serious people, as I'm certain you are all aware, and even we must practice to have any degree of charm and wit."

  The trim, ashen-skinned man lolls his head to the side with a grin in offer to the short, dusky woman before looking back to the speaker - you.

  With an idle sweep of a gloved hand along the room, you say, in sirihish:

       "But not all of our practice need be spiritless things.  We would like to invite you to join in some of our games.  Our tests and our pleasures."

  After a smile at the trim, ashen-skinned man, the short, dusky woman sips from her small wooden cup, attention mostly on you.

  Voice lifting further to be heard through the room, you say, in sirihish:

       "The tavernkeeper Amalfa has granted us the space, and I would challenge four bold strangers to take part in this first and next game."

  With a grin, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:

       "Count me in, if you'll have me."

  Gaze drifting over the tables, you say, in sirihish:

       "Have no fear, I'm as charming of a score keep as could be imagined - and Sivamet is our first.  Come here, my dear."

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman stands up from a small wooden table.

  The short, dusky woman turns her small wooden cup about in her fingers, considering you.

  You say, in sirihish:

       "The games are improvisation.  I'll give you a challenge and you'll be tasked to act it out."

  Adjusting her fine, cowled, dark blue greatcloak about herself, the short, dusky woman stands up from a long, vine-etched baobab table.

  With a pointed smile to him, you ask the expansively-obese man, in sirihish:

       "Come, now, Merchant, friend.  You'll not stand for Kadius?"

  Loitering near her recently abandoned chair, the short, dusky woman sips from her small wooden cup.

   

   

  Artlessly, effortlessly, you say to the short, dusky woman, in sirihish:

       "Leisera, how good of you to stand.  Come join Sivamet."

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman flashes the short, dusky woman an arch smile.

  Aiming a smirk aside at you, the short, dusky woman puts her small wooden cup onto a long, vine-etched baobab table.

  You give your sturdy canvas bag to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman.

  With a tilt of her head, you say to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:

       "Take one thing.  Any thing.  From this bag.  You'll have the right of first choice."

  Wryly, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:

       "I hope this gets me points with the Irofel Masterbards."

  Brow lifting, you ask the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, in sirihish:

       "Waiting an invitation, Seeker?"

   

  Beckoning with a hand, you say to the trim, ashen-skinned man, in sirihish:

       "Boys against girls.  Even out Ehrick's pair, Vash."

   

   

  The short, dusky woman whistles a quiet snatch of tune as she saunters up to you, leaning toward you and the bag.

  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man flashes you a smile as he carefully sets his small wooden cup down, easing through the crowd towards you.

  Beckoning with a hand, you say to the trim, ashen-skinned man, in sirihish:

       "Boys against girls.  Even out Ehrick's pair, Vash."

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman rests her short wooden pole across her shoulders.

  Keeping it out of the short, dusky woman's reach, you give your sturdy canvas bag to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man.

   

   

  Sparing a glance towards the grey-tressed, sharp-nosed

  Lirathan templar before looking back with a tad touch of nervousness, the trim, ashen-skinned man asks you, in sirihish:

       "Ya sure, lass?"

  The short, dusky woman gives you a pout, grasping fruitlessly for the bag.

  Her smile unrepentant, you say to the trim, ashen-skinned man, in sirihish:

       "Positive, Vash.  Come."

  Drawing a slow breath as he unlaces the fingers on his chest and draws to his height, the trim, ashen-skinned man stands up from a long, vine-etched baobab table.

   

  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man gets his black, skull-embroidered eye-patch from his sturdy canvas bag.

  Calling out to the audience with a cheerful wink, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says, in sirihish:

       "See... If you *don't* volunteer, you *shall* be volunteered."

  The trim, ashen-skinned man gives a gesture and good-natured half-grin to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man as he walks over.

  Clasping her hands together, pleased, before she lifts her voice again, you say, in sirihish:

       "Thank you, thank you, my -brave- competitors.  You will be playing against one another.  The first team to run out of ideas... loses."

   

   

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman moves over to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man.

  With a cocked brow and broadening grin, the trim, ashen-skinned man asks the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:

       "Come to steal my man, lass?"

  With wavering gravity to her voice, you say, in sirihish:

       "Look very closely at your props, my friends, donated by the Uaptal Theater."

   

  The spry, blithe-faced man snickers.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman clears her throat, reaching out to tug at the collar of the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman's attire and pull her back toward the short, dusky woman.

  Wryly, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says, in sirihish:

       "Sorry, my idiot brother was in my head."

  The trim, ashen-skinned man gives a clucking noise of his tongue as he moves to stand aside the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man.

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman moves to the short, dusky woman with some embarrassment on her face.

  The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask has entered a white-tiled teahouse.

  The short, dusky woman pockets her hands in her fine, cowled, dark blue greatcloak and looks sidelong to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, conspiratorial challenge in her expression.

  Setting her bag aside, for now, you say, in sirihish:

       "Starting with Ehrick's team, out of courtesy to Sivamet's bravery, you will each need to devise, one after another, a different scene containing that prop."

  Looking from the short, dusky woman to the trim, ashen-skinned man, you say, in sirihish:

       "For instance, if I had picked an obsidian coin, it might have been a third eye, a piece of jewelery, a hole in Vash's head..."

  Curiously, the reedy, slate-haired woman looks up at the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask.

   

   

  The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask adjusts his ornately-embroidered ivory silk coat, brushing some dust from it.

   

  The short, dusky woman looks at the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask.

  With a light shrug, you ask, in sirihish:

       "And you will keep continuing until Leisera's team wins or I get bored, hm?"

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman chuckles.

  With a mock-whisper to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, you say, in sirihish:

       "I'm an unbiased judge."

  With an assuring tone, you ask, in sirihish:

       "Work as teams.  Have fun.  Any questions?"

  The svelte, vividly-inked young man sends you a telepathic message:

       "*a trace amount of hesitation as the link is established* Seeker Aja, yes? "

  You contact the svelte, vividly-inked young man with the Way.

  The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask leans against his whorled agafari cane as he quietly looks around the tavern, taking it all in.

  The spry, blithe-faced man's eyes are glued to the people in the cleared out area, a grin plastered all over his face.

  You send a telepathic message to the svelte, vividly-inked young man:

       "*with an assuring tone* Yes, that's right.  How might I serve?"

  The trim, ashen-skinned man whispers something to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man.

  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man whispers something to the trim, ashen-skinned man.

  With a snap of her gloved fingers, you say, in sirihish:

       "Ehrick's team, when you're done chattering away for what good it does you, begin."

  The trim, ashen-skinned man whispers something to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man.

  The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask looks down at the spry, blithe-faced man.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman smiles without shame or guilt, arms folding across her knees while she watches.

  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man gives his black, skull-embroidered eye-patch to the trim, ashen-skinned man.

  The svelte, vividly-inked young man sends you a telepathic message:

       "I don't think we've met, at least not formally. Maji Zeina al Asenn of the Tan Muark, which is entirely too long to remember, much less pronounce, when less than sober, which is all too often for me. That aside..."

  Lifting his black, skull-embroidered eye-patch high into the air and words of dignity, the trim, ashen-skinned man exclaims, in sirihish:

       "Shall I present... the purest of chastity belts for the most expensive of Kuraci whores!"

  The boyish, charcoal-locked maiden has entered a white-tiled teahouse.

  The graceful, platinum-haired man has entered a white-tiled teahouse.

  With a nod, you say, in sirihish:

       "Perfect!  The boys pick up things quickly.  Zharal and Sivamet... You're up."

  The svelte, vividly-inked young man sends you a telepathic message:

       "I wanted to pass along my opinion that, tch, your performance at the competition a couple weeks ago was, by far, the most entertaining of the four. That's... about it."

  The spry, blithe-faced man slaps a hand to his forehead, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

  The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask steps quietly through the tavern approaching a square beige table.

  The expansively-obese man turns his attention to the trim, ashen-skinned man at his words, attention immediate.

  The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says to you, in sirihish:

       "I hope you don't mind if I join you."

  Shifting her grip, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman holds her short wooden pole.

  You send a telepathic message to the svelte, vividly-inked young man:

       "I'm... charmed.  Truly and honestly.  I've seen you about the Ivory - or heard you named as Muarki, but never had opportunity to introduce myself."

  You send a telepathic message to the svelte, vividly-inked young man:

       "Will you join us at the Ghaati?  We're gathering for a bit of fun and games."

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman grins to the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask and beckons for the table.

  The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask smiles in return as he adjusts his velvet-rimmed, tall black silk hat and slowly lowers into a seat.

  The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask sits at a square beige table.

  Although the room is busy and full of movement, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden lowers her head toward the grey-tressed, sharp-nosed Lirathan templar.

  The svelte, vividly-inked young man sends you a telepathic message:

       "Perhaps. I've got some business to take care of beforehand, but perhaps. In case I don't, fortunes, pretty Seeker."

  The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask lets out a contented sigh as he lays his whorled agafari cane across his lap.

  Brandishing the pole in a mock-threatening manner, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman exclaims to the short, dusky woman, in sirihish:

       "How could you take my man?! At least I kept the most important bit!"

  The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask looks at the grey-tressed, sharp-nosed Lirathan templar.

  The boyish, charcoal-locked maiden looks at the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman laughs into the back of a gloved hand, entranced by the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman.

  The spry, blithe-faced man snickers.

  After a pause, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman exclaims to the short, dusky woman, in sirihish:

       "His weapon!"

  With a helpless gesture, you say to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, in sirihish:

       "... Go, go.  While those two beat the life out of one another."

  The athletic, stubble-bearded man lifts his eyebrows slightly, watching the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman.

  With a flamboyant bow and flick of his scarred wrist to hand it over, the trim, ashen-skinned man gives his black, skull-embroidered eye-patch to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man.

  (The two teams trade off making scenes with their props, while Aja takes every opportunity to direct the insanity.)

   

  Cupping her hands to her mouth, you say, in sirihish:

       "I do grant arbitrary points for humor."

   

   

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman casts the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask a smile and a helpless, oh, so innocent shrug.

  The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask lets out a small chuckle as he leans back in his seat.

  (The scene ends with Vash, the lecherous silt pirate, gagging Simvamet with his eye patch, silencing the unending stream of ‘wooden staff’ jokes coming from her and Zharal.  You can’t make this stuff up.)

   

  Applauding, gloves muting the sound, you say, in sirihish:

       "My compliments.  I'll laugh at you, I'll mock you, but it's no easy thing to compete in a strange game, ye shy ones."

  After a wink at the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, handing it that way instead, the short, dusky woman gives you her short wooden pole.

  With a nod of approval the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask claps his hands in modest applause.

   

  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man laughs and begins to clap for the short, dusky woman and the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman before reaching out for the pole.

   

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman applauds for the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man and the trim, ashen-skinned man.

  Using two hands to hold up four fingers, you ask, in sirihish:

       "I'd like four more, now, now that you've seen an example.  Any of you care to stay in?"

  The trim, ashen-skinned man gives return applause as he casts the short, dusky woman and the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman a grin.

   

  With a grin, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:

       "Reckon I can get another game in."

  With a dry, completely somber tone, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says to the short, dusky woman, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "I'll take that back, if you please, and go at once to find a seamstress to fix it upon these greaves."

  The spry, tousle-haired man carefully shakes his head, eyes still on the main area.

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman exclaims to you, in sirihish:

       "Who knows, it might be clean this time!"

  Holding out a hand to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, you say, in sirihish:

       "The silt pirate chastity belt of the mouth, if you please."

  Giving his armored arm a comforting pat, the short, dusky woman says to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Oh no, you don't get it back. Let it be a lesson for you - never trust a pretty woman. Her vengeance is terrible."

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to the trim, ashen-skinned man, in sirihish:

       "Hand it to Aja, my boy. I gave it to you."

  Spotting the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden out with a grin, you say, in sirihish:

       "Apprentice who beat me in the competition, I think you're due next."

  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man gives you his black, skull-embroidered eye-patch.

  With a flourid roll of his hand to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, the trim, ashen-skinned man says to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in southern-accented sirihish:

       "And 'e stole it right off my c-...."

  The trim, ashen-skinned man clamps his mouth shut instead of finishing.

  At your table, you say in sirihish, with a look to the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask:

       "... Revenge is such a lovely thing."

  The graceful, platinum-haired man grins over at the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, eyebrow lifting.

  Picking up the pole from the table, the ethereal, fair-haired woman pokes at the trim, ashen-skinned man's leg.

  The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask grins to you.

  Chuckling as he walks over to the empty table, the trim, ashen-skinned man sits at a long, vine-etched baobab table.

  At your table, the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says in sirihish:

       "What circle is she of?"

  The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask looks at the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden.

   

  At your table, you say in sirihish, with a touch of pride:

       "Driamusek, of course."

  Casting a glance towards the clearance amongst the tables, the supple, jasper-curled young man asks the spry, tousle-haired man, in sirihish:

       "How about it, Private Creek. Why not give it a go?"

  At your table, the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says in sirihish, with a nod:

       "Of course."

   

  With a laugh, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says, in sirihish:

       "Maybe I should do Elkinhym instead."

   

  Leaning back against the wall, the tanned, black-haired young man gives his head a shake, grinning, lifting a hand to rub at his face.

  Looking dumbstruck, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden asks you, in sirihish:

       "You want me to-- -what-?"

  Sinking down in her chair by the trim, ashen-skinned man, the short, dusky woman sits at a long, vine-etched baobab table.

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says, in sirihish:

       "This is quite fun."

  With a long-suffering sigh, you ask, in sirihish:

       "Am I so fearsome?  Do I make you quake?"

  At a long, vine-etched baobab table, you overhear the trim, ashen-skinned man say in southern-accented sirihish, looking to the short, dusky woman sidelong:

       "As much as the two'f ya stroked that poor man's cutoff pole.  Remind me to never piss ya off, kay?"

  Waving two hands nervously, the spry, tousle-haired man says to the supple, jasper-curled young man, in sirihish:

       "I'm -really- not that funny. The props just... look like props."

  Crooking a finger to her, you say to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, in sirihish:

       "I'd like you to join with Sivamet's team.  You'll have a prop and you'll need to use it in as many creative ways as you can."

  Almost muttering, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to you, in sirihish:

       "I'll get you for this yet."

  The spry, blithe-faced man snickers.

  With a crooked smile, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to the spry, blithe-faced man, in sirihish:

       "Maybe I should talk to you, Masterbard, instead of Irofel."

  Peering, the expansively-obese man looks at the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask.

  Lifting her voice, you say to the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:

       "You could cheer for her from up here, by the by."

  Glancing up at her, the spry, blithe-faced man says to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:

       "If that is what you wish."

  At your table, the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says in sirihish, with a dubious look:

       "She's an apprentice?"

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman looks thoughtful, and then nods.

  As she approaches, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:

       "I'm really no Konviwedu.  Or Elkinhym.  What are the rules, exactly?  I was a little late."

  The graceful, platinum-haired man turns his head to look over at you, mouth still half-open.

  At your table, you say in sirihish, with a distracted murmur:

       "Asosa?  Mm-hmm."

   

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, in sirihish:

       "We have to get a prop and make up a scene with it. Whoever's lost for ideas first loses."

  With an assuring smile, the teasing note to her voice quieting, you say to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, in sirihish:

       "You're competing against another team.  You and Sivamet will work together to come up with interpretations

  of an item."

  With a light nod, you say to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:

       "For instance, Vash and Ehrick turned an eyepatch into a chastity belt, a gag, a loincloth, and acted out as a silt pirate."

  At your table, the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says in sirihish, with a grin:

       "Should have given her a scolding for asking such questions to her superiors."

  After a thoughtful pause, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to you, in sirihish:

       "Well, Seeker, I suppose with Siva's brilliance, I might manage."

  With a fleeting smile, you say to the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask, in sirihish:

       "Care to join?  I'm short by two, I think."

  At your table, the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says in sirihish, wincing:

       "Oh... hmm."

  Calling to him, you ask the spry, blithe-faced man, in sirihish:

       "Are you playing, Master Bard?"

  Thoughtfully, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden gets her frayed lace shawl from her sturdy canvas bag.

  The spry, blithe-faced man asks you, in sirihish:

       "If you're calling on me for it, how can I resist?"

   

  Tilting her head to the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask, you say to the spry, blithe-faced man, in sirihish:

       "They're all shy.  You could bolster anyone's confidence."

  Passing it back, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden gives you her sturdy canvas bag.

  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man looks down at the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask.

   

  Pushing his chair back gently and stepping around the tables into the cleared out area, the spry, blithe-faced man stands up from a small wooden table.

  Lifting a finger, you exclaim, in sirihish:

       "One more, one more.  A partner for the venerable Master Janosh Elkinhym!"

  The trim, ashen-skinned man crooks a growing grin at the spry, blithe-faced man as he watches.

  Triumphantly, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden asks you, in sirihish:

       "Since it was Morn's idea to perform, well, isn't it only fair that he perform as well?"

  At your table, the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says in sirihish:

       "I suppose I could give it a try."

  The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask stands up from a square beige table.

   

  Calling out through the noise, the short, dusky woman exclaims to the svelte, vividly-inked young man, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Maji! You can perform!"

  The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask slowly pushes to his feet with the aide of his whorled agafari cane.

   

   

  With a matching smile, you say to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, in sirihish:

       "I couldn't agree more.  Morn, get up here.  I can't refuse Asosa a thing."

  The graceful, platinum-haired man slinks a little lower in his chair.

  Snorting, the spry, blithe-faced man says to you, in sirihish:

       "Venerable?  You make me sound old."

  The graceful, platinum-haired man says, in sirihish:

       "Oh. .  drov."

  The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says to the spry, blithe-faced man, in sirihish:

       "And if you're old.. that makes me far older."

  Leaning her head to the side, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:

       "I mean... I'm sure you owe me something."

  Silent and unobtrusive, the svelte, vividly-inked young man slips through the crowds toward the far wall, near the counter.

  Sliding out of his chair with a dejected look, the graceful, platinum-haired man stands up from a small wooden table.

  Mouth quirking, you say to the spry, blithe-faced man, in sirihish:

       "... My apologies, Master.  As wise as you are, I'd think you as old as the sands."

  The spry, blithe-faced man chuckles.

  The graceful, platinum-haired man walks over to the spry, blithe-faced man, bowing his head politely.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman lifts her hands in an apologetic gesture.

   

  With a developing grin, the graceful, platinum-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:

       "I'll be counting on you to do all the work!"

   

  With a smile, you say to the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:

       "For your graciousness, pick one thing - just one - from that bag."

  Glancing to her, you say to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:

       "Master or no, I'm still making you go first."

  Glancing to the graceful, platinum-haired man, the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask asks you, in sirihish:

       "Does this mean I am off the hook for this round?"

  Chuckling, you say to the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask, in sirihish:

       "Yes.  For now."

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman leans over to rub her hand over the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask's head.

   

  The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask lets out a slow sigh of relief as he retakes his seat.

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman chuckles.

  The graceful, platinum-haired man gets his brightly colored fruit hat from his sturdy canvas bag.

  At a long, vine-etched baobab table, you overhear the trim, ashen-skinned man say in southern-accented sirihish, with a glance to the short, dusky woman:

       "That was surprisin'ly fun."

  Watching the graceful, platinum-haired man, the spry, blithe-faced man looses a short, bubbling laugh.

  Taking in a deep breath before she raises hers again, you say, in sirihish:

       "Guests, there's a basket lying around somewhere with food if you get hungry.  In the meantime, for those joining us..."

  At a long, vine-etched baobab table, you overhear the short, dusky woman say in tribal-accented sirihish, seeming distracted, but responding to the trim, ashen-skinned man:

       "It was. I love acting. I miss doing it."

  The svelte, vividly-inked young man lifts a hand to his mouth, peering toward the doorway.

   

   

  To the spry, blithe-faced man, the graceful, platinum-haired man asks, in sirihish:

       "Do I get to go first, sir?"

  The boyish, charcoal-locked maiden shows her frayed lace shawl to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman.

  The trim, ashen-skinned man gives a faint noise of agreement in response before returning his attention to you.

  Gesturing toward you, the spry, blithe-faced man says to the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:

       "Aja is the one commanding us."

  Taking in another deep breath, you say, in sirihish:

       "... The game is a competition between Master Janosh of Elkinhym and Morn the hunter-who-forgets-to-clean-his-cloak, against Sivamet the victor and Apprentice Asosa, the even greater victor."

  The graceful, platinum-haired man chuckles.

  Lounged back in her chair, the short, dusky woman looks up at the graceful, platinum-haired man.

  The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask raps his whorled agafari cane against the ground in approval.

  You say, in sirihish:

       "With Sivamet's team starting, each pair must come up

  with a creative use for the prop in their hands and will go one after the other until I get bored and pick a winner."

   

  The boyish, charcoal-locked maiden tilts her head to either side, indecisively with your introduction.

  Pointing out of the tavern, the graceful, platinum-haired man says, in sirihish:

       "Blame the sandstorms, not me."

  The trim, ashen-skinned man gives the gimlet puce-eyed woman a polite nod before working his backside into the seat of his chair and lacing his fingers over his chest.

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman wraps her frayed lace shawl around her arms and hobbles like a little old lady.

   

   

  His attention briefly drawn by movement, the svelte, vividly-inked young man looks down at the slight, twin-braided woman.

  Her smile unabashed before she claps her hands twice together, you say, in sirihish:

       "Sivamet and Asosa, prepare to stun the room.  Begin."

  Beckoning him closer, the short, dusky woman says to the svelte, vividly-inked young man, in bendune:

       "Muri, p'uysu."

  Holding up a finger, her dark voice quavery, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says, in sirihish:

       "In my day, everybody wanted to be a bard! We'd clamour to the Circle, hoping for challenges like this."

  The svelte, vividly-inked young man perks up a bit, peering over the crowded teahouse quickly until he spots the short, dusky woman, pushing out of his lean.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman crosses her legs, expression sublimely patient, and links gloved hands around her knee.

  Her voice quavery as she fakes wiping at a tear, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says, in sirihish:

       "Unfortunately, I lost my voice in a bet."

   

  The graceful, platinum-haired man gazes down at his brightly colored fruit hat with a grin.

  The spry, blithe-faced man presses his lips together as he watches the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman.

  Studying her hands, you look up at the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman.

  The svelte, vividly-inked young man quickly winds his way through the crowd with muted apologies to the short, dusky woman, dipping his chin.

  In a bored, monotone drawl, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:

       "Uh-huh... yes ma... did you drink tea today?  Mmm.  Yes, well, tell them all the stories you want."

  The reedy, slate-haired woman watches the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman hobbling about in her frayed, disheveled shawl, and chuckles.

   

   

  The boyish, charcoal-locked maiden rolls her eyes at the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, leaning back against a nearby table.  She holds up two hands and makes a talking motion.

  Simply, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:

       "I wish you had lost your voice, you know."

  The athletic, stubble-bearded man chuckles softly as he watches the performers, placing an elbow on a small wooden table.

  Holding up a finger, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman exclaims to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, in sirihish:

       "Don't you patronize me, girly! And never make a bet you can't win!"

  The short, dusky woman crosses her legs and folds her arms, shrugging into the folds of her fine, cowled, dark blue greatcloak and clearing her throat while she watches.

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman straightens up and flips her frayed lace shawl off her shoulders.

  The gimlet puce-eyed woman watches the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman and the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, an amused smile on her lips.

  Tilting her head to the side, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:

       "-Honestly.-  One day you're a Kuraci, the next you're a bar whore, the next you're a dwarven stripper..."

  With a grin to the spry, blithe-faced man and respectful tilt of her head, you ask, in sirihish:

       "Master Bard... Morn... We've seen a hoarse, cloak-covered woman.  Let them chatter - A dwarven stripper?"

  Clearing her throat, recollecting herself, you say, in sirihish:

       "That is... Let them chatter.  You take a go."

  The graceful, platinum-haired man clears his throat.

  The willowy, onyx-braided woman's attention suddenly flicks towards the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, a brow single brow perking upwards.

  The graceful, platinum-haired man clasps his brightly colored fruit hat to his chest, strutting about with it puffed out.

   

   

  Taking a bite, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man eats a portion of his half eaten ripe blue kalan fruit.

   

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman chuckles.

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman clears her throat under her voice.

   With a conspiratoral smile, you say to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:

       "... I could've had you go on for longer than that, impossible thing that you are."

   

  Voice clear and presiding, the graceful, platinum-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:

       "I say, I went and had a drink of firestorm!"

  The graceful, platinum-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:

       "They say it puts hair on your chest, but I grew this!"

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman laughs, pressing a hand to her eyes.

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:

       "No, no, we need to let Masterbard Janosh have a go. Especially since I think I want to join his Circle now."

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman grins at you.

  Cupping his hands and feeling up the brightly-colored fruits held against the graceful, platinum-haired man's chest, the spry, blithe-faced man says, in sirihish:

       "Hmm...  You might want to get this checked by a medic."

  The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask looks to the graceful, platinum-haired man as he lets out an amused laugh.

  Shaking her head, you say to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, in sirihish:

       "A two point, for utter peculiarity and creativity.  Back to you, lovely ladies.  Janosh'll be in there, yet."

  The expansively-obese man snickers, watching the graceful, platinum-haired man.

  Blushing, the graceful, platinum-haired man asks, in sirihish:

       "Oh, my.  You like they way they feel?"

  Holding up a hand, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman exclaims, in sirihish:

       "Medic here!"

  Calling to him, you say to the spry, blithe-faced man, in sirihish:

       "... He needs more than a medic, Master Elkinhym."

  Placing her hands on her hips, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:

       "You are -not-... I say..."

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman scampers over to the graceful, platinum-haired man.

  Over his shoulder, the spry, blithe-faced man says to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:

       "Quiet, you.  I'm not done with him yet."

  At a small wooden table, you overhear the reedy, slate-haired woman say in sirihish, squinting at the graceful, platinum-haired man:

       "Was that a fruity breast joke?"

  With a shake of her head, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:

       "You go to her for medicine and you'll leave two inches shorter, ten years stupider, and a hundred times more likely to die tomorrow."

  The spry, blithe-faced man tilts his head, an intrigued expression overwhelming his features as he gently squeezes the ceramic fruits one by one.

  Clearing her throat, but carrying on pleasantly, you say, in sirihish:

       "For the benefit of all of you, yes, that was a fruity breast joke.  Do carry on.  There's more nonsense to see."

  Peering over the fruit on the graceful, platinum-haired man's chest, her voice quavery, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman exclaims, in sirihish:

       "Oh dear. This's the worst case of fruit-tit-itis I've ever seen!"

  The svelte, vividly-inked young man shifts his weight from foot to foot, his attention snapped away by a merchant that brushes by him en route to the food basket.

   

   

  The graceful, platinum-haired man drags his left boot against the ground, pouting demurely at the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman.

  The expansively-obese man chuckles at the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, massive belly shaking.

  The athletic, stubble-bearded man smooths his hair back, his hand brushing over his half of a massive rolled tube of spice half-tucked under his leaf-patterned, tembo-hide helmet.

  Putting her frayed lace shawl over her eyes and peering through it, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says, in sirihish:

       "Oh yes, it's fruit-tit-itis."

  The spry, blithe-faced man leans over, clacking his teeth against one of the brightly-painted ceramic fruits in an exaggerated gnawing motion.

  Blankly, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:

       "Just because your breasts are practically inverted doesn't mean you have to go gnawing on his."

  At a small wooden table, you overhear the reedy, slate-haired woman say in sirihish, nodding approvingly:

       "Good. It just isn't a fun time til someone comes out with a fruity breast joke."

  With a dip of her head to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, you ask the spry, blithe-faced man, in sirihish:

       "Sivamet's playing the medic with her... shawl... of... healing, yes, shawl of healing.  Gentlemen?"

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman wraps her frayed lace shawl around her arms.

  The graceful, platinum-haired man slides over to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, winking.

  The expansively-obese man chuckles louder, belly bouncing and jiggling.

   

  The graceful, platinum-haired man asks, in sirihish:

       "Does that mean you want to take a bite instead?"

  Waving a hand in your direction, the spry, blithe-faced man says, in sirihish:

       "Can't talk.  Busy."

   

   

  Muttering, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says, in sirihish:

       "So much for keeping it clean."

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman's brow arches, imperious for a moment as she looks to the spry, blithe-faced man's hand.

  At your table, you say in sirihish, under her breath, slender body shaking with laughter:

       "Is what I get for trying to order about a Master Bard, it would seem."

  Giving a firm nod of his head in approval, the trim, ashen-skinned man says, in southern-accented sirihish:

       "Gnawin' the juicy melons is definitely clean in my mind."

  With a shake of her head, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden asks the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:

       "Trust me, I only take bites where it matters-- and generally, that leaves a two-headed creature longing for a partner.  Didn't you know?"

  At your table, the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says in sirihish:

       "Would be akin to herding quirri or dealing with a southron house merchant."

  Sniffing, her voice quavery, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman exclaims, in sirihish:

       "The youth of today!"

  The graceful, platinum-haired man cranes his head back before scampering over to the spry, blithe-faced man.

  Hushing her, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden exclaims to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:

       "Not everyone was youthful when the sun was born, old woman!"

  You get your oversized wooden dart from your sturdy canvas bag.

  With a look of calm amusement, the slight, twin-braided woman smiles as she watches on.

   

  Aside to him, the spry, blithe-faced man says to the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:

       "She's just jealous that you've got more tits than she does."

   

   

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman exclaims to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, in sirihish:

       "Just because your boobies haven't grown yet, girly!"

  Calling out and standing on her chair for emphasis, you say to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:

       "I'm calling a prop swap.  Asosa, catch."

  You give your oversized wooden dart to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden.

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman tosses the shawl over to you.

   

  With a slender smile, you say, in sirihish:

       "Carry on, dart-wielding medics."

   

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman exclaims to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, in sirihish:

       "Gimme the cure, girly!"

  Holding up the pointy end of her oversized wooden dart, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:

       "Anyhow, boy, let me get rid of that fruit with this.  Trust me, it doesn't hurt..."

  The trim, ashen-skinned man keeps his eyes on the performers, his mouth quirked in a near permanent smirk.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman scoops up the shawl from the air and deposits it on the table before sitting primly on its edge.

  Hurling himself in between the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden and the graceful, platinum-haired man, splaying his arms out, the spry, blithe-faced man exclaims, in sirihish:

       "Wait!"

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:

       "She got that from me, you know. Her healing gifts."

  The svelte, vividly-inked young man shifts his weight again, watching the performance with a mild grin.

   

   

  Cringing, the graceful, platinum-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:

       "But, I like my tits!  I get to play with them whenever I want!"

  On a sigh, you say, in sirihish:

       "Remember that, women.  Don't take your fruititis for granted."

  Her voice lightened, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:

       "But, sweetheart, don't you know you'll end up all crouched over like my mum if you where them all the time?  They get heavy..."

  Stepping around behind the graceful, platinum-haired man, slipping his arms beneath the graceful, platinum-haired man's arms to grasp and sort of squeeze the ceramic fruits, the spry, blithe-faced man exclaims, in sirihish:

       "No!  They're wonderful!"

  Taking her eyes off the performance briefly, the slight, twin-braided woman looks at the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask.

  At a small wooden table, you overhear the expansively-obese man say in southern-accented sirihish, to the reedy, slate-haired woman, pudgy face creased by a lewd smile:

       "I don't know, that dart might be just what's needed. Melons need some hard 'darts' sticking out."

  Nodding, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:

       "It's true. I had breasts so big I was mistaken for twin bahamets."

  Raising a hand as he looks up at the group, the trim, ashen-skinned man says, in southern-accented sirihish:

       "If ever ya lasses have fruit-tit-itis'n need help... I'm a willin' sucker."

  The graceful, platinum-haired man lets out a high-pitched squeak.

  Turning, the svelte, vividly-inked young man sidles through the crowd toward the door, taking a deep breath.

  Snickering, the short, dusky woman sips from her small wooden cup.

  The browned, jallal-curled man chuckles lightly at the proceedings.

   

   

  The short, dusky woman waggles her eyebrows at the trim, ashen-skinned man, slouched in her chair.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman shoots the trim, ashen-skinned man a patented, high browed look of instructoral disapproval... and then smirks, relenting.

  You think:

       "And in five..."

   

  You think:

       "... four..."

   

  Tossing her oversized wooden dart in her direction, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden exclaims to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:

       "Good grief... here.  You take care of him, then. 

  He'll never understand the curse of the twins.  And his aren't even twins!"

   You think:

       "... three..."

   

  The boyish, charcoal-locked maiden gives her oversized wooden dart to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman.

   

  You think:

       "... two..."

  One hand releasing its lewd hold on one of the graceful, platinum-haired man's fruits to point an accusing finger at the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden and the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman alone, the spry, blithe-faced man exclaims, in sirihish:

       "Hands off the man's tits!"

  At your table, you say in sirihish, sputtering, stammering:

       "Aaaaaaaaaand... on that note... players, pause!"

  Shaking his head slowly, the graceful, platinum-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:

       "Now now, there's no reason to fight over my chest, there's plenty for everyone!"

  Holding up to empty hands, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to the spry, blithe-faced man, in sirihish:

       "If you haven't noticed... you're the only one with hands -on- them."

  With a hopeless shake of her head, you say, in sirihish:

       "I really would name you the winner, Morn, for starting that... what... ever it was, but I'm afraid I have to name Master Janosh the singular winner, as he helps handle Seeker's promotions."

  Wry humour in her voice, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to the spry, blithe-faced man, in sirihish:

       "You do know if they're not pricked, they'll be contagious."

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman chuckles.

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman grins at you.

  The slight, twin-braided woman offers a nod to the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask before turning her attention fully back to the performers.

  Point at the graceful, platinum-haired man and laughing, the spry, blithe-faced man exclaims, in sirihish:

       "He started it!"

  The graceful, platinum-haired man bows his head to the spry, blithe-faced man.

  Laughter still warm in her voice, the ethereal, fair-haired woman applauds over to the quartet.

   

  The trim, ashen-skinned man gives a deep, throaty noise of agreement as he grins.

  Wryly, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:

       "I'm sitting down and gathering the tattered remnants of my dignity."

  The graceful, platinum-haired man says, in sirihish:

       "Only with your magnificent presence could I have done something this. . . this. . ."

  The short, dusky woman smirks vaguely, tilting back a sip from her small wooden cup.

  The trim, ashen-skinned man lifts his hands and claps for the performers, looking to them and smiling warmly.

   

   

  The graceful, platinum-haired man walks over to you.

   

  Leaning forward a little, reaching for the graceful, platinum-haired man's prop, you say, in sirihish:

       "... Preposterous and delightful."

  The short, dusky woman puts her cup down to applaud the performers, relaxed tiredly into her chair by a long, vine-etched baobab table.

   

  To you, the graceful, platinum-haired man asks, in sirihish:

       "Would you like my chest?"

  Smile lingering, you ask the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:

       "What would I do with one of those?"

  Calling out, the short, dusky woman says to the graceful, platinum-haired man, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "That should've been 'would you like a nibble?'"

  Plopping down, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden sits at a small wooden table.

   

  At a small wooden table, you overhear the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman say in sirihish, wryly:

       "Sun King have mercy."

  The graceful, platinum-haired man gives you his brightly colored fruit hat.

  The spry, blithe-faced man chuckles, pointing in the short, dusky woman's direction and nodding.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman points to the short, dusky woman, the look she casts the graceful, platinum-haired man a touch reproachful.

  The boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to you, in sirihish:

       "Well, Aja, when life gives you kalan..."

  The trim, ashen-skinned man licks his lips as he waggles his eyes at the graceful, platinum-haired man.

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman looks up at the gimlet

  puce-eyed woman.

  The graceful, platinum-haired man blows a kiss to the trim, ashen-skinned man.

   

   

  With a warm tone, you say to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, in sirihish:

       "... Drink the night away."

   

  Looking away from the graceful, platinum-haired man to smile to the room, you say, in sirihish:

       "A new game, a new round of players.  I wouldn't have you bored with us yet.  I need... three people.  Maybe four if you beg."

   

   

  The short, dusky woman chuckles and holds her hands up, a helpless gesture.

  At a small wooden table, you overhear the browned, jallal-curled man say in sirihish, with a light chuckle for the reedy, slate-haired woman:

       "You should be performing, Irminia."

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman chuckles.

  The graceful, platinum-haired man slinks over to a small wooden table.

  Alighting upon a chair with a bit of color in his cheeks, the graceful, platinum-haired man sits at a small wooden table.

  At a small wooden table, you overhear the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman say in sirihish:

       "I apologise for those sand-awful jokes."

  With a bright grin, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to you, in sirihish:

       "Well, I think we both drank away a whole week not so long ago, but there probably wasn't any kalan involved."

  At a small wooden table, you overhear the graceful, platinum-haired man say in sirihish:

       "Well, I'll never be taken seriously again."

  Lifting up three fingers and shooting the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden a shushing glance, you say, in sirihish:

       "Mm-hmm.  Three people.  A game much like what you saw before, with a twist."

  At a small wooden table, you overhear the expansively-obese man say in southern-accented sirihish, to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, attention focused squarely on her chest:

       "Awful? They were delightful!"

   

   

  As he slowly pushes to his feet, the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says, in sirihish:

       "I suppose I'll give it a go, though my prudish nature may be quite boring."

  At a small wooden table, you overhear the reedy, slate-haired woman say in sirihish, to the browned, jallal-curled man, sniffing:

       "Only if they buy something."

  The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask stands up from a square beige table.

  Still rubbing gently at his jaw, the tanned, black-haired young man squints faintly, looking toward you.

  With imperious pride, you say, in sirihish:

       "And my players never falter, so don't worry about being left out."

  With a grin and lowering one finger, you say to the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask, in sirihish:

       "I have this one, here, who refuses to take off his mask despite it being hotter than an Allanak Detal in here."

  At a small wooden table, you overhear the graceful, platinum-haired man say in sirihish, wagging a finger at the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden with a grin:

       "I'll have you to blame for this, at least."

  The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask leans against his whorled agafari cane with a casual demeanor.

  At a small wooden table, you overhear the reedy, slate-haired woman say in sirihish, chuckling wryly:

       "I guess she doesn't get to Allanak many Detals..this is positively brisk."

  The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says to you, in sirihish:

       "I've never been to Allanak, does it get that hot there, krath."

  Calling to him, you say to the expansively-obese man, in sirihish:

       "Stand for Kadius, merchant.  I'll be kind."

   

  At a small wooden table, you overhear the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden say in sirihish, waving a hand in front of her face:

       "Speaking of which, it is getting more and more hot in here."

  Shifting up his massive bulk, the expansively-obese man stands up from a small wooden table.

  At a small wooden table, you overhear the graceful, platinum-haired man say in sirihish, tapping his obsidian breastplate:

       "You're not the one wearing armor."

  (hemote) Sweat glistens at the ethereal, fair-haired woman's collarbone and neck.

  The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask gives the expansively-obese man a deferential nod.

   

  Lowering a second finger, you say, in sirihish:

       "I need one more, one brave, daring man or woman to stand with the best of the Ivory or her guests and be counted."

  l

  Lucky Ghaati Teahouse [U Leave Quit]

  The browned, jallal-curled man is sitting at a small wooden table.

  The gimlet puce-eyed woman is standing here.

  The pursy, female half-giant stands here, trying to look mean.

  The slight, twin-braided woman is sitting at a small wooden table.

  The spry, blithe-faced man is sitting at a small wooden table.

  The tanned, black-haired young man leans against the wall, by the entrance.

  The graceful, platinum-haired man is sitting at a small wooden table.

  The boyish, charcoal-locked maiden is sitting at a small wooden table.

  The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask is standing here.

  The lean, cerulean-eyed man is standing here.

  The trim, ashen-skinned man is sitting at a long, vine-etched baobab table.

  The short, dusky woman is sitting at a long, vine-etched baobab table.

  The grey-tressed, sharp-nosed Lirathan templar is sitting at a small wooden table.

  A squat, tattooed guard stands here.

  The expansively-obese man is standing here.

  The reedy, slate-haired woman is sitting at a small wooden table.

  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man is standing here.

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman is sitting at a small wooden table.

   

  The graceful, platinum-haired man lifts his left eyebrow while glancing over at the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden.

  Stretching languidly, the short, dusky woman stands up from a long, vine-etched baobab table.

  Lowering his hand from his jaw, the tanned, black-haired young man quirks his mouth idly.

  Coyly, the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says to you, in sirihish:

       "No pressure then I suppose."

  Quietly, as she swaggers over toward the performers, the short, dusky woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Oh, no. I stood up."

  Looking at the short, dusky woman and throwing his hands into the air, the trim, ashen-skinned man exclaims, in southern-accented sirihish:

       "And the gypsy throws down the cestus!"

  The willowy, onyx-braided woman has arrived from above, smoking pipe in hand.

  The trim, ashen-skinned man lets his hands fall back to a long, vine-etched baobab table with a clatter.

  With a reproachful smile, you ask, in sirihish:

       "And Zharal falls for standing, yet again.  Alright, then, players - and you there, masked one, can I have a name to swoon over?"

  The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask nods politly to the short, dusky woman.

  The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says to you, in sirihish:

       "Elithan."

  The short, dusky woman spreads her hands out in a 'bring it' sort of gesture, sauntering bravely up to you. She smiles and nods politely at the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask.

  Jaw falling open, you look up at the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask.

  This man has seen many years as he has reached the rarity of old age. His neatly trimmed hair is a grayish white.  There are hints of crimson streaks in his hair perhaps revealing what color his hair was in this man's youth.  High arched cheekbones and eyebrows elongate his stern facial features,  and his thin lips are distorted by a thin scar that runs diagonally through them.  However, his features are offset by his warm blue eyes.  His heavily scarred skin is beset with age as deep lines are set into his face and prominent crow’s feet are set around his eyes.  Scars of varying degrees are visible on just about any amount of exposed skin giving him a battle hardened appearance.  A smattering of discolored circular burnscars run down his left cheek.  One scar which stands out above all others is a scar that runs from the base of his chin on the left side of his face and down his neck.  The scar appears old, but is discolored to a strange purplish hue.  He is very well kept: trim hair and nails, smoothly shaven face, and a healthy physique of taut muscles seemingly uncharacteristic for his apparent age.  His hands are worn and callused as if this man was no stranger to physical labor.  Though his massive amount of scars mixed with the ravages of age give this, upon closer inspection, hearty man an appearance of being far older than he may be. 

   

   

  The short, dusky woman ..... stares. At the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask.

  The ancient, brutally-scarred man stops using his painted ivory half-mask, revealing a splotchy burn scar.

  The gimlet puce-eyed woman laughs once, covering her mouth.

  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man blinks at the ancient, brutally-scarred man, slowly.

  The boyish, charcoal-locked maiden gives the ancient, brutally-scarred man a double-take.

  Doing a double-take, the expansively-obese man looks at the ancient, brutally-scarred man.

  Mouth hanging open, the trim, ashen-skinned man says to the ancient, brutally-scarred man, in southern-accented sirihish:

       "That is the most amazin' fuckin' thing I ever saw."

  Pressing a hand to her mouth, you say, in sirihish:

       "... Oh... sweet... Krath, I just toussled the hair of my High Templar and very benevolent and caring patron."

  His expression shifting into a grin quickly, the spry, blithe-faced man applauds.

  The graceful, platinum-haired man blinks a few times, clearing his throat.

  Grinning widely, the short, dusky woman says to the ancient, brutally-scarred man, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Can't think of anybody I'd rather have on my team."

  At a small wooden table, you overhear the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden say in sirihish, holding a hand over her mouth:

       "Sweet..."

  The gimlet puce-eyed woman's shoulders shake as she watches you and the ancient, brutally-scarred man.

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman places a hand to her mouth, eyes going wide as kalans.

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman looks at the browned, jallal-curled man.

  The ancient, brutally-scarred man says to the short, dusky woman, in sirihish:

       "Indeed."

  At a small wooden table, you overhear the reedy, slate-haired woman say in sirihish, staring openly and unashamedly at the ancient, brutally-scarred man:

       "Well how about that."

  The browned, jallal-curled man blinks as he notices the ancient, brutally-scarred man remove his mask.

  At a small wooden table, you overhear the graceful, platinum-haired man say in sirihish:

       "And now, I've shown the High Templar my melons."

  The trim, ashen-skinned man breaks in a deep chuckle as he sinks into the chair and laces his hands over his chest.

  Recovering nicely from her grinning amazement, the short, dusky woman dips a bow of her head, deep and respectful, to the ancient, brutally-scarred man.

  With a low groan, you say, in sirihish:

       "Very well.  This makes things much more enticing.  As you wish, High Templar Elithan Winrothol."

  The expansively-obese man continues to look shocked a moment, before dipping a respectful nod.

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman bows her head respectfully to the ancient, brutally-scarred man, her smile turning wry and self-deprecating.

  At a small wooden table, you overhear the graceful, platinum-haired man say in sirihish, burying his face in a large, open hand:

       "My dignity has vanished."

   

  Skin a deep red - from heat, naturally, you say, in sirihish:

       "The game is a game of improvisation, the games we love best.  Or I do when I'm calling the commands against you."

  The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man inclines his head respectfully to the ancient, brutally-scarred man, finally seeming to regain his composure.

   

  Mustering a wry half-smile, you ask the ancient, brutally-scarred man, in sirihish:

       "I hope you won't be opposed to playing a soldier?"

  (After the end of the insanity, which involves among other things a gypsy elf stealing Barbek’s nuts... and because I can’t resist...)

  Standing on her chair and offering a deep tilt of her head to the ancient, brutally-scarred man, the short, dusky woman, and the expansively-obese man in turn, you say, in sirihish:

       "This singstress has yelled herself out, but I'd like to give one more challenge before I bury my head somewhere where no one can find me again."

  The ancient, brutally-scarred man steps back towards a square beige table taking a seat.

  With a knowing smile to the ancient, brutally-scarred man, a teasing wrinkle of her nose, you ask, in sirihish:

       "To the group.  Who here... has the best toast?"

  Grinning and tipping a bow of her head, the short, dusky woman says to the ancient, brutally-scarred man, in tribal-accented sirihish:

       "Very indulgent, High Templar. That was fun."

  Pointedly, you say, in sirihish:

       "You all drink.  Krath knows that much.  I'll give a prize to the most creative, the most clever toaster in the Circle this day."

  The ancient, brutally-scarred man says to the short, dusky woman, in sirihish:

       "That it was, though I admit I'm not much of an actor."

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman stands up from a small wooden table.

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:

       "I'll give it a try."

  The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman grins at you.

  The trim, ashen-skinned man licks his lips as he half-grins at you and the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, then scatters a gaze around...

  With a sweep of her arm, you say to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:

       "At the top of your lungs, Sivamet the victor."

  Raising her voice a little, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to you, in sirihish:

       "I don't know if I can toast, but I can tell you what I'll never forget about tonight.  'Can I have a name to swoon over?'  'Elithan.'  Bam.  Jaw.  Floor."

  With a crisp smile, you say, in sirihish:

       "Excuse me while I throw darts at Asosa.  Won't be a moment."

  The boyish, charcoal-locked maiden bursts into laughter, holding her arms up to protect her face.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman chuckles, making a swat in the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden's direction before smiling to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman.

  You say, in sirihish:

       "Go, go.  I'll have the rest of my life to live that down."

  Giggling, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to you, in sirihish:

       "Will you ever..."

  Drawing two fingers together in a shushing noise, you say to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, in sirihish:

       "Dart."

  Lifting an imaginary cup at the audience, her dark voice carrying, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman exclaims, in sirihish:

       "To the Sun King! May Your Faithful always be blessed with humour, Your Chosen with generosity, Your Legions with ... weapons ... and Your bards with creativity!"

  More sedately, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says, in sirihish:

       "And Your City with the arts which remind us all of who... and what... we are."

  Raising his voice, the spry, blithe-faced man exclaims, in sirihish:

       "And may your nuts be plentiful!"

   

  The short, dusky woman starts to laugh helplessly at the spry, blithe-faced man's input.

  Laughing, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says, in sirihish:

       "And yes, may we always have nuts."

  Joining in with the shouted cheers, you exclaim, in sirihish:

       "And the enemies of the Ivory, never meet a friend!"

  The spry, blithe-faced man's complexion warms with subdued laughter.

  Adopting an eloquent bow, hair - sticky with sweat - falling across her shoulders, you say, in sirihish:

       "It's been my pleasure, friends.  Stay, chat, converse.  I'm your servant for as long as I can think of ways to torment you."

  Straightening, smile arch when she sweeps an arm to a fat-bellied, brown-haired woman, you say, in sirihish:

       "And be sweet to your host.  Have a cup of tea before you go."

   

  Note:  This has been HEAVILY editted for spam and length.

  It is late afternoon on Terrin, the 2nd day of the Low Sun,

  In the Year of Ruk's Reverence, year 48 of the 21st Age.

   

   

  Lucky Ghaati Teahouse [U Leave Quit]

     Screens, made of oiled paper printed with swirls...

  
  Continue Reading...
• 

  The Best Laid Plans (Part 1) by laurajlmars
  Added on Oct 24, 2009

  Lord Templar Samos Rennik receives annoying news, and makes a dangerous decision that will have lasting repercussions. A log from the summer of 2007.

  ---

  A Spartan Meditation Chamber [S Save]
  A simple obsidian altar, trimmed in jade, rests here upon the floor.
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar is standing here.
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar paces back and forth, head bowed.
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar stalks over to a jade and obsidian altar and drops down to his knees, letting out a frustrated growl.
  
  The blind, wine-haired female stumbles down into a corner of the room, furthest away from the rugged, stubble-bearded templar and a jade and obsidian altar.
  
  With a growl, smashing a fist into the floor, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar exclaims, in sirihish:
       "I can't HANDLE this!"
  
  Sliding down the wall, sightless eyes huge, you sit down.
  
  Your new ldesc is:
  The blind, wine-haired female huddles in the corner here
  
  A -crack- sounding from wood and stone as he smashes his fist to the floor again, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says, in sirihish:
       "SURROUNDED by fucking incompetence on every side."
  
  You feel disoriented and frightened by the waves of rage in his voice.
  
  You feel an insane babble of voices tumbling, deafening, through your head.
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar clenches his hands into fists, teeth grit hard in frustration.
  
  As if a mirror to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar's emotions, the blind, wine-haired female's teeth also clench.
  
  You feel completely baffled as to why you're sad, why you're angry.
  
  A dark resolve in his voice, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says, in sirihish:
       "If Weringa can't be trusted, I have to kill him."
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar says, in sirihish:
       "I'll cut out the rot in this order myself."
  
  Facing the altar, features stony, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says, in sirihish:
       "I have no other choice."
  
  You feel a shiver run down your spine.
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar looks over his shoulder at you.
  
  A frozen expression on her face, the blind, wine-haired female rubs moisture from one cheek with dusty fingers, leaving a smudge against her pale skin.
  
  Speaking to the ground at her bare feet, you whisper to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar in sirihish:
       "It will make him laugh."
  
  Exhaling a hissing breath, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar asks you, in sirihish:
       "Who?"
  
  You whisper to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar in sirihish:
       "Gin."
  
  Still kneeling, peering at you in your corner, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar asks you, in sirihish:
       "Why?"
  
  Flinching further back, you whisper to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar in sirihish:
       "I don't know. I don't know. Laughter's the best poison."
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "Stay away from him until we do this. I will leave nothing to chance."
  
  You feel unhappy.
  
  The blind, wine-haired female manages a tiny nod.
  
  You think:
       "No...no no no."
  
  You think:
       "This will lead to nothing good."
  
  You think:
       "Kicking out bricks."
  
  You feel nervous and apprehensive.
  
  You feel like an animal getting dragged to a bath.
  
  Turning back to the altar, bowing his head, tone reverent, if tinged slightly with desperation, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says, in sirihish:
       "Highlord Tektolnes, I pray you favor my actions."
  
  The blind, wine-haired female lifts a shaking hand to her white face, fingers lacing into her hair.
  
  The blind, wine-haired female crouches on the balls of her feet, ankle jingling slightly in the quiet as she shifts her position.
  
  You think:
       "Why is he so? Why...why doesn't he say...why does he do this?"
  
  Breaking the silence, facing away from you, rugged, stubble-bearded templar asks, in sirihish:
       "Do you have the poison?"
  
  Barely breathing out her response, you whisper to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar in sirihish:
       "Yes."
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar stands up.
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar sighs, pushing up from the altar.
  
  Scrambling to her feet with a jingle of bells and a hiss of silk, you stand up.
  
  The blind, wine-haired female keeps her back to the corner, fingers clenching and unclenching at her sides.
  
  Quietly, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar asks you, in sirihish:
       "What should I do?"
  
  Uncertainty thick in her tone, you say to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar in sirihish:
       "You ask me for council?"
  
  With a weak, helpless, mirthless smile, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says, in sirihish:
       "Seems like yer the only person I can trust."
  
  Shoulders hunching, you whisper to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar in sirihish:
       "I'm just a slave."
  
  You feel your mind yanked back to the present, ignoring the noises in your head which grate back and forth like the edges of a serrated knife.
  
  Stepping closer to you, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says, in sirihish:
       "You know you're more than that to me."
  
  Plaintively, lifting both hands towards him, you say to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, in sirihish:
       "I'm not...truly, I don't know, please, I only want your happiness."
  
  One side of his mouth crooking up, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says, in sirihish:
       "Almost a foreign concept to me lately."
  
  The blind, wine-haired female's lips move soundlessly, folding her fingers in on themselves to stop their trembling.
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar sighs, deflating, opening his arms to you for an embrace.
  
  Pulling you close, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar whispers to you, in sirihish:
       "Saya, tell me."
  
  Stepping forward into his arms, you whisper to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar in sirihish:
       "Weringa meets with the Warlord now."
  
  Blue gaze narrowing as he stares at the opposite wall, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar asks, in sirihish:
       "Are you..?"
  
  The blind, wine-haired female nods vacantly, cheek resting against the rugged, stubble-bearded templar's chest.
  
  With a grunt, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar whispers to you, in sirihish:
       "Then tell me."
  
  You whisper to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar in sirihish:
       "He hasn't arrived yet."
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar purses his lips, chin resting on the top of your head.
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar whispers to you, in sirihish:
       "Could you follow him? Hidden? And listen?"
  
  You feel sick at the prospect.
  
  You whisper to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar in sirihish:
       "He's in the Academy."
  
  Taking your arm, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar whispers to you, in sirihish:
       "Let's go."
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks south.
  You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk south.
  
  A Narrow Entryway [NES]
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar is standing here.
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks south.
  You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk south.
  
  A Sitting Room [NE Save]
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar is standing here.
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks north.
  You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk north.
  
  A Narrow Entryway [NES]
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar is standing here.
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar gets his night-black, sheer silk blindfold from his dusty oversized black backpack.
  
  Turning you towards the door, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says to you, in sirihish:
       "Stay close.  Stay out of sight."
  
  Tieing it over your eyes, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar gives you his night-black, sheer silk blindfold.
  
  Bowing her head, you fasten your night-black, sheer silk blindfold across your face, a whimper briefly escaping her lips.
  
  You feel dizzy.
  
  You feel tears threatening to come.
  
  Tugging your hood over your hair, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar whispers to you, in sirihish:
       "You can do this. And you need to."
  
  Nearly inaudible, the female wearing a night-black, sheer silk blindfold pants for air through dry, dry lips.
  
  You raise the hood of a hooded, loose black silk greatcloak.
  
  You are using:
  <worn on face>           a night-black, sheer silk blindfold
  <worn around neck>       a leather collar with a jade cross on it
  <worn on torso>          a diaphanous draped black dress
  <worn around body>       a hooded, loose black silk greatcloak
  <worn on right ankle>    a belled leather loop
  
  Stooping to her ankle, you stop using your belled leather loop.
  
  Standing, and turning to press it into his hand, you give your belled leather loop to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar.
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar gives your shoulder a quick squeeze.
  
  You search for a good place to hide.
  
  You attempt to hide yourself.
  
  You now follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar.
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar unlocks the door with a worn bronze key.
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar opens the door.
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks east.
  You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk east.
  
  A Well-Lit Stairwell [EWUD]
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar is standing here.
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar closes the door.
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar locks the door with a worn bronze key.
  
  You start trying to listen.
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks down.
  You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk down.
  
  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 rugged, stubble-bearded templar is standing here.
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks down.
  You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk down.
  
  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.  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar is standing here.
  A diminutive, white-robed templar sits at a semi-circular desk.
  
  The diminutive, white-robed templar stops using her sturdy steel key.
  
  The diminutive, white-robed templar unlocks the door with a sturdy steel key.
  
  The diminutive, white-robed templar opens the door.
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks south.
  You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk south.
  
  You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
  
  Feeling yourself bawk, you think:
       "Nononono, do not want."
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks east.
  You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk east.
  
  Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
  You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks east.
  You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk east.
  
  Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
  You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks east.
  You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk east.
  
  Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
  You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks north.
  You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk north.
  
  Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
  You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks north.
  You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk north.
  
  Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
  You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks north.
  You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk north.
  
  Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
  You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks east.
  You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk east.
  
  Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
  You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks east.
  You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk east.
  
  Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
  You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar sends up a call to the wall to open the gates.
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar opens the gate.
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks north.
  You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk north.
  
  Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
  You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks west.
  You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk west.
  
  Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
  You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks west.
  You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk west.
  
  Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
  You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks north.
  You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk north.
  
  Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
  You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
  
  Stepping aside quickly, the fiery-haired, flat-nosed man says, in sirihish:
       "Opening on behalf of an Officer of the Academy."
  The fiery-haired, flat-nosed man stops using his slender ruby-red stone key.
  The fiery-haired, flat-nosed man unlocks the door with a slender ruby-red stone key.
  The fiery-haired, flat-nosed man opens the door.
  The fiery-haired, flat-nosed man fastens his slender ruby-red stone key around his wrist.
  
  The fiery-haired, flat-nosed man nods at the rugged, stubble-bearded templar.
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks north.
  You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk north.

  A Spartan Meditation Chamber [S Save]
  A simple obsidian altar, trimmed in jade, rests here upon the floor.
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar is standing here.
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar paces back and forth, head bowed.
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar stalks over to a jade and...
  Continue Reading...
• 

  The Best Laid Plans (Part 2) by Laurajlmars
  Added on Oct 24, 2009

  Lord Templar Weringa Borsail and Warlord Kharad Tor discuss a threat against Allanak and a number of available options, unaware that they are being overheard. A log from the summer of 2007.

  ---

  Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
  A Grand Onyx Floored Entrance Hall [NESW]
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar is standing here.
  The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female stands here, rigid and alert.
  The fiery-haired, flat-nosed man closes the door from the other side.
  
  You search for a good place to hide.
  
  You attempt to hide yourself.
  
  The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female locks the door with a slender ruby-red stone key.
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
       "Go to them. Find my mind if there's any trouble. I'll be nearby."
  
  You are no longer following anyone.
  
  You search for a good place to hide.
  
  You attempt to hide yourself.
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar steps in, looks around for a moment, then shakes his head and leaves.
  
  Stepping aside quickly, the cynipri-skinned, dwarven female says, in sirihish:
       "Opening on behalf of an Officer of the Academy."
  The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female stops using her slender ruby-red stone key.
  The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female unlocks the door with a slender ruby-red stone key.
  The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female opens the door.
  The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female fastens her slender ruby-red stone key around her wrist.
  
  The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female nods at the rugged, stubble-bearded templar.
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks south.
  The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female closes the door.
  
  The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female locks the door with a slender ruby-red stone key.
  
  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  You feel terrified without his protection.
  
  After a long moment of standing, petrified, in the middle of the hall, the figure in a dusty hooded, loose black silk greatcloak forces one bare foot forward, shaking all over.
  
  You slow down and start moving carefully.
  
  n
  Grand Onyx Floored Hall [NESWU]
  The svelte, ringlet-haired woman is here, patrolling the hall.
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, loose black silk greatcloak creeps up the stairs on soundless feet, both hands gripping the railing so tight her knuckles blanch.
  
  u
  A White Marble Foyer [NESWUD]
  The pepper-haired, square-jawed man is here guarding the ascending stairwell.
  
  You search for a good place to hide.
  
  You attempt to hide yourself.
  
  You feel your thoughts focus.
  
  You think:
       "As long as they...as long as..."
  
  Feeling yourself struggling for breath, you think:
       "I needn't...as long as I can feel him glow."
  
  Feeling betrayed, you think:
       "How could he do this? How could he leave me?"
  
  Groping her way blindly, the figure in a dusty hooded, loose black silk greatcloak crawls into a wall niche bearing a statue of black onyx, huddling motionless behind it.
  
  You feel your heart hammering in your throat.
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, loose black silk greatcloak presses her back against the wall of the shadowed niche.
  
  You feel as though the only thread that connects her to sanity is fraying.
  
  s (almost crawling, feeling her way with bare feet)
  The Academy Lounge by the Bar [NEW]
  The keg-bellied female dwarf stands to the warbraided man's right.
  The warbraided, smoke-eyed man is sitting at a small, pale cylini table.
  The chiseled, auburn-haired woman stands watchfully here.
  The blockish, olive-drab dwarf stands to the warbraided man's left.
  The stone-faced, able-bodied templar is sitting at a small, pale cylini table.
  The plump, brown-eyed woman stands here behind the onyx bar.
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, peering across the table to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
       "I do however, think it is time to take action against our neighbors in the not-so-nice part of the city."
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, loose black silk greatcloak creeps silently along the edges of the room, feeling her way to a pillar near the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's table.
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, uplifting a brow at the stone-faced, able-bodied templar as he rasps softly:
       "Ah, you do?  Has something transpired to change your sentiments?"
  
  Bare toes gripping the porous marble, fingers curling around obsidian lamp stems, the figure in a dusty hooded, loose black silk greatcloak nimbly, silently climbs straight up the side of the curving wall, bracing herself in a large stone arch.
  
  Your new ldesc is:
  The figure in a dusty hooded, loose black silk greatcloak is braced against an arch, above the heads of many.
  
  You think:
       "They'll see me, they'll see me, they'll see...they'll see...see me, don't see me, listen, listen, listen..."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, with a soft smile:
       "Sharak and Horoz are dead, we can fully focus on the situation here... heal the city of that festering sore that has lingered far too long now."
  
  You think:
       "Remember, remember, remember."
  
  You think:
       "Oh! I can't see. I can't move. Can't feel. Can't...I am...a rational creature. Am I a person? If all of this is true?"
  
  Feeling wild, you think:
       "Looks better when you can't see it, nothing but specifics, poor decisions, help!"
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
       "You and your men are fully with me in this, I imagine?"
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, nodding deeply:
       "You know that I agree.  We certainly would be, yes."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, lifting another piece of steak from the plate:
       "Excellent."
  
  The stone-faced, able-bodied templar eats a portion of his half eaten kank steak.
  
  You think:
       "Don't see me. Don't look up."
  
  You feel your arms trembling.
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, after swallowing:
       "Templar Samos doesn't feel it time, or something. Well, I do and actions are going to be taken."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, with a vague gesture of one spike-knuckled hand:
       "Lord Samos recently spoke on the matter with his Red, the Great Lord Shalak, who believed it was still not time."
  
  You feel ill with fear.
  
  You feel like throwing up.
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, nodding deeply:
       "Aye, he has expressed as much to me."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man with a sideways cant of his head:
       "Well."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, shaking his head once:
       "I've not yet been summoned to a Great Lord since my inprocessing to the city, my previous or any other."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
       "If my actions are to be stopped, I imagine I will be told as much after some of them are dead. I have the names of all those Gin wishes protected, we can start there."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, nodding firmly:
       "Excellent.  Those will be more valuable to us than the top layers of scum we'd have to skim through going in blind."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, extending five fingers, one at a time:
       "Hek, Marin, Corin, Hazim, and Vel."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, with a faint nod:
       "Those five should cut his feet out from beneath him, forcing action on his part."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, nodding once:
       "Hek attacked me a few weeks ago, and has fled to Tuluk, last I heard."
  
  You feel dread clutching at your throat.
  
  You think:
       "Were they to know."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, raising his brows:
       "Tuluk is it..."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, with a single shake of his head:
       "Unpleasant."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, gruffly:
       "He had rampaged in the Elemental Quarter and hid from the militia in the Commons.  I confronted him and tried to convince him to surrender for a stay in the jail, but he chose instead to try to butcher me."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, with a light smirk:
       "Aye... do you know of any of these others?"
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, gruffly:
       "And in the aftermath, Marin spoke to me psionically.  He claims to be in charge now, with Gin demoted, but when I demanded he forsake the bender, he grew irate."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, with a faint smirk:
       "And promised to have me assassinated."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, with a single shake of his head:
       "That will not happen."
  
  You think:
       "Quiet! Let go."
  
  You feel your panic drain away.
  
  You feel vacant, crystal clear, empty.
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, loose black silk greatcloak's knuckles slowly whiten as they clutch, unmoving, the stem of the obsidian lamp.
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, still smirking:
       "He warned me to test every drink and bite of food, for my first slip would be my last.  He didn't realize I've had that done routinely since I was eight."
  
  The stone-faced, able-bodied templar curls the corner of his mouth up in a grin before nodding once to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man.
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, lightly clearing his throat before rasping on hoarsely:
       "Marin has two rooms in the tenament building on Merchant's Road."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, gruffly:
       "The other tenants there are all gemmed mages, some borderline rogue, I'm told.  He keeps the east room on the second floor, and claims the west room there is under his protection."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, with a faint nod to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
       "Very good... any idea how often he visits them? Or does he stay there permenantly?"
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, simply:
       "If Marin says he is in charge, well, im not going to hesitate in breaking down his door and cutting his head off with first opportunity."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, shaking his head lightly:
       "He seems to spend more time in Folley's or the sewers, but when I had reports from a person renting in that building, he seemed to visit perhaps once every two weeks."
  
  A motor tic briefly contorts the left side of the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's face.
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish:
       "Know anything... alright?"
  
  The stone-faced, able-bodied templar looks over the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's face for a moment before shrugging a shoulder.
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish:
       "Know anything about any of the others?"
  
  The stone-faced, able-bodied templar looks at the warbraided, smoke-eyed man.
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, as he works his jaw to relax the spasming muscles in his face:
       "I knew a Vel once, but he was an al'Seik tribal.  I somehow doubt it is the same one..."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, with a shake of his head:
       "I seriously doubt it'd be the same one... we really need to find out more about those who are in the Guild now."
  
  You feel completely vacant now, without conscience or memory, functioning only as a vessel.
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, nodding once:
       "I shall see if I can match faces to those names.  There is also Quick, of course.  The elf."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
       "I've probed Gin a couple times now with things that tempt him... each time he has had me pass it off to one of his men, or to someone I trust that can take it to a messenger of his own."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, scowling:
       "Yes, Quick... the Nilazi."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, shifting his jaw:
       "Gin is a powerful mindbender, Lord Templar.  I withstood the worse the High Lirathans had in the War, but he was able to break me."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
       "I have heard... what was he capable of against you?"
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, gruffly:
       "We sparred for half a day, perhaps... he repeatedly trying to break through my barrier.  Finally, in an instant before I could re-erect it, he slipped in..."
  
  The stone-faced, able-bodied templar furrows his brow and tilts his head forward in a single nod.
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, gruffly:
       "He was fully capable of ending my life."
  
  The warbraided, smoke-eyed man purses his lips thoughtfully.
  
  You feel nothing good emanating from the sudden silence.
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, scowling:
       "Bastard... is a blight to the city..."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, shaking his head once:
       "Too many have suffered their wiles and used them, instead of snuffing them out to get the job done themselves."
  
  You feel every sense but your ruined eyes on high alert.
  
  You feel the cold marble of the wall beneath your bare feet.
  
  You feel the scent of ocotillo wine tingling in your nostrils and the back of your throat.
  
  You feel the stringent taste of smoke and whiskey lingering in the air.
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, nodding simply:
       "I could not agree more."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, peering at the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
       "I am glad someone in this city seems to still agree with me, Warlord."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, exhaling a single gruff chuckle:
       "On the contrary, I have long sought someone's agreement with me on this issue.  You opposed it so ardently when we last spoke, I admit to being quite pleasantly surprised now."
  
  You feel the words you hear being funneled, without understanding or comprehension, into a safe place in the back of your head.
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man as he wags a finger back and forth:
       "If you remember, I agreed they had to be brought down... but it was not the right time then, as it is now. We have no other immediate dangers to the city and its peoples, other than them."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish:
       "Why we would wait when there are so few other meaningful places to turn our attention to, is beyond me."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, nodding seriously:
       "Gin's violation has tapped a temper I usually keep in check, I admit, and the Guild's affiliation with the undead is deeply disturbing for all of the city."
  
  The stone-faced, able-bodied templar clenches his jaw and tilts his head forward with a firm nod.
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish:
       "What I would give for the old days of poisoned daggers being the biggest problem they posed."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, gruffly:
       "Ah!  Here, here. That was a Guild I much prefered to deal with.  I have heard rumors that a similar undead presence has been amassing beneath Tuluk as well."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish:
       "Insideous mindbenders, Nilazi, outright attacks in the city to our very Noble blooded!"
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, nodding once to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
       "I've read such reports myself. Would not be so disturbing if we did not face the same here ourselves."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, nodding:
       "Do you know a woman named Felicity?"
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, with a single shake of his head:
       "Not at all."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish:
       "Who is this Felicity?"
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, gruffly:
       "A whore from the alleys.  She was southside to arrange some purchases with Kadius, and also asking questions about the abilities of some mages who were at the bar."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
       "Affiliated with any of the Guild?"
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
       "Or do you propose we try and use her against them somehow?"
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish:
       "She appeared diseased... whether it was the onset of the 'cold dead' or something else... I do not know"
  
  The stone-faced, able-bodied templar wrinkles his nose and tilts his head forward with a single nod.
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, to the stone-faced, able-bodied templar:
       "No, I believe she is affiliated.  She warned a Drovian against snooping in the alleys, and told him 'Samos knows everyone of importance up there anyhow""
  
  Rapidly, silently, the figure in a dusty hooded, loose black silk greatcloak's chest rises and falls.
  
  You feel air automatically filling your lungs, leaving them, returning.
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, the stone-faced, able-bodied templar speaks, pursing his lips and glancing to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man.
  
  You start trying to listen.
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, to the stone-faced, able-bodied templar:
       "I am much less troubled now to be like minded with you.  I shall attempt to get some eyes and ears inside the alleys, and watch for these 'protected' here southside."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, with a firm nod:
       "Once spotted, find my mind immediately and together we will waylay them wherever they stand."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
       "I may need some funding if it can be spared Warlord, my bank account grows slack lately... the people fear the taxes I impose and the beatings, far fewer do they break HIS laws."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, nodding firmly:
       "With pleasure, I shall seek your mind.  Funds?  Yes, of course, let me contribute to this effort."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
       "Speak with the gemmed Valla, see if she will report on Marin's coming and goings from his apartments."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
       "Snap as well, after the beating he took by them I am sure he'd gladly take part in this endevour... without being ordered."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
       "They both live in the same apartments on Merchant's Road."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, nodding a couple of times:
       "Aye, Snap.  He is the one Hek attacked just before me.  He should recognize that I stood up for him."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
       "We'll need to use every angle we can in this. I'm not going to let anything stand in the way."
  
  You feel your limbs and position turn gradually to ice, frigid and unmoving and painful.
  
  Feeling pain wrack your motionless limbs, you think:
       "Hurts, must be seen, no pain could be so silent."
  
  Finishing off the last bit from the plate, the stone-faced, able-bodied templar eats his small portion of a kank steak.
  
  The stone-faced, able-bodied templar puts his pile of coins into his pouched belt.
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, scowling:
       "Still owe them back for the death of Templar Shiran."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, nodding firmly:
       "And Lord Templar Evaren Sath, Lord Shiran's replacement."
  
  The stone-faced, able-bodied templar clenches his jaw and nods once to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man.
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, gruffly:
       "He led a small group into the sewers.  They killed him down in that muck."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
       "If any assault is to be made into that lair now it'll be in scores, Scorpion and the Jade Cross."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, gruffly:
       "When we next meet, I shall transfer some funds to you.  I am afraid I exhausted the coffer I keep here in my office."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, with a firm nod:
       "Excellent, during this work keep yourself well protected... as you always do. I shall pray to the Highlord and HIS Blessing will be with us."
  
  The warbraided, smoke-eyed man nods firmly to the stone-faced, able-bodied templar.
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, nodding firmly to the stone-faced, able-bodied templar:
       "I have lost many good Scorpions to the Guild in the last three years... all stabbed in the back by a knife, or having their lives ended by a foe far from site.  The rest of my men have been preparing to deliver a reply."
  
  At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish:
       "The Guild will be smothered by HIS swiftly beating wings in their most merciless state, Warlord."
  
  The stone-faced, able-bodied templar stands up from a small, pale cylini table.
  
  The warbraided, smoke-eyed man stands up from a small, pale cylini table.
  
  The stone-faced, able-bodied templar says, in sirihish:
       "Walk beneath HIS wide-winged shadow and all will be well."
  
  The stone-faced, able-bodied templar walks north.
  
  The warbraided, smoke-eyed man walks north.
  The blockish, olive-drab dwarf walks north.
  The chiseled, auburn-haired woman walks north.
  The keg-bellied female dwarf walks north.
  
  You feel your entire body aching with long confinement.
  
  You think:
       "Roc, don't forget me."
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, loose black silk greatcloak continues to sit braced in her perch, rocking back and forth slightly.
  
  
  
  <a long time passes>
  
  
  
  A foreign presence contacts your mind.
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
       "You okay?"
  
  You feel yourself coming to.
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, loose black silk greatcloak gradually unbends her fingers from around the lamp.
  
  You feel movement slowly returning, blood circulating painfully through your frozen form.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You contact the rugged, stubble-bearded man with the Way.
  
  The figure in a hooded, loose black silk greatcloak slides down the wall, landing lightly on bare feet.
  
  You feel your iron limbs turn to flesh once more.
  
  n (creeping along the wall)
  A White Marble Foyer [NESWUD]
  The pepper-haired, square-jawed man is here guarding the ascending stairwell.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
       "Please get me out."
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
       "Did they find you?"
  
  You feel wretched.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
       "No."
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
       "*a wave of relief* Good girl."
  
  d
  Grand Onyx Floored Hall [NESWU]
  The svelte, ringlet-haired woman is here, patrolling the hall.
  
  s
  A Grand Onyx Floored Entrance Hall [NESW]  
  The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female stands here, rigid and alert.
  
  The fiery-haired, flat-nosed man opens the door from the other side.
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar has arrived from the south.
  The fiery-haired, flat-nosed man closes the door from the other side.
  
  You now follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar.
  
  The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female locks the door with a slender ruby-red stone key.
  
  The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
       "I'm in the entry. Where are you?"
  
  You feel your icy cold and vacant demeanor melting under a nearly hysterical wash of relief.
  
  You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
       "I'm with you."
  
  You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
       "Go."
  
  Stepping aside quickly, the cynipri-skinned, dwarven female says, in sirihish:
       "Opening on behalf of an Officer of the Academy."
  The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female stops using her slender ruby-red stone key.
  The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female unlocks the door with a slender ruby-red stone key.
  The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female opens the door.
  The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female fastens her slender ruby-red stone key around her wrist.
  
  The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female nods at the rugged, stubble-bearded man.
  The rugged, stubble-bearded man walks south.
  You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded man, and walk south.

  Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
  A Grand Onyx Floored Entrance Hall [NESW]
  The rugged, stubble-bearded templar is standing here.
  The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female stands here, rigid and alert.
  The fiery-haired, flat-nosed man closes the door from the other side.
  
  You search for a good place...
  Continue Reading...

• 

  Memoir #11 - The City Elf by Rairen
  Added on Oct 24, 2009

  Aja hasn't improved at managing elves - particularly the unusually intriging ones - since her days as an Apprentice,

  ---

  You are Aja, of many people.

  Objective: To persuade Muk to give her a child.

  You are 36 years, 2 months, and 29 days old,

   

  "The Tembo's Tooth" - Spice Den [NESW Quit]

     A haze of sweet-smelling spice dominates this circular chamber, tantalizing your senses with its seductive allure.  The room has been fashioned into a large circle, set halfway within the grasp of the hard packed earth.  The walls are lined with long baobab planks, stained a rich, earthen hue that add to the relaxing atmosphere of the den.  A line of plush, silken pillows and stuffed mattresses have been strewn about the entire room, providing welcome arms to any that would enjoy their purchase immediately. 

     A wooden ramp, covered in thick rugs of woven cloth, leads to an impressive circle of raised stone in the center of the room.  In the middle of the circle stands a small area for a merchant to conduct their business from several stations about the stand. 

     Along the walls lay several dim, oil lamps marking the path along the ramp that leads up and out of the den.  A small stage curves along the northeastern wall, a polished agafari pole affixed in the middle of it.

  An empty dark red bottle lies here covered in dust.

  A multi-ringed dartboard hangs on the wall.

   

  A foreign presence contacts your mind.

  You think:

       "... Mm."

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman's jaw tenses.

  The graceful, platinum-haired man sends you a telepathic message:

       "And here I thought I would serve as a lure to your entrance."

  Resting an elbow on the back of the couch, the ethereal, fair-haired woman closes her eyes, a soft breath escaping her.

  contact morn

  You contact the graceful, platinum-haired man with the Way.

  You send a telepathic message to the graceful, platinum-haired man:

       "Hm?  Good day, Morn, I mean to say.  Is all well?"

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes tighten.

  Somebody brushes past you.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman brushes a few fingers along the back of her neck before her free hand lifts to press a thumb and forefinger at her eyes.

  The graceful, platinum-haired man sends you a telepathic message:

       "That it is, Seeker Aja.  The day finds you well also?"

  You send a telepathic message to the graceful, platinum-haired man:

       "Always, always.  Busy, I suppose.  New students and new lessons to give."

  Opening her eyes, the ethereal, fair-haired woman lets her attention wander over the crowded room, features untroubled.

  The graceful, platinum-haired man sends you a telepathic message:

       "Ah, good to know that the circle works diligently to liven the streets of the Ivory."

  You send a telepathic message to the graceful, platinum-haired man:

       "To liven the streets?  Hm, we do, though I wonder if those are my particular brand of instruction."

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman takes in a slow, calming breath.

  You think:

       "Please, don't find me.  Please, don't find me."

  The very tall figure in a desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak has arrived from the west, resolutely moving down the rampway.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman twists a few strands of hair around her fingers, pale eyes lost and distracted.

  Sweeping deeper into the hazy den, the very tall figure in a desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak slows his stride to pluck up the empty bottle before settling unto an empty pillow.

  The very tall figure in a desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak picks up a dark red bottle.

  The very tall figure in a desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak sits on a black silk pillow.

  Closing her eyes, features practicedly tranquil, the ethereal, fair-haired woman shifts her hand to rub at the back of her neck, elbow propped on the back of the couch.

  The graceful, platinum-haired man sends you a telepathic message:

       "I did have a matter I wished to speak with you on.  Aja, do you possess a flute?"

  The sleek, dark male lowers the hood of a desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak.

  You send a telepathic message to the graceful, platinum-haired man:

      "... A flute?  Hm.  Not at the moment, I... think.  No."

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's jaw works to one side, irritably.

  You think:

       "... For pity's sake."

  The graceful, platinum-haired man sends you a telepathic message:

       "Well, isn't that fine news."

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman lets her head hang forward, a quiet groan escaping her lips.

  You send a telepathic message to the graceful, platinum-haired man:

       "... Is it?"

  Touching a gloved thumb and forefinger to her eyes, the ethereal, fair-haired woman tilts her head back, letting it rest against her arm.

  Thrusting a slender index finger into its mouth, the sleek, dark male turns his dark red bottle upside down and idly contemplates it in his comfortable lounge.

  (hemote) The tension in the ethereal, fair-haired woman's neck sinks into her slender shoulders.

  Shaking her head a few times, the ethereal, fair-haired woman lowers her hand, attention travelling over the room.

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman takes in a deep, calming breath of the spice-scented air.

  Chuckling in a self-amused baritone, the sleek, dark male swats at the bottle with his other hand, setting it to spinning upon his finger.

  Fleetingly, through a gap in the crowds, you look up at the sleek, dark male.

   

  Dark and sleek, this elf's taut physique mimics the lean, balanced proportions of some deep-waste hunting beast.  Tell-tale marks of weather-wearing are found in the myriad tiny sand-speckling scars across his exposed skin and by the premature squint creases at the corners of his narrow, liquid-green eyes.  Black-haired and dusky skinned, this elf displays the deliberate, spare efficiency and posture of someone who knows their own body well.

  The sleek, dark male is in excellent condition.

  The sleek, dark male is using:

  <worn around neck>       a tortoiseshell gorget

  <worn across back>       a rough canvas backpack

  <worn on arms>           a pair of gith-toothed armguards

  <worn on hands>          a pair of shell-backed gloves

  <secondary hand>         a curved agafari shield

  <worn around body>       a desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak

  <worn on legs>           a pair of rough canvas pants

  <worn on feet>           a pair of grey hide boots

   

   You think:

       "Mm... welcome to the Tooth."

  You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.

  Lowering her hand, the ethereal, fair-haired woman lets it drape over the instrument at her side, attention falling to an, oh, so interesting spot on the floor.

  The sleek, dark male stops holding his curved agafari shield.

  You feel that you just want to be... inconspicuous.

  The sleek, dark male swats at the spinning treasure of the vineyard a few more times building up speed to its rotations.

  Save for the gloved hand that twists, periodically, through a few thin strands of hair, the ethereal, fair-haired woman watches the floor, motionless.

  Shifting his narrow eyes for just a split-second, the sleek, dark male looks up at a human Tuluki soldier.

  You begin watching the sleek, dark male.

  At a black silk pillow, you overhear the sleek, dark male say in sirihish, murmuring:

       "... ah... and now?"

  (hemote) A garish red-violet bruise mars the skin beneath the ethereal, fair-haired woman's left jaw.

  Grinning and leaning his head back to consider you upside down and his black hair streaming over the end of the pillow, the sleek, dark male looks down at you.

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman cracks an emotionless smile, only a hint of wryness to it.

  Even inverted so, the sleek, dark male manages a pretty respectable tip of his sharp chin in pleasant acknowledgement to you before his spinning bottle requires a few more swats.

  Stirring, recollecting herself and her surroundings, the ethereal, fair-haired woman lifts her attention to watch over the room from her quieter corner with nary a blink in the sleek, dark male's direction.

  You think:

       "... I do wonder what he's doing, however."

  In a pleasant sing-song, the sleek, dark male says, in sirihish:

       "Purple Cross amidst rubies strewn.... tinkling bard's bells..."

  (hemote) Briefly, through periodic gaps in the crowded room, the ethereal, fair-haired woman watches the motion of the sleek, dark male's bottle on the floor.

  The sleek, dark male breaks off the end of a dark red bottle, leaving a dangerous looking piece.

  In that same pleasant sing-song, the sleek, dark male says, in sirihish:

       "... and so the exit must be soon."

  l self

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman is in excellent condition.

  <worn in hair>           a trailing glossy crimson ribbon

  <face>                   a black rose tattoo

  <worn in right ear>      a coiling, emerald-adorned ivory ear cuff

  <worn around neck>       a necklace of glass bells

  <throat>                 a purple cross tattoo

  <worn across back>       a leather-strapped, rich purple satchel

  <worn on hands>          a pair of long, ruby-adorned ebony gloves

  <worn around body>       an ornately-embroidered ivory silk coat

  <worn on legs>           a flowing white linen skirt

  <worn on feet>           a pair of soft, ruby-buckled boots

   

  Features serene, untroubled, the ethereal, fair-haired woman watches a nearby table, head leaning into her arm.

  Rolling over to his side, the sleek, dark male tucks away the remaining fragment within on outer pocket.

  You think:

       "Finally... seclusion..."

  (hemote) The tension in the ethereal, fair-haired woman's neck melts away.

  Continuing his roll to end up boots beneath himself, the sleek, dark male stands up from a black silk pillow.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman rubs idly at her neck with one hand, a quirk of a content smile flitting across her features.

  You think:

       "No Morn... no Peli... How did I ever become so lucky in this?"

  You think:

       "Not even a Lindrick.  My."

  Stalking the long-way about the circular perimeter, the sleek, dark male makes a point of passing before your couch.

  (hemote) Periodically, the ethereal, fair-haired woman lets her attention travel over the crowds and the sleek, dark male nearest her, attentive if untroubled.

  With a flick of a glance up to him, you look up at the sleek, dark male.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman draws her legs closer to the couch, crossing them beneath your flowing white linen skirt.

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's hand stills against your creamy white, leather instrument case, tensing.

  Pausing, the sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:

       "No... no.  Your manners are marvelous.  But misplaced."

  With a long pause, pale eyes mirthless while she looks up at him, you say to the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:

       "... Perhaps I should place them elsewhere, then."

  You think:

       "... So much for my peace."

  You feel that there's a reason that you never come here.

  His baritone gentled and polite, the sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:

       "I was passing to find the source of the mint.  Not, Circle Bard, to inconvenience you.  Your graciousness, I am sure, will find a more worthy recipient."

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's body stiffens, jaw working to one side.

  Somebody brushes past you.

  With a brief dip of her chin, attention travelling down to his side, you say to the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:

       "... I'm sure."

  After a single, obviously manufactured-for-effect step away before turning back to a plush, embroidered couch, the sleek, dark male exclaims to you, in sirihish:

       "Oh!"

  You think:

       "He wouldn't try anything.  Not here."

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman jumps, starting, at the sudden shattering of glass.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances back up to the sleek, dark male, features impassive, only mildly at best curious.

  The sleek, dark male asks you, in sirihish:

       "COULD I ask for some guidance?"

  With that still impassive look, voice coming on a quiet breath, you say to the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:

       "I suppose that is up to you."

  You feel that he's got you jittery.

  (hemote) Sardonic humor flashes across the ethereal, fair-haired woman's pale eyes.

  Inclining the nod, the sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:

       "May I ask -you- for guidance, then.  To be more correct."

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's mouth twists, sardonic humor lingering alongside consternation.

  Linking gloved hands around one knee while she looks up to him, tone patient, you say to the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:

       "You may, though I doubt I'm of use to you."

  The sleek, dark male gets his whitened bone key from his desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman's pale eyes follow the movement of the sleek, dark male's hands with practiced indifference.

  Your mood is now frustrated.

  Producing and passing over his whitened bone key, careful to hold a polite distance, the sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:

       "It is use to His City that interests me, today."

  The sleek, dark male gives you his whitened bone key.

  Lifting a gloved hand and retracting it as easily with the key, you ask the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:

      "... With a lock to open?"

  More to herself, looking at the key, you say, in sirihish:

       "How novel."

   

  The sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:

       "Worth anyone's attention, do you imagine?  A key to an annoying stronghold outside the Scaien Walls."

   

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's lips part, a soft breath escaping them...

   

  Turning the key in her hand before glancing to his shoulder, you say to the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:

       "An interesting find.  I can keep it for the appropriate hands."

   

  (hemote) The tension in the ethereal, fair-haired woman's neck, so recently gone from her posture, sinks into her slender shoulders beneath your ornately-embroidered ivory silk coat.

   

  You notice the sleek, dark male start watching you.

   

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's jaw tenses.

   

  You think:

       "He knows who I am..."

   

  You feel frustrated.

   

  You think:

       "... All I wanted was peace.  A bit of seclusion.  And a Krath-accursed -elf- finds me here!"

  His empty hand still slightly before his body, the sleek, dark male asks you, in sirihish:

       "And that, then is what becomes of my great find?"

   

  With a mild lift of her forehead, while her pale eyes travel up his hand to his face without hurry, you ask the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:

       "... You had another plan in mind in giving it to me?"

   

  A male whore disappears into a crowd of rugged looking men and women.

   

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's neck has to crane back at an uncomfortable angle to look up at the sleek, dark male.

  The sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:

       "I did.  I thought to gain understanding.  Not lose property, Circle Bard."

  With a slender curve of her warmthless smile, you say to the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:

       "But this property can have no value to you if kept.  My favor is better earned."

  Smoothly, adding a velvet chuckle at the end, the sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:

      "But, then... I suppose I will gain some understanding either way. "

  You think:

       "This... is... simply ghastly."

  You feel that elves are the great joke played upon the Known World.  Only slightly after tregils.

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's smile doesn't reach her pale eyes, which watch over the sleek, dark male with attentive calm.

  The sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:

       "You are wrong on at least one of those two statements you just made."

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's thumb grazes the contours of the key.

  You notice: The sleek, dark male resets his trim shoulders with a slight roll, recentering his balanced posture.

  You notice: The sleek, dark male exhales slowly a moment.

  With a still-patient, strained smile, you say to the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:

       "... It has been known to happen from time to time."

  You notice: The slightest twitch at the corners of the sleek, dark male's mouth hints that last statement tickled him.

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's posture tenses, pale eyes narrowing with caution.

  You think:

       "I can't so easily let this go."

  The sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:

       "A gift.  A well-placed gift, where it really does have a better chance of doing the most good."

  You think:

       "You aren't His Legions, Aja.  Don't get yourself killed."

  Gracious and oily in about equal measures, the sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:

       "So be it."

  With a slight tilt of her head, pale eyes never truly leaving him, you ask the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:

       "I'll see it delivered, then.  But with whose compliments?"

  (hemote) Though tension remains throughout her neck and shoulders, the ethereal, fair-haired woman relaxes marginally back into the couch, no longer ready to spring.

  A male whore disappears into a crowd of rugged looking men and women.

  The sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:

       "We'll both trust your wisdom, there.  To explain the why, the how and who.  I really -have- overextended any reasonable expectation of tolerance."

  With a fleeting, faint twist of her smile up to him, you say to the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:

       "Yes, by all means.  Do enjoy your recovery."

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman narrows her eyes, dryly and sardonically amused.

  Twisting up another well-practiced, inoffensive smile, the sleek, dark male backs two steps further away from a plush, embroidered couch, before turning to continue his path around the perimeter.

  The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances away from the sleek, dark male, attention falling to the key and then elsewhere in the room.

  (hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's jaw works to one side, wryly, irritably.

  You contact the ancient, brutally-scarred man with the Way.

  You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:

       "My pardon, High Templar.  Is there an opportunity to meet with you but for a minute at most?  I may have something that belongs to you."

  Reaching his hands up to grip the fabric of his cloak, and gaining a decidedly jaunty step upon exiting the den, the sleek, dark male walks west.

  You are Aja, of many people.

  Objective: To persuade Muk to give her a child.

  You are 36 years, 2 months, and 29 days old,

   

  "The Tembo's Tooth" - Spice Den [NESW Quit]

     A haze of sweet-smelling spice dominates this circular chamber, tantalizing your senses with its...

  
  Continue Reading...
• 

  Lucky Charm by Aruna
  Added on Oct 24, 2009

  A trio of gypsies conduct some business with a fellow traveler in the wagonyard of Luir's Outpost.

  ---

  
  You step out
  to...
  
  
   
  
  
   Luir's Wagon Yard [SW]
  
  
      This large tract of dry,
  cracked earth lies just to the northwest of
  
  
   the west gate of Luirs.  To the south, across Steel road, a stables
  is
  
  
   easily visble and westward, the inner
  walls of the outpost loom.  The
  hard
  
  
   packed soil here shows signs of recent
  wagon tracks, not yet worn into the
  
  
   deep ruts that time will surely provide
  and handlers and caravan members
  
  
   bustle around at all hours of the day
  and night.  
  
  
   A large, vividly painted wagon sits
  here, splashed with eyestartling colors.
  
  
   A desert-hued agafari wagon, drawn by
  inix, stands here.
  
  
   A small courier wagon hitched to four
  erdlus stands here.
  
  
   The short, dusky woman lounges against a
  wagon, ankles crossed.
  
  
   The slick-haired, rune-nailed man is
  standing here, looking tired.
  
  
   The hardy, midnight-curled woman stands
  here, beside a vividly painted wagon.
  
  
   
  
  
  The
  braidlocked, turquoise-eyed woman deboards a vividly painted wagon, munching on
  your partially eaten honied, seed-encrusted wheat cake.
  
  
   
  
  
  You eat part
  of your partially eaten honied, seed-encrusted wheat cake.
  
  
  
  
  After a moment, watching him with a half-grin, the short, dusky woman says to
  the slick-haired, rune-nailed man, in sirihish:
  
  
        "We do,
  actually, have good-luck charms. Not so expensive."
  
  
   
  
  
  You begin
  speaking sirihish.
  
  
   
  
  
  A foreign
  presence contacts your mind.
  
  
   
  
  
  Moving to
  loiter near her, you ask the hardy, midnight-curled woman, in sirihish:
  
  
        "What's
  new, girl?"
  
  
   
  
  
  You eat part
  of your half eaten honied, seed-encrusted wheat cake.
  
  
   
  
  
  The short,
  dusky woman sends you a telepathic message:
  
  
        "This
  gajo's fucking slimy. How you been?"
  
  
   
  
  
  Making a
  warding gesture, the slick-haired, rune-nailed man asks the short, dusky woman,
  in southern-accented sirihish:
  
  
        "Have
  heard stories of Muarki curses all my life in the silt.....you sure this' the
  real deal?"
  
  
   
  
  
  You sense a
  foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  
   
  
  
  The red
  light of Jihae rises over the outpost's southern walls.
  
  
   
  
  
  Gulping
  audibly, his adam's apple bobbing in his throat, the slick-haired, rune-nailed
  man says to the short, dusky woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
  
  
        "Lemme see one, if you have an ankle
  charm...."
  
  
   
  
  
  Putting her
  hands to her chest, eyes widening in wounded hurt, the short, dusky woman says
  to the slick-haired, rune-nailed man, in sirihish:
  
  
        "Curses?
  Us? Never. We're bringers of laughs and luck. Always."
  
  
   
  
  The braidlocked, turquoise-eyed woman grins toward the short, dusky woman, and
  shoots a glance to the slick-haired, rune-nailed man.
  
  
   
  
  
  Chuckling,
  the short, dusky woman turns, grabbing a plank that leans against a vividly
  painted wagon on the way up the ramp.
  
  
   
  
  
  The short,
  dusky woman enters a vividly painted wagon.
  
  
   
  
  
   
  
  
  Nodding at
  the ramp, the hardy, midnight-curled woman says to you, in sirihish:
  
  
        "Flushed a
  couple of goudra out from the scrub wit' Jisiu there, yesterday."
  
  
   
  
  
  Lifting her
  chin, to indicate the departing figure, you ask the slick-haired, rune-nailed
  man, in sirihish:
  
  
        "Yer
  talkin' to the best lucky charm ever there was. Eh?"
  
  
   
  
  
  The short,
  dusky woman emerges from a vividly painted wagon.
  
  
   
  
  
  Licking her
  lips of crumbs, her eyes narrowing, you say to the hardy, midnight-curled
  woman, in sirihish:
  
  
        "Mmm. The
  things I miss. "
  
  
   
  
  
  Turning to
  peer directly into your eyes, the slick-haired, rune-nailed man says to you, in
  southern-accented sirihish:
  
  
        "You
  have.....exquisite eyes."
  
  
   
  
  
  The
  slick-haired, rune-nailed man pinches his pair of splotchy purple sunslits up,
  continuing to look into your eyes.
  
  
   
  
  
  Looking
  toward the slick-haired, rune-nailed man as she steps up beside you, the short,
  dusky woman lets her yellow ceramic charm dangle from a finger.
  
  
   
  
  The braidlocked, turquoise-eyed woman shifts her gaze to send a not-so-sure
  grin the slick-haired, rune-nailed man's way.
  
  
   
  
  
  The hardy,
  midnight-curled woman looks from you to the slick-haired, rune-nailed man and
  chuckles.
  
  
   
  
  
  Without
  changing his serene expression, the slick-haired, rune-nailed man lets his pair
  of splotchy purple sunslits drop back down, covering his eyes once again.
  
  
   
  
  
  Turning
  around, the slick-haired, rune-nailed man says to the short, dusky woman, in
  southern-accented sirihish:
  
  
        "I'd
  prefer a charm with Whira's blessings, if you have anything like that....krath
  knows I'd need to fly if a horror pounced on my skimmer."
  
  
   
  
  
  You suffer
  from use of the Way.
  
  
   You contact the short, dusky woman with
  the Way.
  
  
   
  
  
  Glancing at
  her yellow ceramic charm, the short, dusky woman says to the slick-haired,
  rune-nailed man, in sirihish:
  
  
        "Don' have
  much like that. This's a charm for luck, plain an' simple."
  
  
   
  
  
  You suffer
  from use of the Way.
  
  
   You send a telepathic message to the
  short, dusky woman:
  
  
       
  "Definitely a weirdo. I've been good.. you?"
  
  
   
  
  
  You dissolve
  the psychic link.
  
  
   
  
  
  The
  slick-haired, rune-nailed man moves one hand over the short, dusky woman's hand
  in which the charm is held, looking down at his nails.
  
  
   
  
  
  Giving it a
  little toss, the short, dusky woman gives her yellow ceramic charm to the
  slick-haired, rune-nailed man.
  
  
   
  
  
  The
  slick-haired, rune-nailed man moves his hand back, and nods once.
  
  
   
  
  
  A foreign
  presence contacts your mind.
  
  
   
  
  
  The short,
  dusky woman sends you a telepathic message:
  
  
        "Never
  complaining. Negotiating. We've got our shiny thing back."
  
  
   
  
  
  The
  braidlocked, turquoise-eyed woman pushes the last bit of cake into her mouth,
  watching the slick-haired, rune-nailed man.
  
  
   
  
  
  You eat your
  small portion of a honied, seed-encrusted wheat cake.
  
  
   You are full.
  
  
   
  
  
  You are
  carrying:
  
  
   a cream-colored japuaar fruit
  
  
   
  
  Dropping it into her pocket, you put your cream-colored japuaar fruit into your
  desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak.
  
  
   
  
  
  Pressing
  both his palms around the charm, for a moment, the slick-haired, rune-nailed
  man asks the short, dusky woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
  
  
        "Whats it
  gonna cost me Jisiu?"
  
  
   
  
  
  The
  slick-haired, rune-nailed man asks the short, dusky woman, in southern-accented
  sirihish:
  
  
        "And more importantly, do you make them in purple?
  Or blue?"
  
  
   
  
  
  Tilting her
  head back, the short, dusky woman says to the slick-haired, rune-nailed man, in
  sirihish:
  
  
        "What's
  good fortune worth to you? We have blue."
  
  
   
  
  
  Returning it
  with the flick of a wrist, the slick-haired, rune-nailed man gives his yellow
  ceramic charm to the short, dusky woman.
  
  
   
  
  
  Glancing at
  her yellow ceramic charm, the short, dusky woman asks the slick-haired,
  rune-nailed man, in sirihish:
  
  
        "But not
  with us. What, don' like flashy bright?"
  
  
   
  
  
  The short,
  dusky woman sweeps a dubious look up and down the slick-haired, rune-nailed
  man.
  
  
   
  
  
  The short,
  dusky woman sends you a telepathic message:
  
  
        "Kind of a
  funny story how we got it, too."
  
  
   
  
  
  You sense a
  foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
  
  
   
  
  
  Bending
  forward to unhitch his small crystal pendant, the slick-haired, rune-nailed man
  asks the short, dusky woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
  
  
        "Tell you
  what, I'll pay for the charm, but instead of yours, can you bless mine?"
  
  
   
  
  
  The
  slick-haired, rune-nailed man says to the short, dusky woman, in
  southern-accented sirihish:
  
  
        "Add a few
  beads in the string, if you like...."
  
  
   
  
  
  The
  slick-haired, rune-nailed man stops using his small crystal pendant.
  
  
   
  
  
  Tucking it
  into an inside pocket, the short, dusky woman puts her yellow ceramic charm
  into her drab, weathered stormcloak.
  
  
   
  
  
  The great
  sun rises in the east, turning the scrub plains to gold.
  
  
   
  
  
  The
  slick-haired, rune-nailed man extends one hand, his small crystal pendant
  dangling from it.
  
  
   
  
  
  The
  slick-haired, rune-nailed man gives his small crystal pendant to the short,
  dusky woman.
  
  
   
  
  
  Head tilted,
  the short, dusky woman reaches out for the pendant.
  
  
   
  
  
  The short,
  dusky woman tucks an ankle up, loosening a strap around it.
  
  
   
  
  
  The short,
  dusky woman extinguishes a glowing leather-strapped green glow-crystal.
  
  
   
  
  
  Grinning
  crookedly, you ask the short, dusky woman, in sirihish:
  
  
        "You wanna
  do't, or should I?"
  
  
   
  
  
  Turning her
  small crystal pendant over in her palm, the short, dusky woman says to you, in
  sirihish:
  
  
        "You've
  always been better at it, pretty pena. You an' your eyes."
  
  
   
  
  
  To the three
  women standing in a circle, the slick-haired, rune-nailed man says, in
  southern-accented sirihish:
  
  
        "If its
  all the same, I'll go over and stand there....."
  
  
   
  
  
  Leaning
  toward you, the short, dusky woman says to you, in sirihish:
  
  
        "My kisses
  bring danger, not luck."
  
  
   
  
  
  The
  slick-haired, rune-nailed man looks down at his nails, striding off.
  
  
   
  
  
  The short,
  dusky woman gives you her small crystal pendant.
  
  
   
  
  
  The
  slick-haired, rune-nailed man walks westwards, out of view, behind a wagon.
  
  
   
  
  
  With a
  visible show of excitement, the braidlocked, turquoise-eyed woman takes the
  pendant, gathering it in her palm.
  
  
   
  
  
  The short,
  dusky woman grins a little, leaning back and slouching against a vividly
  painted wagon.
  
  
   
  
  
  The short,
  dusky woman intently scans the area.
  
  
   
  
  
  The
  braidlocked, turquoise-eyed woman takes a couple of slow breaths and, glancing
  a bit westward out of the corner of her eye, covers your small crystal pendant
  with her other hand, rubbing it some between her palms.
  
  
   
  
  
  Tilting her
  wide-brimmed, tandu hide hat back for a better view, the hardy, midnight-curled
  woman watches you.
  
  
   
  
  
  The short,
  dusky woman watches with a completely serious face.
  
  
   
  
  
  Resolutely,
  the slick-haired, rune-nailed man stands leaning against a wagon, his back
  against the group of three women.
  
  
   
  
  In a low, serious chanting tone, rubbing the pendant between her hands with her
  eyes closed, you say, in sirihish:
  
  
        "Mm-bot,
  sh-ga. Mm-bot, sh-ga. Mmmmm-grtt, sh-gat-daaaaa."
  
  
   
  
  
  The
  slick-haired, rune-nailed man buffs his nails on his feather-lined, purple mesh
  shirt, and then spreads his fingers, looking down at his nails.
  
  
   
  
  
  The
  braidlocked, turquoise-eyed woman opens her eyes slowly, her face dead serious,
  and kisses your small crystal pendant for added luck, before clearing her
  throat noisily.
  
  
   
  
  
  A strange
  sort of sound escapes the short, dusky woman, and she quickly coughs into a
  fist.
  
  
   
  
  
  Calling out,
  avoiding the short, dusky woman's eyes, you say, in sirihish:
  
  
        "Alright,
  we're good now."
  
  
   
  
  
  The
  slick-haired, rune-nailed man inhales sharply, turns around and strides back.
  
  
   
  
  
  You think:
  
  
        "This
  guy's such an idiot."
  
  
   
  
  
  His
  expression neutral, the slick-haired, rune-nailed man says to you, in
  southern-accented sirihish:
  
  
        "Thank
  you."
  
  
   
  
  
  The
  slick-haired, rune-nailed man extends one palm, face up.
  
  
   
  
  
  The
  slick-haired, rune-nailed man opens a blue silk backpack with purple lily
  embroidery.
  
  
   
  
  
  The
  slick-haired, rune-nailed man gets his pile of allanaki coins from his blue
  silk backpack with purple lily embroidery.
  
  
   
  
  
  The short,
  dusky woman smiles winsomely at the slick-haired, rune-nailed man, then adds a
  little wink.
  
  
   
  
  
  Smiling with
  satisfaction, you give your small crystal pendant to the slick-haired,
  rune-nailed man.
  
  
   
  
  
  The hardy,
  midnight-curled woman's eyes follow the pendant as it changes hands.
  
  
   
  
  
  The sun
  begins its long voyage across the heavens.
  
  
   
  
  
  The
  slick-haired, rune-nailed man crosses his hand over your hand, releasing a clinking
  of black coins from one palm into the other.
  
  
   
  
  
  The
  slick-haired, rune-nailed man gives you 100 coins.
  
  
  
  
  All eyes on him, pulling her hand away, you say to the slick-haired,
  rune-nailed man, in sirihish:
  
  
        "You'll
  have to let us know how it serves you, man."
  
  
   
  
  
  The
  slick-haired, rune-nailed man drops a mute nod, pulling the string and jerking
  it over his neck.
  
  
   
  
  
  The
  slick-haired, rune-nailed man bows his head, placing his small crystal pendant
  about his neck.
  
  
   
  
  
  The
  slick-haired, rune-nailed man puts his pile of allanaki coins into his blue
  silk backpack with purple lily embroidery.
  
  
   
  
  
  The
  slick-haired, rune-nailed man closes a blue silk backpack with purple lily
  embroidery.
  
  
   
  
  
  Trailing her
  dark gaze up him, the short, dusky woman says to the slick-haired, rune-nailed
  man, in sirihish:
  
  
        "A real
  pleasure, man of Kadius. We'll look for you in Red Storm."
  
  
   
  
  
  Raising one
  hand, the slick-haired, rune-nailed man says, in southern-accented sirihish:
  
  
        "Safe
  sands at your feet, gypsies...."
  
  
   
  
  
  The slick-haired,
  rune-nailed man walks west.
  
  
   
  
  
  The short,
  dusky woman smirks hard, turning.
  
  
   
  
  
  The short,
  dusky woman enters a vividly painted wagon.
  
  
   
  
  
  Shooting you a grin, the hardy, midnight-curled woman says to you,
  in bendune:            
  
  
        "That was
  good."
  
  
   
  
  
  The hardy,
  midnight-curled woman enters a vividly painted wagon.
  
  
  
  
  The braidlocked, turquoise-eyed woman smirks to herself, hopping inside.
  

  
  You step out
  to...
  
  
   
  
  
   Luir's Wagon Yard [SW]
  
  
      This large tract of dry,
  cracked earth lies just to the northwest of
  
  
   the west gate of Luirs.  To the south, across Steel road, a stables
  is
  
  
   easily visble and westward, the inner
  walls of the outpost loom. ...

  
  Continue Reading...
• 

  The Fire of the Plains. by Briar
  Added on Oct 23, 2009

  A Benjari fire-dancer.