Original Submissions
-
Mandolin by Briar
Added on Oct 23, 2009A sweet-singing player.
Behind the Mask (possibly NSFW) by Briar
Added on Oct 23, 2009A tattooed 'breed. Water and marker.
Byn Sergeant by Spoon
Added on Aug 9, 2009Kul the Butcher enjoys a northern custom. "They oughta' do this crap in pint mugs."
Ombaal by FiveDisgruntledMonkeysWit
Added on Jul 28, 2009A Zalanthan murder mystery in the sands.
A Shady Oasis [NESW Quit]
Nestling within a natural depression in the barren landscape, this
oasis is both a change from the bleak surroundings and a haven for life. A
clump of yypr trees grows around the hot pool of water, the roots clinging
to the muddy banks as they support the straight brown trunks. Shrubs of a
few varieties grow around the pool as well, providing shelter for the
insects that live here. The blazing crimson sun hangs far above, the
fearsome heat absorbed and radiated by the pool, though the trees provide
shade all around it.
A grey stone monument of some kind has been erected at one end of the
pool, a sign that someone has been here before. The old remains of earthen
walls form slight ridges to the north, east, and south of the oasis, and
beyond them, the ground is barren.
A shadow falls over the area, driving off the uncomfortable heat.
The body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf lies crumpled on the dusty ground.
A shimmering dusty hammer of white flame is floating here.
The body of the charcoal-skinned, male elf lies crumpled on the dusty ground.
A burned dusty backpack of leather lies here.
Stuck blade first into the mud is a durrit-claw skinning knife.
Sprinkled over the offerings, a sprig of aromatic leaves lies here.
A broken obsidian dagger is here , thrust into the earth.
A small red fruit is here is resting here beside a root.
Set atop the others, a pungent root rests here.
A pungent root is here before the monument.
A mangy hide lies here.
A couple of gith skulls are here.
Some gith skulls are here resting below the monument in a pile.
Left beside the monument is a large crock of
Silt Sea In the mud is a small stone shotglass.
A couple of short lengths of bone are here arranged around the monument.
A long length of bone is here arranged around the monument.
A piece of bone is here arranged around the monument.
A pile of bone lengths is here at the base of the monument.
>
Water bubbles up through the mud, adding to the pool.
>You pick up a shimmering dusty hammer of white flames.
It is very light.
>You start cleaning.
>
You brush the dust off of a shimmering hammer of white flames.
>
The sun reaches its highest point in the sky.
Lirathu slips noiselessly from the sky.
>Staring down at your shimmering hammer of white flames, you ask, in allundean:
"What happened here?"
>Looking at the body of the charcoal-skinned, male elf, you say, in allundean:
"Asling..."
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap has arrived from the north, jutting through the trees.
>Looking at the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf, you ask, in allundean:
"And who is this?"
>You look down at the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap.
The frame of the figure before you stands lean and slender, his body
supported by worn musculature. His skin is similar in tone to that of silt,
worn rough and thick by the sands and rays of Suk-Krath. Dusty grey hair
falls about his shoulders in a thick mane, grains of sand coating its wild
locks. Upon his face a deep, thick grey beard grows long, unkempt and
dusted. His features are worn and rough, bushy eyebrows lending a gruff
appearance. Large, oval orbs, mixed in various greys the colour of granite,
gaze out from wide cheekbones.
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap is in excellent condition.
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap's head glows dimly red.
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap's body is covered with a pulsing yellow aura.
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap is using:
<worn on head> a dusty brown sandcloth turban
<worn on face> a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap
<slung across back> a dusty long bone-headed spear
<worn across back> a dusty leather backpack
<worn on left shoulder> a dusty golden-eyed, crimson-winged hawk
<worn on arms> a dusty pair of reinforced canvas sleeves
<worn around wrist> a dusty goudra-leather wrist-guard
<worn around wrist> a dusty goudra-leather wrist-guard
<worn on hands> a dusty pair of spiked climbing gloves
<worn around body> a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak
<worn on legs> a dusty pair of rough canvas pants
<worn on right ankle> a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth ankle wrap
<worn on left ankle> a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth ankle wrap
<worn on feet> a worn out dusty pair of carru hide boots
He is carrying:
nothing obvious
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap skids to a stop, pausing before the bodies.
>Pointing at him, you ask the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in allundean:
"Qeyne, do you know what happened here?"
>
Shaking his head softly, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in an unfamiliar tongue:
"nu, taou oue, i'du coev oiei oceh yiq priotex, e coioq oh zaer ocl y paou-vyeonej owa ceaj iaaen oy letecie ar uki jfogypuw, orq iufuhoayd"
>
Shaking his head softly, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in northern-accented allundean:
"No, pure one, I've just come from our grasses, a group af muls and a fyne-touched one laid waste to several of the children, and Razorleaf."
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap sighs deeply, gazing down at the body of the charcoal-skinned, male elf and the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf with a sigh.
>Furrowing his brow, you ask the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in allundean:
"Muls?"
>Pointing at the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf, you ask the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in allundean:
"Do you know this one?"
>
Crouching down near his dusty leather backpack, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in northern-accented allundean:
"Perhaps some fire-touched?--Aye stump-bzeeds, nearly killud me, but I fled into the thorns"
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap clicks his teeth, gazing down at the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf.
>
Shaking his head softly, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in northern-accented allundean:
"I've seen him not."
>
Lifting his granite gaze, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap looks up at you.
>Holding your shimmering hammer of white flames aloft, you say to the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in allundean:
"I found this next to the bodies..."
>
The wind grows weaker.
>
Frowning deeply, extending a hand, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in northern-accented allundean:
"May I see it? I shant hold it long"
>
Dipping his hand down, drinking deeply, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap drinks muddy water from the hot, muddy pool.
>
Clicking his teeth, gesturing to the fiery bludgeon, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in northern-accented allundean:
"I've seen this hammer before."
>Dropping your shimmering hammer of white flames into the mud, where it begins to sizzle and hiss, you say to the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in allundean:
"Very well. But I'll need to take it back to my people. There's much to be learned from it."
>You drop a shimmering hammer of white flames, which falls to the dusty ground. Shown to the room as:
A shimmering hammer of white flame is floating here.
>
Water bubbles up through the mud, adding to the pool.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf grunts in mild surprise as a shimmering hammer of white flames begins to float, rising from the mud.
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap crouches down, pursing his lips as he scrutinizes the hammer.
>
Tilting his head curiously, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap asks, in northern-accented allundean:
"Did not Light Touch buar one of tsese?"
>Eyes darting from a shimmering hammer of white flames to the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf, you say, in allundean:
"This fiery hammer... the burned backpack."
>Speaking to the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf, you ask, in allundean:
"Could you have been Bahak?"
>With a shrug, you say to the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in allundean:
"It's possible. The hammer, in and of itself, is nothing spectacular. It's just strange that it's here, is all."
>The gaunt, white-haired elf reaches down, scooping up a shimmering hammer of white flames.
You pick up a shimmering hammer of white flames.
It is very light.
>Squinting at the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf, you say, in allundean:
"I wish I knew who you were... everything would be much clearer."
>
Sighing softly, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in northern-accented allundean:
"Whisper will know, I'll seek him when he returns from txe womb."
>
The wind grows weaker.
>Arching a brow, you ask the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in allundean:
"The womb?"
>
The mighty sun begins to crawl across the western sky.
>
Nodding his head softly, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in northern-accented allundean:
"Where the children sleep in the grasses."
>Frowning, you ask the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in allundean:
"I wasn't aware that he left for the grasses. But he's returning, yes?"
>
Nodding his head softly, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in northern-accented allundean:
"He will, the journey is long for him, longer for me as ma feet are not as swift and I refuse to defile myself by riding a beast."
>
Lifting a hand, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in northern-accented allundean:
"But he will return."
>The gaunt, white-haired elf nods once, taking a seat on the ground.
>You sit down and rest your tired bones.
>
Pursing his lips, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in northern-accented allundean:
"Perhaps the earth can speak of what happened here."
>Rubbing his forehead, you say, in allundean:
"Do you know how to get ahold of any Soh? They will no doubt want to recover Asling's corpse."
>You suffer from use of the Way.
You are unable to reach their mind.
>You suffer from use of the Way.
You are unable to reach their mind.
>You suffer from use of the Way.
You are unable to reach their mind.
>
Shaking his head, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in northern-accented allundean:
"If you cannot find their mind, I'd not tread near their camps myself. I'll peturn shortly"
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap kneels down, resting his hands upon the earth, chanting softly.
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap begins a spell, and the earth trembles in response.
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap utters an incantation.
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap suddenly dives to the ground, and disappears.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf grunts in response, rubbing his forehead.
>You suffer from use of the Way.
You are unable to reach their mind.
>You suffer from use of the Way.
You are unable to reach their mind.
>You stop resting, and stand up.
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap pokes his head through the ground, and rises up to the surface.
>
You notice Sun Runner tattoos on the corpse of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf.
>
Shaking his head softly, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in northern-accented allundean:
"The earth us quiet now, it suems."
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap kneels down before the monument, hefting his dome-shaped dorsal ridge above his head.
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap arranges his dome-shaped dorsal ridge.
>
Plunging it into the soft soil before the monument, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap drops his dome-shaped dorsal ridge.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf frowns deeply.
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap scoops up a handful of earth, chanting softly as he lets the soil trail through his fingers.
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap begins a spell, and the earth trembles in response.
>You stop resting, and stand up.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf rises slowly from his seat, approaching the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf and kneeling beside it.
>In the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf (here) :
a dusty drab, weathered stormcloak
>
The wind grows weaker.
>
Canting his head aside, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap asks, in northern-accented allundean:
"Do you need help, pure-blood? To cerry the body elsewhere?"
>Pushing away a fold of the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf's cloak, you say, in allundean:
"Sun Runner tattoos... he is blood."
>
The late, red sun descends toward the western horizon.
In a sullen red glow, Jihae begins to slip from the sky.
>Feeling frustrated, you think:
"What happened here!?"
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap casts his glance aside, lips curling into a frown.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf smooths the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf's clothing, hanging his head briefly.
>Quietly, you say, in allundean:
"I don't know this blood personally, but he is Sun Runner."
>Rising to his full height, you say, in allundean:
"I must take him back."
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf has arrived from the west.
>
Nodding his head softly, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap asks, in northern-accented allundean:
"We share blood, pure-cousin. Would you care for help?"
>You look up at the sinewy, crimson-locked elf.
Long dark crimson dreadlocks fall down against his shoulders. His face
is covered in large scars that form a -X- in the middle of his nose making
their way outwards. His eyes are slanted like all elves with black coloring
to them with silver specks. His ears are pointed slanting at angles against
his head. His body maintains a sinewy build to it and is covered in various
scars that make their appearance against it. His skin is leathery in
appearance but holding a dark bronzed color to it from the harsh rays of the
zalanthas sun.
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf is in excellent condition.
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf is using:
<worn on head> a bloodied beige dujat-chitin helm
<worn on face> a carved carru-skull face-guard
<worn around neck> a bloodied braxat hide collar
<worn about throat> a stained necklace of yellowed fangs
<worn across back> a gwoshi-hide knapsack
<right shoulder> a blood-red claw tattoo
<left shoulder> a blood-red claw tattoo
<worn on arms> a bloodied pair of carru leather sleeves
<worn around wrist> a spiked, chitin bracer
<worn around wrist> a spiked, chitin bracer
<worn on hands> a bloodied pair of gith-toothed gauntlets
<secondary hand> a large spiked wooden shield
<worn around body> a bloodied hooded, bamuk-hide cloak
<worn on legs> a bloodied pair of soft, carru-hide leggings
<worn on right ankle> a sandcloth ankle wrap
<worn on left ankle> a sandcloth ankle wrap
<worn on feet> a bloodied pair of scabrous, jakhal-hide boots
He is carrying:
nothing obvious
>
The ground begins to rumble and shake.
>
Shifting his gaze, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap looks up at the sinewy, crimson-locked elf.
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf runs west.
>To the west an old
Crumbling Road snakes slowly across the hot, rocky ground.[Very far]
Nothing.
[Far]
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf is standing here.
[Near]
Nothing.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf glances at the ground, then looks west, confused.
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap glances about, crouching down to touch his hands to the earth.
>Nodding once, you say to the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in allundean:
"Yes. Help me. It is dangerous here."
>You lift the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf with all your strength.
The body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf half rises from the ground.
>
The air around the monument goes dense, then sputtering noises issue from the monument as the ground continues to rumble.
>You stop lifting the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf.
The body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf settles to the ground.
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap lifts his gaze, granite stare rising to the monument.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf attempts to lift the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf, then quickly drops it as the trembling worsens.
>This pyramidal monument, perhaps six cords in height, appears to have
been built atop an inlet at one end of the muddy pool. The surface is made
from unusually smooth, light grey stone. The only marks upon it appear to
be lines of dust left by the wind. The faces of the pyramid face the four
cardinal directions: north, east, south, and west.
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap touches his hands to the earth, eyes drifting closed.
>
Water bubbles up through the mud, adding to the pool.
>
You have a startlingly clear vision of standing at this spot with the corpse you are holding, standing next to you is <sdesc redacted>.
>
Speaking softly, hands grasping at the soil, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap asks, in northern-accented allundean:
"Mother, you trembme, what has transpired?"
>
The trembling subsides as the sputtering noises from the monument die.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf grips his forehead suddenly, yelping in surprise.
>
Shifting his gaze, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap looks up at you.
>
Eyes opening, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap asks, in northern-accented allundean:
"What is wrong, pire cousin?"
>Mumbled, you say, in allundean:
"A vision... <name>."
>
Quirking his brow, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap asks, in northern-accented allundean:
"What of <name>?"
>The gaunt, white-haired elf glances around, peering into the underbrush.
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap's granite gaze shifts from the monument to you, regardin you quietly.
>Excitedly, you ask, in allundean:
"<name>! He was standing right here... I saw him! Where...?"
>You ask, in allundean:
"What does it mean?"
>
Casting his gaze about the oasis, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap asks, in northern-accented allundean:
"I saw him not, pure cousin. I saw the Soh run, but it was not <name>. Are you sure he was here?"
>
The wind strengthens a little.
>Harshly, his words practically a hiss, you exclaim to the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in allundean:
"Yes I'm sure!"
>
Water bubbles up through the mud, adding to the pool.
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap purses his lips, eyes travelling over the copses of yypr trees.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf falls silent, pressing his fingers against his forehead.
>After a moment, the gaunt, white-haired elf draws in a deep breath, then releases it.
>
Gesturing to the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in northern-accented allundean:
"Come, pure cousin. Let us lake his remains to your people."
>Nodding, you say to the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in allundean:
"Yes. Here, help me."
>
Slipping his hands beneath the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf's shoulders, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap strains as he lifts the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf.
The body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf half rises from the ground.
>You lift the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf with all your strength.
The body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf lifts off the ground.
>
Something doesn't feel right about moving this corpse.
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap falls in behind you.
>
The sun sinks into the rocky terrain to the west.
>
It seems somehow linked here.
>Quietly, you say, in allundean:
"Wait..."
>
Tilting his head curiously, shifting under the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf's weight, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap asks, in northern-accented allundean:
"What is it?"
>Sharply, you say to the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in allundean:
"Off! Off! Don't touch it."
>You stop lifting the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf.
The body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf half rests on the ground.
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap stops lifting the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf.
The body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf settles to the ground.
>
Eyes wide, casting a curious glance, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap asks, in northern-accented allundean:
"What of it, pure cousin?"
>The gaunt, white-haired elf shakes his head, clasping a hand over his mouth as he regards the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf.
>Shaking his head helplessly, you say, in allundean:
"Something doesn't seem right. Something isn't right."
>The gaunt, white-haired elf paces around the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf, looking aggravated.
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf has arrived from the west.
>You think:
"I know I should bring this Runner back to my people... but..."
>
Water bubbles up through the mud, adding to the pool.
>Anger filling his voice, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf exclaims to you, in allundean:
"What have you done!"
>Simply, you say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"I haven't done anything."
>
Eyes filled with rage gesturing to the body of the charcoal-skinned, male elf, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf asks you, in allundean:
"Why is he dead?"
>Quietly, you say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"I... I don't know."
>
Pacing back and forth along the grounds near the hot, muddy pool, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf asks you, in allundean:
"My cousin is murdered and you have nothing to do with it?"
>Gesturing toward the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf, you say, in allundean:
"This one is Sun Runner. We have both lost kin today, Soh."
>
Gesturing to the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf asks, in allundean:
"How come the earth shook? Were you not planning on using your taint against me?"
>
The night has begun.
>You don't see that person here.
>Darkness
Total darkness surrounds you, preventing you from seeing anything
at all. You have trouble telling where to put your feet when you walk.
>Flames erupt in response to your summons.
>
With a snarl and a low guttural growl, a male voice asks, in allundean:
"What has taken place?"
>
You utter the incantation.
Ok.
You open your hand and conjure a shimmering ball of red light.
You toss a shimmering ball of red light into the air, where it assumes orbit around your head.
The area is filled with a red light.
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf says to you, in allundean:
"If you know what has happened, tell me! "
>A flare of red light from his hand illuminating the area, you say, in allundean:
"I do not know. All I know is that I came here, found these bodies... and then had a vision."
>
Circling around you and the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf asks you, in allundean:
"Then tell me why the ground shook when I first came?"
>Twisting his neck to look directly at the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, you say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"I do not know why the ground shook. But as it shook, I had my vision. I saw <name> standing beside the bodies here."
>
Waving a hand absently in the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap’s direction, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf asks you, in allundean:
"He had nothing to do with it?"
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf looks down at the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap.
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf starts cleaning.
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf dusts himself off.
>Nodding gravely, you say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"If Qeyne had done it, I would've sensed it. And besides, Qeyne came here even after I did."
>Gesturing toward the monument as he trails off, you say, in allundean:
"I believe it came from..."
>
Eyes filled with rage as he still continues to circle, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf says to you, in allundean:
"You were both here, Runner, when I came... I found my cousin dead. What is to make me believe that you did not kill him and the White Rantarri?"
>Blinking, you say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"W... wait."
>Pointing at the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf, you ask the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"This is the White Rantarri?"
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf breathes heavily and turns to you, his lip curling upwards into a sneer.
>
Walking about with quick movements, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf says to you, in allundean:
"It is..."
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf crouches down and looks for tracks.
>Laughing abruptly, you say, in allundean:
"Then there is your answer! I could not have killed the White Rantarri even if I wanted to. I would be turned to dust."
>
Yelling loudly, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf shouts, in allundean:
"WHAT IS IT THAT YOU SAW THEN? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY COUSIN?"
>Shaking his head as he looks down at the ground, you say, in allundean:
"You must believe me, Soh. This was not me, but something greater."
>
Your ball grows very dim, its energies ebbing.
>
Breathing heavily as he walks around you and the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf asks you, in allundean:
"What does your friend have to say for himself?"
>Shaking his head, you say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"He is no friend of mine. Qeyne can speak for himself, if you put questions to him."
>
His lip curling upwards, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf asks the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in allundean:
"What did you see?"
>Feeling annoyed, you think:
"Stupid, shouting Soh..."
>You think:
"What happened here!? What killed the White Rantarri?"
>
A tear falls down from the sinewy, crimson-locked elf’s eye as he continues to walk around you and the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap in a quicker, more aggresive manner.
>
Water bubbles up through the mud, adding to the pool.
>
A whining noise issues from the vicinity of the monument.
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf makes his way over to the monument.
>Watching the monument tensely, you say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"See? Watch and listen, Soh. Something greater than us is at work here."
>
Calling over his shoulder, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf asks you, in allundean:
"What is it though?"
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf draws a bloodied short, barbed zerka.
>In a mystic, quiet tone, you say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"I do not know. But it is trying to tell us something."
>
Calling over to the monument, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf asks, in allundean:
"Who goes there?"
>
Your ball goes out.
The area is enveloped in darkness.
>Flames erupt in response to your summons.
>
You utter the incantation.
Ok.
You open your hand and conjure a shimmering ball of red light.
You toss a shimmering ball of red light into the air, where it assumes orbit around your head.
The area is filled with a red light.
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf says, in allundean:
"Something has been done here. Blood has been shed and I mean to find out the meaning of it."
>The gaunt, white-haired elf walks over toward the monument, the red glow of your shimmering dim ball of red light's washing over it.
>
You have a vision of yourself cutting out the heart of the corpse of the ritually-branded blonde-dreadlocked elf and eating it, then setting the corpse on fire.
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf begins to walk with you over to the monument.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf gasps suddenly, clutching his forehead.
>
Calling over loudly to monument, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf asks, in allundean:
"Who or what goes there?"
>The gaunt, white-haired elf's steps slow, then stop, his attention drawn to the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf.
>Reaching toward him with a trembling hand, you ask the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"Soh... what is your name, Soh?"
>
Pacing back and forth before monument, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf says to you, in allundean:
"Slaa Imbia... the elf you see there is my cousin..."
>Nodding, you say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"Yes... I knew Asling. Killed many gith... strong against the Dark Spirits."
>Urgently, imploringly, you say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"Listen to me, Slaa. I did not kill anyone here today. You must trust me in this."
>Speaking quickly, you say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"I've been having visions ever since I came here. I can't explain them."
>You say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"But I know what I have to do, and I may need your help."
>
His breathing still heavy, his voice beginning to show pain, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf says to you, in allundean:
"I do believe you...."
>Sighing in relief, you say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"Good... good. Here is what we must do..."
>
Your ball grows dim.
The wind strengthens a little.
>Gesturing toward the darkened oasis, you say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"We must not move the body of the White Rantarri. It is linked to this place, somehow. I believe the White Rantarri awakened this monument. Whether that is good or bad, I do not know."
>
Looking over his shoulder, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf says to you, in allundean:
"The White Rantarri will return... do not doubt that. He is not meant to be slain until..."
>Furrowing his brow, you ask the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"Until what?"
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf bites his lip, shifting his gaze back to the monument.
>
The immense sun rises up over the Shield Wall in the east.
Jihae rises, its red light gleaming above the sands in the southeast.
Lirathu rises, its pale light gleaming above the sands in the southeast.
>Watching him intently, you ask the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"What? Did you have a vision, too? What did you see?"
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf asks you, in allundean:
"I saw a vision of you performing a fire on the bodies... did you not see it as well?"
>Nodding emphatically, you exclaim, in allundean:
"Yes! Yes! I saw a vision of me performing the Ombaal!"
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf paces back and forth, his eyes narrowing as he turns his head to the monument.
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf asks you, in allundean:
"The what?"
>You say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"A ritual. Returning their bodies and souls to the sun."
>Pointing at the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf, you say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"I must build a pyre for the White Rantarri. I must do it here and now. I must eat his heart, and put flame to his body."
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf jaw clenches as he looks over to you.
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf asks you, in allundean:
"What of my cousin?"
>Shaking his head, you ask the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"Your cousin was not in my vision. Was he in yours?"
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf shakes his head at you as he looks over to the body of the charcoal-skinned, male elf. His eyes fill with tears briefly.
>
Your ball grows very dim, its energies ebbing.
>In calm, soothing tones, you say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"Then that means you should do with him as the Soh do. Mourn over him in the Soh way."
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf says to you, in allundean:
"Do what you must with the White Rantarri... I will take my cousin afterwards..."
>Nodding, you say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"Thank you, Slaa. Thank you for your wisdom and understanding."
>Turning to face the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf, you say, in allundean:
"Now..."
>Shaking his head solemnly, you say, in allundean:
"I've never performed an Ombaal before. And certainly not for one like the White Rantarri."
>
Calling over his shoulder as he moves to take a seat next to the body of the charcoal-skinned, male elf, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf says to you, in allundean:
"Do what you must... I saw you burning his body with your flames."
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf sits down to rest.
>Nodding, you say, in allundean:
"Yes... but I must first eat his heart."
>You unsling a sapphire-set, obsidian short sword from your back.
>Mystically, holding his sapphire-set, obsidian short sword from over the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf, you say, in allundean:
"White Rantarri's heart, on Many Faces Sejah's sword."
>You say, in allundean:
"I do not know why I was chosen to consume your flame, Rantarri, but I am honored."
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf grabs the body of the charcoal-skinned, male elf resting his body onto his lap.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf plunges your sapphire-set, obsidian short sword into the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf.
>Calling over his shoulder, you ask the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"A knife, Slaa. Do you have a knife?"
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf gets his dusty durrit-claw skinning knife from his gwoshi-hide knapsack.
>
Your ball goes out.
>
Tossing it over his shoulder, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf gives you his dusty durrit-claw skinning knife.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf grunts, shoving your sapphire-set, obsidian short sword through the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf's ribcage. Bone and flesh breaks before the blade, opening up the chest cavity.
>
Someone gives you his bloody heart.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf pries the heart free from the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf with your dusty durrit-claw skinning knife, grasping it with bloody hands.
>You are carrying:
a bloody heart
a dusty durrit-claw skinning knife
a shimmering hammer of white flames
a triangle of rough red sandstone
>This used to be the heart of a living being, but it has now been torn from
the creatures chest.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf opens his mouth as if to say something, but then simply shakes his head, and begins eating your bloody heart raw.
>You eat your bloody heart.
>
The sun begins its long voyage across the heavens.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf chews the heart slowly, reverently, blood dripping onto his bare chest with each grisly bite.
>You sling a sapphire-set, obsidian short sword across your back.
>You drop a dusty durrit-claw skinning knife, which falls to the dusty ground. Shown to the room as:
A dusty durrit-claw skinning knife is here stained with blood and gore.
>You stop using your leather waterskin.
>To the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf, you say, in allundean:
"Rantarri, I have no liquor here, only ale. I know no stories from your life, only legends."
>The gaunt, white-haired elf dribbles brown ale from your leather waterskin onto the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf as he speaks.
>Quietly, you say, in allundean:
"I feared you, yes. The entire 'Pah feared you. But you gave yourself for us. You sacrificed everything, and it is an honor to bring you back to the purging light of Sejah. The brilliance of Bahak. The peace of Situn."
>You pour a leather waterskin into the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf.
>
The wind strengthens a little.
>You hang your leather waterskin on your thick leather belt.
>Waving his hands over the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf, you say, in allundean:
"I give to you, then, the only gift I have. My fires. Farewell."
>The gaunt, white-haired elf chants mystically for a few moments. The air around him grows hotter and hotter.
>Suddenly, twin jets of flame erupt from the gaunt, white-haired elf's palms, slamming into the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf.
>
Three brilliant blue rings of flame jet out of the monument towards the red orb of Suk-krath.
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf turns his attention suddenly to the monument.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf continues to chant, walking around the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf in slow circles, scorching it again and again. As he completes one revolution around the corpse, he turns to watch the monument.
>Smiling with bloody, gore-caked lips, you say, in allundean:
"It is done. The White Rantarri has returned to the sun."
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf rises from the ground, and clambers to his feet.
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf says to you, in allundean:
"For awhile at least, Runner. He'll be back. No one can slay him except..."
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf stops using his large spiked wooden shield.
>Turning to face him, you ask the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"You keep saying that, Slaa. Except what?"
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf sheathes a bloodied short, barbed zerka.
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf strains as he lifts the body of the charcoal-skinned, male elf.
The body of the charcoal-skinned, male elf half rises from the ground.
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf stealthily moves west, dragging the body of the charcoal-skinned, male elf behind him.
>To the west an old
Crumbling Road snakes slowly across the hot, rocky ground.[Very far]
Nothing.
[Far]
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf is standing here, lifting the body of the charcoal-skinned, male elf.
[Near]
Nothing.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf stares west, his brow furrowed.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf watches the remnants of the corpse smolder for some time.
>
The burning sun rises high into the sky, searing the earth.
A Shady Oasis [NESW Quit]
Nestling within a natural depression in the barren landscape, this
oasis is both a change from the bleak surroundings and a haven for life. A
clump of yypr trees grows around the hot pool of water, the roots clinging
to the muddy banks as they support the...
Continue Reading...Hunters of the Soh Lanah Kah by Ourla
Added on Jul 28, 2009Under the Tablelands sun, the elves of the Soh Lanah Kah gather for a hunt.
Aiya, Vivaduan Pupil by Anonymous
Added on Jul 28, 2009Photomanipulation
An Interrogation Gone Wrong - Part One by Bebop
Added on Jul 28, 2009Buckle Irofel was an exiled Bard of the Poet's Circle and failed Byn Sergeant always teetering on the balance of being overtaken by depression of losing of her son and mate rumored to be magickers (a dispicable offense in the Circle) after they disappeared in Tuluk, This log is the first part recounting how she met her end as her life and sanity were unraveled - forced for over a year to leave her life as an upstanding Irofel Bard in shame and live the life of a rough neck southron.
The Arena Floor [NESW]
You are on the west side of the Arena, between the First and Third Chradens. The screams and cheers emanating from the stands above you further add to the deadly and decadent mood. The Arena floor is made up of sand and rocks, as if built directly over the desert that once lay here,and chitin spikes poke through the ground in various places, threatening those who are more wary of their opponent than themselves. The Arena continues to the east, and a giant iron gate lies to yourwest, firmly shut, trapping you inside for the spectators' amusement.
A carved, duskhorn bracer lies here.
The body of a human cut-throat lies crumpled here.
A few bodies of the gith gladiator are here.
A couple of bloodied bone longswords are here.
A bone longsword lies here.
A chitinous dagger with a forked blade is lying here.
A bone parrying dagger is here is here protruding from the sand, next to two interlocking circles drawn there.
A bloodied hooked knife made of chitin has been left here.
A mullish gladiator is here, fighting you.
You viciously bludgeon a mullish gladiator on his head.
A mullish gladiator's eyes roll back in his head.
A mullish gladiator crumples to the ground.
Screaming in rage, you shout in sirihish:"Yaaaaah!"
kill gladiator
You do unspeakable damage to a mullish gladiator's head with your bludgeon.
As the ending approaches, Buckle's mind wanders to her own failures to the lost life of her son and bond-mate rumored to be magickers and even more recent occurances of bitter rejection:
The stout, bald young man sends you a telepathic message:
"What're you doin' now?"
118/129/117barrier
You suffer from use of the Way.You build a psychic barrier around your mind.
118/129/105look
A Tiled Plaza [ESW]Gritty underfoot, the ground is covered with tiny, dusty tiles set in swirling patterns of crimson, purple and blue, sunlight glinting up off them in eye-dazzling flashes of brightness. A few street artists and peddlers have staked out small areas, from whose centers they harangue and implore the passersby for attention and the odd coin they can coax forth.
To the east, a two-story, pillared building of white clay brick, its western wall covered with an enormous mosaic, borders the edge of the gardens.
A blue canvas tent sits among the crowds.
A rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed youth ambles through the crowds.
A multi-braided, white-haired man claps out a steady rhythm as he sings.
A multi-braided, white-haired man finishes his song to a round of applause, smiling at the crowd.
A multi-braided, white-haired man's glance falls upon you, and a grimace of distaste replaces his merry expression.
The robust, cerulean-eyed woman approaches a multi-braided, white-haired man swallowing hard.
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
A multi-braided, white-haired man sighs, setting aside his instrument and fishing a flask out of his beltpouch.
Bowing her head, nostrils flaring, you say to a multi-braided, white-haired man, in sirihish:
"As disatisfied as I am, my respect for you forbids me from interrupting you Masterbard."
A multi-braided, white-haired man sips from his leather-wrapped glass flask.
A multi-braided, white-haired man gestures with his leather-wrapped glass flask for you to continue.
Self consciously letting the volume of her words drop, you whisper to a multi-braided, white-haired man in sirihish:
"Why do refuse me Master Irofel?"
You feel a rush of emotion in the form of rage and pain.
You feel a struggle to contain wits and composure.
Cuttingly, his hard gaze boring into you, a multi-braided, white-haired man says to you, in sirihish:
"You abandoned your Circle and your family. You've done nothing to earn the right to be a Bard."
You whisper to a multi-braided, white-haired man in sirihish:
"I -left- in an effort to cure the afflicting words plauging the deceased of our own Circle!"
Pleadingly, you whisper to a multi-braided, white-haired man in sirihish:
"Please... Masterbard, what must I do?"
A flush rising to his cheeks, a multi-braided, white-haired man says to you, in sirihish:
"A slap in our face, disrespectful to your bond mate and the rest of your family. Buckle, I don't wish to discuss this any more with any body."
A multi-braided, white-haired man takes a long swig from his leather-wrapped glass flask.
A multi-braided, white-haired man drinks jik from his leather-wrapped glass flask.
Her voice breaking coarsely, you say to a multi-braided, white-haired man, in sirihish:
"No... "
You say to a multi-braided, white-haired man, in sirihish:
"There must be something I can do... you must have heard the story I shared with the Faithful Lady."
Hopefully, you whisper to a multi-braided, white-haired man in sirihish:
"Surely you must have heard of the abomination that I dispatched... the one that abducted Toby and Still."
Starting to his feet, his outburst drawing plenty of stairs, a multi-braided, white-haired man exclaims to you, in sirihish:
"Stop it! Stop talking about what's dead and buried and burned! Get out of my face!"
Savagely, flinging his leather-wrapped glass flask down to shatter into a thousand pieces on the ground, a multi-braided, white-haired man exclaims to you, in sirihish:
"Scatter like the ashes of your former life! You're dead to me! Dead dead dead!"
You exclaim to a multi-braided, white-haired man, in sirihish:
"No!"
Stepping forward, you exclaim to a multi-braided, white-haired man, in sirihish:
"No!"
With a crash, a multi-braided, white-haired man discards his leather-wrapped glass flask.
Finally unable to contain the volume of her own words, you exclaim to a multi-braided, white-haired man, in sirihish:
"No! For eighteen years I have worked, you can not take this away from me!"
Voice breaking again, water swelling in her eyes, you exclaim to a multi-braided, white-haired man, in sirihish:
"I am an Irofel!"
Lifting a hand and sending a vicious slap towards the side of your face, a multi-braided, white-haired man says to you, in sirihish:
"Like hell I can't! Don't come near me."
Her face flying to the side the robust, cerulean-eyed woman cringes eyes reddened.
With a flurry of sandcloth and silk and linen, a multi-braided, white-haired man storms away from the gathered crowd, his jaw clenched, hair whipped by the wind.
Reaching up with a shaky hand to touch her face, you say to a multi-braided, white-haired man, in sirihish:
"And I thought it was the southrons that turned on their own."
Without a backward glance, a multi-braided, white-haired man walks east.
You shout in sirihish:
"And I thought it was the southrons who were barbarians!"
Ignoring the muttering of people around her the robust, cerulean-eyed woman is unable to contain her tears, choking into a sob as she starts away.
You think:
"What what... can I do..."
You think:
"I hate this city... I hate this Circle."
That had been only a week ago. Buckle's rage at losing her child, mate and her career to be forced to live her life as a southron was taking it's toll. And now only a week after Yione's outburst she would be abducted not by the northern templars as she always feared but a templar of the south.
The diminutive, cerulean-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:"*curiosity peaking* Ummhmm... maybe he's trying to convince you to join the Arm... until he realises you're not a citizen of the city, heh."
Her brows still furrowed together as she strolls down by his side, the delicate, ebon-haired woman looks at you, her smile more absent minded.
The orderly, fair-skinned templar makes a turn off the crowded road and winds through the dark of the alley, shadows of the buildings and the surrounding giants looming large.In crisp, measured strides, the orderly, fair-skinned templar walks south.
The half-giant soldier walks south.
The half-giant soldier walks south.
You follow the orderly, fair-skinned templar, and walk south.
A Small Empty Room [N Quit]
The stone walls of this room have been painted a dull white which has already begun to peel and crack from the heat of the sun to reveal grey stone underneath it. There is a small wooden door to the north, which appears to be the only exit.
The orderly, fair-skinned templar is standing here.
A half-giant soldier of Tektolnes walks along here.
A half-giant soldier of Tektolnes walks along here.
The delicate, ebon-haired woman has arrived from the north.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman has arrived from the north.
A human Allanaki soldier has arrived from the north.
You think:
"Hey I've had sex in here."
The orderly, fair-skinned templar makes a small gesture behind himself at the door.A human Allanaki soldier closes the door.
Stepping in with the orderly, fair-skinned templar, the rounded, dark-eyed woman squints an eye right down and looks over the building slowly, apparently looking for threats before glancing over a shoulder to a human Allanaki soldier.
The delicate, ebon-haired woman takes a small step back to stand behind the orderly, fair-skinned templar.
You think:
"Well... this is strange."
You feel slightly apprehensive.
The delicate, ebon-haired woman glances once to the closed door and then turns to study the room.
The orderly, fair-skinned templar clasps his hands behind himself and turns around,
facing you with a rather narrow expression painted on his face.
The robust, cerulean-eyed woman clasps her hands behind herself, glancing between the group uncertainly.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman glances at the orderly, fair-skinned templar's expression, then sidelong to where she stands beside you and 'discreetly' side-steps to the right twice with an uncertain expression.
The orderly, fair-skinned templar tilts his head slowly, toward the delicate, ebon-haired woman.
The delicate, ebon-haired woman stares at the rounded, dark-eyed woman for a moment and then glances up to look at the orderly, fair-skinned templar.
In a low, gravelly rasp, the orderly, fair-skinned templar whispers something to the delicate, ebon-haired woman.
The delicate, ebon-haired woman snaps her attention to you after she jerks a nod to the orderly, fair-skinned templar.
Her hand clasped behind her back the robust, cerulean-eyed woman drums her fingertips against her fist, still looking uncertain.
The diminutive, cerulean-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:
"*with some measure of concern* You alright then, Bucks?"
You contact the diminutive, cerulean-eyed man with the Way.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman looks from the delicate, ebon-haired woman, then back to you, her brows slightly knit together while standing off to attention, her used grey kank shell shield on her hip.
You send a telepathic message to the diminutive, cerulean-eyed man:
"I'm really not sure, what's going on here. I'm in a room with like... a Templar and five soldiers, I doubt its good."
Uncertainty fading from her expression into a polite, bland mask, the delicate, ebon-haired woman says to you, in sirihish:
"Good day, Buckle. Your skills are pretty known, therefore, we are quite curious to your capabilities, especially on the point of wisdom."
Her smile is faint, the delicate, ebon-haired woman asks you, in sirihish:"How long do you think you need to figure out why you are here with us?"
118/124/107118/124/107
You suffer from use of the Way.
118/124/107118/124/107
The rounded, dark-eyed woman's left brow perks a touch higher then the right as her attention returns to the delicate, ebon-haired woman.
With a wan smile, you say to the delicate, ebon-haired woman, in sirihish:"Until the reason is revealed to me I suppose, ma'am."
The orderly, fair-skinned templar perks his brows a little, and unclasps his hands.
The diminutive, cerulean-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:
"*somewhat alarmed* ...right. Krath, sounds like bad business. Let me know if there's ah, anything I can do to help..."
Returning you smile, the delicate, ebon-haired woman says to you, in sirihish:
"That won't be much of a test then. Please, do try to be amusing. Have a guess. I'm sure you will arrive to the point. Eventually."
With a low sigh, the orderly, fair-skinned templar straightens up and starts to brush his palms off on his blue, hooded templar's robe.
The delicate, ebon-haired woman says to you, in sirihish:
"If not... I'm sure there are also ways to improve your memories."
You send a telepathic message to the diminutive, cerulean-eyed man:
"Do me a favor, if I don't make it out of this room. See that someone breaks Ado's neck. If this has anything to do with him... "
You ask the delicate, ebon-haired woman, in sirihish:
"I don't find this amusing at all - does it have something to do with Ado?"
Gesturing with a swish of her gloved hand, the delicate, ebon-haired woman says, in sirihish:
"It is just as well, for it is not for your amusement, Buckle. Guess more, please."
The rounded, dark-eyed woman sniffs and lifts her free hand to scratch at the bridge of her nose before looking between you and the delicate, ebon-haired woman again and finally dips a hand inside her black belt.
Sparing a bored look and a glance aside at the rounded, dark-eyed woman, the orderly, fair-skinned templar reaches past the trim of his blue, hooded templar's robe and along his waistline.
The orderly, fair-skinned templar draws a narrow-hilted, jaded khopesh blade.
A hand clasped around her wrist, you say to the delicate, ebon-haired woman, in sirihish:
"That's really all I can assume, ma'am."
The diminutive, cerulean-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:
"Hmm, if it comes down to that, then I'll see if I can't arrange for something yeah?
Asides, optimism will get you most places, I've heard."
You send a telepathic message to the diminutive, cerulean-eyed man:
"This doesn't look particularly optimistic, Kinrad."
Dimpling into another smile for you, the delicate, ebon-haired woman says to you, in sirihish:
"I'm sure if you think back on it, more will come to you, Buckle."
The orderly, fair-skinned templar silver gleams from the pommel of his narrow-hilted, jaded khopesh blade as his fingers curl loosely around it, and he begins to inspect the edge.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman gets her katar punch dagger from her leather knife belt.
You think:
"Well shit, I've commited more than one crime."
Her smile faltering a hair as she glances back to the orderly, fair-skinned templar, the delicate, ebon-haired woman says to you, in sirihish:
"Preferably, before my Lord Templar tires of this game. It is not very amusing after all."
You think:
"I always thought it would be the northern templars though."
You say to the delicate, ebon-haired woman, in sirihish:
"I thought we already decided that."
The diminutive, cerulean-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:
"...not the dungeons, I hope?"
You send a telepathic message to the diminutive, cerulean-eyed man:
"Worse."
The robust, cerulean-eyed woman glances to a human Allanaki soldier, poking her tongue into her cheek.
You think:
"At the least... I won't play their game."
Simply, in an aside to you, the rounded, dark-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
"Buckle, ya a half decent gal an' good at ya job, but if ya hiddin' somethin', I figure speakin' up 'fore the Lord Templar does t'be in ya best interest 'ere."
The rounded, dark-eyed woman spares a glance up to the half-giant soldier, then back to you.
The orderly, fair-skinned templar carefully smooths his narrow-hilted, jaded khopesh blade over the silken fabric of his blue, hooded templar's robe and then starts to lower it to his side.
With a nod to you and suggesting helpfully, the delicate, ebon-haired woman says to you, in sirihish:
"If I may make a suggestion, too, Buckle? Think harder. Here's a little hint : it concerns your dealings with someone you shouldn't deal with."
The rounded, dark-eyed woman shoots a curious eye back to the delicate, ebon-haired woman now while her hand absently wraps and unwraps around her katar punch dagger.
You say to the delicate, ebon-haired woman, in sirihish:
"All of my dealings for the past year have been in the Byn, and in the week I have been dismissed from their services, I haven't dealed with anyone."
The orderly, fair-skinned templar raises his free hand and opens the palm, tipping it toward the half-giant soldier with a nod.
The orderly, fair-skinned templar gives the half-giant soldier an order.
The half-giant soldier subdues you.
You send a telepathic message to the diminutive, cerulean-eyed man:
"Shit... "
The delicate, ebon-haired woman asks you, in sirihish:
"When you left Byn, two of your friends have left with you, is that not so?"
The diminutive, cerulean-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:
"*clearly alarmed* What?!"
The robust, cerulean-eyed woman blinks, as the half-giant soldier's grabs her, arms contorting.
You send a telepathic message to the diminutive, cerulean-eyed man:
"This giant... I don't know what they want with me, they've grabbed me."
The rounded, dark-eyed woman brandishes her katar punch dagger.
The diminutive, cerulean-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:
"The fuck... did the Lord Templar even say anything?"
Raising her brow, you say to the delicate, ebon-haired woman, in sirihish:
"Rannick left... that's the only one I know of."
You send a telepathic message to the diminutive, cerulean-eyed man:
"I have no idea what the fuck they're doing. Shit."
The diminutive, cerulean-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:
"I know the Lord Templar's a silent one... but still... I didn't know Ado had -that- much of an influence."
The orderly, fair-skinned templar takes a slow step forward, and thus begins his approach to you and the half-giant soldier.
Breathing a little sigh, the delicate, ebon-haired woman says to you, in sirihish:
"Buckle, you are not very forthcoming here."
Glancing to the orderly, fair-skinned templar, you say to the delicate, ebon-haired woman, in sirihish:
"That's because I don't have any idea what you're talking about."
You say to the delicate, ebon-haired woman, in sirihish:
"No one left with me."
You say to the delicate, ebon-haired woman, in sirihish:
"I left on my own, and went to the mantis valley to be alone, I've only returned late last week."
Frowning as she shifts her weight, you say to the delicate, ebon-haired woman, in sirihish:
"I don't know that anyone left other than Rannick, though I wouldn't blame them all for leaving."
Remaining a step behind the orderly, fair-skinned templar, the delicate, ebon-haired woman says to you, in sirihish:
"If you really need another reminder... Yulia."
You send a telepathic message to the diminutive, cerulean-eyed man:
"I have no idea, they're accusing me of some sort of dealings, I ... don't know what they're talking about."
The orderly, fair-skinned templar simply raises his narrow-hilted, jaded khopesh blade from his side and levels the edge out so that the flat is pressed to your throat.
The robust, cerulean-eyed woman furrows her brow staring up at the orderly, fair-skinned templar.
Softly, in a respectful tone to him, the rounded, dark-eyed woman asks the orderly, fair-skinned templar, in sirihish:
"If you wish to use that, might I suggest my hand in order to avoid the blood on yer boots, my Lord Templar?"
Directing her attention towards him, you say to the orderly, fair-skinned templar, in sirihish:
"Yulia was turned over to House Oash."
The diminutive, cerulean-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:
"...Drov, offer a bribe eh? Or something. I guess Ado must've paid off quite a few folks..."
You say to the orderly, fair-skinned templar, in sirihish:
"I tried to turn her into Sergeant Zoan, but he wasn't available."
The orderly, fair-skinned templar furrows his own brow a little, glances down at his boot, and then retracts his narrow-hilted, jaded khopesh blade.
You say to the orderly, fair-skinned templar, in sirihish:
"Edom said that the Lord Heir wanted her."
Glancing down at her white attire, the delicate, ebon-haired woman says to you, in sirihish:
"We are aware, Buckle. She is just one of the reminder."
The orderly, fair-skinned templar glances aside at the rounded, dark-eyed woman, and nods his head crisply, taking a step back.
Glancing back to her, you say to the delicate, ebon-haired woman, in sirihish:
"Stop being cryptic, I don't know what it is that you want with me. I've commited no crime."
You think:
"At least not anyones worse than smoking a little spice."
You think:
"And killing that guy over a sheath."
You think:
"And stealing."
You think:
"But... I don't think anyone found out about those.... "
Taking a couple steps forward, the rounded, dark-eyed woman draws back up to you side and places the point of her katar punch dagger under your jaw, just below your ear against a prime vein.
You think:
"And they weren't really bad anyway."
Smearing her lips together the robust, cerulean-eyed woman frowns down at the rounded, dark-eyed woman.
Brushing up to her tiptoes, the delicate, ebon-haired woman whispers something to the orderly, fair-skinned templar.
The delicate, ebon-haired woman whispers something to the orderly, fair-skinned templar.
Sighing softly to you, the rounded, dark-eyed woman asks you, in sirihish:
"Sorry gal. Got work jus' like anyone else, mm? How be ya speak up an maybe the Lord Templar asks me -not- to put this in there?"
You say, in sirihish:
"The Templarate had my full cooperation, I turned Yulia over to whom I thought could handle her appropriately."
The orderly, fair-skinned templar nods his head slowly, and reaches to tuck his narrow-hilted, jaded khopesh blade at his hip.
Grunting, you say to the rounded, dark-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"If I knew what she was talking about trust me, oh trust me - I -would-."
The orderly, fair-skinned templar sheathes a narrow-hilted, jaded khopesh blade.
Shifting her arms irritably under the half-giant soldier's grip, you say, in sirihish:
"Its not exactly like I have some alliegances to protect here."
The orderly, fair-skinned templar unslings an obsidian-headed, jade-emblazoned mace from his back.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman looks back to the delicate, ebon-haired woman with your words and perks a brow curiously once more, waiting.
Lowering herself to the floor, one hand still planted on her rounded tummy, cheerfully, the delicate, ebon-haired woman says to you, in sirihish:
"If you need help, try start from why Yulia is turned over to House Oash."
Raising her voice, you exclaim, in sirihish:
"This doesn't make any sense, I have no reason to lie!"
You say to the delicate, ebon-haired woman, in sirihish:
"Yulia is - was the Trooper of Sergeant Kul."
The orderly, fair-skinned templar taps the toe of his boot, looking more and more bored as his fingers drum on his obsidian-headed, jade-emblazoned mace.
You say to the delicate, ebon-haired woman, in sirihish:
"She was turned over to Oash because she had gone insane. Any other details should be taken up with him, I'm not a Bynner, and she wasn ever my burden to deal with."
You say to the delicate, ebon-haired woman, in sirihish:
"I'm a mercenary, I don't deal with crazy bitches, I kick them out and turn them over to the proper authorities, which is what I did."
The interrogation continues with Buckle being able to offer in her confusion only minimal explanation. Edited for some mildly IC sensitive information.
The orderly, fair-skinned templar holds his obsidian-headed, jade-emblazoned mace out in front of himself and then draws it back over a shoulder to take a slow practice swing.
You say to the delicate, ebon-haired woman, in sirihish:
"I don't know, she'd just lost it. She never left the Compound, she was paranoid and nuts."
The delicate, ebon-haired woman carefully tugs off one of her gloves from her hand.
Her regard remaining wide lashed upon you, the delicate, ebon-haired woman says to you, in sirihish:
"We are not going anywhere with this, Buckle."
The orderly, fair-skinned templar pivots and circles around to your side, levelling his obsidian-headed, jade-emblazoned mace out and steadying it in the same manner just before his last swing.
In a harsh, gravelly rasp, the orderly, fair-skinned templar says, in sirihish:
"Last. Chance."
You say to the delicate, ebon-haired woman, in sirihish:
"I don't know -what- you want from me. But let's put it this way. I want to live, you want information. This would go a lot better for both of us if I knew what you wanted."
Grunting lightly, the rounded, dark-eyed woman withdraws a step from you with the lift of the mace and slips her katar punch dagger into her belt.
You can't maintain your contact...You deftly block the orderly, fair-skinned templar's attack.
You're now wanted!
The orderly, fair-skinned templar swiftly dodges your hit.
You struggle in vain against the half-giant soldier.
The half-giant soldier swipes futilely at the air.
The orderly, fair-skinned templar swiftly dodges your hit.
open door n
fleeThe orderly, fair-skinned templar swiftly dodges your hit.
118/119/110draw hammer
You hit the orderly, fair-skinned templar, barely grazing his waist.
The orderly, fair-skinned templar swiftly dodges your hit.
You are held tight, and unable to do anything.
You struggle in vain against the half-giant soldier.
The orderly, fair-skinned templar grunts.
You deftly block the orderly, fair-skinned templar's attack.
The orderly, fair-skinned templar swiftly dodges your hit.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman unslings an obsidian-headed polished-bone mace from her back.
The orderly, fair-skinned templar swiftly dodges your hit.
Your blow bounces off the orderly, fair-skinned templar's tough skin.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
"Shit.."
You deftly block the orderly, fair-skinned templar's attack.
The orderly, fair-skinned templar swiftly dodges your hit.
You lash out and slice the orderly, fair-skinned templar with a pair of anakore-claw gloves.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman joins the orderly, fair-skinned templar's fight!
You are held tight, and unable to do anything.
You struggle in vain against the half-giant soldier.
The orderly, fair-skinned templar swiftly dodges your hit.
The orderly, fair-skinned templar gives the half-giant soldier an order.
You deftly block the half-giant soldier's attack.
You deftly block the half-giant soldier's attack.
You deftly block the orderly, fair-skinned templar's attack.
You struggle in vain against the half-giant soldier.
The half-giant soldier swipes futilely at the air.
You deftly block the rounded, dark-eyed woman's attack.
The orderly, fair-skinned templar swiftly dodges your hit.
The orderly, fair-skinned templar gives the half-giant soldier an order.
Dark eyes regarding you blandly, the delicate, ebon-haired woman says to you, in sirihish:
"We all want to live. But you are not cooperative."
You lash out and slice the orderly, fair-skinned templar with a pair of anakore-claw gloves.
The orderly, fair-skinned templar looks up at the half-giant soldier.
You struggle against the half-giant soldier and break free.
The orderly, fair-skinned templar swiftly dodges your hit.
The half-giant soldier unslings a dusty heavy bone, jade-emblazoned greatsword from his back.
open door n
You deftly block the rounded, dark-eyed woman's attack.The orderly, fair-skinned templar swiftly dodges your hit.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman tries unsuccessfully to dart in front of the orderly, fair-skinned templar.
A human Allanaki soldier tries to prevent you from opening the north exit, but fails.
You hit the orderly, fair-skinned templar, barely grazing his foot.
The delicate, ebon-haired woman closes the door.
The orderly, fair-skinned templar swiftly dodges your hit.
A human Allanaki soldier tries to prevent you from opening the north exit, but fails.
The delicate, ebon-haired woman closes the door.
You deftly block the orderly, fair-skinned templar's attack.
The orderly, fair-skinned templar swiftly dodges your hit.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman tries unsuccessfully to dart in front of the orderly, fair-skinned templar.
open door n
You deftly block the rounded, dark-eyed woman's attack.You hit the orderly, fair-skinned templar, barely grazing his body.
A human Allanaki soldier prevents you from opening the north exit.
You hit the orderly, fair-skinned templar, barely grazing his body.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman tries unsuccessfully to dart in front of the orderly, fair-skinned templar.
The orderly, fair-skinned templar gives a human Allanaki soldier an order.
You deftly block the half-giant soldier's attack.
Your fist *thumps* into the orderly, fair-skinned templar and a pair of anakore-claw gloves cuts him.
You unsling a rune-carved, stone hammer from your back.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman bludgeons at you, but you dodge out of the way.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman bludgeons you, barely grazing your body.
A human Allanaki soldier prevents you from opening the north exit.
You bludgeon the rounded, dark-eyed woman's body.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman bludgeons at you, but you dodge out of the way.
The half-giant soldier tries to protect the orderly, fair-skinned templar but fails!
You do the best you can!
The half-giant soldier slashes at you, but you dodge out of the way.
The half-giant soldier throws a kick at your ribs, but you step aside.
A human Allanaki soldier tries to prevent you from opening the north exit, but fails.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman blocks your attack.
A human Allanaki soldier tries to prevent you from fleeing out the north exit, but fails.
You attempt to flee.
Miner's Road [NESW]
The dusty old street known as Miner's Road weaves between the ramshackle constructions which make up the housing of the Commoner's Quarter, decrepit buildings of ancient mud brick, augmented with panels of rotting canvas and hide. Crowds wander through the thoroughfare, clad in faded abas and carrying their assorted burdens. A sultry, sloe-eyed elvish woman sits in a patch of shade, day-dreaming.
You flee, heading north.
Buckle leads the Templar and his entourage on a wild tregil chase as she bolts into the city, only to be cornered by a group of soldiers and ultimately found by a soldier that was once her friend.
31/1/117look
West Dragon's Path [EW]Gritty dirt and sand cover the surface of the ancient stones that lie underfoot. Old mud-brick buildings huddle to the north, forming the line marking the edge of the road, while southward stands the wall of the Templars' Quarter, behind which stands the Highlord's Tower, piercing its golden tip into the crimson sky. The path leads east and west, running parallel to the wall, while aspacious compound lies to the north.
A sandcloth backpack lies in the dust.
A jade-emblazoned obsidian longsword lies here.
A jade-emblazoned obsidian shortsword lies on the ground.
The muscular, sunburnt soldier is here, fighting you.
The lean, battle-scarred Allanaki soldier is sleeping here, bleeding profusely.
17/1/109
You wound the muscular, sunburnt soldier on his head with your bludgeon.The muscular, sunburnt soldier reels from the blow.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman has arrived from the west.
The muscular, sunburnt soldier parries your attack.
Panting heavily body bloodied, you exclaim to the rounded, dark-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"Walk. Away Bosha!"
Approaching up on the mess, the rounded, dark-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
"Fuck sake, Buckle.."
Your fist *thumps* into the muscular, sunburnt soldier and a pair of anakore-claw gloves cuts him.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman unslings an obsidian-headed polished-bone mace from her back.
You lightly bludgeon the muscular, sunburnt soldier's leg.
The muscular, sunburnt soldier's eyes roll back in his head.
A dusty jade-emblazoned, obsidian shortsword clatters to the ground as the muscular, sunburnt soldier releases it.
A dusty jade-emblazoned, obsidian longsword clatters to the ground as the muscular, sunburnt soldier releases it.
The muscular, sunburnt soldier crumples to the ground.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman bludgeons at you, but you dodge out of the way.
You exclaim to the rounded, dark-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"Leave!"
Shaking her head and lifting her obsidian-headed polished-bone mace, the rounded, dark-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
"Can't do it gal.."
The rounded, dark-eyed woman bludgeons at you, but you dodge out of the way.
You bludgeon the rounded, dark-eyed woman's hand.
You deftly block the rounded, dark-eyed woman's attack.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman blocks your attack.
You jab straight out and tag the rounded, dark-eyed woman with a pair of anakore-claw gloves.
You nick the rounded, dark-eyed woman's leg with your bludgeon.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman blocks your attack.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman parries your attack.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman's mace shatters!
The rounded, dark-eyed woman hits at you, but you dodge out of the way.
You bludgeon the rounded, dark-eyed woman's wrist.
Two soliders collapsed at her feet, frame bloodied the robust, cerulean-eyed woman lashes out exasperatedly.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman blocks your attack.
You lash out and slice the rounded, dark-eyed woman with a pair of anakore-claw gloves.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
"Could'a jus' ...-Fuck- ..talked.."
The rounded, dark-eyed woman draws a short bone sparring club.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman blocks your attack.
You deftly block the rounded, dark-eyed woman's attack.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman blocks your attack.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman winces heavily as the mace breaks and takes a sharp blow before drawing the dull club and eyes you.
You deftly block the rounded, dark-eyed woman's attack.
Your fist *thumps* into the rounded, dark-eyed woman and a pair of anakore-claw gloves cuts her.
You deftly block the rounded, dark-eyed woman's attack.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman blocks your attack.
You exclaim to the rounded, dark-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"I don't know what they want with me!"
You deftly parry the rounded, dark-eyed woman's attack.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman blocks your attack.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman bludgeons you, barely grazing your body.
Circling behind her used grey kank shell shield, the rounded, dark-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
"Stan' the fuck down, gal..-stand- down.."
You lash out and slice the rounded, dark-eyed woman with a pair of anakore-claw gloves.
The robust, cerulean-eyed woman hurls your rune-carved, stone hammer towards the rounded, dark-eyed woman, wearily.
You deftly block the rounded, dark-eyed woman's attack.
You exclaim to the rounded, dark-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"Then back off!"
You bludgeon the rounded, dark-eyed woman's body.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman bludgeons at you, but you dodge out of the way.
ass bosha
The rounded, dark-eyed woman stops attacking you.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman does not look well.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman looks tired.
16/1/117
The dusty, brown-haired soldier has arrived from the west.
You say, in sirihish:
"Shit."
Flatly, the rounded, dark-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
"Oi..Tha' don' mean take the whole city on..it means -stand- down.."
The rounded, dark-eyed woman blocks your attack.
You deftly block the dusty, brown-haired soldier's attack.
The dusty, brown-haired soldier holds her jade-emblazoned, obsidian shortsword.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman blocks your attack.
You lash out and slice the rounded, dark-eyed woman with a pair of anakore-claw gloves.
You exclaim to the rounded, dark-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"Then get your men off me!"
The dusty, brown-haired soldier slashes at you, but you dodge out of the way.
You deftly parry the dusty, brown-haired soldier's attack.
You nick the rounded, dark-eyed woman's leg with your bludgeon.
You jab straight out and tag the rounded, dark-eyed woman with a pair of anakore-claw gloves.
You land a solid bludgeon to the rounded, dark-eyed woman's leg.
You bludgeon the rounded, dark-eyed woman's arm.
You deftly parry the dusty, brown-haired soldier's attack.
The dusty, brown-haired soldier pierces your arm.
You lightly bludgeon the rounded, dark-eyed woman's body.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman is in poor condition.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman looks tired.
9/1/116
The rounded, dark-eyed woman attempts to flee.
The rounded, dark-eyed woman runs east.
ass dusty
The dusty, brown-haired soldier does not look well.
The dusty, brown-haired soldier looks a little weary.
4/1/116
The half-giant soldier has arrived from the west.
The half-giant soldier shouts, in sirihish:
"In the name of the Highlord!"
The half-giant soldier unslings a heavy bone, jade-emblazoned greatsword from his back.
You deftly block the half-giant soldier's attack.
The dusty, brown-haired soldier swiftly dodges your bludgeon.
You deftly block the half-giant soldier's attack.
The dusty, brown-haired soldier swiftly dodges your bludgeon.
You deftly block the dusty, brown-haired soldier's attack.
The dusty, brown-haired soldier pierces at you, but you dodge out of the way.
You try to slash the dusty, brown-haired soldier with a pair of anakore-claw gloves, but miss.
Shouting, the dusty, brown-haired soldier exclaims to the half-giant soldier, in sirihish:
"Take her down!"
The robust, cerulean-eyed woman screams hurling in towards the dusty, brown-haired soldier visciously.
The half-giant soldier slings a heavy bone, jade-emblazoned greatsword across his back.
You lightly bludgeon the dusty, brown-haired soldier's body.
You lightly bludgeon the dusty, brown-haired soldier's body.
You deftly parry the dusty, brown-haired soldier's attack.
You deftly block the dusty, brown-haired soldier's attack.
The dusty, brown-haired soldier looks near death.
The dusty, brown-haired soldier looks a little weary.
The half-giant soldier flings himself at you.
West Dragon's Path [EW]
Gritty dirt and sand cover the surface of the ancient stones that lie
underfoot. Old mud-brick buildings huddle to the north, forming the line
marking the edge of the road, while southward stands the wall of the
Templars' Quarter, behind which stands the Highlord's Tower, piercing its
golden tip into the crimson sky.
The path leads east and west, running parallel to the wall, while a
spacious compound lies to the north.
A sandcloth backpack lies in the dust.
A dusty jade-emblazoned obsidian longsword lies here.
A jade-emblazoned obsidian longsword lies here.
A dusty jade-emblazoned obsidian shortsword lies on the ground.
A jade-emblazoned obsidian shortsword lies on the ground.
A half-giant soldier of Tektolnes walks along here.
The dusty, brown-haired soldier is here, fighting you.
The muscular, sunburnt soldier is sleeping here.
The lean, battle-scarred Allanaki soldier is sleeping here.
The dusty, brown-haired soldier attempts to flee.
The dusty, brown-haired soldier runs west.
The orderly, fair-skinned templar has arrived from the west.
The half-giant soldier has arrived from the west.
The half-giant soldier has arrived from the west.
The half-giant soldier has arrived from the west.
The half-giant soldier has arrived from the west.
The delicate, ebon-haired woman has arrived from the west.
A human Allanaki soldier has arrived from the west.
The half-giant soldier subdues you.
4/1/117
The half-giant soldier exclaims, in sirihish:
"Gots her boss!"
Screaming her body a bloodied mess, you exclaim, in sirihish:
"Fuck off!"
Squinting, the orderly, fair-skinned templar looks down at you.
The diminutive, cerulean-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:
"*warily* ...I'm assuming you're alright then? Especially if the Lord Templar hasn't done anything yet..."
The half-giant soldier wraps an arm around your throat, squeezing tight.
Two soldiers bloodied at her feet the robust, cerulean-eyed woman growls struggling.
The delicate, ebon-haired woman says to you, in sirihish:
"Please stop moving. You might live longer."
The lean, battle-scarred Allanaki soldier's eyes flutter open.
The delicate, ebon-haired woman whispers something to the orderly, fair-skinned templar.
You contact the diminutive, cerulean-eyed man with the Way.
The orderly, fair-skinned templar nods his head aside at the delicate, ebon-haired woman.
You are very hungry.
You send a telepathic message to the diminutive, cerulean-eyed man:
"They... they're killing me, and I don't know why."
You send a telepathic message to the diminutive, cerulean-eyed man:
"I took down ... four."
The burning sun rises high into the sky, searing the earth.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the diminutive, cerulean-eyed man:
"Fuck... fuck... "
The orderly, fair-skinned templar taps the toe of his boot, gazing down at you with a bland look on his face.
The half-giant soldier lifts you up off the ground, gripping tight about the neck with one barred arm.
You say to the orderly, fair-skinned templar, in sirihish:
"You son of a bitch, I haven't done.... anything."
The half-giant soldier asks the orderly, fair-skinned templar, in sirihish:
"Arena wit'er boss?"
The robust, cerulean-eyed woman chokes, gasping under the half-giant soldier's grasp.
The diminutive, cerulean-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:
"*anxiety seeping across the Way* The fuck?! What in Drov is..."
With a narrowing of her eyes, the delicate, ebon-haired woman says to you, in sirihish:
"If that is true, then you have just committed a killable offense."
The robust, cerulean-eyed woman reaches up with a hand digging into the half-giant soldier's fist.
In a low, hissing rasp, the orderly, fair-skinned templar says, in sirihish:
"Yesss... knock her out first - she's troublesome to.. handle."
change accent northern
You begin speaking with a northern accent.
The delicate, ebon-haired woman whispers something to the orderly, fair-skinned templar.
Gasping breathlessly, you say to the delicate, ebon-haired woman, in sirihish:
"Fuck... you."
The half-giant soldier nods and then increases the pressure on his grip, choking you with a crack of knuckles.
Your vision goes black.
To be continued.
The Arena Floor [NESW]
You are on the west side of the Arena, between the First and Third Chradens. The screams and cheers emanating from the stands above you further add to the deadly and decadent mood. The Arena floor is made up of sand and rocks, as if built directly over the desert that...
Continue Reading...Mister Gerakis and Misses Mosali by Reiloth
Added on Jul 28, 2009A booth in the Storm's Eye leads to bad blood, quicker than Misses Mosali would care to think.
The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak = Mister Gerakis
The figure in dusty drab weathered storm-cloak = Misses Mosali of House Salarr
~~
The Tribal Room [N]
Separated from the balcony by a curtain of beaded fringe, this
sparsely furnished room is entirely decorated in a tribal motif. Boldly
painted sandcloth murals totally blanket the walls and are tacked to the
ceiling overhead, concealing the room's artificial construction and giving
an impression of a much larger open-air space. A large, highly decorated
woven mat covers the entire floor, and only a few simple carvings finish out
the decor.
A radiantly woven, golden cloth tapestry is sewn securely to the wall.
A bead and feather adorned rug hanging has been affixed to one wall.
An impressive raptor hide, darkly-stained, has been mounted onto one wall.
Rubbing a huge hand over his squashed, hooked nose, the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"What you .. wanted to talk about?"
Placing both gloved hands atop your sleek, rantarri-headed cane's snarling feline head, easing forward, you say to the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak, in sirihish:
"I would appreciate if'n you could tell me what happened exactly, between you an' my employee, Jorue."
Narrowing an eye beneath the shadows of her sunslits, you say to the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak, in sirihish:
"I'd also prefer th' truth, as I only want t'know what happened. I, and my House, do not mean you harm."
His bushy eyebrows furrowing, the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Uhh.. so you don't know?"
In a calm rasp of a soprano, shifting her weight from right to left though it remains mostly on top of your sleek, rantarri-headed cane, you say to the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak, in sirihish:
"I would just like to hear your side of things."
You say, in sirihish:
"It is only...Fair."
Shrugging his huge shoulders a bit, the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Okay. Your employee Jorue led a Carru at me, which hurt my neck real bad. I moved off a little down the road, and there he went leadin' it my way again."
Clearing her throat roughly, you say to the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak, in sirihish:
"Yes, continue."
Stroking his massive beard and continuing, the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"When I asked him what he was doin', and told him what happened to me, he told me that.. I was too slow and it wasn't his problem. So I kicked his little ass up and down the crack in the shield wall"
With a calm nod, you say to the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak, in sirihish:
"That must have felt good."
Staring down at you, the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Was okay. I was hurtin' at the time, mostly."
North, through a curtain, is On the Balcony.
The curtain is open.
[Far]
Nothing.
[Near]
The battle-scarred, one-legged mul sits here, crutch and inks within reach.
The figure in a dusty drab, weathered stormcloak nods in silence, watching the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak's face intently.
A few massive fingers disappearing in his beard as he scratches himself, the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Sooo.. what Jorue tell you?"
You ask the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak, in sirihish:
"That is it?"
The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Yeah. That's pretty much it."
Raising a hand from your sleek, rantarri-headed cane, you ask the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak, in sirihish:
"So you did not come back to this Outpost, an' claim Jorue tried to kill you?"
You ask, in sirihish:
"And speak personally with First Sergeant Nahkt, over this matter?"
The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Didn't I just say he was leadin' Carru to me over and over?"
With a calm smile as the hand droops back to your sleek, rantarri-headed cane, you ask, in sirihish:
"First you say once..And then over and over. Which is it?"
The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"When did I say once?"
Tilting her head to one side, you ask the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak, in sirihish:
"When did you say otherwise?"
Holding up two fingers at you, the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Two times."
Shrugging casually, you ask the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak, in sirihish:
"Did it ever occur to you that perhaps...The Carru wanted to kill you?"
You ask the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak, in sirihish:
"And Jorue?"
You say, in sirihish:
"That it...In fact...Is a dangerous animal wit' little sense or reason running through its antler'd head."
The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Where I'm from, that kind of shit gets you killed Missus Mosali."
Shrugging his huge shoulders at you, the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"An I sure didn't like it none."
With an easy nod, sucking a short breath through her flared nostrils, you say to the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak, in sirihish:
"Regardless, I cannot allow for my employees to be harmed, intentionally at tha', without recompense of some shape and form."
The figure in a dusty drab, weathered stormcloak raps a few fingers along the snarling feline head of your sleek, rantarri-headed cane.
Gesturing between you and himself, the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"So uhh.. the inix got back to you didn't it? Recompense right there."
You ask, in sirihish:
"What inix?"
The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"The black one."
You ask, in sirihish:
"Jorue's inix?"
With a tiny nod, the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Yeah, his inix."
You say, in sirihish:
"That...Is not good enough, unfortunately."
Snapping his fingers loudly, the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak exclaims to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I got it!"
The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Gotta large or two I could probably give you. Like 'sid right?"
In a still-calm voice, her chin lowering a fraction of an inch, you say, in sirihish:
"'sid makes problems like these go away, forever. In fact, it'd make it possible for you to still deal with our House."
As an afterthought, her blue eyes widening within the shadows of her sunslits, you say, in sirihish:
"And I do not think we would want these problems, between you and Jorue, to be remembered."
You sigh.
Nodding a bit as he begins to rise from a long woven mat, the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Okay. Salarr thought I was a raider, huh?"
The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak stands up from a long woven mat.
You say to the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak, in sirihish:
"Y'gotta see it from our point of view, Mister Gerakis."
You say to the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak, in sirihish:
"You attacked a House employee, one way or another. Shit, Jorue could've been a little prick and tried t'lead a Carru into you."
Personally-,, you say to the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak, in sirihish:
"I do not think it was the case. I think it was a misunderstanding."
You say to the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak, in sirihish:
"But, it still cannot stand that a non-afilliated half-giant attacked a member of Salarr, without there being some sort of...Parley."
Holding his massive paws up, palms out, the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I understand, believe me."
With a simple smile, you say to the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak, in sirihish:
"I have no ill feelings towards you, Mister Gerakis. I have killed friends, over simple misunderstandings. It does not feel good to know the situation is not in your control."
The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak begins to move toward the curtain, his big bushy eyebrows wrinkling up.
The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Yeah.. yeah.."
The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak subdues you.
The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I'll tell you though."
The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I have been in control."
The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak attacks you.
The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak lightly hits your hand.
PANIC! You couldn't escape!
You bludgeon the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak's leg.
You wound the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak on his wrist with your bludgeon.
You silently reach into a leather knife belt and discreetly slide out a dusty vicious claw longknife.
You land a solid stab to the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak's neck.
The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak's muscles contract, and his body goes rigid.
You wound the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak on his head with your bludgeon.
You stab the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak very hard on his back.
You viciously bludgeon the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak on his head.
The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak reels from the blow.
You stab the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak very hard on his back.
You wound the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak on his head with a brutal bludgeon.
The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak's eyes roll back in his head.
The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak crumples to the ground.
The Tribal Room [N]
Separated from the balcony by a curtain of beaded fringe, this
sparsely furnished room is entirely decorated in a tribal motif. Boldly
painted sandcloth murals totally blanket the walls and are tacked to the
ceiling overhead, concealing the room's artificial construction and giving
an impression of a much larger open-air space. A large, highly decorated
woven mat covers the entire floor, and only a few simple carvings finish out
the decor.
A radiantly woven, golden cloth tapestry is sewn securely to the wall.
A bead and feather adorned rug hanging has been affixed to one wall.
An impressive raptor hide, darkly-stained, has been mounted onto one wall.
The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak is sleeping here, rigid and unmoving, bleeding profusely.
You look down at the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak.
Before you is an unusually proportioned half-giant. Rather squat for one
of his race, this half-giant is nonetheless packing dense muscle which
bulges grossly to exaggeration wherever the eye can see. His brutish, hairy
features are clearly masculine and a full, bushy beard of coarse dark hair
frames his round face. His hairline recedes nearly over the top of his
head, which bears curly black hair in far less abundance then the lower half
of his face. Beady black eyes peer out from beneath bushy black brows,
appearing like bits of polished obsidian to either side of his squat, hooked
nose. Fine cracks can be seen all over this half-giant male's exposed skin,
appearing almost as a sprawling web over his severely sun-browned skin.
Some cracks in the tough hide seem to be the resting place of bits of
reddish and yellow dust and grit which almost livens the harshly tanned
flesh in a way similar to poorly inked tattoos.
The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak is in poor condition.
The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak is using:a dusty bone helmet a dusty dusky-black feather a dusty desert-camouflaged, sandcloth-covered collar a dusty double-layered sandcloth pack a dusty braided leather strap a dusty braided leather strap a new bloodied pair of desert-camouflaged, sandcloth sleeves a spiked, chitin bracer a spiked, chitin bracer a dusty pair of desert-camouflaged, sandcloth gloves a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak a bloodied pair of sand-colored sandcloth pants a dusty pair of sturdy leather boots
He is carrying:
nothing obvious
The figure in a dusty drab, weathered stormcloak's breathing becomes ragged and slow.
The figure in a dusty drab, weathered stormcloak prods the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak's side with a soft booted toe.
Through a curtain to the north is On the Balcony.
The curtain is open.
[Far]
Nothing.
[Near]
The battle-scarred, one-legged mul sits here, crutch and inks within reach.
You are:
Corporal/Hand/Merchant Trainee/Crafter of the House Salarr, jobs: recruiter | leader | banker |
Relationship to the land is neutral.
You are currently speaking sirihish with a tribal accent.
Your mood is neutral.
You are standing.
You are refusing saves on: arrest.
You are not being merciful.
You aren't watching anything in particular.
You stop using your dusty vicious claw longknife.
You carefully snap a dusty vicious claw longknife into a dusty pair of soft, grey-veined black boots.
You are very hungry.
>close curtain north
Ok.
The figure in a dusty drab, weathered stormcloak drops down to a squat in front of the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak.
>draw vicious boots
You reach down and draw a dusty vicious claw longknife out of your boot.
You brandish your dusty vicious claw longknife.
You stop using your sleek, rantarri-headed cane.
You put your sleek, rantarri-headed cane into your dusty steel grey duffel bag.
The figure in a dusty drab, weathered stormcloak straddles the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak's gigantic leg, drawing your dusty vicious claw longknife up from her boot.
You say, in sirihish:
"That wasn't an excellent idea."
You say, in sirihish:
"But i'm going to have to make this quick."
In a low voice, you say, in sirihish:
"I don't know why you did that, but you did."
The figure in a dusty drab, weathered stormcloak rises from the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak's leg.
You say, in sirihish:
"If you wake up..."
You say, in sirihish:
"You will tell all of Kurac and Salarr I murdered you, or tried."
You say, in sirihish:
"Just like Jorue."
You say, in sirihish:
"Unfortunately, I can't let that happen."
The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak's eyes flutter open.
You say, in sirihish:
"Find my mind, now."
Grating her teeth, you say, in sirihish:
"This very instant."
The figure in a dusty drab, weathered stormcloak draws your dusty vicious claw longknife up.
You begin moving silently toward your victim.
The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak groans loudly as you thrust your knife up between his ribs.
You inflict a grievous wound on the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak's back with your stab.
The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak's eyes roll back in his head.
The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak crumples to the ground.
The figure in a dusty drab, weathered stormcloak repeatedly jabs your dusty vicious claw longknife into the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak's hindquarters, drawing long wounds up and down the small of his back.
The figure in a dusty drab, weathered stormcloak slides your dusty razor-sharp, hawk-etched halfsword deep into the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak's back, severing the spine and pushing it upwards through the mass of intestines and entrails and other, more important organs.
>kill giant
You attack the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak.
You do unspeakable damage to the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak's back with your stab.
You viciously stab the gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak on his back.
Drawing the blade out of the giant's back with a wet *SHLUP*, you say, in sirihish:
"Right shame, mate. Coulda just done with a large or two."
~~The gigantic and obese figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak = Mister Gerakis
The figure in dusty drab weathered storm-cloak = Misses Mosali of House Salarr
~~
The Tribal Room [N]
Separated from the balcony by a curtain of beaded fringe, this
sparsely furnished room is entirely...
Continue Reading...Thrend Lyksae meets Sedaris Oash by Maglos
Added on Jul 1, 2009A northern noble meets a southern noble. They have such a tremendous time chatting about the things they have in common: disdain for each other.
************************************
We join the story at Luirsfest. A northern noble encounters a southern noble for the first time.
************************************
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
Glancing up from a long, carved wooden bar, you look up at the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
This young human man stands taller than most at just over five cords
in height. His slender frame possesses little in the way of muscle or body
fat, though he doesn't appear sickly or malnourished. On the contrary, his
feminine features are full and robust: his azure-grey eyes are alert and
attentive from their perch atop his fleshy, round nose and a pair of full,
generously-curved lips that seem naturally pouted. His hair, long and dark,
hangs down to his shoulders, glossy and well-kept.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth is in excellent condition.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth is using:a tall, elegant azure and black trimmed hat an azure pendant an azure-sigiled black velvet choker a dark blue, white-trimmed shoulder bag a sapphire-studded, ivory cuff-link a sapphire-studded, ivory cuff-link a pair of long, azure silk gloves an azure-sigiled, black silk greatcloak a pair of azure-stitched, black-silk pants a pair of knee-high black boots with azure sigils
He is carrying:
nothing obvious
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man has arrived from the south.
The sinewy, weather-worn man has arrived from the south.
You think:
"...you're shitting me."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"At least we're about to have something better to do than taunt a witless Scorpion. I have to say, Fak'ir, this is the most fun I've had in months."
You think:
"Seriously. Is that...."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
The sinewy, weather-worn man walks north.
Lifting his bushy brows, the ancient, wispy-bearded man says to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in southern-accented
sirihish:
"M'lord.. you need me for anything just now? I've got a date with a spice pipe."
You contact the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man with the Way.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"...what House colors do you know, of the south?"
Shaking his head, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth says to the ancient, wispy-bearded man, in southern-accented
sirihish:
"No."
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth opens a dark blue, white-trimmed shoulder bag.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth gets his pile of allanaki coins from his dark blue, white-trimmed shoulder bag.
Heading up to the bar, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man pushes one vacant stool in, and takes another for his own seat.
Turning slightly on his stool, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man looks up at the ancient, wispy-bearded man.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man pulls a hardwood barstool around a long, carved wooden bar.
Tossing a sack over, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth gives some coins to the ancient, wispy-bearded man.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man pulls a hardwood barstool around a long, carved wooden bar.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man sits at a long, carved wooden bar.
l youth's cloak
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
Thick black silk has been used in the making of this fine
greatcloak.
Billowing and roomy, it is long enough to reach just below the knees of the
wearer. Flaring out towards the bottom, this cloak is large enough to wrap
around the shoulders to protect from the elements. Inside, it has been
lined with a sheer azure silk, and set with a pair of small pockets. Along
the bottom, and edges of the cloak is a thin golden stitching. On the back
of the cloak, the sigil of House Oash has been done in fine azure
embroidery. Just above the sigil on the back hangs a large, drooping hood
of the same black silk as the rest of the cloak.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth puts his pile of allanaki coins into his dark blue, white-trimmed shoulder bag.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth closes a dark blue, white-trimmed shoulder bag.
The ancient, wispy-bearded man fumbles, almost dropping the sack..
Absently, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth says to the ancient, wispy-bearded man, in southern-accented sirihish:
"A bonus, Magus."
You look up at the ancient, wispy-bearded man.
Almost every hair on this elderly man's mainly bald head and face are
of a bleak, grayish white color, being a bright white at the tips and
darkening as they get closer to his head. His chin is adorned with a thin,
wispy beard that stretches down an arms length or so, and his eyes are
nearly completely covered with a set of extremely bushy gray-white eyebrows.
His face is worn and leathery, wrinkles adorning almost every inch of his
flesh, and he is quite thin, almost emaciated. His weathered, lean
appearance hints at hardships, though his eyes are nearly completely closed
when he smiles under the tangle of hair over his mouth. When his reasonably
straight, slightly stained teeth are covered by his lips in a more solemn
expression, his eyes are exposed, the pupils a cloudy, beryl hue. His gaunt
frame is almost always hunched over in a posture fitting of his age, causing
his thin, wispy beard to hang a little lower than it would usually, making
it seem longer than it is.
The ancient, wispy-bearded man is in excellent condition.
The ancient, wispy-bearded man is using:a wide-brimmed black hat a dull black gem a large azure leather backpack an old, gnarled wooden staff a hooded, black and azure aba a pair of studded, black leather pants a black onyx, skull-linked anklechain a pair of dragon-emblazoned, black knee-high boots
He is carrying:
nothing obvious
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man looks up at the ancient, wispy-bearded man.
Approaching a heavy, blockish table in the middle of the room, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth looks down at you.
Bringing a thin, bony hand to his chest, the ancient, wispy-bearded man says to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in
southern-accented sirihish:
"Most gracious, my Lord."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Borsail, Tor, Fale and a few others. He isn't any of the lower houses, Rennik or Sath, either. He's none of those."
The freckled, light-skinned man stiffens momentarily, a hand sliding to your glossy, black leather swordbelt.
You think:
"Abomination."
You think:
"Fucking gemmer."
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"Gemmer."
Hobbling through the crowded tavern, the ancient, wispy-bearded man walks north.
At 1) a long, carved wooden bar are:
the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, the cinnamon, lithe young woman,
the freckled, light-skinned man, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man,
and a few empty seats.
At 2) a small table near the stairs are:
a couple of empty seats.
At 3) a heavy, blockish table in the middle of the room are:
some empty seats.
At 4) a rounded agafari table are:
a few empty seats.
At 5) a rounded agafari table are:
a few empty seats.
A brief tremble shakes the scrawny-looking unibrowed man's shoulders for a moment, and he scoots his stool a little closer
to you.
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The freckled, light-skinned man glances off through the spicy haze to the north, relaxing only slightly as he returns his attention to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
Assessively glancing him over, you look up at the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
This young human man stands taller than most at just over five cords
in height. His slender frame possesses little in the way of muscle or body
fat, though he doesn't appear sickly or malnourished. On the contrary, his
feminine features are full and robust: his azure-grey eyes are alert and
attentive from their perch atop his fleshy, round nose and a pair of full,
generously-curved lips that seem naturally pouted. His hair, long and dark,
hangs down to his shoulders, glossy and well-kept.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth is in excellent condition.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth is using:a tall, elegant azure and black trimmed hat an azure pendant an azure-sigiled black velvet choker a dark blue, white-trimmed shoulder bag a sapphire-studded, ivory cuff-link a sapphire-studded, ivory cuff-link a pair of long, azure silk gloves an azure-sigiled, black silk greatcloak a pair of azure-stitched, black-silk pants a pair of knee-high black boots with azure sigils
He is carrying:
nothing obvious
Somebody jostles a large man, then apologizes before disappearing into the crowd.
You suffer from use of the Way.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man sends you a telepathic message:
"No offense by being too close to you..but that guy who just walked away is a gemmer."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Fucking abominations think they can come into a bar and talk like people? What kind of place -is- the Black?"
Disdainfully eyeing the bar, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth waits for the veteran mercenary to draw a chair out from a heavy, blockish table in the middle of the room.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"Fucking insane."
You dissolve the psychic link.
Turning his gaze, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man looks up at the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You contact the scrawny-looking unibrowed man with the Way.
A mul, clad in the garb of the desert traveller and bearing a huge hammer on his back, moves through the crowd.
Slowly lowering himself into the chair, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth sits at a heavy, blockish table in the middle of the room.
You send a telepathic message to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man:
"So I saw. I'll keep an eye out for it."
You dissolve the psychic link.
The Storm's End Tavern [NESWU Quit]
This building evidences the same architectural principles as the inner
wall and gate towers, but to a much lesser degree. Its horns and spiked
flanges have either been worn with time or were designed to a more subtle
appearance. Inside, veins of obsidian run along the ceiling and walls,
generating the impression of a cold, stony skin, black-blooded and evil.
A massive wooden bar, stained to a deep grey and lacquered to a mirror
shine, dominates the eastern half of the room. An image of an eclipsed sun,
the paint vivid and fresh, blazes along the front of the bar, the rays
reaching the full length of it. The walls appear to have been scrubbed till
they shine with the deep malevolence only limitless black can hold.
A stone stairway curls around itself, spiraling up through the veined
ceiling. To the north, an impressive archway leads the way to a
laughter-filled spice den.
An empty finely crafted flagon with a eclipse burning in its side has been left here.
The Luir's Outpost Bulletin Board is here, propped up on a stand.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man is sitting at a long, carved wooden bar.
A veteran mercenary is standing here at attention.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth is sitting at a heavy, blockish table in the middle of the room.
A veteran mercenary is standing here at attention.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man is sitting at a long, carved wooden bar.
The burly, red-haired woman stands at attention.
The cinnamon, lithe young woman is sitting at a long, carved wooden bar.
The austere, cleft-jawed man stands next to a muscular woman at the bar.
The darkly tanned innkeeper stands here, wiping his hands on his apron.
The well-muscled, blue-eyed woman stands silently along a wall.
The muscular, blue-eyed man stands quietly beside the bar here.
A burly half-giant soldier with a flat nose stands hunched here.
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man sends you a telepathic message:
"Me too, we won't let nothing happen to you!"
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
Chin lifting, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Might I help you?"
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man glances to you, turning back towards the bar with a shake of his head.
Wrinkling his nose up briefly, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"Fortunately, no."
Brows perking, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"What was that?"
The lithe, curly-haired man has arrived from the west.
The lithe, curly-haired man has departed from the land of Zalanthas.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man gets his pile of allanaki coins from his hooded, mace-stitched grey linen cloak.
At your table, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says in sirihish, nodding to the darkly tanned innkeeper:
"Tarkon. Firebreather."
The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a shot glass to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man.
The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a shot glass to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man.
Emphasizing, a bit more loudly, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"I said, fortunately...no. But thank you."
You think:
"Fucking Southron upstart noble child."
At your table, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man says in sirihish, studying the effeminate, fair-skinned youth's attire for a moment:
"He got nice gloves. Except they wouldn't be no good in a match...pretty looking though."
You think:
"Someone should've beat his head in when he was younger."
Pressing his lips together into a thin line, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Do you know who I am?"
Tilting his head back and draining it, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man drinks firebreather from his shot glass.
Setting the previous one on the bar before quickly taking up the second, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man drinks
firebreather from his shot glass.
Glancing him over again, head to toe, you look at the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
This young human man stands taller than most at just over five cords
in height. His slender frame possesses little in the way of muscle or body
fat, though he doesn't appear sickly or malnourished. On the contrary, his
feminine features are full and robust: his azure-grey eyes are alert and
attentive from their perch atop his fleshy, round nose and a pair of full,
generously-curved lips that seem naturally pouted. His hair, long and dark,
hangs down to his shoulders, glossy and well-kept.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth is in excellent condition.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth is using:a tall, elegant azure and black trimmed hat an azure pendant an azure-sigiled black velvet choker a dark blue, white-trimmed shoulder bag a sapphire-studded, ivory cuff-link a sapphire-studded, ivory cuff-link a pair of long, azure silk gloves an azure-sigiled, black silk greatcloak a pair of azure-stitched, black-silk pants a pair of knee-high black boots with azure sigils
He is carrying:
nothing obvious
You think:
"Damn it, what are the colors?"
You suffer from use of the Way.
You contact the ancient, brutally-scarred man with the Way.
Setting it on the bar with a nod to the darkly tanned innkeeper, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man discards his shot glass.
You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:
"Which Southern House has...azure, as their colors?"
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:
"Deep blue."
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man watches your expression with a darted gaze back, and lets out a chuckle.
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
Placing it haphazardly beside the other, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man discards his shot glass.
The ancient, brutally-scarred man sends you a telepathic message:
"House Oash."
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man sends you a telepathic message:
"Does -he- know who -you- are? Sheesh..he autta remember his place..and that place is - not the city."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
Speaking slowly as he looks him over, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"Looks like a young--exceptionally young--Oash noble."
At your table, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says in sirihish, muttering darkly:
"Knew I should've bought a keg."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man puts his pile of allanaki coins into his hooded, mace-stitched grey linen cloak.
Curiously, as he lifts a shaped eyebrow, you ask the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"Should I be impressed, or does that come after you introduce yourself?"
Four men and three women, all garbed in dun and possessing the weapons of war common to soldiers, enter the tavern and take a seat at a large table in the west corner.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:
"I think I just very, ah, loudly...insulted the Oash Lord."
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth grits his teeth together, his nostrils flaring.
The ancient, brutally-scarred man sends you a telepathic message:
"Well, apparently it's a rather common thing to do in the south, insulting one another and showing disrespect. I imagine it will be fine."
The chubby, brown-haired man has arrived from the south.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman has arrived from the south.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Yeah. He gave me an odd look when I sat down at the bar with you."
The freckled, light-skinned man simply stares at the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, your eclipse emblazoned flagon in hand.
You are carrying:
an empty eclipse emblazoned flagon
a half eaten few thick slices of roasted squash
After a long moment, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"And yourself?"
The chubby, brown-haired man steps inside, looking about.
You hold your eclipse emblazoned flagon.
Hands in her pockets, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman moves in the door to stand beside the chubby, brown-haired man.
You suffer from use of the Way.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man turns a little on his stool, eyeing the effeminate, fair-skinned youth casually.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman flicks a faint smile at the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman looks down at the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
Shrugging his shoulders, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"I was watching you. You were the one taking offense to it. Nice cloak, by the way--very good quality."
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:
"Oh, good."
The ancient, brutally-scarred man sends you a telepathic message:
"Though try to keep it civil, no sense in bringing ourselves down to their level."
You suffer from use of the Way.
Gesturing to you, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"By your cloak, and uncivilized tongue, I suppose I am to assume you are what passes for a noble north of the
Outpost."
The sinewy, weather-worn man has arrived from the north.
Moving into the tavern, the chubby, brown-haired man asks the tall, whiskey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"So, seems everyone is quite clear on the laws here, hmm?"
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:
"Well, he acted as though I was supposed to be impressed he was a noble."
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:
"I made it clear that I wasn't."
You dissolve the psychic link.
The ancient, brutally-scarred man sends you a telepathic message:
"*amusement*"
The sinewy, weather-worn man puts his dusty leather-strapped green glow-crystal into his supple grey leather swordbelt.
Leaning over, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man whispers to you, in sirihish:
"We're uncivilized, Dryk. I think we've been insulted."
Nodding easily, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I'm fairly sure everyone is, yes."
You are carrying:
a half eaten few thick slices of roasted squash
Moving towards a long, carved wooden bar, the chubby, brown-haired man says to the tall, whiskey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"Everyone treated equally, hmm? Good...going to be a good Festival."
The chubby, brown-haired man sits at a long, carved wooden bar.
With a wry smile, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"Spot-on. Sometimes I pass for a Southern Noble. I certainly did at the Masquerade Ball."
To the chubby, brown-haired man and the tall, whiskey-eyed woman, cheerfully, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man exclaims, in sirihish:
"Agents! Good to see you both!"
Gesturing grandly, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"That's the idea. Everyone on equal ground."
As an aside, you whisper to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man in sirihish:
"Oh, I would think nothing of it, they do this all the -time- in Allanak."
Glancing aside, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth says to the veteran mercenary, in southern-accented sirihish:
"You see? As I've said - many times before - an alliance -cannot-teach their kind civility. Their barbarism is too far ingrained, I suppose."
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman pauses on her way to the bar.
Thoughtfully, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man says to the tall, whiskey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"Well, except us in the Fist. We still gotta salute the Sarge."
The chubby, brown-haired man turns in his seat to look towards you and the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man glances up, noticing the sinewy, weather-worn man's presence suddenly, and thumps his fist to his gurth-shell round shield.
Her eyes narrowing, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Yeah. Remind me to tell you something funny the Lieutenant said earlier."
At your table, the cinnamon, lithe young woman says in southern-accented sirihish, pouting:
"I like funny things"
Glancing aside to him, you say to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, in sirihish:
"We're allies now. Allanak says so."
The dusky black dwarf has arrived from the south.
The dusky black dwarf makes his way to a long, carved wooden bar.
The dusky black dwarf sits at a long, carved wooden bar.
At your table, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man says in sirihish, clearing his throat and fidgeting nervously:
"Well, maybe it is, maybe it ain't. It don't rightly matter which...we're all here in Luir's Outpost, having a good time, at a big party. Right?"
Glancing toward the scrawny-looking unibrowed man with a smirk, the sinewy, weather-worn man says, in sirihish:
"Well, we're not all equal. Ya still get ta beat folks around if they fuck up. Space in the jail is at a premium."
Grinning, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the sinewy, weather-worn man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I can think of one or two I actually... dream about you beating around."
Reaching reflexively up to his spiky stone morning-star and nodding, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man asks the sinewy,
weather-worn man, in sirihish:
"Premium..that means they need to pay extra if we take them there, right?"
Nodding deeply, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says to you, in sirihish:
"It must be, if they say so, Dryk."
Watching you and the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, the chubby, brown-haired man says to the tall, whiskey-eyed woman, in
sirihish:
"You know...we should set up a rule for disputes...like a drinking contest."
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man looks at you.
You are carrying:
a half eaten few thick slices of roasted squash
Turning to him with a bright smile, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in tribal-accented
sirihish:
"That is an -excellent idea, Agent."
Snapping a quick wink, the sinewy, weather-worn man says to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, in sirihish:
"Exactly."
Brusquely, you say to the chubby, brown-haired man, in sirihish:
"Certainly."
The cinnamon, lithe young woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Wouldn't be fair"
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Make them each down three shots of firebreather."
Pushing up from a long, carved wooden bar, setting a plate of squash down, you stand up from a long, carved wooden bar.
Gesturing expansively, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Then put them in the ginka-sauce pit."
You eat part of your half eaten few thick slices of roasted squash.
You eat your small portion of a few thick slices of roasted squash.
You stop using your eclipse emblazoned flagon.
Offering eagerly, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man asks the tall, whiskey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"Do I get to take a piece of armor from the first one who passes out?"
After a laugh, the chubby, brown-haired man says, in sirihish:
"That would be ideal."
Setting it on a long, carved wooden bar, you discard your eclipse emblazoned flagon.
Drawing in a deep breath through his nostrils, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth asks you, in southern-accented
sirihish:
"Tell me... what is your name?"
The chubby, brown-haired man says, in sirihish:
"And they have to wear the kank suits."
Aside, toward a nearby patron, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man says, in sirihish:
"For experimenting, of course."
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman laughs.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"We can take bets on the side."
Blinking a few times, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says to you, in sirihish:
"Apologies. Should I have annouced you? I'm not used to not being a barbarian."
Simply, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"I'll tell you after you decide whether or not to take House Kurac up on their offer."
The bald, prism-scarred elf has arrived from the north, his steps moving fluidly through the crowds, though he bares two kegs held in a rope meshwork over his back.
The freckled, light-skinned man stands a few cords from a long, carved wooden bar, gaze resting firmly on the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
You begin watching the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
The dusky black dwarf looks up at the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
The sinewy, weather-worn man glances toward the scrawny-looking unibrowed man with a shrug of his shoulders.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man speaks, his tone cheerful.
The bald, prism-scarred elf hides a wide yawn with the back of one thin fingered hand.
Quirking a smile at him, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, in tribal-accented
sirihish:
"We'll let it slide, this time."
Leaning sternly over his shoulder, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, in
tribal-accented sirihish:
"You're a Kuraci."
At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, sighing.
Stopping for a moment as he nears a long, carved wooden bar, nostrils flaring, the bald, prism-scarred elf asks, in
sirihish:
"What in the name of holy Kurac is that horrible smell?"
At a long, carved wooden bar, the chubby, brown-haired man speaks, to the cinnamon, lithe young woman with a wink.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, frowning.
Pouting, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man says to the tall, whiskey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"I was starting to really like the sound of barbarian."
The cinnamon, lithe young woman looks up at the bald, prism-scarred elf.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Barbarian Skarp. Has a sort of ring to it, sure."
The chubby, brown-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm appreciating the patience, Chosen Lord."
With a grunt, the bald, prism-scarred elf eases the meshwork of rope from his back, setting the kegs down near a stool at
a long, carved wooden bar.
The bald, prism-scarred elf sits at a long, carved wooden bar.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You contact the chubby, brown-haired man with the Way.
Lips pursing, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Your -name-?"
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:
"I'd never cause violence here, I know the laws. But provoking and instigating Southerners?"
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:
"...this is why I came here. And the spice and drinks. Hope you don't mind."
You dissolve the psychic link.
The dusky black dwarf leans back against a long, carved wooden bar with a slight smirk.
Calling loudly over the crowd and thumping his gurth-shell round shield between each word, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man shouts, in sirihish:
"I am Barbarian Skarp of Kurac! All hail...uh..all hail erm..all hale the spice ale!"
The veteran mercenary shifts somewhat uncomfortably on his feet, looking between the effeminate, fair-skinned youth and
you.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man opens a jozhal-hide backpack.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man gets his pile of allanaki coins from his jozhal-hide backpack.
The darkly tanned innkeeper trades an eclipse emblazoned flagon to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
Waving over at him, the cinnamon, lithe young woman asks the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, in southern-accented
sirihish:
"Hey Barbarian, can you buy me one of them spice ales?"
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Good, buy me a drink."
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man puts his pile of allanaki coins into his jozhal-hide backpack.
The chubby, brown-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
"This one is easy to provoke too..."
The cinnamon, lithe young woman says to the tall, whiskey-eyed woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I said it first."
At a long, carved wooden bar, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man speaks, to the cinnamon, lithe young woman, snorting.
Sharply, the sinewy, weather-worn man says to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, in sirihish:
"Barbarian -Sparky-. Get it right."
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman winks at the cinnamon, lithe young woman.
Nodding over at the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, the bald, prism-scarred elf exclaims, in sirihish:
"Another here, Valiant Barbarian Sparky!"
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman laughs quietly at the cinnamon, lithe young woman and the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man speaks, to the chubby, brown-haired man, grimacing.
Eyeing him, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"It was a conditional challenge, Lord Oash. You can choose to deny it, and then I'll tell you my name...or accept it, and I will tell you my name."
The chubby, brown-haired man chuckles, reaching into his cloak.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, to herself.
The chubby, brown-haired man gives some coins to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
The sinewy, weather-worn man cracks a small grin toward the scrawny-looking unibrowed man as he moves up to a stool at a
long, carved wooden bar.
The sinewy, weather-worn man sits at a long, carved wooden bar.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf speaks, with a snort.
You are carrying:
nothing.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man nods to the bald, prism-scarred elf.
eq
You are using:a black-scaled leather surmac a black-scaled leather gorget a sky-red leather and tortoiseshell shield a black-scaled leather longvest a pair of black-scaled leather sleeves a leather and chitin strap-sheath a black-scaled leather vambrace a pair of spiked duskhorn gauntlets a ruby and moonstone inlaid, silver signet ring a glossy, black leather swordbelt a narrow-hilted, jaded khopesh blade a silver-etched, stone-spiked mace a crimson-sigiled, grey silk greatcloak a grey, black, and crimson silk sash a pair of black-scaled leather leggings a pair of black-scaled leather boots
You think:
"This one...is fun."
You aren't in contact with anyone.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You contact the chubby, brown-haired man with the Way.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man speaks, to the bald, prism-scarred elf.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:
"Two small if you give me his name, Agent."
At a long, carved wooden bar, the dusky black dwarf speaks, nodding once.
The cinnamon, lithe young woman lifts a brow at the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the sinewy, weather-worn man speaks, glancing toward the bald, prism-scarred elf with a smirk.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf speaks, with a bright laugh, nodding at the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a glass flagon to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
The chubby, brown-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
"Ha...krath...Lord Sadaris...Sedaris..."
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:
"Plus what you know of Oash. I don't really claim to know much of them."
The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a glass flagon to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man gives his glass flagon to the tall, whiskey-eyed woman.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man gives his glass flagon to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a glass flagon to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a glass flagon to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
The chubby, brown-haired man frowns towards the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:
"I saw they have a gemmer with them."
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man gives his glass flagon to the cinnamon, lithe young woman.
Flatly, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I don't make a habit of drinking the alcohol of the commonfilth."
The cinnamon, lithe young woman smiles ruefully.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the sinewy, weather-worn man speaks, bowing his head to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
You suffer from use of the Way.
The chubby, brown-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
"Sedaris, it is."
You suffer from use of the Way.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, lifting both brows.
The coal-black haired half-giant has entered the world.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:
"Ah. What does Oash do?"
Tilting his head back, the sinewy, weather-worn man drinks ale from his glass flagon.
With a bright laugh, the bald, prism-scarred elf exclaims, in sirihish:
"S'alright, Oash! You jus keep drinkin your kank piss, leave the good stuff for us!"
The cinnamon, lithe young woman sips from her glass flagon.
The coal-black haired half-giant sits down to rest.
The chubby, brown-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
"Wines, I think."
You suffer from use of the Way.
Glancing over quickly, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth looks up at the bald, prism-scarred elf.
The coal-black haired half-giant looks down at the bald, prism-scarred elf.
Nodding casually, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"I'll take that as a "no," then, unless you brought some wines."
The ancient, wispy-bearded man has arrived from the north, hobbling along.
Beckoning up and down the bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf asks, in sirihish:
"Got a keg of firebreatha here for sale. Best price in the sands, best liquor under the sun. Beat's the piss outta Oash swill. Any takers?"
Fists clenching, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth asks the bald, prism-scarred elf, in southern-accented sirihish:
"-What- did you say to be, filth?"
The chubby, brown-haired man stands up from a long, carved wooden bar.
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
You suffer from use of the Way.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman moves from her stance by the door.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:
"Ah."
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man gives some coins to the chubby, brown-haired man.
The chubby, brown-haired man approaches the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, smiling.
The bald, prism-scarred elf opens a burned darkly stained wooden tinderbox.
Lifting an eyebrow curiously, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"Well. Chosen Lord Thrend Lyksae. Pleasure to meet you, Lord Sedaris Oash."
At a long, carved wooden bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf speaks, glancing over at the dusky black dwarf.
You suffer from use of the Way.
The bald, prism-scarred elf puts his skinny baobab twig into his burned darkly stained wooden tinderbox.
Moving ridiculously slow, the ancient, wispy-bearded man shuffles through the crowd, easing onto a barstool.
The bald, prism-scarred elf closes a burned darkly stained wooden tinderbox.
The ancient, wispy-bearded man sits at a long, carved wooden bar.
You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:
"My thanks. I can give the sid to you in, well, sid form, or buy something. Whatever you prefer."
At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, glancing at the bald, prism-scarred elf.
The small, serpentine young woman has arrived from the north.
The small, serpentine young woman walks south.
You dissolve the psychic link.
Gesturing to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, the chubby, brown-haired man asks the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"Lord Oash, did you need some more spice?"
At a long, carved wooden bar, the dusky black dwarf speaks, to the bald, prism-scarred elf.
Curtly, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I have plenty."
Four men and three women, all garbed in dun and possessing the weapons of war common to soldiers, enter the tavern and take a seat at a large table in the west corner.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf speaks, with a low grunt.
The slender, raven-haired woman has arrived from the south.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm ready, just in case, Fak'ir."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You contact the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man with the Way.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman moves over towards the bar.
A thin trail of rich, mossy smelling smoke trickles from the ancient, wispy-bearded man's mouth as he smokes a limp rolled tube of spice.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"Ktakr, no. We have no reason to be worrying about things. Kurac has this place handled..."
The cinnamon, lithe young woman sips from her glass flagon.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"...and Lord or not, Chosen or not..."
The ancient, wispy-bearded man flicks the remnants of his spice aside.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"...they are indiscriminate against those that break laws."
Four men and three women, all garbed in dun and possessing the weapons of war common to soldiers, enter the tavern and take a seat at a large table in the west corner.
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"...I'd like to think a bit less indiscriminate towards me."
Stepping over and pulling out a vacant stool, the slender, raven-haired woman sits at a long, carved wooden bar.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"But that's wishful thinking, and I haven't lived this long hoping for the best."
Nodding, the chubby, brown-haired man asks the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"Good...good...you do understand the laws here, Lord Oash?"
At a long, carved wooden bar, the sinewy, weather-worn man speaks, looking toward the cinnamon, lithe young woman with a smirk.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"So, ka. It will be as you will, Fak'ir."
The chubby, brown-haired man nods to the tall, whiskey-eyed woman.
You suffer from use of the Way.
The bald, prism-scarred elf glances over at the cinnamon, lithe young woman, and thumps a foot against his tall, narrow wooden keg.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, with a slow nod.
The sinewy, weather-worn man gets his pile of allanaki coins from his supple grey leather swordbelt.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man drinks ale from his glass flagon.
Sliding onto a stool near the bald, prism-scarred elf, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman sits at a long, carved wooden bar.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth narrows his eyes towards the chubby, brown-haired man, reaching for his cloak.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the sinewy, weather-worn man speaks, holding a hand up to the cinnamon, lithe young woman.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth gets his glass serpent spice pipe from his azure-sigiled, black silk greatcloak.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth holds his glass serpent spice pipe.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth leans over, lighting his glass serpent spice pipe on a candle.
The bald, prism-scarred elf flashes a sidelong grin at the tall, whiskey-eyed woman.
A thin trail of rich, heady smoke trickles from the effeminate, fair-skinned youth's mouth as he smokes a glass serpent
spice pipe.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth's eyes become glassy-red and half-closed.
After a brief pause, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"Well. Good talking at you, Lord Oash. Hope to do this again sometime soon."
At a long, carved wooden bar, the sinewy, weather-worn man speaks, waving a hand toward the darkly tanned innkeeper.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth puffs on his glass serpent spice pipe a few times, leaning back in his chair with a somewhat milder expression.
The freckled, light-skinned man turns back to a long, carved wooden bar, plopping down on a stool.
There is no space at a long, carved wooden bar.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman speaks, her features amiable and her tone mild, but her eyes
sharp and cold.
At 1) a long, carved wooden bar are:
the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, the ancient, wispy-bearded man,
the cinnamon, lithe young woman, the bald, prism-scarred elf,
the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, the dusky black dwarf,
the sinewy, weather-worn man, the slender, raven-haired woman,
and the tall, whiskey-eyed woman.
At 2) a small table near the stairs are:
a couple of empty seats.
At 3) a heavy, blockish table in the middle of the room are:
the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, and a few empty seats.
At 4) a rounded agafari table are:
a few empty seats.
At 5) a rounded agafari table are:
a few empty seats.
The freckled, light-skinned man leans against a long, carved wooden bar at one side of the shaggy-haired, sun-branded
man.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth stands up from a heavy, blockish table in the middle of the room.
The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a grey wooden cup to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a grey wooden cup to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf speaks, his tone matching, eyes dancing with delight.
The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a shot glass to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
Gesturing for him, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth says to the ancient, wispy-bearded man, in southern-accented
sirihish:
"Come, Magus."
The chubby, brown-haired man smiles to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, bowing.
His gaze coming across him as the effeminate, fair-skinned youth indicates him, you look down at the ancient,
wispy-bearded man.
Almost every hair on this elderly man's mainly bald head and face are
of a bleak, grayish white color, being a bright white at the tips and
darkening as they get closer to his head. His chin is adorned with a thin,
wispy beard that stretches down an arms length or so, and his eyes are
nearly completely covered with a set of extremely bushy gray-white eyebrows.
His face is worn and leathery, wrinkles adorning almost every inch of his
flesh, and he is quite thin, almost emaciated. His weathered, lean
appearance hints at hardships, though his eyes are nearly completely closed
when he smiles under the tangle of hair over his mouth. When his reasonably
straight, slightly stained teeth are covered by his lips in a more solemn
expression, his eyes are exposed, the pupils a cloudy, beryl hue. His gaunt
frame is almost always hunched over in a posture fitting of his age, causing
his thin, wispy beard to hang a little lower than it would usually, making
it seem longer than it is.
The ancient, wispy-bearded man is in excellent condition.
The ancient, wispy-bearded man is using:a wide-brimmed black hat a dull black gem a large azure leather backpack an old, gnarled wooden staff a hooded, black and azure aba a pair of studded, black leather pants a black onyx, skull-linked anklechain a pair of dragon-emblazoned, black knee-high boots
He is carrying:
nothing obvious
His chair creaking as he gets to his feet, the ancient, wispy-bearded man stands up from a long, carved wooden bar.
The chubby, brown-haired man has departed from the land of Zalanthas.
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
Setting it on the bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman discards her glass flagon.
The freckled, light-skinned man stiffens again, a hand snaking to your glossy, black leather swordbelt quickly--but
stopping there, clenched tightly into a fist.
Sliding it down the bar, the sinewy, weather-worn man gives his grey wooden cup to the cinnamon, lithe young woman.
The sinewy, weather-worn man gives his shot glass to the cinnamon, lithe young woman.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman speaks, easily.
The ancient, wispy-bearded man fires you a narrowed glance.
The cinnamon, lithe young woman smiles brightly at the sinewy, weather-worn man.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the sinewy, weather-worn man speaks, smiling amiably to the cinnamon, lithe young woman.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf speaks, his eyes dancing as he turns to regard the tall,
whiskey-eyed woman with amusement.
Glancing over, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"You're alright, Chosen Lord?"
The coal-black haired half-giant rises from the ground, and clambers to his feet.
You suffer from use of the Way.
The cinnamon, lithe young woman drinks firebreather from her shot glass.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf speaks, holding up a hand briefly.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man speaks, to the bald, prism-scarred elf.
The coal-black haired half-giant has departed from the land of Zalanthas.
The cinnamon, lithe young woman's eyes budge out after she downs the shot and coughs a little.
The ancient, wispy-bearded man shuffles through the crowded tavern, reaching the effeminate, fair-skinned youth's side.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman nods amiably to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, between coughs.
You suffer from use of the Way.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man speaks, with a glance at the cinnamon, lithe young woman.
Not taking his eyes off of the ancient, wispy-bearded man, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"Oh, fine. I tend to think before acting or speaking out of turn, Lord Oash."
The bald, prism-scarred elf looks up at the ancient, wispy-bearded man.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man drinks spice ale from his eclipse emblazoned flagon.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, shaking her head at the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
The bald, prism-scarred elf's expression quickly sours.
You think:
"Out of turn with these LAWS. Fucking abomination."
At a long, carved wooden bar, the sinewy, weather-worn man speaks, pushing off his stool.
The sinewy, weather-worn man stands up from a long, carved wooden bar.
The cinnamon, lithe young woman waves to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
The ancient, wispy-bearded man glances over at the effeminate, fair-skinned youth momentarily, nodding.
You suffer from use of the Way.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth looks from the ancient, wispy-bearded man, to you, smiling.
Waving his glass flagon up, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man exclaims to the sinewy, weather-worn man, in sirihish:
"Yessir!"
At a long, carved wooden bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf speaks, growling a bit, eyes on the ancient, wispy-bearded man.
The sinewy, weather-worn man pauses by the bald, prism-scarred elf as he moves away from the bar.
The braid-tressed young woman has arrived from the north.
The squat, full-figured woman has arrived from the north.
The ancient, wispy-bearded man lifts his hand in farewell to you.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Shadows on the sand leave tracks northwards, when they're vulnerable."
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman looks up at the ancient, wispy-bearded man.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man speaks, nodding to the bald, prism-scarred elf.
The squat, full-figured woman wanders out beside the braid-tressed young woman peering about through the large crowd.
Placing one hand on his shoulder, the sinewy, weather-worn man whispers something to the bald, prism-scarred elf.
The bald, prism-scarred elf continues to glower, his foot rubbing idly against a keg near his stool.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, mournfully.
The braid-tressed young woman hums to herself as she steps through the room, then pauses near the northern end of a long,
carved wooden bar to look out over the crowd.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman flicks a grin at the cinnamon, lithe young woman.
You are carrying:
nothing.
His voice a low growl, the bald, prism-scarred elf whispers something to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You are already in contact with someone else.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man puts his glass flagon onto a long, carved wooden bar.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man puts his eclipse emblazoned flagon onto a long, carved wooden bar.
You dissolve the psychic link.
With a satisfied nod, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth turns for the door.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth walks south.
To the south: the effeminate, fair-skinned youth has arrived from the north.
The ancient, wispy-bearded man walks south.
The veteran mercenary walks south.
The veteran mercenary walks south.
************************************
We join the story at Luirsfest. A northern noble encounters a southern noble for the first time.
************************************
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
Glancing up from a long, carved wooden bar, you look up at the effeminate, fair-skinned...
Continue Reading...Krathi Outcast by Bebop
Added on Jun 29, 2009Kind of whimsical depiction of a rouge krathi magicker unhappy with Tuluk's persecution of magickers. Influenced by tarot card art style.
Runner Woman by Bebop
Added on Jun 29, 2009Portrait of a woman in the Byn.
The Verrin and Kylori by Iocque
Added on Jun 29, 2009An ancient tale is passed on.
This is told from a third-person perspective, with none of the characters' internal workings.
--------Glancing over to him and regarding him thoughtfully, you ask the tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster, in allundean:
"So, do you know any stories?"A coarse chuckle resonates in the tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster's throat, and he dips his angular chin in a pair of swift nods.
Sounding interested, you ask the tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster, in allundean:
"Aye? Tell. Helps pass time, eh?"With a lift of one blunted claw, the tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster says, in allundean:
"Ah'll tell yah th'story of th'verrin an' zhe kylori."Dropping a nod as he tucks a leg underneath him, you say to the tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster, in allundean:
"Alright."Curling one leg and resting his dusty leaf-carved bone shortsword across his knee, the tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster says, in allundean:
"Long time ago, when Verrin an' Kylori didn' look like zhey do now, zhey were one tribe, all of zhe Lap."
The tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster's hoarse words are only slightly obstructed by the multitude of thorned piercings that impale his lips and tongue.
With a slow gesture of one hooked claw, the tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster says to you, in allundean:
"One day, 's Kylori's turn to go hunting, but he had nowhere to leave his baby."The male wearing a dusty thin, white-sandcloth facewrap watches the tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster with interest, his head tilted slightly as he listens.
Continuing in a coarse, drawling rasp, the tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster says, in allundean:
"So he went tah Verrin, but Verrin did nah want t'look after zhe baby."
In a squawking, coarse mimickry, his expression contorted, the tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster exclaims, in allundean:
"Nah, nah! Zhe baby cries too much! Crying will disturb th'camp! I cannah look aftah it!"
The late, red sun descends toward the western horizon.The male wearing a dusty thin, white-sandcloth facewrap's lips quirks into a grin at the tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster's imitation, a hand reaching up to flick back an errant braid idly.
His hoarse rasp lowering into a sharper, resonating impression, the tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster says, in
allundean:
"Th'Kylori said, 'It's a'right! Jus' sit zhere in zhe corner an' sing, an' my baby will be quiet. Just talk to him and it will be right, baby will be quiet.'"
His head canting aside as he continues the tale in his normal, dry tone, the tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster says, in allundean:
"When Kylori said also that he an' his huntahs would bring back zhe meats they took to share, Verrin said he would watch zhe child."
With a sharp lift of two blunted claws, the tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster says, in allundean:
"An' so, Kylori left baby wit' Verrin an' ran far, far from zhe camp across th'Lap to hunt. A'course, baby was crying. Verrin sat in zhe corner with child an' talked an' sang, but baby still screamed."With a hint of a grin, you say to the tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster, in allundean:
"Poor Verrin."
Swiping his gloved hand through the air, the tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster says to you, in allundean:
"Verrin got sick of crying! So, he went and got his big-stick an' hit th'baby's head with his war-club. Kylori's baby got real quiet, an' Verrin sat in the tent-flap, singing to zhe dead baby an'..."
Continuing in a dry tone, the tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster says, in allundean:
"Singing to zhe dead baby an' pretending."With a blink, you ask the tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster, in allundean:
"He.. wait, what?"
Gesturing grandly with his blunted claws, the tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster says, in allundean:
"Verrin got clevah. He took a durrit-skin cloak, an' many leaves, and covered Kylori's baby, like it was sleeping nice an' quiet."
Momentarily reverting to his normal, sharper tone, the tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster says to you, in allundean:
"Shuddup, Zhorn, an' lemme finish."The male wearing a dusty thin, white-sandcloth facewrap clears his throat, giving the tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster a nod as he listens on.
A slow nod tips the tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster's chin as he studies you patiently, both scar-edged eyes slitted.
Levelling a single hooked claw, along with an even look, the tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster says to you, in allundean:
"Kylori came back from his hunt, all zhe huntahs heavy wit' meat an' hide for zhe big Lap-tribe. A'course he wanted tah see his baby, so he came tah Verrin, who was doin' what..."
The tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster says, in allundean:
"Who was doin' what Verrin does."
Partially concealing both eyes with two outstretched fingers, the tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster says, in allundean:
"Verrin got more clevah, still! Kylori asked for baby, but Verrin said..."
The giant crimson sun sets low in the west.
Rising into the harsh, sharp parody of an aquiline impression, the tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster says, in allundean:
"Nah, nah! Baby is sleeping! Don' need tah wake baby, I've been singin' like yah told me! Don' wake him."Shaking his head slowly, the tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster says, in allundean:
"But Kylori did nah hear't. He said nah, he'll take zhe baby home wheah 't can sleep nice an' quiet. So, Kylori went into zhe tent for baby."
Hunching further into a stooped, bent-armed seat, the tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster says, in allundean:
"But somezhing wasn' right. Baby was nevah that still, everyzhing was too still. Kylori picked up baby just as Verrin ran from zhe camp wit' all zhe speed legs could take from Akei'ta."
The wind slows down a little.His hoarse rasp resonating in his chest as he continues his tale, the tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster says, in allundean:
"Verrin ran far out into zhe thorns, an' Kylori ran through zhe camp yelling 'Ai! Ai! Baby! Verrin killed m'baby!' All his huntahs came, an' zhey ran far out into zhe thorns."The male wearing a dusty thin, white-sandcloth facewrap opens his mouth as though to say something and then shuts it wisely, giving the tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster a nod instead.
Canting his head aside as he affixed you with a single, squinted eye, the tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster says, in allundean:
"Zhey set a light to th'thorns, an' sat, waiting for the smoke to go away. After not long, something flew from zhe thorns in a black arrah."
With a lift of two hooked claws, the tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster says to you, in allundean:
"Kylori said, 'Verrin's spirit is a bird, now, as punishment!'"
With a final sweep of his gloved hand, the tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster says, in allundean:
"Kylori an' his huntahs still wait for Verrin, an' Verrin still pecks at Kylori-child's babies an' eyes when they get zhe chance. Th'fight continues on to zhis very day."---------
This is told from a third-person perspective, with none of the characters' internal workings.
--------Glancing over to him and regarding him thoughtfully, you ask the tall figure in a dusty desert-camouflaged sandcloth duster, in allundean:
"So, do you know any stories?"A coarse...
Continue Reading...The Challenges Leaders Face by Cutthroat
Added on Jun 29, 2009A handy guide for players of leaders and aspiring leaders. Read it if you've had problems with leadership.
Credits:
Special thanks goes to Taven for doing articles like this and for inspiring me to take a crack at it myself, and Helix and Fathi for contributing to that particular part which I am loosely basing this article on. Synthesis, Lizzie, and Reiloth made suggestions that helped me make this article.
The Challenges Leaders Face
A Handy Guide for Players of Leaders and Aspiring Leaders
Cutthroat, why are you writing this?
I didn't play as long as many people around here have, but I've been around long enough to see all kinds of leaders in game, the good and bad ones, and have experienced leading myself a few times. I'd like to think that I have seen what makes a leader good or bad in an OOC manner for a while now and have seen what leaders have to deal or struggle with.
There also isn't an article like this yet, and I think it's important to have something that consolidates all of the thoughts scattered over the GDB into one thread.
Lastly, I think the ideas of special articles are cool and beneficial because of the ideas they have and discussions they spark afterward.
Introduction
This article is based loosely off of Taven's article, "How to get Involved in Plots", particularly the "Invovling Yourself in Your Clan" part, and the "Leaders" section. However, this article will go more in-depth, exploring what playing a leader in ArmageddonMUD is like, not just when dealing with plots, but all the time in clans.
This article goes more into the challenges created by the OOC expectations of what playing a leader is about - that is, enhancing RP in your clan and area, running plots, etc. - not the IC expectations of a leader, which can be very different, and varies between each character. You can play a totally inept leader ICly, who makes mistakes and errors in judgment, as long as it brings something to the game. Bringing something to the game is that OOC expectation.
It is the best played leaders that everyone remembers, even if they were not perfect characters. I could be a nostalgic sap and begin listing folks, but you probably have a good idea of who YOUR favorite leaders are if you've been playing a few months and in different places. Just look around.
Now, for some problems the players of leaders face.
I have no idea what I'm doing here.
Sometimes leaders are thrown into the place they currently are. Maybe his Sergeant died on the last contract and he was the veteran Trooper who tried to save her life. The totally unexpected turn of events can put a character (and sometimes its player) in a bad spot.
Trying out leadership can be a good experience, if you're willing to make it so. Even if you have no idea what you're doing at first, it's easy to develop a love and a skill for leading. It certainly helps to lead in game if you've ever led something in life. Naturally, some people will be better leaders than others, or more willing to take charge than others.
You can have no idea what you're doing and just give up on trying, or you can do your best and see what comes of it. What do you think will be most fun for you? For others?
I don't have any (or enough) minions.
A difficult part of leadership is recruiting. However, it is also something of a snowball effect. Once you recruit a few cool people, others will want to join. Getting those first people can be tough. Most leaders will recruit ICly by posting on their city's board, then remain contactable. This requires some logging in and sometimes even tavern-sitting. For clans that don't recruit ICly (like tribes) bumping a post on the Player Announcements forum is a good way to go. Remember that OOC recruitment on the GDB for clans that do recruiting ICly is just a quick way to Moderation.
Underrecruiting is bad because, obviously, you won't get your team of minions. Also, the few minions you have will likely be bored a lot of the time. A medium-sized group of minions ensures that people will get to interact with each other in different ways.
Stop recruiting when you have a crack team of minions to do your bidding. Overrecruitment is as bad as underrecruitment, because if you overrecruit for your clan you will be strangling other clans to death. Another effect of overrecruiting is that they will all keep you busy unless you have an underling boss to take care of them. A good mix of clanned folks in an area is a lot better than one clan dominating that area (well, except for Luir's Outpost). Think about if you really need a person, or if they would be a waste of resources.
Encourage the minions you recruit to spend time in taverns together and take part in the recruitment process if they're competent enough. When an independent guy looking for employment sees 8 PCs at the Gaj, and 6 are from the T'zai Byn, while the other two are AoD, when there are 10 people in both clans, the T'zai Byn is going to look a lot more full and active than the AoD, especially if this distribution in the Gaj is consistent. Players of unemployed characters are generally attracted to active clans because it ensures a good place to play.
And make sure your recruiting makes sense! There are clans who accept any person with 300 coins, and there are the noble houses that are generally a lot more selective. Your character may have a specific philosophy on picking out some people. Generally, stick to what makes sense.
Lastly, hiring on independent mercenary-types is a good way to get loyal people to work for you as well as keep them free for others to use. Your minions don't necessarily have to be clanned. A good example of this is a Tuluki patronage, but hiring able people to complete tasks is possible anywhere and everywhere.
I have trouble finding things for my minions to do.
Every clan has a specific set of activities everyone can do. Sparring, hunting, guarding, patrolling, etc. Do them, and do them often. Keep everyone involved in work. Spam 'contact' on everyone you're clanned with and get them together so everyone can have fun. Set up schedules that will bring your minions to a certain place at a certain time and reveal themselves. Then plan out RPTs once in a while to do something really special. The idea is to keep everyone involved in some long-term, solid activities, so that there is something to fall back on when things aren't particularly interesting one day.
A very easy activity if your clan allows for it is a ride outside of the city or camp. It can be a patrol, a hunting party, or whatever else makes sense for your clan, and it's easy to organize on a whim.
Another interesting concept is doing a normal clan activity with a similar, allied clan. The leaders of two clans can work together, letting their minions train with each other and such. It works out for everyone, and helps build interesting relationships.
There are some things your leader will simply not touch, perhaps to protect their reputation, or because they cannot do it, or whatever. A "Quest" for the purpose of this article is some mission or request for your minion to do something. Most quests involve collecting something, and bringing it back, whether it is a flower or a head. However, it's a waste of time if that thing doesn't go to good use. That is why the quest should tie into a larger plot. The quest will be boring for the minion if it isn't challenging, or if it seems like a suicide mission. Therefore, it should be set to a difficulty level appropriate to the minion's level of skill.
An awesome example of a quest where I was the minion, from over a year ago:
Leader tells minion to go sneak around (the difficult part)...
...and pull a lock of hair from a couple of people (the collection)...
...so that the hair might be used to curse the people (the larger plot).
Here's why it was awesome: it was difficult because I had to prepare a lot for it - not just getting better at sneak and hide, but preparing a proper ninja outfit, a safehouse to store said ninja outfit, an exit strategy after I grabbed the goods, and a way to change out of my ninja outfit into my normal gear without anyone being the wiser. The larger plot around it made the minion feel useful and good.
Also, everything fell together. Without any of those parts, the rest of the quest would have been boring and/or meaningless. You can even withhold the information about the larger plot until the minion has completed the collection.
Allowing your upper-level minions to take part in leading the lower-level minions and doing some of your tasks means more ideas will be thrown around about what can be done, and it means you can do more important things.
Lastly, leaders and minions can find it very enjoyable to surpass or stay on top of other leaders, while protecting their minions from dangerous forces. Resolving a conflict comes in many forms: bribery, politicking, and sometimes, a murder (or a murderous rampage). Make enemies, and friends to assist in destroying or subjugating your enemies.
I have minions, but the players seem bored when I give their characters things to do.
First of all, are you sure they are bored? Randomly logging out often can be a sure sign of boredom, but sometimes there's just no time to play. Feel free to ask on the clan boards for their honest opinion on if players of minions are satisfied with what they get to do.
A forced approach to clan activity is not supposed to be applied 100% of the time. For maximum fun, give your minions some leeway to do things they like to do, or things that could be fun that is not along the grain of what the clan usually does for work.
You know how some familes get together on a Friday night to play Scrabble or something (at least on TV
)?
Replace families with clans. Friday with Detal. And Scrabble with Kruth.
Or anything, really. It just has to be fun (ideas: drinking, brawling, or just sitting around and chatting about something). And preferably, not anything having to do with what you normally do as a clan already (like sparring, patrolling, etc). This develops relationships between you and your minions, and between minions and other minions. It also helps minions to build a set of hobbies, so they are not just Soldier #6969 or Mercenary #420, but "the guy who won the last Kruth game", and "th' lass who ended up spendin' th' 'ole pot from tha' game on thongs".
Look at the games that Zalathans play that are listed on the main site, or make something up if you are feeling creative. Do competitions to see who is the best boxer/Kruth player/hunter and so on and so forth.
Also, you will be doing the players of your minions a big disservice and possibly bore them if you can never be found. While it certainly helps to have a lot of time to play, not everyone does. Playing regularly is far more important than playing often. Make sure you can be found at the days and times you post on a roll call thread in your clan forum. Even if you only play two hours a day, if you play during the same two hours each day, you're doing great.
Sometimes you can be online and uncontactable. Barrier is an obvious one. What I am really talking about is doing things that will make you extremely hard for your minions to find you, either accidentally or on purpose. That said, don't worry excessively about pleasing your clan. Obviously, every person needs their private time (for sleep, mudsex, drinking, mudsex, cuddling, mudsex, smoking, etc) but don't let your private time take up all your playing time. Spend some time in public or within sight or reach of your minions so you can do leadery things.
I have minions, but I'm bored when they are not logged in.
Be a character first. Then a (noble/sergeant/templar/agent/sorcerer-king) second.
"Well, duh," you say. "How does this help with my boredom?!"
If you are good at making personal goals for your character you are doing great. Now, as a leader, you have to make sure to not forget those while you are doing leadership things. It will help a lot in ensuring your role stays fresh even when ther are no minions logged in. Have something to focus on when things are slow in your clan. Some ideas:
A lover.
A(n) <item type> collection.
A hobby of some sort.
A focus.
A personal goal.
A secret desire (training to become the best warrior ever, eat babies, etc.)
Anything else a person would want!
It is these and your character traits that will keep your minions interested in you for more than your leadership, and it will (hopefully!) keep you interested as well when they are not around.
And not just the minions will be interested in your character, if you can provide a good standard of RP for everyone to follow. If you're that Allanaki templar striking fear into the hearts of your Highlord's people, or the Tuluki noble who is the patron of bards and hirer of assassins, or the Kuraci agent making sure the people of the Labyrinth get their spice fix... you're bound to draw players to you, which means fun opportunities to roleplay for yourself and for others.
Being a leader is hard work and/or stressful, or it's generally boring.
Ah, but it doesn't have to be.
It takes a special (crazy? maybe) person to 'like' to lead a group of people, each with their own problems and needs. On top of that, you have to report in to staff about what you intend to do on a regular basis. It's just like a career in life - you can do something you enjoy doing, or you can do something you hate, yet feel obligated to do.
"But which one do I choose?"
Keep in mind that this is a game. If you hate doing something, guess what - you don't have to do it! You take a short break to do something else and see if that helps, or you coordinate with your staff and other characters and store. But it is also a good idea to give leadership a fair shake if you think you don't like it, because you just may end up liking it after a while. All too often I see people who complain about leaders and leading something themselves, either on the GDB or just in life, and I chuckle a little inside because most of the time, you are not forced to lead at all, ever. It is, however, possible to become better at leading and make leadership more enjoyable, if you desire.
If it's because of IG things or other players, then you can work to correct that IG. If it's because of staff, then you should prboably cue them in to more things you are planning, so they can help you out.Credits:
Special thanks goes to Taven for doing articles likethis and for inspiring me to take a crack at it myself, and Helix and
Fathi for contributing to that particular part which I am loosely
basing this article on. Synthesis, Lizzie, and Reiloth made suggestions
that helped me make...
Continue Reading...Father by Mechafish
Added on Jun 29, 2009A sad song about a son and his father. The father owns a inn and the son wants a better life away from the inn.
Father
By KragarFather was always peaceful. He gained the inn from his father. Never been in any fights, just worked in the inn. Now, father had me. For many years, I have worked in the inn like him. Same thing as father, I never seen or been in any fights. I just worked in the inn like father.
I was tired of this life, always working in the inn. I wanted to see the world and have a better life. When I turned that age where boys become men, I spoke to father. Father let me leave the inn, but he said if I cannot find a job come back.
Now, I am here looking for a better job. I have heard rumors but none of them are true. A few weeks have passed, and now I am ready to come back to father. What will he say to me? Father please understand that I have tried my best to get a better life.
The day before I left to come back to the inn, sad news arrived from a friend. The friend that a killer came and killed father and burned down the inn. I cried for days and thought about my life.
One day, when I was crying, I saw a lady that helped me to get better. Her name was Mel and I deeply fell in love with her. Now, Mel was another bard like me and we started to sing songs together.
Father now can you understand that I have a happier life? You should of branched out and found a better job and maybe been safe.
Father
By KragarFather was always peaceful. He gained the inn from his father. Never been in any fights, just worked in the inn. Now, father had me. For many years, I have worked in the inn like him. Same thing as father, I never seen or been in any fights. I just worked in the inn...
Continue Reading...Armageddon Logo by Taven
Added on Jun 23, 2009It started as a doodle in class, and turned into something interesting. Exact completion date unknown, done in pen and colored pencil.
Cross by Taven
Added on Jun 17, 2009A character portrait of Cross, this was not originally intended as a final work. The process is to sketch, photocopy the sketch and then color in colored pencils. Her blouse changed throughout this, and she has a slightly cartoonish style. Completed 11/4/08.
Soldier at the Gaj by Taven
Added on Jun 17, 2009While originally based off an actual character, this took on a life of it's own. One of the most common criticisms is that her cloak looks like hair, because of the curviness. Done in colored pencil, as usual and completed 4/12/08.
Private Shem by Taven
Added on Jun 17, 2009A rendering of one Private Shem of the Allanki militia, exact date of sketch completion unknown. It's possible there might be a colored version later.
Ella & Honey by J
Added on Jun 17, 2009Allanak Mages
The Warriors of Faith: Part IV: "To Be Born into Greatness" by Ghost
Added on Apr 27, 2009The armies clash over and over in the desert as two templars try to beat the other. Meanwhile, chaos and troubles brew in the Allanak.
CHAPTER 14
Dzeda, the 42nd day of the Ascending Sun, year 19 of the 21st Age, King's
It has been 53 days since the beginning of the campaign. The storm that raged throughout the evening started to calm at
It has been 53 days, as I noted, and the campaign has been going stale as of late. I have chased Sulach through the wastes of Abi li Pah into the depths of the gith lands. The armies clashed four times in total, save for the minor skirmishes of smaller groups when they crossed paths or Sulach's night raids when I was unconscious of the injuries I received in the first battle. Though, the chase started again as soon as I was able to walk.
As soon as I recovered from the wounds in the first battle, I chased Sulach through the land of crumbling roads and broken grounds, all the while closing his escape to south. On the morning of the third day we were hailed by a rain of arrows and spears from Sulach's hidden archers. We responded with a charge that set them on the run for half a league and there I saw the rest of his force. They were taunting us to continue with the blind charge to reach them for a front battle. This was a trap. I ordered my soldiers to stop and search for pit falls and Sulach started to retreat immediately. In a manner of half an hour, my scouts found the traps ahead of us. We moved through the snaking path to catch Sulach's force and we only managed to catch his final column, fifty men and women. They stood their ground as we butchered them, and the rest of Sulach's soldiers retreated. Such a display of loyalty, yet it is wasted with the barbarians of Allanak.
We marched for a day but we lost sight of Sulach by then. I cut the resting times to catch up with the enemy in the second day. We rationed on the march and kept moving even after the dark. We caught the enemy off guard by the fourth day at
We kept following his tail the very same afternoon. He was cutting his way in a speed that showed how much he was familiar with the land. If we have the higher numbers and the abundant supplies, he has the knowledge of the terrain and veteran warriors that are result of his previous campaigns couple years ago. He had been here, he fought here on the very same ground against another enemy just two years ago. But I would not let that take the upper hand from me.
We caught sight of them in two more days at the skirts of a series of hills, a splash of black over the sea of yellow. I gave the order to close in immediately, before Sulach could move out of reach again. I realized too late that Sulach made no intent to move to the top of the hills, the higher ground as it would provide a strategically better position. Then I saw it that they were not Allanakki force at all, we were charging into a pile of rocks and straw, deceptively positioned to imitate a waiting army. I called the stop and to reposition, but it was too late. Sulach sprinted from the back of the hill in an instant. They descended upon us in a fury that carried the revenge for days of running. They smashed from our flank and we lost many good soldiers in the initial onslaught. I saw my soldiers buckle and shatter with the sudden force of Sulach's army. If they could break our flank, the rest of the army would be hit from their flank s as well before they could take position, and they would fall one by one. For the first time, I felt we were on the verge of defeat.
Yet my soldiers stood. These were the same battalion that lost their banners in Sulach's raids, they knew too well what happens to runners. They responded with an anger and pushed the enemy back. I saw my opportunity to move the rest of the army to face Sulach's attack. The units changed their formations and were moving in and by that time I heard Sulach's order to pull back from the front. I was frustrated that in such a short time we had such a blow. Higher ground or not, we had the chance to destroy him there. My soldiers were burning with anger and I gave the order to charge. We ran uphill to engage the enemy but the abomination once again caused a quake that shook the entire hill. The sands moved beneath us and I saw a wall of solid stone rise up and separate us from the enemy. Still uphill, Sulach had the advantage of using his half giants to rain stones upon us. He forced us back from the hill, and soon enough he was on the run again. We lost hundred and eighty four soldiers that day and many more were wounded. The barbarians’ tricks cost us dearly.
It was still a victory on our side. Sulach had the upper ground and had us by the flank completely. We were surprised and we did not even have time to react to the battle formations. Sulach had the best opportunity that he could ever get, yet he had to pull back. I was never this proud of my soldiers to give me such a victorious moment, or rather, to steal the victory from the enemy's very hands. It was clear by then that no matter what Sulach brings, we could take it. The victory would be ours eventually, and I was glad to feel that.
We had many wounded soldiers and were forced to camp there. Sulach moved further north and thus stepped deeper into the gith territory, and we could not chase him there. I sent units of scouts and hunters after him soon after. In the following few days, they came back with reports of skirmishes between Sulach's scouting parties. In the second day, Lyksaen group returned with the head of the cursed abomination, and I was glad to have yet another victory against the barbarian army. We also lost some good scouts but neither army gained the upper hand in those small scale fights. As of today, we have one thousand two hundred and thirty seven soldiers in total, of which two hundred and eighty five of them still have not recovered fully. Our cavalry outnumbers Sulach's by two to one and we have slightly more number of half giants than what they had in the last battle.
The days passed and we were not able to move due to the heavy number of the wounded soldiers from the last battle. Sulach moved further into the gith region, and my scouts were not running into Sulach's parties anymore. He was moving away from us, and we were unable to follow him. But then again, we did not have to. The territory we are in now expands to the sides as it moves towards the north where it is home to many gith tribes. It has only two exits and I am holding one of them. Sulach has to run through us, or has to destroy armies of gith many times vaster in number to cut a path open. It is possible, he is moving there to find supplies, since the land is rich enough to support thousands of gith. I even had my Faithful Sister Neodyn to control the gith to push him out. Sooner or later the gith will push him back and he will have to come down to test our strength.
And I will be waiting for him.
* * * * * * * * * *
CHAPTER 15
The streets were deserted by the time the sun was disappearing in the horizon. Those who had survived the onslaught were no doubt hiding in the alleys or disappeared into the crowds, away from the vengeful eyes of the militia patrols. Lord Templar Risac Valika looked out over the streets to see a sluggish smoke rising from a nearby street, residue of the civilian riot from a few hours ago. Scorched buildings stood stark and bare, and the burned bodies, soldier and citizen alike still smoldered in the skeletal wrecks of the buildings.
It was a strangely peaceful scene, with even the street hawkers being silent. The violence and emotions of the day were somehow distant when you were able to look across the empty streets. Risac rubbed his face for a moment then turned to walk down the steps toward the Arbaretum.
Brown stains spattered every wall and surface. Pools of blood congealed in corners and obscene smears showed where the bodies had already been shifted, dragged to the pile at Meleth's Circle or loaded to the carts to be taken to Arena to feed the beasts. The defenders were laid in clean clothes in shades, their limbs arranged for dignity. The rioters were simply thrown onto a growing pile with their arms and legs stuck at different angles. Risac watched the work and in the background he could hear the screams of the wounded as they were stitched or made ready for amputation. It would take a long time, Risac thought grimly, for anything to return to normal.
Especially with a Highborn being dead in the riot.
The entrance to Arboretum was well guarded by the city soldiers. They bowed in respect and stepped out of his way as Risac approached, he simply ignored them. He walked in through the curtain to see several highborn and their escorts taking shelter inside. Their faces turned to him as his armored boots clattered across the tiled floor. The riot clearly left its mark of fear on them, especially with the fragile purple figure lying in a pool of blood by the fountain. The dagger was removed from her throat, Risac noted as he approached. He saw the precision of the thrown dagger on the fragile neck, it was not an accident she was dead. She was assassinated by an opportunist.
Risac did not notice the soldiers rise from their bowing state, one of them was holding out the bloodied dagger that was retrieved from the body. He was rubbing his bloodied hand vigorously on his filthy cloak.
“Be careful soldier” spoke a voice nearby, Risac turned to see it was Lord Cadra Borsail. “Your hands have the blood of Lady Ansche Fale on them. A little respect is due, I believe” Lord Cadra continued.
The soldier gaped at the noble Lord, unable to comprehend. He took a few paces away, holding his hand away from his body.
Cadra smirked at the soldier’s reaction then turned to Risac: “So few understand, do they my dear? Just what it means to be born into greatness?”
“Good to see you safe, Lord Borsail” Risac dropped a nod of acknowledgement to Lord Cadra
“We have some matters to discuss. It seems I need the list of everyone Samil infiltrated in the city.”
“Then you shall have it” Cadra replied and snapped a few orders to his slaves to have his carriage readied at Arboretum’s entrance.
“Sergeant, you said you have information for me” Risac said to the Sergeant Varaq standing by.
“My Lord,” sergeant bowed as he began, “the mobile squads were only partially successful. We broke them in the Miner’s and Stonecarver’s road, and did a lot of damage on the first hours. We took them in hundreds in the first skirmishes.” Risac nodded as he listened to the report.
“But then, word must have gotten out, we found ourselves being tracked in the streets. Whoever took the lead, knows the city very well. Some of us took to the rooftops, but there were men waiting up there. I saw some of our soldiers being brought down by women or children coming out of the houses with knives. Soldiers hesitated to kill the civilians, and were cut to pieces.” Varaq hesitated to continue for a second, and Risac waited patiently for the sergeant to gather up his thoughts.
“We were ambushed in the north of the stonecarver’s, just before the Caravan road. We had been chasing them for a while and they cornered us in an alleyway. I…”
“It was clear from the beginning the mobile squads would not be successful in quelling the entire riot” Risac cut off the sergeant. “I sent them anyway to create chaos and fear in the rioters, so they could be hunted down once broken. But it seems they still have a semblance of discipline, which means there is a leader coordinating them. They are probably planning to disappear from sight and regroup to strike one last time. Did your men see any sign of this?”
“Yes Lord Templar, in the alleys around the Caravan road, they were bringing more men quietly. I do not know when or where they will attack, but it seems there will be a skirmish soon.”
“Whoever is directing them must have given them the right motivation” Risac added as he looked at the fountain in the middle of the well decorated room. “They are coming for water. They will strike here and the
Varaq reached to his temple as he dropped a sharp nod at Templar Risac.
A crimson clad servant came running, his sandals cluttering on the stone floor.
“My Lord, your carriage is coming” he reported breathlessly to Lord Cadra.
“Very well” Lord Cadra said, “Lord Templar, I will deliver the list to you in a couple of hours. Let me know when you are done here.”
“We will meet tonight, Lord Borsail” replied Risac, and with that Cadra Borsail moved to the curtained exit, and outside with his escorts accompanying him. A nervous smile was on his lips. The riot was a bold move, but so far it worked out well. Templar Risac of the blue was already quelling the riot. The fact that he asked for Cadra’s direct help proved how much the troubled times could speed up the politics. And more importantly, Lady Fale was dead. Another point how fruitful the riot was. Now all he had to do was to make sure the killer of the Lady would put to death before he could spill his tale to anyone.
The dusk was setting as he stepped out. He spotted his carriage and was moving there, as suddenly the skies grew dark with arrow shafts and spears, a stinging humming swarm of death. Cadra watched them fall. He clenched his fists and tightened his jaw as they whirred towards his position. Men around him threw themselves down, but he stood straight and unblinking with eyes glittering. One guard finally stood up in front of Cadra, trying to shield him with his own body.
The shafts rained and shattered around Cadra, but he was untouched. He turned and laughed at his scrambling officers and aides. One was on his knees, pulling an arrow out of his chest and spitting blood. Two others stared glassily at the sky, unmoving.
The guard shielding the noble Lord took a step back: “My Lord, are you harmed?”
Cadra dismissed him with a flick of his meaty hand: “Highlord protects his beloved. Escort me to my carriage, quickly.”
They hurried into the inix drawn carriage. Cadra was seated inside and ordered for the driver to move when an enraged Risac came out of Arboretum. He snapped the orders and the units of soldiers responded harshly, steeling themselves to crush the final resistance that threatened the city.
Cadra’s carriage moved forth, ignoring the chaos and violence they left behind. Everything was falling in place, Cadra thought. He had to get rid of Lady Fale’s killer before Risac could get his hands on him to cover his tracks.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The night covered the city in its dark sheets, veiling all the violence and stains of the riot. Serpent lay crouched on a rooftop, overlooking the Caravan’s road. He could see most of the Commons from his position, and notice which parts of the city were heavily guarded. The riot killed the night life in some sections of the city as the templarate and the militia took heavy measures to crush down any semblance of disturbance before they resurrected the riot once more. Thousands were killed in the riot; the streets were littered with corpses of citizens and soldiers alike. Houses were burnt down and the scars of the city would remain a long time before they healed completely.
His plans had worked nearly perfectly, with the exception of the death of Lady Fale. He still did not understand how it happened, since none of his men did the deed. His instructions were to lead the crowds toward the
Still he did the best he could, and he would get paid for it. Whatever reason Lord Cadra wanted this riot for, he got it in the end. None of his men were captured yet, and if they were as careful, they would not be.
He felt the presence of another mind contacting his through the Way, and he calmed down all his thoughts and emotions, waiting patiently for the intruding mind to speak first.
“My employer is very pleased with the way you performed your part” said Sergeant Idenu from House Borsail. “Did you cover all your tracks? Nothing will come in our way?”
Serpent contacted to the mind in a second:
“Not because of me, I covered my part.”
“Then there is one more thing my employer wishes for you to do.”
Idenu’s thoughts came with a hint of nervousness, which was expected if the man never took part in a crime like this. Serpent waited patiently for him to make the offer.
“There is someone that needs to die. It must be done tonight.”
Serpent was irritated at a deadline so soon after a riot, not to mention the soldiers crowding the city.
“Your employer must be willing to pay very high amounts then” Serpent replied, after calming his thoughts.
“You will be paid what you ask for. I will give you the looks of the man, and where he is currently. Can you do it?”
Serpent thought about it for a moment. They would not give a deadline like this unless it was someone knew about their involvement with the riot. Perhaps something they slipped, or something they have done during the riot, and they do not want the man to be found. Anger spun in Serpent’s mind as he thought about covering up someone else’s mess after such a short time, but given the position of the man, he knew he could do it.
“Alright, go ahead” he replied, and Idenu gave him the job.
* * * * * * * * * *
The night life was picking up in the Plaza of the Commons after the riot of the day. Many sections of the city were guarded by soldiers, to crush any more resistance before any damage can be delivered, but not the plaza. It had more soldiers on duty than a regular night, but commoners still could keep the Bard's Barrel's traffic alive without being questioned by the militia.
Ksint stood across the bench in the center of the Plaza. At a short distance, the Bard’s Barrel was full with citizens, cheering up for the defenders. Barbarians, lot of them, Ksint thought, for applauding the very people who slaughtered their own. Though, he did not care one bit for them, being one of the few people Samil planted into the city, he was waiting there tonight for an entirely different purpose.
He was one of the six people Samil planted into Allanak as slaves of the militia, who would seek any opportunity to strike at key figures in the city to create chaos. They were all trained for years, and this was the perfect opportunity to show their purpose for the Faithful. None showed itself though, not until last night.
Last night, after another day of backbreaking work, he was returning to the slaves' quarter, exhausted. Perhaps that was the reason to why he could not hear someone sneaking up on him, and why his combat reflexes failed him in dodging the crushing blow. He was incapacitated with a single blow, without a chance to fight back.
When he regained consciousness, he was in a dark room, hands and feet tied and his head was forced to face the wall. Someone else was in the room, he could hear the breathing clearly. He thought this was the end, he was discovered and would be tortured to death. If he breaks, perhaps death would come easier, less painful. But he would not break, he promised to himself and the Faithful and the Sun King, and readied himself for the excruciating pain.
Though, things developed in a way he never expected.
His capturer knew him, why he was sent to Allanak and by whom. He knew how he was planted into the city, as well as each and every one of the servants of the Faithful that were planted along with him. But still, he did not proceed to torture, or death threats. He asked the only thing that could compromise him: Cooperation.
He explained that there are a number of people, important people, that need to die for the greater good, and they would work towards the same end, together.
They talked for over an hour in that dark room, Ksint could barely make it to the slave quarters. When he finally sprawled over the filthy covers to get some sleep, he found the peace at last. His first mark was given to him, Lady Ansche Fale. Ksint could not ask for more, for he could very well pick her as a target anyway. Now he had someone cooperating with him, who informed him that Lady Fale would be in Meleth's Circle in the following day and there would be a commotion which Ksint could take it to his advantage easily.
And there it happened. Ksint did not expect the “commotion” would actually be a riot as big as this. He took his timing and joined the crowds, only to kill his intended target and then disappear. He would not stay in the crowd and risk getting captured. He doubled back to the slave quarters, and reported that he ran away as soon as the riot started. The slaves were left alone, as most of the militia was sent to quell the riots. Just before the dusk, he slipped out to the city and came to the Plaza as instructed by his capturer. He would see him for the first time and get his new target there.
A rotten fruit offered to him brought his attention back to his surroundings. A small bare-chested child, so skinny that his ribs could be counted, carried a bag of fruits and offered one to him. Ksint noticed the child was a fruit seller, and now he was offering one to him without asking for coin. He surveyed his surroundings quickly, before looking back at the child.
“Who sent you kid?”
The child did not reply but looked over his shoulder. Ksint followed his gaze only to meet someone watching them from the streets stretching to the Stone carver’s road. The man turned quickly and disappeared at the corner, his cloak whipping with the sudden movement. Ksint roughly pushed the child away and started walking after the figure. He did not want to lose him, not when he was so close to see him face to face. He picked up in his speed as he turned the corner of Stone carver’s. There were several people on the street here, many more staying in their homes or hiding away from the militia. Dark red stains covered the walls and the street here, with broken shards of obsidian and bone scattered everywhere. Smears of soot covered some buildings, residue of the fire that was set during the riot. But Ksint paid no attention to them. He saw the man a few blocks away and caught him slipping into the alleyway, and Ksint found his temper rising. What with playing games like boys, they could very well ask him to come to the alley.
Heads turned in his direction as he started to walk even faster, he did not care being spotted or not, he would catch the man and they would walk together then. He came until the entrance to the alley and looked in. The heavy stink of urine washed over him and he could not help but cover his mouth in disgust. Still he looked on and could see no one in the darkness. Did he not see him get in here? Or maybe he walked into a building next to the alley and his eyes failed him in the dark street? He could not be sure. He looked around, unsure of what to do. The people in the street carried on with their business: a whore standing by, calling up at mercenaries and soldiers passing by, militia men walking in pairs exaggerating their deeds of the day; servants rushing up in the streets carrying errands.
As he stood there, doubt struck Ksint of what he was doing. Maybe he followed the wrong man here, or maybe there was no man after all, it could very well be a set up. What if his capturer did not need him anymore and wanted to get rid of all the witnesses?
“Sir, please… I am so hungry, just a few coins. Sir...” Ksint heard a beggar pleading to a couple of mercenaries just a few feet away. The mercenaries looked tired of listening to his bickering, and one of them roughly shoved him away. The beggar stumbled away and into Ksint, nearly knocking him off his feet. Reflexively, Ksint tried to balance himself, but his legs lost their strength as he felt a sharp pain in his chest.
“Nothing personal, but someone paid a lot of coins to see you dead” the beggar whispered into his ear, and the pain increased as he twisted something in his chest. The beggar fell sideways, and Ksint was knocked down on his back. The world became a blur, and Ksint did not even have strength to cry out for help. He heard the beggar shouting curses at the mercenaries as he got up and run away, but he could not make words. It happened so quick, and so casual, no one even realized the beggar stabbing Ksint in the heart.
Bony fingers reached out from the alleys and grabbed Ksint by the shoulders, pulling him into the darkness of the alley before someone could realize him dying.
Serpent moved down the street, the dagger already slipped into his wristsheath. It was done well enough, and so far he did not hear any yells down the street of someone dying. He let out a breath of relief and contacted to the mind of his man in the alley, who already dragged the corpse in.
“He died in the riot. Make sure to frame it that way” he sent through the unseen Way, and was comforted at the thought that his man would not fail him.
* * * * * * * * * *
A light wind was breezing as Lord Cadra walked through the empty city flanked by his guards. With dawn at horizon, the streets should have been filled with workers, servants and slaves, bustling along on a thousand errands. The cries of vendors should have been heard, coupled with the din of a thousand trades. Instead, it was eerily quiet.
Soldiers stood at every corner in small groups, ready to break any possible riot, Lord Templar Risac’s orders demanded so. The whole city was nervous, and Lord Cadra felt a prickling suspicion if everyone covered their tracks. The Lady’s killer had been silenced earlier in the night, and Serpent said he did his part well, otherwise he too would be charged with treason. Lord Cadra shook his head slightly at his own thoughts, everything went perfectly as planned. There was no point in going over again.
A wind that had been blocked by the rows of houses hit him as he passed in front of the Trader’s
He strode quickly walking down in the Templar’s path. The flat stones kept him clear of the sluggish filth of the road below his feet. In all his life, he never saw so many soldiers guarding every corner of the city. Two soldiers held station at the gates to the Templar’s quarters, absolutely still in the moonless night. As Lord Cadra and his escorts approached to the great gates, one of them stepped forward, bowing in respect before addressing the Lord as well as the escorts.
“My Lord, may I ask what business you have in the Templar’s Quarter?”
“I need to see Lord Templar Risac Valika” Cadra replied. “Where is he?”
The two soldiers glanced at each other for a moment, trying to decide whether it would be right for tem to volunteer the information. Too tired and impatient to wait for the soldiers to come to a conclusion, Cadra felt his temper rising.
“I was asked by Lord Valika to come see him before the daybreak. I am here, where is he?”
“The jails, my Lord” the soldier answered. He opened his mouth to say more, but then thought better of it. He sent a call to the gates, and resumed his position as the great gates opened. Once again, the soldiers were like twin statues at the gates.
Lord Cadra moved quickly without a word, passing the gates to the quarter. He followed the Night’s path down into the Morning’s road. The wind was growing in strength as the dawn approached. Lord Cadra was tempted to start running, but his meaty frame was not fit for it. The city jailhouse was a small building. There was no need to have big jailhouses, as execution and banishment prevented the need for them. The very fact that the Lord Templar would be in the jails told Lord Cadra what he would find and he prepared to face it without flinching.
Another pair of soldiers guarded the outer door of the jailhouse. As Lord Cadra approached to them, they nodded as if expecting him and threw open the locking bars. Lord Cadra’s and his escorts’ cloaks carried the insignia of House Borsail, and they were not questioned until they reached to hallway leading to the holding cells. Three soldiers moved apart as Cadra announced himself and a half giant jail keeper ran down the hallway. Cadra waited patiently as he heard his name being announced somewhere, and Risac’s answering rumble. He was able to smile when Lord Risac returned with the half giant.
“That is Lord Borsail” Risac confirmed.
“Is there still a threat in the city” Lord Cadra asked, hiding his tension.
“It is ended. Come along with me, Lord Borsail, you should be part of this” Lord Risac said.
As he spoke, he wiped sweat from his forehead and Cadra saw a smear of blood on his hand.
They walked down the hallway, passing several holding cells with no light coming from within. There was a sickly wail coming from one of the cells, but they paid no attention to it. Finally, the half giant jail keeper opened the doors to one of the cells, and fumbled to put a lit torch in place to light the room.
There was a sickly smell in the air and at first Lord Cadra tried not to look at the figures bound to the chairs in the center of it.
“A pity,” Lord Risac said as they both entered into the room. “These creatures named someone called Ksint as their leader, but they know nothing of the riot or the assassination otherwise. They would have told us by now.”
Cadra looked at the men and repressed a shudder at what had been done to them. Risac had been through and he too had doubted the men could have held anything back. Four of them lay as still as dead, but the last rolled his head towards them with a sudden jerk. One of his eyes had been pierced and wept a shining stream of liquid down his cheek, but the other peered around aimlessly, lighting up as he spotted Lord Cadra.
“You! I accuse you!” he spat, then cackled weakly, dribbling blood over his chin.
Lord Cadra fought the rising gorge as he looked down at the broken bodies of the conspirators.
“He has lost his mind” he said softly, and Risac nodded.
“Yes, though he held out the longest. They will live long enough to be executed. My soldiers found the body of their leader, Ksint. Possibly he died during the riot.” Risac shook his head a few times, before looking at Lord Cadra “I must thank you, Lord Borsail, for bringing this matter to me. I wish we could have moved in time, but regardless, we stopped it after all. It was a noble deed, and worthy of your title” Risac spoke lightly.
Cadra stood silently, trying to gather his thoughts. He could always sport the vicious ending, though he never saw the brutal ending of a torture so close before.
Risac continued again as Cadra did not say anything “The two of us, we should work together for Allanak.” His mood lightened as Lord Cadra nodded to him. “Though, we can talk about it another time. The stink of this place is in my lungs. I have to report to the Red Robes at sunrise and I intend to take a bath before that.”
“Dawn is here” Cadra said and Risac swore softly.
“It is night always in this place. I am finished with these.”
He gave the orders to the torturers to have the men cleaned and made presentable before turning back to Lord Cadra. “I will set the execution for the
The red light of dawn had taken a lighter tint as Lord Cadra and his guards stepped out of the Templar’s Quarter. The wind had ceased and the city was awakening late, as the soldiers were relieved from their posts and the normal tone returned to the city. Away from the sickening scenery of the jailhouse, Lord Cadra could finally think clearly. The riot was gone, Lady Fale was dead, and all his tracks were covered. Most important of all, Lord Templar Risac Valika was his supporter. With Sulach gone, Allanak would be his.
* * * * * * * * * * *
CHAPTER 16
It was dark in the tent and the scribe slave had only a single candle to give him enough light to write. He sat in perfect silence as Sulach lay sprawled on a pallet, one arm outstretched to be bandaged, for he had refused the magickal healing. Sulach grunted as the physician made a knot and pulled it tight. For a moment, his eyes opened with pain, and the slave saw they were dim with exhaustion.
The physician left then, letting a blast of air into the stuffy interior that made the candle flicker. The slave looked over the words that were recorded, and wished Sulach would sleep. They were all hungry, but the last few weeks had burned flesh from the commander as much as any other men. His skin was tinged with yellow and there were dark hollows underneath his eyes that gave him a look of death.
The slave thought The Lord Templar slid into sleep and began to gather his scrolls to steal away without waking him. He froze as Sulach scratched at the sweat stains of his tunic and then rubbed his face.
“Where did I finish?” Sulach asked without opening his eyes.
“Gith mesa. I was writing about the second battle before the physician came in.”
“Ah, yes. Are you ready to go on?”
“If you wish it, Master. It might be better if I left you to get some rest”
Sulach did not respond to that, but rubbed his face.
“We reached the gith mesa soon after the rukkian mage and his escorts were killed by the gith raiders. Are you writing this?”
“I am” the slave whispered. To his surprise, he felt a sting of tears begin as Sulach forced himself on.
“We stormed the camp. I could not hold the soldiers back after what they saw of the mage’s body, I did not want to” Sulach paused for a moment to open his eyes and look at the slave directly.
“Fifteen survived us. Record the truth for me. Out of five hundred gith, men, women and children, only fifteen could escape us. We burned the entire camp around them and stripped whatever food or water they have. Still, I could count the ribs on my soldiers. There were more gith to fight of course, and Untturi took the command of them. But I am telling you now, without the stores in the mesa we would have been finished.”
“We routed them over and over whenever we caught them in the open, but many tribes of the gith joined to Untturi and they outnumbered us everytime. Lieutenant Zakhis was killed in an ambush in the second week or the third, I can not remember now. His unit saw him being dragged off his mount. We did not find his body.”
Sulach lapsed into silence at the thought of the young Lieutenant. He was a decent man and it had been a great loss. When he spoke again, his voice carried his weariness.
“The gith kept gathering in the north and blocking our way through and I could not break them there.”
The slave looked at Sulach and saw his lips twist in anger. Still, he was lying on his back, his eyes closed against the candle light:
“We lost two hundred soldiers over these battles, and as the food was low, I saw my soldiers eat grass until they vomited. Still we destroyed the gith who dared to take the field against us. Strian, Itina, Vate, and Kann did well with the banners there, but the numbers…” Sulach fell silent for a second then.
“I could not cut a path open toward the north there and was forced to move west, deeper into the tablelands to find a way through. Untturi sent his generals and we fought all the way while we marched day and night. I have tried every route possible. I have seen death walk with me.”
“But now you have sent him back toward the gem” the slave dared to add.
Sulach struggled to sit up and leaned over his knees, his head sagging.
“He is gathering more gith by the minute over there, more tribes are joining him every moment. We starve down here while he gathers more men to destroy us.”
“You raided enough grain and meat and water in the last battle to feed the army over a week. The worst is over” the slave spoke again.
Sulach shrugged so slightly, it could have been a breath:
“Perhaps. Write this for me, we built fortifications and trenches over three leagues to north. We have built a hill from the earth so great to allow us build watchtowers on it. Untturi can not come down here as long as we remain. We have already cut them down in hundreds and we will cut them down in thousands if need be. We will stay until we find a way to break Samil in south, or until Samil comes up here.”
The tent flap was opened and Lieutenant Itina and someone wearing no uniform came in.
“Lord Templar?” Itina asked.
“I am here” came the voice, barely a whisper.
“The man you wanted, I brought him. As instructed, no one else knows.” Lieutenant Itina spoke.
Sulach looked at her with red-rimmed eyes, looking more dead than alive. He stood, and swayed from exhaustion, Itina reflexively reached out to help him stand. He reached to the pocket of his robe and pulled out a sealed scroll. The scribe slave looked curiously at the paper, as he was not the one writing that one.
The man who dressed up with a simple armor and a bow, stepped forward as Sulach handed the rolled parchment to him.
“You will give this scroll to the man you are told, and ask him to deliver to the Lady. He himself must see to it that it is delivered to her hand alone. Can you do it?”
The man simply nodded, as he slipped the parchment into his cloak.
“I will ride at full gallop to arrive the city at daybreak my Lord, and I will simply pass as a regular hunter.”
Sulach nodded wearily at the man’s understanding of the task he had.
“Ride back here as soon as you deliver it.”
The man nodded, slipping out of the tent and into the night. Itina looked at the tired form of Sulach for a moment, her expression showing her concern.
“What is the plan, Lord Templar?”
“The plan?” Sulach asked sitting down on his pallet exhaustedly. “We will crush Samil, and then we will crush his army” he spoke tiredly. His lay down on the pallet, his eyes closing. Itina watched him without moving an inch.
“And then we will go home?” she asked.
CHAPTER 14
Dzeda, the 42nd day of the Ascending Sun, year 19 of the
21st Age, King's
It has been 53 days since the beginning of the
campaign. The storm that raged throughout
the evening started to calm at
Continue Reading...Bayors Poem by Solera
Added on Apr 26, 2009The story of a northern bynner caught up in the Gith War, composed by Trooper Gul of the T'zai Byn.
Down the hole to the sewers the Byn went,
To hunt down the Gith they were sent.
Took the wrong turn Bayor did.
Saw the Gith camp while he were hid.
Gave a shout
Sarge got him out.
Told the Robe "Thousands of Giths down there!"
Gave the city time to prepare.
The Byn were waiting near the Road of the Slaves,
For the Gith as they came from their tunnels and caves.
At the pens of Borsails
Bayor dies.
Lies bleeding and stinking
Far from the light of his King.Down the hole to the sewers the Byn went,
To hunt down the Gith they were sent.
Took the wrong turn Bayor did.
Saw the Gith camp while he were hid.
Gave a shout
Sarge got him out.
Told the Robe "Thousands of Giths down there!"
Gave the city time to prepare.
The Byn were waiting near the Road of...
Continue Reading...Something Wrong with the Unit by Taven
Added on Apr 26, 2009There's been alot of talk about Magickers, and how they're treated. In this log, some of the events behind the murder of the old Vividuian pool keeper are revealed. That murder led to much OOC forum discussion, and this is an interesting history about all that.
There's been alot of talk about Magickers, and how they're treated. In this log, some of the events behind the murder of the old Vividuian pool keeper are revealed. That murder led to much OOC forum discussion, and this is an interesting history about all that.
In addition a number of factor go into this log, and I'm sure each of the players involved would have different views of just what those are. Ruti (the wiry, young man) is a Private in the militia who has an unusually high paranoia about gemmers. Jenneth, whose perspective the story is told from (the slender, hack-haired man) is Ruti's some-times lover, and good friend. Nae (the pale-eyed, blond-braided woman) I think it a Corporal right now. I believe at this time Laila (vibrant, jade-adorned brunette) is the Sergeant of the First Unit of the Jade Sabers.
One of the factors of Laila's play is the belief that the mistake of leaving things glowing on Hodor was a sheerly OOC mistake, and should be overlooked the same way forgetting to sheath weapons or holding a torch should. There could possibly also be the IC reason of that they need to use the mage on this mission, and punishment right now wasn't practical. At the same time, from my perspective, it had already built up too much to be ignored. I'd venture to guess that Ruti's player felt OOCly that gemmed should be treated more strictly about forgetting such things, since of their PC's position and power. ICly, all this had been building up for awhile. Obviously, all the factors haven't been mentioned, but I feel that this was an important preface to add.
<Jenneth:: 123/123hp 117/125st 125/125sn>
A foreign presence contacts your mind.The wiry young man sends you a telepathic message:
"*warm affection and relief* Jen!"You suffer from use of the Way.
You contact the wiry young man with the Way.You send a telepathic message to the wiry young man:
"You! You fecker, you keep lettin' th' wall warden drag ya off! *happy*"The wiry young man sends you a telepathic message:
"You with the unit? On patrol? Oy, I've missed you. I've -needed- you."You send a telepathic message to the wiry young man:
"Th' unit, in th' barracks. We're talkin' 'bout Luirs n' shet. You hafta come, ya know. I'm -draggin'- ya along."The wiry young man sends you a telepathic message:
"The Lord Templar ordered the Sergeant to execute me if I fuck up again. You get wall for a few weeks, and everything falls apart."You send a telepathic message to the wiry young man:
".....Wha did you -DO-? *worry*"The wiry young man sends you a telepathic message:
"It's because I don't fancy gemmers. "You send a telepathic message to the wiry young man:
"There's more t' it then tha. Wha happened?"The wiry young man sends you a telepathic message:
"We were out of water in the barracks. I told a gemmer that I was gonna fill the cisterns. She said no, not unless I paid. I told her to stop fucking around. She gave me shit about contracts and money. I talked rude to her. Because a filthy..."The wiry young man sends you a telepathic message:
".... -gemmer-, talking like that to a soldier in His militia? About water for the barracks? And they all down on me--and hard. "You send a telepathic message to the wiry young man:
"Fecker. She a Counciller, 'r wha? Which one? 'Cause she had t' be a counciller, 'r why'd th' Templar get so mad?"The wiry young man sends you a telepathic message:
"Hodor is her name. A Viv."The wiry young man sends you a telepathic message:
"I asked for a transfer. They refused."You send a telepathic message to the wiry young man:
"I've never even feckin' -heard- o' 'er. Why th' feck---? It doesn't make a feck o' sense t' me."The wiry young man sends you a telepathic message:
"Doesn't make sense to me, either. She's Council, aye. But still a gemmer. And I thought--I thought the templar held -us- higher than those fucks. Instead, I been ordered to either be confined to barracks, or ..."The wiry young man sends you a telepathic message:
"... to lower my gaze when I see them. Not to speak with them. And not to -dare- give 'em any hassle. Like a rinthi seeing a nobleman."You send a telepathic message to the wiry young man:
"...To feckin' -lower your gaze-? I mean, feck, an insulted gemmer could do all sorts o' subtle magick shet t' ya, but th' -Templarite- is suppose t'-- Well. Th' -Lord Templar- said tha? N' Laila too?"The wiry young man sends you a telepathic message:
"Sergeant said if I fuck up one more time, I'm done. It's only on account of her that I ain't dead already."You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the wiry young man:
"Feck, Ruti. You really stepped on some toes. Ya need t' make nice wi' someone high-up."The wiry young man sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm getting close to Saya. I've asked her to put a word in for me."You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the wiry young man:
"*faint traces of alarm* Saya? Put in a wor--. Uh. Well. Tha's good."You think:
"Great. Wonderful. Just wha we need. "The wiry young man sends you a telepathic message:
"What? She -seems- a good lass."You send a telepathic message to the wiry young man:
"I'm not sayin' she isn't. I wouldn't say bad things 'bout Samos' girl."The wiry young man sends you a telepathic message:
"You don't like her? There ain't no other way I'm gonna get 'round this, not that I see."You think:
"...Yeah. Well. She feckin' scares me t' death."The wiry young man sends you a telepathic message:
"Jen. I'm putting myself forward in a way that I -never- do. If you know something against her, tell me!"You send a telepathic message to the wiry young man:
"Well. She's a good person t' have on yer side. She'll put in a good word, I'm sure."Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
Caravan Road [ESW]
Stretching itself out here is a long road, paved in rough yellowy
brown sandstone, covered with reddish dust and sand, and wide enough that at
least four caravans could pass through. The sun-browned backs of slaves
march along, carrying goods. The sky's blood-red glory shines from above
the main gate, highlighting its ominously smooth stones.
Shouts and cheers sound from a fenced hardscrabble south of here.
The tall figure in a hooded, sun-patterned aba is standing here.
- she glows with a bright light!
The wiry young man has arrived from the east.The tall figure in a hooded, sun-patterned aba keeps her hood up close.
The tall figure in a hooded, sun-patterned aba walks east.
The slender, hack-haired man blinks.
The wiry young man stops.The wiry young man asks, in sirihish:
"What the fuck was -that-?"East of here is Caravan Road.
[Near]
The thick-limbed, leather-skinned dwarf drags a cart behind him here.The wiry young man says to you, in sirihish:
"That was her. Hodor."You suffer from use of the Way.
You contact the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette with the Way.You suffer from use of the Way.
You exclaim to the wiry young man, in sirihish:
"Hodor? Feck, she's -glowin'-!"The wiry young man says to you, in sirihish:
"Yeah. I noticed."The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman has arrived from the east.
The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman walks west.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette:
"Some fecker is goin' around -GLOWIN'- on th' streets. Think it's a gemmer named Hodor."You say to the wiry young man, in sirihish:
"Feckin' -insane-."Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
Caravan Road [EW]
Stretching itself out here is a long road, paved in rough yellowy
brown sandstone, covered with reddish dust and sand, and wide enough that at
least four caravans could pass through. The sun-browned backs of slaves
march along, carrying goods. The sky's blood-red glory shines from above
the main gate, highlighting its ominously smooth stones.
The wiry young man has arrived from the east.You ask the wiry young man, in sirihish:
"N' -you're- th' one in trouble?"The slender, hack-haired man mutters angrily.
The wiry young man says to you, in sirihish:
"But gemmers are far above me. I can't question them, not even if they're glowing with a bright light walking down the middle of Caravan Road like she was."The wiry young man sends you a telepathic message:
"I mentioned seeing a gemmer glowing with bright light, in the middle of the road. Sergeant said, "Shut the fuck up about gemmers.""The wiry young man sends you a telepathic message:
"You mention it, like you don't know I did. See what she says."You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the wiry young man:
"I already did, eh? Wayed 'er."The wiry young man sends you a telepathic message:
"What'd she say?"You send a telepathic message to the wiry young man:
"Not a feckin' word. Any idea why we're here?"The wiry young man sends you a telepathic message:
"There's something very wrong with the unit, Jen. And yeah. Some Oashi lords are stuck somewhere. Beetles and spiders all around 'em. We're waiting for morning."You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the wiry young man:
"I don't feckin' understand why th' gemmers 'r bein' allowed so loose a rein. They're -dangerous- n' they're feckin' -nothin'-, too. "The wiry young man sends you a telepathic message:
"There's something very wrong with the unit."You send a telepathic message to the wiry young man:
"Aside from th' Gemmer shet?"The wiry young man sends you a telepathic message:
"No. Just that."The tall figure in a dusty hooded, sun-patterned aba nods back and leads a yellow sunback lizard up to rest behind the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette.
Just loudly enough to carry over the noise of the street even at this early hour, the tall figure in a dusty hooded, sun-patterned aba says to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette, in sirihish:
"Sorry about earlier."Looking over the group of soldiers, and pointedly at the wiry young man, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette asks, in sirihish:
"Doesn't look like Hodor's glowing to me, is she?"To the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette, frowning, you say, in sirihish:
"She -was- before, n' in th' -middle- o' Caravan. I saw 'er m'self."Wincing at the words, the tall figure in a dusty hooded, sun-patterned aba says to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette, in sirihish:
"I mighta been earlier. Kolt was showin' me some shit, an' sometimes you can't see it from inside."Dipping a nod, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says to the tall figure in a dusty hooded, sun-patterned aba, in sirihish:
"You might have been. And when I let you know, you were concerned about it, seemed to me. Like you already knew that weren't a good thing."The wiry young man sends you a telepathic message:
"She woulda trusted the word of a gemmer over the word of two soldiers, did you see that?"The slender, hack-haired man blinks.
Dipping a quick and fluid nod, the tall figure in a dusty hooded, sun-patterned aba says to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette, in sirihish:
"'course 'tain't a good thing. Gemmers already stick enough in people's collective craw without glowin'."You send a telepathic message to the wiry young man:
"Feck, she just let a -gemmer- walk down CARAVAN's -GLOWIN'-?!"Looking over at the wiry young man and you, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says, in sirihish:
"Most of the time, folks don't realize they're doing it. You just gotta let them know. It's like people who forget they're holding a knife."The wiry young man sends you a telepathic message:
"There is something very wrong in the unit."The wiry young man says to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette, in sirihish:
"Yessir. Like holding a knife, sir."Sheepishly, the tall figure in a dusty hooded, sun-patterned aba says, in sirihish:
"'cept a whole lot freakier."The pale-eyed, blond-braided woman says, in sirihish:
"And knives don't make nobles freak out and demand yer head as easily."Blinking, you say, in sirihish:
"'Cuse me f' sayin', Sir, but a -gemmer- walkin' down th' street -glowin'- is gonna attract a -feckload- more o' attention."The wiry young man sends you a telepathic message:
"Like holding a knife."Lifting her eyebrows at you, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette asks you, in sirihish:
"Of course they are. But that doesn't mean they're doing it because they're a pathetic idiotic dickwad intent on killing everyone, does it?"You send a telepathic message to the wiry young man:
"I agree. Somethin' is feckin' wrong. There is -no way-. I mean--"The wiry young man sends you a telepathic message:
"Because a glowing gemmer isn't a problem until they start killing. There is something very wrong in the--fuck. You know."You say to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette, in sirihish:
"N' th' commoners 'd know tha? She could o' incited a panic. 'Member th' boy in th' bazzar saw some gemmer re-appear? Near started a panic there."Pointedly, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette says to you, in sirihish:
"Quit arguing with me about it. I'm saying she DIDN'T KNOW SHE WAS GLOWING. That's no reason to abuse her."The wiry young man sends you a telepathic message:
"Don't push her, Jen. Let it drop. Not a big deal. Just chuckle and shake your head."You send a telepathic message to the wiry young man:
"Sure, Laila could be concerned about th' nobles. "Dipping a nod, you say to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette, in sirihish:
"Aye, Sir. "You send a telepathic message to the wiry young man:
"--But there is NO way she'd be li' this. No way."You send a telepathic message to the wiry young man:
"So. Th' others, are they--? I mean, they think this is normal, 'r?"The wiry young man sends you a telepathic message:
"Everyone one of 'em but me. And now you."There's been alot of talk about Magickers, and how they're treated. In this log, some of the events behind the murder of the old Vividuian pool keeper are revealed. That murder led to much OOC forum discussion, and this is an interesting history about all that.
In addition a number of factor...
Continue Reading...Oh, Vash Where Are Your Trousers? by Lahna
Added on Apr 26, 2009Cheerful and bawdy song usually heard in the Firestorm in Freils Rest.
Two girls wanting to have some fun
spy a man come into the room
They whisper, giggling as they nod
Then sidelong they glance to newest patron
(*bouncy*)
Oh Vash where are your trousers?
He glances to the pair, gaze sweeping over them
Their fingers wiggle in his direction
His mouth drops open, their arm encircling the other
Their lips meet, though their eyes are on him
(*bouncy*)
Oh Vash where are your trousers?
He tightens his cloak around his midsection
His gaze darting about the room, trying to look elseware
(*rhythm slows*)
Their lips part, and they giggle, one whispering to the other...
The other nods, and they dance together towards him...
(*bouncy*)
Oh Vash where are your trousers?
(*rhythm slows*)
One slides onto a barstool beside the man...
The other steps between her legs...
The man glowers at the pair, teeth fully bared
As they kiss again he growls and stalks away!
(*bouncy*)
Oh Vash go get your trousers!
OOC: The inspiration for this came from Donald Where's Your Trousers. Only the chorus line was used for this song, the rest is original.
Two girls wanting to have some fun
spy a man come into the room
They whisper, giggling as they nod
Then sidelong they glance to newest patron
(*bouncy*)
Oh Vash where are your trousers?
He glances to the pair, gaze sweeping over them
Their fingers wiggle in his direction
His mouth drops open, their arm...
Continue Reading...Felna and the Baj'aa Paj by Tanua
Added on Apr 26, 2009Apprentice Tanua of Rusarla tells a story she heard often in her mothers tents, of the Arabet.
Unknown words:
sozhiri - tribal guards
baj'aa paj - erdlu
canci'paj - songbird
paj - bird
mukhayyam - tents
wa'anuu'da - tribal elders
At your table, you say in sirihish, after a thoughtful pause:
"I will tell you the story of a sozhiri, guard of the tribe, and her baj'aa
paj, erdlu."
You begin speaking bendune.
At your table, you say in bendune, her voice soft as she begins to speak:
"Not that long ago kanks were the choice ride. They were large, but also
fast."
At your table, you say in bendune, pressing a palm to her chest:
"The Arabet are well known for their pets, especially their paj."
At your table, you say in bendune, shaking her head slowly:
"We watched our rides die off one by one, then in greater numbers. We needed
to find others."
At your table, you say in bendune, her dark-green gaze resting on the man's face:
"With the few remaining kanks, our bravest sozhiri, led by sozhiri Felna
al'Ken, rode off."
At your table, you say in bendune, a small smile forming on her lips:
"Felna always loved the paj, and he family was known for breeding the best
canci'paj."
At your table, you say in bendune, smoothing a palm over the table:
"So, she decided that baj'aa paj would make the best mounts for her people."
At your table, you say in bendune, palm coming to rest as she smiles to the man:
"Baj'aa paj are fast, but tire easily, as you know."
At your table, you say in bendune, her voice soft as she turn her hand over,
lifting it:
"She knew that paj are the best."
At your table, you say in bendune, stroking a finger several inches above her palm:
"She captured a few baj'aa paj with the other sozhiri and brought them back to
the mukhayyam."
At your table, you say in bendune, with a small shake of her head as her hands
lower:
"The wa'anuu'da were not impressed, and felt that the baj'aa paj were too weak
for any travel, or hunting."
At your table, you say in bendune, softly, her gaze on an intimate, dimly lit
table:
"Felna wanted to prove the wa'anuu'da wrong, and took the weakest looking
baj'aa paj out for a hunt."
At your table, you say in bendune:
"Felna and her baj'aa paj did not last more than a day before it tired and
refused to move."
At your table, you say in bendune, holding up a finger to the man with a broad grin:
"But! While she was resting, Felna noticed something sparkling on the ground
in the high sun light."
At your table, you say in bendune, leaning forward, her voice above a whisper:
"She found a diamond. Several. Without the baj'aa paj needing a rest, she
would never have found such wealth."Unknown words:
sozhiri - tribal guards
baj'aa paj - erdlu
canci'paj - songbird
paj - bird
mukhayyam - tents
wa'anuu'da - tribal elders
At your table, you say in sirihish, after a thoughtful pause:
"I will tell you the story of a sozhiri, guard of the tribe, and her baj'aa
paj, erdlu."
You begin...
Continue Reading...Recued by Raleris Winrothol by Lahna
Added on Apr 26, 2009Written by Kadian crafter, and bard hopeful, Lahna after Chosen Lord Raleris Winrothol rode down the north road with his men to help the attacked Kadian wagon.
(*cheerful and jaunty, hold out the last note of each line*)
Have you hear the tale of the Winrothol Chosen Lord?
I'll tell you the tale as I strum my cords.
(*tempo speeds up*)
Heard his friends were in trouble,
Rode right out on the double.
His Corporal came along,
never questioning what was wrong.
When his crew showed up,
saved the day patching people up.
Raleris Winrothol always speaks true,
Along side the wagon rode his crew.
To protect his friends in purple and blue,
Him and his men fought off a few carru.
(*strum rapidly, holding out the last note of each line*)
He truely saved the day
in a magnificent display.
(*strum rapidly, holding out the last note of each line*)
Never fearing for his life,
he calmly handles any strife.
Let all know the Chosen Lord protects his friends,
all their problems he will bring them to an end.(*cheerful and jaunty, hold out the last note of each line*)
Have you hear the tale of the Winrothol Chosen Lord?
I'll tell you the tale as I strum my cords.
(*tempo speeds up*)
Heard his friends were in trouble,
Rode right out on the double.
His Corporal came along,
never questioning what was...
Continue Reading...
