Original Submissions of type 'Logs'
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Memoir #12 - The Long-Distance Troublemakers (Raven and Samos) by Rairen
Added on Dec 29, 2009For weeks having been visited by the mad, unsettling voice of a southern slave, Aja manages her way into a conversation in which she learns more about her guest than she ever wanted to know. Oops?
It is early afternoon on Yochem, the 95th day of the Low Sun,
In the Year of Dragon's Slumber, year 39 of the 21st Age.
You are Aja, of many people. (type 'tribes' to see your tribes).
You are 27 years, 1 months, and 0 days old,
(While chatting in the Sanctuary...)
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I sent you a present."
You contact the blind, wine-haired female with the Way.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I remembered."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"A present, Raven? That is... so sweet of you. I thought you were staying... indoors?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't need to leave to send things."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"I... see. Do I get to... that is, pardon me, do I get to know what it is you sent?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"... Serilla has it."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"The Faithful Lady? I... didn't know you knew her."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I hope she gives it to you."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"I'm... not to know what it is, Raven? You tease."
You feel uneasy, uncertain.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm not entirely sure myself."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... My, what... a mystery."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"I am... charmed that you would remember me, Raven. "
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"*slightly wistful* Are you just saying that but not meaning it? I think you do that a lot."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes are distracted, her smile never quite reaching them.
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Say things without meaning them? I certainly hope not. It would be unkind to you."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"It's all right if you do. You're tricky though."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Tricky? *soft amusement* I hope not, too. Why would I trick you?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't know. *confusion* Everyone tricks. Politics. Always. You need to do this and then they'll do the other thing."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Yes, it can be... challenging. You do not like such puzzles?"
You dissolve the psychic link.
contact serilla
You are unable to reach their mind.
contact wine
You contact the blind, wine-haired female with the Way.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"No."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Shh... I know many who do not. What do you enjoy, then?"
You feel helplessly linked to this woman.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I like to walk sometimes."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Do you? Where do you walk?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't know."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Everywhere."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Mm. And what do you look at? The sky?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't look at anything."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"How could I?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... How could you? I... don't understand."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm..blind. I can't really look at anything, can I?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... What of your other senses, Raven? I knew a woman once, blind as you are... but she could always tell it was me coming to visit her."
You feel like you need to push harder on this mystery.
You think:
"Just a little, Raven... Let me push a little closer."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Looking means eyes."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"I apologize for my lack of clarity, Raven. What do you feel, then?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Everything."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Even me, so far away?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't.."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Who was the girl?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... The girl?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"The blind girl. Your friend."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"*carefully* Her... name was Kaevya."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Oh. I remember that name."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... Do you? Do you know her, Raven?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"She was killed. In the alleys."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... Was she? It... was more than a year ago. I didn't know what happened to her."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Is it bad to...to let someone live...if they want to kill you?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Raven, what... do you mean? Does someone mean to harm you?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Lots of people, probably. But I'm not talking about that."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... Then, I don't... know. Someone spared my life once, thinking I meant to kill them. I dare say I owe them for that."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I just want to know if it's bad. And what's a better word than alluring? Everytime I say it to people, they draw the wrong conclusion."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"It can be either, Raven. It's not a question I can answer and..."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... *with a brief flaring of amusement* Ah... try charming?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Charming?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Yes, you can call their company charming, if they mistake you for a seductress."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"They all did."
Sliding from her stool in a smooth motion, you stand up from a black-painted bar.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes are troubled, distant.
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"All? Oh, my. I'd not realized."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Me neither."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... How many, if I might ask?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"They didn't really though."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Just...two or three. They all said I was using the wrong word."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Hm. Do I know them, Raven?"
You feel like you are perpetually grasping at the air around this woman.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't think so."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman inclines her head to the svelte, top-knotted woman before turning, reaching for her hood.
(Strolling off to somewhere quieter to concentrate.)
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Such a pity. How... did you know Kaevya?"
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"*mental voice subdued* Aja... I hope everything was alright."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"And I'm listening, dear. Please pardon my distraction."
You dissolve the psychic link.
contact ehrick
You contact the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"Alright? What is it?"
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Mmm? No, no... I mean... I hope you are alright."
You feel lightheaded.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"Me? Of course, Ehrick. I'm never unwell."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I...*faint confusion*"
You dissolve the psychic link.
You contact the blind, wine-haired female with the Way.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't remember. Please. Talk to your friend. I should go."
A Wooden Path Within the Garden [NEW]
Mottled stones, flecked with speckles of brown and red, have been set
into the ground to form a cobbled road that winds a circuitous path around
the perimeter of this garden. The air surrounding the pathway is filled
with the earthen aroma of moisture. Newly planted herbs and other forms of flora, situated so as to create a patterned burst of color, explode from the soil on either side of the path. Clumps of yellow-blossomed purslane tuck themselves under the soft, bluish-green leaves of Lady's Mantle while delicate pymlithe trees rise up behind them.
A wooden bridge, delicately carved from heartwood, has been set within
the center of the garden, encircling an immense, marble statue.
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... Yes, Raven?"
Pulling herself onto the bridge's railing, you sit down.
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... Shh... I'm sorry for startling you. Please, forgive me."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Oh, someone told me about her."
The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak closes her eyes, hands pressed to the railing.
You think:
"... Dizzy..."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"It's not your fault."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"... of course not. My apologies - with the patrol and such, I am still on edge."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm sorry, it's getting very crowded in here."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Are you certain, Raven? In that case, be well. It was so kind of you to remember me."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I hope she gives it to you, that's all."
The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak takes in a deep, calming breath through her nose.
You think:
"... I don't understand..."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Thank you for the new word."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"If that doesn't work, I'll... try to think of a new one for you."
You dissolve the psychic link.
(hemote) The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak's shoulders tense, rigid.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Oh, *pleased* thank you. very much."
(hemote) The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak gives a soft groan, deep in the back of her throat.
You think:
"... Breathe, little Aja. Breathe."
contact ehrick
You contact the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"Not at all, Ehrick. I know how such things affect those patrolling. Was all well on the Road?"
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"*an eerie feeling weaving through his words* Well enough, I suppose. Just a... pack of gortok. They hardly gave me pause."
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"... Ehrick, I'm a bit lightheaded, I won't lie to you. However, are... you certain that is all?"
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"*mental voice firm, nearly commanding* That was all."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"You're... lightheaded? Are you sleeping well?"
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"*imperiousness crossing her thoughts - and quickly, very quickly suppressed* ... I... see. And it's merely from trying to walk and use the Way. Such dizziness can be... distracting."
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"*a quick burst of heat interweaving his thoughts* We could always go for a lesson, if you've time... teacher."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"My... owner... says I can't use charming. He says I should use interesting instead."
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"I... believe I might have time, but perhaps give me an hour or two. Some distractions are more easily chased away than others."
You dissolve the psychic link.
contact ehrick
You contact the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man with the Way.
The last rays of the red sun fade over the Grey Forest.
The red orb of Jihae, the red moon, begins to vanish as it slowly sets.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"Your owner? Hm, they and I should have words. Interesting is a good word, however, as well."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Certainly. I'll inform him that you wish to speak to him. Any particular subject I should relay?"
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"I..."
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"... beg your pardon. That was not intended for you."
You feel completely and utterly mortified.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"A thousand pardons, Ehrick."
You dissolve the psychic link.
You contact the blind, wine-haired female with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"*mortification faint in her thoughts* Yes... I... feel as though your owner and I should speak if that is the case. However, interesting is a good word, as well."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"So, ka. There is... no need to apologize, Aja."
The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak lifts a hand, pressing a thumb and forefinger to her eyes.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"..Are you...what's wrong?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Nothing, dear. Nothing. I'm fine. Merely... clumsy."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"No you're not. You're very graceful."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"And I am... charmed by the compliment. "
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"It's ok. I've got lots of others at home."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Other compliments or other graceful people?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Other...compliments."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Then I hope I can earn them all, in time. Does your owner know of me, Raven?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Yes. He doesn't hurt my friends."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"I'm... glad to hear it. Does he have a name? I... feel left out, him knowing me but I not able to make my introductions."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I will ask."
You think:
"... Dizzy."
You feel as though you'll need to lie down.
You think:
"... Please. I need to know."
The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak sits motionless on the railing of the bridge, the material of her cloak fluttering about her face.
You lower the hood of a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak.
You feel comforted by the evening air.
You think:
"Pymlithe and cool winds..."
You feel at home.
(Waiting...)
You think:
"Let me have your name. Let this be done."
(... and more waiting...)
You feel impatient.
You think:
"... Come, Raven. Please."
(... and yet MORE waiting...)
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
You think:
"... Mm."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Well that took forever."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"It's fine, Raven."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Did you have any luck?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Hi there, Aja."
You contact the rugged, stubble-bearded man with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Good... evening. That is, how do you do - and I beg your pardon, but have we met?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"*a slightly disbelieving pause* Uh. Yes."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"No, we haven't, though I was a friend of Kharad's."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"... Oh, I see. You know Raven, too."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I do. You're very intelligent to catch that so quickly."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"I thank you for the compliment, stranger. Might I ask the pleasure of your name? I never thought to hear you contact me directly."
You feel tense.
Your mood is now uneasy.
You think:
"... Oh, Sweet Krath, who is this?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Raven thought you wanted to introduce yourself."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"My name is Samos."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman goes... very... very... still.
You think:
"Oh..."
You think:
"... -fuck-."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Samos."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"That is... it's... a pleasure to meet you, then. Raven has spoken so little of you - but has apparently given you my name, in return."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"She's a sweet creature. I hope you do not mind me speaking with her?"
You think:
"Oh... this is bad. This is... very... very bad."
You feel like you remember Paryl saying, "Lord Templar Samos says... Hi.".
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't. She.. likes having someone she can talk with."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Then I will... attempt to entertain her, still. It was... so... kind of you to offer to find my mind. As I'd said, I'd not expected it."
You think:
"And this is so... so... bad."
The enormous sun rises above the barren plains in the east.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman stares down blankly at the bridge in front of her.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I like catching people off guard now and then."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"*with quiet, arch amusement* Then I believe your mission is accomplished... Samos."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I met Elithan last week. He seems like an honorable enough man."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Elithan is an honorable man, by all accounts, it is true. You are in the northlands, then?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Heh. No, darlin', I don' think I'm welcome there quite yet."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"*with soft laughter* No more than a Faithful Lord of Tuluk is welcome in the south, surely."
You feel like you're going to be sick.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Not in the now. In the future, who's to say... but anyway."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm led to understand you had a stay in Allanak yourself, and then returned home."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"An interesting notion. Yes, that is true. We were both... friends... of the Warlord of Tor."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I wanted to let you know that we'll not hunt you or try to bring you back."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"*with sudden stillness* How kind of you."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"It's a small gesture for me to make, I'm sure for you it must be a larger worry lifted."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"If you'll pardon my frankness... Samos, I often worry about small gestures."
You think:
"Oh... for pity's sake. Why me?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Why would you? I gain nothing in trying to chase you down, and I'd hope Elithan would do the same, for one of mine."
You think:
"... Oh, this is false."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"And you're Raven's friend. I take that seriously."
You feel rigid, angry, frustrated.
You think:
"This is the Ivory and you have no place here."
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Ah, I hope I am not intruding, Aja."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Then I am... overwhelmed. It is a pity that I did not have the pleasure of making your acquaintance while in the Black."
You feel like bashing your head into a tree a few times over.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Maybe you might if you come with Elithan to our next meeting. If not... at least now you know me."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"... I see that I am. I'll await a touch in my mind, but otherwise my time is free."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
You think:
"Ehrick, that is... such... an understatement."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"I've... heard of you, as you undoubtedly know by now, but I do not believe the Faithful Lord is in the habit of bringing his partisans to such... auspicious meetings."
You feel like you really need a drink.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Perhaps not."
You think:
"You have a fondness for taking fingers."
You feel bitterly amused.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I feel like I'm probably not who you were expecting to hear from. Didn't mean to unsettle you this much."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"In my experience with your kin, I... often found that unsettling was what they enjoyed best. But no, I... assuredly was not expecting you."
You feel like this is just a fantastically perfect way to spend your seven year anniversary since your exile.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm not like many of the others, I think I can safely say. And I wouldn't hurt a friend of Raven's. Who was it who enslaved you, when you were here?"
You think:
"I don't want to talk about this..."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"... Hm. Shiran Oash led the interrogation, but it was my Lady the Senior Lady of House Borsail that took me in her protection. And then the Warlord, after her."
You feel at a loss. You feel like you could truly use Elithan here RIGHT NOW.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I've heard a good deal of interesting things about old Shiran."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"I heard he died to the Warlord and Senior Lady, but I fear our acquaintence, itself, was... brief."
You feel a touch of pride at that.
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"... If I may, do you often show such interest in escaped slaves, or simply the northern ones who know the Faithful Lord Elithan?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Raven says she just wanted you to be happy. And I just wanted to reassure you, if you were worried, that I'm glad you returned home."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"You're not an escaped slave, and no, I don't often. Actually, I only thought to say hello because she asked."
You think:
"... What woman is this, to have such power?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I hope you didn't take all this as some sort of threat. That's really not how I work at all."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"*with lingering amusement* ... Oh? How do you work, Lord Templar?"
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman takes several deep, calming breaths.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I defend my city and my flock. I don't threaten."
You think:
"Don't believe, little Aja."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Your words remind me of the Warlord. I can see why you would be friends."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"We didn't always agree, but neither of us saw point to causing pain needlessly."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman rolls her shoulders, idly.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"You spoke of a Borsail Lady... was that Lady Ceylara? The senator? She was his lover, I think."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"She... was, I believe, though it was never said openly."
You think:
"... Why in the name of all that is good is he still talking with me?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"He always seemed devoted to her when we spoke."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"She was... on his mind, often, yes. He took her promotion to the Senate reluctantly at best."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"It was a shame, the Warlord's death. His rivalry with the Guild only grew in intensity during my time there."
You think:
"... I... should not be doing this."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I tried to prevent it. I saw where it was going."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"They.. killed most of his other servants."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Yes, I'd known many of them, in my time there. It seems I was the most fortunate of them all. How did you fare during the assault by the gith, Lord Templar?"
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"The Warlord was fond of them, as a race."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm glad they didn't get you. And it was an honorable thing, not to leave while he lived. I took a few bruises from the gith, but I survived."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Thank you for the words and the compliment. It is a pity the Warlord never spoke of you."
You think:
"Or I would know what is going on."
You think:
"Must they always try to kill me with kindness?"
You think:
"... Elithan... couldn't you... walk by soon?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Yeah. Same to you. I've other things to do, so I'll let you go. It was good to meet you."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Likewise, Lord Templar. It was an... unexpected pleasure."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Be well. Send Elithan my regards when you tell him about this."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"... I'll tell him you said 'Hi', Lord Templar."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Heh. Alright, then."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
You dissolve the psychic link.
contact elithan
You are unable to reach their mind.
You think:
"Oh, Sweet Krath."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman takes in a long gasp of air.
You think:
"... Oh, sweet... Krath... who do I tell about this?"
It is early afternoon on Yochem, the 95th day of the Low Sun,
In the Year of Dragon's Slumber, year 39 of the 21st Age.
You are Aja, of many people. (type 'tribes' to see your tribes).
You are 27 years, 1 months, and 0 days old,
(While chatting in the Sanctuary...)
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I sent you a present."
You contact the blind, wine-haired female with the Way.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I remembered."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"A present, Raven? That is... so sweet of you. I thought you were staying... indoors?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't need to leave to send things."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"I... see. Do I get to... that is, pardon me, do I get to know what it is you sent?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"... Serilla has it."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"The Faithful Lady? I... didn't know you knew her."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I hope she gives it to you."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"I'm... not to know what it is, Raven? You tease."
You feel uneasy, uncertain.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm not entirely sure myself."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... My, what... a mystery."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"I am... charmed that you would remember me, Raven. "
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"*slightly wistful* Are you just saying that but not meaning it? I think you do that a lot."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes are distracted, her smile never quite reaching them.
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Say things without meaning them? I certainly hope not. It would be unkind to you."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"It's all right if you do. You're tricky though."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Tricky? *soft amusement* I hope not, too. Why would I trick you?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't know. *confusion* Everyone tricks. Politics. Always. You need to do this and then they'll do the other thing."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Yes, it can be... challenging. You do not like such puzzles?"
You dissolve the psychic link.
contact serilla
You are unable to reach their mind.
contact wine
You contact the blind, wine-haired female with the Way.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"No."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Shh... I know many who do not. What do you enjoy, then?"
You feel helplessly linked to this woman.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I like to walk sometimes."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Do you? Where do you walk?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't know."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Everywhere."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Mm. And what do you look at? The sky?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't look at anything."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"How could I?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... How could you? I... don't understand."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm..blind. I can't really look at anything, can I?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... What of your other senses, Raven? I knew a woman once, blind as you are... but she could always tell it was me coming to visit her."
You feel like you need to push harder on this mystery.
You think:
"Just a little, Raven... Let me push a little closer."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Looking means eyes."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"I apologize for my lack of clarity, Raven. What do you feel, then?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Everything."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Even me, so far away?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't.."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Who was the girl?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... The girl?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"The blind girl. Your friend."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"*carefully* Her... name was Kaevya."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Oh. I remember that name."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... Do you? Do you know her, Raven?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"She was killed. In the alleys."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... Was she? It... was more than a year ago. I didn't know what happened to her."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Is it bad to...to let someone live...if they want to kill you?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Raven, what... do you mean? Does someone mean to harm you?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Lots of people, probably. But I'm not talking about that."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... Then, I don't... know. Someone spared my life once, thinking I meant to kill them. I dare say I owe them for that."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I just want to know if it's bad. And what's a better word than alluring? Everytime I say it to people, they draw the wrong conclusion."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"It can be either, Raven. It's not a question I can answer and..."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... *with a brief flaring of amusement* Ah... try charming?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Charming?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Yes, you can call their company charming, if they mistake you for a seductress."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"They all did."
Sliding from her stool in a smooth motion, you stand up from a black-painted bar.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes are troubled, distant.
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"All? Oh, my. I'd not realized."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Me neither."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... How many, if I might ask?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"They didn't really though."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Just...two or three. They all said I was using the wrong word."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Hm. Do I know them, Raven?"
You feel like you are perpetually grasping at the air around this woman.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't think so."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman inclines her head to the svelte, top-knotted woman before turning, reaching for her hood.
(Strolling off to somewhere quieter to concentrate.)
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Such a pity. How... did you know Kaevya?"
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"*mental voice subdued* Aja... I hope everything was alright."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"And I'm listening, dear. Please pardon my distraction."
You dissolve the psychic link.
contact ehrick
You contact the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"Alright? What is it?"
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Mmm? No, no... I mean... I hope you are alright."
You feel lightheaded.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"Me? Of course, Ehrick. I'm never unwell."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I...*faint confusion*"
You dissolve the psychic link.
You contact the blind, wine-haired female with the Way.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't remember. Please. Talk to your friend. I should go."
A Wooden Path Within the Garden [NEW]
Mottled stones, flecked with speckles of brown and red, have been set
into the ground to form a cobbled road that winds a circuitous path around
the perimeter of this garden. The air surrounding the pathway is filled
with the earthen aroma of moisture. Newly planted herbs and other forms of flora, situated so as to create a patterned burst of color, explode from the soil on either side of the path. Clumps of yellow-blossomed purslane tuck themselves under the soft, bluish-green leaves of Lady's Mantle while delicate pymlithe trees rise up behind them.
A wooden bridge, delicately carved from heartwood, has been set within
the center of the garden, encircling an immense, marble statue.
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... Yes, Raven?"
Pulling herself onto the bridge's railing, you sit down.
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"... Shh... I'm sorry for startling you. Please, forgive me."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Oh, someone told me about her."
The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak closes her eyes, hands pressed to the railing.
You think:
"... Dizzy..."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"It's not your fault."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"... of course not. My apologies - with the patrol and such, I am still on edge."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm sorry, it's getting very crowded in here."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Are you certain, Raven? In that case, be well. It was so kind of you to remember me."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I hope she gives it to you, that's all."
The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak takes in a deep, calming breath through her nose.
You think:
"... I don't understand..."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Thank you for the new word."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"If that doesn't work, I'll... try to think of a new one for you."
You dissolve the psychic link.
(hemote) The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak's shoulders tense, rigid.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Oh, *pleased* thank you. very much."
(hemote) The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak gives a soft groan, deep in the back of her throat.
You think:
"... Breathe, little Aja. Breathe."
contact ehrick
You contact the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"Not at all, Ehrick. I know how such things affect those patrolling. Was all well on the Road?"
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"*an eerie feeling weaving through his words* Well enough, I suppose. Just a... pack of gortok. They hardly gave me pause."
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"... Ehrick, I'm a bit lightheaded, I won't lie to you. However, are... you certain that is all?"
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"*mental voice firm, nearly commanding* That was all."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"You're... lightheaded? Are you sleeping well?"
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"*imperiousness crossing her thoughts - and quickly, very quickly suppressed* ... I... see. And it's merely from trying to walk and use the Way. Such dizziness can be... distracting."
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"*a quick burst of heat interweaving his thoughts* We could always go for a lesson, if you've time... teacher."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"My... owner... says I can't use charming. He says I should use interesting instead."
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"I... believe I might have time, but perhaps give me an hour or two. Some distractions are more easily chased away than others."
You dissolve the psychic link.
contact ehrick
You contact the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man with the Way.
The last rays of the red sun fade over the Grey Forest.
The red orb of Jihae, the red moon, begins to vanish as it slowly sets.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"Your owner? Hm, they and I should have words. Interesting is a good word, however, as well."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Certainly. I'll inform him that you wish to speak to him. Any particular subject I should relay?"
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"I..."
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"... beg your pardon. That was not intended for you."
You feel completely and utterly mortified.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"A thousand pardons, Ehrick."
You dissolve the psychic link.
You contact the blind, wine-haired female with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"*mortification faint in her thoughts* Yes... I... feel as though your owner and I should speak if that is the case. However, interesting is a good word, as well."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"So, ka. There is... no need to apologize, Aja."
The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak lifts a hand, pressing a thumb and forefinger to her eyes.
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"..Are you...what's wrong?"
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Nothing, dear. Nothing. I'm fine. Merely... clumsy."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"No you're not. You're very graceful."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"And I am... charmed by the compliment. "
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"It's ok. I've got lots of others at home."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Other compliments or other graceful people?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Other...compliments."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Then I hope I can earn them all, in time. Does your owner know of me, Raven?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Yes. He doesn't hurt my friends."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"I'm... glad to hear it. Does he have a name? I... feel left out, him knowing me but I not able to make my introductions."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"I will ask."
You think:
"... Dizzy."
You feel as though you'll need to lie down.
You think:
"... Please. I need to know."
The figure in a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak sits motionless on the railing of the bridge, the material of her cloak fluttering about her face.
You lower the hood of a hooded, white-trimmed, red cloak.
You feel comforted by the evening air.
You think:
"Pymlithe and cool winds..."
You feel at home.
(Waiting...)
You think:
"Let me have your name. Let this be done."
(... and more waiting...)
You feel impatient.
You think:
"... Come, Raven. Please."
(... and yet MORE waiting...)
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
You think:
"... Mm."
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"Well that took forever."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"It's fine, Raven."
You send a telepathic message to the blind, wine-haired female:
"Did you have any luck?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Hi there, Aja."
You contact the rugged, stubble-bearded man with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Good... evening. That is, how do you do - and I beg your pardon, but have we met?"
The blind, wine-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
"*a slightly disbelieving pause* Uh. Yes."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"No, we haven't, though I was a friend of Kharad's."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"... Oh, I see. You know Raven, too."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I do. You're very intelligent to catch that so quickly."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"I thank you for the compliment, stranger. Might I ask the pleasure of your name? I never thought to hear you contact me directly."
You feel tense.
Your mood is now uneasy.
You think:
"... Oh, Sweet Krath, who is this?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Raven thought you wanted to introduce yourself."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"My name is Samos."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman goes... very... very... still.
You think:
"Oh..."
You think:
"... -fuck-."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Samos."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"That is... it's... a pleasure to meet you, then. Raven has spoken so little of you - but has apparently given you my name, in return."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"She's a sweet creature. I hope you do not mind me speaking with her?"
You think:
"Oh... this is bad. This is... very... very bad."
You feel like you remember Paryl saying, "Lord Templar Samos says... Hi.".
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't. She.. likes having someone she can talk with."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Then I will... attempt to entertain her, still. It was... so... kind of you to offer to find my mind. As I'd said, I'd not expected it."
You think:
"And this is so... so... bad."
The enormous sun rises above the barren plains in the east.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman stares down blankly at the bridge in front of her.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I like catching people off guard now and then."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"*with quiet, arch amusement* Then I believe your mission is accomplished... Samos."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I met Elithan last week. He seems like an honorable enough man."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Elithan is an honorable man, by all accounts, it is true. You are in the northlands, then?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Heh. No, darlin', I don' think I'm welcome there quite yet."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"*with soft laughter* No more than a Faithful Lord of Tuluk is welcome in the south, surely."
You feel like you're going to be sick.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Not in the now. In the future, who's to say... but anyway."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm led to understand you had a stay in Allanak yourself, and then returned home."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"An interesting notion. Yes, that is true. We were both... friends... of the Warlord of Tor."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I wanted to let you know that we'll not hunt you or try to bring you back."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"*with sudden stillness* How kind of you."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"It's a small gesture for me to make, I'm sure for you it must be a larger worry lifted."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"If you'll pardon my frankness... Samos, I often worry about small gestures."
You think:
"Oh... for pity's sake. Why me?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Why would you? I gain nothing in trying to chase you down, and I'd hope Elithan would do the same, for one of mine."
You think:
"... Oh, this is false."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"And you're Raven's friend. I take that seriously."
You feel rigid, angry, frustrated.
You think:
"This is the Ivory and you have no place here."
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Ah, I hope I am not intruding, Aja."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Then I am... overwhelmed. It is a pity that I did not have the pleasure of making your acquaintance while in the Black."
You feel like bashing your head into a tree a few times over.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Maybe you might if you come with Elithan to our next meeting. If not... at least now you know me."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"... I see that I am. I'll await a touch in my mind, but otherwise my time is free."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
You think:
"Ehrick, that is... such... an understatement."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"I've... heard of you, as you undoubtedly know by now, but I do not believe the Faithful Lord is in the habit of bringing his partisans to such... auspicious meetings."
You feel like you really need a drink.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Perhaps not."
You think:
"You have a fondness for taking fingers."
You feel bitterly amused.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I feel like I'm probably not who you were expecting to hear from. Didn't mean to unsettle you this much."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"In my experience with your kin, I... often found that unsettling was what they enjoyed best. But no, I... assuredly was not expecting you."
You feel like this is just a fantastically perfect way to spend your seven year anniversary since your exile.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm not like many of the others, I think I can safely say. And I wouldn't hurt a friend of Raven's. Who was it who enslaved you, when you were here?"
You think:
"I don't want to talk about this..."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"... Hm. Shiran Oash led the interrogation, but it was my Lady the Senior Lady of House Borsail that took me in her protection. And then the Warlord, after her."
You feel at a loss. You feel like you could truly use Elithan here RIGHT NOW.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I've heard a good deal of interesting things about old Shiran."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"I heard he died to the Warlord and Senior Lady, but I fear our acquaintence, itself, was... brief."
You feel a touch of pride at that.
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"... If I may, do you often show such interest in escaped slaves, or simply the northern ones who know the Faithful Lord Elithan?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Raven says she just wanted you to be happy. And I just wanted to reassure you, if you were worried, that I'm glad you returned home."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"You're not an escaped slave, and no, I don't often. Actually, I only thought to say hello because she asked."
You think:
"... What woman is this, to have such power?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I hope you didn't take all this as some sort of threat. That's really not how I work at all."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"*with lingering amusement* ... Oh? How do you work, Lord Templar?"
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman takes several deep, calming breaths.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I defend my city and my flock. I don't threaten."
You think:
"Don't believe, little Aja."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Your words remind me of the Warlord. I can see why you would be friends."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"We didn't always agree, but neither of us saw point to causing pain needlessly."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman rolls her shoulders, idly.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"You spoke of a Borsail Lady... was that Lady Ceylara? The senator? She was his lover, I think."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"She... was, I believe, though it was never said openly."
You think:
"... Why in the name of all that is good is he still talking with me?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"He always seemed devoted to her when we spoke."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"She was... on his mind, often, yes. He took her promotion to the Senate reluctantly at best."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"It was a shame, the Warlord's death. His rivalry with the Guild only grew in intensity during my time there."
You think:
"... I... should not be doing this."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I tried to prevent it. I saw where it was going."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"They.. killed most of his other servants."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Yes, I'd known many of them, in my time there. It seems I was the most fortunate of them all. How did you fare during the assault by the gith, Lord Templar?"
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"The Warlord was fond of them, as a race."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm glad they didn't get you. And it was an honorable thing, not to leave while he lived. I took a few bruises from the gith, but I survived."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Thank you for the words and the compliment. It is a pity the Warlord never spoke of you."
You think:
"Or I would know what is going on."
You think:
"Must they always try to kill me with kindness?"
You think:
"... Elithan... couldn't you... walk by soon?"
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Yeah. Same to you. I've other things to do, so I'll let you go. It was good to meet you."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Likewise, Lord Templar. It was an... unexpected pleasure."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Be well. Send Elithan my regards when you tell him about this."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"... I'll tell him you said 'Hi', Lord Templar."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Heh. Alright, then."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
You dissolve the psychic link.
contact elithan
You are unable to reach their mind.
You think:
"Oh, Sweet Krath."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman takes in a long gasp of air.
You think:
"... Oh, sweet... Krath... who do I tell about this?"
It is early afternoon on Yochem, the 95th day of the Low Sun,
In the Year of Dragon's Slumber, year 39 of the 21st Age.
You are Aja, of many people. (type 'tribes' to see your tribes).
You are 27 years, 1 months, and 0 days old,
Continue Reading...The Kids who Tricked the Whore by Rhyden
Added on Dec 15, 2009Jet hires Xeraz, the male whore, to show himself nude to Cross. The kids explain their treachery to embarass Xeraz pantless, but ever furious, the Bynner-whore insists his sid be paid.
***
Turning his gaze sharply, you say to the dark, green-gazed youth, in sirihish:
"Yeh watchin'? That's extra."
Motioning to you, the dark, green-gazed youth says to the dirty, scar-tattooed youth, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"This is a friend of mine."
Crossing his arms, the bronzed, dark-dreadlocked man peers down at the dirty, scar-tattooed youth with a lifting brow.
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none tell jet (turning his gaze from ~dirty) We've met...does she...know what she's doin' here?
Turning his gaze from the dirty, scar-tattooed youth, you ask the dark, green-gazed youth, in sirihish:
"We've met...does she...know what she's doin' here?"
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none
The dark, green-gazed youth whispers to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I'll pay you fourty since I found you the business and ten extra to watch. Fifty."
Flatly, the dirty, scar-tattooed youth says to the dark, green-gazed youth, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Ah'm -not- gettin' nakked in some alley so Ah can be stabbed."
The dark, green-gazed youth begins guarding the dirty, scar-tattooed youth.
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none tell jet (nodding once) Deal.
Nodding once, you say to the dark, green-gazed youth, in sirihish:
"Deal."
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none l
A Shadowy Alleyway [EW]
A narrow, small alley twines its way between small crumbling buildings
made of mudbrick, their aging bulk casting long shadows across the
hard-packed, sandy dirt which surfaces it. Thick with shadows, it smells of
decay and urine. A multitude of noises from the bustling outside filter
into its confines, resounding against the ancient, timeworn bricks.
To the west, the looming mass of the outer walls of Allanak
overshadows the broader expanse of Wall Road.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth is standing here.
The dark, green-gazed youth is standing here.
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none l self
Long, brown plaits of hair have been twisted tightly into ropy dreadlocks
that snake down the sides and back of this man's head. His dreaded mane has
been sun-bleached, leaving several of his braids with a frayed, russet color
while his roots remain brown. His darkly bronzed face is strong boned with
sharply angled brown brows and severe, blue eyes surrounded by dark lashes.
His sturdy nose steeps to a point with umber colored bristles curving over
his lips and across his solid chin in a close-cut beard. His sinewy neck
stretches down to his wide shouldered frame. His brawny arms are ripped
with musculature, veins winding down his forearms and ending with callused
hands. His legs make up most of his height, looking to be robust like the
rest of his toned body.
The bronzed, dark-dreadlocked man is in excellent condition.
<worn on head> a simple black helm
<worn around neck> a studded hide gorget
<worn about throat> a black sandcloth bandana
<slung across back> a blackened serrated bone warsword
<worn across back> a black crescent shield
<worn on left shoulder> a grey, obsidian fist-sewn patch
<worn around wrist> a studded bone bracer
<worn on hands> a pair of shell-backed gloves
<worn around body> a hooded, brown military aba
<worn on legs> a pair of light-brown pants
<worn on feet> a pair of low-cut, brown boots
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none em Turning around, @ begins to unbuckle ~belt, whistling as he begins to unroll ~pants.
Turning around, the bronzed, dark-dreadlocked man begins to unbuckle your leather swordbelt, whistling as he begins to unroll your pair of light-brown pants.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth backs away from you, looking a bit alarmed.
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none sing (as his pants drop to his ankles) Dum dee dum.
As his pants drop to his ankles, you sing, in sirihish:
"Dum dee dum."
With a shake of his head, the dark, green-gazed youth asks the dirty, scar-tattooed youth, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"You won't get stabbed, Gosh everyone is so paranoid. Am I that scary?"
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth says to the dark, green-gazed youth, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"This ain't a good idea. Ah think we should go now."
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none rem pants
You stop using your pair of light-brown pants.
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none drop pants around a bronzed, dreadlocked man's ankles.
You drop a pair of light-brown pants. Shown to the room as:
A pair of light-brown pants is here around a bronzed, dreadlocked man's ankles.
With a shake of his head, the dark, green-gazed youth says to the dirty, scar-tattooed youth, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I understand, its educational for you Cross."
The dark, green-gazed youth says to the dirty, scar-tattooed youth, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Remember all those questions? This will like answer half of them."
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none say (as ~aba flutters in the alley's breeze, showing his naked legs) Umm...
As your hooded, brown military aba flutters in the alley's breeze, showing his naked legs, you say, in sirihish:
"Umm..."
Tugging her wrist away, or trying to, the dirty, scar-tattooed youth says to the dark, green-gazed youth, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Ah can learn latah. -Much- latah."
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none tell jet (watching ~dirty with a smirk) Heh, if she's scared now, she'll be frightened when she sees my little templar.
Watching the dirty, scar-tattooed youth with a smirk, you say to the dark, green-gazed youth, in sirihish:
"Heh, if she's scared now, she'll be frightened when she sees my little templar."
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none tell jet (holding a hand out, palm up) I expect half pay if she flees.
Holding a hand out, palm up, you say to the dark, green-gazed youth, in sirihish:
"I expect half pay if she flees."
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none l
A Shadowy Alleyway [EW]
A narrow, small alley twines its way between small crumbling buildings
made of mudbrick, their aging bulk casting long shadows across the
hard-packed, sandy dirt which surfaces it. Thick with shadows, it smells of
decay and urine. A multitude of noises from the bustling outside filter
into its confines, resounding against the ancient, timeworn bricks.
To the west, the looming mass of the outer walls of Allanak
overshadows the broader expanse of Wall Road.
A pair of light-brown pants is here around a bronzed, dreadlocked man's ankles.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth is standing here.
The dark, green-gazed youth is standing here.
Releasing again, the dark, green-gazed youth asks the dirty, scar-tattooed youth, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Hey, cross, I thought you wanted to learn?"
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none say (placing his hands on his hips, shifting his bare legs, glancing upwards at the darkening sky with a shake of his head) Waste of my time...
Placing his hands on his hips, shifting his bare legs, glancing upwards at the darkening sky with a shake of his head, you say, in sirihish:
"Waste of my time..."
Looking releaved as her regains her wrist, the dirty, scar-tattooed youth says to the dark, green-gazed youth, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Uh. Mebbe latah. Other things ter learn fist. Ain't no rush."
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none get pants (bending over)
Bending over, you pick up a pair of light-brown pants.
It is very light.
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none wear pants (pulling them up)
Pulling them up, you wear your pair of light-brown pants on your legs.
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none l self
Long, brown plaits of hair have been twisted tightly into ropy dreadlocks
that snake down the sides and back of this man's head. His dreaded mane has
been sun-bleached, leaving several of his braids with a frayed, russet color
while his roots remain brown. His darkly bronzed face is strong boned with
sharply angled brown brows and severe, blue eyes surrounded by dark lashes.
His sturdy nose steeps to a point with umber colored bristles curving over
his lips and across his solid chin in a close-cut beard. His sinewy neck
stretches down to his wide shouldered frame. His brawny arms are ripped
with musculature, veins winding down his forearms and ending with callused
hands. His legs make up most of his height, looking to be robust like the
rest of his toned body.
The bronzed, dark-dreadlocked man is in excellent condition.
<worn on head> a simple black helm
<worn around neck> a studded hide gorget
<worn about throat> a black sandcloth bandana
<slung across back> a blackened serrated bone warsword
<worn across back> a black crescent shield
<worn on left shoulder> a grey, obsidian fist-sewn patch
<worn around wrist> a studded bone bracer
<worn on hands> a pair of shell-backed gloves
<worn around body> a hooded, brown military aba
<worn on legs> a pair of light-brown pants
<worn on feet> a pair of low-cut, brown boots
As he points at you with a grin, the dark, green-gazed youth whispers something to the dirty, scar-tattooed youth.
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none say (leaning his shielded back to the wall, lifting a boot to rest against a few grimy bricks) Anythin' else yeh little huns wanted?
Leaning his shielded back to the wall, lifting a boot to rest against a few grimy bricks, you ask, in sirihish:
"Anythin' else yeh little huns wanted?"
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none l in aba
In a hooded, brown military aba (used) :
a pile of allanaki coins
a chunk of yellow scented soap
a pile of coins
the heart of a fleshy green plant
a crumbling red tablet
a translucent green tablet
a small yellow tablet
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none l in belt
In a leather swordbelt (used) :
a sharp bone knife
an unlit simple, leather-wrapped bone torch
a stitched, obsidian-dyed ticket
Skeptically, the dirty, scar-tattooed youth whispers something to the dark, green-gazed youth.
The dark, green-gazed youth laughs in amusement as his gaze shifts to you.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth says to you, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Uh. No. We're good."
With a grin, the dark, green-gazed youth says to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"This was actually a prank, to get yer pants down and embarass yourself. hahahaha"
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none say (taking a step towards ~jet, holding a hand out) Where's my sid?
Taking a step towards the dark, green-gazed youth, holding a hand out, you ask, in sirihish:
"Where's my sid?"
The dark, green-gazed youth laughs heartily as he places his hands onto his knees.
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none em chuckles, unamusedly.
The bronzed, dark-dreadlocked man chuckles, unamusedly.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth stands, looking uncomfortable.
The dark, green-gazed youth exclaims to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I only pay sid to an agreed apon ammount, I'm not paying you for not doing your job! Bad seducer!"
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none tell jet (leaping forwards with a grunt) Where's my sid!?
Leaping forwards with a grunt, you ask the dark, green-gazed youth, in sirihish:
"Where's my sid!?"
127/127 124/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none subdue jet
You subdue the dark, green-gazed youth, despite his attempts to struggle away.
The dark, green-gazed youth stops guarding the dirty, scar-tattooed youth.
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none shout (giving ~jet a shake against the wall) Where's my sid!?
Giving the dark, green-gazed youth a shake against the wall, you shout in sirihish:
"Where's my sid!?"
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth shouts, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"LEt 'im go!"
The dark, green-gazed youth struggles against you and breaks free.
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none l
A Shadowy Alleyway [EW]
A narrow, small alley twines its way between small crumbling
buildings made of mudbrick, their aging bulk casting long shadows
across the hard-packed, sandy dirt which surfaces it. Thick with
shadows, it smells of decay and urine. The quiet night air sweeps
through its confines, brushing sand grains in a eerie rasp against
the ancient, timeworn bricks.
To the west, the looming mass of the outer walls of Allanak
overshadows the broader expanse of Wall Road.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth is standing here.
The dark, green-gazed youth is standing here.
The dark, green-gazed youth draws a slim bone rapier.
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none em lets go of ~jet, brows furrowing.
The bronzed, dark-dreadlocked man lets go of the dark, green-gazed youth, brows furrowing.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth gets her black-dyed bone throwing knife from her dusty dark, hooded cloak.
With a grin, the dark, green-gazed youth says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Back off."
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none rem shield
You stop using your black crescent shield.
The dark, green-gazed youth begins guarding the east exit.
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none es shield
You hold your black crescent shield.
The dark, green-gazed youth stops using his chitin-decorated wooden shield.
The dark, green-gazed youth holds his chitin-decorated wooden shield.
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none tell jet (reaching a hand back to ~warsword) I'll ask yeh once more.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth brandishes her black-dyed bone throwing knife.
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none Reaching a hand back to your blackened serrated bone warsword, you say to the dark, green-gazed youth, in sirihish:
"I'll ask yeh once more."
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none draw warsword
You unsling a blackened serrated bone warsword from your back.
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none l e
l w
To the east is a Shadowy Alleyway.
[Near]
A midden heap sits off to one side, stinking of decay.
West of here is a Shadowy Alleyway.
[Near]
A midden heap sits off to one side, stinking of decay.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth steps back, clutching her black-dyed bone throwing knife.
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none say (eyes narrowing tightly) Where. Is my sid?
Eyes narrowing tightly, you ask, in sirihish:
"Where. Is my sid?"
The dark, green-gazed youth whispers something to the dirty, scar-tattooed youth.
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none say (turning, swinging ~warsword in a curving arc at ~jet) Fine, yeh little rinth bastard.
Turning, swinging your blackened serrated bone warsword in a curving arc at the dark, green-gazed youth, you say, in sirihish:
"Fine, yeh little rinth bastard."
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none kill jet
You slash the dark, green-gazed youth very hard on his head.
The dark, green-gazed youth reels from the blow.
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking fighting: the dark, green-gazed youth riding: none
You slash the dark, green-gazed youth's body.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth shouts, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"No!"
The dark, green-gazed youth attempts to flee.
The dark, green-gazed youth runs west.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth runs west.
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none l w
To the west is a Shadowy Alleyway.
[Near]
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth is standing here.
The dark, green-gazed youth is standing here, bleeding heavily.
A midden heap sits off to one side, stinking of decay.
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none w
A Shadowy Alleyway [EW]
A narrow, small alley twines its way between small crumbling
buildings made of mudbrick, their aging bulk casting long shadows
across the hard-packed, sandy dirt which surfaces it. Thick with
shadows, it smells of decay and urine. The quiet night air sweeps
through its confines, brushing sand grains in a eerie rasp against
the ancient, timeworn bricks.
To the west, the looming mass of the outer walls of Allanak
overshadows the broader expanse of Wall Road.
A midden heap sits off to one side, stinking of decay.
Some broken pipes, largely obscured by a midden heap, reveal a gaping hole.
The dark, green-gazed youth is standing here, bleeding heavily.
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none l w
To the west is Wall Road.
[Near]
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth is standing here.
The pale, slender slave walks along quietly here.
The filthy little boy stands here, looking around plaintively.
You hear a woman's voice shout from the west in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Pearl!"
From the mouth of the alley, you see the dirty, scar-tattooed youth shouts something.
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none shout (roaring as he walks) Where's my sid?!
Roaring as he walks, you shout in sirihish:
"Where's my sid?!"
From the mouth of the alley, you see the dirty, scar-tattooed youth runs east.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth has arrived from the west.
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none l jet (nostrils flaring)
Nostrils flaring, you look down at the dark, green-gazed youth.
Weathered black hair, smooth and about shoulder length is worn on this
young boy's head with green and purple bone beads tied at the ends. His
bright green eyes stand out brilliantly from the contrast of his dark hair
and deeply tanned skin. His hands are worn and calloused and his elbows and
knees are full of scars. His body is hairless and skinny, bursting into
puberty by the development of cut muscles.
The dark, green-gazed youth is in moderate condition.
The dark, green-gazed youth is using:
<worn in left ear> an orange feather earring
<worn in right ear> an orange feather earring
<throat> a jade cross tattoo
<worn on torso> a loose, off-white sandcloth robe
<worn on left shoulder> an airy knot of scarlet feathers
<worn around wrist> a green-dyed bone bracelet
<worn around wrist> an intricately etched bone bracelet
<primary hand> a slim bone rapier
<secondary hand> a chitin-decorated wooden shield
<worn on forearms> a set of broad, painted bone bracelets
<worn on right finger> a red onyx ring
<worn on left finger> an etched obsidian band
<worn as belt> a black belt
<hung from belt> a small bag
<worn on legs> a pair of black sandcloth pants
<worn on right ankle> a green bandana
<worn on feet> a pair of shiny black leather shoes
He is carrying:
nothing obvious
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth begins guarding the dark, green-gazed youth.
The dark, green-gazed youth sheathes a slim bone rapier.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth steps between you and the dark, green-gazed youth, clutching her knife.
The dark, green-gazed youth holds his hand to his head, blood dripping down from it filling his hair.
127/127 121/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none say (roaring, his chest heaving) Yeh little thieves! This is thievery! Where are my sids!
Roaring, his chest heaving, you exclaim, in sirihish:
"Yeh little thieves! This is thievery! Where are my sids!"
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth trembles, keeping her knife pointing at you.
127/127 121/136 103/116 walking standing riding: none l
A Shadowy Alleyway [EW]
A narrow, small alley twines its way between small crumbling
buildings made of mudbrick, their aging bulk casting long shadows
across the hard-packed, sandy dirt which surfaces it. Thick with
shadows, it smells of decay and urine. The quiet night air sweeps
through its confines, brushing sand grains in a eerie rasp against
the ancient, timeworn bricks.
To the west, the looming mass of the outer walls of Allanak
overshadows the broader expanse of Wall Road.
A midden heap sits off to one side, stinking of decay.
Some broken pipes, largely obscured by a midden heap, reveal a gaping hole.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth is standing here.
The dark, green-gazed youth is standing here, bleeding lightly.
127/127 121/136 103/116 walking standing riding: none sheath warsword back
You sling a bloodied serrated bone warsword across your back.
As his eyes begin to glaze over, the dark, green-gazed youth says to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"You hit me Xeraz."
127/127 121/136 106/116 walking standing riding: none tell jet (advancing quickly) And I'll do it again if yeh don't pay up. Nobody stiffs me!
Advancing quickly, you exclaim to the dark, green-gazed youth, in sirihish:
"And I'll do it again if yeh don't pay up. Nobody stiffs me!"
127/127 121/136 106/116 walking standing riding: none subdue jet
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth tries to protect the dark, green-gazed youth but fails!
[ You stop using a black crescent shield. ]
You drop a black crescent shield.
You subdue the dark, green-gazed youth.
The dark, green-gazed youth stops guarding the east exit.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth takes a step or two back, eyes wide with fear.
127/127 117/136 109/116 walking standing riding: none say (roaring as he slams ~jet against the alley wall) Where are my sids!
Roaring as he slams the dark, green-gazed youth against the alley wall, you exclaim, in sirihish:
"Where are my sids!"
127/127 117/136 115/116 walking standing riding: none get shield
You pick up a black crescent shield.
It is very light.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth exclaims to you, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Don't! Ah got 'em! Let 'im go!"
127/127 117/136 115/116 walking standing riding: none say (lifting a fist threateningly) Yeh don't want to fuck with me, kids. I need that sid...I...I...need sid.
Lifting a fist threateningly, you say, in sirihish:
"Yeh don't want to fuck with me, kids. I need that sid...I...I...need sid."
The dark, green-gazed youth kicks his feet at your groin to try and escape.
The dark, green-gazed youth struggles in vain against you.
Pleading, the dirty, scar-tattooed youth says to you, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Ah got it. Let 'im go."
The red moon, Jihae, rises over the streets of Allanak.
127/127 117/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none tell dirty (clutching ^jet scruff with one hand, other fist raised) Give it to me!
Clutching his scruff with one hand, other fist raised, you exclaim to the dirty, scar-tattooed youth, in sirihish:
"Give it to me!"
The dark, green-gazed youth struggles in vain against you.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth opens a dusty leather backpack.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth gets her small leather pouch from her dusty leather backpack.
The dark, green-gazed youth struggles in vain against you.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth gets her pile of allanaki coins from her small leather pouch.
127/127 117/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none em slams ~jet against the wall
The bronzed, dark-dreadlocked man slams the dark, green-gazed youth against the wall.
127/127 117/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none tell jet (eyes narrowing to slits) Quit it.
Eyes narrowing to slits, you say to the dark, green-gazed youth, in sirihish:
"Quit it."
The dark, green-gazed youth screams as he is crushed agaisnt the wall.
The dirty, scar-tattooed youth says to you, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Ah... Ah dunno how much yer supposter get."
The dark, green-gazed youth exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Xeraz yer dead!"
The dark, green-gazed youth struggles in vain against you.
tell dirty (tone calm as he holds ~jet against the wall) Twenty-five sid.
Crossly, the dirty, scar-tattooed youth says to the dark, green-gazed youth, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Shut th' fuck up."
127/127 117/136 116/116 walking standing riding: none Tone calm as he holds the dark, green-gazed youth against the wall, you say to the dirty, scar-tattooed youth, in sirihish:
"Twenty-five sid."
***
***
Turning his gaze sharply, you say to the dark, green-gazed youth, in sirihish:
"Yeh watchin'? That's extra."
Motioning to you, the dark, green-gazed youth says to the dirty, scar-tattooed youth, in tribal-accented sirihish:
...
Continue Reading...Kadians never forget. by Brandonempting
Added on Dec 15, 2009Sharlo and Rhys Kadius head to the apartment of Gage Gritshaw to interrogate someone who had information on the death of a much loved employee.
A Narrow, Dim Hallway [NS Save]
A hallway wide enough for two humans abreast runs to the north into
the building and south to the street. A rounded ceiling of brown mud forms
an arch connecting the walls, which are dingy with dirt and grime. The dirt
floor is littered with small fragments of bone and stone mixed into dusty
sand half an inch deep. Several doors branch off of either side of the
hallway along its length. A small desk sits off to one side of the
corridor.
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak is standing here.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak is standing here.
The stout, bald young man leans up against a wall, arms folded over his chest.
The black-haired man leans against the desk here.
The black-haired man intently scans the area.
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak lumbers over to the stout, bald young man and nods once.
The stout, bald young man looks at the short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak.
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak says to the stout, bald young man, in sirihish:
"Let's go."
Gruffly as he pushes off the wall, the stout, bald young man says to the short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Sharlo, eh? A'ight."
100hp 115mv 89st |standing|walking|cavilish|unarmed|l (Briefly) stout
Briefly, you look at the stout, bald young man.
A raptor-like build characterizes this sturdy young man's stout form,
with lean, hard muscle forming taut sinewy cords beneath his sun-darkened
skin. Not a single stone of spare fat evident anywhere on his broad frame.
His head is completely bald, and hanging off the end of his strong,
masculine jaw is a long, coarse black goatee, its braided length reaching
to his chest before being tied off with a small strand of leather. His nose
at one point might have been aquiline in shape, but now holds more than a
few breakages and dents to its bridge. His left eye is missing completely.
A few light burn scars surround where it now remains permanently sealed shut
with a nasty-looking scar. His remaining eye is beady, and holds a bullish
countenance to it's muddy brown iris. His large hands are heavily
calloused, with protruding knuckles and several scars about them.
The stout, bald young man is in excellent condition.
The stout, bald young man is using:
<worn on head> a dusty leather and jet-colored chitin coif
<worn on face> a dusty black leather eyepatch
<worn in right ear> a dusty twisted yellow bone earring
<worn around neck> a dusty stiff, black-leather gorget
<worn about throat> a dusty water gourd
<slung across back> a dusty bone-handled, obsidian hawkblade
<worn across back> a dusty rope-strapped canvas backpack
<worn on left shoulder> a dusty scrab-shell shoulder plate
<worn on arms> a pair of leather-reinforced sandcloth sleeves
<worn around wrist> a spiked leather bracer
<worn around wrist> a spiked leather bracer
<worn on hands> a dusty pair of fingerless, black leather gloves
<worn around body> a dusty hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster
<worn on legs> a pair of black leather pants
<worn on right ankle> a dusty charcoal sandcloth bandana
<worn on left ankle> a dusty small leather pouch
<worn on feet> a dusty pair of darkly-stained, knee-high raptor-hide boots
He is carrying:
nothing obvious
The black-haired man hands the stout, bald young man a key.
The stout, bald young man walks north.
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak walks north.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak walks north.
You follow the short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak, and walk north.
A Narrow, Dim Hallway [NESW Save]
A hallway wide enough for two humans abreast runs north and south
through the building. A rounded ceiling of brown mud forms an arch
connecting the walls, which are dingy with dirt and grime. The dirt floor
is littered with small fragments of bone and stone mixed into dusty sand
half an inch deep. Several doors branch off of either side of the hallway
along its length, the closest a door of bone and leather along the west
wall.
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak is standing here.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak is standing here.
The stout, bald young man is standing here.
The stout, bald young man walks north.
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak walks north.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak walks north.
You follow the short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak, and walk north.
A Narrow, Dim Hallway [NESW Save]
A hallway wide enough for two humans abreast runs north and south
through the building. A rounded ceiling of brown mud forms an arch
connecting the walls, which are dingy with dirt and grime. The dirt floor
is littered with small fragments of bone and stone mixed into a thin layer
of dusty sand. Several doors branch off of either side of the hallway along
its length. Splotches of color dot the ceiling, the faded remains of a
mural.
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak is standing here.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak is standing here.
The stout, bald young man is standing here.
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak looks around, expression tautly drawn.
The stout, bald young man walks north.
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak walks north.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak walks north.
You follow the short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak, and walk north.
A Narrow, Dim Hallway [NESW Save]
A hallway wide enough for two humans abreast runs north and south
through the building. A rounded ceiling of brown mud forms an arch
connecting the walls, which are dingy with dirt and grime. A couple of hide
sconces for torches are on either side of the hallway across from each
other, the walls blackened by soot just above them. The dirt floor is
littered with small fragments of bone and stone mixed into a thin layer of
dusty sand. Several doors branch off of either side of the hallway along
its length.
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak is standing here.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak is standing here.
The stout, bald young man is standing here.
The stout, bald young man unlocks the door with a notched stone key.
The stout, bald young man opens the door.
<look west>
A door to the west leads to a Simple, Plain Room.
The door is open.[Near]
The hulking, rip-scarred man is sitting on an etched-bone framed bed.
The dusky, jet-curled young woman is sitting on an etched-bone framed bed.
100hp 115mv 90st |standing|walking|cavilish|unarmed|
The stout, bald young man walks west.
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak walks west.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak walks west.
You follow the short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak, and walk west.
A Simple, Plain Room [E Quit Save]
A few old blankets have been heaped into the northwestern corner of
the room; a jumble of faded colors and frayed edges. Several crude charcoal
drawings are scrawled onto the wall near the makeshift bed of blankets. A
stone table is in the middle of the room, its surface smooth and polished
but chipped in several places along the edges. Strips of leather have been
fastened to the tops of each of the table's legs, and hang from there to the
floor. A small stone chest has been pushed into the northeastern corner,
several cords away from the leather tarp serving as a door.
Dark black stains, sticky in texture cling to the floor in a large
darkened blotch.
A sanded bone-framed bed is here pushed against the wall with the rest of the scant furniture.
A hefty wooden barrel is here stuck in a corner.
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak is standing here.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak is standing here.
The stout, bald young man is standing here.
The hulking, rip-scarred man is sitting on an etched-bone framed bed.
The dusky, jet-curled young woman is sitting on an etched-bone framed bed.
The hulking, rip-scarred man moves fowards as if to begin kissing the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
The stout, bald young man closes the door.
The stout, bald young man locks the door with a notched stone key.
Hopping out of bed quickly, the dusky, jet-curled young woman stands up from an etched-bone framed bed.
Slanting his gaze over to an etched-bone framed bed, you look at the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
What may have once been this young woman's beautiful face is now enshrouded
by several long, crisscrossing scars. In fact, most of the dusky skin that
masks her athletic frame is riddled with scar tissue. While some are faint
lines only visible with the inspection of a sharp eye, others are deep ruts
that burrow like the tread of a wagon's wheel. Sharp and angular, her face
is crowned by high cheekbones that hug tightly her sunken viridescent eyes,
her ebon lashes nearly reaching the lines of her trimmed, blade-thin brows.
They angle towards her peaked hairline, from which rolling cascades of jet-
black hair part and fall to her shoulders, framing her face. Perched below
a single stray curl is her small hook nose, the sharp tip pointing downward
at her full, baobab-hued lips. She is a scrape above the height of average
women, with a modest chest and figure to match. Though she may bear a soft
curvature along her trunk and hips, the defined muscles of her limbs allude
to a rather rough lifestyle.
The dusky, jet-curled young woman is in excellent condition.
The dusky, jet-curled young woman is using:
<worn on head> a blue bandana
<worn in hair> a scrap of cloth
<face> a few faint, crossed scars
<worn around neck> a crystal teardrop pendant
<worn about throat> a crystal charm
<arms> a pair of pitted, deep looking scars
<worn on right finger> a grey stone ring
<worn on left finger> a grey stone ring
<worn on left finger> a black granite ring
<worn around body> a hooded, black sandcloth longcloak
<worn on legs> a simple, lace-trimmed sable skirt
<worn on feet> a pair of black leather sandals
She is carrying:
nothing obvious
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak plods heavily into the room and looks around.
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"No, seriously. Have a seat."
Simply, starting to rise from an etched-bone framed bed, releasing the dusky, jet-curled young woman, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Abou' time."
Loudly, her hands gripping for the neckline of her bone-clasped black sandcloth shirt, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says, in sirihish:
"The FUCK."
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak looks at the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
Simply, rising off an etched-bone framed bed, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"I'm jus'a dope dame...business is business though."
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak glances around for a moment.
Beelining it for the door with a quick glance, the dusky, jet-curled young woman looks at you.
The hulking, rip-scarred man sighs faintly as he stands leaning his back against the doorway of the room.
Resting a hand on your ivory-hilted, obsidian-bladed dirk as he nears at the short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak's side, you say to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
"Thanks for the heads up darlin'..."
The dusky, jet-curled young woman opens a grey tregil-hide belt pouch.
The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Hey.. you need to sit down. For real."
The hulking, rip-scarred man leans back against the doorway quietly.
The worn man with wild, curly hair lowers the hood of a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"We're gunna have a small chat."
The hulking, rip-scarred man caually pulls his dusty long-hafted, spiked hammer from his back as he watches the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak keeps you pulled about it's body, gazing outward from under the dark of it's hood.
The hulking, rip-scarred man unslings a dusty long-hafted, spiked hammer from his back.
Slowing his drawl down, you say to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"I'd listen to the man were I you darlin'."
Backstepping away from the doorway, the cord to her grey tregil-hide belt pouch wobbling visibly in her grasp, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says, in sirihish:
"Wha.. wha.."
The worn man with wild, curly hair ambles over to a large stone table and drags out a chair, then motions across the table from him.
The stout, bald young man leans his back against the opposite side of the doorway, watching on.
You lower the hood of a purple-trimmed, hooded black silk cloak.
100hp 115mv 82st |standing|walking|sirihish|unarmed|l
A Simple, Plain Room [E Quit Save]
A few old blankets have been heaped into the northwestern corner of
the room; a jumble of faded colors and frayed edges. Several crude charcoal
drawings are scrawled onto the wall near the makeshift bed of blankets. A
stone table is in the middle of the room, its surface smooth and polished
but chipped in several places along the edges. Strips of leather have been
fastened to the tops of each of the table's legs, and hang from there to the
floor. A small stone chest has been pushed into the northeastern corner,
several cords away from the leather tarp serving as a door.
Dark black stains, sticky in texture cling to the floor in a large
darkened blotch.
A sanded bone-framed bed is here pushed against the wall with the rest of the scant furniture.
A hefty wooden barrel is here stuck in a corner.
The stout, bald young man is standing here.
The worn man with wild, curly hair is standing here.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak is standing here.
The hulking, rip-scarred man is standing here.
The dusky, jet-curled young woman is standing here.
The worn man with wild, curly hair sits at a large stone table.
Easing into it with a shocked expression, the dusky, jet-curled young woman sits on an etched-bone framed bed.
Turning out a chair, you sit at a large stone table.
Your mood is now excitement, nervous, and full of fun.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Table, not bed. Come on over, darlin, before I start havin' Gage move you for us."
You think:
"This en't like me but it's fuckin' not half bad... I could learn from my older cousin."
The worn man with wild, curly hair eases back into his chair, his slivered, watery-blue eyes fixed intensely on the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
The hulking, rip-scarred man quietly watches on with a stoic expression on his gruesomely torn face while he leans against the door.
Her face flushed, though she does manage to throw a smirk the hulking, rip-scarred man's way, the dusky, jet-curled young woman stands up from an etched-bone framed bed.
The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Okay.. Now, you're fuckin' around. Usin' the Way, are you?"
Appearing to calm down a little as she gestures cuttingly through the air, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"Nah. Won't even get in touch with Edom."
Annoyedly tugging out a seat, the dusky, jet-curled young woman sits at a large stone table.
At your table, you say in sirihish, murmuring as he shakes his head:
"What you want wit' Edom? This en't got shit to do wit' the man."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Good, because I'm sure an Oashi would care a great deal about yer rancid fuckin' snatch."
At your table, the worn man with wild, curly hair says in sirihish:
"That's besides the point."
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak moves slowly toward toward a nearby wall leanning against it, keeping it's hood up as it remains silently watching the worn man with wild, curly hair and the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
The delicate, soot-braided man purses his lips as he lifts his arms to cross over his chest.
At your table, the worn man with wild, curly hair says in sirihish, with a firm nod at the dusky, jet-curled young woman:
"If you want to leave this room.. not in a bag.. then you will be professional with us. What we want, is information regardin' the fucker that gave you the scroll and the key."
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, to the worn man with wild, curly hair, pressing a snort through her nostrils:
"Rancid snatch. I can't imagine you think I'm really a whore, if you're starting such a festival?"
Glancing warily, the stout, bald young man looks at the figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak.
You begin speaking cavilish.
At your table, the worn man with wild, curly hair says in sirihish:
"Now.. that's not very professional."
At your table, you say in cavilish, emitting a quick stream of words:
"I got a weird feelin' 'bout this cuz... but I'll follow your lead."
You think:
"Not a whore.. then what is she?"
Remaining silent, the figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak looks at the stout, bald young man.
With a roll of his meaty hand, the worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"So, tell us.. who did you get the scroll and the key from?"
The dusky, jet-curled young woman lifts her elbows from a large stone table, arms raised to cross at her chest. She mumbles quietly, looking the worn man with wild, curly hair up and down with apparent thought. Struggled thought.
The worn man with wild, curly hair casts a long glance over at the hulking, rip-scarred man.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
"I think we might have to start breaking fingers, boss."
The stout, bald young man brings his hand up and begins chewing on his thumbnail idly as he glances over to the table, then to the wall opposite of the door.
Simply, catching the worn man with wild, curly hair's glance, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Give tha' word."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
"Go ahead and grab her hand."
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, her fingers instinctively curling into a fist, tucked beneath her armpits:
"Nope!"
The worn man with wild, curly hair nods and shifts his attention back to the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, loudly:
"Give me a fucking chance, here. Krath."
Muttering under his breath, the stout, bald young man says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Hmph.... You get ta have all th' fun."
The hulking, rip-scarred man moves over to pull out a chair beside the dusky, jet-curled young woman casually.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says, out of character:
"Do we all consent to torture here?"
The stout, bald young man says, out of character:
"I do."
The hulking, rip-scarred man says, out of character:
"If it gets there yes."
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak says, out of character:
"I consent. I like watching torture."
The dusky, jet-curled young woman says, out of character:
"Fine by me."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says, out of character:
"Awesome."
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak says, out of character:
"Only, I withdraw if it gets sexual."
You say, out of character:
"I'm down like Charlie Brown."
At your table, the worn man with wild, curly hair says in sirihish, looking over at the dusky, jet-curled young woman:
"Okay.. Here's your chance."
The hulking, rip-scarred man says, out of character:
"No sexual for me either thanks. Just incase."
Your mood is now nervous but dedicated to his position.
The hulking, rip-scarred man squats down next to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, offering his open palm to the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
Simply, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Gimme' yer' hand girl...Or I'll start with mah' hammer on knee caps...yer' choice."
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, green eyes welling shut, her palm faced out at the hulking, rip-scarred man, though not offeringly:
"A customer pulled them off a dead guy, for me. I think his name was Dorian."
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak grins darkly under it's hood, watching those at a large stone table with intent.
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, rolling a gesture with her other hand:
"A gemmer. So, naturally, not much of a ..customer. Girl fucks a gemmer, she gets some interesting pay."
The hulking, rip-scarred man reaches up to lock his strong fingers around the dusky, jet-curled young woman's wrist, pulling her appendage down to his chest level as he squats.
The delicate, soot-braided man lip twitches to the side a few times spastically, his teeth gritting as he stares across at the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
At your table, the worn man with wild, curly hair says in sirihish:
"You are fucking full of shit. That servant of the void near bore the gem."
The hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Speak up folks...I need ta' know if I need ta' start breakin' fingers..."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says, in sirihish:
"You are fucking full of shit. That servant of the void near bore the gem."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Try again."
Shaking his head slowly, the worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"I don't think you want to be wrong, this time."
Towards the dusky, jet-curled young woman, his tone grave, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Nah', she don'."
You think:
"Well, he can do it..."
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, dully, to the worn man with wild, curly hair, her hand sunk within the hulking, rip-scarred man's grip:
"Gem's aren't hard to come by, you know."
The worn man with wild, curly hair winces.
You think:
"I can watch... and this bitch is feedin' us kank-shit."
Raising a brow as he turns his head, you ask the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
"Kank-shit?"
The worn man with wild, curly hair looks over at the hulking, rip-scarred man and nods a bit.
You begin speaking sirihish.
Dipping his own head, you say to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
"Ayup, kank-shit darlin'."
You begin speaking cavilish.
The hulking, rip-scarred man lifts up his opposite hand, the one not securing the dusky, jet-curled young woman's wrist and grabs ahold of her right pinky.
Exhaling through his flared nostrils, the worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"So let's try this again.. who gave you the key and the scroll?"
A very faint *snap* accompanies a sudden twist of the hulking, rip-scarred man's hand and he lowers his grasp, the tiny digit veering off in a sickening right angle now away from its brother philanges.
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, her eyes welling shut immediately as the hulking, rip-scarred man's twists it .. at an angle:
"I.. fuck, Gage Gritshaw."
The worn man with wild, curly hair bares his teeth and kind of grimaces as he watches the dusky, jet-curled young woman's finger contort unnaturally.
His nose wrinkled up tightly as he winces, you say, in cavilish:
"Shit."
The stout, bald young man winces slightly, exhaling a faint chuckle and shaking his head as he watches the hulking, rip-scarred man break the finger.
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, gulping, her upper body shivering visibly:
"Why would you do that..?"
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak remains silently watching a large stone table from under it's hood.
The hulking, rip-scarred man watches the dusky, jet-curled young woman's face as he squats before her. His own expression holding the casual absentness of a being who is no stranger to mutilation.
Running a hand through his matted, frizzy curls, the worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Let's try this /one more time/... who gave you the scroll and key?"
You think:
"Talk bitch... jus' talk."
You begin speaking sirihish.
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, hunching forward, her brow palmed in the hand that isn't held captive:
"What name do you want me to give! You obviously know more than I do!"
Wetting his lips as he shifts his crosses arms, you say to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"It'd be in everyone's best interest to let us know everythin'... down to the way he fucked if you can still remember. And I'd try."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"I am dead fuckin' serious.. if you don't start answerin' these questions a bit more quickly, Gage will move from fingers, to toes, to limbs, until you are like a sack of hides on the floor."
The hulking, rip-scarred man looks questioningly towards the worn man with wild, curly hair, lifting his opposite hand up once more.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Now.. we want to know who gave you the scroll and the key, is all."
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, as a bead of sweat manages to pass the line of her brow:
"Okay.. okay.. it was.."
The worn man with wild, curly hair holds a finger up to the hulking, rip-scarred man, his watery-blue eyes fixed tightly on the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
You think:
"I know at this point... I'd be speakin' whatever."
You think:
"Krath, I need a drink... and a trip to storm."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Speak up."
The hulking, rip-scarred man watches the worn man with wild, curly hair, his hand now gripping the dusky, jet-curled young woman's primary index finger.
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, with a slow shake of her head:
"Ah, this guy from the Gaj.. ah.. Salarr cloak."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"This client confidentiality kankshit will get you nowhere but dead, darlin."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"That's real specific."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says, in sirihish:
"Fuck, Gage, get the next one."
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, loudly:
"Hold on!"
The worn man with wild, curly hair snaps his fingers and shakes his head, motioning sharply at the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, murmuring quietly, her hand shaking within the hulking, rip-scarred man's grasp:
"No.. no.. no.."
Another dull *snap* like a muffled dry twig under foot permeates the room as the hulking, rip-scarred man twists his wrist, pulling his grip away to reveal the dusky, jet-curled young woman's newest "L" shaped finger.
The delicate, soot-braided man breathes in a deep breath and releases it slowly, shaking his head as he glances across at the dusky, jet-curled young woman with hooded eyes.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak adjusts it's hands under his dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak, keeping an intentful gaze locked upon a large stone table watching the hulking, rip-scarred man and the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
The worn man with wild, curly hair scratches at the side of his pockmarked nose, gaze set expectantly on the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
The dusky, jet-curled young woman presses her brow against a large stone table as she lets out an agonized huff, her captivated arm bent at a right angle, not unlike a couple of its fingers.
Simply, you say to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Know better darlin'... you en't goin' to be missed, but it will hurt on the way to oblivion."
The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Do you honestly expect me to believe that a Salarri would give a whore some rather.. unique things.. from the corpse of a Kadian lead hunter?"
In a passing glance, the figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak looks down at the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
The hulking, rip-scarred man keeps an iron grip on the dusky, jet-curled young woman's right wrist with his own left hand, his massive form squatted down to put himself eye-level with her.
The stout, bald young man idly spins his bluish-black stone ring about on his finger as he watches on, his usual scowl returning to his face.
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, quietly, her speech muffled by the table's surface in front of her face:
"..Edom."
Slamming his meaty fist against the table as he leans forward, spitting out the words, the worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"I know for a FACT that at least one of the people who found Silif's corpse was a Guild member."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"And there were two."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"So you are telling me that an Oashi Elite Guard was romping around with a Guilder, and they both turned in Silif's corpse? Kankshit."
Gently, leaning his head forward as he smiles weakly, you say to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Edom en't here darlin'... and if he were, I think he'd suggest you talk."
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, shaking her a little, nose twisting back and forth against the table:
"Don't know any Guilders."
The hulking, rip-scarred man peers down at the dusky, jet-curled young woman's right hand, her pinky finger turned out halfway down its length to point away from her other finger. her pointer finger broken to bend off towards her thumb.
The worn man with wild, curly hair's eyes grow unfocused, though they are still rather evenly leveled at the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, ponytail, tied back by her scrap of cloth, falling limply around her ear:
"..I don't know where Edom got 'em, but that's where -I- got 'em.. go to him.."
You begin speaking cavilish.
As he squats holding the dusky, jet-curled young woman's wrist in a hand the hulking, rip-scarred man casually pops some meat into his mouth from the chest on the floor next to him, chewing with the nonchalant visage of a man at work.
The dusky, jet-curled young woman bites at her lip as the hulking, rip-scarred man's grip around her hand shifts, heaving a dull grunt through her half-clenched lips.
The worn man with wild, curly hair leans back, sliding a hand across his sweat-glistening brow.
Aside, you say to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
"She might be tellin' the truth, I had a fella' I was payin' on the side... he got some dirt on another Oashi. Name starts wit' A... lookin' for people to get their hands dirty."
Exhaling wearily, the worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Well, darlin.. Looks like Edom is claimin' that he's never even held a scroll, nor has he seen any bahamet-carved keys lately."
The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"So.. we've went from... Void magicker.. to Salarri... to an Oashi Elite. Who're you gunna finger next, Great Lord Samos?"
Reaching up his other hand to the dusky, jet-curled young woman's middle finger, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Finger it is."
The hulking, rip-scarred man's grip finds the dusky, jet-curled young woman's middle finger and repeats the now familiar process, except this time bending back to break the appendage with a sickening *snap* at the base knuckle.
Hefting a shoulder lightly as he turns his gaze back to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, you say to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
"Jus' a thought. Aziz.. that was the name o' the one, bringin' in some shady types under the table for whatever."
The loud -snap- of the bone echos briefly through the small, sweat-stench ridden room.
The delicate, soot-braided man blanches as he turns his face to the side, brow knitting and nose wrinkling as he shakes his head.
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, quietly, flinching as another of her fingers is torn to shreds:
"Myehhr.."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Seriously. If you ever want to use those fingers for a handjob again, I'd start fuckin' talkin."
You begin speaking sirihish.
Raising her free shoulder, her breaths steep and shaky, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"..not gonna believe anything I say, anyway. Could've been any of the three."
The delicate, soot-braided man sucks in another breath, nearly chokes on it as he coughs it out, his watery eyes turning back to the suspect.
You think:
"She's obviously full o' shit... but everyone has a breakin' point."
The worn man with wild, curly hair's throat rattles with a low, irate growl as he runs a hand through his curls.
You think:
"Myself included..."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"You're being extremely unhelpful, you know. All we fuckin' want.. is the name of the mother fucker who took my hunter's shit."
At the sound of the worn man with wild, curly hair's displeasure the hulking, rip-scarred man lifts up his right hand again, this time grabbing the dusky, jet-curled young woman's already broken pinky and twisting, like the top off of a screw-lid bottle so that the digit grinds on the already broken bone.
The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Did he tell you anything about the items when he handed them over?"
Spitting out the words, the worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Such as, "This is some shit I got from a feckin Kadian I axed"?"
The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Fuckers with small dicks like to brag about shit like that. Reckon yer client had a small dick, neh?"
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, quietly:
"He's not a client."
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, struggling to keep her mangled hand still:
"..and I'm not a whore."
You think:
"That is goin' to heal fucked up..."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Then let me say this again, it would behoove you to tell me who the fuck did it."
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, spitting into the surface of the table:
"What the -fuck- does behoo.. ugh.."
You feel a sense of nausea wash over yourself.
The worn man with wild, curly hair shakes his head and looks over at the hulking, rip-scarred man.
You think:
"Breath in and out Rhys... steady yourself."
The worn man with wild, curly hair gets his dusty dujat-tooth longknife from his dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"I'm afraid we just might have to start cuttin' on you, now."
The hulking, rip-scarred man looks over towards the worn man with wild, curly hair, nodding a single time.
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, defeatedly:
"All right. I'll tell you he's up North. His name is Ron. Real skinny guy."
His tone casual, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Rannick...come hold tha' bitch's shoulders, she ain' gonna' be smart abou' it I don' think."
In the room:
1.rannick - the stout, bald young man
Leaning forward, eyes slivering tightly, the worn man with wild, curly hair exclaims to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Tell me what he fuckin' looks like!"
The stout, bald young man grunts, swaggering forward towards the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"He wears the shit with grey veins, neh?"
The hulking, rip-scarred man slings a dusty long-hafted, spiked hammer across his back.
The worn man with wild, curly hair holds up a hand to the stout, bald young man.
Raising his voice as he explodes forward from his seat, smacking the dusky, jet-curled young woman across the face, you exclaim to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"WHY didn't you say that before I had to watch your fuckin' hands get mangled you -bitch-!!"
The stout, bald young man rests a heavy hand on either of the dusky, jet-curled young woman's shoulders.
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, eyes peering out to her mangled hand before scooting back down to the table's surface:
"..because."
You think:
"Calm down..."
The delicate, soot-braided man turns from the dusky, jet-curled young woman and a large stone table, pacing over towards the door and leaning forward against the wall, bracing himself up with a hand as he breathes heavily and sweat falls from his face to the stone floor.
The stout, bald young man takes a step back as you strikes out at the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
You feel a twinge and your nausea clears and is replaced with dull anger and resentment.
Speaking in a slow, coarsely-toned voice, the worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"You had better answer the question. Describe his attire."
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, quietly, her voice a rasp between shaky breaths:
"You said it. Wears the Guild gear. Not a guilder, though."
Pulling it up casually like a tool of the trade, the hulking, rip-scarred man gets his bloodied yellowed bone skinning knife from his dusty leather swordbelt.
The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"How do you know he's not a fuckin' Guilder?"
You think:
"It's not supposed to be like this. But since I started... perhaps it is."
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, annoyedly raising her head to look at the worn man with wild, curly hair:
"I guess I -don't- fucking know, do I?"
Glancing over, the worn man with wild, curly hair says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
"She's talkin.. ease up for a moment, chief."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says, in sirihish:
"As you were.."
As he sits squatting before the dusky, jet-curled young woman the hulking, rip-scarred man holds her wrist with his left hand, glancing to the worn man with wild, curly hair with a nod as he casually rests his bloodied yellowed bone skinning knife on his right thigh in his opposite hand.
The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"You just won't let me cut you any breaks, will you?"
Straightening up and tugging at your snug, deep blue silk vest with purple trim, the delicate, soot-braided man swivels on his heels and steps back to the table, retaking his seat as he wipes a hand across his face and slings the sweat to the ground.
The dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"I told you already, Guy, he's not a Guilder."
The dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"He's not a rinther. He's not a Guilder. Nor is he a rinther."
The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"What is he, then? Who's he work for, and why the fuck is he in Tuluk?"
Clearing his throat as he pipes in, the stout, bald young man says, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Wouldn't be th' first Guilder from th' South...."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the stout, bald young man, in sirihish:
"No kiddin."
Without pause, though her voice still shakes, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"Wanted to see what the sand was like."
Lifting her free shoulder, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"Maybe see what the pockets were like up there."
The stout, bald young man glances over to the hulking, rip-scarred man out of the corner of his eye, nodding shallowly once.
The worn man with wild, curly hair shifts his gaze over to the hulking, rip-scarred man, brow tightly knit.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
"Let's start this off with a toe, Gritshaw."
You think:
"I need to be checkin' into this stuff myself.. guild, a contact is what I need."
A Simple, Plain Room [E Quit Save]
A few old blankets have been heaped into the northwestern corner of
the room; a jumble of faded colors and frayed edges. Several crude charcoal
drawings are scrawled onto the wall near the makeshift bed of blankets. A
stone table is in the middle of the room, its surface smooth and polished
but chipped in several places along the edges. Strips of leather have been
fastened to the tops of each of the table's legs, and hang from there to the
floor. A small stone chest has been pushed into the northeastern corner,
several cords away from the leather tarp serving as a door.
Dark black stains, sticky in texture cling to the floor in a large
darkened blotch.
A sanded bone-framed bed is here pushed against the wall with the rest of the scant furniture.
A hefty wooden barrel is here stuck in a corner.
The stout, bald young man is standing here.
The worn man with wild, curly hair is sitting at a large stone table.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak is leaning here, against a nearby wall.
The hulking, rip-scarred man is standing here.
The dusky, jet-curled young woman is sitting at a large stone table.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
"We'll work our way up."
The hulking, rip-scarred man catches the worn man with wild, curly hair's gaze and nods a single time.
Simply, reaching down towards the dusky, jet-curled young woman's right foot with his free hand, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Rannick...hold'r."
The worn man with wild, curly hair holds up his hand.
The stout, bald young man steps up behind the dusky, jet-curled young woman again, firmly holding her by either shoulder as the hulking, rip-scarred man reaches down.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says, in sirihish:
"She wants to talk."
The hulking, rip-scarred man nods to the worn man with wild, curly hair and casually begins to remove the dusky, jet-curled young woman's boot.
The hulking, rip-scarred man looks down at the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
The worn man with wild, curly hair looks at the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
The hulking, rip-scarred man nods to the worn man with wild, curly hair and casually begins to remove the dusky, jet-curled young woman's left sandal..
Blinking her eyes as him reaches for a sandal, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
"Calm down, will you? Fucking hurting my hand even more."
At your table, the worn man with wild, curly hair says in sirihish, lowering his tone a bit:
"No dice. It's just me an my cousin here.. so speak freely."
The hulking, rip-scarred man sits a single sandal aside on the floor next to him with a slow methodic motion then places the dusky, jet-curled young woman's left foot between his knees for leverage as he squats, her toes facing up.
At your table, the worn man with wild, curly hair says in sirihish:
"Let's hear all these secrets of yours before we get blood all over the fucking place."
At your table, you say in sirihish, biting at his lip as he turns his chair forward, to the dusky, jet-curled young woman:
"And please don't make me watch your fuckin' toe get snapped off either."
At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, between clenched teeth, eyes shut tightly:
"I'm.. telling you."
At your table, the worn man with wild, curly hair says in sirihish:
"No over the fuckin Unseen Way you aren't."
Doing her best to hunch over the table while the boys mess with her sandals, the dusky, jet-curled young woman whispers something to the worn man with wild, curly hair.
The delicate, soot-braided man arches a brow at the worn man with wild, curly hair as he glances between him and the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak remains silent, watching a large stone table intentfully with it's hands absently shifting under his dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak. It grins darkly under it's hood, watching the hulking, rip-scarred man with the dusky, jet-curled young woman's foot.
This large, plain table is made of a round of once-polished stone, grown
cloudy with decades of use. Colored a ruddy brown, streaks of creamy yellow
race through its surface. It is supported by four blocky legs. Chips mark
the edges of this table.
The worn man with wild, curly hair is sitting at it, on a ladder-backed bone chair.
You are sitting at it, on a ladder-backed bone chair.
The dusky, jet-curled young woman is sitting at it, on a chair with a high back of woven bone.
There are a few spaces at it.
On a large stone table (here) :
a wooden spoon
a clay bottle
an empty squat ceramic bottle
an empty water gourd
an empty clay jug
a couple of empty tall ceramic mugs
a red stone pestle
a dusty stone-headed glasshacker
a black hide belt
The stout, bald young man glances down at the dusky, jet-curled young woman, allowing her head at least the freedom to whisper to the worn man with wild, curly hair.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"That is the biggest load of kankshit that's been shoveled my way all week. You are telling me.. that some random jackass gave you a scroll that had been WRITTEN on, for no apparent reason."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"You need to start makin' more sense, sweetling."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
"Aight, go ahead and put the knife to her toe."
Lifting her shoulder against the stout, bald young man's palm, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"We keep our stuff in the same apartment. Nothing is 'his' or 'hers', it's the group's."
The delicate, soot-braided man cringes as he leans back, gulping in another large breath of the dense and steamy air as he frowns at the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
The stout, bald young man tightens his hold on the dusky, jet-curled young woman as the worn man with wild, curly hair speaks.
Once more at the sound of the worn man with wild, curly hair's displeasure, before even getting the "go ahead" the hulking, rip-scarred man lowers his bloodied yellowed bone skinning knife down to the pinky toe of the dusky, jet-curled young woman's left foot.
The dusky, jet-curled young woman grimaces as the knife presses against her pinky toe, that leg squirming minimally as she grips the edge of a large stone table with her 'good' hand.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"So you live with a group of people whose names and identities you don't even know, and one of them randomly passed this fuckin' scroll off to you."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
"Fuck, cut it off already."
Between clenched teeth, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"No.. I told you.. Name's Ron.."
The bone-edged knife not holding the sharpest edge, being bone the hulking, rip-scarred man braces the dusky, jet-curled young woman's shin with his other hand, her foot between his knees and roughly saws off her pinky toe, the process suprisingly swift with a flex of his bulky arm.
Slowly, the severed pinky toe rolls away from the skinning knife.
Through clenched teeth, strained, you say, in sirihish:
"Kank-shit... cut it off, we can feed her piece by piece to the beasts in the stables for all I care."
Throwing her head back, the dusky, jet-curled young woman looses a loud grunt as she is separated from a tiny digit.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to you, in cavilish:
"Ron is a fella in Guild gear who has been spotted in the Ivory.. speaking with nobility in the Ivory."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to you, in cavilish:
"Though, he goes by Cameron."
The worn man with wild, curly hair shifts his attention back to the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
The delicate, soot-braided man lifts your pair of black, knee-high boots quickly from the floor and the spurting of the blood, crossing them underneath himself as he reaches out and grips the table.
You think:
"If she does die... we keep our promise."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"You made the mistake of speakin' about a group, darlin. I plan on havin' the identities of other members of this "group" before you leave here alive."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"So do us both a big favor and pass them on over."
The dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"I told you.. they're.. small groups.. Our Master comes at night.."
Squatted with the dusky, jet-curled young woman's foot between his own bare knees the hulking, rip-scarred man's right thigh begins to slicken with a small amount of her crimson blood from the stump of her pinky-toe-stump.
You begin speaking cavilish.
The dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"Cameron and I havn't seen his face.."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Kankshit. You can do better than that.. your toes are telling you to."
Uproariously screaming towards the ceiling, the dusky, jet-curled young woman asks the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"Fucking KRATH I tell you the ONE secret that I've -ever- kept, and you want to cut off my FUCKING toes!?"
The hulking, rip-scarred man cocks his head to the side, studying the dusky, jet-curled young woman's foot with a workman's contemplative expression, then moves his bloodied yellowed bone skinning knife towards the next toe in line.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"What the fuck are y'talkin about, regardin' this "master?""
Out of the corner of his mouth, shifting his long, thing body awkwardly atop a chair, you say to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
"This bitch is insane Sharlo. Insane and likely to end up dead... master... fuck.."
Gesturing wildly with her free hand, the dusky, jet-curled young woman exclaims to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"I'll show you the damn apartment! I'll let you hide out until he shows up!"
The hulking, rip-scarred man takes the next to in line between his thumb and bent forefinger, his opposite hand bringing the dull edge of his bone knife to rest against the digit.
The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"What, he's a magicker?"
The hulking, rip-scarred man holds his dull bone knife against the digit, looking questioningly towards the worn man with wild, curly hair, awaiting confirmation.
You think:
"What does any of this has to do with Sharlo?"
The worn man with wild, curly hair glances over at you and nods agreeingly.
Sighing defeatedly, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"I'm done. I can't explain this to you, because you won't listen. Just cut off all my toes, or kill me, or whatever. With me dies the secret."
With a rolling motion of his hand, the worn man with wild, curly hair says, in sirihish:
"Death will not be so easy for you, darlin. Gage.. the next toe, please."
Simply, as if offering up advice, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Torch her eye...Even when they want ta' die...ya' torch thier eyes, they'll talk."
Towards the stout, bald young man, taking the initative, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Light up a torch."
The worn man with wild, curly hair glances over and nods firmly at the stout, bald young man.
The dusky, jet-curled young woman says, out of character:
"Let's just FTB if that's going to happen. Not something I want to play out."
Blinking as he brings a hand to his face, cupping his eyes then dropping it to look at her, you say to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Before... you die. You would die? "
The stout, bald young man grins crookedly down at the hulking, rip-scarred man as he releases the dusky, jet-curled young woman, bringing his dusty rope-strapped canvas backpack around infront of him.
You begin speaking cavilish.
The stout, bald young man gets his unlit rag-wrapped bone torch from his dusty rope-strapped canvas backpack.
As if it was obvious, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to you, in sirihish:
"I ... was bred that way."
Spitting off towards the dusky, jet-curled young woman as he shakes his head, gesturing across at her, you say, in cavilish:
"Pathetic."
Looking over his unlit rag-wrapped bone torch, the stout, bald young man says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Eh.... 'Bout to burn out, buy ya only really need a coal anyhow."
The stout, bald young man kneels down to a knee, reaching into his dusty small leather pouch.
The stout, bald young man gets his crude flint-strike kit from his dusty small leather pouch.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"I assure you, we're all ears about this "secret" of yours. So please, let us in on it. I'm kinda fond of secrets."
Pressing her good thumb against her sternum, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"I, as in me, Seli.. I.. I am from.. a family.. a family that deals in crime."
The stout, bald young man hums an off-key tune to himself as he strikes a piece of flint against a length of roughened granite, a shower of sparks landing on his unlit rag-wrapped bone torch.
Gesturing broadly with one hand, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"Wee... gather in groups.. To keep secrecy.."
The stout, bald young man holds his unlit rag-wrapped bone torch.
The stout, bald young man lights an unlit rag-wrapped bone torch.
Slipping it away before getting back up to his feet, the stout, bald young man puts his crude flint-strike kit into his dusty small leather pouch.
Shaking a finger as if speaking to a small child, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"But we don't know who the Master of our circle is, because that would be a threat to the family."
As he watches the stout, bald young man and the hulking, rip-scarred man for a moment, the worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"So, who are the members of your group, aside from Ron?"
Holding up two good fingers at him, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"So we know one or two members of our circle.. namely Ron, who is in Tuluk, and operate based on our Master's teachings."
The dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"Just Ron, as far as I know."
Looking towards the stout, bald young man, speaking as though he doesnt hear the conversation, his tone casual, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Hold it down so it burns with tha' flames comin' back on tha' haft...let tha' end get red, then blow it out down to a coal."
/just/ beginning to hold his dim rag-wrapped bone torch upside down, the stout, bald young man says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Way ahead ah' ya...."
Softly, you ask the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"What are his teachin's darlin'? What 'crime' is so important you'll go blind, deaf, limp, and dead for?"
The stout, bald young man's torch flickers weakly, about to go out.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"What the /fuck/? You just told me that there were many people who shared yer fuckin' apartment."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Answer him, Krath."
Palming her brow, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"..assassination, break ins, that sort of thing."
The hulking, rip-scarred man tips his head once to the stout, bald young man, still squatting infront of the dusky, jet-curled young woman's with her foot between his knees, as though it were forgotten there.
The stout, bald young man brings the small, glowing stump of his very dim rag-wrapped bone torch to his face, blowing out the burning fire and leaving a pointed stick of glowing embers.
The stout, bald young man extinguishes a very dim rag-wrapped bone torch.
The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Now answer me. Why did y'get confused about there bein' more than one person who shares yer fuckin apartment?"
As he reaches down for your ivory-hilted, obsidian-bladed dirk, you say to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Then you, my dear, had a /very/ shitty teacher..."
You draw an ivory-hilted, obsidian-bladed dirk.
You begin speaking cavilish.
His face calm and relaxed as he turns, you ask the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
"I'm goin' to punch a hole in her chest soon cousin... well, I'm thinkin' 'bout it. Do we know where her apartment is?"
The dusky, jet-curled young woman sits still within her seat, shrugging a shoulder as her lips tighten around her teeth.
You feel the realization that life is happening fall around you.
The stout, bald young man looks from his unlit rag-wrapped bone torch, to the hulking, rip-scarred man, to the worn man with wild, curly hair, then to the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
You think:
"It's another day... and I'm alive."
The hulking, rip-scarred man motions towards the stout, bald young man's haft of wood, one end glowing red and smoking lightly.
The hulking, rip-scarred man lifts up a hand to recieve the stout, bald young man's smoldering haft.
The stout, bald young man reaches down infront of the dusky, jet-curled young woman, passing his unlit rag-wrapped bone torch off to the hulking, rip-scarred man.
The stout, bald young man stops using his unlit rag-wrapped bone torch.
The stout, bald young man gives his unlit rag-wrapped bone torch to the hulking, rip-scarred man.
You think:
"I thank Tek and my house for lettin' me have sense and a purpose in life.."
His bushy brow lifting, the worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Can't think of nothin?"
You feel calm.
The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Where's yer fuckin' apartment?"
Your mood is now strangely relaxed despite the circumstances.
Focusing her eyes on the torches flickering flame, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says, in sirihish:
"I don't know."
The worn man with wild, curly hair glances at the smouldering haft that the hulking, rip-scarred man holds.
The hulking, rip-scarred man stands back straight, dropping the dusky, jet-curled young woman's foot from between his knees to rise to his full towering height, a haft of wood, one end smoldering a soft red glow in his right hand.
Bubbling out a brief laugh as he shakes his head, you say, in cavilish:
"I was a bit sick at first, but I tried to hold it in... prove myself to you cousin. Now it's gone past irritation to acceptance. She is a fool. We break her then we kill her."
With a brief shrug as he grins crookedly, you ask the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
"What else is there for her or ourselves?"
Readily reaching up to secure her head, the stout, bald young man says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Gonna hafta hold 'er down fer 'dis f'sure..."
Towards the stout, bald young man, his tone methodic, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Hold her by'ere hair."
You feel a snap as your mind crashes back in sync with your body and things return to the normal rhythm of life.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to you, in cavilish:
"Aye, we're gunna have to fuckin' kill her. This foolish' fuckin' pride of hers will come back to haunt us if we don't."
The stout, bald young man nods to the hulking, rip-scarred man, reaching up and twisting a handful of the dusky, jet-curled young woman's hair about one hand and pulling it taut.
The stout, bald young man looks down at the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
The worn man with wild, curly hair shifts his attention back to the hulking, rip-scarred man.
The hulking, rip-scarred man says, out of character:
"If you would now please assume that Gage used the burning haft of wood in a manner you can imagine yourself, on your PC's eye, and RP accordingly, within the bounds of your comfort, it would be appriciated."
The dusky, jet-curled young woman says, out of character:
"Got it."
Shaking his head as he growls, blinking, you say to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
"Krath! I zoned out for a bit there... it was as if everythin' slowed down. I'm wit' it now, and yes. I think so."
As a thick smoke curls upward from her mangled face, the dusky, jet-curled young woman throws her head back in pain, jaw slackening in agony.
The hulking, rip-scarred man steps back from the dusky, jet-curled young woman, lowering his smoldering haft of wood, his jaw clenched slightly as he watches on with a deathly-cold expression.
Passing your ivory-hilted, obsidian-bladed dirk from hand to hand as he forces his attention on the dusky, jet-curled young woman, and the two men beside her, you say to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
"I didn't think I would get quite this angry cousin... a learnin' experience."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"So, are you sure you don't know where this fuckin' apartment is? Your eye's got a hole in it now, and I figure the other one's startin' to get a little jealous."
You feel yourself forcing your gorge back down as you accept what is happening.
Barely able to croak the words, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"Shut.."
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak emits a quiet chuckle, as it watches the scene at a large stone table. It shakes it's head slowly, the quiet sound of 'tsking' noises escaping the confines of it's hood.
The stout, bald young man releases the dusky, jet-curled young woman's hair, remaining behind her chair. A scowl set on his face liks stone.
You think:
"Fool, this isn't funny... but it's necessary."
You think:
"Perhaps that is what I should take from this.."
You think:
"Righteous anger... my anger, and my families and friends... that is ok."
You think:
"This I know."
The worn man with wild, curly hair frowns darkly as he regards the dusky, jet-curled young woman, his posture slouched but tense as he stares across the table.
As her stinking, smoldering flesh begins to lose the red glow around the edges, the dusky, jet-curled young woman shakes her head weakly from within her seat.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
"Any day now.."
Weakly, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"Already.. said too much."
Finally speaking, as it looks toward the woman, the figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in northern-accented sirihish:
"Could've avoided the lot of this, if you'd jus' tell us, woman."
Spitting loudly, her partially burnt lip slurring her speech, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
"Fuck off, githkisser. Now you'll never know."
With a deep, wistful sigh, the worn man with wild, curly hair looks over at the hulking, rip-scarred man.
Quietly as he dips his head, breathing only from his mouth, you say to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in cavilish:
"Food for our beasts then..."
Looking towards the worn man with wild, curly hair, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Tha' always works...all I got left will hurt more...but it'll kill'r fer' sure."
The hulking, rip-scarred man shrugs lightly as if awaiting the worn man with wild, curly hair's instruction with a stoic expression.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
"Stick that fuckin' haft through her eyesocket all the way into her grey matter, Gritshaw."
Looking over with a sigh, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
"..let's hope."
The hulking, rip-scarred man nods once a single time then lifts up his smoldering haft of wood with arms, pressing forwards with a sneer on his torn face, the force obviously aiming to shoot through the dusky, jet-curled young woman's head completely, or as far as he can anyways.
The stout, bald young man quickly grabs another handful of the dusky, jet-curled young woman's hair, securing her head down for the hulking, rip-scarred man.
The dusky, jet-curled young woman slumps back into her seat at the force of the hulking, rip-scarred man's blow.
With a sickening -crack- the smouldering stick touches the back of the dusky, jet-curled young woman's skull.
The dusky, jet-curled young woman cries out in pain.
The dusky, jet-curled young woman crumples to the ground.
The delicate, soot-braided man runs a thumb along the hilt of your ivory-hilted, obsidian-bladed dirk as he forces himself to watch the body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
A Simple, Plain Room [E Quit Save]
A few old blankets have been heaped into the northwestern corner of
the room; a jumble of faded colors and frayed edges. Several crude charcoal
drawings are scrawled onto the wall near the makeshift bed of blankets. A
stone table is in the middle of the room, its surface smooth and polished
but chipped in several places along the edges. Strips of leather have been
fastened to the tops of each of the table's legs, and hang from there to the
floor. A small stone chest has been pushed into the northeastern corner,
several cords away from the leather tarp serving as a door.
Dark black stains, sticky in texture cling to the floor in a large
darkened blotch.
The body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman lies crumpled on the floor.
A bloodied severed toe lays here in the dust.
A sanded bone-framed bed is here pushed against the wall with the rest of the scant furniture.
A hefty wooden barrel is here stuck in a corner.
The stout, bald young man is standing here.
The worn man with wild, curly hair is sitting at a large stone table.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak is leaning here, against a nearby wall.
The hulking, rip-scarred man is standing here.
The stout, bald young man grunts once, releasing the body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman's and letting her body slump to the ground.
For several moments, the body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman kicks around.
You sheathe an ivory-hilted, obsidian-bladed dirk.
In a stiff, reflex action, the body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman's foot lands in the worn man with wild, curly hair's groin.
The worn man with wild, curly hair grunts, falling back out of his chair with a dull, heavy *thud*
The worn man with wild, curly hair stands up from a large stone table.
Sprawling clumsily out of his chair, the worn man with wild, curly hair sits down to rest.
The stout, bald young man tries hard, but ultimately fails to hold back a laugh.
As he regains his composure, looking around for a moment, the worn man with wild, curly hair says, in sirihish:
"Well."
The hulking, rip-scarred man leaves the haft of the torch potruding up from a bloodied body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman's ocular socket, resting his hands on his hips as he watches it flop about.
Turning from a bloodied body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman to the worn man with wild, curly hair, the delicate, soot-braided man shakes his head from side to side as he lets his body let loose a strained laugh.
The stout, bald young man clears his throat, any look of amusement on his face replaced by the previous scowl.
The worn man with wild, curly hair inhales deeply and gathers himself upright.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak emits a loud, hoarse laugh as a bloodied body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman drops to the ground. It pushes it's hands from under the tail of cloak, with a slow clap as it regards the corpse.
Body spasming briefly, the worn man with wild, curly hair asks, in sirihish:
"What the... fuck!?"
Nodding to the worn man with wild, curly hair, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Yeh', sometimes they do tha'."
You stand up from a large stone table.
The worn man with wild, curly hair runs his hands over his torso, back and limbs in rapid succession, shuddering involuntarily.
Sucking at his teeth as he stands over a bloodied body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman, you say to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
"Well... that was somethin'."
The hulking, rip-scarred man shrugs faintly, a malicious grin on his features as he regards the worn man with wild, curly hair.
A Simple, Plain Room [E Quit Save]
A few old blankets have been heaped into the northwestern corner of
the room; a jumble of faded colors and frayed edges. Several crude charcoal
drawings are scrawled onto the wall near the makeshift bed of blankets. A
stone table is in the middle of the room, its surface smooth and polished
but chipped in several places along the edges. Strips of leather have been
fastened to the tops of each of the table's legs, and hang from there to the
floor. A small stone chest has been pushed into the northeastern corner,
several cords away from the leather tarp serving as a door.
Dark black stains, sticky in texture cling to the floor in a large
darkened blotch.
A bloodied body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman lies crumpled on the floor.
A bloodied severed toe lays here in the dust.
A sanded bone-framed bed is here pushed against the wall with the rest of the scant furniture.
A hefty wooden barrel is here stuck in a corner.
The stout, bald young man is standing here.
The worn man with wild, curly hair is reclining here.
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak is leaning here, against a nearby wall.
The hulking, rip-scarred man is standing here.
Nodding a few times, the stout, bald young man says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Yeh... Sometimes 'dey twitch like 'dat fer days."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says, in sirihish:
"Fuck, gents.. Shield your fuckin' mins."
The hulking, rip-scarred man raises a brow towards the worn man with wild, curly hair.
The delicate, soot-braided man lifts a few fingers in the air as he nods at the worn man with wild, curly hair, stepping back in forth in front of a bloodied body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
The worn man with wild, curly hair exclaims, in sirihish:
"What the fuck!"
Eyes narrowing tightly, the worn man with wild, curly hair asks you, in cavilish:
"Did you fucking hear that?"
Swiveling his head so quickly it pops, you say to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
"What is it cousin!? Fuck! "
Shaking his head as he shudders and shivers, you say to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
"No, I didn't hear shit... I've had a shield up the whole time."
The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak pads slowly from the wall, to examine the corpse closer.
Turning from side to side as he glances about the room, you ask the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
"What was it you heard?"
The stout, bald young man steps back from a bloodied body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman, allowing the figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak plenty of room.
The worn man with wild, curly hair leans against the tabletop, his jaw clenching as his eyes sliver tightly with concentration.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says, in cavilish:
"Krath. Fucking. Damn."
You think:
"Fuck... should I back up... should I help..."
The worn man with wild, curly hair paces back and forth for a moment, his sweat-slick expression darkened considerably.
The delicate, soot-braided man lifts his hands awkwardly in front of himself, biting at his lower lip as he takes two steps back from a large stone table.
The worn man with wild, curly hair snaps his wide-eyed stare over to the hulking, rip-scarred man.
The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
"Do you have this fucking stiff under control?"
Looking towards the worn man with wild, curly hair, raising a brow as he stands with his hands on his hips, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Fuck Sharlo...Tha' bitch is dead already. A'course."
Looking from a bloodied body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman to the worn man with wild, curly hair, the figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak asks the worn man with wild, curly hair, in northern-accented sirihish:
"Hm..So, now what, sir?"
Sweat pouring over his sandworn features as he fumbles around in his cloak, the worn man with wild, curly hair says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
"Then, for the love of Krath, let me the fuck outta here."
Gesturing towards the door, you say to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
"Let's go cousin, back to the compound... the Estate even."
Looking towards the stout, bald young man, speaking quickly, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Let'm out Rannick."
The worn man with wild, curly hair finally manages to tug a sack of coin from his pocket and tosses it over to the hulking, rip-scarred man.
Stepping over to the door, the stout, bald young man says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Wan' me ta let 'im-- A'ight."
The stout, bald young man unlocks the door with a notched stone key.
The stout, bald young man opens the door.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says, in sirihish:
"Krath fucking damn.."
The stout, bald young man steps aside for the worn man with wild, curly hair.
Sucking at his lip as he steps over and puts a hand on his shoulder, you say to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
"Come on, we're movin' and you'll be fine..."
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
"With me, if you can.. I gotta stop by the Nenyuki."
Eyes widening as he yells, you exclaim to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
"I'll pay 'em.. how much is it? Let's jus' get you back inside!"
Towards the stout, bald young man, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Watch tha' bitch till I get back...then we'll take care of tha' body."
The worn man with wild, curly hair's hands shake noticeably at his sides, panic plastered across his expression.
The worn man with wild, curly hair says to you, in sirihish:
"Half a large."
The hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
"Keep tha' door locked."
You get your pile of allanaki coins from your large, gemstone-embroidered bag.
There were 408 coins.
It is very light.
Nodding, the stout, bald young man says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"You got it."
You get your pile of allanaki coins from your large, gemstone-embroidered bag.
There were 1200 coins.
It is very light.
Tossing it over quickly, you give the hulking, rip-scarred man 500 coins.
You put your pile of allanaki coins into your large, gemstone-embroidered bag.
You begin speaking sirihish.
The hulking, rip-scarred man catches the sack from you with a single, blood-dried hand.
Dipping his head, you say to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
"We're square for now Gritshaw. I'm goin' to get my cousin back to the compound. Shade and profits... whatever."
A Narrow, Dim Hallway [NS Save]
A hallway wide enough for two humans abreast runs to the north into
the building and south to the street. A rounded ceiling of brown mud forms
an arch connecting the walls, which are dingy with dirt and grime. The dirt
floor is littered with...
Continue Reading...Luir's Outpost Auction & Arena Event [Part 1] by Mansa
Added on Nov 15, 2009In 2004, there was a Recommended Playing Time to play Armageddon, and the event was an Arena Game and Auction in Luir's Outpost. Agent Oseres Kadius, always a party whereever he goes, shows up for fun and to make some deals with House Kurac. This is a -long- log, and is rather raw, but it shows what sort of things happen during a busy event.
>look
The Higher Tier Stands [E]
These are the western and more opulant stands of the fighting pit of
Luir's Outpost, whose black stone walls and strangely horned buildings are
visible to the east. While the walls of the pit below are built of stone,
the stands are wooden. Rows of benches fill the lower section of this area
of the stands, with cleared areas for hawkers and those taking and making
bets. A gracefully canopied section against the uppermost row of the stands
has properly cushioned chairs and is obviously set apart for those of some
standing.
A terrace staircase opens up to the east and leads out of the seating
area and the view below is of the red-stained sands of the fighting pit
itself.
A shadow falls over the area, driving off the uncomfortable heat.
Lined up with the best view of the stage is a cloth-padded wooden bench.
The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak is standing here.
The trim, amber-locked woman is sitting on a cloth-padded wooden bench.
The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak stands by a figure in a leather duster.
The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak is standing here, looking a bit winded.
The very tall figure in a dusty orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak is standing here.
>l tables
At 1) a cloth-padded wooden bench are:
the trim, amber-locked woman, and a few empty seats.
At 2) a cloth-padded wooden bench are:
the effeminate, pompadoured man, and a few empty seats.
At 3) a cloth-padded wooden bench are:
a few empty seats.
>l e
To the east is the Terrace Overlooking the Fighting Pit.
[Far]
The callous, thorn-inked man is standing here.
The pale, vermillion-eyed man is standing here.
The horribly thin young woman is standing here.
The thick, war-braided young man is standing here.
The flint-eyed, jasper-haired man sits here, smelling strongly of spice.
The slender, raven-haired man is standing here.
The ruddy-hued brown-haired woman is sitting on a long wooden bench.
The horribly scarred, blind man is sitting on a long wooden bench.
The huge figure in a desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak sits quietly on a bench, atching the crowd.
The tall male wearing a thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap is sitting on a long wooden ench.
The tall figure in a dusty set of hooded, shadow-grey robes sits in a bench here.
The small, tanned dwarf sits in the center of the first row of benches.
The blue-eyed dwarven woman oversees the stands here.
[Near]
The tall, willowy woman is standing here.
The tall, spindly man is standing here.
The aquiline, blond man stands sentry here, his blue eyes watchful.
The opaline, frost-haired half-elf is standing here.
The huge figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak is standing here.
The gargantuan, blonde-haired man is standing here.
The rugged, dusty-blonde haired man is standing here.
The ragged-maned half-giant is standing here.
The wiry, war-braided young man is standing here.
The weathered young man is standing here.
The tattooed female dwarf is standing here.
The plaited, emerald-eyed woman is standing here.
The small-headed, dark gray dwarf is standing here.
The young gangling man is standing here.
The decrepit-looking, worn dwarf is standing here.
The lithe, brown-haired young man is standing here.
The buxom, red-haired woman is standing here.
The slight, blonde-haired man is standing here.
The whipcord thin man stands here, eyes narrowed.
The fire-haired, ruby-eyed man stands near the railing to the pit.
The rugged, goateed man is standing here.
The runic, blood-toned half-giant is here, looking extremely tense and wild eyed.
The fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf is standing here.
The burly, cobalt-skinned dwarf is standing here.
An obese, beady-eyed man moves around, hawking items from a tray of food.
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"I'll probley be out of the match first round."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"You're entering?"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"I guess it wouldnt hurt for maybe a round."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Five hundred coins per entry, one thousand per team of two."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"I'll also need names, either stage or real."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"And I should pay you, sir?"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Barvel and my self sir"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"For five hundred coins?"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"You and barvel?"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Yes sir, as a team"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Is that how much it costs to register?"
The trim, amber-locked woman lowers the hood of a sleek, crimson leather duster.
The trim, amber-locked woman tugs down her hood, her features set into hard lines as she gazes down into the fighting pit.
>l fianna
A thick mane of dark amber hair falls past this human woman's shouldersin waves, save for her bangs which are trimmed in spiky chunks to frame theperidot-hued orbs of her glittering eyes. A feral, yellow-green in color,they peer past the long veils of her golden lashes above the refinedcrescents of her cheekbones. A sensuously full mouth resides beneath theaquiline ridge of her nose, shadowed lightly by the slight flare of hernostrils. Accenting the otherwise feminine features of her face with astrong, square line is a stubbornly-set jaw that leads down to her tonedneck and shoulders. Beneath the covering of her tawny-gold skin, her petiteframe is shaped with a layer of toned muscle, giving her small body a solidbut graceful appearance.
The trim, amber-locked woman is in excellent condition.
The trim, amber-locked woman is using:
<worn in left ear> an earring of glittering black glass
<worn in right ear> an earring of glittering black glass
<worn around neck> a bejeweled, black leather choker
<worn across back> a black silk shoulder bag
<worn on right shoulder> a grey leather pauldron
<worn on left shoulder> a grey leather pauldron
<worn around wrist> a twisting, jade serpent
<worn around wrist> a silvery woven, black silk wrap
<worn on right finger> a chunky, topaz-set bone ring
<worn on left finger> a jet-inlaid marble signet ring
<worn around body> a sleek, crimson leather duster
<worn on legs> a pair of tightly-stitched scarlet leather pants
<worn on right ankle> an onyx serpentine anklet
<worn on left ankle> a silvery woven, black silk wrap
<worn on feet> a pair of calf-high scarlet leather boots
The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak stares down towards the pit.
Down in the pit someone opens the doors from the other side.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul has arrived from the south.
Down in the pit the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban has arrived from the south.
Down in the pit The largest of a pack of wild gortok, a beast with feral red eyes turns toward the southern doorway, eyeing a wild-eyed mul.
Down in the pit A wild-eyed mul is shoved roughly onto the sands.
Down in the pit someone closes the doors from the other side.
Down in the pit A wild-eyed mul moves back to back with the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban, staring at the pack of gortoks.
Down in the pit A pack of wild gortok circles toward a wild-eyed mul's shout, each beast crouching low and baring its teeth.
>emote slides down along ~bench, crossing an aisle, and over to %fianna bench
The effeminate, pompadoured man slides down along a cloth-padded wooden bench, crossing an aisle, and over to the trim, amber-locked woman's bench.
>sit with fianna
[Standing first]
You sit down on a cloth-padded wooden bench.
The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak looks down at you.
The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak stares down at you, his hand dropping to your shoulder.
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Next?"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Hmm, teams of two..."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"I wish to sign up."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"One or two."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"never mind, I need to save my coins"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Stand together"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Aye, no teams of three like the last one?"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"aye"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Not unless there is enough interest."
>talk (flashing a grin towards ~fianna) Hey love.
At your seat, you say in cavilish, flashing a grin towards the trim, amber-locked woman:
"Hey love."
Lifting a black eyebrow, the tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak asks you, in sirihish:
"Yeh there. Th'Advisor tell yeh ya could sit wi' 'er?"
Down in the pit A wild-eyed mul moves forward, slashing out at the lead gortok.
Down in the pit Suddenly, as if on-signal, a pack of wild gortok lunge.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul slashes a pack of wild gortok's leg, connecting hard.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban heroically joins a wild-eyed mul's fight!
Down in the pit the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban pierces at a pack of wild gortok's body, nicking him.
Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok swiftly dodges the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's whips.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul slashes a pack of wild gortok on his arm, wounding him.
Down in the pit the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban tries to kick a pack of wild gortok in the chest, but he steps aside.
Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok swiftly dodges the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's pierces.
Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok swiftly dodges the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's whips.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's blow bounces off a pack of wild gortok's tough skin.
Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok swiftly dodges the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's whips.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok swiftly dodges the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's pierces.
Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok swiftly dodges the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's whips.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul slashes a pack of wild gortok on his leg, wounding him.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"See you dfown in the ring sarg, good luck."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Yeh and meh eh? or yeh want teh do singles?"
You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Indeed, this shall be legendary."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"How about both?"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Stand fast!"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"You and me then?"
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's blow bounces off a pack of wild gortok's tough skin.
Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok swiftly dodges the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's whips.
Down in the pit One of a pack of wild gortok snaps onto a wild-eyed mul's arm, but is easily thrown aside.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul slashes a pack of wild gortok's hand, connecting hard.
Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok lightly hits a wild-eyed mul's foot.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok swiftly dodges a wild-eyed mul's slashes.
Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok solidly hits a wild-eyed mul's wrist.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"'kay."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"I'll register."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Yeh teamin' up wit one o' yer 'Bynners?"
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's blow bounces off a pack of wild gortok's tough skin.
Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok swiftly dodges the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's whips.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban pierces at a pack of wild gortok's leg, nicking him.
Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok swiftly dodges the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's whips.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul viciously slashes a pack of wild gortok on his waist.
Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok swiftly dodges the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's pierces.
Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok swiftly dodges the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's whips.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul slashes a pack of wild gortok's hand, connecting hard.
Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok avoids being bashed by a wild-eyed mul, who loses his balance and falls.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
The tall, spindly man has arrived from the east.
The opaline, frost-haired half-elf has arrived from the east.
The aquiline, blond man has arrived from the east.
The tall, willowy woman has arrived from the east.
>say (turning around, glacing about the bunch of orange-cloaked figures) Who said that?
Turning around, glacing about the bunch of orange-cloaked figures, you ask, in cavilish:
"Who said that?"
The trim, amber-locked woman lifts a small, golden hand, making a subtle waving gesture.
The very tall figure in a dusty orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak looks down at you as he shifts his dark gaze away from the pit.
The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak dips his head to the trim, amber-locked woman and steps back, retaking his protective position at her back.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul swiftly dodges a pack of wild gortok's hits.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul slashes a pack of wild gortok's leg, connecting hard.
Down in the pit A pack of wild gortok begins, as a unit, to back away from a wild-eyed mul and the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban.
Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok claws a wild-eyed mul's body, inflicting a grievous wound.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul gets up and stands to his feet.
Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok swiftly dodges the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's pierces.
Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok swiftly dodges the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's whips.
Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok claws a wild-eyed mul on his leg, wounding him.
Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok viciously claws a wild-eyed mul on his body.
Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok brutally claws a wild-eyed mul on his body.
Down in the pit a thick obsidian longsword clatters to the ground as a wild-eyed mul releases it.
Down in the pit an used large round shield clatters to the ground as a wild-eyed mul releases it.
Down in the pit a wild-eyed mul crumples to the ground.
Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok viciously claws the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban on her body.
Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok swiftly dodges the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's pierces.
Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok swiftly dodges the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's whips.
Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok claws the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban's body, inflicting a grievous wound.
Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok brutally claws the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban on her arm.
Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok viciously claws the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban on her body.
Down in the pit the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban cries out in pain.
You hear someone cry out in the distance.
Down in the pit a barb-headed, wooden longspear clatters to the ground as the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban releases it.
Down in the pit a wickedly barbed net clatters to the ground as the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban releases it.
Down in the pit the huge figure in a veiled sandcloth turban crumples to the ground.
The opaline, frost-haired half-elf follows along the tall, spindly man, tring hard not to look into the pit.
Leaning over the rail, the tall, spindly man shouts, in sirihish:
"That -had- to hurt!"
Down in the pit Half of a pack of wild gortok begins to tear at a wild-eyed mul as the rest of the creatures round toward a wild-eyed mul.
Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok claws a wild-eyed mul's body, inflicting a grievous wound.
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Your name, either stage or real?"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"I got it..Thanks though."
You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"We're all doin' singles."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Sergeant Seron, of the Tenneshi Guard."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Good luck to you, Sergeant. I will call you from the pit when its time."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"How much is it teh enteh both tournaments? A large or five hundred?"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"I wish to register."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Five hundred coins and your name."
The trim, amber-locked woman looks up at the tall, spindly man with a flick of her eyes, their gaze hard and jewel-bright.
>eq
You are using:
<worn on head> a large black and white hat
<worn on face> a smooth bone eyebrow ring
<worn around neck> a black silk collar, clasped with an ivory brooch
<worn about throat> a small, wooden whistle
<worn across back> a black silk shoulder bag
<worn on torso> a bloodied tight black silk shirt
<worn on arms> a pair of blue and purple armbands
<worn around wrist> a black silk wrist-wrap
<worn around wrist> a black silk wrist-wrap
<worn on hands> a pair of black silk gloves
<secondary hand> a leather-wrapped glass flask
<worn on right finger> an amethyst-set black bone ring
<worn on left finger> a bone ring
<worn on right finger> a ruby-set black bone ring
<worn on left finger> an embossed, silver signet ring
<worn as belt> a broad, obsidian-buttoned black silk belt
<worn around body> a black hooded silk greatcloak
<worn about waist> a svelte, black spice-kit
<worn on legs> a pair of tight black silk pants
<worn on right ankle> a deep black silk bandana
<worn on left ankle> a deep black silk bandana
<worn on feet> a pair of high, polished black leather boots
>talk (looking back to ~fianna, offering up ~flask) Drink?
At your seat, you say in cavilish, looking back to the trim, amber-locked woman, offering up your leather-wrapped glass flask:
"Drink?"
>i
You are carrying:
187 obsidian pieces
an irrig lamp
At your seat, the trim, amber-locked woman says in sirihish, her voice a quiet hiss:
"No thank you."
The tall, spindly man winks to the trim, amber-locked woman.
You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"The Byn is here when ye can get to us, Qeric-da."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"I am Joshua Klestion....the wanderer."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"'Dat was meh plan.. buh seein' yeh beh givin' meh cause tah ask yeh."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Good luck to you, I will call you when its time."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Next!"
Down in the pit Half of a pack of wild gortok begins to lose interest in the body of a wild-eyed mul, rounding to the body of a dusty elf.
>emote twists the cap back on ~flask, putting it away
The effeminate, pompadoured man twists the cap back on your leather-wrapped glass flask, putting it away.
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Many thanks."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"I wish teh register."
>rem flask
You stop using a leather-wrapped glass flask.
>open bag
Ok.
>put flask bag
You put a leather-wrapped glass flask inside a black silk shoulder bag.
>close bag
Ok.
Handlers rush in below, surrounding the pack with long spears as they herd them south.
Down in the pit someone opens the doors from the other side.
Down in the pit A pack of wild gortok growl and snap at the handlers, eventually being herded away.
Down in the pit a pack of wild gortok runs south.
Down in the pit someone closes the doors from the other side.
A crew moves in, dragging the bodies and gear from the blood stained sands below.
The tall, spindly man walks east.
The opaline, frost-haired half-elf walks east.
The aquiline, blond man walks east.
The tall, willowy woman walks east.
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"If I want teh enteh both, I have teh pay how much?"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"I give ya coins?"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Aye, alright."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Five hundred and your name again. I'm afriad I've forgotten it this day."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Guess ah'll beh seein' yeh on deh battlefield, eh?"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Hmm..Little Giant...Dat is meh name"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Ah ain't doubtin' yeh gonna beh 'dere."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"I have your name and coin already, Regular."
You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Aye, been too long since we locked blades."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"And he is my partner in the teams match"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"South and then east."
>open kit
Ok.
>l in kit
In a svelte, black spice-kit (used) :
a small, leather-wrapped bone ember box
a booklet of rolling papers
a pinch of black, viscous spice
a dragon-carved, ivory dagger
>talk (to ~fianna) Smoke?
At your seat, you say in cavilish, to the trim, amber-locked woman:
"Smoke?"
The trim, amber-locked woman's hands fall to ball the leather of her duster beneath them.
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Your name and coin?"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Hiroshi."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"The singles and team are seperate. Each will be five hundred if you wish to enter both."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Ok...Deh Singles den."
You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"We have there enterin' the singles competition, Veric-da."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"I'd like to register"
At your seat, the trim, amber-locked woman says in sirihish, her gaze flitting sidelong toward you:
"Tho'?"
>nod fianna
You nod to her.
At your seat, the trim, amber-locked woman says in cavilish, nodding quietly:
"Yes, please."
>talk (with a grin) From my brick you haven't had time to see.
At your seat, you say in cavilish, with a grin:
"From my brick you haven't had time to see."
>take booklet kit
You get a booklet of rolling papers from a svelte, black spice-kit.
It is very light.
>take pinch kit
You get a pinch of black, viscous spice from a svelte, black spice-kit.
It is very light.
>emote pulls out a piece of paper, then fills it with ~pinch, rolling it
The effeminate, pompadoured man pulls out a piece of paper, then fills it with your pinch of black, viscous spice, rolling it.
At your seat, the trim, amber-locked woman says in cavilish, shaking her head quietly:
"I've been very busy."
>make smoke booklet pinch
You carefully roll a pinch of spice with a booklet of rolling papers.
>talk (with a grin) So have I, love.
At your seat, you say in cavilish, with a grin:
"So have I, love."
>put booklet kit
You put a booklet of rolling papers inside a svelte, black spice-kit.
>i
You are carrying:
187 obsidian pieces
a solidly packed tube of spice
an irrig lamp
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"How many for the byn?"
You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Three."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"One moment."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Fifteen hundred and the names."
You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Akasha o' the T'zai Byn."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"I know your name, Lieutenant. I meant the other two."
You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"An' these two can title themselves."
You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"And why would we want to do that/"
You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Trooper Lyndra, sir."
You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Give 'em yer coin an' names, Byn."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Trooper Marook, Byn"
>give smoke fianna
You give a solidly packed tube of spice to the trim, amber-locked woman.
>take box kit
You get a small, leather-wrapped bone ember box from a svelte, black spice-kit.
It is very light.
The trim, amber-locked woman holds a solidly packed tube of spice.
>give box fianna
You give a small, leather-wrapped bone ember box to the trim, amber-locked woman.
>talk Light?
At your seat, you say in cavilish:
"Light?"
The trim, amber-locked woman lifts a small coal from her small, leather-wrapped bone ember box, blowing gently on it to incite it back to a sullen, orange glow.
The very tall figure in a dusty orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak is gone bathroom.
Bringing the coal to her smoke with the tongs, the trim, amber-locked woman puffs deeply, holding the smoke in her lungs as she hands the coal and box over to you.
The trim, amber-locked woman gives you a small, leather-wrapped bone ember box.
A thin trail of rich, heady smoke trickles from the trim, amber-locked woman's mouth as she smokes a solidly packed tube of spice.
The trim, amber-locked woman's eyes become glassy-red and half-closed.
>put box kit
You put a small, leather-wrapped bone ember box inside a svelte, black spice-kit.
>close kit
Ok.
>listen on
You are already listening.
>talk Do you have any Salarri's entering, love?
At your seat, you say in cavilish:
"Do you have any Salarri's entering, love?"
At your seat, the trim, amber-locked woman says in cavilish, shrugging lightly, her jaw still set in a hard expression:
"One. We're not here for pleasure."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Five hundred coins, please."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Yes please."
You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"We wait east until matches are announced?"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"I'll call your names, matches are not to the death and there will be a one thousand coin fine for unneeded killing."
You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Which was is into the pit?"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"You can wait in the stands and enjoy the matches. Someone will lead you down."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Next!"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"I'd like to register."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Five hundred and a name, please."
You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Thankee."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"I have you down."
>talk (nodding lightly, a tired expression about his face) You need to relax, love. Which one is yours?
At your seat, you say in cavilish, nodding lightly, a tired expression about his face:
"You need to relax, love. Which one is yours?"
At your seat, the trim, amber-locked woman says in cavilish, simply:
"The elf."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"I'd like to register a team and myself for the singles."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Wha' bout 'im?"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Fifteen hundred and the names then."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"You as well."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Grog of the Sun Legion and Altin of Nenyuk."
>l tall
Hard muscle straps over the stalwart form of this man, coiled visibly
beneath the deeply-bronzed covering of his skin. Thin, black dreadlocks
sprout from his scalp to his lower back, and while most are tied away from
his face with a thin braid of grey leather, a few hang into his narrowed,
crystalline-blue eyes. His features are chiseled and planar, with a craggy
brow, high, jutting cheekbones and a beaky nose that bears a slight hook at
its tip. A shadow of dark stubble traces the square line of his jaw,
defining its strong lines. Twined about the thick muscles of his neck is a
detailed tattoo of a serpent, done in simple black lines. The snake rests
in coils that band about the human's throat before climbing on the right
side to his cheek, where the head of the creature opens in a fanged display
of attack.
The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak is in excellent condition.
The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak is using:
<worn on head> a blackened horror-visaged helm
<worn on face> a carved, skull-shaped black onyx stud
<worn around neck> an orange-banded, grey chitin gorget
<worn across back> a black-hafted wooden spear
<worn on right shoulder> a black epaulette with one grey shield
<worn on left shoulder> a black epaulette with one grey shield
<worn on arms> a set of tentacle-branded grey leather sleeves
<worn around wrist> an orange-banded, grey chitin bracer
<worn around wrist> an orange-banded, grey chitin bracer
<worn on hands> a pair of spiked, chitin-backed gauntlets
<primary hand> a blackened basket-hilted rapier
<secondary hand> a blackened basket-hilted rapier
<worn around body> an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak
<worn on legs> a set of tentacle-branded grey leather leggings
<worn on feet> a pair of spike-toed, thigh-high leather boots
The athletic, serpent-tattooed man lowers the hood of an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak.
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Alright. I'll call your name when its time. Good luck."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Matches are not to the death, there is a one thousand coin fine on accidental death."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Thank you, Veric-da."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"YOu are the solo, correct?"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Aye, and a team with Grog."
Down in the pit the scarred, leathery woman opens the doors from the other side.
Down in the pit the tall, spindly man has arrived from the south.
Down in the pit the opaline, frost-haired half-elf has arrived from the south.
>l 2.tall
Her body is small but her movements graceful. Dark green eyes peer out
through ebony lashes, a slight tilt to their outer corners. Her skin is
soft and only lightly tanned, lips the deep color of crimson. Silken
midnight blue hair falls in soft waves to her knees, brushing over a slim
waist and gently curved hips. Pointed ears poke out from under the delicate
locks of hair.
The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak is in excellent condition.
The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak is using:
<worn on head> a thick, pale-green cap
<worn on face> a thin, obsidian nose ring
<worn in left ear> a spiral-carved moonstone earring
<worn in right ear> a purple and blue feather earring
<worn around neck> a gurth shell collar
<worn across back> a slender agafari longbow
<worn on right shoulder> a black epaulette with one grey shield
<worn on left shoulder> a black epaulette with one grey shield
<worn around wrist> a glossy, jet-colored shell bracer
<worn around wrist> a green chitin archery brace
<worn on hands> a bloodied pair of fingerless sandcloth gloves
<worn around body> an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak
<worn on legs> a pair of dark leather leggings
<worn on right ankle> a purple sandcloth bandana
<worn on left ankle> an onyx serpentine anklet
<worn on feet> a pair of knee-high fringed moccasins
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"What's the prize?"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Fourhundred of the coins from every beaten enemy and some nice gear from our crafters for the overall winners and best combatants."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Five hundred and your name, please."
Down in the pit Stepping over a few damp spots, the tall, spindly man moves to look up at the stands.
Down in the pit The tall, spindly man nods thoughtfully.
Down in the pit The opaline, frost-haired half-elf moves in softly behind the tall, spindly man, pulling up her cloak and the hem of her dress from the ground as she walks.
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Welcome Guests! "
Down in the pit The opaline, frost-haired half-elf quirks a faint hint of a grin.
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"While the combatants prepare, I would like to begin the Auction!"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"A few items of Kurac's finest!"
The trim, amber-locked woman's gaze flicks eastward.
With a lift of a signet-ringed hand, the trim, amber-locked woman brings her solidly packed tube of spice to her lips, inhaling deeply.
A thin trail of rich, heady smoke trickles from the trim, amber-locked woman's mouth as she smokes a solidly packed tube of spice.
The trim, amber-locked woman's eyes become glassy-red and half-closed.
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Do you wish to enter?"
You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"You the one I enter with?"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Yes."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Aye, I'd like to register"
Down in the pit The opaline, frost-haired half-elf nods her head and sets a bag down by the tall, spindly man.
Down in the pit the opaline, frost-haired half-elf drops a large bag.
Down in the pit the opaline, frost-haired half-elf walks south.
>talk (speaking softly) You don't seem to be enjoying yourself, love. Is there anything I can do?
At your seat, you say in cavilish, speaking softly:
"You don't seem to be enjoying yourself, love. Is there anything I can do?"
At your seat, the trim, amber-locked woman says in cavilish, her gaze sliding back to you, her hand betraying a faint shake, voice momentarily rough from the smoke:
"No. There's nothing that can be done."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"I need five hundred coins each and a name to call you by from the pits."
You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Darani"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Good luck. I'll call you when its time and there is a one thousand coin fine for accidental deaths."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Five hundred and your name>"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Cadet Issek"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Fighting for Salarr as well, correct?"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Aye, but solo"
The horribly thin young woman has arrived from the east.
The horribly thin young woman looks about hesistantly.
The horribly thin young woman strolls through the ample crowd over towards you.
>l horribly
You see a thin girl with curly, red hair that appears sparse from lack of
nutrition. Her eyes are inky black and seemingly hollow. Her body is
evenly Krath-tanned. Her nose is plain and small. Her lips are chapped and
curved. She has a round chin, dimpled cheeks, and a freckled face. The
rest of her frame is still that of a young girl.
The horribly thin young woman is in excellent condition.
The horribly thin young woman is using:
<worn on head> a wide-brimmed green and black hat
<worn in hair> a handful of mauve blossoms
<worn around neck> a crystal teardrop pendant
<worn across back> a colorful, glass-beaded shoulder bag
<worn around wrist> a sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap
<hands> a six-pronged star
<worn on left finger> a black marble ring
<worn on right finger> a garnet inlaid bone ring
<worn around body> a hooded, coal-black sandcloth dustcloak
<worn on legs> a svelte, black spice-kit
<worn on right ankle> a string of clay beads
<worn on feet> a pair of leather-thonged sandals
As she nods politely and handing over her sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap, the horribly thin young woman whispers to you in sirihish:
"A gift from the Kurac family."
The horribly thin young woman gives you a sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap.
>emote nods once towards ~horribly
The effeminate, pompadoured man nods once towards the horribly thin young woman.
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"I am offering now a complete set of the Famous Kuraci Desert Gear!"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Complete! Boots, leggings, jacket, gloves, sleeves, cap, collar, facewrap and Greatcloak!"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"The Very Finest made!"
The very tall figure in a dusty orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak's eyes widen, peering down towards the pit.
The horribly thin young woman strolls through the ample crowd over towards the trim, amber-locked woman.
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in cavilish:
"One hundred!"
>examine wrap
Undyed, beige sandcloth has been folded double to form this simple
wristwrap. The double folds have been sewn together, apart from an opening
on the inner side of the wrap, which functions as a pocket with two bone
buttons to close it. The front of the wrap is adorned by a simple picture
that has been printed upon the sandcloth using dye. The picture shows a
crimson circle symbolizing the red sun, crossed by a stylized sword printed
in black dye.
In a sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap (carried) :
nothing
The horribly thin young woman whispers something to the trim, amber-locked woman.
>value wrap
a sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap would seem to cost about 33 obsidian pieces.
a sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap would seem to weigh 2 stones.
This item appears to have been crafted by the Merchant House of Kurac.
The horribly thin young woman gets a sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap from an expansive, crimson-fist emblazoned backpack.
The horribly thin young woman gives a sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap to the trim, amber-locked woman.
As she stands, the horribly thin young woman says to the huge figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak, in northern-accented sirihish:
"I am just passing out gifts on behalf of the Kurac family. It is nothing to be concerned with."
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"We will do this auction for only a few minutes!"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"No matches to the blood, aye?"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"To the blood yes, to the death, no."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Aye then, thanks - I'll wait my turn"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"All will be given quarter when asked."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"What beh deh bid?"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Please shout your name when you bid, we can't make out faces from down here."
At your seat, the trim, amber-locked woman says in cavilish, relaxing back onto her seat as she looks over her sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap:
"Two of them are fighting."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Anyone else?"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Hmm...my turn?"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Five hundred and a name, please."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Kune, of Kadius."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Good luck, I'll call you when its time."
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in cavilish:
"Jom! One hundred!"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"How much deh bid!?"
>open bag
Ok.
>put wrap bag
You put a sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap inside a black silk shoulder bag.
>close bag
Ok.
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Please make all bids in the common tongue!"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"One hundred? I sells for twenty times that! Give me more!"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Two!"
Looking up, the trim, amber-locked woman asks the huge figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak, in cavilish:
"Will you be fighting?"
Clearing her throat, the trim, amber-locked woman asks the huge figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak, in sirihish:
"Will you be fighting?"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Four, 'Cruit Gresh!"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Give me a name and FIVE!"
>shout Five hundred, Mister O!
You shout in sirihish:
"Five hundred, Mister O!"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"There is a one thousand coin fine for killing your opponent."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Aye....We will be directed when it is time?"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Yes."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Next!"
The wiry, war-braided young man has arrived from the east.
The wiry, war-braided young man inhales deeply through his nose as he makes his way around a few benches.
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Someone.... name and SEVEN?"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Six.. Jom!"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Seven?"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"800 kalm.... one large?"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Anyone else entering?"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Last call for registering for the matches!"
The wiry, war-braided young man sits down on a cloth-padded wooden bench.
>talk Should we bet?
At your seat, you say in sirihish:
"Should we bet?"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"One large for the Complete Set?"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Once..."
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Twice"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Nine.. Jom!"
The wiry, war-braided young man looks down at the trim, amber-locked woman briefly before turning his attention toward the pits.
The slender dark-eyed elf lowers the hood of an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak.
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Nine...."
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Once"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"twice"
At your seat, the trim, amber-locked woman says in sirihish, shrugging:
"We have no need for them. My house makes the best leathers, plates, chains, and we even make cloth armor as well."
>shout Thirteen Hundred, Oseres Kadius!
You shout in sirihish:
"Thirteen Hundred, Oseres Kadius!"
The horribly thin young woman walks over near the huge figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak.
The horribly thin young woman gives a sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap to the huge figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak.
The horribly thin young woman whispers something to the huge figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak.
You overhear the huge figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak whisper to the horribly thin young woman, grinning in sirihish:
"Uh. thanks"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Thirteen for Oseres Kadius! Very Good!"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Once!"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Twice"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Sold!"
>emote claps his hands together, grinning.
The effeminate, pompadoured man claps his hands together, grinning.
At your seat, the wiry, war-braided young man says in northern-accented sirihish, wiggling his brows alternately as he glances at you:
"Good job, Mr. O."
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"And an excellent deal, at that!"
The horribly thin young woman moves heading towards the athletic, serpent-tattooed man.
You overhear the horribly thin young woman whisper to the athletic, serpent-tattooed man, handing over her sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap in sirihish:
"A gift from the Kurac family."
The horribly thin young woman gives a sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap to the athletic, serpent-tattooed man.
Down in the pit the tall, spindly man picks up a large bag.
>l fianna's wrap
Crafted meticulously from a black-dyed silk, this piece of fabric wraps
around an inner lining of thin, supple leather and can be wrapped about the
wearer's arm or shin. The silk is woven with a thin, shimmering underlayer
of silken threads set in a complex pattern, and is layered so that it can
loosened or tightened to fit snugly by a pair of black ties. Upon close
inspection, a small flap of silk can be seen above an area with a small
amount of extra padding.
>talk (leaning in close to ~fianna) Fianna, love. Where'd you get that wristwrap? From one of my cousins?
At your seat, you say in sirihish, leaning in close to the trim, amber-locked woman:
"Fianna, love. Where'd you get that wristwrap? From one of my cousins?"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"I will bring your purchase to you, Oseres Kadius."
>shout I'll have more!
You shout in sirihish:
"I'll have more!"
Down in the pit the tall, spindly man walks south.
The horribly thin young woman wanders through the crowd.
The horribly thin young woman gives a sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap to the tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak.
The horribly thin young woman gives a sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap to the very tall figure in a dusty orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak.
Taking the wrap, the tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak glances towards the horribly thin young woman.
To the guards near the trim, amber-locked woman, the horribly thin young woman says, in northern-accented sirihish:
"A gift from the Kurac family."
The huge figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak smiles and bobs his head once towards the horribly thin young woman.
The well-toned, blonde woman has arrived from the east.
Looking over the crowd, the well-toned, blonde woman makes her way towards the trim, amber-locked woman.
The well-toned, blonde woman sits down on a cloth-padded wooden bench.
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Regular Nogen and Trooper Marook, please come the center aisle!"
One of the wiry, war-braided young man's's legs bobs up and down rapidly, his thoughtful gaze locked onto nothing in particular.
The horribly thin young woman looks about the stands.
At your seat, the trim, amber-locked woman says in sirihish, arching a brow:
"I do not think your cousins could stitch such a wristsheathe. This is Salarri. I hope you didn't think we only made bulky, unattractive things."
>talk (shaking his head to ~fianna) Naw, love. Looks something I would wear. I like it.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, shaking his head to the trim, amber-locked woman:
"Naw, love. Looks something I would wear. I like it."
The dusky, jade-eyed man lowers the hood of a dusty orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak.
The trim, amber-locked woman stops using a silvery woven, black silk wrap.
The trim, amber-locked woman fastens a silvery woven, black silk wrap around her wrist.
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Where beh 'dis 'ere Marook?"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Trooper Marook here"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Gentlemen, please come with me."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Yeh's git yerself ah small 'ead."
The horribly thin young woman moves over near the well-toned, blonde woman.
The horribly thin young woman looks down at the well-toned, blonde woman as she approaches.
The horribly thin young woman whispers something to the well-toned, blonde woman.
The horribly thin young woman gives a sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap to the well-toned, blonde woman.
Her brows lifting, the well-toned, blonde woman looks over at the horribly thin young woman.
At your seat, the trim, amber-locked woman says in sirihish, retying the length of soft black leather and shimmering silk around her wrist with deft fingers:
"You don't want to know how much we sell them for."
The trim, amber-locked woman looks at you with a wan smile.
>talk (with a grin for ~fianna) Awe, love. How much?
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a grin for the trim, amber-locked woman:
"Awe, love. How much?"
The horribly thin young woman moves from the isles, walking away.
The horribly thin young woman walks east.
The well-toned, blonde woman looks at her sun and sword embroidered wrist wrap carefully.
The slender dark-eyed elf raises the hood of an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak.
You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Have you see Merchant Danu?"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"he's alittle bit of everywhere"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Try the noble stands"
At your seat, the trim, amber-locked woman says in sirihish, smiling faintly at you:
"Two thousand for each one."
At your seat, the trim, amber-locked woman says in sirihish, wetting her lower lip:
"And that's with a discount."
The well-toned, blonde woman gurgles a broken chuckle.
The tall, spindly man has arrived from the east.
The aquiline, blond man has arrived from the east.
The tall, willowy woman has arrived from the east.
The tall, spindly man moves, smiling to approach you.
The tall, spindly man puts a pile of allanaki coins inside a pair of black sandcloth sleeves.
>tell danu (shaking his head) Danu, You should just get me after.
Shaking his head, you say to the tall, spindly man, in sirihish:
"Danu, You should just get me after."
The tall, spindly man nods politely to you.
The tall, spindly man says to you, in northern-accented sirihish:
"I will await your convenience, Oseres."
>tell danu (nodding) I'll probably be getting more, and we'll both have to go to the Nenyuk.
Nodding, you say to the tall, spindly man, in sirihish:
"I'll probably be getting more, and we'll both have to go to the Nenyuk."
The tall, spindly man dips his head politely to the trim, amber-locked woman, then turns to watch the match.>look
The Higher Tier Stands [E]
These are the western and more opulant stands of the fighting pit of
Luir's Outpost, whose black stone walls and strangely horned buildings are
visible to the east. While the walls of the pit below are built of stone,
the stands are wooden. Rows of benches fill...
Continue Reading...Luir's Outpost Auction & Arena Event [Part 2] by Mansa
Added on Nov 15, 2009In 2004, there was a Recommended Playing Time to play Armageddon, and the event was an Arena Game and Auction in Luir's Outpost. Agent Oseres Kadius, always a party whereever he goes, shows up for fun and to make some deals with House Kurac. This is a -long- log, and is rather raw, but it shows what sort of things happen during a busy event.
Down in the pit the slight, blonde-haired man has arrived from the south.
Down in the pit the whipcord thin man has arrived from the south.
Down in the pit the buxom, red-haired woman has arrived from the south.
Down in the pit The slight, blonde-haired man walks to the center of the pit.
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to announce the first of our pit matches!"
The huge figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak flicks a look down into the pit, then raises his eyes again, glancing around quietly.
The dusky, jade-eyed man raises the hood of a dusty orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak.
The very tall figure in a dusty orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak looks down at the wiry, war-braided young man as he adjusts his hood.
The well-toned, blonde woman leans forwards noticably, her attention locked onto the pit.
The wiry, war-braided young man spares a brief glance to you before turning his attention toward the center of the pit.
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"On this side we have a man -undefeated- in all of his previous matches!"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Especially the ginka sauce matches!"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"The one! The only! Reeeegggullaaar Noooogggeeen!!"
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf has arrived from the south.
Down in the pit The slight, blonde-haired man nods a few times as dozens and dozens of dun clad soldiers hoot and hollar, cheering the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf on.
>talk (to ~fianna) You know I'll take it, love. I always buy what you have to offer.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, to the trim, amber-locked woman:
"You know I'll take it, love. I always buy what you have to offer."
At your seat, the trim, amber-locked woman says in sirihish, nodding toward you:
"Do you want a pair? Or just one?"
>talk (to ~fianna, his greenish-hued gaze shifting over towards the pit) If you lower the price, I'll take two.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, to the trim, amber-locked woman, his greenish-hued gaze shifting over towards the pit:
"If you lower the price, I'll take two."
At your seat, the trim, amber-locked woman says in sirihish, nodding toward you:
"I'll sell you two for thirty-five hundred."
Down in the pit The fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf trundles out into the fighting pit, raising his free arm up to the crowd as his other holds up his enormous shield.
>emote leans in close to ~fianna
The effeminate, pompadoured man leans in close to the trim, amber-locked woman.
>whi fianna (grinning) How about an exchange for something, other than coin, love?
Grinning, you whisper to the trim, amber-locked woman in sirihish:
"How about an exchange for something, other than coin, love?"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"'Dis beh ah dwarf tah dwarf match! Ain't gettin' better 'den 'dis 'ere!"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"And on this side, the scourge of the south! Women love him and men would love to be him! Trooper Marook!"
Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf has arrived from the south.
Down in the pit The fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf reaches down beneath the folds of his dun-colored cloak, grasping the hilt of his obsidian blade.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf draws a dusty curved obsidian sword.
Down in the pit The small-headed, dark gray dwarf raises his maces over his head.
Down in the pit The slight, blonde-haired man looks between the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf and the small-headed, dark gray dwarf.
>emote breathes in slowly, leaning back to look towards the fighting pit.
The effeminate, pompadoured man breathes in slowly, leaning back to look towards the fighting pit.
The trim, amber-locked woman whispers to you in sirihish:
"Like what?"
>tell fianna (with a tired grin) After, love. After.
With a tired grin, you say to the trim, amber-locked woman, in sirihish:
"After, love. After."
The trim, amber-locked woman brushes her silvery woven, black silk wrap with her fingertips.
Down in the pit The small-headed, dark gray dwarf slowly circles left.
Down in the pit The slight, blonde-haired man raises his left hand high.
Down in the pit The fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf grunts with a nod as he crouches down behind his massive shield, twirling the sword at his side.
Down in the pit The slight, blonde-haired man steps back, dropping his left hand.
Down in the pit the slight, blonde-haired man walks south.
Down in the pit the whipcord thin man walks south.
Down in the pit the buxom, red-haired woman walks south.
>emote takes a double take, glancing to ~toned, before looking back towards the fighting pit.
The effeminate, pompadoured man takes a double take, glancing to the well-toned, blonde woman, before looking back towards the fighting pit.
The tall, spindly man moves to sit on a bench and lean over to watch the pit match.
Her fingers tapping on her leg incessantly, the well-toned, blonde woman watches the pit with her complete attention.
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Begin!"
The wiry, war-braided young man rests his forearms on the stone railing, hunching over as he watches the pit intently.
>listen on
You start trying to listen.
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Fer deh fists o' stone!"
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf parries the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf's attack.
Down in the pit The small-headed, dark gray dwarf side steps and kicks.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf nimbly avoids the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's circle kick.
Down in the pit The fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf sneers as he rears his helmeted head back from the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's backhand, his cuff barely missing his face.
Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf parries the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf's attack.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf slashes the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's body, connecting hard.
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"there ya go Noggen"
>contact veric
You suffer from use of the Way.
You contact the slight, blonde-haired man with the Way.
>psi Is this to first blood?
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the slight, blonde-haired man:
"Is this to first blood?"
Down in the pit The fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf grunts as he brings his obsidian blade over his head, slamming it down against the haft of the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's mace, then twists to give him another side slash.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf tries to kick the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf in the chest, but he steps aside.
Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf parries the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf's attack.
The well-toned, blonde woman lets out a low whistle.
The tall, spindly man shouts, in sirihish:
"Come on, Noggen!"
At your seat, the wiry, war-braided young man says in northern-accented sirihish, pressing his lips to one side in a slight purse:
"So how do we know if we're fighting for first blood or not?"
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
Down in the pit The fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf squints as he brings up his shield defensively, knocking away the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's smash as it rings off his knobby-shelled shield.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
Down in the pit The small-headed, dark gray dwarf slides right and swings a backhand as the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf passess.
>psi You're doing well, Veric my friend.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the slight, blonde-haired man:
"You're doing well, Veric my friend."
The tall, spindly man looks at the well-toned, blonde woman.
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Show 'em what Kurac's made of, Nogen!"
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The slight, blonde-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
"Until one yields."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
Down in the pit The fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf brings up his stumpy boot as the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's fist just misses him.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf's kick at the small-headed, dark gray dwarf is partially absorbed by his bracer.
Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf doubles over in pain from the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf's powerful side kick.
Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf parries the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf's attack.
Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf tries to kick the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf in the chest, but he steps aside.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf parries the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf's attack.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
>psi Are all of them that way?
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the slight, blonde-haired man:
"Are all of them that way?"
>talk I think All of them are until first yield.
At your seat, you say in sirihish:
"I think All of them are until first yield."
>cease
You dissolve the psychic link.
The well-toned, blonde woman chews on her lower lip.
At your seat, the wiry, war-braided young man says in northern-accented sirihish, slowly nodding as he watches the pit intently:
"I see.."
Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf parries the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf's attack.
Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf tries to kick the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf in the chest, but he steps aside.
Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf parries the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf's attack.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
Down in the pit The small-headed, dark gray dwarf charges forward, his shoulder lowered.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf evades the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's charge, who loses his balance and falls.
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"'Dis one 'ere, ain't no slouch!"
The tall, spindly man winces.
A thin trail of rich, heady smoke trickles from the trim, amber-locked woman's mouth as she smokes a solidly packed tube of spice.
The trim, amber-locked woman's eyes become glassy-red and half-closed.
Down in the pit The fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf brings up his boot at the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's stomach.
Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf nimbly avoids the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf's circle kick.
Down in the pit The small-headed, dark gray dwarf rolls right and stand.
Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf gets up and stands to his feet.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf tries to kick the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf in the chest, but he steps aside.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf slashes the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's wrist, connecting hard.
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Someone goin ta be hurtin, and I don' think it goin ta be Nogen"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"That had to hurt!"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"A good shot."
Down in the pit The fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf twists his body as he brings his blade dodwn hard against the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's wrist.
Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf parries the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf's attack.
Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf tries to kick the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf in the chest, but he steps aside.
>shout Hurry up!
You shout in sirihish:
"Hurry up!"
The trim, amber-locked woman crushes the end of the smoke beneath the sole of her boot.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf viciously slashes the small-headed, dark gray dwarf on his wrist.
Down in the pit The fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf rushes forward at the small-headed, dark gray dwarf with his shield lowered, his boots kiocking up loose earth.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf evades the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf's charge, who loses his balance and falls.
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Altin and Gargon, please come to the center aisle!"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"several"
You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Nice bet, Lutenant."
Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack on the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf is absorbed by a new enormous, concave tortoiseshell shield.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf bludgeons the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf on his leg.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
The wiry, war-braided young man's features contort into a mock grimace as he watches blood spew onto the sandy floor of the pit.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf nimbly avoids the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's circle kick.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf parries the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf's attack.
Down in the pit The fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf grunts as the small-headed, dark gray dwarf slams his mace into his leg as he falls, turning to rise to his feet at the last instant.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf gets up and stands to his feet.
At your seat, the trim, amber-locked woman says in sirihish, her voice slightly harshened:
"Is this to the death?"
The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak walks east.
At your seat, the well-toned, blonde woman says in northern-accented sirihish, shaking her head:
"None of em are I think"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"ALtin and the little giant, rather!"
>talk (nodding, his attention on the fighting pit) There's a thousand coin fine, if one dies.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, nodding, his attention on the fighting pit:
"There's a thousand coin fine, if one dies."
The trim, amber-locked woman nods.
Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf tries to kick the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf in the chest, but he steps aside.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
Down in the pit The fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf leans to one side, favoring one foot before bringing up his wavering leg.
Down in the pit The small-headed, dark gray dwarf moves in closer.
Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf tries to kick the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf in the chest, but he steps aside.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf's kick at the small-headed, dark gray dwarf is absorbed by his leggings.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf parries the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf's attack.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf attempts to disarm the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf, but finds his attack reversed!
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf knocks a obsidian-spiked mace from the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's hands and sends it flying west.
A mace comes flying in, landing with a tud.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf swiftly dodges the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's bludgeons.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf parries the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's attack.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf knocks a studded, short-handled mace from the small-headed, dark gray dwarf's hands.
Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf panics, and attempts to flee.
Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf tries to flee, but is too exhausted!
Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf panics, and attempts to flee.
Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf tries to flee, but is too exhausted!
Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf panics, and attempts to flee.
Down in the pit the small-headed, dark gray dwarf runs south.
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Well done, Nogen!"
The tall, spindly man shouts, in sirihish:
"Kurac"
>rem whistle
You stop using a small, wooden whistle.
>hold whistle
You hold the whistle.
>emote blows loudly on ~whistle, producing a loud, shrill sound.
The effeminate, pompadoured man blows loudly on your small, wooden whistle, producing a loud, shrill sound.
The well-toned, blonde woman purses her lips.
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Hurrah fer Nogen and Kurac!"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Woaa!"
Down in the pit The fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf raises both his arms up as the crowd begins to cheer wildly, the two maces lying forgotten on both ends of the arena floor.
The tall, spindly man pushes off of a cloth-padded wooden bench and rises to his feet.
The tall, spindly man walks east.
The aquiline, blond man walks east.
The tall, willowy woman walks east.
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Any objections to you two matching up next?"
>look
The Higher Tier Stands [E]
These are the western and more opulant stands of the fighting pit of
Luir's Outpost, whose black stone walls and strangely horned buildings are
visible to the east. While the walls of the pit below are built of stone,
the stands are wooden. Rows of benches fill the lower section of this area
of the stands, with cleared areas for hawkers and those taking and making
bets. A gracefully canopied section against the uppermost row of the stands
has properly cushioned chairs and is obviously set apart for those of some
standing.
A terrace staircase opens up to the east and leads out of the seating
area and the view below is of the red-stained sands of the fighting pit
itself.
A shadow falls over the area, driving off the uncomfortable heat.
A obsidian-spiked bone mace lies here.
A couple of cloth-padded wooden benches are here.
The well-toned, blonde woman is sitting on a cloth-padded wooden bench.
The wiry, war-braided young man is sitting on a cloth-padded wooden bench.
The huge figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak stands near the amber-locked woman.
The athletic, serpent-tattooed man stands watchfully here, his arms crossed.
The trim, amber-locked woman sits on a bench stiffly.
The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak stands near the amber-locked woman.
The very tall figure in a dusty orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak is standing behind the trim, amber-locked woman.
The wiry, war-braided young man grunts softly as he glances down at a obsidian-spiked mace.
>say (shaking his head) Shit.
Shaking his head, you say, in sirihish:
"Shit."
You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Are you fighting?"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"He beh puttin up ah good fight, buh ah git deh bigger head!"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Who'm I fighting?"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Your man was lucky with that last move.. A fine showing regardless."
The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak stops guarding the trim, amber-locked woman.
The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak begins guarding the trim, amber-locked woman.
The wiry, war-braided young man begins applauding quietly, its noise quickly lost in the bustling atomosphere around him.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf sheathes a dusty curved obsidian sword.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf picks up a studded, short-handled mace.
Down in the pit the fat-lipped, large-headed dwarf walks south.
>tell kune (pointing over towards ~mace) Kune? Be a dear and pick that up?
Pointing over towards a obsidian-spiked mace, you ask the wiry, war-braided young man, in sirihish:
"Kune? Be a dear and pick that up?"
The wiry, war-braided young man nods simply.
The wiry, war-braided young man pushes off of a cloth-padded wooden bench and rises to his feet.
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"If you two spar regularly then I will rematch, otherwise it is you two."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"I have faith in him"
The wiry, war-braided young man picks up a obsidian-spiked mace.
>rem whistle
You stop using a small, wooden whistle.
>wear whistle about throat
You tilt your head forward and fasten a small, wooden whistle about your throat.
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Aye, suppose we can have the final right away."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Is it too late ta.. y'know, enter?"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Appreciate it"
The wiry, war-braided young man makes his way back toward a cloth-padded wooden bench, offering his obsidian-spiked mace to you.
The wiry, war-braided young man sits down on a cloth-padded wooden bench.
Frowning as the mace soars into the room, the trim, amber-locked woman asks, in sirihish:
"Are they -insane-, tossing weapons about?"
The hearty, thin-lipped man has arrived from the east.
The hearty, thin-lipped man grins.
The hearty, thin-lipped man asks, in sirihish:
"Who grabbed the mace?"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"No, I will put you in if there is time."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Aye...First teh disengage from combat eh?"
You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"I heard you swing a might blade?"
>l hearty
This muscular human's body is well-muscled, hours of training evidenced
in the bulging muscles of his arms and legs and neck. Skin burned dark by
Suk-Krath's unforgiving rays wraps his form in a coppery coating, marred and
broken by numerous scars, some faded while others appear more recent. Hard,
emotionless eyes are set beneath thin dark eyebrows and his lips are so
narrow that they are barely more than a darker line of color against the
copper-hue of his face.
The hearty, thin-lipped man is in excellent condition.
The hearty, thin-lipped man is using:
<worn on arms> a pair of grey sandcloth sleeves
<worn on hands> a pair of thick grey leather gloves
<primary hand> a bone bastard sword
<secondary hand> a bone longsword
<worn around body> a hooded, dun-colored dustcloak
<worn on legs> a pair of dark grey sandcloth trousers
<worn on feet> a pair of knee-high grey leather boots
The hearty, thin-lipped man says, in sirihish:
"That needs ta go back to the contestant."
The wiry, war-braided young man raises his obsidian-spiked mace as he glances toward the hearty, thin-lipped man.
The hearty, thin-lipped man nods.
The flint-eyed, jasper-haired man has arrived from the east, striding along smoothly.
The flint-eyed, jasper-haired man looks around briefly, then grunts.
To himself, the flint-eyed, jasper-haired man says, in northern-accented bendune:
"Shit, missed him again."
The hearty, thin-lipped man walks east.
The hearty, thin-lipped man says, in sirihish:
"Gotta love a good pit fight"
The hearty, thin-lipped man grins.
The hearty, thin-lipped man says, in sirihish:
"I'll return his wepaon to him"
The wiry, war-braided young man looks up at the hearty, thin-lipped man with a faint nod as he extends his obsidian-spiked mace.
The hearty, thin-lipped man holds out a hand to the wiry, war-braided young man.
The wiry, war-braided young man gives a obsidian-spiked mace to the hearty, thin-lipped man.
The flint-eyed, jasper-haired man turns to leave.
Striding along smoothly, the flint-eyed, jasper-haired man walks east.
Down in the pit the tall, spindly man has arrived from the south.
Down in the pit The tall, spindly man looks quickly around at the stands.
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Next item.... a complete set of Kurac's "
>shout I already have that!
You shout in sirihish:
"I already have that!"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Tembo-Mesh Armor!"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Jom! One hundred!"
With her full lips pressed together, the trim, amber-locked woman leans back into her seat, stroking her silvery woven, black silk wrap.
The huge figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak grins briefly, refocusing his expression as he glances about.
The stout, grey-bearded man has arrived from the east.
The hunched, red-skinned mul has arrived from the east.
>talk (to ~kune, with a tired grin) How much did yours go for?
At your seat, you say in sirihish, to the wiry, war-braided young man, with a tired grin:
"How much did yours go for?"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Jom. Three."
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Six pieces.... pus a fine matching cloak!"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"name five?!"
At your seat, the well-toned, blonde woman says in northern-accented sirihish, thoughtfully as she taps her knee:
"Tembo Mesh eh?"
The trim, amber-locked woman looks up at the wiry, war-braided young man with a sidelong flick of her jewel-hard eyes.
The wiry, war-braided young man looks up at the stout, grey-bearded man with a brief glance.
The stout, grey-bearded man looks around quietly.
At your seat, the wiry, war-braided young man says in northern-accented sirihish, in a simple tone as he runs his fingers along his dusty mesh-covered, tembo-hide gorget:
"I got this and my leggings for six fifty I think.."
The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak has arrived from the east.
The tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak wanders back over to the trim, amber-locked woman's side.
Dipping into a lavish bow, then offering a stiff salute the tall figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak strides to the trim, amber-locked woman side ripping down his hood.
>talk (with a smirk towards ~kune) And, you're not bidding?
At your seat, you say in sirihish, with a smirk towards the wiry, war-braided young man:
"And, you're not bidding?"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Gresh at four!"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Five Jom."
The stout, grey-bearded man walks east.
The hunched, red-skinned mul walks east.
The trim, amber-locked woman looks up and nods as the cloaked figures move back in to her.
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Fine show Noggen"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Jom Five! Give me seven!"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Tank yeh."
At your seat, the wiry, war-braided young man says in northern-accented sirihish, in a simple, lucid tone as he turns his attention back toward the pits:
"I have everything I need."
The cruel-eyed, flaxen-tressed man lowers the hood of an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak.
The cruel-eyed, flaxen-tressed man begins guarding the trim, amber-locked woman.
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Five.... going once!"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Ah beh needed back down."
>shout Six! Mister O!
You shout in sirihish:
"Six! Mister O!"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Seven, Jom."
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Once on seven!"
With a faint smile, the trim, amber-locked woman says to the cruel-eyed, flaxen-tressed man, in sirihish:
"Hello, sergeant. Glad you could make it."
>shout Seven-fifty, Mister O!
You shout in sirihish:
"Seven-fifty, Mister O!"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Once of Seven-fifty for Mister O!"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Eight, Jom"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Twice"
The well-toned, blonde woman looks up at the cruel-eyed, flaxen-tressed man with a twist of her head.
>shout Nine! Mister O!
You shout in sirihish:
"Nine! Mister O!"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Nine-fifty, Jom."
>emote grins, watching towards the fighting pit.
The effeminate, pompadoured man grins, watching towards the fighting pit.
The very tall figure in a dusty orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak looks down at the cruel-eyed, flaxen-tressed man.
With a beaming grin, the well-toned, blonde woman says to the cruel-eyed, flaxen-tressed man, in northern-accented sirihish:
"Congratulations Sargeant"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"I have sold this same set to some of you for two large..... give me one large!"
>shout One thousand!
You shout in sirihish:
"One thousand!"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"One large for the mystery man!"
Gesturing to the cruel-eyed, flaxen-tressed man, the trim, amber-locked woman says to the well-toned, blonde woman, in sirihish:
"Sergeant Darani, Captain Kella has promoted Sergeant Cord. He'll be replacing Sergeant Ferathule when he leaves."
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"One and one, Jom."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Wha' do ya' think, should I give a crack at tha', Sir?"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"eleven for Jom... Once!"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Twice!"
>talk (grinning) I should really stop.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, grinning:
"I should really stop."
With a dip of his head, the cruel-eyed, flaxen-tressed man says to the well-toned, blonde woman, in northern-accented sirihish:
"Thank you Sargeant."
At your seat, the well-toned, blonde woman says in northern-accented sirihish, nodding her head to the trim, amber-locked woman:
"Good, where is Fer goin?"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Might be too late, you should speak with Veric-da immediately"
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"Sold to Jom"
>talk What a deal.
At your seat, you say in sirihish:
"What a deal."
You hear a man's voice shout from the east in sirihish:
"One and one, Jom.... congratulations."
Down in the pit the tall, spindly man walks south.
The cruel-eyed, flaxen-tressed man dips his head to the huge figure in an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak turning back to surveying the surroundings.
The slender dark-eyed elf lowers the hood of an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak.
>l cruel
A set of sinister, shooting, cobalt eyes perch above a hooked nose. Longand well-kempt ivory hued hair settles about his head, neat and maintained,while sideburns dissipate as they near his clean-shaven jaw line. Richebony skin fills in the remaining hues of color about his face, excludingthe single depression that rests in the middle of his chin remains ivorycolored. Noticeably powerful shoulders are woven into the frame of thisman, while thick beefy arms drape down from them. Connected to the arms arelarge calloused hands with neatly trimmed fingernails at each fingertip. Achiseled, barrel chest rides atop a flat toned stomach, while below thatrests his proportionate hips. Two legs, like small trunks, hold this man aloft obviously powerful in nature.
The cruel-eyed, flaxen-tressed man is in excellent condition.
The cruel-eyed, flaxen-tressed man is using:
<worn on head> a stained spiky helmet
<worn around neck> a spiked duskhorn collar
<worn on right shoulder> a black epaulette with two grey shields
<worn on left shoulder> a black epaulette with two grey shields
<worn on arms> a set of spiky arm guards
<worn around wrist> a polished duskhorn bracer
<worn around wrist> a gurth shell bracer
<worn around body> an orange-crested, grey sandcloth cloak
<worn on legs> a set of spiky leg guards
<worn on feet> a pair of spiky boots
You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"I can fight you Pendeh."
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"You.. fight me?"
You hear a woman's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"Do you think I can take him?"
You hear a man's voice from the east say, in sirihish:
"possibly"Down in the pit the slight, blonde-haired man has arrived from the south.
Down in the pit the whipcord thin man has arrived from the south.
Down in the pit the buxom, red-haired woman has arrived from the south.
Down in the pit The slight, blonde-haired man walks to the center of the pit.
You hear a...
Continue Reading...The Grey Hunt - Part 2 by Adhira
Added on Nov 15, 2009Precentor Rysha announces the winner of the Grey Hunt - with an unexpected conclusion.
Scene: The Silverwood Estate.
Event: Announcement of the Grey Hunt winner.
Note: Since this was logged by staff thinks and feels which are normally only viewable by the character in question have been left in.
<! As seen by High Precentor Rysha Uaptal>
Whistling lowly, the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden looks up at the short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar.
Nodding deeply to the short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar says, in northern-accented sirihish:
"And High Precentor Rysha Uaptal, show them the same attention you have kindly showed to me."
The trim, ashen-skinned man leans back against a long wooden bench and sits up little straighter.
The svelte, top-knotted woman dips her head respectfully to the group approaching the stage.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman's posture straightens, watching the pearl-haired Lirathan templar and the short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar with a respectful, deep inclination of her head.
Bowing his head low as he turns his attention, the stocky, clean-shaven man looks up at the short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar.
The freckled, light-skinned man clears his throat and lowers his head, bending at the waist slightly as well.
The very short and thick male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask twitches slightly then looks over and seems to relax.
With a deep bow of her head, the short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales looks up at the short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar.
The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden bows her head completely, but still claps wholeheartedly.
The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
"Rysha Uaptal... why did I think the High Precentor was Faithful Lady Fyloria?"
The trim, ashen-skinned man thinks:
"Oh fuck."
The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar lifts her hands for silence, tilting her head gracefully to the newly-entered group.
Someone thinks:
"I... am in the presence of a High Precentor Faithful Lord. I am truly blessed by the Light."
His eyes focusing keenly, the swarthy, aging man looks up at you.
The dusky, sorrel-curled woman thinks:
"Don't look at them! Just sit in their ...fucking serious presence."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman sucks in a gasp, and deeply bows her head.
The short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar clasps her hands before her, standing in front of the small stage.
Someone thinks:
"Eh, I gotta keep better track of this stuff. Could mis-address someone and end up in a real uncomfortable situation."
Short, straight black hair hangs down around this woman's face and falls
around her cheekbones. Her eyes are a rich jade color, round and wide
in shape. She is very taut in stature, with long limbs and delicate
hands and features.
The short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar is in excellent condition.
<neck> a blue and purple inked band
<worn across back> a glossy-grey knapsack
<worn around wrist> a whitened bone key
<left wrist> a silver moon
<worn on hands> a pair of red silk gloves
<worn around body> a hooded, white and gold-trimmed templar's robe
<worn on legs> a pair of white-trimmed, red sandcloth pants
<worn on feet> a pair of soft, white silk boots
The trim, ashen-skinned man swallows then lowers his head once more to the arriving group of templars with a slight tilt at the waist.
The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden thinks:
"High Precentor! What an honor, y'know?"
The lofty, cunyati-tanned man eats his small portion of a thick sausage and cheese sandwich.
The freckled, light-skinned man keeps his gaze lowered, staring directly at a long, white painted table.
Retaking her seat, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar sits at a long, white painted table.
With curiously wrinkled brows, head inclining ever so faintly, hesitant, the scruffy, brown-haired youth looks up at you.
The pearl-haired Lirathan templar glances around the crowd, returning a few nods lightly.
With a deep, respectful bow of her head, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette looks up at you.
The short, dusky woman seems still out of shock for a while, among the crowd, then mimics those around her in showing respects toward the templars.
Dipping off in a nod, the spindly, grey-haired man looks up at you.
<< The stocky, clean-shaven man feels really, really, really fucking nervous. >>
<< Someone feels curious indeed. >>
The willowy, brown-haired young man clears his throat and leans forward, his elbows on his knees.
Unclasping it and letting sweat-tangled hair fall to her shoulders, the ethereal, fair-haired woman stops using her black and red fringed headdress.
<< Someone feels gleeful. >>
Someone thinks:
"How many of my brothers and sisters would love to be able to see this?"
The spindly, grey-haired man looks up at the pearl-haired Lirathan templar.
Tossing her head, her black hair cascading back over her shoulders, you say, in sirihish:
"Citizens of Tuluk... Guests... we come now to the announcement of the Hunt."
Dusting the last few crumbs from his hands, the lofty, cunyati-tanned man bows very deeply, to the point of essentially kneeling along with many others in the crowd.
<< The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar feels a bolt of excitement in your breast. >>
The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden thinks:
"I don't even know who all entered!"
The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
"The Hunt?"
The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar smiles proudly to the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar.
The very short and thick male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask perks up.
At a long wooden bench, the willowy, brown-haired young man speaks, nodding to the short, lithe young man.
Someone thinks:
"Here we go."
<< Someone feels keen, interested excitement. >>
<< The ethereal, fair-haired woman feels dazed. Utterly and completely dazed. >>
The very short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales thinks:
"Rokov. It's gotta be Rokov."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man gives his spiced steak to the freckled, light-skinned man.
As the crowd falls silent, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar fastens her attention on the stage.
As surreptitiously as he can, the freckled, light-skinned man begins to chew on his baguette of brown bread.
Smearing her spindly hands together the svelte, top-knotted woman casts a glance to the freckled, light-skinned man and then back at the stage.
Dipping her head in the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar direction, you say, in sirihish:
"Faithful Lady Serilla. Join me."
The dusky, sorrel-curled woman thinks:
"Not Rokov. Not Rokov."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman thinks:
"She's using the lack of decoration to good effect. It looks dignified on her, rather than plain."
The freckled, light-skinned man eats a portion of his baguette of brown bread.
The tiny, reed-like Jihaen templar folds his arms over his chest, staring at the crowd with a somber stoicism that is in direct contrast to his appearance.
Lifting her brows with a gracious nod to you, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar stands up from a long, white painted table.
The willowy, brown-haired young man nods slowly to you, quickly straightening his posture and gazing forward fixedly.
The tall, muscular man watches quietly, one corner of his mouth quirking in a faint smile.
The freckled, light-skinned man eats a portion of his half eaten baguette of brown bread.
Someone thinks:
"Fuck me."
Sliding off his shoulder before easing back down, the trim, ashen-skinned man stops using his dusty steel grey duffel bag.
<< Someone feels dazed, dull shock. >>
Her hands clasped behind her back, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar steps down the slope to join you, standing back a pace quietly.
The stocky, clean-shaven man thinks:
"There's no second place. At least this won't drag on."
Plopping, the trim, ashen-skinned man sits on a long wooden bench.
The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
"You're in trouble"
The dusky, sorrel-curled woman thinks:
"......"
The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
"I never thought I would ever see them."
The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
"The High Precentor?"
Dipping her head towards her, you say to the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar, in sirihish:
"We thank you for the festival you have provided his citizens. As primary recorder for this Hunt we ask that you call each entrant to stand before us."
Nibbling quickly, masked gaze fixed on the stage, the very short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales eats her half eaten ball of soft white cheese.
The tall, muscular man's eyes shift to you as she speaks.
The willowy, grey-streaked man nods over to the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette.
Handing over, the trim, ashen-skinned man gives his dusty steel grey duffel bag to the very short and thick male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask.
The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden thinks:
"Where's Valin?"
The trim, ashen-skinned man tips a nod to the very short and thick male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask in a slow manner.
The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden begins looking around uncomfortably, her eyes searching the crowd.
The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar remains stading amidst the crowd by a long, white painted table, his reserved and reverant gaze set on the stage.
Nodding deeply to you as she steps forward, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar says, in sirihish:
"In order of recording."
<< Someone feels nervous. >>
Voice lowering, the short, dusky woman whispers something to the sinewy, bald-headed man.
The spangled-blond, muscular woman looks down at the tall, muscular man.
The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
"Thought she meant just leave her alone... obviously not."
The chubby, brown-haired man glances to the stocky, clean-shaven man.
Someone thinks:
"Keep quiet, you shit, or you'll get a beating."
<< The trim, ashen-skinned man feels humbled, hopeful. >>
The sinewy, weather-worn man's head turns in causual survey of the crowd, a faint grin on his lips.
Someone thinks:
"Bad fucking timing GO AWAY, woman!"
<< The ethereal, fair-haired woman feels a touch of sympathy for Vash. >>
Shaking his head, as he speaks quietly, the sinewy, bald-headed man whispers something to the short, dusky woman.
Her voice ringing out, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar says, in sirihish:
"Vejaan A'jinn of the A'jinn Academy."
The trim, ashen-skinned man thinks:
"Just keep it together, keep Aja in yer thoughts, she trained ya some 'fore all this happened."
The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar looks down at the tall, muscular man .
The ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man steps forward proudly, moving over near the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar.
The ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man stands up from a long wooden bench.
The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden thinks:
"Hasn't his family won before?"
The short, dusky woman whispers something to the sinewy, bald-headed man .
Curiously, the spindly, grey-haired man looks up at the ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man .
Inclining her head to the ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar says, in sirihish:
"Master Bard Adarana Irofel."
The stocky, clean-shaven man thinks:
"Vejaan's a serious contender. Can't discount him. ALL of these people are potentially going to be pissed at me if I win this."
Someone thinks:
"Huh. Was wonderin' who that guy was."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man thinks:
"Ahhh, Aja... will that be the one?"
The spangled-blond, muscular woman looks down at the tall, muscular man.
The sinewy, weather-worn man thinks:
"All this hubub just ta get t'the announcement? Krath, Kurac could do it better."
The short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar keeps her hands clasped before her, watching each contestant as they approach.
Hesitantly, the sinewy, bald-headed man whispers something to the short, dusky woman.
Someone thinks:
"Grey hunt? I really ought to listen more closely to what's happening."
An amethyst-eyed, golden-haired woman has arrived from the east, hurrying in.
The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden thinks:
"Good grief! I should have at least entered, with a list of names like that."
The trim, ashen-skinned man licks his lips quietly as he watches the quiet procession.
The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar smiles to an amethyst-eyed, golden-haired woman, inclining her head.
The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar says, in sirihish:
"Advisor Rokov Kurac."
The ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man remains silent and proud, standing with his hands clasped behind his back.
The svelte, top-knotted woman's brow raises in surprise.
The tall, muscular man's eyes move along the entrants as their names are called out.
The short, dusky woman whispers something to the sinewy, bald-headed man .
The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden thinks:
"Oh, like he needs to win anything!"
The stocky, clean-shaven man takes a breath and makes his way down the aisle, approaching the stage.
An amethyst-eyed, golden-haired woman takes her place beside the ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man with a sheepish, nervous smile.
The swarthy, aging man, gives the stocky, clean-shaven man a quick pat, grinning.
The spangled-blond, muscular woman looks up at the ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man.
The sinewy, bald-headed man whispers something to the short, dusky woman .
The very short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales shoots a smile at the stocky, clean-shaven man, tipping an encouraging nod.
At a long wooden bench, the chubby, brown-haired man speaks, chuckling after.
Someone thinks:
"Losing is... so difficult. I have trained my entire life. My tribe has given me strength, wisdom, fortitude. But all these things mean nothing to you."
The stout, heavily-scarred dwarf grins up at the stocky, clean-shaven man , clapping briefly.
<< Someone feels like you are trying to calm your nerves. >>
The short, dusky woman nods once at the sinewy, bald-headed man , straightening the lapels of her sleek, crimson leather duster.
Quietly grabbing his arm, the sinewy, bald-headed man whispers something to the scruffy, brown-haired youth.
Face set in a serious expression, the stocky, clean-shaven man bows his head deeply to the Faithful and moves to stand beside an amethyst-eyed, golden-haired woman.
The spindly, grey-haired man looks up at an amethyst-eyed, golden-haired woman.
The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
"Advisor? What kind of a title is that for a hunter..."
You feel a growing sense of anticipation.
The scruffy, brown-haired youth nods softly, swallowing hard.
The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
"Ah well..."
The pockmarked, well-toned man looks up at the stocky, clean-shaven man .
The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
"You know, there are so many people here..."
The swarthy, aging man chuckles at the chubby, brown-haired man .
The grey-haired, fiery-eyed woman smiles fondly at the ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man from her seat on the bench.
A thin trail of rich, heady smoke trickles from the chubby, brown-haired man 's mouth as he smokes a naked harlot spice pipe.
The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
"If they were to just all drop dead and freeze in time, I'd learn more now than most people in a lifetime."
After a beat, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar says, in sirihish:
"Recruit Valin of the Sun Legions."
Someone thinks:
"It's tough to read the Chosen Lady though..."
Someone thinks:
"Valin? Seriously?"
The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden thinks:
"He's not here, stupid, I don't know where he went..."
The willowy, brown-haired young man thinks:
"I have no idea how she'll take to my... hobby."
Someone thinks:
"Now wouldn' be the best time ta attack. Not with everyone's attention fixed."
The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar thinks:
"Private Valin."
The short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar tilts her head, gaze shifting over the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden .
The scruffy, brown-haired youth's jaw flexes and relaxes, his youthful features tense though he attempts the faintest of smiles to offset, gentle brown hues locked upon the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar as they speak.
<< The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man feels a sense of resignation. >>
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man thinks:
"So, ka. If that be my life in His service, then so be it. But know that my heart aches for your smile."
The caramel, alabaster-haired woman stands up from a long wooden bench.
The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden clears her throat softly, her eyes unmoving from the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar .
Her tone formal, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar says, in sirihish:
"Thiza of the Al'Seik."
The caramel, alabaster-haired woman walks east.
The pearl-haired Lirathan templar glances over at the sinewy, weather-worn man for a long moment.
Hopping to her feet quickly, the dusky, sorrel-curled woman stands up from a long wooden bench.
The dusky, sorrel-curled woman's head inclines deeply as she walks along, falling in line.
The stocky, clean-shaven man thinks:
"So that's who she is."
The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar says, in sirihish:
"Ani and Zharal of the Tan Muark."
The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden thinks:
"Stupid, stupid man. We could have won. I could own this place. And renovate it. And make it beautiful. And me beautiful. And have Hlum babies. Beautiful ones. But stupid skips out on us."
<< The stocky, clean-shaven man feels shock. >>
The sinewy, weather-worn man meets the pearl-haired Lirathan templar's gaze for a moment before his attention drifts back through the gathering.
<< The trim, ashen-skinned man feels nervous as Drov. >>
Someone thinks:
"I guess Thiza's pretty nice. Wouldn't be too disappointed if she won it..."
Her face registering clear surprise, then a respectful nod given, as she steps forward, the short, dusky woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Just.. Ani, Faithful Lady. But I will stand for her as she is not here."
<< Someone feels claustrophobia easing in as the crowd tenses. >>
With a milld nod to the short, dusky woman, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar says, in sirihish:
"Those are the completed entries recorded officially in the books of our Order."
<< The sinewy, weather-worn man feels a sudden sense of dread. >>
The sinewy, weather-worn man thinks:
"Krath, that was just brilliant."
The scruffy, brown-haired youth curls his lips inward, hesitantly taking a half-step forward beside the short, dusky woman before he controls himself, remaining silent beside the sinewy, bald-headed man .
The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar says, in sirihish:
"I believe Vash of Salarr has completed the second task, as well."
Her expression gone completely stiff, the short, dusky woman just nods, managing another more polite one as she steps up onto the stage.
Uncertainly, after a moment's pause, the trim, ashen-skinned man stands up from a long wooden bench.
Her shoulders completely tense, the short, dusky woman whispers something to the stocky, clean-shaven man .
The trim, ashen-skinned man makes his way slowly, humbly, through the crowd to stand by the short, dusky woman, giving the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar and the others a slow, polite nod.
The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar inclines her head to the row of entrants, turning back to you.
With a benevolent smile, you say to the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar, in sirihish:
"Thankyou Faithful Lady."
The dusky, sorrel-curled woman's eyebrows rise over her pair of dark-lensed sunslits then immediately drop.
With a smile, the svelte, top-knotted woman looks up at the dusky, sorrel-curled woman.
<< The trim, ashen-skinned man feels nervous as all get out. >>
The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
"Oh, it'd be pretty wine if Vash won too, I guess."
The stocky, clean-shaven man drops a fraction of a nod as he stands stiff, eyes ahead.
Taking a step away from the stage, motioning to the space on the grass before her, you say, in sirihish:
"As I call you, please step towards me."
Someone thinks:
"PLEASE be Rokov-da or Thiza. They should've chosen one or the other...I hope."
The very short and thick male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask leans over his new dusty tortoiseshell and black-leather shield watching the stage carefully.
The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar steps to the foot of the stage, watching closely.
Someone thinks:
"How are they doing this, I wonder?"
Glancing at the assembled notables, the swarthy, aging man looks up at the pearl-haired Lirathan templar.
The trim, ashen-skinned man straightens up and eases his dusty tortoiseshell and black-leather shield to his side, hand held flat against the other hip.
The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden leans against the stage as she watches, eyes bright with activity.
With a glance towards the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar, you say, in sirihish:
"First we note that Private Valin made admirable effort, and has proven his loyalty to His Legions and His service. We regret that the Private is no longer considered in contention."
Shifting a bit closer, the very short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales sits on a long wooden bench.
Gaze settling on an amethyst-eyed, golden-haired woman, you say, in sirihish:
"Master Bard Adarana Irofel, please stand before me."
Someone thinks:
"...it just needs to be those two. One of them."
An amethyst-eyed, golden-haired woman moves gracefully to stand before you with a bow of her head.
The pearl-haired Lirathan templar blinks at the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar.
The freckled, light-skinned man clears his throat, eyes flitting to the stocky, clean-shaven man briefly.
Extending a hand, your ruby crystal pyramid set atop her palm, you say, in sirihish:
"Master Bard, we thank you for your entry, and your loyalty and service to Him. We regret that you are no longer considered a contender."
With barely any sound at all, the stocky, clean-shaven man whispers something to the short, dusky woman .
The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden thinks:
"No longer considered? But-- why? I don't understand."
The trim, ashen-skinned man stands perfectly still, gaze ahead, chest barely lifting with each breath.
You say to an amethyst-eyed, golden-haired woman, in sirihish:
"Take this as a token of your entry, and achievement."
You give your ruby crystal pyramid to an amethyst-eyed, golden-haired woman.
The chubby, brown-haired man taps his naked harlot spice pipe with a finger as he watches.
The short, dusky woman nods shallowly, staring at the proceedings.
His hand slipping from his pocket, the scruffy, brown-haired youth snaps his gloved fingers softly before placing his hand at the small of his back.
Looking over to the trim, ashen-skinned man, you say, in sirihish:
"Vash, please step before me."
An amethyst-eyed, golden-haired woman accepts her ruby crystal pyramid gracefully and moves offstage.
The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar stands solemnly looking to you with an appreciative nod before turning his attention back to the stage.
The trim, ashen-skinned man tips a very slow nod before taking a breath and careful, determined strides to stand before you.
For a brief moment, the willowy, grey-streaked man looks at the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar .
The trim, ashen-skinned man tips a low, polite nod to you.
Someone thinks:
"I knew he wouldn't win, but I was impressed with his efforts none the less. I am glad he was given consideration."
The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar thinks:
"I will have to do something nice for him in honor of it."
Attention focused on her boots, the very short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales chances only the occasional glance to the stage.
The svelte, top-knotted woman touches her hand to the freckled, light-skinned man's only briefly as she studies the event on stage.
With a smile, her gaze set on him, you say to the trim, ashen-skinned man , in sirihish:
"Your effort in this hunt has been noted and appreciated. Know that Tuluk considers you a fine contestant."
Easing onto a seat beside the tall, muscular man, an amethyst-eyed, golden-haired woman sits on a long wooden bench.
The trim, ashen-skinned man starts to lift his gaze to you but instead tips an even deeper nod.
Holding your ruby crystal pyramid towards him, you say to the trim, ashen-skinned man, in sirihish:
"Take this as a token of your achievement and appreciation, you have done well in His eyes."
You give your ruby crystal pyramid to the trim, ashen-skinned man.
The stocky, clean-shaven man thinks:
"... she didn't say he lost."
The trim, ashen-skinned man slowly lifts his hands and accepts his ruby crystal pyramid with claw covered hands, a warm smile creeping over his lips.
With a nod, you say to the trim, ashen-skinned man, in sirihish:
"We regret that you are no longer considered a contestant."
The robust, coppery-curled teen has arrived from the east.
The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
"Dang, nice prizes. I should just enter this every year."
The trim, ashen-skinned man tips another nod to you then slowly steps back and off to the side.
<< The trim, ashen-skinned man feels content, happy, you did this and you did it well. >>
Looking to the ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man, you say, in sirihish:
"Vejaan A'jinn, please stand before me."
The pockmarked, well-toned man glances to the chubby, brown-haired man, quickly returning his eyes to the stage.
The ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man steps forward, bowing his head respecfully.
Tiptoeing in unobtrusively, the robust, coppery-curled teen sits on a long wooden bench.
For a moment, the very short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales looks up at the ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man.
The freckled, light-skinned man glances towards the ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man, the corners of his mouth turning downwards.
The trim, ashen-skinned man lifts a finger to carefully trace over the edges of his ruby crystal pyramid as he stands some distance from the group of attention.
Her gaze solemn, you say to the ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man, in sirihish:
"Vejaan A'jinn you have lived up to the name of your family. You were a fine entrant and He was pleased."
Leaning over, the robust, coppery-curled teen whispers something to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man .
Extending your ruby crystal pyramid to him, you say to the ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man, in sirihish:
"We regret you are no longer considered a contestant, take this as a token of our appreciation."
The ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man nods his head deeply to you, taking the pyramid.
You give your ruby crystal pyramid to the ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man.
The freckled, light-skinned man covers his mouth with a gauntleted hand, coughing.
The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
"YES!"
Leaning close, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man whispers something to the robust, coppery-curled teen.The svelte, top-knotted woman clasps her hands tightly in front of her.
The scruffy, brown-haired youth's index and middle fingers remain crossed at the small of his back, the other hand still tucked deeply within the pockets of his desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak.
The tall, muscular man stretches, sauntering up towards the stage.
The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
"Zharal, then. Odd."
The freckled, light-skinned man thinks:
"Odd choice..."
The short, dusky woman glances sidelong to the stocky, clean-shaven man , flashes a brave smile, then steps forward to show respects to the short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar.
The curvy, jallal-tressed maiden thinks:
"When did Zharal get beat out? So it's Ani and Rokov? Gee. What great choices. Not even a citizen among them."
The stocky, clean-shaven man takes a deep breath and steps forward toward the short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar.
Watching the tall, muscular man approach the stage, the vibrant, jade-adorned brunette looks at him.
Someone thinks:
"Fuck. At least we have some sort of defensive agreement between each other."
The tall, muscular man steps up onto the stage, moving between the short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar and the stocky, clean-shaven man and the short, dusky woman .
The willowy, grey-streaked man tilts his head, watching the tall, muscular man.
Her brow raising, the svelte, top-knotted woman looks up at the tall muscular man.
The chubby, brown-haired man looks up at the spangled-blond, muscular woman.
The stocky, clean-shaven man pauses, a hand reflexively going beneath his cloak.
The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar thinks:
"A twist?"
The stocky, clean-shaven man looks up at you.
With a slightly narrowed gaze, the scruffy, brown-haired youth looks at the stocky, clean-shaven man .
Glancing over quickly at the lanky, indigo-tressed woman, the willowy, brown-haired young man quietly exhales and leans forward.
The freckled, light-skinned man looks up at you.
The short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar nods slightly as the tall, muscular man approaches.
The chubby, brown-haired man looks up at you.
The short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales thinks:
"The fuck?"
The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar tucks her hands into her sleeves, watching silently.
With a curious shift of his gaze, the sinewy, bald-headed man looks up at the tall, muscular man.
The freckled, light-skinned man quirks an eyebrow briefly.
With a glance over, you say to the short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar, in sirihish:
"This one is mine."
Scene: The Silverwood Estate.
Event: Announcement of the Grey Hunt winner.
Note: Since this was logged by staff thinks and feels which are normally only viewable by the character in question have been left in.
Whistling lowly, the...
Continue Reading...Grey Hunt - Part 1 by Adhira
Added on Nov 15, 2009A festival is held in Tuluk to celebrate the Grey Hunt. Amos-Malik attends the celebrations in time to see the end of a very Tuluki show.
Armageddon -
Monday, November 12, 2007, 1:03 PM
-----------------------------------------------
Scene: The Silverwood Estate.
<!—As seen by Amos-Malik, the tall, muscular man -->
This man possesses a stature that is quite elevated and a physique of
apparent might, sun-tanned, lightly-scarred musculature creating a weighty
cornerstone to bear him up through life. His chiseled features cradle nose,
mouth, and eyes that are neither brown nor green, all of appropriate and
unremarkable proportions to his face. Wavy hair of a completely average,
mousy-dun color caps his head, a slight wave to the thick locks. His
shoulders are broad, his torso likewise, though it tapers to narrow waist
and hips in an almost triangular fashion. His face is shaven, though a few
faint scars along his jawline suggest he is not as skilled at this practice
as he could be.
The tall, muscular man is in excellent condition.
The tall, muscular man is using:
<neck> a blue and purple inked band
<worn on torso> a rugged, long sleeved white shirt
<worn around wrist> a yellow-stained, sun-carved bracelet
<hands> a tattoo of a six-pronged star
<secondary hand> a mask of supple white cloth
<worn on legs> a pair of brushed, sienna-hued knee pants
<worn on feet> a pair of dark-brown, flame-beaded moccasins
An Amphitheater [69077] [INDOORS LIT] [ES]
The garden path runs along the top edge of this open air amphitheater.
A backdrop of bright white stone curves around, while white stone tiers rise
up, providing seats for spectators. In three places, steps descend down the
eight tiers to the floor below. The stage at the bottom is also of gleaming
white stone. Two doors in the backdrop provide places that actors might
enter and leave the stage by.
The path continues on the east and south.
An assortment of casks and baskets of food are scattered around the amphitheater.A garland of white roses rings the clearing, petals gleaming.
A few single white flowers have been woven into a massive garland over the clearing.
The trim, ashen-skinned man is sitting on a long wooden bench.
The spangled-blond, muscular woman is sitting on a long wooden bench.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman is standing here.
The short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth stands ont he stage, performing.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man is sitting on a long wooden bench.
- he is carrying a leather strapped, traveling knapsack.
- he is carrying a leather-strapped, rich purple satchel.
The spindly, grey-haired man lingers at the back, watching the proceedings.
The very short male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask is sitting on a long wooden bench.
The sinewy, weather-worn man is standing here.
The stocky, clean-shaven man is standing here.
The sleekly-muscled, auburn-haired woman stands here, deceptively at ease.
The swarthy, aging man is sitting on a long wooden bench.
The lanky, indigo-tressed woman stands here, easily at attention.
The svelte, top-knotted woman is sitting at a long, white painted table.
The willowy, brown-haired young man is sitting on a long wooden bench.
The sinewy, obsidian-haired man is sitting on a long wooden bench.
The scruffy, brown-haired youth is standing here.
The short, dusky woman is standing here.
The sinewy, bald-headed man is standing here.
The short, barrel-chested dwarf stands here, scowling faintly.
The chubby, brown-haired man is sitting on a long wooden bench.
The stout, heavily-scarred dwarf is sitting on a long wooden bench.
The short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales loiters near a bench.
The ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man is sitting on a long wooden bench.
The grey-haired, fiery-eyed woman is sitting on a long wooden bench.
The freckled, light-skinned man is sitting at a long, white painted table.
The caramel, alabaster-haired woman is sitting on a long wooden bench.
The vibrant, jade-adorned brunette is standing here.
The willowy, grey-streaked man is standing here.
The pockmarked, well-toned man is sitting on a long wooden bench.
The gurth-bellied half-giant soldier looms here, gazing intently about.
The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar is sitting at a long, white painted table.
The bristling red-streaked kurtok paces here, growling for no reason.
The lofty, cunyati-tanned man is standing here.
A half-giant Tuluki soldier looms here in staunch silence.
The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar is sitting at a long, white painted table.
A human Tuluki soldier is here, patrolling.
The short, lithe young man is sitting on a long wooden bench.
The dusky, sorrel-curled woman is sitting on a long wooden bench.
A half-giant Tuluki soldier looms here in staunch silence.
The scruffy, brown-haired youth shuffles forward towards the short, barrel-chested dwarf, scrawny form slipping through the crowds with ease.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman grins with triumph as she skids to a stop, the tassles of her headdress whirling about her face. And then she looks down... at her empty hands. Her features fall, disbelieving.
The hulking, gurth-bellied half-giant soldier watches the ethereal, fair-haired woman worriedly, completely engrossed.
The short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth stands with a smile as she holds the small, yellow-painted ball in her hands, its vivid color standing out against her white gown, showing no sign of movement. She shrugs in comic helplessness.
The tall, muscular man looks over the gathered crowd, making his way through the press of people towards the benches.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks from her hands to the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth's own and then stands, jaw set, as she storms back to her side.
Hooking the claws of the other hand into the trim, ashen-skinned man 's cloak and pulling, the very short male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask whispers something to the trim, ashen-skinned man.
The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar looks up at you.
The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar chuckles quietly as she watches the play, the thin trains of the accompanying music rising from the sides of the stage.
Her set jaw shifting into a simpering, playful smile, the ethereal, fair-haired woman gives the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth 's shoulder a playful nudge as she holds out a hand for the small, yellow-painted ball.
The scruffy, brown-haired youth moves back towards the short, dusky woman , taking a drink as he maneuvers through the thick crowds.
The scruffy, brown-haired youth drinks horta wine from his festively-carved drinking horn.
As he passes through the crowd, the sinewy, weather-worn man looks at you.
Raising her brow at the ethereal, fair-haired woman , the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth remains standing perfectly-postured and unmoving save for a small 'hmph.'
At 1) a long wooden bench are:
the trim, ashen-skinned man ,
the very short male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask ,
the grey-haired, fiery-eyed woman ,
the ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man, and some empty seats.
At 2) a long wooden bench are:
the willowy, brown-haired young man ,
the short, lithe young man , and several empty seats.
At 3) a long wooden bench are:
the spangled-blond, muscular woman ,
the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man ,
the caramel, alabaster-haired woman ,
the sinewy, obsidian-haired man ,
the dusky, sorrel-curled woman , and some empty seats.
At 4) a long wooden bench are:
the swarthy, aging man ,
the chubby, brown-haired man ,
the stout, heavily-scarred dwarf ,
the pockmarked, well-toned man , and some empty seats.
At 5) a long, white painted table are:
the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar ,
the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar ,
the freckled, light-skinned man ,
the svelte, top-knotted woman , and a couple of empty seats.
At 6) a long, white painted table are:
some empty seats.
With the marked lack of success, the ethereal, fair-haired woman 's features become stern as she steps close to the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth , staring down at her with her extra inches of height. She extends her palm again, flat, with uncompromising demand.
The short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth looks up from the ethereal, fair-haired woman down to the yellow painted ball, letting out a little chuckle as she sidles one step to the right.
Watching the ethereal, fair-haired woman closely, the short female wearing a mask of glinting, emerald scales drinks ginka wine from her white-painted wooden cup.
The willowy, grey-streaked man looks at you.
The tall, muscular man pauses, a brief grin cracking his lips as he makes his way to the basket, bending over to look inside.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks up, jaw working to one side before she finally reaches out, elf-quick, to snatch the accursed ball from the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth 's hands.
Inclining her head faintly before returning her attention to the stage, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar looks up at you.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks down at the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth with no small amount of smugness, the ball held in both hands now as she lifts it above her head.
The sinewy, weather-worn man smirks toward the chubby, brown-haired man from the edge of the crowd.
In a single, swift motion, the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth grabs the neck of the ethereal, fair-haired woman 's collar and lifts her off the ground, brow creasing deeply.
The ball falls from the ethereal, fair-haired woman 's hands as her eyes widen, astonished, with the grip on her collar.
The small, harmless, innocuous yellow-painted ball rolls across the stage behind the ethereal, fair-haired woman and the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth.
The short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth jerks the ethereal, fair-haired woman toward herself, her teeth clenched, but looks down at the *clank* of the ball dropping and watches as it rolls away-- still effortlessly dangling the ethereal, fair-haired woman in the air.
The short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth 's face contorts into a look of horror as the ball disappears and in its place appears a large, yellow-clad figure, almost as if out of nowhere.
The tall, muscular man moves over to a bench, sitting down on the end.
The bristling, red-streaked kurtok reaches his neck out to sniff cursorily at you from beneath a long, white painted table, growling contentedly.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man walks east.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman stares, even as she is held on tip-toe by the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth 's grip on her shirt collar.
Briefly, the stocky, clean-shaven man looks down at you.
After a startled pause, the ethereal, fair-haired woman looks down at the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth and then up to an invisble figure. And then she points to the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth with a shrug of innocent helplessness.
The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar looks at you.
With a loud scoff of protest, the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth looks toward large, yellow-clad figure and instantly releases the ethereal, fair-haired woman . She sets forth a flurry of gestures at the ethereal, fair-haired woman .
With a silent gasp of astonishment, the ethereal, fair-haired woman whirls to look down at the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth, headdress flapping at her face, as she points a finger, jabbing it at her chest.
The grey-haired, fiery-eyed woman watches silently, leaning against the ebon-haired, ruby-eyed man's side.
The short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth turns toward the large, yellow-clad figure, ignoring the ethereal, fair-haired woman, and holds up both hands, her lips turning downward as she begins to whine and pout.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks at the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth and then drops to both knees and crawls forward, hands clasped in front of her face as she elbows her way to the front.
At a long, white painted table, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar speaks, clapping her hands together softly, her smile tinged with delight.
The large, yellow clad figure holds up a single one of its hands, and snaps-- both the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth and the ethereal, fair-haired woman fall to the ground.
At your seat, you say in sirihish, glancing along the bench:
"Good show?"
The svelte, top-knotted woman chuckles at the display on stage, looking amused.
The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar leans forward intently, her attention on the red and white-clad figures on the stage floor.
After a long, dramatic pause in which both actors keep themselves still, the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth turns, takes the ethereal, fair-haired woman's hand, and lifts herself into an elegant bow.
The trim, ashen-skinned man lifts his hands and gives a careful, then more obvious clap to the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth and the ethereal, fair-haired woman while gazing at the stage.
Cracking a smile, the ethereal, fair-haired woman pushes herself to her feet, one hand clasping the short female wearing a mask of supple white cloth 's own.
The scruffy, brown-haired youth draws his gloved hands together in gentle applause, his festively-carved drinking horn tucked under his shoulder.
The hulking, gurth-bellied half-giant soldier stands up from his bench, applauding with serious glee to the stage.
The tassles against the ethereal, fair-haired woman's forehead flutter in a slight breeze.
The chubby, brown-haired man leaves his naked harlot spice pipe to dangle in
his mouth as he claps.
The short, dusky woman starts clapping among those cheering in the back, sending a smile toward the stage.
The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar joins the cheers and hollers of the crowd, lifting her hands to applaud.
Pushing it off her sweat moistened face, the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden stops using her mask of supple white cloth, revealing a blue teardrop, superimposed over a white half moon.
The grey-haired, fiery-eyed woman lifts her hand in loud applause.
The freckled, light-skinned man claps boisterously, letting out a chuckle.
The lofty, cunyati-tanned man thinks:
"Un. Interesting."
With a firm smile as she approaches, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar whispers something to the ethereal, fair-haired woman .
A wide smile gracing her lips as she raises her voice, the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden says, in sirihish:
"Worthy only for a gathering of the red, the white, and the yellow."
The sinewy, obsidian-haired man blinks quickly, then starts clapping with the rest of the crowd, his thick carru and cheese sandwich in his mouth as he does.
The tall, muscular man blinks, bringing hands together to clap.
The willowy, brown-haired young man observes the crowd before nodding and applauding quietly.
Proudly, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar whispers something to the ethereal, fair-haired woman.
Holding out a hand to the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar, the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden says, in sirihish:
"But I think it may be the Faithful Lady's turn to talk."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks to the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar and gives a gracious nod, her black and red fringed headdress swaying.
The dusky, sorrel-curled woman rests her elbows on her knees, leaning forward.
The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar walks slowly down the slope, her skull-adorned ruby bracelet gleaming in the lamplight.
At your seat, the very short male wearing a bloodied runic, fire-scorched mask says in tribal-accented sirihish, to the trim, ashen-skinned man :
"When we get our auction shit?"
Holding his position as the short, dusky woman moves, the scruffy, brown-haired youth looks down at the swarthy, aging man .
Inclining her head deeply to the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden and the ethereal, fair-haired woman , the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar says, in sirihish:
"Let's have a round of applause once more for our bards."
Looking around, a pleased grin splitting his lips, you say, in sirihish:
"Lot's of people here. Heard it was a good show."
The short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar has arrived from the east.
The pearl-haired Lirathan templar has arrived from the east.
The tiny, reed-like Jihaen templar has arrived from the east.
The skeletal, dark-skinned Jihaen templar has arrived from the east.
The earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar claps softly again to the curvy, jallal-tressed maiden , smiling broadly.
Lifting her eyes to the pearl-haired Lirathan templar with a deep, respectful bow of her head, the earthy, sienna-maned Lirathan templar says, in sirihish:
"If I may now present my elder Faithful Sister Halle."
Eyes widening as he spies the skeletal, dark-skinned Jihaen templar's group walk in, the lofty, cunyati-tanned man eats a portion of his thick sausage and cheese sandwich.
The trim, ashen-skinned man looks to the group of templars arriving from the east and slowly lowers his applauding hands and tips a nod.
The short, dusky woman claps very absently, her eyes trained on the entering group of templars.
The sinewy, obsidian-haired man starts clapping once more loudly but suddenly comes to an halt as he turns toward the many templars walking in.
The tall, muscular man swivels around on the bench, looking towards the incoming group of Templars.
The sinewy, weather-worn man turns his full attention to the group clad in red and white robes and bows his head deeply.
The grey-haired, fiery-eyed woman looks at you.
A large entourage following her, the short-haired, jade-eyed Lirathan templar goes to stand by the small stage.
Armageddon -
Monday, November 12, 2007, 1:03 PM
-----------------------------------------------
Scene: The Silverwood Estate.
This man possesses a stature that is quite elevated and a physique of
apparent might, sun-tanned,...
Continue Reading...Memoir #9 - The Bynner (Marek) by Rairen
Added on Oct 27, 2009In the incident that leads to him becoming Aja's most fascinating student, an Allanaki-born Byn Sergeant illustrates how easily an outlander can upset the fragile calm of Tuluki upper-caste society.
You are Aja, of many peoples.
Objective: To learn to fight - and still be thought weak.
You are 27 years, 1 months, and 206 days old,
The Sun King's Sanctuary [NESWUD]
A polished, white marble floor covers the ground of this expansive room, gleaming under the light of a large glass chandelier that hangs overhead. A semi-circular bar, made of hard-grained wood painted a deep black, extends from the eastern wall, several high-backed barstools sitting around it. The walls of this room are brightly decorated, with several elaborate paintings placed carefully for unobstructed view, and shelves holding many exotic potted plants, blooming with bright red and white flowers. Two large stained-glass windows, decorated with elaborate sun symbols, adorn the northwest and southeast corners of the room.
Several decoratively carved tables fill this room, while a polished leather couch nearly ten cords in length sprawls along the northern wall. A stately spiral staircase sits in the center of the room, winding upwards toward the common rooms of the second floor. The sounds of laughter and music can be heard from a doorway along the western wall, while the scents of cooked meat waft in from the east. A small, straight stairway sits along the northern wall, ending at a slightly raised loft and a large carven baobab door sits in the southern wall, leading out onto the North Road outside.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman nods down to each of the others, a glass of wine deposited in front of them.
You give your finely made glass goblet to the short, dusky woman.
You give your finely made glass goblet to the freckled, light-skinned man.
You give your finely made glass goblet to the spangled-blond, muscular woman.
You give your finely made glass goblet to the robust, coppery-curled teen.
You give your finely made glass goblet to the sinewy, obsidian-haired man.
You think:
"... I'll be poor but popular."
The dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man has arrived from the south.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman relaxes back against the bar with elegant negligence, falling silent as she looks down to the spangled-blond, muscular woman, the robust, coppery-curled teen, and the others at the bar.
Stiffly, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man walks towards a black-painted bar.
With a sigh, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man sits at a black-painted bar.
At your table, the robust, coppery-curled teen says in sirihish, chuckling at the sinewy, obsidian-haired man:
"The thought counts, though."
Draining it, the short, dusky woman puts her finely made glass goblet onto a black-painted bar.
With a slight lift of her brow when she notices him and a polite nod in greeting, you look at the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man.
Raven black hair has been twisted tightly into thin braids that dangle down this man's angular head. At the ends of the long braids, his hairs curve sharply, resembling curling claws. An intricate purple inking of a dragon has been tattooed into his dark flesh. The beasts head rests below his right eye and the long body crosses his cheek, the tail curving over his chin and up to his forehead, the tail ending where his hairline starts. His dark brows lay over his light hazel colored eyes on either side of his long nose. His jawbone is covered in dense black stubble which becomes more sparse as it trails down his thick neck. His wide shoulders spread out and hold a pair of heavily muscled arms, scarred forearms and callused hands. His torso is slender and chiseled with long, muscular legs. His features are darkly tanned to an ebon hue except for a few pale scars etched into the rest of his dark skin.
Turning his head, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man looks at you.
At your table, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says in southern-accented sirihish, smiling at you:
"Aja."
At your table, the sinewy, obsidian-haired man says in sirihish, dipping his head into a quick nod, grinning:
"Still, knowing that we both drank from stolen cups only add to the evening."
At your table, you say in sirihish, returning the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man's smile:
"Marek. A pity, you just missed me buying a round of drinks. You'll have to wait until I can gather the courage to do it again."
The dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man gets his leather waterskin from his leather swordbelt.
At your table, the robust, coppery-curled teen says in sirihish, giggling at the sinewy, obsidian-haired man:
"Two misplaced cups for two misplaced people."
At your table, the sinewy, obsidian-haired man says in sirihish, smiling faintly as he sips quietly from his finely made glass goblet:
"I wish it only took courage and not 'sids to be able to afford a round of drinks, 'round here.."
At your table, you say in sirihish, glancing back to the sinewy, obsidian-haired man with his words, amusement in her pale eyes:
"... Courage and 'sid seem to be synonymous, in this case."
At your table, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says in southern-accented sirihish, eyeing you before unplugging his leather waterskin's stopper:
"Well, yeh'll have t'offer me somethin' else, then."
At your table, the spangled-blond, muscular woman says in sirihish, head coming up:
"Huh?"
The dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man looks at the sinewy, obsidian-haired man.
The spangled-blond, muscular woman glances at you.
At your table, the sinewy, obsidian-haired man says in sirihish, chuckling softly as he shakes his head in the robust, coppery-curled teen's direction:
"Everyone commented on our dancing, I'm going to assume that we were not as misplaced in the crowd as we might wish we were.."
At your table, you say in sirihish, head turning as she looks at the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man, her smile inescapably polite:
"... Is not the pleasure of my company - and of the company of this room - enough to sate you?"
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's jaw tenses.
At your table, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says in southern-accented sirihish, lifting a hand to scratch his short beard, leaning over his fist, elbow on a black-painted bar:
"Well, yer company's fine...but I'd be a lot more sated if th'rest of th'company wasn't 'bout."
You think:
"Such... a bold... flirt."
The short, dusky woman flicks ash from her solidly packed tube of spice, staring with droll, dark amusement at the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man.
At your table, the robust, coppery-curled teen says in sirihish, arching a brow at the sinewy, obsidian-haired man:
"Really? Wasn't expectin' that."
At your table, the short, dusky woman says in sirihish:
"Somehow, I doubt that, Marek."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks at the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man, and then laughs, a gloved hand lifting to her lips, muffling the sound.
A thin trail of rich, heady smoke trickles from the short, dusky woman's mouth as she smokes a solidly packed tube of spice.The short, dusky woman's eyes become glassy-red and half-closed.
The dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man chuckles softly, lifting his other fist to meet the other under his chin.
At your table, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says in southern-accented sirihish, glancing at the short, dusky woman:
"Oh, I'd invite yeh too, Chosen Lady, but tha'd be illegal."
At your table, you say in sirihish, after inclining her head to the short, dusky woman:
"... I believe the Chosen Consort is correct, Marek, though it's been too long since we've spoken. You've been well, I trust?"
At your table, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says in southern-accented sirihish, with a twisted smile:
"Shoulda approached me when yeh had th'chance."
The short, dusky woman's expression darkens with anger and disgust as she stares at the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man, silently grinding a spice tube out on the bartop.
You think:
"... Soothe, soothe."
At your table, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says in southern-accented sirihish, lifting his shoulders back into a shrug:
"Eh, not as many contracts up here as I'd expected."
At your table, you say in sirihish, in her calm, crystal-like voice as she does... not... look in the short, dusky woman's direction:
"... And I'm sorry for it. Perhaps you would walk with me? I... find I need to stretch my legs."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman taps gloved fingers on the bar, glancing between the short, dusky woman and the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man.
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
Slowly arching a brow, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man looks down at the short, dusky woman.
At your table, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says in southern-accented sirihish, dipping his head to the short, dusky woman:
"'Scuse me, Chosen Consort, no offense meant."
At your table, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says in southern-accented sirihish, to you:
"Aye, let's walk."
In a smooth motion, your flowing white linen skirt
fluttering about her legs, you stand up from a black-painted bar.
At a black-painted bar, the freckled, light-skinned man speaks, nodding towards the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man.
At a black-painted bar, the short, dusky woman speaks, snapping out.
At a black-painted bar, you overhear the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man say in southern-accented sirihish, eyeing the short, dusky woman, nodding:
"I was merely statin' tha' yer above me, Chosen Consort...apologies."
The short, dusky woman sends you a telepathic message:
"Is this man valuable to the northern templarate in any way?"
The ethereal, fair-haired woman's steps slow... and then she turns, offering the short, dusky woman and the freckled, light-skinned man a polite nod in passing.
You contact the short, dusky woman with the Way.
At a black-painted bar, you overhear the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man say in southern-accented sirihish, to the freckled, light-skinned man:
"An' we can do most anythin', Chosen Lord. Scout, hunt, kill, gather, I'm sure we'd be much easier t'place than th'soldiers of Lyksae..."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman's posture changes, tensing and coiled.
You send a telepathic message to the short, dusky woman:
"I fear that they do not confide such matters to me, and I do not know how valuable he is to the Byn."
The dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man stands up from a black-painted bar.
You send a telepathic message to the short, dusky woman:
"For now, I can take him away from you, though, while you... decide."
The short, dusky woman sends you a telepathic message:
"I see."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
The robust, coppery-curled teen attention lingers on the contents of her finely made glass goblet as she fidgets uneasily.
Adding curtly, the freckled, light-skinned man says, in sirihish:
"And all of the Warriors in my Sept can do that, and keep civil tongues in their heads."
Shrugging his shoulders, the freckled, light-skinned man says, in sirihish:
"Small wonder you have difficulty finding contracts."
You contact the sinewy, obsidian-haired man with the Way.
The spangled-blond, muscular woman stands up from a black-painted bar.
You send a telepathic message to the sinewy, obsidian-haired man:
"My apologies for having to depart so abruptly. I'm certain you understand."
With a smirk, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man asks the freckled, light-skinned man, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Aye, perhaps I should turn around'n head back home, hm?"
The spangled-blond, muscular woman moves down the bar and pauses near the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man.
Inclining his head deeply, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says to the freckled, light-skinned man, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Find m'when yeh think of anythin'."
The dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man looks down at the spangled-blond, muscular woman.
Touching a hand to his elbow, you say to the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man, in sirihish:
"Not without walking with me first."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman lowers her hand, glancing up to the spangled-blond, muscular woman, as well.
The dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man nods to you, beginning to walk to the doorway.
The short, dusky woman fingers the hilt of her razor-sharp, hawk-etched halfsword, then drops her hand smoothly to the bartop, maintaining a silence.
In her strange thin falsetto, giving weight to the first few syllables, the spangled-blond, muscular woman asks the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man, in sirihish:
"No offense, Sergeant, but I think you're creating a small disturbance. Perhaps you'd step out and return another time?"
You contact the spangled-blond, muscular woman with the Way.
At a black-painted bar, you overhear the sinewy, obsidian-haired man say in sirihish, smiling curiously in the freckled, light-skinned man's direction, tilting his head to the side:
"Surely you have a stable or two that needs cleaning, Chosen Lord?"
You send a telepathic message to the spangled-blond, muscular woman:
"I'll keep an eye on him, Sid, and let you know where he is if you need him."
Sternly, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man looks down at the spangled-blond, muscular woman.
Voice cool, calm, level, the short, dusky woman says to the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man, in sirihish:
"I would have found that insulting before I was Chosen, Sergeant. Watch your tongue more carefully. You're obviously unfamiliar with northern customs."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman's gaze locks calm and steady on the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man.
Turning, eyeing the spangled-blond, muscular woman a moment before speaking, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says to the short, dusky woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Perhaps yeh could enlighten me."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's hands reach for her hood as she glances between the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man and the spangled-blond, muscular woman.
The spangled-blond, muscular woman asks the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man, in sirihish:
"Like I said, no offense. Just trying to keep the peace. But then too, I'm straight serious. Come back another day, huh?"
The dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man says to the short, dusky woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"'Cause I don't know th'diference between a compliment'n an insult here. They's both seem t'come'n go th'same way."
The short, dusky woman says to the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man, in sirihish:
"Perhaps you should walk with apprentice Aja Driamusek before you put your dung-covered boot further into that mouth of yours, Sergeant."
Frowning, the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man walks south.
You follow the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man, and walk south.
North Road [NESW]
The stark white of this wide stone road lies nestled between the rise and fall of a conglomerated jumble of eclectically styled buildings. Passing through the city, the road is kept clean of any blowing sand and forest debris. The pale backbone cuts a decisive line east across the
bustling metropolis towards what remains of the Old City.
The pale white of the road merges with a newer road just to the east. Further in the distance, the crumbled ruins of the old city can be seen rising up above the newer walls that have been built up around them. Set on the north side of the road is a large two-story tavern. On the south side of the road is a large wagon yard.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman relinquishes her hood, accompanying the dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man with formally correct posture.
The dragon-tattooed, claw-braided man raises the hood of a hooded, brown military aba.
The tall figure in a hooded, brown military aba asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Where yeh wanna walk to?"
His purple-inked dragon-tattooed features twisting into a dark grimace, the tall figure in a hooded, brown military aba says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Allanak'd be a good place t'begin, I'm thinkin'."
The spangled-blond, muscular woman sends you a telepathic message:
"Your solution was a lot more elegant than mine, Bard. Thank you for the help."
With a fixedly polite smile, you ask the tall figure in a hooded, brown military aba, in sirihish:
"... Have you had opportunity to tour the city during your time here?"
The tall figure in a hooded, brown military aba says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"No."
You send a telepathic message to the spangled-blond, muscular woman:
"Elegant, though I would have enjoyed yours more if it could have provoked him into being thrown into the jails. And please, call me Aja. Or Apprentice, if you will use my title."
With a slight nod as she looks out over the commons, you say to the tall figure in a hooded, brown military aba, in sirihish:
"Then let’s walk to the gardens. They've calmed hotter heads than yours."
You are Aja, of many peoples.
Objective: To learn to fight - and still be thought weak.
You are 27 years, 1 months, and 206 days old,
The Sun King's Sanctuary [NESWUD]
A polished, white marble floor covers the ground of this expansive room, gleaming under the light of...
Continue Reading...Memoir #8 - The Siblings (Ilune and Chaska) by Rairen
Added on Oct 27, 2009In the midst of the vibrant, crowded King's Age Celebration for Elithan Winrothol, two tribal guests pull the templar's partisan aside for a quieter performance.
You are Aja, of many people.
Objective: To find a purpose.
You are 33 years, 0 months, and 89 days old.
It is late morning on Dzeda, the 185th day of the Descending Sun,
In the Year of Jihae's Vengeance, year 45 of the 21st Age.
A Large, Airy Gallery [S]
This portion of the huge tent is draped in swags of colorful silk and strung with flickering glass-sided lanterns. The entire northern wall's white canvas has been painted into a striking mural depicting a tablelands scene: towering red spires and cliffs overlook regions shaded in hues of yellow, grey, and orange. To the south can be seen a stage with seating arranged around it.
A low circular sparring platform decked out with red and white silk is here.
The stocky, burgundy haired man is standing here.
The strapping, burnished-haired man is standing here.
The curvy, baobab-haired woman is standing here.
The willowy, krath-kissed woman is standing here.
The sinewy, onyx-haired woman is standing here.
The bulging, grey-skinned dwarf is standing here.
The scarred, dark-skinned half-elf is standing here.
The tall, spare, dark woman is standing here.
The thick, curly-haired half-giant stands here.
A squat, tattooed guard stands here.
The delicate, soot-braided man is standing here.
The husky, onyx-haired man is standing here.
The worn man with wild, curly hair is standing here.
The delicate, lofty woman is standing here.
The athletic, olive-skinned man is standing here.
The young, slender half-elf woman is standing here.
The slender, lavender-eyed man is standing here.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman is standing here.
The slim, copper-haired young man stands in the crowd, watching the spectacle.
The mustard dwarf is standing here.
The sinewy, weather-worn man is standing here.
The tawny, braid-crowned half-giant is standing here.
The braid-tressed young woman is standing here.
The lofty, deeply-bronzed woman is standing here.
The tow-headed, one eyed half-elf is standing here.
The pepper-stubbled, olive-skinned man is standing here with arms folded.
The small, dark-skinned young man is standing here, looking tired.
The short, dusky woman loiters near the back of the room, observing.
The lean, wild-looking man is standing here.
The limber, krath-ruptured man is standing here, looking a bit winded.
The supple, jasper-curled young man is standing here.
The gurth-bellied half-giant soldier looms here, gazing intently about.
The earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar is standing here.
The one-eyed half-giant Tuluki soldier is standing here.
A half-giant Tuluki soldier looms here in staunch silence.
The ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar is standing here.
Looking inside a low circular sparring platform, you see:
Within a Sparring Platform [Leave]
Roughly twenty-five cords across and raised a cord or two from the ground, this platform is crafted in sections of wood that can be broken apart and pieced together. The combat boundaries are denoted in red and white intertwined lines dyed into the leather mats atop the platform. The platform itself appears to be quite springy despite its mostly wooden structure.
A light wooden sparring axe lies here.
The tow-headed, one eyed half-elf is standing here.
The bulging, grey-skinned dwarf is standing here.
The stout, crook-nosed man is standing here.
You feel a headache coming on.
The delicate, lofty woman has arrived from the south.
The delicate, lofty woman strolls in casually, a hand on her hip with her other playing with her hair.
Shaking her head, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the ancient, brutally-scarred Jihaen templar, in sirihish:
"Apparently I'm not good at this betting thing."
On a platform, the stout, crook-nosed man says, in sirihish:
"Nex' up... Dargan an' Rannick."
Glancing wanly into her bracelet of twisted red and white feathers, the earthy, silvery-maned Lirathan templar says, in sirihish:
"Two on Dargan."
The delicate, lofty woman approaches you, tapping your shoulder.
You send a telepathic message to your favorite southern diplomat:
"It may not be immediate, but I can see for a pulse of it within the Circle. A good bard is..."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman turns her head, looking to the delicate, lofty woman with a curious smile.
Tilting her head a little, you whisper to the delicate, lofty woman in sirihish:
"... What can I do for you, my dear?"
Leaning in, the delicate, lofty woman whispers to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is wondering if you is wanting to play music for brother of mine and I so we can dance, friend Seeker."
With a slight crease to her forehead, you whisper to the delicate, lofty woman in sirihish:
"Inside? If you wish it, of course."
You feel such overwhelming relief!
On a platform, still grinning, the stumpy, gnarled dwarf says to the stout, crook-nosed man, in sirihish:
"Ah always wanted ta get me ass beat by a female stump."
Nodding, the delicate, lofty woman whispers to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is letting brother of mine know."
You send a telepathic message to your favorite southern diplomat:"... My pardon, as I was saying, a good bard can make a home for themselves in most places."
The delicate, lofty woman turns and walks southward through the crowd.
The delicate, lofty woman walks south.
s (edging along the wall)
A Large, Airy Gallery [NW]
This portion of the huge tent is dominated by a low stage with seating arranged around it. The billowing canvas walls of the tent are lined with swags of colorful silk, as well as a variety of murals painted straight onto the canvas walls. Glass-shaded lanterns are strung about to give off a delicate glow at night, or supplement the sunlight filtered through the tent's walls during the day.
A couple of empty large purple wine casks are here by the table.
A bleached wooden cask with a cork stopper stands here.
A bleached wooden cask is here in a corner.
An empty cask of strong purple belshun wine sits here.
A cask of purple belshun wine is here in a corner.
A large wooden cask, etched with flames, rests here.
An empty large wooden cask, etched with flames, rests here.
Painted in a myriad of colors, backed by a huge silt-horror shell, a large, well-lit stage is here.
Atop an intricately carved table is an oblong, etched obsidian tray.
An oblong obsidian tray has been set here.
Bracketing the stage on the right side is a low, oval maroon baobab table.
Bracketing the stage on the left side is a low, oval maroon baobab table.
Near the center of the room is a long, pale-veined marble table.
A rectangular tray made of cylini wood sits here, etchings adorning its sides.
A carved wooden tray lies here.
You hear a man's voice from the north say, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I take that."
You hear a woman's voice from the north say, in sirihish:
"Two whites on Dargan?"
(And the chatter from the fighting contest continues northward.)
The ethereal, fair-haired woman rubs the back of her neck with a silk-gloved hand, the other still holding a drink.
The delicate, lofty woman smiles to you, touching her temple.
With an easy smile to the delicate, lofty woman, you sip from your sun-adorned, red stone cup.
Plucking one up, you get your fruit-stuffed tart from an oblong, etched obsidian tray.
A look of relief on her features, you take a bite of your fruit-stuffed tart.
Honey lends this pastry a sweet taste, while fruit and nuts make it rich, the flavors mingling together for delicious satisfaction.
The delicate, lofty woman smiles as she glances west.
Trotting, the delicate, lofty woman walks west.
To the west is an Airy Entrance.
[Near]
The delicate, lofty woman is standing here.
The dark-skinned, scarred man is standing here.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman waits, looking into the next room and walking through the sparse crowds here.
Relaxing into a seat, you sit at a highly polished table.
Your favorite southern diplomat sends you a telepathic message:
"I think it would be good. If we're to seek peace and acceptance, cultures should be exchanged, albeit slowly."
Your favorite southern diplomat sends you a telepathic message:
"Naki are traditionally skeptical of anything foreign."
You send a telepathic message to your favorite southern diplomat:
"... Precisely. It is not something that can change in a year, or even in our lifetimes, perhaps, hm? But it is a worthy cause, nonetheless."
You send a telepathic message to your favorite southern diplomat:
"*amused* They come around, given time. Particularly if we send some of our rougher performers."
(The political niceties drift into more serious topics, while Aja waits.)
You think:
"... My, what an orator he's turning out to be."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman crosses her legs beneath your swirling skirt of gauzy blue sandcloth.
The delicate, lofty woman has arrived from the west, tugging along the athletic, olive-skinned man by the hand.
The athletic, olive-skinned man has arrived from the west.
Glancing up to the delicate, lofty woman and smiling, you sip from your sun-adorned, red stone cup.
To you, waving a hand to you, the delicate, lofty woman exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Us is here, Seeker!"
You send a telepathic message to your favorite southern diplomat:
"... You are a very cruel man. I think I will enjoy our... relationship."
The athletic, olive-skinned man sighs deeply and shyly as he follows the delicate, lofty woman's by the hand, glancing around as he steps into the crowded room.
Gently tugging back at the delicate, lofty woman's without much effort, the athletic, olive-skinned man exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"..I not want to dance.. I is shy!"
With a quiet chuckle, starting to stand, you ask, in sirihish:
"Where would you have me, Ilune Jal Tavan?"
Obviously excited as she stops, both her hands behind her, holding the athletic, olive-skinned man in place, the delicate, lofty woman exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Here!"
With a flickering smile and shake of her head, you look up at the athletic, olive-skinned man.
Proud and lofty of stature, this young man's body is lean and muscular, with broad shoulders and an athletic frame. His skin is fittingly tanned; his dark olive skin has begun to wear smooth, yet retains its youthful structure. Thick brown-black hair falls past his shoulders, bound away from his face in a tail at the base of his neck by a dark leather cord. His eyes, often shaded by a few roguish locks, are of a like color to his hair, and yet, subtly, speckled with light violet and pale blue. His face has a proud forehead and a slender nose, flared slightly at the nostrils. His high cheek bones and a clean shaven jawline match the rest of his regal look.
The slender, lavender-eyed man has arrived from the north, rubbing his forehead.
The delicate, lofty woman whirls around, her ruffled blue silk blouse fluttering with the commotion.
As she pulls out her silvery-gray lute, you say to the athletic, olive-skinned man, in sirihish:
"Chaska, my friend, don't be shy for me."
With a tender hand, you get your silvery grey pymlithe lute from your light brown, leather instrument case.
The slender, lavender-eyed man gets his sun-adorned, red stone cup from an intricately-sculpted marble table.
Laying it aside, you put your light brown, leather instrument case onto a highly polished table.
To the athletic, olive-skinned man, tapping a finger to his lips, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is waiting for this for all those months I was gone, brother of mine."
Sighing deeply and miserably as he slides a hand to the small of the delicate, lofty woman's back and another in her hand, the athletic, olive-skinned man exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"..I not know how to dance.. Is so crowded..!"
The slender, lavender-eyed man drinks ginka wine from his sun-adorned, red stone cup.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman brushes a gloved hand over the strings while the other twists idly at some of the wooden pegs that line its neck.
With a glance to the delicate, lofty woman, amused, you stop using your pair of short midnight-blue silk gloves, revealing a tattoo of a six-pronged star.
Sadly, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"But I is so happy that us is going to dance, brother of mine..."
The delicate, lofty woman sighs, her eyes dipping down to her pair of shaggy quirri-hide boots.
Revealing her missing two fingers in the process, you put your pair of short midnight-blue silk gloves into your fine red sash.
The slender, lavender-eyed man grins a bit, face reddened slightly.
With a mock-reproving frown, you say to the athletic, olive-skinned man, in sirihish:
"Chaska, look how you've hurt her feelings. Don't be cruel."
Lowering his head some before coming up with a bright smile as he nods slightly in the delicate, lofty woman's direction, the athletic, olive-skinned man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is happiest when you is happy, beloved sister of mine, you is knowing that.."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman twists in her seat, pushing it back to allow her arms room.
The delicate, lofty woman leans her cheek on the athletic, olive-skinned man's, placing a hand on his hip and her other wrapping around his neck.
The slender, lavender-eyed man holds his sun-adorned, red stone cup loosely, glancing between you and the athletic, olive-skinned man.
Calling over to her, you ask the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:
"Slow or quick, my dear?"
His words a bit loud but not quite slurred, the slender, lavender-eyed man asks, in sirihish:
"Are we listening to -the- Aja play?"
The delicate, lofty woman gestures at herself, pressed close to the athletic, olive-skinned man.
Lifting her chin to call out, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"What you is thinking, Seeker? Us is ready to dance slow."
Perking up at the sound of the slender, lavender-eyed man's voice, the ethereal, fair-haired woman cracks a wry smile in his direction.
The delicate, lofty woman rests her cheek against the athletic, olive-skinned man's chest.
Voice a murmur as she lets her hands brush over your silvery grey pymlithe lute's strings, you say, in sirihish:
"As you wish..."
The melody that sings from the ethereal, fair-haired woman's lute is a soft one, even a sad one, rich and unhurried.
Taking a few steps back and then forward once more, holding the delicate, lofty woman to him by the waist, chuckling merrily as he guides her around briefly by the hand, the athletic, olive-skinned man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Maybe quick would make misery of I end faster.."
The delicate, lofty woman nudges the athletic, olive-skinned man, grunting.
Swaying to the melody, the slender, lavender-eyed man says, in sirihish:
"Oh..."
A look of contentment settling over her like a veil, the ethereal, fair-haired woman plays a quiet melody, pale eyes following the athletic, olive-skinned man and the delicate, lofty woman.
The delicate, lofty woman steps to each side in turn, her hips swinging under her long purple linen skirt.
Voice soft beneath the gentle, unhurried song, you say, in sirihish:
"There need not be only two dancers..."
The delicate, lofty woman takes a step back from the athletic, olive-skinned man, her fingers trailing along his jaw before she hops three steps back to him.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman cracks a quiet smile.
The athletic, olive-skinned man rests his chin on the delicate, lofty woman's shoulder as he hums the quiet melody, swaying her gently back and forth as he carries her around in a slow dance around the crowded area.
You think:
"Always the player and never the dancer."
(hemote) Beneath her breath, the ethereal, fair-haired woman hums a harmony to the melody beneath her hands.
The delicate, lofty woman spins around on her heel, pressing her back to the athletic, olive-skinned man with her hand curling up to cup the athletic, olive-skinned man's cheek.
Feeling impulsive, you think:
"... Oh, why not, Aja?"
To herself, pale eyes thoughtful, peaceful, you sing, in sirihish:
"They say the wind blows over the plains, softly...
... softly, softly...."
You sing, in sirihish:
"And the tall grass bends, and the low trees too...."
Her touch light against your silvery grey pymlithe lute, you sing, in sirihish:
"And all the while my heart's out there,
... wandering, wandering...."
The delicate, lofty woman leans her head back against his chest with her eyes closing. She lets out a soft, contented sigh.
You sing, in sirihish:
"Looking for something by the name of you."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman's melody rises and falls beneath her hands, in time with her quiet breathing.
You sing, in sirihish:
"They say the wind blows over the plains,
...wildly, wildly...."
The slender, lavender-eyed man slowly salsas toward your table, cup in hand.
The athletic, olive-skinned man presses a hand to the delicate, lofty woman's stomach as she comes spinning back into his arms against him, swaying left and right with slow footsteps as he murmurs quietly in her ear.
Voice quiet, fragile, lacking strength but not trying for it, you sing, in sirihish:
"They say the wind blows over the plains,
...wildly, wildly...."
The delicate, lofty woman swivels from side to side, placing her hand over the hand of the athletic, olive-skinned man's on her stomach.
You sing, in sirihish:
"And the nighthawks screech and the wild kanks too."
Looking up to the slender, lavender-eyed man, surprised for a moment, you sing, in sirihish:
"And all that while, my heart's out there
.. calling, calling...."
You sing, in sirihish:
"Looking for something by the name of you."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman casts a flickering smile up to the slender, lavender-eyed man, features composed, tranquil.
You sing, in sirihish:
"And the wind blows to and the wind blows fro,"
The athletic, olive-skinned man smiles warmly into the delicate, lofty woman's eyes, lost in her gaze and the embrace before gently sending her forward in a playful but gentle motion, before pulling her back to him, sliding his arm back around her waist.
The slender, lavender-eyed man sways a bit by the table, moving rhythmically.
The delicate, lofty woman kisses the athletic, olive-skinned man softly under his chin, beginning to press against him with her hip's dipping motions.
You sing, in sirihish:
"And my heart's held in my hand,"
You sing, in sirihish:
"And the wind blows warm, the wind blows cold,"
Biting down on the edge of her lip, you sing, in sirihish:
"As I look for a place to stand."
The delicate, lofty woman's hand strokes along the side of the athletic, olive-skinned man's face affectionately, her green eyes glazing over as she stares up at him.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman trails off, looking to her hands as they carry the melody with fluid ease, the song ising, strengthening.
As easily, the wistful song quiets and the ethereal, fair-haired woman takes in a soft breath, words slipping from her mouth.
You sing, in sirihish:
"They say the wind blows over the plains,
... always, always...."
The delicate, lofty woman whispers something to the athletic, olive-skinned man.
Looking back to the athletic, olive-skinned man and the delicate, lofty woman, eyes softening, you sing, in sirihish:
"And the dry sand blows, and the red dust too."
The slender, lavender-eyed man flops down into a chair next to you, low-lidded eyes gazing off into nothing.
The athletic, olive-skinned man closes his eyes slowly, murmuring a few more words into the delicate, lofty woman's ear as both hands reaches down, cupping the delicate, lofty woman's backside, swaying to the rhythm of the music being played by you.
Dropping her eyes to the floor, you sing, in sirihish:
"And all that while my heart's out there,
... lonely, lonely...."
You sing, in sirihish:
"Looking and searching for something like you."
The delicate, lofty woman murmurs back to the athletic, olive-skinned man, her entire body swaying into a rhythmic swing.
Too-long, tangled strands of hair falling across her face, the ethereal, fair-haired woman lets her melody ease, slipping away beneath her hands while she turns her head to look to the slender, lavender-eyed man.
You feel touched by the emotion.
The delicate, lofty woman reaches down for the athletic, olive-skinned man's hand at her back, moving it to one of her hips.
As he quietly repeats the words being sang by you as he continues to sway back and forth, holding the delicate, lofty woman close to him in both arms, ignoring the rest of the crowded room, the athletic, olive-skinned man whispers something to the delicate, lofty woman.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman plays with quiet grace, half-watching the athletic, olive-skinned man and the delicate, lofty woman and half giving them privacy, her melody continuing long after the words fade away.
The slender, lavender-eyed man glances to you briefly, shadowed eyes distant, before taking another swing of his sun-adorned, red stone cup.
Staring at him lovingly, the delicate, lofty woman whispers something to the athletic, olive-skinned man.
You think:
"What an elusive emotion."
The slender, lavender-eyed man puts his sun-adorned, red stone cup onto a highly polished table.
The tawny, braid-crowned half-giant has arrived from the west.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman takes in a slow breath, chest rising and falling beneath your loose-cut white linen blouse while she plays, slow and sweet for the dancing couple.
The delicate, lofty woman halts in her dancing suddenly, her eyes flitting open toward you.
Pushing past a couple of elves, the tawny, braid-crowned half-giant walks north.
The athletic, olive-skinned man smiles warmly up at the delicate, lofty woman's as he gives her a lingering kiss to her forehead, then, after slowly stepping back from her, his fingers still intertwining into her own, he takes a slight thankful bow in your direction.
Meeting the delicate, lofty woman's eyes, the ethereal, fair-haired woman lifts her hands away from the strings of your silvery grey pymlithe lute, the song fading from the hall.
The delicate, lofty woman bows slightly to you, a pleased smile on her face.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman returns the delicate, lofty woman's bow, the tilt of her head deep with respect.
The delicate, lofty woman whispers something to the athletic, olive-skinned man.
You feel a chill. A good chill.
With a self-conscious straightening, the ethereal, fair-haired woman sits up and reaches for the gloves tucked unceremoniously into her sash.
To you, taking a step away from the athletic, olive-skinned man with his hand held tightly, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is real happy now, Seeker. You is great friend."
You get your pair of short midnight-blue silk gloves from your fine red sash.
At your table, the slender, lavender-eyed man says in sirihish, lazily in his chair, a hand on a highly polished table, tone concentrated and quiet:
"Well played... you composed it...?"
Smiling warmly as he approaches you, reaching for his huge, darkly-stained sandcloth knapsack with his free hand, the athletic, olive-skinned man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is thanking you again for beautiful melodies of yours, Seeker friend, them always make I remember best memories of mine, shared with sister of mine."
The athletic, olive-skinned man gets his pile of allanaki coins from his huge, darkly-stained sandcloth knapsack.
The athletic, olive-skinned man gives you (a healthy number of) coins.
Her voice soft, still, you say to the athletic, olive-skinned man, in sirihish:
"I did think you would be. Enjoy your happiness, friend."
The athletic, olive-skinned man presses a few coins in your hand and then inclines his head thankfully once more.
At your table, you say in sirihish, with a simple shake of her head to the slender, lavender-eyed man:
"I did not. It is a song of the north, but it is not mine."
To the athletic, olive-skinned man, turning from you, the delicate, lofty woman asks, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Us is wanting to do something else now, brother of mine?"
Accepting the coins with a gracious smile, you say to the athletic, olive-skinned man, in sirihish:
"Your words are honor enough, Chaska, but I do thank you for this."
With a sidelong smile to him, you say to the slender, lavender-eyed man, in sirihish:
"It's been one of my favorites since I was a girl..."
The slender, lavender-eyed man leans over in his chair lazily, glancing north.
Dipping his head into a quick nod to the delicate, lofty woman as he glances around, before smiling once more to her, the athletic, olive-skinned man says, in tribal-accented sirihish:"Yes, us go do something else while us wait for next auctions? Maybe someone will tell us when it begins.."
At your table, the slender, lavender-eyed man says in sirihish, glancing to you:
"It is a lovely song..."
Lifting her pale eyes to her, you say to the delicate, lofty woman, in sirihish:
"... I hope it pleases you, Ilune. Please say if I can play for you again. I do enjoy watching you dance."
At your table, you say in sirihish, meeting the slender, lavender-eyed man's eyes:
"It is."
Masking her missing fingers, you pull your pair of short midnight-blue silk gloves onto your hands.
To you, glancing over, the delicate, lofty woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I is wanting to dance much in this city of yours. I is sure you will, friend Aja."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman smiles to the delicate, lofty woman, quietly, and offers her a deep nod of thanks.
The slender, lavender-eyed man's features falter at your gaze seemingly as he glances away.
The athletic, olive-skinned man smiles warmly once more in your direction before gently dragging the delicate, lofty woman away from the crowd and towards the exit.
The athletic, olive-skinned man walks west.
The delicate, lofty woman walks west.
You are Aja, of many people.
Objective: To find a purpose.
You are 33 years, 0 months, and 89 days old.
It is late morning on Dzeda, the 185th day of the Descending Sun,
In the Year of Jihae's Vengeance, year 45 of the 21st Age.
A Large, Airy Gallery [S]
Memoir #7 - The Student (Peloquin) by Rairen
Added on Oct 27, 2009The escape from Allanak buying her status and a Jihaen patron, Aja uses a mix-up over cloaks to test her most favorite student.
The short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap = Peloquin
The bronzed, stubble-bearded man = Corporal Valin of His LegionsIt is dawn on Nekrete, the 181st day of the Low Sun,
In the Year of Whira's Vengeance, year 38 of the 21st Age.
North Salt Road [NSW]
Rows of pale stones form the backbone for this broad avenue, settled into the ground with graceful fervor. Decorating the edge of the street, the buildings and storefronts are universally adorned with garish and tawdry sculptures, bas reliefs, and murals. The road is filled with a continual throng of humans and demi-humans alike as they scurry about the bustle of daily life.
The sounds of a rowdy commotion spills out onto the streets from the building to the west. A trio of humanoid sculptures are caught before the junction between two roads, the crowds passing around them. An odd-looking sculpture surrounds a stone bench off to one side of the road.
It is a warm day.
Gritty sand blows in from the west, piling in small dunes.
You raise the hood of a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak.
The bronzed, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"The barracks are slow of late. Thought I could offer you a drink or something? Unless that sounds boring -"
The short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap has arrived from the west.
You send a telepathic message to the bronzed, stubble-bearded man:
"Slow? In truth... Oh, were... you resting recently?"
Steps a touch slower as she lingers in the intersection, you look at the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap.
Here is a short lissome young man still in the teenage years of development. His soft skin holds a deeply-bronzed tone, making it apparent the young man isno stranger to the savage rays of Suk-Krath. A mass of thick chocolate hairhangs loosely from his head in a slight shag with the occasional clump coveringhis curious deep green eyes which are covered with barely noticeable goldspeckles. Beneath his fine nose lies a soft, gentle-lipped mouth. His chin isslender, with a vaguely squared jawline and completely lacking in any noticeablefacial hair. The young man's slim build shows off what limited muscle he has. His legs are slightly toned and limber however, most likely due to a life ofrunning errands. The short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap is in excellent condition.
The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak casts the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap a shadowed smile.
The bronzed, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I've been busy in the warrens, why?"
You send a telepathic message to the bronzed, stubble-bearded man:
"A giant roc was seen flying over the city."
The short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap inclines his head politely to you.
The bronzed, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"...Roc?"
You send a telepathic message to the bronzed, stubble-bearded man:
"Yes, a roc. It's a giant... hawk, for lack of better description, if you are unfamiliar with the creature. His Faithful believe it to have been a one-time sighting, but are, I understand, reviewing it."
The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak glances skyward, for a moment, with a rueful shake of her head.
You think:
"Valin, decide where you need me."
With a hidden smile, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says to you, in sirihish:
"It was a wild roc."
Glancing down to him a moment before she smiles, again, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"... It was. It was."
You think:
"And that was not what I was thinking."
The bronzed, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"When, might I ask?"
With a bemused shake of her head, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"... And I should learn to confine my use of the Way to when I am sitting."
You send a telepathic message to the bronzed, stubble-bearded man:
"Yesterday. Just after high sun."
With an apologetic tone, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says to you, in sirihish:
"I am sorry...I've met you before but your name eludes me."
(hemote) The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak fights a smile. Oh, does she fight a smile.
With a soft click of her tongue, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"... Oh, it's no problem at all. The name's Ameli."
You feel oh, so amused.
You think:
"Let this be a test."
Reaching for his facewrap, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says to you, in sirihish:
"I am Peloquin."
The short, lithe young man stops using his dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap.
The bronzed, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"It is dangerous then...?"
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
Looking down at the short, lithe young man, face shadowed by her hood, you ask the short, lithe young man, in sirihish:
"Oh, that's right. Aren't you an Aide to a Chosen or some such?"
You send a telepathic message to the bronzed, stubble-bearded man:
"That is what His Faithful are endeavoring to discover, but I do not believe they think so."
With a slight smile, the short, lithe young man says to you, in sirihish:
"Faithful Lord Elithan, Miss Ameli."
With a long, drawn out 'oh' sound, you ask the short, lithe young man, in sirihish:
"I see, I see. That's an honor, now. Aren't you a little young to be serving one like him?"
You think:
"This is oddly amusing. I should feign voices more often."
With a sheepish chuckle, the short, lithe young man says to you, in sirihish:
"Probably...but he took me in when my mother died, otherwise I would be homeless. I suppose it is the only thing he could think to do with me until I am old enough to serve the Legion."
With a quiet, rough laugh, you say to the short, lithe young man, in sirihish:
"Is that the way of it? Stuck in the city? Better you'n me, boy."
The tall figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard has arrived from the south.
Sidelong, the tall figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard looks down at the short, lithe young man.
You send a telepathic message to the bronzed, stubble-bearded man:
"Do not recognize me."
The short, lithe young man looks up at the tall figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard.
You send a telepathic message to the bronzed, stubble-bearded man:
"Pass by me without a glance. I'm... giving a test to the Aide."
Along with the short, lithe young man, you look up at the tall figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard.
With a firm nod, the short, lithe young man says to the tall figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard, in sirihish:
"Good day Recruit."
The tall figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard tips his head amiably to the short, lithe young man after a moment.
The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak dips her chin down as she nods to the tall figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard.
Calmly, after a moment, the tall figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard says to the short, lithe young man, in sirihish:
"Find my mind later, if you wish to get some training in."
The tall figure in a long, hooded red and white tabard walks west.
You feel highly amused.
The short, lithe young man forms his mouth into a slightly crooked grin in the direction of the departing figure.
The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak glances down the road with a snort of laughter.
Turning to look down at him again, you ask the short, lithe young man, in sirihish:
"Is that the sort you want to be like?"
The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak straightens her shoulders, puffing out her chest for 'militaristic' posture.
You send a telepathic message to the bronzed, stubble-bearded man:
"You have my deepest thanks, my friend. I believe I owe you a drink when this is done."
Tilting his head halfway, the short, lithe young man says to you, in sirihish:
"No, I don't think I could be as grouchy as Valin."
Making a soft 'Ah...', you ask the short, lithe young man, in sirihish:
"So grouchy, is he? He seems the sort. What are you going to be, then? Have a stick up your arse?"
You think:
"I... don't know how long I can keep this up. Oh, my."
Brightening his deep green eyes, the short, lithe young man says to you, in sirihish:
"I am going to be a good honest man who works for the good of the Ivory and its people."
You think:
"A good answer, a good answer."
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The bronzed, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Just doing my job, miss Aja."
The bronzed, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Good luck with him."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
Starting to walk again and beckoning to him, you say to the short, lithe young man, in sirihish:
"Right, of course. A real noble sort. Like I said, better you'n me, that's to be sure. Me, give me the grasslands and I'm happy."
The short, lithe young man falls in behind you.
n (with long, quick strides)
North Salt Road [NS]
Rows of pale stones form the backbone for this broad avenue, settled into the ground with graceful fervor. Decorating the edge of the street, the buildings and storefronts are universally adorned with garish and tawdry sculptures, bas reliefs, and murals. The road is filled with a continual throng of humans and demi-humans alike as they scurry about the bustle of daily life.
The murals here are especially well-colored, the bright dye calling attention to a row of exaggerated daily scenes. An enormous sandstone sculpture of a mantis looms over the road from before one of the eastern buildings.
The short, lithe young man places his dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap onto his face.Cloak wrapped tight about her body, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"It's the world out there, boy. The world out there that you're missing. And -"
The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak takes a few more, long paces and then comes to a quick halt, whirling to look down at the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap.
You ask the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"Wait, wait. So you ain't a soldier yet?"
Shaking his head, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says to you, in sirihish:
"I can't be until I am sixteen."
After a stunned silence, you ask the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"... And so, you're wasting your life in here?"
The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak shakes her head, moving forward again with long strides.
(Walking onward and "Ameli" always half a step in front of him...)
The Road of Merchants [NS]
Squat, mud-brick structures adorn either side of this dust-covered street, rising up from the ground at varying intervals. Wide ranging colors can be seen splashed across the vast majority of them, most appearing as brightly painted murals or colorfully woven carpets and tarps. The road itself is comprised of a sullen, yellow sandstone that has been chiseled into neatly rounded blocks before being cobbled into the ground.
A thick wall composed of agafari beams rises up to the east, preventing travel in that direction.
With a slight shrug, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says to you, in sirihish:"No. I am allowed to leave as long as I have someone with me. I can usually get a guard, the Faithful Lord or a recruit to take me out to hunt and such."
The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak slows down near a group of people gathered near one wall, one of them gesturing wildly to the sky.
Still walking forward, you ask the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"Oh, right. A guard. So I suppose you're too kank-shit scared to come out with a real hunter?"
The Road of Merchants [NS]
Squat, mud-brick structures adorn either side of this dust-covered street, rising up from the ground at varying intervals. Wide ranging colors can be seen splashed across the vast majority of them, most appearing as brightly painted murals or colorfully woven carpets and tarps. The road itself is comprised of a sullen, yellow sandstone that has been chiseled into neatly rounded blocks before being cobbled into the ground.
A thick wall composed of agafari beams rises up to the east, preventing travel in that direction.
The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak glances over her shoulder and then steps close to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, shadows falling over her face.
You whisper to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap in sirihish:"I'm going to go kill that fucking bird."
The Road of Merchants [NES]
Squat, mud-brick structures adorn either side of this dust-covered street, rising up from the ground at varying intervals. Wide ranging colors can be seen splashed across the vast majority of them, most appearing as brightly painted murals or colorfully woven carpets and tarps. The road itself is comprised of a sullen, yellow sandstone that has been chiseled into neatly rounded blocks before being cobbled into the ground.
A path of cobbled, blue-hued stones runs east.
With a distinct frown, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says to you, in sirihish:
"I can go...but I don't want to kill the roc. It's too beautiful and there are so many other purposes for such a creature."
Stopping again with stunned silence, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"Better purposes? Name one."
Ruffling his thick chocolate hair briefly, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says to you, in sirihish:
"It could be trained and watch over the passage to the Ivory from atop the fortress to the west."
Silent, again, as she clicks her tongue a few times, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"Trained, huh? Bet His Faithful would pay a pretty 'sid for something like, wouldn't they..."
With a meek shrug, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in sirihish:
"Probably."
Shoulder almost touching his own, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"Well, here's a deal. I take you with, Faithful Aide, we find a roc. I give it a clip to its wing and you help me get a commission with the Faithful."
The short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap asks you, in sirihish:
"Is it safe for me out there Miss Ameli?"
Stopping to spit off to one side, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"Sure'n its safe, if you stay with me and don't do nothin' stupid."
You say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"I've been hawk trainin' since you were on all fours. You stay back and down, and ain't nothin'll harm you."
The short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap asks you, in sirihish:
"Well I've got some things to do before I can go on such a big trip...maybe you could wait and I could find your minds in a few days?"
With a slight nod, you ask the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"I think I can wait that long. We agreed? You'll speak for me?"
You feel suddenly overwhelmed and ill from the heat.
The short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap asks you, in sirihish:
"Yes, but you understand the roc is bigger than you and it's not at all going to be easy to clip?"
The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak nods, throwing back her cloak to offer the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap a white linen-gloved, four-fingered hand.
The harshness in her voice giving way to something softer... and more crystalline, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"Yes, I think I know exactly that, Aide."
With a surprised widening of his eyes, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap asks you, in sirihish:
"...Aja?"
The figure in a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak lifts her hands, pulling back the long hood of her cloak.
You lower the hood of a hooded, dusky-green cotton cloak.
You feel a sudden wave of nausea.
Pale eyes studying his face, you ask the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"... Yes?"
The ethereal, fair-haired woman's lips form a thin line.
The short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap looks at you.
You think:
"Keep... it together..."
You get your leather waterskin from your leather-strapped, rich purple satchel.
Slowly, you drink the water.
Still looking at the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, you put your leather waterskin into your leather-strapped, rich purple satchel.
Slouching his shoulders subtly, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap asks you, in sirihish:
"Was that a test?"
With a slight nod, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"Mm-hmm."
You think:
"I'm going to be sick, but... this lesson is too sweet..."
Rubbing a partially healed wounded on his cheek, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in sirihish:
"Busted..."
With another, slight nod, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"Mm-hmm."
Her voice softening as she looks to the sky, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"I know you must... have things to attend to. We can speak on this later."
You think:
"Please, don't let me faint..."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman’s skin pales, sweat glistening on her skin.
With a gentle sigh, the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says to you, in sirihish:
"Yes Aja...Light Guide you..."
With a polite nod, you say to the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in sirihish:
"And you... Peloquin."
The short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap walks east.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman waits until the short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap is out of sight before she slumps against the wall.
The short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap = Peloquin
The bronzed, stubble-bearded man = Corporal Valin of His LegionsIt is dawn on Nekrete, the 181st day of the Low Sun,
In the Year of Whira's Vengeance, year 38 of the 21st Age.
North Salt Road [NSW]
Continue Reading...Memoir #6 - The Warlord (Tor) by Rairen
Added on Oct 27, 2009Following on his Silver Scorpion's announcement, the Warlord of House Tor demonstrates his interpersonal "soft skills". Ish.
It is before dawn on Abid, the 3rd day of the Descending Sun,
In the Year of Ruk's Peace, year 37 of the 21st Age.
You are Aja, Apprentice of the Bards of Poets' Circle.
Objective: To survive Allanak.
You are 24 years, 2 months, and 138 days old,
A Broad Barracks [ND Quit Save]
A wide staircase cuts a square well in the middle of the broad chamber, railed off by neat ranks of baobab wood topped by a pale thuja banister. Placed around the stairwell is an inner formation of slender beds, each with a chest at its foot. Spread out in a neatly ordered square facing towards the walls is another rank of beds, this one more numerous.
All told, there would be around twenty beds resting in careful precision throughout the spacious barracks. Two silvery banners, almost six cords in length, hang from the vaulted ceiling proudly displaying a brilliantly
detailed scorpion in red and black standing victoriously beneath an anakore,its barbed stinger embedded deep into the belly. Placed on the western wall are two large racks, for holding weapons and armor.
You contact the warbraided, smoke-eyed man with the Way.
You think:
"... It's him? What an unexpected pleasure."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman reclines on a plain agafari bed.
You send a telepathic message to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
"Pardon my intrusion on your thoughts, my Lord."
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:
"Yes, I do."
You feel ruefully amused.
You send a telepathic message to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
"There were a few minor matters I hoped to inquire with you over, but nothing of any pressing concern. I've explained them to Emissary Erzsebet, as well, should you have a moment less active than your usual."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man sends you a telepathic message:
"So many words to say something so simple. I shall come speak with you this morning."
You send a telepathic message to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
"A northerners curse, is it, my Lord? To enjoy the sound of our thoughts so much as to put them into as many words as possible? I look forward to your visit."
You dissolve the psychic link.
A Large Work Room [NS Save]
Tall walls of red stone rise upwards proudly, proclaiming their protection of the entrance hall to a large building. The floor is made up of tightly fitted black stone slabs, carefully hewn into square tower shields. Upon each of the shields is a finely etched scorpion, the small grooves kept free of sand by constant vigilance. A long table of baobab
runs north to south, before the western wall. Upon the table are a variety of tools for repairing armor and weapons. Before the eastern wall is a long counter, topped with grey slate acting as a work area. Positioned carefully along the east and western walls are jade sconces cupping small crystals, casting a pale green light across the chamber.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man neatly folds his pair of dark-lensed sunslits and tucks them away.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman steps inside the entryway, shifting into a respectful bow in the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's direction.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man looks down at you, and studies you in thoughtful silence.
As she straightens, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"How do you do, my Lord?"
Rasping softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Not terribly unwell, Aja."
(hemote) The bitter aromas of sweat and lye linger in the air around the ethereal, fair-haired woman.
With a careful smile, hands clasping in front of her, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"I see. It is always a pleasure to have you here, my Lord. Is there anything I might do for you?"
As he steps over to a solid counter made of baobab and surfaced with slate and casually looks in the large container there, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Have your squash seeds taken?"
Turning her head to glance to a solid counter made of baobab and surfaced with slate with a soft shake of her head, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"No, my Lord. Not these last ones, at least. I was thinking of restarting with a fresh batch."
Glancing around, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Perhaps someplace with sunlight."
Turning to face you and folding his arms over his chest, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"What 'minor things' do you wish to speak about?"
With an inclination of her head in the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's direction, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"Yes, my Lord. I will attempt that, next. As for the minor things, I've been working with the inventories kept here, and I'm worried that if the collection of shells and armor grows..."
As she glances to a heavy agafari chest, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... that there will be no room to store them."
With a simple shake of her head, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"It is always possible to make do with what is currently here, but I have no desire to let your storeroom turn into a shambles, my Lord, without giving you proper warning."
Speaking in a low hoarse voice as his gaze sweeps the room, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Your worry and warning are acknowledged. What is the next 'minor thing'?"
Gesturing to a blue-striped keg with a thin, four-fingered hand, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... The Barracks once provided a cleaning liquid that helped in caring for your armor. There is no more, and I wondered if it would be possible to attain a new supply?"
Shifting his gaze to a blue-striped keg, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"It would be beneficial, but I am uncertain where to obtain more. I obtained that supply by a unique circumstance."
Walking closer to the counter and leaning one hip against it, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Good that you told Erzsebet. Perhaps she can locate more. There is a third 'minor thing'?"
Inclining her head in acknowledgment as she resumes her attentive posture, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"Of course, my Lord. I will see what wonders soap and persistence can do in its stead."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man smirks faintly.
After the slightest of pauses, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... I believe that is all, my Lord, at this moment. You asked that I remind you of the shortage of chairs in the other room, but that is hardly pressing. Company is rarely entertained here."
(hemote) A brief smile flickers across the ethereal, fair-haired woman's lips.
You think:
"... What to do about Erzsebet..."
Nodding pleasantly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"You misled me, then, by saying 'a few' instead of 'a couple'."
With the faintest flicker of warmth in her eyes, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"So it would seem, my Lord. I beg your pardon."
Beckoning with one spike-knuckled hand as he steps away from the counter and walks southward, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Come with me."
(While he eats, they chat about work and materials until interrupted by his aide's arrival.)The figure in a hooded, scorpion-embroidered black windcloak moves quietly into the room, pulling her hood down.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances to the figure in a hooded, scorpion-embroidered black windcloak, from her spot to one side of the warbraided, smoke-eyed man.
The delicate, tribal-inked woman lowers the hood of a hooded, scorpion-embroidered black windcloak.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man looks down at the delicate, tribal-inked woman.
The delicate, tribal-inked woman walks over and bows before the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, a small smile offered as she stands upright again.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman inclines her head to the delicate, tribal-inked woman with a polite motion.
Favoring the delicate, tribal-inked woman with a smile and nod, then addressing both her and you as he gestures vaguely, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says, in southern-accented sirihish:
"If either of you hunger, satisfy."
Lifting a finger as she shakes her head, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"Thank you, my Lord."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man looks down at you.
Smiling and shaking her head a bit, the delicate, tribal-inked woman says to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I do not want for food, thank you though Warlord."
Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to the delicate, tribal-inked woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I would like to find Aja a hooded cloak and a pair of gloves."
The delicate, tribal-inked woman whispers something to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man.
You feel overjoyed.
(hemote) A touch of interest enters the ethereal, fair-haired woman's polite, pale eyes.
After swallowing his last bite and dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to the delicate, tribal-inked woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"That decision is yours."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man beckons for the delicate, tribal-inked woman to follow.
You think:
"... Why now? Will the expedition progress?"
You think:
"... Perhaps I'll at least look the part of a living creature..."
The delicate, tribal-inked woman falls in at the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's flank.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances to the ceiling, one hand brushing at your scorpion-emblazoned slave's collar.
As he turns around and secure the stopper, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks the delicate, tribal-inked woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"You wished to speak on some matter. Can it be discussed in front of Aja?"
The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances to the delicate, tribal-inked woman, features serene.
Chuckling slightly, the delicate, tribal-inked woman says to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Well, I was going to ask you questions she had herself so I would not mind."
(And the trio goes off on, of all things, an expedition about the Academy looking for suitable clothing for their – in Erzsebet’s teasing words ‘unpresentable’ - northern slave.)
As he walks over to a locker near the middle of the row, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Surely we have a pair of gloves somewhere. So then... have either of you had an interesting experience lately?"
Quietly as she pulls at her cloak, the delicate, tribal-inked woman says to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I ran down to Luirs early this week to spread the word of you looking for dwarves in preparation of your arrival. Since no one had heard of it at all."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man closes his eyes.
The delicate, tribal-inked woman says to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Of course I did not mention our trip."
Softly with his eyes still closed, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to the delicate, tribal-inked woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"And I wish you had not mentioned it now."
To one side, the ethereal, fair-haired woman clears her throat softly, hands remaining folded beneath her cloak.
You think:
"... Luirs. Please, let me go home."
Opening his eyes, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I did not want you to know our destination. I did not want to tempt you so close to home. Tell me honestly now, how knowing will affect you."
Looking to him with her pale, calm eyes, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"My Lord, I've given you my word. I will not broach it, even if you took me within the Heart of the Ivory."
The delicate, tribal-inked woman swallows, looking at the floor.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's hands tense beneath your hooded, red sandcloth windcloak.
Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"You could easily find Elithan's mind now and alert him, if you want to see my party slaughtered. We will finally see if your words match your.. inaction."
Voice remaining soft, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"Yes, my Lord."
Chewing his lip thoughtfully, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to the delicate, tribal-inked woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Or she could remain here and I could postpone the trip..."
The delicate, tribal-inked woman blinks rapidly, eyes darting away with shame.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman watches the warbraided, smoke-eyed man with calm serenity, gaze focused on his face.
You feel saddened, immeasurably.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man purses his lips, deeply thoughtful as he considers.
You think:
"There is nothing more I can do."
Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to the delicate, tribal-inked woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Erzsebet... do calm yourself. It is that Aja inspires trust, I know."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes flicker closed and then open as she lets out an inaudible breath.
Glancing thoughtfully at you, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to the delicate, tribal-inked woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I was content to never put it to the test, though."
You feel helpless.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman continues to look to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, pale gaze softer, if still serene.
Looking back to him, her face splotchy, the delicate, tribal-inked woman says to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Warlord, May I be dismissed until you are finished speaking with Aja please."
Rubbing the fingers of his left hand together pensively for a moment before he answers, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to the delicate, tribal-inked woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I suppose you may be. What's done is done, and probably for the best. You need not fret."
Bowing quickly, the delicate, tribal-inked woman says to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Thank you for dismissing me Warlord."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man nods to the delicate, tribal-inked woman.
The delicate, tribal-inked woman turns quickly as she stands, practically bolting for the door.
The delicate, tribal-inked woman walks west.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman inclines her head to the delicate, tribal-inked woman's back in a polite motion before looking back to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man.
Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"It would seem I do not need to reprimand her for the slip. She will do it herself."
In a soft tone, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"She... has often treated me with great warmth in the past. This lesson will be a valuable one for her."
(They walk together through the Academy in silence for a short time, before he decides to change the subject.)
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Have you made progress with any new musical pieces?"
After a thoughtful pause, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"One or two. It doesn't often occur to me to apply myself in that area, although your piece continues to be a puzzle to me, I will confess, my Lord."
Gruffly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"How could I make it less puzzling?"
A smile crossing her lips, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"How can you make the man less puzzling? I know not, my Lord. It is no credit to my talent or training, but I hope you will not criticize my kin for my failings."
Grinning crookedly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says, in southern-accented sirihish:
"That is an amusing concept. You souring my good opinion of Circle Bards. The reality is the complete opposite."
Returning his smile with a touch of warmth mixed with embarrassment, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... My Lord is too generous and must have had a low opinion of my kin, indeed."
Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"As the only other two I met wished me dead, my opinion has been colored."
Clearing her throat softly, behind one hand, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"I... see, my Lord. My pardon for not realizing."
(Gossiping a bit of mutual acquaintances, Aja gives her millionth slip up of the day and mentions their difference in ages.)
Grinning faintly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"During your childhood. You do make me feel old. How many years have you seen now, Aja?"
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man walks up.
Her smile growing thoughtful as she glances to the ceiling, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"I... must be nearly twenty-five, my Lord."
Gesturing to a chest, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Take what you wish to bring with you, and guess my age. I just celebrated another year."
A motor tic briefly contorts the left side of the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's face.
Casting him a smile over her shoulder as she moves to her cot, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... Given your experience and comfort in leadership, I would guess you to have lived some... thirty-five years?"
With an unusually tender hand, you get your dark-stained baobab lute from a scorpion emblazoned chest.
As he reaches up to massage at his spasming cheek, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Thirty three."
Her smile remaining gentle as she toys with her bag, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... There, not too much of an overestimate on my part. My congratulations, as well, on having seen another year. Did you celebrate it?"
Adjusting your sizeable leather backpack on her shoulder, the ethereal, fair-haired woman crosses the floor back to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's side.
With a smile of thanks, you look up at the warbraided, smoke-eyed man.
This man has his tidy black hair tied with worn leather and braided
into a style worn for battle. Tightly plaited, his warbraid is centered and hangs between his neat tapered shoulders. His build is trim and sinewy, and what he lacks in imposing size he makes up for with volatile, jumpy reflexes. The sun's glare has touched his skin, leaving his complexion a mild bronze tan. Strong features are cleanly shaven, centered by a slightly oversized aquiline nose. The swirling essence of smoke is captured in the grey-blue irises of his eyes.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man is in excellent condition.
Shaking his head, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I did not. When I said I did, it was only a colloquialism."
Inclining her head up to him, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"Of course, my Lord. It is a pity, given how many men of your profession have not had your skill."
Arching a brow, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Men of my profession? Against whom are you judging me? Lyksaes?"
With a creased brow, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"No, my Lord. Those who take a soldier's life, waging wars and learning the arts of combat. Nobility or common, it is not an easy life."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman tilts her head back, craning it to look up to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's eyes.
Shaking his head softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I lead soldiers, but have never claimed to be one myself. I am a strategist... a tactician."
Walking to the northern door again, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"You never met my cousin Lord Palimus. Now that was a noble soldier."
Fondness warming her crystal-like tone, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"As you wish, my Lord. How you spend your moments of celebration should always be in the manner you most desire, even if it is in quiet."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man smiles softly over at you.
Falling a step behind him, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... I did not have the pleasure, it is true. A noble soldier?"
Gesturing to a tun of water, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Top off the skin I provided for you. Yes, Lord Palimus could not be defeated in single combat. He would personally slay many men on the battlefield. In truth, I am an exception to the rule in my family, leading from the back as I do."
As she dips the waterskin into the barrel of water, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... You have alluded to your family's military prowess - both in combat and tactically - in the past. It is a pleasure to hear of the stories that prove it."
Leveling a finger, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"But my victories are the cleanest. I lost not a single man in the eradication of the renegade mul outpost."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman presses a finger to her lips, drying the loose droplet of water there.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man nods at you.
Glancing to his finger, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... Exceptional, my Lord."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man nods at you.
Voice softening, after a pause, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... Is there anything you would like me to know, during this journey, my Lord? Appropriate behavior, duties..."
Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Well... I had done well to keep you unaware of our destination. I shall have to reconsider some things now that you are."
Gesturing to the rotund, cheery-eyed cook, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Gather some rations for yourself. There is food and water on the wagon, but if you can sustain yourself without breaking open those supplies, all the better."
Inclining her head up to him, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... Yes, my Lord, and I understand your caution."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman casts the rotund, cheery-eyed cook a polite smile as she crosses over to a solid counter made of baobab and surfaced with slate.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"The lizards are quite hardy, and keep well."
With a polite smile, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"Yes, my Lord. Thank you for the recommendation."
With a glance back to him, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... May I ask the anticipated length of this excursion?"
You put your small, roasted barakhan lizard into your sizeable leather backpack.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman stands at the agafari counter.
Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"It is open-ended. The duration will be dictated by the completion of my objectives, and not by time spent away from Allanak."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman nods, closing her bag as she returns to her place at the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's side.
Pausing thoughtfully, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I shall have someone feed your birds. Syure will be along, and probably best they not be."
With a soft murmur of agreement, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"I would appreciate that, my Lord, deeply."
(And, again, they are off... but this time not back to the barracks as Aja expected. He takes her outside the Academy gates and, presumably, toward the wagonyard.)
You raise the hood of a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak.
From beneath the relative protection of her hood, the figure in a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak tilts her head to glance through loose grains of sand to the sky.
Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"There are a number of newly transferred Templars, each trying to make a larger name for himself than his fellows."
Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Best, I think, if you are unobtrusive as we walk."
After a pause, her voice soft, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... Yes, my Lord."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man glances over at the blockish, olive-drab dwarf, giving him a wordless signal with his eyes.
Your mood is now uneasy.
The blockish, olive-drab dwarf nods silently and takes a step back to walk near you.
(hemote) Tension lingers in the figure in a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak's shoulders beneath your hooded, red sandcloth windcloak.
You think:
"... Why did I wish for this?"
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man looks critically up and down the road, then sets off to the west.
You think:
"... Why am I doing this?"
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man looks down at you.
The figure in a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak watches the passing stones below her feet from beneath the shadows of her hood.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man walks along quietly beside the keg-bellied female dwarf.
You think:
"... I hate... this..."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man steps out onto the plaza and cuts a path across it.
The figure in a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak walks in silence amidst the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's guards.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man nods over to the silver-haired, narrow-eyed man in passing.
The keg-bellied female dwarf uses her shield to clear a loitering group of peasants near the intersection of roads.
Jerking his chin at a mid-sized, dark-wood argosy, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Salarr."
The figure in a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak glances to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man from beneath her hood and nods.
You think:
"... Please, let me go..."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man walks to the back of a small, black-hide and mekillot-rib wagon.
On a Boarding Plank [U Leave Quit Save]
This large semicircular deck allows for the boarding of this caravan wagon, and is equipped with a guardrail and a small alcove for a guard. A round trapdoor leads upward into the wagon, and a small extendable ramp eases the way off of the wagon. Tangles of casting lines and giant hair
ropes provide a netting for climbing upwards and also for securing the wagon against the vicious sandstorms which whip across the deserts.
(hemote) The figure in a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak lets out an inaudible breath.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man nods firmly to the wiry, scar-laden man as he crosses the deck and approaches the portal.
Stopping at the back of the cargo hold and looking out over it, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Alright then..."
The figure in a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak turns, craning her head back to look up to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man - her hood sliding back from her face in the process.
You lower the hood of a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak.
Your mood is now anxious.
Pointing to a padded cloth hammock, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"That hammock and the chest beneath it comprise my personal space."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances to a padded cloth hammock with a nod of acknowledgement.
You feel as though it would be easier to look at the Warlord without a slave's collar on.
Pointing to the chest by the table, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Food stuffs are stored there"
Following his hand, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... Will a cook be responsible for preparing meals?"
Shaking his head, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"No. There is a grill there we can pull out onto the deck, but most of the food is already cooked and will keep a while."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman makes a soft murmur of agreement as she resumes her 'inspection' of the Cargo Hold.
Walking over to the chest near the back of the hold, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"And here is the general supply chest."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman joins the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, keeping to his side as she looks through the contents of a bone sided chest.
Nodding to the chest, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"You may use one of the bedrolls within"
With a flickering smile, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... Thank you, my Lord."
Gesturing around, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Find a place to settle down for the night, and store it neatly during the day."
Again glancing over the room, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"I'll keep out from underfoot, my Lord."
Nodding to the hulking, white-maned man, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Silver Scorpion Kabbot is in charge here. If you have a problem, ask him. And do not be shy to alert him when you need to pour out the chamber pot."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman greets the hulking, white-maned man with a respectful nod.
Looking back to him, her features untroubled, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"Of course, my Lord."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman brushes a thumb along the hem of her cloak.
(He gives her lengthy instructions on caring for the supplies, materials, food, and various other stuffs left laying around.)
Offering you a smile as he walks to a padded cloth hammock, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Now then... I find I sleep better here than most places. You may get aquainted with your surroundings, quietly, while I rest."
You say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... If I may, I don't know how many will be accompanying you on this trip. Are there restrictions to my interactions with them? I have no desire to overstep my bounds, but I do not wish to leave a responsibility unfulfilled."
Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Only Erzsebet and one Cadet are expected."
A faint smile on her lips as she glides into an eloquent bow, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"Thank you, my Lord. I bid you a pleasant rest."
Softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"The Cadet will have more restrictions than you, and should not even be in here without accompaniment."
Lifting a finger, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I will warn you."
As she straightens, you ask the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... Yes, my Lord?"
Rasping softly, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Luirs is not my only stop. If you have any ideas of leaping off the wagon when it stops, and making a dash, you may well find yourself in gith territory, or some other unknown and outlandish wasteland."
Her tone patient, calm, you say to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man, in sirihish:
"... I wouldn't dream of it, my Lord."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman watches the warbraided, smoke-eyed man with thoughtful, pale eyes.
Removing his scabbards and pulling himself up into the hammock, speaking behind the wall created by the keg-bellied female dwarf and the blockish, olive-drab dwarf standing shoulder to shoulder in front of him, the warbraided, smoke-eyed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I shall speak with you soon, dear Aja."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man has departed from the land of Zalanthas.
You think:
"... Was this a mistake?"
It is before dawn on Abid, the 3rd day of the Descending Sun,
In the Year of Ruk's Peace, year 37 of the 21st Age.
You are Aja, Apprentice of the Bards of Poets' Circle.
Objective: To survive Allanak.
You are 24 years, 2 months, and 138 days old,
Continue Reading...
Memoir #10 - The Man in the Ivory Mask (???) by Rairen
Added on Oct 24, 2009The Circle holds a festival, and it closes with improv games on the final day lead by the delighted Driamusek Seeker - who gets the last and final joke, played on her.
Note: This has been HEAVILY editted for spam and length.
It is late afternoon on Terrin, the 2nd day of the Low Sun,
In the Year of Ruk's Reverence, year 48 of the 21st Age.
Lucky Ghaati Teahouse [U Leave Quit]
Screens, made of oiled paper printed with swirls of red and yellow lozenges, block out the sandladen wind while allowing light into this high-ceilinged, echoing chamber. Bubbles of glass holding oil and wicks hang suspended from the rafters at varying heights. Low, round tables are scattered across the floor, each surrounded by threadbare cushions that serve as seats. From the back of the room comes a constant hiss of boiling water and steam from a ceramic samovar, pitted with age, that towers behind a low wooden counter. A red-railed wooden staircase leads upwards.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman looks over the room, her smile dividing between the spry, blithe-faced man and a fat-bellied, brown-haired woman.
The spry, blithe-faced man hefts his sturdy canvas bag through the room, taking it to an unoccupied portion that is clear of tables and chairs.
Calling over to him, voice warm with greeting, you say to the spry, blithe-faced man, in sirihish:
"Good day, Master Bard. Some food, courtesy of the Chosen Lord Ranak."
Leaning in closer, the spry, blithe-faced man whispers to you, in sirihish:
"Did you want to lead this one like you did the last time?"
With a quizzical look to him, you whisper to the spry, blithe-faced man in sirihish:
"I could, yes, at least the games I know."
You feel like you could be quite pleased in that role, as point of fact.
With a deep tilt of her head, you whisper to the spry, blithe-faced man in sirihish:
"I am at your service. When shall we commence the torture?"
The spry, blithe-faced man dips a few shallow nods, merry gaze locked on you.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman meets the spry, blithe-faced man's eyes... and smiles, her own slender and dearly amused.
(People crowd into the room throughout.)
Wagging his brows, the spry, blithe-faced man whispers to you, in sirihish:
"Don't be afraid to call on me if you need me."
With a soft breath, so very nearly a laugh, you whisper to the spry, blithe-faced man in sirihish:
"Master Bard, you make a temptation that will be terribly hard to resist."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman spares the spry, blithe-faced man a last conspiratorial smile before looking over the room, greeting a few of the patrons with polite nods.
The spry, blithe-faced man chuckles and winks at you, and backs away toward the gathered tables around the clearing.
You think:
"Still not good enough for Bard, hm?"
You think:
"... Don't mess this up, Aja. Not a third day in a row."
Pulling herself onto its edge, legs resting on a chair, you sit at a square beige table.
Lifting her voice, smile arch with delight, while she looks
over the room, you say, in sirihish:
"Good day, friends and guests, both, and welcome to the Circle for the third day of our gatherings."
The spry, blithe-faced man turns his pale gaze to you, a jovial smile overtaking his features.
Perched on the edge of a table, posture correct while she flicks a smile in the trim, ashen-skinned man's direction, you say, in sirihish:
"You've joined us in competition and performance... and on the third day we play."
The trim, ashen-skinned man offers a wink in return to you and a faint tip of his head.
The short, dusky woman sits at a long, vine-etched baobab table, sinking down in a chair by the trim, ashen-skinned man.
Humor to her tone while she crosses her legs beneath your flowing white linen skirt, you say, in sirihish:
"Bards are very serious people, as I'm certain you are all aware, and even we must practice to have any degree of charm and wit."
The trim, ashen-skinned man lolls his head to the side with a grin in offer to the short, dusky woman before looking back to the speaker - you.
With an idle sweep of a gloved hand along the room, you say, in sirihish:
"But not all of our practice need be spiritless things. We would like to invite you to join in some of our games. Our tests and our pleasures."
After a smile at the trim, ashen-skinned man, the short, dusky woman sips from her small wooden cup, attention mostly on you.
Voice lifting further to be heard through the room, you say, in sirihish:
"The tavernkeeper Amalfa has granted us the space, and I would challenge four bold strangers to take part in this first and next game."
With a grin, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
"Count me in, if you'll have me."
Gaze drifting over the tables, you say, in sirihish:
"Have no fear, I'm as charming of a score keep as could be imagined - and Sivamet is our first. Come here, my dear."
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman stands up from a small wooden table.
The short, dusky woman turns her small wooden cup about in her fingers, considering you.
You say, in sirihish:
"The games are improvisation. I'll give you a challenge and you'll be tasked to act it out."
Adjusting her fine, cowled, dark blue greatcloak about herself, the short, dusky woman stands up from a long, vine-etched baobab table.
With a pointed smile to him, you ask the expansively-obese man, in sirihish:
"Come, now, Merchant, friend. You'll not stand for Kadius?"
Loitering near her recently abandoned chair, the short, dusky woman sips from her small wooden cup.
Artlessly, effortlessly, you say to the short, dusky woman, in sirihish:
"Leisera, how good of you to stand. Come join Sivamet."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman flashes the short, dusky woman an arch smile.
Aiming a smirk aside at you, the short, dusky woman puts her small wooden cup onto a long, vine-etched baobab table.
You give your sturdy canvas bag to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman.
With a tilt of her head, you say to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"Take one thing. Any thing. From this bag. You'll have the right of first choice."
Wryly, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
"I hope this gets me points with the Irofel Masterbards."
Brow lifting, you ask the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, in sirihish:
"Waiting an invitation, Seeker?"
Beckoning with a hand, you say to the trim, ashen-skinned man, in sirihish:
"Boys against girls. Even out Ehrick's pair, Vash."
The short, dusky woman whistles a quiet snatch of tune as she saunters up to you, leaning toward you and the bag.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man flashes you a smile as he carefully sets his small wooden cup down, easing through the crowd towards you.
Beckoning with a hand, you say to the trim, ashen-skinned man, in sirihish:
"Boys against girls. Even out Ehrick's pair, Vash."
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman rests her short wooden pole across her shoulders.
Keeping it out of the short, dusky woman's reach, you give your sturdy canvas bag to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man.
Sparing a glance towards the grey-tressed, sharp-nosed
Lirathan templar before looking back with a tad touch of nervousness, the trim, ashen-skinned man asks you, in sirihish:
"Ya sure, lass?"
The short, dusky woman gives you a pout, grasping fruitlessly for the bag.
Her smile unrepentant, you say to the trim, ashen-skinned man, in sirihish:
"Positive, Vash. Come."
Drawing a slow breath as he unlaces the fingers on his chest and draws to his height, the trim, ashen-skinned man stands up from a long, vine-etched baobab table.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man gets his black, skull-embroidered eye-patch from his sturdy canvas bag.
Calling out to the audience with a cheerful wink, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
"See... If you *don't* volunteer, you *shall* be volunteered."
The trim, ashen-skinned man gives a gesture and good-natured half-grin to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man as he walks over.
Clasping her hands together, pleased, before she lifts her voice again, you say, in sirihish:
"Thank you, thank you, my -brave- competitors. You will be playing against one another. The first team to run out of ideas... loses."
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman moves over to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man.
With a cocked brow and broadening grin, the trim, ashen-skinned man asks the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"Come to steal my man, lass?"
With wavering gravity to her voice, you say, in sirihish:
"Look very closely at your props, my friends, donated by the Uaptal Theater."
The spry, blithe-faced man snickers.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman clears her throat, reaching out to tug at the collar of the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman's attire and pull her back toward the short, dusky woman.
Wryly, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
"Sorry, my idiot brother was in my head."
The trim, ashen-skinned man gives a clucking noise of his tongue as he moves to stand aside the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman moves to the short, dusky woman with some embarrassment on her face.
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask has entered a white-tiled teahouse.
The short, dusky woman pockets her hands in her fine, cowled, dark blue greatcloak and looks sidelong to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, conspiratorial challenge in her expression.
Setting her bag aside, for now, you say, in sirihish:
"Starting with Ehrick's team, out of courtesy to Sivamet's bravery, you will each need to devise, one after another, a different scene containing that prop."
Looking from the short, dusky woman to the trim, ashen-skinned man, you say, in sirihish:
"For instance, if I had picked an obsidian coin, it might have been a third eye, a piece of jewelery, a hole in Vash's head..."
Curiously, the reedy, slate-haired woman looks up at the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask.
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask adjusts his ornately-embroidered ivory silk coat, brushing some dust from it.
The short, dusky woman looks at the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask.
With a light shrug, you ask, in sirihish:
"And you will keep continuing until Leisera's team wins or I get bored, hm?"
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman chuckles.
With a mock-whisper to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, you say, in sirihish:
"I'm an unbiased judge."
With an assuring tone, you ask, in sirihish:
"Work as teams. Have fun. Any questions?"
The svelte, vividly-inked young man sends you a telepathic message:
"*a trace amount of hesitation as the link is established* Seeker Aja, yes? "
You contact the svelte, vividly-inked young man with the Way.
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask leans against his whorled agafari cane as he quietly looks around the tavern, taking it all in.
The spry, blithe-faced man's eyes are glued to the people in the cleared out area, a grin plastered all over his face.
You send a telepathic message to the svelte, vividly-inked young man:
"*with an assuring tone* Yes, that's right. How might I serve?"
The trim, ashen-skinned man whispers something to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man whispers something to the trim, ashen-skinned man.
With a snap of her gloved fingers, you say, in sirihish:
"Ehrick's team, when you're done chattering away for what good it does you, begin."
The trim, ashen-skinned man whispers something to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man.
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask looks down at the spry, blithe-faced man.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman smiles without shame or guilt, arms folding across her knees while she watches.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man gives his black, skull-embroidered eye-patch to the trim, ashen-skinned man.
The svelte, vividly-inked young man sends you a telepathic message:
"I don't think we've met, at least not formally. Maji Zeina al Asenn of the Tan Muark, which is entirely too long to remember, much less pronounce, when less than sober, which is all too often for me. That aside..."
Lifting his black, skull-embroidered eye-patch high into the air and words of dignity, the trim, ashen-skinned man exclaims, in sirihish:
"Shall I present... the purest of chastity belts for the most expensive of Kuraci whores!"
The boyish, charcoal-locked maiden has entered a white-tiled teahouse.
The graceful, platinum-haired man has entered a white-tiled teahouse.
With a nod, you say, in sirihish:
"Perfect! The boys pick up things quickly. Zharal and Sivamet... You're up."
The svelte, vividly-inked young man sends you a telepathic message:
"I wanted to pass along my opinion that, tch, your performance at the competition a couple weeks ago was, by far, the most entertaining of the four. That's... about it."
The spry, blithe-faced man slaps a hand to his forehead, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask steps quietly through the tavern approaching a square beige table.
The expansively-obese man turns his attention to the trim, ashen-skinned man at his words, attention immediate.
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says to you, in sirihish:
"I hope you don't mind if I join you."
Shifting her grip, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman holds her short wooden pole.
You send a telepathic message to the svelte, vividly-inked young man:
"I'm... charmed. Truly and honestly. I've seen you about the Ivory - or heard you named as Muarki, but never had opportunity to introduce myself."
You send a telepathic message to the svelte, vividly-inked young man:
"Will you join us at the Ghaati? We're gathering for a bit of fun and games."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman grins to the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask and beckons for the table.
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask smiles in return as he adjusts his velvet-rimmed, tall black silk hat and slowly lowers into a seat.
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask sits at a square beige table.
Although the room is busy and full of movement, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden lowers her head toward the grey-tressed, sharp-nosed Lirathan templar.
The svelte, vividly-inked young man sends you a telepathic message:
"Perhaps. I've got some business to take care of beforehand, but perhaps. In case I don't, fortunes, pretty Seeker."
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask lets out a contented sigh as he lays his whorled agafari cane across his lap.
Brandishing the pole in a mock-threatening manner, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman exclaims to the short, dusky woman, in sirihish:
"How could you take my man?! At least I kept the most important bit!"
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask looks at the grey-tressed, sharp-nosed Lirathan templar.
The boyish, charcoal-locked maiden looks at the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman laughs into the back of a gloved hand, entranced by the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman.
The spry, blithe-faced man snickers.
After a pause, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman exclaims to the short, dusky woman, in sirihish:
"His weapon!"
With a helpless gesture, you say to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, in sirihish:
"... Go, go. While those two beat the life out of one another."
The athletic, stubble-bearded man lifts his eyebrows slightly, watching the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman.
With a flamboyant bow and flick of his scarred wrist to hand it over, the trim, ashen-skinned man gives his black, skull-embroidered eye-patch to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man.
(The two teams trade off making scenes with their props, while Aja takes every opportunity to direct the insanity.)
Cupping her hands to her mouth, you say, in sirihish:
"I do grant arbitrary points for humor."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman casts the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask a smile and a helpless, oh, so innocent shrug.
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask lets out a small chuckle as he leans back in his seat.
(The scene ends with Vash, the lecherous silt pirate, gagging Simvamet with his eye patch, silencing the unending stream of ‘wooden staff’ jokes coming from her and Zharal. You can’t make this stuff up.)
Applauding, gloves muting the sound, you say, in sirihish:
"My compliments. I'll laugh at you, I'll mock you, but it's no easy thing to compete in a strange game, ye shy ones."
After a wink at the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, handing it that way instead, the short, dusky woman gives you her short wooden pole.
With a nod of approval the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask claps his hands in modest applause.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man laughs and begins to clap for the short, dusky woman and the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman before reaching out for the pole.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman applauds for the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man and the trim, ashen-skinned man.
Using two hands to hold up four fingers, you ask, in sirihish:
"I'd like four more, now, now that you've seen an example. Any of you care to stay in?"
The trim, ashen-skinned man gives return applause as he casts the short, dusky woman and the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman a grin.
With a grin, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
"Reckon I can get another game in."
With a dry, completely somber tone, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says to the short, dusky woman, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I'll take that back, if you please, and go at once to find a seamstress to fix it upon these greaves."
The spry, tousle-haired man carefully shakes his head, eyes still on the main area.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman exclaims to you, in sirihish:
"Who knows, it might be clean this time!"
Holding out a hand to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, you say, in sirihish:
"The silt pirate chastity belt of the mouth, if you please."
Giving his armored arm a comforting pat, the short, dusky woman says to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Oh no, you don't get it back. Let it be a lesson for you - never trust a pretty woman. Her vengeance is terrible."
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to the trim, ashen-skinned man, in sirihish:
"Hand it to Aja, my boy. I gave it to you."
Spotting the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden out with a grin, you say, in sirihish:
"Apprentice who beat me in the competition, I think you're due next."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man gives you his black, skull-embroidered eye-patch.
With a flourid roll of his hand to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, the trim, ashen-skinned man says to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"And 'e stole it right off my c-...."
The trim, ashen-skinned man clamps his mouth shut instead of finishing.
At your table, you say in sirihish, with a look to the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask:
"... Revenge is such a lovely thing."
The graceful, platinum-haired man grins over at the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, eyebrow lifting.
Picking up the pole from the table, the ethereal, fair-haired woman pokes at the trim, ashen-skinned man's leg.
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask grins to you.
Chuckling as he walks over to the empty table, the trim, ashen-skinned man sits at a long, vine-etched baobab table.
At your table, the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says in sirihish:
"What circle is she of?"
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask looks at the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden.
At your table, you say in sirihish, with a touch of pride:
"Driamusek, of course."
Casting a glance towards the clearance amongst the tables, the supple, jasper-curled young man asks the spry, tousle-haired man, in sirihish:
"How about it, Private Creek. Why not give it a go?"
At your table, the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says in sirihish, with a nod:
"Of course."
With a laugh, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
"Maybe I should do Elkinhym instead."
Leaning back against the wall, the tanned, black-haired young man gives his head a shake, grinning, lifting a hand to rub at his face.
Looking dumbstruck, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden asks you, in sirihish:
"You want me to-- -what-?"
Sinking down in her chair by the trim, ashen-skinned man, the short, dusky woman sits at a long, vine-etched baobab table.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
"This is quite fun."
With a long-suffering sigh, you ask, in sirihish:
"Am I so fearsome? Do I make you quake?"
At a long, vine-etched baobab table, you overhear the trim, ashen-skinned man say in southern-accented sirihish, looking to the short, dusky woman sidelong:
"As much as the two'f ya stroked that poor man's cutoff pole. Remind me to never piss ya off, kay?"
Waving two hands nervously, the spry, tousle-haired man says to the supple, jasper-curled young man, in sirihish:
"I'm -really- not that funny. The props just... look like props."
Crooking a finger to her, you say to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, in sirihish:
"I'd like you to join with Sivamet's team. You'll have a prop and you'll need to use it in as many creative ways as you can."
Almost muttering, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to you, in sirihish:
"I'll get you for this yet."
The spry, blithe-faced man snickers.
With a crooked smile, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to the spry, blithe-faced man, in sirihish:
"Maybe I should talk to you, Masterbard, instead of Irofel."
Peering, the expansively-obese man looks at the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask.
Lifting her voice, you say to the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:
"You could cheer for her from up here, by the by."
Glancing up at her, the spry, blithe-faced man says to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"If that is what you wish."
At your table, the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says in sirihish, with a dubious look:
"She's an apprentice?"
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman looks thoughtful, and then nods.
As she approaches, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"I'm really no Konviwedu. Or Elkinhym. What are the rules, exactly? I was a little late."
The graceful, platinum-haired man turns his head to look over at you, mouth still half-open.
At your table, you say in sirihish, with a distracted murmur:
"Asosa? Mm-hmm."
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, in sirihish:
"We have to get a prop and make up a scene with it. Whoever's lost for ideas first loses."
With an assuring smile, the teasing note to her voice quieting, you say to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, in sirihish:
"You're competing against another team. You and Sivamet will work together to come up with interpretations
of an item."
With a light nod, you say to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"For instance, Vash and Ehrick turned an eyepatch into a chastity belt, a gag, a loincloth, and acted out as a silt pirate."
At your table, the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says in sirihish, with a grin:
"Should have given her a scolding for asking such questions to her superiors."
After a thoughtful pause, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to you, in sirihish:
"Well, Seeker, I suppose with Siva's brilliance, I might manage."
With a fleeting smile, you say to the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask, in sirihish:
"Care to join? I'm short by two, I think."
At your table, the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says in sirihish, wincing:
"Oh... hmm."
Calling to him, you ask the spry, blithe-faced man, in sirihish:
"Are you playing, Master Bard?"
Thoughtfully, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden gets her frayed lace shawl from her sturdy canvas bag.
The spry, blithe-faced man asks you, in sirihish:
"If you're calling on me for it, how can I resist?"
Tilting her head to the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask, you say to the spry, blithe-faced man, in sirihish:
"They're all shy. You could bolster anyone's confidence."
Passing it back, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden gives you her sturdy canvas bag.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man looks down at the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask.
Pushing his chair back gently and stepping around the tables into the cleared out area, the spry, blithe-faced man stands up from a small wooden table.
Lifting a finger, you exclaim, in sirihish:
"One more, one more. A partner for the venerable Master Janosh Elkinhym!"
The trim, ashen-skinned man crooks a growing grin at the spry, blithe-faced man as he watches.
Triumphantly, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden asks you, in sirihish:
"Since it was Morn's idea to perform, well, isn't it only fair that he perform as well?"
At your table, the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says in sirihish:
"I suppose I could give it a try."
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask stands up from a square beige table.
Calling out through the noise, the short, dusky woman exclaims to the svelte, vividly-inked young man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Maji! You can perform!"
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask slowly pushes to his feet with the aide of his whorled agafari cane.
With a matching smile, you say to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, in sirihish:
"I couldn't agree more. Morn, get up here. I can't refuse Asosa a thing."
The graceful, platinum-haired man slinks a little lower in his chair.
Snorting, the spry, blithe-faced man says to you, in sirihish:
"Venerable? You make me sound old."
The graceful, platinum-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Oh. . drov."
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says to the spry, blithe-faced man, in sirihish:
"And if you're old.. that makes me far older."
Leaning her head to the side, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:
"I mean... I'm sure you owe me something."
Silent and unobtrusive, the svelte, vividly-inked young man slips through the crowds toward the far wall, near the counter.
Sliding out of his chair with a dejected look, the graceful, platinum-haired man stands up from a small wooden table.
Mouth quirking, you say to the spry, blithe-faced man, in sirihish:
"... My apologies, Master. As wise as you are, I'd think you as old as the sands."
The spry, blithe-faced man chuckles.
The graceful, platinum-haired man walks over to the spry, blithe-faced man, bowing his head politely.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman lifts her hands in an apologetic gesture.
With a developing grin, the graceful, platinum-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:
"I'll be counting on you to do all the work!"
With a smile, you say to the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:
"For your graciousness, pick one thing - just one - from that bag."
Glancing to her, you say to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"Master or no, I'm still making you go first."
Glancing to the graceful, platinum-haired man, the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask asks you, in sirihish:
"Does this mean I am off the hook for this round?"
Chuckling, you say to the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask, in sirihish:
"Yes. For now."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman leans over to rub her hand over the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask's head.
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask lets out a slow sigh of relief as he retakes his seat.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman chuckles.
The graceful, platinum-haired man gets his brightly colored fruit hat from his sturdy canvas bag.
At a long, vine-etched baobab table, you overhear the trim, ashen-skinned man say in southern-accented sirihish, with a glance to the short, dusky woman:
"That was surprisin'ly fun."
Watching the graceful, platinum-haired man, the spry, blithe-faced man looses a short, bubbling laugh.
Taking in a deep breath before she raises hers again, you say, in sirihish:
"Guests, there's a basket lying around somewhere with food if you get hungry. In the meantime, for those joining us..."
At a long, vine-etched baobab table, you overhear the short, dusky woman say in tribal-accented sirihish, seeming distracted, but responding to the trim, ashen-skinned man:
"It was. I love acting. I miss doing it."
The svelte, vividly-inked young man lifts a hand to his mouth, peering toward the doorway.
To the spry, blithe-faced man, the graceful, platinum-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"Do I get to go first, sir?"
The boyish, charcoal-locked maiden shows her frayed lace shawl to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman.
The trim, ashen-skinned man gives a faint noise of agreement in response before returning his attention to you.
Gesturing toward you, the spry, blithe-faced man says to the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:
"Aja is the one commanding us."
Taking in another deep breath, you say, in sirihish:
"... The game is a competition between Master Janosh of Elkinhym and Morn the hunter-who-forgets-to-clean-his-cloak, against Sivamet the victor and Apprentice Asosa, the even greater victor."
The graceful, platinum-haired man chuckles.
Lounged back in her chair, the short, dusky woman looks up at the graceful, platinum-haired man.
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask raps his whorled agafari cane against the ground in approval.
You say, in sirihish:
"With Sivamet's team starting, each pair must come up
with a creative use for the prop in their hands and will go one after the other until I get bored and pick a winner."
The boyish, charcoal-locked maiden tilts her head to either side, indecisively with your introduction.
Pointing out of the tavern, the graceful, platinum-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Blame the sandstorms, not me."
The trim, ashen-skinned man gives the gimlet puce-eyed woman a polite nod before working his backside into the seat of his chair and lacing his fingers over his chest.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman wraps her frayed lace shawl around her arms and hobbles like a little old lady.
His attention briefly drawn by movement, the svelte, vividly-inked young man looks down at the slight, twin-braided woman.
Her smile unabashed before she claps her hands twice together, you say, in sirihish:
"Sivamet and Asosa, prepare to stun the room. Begin."
Beckoning him closer, the short, dusky woman says to the svelte, vividly-inked young man, in bendune:
"Muri, p'uysu."
Holding up a finger, her dark voice quavery, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
"In my day, everybody wanted to be a bard! We'd clamour to the Circle, hoping for challenges like this."
The svelte, vividly-inked young man perks up a bit, peering over the crowded teahouse quickly until he spots the short, dusky woman, pushing out of his lean.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman crosses her legs, expression sublimely patient, and links gloved hands around her knee.
Her voice quavery as she fakes wiping at a tear, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
"Unfortunately, I lost my voice in a bet."
The graceful, platinum-haired man gazes down at his brightly colored fruit hat with a grin.
The spry, blithe-faced man presses his lips together as he watches the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman.
Studying her hands, you look up at the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman.
The svelte, vividly-inked young man quickly winds his way through the crowd with muted apologies to the short, dusky woman, dipping his chin.
In a bored, monotone drawl, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"Uh-huh... yes ma... did you drink tea today? Mmm. Yes, well, tell them all the stories you want."
The reedy, slate-haired woman watches the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman hobbling about in her frayed, disheveled shawl, and chuckles.
The boyish, charcoal-locked maiden rolls her eyes at the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, leaning back against a nearby table. She holds up two hands and makes a talking motion.
Simply, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"I wish you had lost your voice, you know."
The athletic, stubble-bearded man chuckles softly as he watches the performers, placing an elbow on a small wooden table.
Holding up a finger, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman exclaims to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, in sirihish:
"Don't you patronize me, girly! And never make a bet you can't win!"
The short, dusky woman crosses her legs and folds her arms, shrugging into the folds of her fine, cowled, dark blue greatcloak and clearing her throat while she watches.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman straightens up and flips her frayed lace shawl off her shoulders.
The gimlet puce-eyed woman watches the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman and the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, an amused smile on her lips.
Tilting her head to the side, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"-Honestly.- One day you're a Kuraci, the next you're a bar whore, the next you're a dwarven stripper..."
With a grin to the spry, blithe-faced man and respectful tilt of her head, you ask, in sirihish:
"Master Bard... Morn... We've seen a hoarse, cloak-covered woman. Let them chatter - A dwarven stripper?"
Clearing her throat, recollecting herself, you say, in sirihish:
"That is... Let them chatter. You take a go."
The graceful, platinum-haired man clears his throat.
The willowy, onyx-braided woman's attention suddenly flicks towards the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, a brow single brow perking upwards.
The graceful, platinum-haired man clasps his brightly colored fruit hat to his chest, strutting about with it puffed out.
Taking a bite, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man eats a portion of his half eaten ripe blue kalan fruit.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman chuckles.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman clears her throat under her voice.
With a conspiratoral smile, you say to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"... I could've had you go on for longer than that, impossible thing that you are."
Voice clear and presiding, the graceful, platinum-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:
"I say, I went and had a drink of firestorm!"
The graceful, platinum-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:
"They say it puts hair on your chest, but I grew this!"
The ethereal, fair-haired woman laughs, pressing a hand to her eyes.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
"No, no, we need to let Masterbard Janosh have a go. Especially since I think I want to join his Circle now."
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman grins at you.
Cupping his hands and feeling up the brightly-colored fruits held against the graceful, platinum-haired man's chest, the spry, blithe-faced man says, in sirihish:
"Hmm... You might want to get this checked by a medic."
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask looks to the graceful, platinum-haired man as he lets out an amused laugh.
Shaking her head, you say to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, in sirihish:
"A two point, for utter peculiarity and creativity. Back to you, lovely ladies. Janosh'll be in there, yet."
The expansively-obese man snickers, watching the graceful, platinum-haired man.
Blushing, the graceful, platinum-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"Oh, my. You like they way they feel?"
Holding up a hand, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman exclaims, in sirihish:
"Medic here!"
Calling to him, you say to the spry, blithe-faced man, in sirihish:
"... He needs more than a medic, Master Elkinhym."
Placing her hands on her hips, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"You are -not-... I say..."
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman scampers over to the graceful, platinum-haired man.
Over his shoulder, the spry, blithe-faced man says to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"Quiet, you. I'm not done with him yet."
At a small wooden table, you overhear the reedy, slate-haired woman say in sirihish, squinting at the graceful, platinum-haired man:
"Was that a fruity breast joke?"
With a shake of her head, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:
"You go to her for medicine and you'll leave two inches shorter, ten years stupider, and a hundred times more likely to die tomorrow."
The spry, blithe-faced man tilts his head, an intrigued expression overwhelming his features as he gently squeezes the ceramic fruits one by one.
Clearing her throat, but carrying on pleasantly, you say, in sirihish:
"For the benefit of all of you, yes, that was a fruity breast joke. Do carry on. There's more nonsense to see."
Peering over the fruit on the graceful, platinum-haired man's chest, her voice quavery, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman exclaims, in sirihish:
"Oh dear. This's the worst case of fruit-tit-itis I've ever seen!"
The svelte, vividly-inked young man shifts his weight from foot to foot, his attention snapped away by a merchant that brushes by him en route to the food basket.
The graceful, platinum-haired man drags his left boot against the ground, pouting demurely at the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman.
The expansively-obese man chuckles at the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, massive belly shaking.
The athletic, stubble-bearded man smooths his hair back, his hand brushing over his half of a massive rolled tube of spice half-tucked under his leaf-patterned, tembo-hide helmet.
Putting her frayed lace shawl over her eyes and peering through it, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
"Oh yes, it's fruit-tit-itis."
The spry, blithe-faced man leans over, clacking his teeth against one of the brightly-painted ceramic fruits in an exaggerated gnawing motion.
Blankly, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"Just because your breasts are practically inverted doesn't mean you have to go gnawing on his."
At a small wooden table, you overhear the reedy, slate-haired woman say in sirihish, nodding approvingly:
"Good. It just isn't a fun time til someone comes out with a fruity breast joke."
With a dip of her head to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, you ask the spry, blithe-faced man, in sirihish:
"Sivamet's playing the medic with her... shawl... of... healing, yes, shawl of healing. Gentlemen?"
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman wraps her frayed lace shawl around her arms.
The graceful, platinum-haired man slides over to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, winking.
The expansively-obese man chuckles louder, belly bouncing and jiggling.
The graceful, platinum-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"Does that mean you want to take a bite instead?"
Waving a hand in your direction, the spry, blithe-faced man says, in sirihish:
"Can't talk. Busy."
Muttering, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
"So much for keeping it clean."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman's brow arches, imperious for a moment as she looks to the spry, blithe-faced man's hand.
At your table, you say in sirihish, under her breath, slender body shaking with laughter:
"Is what I get for trying to order about a Master Bard, it would seem."
Giving a firm nod of his head in approval, the trim, ashen-skinned man says, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Gnawin' the juicy melons is definitely clean in my mind."
With a shake of her head, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden asks the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:
"Trust me, I only take bites where it matters-- and generally, that leaves a two-headed creature longing for a partner. Didn't you know?"
At your table, the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says in sirihish:
"Would be akin to herding quirri or dealing with a southron house merchant."
Sniffing, her voice quavery, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman exclaims, in sirihish:
"The youth of today!"
The graceful, platinum-haired man cranes his head back before scampering over to the spry, blithe-faced man.
Hushing her, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden exclaims to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"Not everyone was youthful when the sun was born, old woman!"
You get your oversized wooden dart from your sturdy canvas bag.
With a look of calm amusement, the slight, twin-braided woman smiles as she watches on.
Aside to him, the spry, blithe-faced man says to the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:
"She's just jealous that you've got more tits than she does."
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman exclaims to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, in sirihish:
"Just because your boobies haven't grown yet, girly!"
Calling out and standing on her chair for emphasis, you say to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"I'm calling a prop swap. Asosa, catch."
You give your oversized wooden dart to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman tosses the shawl over to you.
With a slender smile, you say, in sirihish:
"Carry on, dart-wielding medics."
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman exclaims to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, in sirihish:
"Gimme the cure, girly!"
Holding up the pointy end of her oversized wooden dart, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:
"Anyhow, boy, let me get rid of that fruit with this. Trust me, it doesn't hurt..."
The trim, ashen-skinned man keeps his eyes on the performers, his mouth quirked in a near permanent smirk.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman scoops up the shawl from the air and deposits it on the table before sitting primly on its edge.
Hurling himself in between the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden and the graceful, platinum-haired man, splaying his arms out, the spry, blithe-faced man exclaims, in sirihish:
"Wait!"
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:
"She got that from me, you know. Her healing gifts."
The svelte, vividly-inked young man shifts his weight again, watching the performance with a mild grin.
Cringing, the graceful, platinum-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:
"But, I like my tits! I get to play with them whenever I want!"
On a sigh, you say, in sirihish:
"Remember that, women. Don't take your fruititis for granted."
Her voice lightened, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:
"But, sweetheart, don't you know you'll end up all crouched over like my mum if you where them all the time? They get heavy..."
Stepping around behind the graceful, platinum-haired man, slipping his arms beneath the graceful, platinum-haired man's arms to grasp and sort of squeeze the ceramic fruits, the spry, blithe-faced man exclaims, in sirihish:
"No! They're wonderful!"
Taking her eyes off the performance briefly, the slight, twin-braided woman looks at the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask.
At a small wooden table, you overhear the expansively-obese man say in southern-accented sirihish, to the reedy, slate-haired woman, pudgy face creased by a lewd smile:
"I don't know, that dart might be just what's needed. Melons need some hard 'darts' sticking out."
Nodding, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:
"It's true. I had breasts so big I was mistaken for twin bahamets."
Raising a hand as he looks up at the group, the trim, ashen-skinned man says, in southern-accented sirihish:
"If ever ya lasses have fruit-tit-itis'n need help... I'm a willin' sucker."
The graceful, platinum-haired man lets out a high-pitched squeak.
Turning, the svelte, vividly-inked young man sidles through the crowd toward the door, taking a deep breath.
Snickering, the short, dusky woman sips from her small wooden cup.
The browned, jallal-curled man chuckles lightly at the proceedings.
The short, dusky woman waggles her eyebrows at the trim, ashen-skinned man, slouched in her chair.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman shoots the trim, ashen-skinned man a patented, high browed look of instructoral disapproval... and then smirks, relenting.
You think:
"And in five..."
You think:
"... four..."
Tossing her oversized wooden dart in her direction, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden exclaims to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"Good grief... here. You take care of him, then.
He'll never understand the curse of the twins. And his aren't even twins!"
You think:
"... three..."
The boyish, charcoal-locked maiden gives her oversized wooden dart to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman.
You think:
"... two..."
One hand releasing its lewd hold on one of the graceful, platinum-haired man's fruits to point an accusing finger at the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden and the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman alone, the spry, blithe-faced man exclaims, in sirihish:
"Hands off the man's tits!"
At your table, you say in sirihish, sputtering, stammering:
"Aaaaaaaaaand... on that note... players, pause!"
Shaking his head slowly, the graceful, platinum-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:
"Now now, there's no reason to fight over my chest, there's plenty for everyone!"
Holding up to empty hands, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to the spry, blithe-faced man, in sirihish:
"If you haven't noticed... you're the only one with hands -on- them."
With a hopeless shake of her head, you say, in sirihish:
"I really would name you the winner, Morn, for starting that... what... ever it was, but I'm afraid I have to name Master Janosh the singular winner, as he helps handle Seeker's promotions."
Wry humour in her voice, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to the spry, blithe-faced man, in sirihish:
"You do know if they're not pricked, they'll be contagious."
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman chuckles.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman grins at you.
The slight, twin-braided woman offers a nod to the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask before turning her attention fully back to the performers.
Point at the graceful, platinum-haired man and laughing, the spry, blithe-faced man exclaims, in sirihish:
"He started it!"
The graceful, platinum-haired man bows his head to the spry, blithe-faced man.
Laughter still warm in her voice, the ethereal, fair-haired woman applauds over to the quartet.
The trim, ashen-skinned man gives a deep, throaty noise of agreement as he grins.
Wryly, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
"I'm sitting down and gathering the tattered remnants of my dignity."
The graceful, platinum-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Only with your magnificent presence could I have done something this. . . this. . ."
The short, dusky woman smirks vaguely, tilting back a sip from her small wooden cup.
The trim, ashen-skinned man lifts his hands and claps for the performers, looking to them and smiling warmly.
The graceful, platinum-haired man walks over to you.
Leaning forward a little, reaching for the graceful, platinum-haired man's prop, you say, in sirihish:
"... Preposterous and delightful."
The short, dusky woman puts her cup down to applaud the performers, relaxed tiredly into her chair by a long, vine-etched baobab table.
To you, the graceful, platinum-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"Would you like my chest?"
Smile lingering, you ask the graceful, platinum-haired man, in sirihish:
"What would I do with one of those?"
Calling out, the short, dusky woman says to the graceful, platinum-haired man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"That should've been 'would you like a nibble?'"
Plopping down, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden sits at a small wooden table.
At a small wooden table, you overhear the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman say in sirihish, wryly:
"Sun King have mercy."
The graceful, platinum-haired man gives you his brightly colored fruit hat.
The spry, blithe-faced man chuckles, pointing in the short, dusky woman's direction and nodding.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman points to the short, dusky woman, the look she casts the graceful, platinum-haired man a touch reproachful.
The boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to you, in sirihish:
"Well, Aja, when life gives you kalan..."
The trim, ashen-skinned man licks his lips as he waggles his eyes at the graceful, platinum-haired man.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman looks up at the gimlet
puce-eyed woman.
The graceful, platinum-haired man blows a kiss to the trim, ashen-skinned man.
With a warm tone, you say to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, in sirihish:
"... Drink the night away."
Looking away from the graceful, platinum-haired man to smile to the room, you say, in sirihish:
"A new game, a new round of players. I wouldn't have you bored with us yet. I need... three people. Maybe four if you beg."
The short, dusky woman chuckles and holds her hands up, a helpless gesture.
At a small wooden table, you overhear the browned, jallal-curled man say in sirihish, with a light chuckle for the reedy, slate-haired woman:
"You should be performing, Irminia."
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman chuckles.
The graceful, platinum-haired man slinks over to a small wooden table.
Alighting upon a chair with a bit of color in his cheeks, the graceful, platinum-haired man sits at a small wooden table.
At a small wooden table, you overhear the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman say in sirihish:
"I apologise for those sand-awful jokes."
With a bright grin, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to you, in sirihish:
"Well, I think we both drank away a whole week not so long ago, but there probably wasn't any kalan involved."
At a small wooden table, you overhear the graceful, platinum-haired man say in sirihish:
"Well, I'll never be taken seriously again."
Lifting up three fingers and shooting the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden a shushing glance, you say, in sirihish:
"Mm-hmm. Three people. A game much like what you saw before, with a twist."
At a small wooden table, you overhear the expansively-obese man say in southern-accented sirihish, to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, attention focused squarely on her chest:
"Awful? They were delightful!"
As he slowly pushes to his feet, the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says, in sirihish:
"I suppose I'll give it a go, though my prudish nature may be quite boring."
At a small wooden table, you overhear the reedy, slate-haired woman say in sirihish, to the browned, jallal-curled man, sniffing:
"Only if they buy something."
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask stands up from a square beige table.
Still rubbing gently at his jaw, the tanned, black-haired young man squints faintly, looking toward you.
With imperious pride, you say, in sirihish:
"And my players never falter, so don't worry about being left out."
With a grin and lowering one finger, you say to the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask, in sirihish:
"I have this one, here, who refuses to take off his mask despite it being hotter than an Allanak Detal in here."
At a small wooden table, you overhear the graceful, platinum-haired man say in sirihish, wagging a finger at the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden with a grin:
"I'll have you to blame for this, at least."
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask leans against his whorled agafari cane with a casual demeanor.
At a small wooden table, you overhear the reedy, slate-haired woman say in sirihish, chuckling wryly:
"I guess she doesn't get to Allanak many Detals..this is positively brisk."
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says to you, in sirihish:
"I've never been to Allanak, does it get that hot there, krath."
Calling to him, you say to the expansively-obese man, in sirihish:
"Stand for Kadius, merchant. I'll be kind."
At a small wooden table, you overhear the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden say in sirihish, waving a hand in front of her face:
"Speaking of which, it is getting more and more hot in here."
Shifting up his massive bulk, the expansively-obese man stands up from a small wooden table.
At a small wooden table, you overhear the graceful, platinum-haired man say in sirihish, tapping his obsidian breastplate:
"You're not the one wearing armor."
(hemote) Sweat glistens at the ethereal, fair-haired woman's collarbone and neck.
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask gives the expansively-obese man a deferential nod.
Lowering a second finger, you say, in sirihish:
"I need one more, one brave, daring man or woman to stand with the best of the Ivory or her guests and be counted."
l
Lucky Ghaati Teahouse [U Leave Quit]
The browned, jallal-curled man is sitting at a small wooden table.
The gimlet puce-eyed woman is standing here.
The pursy, female half-giant stands here, trying to look mean.
The slight, twin-braided woman is sitting at a small wooden table.
The spry, blithe-faced man is sitting at a small wooden table.
The tanned, black-haired young man leans against the wall, by the entrance.
The graceful, platinum-haired man is sitting at a small wooden table.
The boyish, charcoal-locked maiden is sitting at a small wooden table.
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask is standing here.
The lean, cerulean-eyed man is standing here.
The trim, ashen-skinned man is sitting at a long, vine-etched baobab table.
The short, dusky woman is sitting at a long, vine-etched baobab table.
The grey-tressed, sharp-nosed Lirathan templar is sitting at a small wooden table.
A squat, tattooed guard stands here.
The expansively-obese man is standing here.
The reedy, slate-haired woman is sitting at a small wooden table.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man is standing here.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman is sitting at a small wooden table.
The graceful, platinum-haired man lifts his left eyebrow while glancing over at the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden.
Stretching languidly, the short, dusky woman stands up from a long, vine-etched baobab table.
Lowering his hand from his jaw, the tanned, black-haired young man quirks his mouth idly.
Coyly, the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says to you, in sirihish:
"No pressure then I suppose."
Quietly, as she swaggers over toward the performers, the short, dusky woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Oh, no. I stood up."
Looking at the short, dusky woman and throwing his hands into the air, the trim, ashen-skinned man exclaims, in southern-accented sirihish:
"And the gypsy throws down the cestus!"
The willowy, onyx-braided woman has arrived from above, smoking pipe in hand.
The trim, ashen-skinned man lets his hands fall back to a long, vine-etched baobab table with a clatter.
With a reproachful smile, you ask, in sirihish:
"And Zharal falls for standing, yet again. Alright, then, players - and you there, masked one, can I have a name to swoon over?"
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask nods politly to the short, dusky woman.
The male wearing a painted ivory half-mask says to you, in sirihish:
"Elithan."
The short, dusky woman spreads her hands out in a 'bring it' sort of gesture, sauntering bravely up to you. She smiles and nods politely at the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask.
Jaw falling open, you look up at the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask.
This man has seen many years as he has reached the rarity of old age. His neatly trimmed hair is a grayish white. There are hints of crimson streaks in his hair perhaps revealing what color his hair was in this man's youth. High arched cheekbones and eyebrows elongate his stern facial features, and his thin lips are distorted by a thin scar that runs diagonally through them. However, his features are offset by his warm blue eyes. His heavily scarred skin is beset with age as deep lines are set into his face and prominent crow’s feet are set around his eyes. Scars of varying degrees are visible on just about any amount of exposed skin giving him a battle hardened appearance. A smattering of discolored circular burnscars run down his left cheek. One scar which stands out above all others is a scar that runs from the base of his chin on the left side of his face and down his neck. The scar appears old, but is discolored to a strange purplish hue. He is very well kept: trim hair and nails, smoothly shaven face, and a healthy physique of taut muscles seemingly uncharacteristic for his apparent age. His hands are worn and callused as if this man was no stranger to physical labor. Though his massive amount of scars mixed with the ravages of age give this, upon closer inspection, hearty man an appearance of being far older than he may be.
The short, dusky woman ..... stares. At the male wearing a painted ivory half-mask.
The ancient, brutally-scarred man stops using his painted ivory half-mask, revealing a splotchy burn scar.
The gimlet puce-eyed woman laughs once, covering her mouth.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man blinks at the ancient, brutally-scarred man, slowly.
The boyish, charcoal-locked maiden gives the ancient, brutally-scarred man a double-take.
Doing a double-take, the expansively-obese man looks at the ancient, brutally-scarred man.
Mouth hanging open, the trim, ashen-skinned man says to the ancient, brutally-scarred man, in southern-accented sirihish:
"That is the most amazin' fuckin' thing I ever saw."
Pressing a hand to her mouth, you say, in sirihish:
"... Oh... sweet... Krath, I just toussled the hair of my High Templar and very benevolent and caring patron."
His expression shifting into a grin quickly, the spry, blithe-faced man applauds.
The graceful, platinum-haired man blinks a few times, clearing his throat.
Grinning widely, the short, dusky woman says to the ancient, brutally-scarred man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Can't think of anybody I'd rather have on my team."
At a small wooden table, you overhear the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden say in sirihish, holding a hand over her mouth:
"Sweet..."
The gimlet puce-eyed woman's shoulders shake as she watches you and the ancient, brutally-scarred man.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman places a hand to her mouth, eyes going wide as kalans.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman looks at the browned, jallal-curled man.
The ancient, brutally-scarred man says to the short, dusky woman, in sirihish:
"Indeed."
At a small wooden table, you overhear the reedy, slate-haired woman say in sirihish, staring openly and unashamedly at the ancient, brutally-scarred man:
"Well how about that."
The browned, jallal-curled man blinks as he notices the ancient, brutally-scarred man remove his mask.
At a small wooden table, you overhear the graceful, platinum-haired man say in sirihish:
"And now, I've shown the High Templar my melons."
The trim, ashen-skinned man breaks in a deep chuckle as he sinks into the chair and laces his hands over his chest.
Recovering nicely from her grinning amazement, the short, dusky woman dips a bow of her head, deep and respectful, to the ancient, brutally-scarred man.
With a low groan, you say, in sirihish:
"Very well. This makes things much more enticing. As you wish, High Templar Elithan Winrothol."
The expansively-obese man continues to look shocked a moment, before dipping a respectful nod.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman bows her head respectfully to the ancient, brutally-scarred man, her smile turning wry and self-deprecating.
At a small wooden table, you overhear the graceful, platinum-haired man say in sirihish, burying his face in a large, open hand:
"My dignity has vanished."
Skin a deep red - from heat, naturally, you say, in sirihish:
"The game is a game of improvisation, the games we love best. Or I do when I'm calling the commands against you."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man inclines his head respectfully to the ancient, brutally-scarred man, finally seeming to regain his composure.
Mustering a wry half-smile, you ask the ancient, brutally-scarred man, in sirihish:
"I hope you won't be opposed to playing a soldier?"
(After the end of the insanity, which involves among other things a gypsy elf stealing Barbek’s nuts... and because I can’t resist...)
Standing on her chair and offering a deep tilt of her head to the ancient, brutally-scarred man, the short, dusky woman, and the expansively-obese man in turn, you say, in sirihish:
"This singstress has yelled herself out, but I'd like to give one more challenge before I bury my head somewhere where no one can find me again."
The ancient, brutally-scarred man steps back towards a square beige table taking a seat.
With a knowing smile to the ancient, brutally-scarred man, a teasing wrinkle of her nose, you ask, in sirihish:
"To the group. Who here... has the best toast?"
Grinning and tipping a bow of her head, the short, dusky woman says to the ancient, brutally-scarred man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Very indulgent, High Templar. That was fun."
Pointedly, you say, in sirihish:
"You all drink. Krath knows that much. I'll give a prize to the most creative, the most clever toaster in the Circle this day."
The ancient, brutally-scarred man says to the short, dusky woman, in sirihish:
"That it was, though I admit I'm not much of an actor."
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman stands up from a small wooden table.
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says to you, in sirihish:
"I'll give it a try."
The toffee-hued, large-eyed woman grins at you.
The trim, ashen-skinned man licks his lips as he half-grins at you and the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, then scatters a gaze around...
With a sweep of her arm, you say to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"At the top of your lungs, Sivamet the victor."
Raising her voice a little, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to you, in sirihish:
"I don't know if I can toast, but I can tell you what I'll never forget about tonight. 'Can I have a name to swoon over?' 'Elithan.' Bam. Jaw. Floor."
With a crisp smile, you say, in sirihish:
"Excuse me while I throw darts at Asosa. Won't be a moment."
The boyish, charcoal-locked maiden bursts into laughter, holding her arms up to protect her face.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman chuckles, making a swat in the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden's direction before smiling to the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman.
You say, in sirihish:
"Go, go. I'll have the rest of my life to live that down."
Giggling, the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden says to you, in sirihish:
"Will you ever..."
Drawing two fingers together in a shushing noise, you say to the boyish, charcoal-locked maiden, in sirihish:
"Dart."
Lifting an imaginary cup at the audience, her dark voice carrying, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman exclaims, in sirihish:
"To the Sun King! May Your Faithful always be blessed with humour, Your Chosen with generosity, Your Legions with ... weapons ... and Your bards with creativity!"
More sedately, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
"And Your City with the arts which remind us all of who... and what... we are."
Raising his voice, the spry, blithe-faced man exclaims, in sirihish:
"And may your nuts be plentiful!"
The short, dusky woman starts to laugh helplessly at the spry, blithe-faced man's input.
Laughing, the toffee-hued, large-eyed woman says, in sirihish:
"And yes, may we always have nuts."
Joining in with the shouted cheers, you exclaim, in sirihish:
"And the enemies of the Ivory, never meet a friend!"
The spry, blithe-faced man's complexion warms with subdued laughter.
Adopting an eloquent bow, hair - sticky with sweat - falling across her shoulders, you say, in sirihish:
"It's been my pleasure, friends. Stay, chat, converse. I'm your servant for as long as I can think of ways to torment you."
Straightening, smile arch when she sweeps an arm to a fat-bellied, brown-haired woman, you say, in sirihish:
"And be sweet to your host. Have a cup of tea before you go."
Note: This has been HEAVILY editted for spam and length.
It is late afternoon on Terrin, the 2nd day of the Low Sun,
In the Year of Ruk's Reverence, year 48 of the 21st Age.
Lucky Ghaati Teahouse [U Leave Quit]
Screens, made of oiled paper printed with swirls...
Continue Reading...The Best Laid Plans (Part 1) by laurajlmars
Added on Oct 24, 2009Lord Templar Samos Rennik receives annoying news, and makes a dangerous decision that will have lasting repercussions. A log from the summer of 2007.
A Spartan Meditation Chamber [S Save]
A simple obsidian altar, trimmed in jade, rests here upon the floor.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar is standing here.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar paces back and forth, head bowed.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar stalks over to a jade and obsidian altar and drops down to his knees, letting out a frustrated growl.
The blind, wine-haired female stumbles down into a corner of the room, furthest away from the rugged, stubble-bearded templar and a jade and obsidian altar.
With a growl, smashing a fist into the floor, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar exclaims, in sirihish:
"I can't HANDLE this!"
Sliding down the wall, sightless eyes huge, you sit down.
Your new ldesc is:
The blind, wine-haired female huddles in the corner here
A -crack- sounding from wood and stone as he smashes his fist to the floor again, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says, in sirihish:
"SURROUNDED by fucking incompetence on every side."
You feel disoriented and frightened by the waves of rage in his voice.
You feel an insane babble of voices tumbling, deafening, through your head.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar clenches his hands into fists, teeth grit hard in frustration.
As if a mirror to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar's emotions, the blind, wine-haired female's teeth also clench.
You feel completely baffled as to why you're sad, why you're angry.
A dark resolve in his voice, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says, in sirihish:
"If Weringa can't be trusted, I have to kill him."
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar says, in sirihish:
"I'll cut out the rot in this order myself."
Facing the altar, features stony, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says, in sirihish:
"I have no other choice."
You feel a shiver run down your spine.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar looks over his shoulder at you.
A frozen expression on her face, the blind, wine-haired female rubs moisture from one cheek with dusty fingers, leaving a smudge against her pale skin.
Speaking to the ground at her bare feet, you whisper to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar in sirihish:
"It will make him laugh."
Exhaling a hissing breath, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar asks you, in sirihish:
"Who?"
You whisper to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar in sirihish:
"Gin."
Still kneeling, peering at you in your corner, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar asks you, in sirihish:
"Why?"
Flinching further back, you whisper to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar in sirihish:
"I don't know. I don't know. Laughter's the best poison."
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar says to you, in sirihish:
"Stay away from him until we do this. I will leave nothing to chance."
You feel unhappy.
The blind, wine-haired female manages a tiny nod.
You think:
"No...no no no."
You think:
"This will lead to nothing good."
You think:
"Kicking out bricks."
You feel nervous and apprehensive.
You feel like an animal getting dragged to a bath.
Turning back to the altar, bowing his head, tone reverent, if tinged slightly with desperation, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says, in sirihish:
"Highlord Tektolnes, I pray you favor my actions."
The blind, wine-haired female lifts a shaking hand to her white face, fingers lacing into her hair.
The blind, wine-haired female crouches on the balls of her feet, ankle jingling slightly in the quiet as she shifts her position.
You think:
"Why is he so? Why...why doesn't he say...why does he do this?"
Breaking the silence, facing away from you, rugged, stubble-bearded templar asks, in sirihish:
"Do you have the poison?"
Barely breathing out her response, you whisper to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar in sirihish:
"Yes."
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar stands up.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar sighs, pushing up from the altar.
Scrambling to her feet with a jingle of bells and a hiss of silk, you stand up.
The blind, wine-haired female keeps her back to the corner, fingers clenching and unclenching at her sides.
Quietly, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar asks you, in sirihish:
"What should I do?"
Uncertainty thick in her tone, you say to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar in sirihish:
"You ask me for council?"
With a weak, helpless, mirthless smile, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says, in sirihish:
"Seems like yer the only person I can trust."
Shoulders hunching, you whisper to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar in sirihish:
"I'm just a slave."
You feel your mind yanked back to the present, ignoring the noises in your head which grate back and forth like the edges of a serrated knife.
Stepping closer to you, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says, in sirihish:
"You know you're more than that to me."
Plaintively, lifting both hands towards him, you say to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, in sirihish:
"I'm not...truly, I don't know, please, I only want your happiness."
One side of his mouth crooking up, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says, in sirihish:
"Almost a foreign concept to me lately."
The blind, wine-haired female's lips move soundlessly, folding her fingers in on themselves to stop their trembling.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar sighs, deflating, opening his arms to you for an embrace.
Pulling you close, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar whispers to you, in sirihish:
"Saya, tell me."
Stepping forward into his arms, you whisper to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar in sirihish:
"Weringa meets with the Warlord now."
Blue gaze narrowing as he stares at the opposite wall, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar asks, in sirihish:
"Are you..?"
The blind, wine-haired female nods vacantly, cheek resting against the rugged, stubble-bearded templar's chest.
With a grunt, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar whispers to you, in sirihish:
"Then tell me."
You whisper to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar in sirihish:
"He hasn't arrived yet."
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar purses his lips, chin resting on the top of your head.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar whispers to you, in sirihish:
"Could you follow him? Hidden? And listen?"
You feel sick at the prospect.
You whisper to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar in sirihish:
"He's in the Academy."
Taking your arm, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar whispers to you, in sirihish:
"Let's go."
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks south.
You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk south.
A Narrow Entryway [NES]
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar is standing here.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks south.
You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk south.
A Sitting Room [NE Save]
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar is standing here.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks north.
You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk north.
A Narrow Entryway [NES]
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar is standing here.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar gets his night-black, sheer silk blindfold from his dusty oversized black backpack.
Turning you towards the door, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar says to you, in sirihish:
"Stay close. Stay out of sight."
Tieing it over your eyes, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar gives you his night-black, sheer silk blindfold.
Bowing her head, you fasten your night-black, sheer silk blindfold across your face, a whimper briefly escaping her lips.
You feel dizzy.
You feel tears threatening to come.
Tugging your hood over your hair, the rugged, stubble-bearded templar whispers to you, in sirihish:
"You can do this. And you need to."
Nearly inaudible, the female wearing a night-black, sheer silk blindfold pants for air through dry, dry lips.
You raise the hood of a hooded, loose black silk greatcloak.
You are using:
<worn on face> a night-black, sheer silk blindfold
<worn around neck> a leather collar with a jade cross on it
<worn on torso> a diaphanous draped black dress
<worn around body> a hooded, loose black silk greatcloak
<worn on right ankle> a belled leather loop
Stooping to her ankle, you stop using your belled leather loop.
Standing, and turning to press it into his hand, you give your belled leather loop to the rugged, stubble-bearded templar.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar gives your shoulder a quick squeeze.
You search for a good place to hide.
You attempt to hide yourself.
You now follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar unlocks the door with a worn bronze key.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar opens the door.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks east.
You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk east.
A Well-Lit Stairwell [EWUD]
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar is standing here.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar closes the door.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar locks the door with a worn bronze key.
You start trying to listen.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks down.
You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk down.
A Well-Lit Stairwell [EWUD]
Fixed securely to the walls, small oil lamps keep this hallway well lit
despite the fact that there are no windows. The walls of this hallway are
lined with doors, and where they are not, small ornaments hang, mostly
sigils from one of the various noble houses of Allanak. A set of stairs
lead down towards the main entryway of this building, as well as lead
further up into the building's interior.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar is standing here.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks down.
You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk down.
Stonework Building [SU]
This small stonework building is simple in design and function. Set
into the stonework of the meticulously kept northern wall is a large jade
cross on an obsidian field. A large, oval rug sprawls out in the center of
the floor. A sturdy door in the south wall provides the only other entrance
to this building. A large, semi-circular desk rests beneath the jade cross
on the northern wall. A split staircase ascends up from this foyer on both
the eastern and western walls, meeting at the center, high above the jade
cross.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar is standing here.
A diminutive, white-robed templar sits at a semi-circular desk.
The diminutive, white-robed templar stops using her sturdy steel key.
The diminutive, white-robed templar unlocks the door with a sturdy steel key.
The diminutive, white-robed templar opens the door.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks south.
You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk south.
You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
Feeling yourself bawk, you think:
"Nononono, do not want."
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks east.
You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk east.
Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks east.
You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk east.
Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks east.
You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk east.
Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks north.
You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk north.
Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks north.
You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk north.
Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks north.
You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk north.
Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks east.
You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk east.
Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks east.
You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk east.
Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar sends up a call to the wall to open the gates.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar opens the gate.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks north.
You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk north.
Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks west.
You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk west.
Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks west.
You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk west.
Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks north.
You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk north.
Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
You can't see a thing; sand swirls about you!
Stepping aside quickly, the fiery-haired, flat-nosed man says, in sirihish:
"Opening on behalf of an Officer of the Academy."
The fiery-haired, flat-nosed man stops using his slender ruby-red stone key.
The fiery-haired, flat-nosed man unlocks the door with a slender ruby-red stone key.
The fiery-haired, flat-nosed man opens the door.
The fiery-haired, flat-nosed man fastens his slender ruby-red stone key around his wrist.
The fiery-haired, flat-nosed man nods at the rugged, stubble-bearded templar.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks north.
You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar, and walk north.A Spartan Meditation Chamber [S Save]
A simple obsidian altar, trimmed in jade, rests here upon the floor.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar is standing here.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar paces back and forth, head bowed.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar stalks over to a jade and...
Continue Reading...The Best Laid Plans (Part 2) by Laurajlmars
Added on Oct 24, 2009Lord Templar Weringa Borsail and Warlord Kharad Tor discuss a threat against Allanak and a number of available options, unaware that they are being overheard. A log from the summer of 2007.
Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
A Grand Onyx Floored Entrance Hall [NESW]
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar is standing here.
The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female stands here, rigid and alert.
The fiery-haired, flat-nosed man closes the door from the other side.
You search for a good place to hide.
You attempt to hide yourself.
The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female locks the door with a slender ruby-red stone key.
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Go to them. Find my mind if there's any trouble. I'll be nearby."
You are no longer following anyone.
You search for a good place to hide.
You attempt to hide yourself.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar steps in, looks around for a moment, then shakes his head and leaves.
Stepping aside quickly, the cynipri-skinned, dwarven female says, in sirihish:
"Opening on behalf of an Officer of the Academy."
The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female stops using her slender ruby-red stone key.
The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female unlocks the door with a slender ruby-red stone key.
The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female opens the door.
The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female fastens her slender ruby-red stone key around her wrist.
The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female nods at the rugged, stubble-bearded templar.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar walks south.
The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female closes the door.
The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female locks the door with a slender ruby-red stone key.
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
You feel terrified without his protection.
After a long moment of standing, petrified, in the middle of the hall, the figure in a dusty hooded, loose black silk greatcloak forces one bare foot forward, shaking all over.
You slow down and start moving carefully.
n
Grand Onyx Floored Hall [NESWU]
The svelte, ringlet-haired woman is here, patrolling the hall.
The figure in a dusty hooded, loose black silk greatcloak creeps up the stairs on soundless feet, both hands gripping the railing so tight her knuckles blanch.
u
A White Marble Foyer [NESWUD]
The pepper-haired, square-jawed man is here guarding the ascending stairwell.
You search for a good place to hide.
You attempt to hide yourself.
You feel your thoughts focus.
You think:
"As long as they...as long as..."
Feeling yourself struggling for breath, you think:
"I needn't...as long as I can feel him glow."
Feeling betrayed, you think:
"How could he do this? How could he leave me?"
Groping her way blindly, the figure in a dusty hooded, loose black silk greatcloak crawls into a wall niche bearing a statue of black onyx, huddling motionless behind it.
You feel your heart hammering in your throat.
The figure in a dusty hooded, loose black silk greatcloak presses her back against the wall of the shadowed niche.
You feel as though the only thread that connects her to sanity is fraying.
s (almost crawling, feeling her way with bare feet)
The Academy Lounge by the Bar [NEW]
The keg-bellied female dwarf stands to the warbraided man's right.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man is sitting at a small, pale cylini table.
The chiseled, auburn-haired woman stands watchfully here.
The blockish, olive-drab dwarf stands to the warbraided man's left.
The stone-faced, able-bodied templar is sitting at a small, pale cylini table.
The plump, brown-eyed woman stands here behind the onyx bar.
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, peering across the table to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
"I do however, think it is time to take action against our neighbors in the not-so-nice part of the city."
The figure in a dusty hooded, loose black silk greatcloak creeps silently along the edges of the room, feeling her way to a pillar near the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's table.
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, uplifting a brow at the stone-faced, able-bodied templar as he rasps softly:
"Ah, you do? Has something transpired to change your sentiments?"
Bare toes gripping the porous marble, fingers curling around obsidian lamp stems, the figure in a dusty hooded, loose black silk greatcloak nimbly, silently climbs straight up the side of the curving wall, bracing herself in a large stone arch.
Your new ldesc is:
The figure in a dusty hooded, loose black silk greatcloak is braced against an arch, above the heads of many.
You think:
"They'll see me, they'll see me, they'll see...they'll see...see me, don't see me, listen, listen, listen..."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, with a soft smile:
"Sharak and Horoz are dead, we can fully focus on the situation here... heal the city of that festering sore that has lingered far too long now."
You think:
"Remember, remember, remember."
You think:
"Oh! I can't see. I can't move. Can't feel. Can't...I am...a rational creature. Am I a person? If all of this is true?"
Feeling wild, you think:
"Looks better when you can't see it, nothing but specifics, poor decisions, help!"
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
"You and your men are fully with me in this, I imagine?"
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, nodding deeply:
"You know that I agree. We certainly would be, yes."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, lifting another piece of steak from the plate:
"Excellent."
The stone-faced, able-bodied templar eats a portion of his half eaten kank steak.
You think:
"Don't see me. Don't look up."
You feel your arms trembling.
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, after swallowing:
"Templar Samos doesn't feel it time, or something. Well, I do and actions are going to be taken."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, with a vague gesture of one spike-knuckled hand:
"Lord Samos recently spoke on the matter with his Red, the Great Lord Shalak, who believed it was still not time."
You feel ill with fear.
You feel like throwing up.
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, nodding deeply:
"Aye, he has expressed as much to me."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man with a sideways cant of his head:
"Well."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, shaking his head once:
"I've not yet been summoned to a Great Lord since my inprocessing to the city, my previous or any other."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
"If my actions are to be stopped, I imagine I will be told as much after some of them are dead. I have the names of all those Gin wishes protected, we can start there."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, nodding firmly:
"Excellent. Those will be more valuable to us than the top layers of scum we'd have to skim through going in blind."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, extending five fingers, one at a time:
"Hek, Marin, Corin, Hazim, and Vel."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, with a faint nod:
"Those five should cut his feet out from beneath him, forcing action on his part."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, nodding once:
"Hek attacked me a few weeks ago, and has fled to Tuluk, last I heard."
You feel dread clutching at your throat.
You think:
"Were they to know."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, raising his brows:
"Tuluk is it..."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, with a single shake of his head:
"Unpleasant."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, gruffly:
"He had rampaged in the Elemental Quarter and hid from the militia in the Commons. I confronted him and tried to convince him to surrender for a stay in the jail, but he chose instead to try to butcher me."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, with a light smirk:
"Aye... do you know of any of these others?"
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, gruffly:
"And in the aftermath, Marin spoke to me psionically. He claims to be in charge now, with Gin demoted, but when I demanded he forsake the bender, he grew irate."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, with a faint smirk:
"And promised to have me assassinated."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, with a single shake of his head:
"That will not happen."
You think:
"Quiet! Let go."
You feel your panic drain away.
You feel vacant, crystal clear, empty.
The figure in a dusty hooded, loose black silk greatcloak's knuckles slowly whiten as they clutch, unmoving, the stem of the obsidian lamp.
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, still smirking:
"He warned me to test every drink and bite of food, for my first slip would be my last. He didn't realize I've had that done routinely since I was eight."
The stone-faced, able-bodied templar curls the corner of his mouth up in a grin before nodding once to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man.
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, lightly clearing his throat before rasping on hoarsely:
"Marin has two rooms in the tenament building on Merchant's Road."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, gruffly:
"The other tenants there are all gemmed mages, some borderline rogue, I'm told. He keeps the east room on the second floor, and claims the west room there is under his protection."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, with a faint nod to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
"Very good... any idea how often he visits them? Or does he stay there permenantly?"
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, simply:
"If Marin says he is in charge, well, im not going to hesitate in breaking down his door and cutting his head off with first opportunity."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, shaking his head lightly:
"He seems to spend more time in Folley's or the sewers, but when I had reports from a person renting in that building, he seemed to visit perhaps once every two weeks."
A motor tic briefly contorts the left side of the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's face.
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish:
"Know anything... alright?"
The stone-faced, able-bodied templar looks over the warbraided, smoke-eyed man's face for a moment before shrugging a shoulder.
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish:
"Know anything about any of the others?"
The stone-faced, able-bodied templar looks at the warbraided, smoke-eyed man.
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, as he works his jaw to relax the spasming muscles in his face:
"I knew a Vel once, but he was an al'Seik tribal. I somehow doubt it is the same one..."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, with a shake of his head:
"I seriously doubt it'd be the same one... we really need to find out more about those who are in the Guild now."
You feel completely vacant now, without conscience or memory, functioning only as a vessel.
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, nodding once:
"I shall see if I can match faces to those names. There is also Quick, of course. The elf."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
"I've probed Gin a couple times now with things that tempt him... each time he has had me pass it off to one of his men, or to someone I trust that can take it to a messenger of his own."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, scowling:
"Yes, Quick... the Nilazi."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, shifting his jaw:
"Gin is a powerful mindbender, Lord Templar. I withstood the worse the High Lirathans had in the War, but he was able to break me."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
"I have heard... what was he capable of against you?"
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, gruffly:
"We sparred for half a day, perhaps... he repeatedly trying to break through my barrier. Finally, in an instant before I could re-erect it, he slipped in..."
The stone-faced, able-bodied templar furrows his brow and tilts his head forward in a single nod.
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, gruffly:
"He was fully capable of ending my life."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man purses his lips thoughtfully.
You feel nothing good emanating from the sudden silence.
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, scowling:
"Bastard... is a blight to the city..."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, shaking his head once:
"Too many have suffered their wiles and used them, instead of snuffing them out to get the job done themselves."
You feel every sense but your ruined eyes on high alert.
You feel the cold marble of the wall beneath your bare feet.
You feel the scent of ocotillo wine tingling in your nostrils and the back of your throat.
You feel the stringent taste of smoke and whiskey lingering in the air.
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, nodding simply:
"I could not agree more."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, peering at the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
"I am glad someone in this city seems to still agree with me, Warlord."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, exhaling a single gruff chuckle:
"On the contrary, I have long sought someone's agreement with me on this issue. You opposed it so ardently when we last spoke, I admit to being quite pleasantly surprised now."
You feel the words you hear being funneled, without understanding or comprehension, into a safe place in the back of your head.
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man as he wags a finger back and forth:
"If you remember, I agreed they had to be brought down... but it was not the right time then, as it is now. We have no other immediate dangers to the city and its peoples, other than them."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish:
"Why we would wait when there are so few other meaningful places to turn our attention to, is beyond me."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, nodding seriously:
"Gin's violation has tapped a temper I usually keep in check, I admit, and the Guild's affiliation with the undead is deeply disturbing for all of the city."
The stone-faced, able-bodied templar clenches his jaw and tilts his head forward with a firm nod.
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish:
"What I would give for the old days of poisoned daggers being the biggest problem they posed."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, gruffly:
"Ah! Here, here. That was a Guild I much prefered to deal with. I have heard rumors that a similar undead presence has been amassing beneath Tuluk as well."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish:
"Insideous mindbenders, Nilazi, outright attacks in the city to our very Noble blooded!"
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, nodding once to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
"I've read such reports myself. Would not be so disturbing if we did not face the same here ourselves."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, nodding:
"Do you know a woman named Felicity?"
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, with a single shake of his head:
"Not at all."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish:
"Who is this Felicity?"
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, gruffly:
"A whore from the alleys. She was southside to arrange some purchases with Kadius, and also asking questions about the abilities of some mages who were at the bar."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
"Affiliated with any of the Guild?"
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
"Or do you propose we try and use her against them somehow?"
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish:
"She appeared diseased... whether it was the onset of the 'cold dead' or something else... I do not know"
The stone-faced, able-bodied templar wrinkles his nose and tilts his head forward with a single nod.
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, to the stone-faced, able-bodied templar:
"No, I believe she is affiliated. She warned a Drovian against snooping in the alleys, and told him 'Samos knows everyone of importance up there anyhow""
Rapidly, silently, the figure in a dusty hooded, loose black silk greatcloak's chest rises and falls.
You feel air automatically filling your lungs, leaving them, returning.
At a small, pale cylini table, the stone-faced, able-bodied templar speaks, pursing his lips and glancing to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man.
You start trying to listen.
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, to the stone-faced, able-bodied templar:
"I am much less troubled now to be like minded with you. I shall attempt to get some eyes and ears inside the alleys, and watch for these 'protected' here southside."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, with a firm nod:
"Once spotted, find my mind immediately and together we will waylay them wherever they stand."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
"I may need some funding if it can be spared Warlord, my bank account grows slack lately... the people fear the taxes I impose and the beatings, far fewer do they break HIS laws."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, nodding firmly:
"With pleasure, I shall seek your mind. Funds? Yes, of course, let me contribute to this effort."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
"Speak with the gemmed Valla, see if she will report on Marin's coming and goings from his apartments."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
"Snap as well, after the beating he took by them I am sure he'd gladly take part in this endevour... without being ordered."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
"They both live in the same apartments on Merchant's Road."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, nodding a couple of times:
"Aye, Snap. He is the one Hek attacked just before me. He should recognize that I stood up for him."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
"We'll need to use every angle we can in this. I'm not going to let anything stand in the way."
You feel your limbs and position turn gradually to ice, frigid and unmoving and painful.
Feeling pain wrack your motionless limbs, you think:
"Hurts, must be seen, no pain could be so silent."
Finishing off the last bit from the plate, the stone-faced, able-bodied templar eats his small portion of a kank steak.
The stone-faced, able-bodied templar puts his pile of coins into his pouched belt.
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, scowling:
"Still owe them back for the death of Templar Shiran."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, nodding firmly:
"And Lord Templar Evaren Sath, Lord Shiran's replacement."
The stone-faced, able-bodied templar clenches his jaw and nods once to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man.
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, gruffly:
"He led a small group into the sewers. They killed him down in that muck."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, to the warbraided, smoke-eyed man:
"If any assault is to be made into that lair now it'll be in scores, Scorpion and the Jade Cross."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, gruffly:
"When we next meet, I shall transfer some funds to you. I am afraid I exhausted the coffer I keep here in my office."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish, with a firm nod:
"Excellent, during this work keep yourself well protected... as you always do. I shall pray to the Highlord and HIS Blessing will be with us."
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man nods firmly to the stone-faced, able-bodied templar.
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the warbraided, smoke-eyed man say in sirihish, nodding firmly to the stone-faced, able-bodied templar:
"I have lost many good Scorpions to the Guild in the last three years... all stabbed in the back by a knife, or having their lives ended by a foe far from site. The rest of my men have been preparing to deliver a reply."
At a small, pale cylini table, you overhear the stone-faced, able-bodied templar say in sirihish:
"The Guild will be smothered by HIS swiftly beating wings in their most merciless state, Warlord."
The stone-faced, able-bodied templar stands up from a small, pale cylini table.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man stands up from a small, pale cylini table.
The stone-faced, able-bodied templar says, in sirihish:
"Walk beneath HIS wide-winged shadow and all will be well."
The stone-faced, able-bodied templar walks north.
The warbraided, smoke-eyed man walks north.
The blockish, olive-drab dwarf walks north.
The chiseled, auburn-haired woman walks north.
The keg-bellied female dwarf walks north.
You feel your entire body aching with long confinement.
You think:
"Roc, don't forget me."
The figure in a dusty hooded, loose black silk greatcloak continues to sit braced in her perch, rocking back and forth slightly.
<a long time passes>
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"You okay?"
You feel yourself coming to.
The figure in a dusty hooded, loose black silk greatcloak gradually unbends her fingers from around the lamp.
You feel movement slowly returning, blood circulating painfully through your frozen form.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You contact the rugged, stubble-bearded man with the Way.
The figure in a hooded, loose black silk greatcloak slides down the wall, landing lightly on bare feet.
You feel your iron limbs turn to flesh once more.
n (creeping along the wall)
A White Marble Foyer [NESWUD]
The pepper-haired, square-jawed man is here guarding the ascending stairwell.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Please get me out."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Did they find you?"
You feel wretched.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"No."
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"*a wave of relief* Good girl."
d
Grand Onyx Floored Hall [NESWU]
The svelte, ringlet-haired woman is here, patrolling the hall.
s
A Grand Onyx Floored Entrance Hall [NESW]
The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female stands here, rigid and alert.
The fiery-haired, flat-nosed man opens the door from the other side.
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar has arrived from the south.
The fiery-haired, flat-nosed man closes the door from the other side.
You now follow the rugged, stubble-bearded templar.
The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female locks the door with a slender ruby-red stone key.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm in the entry. Where are you?"
You feel your icy cold and vacant demeanor melting under a nearly hysterical wash of relief.
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"I'm with you."
You send a telepathic message to the rugged, stubble-bearded man:
"Go."
Stepping aside quickly, the cynipri-skinned, dwarven female says, in sirihish:
"Opening on behalf of an Officer of the Academy."
The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female stops using her slender ruby-red stone key.
The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female unlocks the door with a slender ruby-red stone key.
The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female opens the door.
The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female fastens her slender ruby-red stone key around her wrist.
The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female nods at the rugged, stubble-bearded man.
The rugged, stubble-bearded man walks south.
You follow the rugged, stubble-bearded man, and walk south.Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
A Grand Onyx Floored Entrance Hall [NESW]
The rugged, stubble-bearded templar is standing here.
The cynipri-skinned, dwarven female stands here, rigid and alert.
The fiery-haired, flat-nosed man closes the door from the other side.
You search for a good place...
Continue Reading...Memoir #11 - The City Elf by Rairen
Added on Oct 24, 2009Aja hasn't improved at managing elves - particularly the unusually intriging ones - since her days as an Apprentice,
You are Aja, of many people.
Objective: To persuade Muk to give her a child.
You are 36 years, 2 months, and 29 days old,
"The Tembo's Tooth" - Spice Den [NESW Quit]
A haze of sweet-smelling spice dominates this circular chamber, tantalizing your senses with its seductive allure. The room has been fashioned into a large circle, set halfway within the grasp of the hard packed earth. The walls are lined with long baobab planks, stained a rich, earthen hue that add to the relaxing atmosphere of the den. A line of plush, silken pillows and stuffed mattresses have been strewn about the entire room, providing welcome arms to any that would enjoy their purchase immediately.
A wooden ramp, covered in thick rugs of woven cloth, leads to an impressive circle of raised stone in the center of the room. In the middle of the circle stands a small area for a merchant to conduct their business from several stations about the stand.
Along the walls lay several dim, oil lamps marking the path along the ramp that leads up and out of the den. A small stage curves along the northeastern wall, a polished agafari pole affixed in the middle of it.
An empty dark red bottle lies here covered in dust.
A multi-ringed dartboard hangs on the wall.
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
You think:
"... Mm."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman's jaw tenses.
The graceful, platinum-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
"And here I thought I would serve as a lure to your entrance."
Resting an elbow on the back of the couch, the ethereal, fair-haired woman closes her eyes, a soft breath escaping her.
contact morn
You contact the graceful, platinum-haired man with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the graceful, platinum-haired man:
"Hm? Good day, Morn, I mean to say. Is all well?"
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's eyes tighten.
Somebody brushes past you.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman brushes a few fingers along the back of her neck before her free hand lifts to press a thumb and forefinger at her eyes.
The graceful, platinum-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
"That it is, Seeker Aja. The day finds you well also?"
You send a telepathic message to the graceful, platinum-haired man:
"Always, always. Busy, I suppose. New students and new lessons to give."
Opening her eyes, the ethereal, fair-haired woman lets her attention wander over the crowded room, features untroubled.
The graceful, platinum-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
"Ah, good to know that the circle works diligently to liven the streets of the Ivory."
You send a telepathic message to the graceful, platinum-haired man:
"To liven the streets? Hm, we do, though I wonder if those are my particular brand of instruction."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman takes in a slow, calming breath.
You think:
"Please, don't find me. Please, don't find me."
The very tall figure in a desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak has arrived from the west, resolutely moving down the rampway.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman twists a few strands of hair around her fingers, pale eyes lost and distracted.
Sweeping deeper into the hazy den, the very tall figure in a desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak slows his stride to pluck up the empty bottle before settling unto an empty pillow.
The very tall figure in a desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak picks up a dark red bottle.
The very tall figure in a desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak sits on a black silk pillow.
Closing her eyes, features practicedly tranquil, the ethereal, fair-haired woman shifts her hand to rub at the back of her neck, elbow propped on the back of the couch.
The graceful, platinum-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
"I did have a matter I wished to speak with you on. Aja, do you possess a flute?"
The sleek, dark male lowers the hood of a desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak.
You send a telepathic message to the graceful, platinum-haired man:
"... A flute? Hm. Not at the moment, I... think. No."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's jaw works to one side, irritably.
You think:
"... For pity's sake."
The graceful, platinum-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
"Well, isn't that fine news."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman lets her head hang forward, a quiet groan escaping her lips.
You send a telepathic message to the graceful, platinum-haired man:
"... Is it?"
Touching a gloved thumb and forefinger to her eyes, the ethereal, fair-haired woman tilts her head back, letting it rest against her arm.
Thrusting a slender index finger into its mouth, the sleek, dark male turns his dark red bottle upside down and idly contemplates it in his comfortable lounge.
(hemote) The tension in the ethereal, fair-haired woman's neck sinks into her slender shoulders.
Shaking her head a few times, the ethereal, fair-haired woman lowers her hand, attention travelling over the room.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman takes in a deep, calming breath of the spice-scented air.
Chuckling in a self-amused baritone, the sleek, dark male swats at the bottle with his other hand, setting it to spinning upon his finger.
Fleetingly, through a gap in the crowds, you look up at the sleek, dark male.
Dark and sleek, this elf's taut physique mimics the lean, balanced proportions of some deep-waste hunting beast. Tell-tale marks of weather-wearing are found in the myriad tiny sand-speckling scars across his exposed skin and by the premature squint creases at the corners of his narrow, liquid-green eyes. Black-haired and dusky skinned, this elf displays the deliberate, spare efficiency and posture of someone who knows their own body well.
The sleek, dark male is in excellent condition.
The sleek, dark male is using:
<worn around neck> a tortoiseshell gorget
<worn across back> a rough canvas backpack
<worn on arms> a pair of gith-toothed armguards
<worn on hands> a pair of shell-backed gloves
<secondary hand> a curved agafari shield
<worn around body> a desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak
<worn on legs> a pair of rough canvas pants
<worn on feet> a pair of grey hide boots
You think:
"Mm... welcome to the Tooth."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
Lowering her hand, the ethereal, fair-haired woman lets it drape over the instrument at her side, attention falling to an, oh, so interesting spot on the floor.
The sleek, dark male stops holding his curved agafari shield.
You feel that you just want to be... inconspicuous.
The sleek, dark male swats at the spinning treasure of the vineyard a few more times building up speed to its rotations.
Save for the gloved hand that twists, periodically, through a few thin strands of hair, the ethereal, fair-haired woman watches the floor, motionless.
Shifting his narrow eyes for just a split-second, the sleek, dark male looks up at a human Tuluki soldier.
You begin watching the sleek, dark male.
At a black silk pillow, you overhear the sleek, dark male say in sirihish, murmuring:
"... ah... and now?"
(hemote) A garish red-violet bruise mars the skin beneath the ethereal, fair-haired woman's left jaw.
Grinning and leaning his head back to consider you upside down and his black hair streaming over the end of the pillow, the sleek, dark male looks down at you.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman cracks an emotionless smile, only a hint of wryness to it.
Even inverted so, the sleek, dark male manages a pretty respectable tip of his sharp chin in pleasant acknowledgement to you before his spinning bottle requires a few more swats.
Stirring, recollecting herself and her surroundings, the ethereal, fair-haired woman lifts her attention to watch over the room from her quieter corner with nary a blink in the sleek, dark male's direction.
You think:
"... I do wonder what he's doing, however."
In a pleasant sing-song, the sleek, dark male says, in sirihish:
"Purple Cross amidst rubies strewn.... tinkling bard's bells..."
(hemote) Briefly, through periodic gaps in the crowded room, the ethereal, fair-haired woman watches the motion of the sleek, dark male's bottle on the floor.
The sleek, dark male breaks off the end of a dark red bottle, leaving a dangerous looking piece.
In that same pleasant sing-song, the sleek, dark male says, in sirihish:
"... and so the exit must be soon."
l self
The ethereal, fair-haired woman is in excellent condition.
<worn in hair> a trailing glossy crimson ribbon
<face> a black rose tattoo
<worn in right ear> a coiling, emerald-adorned ivory ear cuff
<worn around neck> a necklace of glass bells
<throat> a purple cross tattoo
<worn across back> a leather-strapped, rich purple satchel
<worn on hands> a pair of long, ruby-adorned ebony gloves
<worn around body> an ornately-embroidered ivory silk coat
<worn on legs> a flowing white linen skirt
<worn on feet> a pair of soft, ruby-buckled boots
Features serene, untroubled, the ethereal, fair-haired woman watches a nearby table, head leaning into her arm.
Rolling over to his side, the sleek, dark male tucks away the remaining fragment within on outer pocket.
You think:
"Finally... seclusion..."
(hemote) The tension in the ethereal, fair-haired woman's neck melts away.
Continuing his roll to end up boots beneath himself, the sleek, dark male stands up from a black silk pillow.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman rubs idly at her neck with one hand, a quirk of a content smile flitting across her features.
You think:
"No Morn... no Peli... How did I ever become so lucky in this?"
You think:
"Not even a Lindrick. My."
Stalking the long-way about the circular perimeter, the sleek, dark male makes a point of passing before your couch.
(hemote) Periodically, the ethereal, fair-haired woman lets her attention travel over the crowds and the sleek, dark male nearest her, attentive if untroubled.
With a flick of a glance up to him, you look up at the sleek, dark male.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman draws her legs closer to the couch, crossing them beneath your flowing white linen skirt.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's hand stills against your creamy white, leather instrument case, tensing.
Pausing, the sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:
"No... no. Your manners are marvelous. But misplaced."
With a long pause, pale eyes mirthless while she looks up at him, you say to the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:
"... Perhaps I should place them elsewhere, then."
You think:
"... So much for my peace."
You feel that there's a reason that you never come here.
His baritone gentled and polite, the sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:
"I was passing to find the source of the mint. Not, Circle Bard, to inconvenience you. Your graciousness, I am sure, will find a more worthy recipient."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's body stiffens, jaw working to one side.
Somebody brushes past you.
With a brief dip of her chin, attention travelling down to his side, you say to the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:
"... I'm sure."
After a single, obviously manufactured-for-effect step away before turning back to a plush, embroidered couch, the sleek, dark male exclaims to you, in sirihish:
"Oh!"
You think:
"He wouldn't try anything. Not here."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman jumps, starting, at the sudden shattering of glass.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances back up to the sleek, dark male, features impassive, only mildly at best curious.
The sleek, dark male asks you, in sirihish:
"COULD I ask for some guidance?"
With that still impassive look, voice coming on a quiet breath, you say to the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:
"I suppose that is up to you."
You feel that he's got you jittery.
(hemote) Sardonic humor flashes across the ethereal, fair-haired woman's pale eyes.
Inclining the nod, the sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:
"May I ask -you- for guidance, then. To be more correct."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's mouth twists, sardonic humor lingering alongside consternation.
Linking gloved hands around one knee while she looks up to him, tone patient, you say to the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:
"You may, though I doubt I'm of use to you."
The sleek, dark male gets his whitened bone key from his desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman's pale eyes follow the movement of the sleek, dark male's hands with practiced indifference.
Your mood is now frustrated.
Producing and passing over his whitened bone key, careful to hold a polite distance, the sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:
"It is use to His City that interests me, today."
The sleek, dark male gives you his whitened bone key.
Lifting a gloved hand and retracting it as easily with the key, you ask the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:
"... With a lock to open?"
More to herself, looking at the key, you say, in sirihish:
"How novel."
The sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:"Worth anyone's attention, do you imagine? A key to an annoying stronghold outside the Scaien Walls."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's lips part, a soft breath escaping them...
Turning the key in her hand before glancing to his shoulder, you say to the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:"An interesting find. I can keep it for the appropriate hands."
(hemote) The tension in the ethereal, fair-haired woman's neck, so recently gone from her posture, sinks into her slender shoulders beneath your ornately-embroidered ivory silk coat.
You notice the sleek, dark male start watching you.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's jaw tenses.
You think:"He knows who I am..."
You feel frustrated.
You think:"... All I wanted was peace. A bit of seclusion. And a Krath-accursed -elf- finds me here!"
His empty hand still slightly before his body, the sleek, dark male asks you, in sirihish:
"And that, then is what becomes of my great find?"
With a mild lift of her forehead, while her pale eyes travel up his hand to his face without hurry, you ask the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:"... You had another plan in mind in giving it to me?"
A male whore disappears into a crowd of rugged looking men and women.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's neck has to crane back at an uncomfortable angle to look up at the sleek, dark male.The sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:
"I did. I thought to gain understanding. Not lose property, Circle Bard."
With a slender curve of her warmthless smile, you say to the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:
"But this property can have no value to you if kept. My favor is better earned."
Smoothly, adding a velvet chuckle at the end, the sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:
"But, then... I suppose I will gain some understanding either way. "
You think:
"This... is... simply ghastly."
You feel that elves are the great joke played upon the Known World. Only slightly after tregils.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's smile doesn't reach her pale eyes, which watch over the sleek, dark male with attentive calm.
The sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:
"You are wrong on at least one of those two statements you just made."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's thumb grazes the contours of the key.
You notice: The sleek, dark male resets his trim shoulders with a slight roll, recentering his balanced posture.
You notice: The sleek, dark male exhales slowly a moment.
With a still-patient, strained smile, you say to the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:
"... It has been known to happen from time to time."
You notice: The slightest twitch at the corners of the sleek, dark male's mouth hints that last statement tickled him.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's posture tenses, pale eyes narrowing with caution.
You think:
"I can't so easily let this go."
The sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:
"A gift. A well-placed gift, where it really does have a better chance of doing the most good."
You think:
"You aren't His Legions, Aja. Don't get yourself killed."
Gracious and oily in about equal measures, the sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:
"So be it."
With a slight tilt of her head, pale eyes never truly leaving him, you ask the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:
"I'll see it delivered, then. But with whose compliments?"
(hemote) Though tension remains throughout her neck and shoulders, the ethereal, fair-haired woman relaxes marginally back into the couch, no longer ready to spring.
A male whore disappears into a crowd of rugged looking men and women.
The sleek, dark male says to you, in sirihish:
"We'll both trust your wisdom, there. To explain the why, the how and who. I really -have- overextended any reasonable expectation of tolerance."
With a fleeting, faint twist of her smile up to him, you say to the sleek, dark male, in sirihish:
"Yes, by all means. Do enjoy your recovery."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman narrows her eyes, dryly and sardonically amused.
Twisting up another well-practiced, inoffensive smile, the sleek, dark male backs two steps further away from a plush, embroidered couch, before turning to continue his path around the perimeter.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances away from the sleek, dark male, attention falling to the key and then elsewhere in the room.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's jaw works to one side, wryly, irritably.
You contact the ancient, brutally-scarred man with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:
"My pardon, High Templar. Is there an opportunity to meet with you but for a minute at most? I may have something that belongs to you."
Reaching his hands up to grip the fabric of his cloak, and gaining a decidedly jaunty step upon exiting the den, the sleek, dark male walks west.
You are Aja, of many people.
Objective: To persuade Muk to give her a child.
You are 36 years, 2 months, and 29 days old,
"The Tembo's Tooth" - Spice Den [NESW Quit]
A haze of sweet-smelling spice dominates this circular chamber, tantalizing your senses with its...
Continue Reading...Lucky Charm by Aruna
Added on Oct 24, 2009A trio of gypsies conduct some business with a fellow traveler in the wagonyard of Luir's Outpost.
You step out to...
Luir's Wagon Yard [SW]
This large tract of dry, cracked earth lies just to the northwest of
the west gate of Luirs. To the south, across Steel road, a stables is
easily visble and westward, the inner walls of the outpost loom. The hard
packed soil here shows signs of recent wagon tracks, not yet worn into the
deep ruts that time will surely provide and handlers and caravan members
bustle around at all hours of the day and night.
A large, vividly painted wagon sits here, splashed with eyestartling colors.
A desert-hued agafari wagon, drawn by inix, stands here.
A small courier wagon hitched to four erdlus stands here.
The short, dusky woman lounges against a wagon, ankles crossed.
The slick-haired, rune-nailed man is standing here, looking tired.
The hardy, midnight-curled woman stands here, beside a vividly painted wagon.
The braidlocked, turquoise-eyed woman deboards a vividly painted wagon, munching on your partially eaten honied, seed-encrusted wheat cake.
You eat part of your partially eaten honied, seed-encrusted wheat cake.
After a moment, watching him with a half-grin, the short, dusky woman says to the slick-haired, rune-nailed man, in sirihish:"We do, actually, have good-luck charms. Not so expensive."
You begin speaking sirihish.
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
Moving to loiter near her, you ask the hardy, midnight-curled woman, in sirihish:
"What's new, girl?"
You eat part of your half eaten honied, seed-encrusted wheat cake.
The short, dusky woman sends you a telepathic message:
"This gajo's fucking slimy. How you been?"
Making a warding gesture, the slick-haired, rune-nailed man asks the short, dusky woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Have heard stories of Muarki curses all my life in the silt.....you sure this' the real deal?"
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
The red light of Jihae rises over the outpost's southern walls.
Gulping audibly, his adam's apple bobbing in his throat, the slick-haired, rune-nailed man says to the short, dusky woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Lemme see one, if you have an ankle charm...."
Putting her hands to her chest, eyes widening in wounded hurt, the short, dusky woman says to the slick-haired, rune-nailed man, in sirihish:
"Curses? Us? Never. We're bringers of laughs and luck. Always."
The braidlocked, turquoise-eyed woman grins toward the short, dusky woman, and shoots a glance to the slick-haired, rune-nailed man.Chuckling, the short, dusky woman turns, grabbing a plank that leans against a vividly painted wagon on the way up the ramp.
The short, dusky woman enters a vividly painted wagon.
Nodding at the ramp, the hardy, midnight-curled woman says to you, in sirihish:
"Flushed a couple of goudra out from the scrub wit' Jisiu there, yesterday."
Lifting her chin, to indicate the departing figure, you ask the slick-haired, rune-nailed man, in sirihish:
"Yer talkin' to the best lucky charm ever there was. Eh?"
The short, dusky woman emerges from a vividly painted wagon.
Licking her lips of crumbs, her eyes narrowing, you say to the hardy, midnight-curled woman, in sirihish:
"Mmm. The things I miss. "
Turning to peer directly into your eyes, the slick-haired, rune-nailed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"You have.....exquisite eyes."
The slick-haired, rune-nailed man pinches his pair of splotchy purple sunslits up, continuing to look into your eyes.
Looking toward the slick-haired, rune-nailed man as she steps up beside you, the short, dusky woman lets her yellow ceramic charm dangle from a finger.
The braidlocked, turquoise-eyed woman shifts her gaze to send a not-so-sure grin the slick-haired, rune-nailed man's way.The hardy, midnight-curled woman looks from you to the slick-haired, rune-nailed man and chuckles.
Without changing his serene expression, the slick-haired, rune-nailed man lets his pair of splotchy purple sunslits drop back down, covering his eyes once again.
Turning around, the slick-haired, rune-nailed man says to the short, dusky woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I'd prefer a charm with Whira's blessings, if you have anything like that....krath knows I'd need to fly if a horror pounced on my skimmer."
You suffer from use of the Way.
You contact the short, dusky woman with the Way.
Glancing at her yellow ceramic charm, the short, dusky woman says to the slick-haired, rune-nailed man, in sirihish:
"Don' have much like that. This's a charm for luck, plain an' simple."
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the short, dusky woman:
"Definitely a weirdo. I've been good.. you?"
You dissolve the psychic link.
The slick-haired, rune-nailed man moves one hand over the short, dusky woman's hand in which the charm is held, looking down at his nails.
Giving it a little toss, the short, dusky woman gives her yellow ceramic charm to the slick-haired, rune-nailed man.
The slick-haired, rune-nailed man moves his hand back, and nods once.
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The short, dusky woman sends you a telepathic message:
"Never complaining. Negotiating. We've got our shiny thing back."
The braidlocked, turquoise-eyed woman pushes the last bit of cake into her mouth, watching the slick-haired, rune-nailed man.
You eat your small portion of a honied, seed-encrusted wheat cake.
You are full.
You are carrying:
a cream-colored japuaar fruit
Dropping it into her pocket, you put your cream-colored japuaar fruit into your desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak.Pressing both his palms around the charm, for a moment, the slick-haired, rune-nailed man asks the short, dusky woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Whats it gonna cost me Jisiu?"
The slick-haired, rune-nailed man asks the short, dusky woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"And more importantly, do you make them in purple? Or blue?"
Tilting her head back, the short, dusky woman says to the slick-haired, rune-nailed man, in sirihish:
"What's good fortune worth to you? We have blue."
Returning it with the flick of a wrist, the slick-haired, rune-nailed man gives his yellow ceramic charm to the short, dusky woman.
Glancing at her yellow ceramic charm, the short, dusky woman asks the slick-haired, rune-nailed man, in sirihish:
"But not with us. What, don' like flashy bright?"
The short, dusky woman sweeps a dubious look up and down the slick-haired, rune-nailed man.
The short, dusky woman sends you a telepathic message:
"Kind of a funny story how we got it, too."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
Bending forward to unhitch his small crystal pendant, the slick-haired, rune-nailed man asks the short, dusky woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Tell you what, I'll pay for the charm, but instead of yours, can you bless mine?"
The slick-haired, rune-nailed man says to the short, dusky woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Add a few beads in the string, if you like...."
The slick-haired, rune-nailed man stops using his small crystal pendant.
Tucking it into an inside pocket, the short, dusky woman puts her yellow ceramic charm into her drab, weathered stormcloak.
The great sun rises in the east, turning the scrub plains to gold.
The slick-haired, rune-nailed man extends one hand, his small crystal pendant dangling from it.
The slick-haired, rune-nailed man gives his small crystal pendant to the short, dusky woman.
Head tilted, the short, dusky woman reaches out for the pendant.
The short, dusky woman tucks an ankle up, loosening a strap around it.
The short, dusky woman extinguishes a glowing leather-strapped green glow-crystal.
Grinning crookedly, you ask the short, dusky woman, in sirihish:
"You wanna do't, or should I?"
Turning her small crystal pendant over in her palm, the short, dusky woman says to you, in sirihish:
"You've always been better at it, pretty pena. You an' your eyes."
To the three women standing in a circle, the slick-haired, rune-nailed man says, in southern-accented sirihish:
"If its all the same, I'll go over and stand there....."
Leaning toward you, the short, dusky woman says to you, in sirihish:
"My kisses bring danger, not luck."
The slick-haired, rune-nailed man looks down at his nails, striding off.
The short, dusky woman gives you her small crystal pendant.
The slick-haired, rune-nailed man walks westwards, out of view, behind a wagon.
With a visible show of excitement, the braidlocked, turquoise-eyed woman takes the pendant, gathering it in her palm.
The short, dusky woman grins a little, leaning back and slouching against a vividly painted wagon.
The short, dusky woman intently scans the area.
The braidlocked, turquoise-eyed woman takes a couple of slow breaths and, glancing a bit westward out of the corner of her eye, covers your small crystal pendant with her other hand, rubbing it some between her palms.
Tilting her wide-brimmed, tandu hide hat back for a better view, the hardy, midnight-curled woman watches you.
The short, dusky woman watches with a completely serious face.
Resolutely, the slick-haired, rune-nailed man stands leaning against a wagon, his back against the group of three women.
In a low, serious chanting tone, rubbing the pendant between her hands with her eyes closed, you say, in sirihish:"Mm-bot, sh-ga. Mm-bot, sh-ga. Mmmmm-grtt, sh-gat-daaaaa."
The slick-haired, rune-nailed man buffs his nails on his feather-lined, purple mesh shirt, and then spreads his fingers, looking down at his nails.
The braidlocked, turquoise-eyed woman opens her eyes slowly, her face dead serious, and kisses your small crystal pendant for added luck, before clearing her throat noisily.
A strange sort of sound escapes the short, dusky woman, and she quickly coughs into a fist.
Calling out, avoiding the short, dusky woman's eyes, you say, in sirihish:
"Alright, we're good now."
The slick-haired, rune-nailed man inhales sharply, turns around and strides back.
You think:
"This guy's such an idiot."
His expression neutral, the slick-haired, rune-nailed man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Thank you."
The slick-haired, rune-nailed man extends one palm, face up.
The slick-haired, rune-nailed man opens a blue silk backpack with purple lily embroidery.
The slick-haired, rune-nailed man gets his pile of allanaki coins from his blue silk backpack with purple lily embroidery.
The short, dusky woman smiles winsomely at the slick-haired, rune-nailed man, then adds a little wink.
Smiling with satisfaction, you give your small crystal pendant to the slick-haired, rune-nailed man.
The hardy, midnight-curled woman's eyes follow the pendant as it changes hands.
The sun begins its long voyage across the heavens.
The slick-haired, rune-nailed man crosses his hand over your hand, releasing a clinking of black coins from one palm into the other.
The slick-haired, rune-nailed man gives you 100 coins.
All eyes on him, pulling her hand away, you say to the slick-haired, rune-nailed man, in sirihish:"You'll have to let us know how it serves you, man."
The slick-haired, rune-nailed man drops a mute nod, pulling the string and jerking it over his neck.
The slick-haired, rune-nailed man bows his head, placing his small crystal pendant about his neck.
The slick-haired, rune-nailed man puts his pile of allanaki coins into his blue silk backpack with purple lily embroidery.
The slick-haired, rune-nailed man closes a blue silk backpack with purple lily embroidery.
Trailing her dark gaze up him, the short, dusky woman says to the slick-haired, rune-nailed man, in sirihish:
"A real pleasure, man of Kadius. We'll look for you in Red Storm."
Raising one hand, the slick-haired, rune-nailed man says, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Safe sands at your feet, gypsies...."
The slick-haired, rune-nailed man walks west.
The short, dusky woman smirks hard, turning.
The short, dusky woman enters a vividly painted wagon.
Shooting you a grin, the hardy, midnight-curled woman says to you, in bendune:
"That was good."
The hardy, midnight-curled woman enters a vividly painted wagon.
The braidlocked, turquoise-eyed woman smirks to herself, hopping inside.You step out
to...
Luir's Wagon Yard [SW]
This large tract of dry,
cracked earth lies just to the northwest of
the west gate of Luirs. To the south, across Steel road, a stables
is
easily visble and westward, the inner
walls of the outpost loom. ...
Continue Reading...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...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...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...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...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...Zan by Rhyden
Added on Apr 26, 2009After losing another bagful of obsidian coins, the foolish thief Zan is summoned by the Guild Boss Marin. During the meeting, Zan soon learns the punishment for his mistakes and the lack of mercy in the Guild.
The Main Room of the Bard's Barrel [NSW]
A myriad of grinning skulls, each painted with bright colors laid
over the pallid bone, stare down from the broad wooden shelf that lines this
spacious room at eye level. Splashes of blue, green and red cover the clay
brick walls in an enthusiastic but inexpert abstract mural, some spatters of
the same paint dotted across the red tiled floor. The room is filled with
clamor: the clink and clatter of dishes and drinks, instruments being tuned,
scraps of song, and a general constant roar of conversation. A small wooden
stage sits along the northern wall, two ragged velvet curtains framing it,
looped back with blue-dyed ropes. A wide archway leads out onto the dusty
street, while a smaller one to the west provides a glimpse of a smaller,
quieter chamber.
A wall here is designated as a message board.
The wiry, bald man is sitting at a boxy wooden bar.
The light-skinned young man is sitting at a boxy wooden bar.
A lean, grey-eyed bard leans against the stage.
A lean, spike-haired elf drums softly in the corner.
A tall, amber-eyed woman polishes glasses behind the boxy wooden bar.
The husky, weatherworn dwarf is here, seated at a large table, drinking ale.
The huge, sun-bronzed man surveys the room cThe huge, sun-bronzed man surveys the room casually from a table here.
The bald, muscular woman slouches at a large table, drinking ale.
The small, dark-haired man sits at a table in the back, staring into his drink.
The solemn, club-footed man limps slowly along here.
>sit round (grabbing a chair)
Grabbing a chair, you sit at a round, blue-painted table.
>l self
Close-cut, oily black hair sticks out in jagged lengths from this short,
skinny man's head. His dark bushy brows hang over hazel colored eyes, a
small nose centered in his dark skinned, youthful features. His round ears
stick out near the long sable sideburns that trail down his angular cheeks,
developing into a scraggly black beard across his narrow chin, marked by
patches of short stubble. His neck crawls down to his narrow shoulders and
his wiry arms are slim, with little visible muscle. His legs are similar;
slight and bony, like the rest of his lean body.
The figure in a filthy dark, hooded cloak is in excellent condition.
<worn on head> an ancient, battered surmac
<neck> an angular, crescent shaped scar
<worn around body> a filthy dark, hooded cloak
<worn on legs> a pair of grimy linen trousers
<worn on feet> a pair of dark leather footpads
>contact marin
You suffer from use of the Way.
You contact the nappy-haired, olive-skinned man with the Way.
>psi Got an update on m'situation, boss.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the nappy-haired, olive-skinned man:
"Got an update on m'situation, boss."
>psi Y'spoken wit' Gin yet? Maybe y'speakin' wit' Corin right now?
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the nappy-haired, olive-skinned man:
"Y'spoken wit' Gin yet? Maybe y'speakin' wit' Corin right now?"
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man sends you a telepathic message:
"Do you have my coin?"
>psi A whore stole it from me. Workin' on gettin' it back, boss.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the nappy-haired, olive-skinned man:
"A whore stole it from me. Workin' on gettin' it back, boss."
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man sends you a telepathic message:
"What's her name?"
>psi Miranda.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the nappy-haired, olive-skinned man:
"Miranda."
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man sends you a telepathic message:
"Good luck with that. She might stab you in the back."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
>psi What's dat mean?
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the nappy-haired, olive-skinned man:
"What's dat mean?"
The light-skinned young man raises the hood of a dusty hooded, sleeveless white sandcloth cloak.
The tall figure in a dusty hooded, sleeveless white sandcloth cloak stands up from a boxy wooden bar.
>think Quit bein' fuckin' subtle.
You think:
"Quit bein' fuckin' subtle."
The tall figure in a dusty hooded, sleeveless white sandcloth cloak walks north.
>cease
You suffer from use of the Way.
You dissolve the psychic link.
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm saying that Miranda is a whore, who's a templar's aide, and likes to stab people."
>contact marin
You suffer from use of the Way.
You contact the nappy-haired, olive-skinned man with the Way.
>psi So how y'suggest I get y'coins back from'er, boss?
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the nappy-haired, olive-skinned man:
"So how y'suggest I get y'coins back from'er, boss?"
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man sends you a telepathic message:
"How'd she steal from you?"
>psi Left m'clothes in'er main room after we fucked while I's gettin' a drink, come back'n m'belt was a lot lighter.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the nappy-haired, olive-skinned man:
"Left m'clothes in'er main room after we fucked while I's gettin' a drink, come back'n m'belt was a lot lighter."
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man sends you a telepathic message:
"How much did she charge for the fuck?"
>psi Nothin'. Hence why I's call it stealin' from me.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the nappy-haired, olive-skinned man:
"Nothin'. Hence why I's call it stealin' from me."
The wiry, bald man stands up from a boxy wooden bar.
The wiry, bald man walks west.
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man sends you a telepathic message:
"Get your idiot ass to the Folley."
>stand
You stand up from a round, blue-painted table.
>n
[Travelling to the Folley Tavern to meet with Marin]
A Cramped, Dingy Bar [EWU]
Were it not for the sheer overpowering vileness of the air outside,
this small and tightly-cramped room would scarcely seem a breath of
freshness at all. Thick, acrid smoke intermingles with the smell of
unwashed bodies, vomit, cheap booze, and ancient decay in the limited
confines of this room, creating a unique amalgam of foulness that even the
rough sensibilities of a dwarf would quail at. The walls of the room are
short and the roof is relatively low, giving one an acute claustrophobic
feeling that mirrors the feel of the surrounding alleyways with merciless
precision. A few crates are stacked here and there in a seemingly haphazard
array. Whatever their intended purpose, it appears as though patrons have
begun using them as seats in lieu of squatting on the ale-damp floor. The
center of the room draws your attention once your eyes have adjusted to the
change in lighting and reveals a strange stoneworked depression, roughly
three cords deep and ten cords across. Broken stonework sculptures surround
the edges of the depression in a seeming mockery of a gleeful dance.
Several battered crates with a thick slab of pure obsidian draped across
them seem to serve as a makeshift bar in a corner of the room. An equally
battered wooden door is situated just behind it.
Just beside the bar, a loosely hanging rope ladder disappears up into a
jagged hole in the ceiling of the room.
A ladder-backed bone chair sits here.
A ladder-backed bone chair is here standing idly near the wall.
A message board is propped up against a wall.
A multi-ringed dartboard hangs on a wall here.
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man is sitting at a sturdy old bar.
The slim, dusky man is sitting at a sturdy old bar.
The tall, scarlet-haired woman is sitting at a sturdy old bar.
The lithe, dark-haired man is sitting at a sturdy old bar.
The muscular, hatchet-faced man stands here by the door.
The long-haired, scar faced man stands by the bar, arms over his chest.
The thick-set, sideburned bartender is here cleaning out mugs with a rag.
The tall and thick male wearing a thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap is standing here.
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man shakes his head a bit, looking to you.
>emote walks towards ~bar with a nod to ~marin
The short, black-haired man walks towards a sturdy old bar with a nod to the nappy-haired, olive-skinned man.
>sit bar
You sit at a sturdy old bar.
At your table, the nappy-haired, olive-skinned man says in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Zan. You need a new name."
At your table, the tall, scarlet-haired woman says in sirihish, nodding down to you:
"'Ey Zan."
>nod corin
You nod to her.
At your table, the slim, dusky man says in rinthi-accented sirihish, nodding to you:
"'ello Zan."
At your table, the nappy-haired, olive-skinned man says in rinthi-accented sirihish, glancing to the lithe, dark-haired man:
"Got an idea for a new name for Zan, Vel?"
>talk (eyes rolling with a grin) Idiot fucktard face?
At your table, you say in sirihish, eyes rolling with a grin:
"Idiot fucktard face?"
At your table, the nappy-haired, olive-skinned man says in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Fucktard. That's quite a good one."
At your table, the lithe, dark-haired man says in sirihish, looking to you:
"Damn don't know if I can beat that."
The slim, dusky man smirks at you.
The tall, scarlet-haired woman rubs her chin thoughtfully while regarding you before cracking a faint grin.
>talk (pulling a shot-glass off ~bar) I can nick a bagga coins like it weren't m'business...now...-HOLDIN'- onto dem coins...dat's m'problem.
At your table, you say in sirihish, pulling a shot-glass off a sturdy old bar:
"I can nick a bagga coins like it weren't m'business...now...-HOLDIN'- onto dem coins...dat's m'problem."
>keyword shot bar
On a sturdy old bar:
1.shot - a shot-glass
2.shot - a shot-glass
3.shot - a shot-glass
4.shot - a shot-glass
5.shot - a shot-glass
6.shot - a shot-glass
>get 6.shot bar
You get your shot-glass from a sturdy old bar.
It is very light, and full.
>drink shot (with a grunt)
With a grunt, you drink the whisky.
>put shot bar
You put your shot-glass onto a sturdy old bar.
>emote smacks his lips together with a quenching grunt.
The short, black-haired man smacks his lips together with a quenching grunt.
At your table, the nappy-haired, olive-skinned man says in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Where's my hundred, then?"
>get coins belt
The belt does not contain 'coins'.
>get coins pouch
The pouch does not contain 'coins'.
>get coins cloak
You get your pile of allanaki coins from your filthy dark, hooded cloak.
There were 55 coins.
It is very light.
You are carrying:
55 obsidian pieces
You give the nappy-haired, olive-skinned man 55 coins.
At your table, the nappy-haired, olive-skinned man says in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"What the fuck is this?"
>emote rummages around %cloak pockets.
The short, black-haired man rummages around in your filthy dark, hooded cloak's pockets.
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man puts his pile of allanaki coins into his pouched, brown hide belt.
>get knife cloak
You get your clumsy wooden knife from your filthy dark, hooded cloak.
It is very light.
>give knife marin
You give your clumsy wooden knife to the nappy-haired, olive-skinned man.
At your table, the tall, scarlet-haired woman says in sirihish, glancing from you to the nappy-haired, olive-skinned man:
"Oh...So you're.."
>get torch belt
You get your unlit simple, leather-wrapped bone torch from your pouched belt.
It is very light.
The tall, scarlet-haired woman trails off and nods to the nappy-haired, olive-skinned man.
>talk (holding ~torch in front of ~marin) Dat's all I got.
At your table, you say in sirihish, holding your unlit simple, leather-wrapped bone torch infront of the nappy-haired, olive-skinned man:
"Dat's all I got."
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man says to you, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Alright, Zan."
>give torch marin
You give your unlit simple, leather-wrapped bone torch to the nappy-haired, olive-skinned man.
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man gives you his unlit simple, leather-wrapped bone torch.
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man stands up from a sturdy old bar.
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man says to you, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Up on the Roof."
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man walks up.
>stand
You stand up from a sturdy old bar.
>up
On a Rooftop [D]
This plain red-clay brick roof is really no more than a burned out
second floor of what was once a taller building. Bits of charred remains
are obvious amongst the scattered debris and shards of rock strewn all over
the general area. Despite being hemmed in on three-sides by two story
buildings, the rooftop gives a clear view down into the alleyway below. A
jagged hole in the southeast corner has two bone spikes driven into the
clay, from which a rope-ladder trails downwards.
An empty chipped, red-clay mug has been left here.
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man is standing here.
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man says to you, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Stand still."
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man brandishes his clumsy wooden knife.
>emote sighs, head held downwards with a sigh.
The short, black-haired man sighs, head held downwards with a sigh.
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man asks you, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Tell me. How much does this hurt?"
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man stabs you very hard on your head.
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man swiftly dodges your hit.
You hit the nappy-haired, olive-skinned man, barely grazing his foot.
Your attack on the nappy-haired, olive-skinned man is absorbed by a bloodied padded, grey-veined black tunic.
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man swiftly dodges your hit.
>disengage
You stop attacking the nappy-haired, olive-skinned man!
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man stops fighting you.
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man stops using his bloodied clumsy wooden knife.
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man gives you his bloodied clumsy wooden knife.
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man says to you, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Don't fuckin' do that."
>sit (holding his bleeding head)
Holding his bleeding head, you sit down.
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man says to you, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"You're lucky I missed your eye."
>emote rubs at his bleeding eyebrow, wincing deeply.
The short, black-haired man rubs at his bleeding eyebrow, wincing deeply.
Exhaling slowly, the nappy-haired, olive-skinned man says to you, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"I trusted you, Zan. I even gave you products to fence, to make a profit on."
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man says to you, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"You lost some being mugged. You lost some to a whore."
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man says to you, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"The next time, I'm going to have to break one of your hands."
>tell marin (hand held against his forehead, blood speeing through his fingers) Uhhh...ah...I...just fuck up bad lots.
Hand held against his forehead, blood seeping through his fingers, you say to the nappy-haired, olive-skinned man, in sirihish:
"Uhhh...ah...I...just fuck up bad lots."
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man nods at you.
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man licks his dried lips.
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man asks you, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"What the fuck am I to do with you, Zan?"
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man says to you, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"You're not producing."
>shout (with an angry, squaky squeal) I don't know!
With an angry, squeaky squeal, you shout in sirihish:
"I don't know!"
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man says to you, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Shut up. Please."
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man says to you, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Go get the rest of what you owe me, Zan."
>stand
You stand up.
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man says to you, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"We've been looking out for you, and it's not paying."
>em grunts and nods.
The short, black-haired man grunts and nods.
>tell marin It will.
You say to the nappy-haired, olive-skinned man, in sirihish:
"It will."
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man nods at you.
The nappy-haired, olive-skinned man says to you, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
"Good."
>emote grits his teeth and walks towards the stairway.
The short, black-haired man grits his teeth and walks towards the stairway.
>d (with a determined look on his dirty face)
The Main Room of the Bard's Barrel [NSW]
A myriad of grinning skulls, each painted with bright colors laid
over the pallid bone, stare down from the broad wooden shelf that lines this
spacious room at eye level. Splashes of blue, green and red cover the clay
brick walls in an enthusiastic but...
Continue Reading...You are -right- beneath His Templar's apartment building, you fool! by Yam
Added on Apr 26, 2009A 'rinthi half-giant falls into the sewers and ends up banging on an access gate to a templar apartment building.
You are Rebgar.
Keywords: half-giant with a big red beard
Sdesc: the half-giant with a big red beard
Objective:
Long Description:
Code Generated Long Description.
You are 36 years, 0 months, and 15 days old,
which by your race and appearance is adult.
You are 155 inches tall, and weigh 90 ten-stone.
Your strength is very good, your agility is average,
your wisdom is good, and your endurance is poor.
You are starving and a little thirsty.
Your health is 1(80), you have 52(139) stamina, and 80(80) stun.
You are standing.
You are currently speaking sirihish with a rinthi accent.
The faint sound of voices drift past the gate to the west, seeming at a fair distance away, and so low to be unintelligable.
You shout in sirihish:
"HEY!"
Visible exits:
East - Darkness
Rap! Rap! Rap! You knock on the gate.
You shout in sirihish:
"HEEEEY!"
Darkness
Total darkness surrounds you, preventing you from seeing anything
at all. You have trouble telling where to put your feet when you walk.
Rap! Rap! Rap! You knock on the gate.
You shout in sirihish:
"HEY!"
The ever so faint sound of voices continue for a moment, the distance causing them to seem little more then a whisper on the wind.
You shout in sirihish:
"IS ANYONE THERE?!"
The half-giant with a big red beard slams his meaty fists onto the western gate with all the fury of a half-giant that is starving to death in a filthy sewer.
The faint murmur stops abruptly and utter silence follows, perhaps the sound having reach them in turn.
The half-giant with a big red beard takes a heavy breath as he presses his ear to the western gate.
Somewhere off in the distance, a faint click is heard, as if something were being opened, soon following by the barest hint of a footstep.
Staring at the western gate through the inky blackness, the half-giant with a big red beard remains completely still.
Utter silence follows right after the faint footstep, perhaps the source of the low voice stopping to listen into the tunnels.
The half-giant with a big red beard cups his hands to his mouth.
You shout in sirihish:
"Hello?!"
Soon after the shout, footsteps seem to grow closer, and closer, at least a trio of seperate footfalls to be heard coming closer to the gate.
The half-giant with a big red beard stands here covered in shit and blood
Someone opens the gate from the other side.
You think:
"I'm saved!"
You think:
"..."
You think:
"Am I saved?"
The half-giant with a big red beard wobbles forward and peers westward.
The robust, black-bearded templar has arrived from the west.
Access Tunnel [EW]
Putrid smells of decaying matter waft from the slow moving stream of
waste that spans the width of this tunnel. Bits of flesh, cloth, bone,
and squishy organic material are the main components of the festering
stream. Small openings in the stone walls allow sludge to ooze out of
small access pipes from the city above to join the slow-moving river of
decaying matter on its northward journey out of the city. Distant
sounds echo out of the darkness from an unknown origin.
The tunnel continues to the east, while a sturdy gate lies to the west.
The robust, black-bearded templar watches over the entrance of the square.
With a few surprised blinks, the robust, black-bearded templar looks up at you.
Raising a hand to protect his eyes from the dusky torchlight, you look down at the robust, black-bearded templar.
Shortly cropped, curly black hair covers this noble templar's chin and
mouth. The whiskers have been shaved close over the rest of his face. His
head is covered with a lighter hair of a dark brown tone. Stern eyes peer
out from a chiseled brow, looking over the area with intensity, but not
necessarily anger. He stands tall and proud.
The robust, black-bearded templar is in excellent condition.
The robust, black-bearded templar is using:
<secondary hand> a glowing green glow-crystal
He is carrying:
nothing obvious
Slowly lowering his arm, the half-giant with a big red beard blinks at the robust, black-bearded templar.
Cocking his head to one side, you ask the robust, black-bearded templar, in sirihish:
"What are you doing down here?"
You think:
"Why is a templar in the sewers."
You think:
"Oh no! He's going to kill me!"
You think:
"Wait... he doesn't have any soldiers."
With a low snarl coming into his voice, the robust, black-bearded templar asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I could ask -you- the same thing, rat. Do you have -any- idea where you are?"
Defensively, you say to the robust, black-bearded templar, in sirihish:
"Underground."
You feel somewhat courageous in light of the circumstances.
You feel not too courageous though.
You feel hungry more than anything.
You feel a bit confused too.
Scowling towards you as a single digit lifts to point upward, the robust, black-bearded templar exclaims to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"You are -right- beneath His Templars apartment building, you fool!"
You feel your mind go blank.
The half-giant with a big red beard just kind of stares at the robust, black-bearded templar while his big, fat tongue works it way around in his mouth.
You think:
"What do I say?"
You think:
"I got lost."
You say to the robust, black-bearded templar, in sirihish:
"I got lost."
Barking out a mirthless laugh to you, the robust, black-bearded templar asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Yes, I dare say you have, alley rat. Now give me one good reason you shouldn't be killed where you stand for this?"
The half-giant with a big red beard eyes the robust, black-bearded templar hungrily.
You say to the robust, black-bearded templar, in sirihish:
"I really need some food Lord Templar."
You think:
"How can I get food from him?"
You think:
"I could eat him."
You are using:
<worn across back> a dusty shabby basket
<worn on torso> a dusty faded cotton shirt
<primary hand> an ashen rag-wrapped bone torch
<worn on legs> a dusty pair of patched sandcloth pants
<worn on feet> a dusty pair of cracked-leather boots
You think:
"Should I try that?"
Blandly, while turning back to the gate, the robust, black-bearded templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"You can starve down here in your filth for all I care."
You think:
"I am really hungry."
You drop an ashen rag-wrapped bone torch.
The robust, black-bearded templar walks west.
The area is enveloped in darkness.
You think:
"EAT HIM!"
You go west.
Access Chamber [EU]
The stonework walls of this spacious room are in a surprising state of
cleanliness and repair, as though they're meticulously maintained. Set
into the stonework of the western wall is a huge jade cross on an obsidian
field, and a sturdy ladder runs up the north wall.
The robust, black-bearded templar watches over the entrance of the square.
A human soldier of Tektolnes stands guard here.
A human soldier of Tektolnes stands guard here.
You think:
"Uh oh."
The half-giant with a big red beard skids to a halt.
The half-giant with a big red beard sprayed some sewer juice with that halt.
The robust, black-bearded templar calls to a human Allanaki soldier for aid, and he strides to his side.
The robust, black-bearded templar calls to a human Allanaki soldier for aid, and he strides to his side.
You think:
"Now he has soldiers."
The half-giant with a big red beard gulps.
Turning back towards you, the robust, black-bearded templar looks up at you.
Looking from one to the other, you look down at a human Allanaki soldier.
This lean, muscular man bears the scars of hard fighting. His skin is a
dark brown from the sun's harsh rays, and his close-cropped hair is a
similarly dark color. Dark brown eyes are set in a hard-looking face, and
appear sharp and alert. His straight-backed posture and vigilant stance
suggest several years of disciplined military training.
A human Allanaki soldier is in excellent condition.
A human Allanaki soldier is using:
<worn on head> a cuirbouilli helmet
<worn on torso> a cuirbouilli cuirass
<worn on left shoulder> a black sandcloth sash
<worn on arms> a set of cuirbouilli sleeves
<primary hand> a jade-emblazoned, obsidian longsword
<both hands> a jade-emblazoned, obsidian shortsword
<worn as belt> a black belt
<worn around body> a black, hooded militia dustcloak
<worn on legs> a set of cuirbouilli leg guards
<worn on feet> a pair of sturdy leather boots
He is carrying:
nothing obvious
Directing a digit back to the sewers, tone a harsh snap, the robust, black-bearded templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Back to your sewers, rat."
You think:
"How can I get food from him?"
The robust, black-bearded templar looks at a human Allanaki soldier.
You say to the robust, black-bearded templar, in sirihish:
"But I really need some food."
You think:
"I KNOW!"
Eyes brighting like miniature suns, you exclaim to the robust, black-bearded templar, in sirihish:
"I know! I can buy food from you. Yeah!"
The half-giant with a big red beard squints at the robust, black-bearded templar.
Lifting a hand, three digits extended, the robust, black-bearded templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"You have -three- seconds to get yourself back in those sewers and away from this place before my men cut you down and feed you your own legs. Go eat a rat in there or something."
Pleading, you say, in sirihish:
"But I can't see the rats."
The half-giant with a big red beard's head tilts up just a tidge.
Up above is darkness.
[Very far]
A diminutive, white-robed templar sits at a semi-circular desk.
[Far]
It's completely dark over there.
[Near]
It's completely dark over there.
You think:
"I could get up there."
You think:
"If this is his apartment there should be food somewhere."
Flatly, while looking from a human Allanaki soldier, to a human Allanaki soldier before back to you, the robust, black-bearded templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Three..."
The half-giant with a big red beard's eyebrows slant.
You speed up to a fast run.
The half-giant with a big red beard lets out a howl as he tries to charge past the robust, black-bearded templar.
You think:
"I need to get out!"
You go up.
Darkness
Total darkness surrounds you, preventing you from seeing anything
at all. You have trouble telling where to put your feet when you walk.
You go up.
You stumble around in the darkness and lose your bearings.
Darkness
Total darkness surrounds you, preventing you from seeing anything
at all. You have trouble telling where to put your feet when you walk.
You go up.
Stonework Building [SU]
This small stonework building is simple in design and function. Set
into the stonework of the meticulously kept northern wall is a large jade
cross on an obsidian field. A large, oval rug sprawls out in the center of
the floor. A sturdy door in the south wall provides the only other entrance
to this building. A large, semi-circular desk rests beneath the jade cross
on the northern wall. A split staircase ascends up from this foyer on both
the eastern and western walls, meeting at the center, high above the jade
cross.
A diminutive, white-robed templar sits at a semi-circular desk.
Visible exits:
Up - A Well-Lit Stairwell
Down - Darkness
South - A closed door
You shout in sirihish:
"Aggh!"
Up above is a Well-Lit Stairwell.
[Very far]
Nothing.
[Far]
Nothing.
[Near]
Nothing.
The robust, black-bearded templar has arrived from below.
A human Allanaki soldier has arrived from below.
A human Allanaki soldier has arrived from below.
You attempt to flee.
Darkness
Total darkness surrounds you, preventing you from seeing anything
at all. You have trouble telling where to put your feet when you walk.
You flee, heading down.
The area is filled with a green light.
The robust, black-bearded templar has arrived from above.
A human Allanaki soldier has arrived from above.
A human Allanaki soldier has arrived from above.
You think:
"Oh no... oh no."
You exclaim, in sirihish:
"I just need food!"
Climbing The Ladder [UD]
A sturdy wooden ladder provides a means to navigate this stonework
tunnel. Above, a heavy trapdoor prevents movement in that direction, while
below the tunnel continues into darkness.
A human soldier of Tektolnes stands guard here.
The robust, black-bearded templar watches over the entrance of the square.
A human soldier of Tektolnes stands guard here.
Flatly, the robust, black-bearded templar says to a human Allanaki soldier, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Kill that fool."
The half-giant with a big red beard leers up at the robust, black-bearded templar.
The robust, black-bearded templar gives a human Allanaki soldier an order.
A human Allanaki soldier nods firmly and steps towards you, both blades beginning to lift.
The half-giant with a big red beard clogs up the tunnel with his bulk and gets jammed on a rung of the ladder.
Stuck helplessly in the ladder rungs, you exclaim to a human Allanaki soldier, in sirihish:
"Don't do it!"
The half-giant with a big red beard works frantically to get his leg out of the ladder.
You think:
"Grab the templar!"
Pressing himself against the tunnel wall, you exclaim, in sirihish:
"Ragghh!"
You subdue the robust, black-bearded templar.
You're now wanted!
Calling down to the soldier below him on the ladder, the robust, black-bearded templar says, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I'm waiting, Soldier. Free that fool, permanantly."
The robust, black-bearded templar gives a human Allanaki soldier an order.
A human Allanaki soldier slashes you very hard on your arm.
Welcome to Armageddon!
You may:
(C) Disconnect from character
(V) Toggle ANSI/VT100 mode
(B) Toggle 'brief' menus
(D) Documentation menu
(M) Mail menu
(S) Stats of your character
(E) Enter Zalanthas
(X) Exit Armageddon
(?) Read menu options
Read the documentation
menu before creating your
character, please.You are Rebgar.
Keywords: half-giant with a big red beard
Sdesc: the half-giant with a big red beard
Objective:
Long Description:
Code Generated Long Description.
You are 36 years, 0 months, and 15 days old,
which by your race and appearance is adult.
You are 155 inches tall, and weigh 90...
Continue Reading...
