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| A New Chapter; IC (will open eventually) | |
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| Topic Started: May 23 2017, 11:56 PM (1,173 Views) | |
| Benevolent Thomas | May 23 2017, 11:56 PM Post #1 |
Daddy
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Thomas woke with a start. A moment ago, he was among the hordes deep beneath the surface. The whispers he once heard are now turning to cries. Something is brewing. He takes a look at his surroundings. The inn he is staying at is rather modest with only the necessities being offered without luxury. There was battle in the air. The aroma of breakfast was clashing with the unmistakable stench of last night's booze. The aging Warden dresses and heads downstairs. The inn was bustling with patrons. The few staff feverishly worked to keep the masses satisfied, naught a table available. Thomas takes a seat at the bar where he is greeted with a meal and a pint. Patrons look on in disgust as he drains his glass before taking his first bite. A young woman takes his mug and heads behind the bar. Thomas continues to excavate his plate until he is interrupted with the clank of another pint hitting the table. He looks up to the sight of a sly grin. "Good morning, Sir Thomas. What grand adventures do you have planned today?" "That's not my title anymore" he replied. "I'll have you know that there are still many who remember you and what you did for us, Benevo-" "Please, Katherine" he replied, a grin taking hold on his face. "There we go" she said with a smile. "Welcome back to the world of the living". Katherine takes his plate and returns to her duties. Thomas watches as she moves from table to table, gathering orders and clearing away dishes. Her beautiful, dark brown hair sways behind her shoulders as she moves about. Her youth is apparent in the way she moves, as if her feet never truly touch the ground. Her slender body could be lighter than air, tethered to this world only by her signature light-blue dress. A kind face that warms the heart of all whom she serves, her dark eyes contrast the paleness of her skin which is accented by a mark do the left of her full lips. Thomas looks into his glass, his rough reflection stares back at him through the ale. His once youthful face is now cloaked by the scars of a harsh life. Patches of silver have begun to slowly colonize his black hair. The stubble that grows unkempt speaks to his indifference. His large stature makes him a standout in most settings, but a once robust physique has begun to wither. Looking into his brown eyes, he gathers what resolve he can and finishes the drink. He looks back at Katherine once more before heading out into the world. |
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| Charles Watson-Turing | May 25 2017, 03:37 PM Post #2 |
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Charles Watson-Turing-Donald strode through the streets. It was clear he is not from here; the purple-died cloak gives that away. And his status as a foreigner attracted all kinds of unsavoury people. A peddler walked up to him. 'Sir! Sir! Finest quality weapons for miles, sir! Sharp, strong! They'll last you for years, sir! Axes, swords, spears, you name it!' In response, Charles pulled his own sword a few inches out of its sheath. The pure, shining silverite was entirely unlike the dull iron the seller was peddling, and so the stall-owner withdrawed hurriedly. The sword had the added effect of causing all the pickpockets which had been eyeing him up to suddenly scamper away. The sword brought back painful memories of home. Back in his homeland, in the city named Brokham in the Free Marches, meaning. It used to be the finest city for miles, until Ostwick, but it was driven apart in the end. By Darkspawn. Charles shuddered at the thought of them, and the memories. The beasts seiged the city, slaughtering millions. Charles fought back a tear at the memory of his own son, Louis, being murdered in front of him. But the Darkspawn brought out a new Charles. Unlike the other citizens, who cowered and ran, Charles fought. Gone was Charles, the local politician. In his place, was the Charles who grabbed the Donald Sword, an old family heirloom, and used it to protect his brother and nephew. The sword was the silverite one which hung by his waist. If it weren't for that sword, perhaps everyone he knew would be dead, including Charles himself. But thanks to his courage and newfound swordsmanship, Charles was able to drive the Darkspawn out of the Inner City, where his brother, nephew, and others now lived in a sort of shanty town, living off the food they bought from other towns, as their fields had become infertile. Oh, how he longed to be with them, with his family. But he couldn't. As soon as the Darkspawn were driven out, he suddenly felt a hole inside him. Perhaps it was the hole left by Louis. But when his family begged him to stay, he knew he couldn't. He had an unquenching desire to kill every Darkspawn. It wasn't to stop others from having to suffer what he did. It wasn't to avenge the death of his son, nor the reduction of his city to a refugee camp. It was just an instinctive, brutal desire to kill. But he knew he couldn't do it alone. So, he took his sword, along with a few supplies, and bid farewell to everything, and everyone he knew. He boarded a boat, moved through various cities, and kingdoms. Along the way, he asked a lot of questions. 'Where can I find Darkspawn-slayers?' 'Who can teach me to kill?' 'Who saved this city?' He only got one reply each time. 'The Grey Wardens' But further inquiries just resulted in rumours. And so, he had wound up here. It was over 3 years since he left New Unigh'td. At last he felt that he was nearing his destination. But where were the Wardens? He had obtained a room at an inn down the road, and asked everyone there about the Wardens. He had received no information, but for a few mutters of a name. Thomas, it sounded like. Charles growled. He needed to find these people. He had wasted all this time. Where were the Grey Wardens? Edited by Charles Watson-Turing, Jun 8 2017, 02:03 PM.
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| Nakari | May 25 2017, 05:02 PM Post #3 |
Spy!
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There are moments like these where Myrrha Lavellan truly understands what it means to be Dalish. And she remembers why she left. She has been straggling through the woods for hours. Her boots are muddy and carry the pungent scent of ferns. The branches scrape against her and crack under her feet. She repeats her orders in her head and that's what keeps her going. It reminds her of her childhood trampling through the forests and seeing how far she could get before the aravels disappeared behind the trunks. It's dirty and rugged and yet everyone pretends there's an ancient elegance in it. There isn't. There's just unpleasantness and a wish for more civilisation. Finally she gratefully stumbles out onto the path. According to the map she'd been shown, the town she's looking for isn't too many days away. A Ben-Hassrath last heard of there has stopped sending reports. Myrrha is here to find why. It's too dark to navigate any further today, and she's exhausted. She knows there's another town close by. Not far off are the yellow lights of an inn's windows. Myrrha takes a moment to rest and rebalance herself, brush the burdock seeds from her short cloak, then heads on down the road to the inn. Inside most people are already drunk. Someone shouts her out as a 'rabbit' as she enters. I'm not a fucking elf, she wants to spit back. But she can't. It sticks in her mind and nags at her as she buys a room for the night. It never leaves her. Myrrha knows she looks enough like an elf. The long pointed ears, the typical skinny body, red vallaslin snaking along her jawline. Brown hair, brown skin, brown eyes. She knows all those outdated Dalish ways well enough to do them without thinking or wanting to. If she was allowed to, she'd stop. She'd cut off the tips of her ears and clean her tongue of the rotted language. ...but the Qun needs her to act. So she acts. In the morning she finds herself sitting quietly in the corner of the inn, gratefully working through bread and goat's cheese. She glances around. There's a man wolfing down a meal with his back to her. He has wide shoulders and a body that looks worn rugged by fighting. The familiar envy settles onto her. Honestly it's a little embarrassing. Every time she sees someone larger and more muscular than her, she wants to crawl inside their skin. She can't help staring. She becomes more aware of how small and slender and elfish her own body is, and curls in on herself. A small comfort: at least he's not vashoth. Then she'd be overcome with longing for his horns as well. He moves, then heads out the inn, and Myrrha's jerked out of her daydreaming. She tears her eyes away, cringing, unsure if the man had seen or not. Edited by Nakari, May 25 2017, 07:45 PM.
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| Sir Merlin | May 26 2017, 03:56 PM Post #4 |
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Sir Merlin rose from middle of the road, stripped of all but of his pants, his pale skin being burned by the sun and his tarmac colored hair and beard that would even make dwarf jealous were moving with the wind. He did only remember that he was to bring something to the Grey Wardens, but where they were or what it was he did not. So he did only thing that he could think of; follow the road until there would be something. after the sun was already going down and Merlin's feet were already numb, he found a town with a chantry in it. "lets just hope that chantry has people in it" he says to himself before entering the town. As Sir Merlin walks to the he notices something, the town is silent, nobody to be seen, the only voice is the chanting coming from the chantry, but its not the chant of light nor anything in common language. Sir Merlin opens the chantrys doors only to see a group of abominations opening the rift to allow more demons to the real word and using captured towns folk as vessels for them. "Stop this right away!" shouts Sir Merlin as he throws magic missile to one of abominations face, obliterating it into blood on the walls. The abominations all shriek and start rushing towards Sir Merlin. "I didn't plan this far ahead!" as one of the abominations punches him outside of the chantry. Sir Merlin rises up with a red mark on his chest and turns towards the group of demons rushing towards him with blood lust and anger in they eyes or what can be considered to be one. Merlin pushed his hands outwards, summoning cone of cold that freezes all of the abominations to stay still as he finished them all of with magic missile as he went back inside the chantry to stop the rift; but it was replaced with a thing that would make even the strongest of the mages shiver in fear: A Demon of Pride. Edited by Sir Merlin, May 26 2017, 04:11 PM.
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| Wolf Havens | May 26 2017, 04:08 PM Post #5 |
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Sylven did not like children. Not that beggars were much better, but they tended not to run after him shouting and trying to grab his tail. He futilely licked his sore fore paw. A rich merchant's house had a drainage channel leading out into the street and he had barely managed to squeeze himself in among the filth. But at least he was safe from being trodden in the town's busy street traffic and hopefully no dogs would find him here... A wagon careened by, forcing pedestrians to the side. The driver, a bearded brute in a dark leather cloak scowled around at the passerbys and cracked his whip over his two frothing bays. A muscled woman backed up to the drain with her young son and Sylven tried to wriggle back farther into the drain. His eyes glued to the woman's basket though. The smell of fresh bread coming from it was overpowering. He used to live in the forests to the North with his pack. Till they were exterminated by the royal archers. For a second Sylven's vision was clouded by anger. Among the trees, the wolves could hunt the succulent deer and Sylven could remember his parents bringing back fresh elk one morning for him and his siblings. Those were good times. That was real food. Still, one needs to eat something. He had come to the city because there was food here. He couldn't take down a deer by himself in the North. Plus the archers might have returned... No, the city was his home now. And he was a thief. The woman was hustling her son down the street after the fast disappearing wagon. Sylven slid from his moist refuge and slunk along behind her. He avoided a man with a purposeful stride in a strange purple cloak in favor of a young maiden hurrying to her uncle's house to pick up wool for her mother. Girls generally don't kick very hard. He kept an alert eye on the bread basket. It was full, covered in a none-too-clean cloth. As the woman pulled her child by a narrow alley, Sylven leaped forward and threw himself on the basket. It didn't break out of the woman's grip like he had hoped it would. She was strong and instantly whirled around, pulling up her basket. Sylven had uncovered a loaf of bread on landing though, and he reached forward, gripped it in his small jaws and flung himself backwards away from the woman's swinging fist. He landed on the cobblestones on his back, but he ignored the pain. All he could think of was the bread in his mouth. So delicious. Sooooooooooo delicious. And the woman's descending wooden shoe. He rolled over out of the way and scrambled to his feet as the woman yelled something at him and surged forward. He pinned his ears back and took off down the alley, swerving around a corner past a startled cat. After he was pretty sure he had lost the woman, Sylven slowed down and began circling back through the streets to the drain. |
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| Charles Watson-Turing | May 27 2017, 03:38 AM Post #6 |
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Charles marched through the street, sighing. He had been searching for so long, and now he felt that he was nearing the Wardens, but still no sign of them! Gah! If he really was supposed to find the Wardens, just like his instinct told him he was, he needed a sign right now. He was just about ready to turn back and return to his family in New Unigh'td. A woman's scream snapped Charles out of his brooding. He turned around to look at the commotion in the street. He saw a small, grey ball of fur land harshly on the ground, before running off into an alleyway. Even with his limited knowledge of animals, Charles knew at once that the wolf cub was injured. He raced after the cub, squeezing through the tiny gaps between houses. Eventually, he managed to catch up with the wolf. It was curled up in a little drainage channel, alternating between gingerly licking his front paw, which was grazed, and nibbling at the piece of bread he had stolen. Charles saw that the pup was not healthy. He could see the wolf's ribs, he was so skinny. But at the same time, Charles saw in the wolf's eyes a burning fire of fury, and passion. This beast may live off scraps in the city now, but at heart, it was wild. The passion in the wolf's eyes even reminded Charles of his own rage when he killed Darkspawn. Charles knew he had to help this poor creature. First, the injury. Charles scooped up some water from the channel, but immediately regretted it when he saw the brown-green colour the water had. Washing the graze with this would just infect the wound. So, he grabbed the waterskin that hung at his belt, and slowly poared clean water over the graze. The wolf didn't react at first, but then it began to sting. The wolf began to move around, agitated. Charles nervously stroked the beast, trying to calm it down. Surprisingly, it worked. Charles finished cleaning the wound and stood up, meaning to go. But then he took one last look at the creature. It cowered in the drainage pipe, thin, sickly, but fierce. Alone, this wolf would starve. He didn't deserve that. Not this wolf. Besides, perhaps this was fate. Maybe the wolf would aid him on his quest to find the Wardens. Maybe this was the sign he asked for. So, he turned round, and crouched down. 'Hello, there, little one. How would you like to come with me?' Charles pulled a strip of smoked, dried meat from his pocket, and offered it to the wolf. 'Sorry, it will be a little chewy, but I promise it's better than just bread.' As the wolf began to advance towards the meat in his outstretched hand, Charles began to talk again. 'I'm Charles, by the way, and I'm going to need something to call you. I came looking for the Grey Wardens, and now I've found you. How about "Grey"? No...That's too plain, generic, for a wolf like you. "Granite"? Yes, I like that name. You and I, we're going to have a great time together, Granite. Now let's go find those Wardens!' Edited by Charles Watson-Turing, May 27 2017, 01:15 PM.
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| Roavin | May 27 2017, 11:49 AM Post #7 |
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Glance left. Elfroot. Of course, that stuff's everywhere. Glance right. Dirt. Heh. A person passes by on the left. Look into their eyes. Farmer. Green. The person looks back. Look away quickly at something behind them. There's the town. Look down. Could use a hit. Johtir stopped briefly to light his pipe, then continued with his slow, steady, and mostly inconspicuous gait. The long woolen coat pulled over his undyed tunic covered his slightly twisted left knee and tendency to not let his heels touch the floor. Pipe smoke rises. Looks like a rabbit. Or a bull with large horns. Look ahead. About a mile. Look right. Still dirt. A gust of wind blows. Eyes closed. See the blood. Ral— Johtir was an intelligent man, literate from an early age, and had a knack for logically deducing truths and uncovering lies. Despite heroic efforts by his parents to save money for a university education, Johtir instead entered the shadowbroker business, and quickly gained a positive reputation. If he did not know what his client wanted, he would make damn sure to find out, and his great mind was his greatest asset in that pursuit. His greatest asset was also his greatest weakness. Johtir was cursed, though this was not the typical curse. Rather, Johtir could not contain his thoughts. Even lying in the fresh grass in the Southron Hills on a beautiful sunny day, his mind could not stop churning, ever-moving like the Luthias falls, and if that mind did not get fed enough with new information, it would perpetually revisit previous situation and make what-if conjectures. Bleak thoughts were his mind's favorite alternative meal, and Johtir would be devoured by these very thoughts had he not learned to distract himself. —No. Weld different metal pieces together in a rod, heat that rod, and it bends. Could use that to measure heat. Or cold. Look down. Muddy road. Tracks, about a yard wide; probably a farmer's carriage. See a second, fainter set of tracks. Bit wider. Probably merchants. Smell. Smells dry. Hasn't rained in a while. Johtir entered the town, looking for the nearest inn, and came upon a street bustling with people. At the far end, he saw a wooden sign hanging from a building, into which a crude mead jug was carved. He concentrated hard on his path along the street, to avoid that his mind tricked him into thinking all these people were towering over him. As he approached the inn, his mind began to wander again. Was he doing the right thing? Or should he have tried to rebuild his old life? No, he was sure he would have never found somebody like her again. The pain was too great. Maybe, he considered, suicide was the better option afterall, instead of— As he turned into the inn's entrance, lost in his thoughts, he absent-mindedly bumped right into a large man exiting the building. |
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| Wolf Havens | May 27 2017, 01:05 PM Post #8 |
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Sylven stared at the purple cloaked man. People were never nice. People weren't sposta be nice. And yet, apparently this was an exception to the rule. The man looked orderly but dusty from travel. His boots were muddy and rough, though well made, and the bottom of his cloak was worn. Sylven studied his face. Grey eyes housed under incredible thick eyebrows looked back at him. Fierce enough eyes, but Sylven sensed a twinkling kindness in them directed towards him. He leaned forward on his scrawny forelegs and sniffed the meat. He hadn't eaten meat for days. On Sunday when the butcher was at church he had crept into the refuse behind his house and found some fat thinnings, but a neighbor's square headed boxer mix had smelled them too and Sylven had barely escaped his unmerciful jaws. He glanced once more into the man's steady eyes, then nipped the bit of dried meat from his hand. It was tough, but Sylven felt his stomach rejoice as he barely chewed the meat and swallowed. |
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| Charles Watson-Turing | May 27 2017, 01:11 PM Post #9 |
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Charles beckons to Granite, saying, 'Here, come with me! I promise I'll get some more meat for you later. But now, I need to find some Wardens.' Charles leads the way back onto the main street. He walks towards an inn, and is about to step inside as a man bumps into a much bigger, broader man. Charles isn't sure why, but something makes him feel that this bigger man is a Warden. He is about to talk to him, but he feels a tug at his belt. He spins around just in time to see a pickpocket run away with his money pouch. 'Hey!' Charles shouts, before sprinting after him. |
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| Wolf Havens | May 27 2017, 01:32 PM Post #10 |
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Sylven followed Charles warily down the street. He evidently wanted Sylven to do it but wasn't forcing him... Which is a good sign. Sylven alertly watched Charles begin to enter the inn. The sign above the door was crudely made to look like a tankard, but much of the paint was gone. Inns were not good places for lone wolf pups. Too many drunk people usually. Although it was just around noon so perhaps that sort of thing wasn't happening yet. Sylven moved forward to Charles and caught a quick movement from a lanky youth lounging next to the inn's entrance. He had plucked out the purple cloak's pouch and was now fleeing down the street! Sylven showed his teeth and growled under his breath. He'd barely met this purple cloaked man, but he had been nice to Sylven and was not about to get pickpocketed! Sylven thrust forward between a lady in an outrageously poofy dress and a bowlegged sailor making for the inn, and barreled after the thief. |
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| Charles Watson-Turing | May 27 2017, 01:49 PM Post #11 |
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Charles could barely keep up with the pickpocket, but somehow managed to always stay no more than a few yards behind him. Charles closed in, thinking that he would get the pickpocket, when suddenly the scoundrel stopped, and turned around, right in front of Charles. As Charles charged towards him, the thief stuck his leg out, and swept it across the floor, knocking Charles off his feet. As Charles fell, one thought occupied his mind. Son of an inbred! That pouch was good quality leather, handmade, and monogrammed! Oh, also I hope Granite will be OK. Then, Charles' head hit the cobblestones with an agonising crunch, and he passed out. Edited by Charles Watson-Turing, May 27 2017, 02:05 PM.
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| Wolf Havens | May 27 2017, 02:17 PM Post #12 |
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Sylven narrowed his eyes as he bounded after the pickpocket and Charles. The boy wouldn't be able to outrun him like this. He was young and somewhat awkward. And Sylven, though weak from malnutrition, was still a well functioning wolf - and wolves are made to chase things... Even Charles was gaining on the lad, cloak flapping gaily and annoyingly in front of Sylven. He swerved around Charles just as the boy tripped him up. Sylven could see the man's eyes dilate in surprise and possibly some other emotions that Sylven found hard to identify as he fell to the hard stones. Those cobblestones looked like they hurt... Sylven curled his lip up more and bolted at the pickpocket. He had slowed down and was briskly jogging down the street, apparently satisfied of his safety and unaware of the angry wolf pup about to pounce on him. Sylven leapt as high as he could at the boy's back, but landed clawing at his trousers. Snarling he ripped through the coarse fabric with small sharp teeth, biting into flesh. The taste of blood in his mouth added to his fury and he scrabbled up the boy, digging into his body with his hindpaws. The pickpocket writhed under him, grasping at the wolf pup's snout to tear it away from him, but Sylven threw himself up and clamped down on the boy's neck. It was thin and Sylven was surprised to feel his teeth shearing through the surrounding neckmuscle and crack into the spinal cord. |
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| Sir Merlin | May 27 2017, 02:47 PM Post #13 |
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Pride Demon had taken human form, its face disfigured and wearing blue robe turned towards Merlin and said "We don't need to fight, there is other options" "The only option here is to you to get killed demon!" Merlin shouts before casting crushing prison at the Pride Demon to give him enough time to do small lighting storm at it. But just seconds away from it to be casted a fist made out of stone hit him, interrupting the spell and leaving him vulnerable to incoming damage. "We could have done this so much easier if you would have accepted to do a deal!" the demon says as it proves its power by summoning two balls of arcane energy to its own hands. Sir Merlin tries to stable his mind. "its never good idea to fight against demons with weak state of will." he thinks as the demon starts to summon a powerful spell by the two balls of arcane and chanting with language unknown to Merlin. Sir Merlin rises up and casts mana clash; hoping that it will work because what ever that demon is doing, he will most likely not survive it. A blue flash followed with fog like wave. Pride demon had fallen, its mana turned against himself. Its Blue robe waiting for a new owner on its lifeless body. "well, you don't need this anymore do you?" said Sir Merlin said as he tried to take the robe off him without damaging it too much as it would be the only defense against the cold night and rainy day. All the towns folk had died for blood magic or turned into abominations, there was nothing left there for him, at the sun raise he would get back to the road with a new robe and couple scars from the battle. |
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| Birdkeeper | May 27 2017, 05:12 PM Post #14 |
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The sounds of a busy forge woke the soldiers from their slumber. The camp stirred in the morning light, people stretching and lighting campfires for breakfast. Grokir Stormmace dropped a hot blade in oil, wiping the sweat off his brow. "One down, fourteen more to go" he sighed. I should be thankful, they saved my life after all, he thought to himself as he started hammering the next blade. Sometime in the afternoon Grokir took a break, drinking deep from his waterskin and biting into a piece of bread. Looking out, he calmed himself to the hustle and bustle around him, watching as the birds flew past. Such fascinating creatures, these birds. They come in all sorts of colors and have such a sweet song. I never imagined anything more beautiful than bats... Grokir was so deep in the world of birds that he didn't notice the elf that walked up and stood next to him. He jumped when she spoke; "You really are quite enamored with birds, aren't you?" she giggled. Glaring, Grokir went back to leaning against the wall of his self made shanty. "They are graceful creatures, nothing at all like the bats I am used to. What are you doing out here anyways, Altas?" The thin elf tucked some of her messy copper hair behind her ear, her soft green eyes hiding her amusement. "Just come to see what my fellow crafter is doing not working. I thought you said you were behind schedule?" Stifling a giggle, she put her hand on his shoulder. "You really should reconsider your occupation if all you do is stare at birds." Grokir shook his head, smiling, wanting to fire back when they heard the horn. Bwuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuoooooooooooooo Darkspawn. Grokir disappeared inside, coming out a moment later with his breastplate and warhammer gripped in both hands. Altas stood outside, her bow ready with an arrow notched. They rushed together to the gates, joining the other soldiers, geared and with a grim smile for the next fight... -------------------------- The sun was shining the last rays upon the battlefield, littered with the bodies of the Darkspawn. The Wardens had suffered little on losses, though injuries were aplenty. Soldiers were going through the bodies, collecting the armor, weapons, and other scrap they could scavenge, collecting them in a cart Grokir had brought out after the battle. "Their armor and weapons may be worthless to us now, but soon all will be reforged as a means to put down the enemy!" Grokir exclaimed loudly, smiling and patting several soldiers on the back as they dump more metals onto the cart. He leaves to grab some salvage himself, picking several corpses clean before stopping in front of a fallen tree. It was a big oak tree, the base scorched from a mage's fire, and it had fallen on a small group of Darkspawn hiding behind it. Grokir smiled as he remembered the young mage yelling 'Timber!' as it fell. As he inspected the bodies, looking for metal, he heard a noise that stop him in his tracks. He froze, looking at the branches of the tree, a look of dismay growing on his face. Peep peep peep He rushed into the branches, fighting them as if they were chains trying to stop his advancement. He halts in front of the nest, tears in his eyes as he sees a mother bird, her body covering her babies to her last breath. Gently, Grokir moved the mother bird, extracting the next as carefully as he could. "Its okay little ones, shhh, its okay. I will help you" he cooed. Grokir arrived back at his shanty, cart in tow with the nest cradled in his arms as if it was his child. He put the nest near a closed off area by the forge, a place that was nice and warm. As he was smashing worms with his hammer on the anvil, Altas decided to stop by. With a glitter of amusement in her eye, she watched the heavyset dwarf feed the little birds as carefully as he could. "You know, Grokir, you really should drop your clan's name, seeing as how they banished you and all" Atlas said, "though I think I found the perfect name for you.." Grokir looked at the elf, his glare being matched by her amusement. "What do you think my clan name should be then, silly elf?" Altas smiled, a deep, genuine smile as she said sofly: "Birdkeeper" Edited by Birdkeeper, May 27 2017, 05:15 PM.
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| Benevolent Thomas | May 27 2017, 09:08 PM Post #15 |
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Daddy
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Thomas swore to himself that he would get something accomplished on this day. He has been in this town for far too long and the mission was not going to wait for him. This had been his first stop on his journey after leaving Amaranthine and weeks later he finds himself staying at the same inn, drinking the same ale, and chatting up the same naive bartender that soaks in his every tale. Thomas just could not shake the feeling that this place was of significance in his mission. "Where should I go this day?" he though to himself. He knew where he desired to go, but braving the Knotwood Hills alone was akin to suicide. As he reaches the doorway, he ponders "I have two options. Either I send a dispatch to Amaranthine requesting support or I continue my invest-" Thomas looks down. A man had collided with him and is now on the ground. Thomas helps the man up and hands him a pipe that was dropped in the commotion before grumbling "apologies". Thomas then smiled and nodded at the man before making his way onto the street. |
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| Pergamon | May 27 2017, 09:14 PM Post #16 |
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How could one possibly end up here? A haunting thought that didn't leave the travelers mind any longer, as his dark brown eyes mustered the town in front of him. Ironically he was sure that he was still on the right path to find what he's been looking for so long now. Although the traveling tired him and it was certainly a good idea to just stop-by, despite the horrifying circumstances. Hands held behind his back and with the wind playing a bit with his short black hair, he just set one step after another with his magnificent knee-high leather boots of the same color. For him it was no surprise that some of those commoners might start to gaze. Was it because of his exalted statue walking down on this remote one-horse town? Or was it because they never witnessed the beauty of true tailor master craft, considering his prestigious black and white dress, which could only be considered exotic at this part of the world. Or was it because they never actually have seen a true denizen of Tevinter before? Nonetheless these townsmen seemed to be quite industrious, which actually helped the presentation of this provincial nowhere. He just thought, before he encountered the rather plain, but still cozy and inviting building which must be the town's Inn. Looking on the quite tasteless sign, significantly made to amuse the common folks, he smiled and entered the barroom. This place was quite crowded, he realized - mustering the interior with absolute criticism in his face, which was then immediately blown away by the view of the rather pleasing looking barmaid. Maybe the most remote places, might have something special to offer. After finishing this thought, he then proceeded to find a calm place at the bar, sitting on a stool. As to be expected, not only the looks of the bartender might have been good, but the service as well, as he was greeted in a friendly manner and asked what he might be looking for: "Greetings Traveler! What's it to be?" "Hmm. I hope you serve wine here. I might want one glass of what wine is actually served here." Shrugging her shoulders the barmaid proceeded to fill up a glass with red wine of a decent color and placed it gently in front of the traveler. "Thank you. Here", he replied while shoving some coins over the counter which could be easily distinguished as some Imperial Tesserae. Content, the Traveler then slowly shakes around the glass in his hand, observing the color of the drink, before taking a sip. His face turned dark and his look sour, visibly revoking any thoughts he might have had until this point and all the optimism about this place, he swallowed that sip like someone that is forced to drink poison. How could one possibly end up here?, he thought again, throwing more coins on the counter and saying with quite the disappointment in his voice: "Just make it a lot of ale. A whole lot." Edited by Pergamon, May 27 2017, 09:31 PM.
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| Charles Watson-Turing | May 28 2017, 03:14 AM Post #17 |
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Charles is still utterly unconcious, with a small stream of blood trickling down the back of his head, in case you were wondering. |
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| Roavin | May 28 2017, 11:14 AM Post #18 |
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Bump. —ugh! Fall down. Land on side. Fuck, my pipe. Hear the distinct clacking of wood hitting rock. Ouch. Look up. A giant towering. Nononono he's not that tall... A large man towering. Old. Strong. The large man offers a hand. Get up. Come on, Johtir. Look at him. Look at floor. Wipe off dirt. Okay, my pipe. Embarrassing, gotta say sorry. See pipe in hand of large man. Take it. Hear "apologies". Gotta say something. Say "srr". The fall didn't hurt physically, but Johtir was very frustrated with himself. He had learned better - how to look people in the eyes, how to enunciate. The large man he ran into has already walked on, away from the inn, and Johtir gathered himself to enter the inn. It was busy inside, he could see that through the door, but surely, he thought, there would be a corner where he wouldn't be bothered. A little girl walking by looked at him, bemused. Her mother, holding her hand tightly, looked on rather annoyed. As they passed, his gaze focused on silhouette of the large man he just haphazardly bounced off of. There was something about him. His weathered gaze, looking older than the rest of his body. His muscular build. His entire demeanor, even. This could be a Warden, an older one whose joining was completed many moons ago, just waiting for his Calling. Surely, a veteran Warden could tell him. Then again, pretty much anybody in the inn could tell him as well, and who knows if this really was a Warden? Besides, Johtir was hungry; his incessant pipe smoking could mask the fact that he had not eaten in days only so much. He played with a few coins in his pocket and looked at the inn again. Despite the noise emanating from the door, betraying a crowd of people larger than Johtir feels comfortable with, it still seemed to be beckoning him. He took a step towards the door. No. Going into the inn is the reasonable choice, the logically better choice. But his intuition told him otherwise, and it's that intuition that made him among the best. He always knew instinctively who to ask for the information a client wanted. Why shouldn't he trust his intuition now? Why should he have lost it, just because she isn't there anymore? She was the only one that took the time to understand, and she taught him when to listen to reason and when to listen to his gut. What would she tell him now? Why did he have to lose the one person that could tell him which was right? No. She's not there, physically. But she left him with those memories, with those things she painstakingly taught him. I can't forget that. I owe it to her. Johtir briefly closed his eyes, as if to make a decision, but his decision was already made at that point. He turned around and sprinted after the tall man, trying to catch up with his large, fast steps. There. Approach from the side. You know how to do this. She taught you. Look to the left. Yes, that's him. Hear commotion up front. See person with purple coat on floor. Odd. Not from here. Man seems to notice his presence. Okay, don't be distracted. You know how to talk. Look into the man's eyes. No looking away now. I'm doing this. "Hello, sorry about that earlier, I was lost in my thoughts. But I believe you may be able to tell me how to get to Vigil's Keep." Edited by Roavin, May 28 2017, 12:48 PM.
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| Wolf Havens | May 28 2017, 02:20 PM Post #19 |
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Sylven left the boy lying on the ground. If he had been by himself he would have tried to get a decent meal from the dead human, but as it was, people seemed unhappy with him. A woman who had witnessed his attack from her doorstep had lunged at him with a broom so he scuttled back down the street to the man in the purple cloak. Charles did not look good. He had hit the side of his face and blood was smearing down in between the cobblestones. Sylven licked at the cut on the man's cheek unhappily. He couldn't just leave him unconscious... |
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| Charles Watson-Turing | May 28 2017, 02:46 PM Post #20 |
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Charles slowly opened his eyes. He felt something wet against his cheek. A tongue came into focus, followed by Granite's head. Charles slowly sat up, then regretted it. Pain, unlike anything else he had known. He put his hand to the back of his head. There was a lot of blood. Come on, Charles, you need to get help. He stared ahead, confused. A body lay in front of him, the pickpocket, his back mauled and bloody. Granite did that? Ever so slowly, Charles lifted himself to his feet, and retrieved his pouch. Charles, stop! You're still lightheaded. Get help, now. But Charles immediately remembered the Warden. He looked around, wincing. The man he assumed was a Warden was at the inn entrance, seemingly listening to the man he had bumped in to earlier. Charles limped over. Help could wait. He had to find out if he was a Warden. 'Ex-excuse me, gentlemen?' Charles! Get help! You're not well! 'Excuse me? I hate to interrupt, but...' Charles?! Why are you talking to him? You're feeling faint! 'Are you Grey Ward-' CHARLES! Charles was cut off mid-sentence as he collapsed again, this time on the floor between the two men. |
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