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April 29th, 2013 (2:30 AM). Edited May 7th, 2013 by Retro Bug.
Tamor Bellfiend (featuring Auden Radke)
Valiantly the other brave Knights of Ekilore rose up to conquer the fiery beasts that stood in the way of victory. Meanwhile Tamor and Auden sat in the same position on the ground. It felt rather serene; Tamor sat with her legs carefully tuckered beneath her fragile body, positioned directly to the right-hand side was a mess of a man, Auden. Uneasiness still lingered and washed over Tamor as she swept her thin fingers through his messy hair that had gathered dirt, rock, and even bits of flesh. Niolas rested quietly on her left shoulder his eyes were focused on the battlefield instead of his owner. Despite her best attempts and multitude of prayers nothing could restore Auden's mana, he was forced to stay back from the fight as her healing magic slowly coursed through every inch of his being. The mage's mind wondered away from her second dearest companion and focused on the battle that raged on ahead. The Grey brothers somehow managed their way to the Necromancer; their weapons were advantageous against a horde of undead but would soon fall short against a mage as powerful as the one that sat upon the throne. Mages typically never fought close combat, as a general rule it was much easier to strike down a dangerous foe from a safe distance especially when those foes had extremely well forged weapons and were well skilled with them. Even at a distance Tamor knew the warrior's weapons and armor were forged from the finest Reigncliff steel, it wasn't as great as dwarven steel, nothing could best dwarven steel, but it still crafted well. Tamor's time in Yarne had taught her this yet she was still novice at forging her own weapons not that she required such items. A finer duo had not graced Tamor's eyes; Roland and Percival moved in sync never once questioning the others movements. A sense of jealousy pinged somewhere deep and well hidden in Tamor she longed for that feeling of absolute trust. Without hesitation Tamor buried the feeling deeper hoping eventually she'd be able to suffocate it until it ceased to cause her pain.
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May 2nd, 2013 (5:43 PM).
Anlem Taegor- Currilan, Eveamoor
Anlem released a long sigh. He had walked since he awoke and hadn't stopped, save for bathroom breaks and a chance to eat. He'd sold his riding animal in the last city he'd visited--Dalenham, it was--and had since then carried on on foot. He didn't exactly mind it, but it had its moments where it became tiring. Still, he enjoyed the opportunities it gave him, like natural scenes and odd people. He had seen a few on his way here in various towns. Like a man who always talked in riddles or women who only sought for men with certain colored hats. Yes, he'd met a few characters in his time and had recorded each encounter in his book which he held open now. It was large and stored many pages--more than a thousand, Anlem was sure. He sat on his rock and wrote slowly, deliberately, and with purpose. He didn't sit in a wood, but there were enough trees and scene and animals that the image was all too perfect for a moment of consideration. He sat a wrote about the trees and their swaying leaves or how the wind leaned on the grass. He wrote about how the birds chirped and the animals barked from their hiding places. Finally he wrote about the shadows, the sun, the air, the sky and how their energy and beauty fed Aerion. He closed the book.
Anlem stood up from the rock, storing his book back into his satchel and continuing on. His feet ached but he refrained from complaints. Anlem walked in silence; a smile on his face, the air enjoyed. He walked for about half an hour before nature became less like nature and he had an old, crude sign standing before him. The sign was made out of what could pass as petrified wood. It had been eaten through and parts had fallen off from the work of termites and weather. The writing on the sign was old and faded. It took a moment's study to find out what it said: Approaching Currilan. Anlem smiled. A town meant a tavern. After his walk, he could use a drink. Trusting the sign's honor, Anlem continued on his path. Soon enough he could see shops and homes in the distance and even sooner he arrived in Currilan.
Like all places in Eveamoor, Currilan was nothing impressive. The technology and the buildings were old; it felt as if he were stepping into the past. The people of Currilan, Anlem learned with a quick scan around, were tall and thin and weak looking. Some of them were short (though not dwarves) and looked just as thin or were alternatively muscular, but still hardly a threat. Anlem laughed inwardly at the sight of a Currilan man trying to lift a sword he had no business trying to wield and then again at another's attempt at running. He would have stopped and written, but he was thirsty now. After a little looking and a quick bit of directions, Anlem found the tavern. It was obscure and hidden, not because of some purposeful planning, but because it looked as old and similar as everything around it. He felt thirstier from the thought of drinking and his feet ached more from the though of sitting, but he made no complaints or comments. Anlem continued on to the tavern and entered.
Once inside, the dwarf was taken by surprise. Instead of a typical scene of hardy, drinking men, there was a group of severally injured people and a medical staff attending to them. Besides them, another man--who looked as exhausted as the others were defeated--sat heavily in a chair with a drink on its way. The only one who didn't look exhausted was a women who stood with a man lingering around her. The woman was large-breasted and was about average height--for humans, at least. Her hair was short and red and she carried a large sword with her. The sword was not only a pleasing surprise, but made the man next to her look weaker and subordinate. The man had straight brown hair and was clean shave, save for a bit on his chin. He was lean--the squirrel-y sort--an wore attire of reds and blacks. His clothing looked costly, but also older as they were becoming visibly worn. He resembled the people of Currilan, but instead had an air of capability around him. His glaive may have had something to do with that. When Anlem approached, he greeted them politely.
"Sorry to be bothersome, but if I may ask," he continued, "what's happened here?"
May 12th, 2013 (8:46 PM).
Varian Sigmund, Cassandra Alexandera, and Anlem Taegor- The Strutting Stagg, Curilan Eveamoor
"Depends on who's asking," Cass spouted at the broad dwarf with long red hair who walked into the bar. His red hair dropped down to his shoulders, fusing with his beard. Though that could be the alcohol talking at them point. She rose from her seat and walked over to the dwarf, and for once towered over someone. "You should give me a reason to tell my story, dwarf."
Without much of a pause in between, the dwarf shrugged. "Just simple curiousity." He smiled then. "A story before a drink? I'm only interested."
Cass smiled out of frustration, before rolling her tongue in her mouth. This dwarf's cheeky smile pissed her off. Today was not a good day to piss her off. "Do I look like some court jester to you? Huh. Why in all of those underworlds those religious nutcases talk about should I entertain you so you can enjoy your crappy mead a bit better?" Cass yelled at the dwarf, glaring into his eyes, before slowly reaching for one of her knives, trying her best to hide such movement from him. Killing him would really solve everything.
The dwaf's smile had disappeared through Cass' short rant and he now eyed her for a moment. He only looked away towards their injuried comrads shortly before bringing his eyes back to her once more. "A jester? No, not at all. More like... A character." He smiled again--a sort of admiring smile--before continuing. "Obviously you haven't come from anything funny--unless, of course, you all were trampled by a horde of men too much in a hurry to watch where they were going, then I may have something to smile about. The lack of shoe marks makes me think otherwise, however. No I didn't ask for a laugh, I asked because I was exactly what I said I was--interested. I wanted your story because I wanted to record it--if you don't mind, of course--and share it with others. By the looks of things you have a tale more than just I would be interested in."
Cass gawked at the dwarf, totally astounded by him. "You're a writer?" Cass paused for a moment, trying to gather everything in her head. "HAHAHAHA! Dwarves can actually write?!" She was beginning to lose everything. "I thoug- I tho- HAHAHA! I though all dwarves could do was swing axes and grow beards!" She began to lose her breath, gasping for air. The lack of oxygen was causing her to lose her balance, gripping onto the bar for support as tears ran down her face. "Va-Va-Varian! Get a load of this guy! AAHAHAA!"
"Cass!" Varian bellowed from his seat, not turning around to view the two of them arguing. "Stop torturing the dwarf." He turned his head slightly to take in the appearance of the red-bearded stunt of a man, before motioning his arm to have him join him at the table, just as his order of Orbigg Ale arrived. As the barmaid began placing the drink onto the table, Varian snatched it out of her arms, and quickly brought the mug to his mouth, savoring the liquid's taste as if it were a cure for all of his problems. In his case, it somewhat was. "You'll have to excuse her, we're all a bit…stressed." He didn't feel it important to mention she was always like that.
"Work happened." He said in his thick Highman accent to the dwarf, settling even further into his seat, trying to be as comfortable as he could, only to have his brain remind him of the nagging injuries that he had received. It was an impossibility to try and get comfortable no matter how hard he tried. Despite this, he continued to do so. "We're mercenaries by trade. We had just returned from a job. I suppose you could say it didn't quite go according to plan." His thoughts went to Alys, who was taken to a private room to be examined and treated by the fat man's physicians. "So...what's your business in this sh*thole country then? Cass is right, you don't meet many literate dwarves. At least not around here."
The dwarf took his seat just as Varian finished asking his question. "I've just been traveling," the dwarf answered calmly, seemingly unaffected by Cass' laughs and jeers. "I don't have much of an aim. Whichever place provides the most for me to write." He laughed then. "Though it wouldn't hurt to have a job."
Varian eyed the dwarf curiously, taking another large gulp of his ale. Despite only a few gulps, he was already almost done with the mug. He gave a motion to the barmaid to send him another. It wasn't as if he would be paying for them anyway. And even if he did, he wouldn't mind spending the coin right now. He needed it. Varian looked over the dwarf, his eyes catching sight of his rather large warhammer that the dwar carried. "Do you know how to use that thing?" Varian asked, pointing at the weapon he carried.
"Use it!?" The dwarf asked in disbelief. "I was practically born with it! Why do you ask?"
"Because some people carry around a big weapon to look important," Cass interjected, drying her tears. "I haven't laughed that hard in days. Let's keep him."
Varian shook his head, but debated the thought nonetheless. He finished his ale just as his second one was brought, pounding the empty mug on the table, and wiping his mouth with his arm. "If its a job you're looking for, you should try our line of work. We could always use another man." He knew this to be true, especially if they were to be traveling around as a band. He wasn't sure if the entire group would stick around, so a fresh recruit wouldn't hurt at all. "And if it's a story you're looking for, or some inspiration to write, I'm sure you'll find that along the way."
The dwarf said nothing for a time, presumably going over things in his head. His face went through a change or two. from slight amusement to serious consideration and then to a nonchalant conclusion. "I'll join you." He finally said. "How much does it pay?"
Varian raised his eyebrow, quite surprised at the sudden acceptance so casually by the dwarf. He picked up his second order of ale, and took a large gulp of it. "That depends on how much the employer offers. But all payment is split equally." He put down his mug, and extended his arm to the dwarf. "Varian Sigmund. I suppose you could say I lead the group."
"Anlem Taegor. I suppose you can say I don't."
A Legend once told me that roleplaying is about bringing people together and celebrating creative vision.
Paired with the Artsy Infinite and the Spectacular Shak
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May 12th, 2013 (9:14 PM). Edited May 13th, 2013 by Legend.
Percival and Roland Grey- Ship of Captain Richard Crewe
The ship that the company had departed upon was surprisingly steady, especially considering comments Roland had made earlier regarding the vessel when he had first seen it beside the Tower of Oculus. Yet either because of the calmness of the water or the sturdiness of the underbelly of the vessel, no significant rocking was experienced. Roland hoped that this would be the norm for the remainder of their voyage until they would reach their destination. Upon the deck of the vessel, the knights Percival and Roland lingered, Roland seated down, examining a closed paper in his hand, before looking over the edge of the ship at the clear blue water. Percival huddled in a corner staring deeply into the shard of the Orb of Ardor, claimed from the Necromancer following his defeat at the hands of Tamor.
"Isn't it strange how such a small little gem can make one so powerful? Makes you wonder, doesn't it?" Percival said aloud, rhetorically. "If one small piece can make a wizard that powerful...imagine the whole orb. Gods. It makes me believe that those monks may actually be able to accomplish what they said they want to."
Roland turned from his observance of the sea towards his brother, who was observing the shard they had obtained from the body of the Necromancer. "If you stare into that any longer, you'll bleed your eyes out." He replied. He didn't want to say it out loud, but the truth of the matter is that Roland had similar sentiments. Though perhaps he was too prideful to admit that he was wrong before, so instead he wished to change the topic. He sat up, stretching out his back, hoping to get that resounding crack. After a bit of struggle, the pop came, and Roland relaxed again. "Hah...that was quite a celebration. By foreign standards, at least. And why not? We basically saved their pathetic country from destruction! Although, between the two of us, I think it's only a matter of time before some other travesty would befall those little people." He looked up into the sky, recalling the party that Yoshuro had thrown for their victories. The entire town had come to see their heroes on that day, and many from across the country would pour into the port city to celebrate.
"I do hope you are wrong about that," Percival said, taking his eyes off the shard. "A country rich with history and culture such as Shingou will hopefully live long enough to share its tales. Including our own."
Roland snorted in response to his brother, recalling his time differently. "Yes, I do believe their women were quite...cultured. I do say, such foreign mysteries surround them. And they were quite thankful to share."
"I didn't need to know that," Percival said with a sigh. Then his attention turned to Roland's hand. "Is that letter you got back at port? Who's it from?"
"Isaac Ethered of the Lionsguard." Roland chuckled. "I supposed our work here has not gone unnoticed." He stood up, walking over to Percival, and playfully hit on his armored shoulder. "'Tis a good thing, brother. You may yet bring House Grey to glory. You've certainly shown your capability in Shinguo."
"Something tells me Isaac is not sending you good news, but thanks. I guess," Percival was unsure how to take Roland's compliments. Bring House Grey glory was hardly a goal of his, especially considering the numerous conflicts Percival had with both Roland and their father. Percival couldn't even remember the reason why he so abruptedly abandoned his responsiblites in the court of Bludrock and House Grey to begin with. Regardless of the motivations, justifications and reasons, at the end of the day Percival Grey could hardly be considered Percival Grey any longer. The name held little meaning to him, for he turned to one of his many friends in the courts. His true older brother: Robert Welm. He was a man of peace and ideals, something House Grey when it adopted loyalty as its weapon. "What does Isaac want?"
Roland looked down upon the letter, opening it up and reading it aloud:
The 24th day of Tella, 1792, Founding of Civilization
Dearest Roland,
I write this letter in the hopes that it will reach your hands safely, and thus insinuating that you yourself are in good health and high spirits in these troubling times. It has been quite some time since you had left to the isle of Ekilore upon the invitation of the Monks. In fact, when last we conversed, it was the end of Makara. Though the circumstance of your current journey remain a mystery even to me, I have heard of your latest exploits in Shinguo. If this be the noble work that the monks have bestowed upon you, then I wish you the best of luck. Though if your mission is to free the land of all predicaments, you shall be quite busy for many more months. In which case, allow me to elaborate on the status of this …eventful world we inhabit.
I suppose 'tis best to start where the heart is, at home in Ethora. The Lords are feuding, with Elizabeth and your lord Hector threatening to go to war. Welm tries to stay their hands, but I am uncertain how long that would last. Crosland is appearing to remain neutral, while House Morok is keeping to itself. House Larson, on the other hand, delivers daily threats declaring that they will likely secede. So in other words, dear Roland, it is politics as usual.
As you know, relations between the Highmen and the Falkans are deteriorating rapidly. High King Hroaldr of Vanaheim, as his moniker "Ironfist" suggests, has a mind of metal, and an appetite for battle. Over the years we've heard countless reports of the deteriorating situation in the frostlands, but now more than ever, it seems likely the two nations are going to war. I can only hope Ethora won't be dragged into the conflict.
Yet below on the continent of Rolsten, the situation does not appear to be any more favorable. Palaven and Raelus have long been at each others' throats, and their respective leaders have never seen eye to eye. It is thankful that the Silver Authority in Ellessar still stands to mediate hostilities between the two nations. Yet between the two of us, I fear the most they are doing is delaying that which is inevitable.
I suppose not all in Aerion is death and politics. I've heard an interesting tale of a group of mercenaries in Eveamoor who rescued the daughter of Albert Castell, the leader of the Golden Authority Merchants Guild. The rumors are that the group, I think there were half a dozen of them or so, managed to fight through an entire company of Steel Safe soldiers. The Dragons of Dalenham they call them! Personally, I think it is mere gossip among the poor of Eveamoor. It appears that the country has so very little excitement happening that they must turn to fabrications to remain relevant.
I do hope that you are well, wherever your travels will take you beyond Shinguo. I recognize a degree of concealment your quest must have, so it is doubtless you will be able to respond by falcon. Still, I shall keep a watchful eye over your ventures, and keep you informed when I can.
-Isaac Ethered
"Heh..." Roland shook his head, reading over the letter to himself once more to confirm that which Isaac told him.
"None of that sounds good," Percival said, slightly sighing as he glanced at the shard again before staring up into the sky. "And hardly any of that sounds surprising."
"Well, I suppose that much is true." He closed the letter, walking again towards Percival and patting him on his shoulder. "One step at a time, brother. Even if the shard does not accomplish our goals, maybe our actions will."
"You do realize the next step is sending us into one of the problems Isaac told you about," Percival warned.
"Perhaps then we can root the problem at its source." Roland replied, walking over to the edge of the ship, and leaning over, examining the sky as it met with the water in the far distance. He stared west, into the direction they were traveling.
"I just hope that Yoshuro isn't sending us on some false lead. Do you really think that he knows, you know, him? He isn't exactly...weak. If you know what I mean." Percival joined Roland on the edge, looking out to the sea. The sea breeze was refreshing, hardly as stuffy as the lower decks that Tamor and Auden seemed to prefer for whatever reason.
"He said they were acquaintances. Friends. I say, expect the worst and you'll never be surprised." Roland replied, watching the water as it was split by the passing of their ship. "After all, the people aren't the friendliest by reputation alone. How much do you think their King reflects on their hospitality?"
"Let's consider his title. The Burning King, they call him," Percival said before slowly walking away from his brother. "I'll leave you with that."
Rai, Raikiri
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May 13th, 2013 (8:00 AM).
Joseph "Honest" Sherman - The Strutting Stagg, Curilan Eveamoor
Honest didn't pay much attention while he followed the small group back to wherever they came from. Instead, he cleaned the blood off of his used knives and then carefully daubed them in poison again. He was beginning to run low, so he should stock back up when he had the chance. Every now and then he'd sneak anxious glances at the heavily wounded girl that Varian carried. Honest, being merely a merchant's son, had never seen anybody seriously wounded before, let alone on the verge of life and death. He wasn't exactly used to battle. How would a mere novice survive in a group of such proficient fighters? But he owed a debt, he reminded himself. (He will survive; he always does.)
When they finally arrived at the inn, the girl they'd rescued showed more life than she had throughout the entire ordeal and rushed towards her father. He wondered what his own father would have done if he'd known that Honest had been kidnapped by professionally trained bandits. It was a good thing he didn't have to find out. His father shouldn't have to deal with that kind of anguish--not after Honest's mother had died years previously.
Honest watched in interest as Varian and the client had a heated argument, becoming quite bemused when a physician suddenly appeared so that he could inspect Honest's shoulder. Proper cleaning and clean bandages were always welcome on an injury, of course, but he wasn't used to the treatment. (Nobody had ever bothered, not for him.) He hadn't seriously injured himself for a long time, which was probably a miracle considering his lack of experience with fighting.
When the mayor announced he was actually the leader of the merchant guild, Honest's jaw dropped in surprise. This meant his father was this man's subordinate in a way. He'd never even have dreamed he would meet someone so important on his journey. All the things he could tell his father when he returned, well, it might just blow him away. When the mayor went on to invite them to a night of free lodgings and beer, Honest found himself very conflicted. He'd never tried alcohol before, although he'd heard much praise for it during his travels. He'd never been in an environment where he'd felt comfortable enough to purposely dull his senses and fighting ability. And even if he was, there was something about losing even one iota of control over himself that deeply unnerved him. (Control. Control was everything.)
Still, he was curious. Especially now that he'd encountered someone like Cass, who was still so incredibly strong even with her affinity for alcohol. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to try a little bit? Just this once. What would happen, anyway? Tonight of all nights, surrounded by such strong warriors after a harrowing experience, he should be able to let himself go a little. What is freedom if not being able to try things you want to try? (Maybe the alcohol will be enough to make him feel.... real.)
It was enough to convince Honest to accept the ale that was offered his way and take a cautious sip. The taste was more palatable than he'd expected and the warmth that bloomed in his belly was quite pleasant. Making a note to limit himself to one glass for now, he stayed around Cass, unsure of his position within the group and clinging to what amounted to his only connection to the rest of the mercenaries. A jingle of coins when he shifted positions was enough to remind him of part of his promise to Cass. Before he could offer her the money, however, a dwarf walked up to them and initiated a conversation.
Cass did not react well, initially, to the point that she reached for her weapon in anger. Honest watched the discourse with a wary eye, although he wouldn't have dreamed of intervening. He relaxed again when Cass suddenly roared with laughter upon discovering that the dwarf was also apparently a writer. This definitely caught Honest's attention, although he wasn't sure what he felt about it (not that he was ever sure). Being able to write generally meant that you were from the upper class, and Honest tended to avoid those types as much as possible. He'd been used as a messenger before because who better to trust a secret letter to than somebody who couldn't read? At the same time, Honest felt a grudging respect for the dwarf. Reading was definitely a skill that took much time and effort to acquire. Any simpleton could pick up a sword and run someone through with it, even on accident. Literacy was not a product of accident.
Apparently the dwarf could also fight. It was a combination that Honest had only ever witnessed in the most brutal officers, back when he served in the military. Officers had to write, but they never really had to fight--not when there were plenty of soldiers to do the job for them. Honest couldn't help but instinctively distrust the dwarf. Despite knowing that reading was not a sort of magic granted only to those of noble birth, it still felt mystical how somebody could look at a few dashes and interpret meaning from them. Besides, he'd never ever had a good experience with those that could capture words on page. He couldn't be sure this... Anlem would be any different.
Huh. His mug was now almost empty. That was quick. He only half paid attention when the dwarf joined the mercenary group, choosing instead to languidly stretch. Another jingle from his coin pouch met his ears and he hurriedly sat up once he remembered. Quickly extracting a few coins for himself--food, poison and emergencies--he moved closer to where Cass was.
"Here, like I said." Honest presented the pouch of money to her. It was still a sizeable amount, although nowhere near what he had originally. There was just nothing to be done. He then turned to Varian.
"So..." he scratched the back of his head and smiled. (The one he practised in front of a mirror for hours after he observed that this was what people did when being friendly. Or sometimes malicious. It was still difficult sorting out some of the distinctions sometimes but he was learning.) His voice was easy, his posture relaxed; he was looking about as non-threatening as possible with his glaive still strapped to his back. "If you could use another person, I hope I'll do?"
May 20th, 2013 (5:51 PM). Edited May 21st, 2013 by SV.
Varian Sigmund and Cassandra Alexandera- The Strutting Stagg, Curilan, Eveamoor
Varian gave a brief nod to the one that he found out later was known as 'Honest', a casual sign of acceptance in the group. He didn't quite feel the necessity of giving an entire speech to each new member that would show up. They'd learn what's what as time would pass, and slowly adapt into their lifestyle soon enough. Besides, Honest had proved that he was capable of fighting in the bandit fort.
***Six days later***
As he drank outside on the porch of the Strutting Stagg, Varian thought on the events of the past week. Soon after the two new members, the dwarf Anlem and the glave-wielding Honest, had joined, Varian made it perfectly clear to the others that they were free to do as they wished. If they wanted to stay with them, that would have been fine, and if they decided to leave, that too was their choice. Over the course of the next six days, Xeye, Evelynn and Bofvar decided to part ways. Varian didn't ask any reasons for their departure, nor did he harbor any ill will towards them. The mercenary lifestyle was an unforseeable one, likely to change at any moment. In the past, he and Cass had to part with other partners, either by their voluntary departure, or more usually, their death. It was a reason he had never decided to get close to any of the people that he worked with. In their line of work, many mercenaries knew as they fell asleep that their next day could very well be their last. There wasn't room for attachments to people. Cass was Varian's exception, but those were very rare nonetheless.
But the situation that they were placed in took an unexpected turn a few days ago, when a local man of Eveamoor began sharing a story he had heard about a group of mercenaries who had apparently taken on an army of well-trained soldiers. Varian assumed it first to be another example of typical Eveamoorian gossip, but as the man delved deeper into his story, the Highman suddenly began getting distinct similarities between their own previous mission, and the supposed fairy tale. It was their last job. Unknown to the mercenaries from their resting point in the Strutting Stagg, the story of their successful rescue of the daughter of Albert Castell had spread like wildfire. It happened first in Curilan, then traveled south to Dalenham, and beyond. Reports flowed further, going into neighboring nations, until their fame had reached the corners of the continent. The Dragons of Dalenham, someone saw fit to one day call them, and the name seemed to catch on. Varian and the others had little say in it, as the people of the world would see and say only what they wanted to. It wasn't long before some people had even started to come to them for jobs. Even as they rested in the tavern, some locals had asked for their assistance in a few matters. Most of them were petty, but it was still strange to Varian how their luck had suddenly turned, how they as mercenaries were not sought to be hired instead of the opposite. Of course, he would have to decline most of their job requests merely because the others were still resting. Most of the group had recuperated, and Alys too, although unconscious, had begun to show signs of improvement. In fact, as the free lodging and food was soon to expire, Varian would soon be tempted to accept one of their offers.
It was quite a position to be in, and whether he had to have time to adjust, or simply because he couldn't sleep, Varian leaned over the side of the handle of the tavern outside, drinking his ale in silence and darkness, wondering what to make of all that had happened to them.
"So 'Dragons of Dalenham' eh? I could think of a better name if I was sober for more than a couple of minutes," a voice said coming from behind Varian. "I am surprised you haven't done anything about it. You tend to care for appearances."
Varian casually turned his head to see Cass approaching his position from the side. He brought his drink to his mouth and took a sip, before turning back to observe the night sky of Eveamoor. In the great distance to the northern moutains, he could see dark clouds forming, perhaps a prelude to a storm. He wondered briefly if the storm would reach their area below. "There's not much I can do if everyone is saying it. But Gods, if it had to be dragons, why did we have to be from Dalanham? I don't want to represent the sh*t-filth of the world."
Cass shrugged at the idea. Unlike Varian, Cass didn't mind the simpler things in life. Dalenham represented simple more than any other city in the world (emphasis being on city) but she could see his point. Varian usually had one. "I am more stuck on the whole 'dragons' bit. I mean why did we have to be named after a fairy tale? That is what I don't get." Cass took a big gulp of her ale and throw the cup behind her, before taking a seat on the steps leading up the front porch of the tavern.
Varian joined her on the porch, sitting down beside her as he finished what was left of his own drink. "Heh," He began, looking at the sky again, particularly towards the mountains, where the faint sound of thunder could be heard. "You know, in the religion of my homeland, it is said that dragons did once exist. They exist in another realm, Ormurheim, and that passage could be done through the Enebrus, lightning bridge. They say a lightning storm signifies an opening of another realm into Aerion. Yet we of the north, much unlike other people, viewed them not as mythic beings, but as our mortal enemies. The old enemies, and when the times comes for Ragnarok, the final enemies." He looked down at his mug, seeing the thing was empty, and so placed it to the side of where he sat. "If I were a more religious Highman, perhaps I would have taken the name as an insult. But, I'm not."
"Where I come from dragons only exist in the myths and stories that you tell children at bed time. They are ancient powerful creatures that little boys dream of and over eager knights kill to prove themselves to their beautiful princesses. I'm sure you heard a tale or two. They are too many to tell. But then, one day, they all disappeared. Poof! In a puff of smoke. They say that the last dragon died sometime in the Heroic Age, but nobody knows for sure really. After all, there isn't any proof they were around in the first place. No bones. No caves full of treasure. Not a single thing exists. Makes me wonder why you Highmen put so much value into your stories, when the rest of the world begs to differ," Cass scoffed at Varian. The Ethorians loved their myths and stories, as did everyone else. The nobles especially as they could actually read all of them, wheras as many had to rely on spoken tales told by their elders. The most popular were the ones of heroes slaying dragons and entrenching their names in legends. But that's what the dragons were: nothing but stories. Tall tales. Folk legends. Myth. No living creature in this world or the next has ever seen a dragon. Yet, or so it seems, that the Highmen contiuned to believe. It truly dumbfounded Cass. How could Varian's people still believe it?
Varian looked at his discarded mug. He picked it up from beside him, and stood up. "Perhaps faith, perhaps foolishness. Only the Gods know." He was about to head back inside to fetch himself more ale, when there was a sudden rustling in the nearby trees. Varian looked closely, the damp night air doing little to help him gaze at the rustling. However, a moment later, a figure seemed to walk through the bushes. This seemed a bit strange to Varian, who noticed quite a bit of open paths leading to the inn. There was no necessity for the person to walk through bushes. It almost seemed as though he wanted to, for whatever reason. If the Highman had to guess, it was for the purpose of secrecy. It was a hooded person, masking their appearance with a dark brown cloak. Upon close observation, Varian could see the dirt and tears in parts of the cloak. The material also seemed to be a bit different, not unlike cloth he typically saw. He caught a glimpse of the man's face and hands, the skin darker than his own. Whoever, he was, he did a fairly good job of hiding it. But Varian had one suspicion, judging by the foreign nature of his appearance. The man could have been from Rastra.
This made this scene all the more strange to the Highman, as the Rastrans are seldom ever seen outside of their sandy dunes. Yet, as if sensing Varian's abnormal take on the situation, the man walked right over to the pair of mercenaries, stopping not two meters away from them, and merely looked at them from under his hood. Varian stood in place, oddly looking at the man as he expected to say something to him, but seconds passed, and he did nothing but stare. It was perplexing, Varian wondering if the man was perhaps mentally unstable. Eventually, Varian decided to break the silence. "Good evening." He said in his thick, Highman accent. In a surprisingly quick response, the man in the hood responded with a simply, "No."
"Hmm?" Was all that Varian responded with, now in the back of his mind wondering if this was going to get out of hand. He kept in mind that his hand axes were still in their place inside the tavern, by his bed.
"No, I do not believe it is a good evening. The land is drenched and muddy. An ill smell fills my nostrils. And from what I see, a storm is on approach." After he had spoken his mind, the man fell silent once more, and continued to gaze at Cass and Varian. Varian, on the other hand, cocked an eyebrow and took a step back. "Right, well. I'll be off then." He finally said, and proceeded into the inn. But the mysterious man once again spoke to Varian before he left the area.
"I am wondering if you truly are dragons." He said candidly. Varian paused again, staring at the man. He continued. "Notoriety spreads like a potent disease, but I wonder if there is truly any claim to it. A dragon is said to have been a beast of unimaginable power, one without rival. I wonder if you are that capable."
"Why don't you pick up a weapon and find out." Varian replied bluntly, his eyes glaring into the man's.
"Oh, I intend to find out, for I come to you with work." He replied back just as quickly. Varian rolled his eyes. "Look, no offense to you, but we have no intention of working for your garbage. Besides, our group is currently resting..." Varian trailed off, as the man hand suddenly turned around and began to head off the same way he had appeared from, back into the bushes, before disappearing into them. He exchanged a look of bewilderment with Cass. The entire meeting had been strange. But just when he thought it was done, the man suddenly re-emerged from behind the bushes, this time, a chest with him in tow. The chest looked relatively heavy, but the man seemed to carry it with very little trouble. It became more apparent how heavy it really was as he approached the pair of mercenaries, and dropped the chest with a surprisingly heavy and loud thud onto the ground. He then opened the chest. In an instant, Varian's jaw dropped.
Inside the chest, all manner of jewels, gold, and gems lay spread out, almost overflowing from the container. It was an assortment of valuables the likes of which Varian had never seen. The diversity of the ornaments were by themselves astounding, but the brilliance of the light that shone from them made them that much more impressive. In a single chest of overflowing precious items, relics, and gems, there was enough light emitting from it to light up the area, almost making night into day.
"Perhaps now you would listen to a man and his garbage?" The man said, his tone, his very look unflinching nor showing any sign of affection by the jewels themselves. Varian looked down at his mug, then at Cass. He was tempted to smack himself in the face to see if he was dreaming. He shook his head wildly, but the sight of the amazing chest of treasures still remained in his vision. So, perhaps momentarily because he simply didn't have the words to speak, he nodded for the man to continue.
"Very good. My name is Agarra," He began. Varian noted the strange name he possessed, only further proving his theory of possible Rastran descent. "I represent an interested party. Their interest lies with something that you possess." He turned his gaze from Varian to Cass. "A small jewel," He said, pointing to Cass. "Something you would have recovered from your last venture. Bright red in color, appearing as a shard."
"Your face is about to be bright red after I beat the **** out of you and leave you bloody! What do you want with my gem anyway? Add to it some collection of yours?" Cass spat. She didn't like the man. He was shifty. Difficult to trust. Mysterious. "Varian, you can't be taking this guy seriously. Last time we took a job for some a shifty guy we walked into a fort blind as a bat." Cass drew her sword, "How about I chop him down now and simply take his gold here and now?"
Varian put a hand up, motioning for her to quiet for a moment. He wanted to hear him out.
"The gem is...special. It has unique properties, and there are more than one copy. In fact, there are multiple shards across the globe. If you should accept this contract, we shall be in a long-term partnership, where the rewards would be beyond anything you can imagine. This chest is but a taste of what you will receive. The treasures of a thousand cities would be yours."
"And what exactly is it that you want us to do?" Varian asked, now crossing his arms. He tried to act as relaxed as he could, even if his heart beat at such a rapid rate. He hoped the man wouldn't notice. He could have potentially just landed the client of a lifetime.
"I would like you to recover these shards. My associates and I shall be feeding you information on their whereabouts, and you will collect them for us."
Varian uncrossed his arms, walked down the path towards the steps. He peered inside the chest of treasures, picking up a single gold coin, perhaps just to see if the stuff was real, as it was. He dropped it back inside, eyeing the man known as Agarra just as he eyed him back. "When something is too good to be true, it usually is. It can't be a simple pick-up job."
"Oh, but it is not. I will not lie to you. Recovering each shard will be challenging. There will be obstacles, whether each shard will have created them, or some other predicament will arise that will provide an encumbrance. However...there is also a more...perceptible obstacle." He walked from behind the treasure chest, closing the handling, and instantly the brilliant light had disappeared into the night sky. "Nearly a month ago, a group similar in size to your own traveled to the isle of Ekilore. Their quest became to collect these shards. Your quest is to attempt to collect them before they do, and if necessary, stop them. By any means necessary. In fact, should you run into them at any point, and I can guarantee you shall very soon, I recommend that you kill them."
It was a lot to take in at a single moment. Give the grand scale that this job would require, it would have been foolish for Varian to try and accept it right on the spot. "This is a pretty hefty thing to accept on a whim. I'll have to discuss this with my team."
"I find there is nothing to discuss," Agarra responded impatiently. "My associates and I are impatient. You will decide now, and relay your answer to your team after. So I ask you, dragon of Dalenham, make your choice. Will you take this job, or will you not?"
"Gods damn it," Varian cursed under his breath. He began pacing back and forth, trying to decide what to answer to one of the biggest, if not the biggest question of his life. As a single mercenary, he would have had a lot less trouble answering the question. He only had to answer for himself, and thus he could live with it either way he answers. With this, he speaks for a group of people, some of which may not be on board. The pay-off would be enormous, life-altering for them all. But would the cost be too great for even them? Every mercenary strives for gold, and they had just hit the jackpot with this job. On the other had, every mercenary also strives for self-preservation, the extension of their own life by any means necessary. In this way, perhaps this job would be their death. He looked at Cass, a fighter he had depended on for so long, someone who fought with him through the best and worst of their sellsword days. "Do you have my back, no matter what?" He asked, looking for her input in a conflicting position.
"I wouldn't be much of a mercenary if I said 'No' would I?" Cass began, scratching her head. The promise of riches entinced her more than anything. In fact, she felt it was a rather easy decision but she could understand Varian's concern. He was not the risk taker she was, being far more wary of things. She lived for thrills really. "More importantly, what kind of friend would I be if I let you go out there alone?" She said finally. In the end, Varian was her friend and if he was in, she was in.
Varian gave the man a deep sigh, finally coming to a conclusion. They would never get an opportunity like this again, and if they were to succeed, whatever they would have wanted from the mercenary life would become theirs. Fame. Fortune. Glory and Honor too, if that was their cup of tea, though the Highman doubted the others fought for such things. Even if it was simply the pleasure of the job, what finer one could they find than one with such a prize? "Alright, Agarra. We're in."
One would think the man would have been pleased to hear the news, but all he gave as a sign was a simple nod of the head. "Very well. Then from here, head south to Palaven. I will have a ship prepared to take you to Ashera from Yamcha, and then you shall make your way to Garrius, to meet with the Voice of Palaven, their head of state and holy leader. He is said to have information regarding the location of a shard."
Varian nodded in understanding. He had never been to Palaven, but had heard all sorts of rumors above the degree of their devotion to the supposed One, their one True God. This just got even more interesting. At this moment, a thought came into his head. "How will we be contacting you?" Agarra picked up the chest he brought, and began to drag it away through the bush he came out of. "Do not worry. I will contact you." He said, and disappeared back into the dark of the night without another word.
"Well, that ain't suspcious at all," Cass said.
Varian nodded in agreement. It wasn't an oddity to have a secretive employer, but this might have been a tad too much. Still, a contract was accepted, so they had work to do. Heading back inside the Strutting Stagg, Varian looked around to see most of the other mercenaries drinking or loafing around. It wasn't late enough in which they were all asleep, which was good. "Lads and lasses, we've got a new job, and boy is it a big one." He declared. As Varian concluded his explanation of their new, potentially long-term job, Cass posed a question.
"Alright, well which one of you f*ckers are joining us?"
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May 21st, 2013 (2:59 AM). Edited May 21st, 2013 by Swolligator.
May 27th, 2013 (1:58 PM). Edited May 27th, 2013 by Kikpanther.
The Dragons of Dalenham - The Strutting Stagg, Curilan, Eveamoor
"Obviously, we aren't forcing anyone to do the job," Varian stated, adding on to Cass's previous statement. "We are mercenaries by trade, free to pursue whatever jobs we wish. Cass and I are taking this job. The rest of you are free to accompany us if you so choose. But mark me," He stared at each of the mercenaries gathered around in the small inn, "This one looks like it'll be for the long haul and it won't be lacking in danger. There will probably be a few nasty surprises along the way."
Ava sat off to the side, sharpening her swords on the whetstone she had bought back in Dalenham. "What about Alys? We're not going to leave her here, are we?" While she was eager to carry on, she was concerned about the incapacitated teammate of hers lying in one of the bedrooms.
"If Alys is fit to go, and wants to go, then I have no qualms in taking her along. She proved herself well enough in our last job." Varian responded, taking a seat in his chair, and motioning for the barmaid to bring him a drink. She gave the Highman a glare, mostly because it appeared to other patrons that they had been drinking for free for almost a week, which was detrimental for business. She had grown tired of explaining that they had been paid for up until the end of the week, which was tomorrow.
"Whose talking about me?" Alys shuffled out from the hallway, kept upright by one of the healers who lead her over to a seat for her to sit down. She was notably thinner than she had been before, and a lot more paler looking as if she was ghost, although sever wounds would do that to you. Clutching a mug of thick, murky healing potion, her hands shook as if the mug weighed twice as much and it looked like it took all her effort just to drink from it. "Have we got a new mission?"
"Oi!" Varian yelled out loud, lifting his fresh mug and toasting to Alys. He wanted to mention how she had given them quite a scare for the injuries that she had received and the long duration she had been in a coma. He wanted to say that it was good seeing her up and about, but in the end, he decided against it. He figured that as their leader, he had to maintain a certain personal distance between himself and the others. Their line of work allowed for little in the area of friendships, and Varian wasn't eager to make friends only to have to end up dealing with the pain of burying them later. Alys had survived the last job, but there was no telling that any of them would survive the next. "Yes, we just received it. Long-term employment. Big payment, put mildly. Certainty of danger. We'll fill you in on the details later, but those that are joining up with us are heading to Palaven tomorrow. If you're fit to go. If you want to go, you're free to tag along."
Alys' heart skipped a beat and what little colour had returned to her face rapidly left at the mere mention of 'Palaven'. Her mind cast back to her history in Rowanion as her hands gripped the the mug harder. "We're...we're going to Rolsten?" she stuttered in confirmation. She wasn't in a state now to even lift a bow, much less draw it to strike, but the vow still played over in her mind. A free trip to Rolsten was all she needed; she would just have to gain all her strength on the way there before confronting the damned island that had taken her parents. "I'll go," she stated determinately, "I'll ride a horse until Yamcha, if I can't strike a target by then, I'll stay behind."
"If Alys is going, then I am too." Ava piped up, casting a weary glance over at the feeble Alys, the girl, even in her weakened state, was ready to charge into battle again. Even before the bandit fort, the two of them had happily fought side by side, looking out for one another and creating a bond between them. She wouldn't let Alys fight without her; someone needed to take care of the close combat.
Anlem sat towards the back of the tavern. He didn't say anything while this commotion went on around him, but only wrote in his book in silence as he had been doing the passed few days. The exchange between Alys and Varian was not particularly important to him so he put half his attention on the conversation and the rest on his prose. He looked up from his work when they finally finished, half wondering how girl in a coma could go from weak to determined and half of a mind already made up. Their chatter had given him time to think and consider and he was more than ready to state his answer.
"If that's two then I'll be three," he answered without hesitation.
"I'm sorry, who are you?" Alys asked meekly. The dwarf who had spoken had not been one of the few that had journeyed with them to the bandit keep in the first place, yet he seemed to be counting himself into their band of mercenaries, something Alys wasn't too happy about. Surely he must have heard of their tales already and was quick to jump on the bandwagon. Had their tales really made it that far and wide while she had been asleep for the entire six days?
"Mm?" Anlem turned his head to the injured girl which he learned through the conversation was named Alys. "Anlem Taegor," he answered politely, "a pleasure to meet you. I came here six days ago."
If Honest had heard correctly, the injured woman was an archer which could be a very useful person to have in a group. In a battle he was particularly wary of archers since they had a much greater range than he did, and it was nigh impossible to dodge or block an arrow from afar unless you spent more time looking at the sky than at your surroundings. And then you'd die anyway. He would much rather have an archer on his side than against him, although she probably wasn't quite as effective in close combat--leading to her earlier condition. The dwarf, on the other hand, was a writer-who-could-use-a-hammer. Having never seen him fight before, Honest wasn't too sure how well he would cope in a fight.
In any case, his answer was quite obvious. Even if he hadn't pledged himself to Cass he would probably have still agreed to go. Aligning himself to this group, with their increased notoriety, was bound to increase the amount of work they could do. And while work sometimes lead to death, every mercenary knew that a lack of work meant starvation.
"I go where Cass goes," he said easily.
"We didn't ask you," Cass said, giving Honest a sly smile. She was going to force him to come regardless if he wanted to or not. That is what servants do anyway. They follow their master without question.
"Good," Varian said with a nod. He turned to look back at the counter. "Now that we have that settled..." He whistled for one of the barmaids to approach. She walked over to the Highman with a smile, opposite to the other one who served them. Varian casually leaned back in his chair. "Have you got any Ormur Firewater?" He asked her, not looking over towards her when he spoke.
"Ah, I think we imported a few cases not a fortnight ago, so you may be in luck." She replied.
"Give me six mugs," He ordered, before looking over the others. He wouldn't have expected any of them to have heard of it unless they would have visited the country at some point. It was very popular among the Highmen nation, but also in some nothern parts of Ethora and Eveamoor. In Vanaheim, there were three main celebratory drinks customarily performed in toasts: Haegard Whiskey was for the dead. Vanaeras Wine was for celebrations. Ormur Firewater was for luck. "Here, if you have the stomach for it," Varian declared, as the barmaid brought six mugs of the potent Highman liquor, appearing like crystal clear water. "I'd expect the real dragons amongst us to still be standing after this." He uttered, raising his mug in the air to be met by the remaining five mercenaries.
Honest regarded the mug quizzically. He hadn't had a lot of alcohol in the last week, and he'd definitely never had anything so clear. From Varian's words the drink was very strong, but it couldn't be that bad if it looked like they'd just fetched it from a well. He clinked his mug against Varian's, a tradition he'd never actually partaken in before, and then took a large sip. The burn that followed the liquor down surprised him and he was immediately more relaxed.
After his toast, Anlem also took a look at his mug. He'd never had a taste of anything from Vanaheim and certainly nothing with a color like this--clear, yes, but nothing so pristine. He took a heavy gulp and immediately regretted it afterwards, coughing from the drink's heavy burn. In hindsight, he realized that anything with the name "Firewater" wasn't going to be friendly to the throat and that he probably shouldn't have done that. He wondered for a moment if the burn was worth it, but as the drink's affect washed over him he concluded that it was.
Alys gingerly reached for the mug, hand shaking badly enough for the drink to spill all over the floor before it even reached her mouth. Out of nowhere, one of the healers swiped the drink from in front of Alys and took it up to the bar, exchanging it for another mug of the stagnant "medicine" water she was currently drinking. Obviously she was not allowed to drink alcohol, so sourly accepted the new mug of "medicine" water, raising it to Varian's mug before taking a large gulp of the thick liquid.
"What's this about dragons?" She asked quizically after the warm liquid slid down her throat.
"Something the locals gave us," Varian replied, taking a large, satisfying gulp of the burning liquid. The aftertaste alone stung in his mouth. The drink itself burned as if someone lit a match in his mouth. It indeed was Highmen liquor, and Varian missed it sorely, burning sensation and all. He slammed the mug satisfyingly onto the table and let out a deep sigh as he continued to speak to Alys "We've gotten quite renown from the last job, as you can imagine, our client being Albert Castell. The locals started calling us the Dragons of Dalenham, and the name somehow managed to stick."
"The what?!?!" Alys blurted out, almost losing her mouthful of medicine, "the Dragons of Dalenham? I mean come on, a fairy tale from a cesspool? You've got to be joking Varian, at least they could have called us something cool like 'Mercs of Aerion' or 'The Syndicate'." She shook her head dissatisfactionally, taking another large gulp. Firstly they had picked up these two nobodies while she was asleep, and now they had given themselves a name? It was ludicrous as if the whole world had suddenly turned upside down while she was knocked out.
"We're not the only mercenaries in Aerion," Honest pointed out bemusedly as he took a sip from his cup. "That could get confusing." A part of him quailed at the thought of confronting someone--however minutely--who obviously had seniority in the group, but that part was definitely getting quieter the more he drank.
"I didn't make the bloody name!" Varian boomed, picking up the potent liquor and taking another swig of it, letting the burning sensation pass through his insides. He suddenly felt a warming sensation pass over his entire body. He was feeling the effects of the combination of the Firewater and his previous drinks. "As I said to Cass before, the people will make their trivial names, and at this point, there's nothing we can do to dissuade them otherwise. Like it or not, that's what Aerion now calls us. I say, if it gives us clients, f*ck the details."
"I don't quite mind the name," Anlem commented. "True, they could have picked something better than Dalenham, but I think it has a bit of a charm to it."
Varian shrugged, taking another gulp of the burning liquor, the aftertaste potently remaining in his mouth. "Whatever works for you," He commented, then placed his mug down, and figured now was a better chance to find out more about the newcomers. "I don't suppose anyone of you are from Palaven, are you? You don't seem like the type. Where do you hail from?" He asked, though he supposed Anlem was most likely from the mountains of Mindirion, and Honest from Eveamoor. That's what he seemed to think fit the bill.
"I actually come from a little farm to the south," Honest explained happily with another sip of his drink. For all he knew, that was true. He thought he remembered days of toil underneath a burning sun; the smell of cracked dirt and water too precious for him to drink. But he also remembered oceans and the sting of salt water on his wounds, and the suffocating cold-dark-damp of mines, and the clashing of swords in battle, and about three hundred different versions of his family.
"I come from Falke," Anlem answered after Honest. "Though by the way I left, I don't think my family would accept me saying that."
"What, did you murder someone or something?" Varian asked bluntly. "I have no qualms with a murderer. Murder is just killing without the knowledge of payment."
"Oh, no. It was much more tame than that--a bit boring actually." Anlem took another drink of the Firewater which seemed to burn more fiercely than the last time. "I cared more about writing than fighting--a big thing in my family--and it didn't exactly go so well. They took it a bit like Cass did at the beginning, but then they started to look at me a little contemptuously so I left." He shrugged as he finished, not seeming all too affected by his family's decision.
Varian shrugged, also taking a sip of the burning liquid. He felt the heat emit from his mouth as he exhaled. "I suppose what's in the past should stay buried there. What exactly do you write about?"
"Anything I see. I haven't found anything to focus on. Well, until I ran into you all, that is." Anlem answered. "I figured I'd write about our adventures now. We might as well give this living legend a story, right?"
"Heh..." Varian snorted, looking down at his mug, which was now almost done. He felt the warmth of the liquid flow through his body, but most notably at his throat and mouth. He shook his head at Anlem's living legend comment. Is that really where this was headed, or were they thinking too much of themselves now?
"Might as well..."
May 27th, 2013 (6:17 PM).
Tamor Bellfiend, Percival Grey, Roland Grey, and Dulinhel Elenren
The days and nights flashed by Tamor, she had awakened in a slightly groggy state alone. Niolas had refused to come beneath the deck, not that she blamed him, as he liked his freedom. Recalling brief moments of consciousness from days past enabled her to fit some of the pieces to her puzzle together. Before the Necromancer's inevitable defeat surprisingly by her own hands Tamor had managed to maneuver her hands into a position where she could snatch the jewel they were after. Unconsciousness seized her but not until after she watched the light glimmer off the surface of the precious shard. One of the other knights must have pried it from her hands as the next time she awoken it was gone, but at least they had retrieved it. Shock was still settling in, their foe, a tough one at that, had fallen at her might. Power had pulsed through her during those last few actions, a power that she hadn't felt before. Almost as if she had tapped into a different side of the same divine source, though Tamor didn't let herself dwell on it too much. The party had come and gone in a flash, The Knights of Ekilore had been chanted more times than she had imagined was possible. Not to mention the individuals that had thanked her and spoke kinds words, words she hadn't heard in quite some time. Yoshuro even had her robes repaired by the best seamstress in Shinguo. Happiness settled in, even though it wouldn't last long Tamor still soaked it in while she could. It hadn't lasted long at all once Yoshuro announced their next destination to his friend, his friend The Burning King. Enjoyment came in sparse moments after that, Raelus was a haunting memory that kept coming back to her like a nightmare. Anything enjoyable about Raelus had died with Eislynn her divine arts mentor. The Bellfiends were a prominent elven family in Raelus due to their military involvement, her grandfather, Tamnor Bellfiend, was very high in the chain of command yet Tamor's caring had stopped her from learning what position he was. While her mother, Anyine Bellfiend the Censmage (second in command), had taken stake in the Mage's Guild that was responsible for fireballs that gave the King his title. More Bellfiends took hold in other places, but Tamor hadn't had a lesson in her family history, either side.
May 29th, 2013 (8:34 PM). Edited June 2nd, 2013 by Legend.
Eldur. The pride of Raelus. A impregnable fortress of steel and stone. It's high, thick walls and strong imposing gates tower over the surrounding rural villages. It is a structure that has continually evolved, having adapted to the military culture that first gave it life. Eldur has grown and grown into an greater fortress, having lasted through many sieges. It is said that Eldur's might is so great that no army has even come close to taking it. Some legends say that Eldur has never even been scratched. An unscathed fortress. Untouched. Undefeated. Perhaps it is because of the Twin Towers of Eldur at the center of the city, at the heart of this demonic fortress. The Twin Towers of Eldur act as the seat of the King of Raelus, being the tallest and largest towers of the central castle of Raelus' steel capital. They appear as two spear-like towers of stone and steel, anointed at the top with an observatory. Rivaling the greatest towers constructed by man (Oculus Tower excluded) the Twin Towers of Eldur have crafted a great legend since their construction in 873 FC. They are great watchtowers, said to see much of Rolston at the highest vantage points. It is said that such a structure strikes fear into the hearts of soldiers for Raelus can see all. Know all. Defeat all.
Or perhaps it is simply the smoke that rises from the city, obscuring it in a black aura of mystery. For none know the horrors of the machinations of the industry within the high black walls of Eldur.
Within the walls of Eldur are the oldest of the modern marvels dubbed "factories" and its most esteemed military academies. "Factory" is a term coined by the Raelusian engineers that first conceived the idea of "mass production", another term coined by the warrior kings following the second war with Ellessar in which the countries came to a conclusive tie. A compulsive need for more weapons and armor came to being. There needed to be a "mass production" so to speak of military equipment. Anything from swords, to shields, to siege weapons. The tools of war. Of conquest. Hence the "factory" was invented. Factories first sprouted by in Eldur, developing new machines to rapidly produce weapons and armor at little to no cost to equip soldiers, employing blacksmiths and engineers to operate them. Soon, as the experiment continued to evolve, they sprouted by in smaller locales and the military ports along the coast, employing trained workers to maintain the machines. The military academies had a similar tale. First opening in the early 800s FC, the first and finest academies opened in Eldur as well, but later moved to local villages to train soldiers at a lower cost for more rural families. For Raelus needed soldiers. Raelus always needs soldiers.
The journey to the great city of Eldur had been a long one. Hardly an arduous journey, for the sea between Shingou and Rolston was the ever calm Trader's Waters, a body of water seemingly designed for easy traveling. The Trader's Waters were aptly named, bestowed upon the first adventurous merchants of the Heroic Age. It was a body of water that rarely experienced the harsh storms of the Sea of Storms. In fact, it appeared to always be calm, easy to navigate, often with favorable winds. The only difficulty would be the crowded ports because of how popular and easy the waters were. Everyone wanted to cruise on the gentle Trader's Waters. Clear skies made ancient navigation easy as well. It was because of these conditions that shipbuilders consistently built smaller ships in the south. They took advantage of these conditions, favoring the fast voyage over the secure one. Journeys were to be short, efficient and economical. Unless you of course happened to be a merchant vessel chosen as a victim by the vigilant Privateers of Raelus. Then your journey would be cut even shorter.
Luckily, the Knights were not such a group and their captain had guaranteed a safe voyage. A small stop at Old Zealand made the lengthy journey slightly more relaxing as their were welcomed by the so called "Harem Prince" Declan, who was appropriately named to say the least. A brief stay calmed their nerves and allowed the weary Knights to experience land, if only for a brief moment.
Following the excursion on the small island nation, the voyage continued until they made landfall at Raelus a few weeks later. Raelus lacks in trading ports, with every port town founded on the military principle of the nation. Within every port, a military base is built right on top of it, crowding the small merchant outposts and smaller merchant ships. Ports instead are filled to the brim with the large warships that drive the "Burning Navy" of "The Burning King" Christian Calason, Second of his Name, High Admiral and King of Raelus.
The "Burning Navy" was the igneous idea of then Admiral Christian Calason. Ship to ship combat, at least in the southern seas was very basic. The entire goal was to corner your opponent's ships with the hopes they will either crash, be overtaken by the elements or you could board and raid the ship, sacking it completely. It was formulaic and predictable. Christian Calason, a master tactician, sought to change it completely. Incorporating the Mage's Guild of Raelus into his crew, he invented the idea of launching fireballs at his opponent's ships either as a means of trapping, or better yet, attacking the ship bringing it down in a blaze of glory. It was a deadly innovation. After several trials by fire, the new idea spread throughout the navy, earning his epithet and bestowing a new title to the branch "The Burning Navy."
Percival found himself at the mercy of the Raelusian welcome, with only Captain Crewe having the tact to effectively communicate to the Raelusian guards at the port. They demanded comprehensive statements of intent, cargo listings and intended length of stay. Captian Crewe handled the majority of it, fearing the Percival or Roland would speak out of turn, fearing that their quest to save Aerion would end before it truly began. Luckily enough, they made out of the small port town with enough horses to make the four day journey to Eldur alive and well. Captain Crewe had to bid farewell, apparently receiving another job in mere hours of landing. Percival had hoped that people of Raelus would be more welcoming and he would not been Crewe's eloquence of speech to get through the fiery disposition of the people of Raelus.
The military lockdown on the ports were only the beginning, misplacing Percival's hopes greatly. The paved roads of Raelus made the journey easy enough, however, frequent checkpoints existed on these roads. Common folk were hardly welcoming to the travelers when the Knights stayed at smaller villages for rest and food, seemingly shunning the outsiders. Was it fear? No. Raelusians are hardly fearful. Was it a sense of national pride? More likely. The people of Raelus always saw themselves as superior, not needing to associate with others. Roland called them "elitists" but was he really one to talk? Percival only bowed his head. He tried to be polite to the people of Raelus. It seemed to help, at least at times.
The long journey to Eldur, luckily enough had come to a head. Now the Knights stood before the great gates of the fortress. It stood at an impressive height. Percival could not begin to guess what its height was. Quantifying it would be nigh impossible. At least in his state of fatigue. "Halt. You are now in the presence of the great fortress of Eldur! State your name and purpose!" The head guard of the gate ordered. He was heavily armored, equipped in black full plate mail. A platoon of guards had been stationed in the area, many on the walls with crossbows. Others with axes, spears, and swords. Eldur, as to expected, was in lockdown. Breaking through this fortress would be a crowning achievement, if it could be done.
"My name is Percival Grey. We are of the Knights of Ekilore, here to seek audience with your esteemed King Calason, second of his name. We come in peace," Percival stated, calmly as he could as arrows were being aimed at his companions.
"As if I haven't heard such a story before?" The guard objected. "I highly doubt our King would miss having an audience with you. Perhaps I should cut you down instead. Maybe we would get promotions for our heroism instead."
"Why would you do such a thing?" Percival protested, eyes gawking at the guards in total surprise.
"Tell me, boy, do you know anything of our situation here? You could be spies for the enemy."
"Do you know anything of the world?!" Roland roared from behind Percival, before striding beside him. "We are the Heroes of Shingou! Your King would do himself a great favor permitting us to enter your city gates. Also, his friend Yoshuro of Shingou said we would be welcome. Surely, you do want your King's reputation to be stained by your own poor judgement."
The guard paused and looked around the Knights, whispering amongst his comrades. "You may enter. If you wish to see the King, head for the center of the city. Relay the same information you gave me to the guards at the castle gates. They will permit you to enter. I will see to that. May the flames of Eldur guide you."
The massive gates of the fortress swung open and the Knights entered as quietly as they could, taking in the sights and sounds of Eldur proper: a dark, dreary city of stone buildings adorned with red roofs in a grid like pattern of cobblestone streets. It was a organized city with a constant police presence, keeping the populace in check. The city quarters were clearly outline with a military, residential, industrial and commercial district each. The heart of the city was reserved for governmental matters and of course the grand Raelusian castle, with the Twin Towers of Eldur watching over all. The streets themselves were hardly decorated, but clean enough. Trees and and flowers with fiery red foliage outlined the streets with some charm, but it did little to remove the dark ambiance of the city. The people themselves held little enthusiasm for the new arrivals, turning away promptly and going about their business. Overall, the streets were relatively quiet, a far cry from the reception they received in Shingou.
"Home, sweet home, I suppose. Right Tamor? Auden" Percival said to his companions. "Let's head to the castle first."
Rai, Raikiri
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May 29th, 2013 (9:48 PM).
The Theocracy of Palaven. In many ways, one of the most unique nations not only in Rolsten, but in all of Aerion. As most other countries, Palaven is united by a culture which the citizens embrace. However unlike other nations which are united by common language, dialect, values, norms, ideology, social structure or ethnic distinction, Palaven is united by a common religion, the Church of the One True God. It is for this reason that it is one of the most tolerant countries in terms of immigration, professing peoples of all races, including men, elves, and dwarves. It is the closest nation to an absolute religious state, with over 99% of its population following the Church of the One. Being a theocracy, the head of state of the country is the religious leader Armand Terrin, known by the people of Palaven by his official title of the 'Voice of the One', as in Palaven he is believed to be the holy link between Aerion and the One, with the Voice believed to be able to speak with the One Himself and dictate His will.
The city of Garius was built as the epicenter of their religion. Nicknamed the 'City of God', it was built entirely out of the finest materials known to man. Angelic-white marble paved the flawless, shining streets of the city, and alabaster stone made up the architectural arrangement of all buildings. Garrius is a city of privilege, haboring all that was valuable and substantial in Palaven, most notably the Great Cathedral of the One, home of the Voice, around which the city of Garius was constructed. It is an imposing and radiant structure, the largest in diameter of Garius, and by far the most magnificent, decorated with engravings and inscriptions across the outside. For the very few who have managed to enter, it is said to be even more impressive, a home built literally for God. Also around the city was the Tower of Absolution, where the Palvanese Senate holds their meetings and sessions. It is the tallest building of Palaven, but also boasts decorative designs across the exterior of the structure. There were also over four dozen smaller (in relation to the Great Cathedral) churches across the city, acting both as the places of worship and the schools for the people.
Built for aestheticism rather than fortification, it is considered one of the most beautiful cities in the world, accommodating half a dozen capacious public parks, which are decorated with fountains and statues in dedication to the One or some religious context of the One, an abundance of religious, historical, and artistic museums, and celestially decorated theaters upon which plays are performed. All structures are maintained to the highest degree to ensure continuous cleanliness, and crime is almost non-existent. It is a city of pleasure and revelry. Of beauty and artistry. Of security and safety. However, what it lacks in high walls and hefty defense it makes up for in the sheer abundance of soldiers inside of the city, having one of the largest standing armies in a single city in Aerion.
Yet not all of the citizens are allowed to live inside this beautiful paradise. As was earlier suggested, Garius was a city a privilege. Quarter requires a thorough background check, as well as proof of religious piety. There is also a hefty tax upon first request of entry, and following one's confirmed residence into the city, continuous tax which would be collected yearly. For such reasons, much of the peasants and even some of the middle class live in surrounding villages, as well as in port cities and small towns. They too pay a tax to Garius, albeit a much smaller one. Many of these are supposedly in very horrendous condition because of the lack of funding and enforcement. Besides the extensive costs it has taken to construct Garius, most funding goes to the capital as well, leaving very little for those who dwell on the outside. Although some of the larger cities endure, smaller towns have barely enough to survive. Crime is rampant, disease is ever-present, and occasionally, riots break out. However, they never last long, as they are either quickly put down or literally, those who riot simply die out.
It was a country Varian never thought he would end up visiting, as the nation rarely allows foreigners who aren't of the religious faith. Trade is heavily regulated and often restricted to the port cities, most notably Ashera, where the bulk of foreigners would dwell. They are often quite poorly treated, frequently ridiculed and beaten by natives, to which the guards often cast a blind eye. In some cases, death because of religious differences would also occur, usually without response by the theocracy. However, their experience turned out to be much different. Upon arrival of their ship which Agarra commissioned, the mercenaries were instantly picked up by soldiers at the shore, and placed into decorative carriages with cloth to obstruct the view from the windows. From all that was rumored about Palaven, Varian wondered if these cloths were designed to keep the people of Palaven from seeing the mercenaries, as it would be an oddity, to say the least, of outsider mercenary foreigners to be taking a leisurely stroll through the countryside, or if the cloths were designed to keep the mercenaries from viewing the rest of Palaven, as upon their two day ride to the capital, they had little chance to view the countryside, as few stops were made along the way, and all were away from any cities or towns. With all the rumors surrounding the extent of the abhorrent conditions of the people outside of Garius, it would have been possible that they were shielding their view of such sights as to continue to present the idea that Palaven's true depiction was that of Garius.
As for that city, even Varian, the uncultured mercenary who had no real interest in the arts of sights, was impressed. It was a city to behold, and one where he knew they would certainly stick out like sore thumbs. The cloths around the windows of the carriages were removed, and the doors were opened into the bright, shining city. Beyond all of the sights that the city presented, Varian also saw the people as they walked through, some of which conversed with each other, and others who went upon their day merrily. They all appeared well-mannered, polite, and highly intelligent. It was also somewhat strange. All talks Varian could hear had something or other to do with the Voice. In almost every dialogue, their names were mentioned, or the sentence was begun with a greeting in relation to them. In on particular example, a man greeted another with, "The Voice guides your light," which Varian took to mean hello. He overheard another, in which a man told another in departing, "The One protects you." Another interesting concept was their referral of outsiders as "infidels". Varian thought the word an insult at first, but as he had spent more time with the guards over the few days, and from what he had seen at shore, it was apparently a normal way of referring to outsiders who did not embrace the faith. It was all centered around the ceremony of the religion. Varian found it surprisingly intriguing. He had never been seen such overwhelming devotion from an entire population towards one single ideology. Others professed unity and togetherness in similar fashion, but those countries who say that they were religious always had the minority who were opposed. In Palaven, in Garius, everyone preached a similar ideology. Everyone was on the same page. Everyone thought the same, and everyone talked the same. Everyone had the same high level of devotion. It was now becoming clear to Varian why some began to treat Palaven with a bit more appreciation. When an entire population is behind a single ideal, in this case a religious ideal, with such passion, the results could be deadly for their enemies.
At least, that was the face the city presented, and for now that was what Varian had to accept. The guard who had escorted them to shore quickly motioned for them to continue on their way. "Welcome to the City of God. Follow our path, infidels, as we tread the path of the One." The guard ordered to the group, Varian assuming that they mean to follow in their ceremonial way of speaking. He did his best to ignore his referral of the group as 'infidels' so casually, again reminding himself the term was not an insult here. "Refrain from conversation with those in the path of the One, if you will. They are not used to seeing infidels among the streets of God."
Varian looked around to confirm what the guard meant, as the people of Garius gazed upon the group of odd mercenaries in bewilderment and shock. Some younger children, who were also dressed in fine clothes, tried to get a closer look at them as they walked the streets, only to be forced away by frightful parents. Most of the citizens saw them as a part of a plague, people who were untouchable. Many kept their distance, but none averted their eyes. One citizen of obvious noble birth finally approached the group, gazing upon them many of the others did prior, and then spoke to the lead guard. "The One protects you," He said to him in a smile. The guard nodded, and the well-mannered man continued. "I am interested, sir, as we all are, what you are doing with these infidels. Are you perhaps proceeding to make an example of their sacrilegious ways and burning them at the stake?" Varian quickly turned his gaze to the man, a bit surprised by what had come out of his mouth. Did he just say burn them? He had a feeling that bit wasn't shrouded in ceremony. He meant what he said, and the normal citizen said it so nonchalantly, as if it were normal.
"Nay, citizen," The guard replied. "These infidels are to be brought before his Holiness himself. The Voice has use for them."
A Legend once told me that roleplaying is about bringing people together and celebrating creative vision.
Paired with the Artsy Infinite and the Spectacular Shak
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June 1st, 2013 (3:43 AM). Edited June 1st, 2013 by CarefulWetPaint.
Auden Radke and Tamor Bellfiend
June 2nd, 2013 (5:35 AM).
Joseph "Honest" Sherman - Palaven
Throughout their journey, Honest found himself mostly ignored by the mercenaries he was accompanying. He found this quite welcome; he was used to being met with avoidance and distrust. The apathy he sensed from most of the others was more than he usually hoped for when finding himself a part of a larger team. Truthfully, he had also taken to avoiding contact with the dwarf wherever possible, still finding himself discomfited in the presence of the other newcomer.
The whole trip was uneventful, although he'd greeted the prospect of travelling by ship like an old friend. Nobody who'd been in the army for any length of time could hope to avoid sea voyages--or, not where he came from (wherever that may have been). Sometimes he would feel himself slowly being driven to insanity due to the fact that he had no tasks to do while on the vessel. (Uselessness was intolerable.) Most of the time, he found himself perfectly satisfied to be sitting alone and staring at a wall for hours on end. (He had always been well trai-- ...behaved. Well behaved.) By the time they had alighted from the ship and were ushered straight into a waiting carriage, Honest was unequivocally sick of all the confinement.
Or, he thought he might be. Should be? He wasn't sure, but there was some kind of irritable undercurrent running through his skin, although that was probably his imagination as well. He dismissed this train of thought easily. It wasn't of all that much concern to him either way.
The windows of the carriage were covered, which was quite disappointing. He'd heard stories of Palaven from his mother since he was a child--about their sparkling city and their spiritual devotion, surrounded by black corruption. It was a shame he couldn't see it for himself. He would have loved to describe the land to her when he arrived home. Alas, all he could do now was wait.
When he was finally able to step down from the carriage and take in the wondrous sight of the city, Honest's jaw dropped. This was so far removed from his life as a fisherman's son that he found himself floundering a little in his own inadequacy. Everything in sight was so bright and clean and overwhelmingly majestic. He was so starstruck that he didn't notice the way the local citizens were eyeing them as though they were rabid dogs. (Much.)
One of the guards gestured for them to follow him. "Welcome to the City of God. Follow our path, infidels, as we tread the path of the One. Refrain from conversation with those in the path of the One, if you will. They are not used to seeing infidels among the streets of God."
Honest's brow furrowed in confusion. What were infidels? He had never heard of the term before, although he understood that it was a word that referred to their group. Perhaps it was what they called mercenaries here in Palaven? One thing was for sure, though. The stories certainly had not exaggerated the piousness of the people of Palaven. Far from relaxing, however, Honest began to feel wary. His grip on his glaive tightened almost imperceptibly when a man appeared to summon the courage to approach the group and greet them politely.
The man spoke with a smile. "I am interested, sir, as we all are, what you are doing with these infidels. Are you perhaps proceeding to make an example of their sacrilegious ways and burning them at the stake?"
Honest blinked, wondering whether his mind was playing tricks on him. That probably wasn't the case, though, considering he couldn't even fathom what the word sacri-what-was-it even meant. Unfortunately, this meant that apparently they were in a place where it wasn't inconceivable that they would be burned at the stake. (Burning flesh; he didn't understand how anyone could even stand the smell...)
"Nay, citizen. These infidels are to be brought before his Holiness himself. The Voice has use for them."
Honest did not feel any less wary, even after hearing the joyous news that they weren't to be executed for whatever reason. Not when they were now only alive as far as their apparent usefulness extended (and wasn't that a familiar situation). He slipped into his smile nevertheless, making sure he looked quite agreeable to whatever would happen next.
After all, he had never seen so many soldiers in one city. It was probably a bad idea for them to antagonise them in any way.
June 2nd, 2013 (3:24 PM).
Anlem Taegor-- Palaven
The passed three weeks had been... Interesting. It was hard to say eventful, since a lot of it was dull traveling. There had been some moments that were worth remembering. A few jokes, a few amusing people at bars, a few humorous arguments, and maybe a fight or two (fights which may or may not have involved themselves). Every worthy moment he had recorded. The story of the mercenaries seemed like it would have no problem growing.
The second chapter was destined to begin, albeit slowly. Their first stop was Palaven, a religious country far to the south of Aerion. It was no secret how devout the poor citizens of Palaven were. Anlem actually wasn't very excited to enter the place, though he didn't make a show of it. He'd already had his run with too much religion and wasn't quite excited to be meeting it again. It seemed as though he would have little to no choice in the matter and would have to grin and bare it. It probably wouldn't have been too bad if it were any other religion but they were headed for the One's brightest torch. The Church of One was of his least favorite religions of all the ones he knew. Luckily (if you could call it lucky) their travels would delay them long enough for him to reason with himself that this trip may not be as bad as he was making it.
That's what he hoped at least.
His hopes faltered a bit when they arrived on Palaven's port and was taken to the city of Garius. They were loaded into carriage which, though not a devil to the eye to look at, could have been bigger. Though he felt he was too close to Honest (whom he hadn't traded many words with for the time he'd known him) and too close to the wall it still wasn't that bad. It only got worse when, at nearly every stop (which were all very beautifully made religious houses run by spiritual leaders) a friar or maybe a poor soul would speak to one or all of them about the One. Their speeches, which were all laced with religious fervor, were either said with the purpose of converting them or to recount some sort of great awakening of some sort. By the fifth, Anlem was not paying attention at all. He only nodded and gave disconnected agreements to their points. The only time he felt violent was when a Palaven man on what he called a religious journey felt the need to ask him how it was possible he could survive "knowing he was destined for Infernum" and how he couldn't imagine a life where one was so instantly d*mned. However, Anlem was a survivor and particularly good at not letting others know how he felt about them. And so, exhausted, he'd made it to Garius.
Garius! It was a grand city indeed! Compared to the filth of Curlian and the decay in Yamcha, Garius was like Heaven itself. All of the roads marble, polished, beautiful. The city could be described as nothing but pure; the citizens dressed as though they were all in the hall of the One. The scene would have been better if it weren't for the fact that those same citizens were giving them odd looks. Their whispers were loud enough to be audible, but low enough to be incomprehensible and they all seemed to be waiting for something to happen. The soldier advised them not to speak to any of the citizens (which Anlem had no qualms over), but it seemed as if the citizens themselves had something to say. A man of noble birth approached the lead guard and asked casually and politely if the six of them would be burned later in the evening. As the guard confirmed the negative, Anlem smiled.
"Very polite of you all, but your efforts would have been futile if you tried. Aren't you aware that Anguin can't burn?" Anlem asked, referencing The Children of Anguis. The Children of Anguis, or just The Anguin, is a cult settled predominantly in the Hills of Fire. They are pious (maybe as much if not more than the Followers) in their belief that Aerion is a lost piece of Infernum and are adamant in returning it to their father, god, and king, the fire snake Anguis. Proof to their radical nature, the Anguin vowed to bring all other religions to Infernum starting with Palaven. In their declaration they claimed to one day invade Garius where they would steal the Voice and throw him into their sacred volcano in Ryuuse so he may be fed directly to Anguis himself. Though it was a decade ago, The Anguin continue to be the most at odds with the Followers in Palaven.
June 2nd, 2013 (9:22 PM).
Raelus Part 2
Roland thought for a moment that he caught a tone of displeasure from Tamor as she described their journey towards the castle. He debated in his thoughts as to whether he should address it, as he had, to that point, learned very little of the nature of Tamor and Auden's relationship within Raelus beyond what he was told. If she didn't seem very eager, he wondered what it meant. He decided to ask a bit more about it as they proceeded inside the iron gates of the fortress. "So, is there any other information we should know about before we encounter your King? Anything unexpected? Any irregularities? Security around the area certainly seems tight."
"Best do to remember thy manners, but as a distinguished knights I do hope that much is already covered," Tamor stated, stricten with surprise that this Grey brother had spoke without being spoken to, especially to the likes of her. His occasional glances, as few and far in between as they were hadn't gone unnoticed. However they were the least worrisome thing that she had to think about, her travels with Auden hadn't set her mind at ease in the slightest. Luck lately hadn't been on her side, she wished to the Gods, primarily Kinath, they not encounter her grandfather this afternoon or any relatives that made their stake in His Grace's council, castle, or presence. "I wouldn't touch your weapon, nor would I mention the Nine, blessed as they may be, His Grace does not take kindly to such..." Tamor took a brief pause, and sought forgiveness for what she must to do next, "smut."
"Heh, I see," Roland stated as he walked forward towards the direction of the two towers erected in the center of the dark yet organized city. "I suppose he views himself as a practical man because of his lack of religious motivation. I have heard of the type before." He looked left and right at each citizen he passed. Most hardly gave them any attention, merely going about their business as before. If anything, stereotypes of the people of Raelus as a cold, bitter peoples seemed to be spot on. However, soldiers and guards stationed around the city monitored them more extensively. They glared upon the odd group, as if waiting for one of them to make one false move, break one meager law and pounce upon them. Roland wouldn't give them the satisfaction of such an option. He had often been the model of civility and propriety in his visits to other nations, especially when representing Reigncliff. His arrogance may seep in on occasions, but not to the extent of ever being a problem.
Up the cobblestone streets the knight went, their destination of the castle growing nearer with each passing step. It was only as they approached closer that one could notice the magnitude of its size. Indeed, there were few constructions in the world that could match the monumental castle and the two towers. Upon their journey thus far, the Tower of Oculus would have been the only such structure to compare to them.
"Is it just me or does everyone appear to have an ill temper?" Roland commented on the general disposition of the people of Raelus. "Perhaps they need to get their King's royal sceptor out of their sh*t holes." He added with a slight chuckle.
A sudden tug to Tamor's mage hood was brought on by the looming castle that was to be upon them soon, "Strangers are not to be trusted, no matter of their status or reputation." The truth had been told by Roland, Tamor herself would've chosen more appropriate wording, especially in the midst of the capital. Raelussians had taught this was the way to act for generations, herself included. The closer they drew to the castle the more chances, despite all her prayings to Kinath, Tamor had of being recognized, as well as Auden, but she had separated herself from his side. "With tensions from the northwest rising we refuse to take any chances." Niolas who had been settled in quite quietly took off into the sky until he was out of sight. Joyous as Tamor should be to have the luxury to have an audience with His Majesty she could not bring herself to allow such feelings to occur. "Might I add, when we get to the castle keep those... inelegant sayings to oneself. Otherwise you might find the King's spector in the same place. Unless, you are one who derives pleasure from such actions. It would surprise me not to learn that be the truth."
A look of surprise mixed with irritation suddenly made it upon Roland's face, somewhat surprised that the usually timid Tamor would speak in such a way. "I am no fool," Roland snorted in response to Tamor. "I am familiar with the King's moniker. I should like that my flesh not to be incinerated."
"You must not be an Anguin, I see," Tamor replied light-heartedly, The Children of Anguis also known as The Anguin were rumored to have base in the Hills of Fire. Eislynn had been adamant that as a user of the divine arts one must not only know their own religion but all others. The time she spent feverishly learning was about them had reassured her faith belonged to The Council of Nine. "You shall grow even more familiar with it by the time we depart this island, and I hoped that be soon."
"You hope that I should grow familiar with this nonsensical...'religion' soon, or you hope that we would depart this island soon?" Roland inquired, gazing intently at Tamor from beneath her hood as he tried to decipher her intentions. Their pace never slowed as they continued to approach the castle of the Burning King. Roland had a feeling since near the beginning of the entrance into Raelus that Tamor was reluctant to return home. He was unsure if it was true, but the way she acted in regards to her country seemed...off to him.
"My Knight, why not both?" She questioned, but simply for the rhetorical effect. How she longed to visit and lay flowers at the grave of Eisylnn and be done with this place, at least the capital. If she developed the courage in time Tamor wondered if there would be a moment where she could slip away to Yarne where her true father, not Kanien, kept shop. Would he take it as a disturbance, as the later years of her life his keenness toward her had severely lessen. A constant reminder of the mistake he had made those many years ago, her mother presented the same behavior, which left her truly alone now that he was gone as well. It was difficult to come back to a place Tamor felt so removed from not to mention how unwanted she felt. Everything was happening so fast, even the speed at which they walked seemed faster.
Auden was yet in the mood to deal with the guards, and as such kept his hood up as the group walked through the militarized capital towards the castle. Not much had changed since Auden had left the capital, he still recognized a majority of the guards as they got closer to the castle. Every now and then a guard would recognize him, leading to a slight nod in respect. Ah, the capital.
The group had finally approached the gates to the castle. If it had looked impregnable from afar, then even more so that image resonate in close proximity. The castle walls were high, clearly a mix of stone and steel, much like its exterior counterparts. However, the taste of the kings of Raelus have decorated the castle with a distinct taste. The sigil of Raelus was draped over the sculpted spiked walls on large banners. The spiked walls were clearly a tactical vision, possibly from the Burning King himself to invoke fear, but also to make such a climbing of the walls nigh impossible. The castle itself appeared to have several walls, each encircling the next, constructing a large "superstructure" of a fortress. The inner walls appeared to be taller, yet not as thick. Regardless, imposing described them just as well. Looming over all the walls, at the heart of the fortress were the Twin Towers, decorated in the colors of Raelus watching over all.
At the door, a number of Raelusian soldiers stood guard. Roland visibly saw the grip of one of the gate's guardsmen over their lance tighten upon their approach. In as subtle movement as he could muster, his own arm cautiously crept to his sword hilt, and tightened around, if only as a precautionary measure.
"Ser Roland and Percival of the House Grey, along with Heva Azcadelia Erva, Dulinhel Elenren, and Sers Auden and Tamor of Raelus." Roland stated aloud to the guard. "We seek an audience with his Grace Christian Calason, second of his name, High Admiral and King of Raelus."
The Knights endured a very scrupulous gaze by the guard, intently watching Roland as he introduced each of them, before finally stepping aside and allowing them entrance into the fabled castle. The doors creaked, the sound of bulky metal as they grinded over each other and opening up. The Knights underwent a succession of doors before entering the castle courtyard. Unlike its counterparts in Ethora, Percival noticed a relative lack of plant life. Nothing but stone and steel. Tall marble statues encircled the central castle, framing the main entrance and went around it; artistic dedications to past legends in Raelus' history. Heroes, Kings, Princes, Admirals, Generals. Anything to immortalize the men and woman that constructed this castle. This fortress. This country.
Thanks to this artistic display, it made finding the entrance easily. The guards on watch opening the steel doors for the Knights, and they entered the main hall with some apprehension, at least on the part of Percival. The main hall was far different than the halls that Percival had grown up with in Ethora. They were often opulent, with rich decorations illuminated by grandiose writing. They had floral decorations and fine artwork from the greatest artists. Guards were often posted throughout these halls, but it did not matter. The music from the throne room even occasional echoes throughout the halls, producing a entrancing reason to continue. Robert Welm's was the only real exception, mostly because of Welm's reputation for more less expensive taste. Though Roland would have him understand it was because Welm's relative lack of wealth. Roland was a poorly educated man as well, at least his ignorance made Percival believe such a fact.
The halls of Castle Eldur were dark, with ironically little lighting in the blackened stone halls. Red carpets mapped out the floors while red tapestry hung on the walls, all decorated with the sigil of Raelus. The walls were decorated in paintings documenting the proudest moments in Raelus' history. Epic battles mostly, including the the founding of Raelus by Lord Bryce Drake and first grand victory of the Burning Fleet.
But then the throne room. The words of Raelus are "Trial by Fire." Undoubtedly metaphorical, representing Raelus' desire to grow stronger through direct challenges. Tests of strength and resolve. Words to live by, no doubt. Raelus has proven time and time that trials by fire make you strong. Raelus has risen through the flames to be amongst the elite. But this metaphorical guide, the closest thing Raelus had to any sort of organized religion, had take a literal vision in the throne room of Eldur. Built at the base of the Twin Towers, the throne room was a large room, vacant of any opulent decoration. A single red and gold carpet was placed at the center leading towards the elegant pair of steel thrones (with red seat cushions to tie together to Raelus' limited choice of royal colors) seated at the back of the room, the flag of Raelus draped behind them. Leading up to the thrones were two rows of blazing torches; the titular trial by fire. They illuminated the room with pure excellence, revealing the room to truly have little decoration aside from the banner of Raelus and the steel thrones of the King and Queen. Plain. Practical. Efficient.
Percival and the other knights accepted the trial, walking forward with some spirit in their step. They finally got the audience with the king of Raelus, the man that is to help them. He was seated in his throne, talking with his advisors briefly as the Knights approached. He appeared to be a tall man, being a few inches taller than Roland with a broad build, clearly taking care of himself despite his growing age as indicated by his slightly graying black hair. The gray had yet to dominate his hair, but the gray streaks were readily apparent even in the poor light. His skin tone was of a light tan, possibly a result of early days on the boat in the constant light of the Trader's Waters. Percival joked in the privacy of his own head that it was because he spent too much time by the fires in the throne room, but he would never say that aloud. His eyes appeared to be dark brown, with little life in them. They were stern, cold even. Ironic really, but there were clearly the eyes of a warrior. Now, they were ones of a king. King Calason's face had few impurities. A single scar slashed across his right temple and he had a little stubble for a beard. The features did not seem to age his face too greatly, but he still appeared to be a man in his 40s, looking no older than expected to be. In fact, he may have been appeared younger due to the excellent condition he kept himself in. He wore no crown. He didn't need one. Instead he wore, a dark red cloak, with his black plate mail underneath. Paranoia perhaps. More likely, habit. His bastard sword rested by his side, in easy reach of his sword hand. They were little accessories on. Some pleasantries did not seem in his nature. His wife, the Queen, sat beside him in a slightly smaller throne for a far smaller person. She paled in comparison to her husband, but seemed just as frightening. She was distinct blonde, appearing younger than the King by a few years, yet her eyes were a cold blue. They carried the same intensity as the King. Perhaps more so. That or Percival was reading too much into it.
"Hail Calason, second of his name, High Admiral and King of Raelus. We are knights, venturing from Ekilore to Shinguo and now to your Grace's Great Hall for counsel in our noble quest. We come at the behest of Yoshuro of Shinguo to seek guidance from your Grace," Percival said, taking the lead with a kneel as they reached the King. Roland followed suit, with the other Knights presumably following as well. Proper manners in the presence of royalty were needed to guarantee any degree of success.
King Calason rose from his seat, grasping his bastard sword as he descended down the stairs to meet them. Percival raised his head ever so slightly to meet Calason's eyes for a brief moment. The King moved to his head to the guards around him. With a single swing of his hand, the Knights of Ekilore were surrounded, grasped tightly in the powerful arms of King Calason's elite guard. Grunts of resistance were overcome from the silence of strength. "I don't know any Yoshuro of Shingou. Take them to the dungeons."
"But your grace, this is Auden and Tamor of Raelus. Shouldn't we-"
"Did I stutter? Take. Them. Away."
Rai, Raikiri
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June 5th, 2013 (7:41 PM). Edited June 5th, 2013 by SV.
Varian Sigmind- Garius, Palaven
To those that were close enough to catch Anlem's reply, there were gasps, murmurs, and looks of absolute shock as the citizenry eyed the group with disbelief and growing animosity. Varian himself, fully aware of the extreme reputation of Palaven, place a palm upon his face and shook his head. He knew this wasn't going to end well. The Theocracy of Palaven treated all other religions in a heretical manner, but perhaps the one 'religion', (or more suitably referred to as a cult) which it looked upon most lividly was the so-called Anguin. If there were a less favorable retort to have been slung the way of the Palvanese citizen, Varian couldn't think of it.
"You..." The man began, Varian noticing his face visibly turn red, and his expression change from the bewilderment of the guard's reply to the passionate abhorrence after the dwarf's insult. "How dare you..you...blasphemous HEATHEN!" He cried, as he swung aside his ornamental cloak to reveal a sword inside of its hilt around a silver belt on his waist. He unsheathed the blade immediately, enclosing his arms around the hilt of the sword and bringing it above his head in a preparatory stance to attack, his sights set on the dwarf. "Yours is a pestilential life. Your very breaths you take are poison! It shall be my pleasure to perform the duty of God and purge your existence from the face of the earth!" He ran forward without any visible concern for the guards which stood nearby. His sights were set upon ending the life of he who had insulted.
Yet the head guard who he had spoken to earlier, as well as three other Palvanese soldiers, grabbed the man, two of them holding his arms and bringing down the sword before he could swing it, while the other two held him back by his shoulders. "Unhand me!" He commanded. "He is a heathen who has insulted myself, the Voice, the One, and all of Palaven with his corrupted tongue. As by the laws of God, I am in my right to end his life!" He struggled to get passed the guards which held onto him, trying to reach over them and grab onto Anlem.
"We cannot allow you to bring them to harm, no matter that which they have said. The Voice demands it!" The head guard yelled, holding the man back. The man still struggled to break free, but he eyed the guard now. "Why does the divine Voice allow such infidels to breathe?"
"Do you dare question his decisions?" The guards asked the man back, in quite a hostile tone. The man, sensing that he would not get his blood then, back off, straightening his outfit and sheathing his sword. He glared with hate-filled eyes at the dwarf as he began to wander off, but not before giving some parting words to him.
"My name is Arnold of House Tyrann. Remember that name, and me, for they will eclipse your final thoughts before your demise in this world, and your eternal damnation in Infernum shall begin." With those final words, he departed. Varian snorted, looking back at the guards as they proceeded back to the head of the group to continue leading them onward. He noticed the guards glare from behind their white helmets at the group, particularly Anlem. He wondered if they were not under orders from the Voice, if they would have protected them like that.
"Looks like you're making friends," Varian said to the dwarf. He looked back at the Palvanese citizen once more, who cursed quietly to himself, then proceeded to follow the guards. "I'd say we best watch what we say here." He declared to the other mercenaries.
The rest of their venture through the beautiful streets of Garius were a bit less eventful, though much of the citizenry continued to glance at them with shock and animosity, though none had approached them again like the other man did prior. Eventually, the guards came to a halt in front of what Varian presumed was our destination. Without a doubt, it was the largest structure in Garius, a tower of contrast. On one hand, it boasted secure gates of a few meters in height, with dozens of guards stationed all across, both on the exterior and interior of the grounds. It appeared as one of the more impregnable structures, a defensive bastion of military might. However, as Varian and the others would approach closer, they also noticed intricate designs across the structure. Words were inscribed upon the walls, words Varian assumed came from the holy book of their religion. There were also statues of ivory and marble across the exterior of the tower, many appearing to be figures of prominence, importance, or divinity. "Welcome to the Tower of Absolution, infidels, headquarters of the illustrious Palvanese Senate. If you would follow me inside, the noble head of the Senate would like to speak with you briefly."
Varian followed the guard inside, the others who were also leading them remained outside of the tower, taking posts nearby. He noticed as they talked among themselves, and judging by their constant critical eyes in their direction, he assumed they were the main topic at hand. Inside of the Tower, Varian first noticed the distinct smell of candles burning, incense. It was a distinct smell, something you would expect more out of a church than an administrative building. Yet as he gazed more into the larger room they found themselves in, he almost felt like he was in a church instead. Murals hung from the walls, the depictions all of some spiritual or religious manner. They were beautiful, hanging through golden frames and kept in select areas of other tapestries as to enhance their artistry. There was also stained glass upon each window, with figures painted across them in bright, opalescent colors. Man appeared as a man, wearing a simple white robe with few designs upon it. There were many different pictures of men in such robes, but few were the same. If Varian had to guess, these were possibly depictions of the past Voices of Palaven, as only they would be the subject of such devout art.
"Welcome!" A voice echoed behind them, being carried into the large room and bouncing across. The call came from an older man, perhaps in his 60's as could be seen by the intense grayness of his hair, what little was left of it, as his was becoming noticeably thinner on the top. His eyes were bright green, appearing both affectionate and stern, and this was only heightened by his wrinkly smile. He had a rather large nose, fairly thing in width but protruding quite a bit. His clothing was extravagant, as many in Palaven appeared to be. He wore white robes, with jewels and decorations of gold and silver all embedded into the outfit. As he came to a halt a few paces before the group, he nodded to the guard, his sign to be dismissed from the area, who bowed before the man, and walked to the edge of the room, where Varian noticed other guard stationed, no less than a dozen on each side of the large room.
"Merek Culliver," The decorated man said with a slight nod of the head. "I am Head of the Palvanese Senate, the Will of the Voice of the One. Welcome to the Tower of Absolution!" He said merrily, keeping his gaze for the most part on Varian, who stood at the head of the group. In an attempt to appear polite (and not say anything that might piss the man off), he returned the nod of the head.
"Varian Sigmund." He replied, trying to keep it as brief as he could as to not risk somehow accidentally insulting the man.
"I must apologize ahead of time. Unfortunately, the Voice, blessed be He, shall be unable to meet with you today as was previously scheduled. He has asked that you spend the remainder of the day in the Tower of Absolution, where you will dine and sleep. It must be quite an honor for you. Infidels have not ever stayed inside the Tower." He placed an arm on his chin, looking over at the side of the wall as he thought. "In fact, I do believe this is the first that infidels have been allowed free passage throughout the city. Most unusual."
He smiled at them, this time looking over each one of them for a few moments before gazing toward the next mercenaries. As his eyes passed over Alys, however, he did a double take, and then squinted at her, scrutinizing her for a moment. His eyes suddenly became wide. "By the One's Grace...Victoria?! Victoria Taimor?" Varian turned to look at Alys, cocking an eyebrow at her. He had heard the last name of Taimor before. Taimor was the ruling House of the Golden Isles. Which would have made Alys a noblewoman.
"I hardly recognized you in those clothes. What on Aerion are you doing here? With these...well, mercenaries. Why are you-" He was suddenly cut off, as a younger man in a church-like robe walked up to Merek and whispered into his ear. "I see..." He said to himself, before returning his attention to the mercenaries. "Well, the life of a statesman is a busy one, I'm afraid. I must attend a meeting with my fellow senate members." He brought an arm up, motioning for the same guard to approach once more. "Your chambers are through the doors to the right." He said, motioning the an adjacent door. "Dinner will be served in the Grand Ballroom one the second level. You shall be allowed free reign throughout the tower to anywhere that does not have a guard stationed at the door. I...highly recommend that you remain inside the Tower for the duration of your stay tonight. The people of Garius are not quite used to infidels such as yourselves. However, should you decided to venture out, I insist that an armed escort shall accompany you to...protect you. I shall see you hopefully at dinner, though my schedule may turn out to be busier than I imagine. In such a case, I shall see you before your trip to the Gracious Voice in the Grand Cathedral tomorrow. The One light your path." He ended, leaving the group standing in the middle of the large room inside the tower, as he hurriedly walked away. A sudden final thought must have crossed his mind, as he turned back to say parting words to the Highman.
"You travel with very peculiar companions, Ser Varian." He smiled, gazing first upon Alys, then turning his gaze towards Anlem, to which his smile turned into a frown. Without another word, Merek went about his duties, leaving the mercenaries to be led by the guard to their quarters.
A Legend once told me that roleplaying is about bringing people together and celebrating creative vision.
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June 7th, 2013 (1:36 AM).
Anlem Taeger-- Tower of Absolution
Very quickly it seemed, Anlem would learn just exactly how great the reflexes of Palaven nobles were. He seemed as though his face went from white to read in an instant and just as quickly he was able to reveal his formidable (and beautifully made) sword. After receiving some very direct insults, which referred to his poisonous and pestilent body, the noble Follower came to attack him! Anlem may have made a move to defend himself if he didn't rely so heavily on his trust of the fabled piousness of these very people. And, with no enthusiasm to betray him, the guardsmen did exactly as he suspected they would and he was left even without dust on his skin. As the nobleman struggled with what could easily be said was complete disagreement with Anlem's ability to breathe, he took in the moment completely. He was unable to write the moment down since he had no surface to place his ink and dip his pen and it was obvious now he would be forced to recount the events later.
Finally calmed, the nobleman turned to leave them, but before he departed he gave Anlem his final words. "My name is Arnold of House Tyrann," he said. "Remember that name, and me, for they will eclipse your final thoughts before your demise in this world, and your eternal damnation in Infernum shall begin."
Anlem smiled at Arnold's parting words and with the enthusiasm of a friend parting friends he gave his own. "May you burn in Infernum!" He called back. An insult anywhere, but the Anguin culture where it was instead polite words of departure.
"Looks like you're making friends," Varian said to Anlem and he nodded in wholehearted agreement. "I'd say we best watch what we say here." Varian declared to the other mercenaries as they followed the guards.
"Oh please," Anlem said. "Don't you see these fine streets? The One walks with us here!" Now, onward! Their walk through the rest of Garius was indeed beautiful but much less fun than the previous moments had been. The citizens looked at them with the same shock as they had before. In time they all came to a halt at their destination. Anlem did not even need to be told what this building was, he already know. He could recall descriptions of the tower, the tall, silver gates, it's intricate carvings, the ivory and marble statues, and of course, the legions of guards. The Tower of Absolution, home of the Voice. They were finally here. Inside, they were greeted by the smell of incense, a smell which made Anlem smile. As they did outside, the members of the Tower stared at the group and whispered amongst themselves, flashing their critical eyes. The church-like building was more than Anlem expected, and as he looked at it, he could not understand why he would expect anything less. The followers of the One may have tended to be extreme, but they were superb architects and artists. Each picture of passed Voices were made with extreme detail. It showed them all as one of the true divine and it was hard to question their holiness from the portrait, even by the eyes of a hard critic. As well as portraits, the Tower's interior was decorated with stunning murals, all of which displayed rich honor to the power of the One and his gracious power as well as the powers of the Voice himself. Yet, it made no hesitation to show also the consequences of any action against these two entities. It made Anlem wonder for a moment how closely the One was really walking with him and if it were even in the same direction. His thoughts, however, were interrupted by a greeting from behind them.
"Welcome!" The voice echoed, its greeting sounding more like a bellow as the noise bounced on the holy walls. The owner voice was an older man who looked to be possibly in his sixties. His hair was gray and thinned and his face was wrinkled from his age. His bright green eyes showed gentleness and the pureness of his greeting, but also the capability of a stern hand. He was clad in white robes adorned embedded jewels, gold, and silver. He stopped a few paces from them and dismissed the guards before addressing them further. "Merek Culliver," The decorated man said in introduction. "I am Head of the Palvanese Senate, the Will of the Voice of the One. Welcome to the Tower of Absolution!" He said merrily. The Senator Merek spoke more to Varian (as he was at the head of the group) and being the receiver of these greetings, Varian nodded his head and introduced himself in place of the others. "I must apologize ahead of time," the Senator continued. "Unfortunately, the Voice, blessed be He, shall be unable to meet with you today as was previously scheduled. He has asked that you spend the remainder of the day in the Tower of Absolution, where you will dine and sleep. It must be quite an honor for you. Infidels have not ever stayed inside the Tower." He placed an arm on his chin, looking over at the side of the wall as he thought. "In fact, I do believe this is the first that infidels have been allowed free passage throughout the city. Most unusual."
Anlem thought he'd feel honored with information like that, and he was! If only he had arrived in this place with a better view of it, maybe the start would have begun as nicely as the end seemed to be. The Senator looked over the each other them and when his eyes landed on Alys (twice, actually). Instead of calling her by the name they all knew her as, he called her Victoria, Victoria Taimor to be exact. Anlem recognized that name, as most would, and didn't leave Varian as the only one to take a look at her. If what the Senator said was true, then she was much more important than originally thought. Anlem turned his head back to the Senator as he went on about how odd it was to see Aly-- Victoria here (and with them of all people). He was cut off when a young man whispered in his ear and informed them that it was time for him to depart.
"Your chambers are through the doors to the right." He said after calling for a guard and motioning to an adjacent door. "Dinner will be served in the Grand Ballroom one the second level. You shall be allowed free reign throughout the tower to anywhere that does not have a guard stationed at the door. I...highly recommend that you remain inside the Tower for the duration of your stay tonight. The people of Garius are not quite used to infidels such as yourselves. However, should you decided to venture out, I insist that an armed escort shall accompany you to...protect you. I shall see you hopefully at dinner, though my schedule may turn out to be busier than I imagine. In such a case, I shall see you before your trip to the Gracious Voice in the Grand Cathedral tomorrow. The One light your path." When he finished the Senator turned away and began to leave, but before he could properly get away he stopped and turned back to Varian. "You travel with very peculiar companions, Ser Varian." He smiled, gazing first upon Victoria, then turning his gaze towards Anlem, to which his smile turned into a frown. Without another word, Merek went about his duties, leaving the mercenaries to be led by the guard to their quarters.
"News travels fast around here, doesn't it?" Anlem commented with a smile as they followed the guards. He was eager to know if their rooms had a desk so he could get to writing, but the idea of being able to wander the halls of the Tower was just, if not more, exciting. "I'm not sure whether I should end my day now in our quarters, or travel these magnificent hallways and see more. I won't doubt it's worthwhile. Why, we've only been here a few short moments and it seems we've already learned so much." He turned his head to Victoria, an enthusiastic smile played on his face. "Wouldn't you agree?"
June 18th, 2013 (12:34 PM).
Percival and Roland Grey- Castle Dungeon,Eldur, Raelus
"How dare he?" Roland was heard saying from within the darkness of his own cell. He paced back and forth, livid from the actions of the Burning King. He kicked over the one stool that occupied his small cell, and continued pacing. "Imbecile! Ignoramus!" Roland cursed, as he continued to fume. "I hope the Nine plagues him with misfortune for as long as he shall live! Never have I had to endure this sort of poor treatment in my life! I swear to all the Nine hold holy that should I escape from here, I shall slit his throat!"
"I am sure he has his reasons," Percival said, sitting on his uncomfortable bed in the adjacent cell. "So I would hold your tongue and quit the dramatics. Unless you want him to have a reason to keep us locked up in here even longer." Percival leaned against the wall and tried to come up with a logical explanation for the actions of King Calason, only to remember something that would possibly lighten the mood. Or at least piss off Roland. "That and I highly doubt the Nine will plague him. They don't practice religion in Raelus. Remember?"
After holding a glare at his brother for a few moments, Roland finally gave up and sat down on his hard bed. He let out a deep sigh. "I should like to think the Nine's will would reach even the unholiest of places, when we need them most..." He thought on this for a moment, sitting in silence and staring at the dirty floor of his cell. He spoke up again. "I just do not understand why. We have Raelussians with us, and that fool of a King still locks us up. We are not peddlars off the streets. We are Knights! And surely he would have heard of our exploits in Shinguo."
"Maybe Shinguo is the problem. It seems Yoshuro was misleading. Or at least put too much faith in his relationship with the King. And for that, King Calason doesn't trust us. Perhaps the man is just paranoid," Percival said, matter of factly. It wouldn't be too far from the truth, at least Percival believed so. After all, Raelus appeared to be on constant watch, much like most of Bludrock. Roland's behavior was a bit jarring considering that. He should be used to such treatment.
"Perhaps. Or his walls not only keep the hordes out, but perhaps they also keep the insanity inside." Roland crossed his arms and looked up at the ceiling of the cell, which had not much of a different from the ground below. "It is times like these that I would wish that all the people of Aerion embraced one simple culture, the Ethorian way. Cultural diversity can be so...troublesome sometimes."
"That is what we call ignorance, brother. Attitudes like that are what get us in situations like this. You will do well to realize that," Percival found himself disliking his brother more and more as this conversation went on, wanting nothing more than something to intervene and end the conversation.
The opening and close of a steel door signified the answer to Percival's prayer. Two guards, fully encased in black chainmail with the sigil of Raelus on their chest, approached the cells of Auden and Tamor. "You have been summoned by the great King Calason. You will be escorted by us." With their orders announced, they opened the doors, locked the two in chains (for reasons unknown) and shuffled out of the dungeon in a matter of minutes.
Rai, Raikiri
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June 27th, 2013 (1:11 AM). Edited June 30th, 2013 by SV.
Varian Sigmund- Tower of Absolution, Garius, Palaven
Varian had split from the other mercenaries in his company as he had began to walk around the many different levels of the Tower of Absolution. He wondered for moments at a time if it was wise to leave them alone, particularly Cass, who was much like a child when it came to matters of subtlety. And Varian knew enough to understand that they had to be careful what was said in this country. From matters of culture to matters of wars, and of course, religion, any negatively or poorly phrased utterance could result in mingled body parts or the removal of such extremities altogether, something he wasn't very motivated to see happen.
So, for most of the evening, Varian did his best to keep out of trouble from the Palvanese, though guards on every level continued to glare at him uneasily. It was a very edgy situation in which he found himself. On one hand, most of the Palvanese had shown nothing but courtesy and decorum towards them, although there was the occasional glare and mumble. On the other, everything that they seemed to be doing was hidden behind some sort of double meaning. They would show politeness, but it seems the people here may have a deeper culture of brutality than they let on. At least, that was what the Highman thought as he wandered. Of course as a mercenary, Varian tended to not care about the disposition of his clients. That is, unless it somehow threatened himself or his group. The question was: did it?
Varian was now on one of the higher levels of the tower, looking across all the majestic wonders which lay inside the decorated building. He was not much of an appreciator of art, yet even he had to admit that the Palvanese had some pretty fancy artifacts inside. He was drawn to a large window, decorated with white hold, with glass so clear the it almost didn't look like there was any to begin with. A few guards talked at the side of the room to themselves while simultaneously watching the Highman, as Varian approached closer to the window, and looking out into the city. It was, perhaps to a more cultivated man, a spectacular view of the city. A city made of the finest material, with noticeable points sticking out from all around the city, these taller structures being mostly churches. The largest and perhaps most beautiful structure which he had spotted was a large domed building, which he was certain was the Cathedral he had heard about, where the Voice of the One resided. Directly below him, just outside the gates of the tower, he noticed a mob of citizens gathered around a raised platform, with a few men on top of it. As he leaned closer to the window, he noticed this as a sight he had seen throughout his travels all too often, for rarely, no matter the country he visited, do they change. It was an execution.
Curious, Varian opened the window, causing the guards to stir from their conversation and be on alert, though they did nothing yet as they watched him closely. He poked out his upper half of his body from the windows, and watched in silence. Being so high up in the tower, he was unable to hear what was said, and the considerably loud yelling of the crowd didn't help. The man who was to be convicted appeared to be considerably damaged even before his execution, which made Varian presume he was most likely tortured before this. Back inside the tower, one of the guards made a pass closer to Varian, to observe the mercenary in a closer fashion. Varian payed him no mind, and continued to look on to the execution. After his presumed last rites were said, the man was laid upon a bench by his head. A second, larger man (or at least he appeared larger to where Varian was viewing from) came up to the criminal, and raised his axe. A moment later, a swift and resounded swipe removed the head off of the man, and it rolled to the edge of the platform. What happened next was something he was expecting, yet was at the same time also surprising. The crowd that had gathered to witness the execution would cheer. It was expected by Varian, because every execution he attended, that was the same reaction. Yet on the other hand, a part of him wondered if there really was something more majestic about Palaven, and in particular, Garius. In the end, he confirmed what he already knew. Beyond whatever their governments preach and their lords dictate, and beyond whatever banner is raised, in every country people were still just...people.
One of the guards now stood directly behind Varian, also looking down and observing that which the mercenary was observing. The Highman noticed this, and decided to test the water and see how the man would react to being spoken to. "You wouldn't happen to know what the man did, do you?" Varian asked, looking the soldier in the eye from behind his shining, white armor. He stiffened at this question, and seemed to debate whether or not he should answer him, probably because they were all given instructions to avoid doing so. In the end, he decided to answer.
"The man is Raelussian." The guard replied. Varian eyed the man as he expected him to continue on with his explanation, but no such one was given. He eventually cocked and eyebrow and ushered him on. "And?" He asked.
"And, that is it. Raelus is the Kingdom of Infernum, a country doomed to burn eternally. We are instructed by His Holiness and the One to carry out judgment upon them wherever they may be." The guard turned his gaze down at the execution site. "This infidel was caught crossing our border, and was taken to Garius to be purged of his wickedness."
"Hmph," Varian replied, not saying anything beyond that. The guard glared at Varian as he proceeded on, getting everything he wanted out of the conversation. Like the rumors suggested, the people of Palaven were as fanatical as they got. Their culture was so integrated with their religion that foreigners would risk insulting them, sometimes to a great degree, even from small talk in passing conversations. He learned that they could be brutal, yet at the same time loyal, civil and well-mannered. It was like a rose covered in thorns, poison in a rare bottle of liquor. That was how he saw Palaven, and the longer they would stay here, the longer they might be forced to take a drink.
A Legend once told me that roleplaying is about bringing people together and celebrating creative vision.
Paired with the Artsy Infinite and the Spectacular Shak
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July 1st, 2013 (7:02 AM).
July 1st, 2013 (3:45 PM).
Tamor Bellfiend
July 1st, 2013 (11:52 PM).
July 5th, 2013 (9:56 PM).
Varian Sigmund, Tower of Absolution, Garius, Palaven
The remainder of the day Varian spent wandering the tower. He debated going outside and seeing the city, but ultimately decided against it, as he didn't wish to somehow cause an incident that would further inflame the local citizens. He figured it would be best instead to remain locked up for the moment, and await the day's passing, so that they would be able to get on with their meeting with the Voice tomorrow, and figure out where the shard they needed to collect is. Dinner was eaten in the hall shown earlier in the day. It was spectacular, but as expected, none of the Palvanese Senate, nor any other dignitaries chose to join them. Instead, the Dragons of Dalenham enjoyed a quieter evening among themselves. Varian actually preferred it that way. If a noble of some sort would have to join them, the mercenaries wouldn't be able to act themselves. He preferred to let them act as they please, and say as they please, without the chance of offense to anyone. That was apart of the mercenary life after all: the freedom to do what one wished. Although, now that he thought on it, he wondered if some of the others wouldn't have minded dining with nobles to begin with. Alys, or Victoria, had turned out to be one. He wondered if any of the others were running from such a life as well.
After dinner, Varian departed to his quarters. Each mercenary was given a separate room, lavishly decorated with white, engraved furniture, including a desk with a copy of the One Holy Book on it, and a window with a view of the city. Varian discovered that dignitaries or people of high rank or importance were typically given these rooms when they were scheduled to meet with the Palvanese Senate, or on those rare occasions with the Voice himself. He learned that almost no outsiders have ever gotten the chance to meet with him directly, and even very few citizens have done so. In fact, the Voice would typically only be seen by Merek Culliver or another member of the Senate. Certain religious holidays would have the Voice come out onto the balcony of the Grand Cathedral, but few have seen the man up close. Varian took note of the groundbreaking event that was to take place, then. They, as simple mercenaries, with (presumably) no noble birth or background, would meet the man hailed as the bridge between the mortal world of Aerion and the One God. Even if he didn't believe in their religion (which he didn't), he understood the significance. Though, truth be told, he would have preferred to have given their instructions or assignment from a middle man, as to not risk some insult. The Palvanese were quite easily insulted, it seems, and as he heard, insult, even a minor one, to the Voice was punishable by death.
It was the dead of night. He turned in early to try and get a good night's rest for the following day, and he presumed he would do it easily even with the guards patrolling outside of their rooms. Yet as the hours passed, Varian found himself eventually lying in his comfortable bed, but strangely unable to sleep. He couldn't explain why either. He wasn't uncomfortable with his surroundings. There was no loud noises keeping him up. The weather was mild and the night air which breezed through his open window was cool and fresh. There was no pungent smell in the air like the one which lingered in Dalenham (or all of Eveamoor, really). He couldn't really explain why he couldn't fall asleep. It was almost as if he was forgetting something, as if something was out of place. He didn't know why, but he felt uncomfortable, like a lingering presence haunted over him and cast a dark shadow, preventing him from having a soothing thought. He tried examining the room from his bed, but the darkness kept most of it from him. He saw the silhouettes of furniture placed around, including the desk next to his bed, and a chair near it where he kept his equipment. He drew his eyes to the door, or the shadow of it, and saw it closed. He then looked towards the window, and the little bit of light which seeped through the opening. As he gazed long and hard at the window, a realization began to form in his mind. Below his bedsheets, his hand gripped his axe, anxious to try to make out his thoughts, when he suddenly realized: There was complete silence. No guards patrolled outside of the doors anymore, and probably weren't doing so for quite a while. His gaze continued to remain on the window, to which he realized that he himself had never actually opened that window. The reason he was having trouble sleeping was because the sounds of boots in armor stomping outside of his door, and the cool air blowing on him was actually making him too comfortable, and for that reason, he felt out of place.
Picking all of this up, Varian was quick to react when he heard the creaking of feet at the edge of the room. He shot up instantly, and threw his axe right into the corner of the room. The slicing of flesh was heard, and a loud thud followed. As he approached the side of the room, he could make out the body of a man, dressed in black, lying dead in a pool of his own blood. Varian leaned next to him, and flipped him over, ensuring he was dead. He saw the axe lodged right into his chest. He was covered completely in black, event a hood over to mask his face. He shook his head, removing the axe from the man's chest, and storming over to the chair where his other axe lay by his equipment. Hurriedly, he picked it up and headed out the door. Once in the hallway, he found all of the light were out, except one which still hung at the far end of the long hall, though it was dim and barely gave off any light in the area. There was not a single guard in sight, though Varian was sure he saw at least a dozen patrolling the halls before they all retired to their rooms. Probably paid off, or they're in on it too, he thought, as he ran down the hall and toward the other rooms where the rest of the mercenaries slept. Loud crashes and sounds came from a few of their rooms, causing Varian to pick up speed as he approached them gripping his axes tighter. The Dragons of Dalenham were the target of an assassination attempt.
A Legend once told me that roleplaying is about bringing people together and celebrating creative vision.
Paired with the Artsy Infinite and the Spectacular Shak
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July 10th, 2013 (4:50 PM).
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