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| Journey for Lost Love (Angel's Side); OPEN TO ALL! | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Sep 12 2008, 02:51 AM (631 Views) | |
| Angel of Chaos | Sep 12 2008, 02:51 AM Post #1 |
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Dreamer of Worlds
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The afternoon sun stared through the cloudless sky upon the bustling town of Oriah. The air was alive with the sounds of busy people gathering at the local markets, young children playing innocent games and pranks, jovial music flowing through the town square, and travelers old and new coming and going. All of the wooden and stone structures that served as homes, inns, taverns, and shops stood high and proud in the bright, warm atmosphere. Lord Erik was well known and well respected in the town of Oriah. He spent most of his afternoons strolling around the main streets, surveying his surroundings as the townspeople went about their daily tasks. Seeing him, just strutting along the road, his rather large money satchel hanging conspicuously inside his royal purple cloak, one might think that Lord Erik actually wanted someone to rob him. Yet this problem never came to Lord Erik, for he always brought with him two trustworthy bodyguards, both clad in chain mail and leather armor, one armed with a greatsword, the other armed with a halberd, both one meter behind him and one meter apart from each other. The consequences for attempting to steal from Lord Erik were dire, for it involved the two bodyguards beating upon anyone who would do so. Thus, no one dared to steal from him. It never happened, until today. Lord Erik passed the tall armory building and was about to come up to the Lazy Dog Inn when a mysterious someone strutted out of the alleyway between the two. Apparently, this fellow was not watching his step, for he stepped in front of Lord Erik, causing the lord to bump into the stranger. The resulting impact knocked the stranger over on his side with an “Oof!”, and had Lord Erik not regained his balance, the stranger would have been crushed underneath the lord's girth. In annoyance, the stranger snapped, “Why don’t you look where you—.” Yet when he looked up to see that it was Lord Erik, his expression changed from one of annoyance to one of surprise. “Ah! L-Lord Erik! Forgive me! I wasn’t watching my step!” he exclaimed, bowing in a humble manner. Lord Erik took a closer look at the stranger whom he had run into. He was an unusual sort garbed in a long white coat over black attire and muddy, black adventuring boots. His dove white hair was abnormally long, reaching just the top of his ankles. His eyes were unlike any other eyes Lord Erik had ever seen; the left eye was a golden yellow, whereas the right eye was a bright turquoise. Judging from the slightly narrow complexion of his face, his short, pointed ears, and his tall, somewhat slim build, one could easily tell that he had some form of elvish heritage. After a short pause, Lord Erik spoke, “Hrmm, you’re quick to admit your mistakes, stranger.” “Should we discipline him, milord?” the halberdier asked eager to brandish his new weapon. “Lower your hand,” Lord Erik sternly responded. He then turned back to the stranger. “Now normally, I wouldn’t take so kindly to people running into me…” A smile spread across his face, “…but since you were kind and straightforward to admit your mishaps, and since I’m in a rather good mood today, I’ll let you off with merely a warning.” The stranger’s face lit up as he stood. “Truly, my lord?” he asked. “Absolutely,” Lord Erik said with a chuckle. “You know, I don’t recall seeing you in this town, sir…um…” “Uh, Macleod, my lord,” the stranger replied while dusting off his coat. “Angel Macleod.” “Interesting,” the lord spoke, liking the ring of that name. “Anyway, are you of this town?” “No, my lord,” Angel replied. “I’m of a land far west of here.” “So what brings you here?” Lord Erik asked. “Are you on a pilgrimage of sorts?” “No, my lord,” Angel repeated. “I’m but a simple wanderer resting his weary feet from another long journey. Is that so wrong?” “Not at all,” Lord Erik chuckled. “But if you’re not of this town, then how do you know of me?” “From the townspeople, my lord,” Angel replied honestly. “They speak very highly of you.” “Yes, that’s to be expected,” Lord Erik said, resisting the urge to gloat. “Well, Angel Macleod, be on your way. And try to look before you step the next time.” “I’ll remember, my lord,” Angel said before heading in the opposite direction where Lord Erik came, then melting into the sea of townsfolk. Lord Erik looked behind him with interest as this Angel fellow walked off. “He sure is an odd one,” he muttered. “Are you certain that we should just let him go like that?” the swordsman asked in disappointment. “Are you certain that we should strip you of your position for questioning me?” Lord Erik shot back. “I’m not going to let something as harmless as a run-in with a stranger ruin my afternoon walk. Now then, let us be off.” He then continued with his walk, oblivious to the fact that his pocket had been picked… /\/\/\/\ Angel Macleod, the master thief of the west, ducked behind another dark and dank alleyway far off from where he “ran into” Lord Erik. Heh, heh…what a fool, he thought, placing his hand on the lord's bloating money satchel hidden in his coat, smiling in pure glee. “Now, let’s see how much he had,” he muttered, sitting down, taking out the burlap satchel, and opening it to reveal the many golden and platinum coins. He then began to count them by the cluster, and as he did, he recalled how he went about stealing from the naïve lord. Angel had arrived in Oriah the day before yesterday in the late morning. After he settled himself at the Lazy Dog Inn, he had heard about Lord Erik from some of the guests staying there, and how he would always go on these afternoon strolls boasting his large satchel of money. Interested, Angel had spent hours surveying the route the lord took from the rooftops. After he had seen and memorized the route, he had taken a burlap satchel not unlike the one he is holding now, and filled it with pebbles, being sure that it was just the right, reasonable weight for a satchel of coins. As for the “run-in”, after he had memorized the lord’s route, he chose a fitting spot just to the side of the inn, then, with impeccable timing, walked casually in front of Lord Erik and “bumped” into him. As that occurred, he had taken the lord’s money satchel and, as swiftly as he could, replaced it with the satchel of pebbles, hid the money beneath his coat, then proceeded to fall. For him, it was all too easy. “Five thousand in gold, two hundred in platinum…that equals about seven thousand gold pieces,” Angel murmured as he counted the last gold coin. He then shoved all of the coins back into the satchel, stood up, and placed it inside of his coat, chuckling all the while. “I should probably get to the slums before—.” “SOMEONE TOOK MY MONEY!” a yell from about three hundred meters away sounded out, shattering the afternoon calm. “—Lord Erik finds out,” Angel finished, wincing a little bit at the lord's squeamish shriek. “Well, I guess that’s my cue to leave.” Angel then gracefully leaped onto the roof of a house and jumped from rooftop to rooftop in the direction of the slums. /\/\/\/\ Now one might think Angel was going to use all of the gold he stole for his own greedy wants and needs. But he is no heartless thief; he takes one other thing about the coins he has stolen into consideration. He has a passion for helping those less fortunate than the average person, including the people who have deteriorating roofs over their heads, little food to eat, little water to drink, and little of the other simple needs that any person could possibly have. Angel felt that all people, regardless of status, had the right to a pure, healthy lifestyle, and poverty wasn’t his example of such. Thus, whenever he steals money, he spreads three-fifths of whatever he stole to the poor and the homeless, and he keeps whatever is left for his self-sustenance. Angel dropped down on the slightly muddy ground behind one of the decrepit homes. He then strutted out onto the dull, sad scenery that was the slums of Oriah. Made up of about thirty-six decrepit homes in a six-by-six layout, it was here that life was hard, overworked peasants were in debt, and there was never a happy moment. All the members of this run-down part of the town wore old, hand-me-down clothes, and their faces were dirty from the hard lives they lead. Angel felt sorry for the unfortunate souls who wound up here…which is why he was going to put as many smiles on their faces as he could. The first home he came to had several holes in its roofing, no shutters on its windows, and muddied-up stone walls. Just outside the large red curtain that served as the front door was a woman in her mid-thirties sweeping the front step with a crude broom of uneven straw. Judging from her patched-up clothing and messy brown hair, this woman led a hard life of labor. Angel approached her. “Good afternoon, madam,” he said with a friendly smile. “I hope I’m not intruding.” The woman looked up at him with suspicious auburn eyes. “No, not at all,” she then replied with a tired smile. “It’s nice to have visitors once in a while.” She then finished sweeping the last of the dirt off her front step. “So, what brings you here, stranger?” “Not a lot brings me to this place,” Angel replied. “I just like talking to people. And you look like someone who’s been through a lot.” "That part is true," the woman said, putting aside her broom. "When I couldn't pay my taxes, I was forced here. My husband died of illness a few weeks later, and now I'm struggling to make enough money to at least put food on my daughter's plate. Two years of this, and I haven't even come close to repaying my debt. I'm still eighty gold short, and though I hate going...there...I have no choice." Angel felt a pang of sympathy wash over him. It did not take an experienced scholar to figure out that she...no. He wouldn't allow it. That was just wrong. "I see," he said with warmth. "You don't deserve that life. No one does. So..." He gently took her hand and placed twenty platinum pieces in it. The woman's tired eyes widened and watered considerably. "That's...but why...?" Angel gave a very warm smile. "Because it's the right thing. All people should live well," he spoke. "Take what you owe to the tax house, and start living that life you once had...that all of these people once had" He then turned to leave, but remembered something and stopped himself. "Oh, and one more thing: you don't know anything about me or my whereabouts. You've worked extra-hard and saved as much as you could. It'll be our secret, mkay?" He turned his head to her, smirked, and winked. He then left, with the woman quietly crying and thanking the half-elf a thousandfold. This occurred with every other run-down home he visited, with results akin to the first one. For the first time in years, the slums were ignited with happiness, as they practically worshiped their mysterious benefactor. Some were more suspicious than others, but that was instantly shoved aside by their unexpected fortune that this half-elf brought along. Strings of thank-yous followed Angel's short, pointed ears, pleasing his mind. It brought him such comfort that he was aiding others in need who need it the most. Equality meant a lot to him. Equality meant love. Love. That was an experience Angel had not felt in twelve years. As he left the slums in his wake, he reached into his coat and pulled out a rough sketch of a beautiful half-elf woman. Slim head shape...that smooth, silky, bronze hair...those bewitching emerald eyes...these rather repetitive muses spun around in Angel's mind, creating a dark hole of sorrow. His different-colored eyes became hauntingly empty as they observed the lines of this woman he loved. He developed a familiar longing, a hope of seeing her alive and well. What he would give to feel her warmth. Aerynn. Angel put the sketch back into his coat to keep himself from falling to tears in the public. He once again melded into the sea of people as he headed back to the Lazy Dog Inn. But then he froze when he felt something brush against him. ((OOC: I hope this is enough to respond to!)) |
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AOC's Character Archive CHAOS: WHERE GREAT DREAMS BEGIN... Before a great vision can become reality, there may be difficulty. Before a person begins a great endeavor, they may encounter chaos. As a new plant breaks the ground with great difficulty, foreshadowing the huge tree...so must we sometimes push against difficulty in bringing forth our dreams. Out of chaos, brilliant stars are born. | |
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| Yemaya | Sep 15 2008, 05:26 PM Post #2 |
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Voodoo Hooligan
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[align=center]![]() Name: Taiaka Gender: Male Race: Shape Shifter Height: 6 foot 4 inches Hair: Black, dreadlocked, decorated with bits of animal bone and carved beads Eyes: Robin's egg blue[/align] Awhile ago… Taiaka was a proud transient, bullish on the winds of Amalterre with soft eyes and chapped lips yet moored like a black ship every night in Oriah’s downtrodden slums. He learned how to make his stare hopeless and to favor his right leg to give him the wounded gait of the impoverished. First marked as a stranger, he was forced to wear a cloak of humility and suspicion, hopeless in the timbre of his accent and the way his muscles worked under his dark skin. He won the children over first, like a pack omega, by changing cat’s eye marbles into colorful snails that fought each other with their eyestalks. Even the little girls forgot their disgust when the Star Gazer placed pastel pink ones in their tiny, dirty hands. They’d giggle relentlessly and in their innocence, dismiss the smile on his face as genuine and without pain. But the children let him learn for himself when to run and when to cow. Like when the taxmen came to shake copper from the skeletal trees. He let them beat him so he didn’t have to fake a limp anymore, criminally indifferent to the bruises on his face and ribs. The snails had moved too slowly to help. But the old woman with handfuls of horse manure was not. The taxmen scattered when the crone launched the feces at their shiny armor, splattering their faces, leaving bent hay in their manicured hair. Taiaka had never thought horse shit could be an instrument of karma. Now… “Taiaka. You come to the Bembé tonight. You play the drums for us.” The old woman sat in her beloved threadbare lounger plucking a white chicken. Taiaka sat on the gritty floor at her feet tying the discarded feathers around slivers of soap. He made uniform bundles and wound bright blue twine around them, making old fashion fetishes, party favors, which he set aside in a wicker basket. “I dun’t like the sound of drums no more.” Taiaka’s voice sounded alien to his own ears, tinny and deep as if he spoke into the depths of a well and he lifted his gaze to the old grandmother’s sallow face. She had a berry stain birthmark in the center of her forehead hidden by a wave of ragged gray bangs, but her brown eyes were clever and sharp as they appreciated the Gazer’s scrubbed visage. “You used to like them.” Her voice was like mousse. Taiaka nodded, pushing away the memories so she could not find them in his pale stare. “You fear them now.” She had done this for weeks, poking and prodding Taiaka, watching for signs of life under his placid, if not apathetic, demeanor. He showed her someone broken, more so than the mundane misery of the poor never to be: Someone who never was, someone stranded alone fumbling for mirages. She patted Taiaka on the gently shoulder when he did not respond, changing the topic subtlety enough to cause whiplash. “I bought you new clothes for the Bembé. A white tunic as pure as desert snow and just as soft. And a length of blue linen for you to make a skirt.” She shook the bald chicken in her hand, its blood like raspberry jam on her parchment thin skin, and wheezed with what could be called laughter. “The gods have already blessed us.” Taiaka finished tying the last bundle of soap and feathers feeling suddenly sleepy, and stared at Grandmother Ruby’s spotted knees. “And how x’cactly did you pay for all that?” He paused, mental cogs grinding, “and the soap? And chicken?” His eyes narrowed. “Am I to s’pose the gods came down before the Bembé to hand you a bag of gold?” She nodded and drew a heavy hemp pouch from between ancient bosoms and regaled Taiaka with a dramatic rendition of events and the Elvin man with white hair and mismatched eyes. The Gazer faked a smile and simple said, “Well then perhaps I should invite this angel to the Bembé.” Ruby agreed and he helped her to her feet. She stiffly waddled over to the hearth and began singing to the dead chicken as she waited for the water to boil. Taiaka lit all the candles in the house before limping to the room he shared with Ruby’s tabby cat. He napped until night, thankfully without dreams, and woke to feel just as angry and confused beyond his means as he had in the afternoon. He could hear Ruby shuffling around the home, but lay in his meager cot with the stupid tabby cat licking herself on his chest with no intention of moving. His mind wheeled in circles, in afterthoughts, as if the Bembé drums had already begun throbbing into his brain and he soon found he was unable to remain still. He tossed the tabby off of him and dressed quickly in the new clothing Ruby had bought for him. The garments fit impeccably and the Grandmother was not exaggerating about their softness and hue. Taiaka pulled his wiry dreadlocks back into a simple tail, smoothing them down with a handful of palm oil and cleaned his face and arms in stale water from a basin. The mirror above the empty dresser showed a handsome reflection but the Gazer only saw the fading bruise above his left eye and the impish pink scar beneath it. Ruby gave him a crooked smile from her lounger as he went to leave, reminding him to make sure he was back by midnight to play the drums, pausing with motherly countenance to also compliment his appearance. She saw him try to smile at her, but fail, and nod instead. He plucked a bundle of white feathers and soap form the wicker basket and limped out the door without a word. The slums were alive with strength, he knew, only money could buy. The men wore new hats made of bleached straw; some dressed in new tunics like he, others wore the raw crimson of the gods that would be called at the Bembé. Taiaka saw two women talking to one another, gesturing to the moonlight that pinged off their new earrings, their new broaches and leather shoes. He nodded to them, feeling sick in his stomach when they noticed his passing, waving and smiling. Then he caught the scent he was looking for, the scent that clung to every coin in Ruby’s purse. Limp-hop stutter steps hurried Taiaka over the white stone bridge that separated the slums from the rest of the town and he was quite out of breath by the time the flickering kerosene lamps of the Lazy Dog Inn blurred his vision. But there he was, this angel of the poor. The Gazer resisted every screaming notion of instinct, and instead drew the bundle of feathers and soap from his tunic pocket, grimacing from the sudden ache in his temples. A few more steps and the crowd seemed to part for him, leaving the Elvin gentleman with the white hair and mismatched eyes alone if only for a synchronistic moment. Taiaka threw the fetish without thinking and watched as it thumped against the side of the man’s ghostly jacket, bouncing to the soft dirt. Lamely, Taiaka followed, stopping within a definite earshot under the pallid flash and sputter of oil lamps. Behind him, the first soothing drums began to pulse from the down dirty slums as if on cue. Taiaka bowed his head yet never took the shine from his eyes off the Elf. “It’s an invitation.” His tone was carved in ice, he gestured to the fetish on the ground, “You be invited to the Bembé. They be thanking the gods for your benevolence, angel.” Taiaka smiled for the first time in weeks; white teeth flashing monstrous on his shadowy black features. “It would be an insult to deny them your presence. And you wouldn’t want to upset the spirits that so praise you as their savior, yah?” |
| The Bee Tree | |
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| Angel of Chaos | Sep 30 2008, 01:52 AM Post #3 |
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Dreamer of Worlds
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Angel's eyes lost their emptiness and turned to curiosity as he spun to face the stranger who had apparently thrown something at him. But when he set both eyes upon the stranger, they became even more curious as to who--or what--this man was; his skin was an unnatural onyx, and Angel could glimpse silvery star-shaped marks on his shoulders. Like the skin, the man's dreadlocks were the same pitch black. Yet in the pitch darkness that this man's shape boasted, he could see light within it; eyes as blue as a robin's egg were peering out of the starry void, intently focused upon Angel like a dog waiting for food. Was the man not walking with the gait he apparently had, he would be at least eight inches taller than Angel was. The sight of this man made Angel uneasy as he stared right back at him with mismatched eyes. His right eye was a lush blue flame, subtle yet potentially dangerous, whereas his left eye was a golden arrow, striking to kill. The sight of eyes such as these would easily disconcert anyone...well, almost anyone. When asked to come to something called the Bembé, he was curious as to what it was for. The structure of the man's words clarified that it was the people in the slums, thanking Angel for his good deeds of giving them money, for igniting their hope. At first, Angel thought against going. He didn't want to be worshiped like some kind of god; he was more modest and humble than that. Also, should the lord trace the events of the robbery back to Angel and found that he had given almost all of his money to the poor, the people of the slums would be put in danger of a possible massacre. The countless thin scars beneath his clothing ached with dull pain as the recurring events of his clan's murder briefly flashed in his mind's eye. These images unsettled him, plagued him, a cancer festering in his thoughts. Then another thought occurred to Angel. The strange man had said that the people of the slums might be insulted if Angel did not present himself to this Bembé...whatever that was. Much to his discomfort, it seemed that Angel was already being worshiped for the good deed he had performed for the people of the slums. He wasn't exactly selfless, nor could he be called selfish. It was just something he did for the greater good. He never wanted nor asked for anything in return. Yet somehow, he cared about the people he gave to. Perhaps he should expect something in exchange for helping him. Perhaps he should go to this Bembé and see the people one last time. And even if the lord found out, a few armored guards weren't anything he couldn't handle. And, after taking in the man's black image and white teeth flashing out of the void, he was sure this stranger had a devilish trick or two in mind. Then Angel asked himself, could this man be trusted? As part of a thief's creed, it was always common sense to be wary of anyone and everyone. This pitch black man of unknown origin was no exception. He could not be trusted, not even for a fraction of a second. But Angel would accept the man's offer and step into the void of the unknown, mentally prepared for any deception that might reveal itself. And so, ignoring whatever the object was thrown at him, Angel responded in a tone as icy as the shadow man's, "Aye. You're very well-informed, my strange friend. I usually don't expect anything in return for my benevolence, but this...Bembé...sounds very interesting. Very well, then. I accept your invitation. Expect me there in five minutes. If I'm not there...well, you know. But I'll be there. You have my word." With a smirk and a wink, the crowd melded in between them, and in a short moment, Angel was gone. After ducking behind the alleyway of the Lazy Dog Tavern, Angel leaped onto its roof and once again found himself leaping from rooftop to rooftop in the direction of the slums. As he did, his keen ears caught the rhythmic sounds of calloused hands slapping upon the skins of ancient drums. He followed the sounds, eager to see where they were coming from. He jumped off the roof of one of the buildings that stood by the entrance. He then slowly approached the slums, mismatched eyes slowly taking in the strange yet interesting festivities. |
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AOC's Character Archive CHAOS: WHERE GREAT DREAMS BEGIN... Before a great vision can become reality, there may be difficulty. Before a person begins a great endeavor, they may encounter chaos. As a new plant breaks the ground with great difficulty, foreshadowing the huge tree...so must we sometimes push against difficulty in bringing forth our dreams. Out of chaos, brilliant stars are born. | |
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2:20 PM Jul 11