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| [OPEN] Making History | |
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| Topic Started: May 21 2016, 05:41 PM (790 Views) | |
| UnitedMoreland | May 21 2016, 05:41 PM Post #1 |
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Useful information OOC THREAD The city of Lancaster was a buzz, it always was this time of year, the Feast of Mithras, the faith's largest festival, masses of pilgrims poured into the city and the market place and streets around it was throng with people buying goods and food for their feast the next day. The city was split into two parts, the residential area dominated at the bottom of the hill sprawling around all four sides, six roads headed up the hill to a large castle in which a small city within a city existed. Lancaster Castle, while a formidable fortress, was more of a Palace, large stone walls enclosed a large open space which was now being prepared for a jousting tournament, mistrals tuned up on a veranda from the rear of the Keep which was in effect a luxurious palace. The flags of various noble families hung on the walls, even those from outside the Kingdom of Ashworth had come as Lancaster was the closest city to the fabled Cave of Mithras. One of those winding her way up towards the gatehouse was Princess Anna, her fine blue dress fluttered in the wind as she sat side saddle on a fine grey horse, the bridal of the horse had a rope tied leading to the one on her elder brothers horse which plodded alongside her. "Thomas, what does the city look like" Anna asked her blindness preventing her from seeing the colourful sight below. "Its incredible" Thomas said quietly, "The people look like tiny insects below us, you can see bright colours moving in the streets and some smoke from cooking fires is drifting across the roof tops." he watched her close her eyes, it was strange Prince Thomas of Varnham thought as he watched her, she had been born blind but despite her world always being darkness she closed her eyes to imagine what those around her described. "We've reached the top" he need not have said anything, she could feel the horse level out and the wind change, she felt it once more as they entered through the gatehouse and a fanfare played. Up on the veranda Prince Lucas, the youngest son of King David III of Attaway walked out alongside their hosts the King of Ashworth. He had been sent here a week earlier to begin talks about the families becoming closer and had found King Saul to be a good host. He now stood a gasp as he watched the girl in the blue dress enter under the gatehouse. As King Saul began to descend the steps Lucas went with him, not out of any sense of occasion but merely to see the girl closer. She had dark black hair, almost like the night itself, her face was pale in comparison and her delicate features seemed to constant light up in smiles as her brother spoke to her. "Prince Thomas, Princess Anna, wonderful you could make it, such a shame your father couldn't" "He sends his greetings Your Majesty" Thomas said as he slid off his horse and bowed before the King, the two men then shook hands. "He would have come only he has gout" It was a lie, truth be told Thomas' father King Simon didn't trust Saul in the slightest, that was why he'd sent his least favourite son and his "cursed" blind daughter . Lucas had gone to the Princess and wondered why she hadn't looked at him as he approached. "Your Highess" he said as he took the reigns, her eyes seemed to search for him. "May I help you down." he extended a hand which was ignored. "Thank you but I can get myself down" she said firmly sliding off the horse and landing rather uneasily. Lucas extended a hand to steady her feeling the warmth of her pale skin. "Thank you" she said as she straightened herself, she seemed to look past him. "Who are you may I ask?" Lucas was slightly taken aback, after all he was a Prince of a royal family, surely everyone would know who he was, if not by his face but by his regalia. "I am Prince Lucas of Attaway Your Higness" he said formally. "Oh my" she blushed the colouring only adding to her allure. "I apologise, its a misfortune that I often do not know who I talk to with my blindness" Lucas felt ashamed that he'd not worked it out, only he'd never meet someone who was blind before. "No apology is neccesary my lady" he said, "Do you require assistance to find your way?" he asked unsure if he'd offended her. "Maybe a little, strange places make it difficult" she explained and he gently placed her hand on his as he guided her towards the verdanda. That was when it happened, a ping and a crack as a crossbow bolt rattled off the steps near King Saul, a few screamed and ducked for cover as a man on the battlements readied a second shot, guards sprinted towards him as men in armour surrounded King Saul and Prince Thomas. Without thinking Lucas had grabbed Anna and put her behind a sack of grain shielding her with his own body. The man got a second shot off but it pinged harmlessly against a guards shield before an archers arrow stopped him firing a third time. King Saul tried his best to recover in a dignified way. "I apologise" he said loudly to the nobles gathered in the square. "We shall search the castle and make sure no one is helping this man and find out what just happened." people began gossiping immediately as many hurried away to find somewhere safer. Lucas helped Anna up and felt a hand on his shoulder. "Thank you good sir" Prince Thomas said, "Any man willing to defend my sister is a good man to me" he extended his hand, "You're Prince Lucas are you not?" "Indeed Sir" Lucas replied with a small bow to the elder Prince. "Then Prince Lucas I am in your debt for defending Anna here, as such as a way of beginning to repay it perhaps I can invite you to dine with us, after all we've had a long journey." Lucas wasn't sure what to say. "Oh please Lucas, as a favour to me." Anna pleaded. "Of course" Lucas felt himself blush. "How can a man refuse a favour to a beautiful Princess" he said following the two inside. Edited by UnitedMoreland, May 21 2016, 05:41 PM.
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| Avhali | May 28 2016, 04:11 AM Post #11 |
Guardian
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(Avhali History Pt.1 (Outsiders Pay Double) Early morning with the rising sun, a small wooden barge come's sailing in on the harbor from a local river. Sails hanging low, and waiving the tradesmen flag of the East. A symbol of an E and two keys crossing behind it, and a W below it, all within a circle. With the colors of gold lettering and a blue sail. They sail in gently from a town many kilometers away where they temporarily reside on the ocean shore. Making deals with the locals of the small town and for the cheap tariffs. This time a year it's worth to trip out to the great city of Lancaster. Goods to sell for their rarities. Silks and gold laden cloths are especially valuable. 6 black men in ivory hooded cloths make their way to Lancaster making trades from the distant Kingdom of Avhali. The Helmer (Man on the wheel): "Trades Master, should we head towards the market?" Trades Master (Captain): "No-no. Far too much coin for it. Lets stop at our usual area first." "But sir, is it worth our time to waste words with them?" We only have a day to-" "Just do it." "Yes, Master Yougan." Passing the large river way into the city Yougan and his men carry on to a different area. Disappearing from the view of most on goers of the festival. Soon reaching a small pass. Barely squeaking every edge of the barge. The Avhaliphite men arrives to a small enclosure of house's around the small waterway. Yougan let out a loud whistle. An assembly of shadows appeared on roofs and in the windows. All the men on the barge drop their hoods. "This is Master Yougan and his men! We are here to negotiate terms!" Shouted The Helmer. Cpt Yougan: "We have what you want! Make it a fair trade now. Take our days pay and i'm done here! Right!? Make our last deal!" A voice from a dark figure behind the lights rays: "You can't do anything now Yougan. The last barge is in shambles, and you will have nothing left after this one. No negotiation. You owe me double profit after your little scandal!" "I told you it was a mistake in your plan! You don't listen!" Yougan snarled. "I am the master here. If you want my clients in the black market, you can have them. But at a cost. And double days pay is what you owe! Anyhow what better way to serve the black market than from black men, ah-haha!" Orrr....you go sell each grain of sand you have to the slums you call home. Perhaps that would be best." The indiscernible shadow turned around prepared to leave as is. "No! You threaten me and my men! I never wanted this. What more do you want from us?!?!" Yougan said in a pit of rage. "I got it all here for you as we agreed, not a single shill from here to Vegara (A small fishing harbor on the ocean coast of Avhali) went unaccounted. My debts are all but gone now, by the end of today we are through!" "Orrr.....my arrows are through you." She said as her faint grin widened. The other shadows of men drew bows at the ready. "No, wait, wait. Aagine!" Aagine: "I grow tired of this, my morning is almost gone. I am a business woman after all." Yougan saying with caution: "Okay, double pay! Okay? Then we are done here and we are no more. Right? Paid our debt and we can sell in the city lke everyone else. RIght!?" Aagine: "Sure, black top. Whatever you say." She sais as she turns away. "Let's attend to our other customers boys." Her minions leave the building walking onto his barge and taking half of his cargo. Heading into the building vanishing. Yougan with a sense of relief, but still tense, prepares himself for the days work. "Let's go Demitri. Lets take the hidden path to the festival harbor." Demitri: "Yes, captain." Edited by Avhali, May 28 2016, 04:30 AM.
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| Gondor | May 28 2016, 10:30 PM Post #12 |
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The Garden of Gilded Comfort Drago Wolfsbane had spent his morning hours wandering the city and seeing all of the beginning festivities of the festival. Children ran and played in the streets, occasionally stopping to listen to a storyteller recite the tale of how Mithras created the world with a single drop of water. He enjoyed the beautiful simplicity of it all, and it hearkened him back to his own youth, having grown up in a family worshipping the old gods, like Odin and Thor. As he passed through the streets, it was a little harder to hide who he was now in the broad daylight. He had left his broadsword back at the inn, but strode in his full armor suit minus the helmet, with Uniformitarian's logo quite visible on his breastplate. His long black hair had fallen out of its normal braid, and he looked quite determined, even though he thought about little at that moment. As he continued his walk through Lancaster, he heard whispers of the citizenry, who spoke in hushed tones. There had been an attempted murder at the palace. Who the target had been he couldn't make out. But this had been just what he was looking for. A piece of valuable information. He then came to a large, marbled white house. Its appearance was quite mysterious, with the architecture and ivy running up and down the walls. There was a lively tune playing, and he could hear sounds coming from the house that he hadn't heard in a long while. He walked up to the entrance and briefly spoke with the guards, expressing his interest to see what this whorehouse had to offer (or so they thought). Once he was inside, he saw a beautiful green garden and a rushing river off to the side. There seemed to be a mixing of nobles and butt naked prostitutes running about, which wasn't his taste. No, he wasn't there for the pleasures of the flesh. He wanted information, and to have that information, he needed an informant. He looked about him, and saw a man standing near the door to the house, garbed in a blue robe. Drago was an expert at reading people, and that man just seemed in the know. He approached the man and introduced himself, even going so far as to reveal his true identity. "My good sir, I was hoping for some help. I am in need of some rather lucrative information and I was wondering if you or someone you know might have anything on a very particular rumor that crossed my ears today. I've heard about an assassination attempt at the palace today. Would you know anything about that?" He asked Samson He then began to whisper in a soft tone, "I am Drago Wolfsbane, Vice Chancellor of the Republic of Uniformitarian and a Knight of the Republic. I am willing to compensate you for anything you might know about what I have asked you." |
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| Hawkwick | May 29 2016, 07:57 PM Post #13 |
Co-Keeper
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Jenna trotted through the streets, trying to avoid bumping into any festival-goers that were on their way to who-knows where. With every couple pedestrians came another whisper. One about the king, one about some other king, even one about an assassination attempt at the palace. Her mind paused, deciding not to worry about it for now. She had much more pressing matters to attend to. As she saw the tavern coming up around the corner, she moved to the right side of the street to try and get in, when a hand grabbed her and threw her to the ground over in one of the vacated side kiosks. She blindly got up and unsheathed her curved knife, flailing blindly in the darkness. Someone grabbed her hand to stop it, and as her eyes adjusted she could make out his face. "Hörenhelm." she muttered, watching the man stroll over to the open door he had pulled her into and close it. "Hmh. Sorry about that." he said, in rather exquisite Altic. Wolfgang Hörenhelm was the youngest sibling of Jorva IV, Empress of Altberg. And the younger half-brother of Ragnar, having been born in the week before his father's death. Now, he was only nineteen. He had also hired her in the last year to keep an eye on Ragnar. Informing him of Ragnar's activities was something she was starting to regret, especially after she'd met the man. "Down to business, then? I have something to ask of you." he continued, brushing off his exquisite red and white plate armor. "My broth--my half-brother. I realize that...maybe...hm." he paused briefly. "I don't think I'll be able to do it. I've already failed my sister, twice. But I am an honorable man. I won't see him butchered like she wants..." he confessed. Jenna struggled to her feet. "So you hired me to look after him, and now that you know everything about him, you've changed your mind on your mission?" she asked quietly, mildly bewildered. He nodded. "Indeed." he said, grabbing a great helm and putting it on. "I am done with my sister. Perhaps, some day in the future, I'll ask you to bring me to him. Not so I can kill him, but so I can ask him to join me. If what you say is true, then he doesn't deserve to die." Jenna almost laughed. "We're more similar than we think, Wolfgang Hörenhelm." she said, swiftly strolling past him and out the door. "Oh, by the way, Hakonor's in the city." she informed him. "Lovely." scoffed the young Prince as he went to his horse and galloped off. Jenna turned, going straight into the tavern and then up to the inn rooms. Ragnar's room was obvious. He was the one that was always burning something, or smoking something. She knocked twice, then once. Ragnar of the Snowy Shore opened the door, already dressed to leave. "Hakonor's going up the hill to the castle as we speak!" she blurted out. Ragnar was clearly surprised to hear that. "Well, fuck me, thank you for the news, Jenna." he said, grabbing a sword and gulping down the last of his drink and almost shoving past her to get to the staircase. "New plan, Jenna. I take out Hakonor, and you figure out what Adrian Vlastimil is doing in this city." he said nonchalantly. "Wait!" she called out. "L-listen. I've been spying on you for your brother." she admitted. "It's how I found you really." she continued. Ragnar raised an eyebrow. "Which brother?" he asked, his tone going very serious. "W-wolfgang. He's here, he's in the city...he doesn't want to kill you." she said, her voice quivering from the admission. This could go very badly for her very fast. "Wolfie...." Ragnar muttered under his breath. "You were always the one with empathy." he spoke up. "Me?" asked Jenna. "No, my brother. He was sent to kill me, wasn't he?" he asked. Jenna nodded slowly. "Look...I came into this with a purely business relationship, but as I got to know you both, and as he got to know you, things really shifted. Listen, I really like you, and I really like him-" she stopped as Ragnar butted in, taking a step closer. "You're fucking my brother?" he asked, always assuming the extreme. Jenna shook her head. "N-no, gods, no." she confirmed. Ragnar took another step closer. "Good." he said, lightly grabbing her hands and kissing her. "That wouldn't be very ladylike, now would it, Lady Amsel?" he said, the first to speak her last name in a decade. "H-how did you know?" she whispered quietly. "It's in the eyes." he smirked, as he descended down the stairs and onto the street, and then off to find Hakonor. |
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| Artstotszka | May 29 2016, 09:18 PM Post #14 |
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The city was bustling, the normal activity of the city amplified by the festival. Luckily people were to wrapped up in the festivities to give them much notice, otherwise the two kitari might have garnered much more attention than they would have preferred. So far, the search had been fruitless; they'd checked alley ways, street corners,taverns, etc., with no sign of Ragnar. Noticing a recognizable face in this particular crowd, Anya nudged Adrian's shoulder, gaining his interest as well. "What is it? Did you find him?" "No, no, not yet." She could hear him groan behind her, but he'd have to deal with it, since this was his fault anyway. "No, you see that guy there? That's Wolfgang Hörenhelm , one of the siblings of the Altberg Queen. Him being here is... highly unexpected." "Should we... you know?" Gesturing towards Hörenhelm with one of his scimitars, Adrian got his question across to her. "No, Hörenhelm may be an Altberg, but from what I know he's not a bad one. I may want to see that bitch Jorva flayed, but I don't plan to slaughter all of the Altbergs just yet." "So we'll just let him go? Couldn't we send a message to the Altbergs if we killed or maimed him?" "No, we send messages by blowing apart her castles and cutting apart her soldiers. If we did something like murder her brother, then this far-off conflict suddenly becomes personal for her, which is the last thing I want." "Good point. I guess we should keep looking for Ragnar then? "Yeah, but keep an eye out for any other interesting people, this city seems to be full of them." They then moved on, making their way towards the richer sections of the city, as well as the palace. Anya doubted that they could waltz in and ask them if they knew where Ragnar was; After all, Anya's rule was disputed by the Altberg Empire, and not many people wanted to end up on their bad side. And even then, the recent assassination attempt had everyone on edge, and she highly doubted that a Kitari of questionable reputation would even get to knock on the door without being arrested or threatened. She was snapped out of her thoughts by Adrian, who was nudging her shoulder, while gesturing over to a rather large crowd of people on a hill nearing the castle. "Hey Anya, what do you think? Is there supposed to be some sort of royal parade or festival thing going on here?" "I don't think so, it's too stationary to be a procession getting mobbed. Theres also too many guards to be some festival activity.Here, Lets go check it out, you lead the way." Checking that his armor was fastened, he walked toward the growing crowd, intent on learning about what was apparently so interesting to the gathered people... |
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| Ascarenor | May 30 2016, 06:41 PM Post #15 |
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Here he was far, far from home in this unknown barbarian kingdom. He downed another ale with great displeasure, how these people seemed to enjoy it was beyond him, but its effects were quite pleasing, perhaps this is why the barbarians drank it in such excess. Yes, certainly that was the case. Aira, his guard and, well, acquaintance – perhaps friend? No, more an indifferent observer, really - looked at him disapprovingly and she ate her food. She no longer indulged; some nonsense about her past that he had quite forgotten. The other member of this triumvirate was a boy of fourteen dressed in simple gray robes, Ardamir he was called, stood stoically yet meekly behind the other two Arda Tuluvans, a perfect posture of any ilar’nalda. The tavern was rank with the smell of uncleanliness, have these people no pride? Aira had protested much against staying in the, as she so eloquently had said, “dilapidated hut of shit and vile.” It was no matter. He had long abandoned any hope of returning home. By now his name was as rank with shame as this city smelt. He had to change his name.. Easily done. But also extremely difficult. How to pass off as anyone of importance without a Rite? He no longer had his Rites of Lineage or his Censor’s Plaque. He cringed at the memories of his travels these past years. A simple heist in Vinyamar had turned into a nightmare of adventure and chaos. Chaos. Oh, how Arda Tuluvans hated chaos. Order must permeate above all things. He was once called Imrahil son of Imrahil of the Skilled House of Altarecorin, a promising family that had humble beginnings in the Veurari but ascended to the Vahtelari after the discovery of saltpeter on their modest lands. Generations passed and now the valuable resource has run dry and the House was becoming destitute. A simple fix. Acquire a Censor’s Plaque and one could easily forge papers and documents acquitting peasants and merchants of small crimes: stealing, small embezzlements, small tax evasion and the like. Nothing to warrant the full wrath of the Prefect, but enough to make a profitable living as no Prefect would ever inform the Capital of their incompetence in losing a Censor’s Plaque least they suffer the fury of the Central Secretariat and be removed for no confidence, thus ending their careers forever. The plan was simple. He had gone in and out of the Prefectural Palatial Manse, for one reason or another, citizens often came and left with little hindrance as the Prefect’s Office dealt with the people’s grievances and petitions. And there he had been. The guard that Imrahil had often seen walking towards the Sensual Way – the government sanctioned temple prostitution and other brothels in eastern Vinyamar – was often on duty in the corridor before the Prefect’s Office. Perfect. A bribe to him and Imrahil was set. It had been a few evenings that Imrahil followed the Guard to the Nessima’Opolë; a brothel that offers only the most beautiful of men and boys. Imrahil had slipped into the room where the guard was and seduced the man and charged nothing for an evening’s entertainment. Seven times Imrahil did this until he asked the Guard for a simple favor, to allow him into the Prefect’s compound in the night in question. Of which the guard eagerly agreed for more payment of course. The Guard was an oaf of a man, muscled and covered in hair with a thick beard. He stood almost a foot higher than Imrahil and his arms were larger than Imrahil’s waist. Though, he had made Imrahil laugh and could be surprisingly gentle and was always quite affectionate, Imrahil remembered fondly his time with the man. Very fondly. He hadn’t been the most intelligent of men, but his sincerity and honesty was more than enough for him. The night of the heist had gone so well according to plan. His bearish man would get him into the Palace with little questions asked and keep everyone out of the corridor by “order of the Prefect”. He had left the small dark corner of the corridor thinking that this Guard would come in handy for future heists. A good investment that. He had entered the Office and after some time found the Censor’s Plaque and the appropriate documentation. It had taken some time to pick the lock on the safe, but he had many years of practicing that skill, he securely tucked his prizes away and closed the safe. The Guard was to keep everyone out by “order of the Prefect” but he head his bear of guard shout, “Good evening, My Lady Prefect.” Imrahil jumped behind a paper screen depicting a scene of a river valley with water nymphs about, he had been relieved that the motif was dark enough to obscure his silhouette. Just as the door burst opened and man stormed in with the Prefect close behind her husband shouting at him over some drivel about their lives. What horrid luck, by all accounts these two should be at the Temple of Yavanna and Aulë celebrating the Merendë Veruen, a holy day consecrating marriage, the two portrayed themselves as pious and dutiful citizens. Politicians; liars and cheats. He paid little head to their bickering as he slowly assessed his situation, he was on the third floor and the window was on the other side. Why in all Under Heaven did they have to have their argument here and not.. well in their bedroom or anywhere really. Then there was that fateful moment when his life had changed. That wail of pain and a loud thud then more hard pounding before an object was tossed towards him ripping a hole in the screen: a statue of Vána covered in blood (which he had found slightly ironic, since Vána was the Valie of Love). Trying to avoid the collision of the statue he had tried to move quietly out of the way, but instead he tripped and fell forward knocking the screen down. The Prefect was lying on the ground with the back of her smashed to bits. Her husband was sitting on the floor just staring blankly at the lifeless body before him. A guard bust in to see what all the commotion was about. The Prefect’s husband looked up with a panic and then with relief as he saw Imrahil, an intruder. The Prefect’s husband stood quickly declaring that he, Imrahil, had murdered his wife. The rest was a blur. He ran towards the window and dived out of it preferring quick death then to the one the local Constabulary might have had in store for him for the murder of a Prefect. Instead of smashing against hard ground to his death he felt the sudden yank and the ripping of fabric. He was hanging there, his cloak caught on one of the many, many decorative ornamentations about the Palace. He hung there all night, most of the guards thought that he had escaped from the compound and after he was not found. He saw his bear, a man Imrahil thought he could have had a future with, and called down to him. He had signaled for Imrahil to jump and that he would catch him. So he had cut himself loose and fell into his gigantic arms. Imrahil explained he had nothing to do with the murder and that it has been her husband. The Guard, did not deny Imrahil’s accusations, only stated that he must be taken to justice. The two wrestled as the Guard trying to subdue Imrahil and take him into custody. He was able to get free and held his hands up. He had said to the Guard that if he had killed the Prefect why was he not covered in blood, why had he been so far from the scene. He was much stronger than Imrahil, but much slower. He was able to get himself loose and get around him and had no choice but to plunge his dagger into the other man’s side. In his haste Imrahil aimed to low and struck a kidney.. He meant only to immobilize the man not kill him. The rest was too painful for Imrahil to recall. One last embrace and the last thing he had said was, “Go now, my love! Go!” Vorondil, he would never forget that man’s name. But so painful, so hard when the memory rushed back into his thoughts. He became aware of his surroundings again trying to prevent the tears from coming back. He finished his ale and had Ardamir bring him another. He could not help but loose himself in his own past, his own thoughts. So he had ridden south as fast as he could, he rode and rode and rode until his horse had collapsed in exhaustion. He too had soon fallen in a field from his hard ride fallen into the grass covered in sweat and wept until he could no longer. He had been awoken by traveling clerics the next day who had fed him and allowed, without questions, to accompany them on their mission south. The next few weeks he dressed as a cleric of Origin and help apostolize the Path of Enlightenment. It wasn’t until he had gotten to Nindelos that his pursuers had caught wind of his activities and he soon had need to abandon the clerics and book passage further south into Sindari controlled lands, he hoped that the Sindari would not allow Teleri constables into their jurisdiction without proper clearance from the capital, he thanked the bureaucratic-chocked system for the delay, the only time in his life he had been thankful for all the red-tape. He knew he could no longer stay on the Mainland, he needed to get to Ascarenor, there he could disappear and start a new life. The only problem was he had had no money. How could he get out? He had forged paper work declaring that he had been promoted to the Grand Censorate in Iscamir so that he could get free passage across the Word Sea. He had chosen the ship Súrmalasta for a lark had been perched on the railing – an omen of luck. It had taken him considerable charisma and wit to explain to the captain that he needed to be in Iscamir without dely. The Captain questioned Imrahil for an hour as to why he was not taking a government sanctioned vessel from the port of Alqualondë because “All bureucrats leave from there. Everyone knows that.” He’d been even more suspicious as to why a Teleri bureaucrat had been in Pelargir, a city controlled and governed exclusively by the Sindari. “A Censors work is never done, my dear Captain. If you wish it of me we could go to the Magistrate and you can explain why you have delayed an Agent of the Divine Empress – might she live forever.” He had said so smugly he thought that he had ruined everything. Luckily, the captain, claiming to be a devout and loyal servant to the Throne had agreed and took him aboard without any further questions. It had been a risky move, as all things; the passenger manifest along with its cargo must first be sent to the local Magistrate’s Office for final approval. He had to use his Censor’s Plaque to prove his position, its registration number would also be sent, he hoped that news that the Plaque was stolen had yet to arrive in Pelargir, or least was lost in jumble of bureaucratic paperwork. Whatever it was the Súrmalasta had gotten approval to disembark with the tide. The ships name alone gave him great comfort Súrmalasta, “a gentle wind among the sea”. He had gotten out of Pelargir, out the Empire and was now sailing towards his new future. The first day had been the same as the ships name, gentle with good winds. But then.. then it had been anything… anything… except gentle winds and fortune. He mused often to himself that the ship should have been named the Mairwanwar – “the strong and obnoxious gale”. It had been nothing but rough waves and storms across the World Sea from Arda Tuluva to their beloved and humble lands in the Far West. Perhaps Ulmo had been displeased with the crew.. the captain certainly for his many – rather unflattering – quips about the Lord of Waters and his “kindness” to his vessel during their voyage. Imrahil was feeling nauseous, perhaps from the ale or perhaps from the memory of his seasickness.. most likely a combination of both. He shuttered slightly and the loss of his memory here. He recalled the cracking of the mast and the splintering of wood then nothing. Just the dark abyss of oblivion. He had awoken some days later on a strange vessel with men speaking a strange tongue. His head hurt (more than it will in the morning after all these drinks). His confusion turned to panic when he felt his hands and feet bound in chains! From here he understood nothing and no one understood him.. the slavers just smiled at him pointing at his face. After sometime Imrahil surmised that his smooth face and straight teeth would fetch a pretty price at some barbaric auction that deals with slaving. Such an uncivilized practice. Why didn’t he just drown in the ocean; a fate much preferable, he thought, then to slavery. From there he was traded! Traded for what seemed to be some meat, cloth.. cloth?! Not even silk. Imrahil chuckled to himself at that though. He had been sold into slavery and was most offended by the price in which he was sold then the fact that he was sold. He entered the service of some Khan or another in the lands just south of Ascarenor. How close he was to his destination.. yet a lifetime away. He learned the barbaric tongue of his masters with ease and soon was forced by his new master to learn the tongues of his other slaves, Master Hai Jarin had said, “Such a mind for these words foreign to me. I will have you learn them all!” Truth be told, out of all the masters he could have been sold to being a scribe to an illiterate buffoon wasn’t the worst. At least he was treated well, never truly hungry, slept in the yurt and not outside in the cold or rain, and was rarely beaten and eventually was held to high esteem. Eight barbaric, ugly languages he was forced to commit to memory. But the worst was most of those slaves were illiterate as well. From a young age Imrahil had learned to read and write and study the calligraphy of Tengwar, Sarati and the Feanoric glyphs. The Khan had books, of which some proved useful. While traveling.. or raiding.. who knew but the Khan why they were in these desolate Steppes raiding for sheep or some other nonsense. It was all ridiculous to him. But, what could he do but keep a chronicle for his Khan who wanted the world to “remember his greatness” but he was anything but great, more a drunken brawler who spent more time sleeping then fighting. After four long years in the service of Khan Jarin they were close to the Orcarenán Jungle, or the Uckelchnii, “Jungle of Death and Disease”, as the barbarians named it. And then he saw it! Oh, what joy he had felt upon seeing the Phoenix Sigil! The Banner of Light, of Civilization! It was a party of Arda Tuluvans emerging from the jungle! Two large elephants emerged after a long line of soldiers and other camp followers. He saw on one of the carts that these men and women were from the Imperial Cartographers’ Guild, they must be mapping the jungle or the surrounding areas! The Khan had met the Arda Tuluvans when he was much younger and knew them to be fair and good traders approaching them to conduct negotiations. And what marvelous fortune it was that the leader of the Arda Tuluvan Expedition was of the High Blood! When they approached Imrahil had fallen to his hands and knees before the exalted Blood and declared himself to be her willing ilar’nalda and to obey her, that he and his descendants shall serve her Noble and Exalted House from now until the end of ends. She had been furious! Outraged! For she was honor bound to take him into her service and if she refused she would have lost face – an incredible amount. Angrily she had accepted Imrahil into her entourage at considerable price to her personal fortune as the Khan would not give Imrahil up easily. She had to not only pay his weight in silver, but 1/8 his weight in gold for each language the Khan was now “losing”. High Lady Ilmarë Úrinendárinë had tasked Imrahil with only one duty: to transcribe every record they made nine times each day. His calligraphy had improved greatly and had become quite adept at it. The High Lady also had him translate her Imperial Rite into each language he knew and she had it certified by the army of bureaucrats within the expedition. Six years he had traveled with the Expedition Party perfecting his calligraphy and the languages he learned during his time under the Khan. As well as the non-verbal hand-language the Blood use to communicate with their servants. The High Lady founded a fortress in the northwest she dubbed Tirnúmenos – City of the Western Guard. She stayed for four years to ensure the city unfolded to her liking. Soon her Expedition Force went out again to explore, conqueror and make trade with the indigenous peoples of Audaxia. A pox broke out among some of the guards and soon ran through the Expedition Party, a pox that Imrahil had gotten while in the service to the Khan, but luckily his healers had known how to treat it and prevent – in most cases – death. Apparently, the healers had told him, that it was mostly children that got it and would never again get it after recovery. Unfortunately, Imrahil knew not what the healers did as he had been in a great fever and recalled little of the time, just strange and terrifying dreams. The Arda Tuluvans fell one by one from the rampage of the sickness. The High Lady had sequestered herself in a tent with only three of her loyalist servants and avoided all contact with the rest of the Party, still she too fell sick and died three days later. The Arda Tuluvan Expedition of three hundred men and women were reduced to Imrahil, two servants – one young, the other old, and a guard. The older servant, being so dutiful as he was, had declared that, “In life I served her and now in death I shall again.” And he took his own life. The guard, on the other hand, she had said that she did not know the way back to Ascarenor and had failed to protect her charge and should, but all accounts, take her own life for her monumental failure. What utter nonsense, it had taken Imrahil a long time to convince the soldier that there had been nothing he, nor anyone, could have done to prevent the spread of the sickness. The guard, she was called Aira, holy indeed if Heaven spared her from this pox, agreed that the two would start a new life somewhere in the west. The other servant, a young boy around thirteen or fourteen, who called himself Ardamir, offered his service to Imrahil, he was too frightened to follow his mistress in death and certainly too scared to remain in the wilderness alone or attempt a journey home. Ardamir saw that Heaven had spared him and given Imrahil the immunity to the pox, therefore, it was Heaven’s will that he now served a new master, the Teleri Imrahil. They took the largest wagon and filled it to the top with as much silk, jade, spices, and all the gold into the back. Released the two elephants who were intelligent creatures and soon would make their way back to the jungle of their home. Imrahil was keen to find and keep all the important documents, among them a Rite from the Empress herself, might she live forever, giving: Archon Úrinendárinë plenipotentiary powers in the name of Her Most Sublime and August Majesty, the Emperor – might She live forever – in all matters concerning the Empire and other peoples. The only problem was he could not pull off being “High Lady Ilmarë”, and Aira certainly could not, she had no air or grace of Noble status about her. The document had been carved with hot iron into bamboo, almost impossible to edit. But… he could change Lady, as it was written [/I]hera[/i] to [/i]Herú[/i] (as the vowels are always written atop the constant it precedes in Tengwar) The rest of the document always referred to the Noble Lady as Archon (Arcáno) and the list of her official titles were written in the genderless case, a thing the Secretariat would often do on official proclamations to “showcase the equality of the sexes” by giving no precise gender to their titles. He had convinced Aira to call him the “Noble Lord Ilmarë” for the moment anyway, she found it all incredibly amusing as Ilmarë was one of the most feminine names any Noldori could name their daughter. “And tell me, oh noble Lord Ilmarë. How are you, a Teleri man, going to pull off a Noldori woman’s name?” “Just be quiet.” He rolled his eyes, “And speak no more of this in Quenya or any other tongue.” “My Lord knows that I speak only Heaven’s blessed verse.” Imrahil rolled his eyes again at Aira, such a poncy way to say Quenya, “Heaven’s blessed verse..” He muttered mockingly. He had shaven the sides of his head down to the skin, the look of the High Blood among the Teleri, yet again Aira had given him a disapproving look as he emerged from the tent dressed in fine silks and his the last two nails on both hands lacquered: the look of any Arda Tuluvan Blood. “Are you going to give me these looks throughout the entire journey, Aira? If it displeases you so you are given leave to return to the Empire and await the judgement of our Glorious Empress’ servants – might she live forever.” “You sound like them, My Lord, but it does go against all propriety to impersonate them. You will be executed for sure and now you have dragged me into this Heaven-forsaken charade. I am yours to command.” “I think you look grad, Your Lordship.” He nodded, averting his eyes, “Ever an ennobled High Blood.” After they had built a pyre to burn the bodies of their fellow countryman and gave them the proper rights the three remaining Arda Tuluvans adventured further west. A wagon full of silk, jade, spices, and gold – lots of it, and thirty some horses. Imrahil, now calling himself – reluctantly – High Lord Ilmarë Úrinendárinë, was dressed in the fine silks of his former mistress, he had Ardamir amend the many robes into the more masculine cut.. which for the Noldori was little difference. The rest of his journey to Lancaster was pleasantly uneventful. They encountered some mercenaries from the northern Tysklandic and Teutonic lands soon after leaving the pyres and hired them for protection. Twenty of them, fifteen men and five women calling their small company the Hedraden. As a show of good faith Imrahil gifted them each a horse and payed them in silver. When arriving in the Purian empire they would be paid again and then after each full moon. They arrived on the Purian coast with little trouble, the mercenaries were well disciplined lead by a man named Captain Alfrik Alfrikson and Captain Signe Wolfsdottr. As barbarians went these Northmen were rambunctious but kept their word and asked little questions. They remained vigilant while on duty and kept mainly to themselves. Twice they encountered bandits and twice they soundly defeated their enemies. Throughout the journey Ardamir had made red silken scarves with the Sigil of House Úrinendárinë – a mermaid with a sun behind - embroidered proudly on them for each of the Northmen to wear around their necks. “You know, I think I am able to change it Ilmaren.” Imrahil said, mainly to himself, he had looked over the document so often he thought he had knew each detail to make a perfect copy. But, alas, his skills in forgery were not yet so high as to remake all the indicate markings of an Imperial Edict. “Ilmaren? What kind of name is Ilmaren?” Aira had said puzzled. “Better than Ilmarë… at least it will no longer follow feminine naming conventions.” Imrahil said haughtily to Aira while they had been aboard the Avhali ship, “Yes. Ilmaren will do nicely.” “But what of the other names, My Lord? Estel and Altárinë and Elendiliel?” Ardamir asked. He had been an ilar’nalda his whole life for the deceased Lady Ilmarë, but had taken to Imrahil quite well and only added his concerns out of fondness and not malice. “Of no concern. No one will use those names anyhow.” He had said with a smile rolling the bamboo scroll up in haste. They arrived in Puria and with Imrahil’s basic knowledge of the Avhali language they were able to book passage to the Kingdom of Ashworth on the Isle of Moreland. Since, Ardamir and Imrahil both knew the language spoken in the Moreland kingdoms; it was the perfect place for Imrahil’s newest schemes to unfold. They entered the city and Imrahil had given leave to his men to have the next few days to themselves, safe five who were to remain on duty at all times. He delegated the task of assigning shifts to Ardamir and Captain Alfrik. “…. not be in here.” Aira said sternly. “Are you even listening to me?” She asked with annoyance as Imrahil’s gaze turned to face her. “I apologize.” He said with a small gesture, “I was lost in my own mind.” “Yes, yes as you often are. But, as I was saying.” Aira continued on in Quenya, a beautiful language that sounded attune to singing, “This is no place for an Arda Tuluvan High Blood, Your Grace. We should get to a more respectable establishment.” Imrahil could not help but hear some mockery in tone. “Also, I do not entirely trust our Northmen mercenaries with our cargo.” “Agreed. We shall depart.” He commanded one of the Northmen to remain in this tavern and he will soon send word to where to meet the following day. Until then only five were needed to be on duty. “It has been decided we shall find lodgings closer to the castle and reassess our situation and plan the next move.” The group made their way further into city closer to the castle. The carriage was halted and Imrahil looked out of the window, much to the annoyance of Ardamir who had insisted that Imrhail, well Lord Ilmaren, not only cut his hair in the fashion of the High Blood but always style it as well. The sides of his head was shaven down leaving only a cresent of hair from the front to the knap of his neck which was then gathered up and tied into an overly intricate topknot fasend together with ornamentation and other trinkets that dangled and chimes as he moved his head. His robes were just as flamboyant, long multilayered silken robes, a thick belt and more dangling jade and gold ornaments. He waved Ardamir away in, what many true High Blood would consider a rather rude gesture, “Joris.” He spoke in Norse, though heavily accented so light and musicy that many of his mercenaries had trouble understanding him, “Why have we stopped?” “A blockage in the way, M’Lord.” He responded. Before Ardamir could remind Imrahil, once again, that he should always command him to speak for him, Imrahil spoke, “I know, Ardamir.” He looked out into the crowd trying to ascertain the situation…. |
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| Malson | May 30 2016, 09:55 PM Post #16 |
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About 4.5 hours before the festival Emilia was putting on a black robe, and putting on an amulet showcasing the Mithrasism religion. Gifted by her mother, the clergy of Mithrasism had been identified by their black robes and amulets/necklaces. She heads to her desk, the invite still laid out on it, she rolls it up and puts it in a pocket. She then heads on outside to check on the sun, after years of looking at the sun she has gotten a sense of time by just looking at the star, although sometimes inaccurate... Walking outside, her horse, another gift, was tied to the fence post. She jumps on the horse, while untying him, taking both ropes, then jerking the pair of ropes, the horse then starts moving... Three hours later After 3 hours of horse-back riding through a dirt road. She finally arrives in Lancaster, the festival was 1 and a half hours till the start. The streets were crowded with people, fruit stands and music going all around. The festival entrance had stables mostly full, one was open. She moves her horse into the stable, tying the rope on a wooden post. Emilia walks to another entrance to the castle where the king and queen of Ashworth lived. Stood there were two guards holding spears, one of them walks to the center, right in the way of her. "Were you invited to head into the castle ma'am?" the guard asks "Yes sire," Emilia gives him the invitation. He notices Emilia's black robe and amulet while unrolling the scroll, reading it. "Ah yes, your name is Emilia, welcome to the home of the king and queen, I hope you'll enjoy your stay." he says... What a beautiful site she had seen, the inside of the castle was better than she expected. Other priestesses of the Mithras clergy were also invited. |
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| Hawkwick | May 31 2016, 06:51 PM Post #17 |
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Co-Keeper
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It had been some time since he had departed from the tavern; the sun was properly up now, illuminating the cobblestone path on the hill on which he waited. He had dropped his cloak earlier, while ascending through one of the rather obscure secondary pathways up towards the hill. He heard them approaching rather slowly. Less of a march and more of a trot, the way the Eldengardians liked to go about it. They, like their distant eastern cousins, didn't have much of a knack for organization, no matter how exquisite their Harbingers appeared now. Eventually, their steps drew closer, and he stood up, his sword clanking at his side. It had been an old Altberg construction, forged in Arnsburg while he had been leaving for the lands of the Heimarn tribes and beyond. The stakes were different then. He was only fifteen himself, but he remembered it well. The moment that the armed guards had burst in, the moment that a crossbow bolt found his father's neck. The King's neck. He remembered escaping through the sewers, crawling through the muck after a lifetime of staring at it from above. And he remembered the following morning, when his half-sister Jorva had been conveniently declared Queen. He cursed his father's reluctance. If only he had been legitimized...this could have been avoided. For years he traveled the world, trying to survive. He remembered his time in Heimar, and his time in Vandinium, and his time in the Drazic lands. He remembered his journeys to the east. To the Norse Lands. To Moreheim. To Avhali. But most of all, he remembered his stay in Artstotszka. Anya, "The Mad", had changed him forever, and in more ways than one. In her he found love for the first time, and with her rather optimistic view of the future, he found a purpose. He had been a mercenary, an assassin, a blacksmith, and a lord of a minor holding. But he had never desired anything more. Various fears had always prevented him from trying. Fear of betrayal. Fear of loss. Fear of overwhelming responsibility. But today, the stakes came back to him, to Ragnar of the Snowy Shore. And as the small Eldengardian contingent came along the bend in the road, he stood his ground. He wouldn't run from fate, nor from fear. Because fate wasn't endless, nor eternal, nor set in stone. He gazed Hakonor up on his horse. The Crow of Hlymrek, they called him. He had a reputation for being a particularly unintelligent brute when it came to politics, but the man could fight, and he could fight well. He had forged his own dynasty in the last decades, fathering an uncountable amount of sons and defending his title in an almost recordbreaking amount of fights. Only Vulonir, the Night Hunter, and Gaarsavik the Broken had managed to last longer. He thought to Gaarsaavik for a moment. Centuries before, Gaarsavik had fought his ancestor, Stundaar Hörenhelm, and lost. Unfortunately for the stability of the entire region, it hadn't been premediated combat. They had simply met in the field at the Battle of Rorik. Ragnar wouldn't make the same mistake today. He unsheathed his blade with a rather muted noise, pointing it's white finish at Hakonor. "You! Crow! Hakonor of Hlymrek, I challenge you!" Hakonor squinted a bit at the man that dwarfed him. "Who are you, boy, that you would throw your life away like this?" he sneered, hopping down from his horse with a clank, his weapons and plate dinging incessantly. "I am Ragnar of the Snowy Shore, Bastard of Hörenhelm, son of King Heinrich the Second!" he declared loudly. He could see the crowd forming now. An audience, how delightful. Then again, anyone who wanted to go up to the castle would end up here. Hakonor put up a hand, ordering his men to stand back. They'd probably seen this a plethora of times. The Harbinger stepped foward. "Unexpected. When I had heard that Jarl Varik's Commander had deserted his keep all of those years ago, I did not expect him to come before me in such away. You are a traitor, truly. I accept your challenge, bastard." he said, unsheathing his swords. "Zu'u hind hi pruzah faraan ko kein wah bo." he said in that guttural language of theirs. Ragnar responded. "Ol dreh Zu'u." He could hear some noise from the end of the crowd. He paid it no mind, waiting for... Then he heard it. More unsheathing. And before he could react, he heard a horse and a second clank as a man dropped next to him, letting his armored steed run amok back into the crowd. Ragnar turned to face him briefly, as did Hakonor, who had hesitated. "Brother!" he called out, recognizing the standard design for Altberg armors. Wolfgang stood to his feet, clasping his arming sword as he called out from beneath his great helm. "Brother! Your reputation precedes you!" he affirmed, readying his stance. Hakonor was furious. "You...you Altic pig, you dare interrupt this ancient tradition? I will have both of your heads on a spike!" Wolfgang shrugged, wiggling his own cloak off of his shoulders. "Tradition is the corpse of wisdom." he told the Harbinger. Ragnar moved closer to his half-brother. "The challenge still stands. Refuse to fight, and you will be known as Hakonor the Coward. Wait a while longer, and perhaps you'll be known as The Undecisi-" he stopped speaking as Hakonor lunged forward, parrying his strike and moving back as he saw his half-brother react in kind, moving to strike at the Harbinger's backside only to be repelled by the Crow's second sword. Ambidexterity wasn't so mundane now. Hakonor stepped backwards, parting the crowd and his own men as he parried again, kneeling to hit their knees with his left hand while his right hand blocked both of their blades. His blade met the air as they both stepped back, so he took a roll forwards, knocking out Ragnar's legs with his own and bringing him to the ground as he went on to fight Wolfgang one on one, lunging with both of his swords in a parallel overhand swing before seeing the Prince bring his sword up just in time, blocking both of them as he delivered an armored kick to Hakonor's stomach, barely staggering him back while Ragnar returned to his feet aiming for Hakonor's neck. He saw Hakonor sharply turn to his left, bringing both of his swords down towards his unarmored head, before he successfully diverted the man's blades to the side, knocking them into the cobbled pavement. Wolfgang aimed for a follow up hit, successfully managing to hook Hakonor's second blade with his own before he used Hakonor's own momentum to throw it out of his hand and into the crowd. Ragnar aimed for a quick end for Hakonor yet again, this time being stopped by Hakonor's now open fist, which hit him in the shoulder and knocked him to the ground, and over about two feet. Aching, he tried to get up, watching Wolfgang lunge for Hakonor in a rather inexperienced move. Hakonor's right hand locked swords with him while his left hand brought up his hand crossbow and aimed it right at the young Prince's neck, firing it point blank and shocking the focused Prince as the bolt entered his neck, rupturing his jugular and sending him writhing and choking on the ground. "No! Fuck!" yelled out Ragnar, watching his brother's death unfold before his eyes just like his father's before him. Hakonor turned, his face and armor stained with Wolfgang's blood, as he got up to his feet yet again. Another brutish swing from Hakonor. Another parry, another dodge. The occasional riposte, as they called it. Nothing changed the sudden rage. Eventually, Hakonor aimed his sword for a leftwards swing with all of his power behind it, and Ragnar aimed to block it, but he saw the Harbinger's sword quite literally tear through his own, sending his sword flying into chunks and allowing the Harbinger's sword to slash him among the chest. He went barreling to the ground, his ornate purple clothing doing nothing to stop the blade. And as he turned to lay on his back, he heard the Harbinger utter something. "A bastard's life and a bastard's death." Someone moved in the crowd, but he paid it no mind. Ragnar closed his eyes, and awaited his death. |
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| Avhali | Jun 1 2016, 04:37 AM Post #18 |
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Guardian
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(Avhali History Pt.2 (A Grave Sacrifice.) Yougan and his men moved threw the canal reaching the centrae of the festival. Nearing midday they had to move fast to claim their spot's around the market. Yougan pointed, "Over there Demitri. Get it quick!" He had spotted an open spot on the narrow dock to put the barge. Just barely enough space to fit and tie it up. "Alright guys we need to work fast. So sell in bulk. Mark everything down, and give 2 of everything. WHOLE SALE. You got that?" "Yes Captain." Shouted Demitri. "Harthus, you come with me and we will set up shop around here." Yougan said to the skinny boy wearing a ratted top hat, jeans and white collared shirt. "You three all move about and find large crowds. Demitri, you look to the other shoppe's see if you can lure in some deals to up sell at home. Anything we don't have. Then at nightfall, lets get the fuck out of here." The three men walk to the left up a bustling street carrying all they can. Bags, and satchels busting at the seems filled with silk's, hats and robes and carrying cabinets full of all sorts of the same. Yougan and Harthus head the other way into the mob lugging armor and gold casted jewelry. While the boy lugs the merchant stand as Yougan finds a suitable spot. Heading further and further into the crowd, it's gets soo cramped they had to halt and move along with the tide of people. Harthus was being smushed and tossed side to side as he struggles to hang on to the merchant stand, almost dropping it. He makes it out into a clearing. "Here Harthus! Hurry boy!" "I'm coming!" He said as he lifted with all his might and stuttered a run to Yougan. "Good, good." Yougan takes the stand from him with ease and puts the stand on the croner of two streets. Yougan and the boy place items on top at fast as they could blink. "Why here? We are away from all of them. Shouldn't we move to where they are going? " Here is a secret boy. We are where the crow is going to go. Watch this. And be ready." Yougan smiles and take a deep inhale.... "WHOLE SALE, EVERYTHING HALF OFF, BUY 2 ITEMS FOR THE PRICE OF ONE, EVERYTHING MUST GO!" A large group of people coming from both streets mob him and the boy. Harthus is overwhelmed, but not unnoticed. "Thank you sir, and have a great day, enjoy the festivities!" "Thank you beautiful young lady. Please come again soon!" Yougan was doing the bulk of the work, grabbing things and selling things, and occasionally shouting out a sales pitch to others. "Harthus, attend to that gentlemen right there!" He says yelling in his ear to sound out the buyers. An old man dressed fancy was waving money in front of the boys face. He could only see is lips moving. Suddenly he grasped his voice saying "Move fast sunny." the old man snarled "I want the fine silk robe. Do you not want my money?!?" He looks around him in all the compartments and crates, in a panic. "I-I'm sorry sir, w-we are all out of those." Yougan stepped in."Of course we have more, they are at the barge. We can get it for you in a swift moment good sir." The man was relieved and smiled at Yougan. Then turned his head to Harthus and looked ruthlessly with disrespect. Watching him stand motionless. "Go now boy, and hurry." Yougan said. Harthus ran right through the crowd as best he could. Pushing and shoving, "Excuse me, sorry, excuse me ma'am." Making it beyond the mob, he made it to the dock, and found the barge with the familiar flag. He ran down searching everything he could see. Not one robe could be found. "Maybe in storage?" speaking out loud. Opening a hatched door on the floor, revealing stairs to the bunk rooms. Harthus was stunned as he made the last step down the stairs. "Well, well. It's been a while now, hasn't it. Boy." Said Aagine, standing next to 4 other men on each side. Harthus runs as fast as he can up the stars but was caught only making it a few steps. He tries screaming. "Help, help!" "The man that had him by the throat. mocks him. "Hewp me, i'm a poor - BLACK BASTARD! HAHA! Hahaaa!" "No one can hear you little rat shit." He pulls him down to the floor as the other men close the floor doors. "They are all enjoying their time!" his tone get deeper and more gritty, and he slowly moves closer to the boy with a knife to his throat. "Just as we are about to." Harthas begins to shed tears. Aagine walks to the boy being held by a knife to the neck. "You. You are special. You are going to be a savior to your people." she said calmly "Wha-wha-what do you mean?" he stutters and struggles to hold his breath long enough to say anything. "You want to help your own people right? Get them out of these, struggling times? It is the whole reason you are here?" Aagine bends down to the boy so they are face to face. A mere inch from each other. "What are you talking about?!" Harthus shakes his head and more tears stream down. Aagine waits a short while. Watching him heave with angst and fear. "You are going to save all these people from there hellenistic ways." she stand up and exaggerates her actions, "Free them all from the lies of Mirthism! Break the hold that encapsulates their minds from the truth!!" she raises her arms to the ceiling, "The Great Architect will set them a blaze!" (The God of Linnish religion) "How are you going to do that?" Harthus said with intrigue. "We will do it the ol' fashioned way." Aagine giggles. Because she has no interest in religion or Linnish in that case. "Ain't nothing that says 'saviour' better than a sacrifice." His eyes widened, and gasped. "NOOOOOOO! You can't!" He throws punches and kicks while being restrained by a the man behind him, trying to tie a rag around his mouth. "My daddy will kill you if you try to sacrifice him!- *mhmph*" She watched him struggle to find out it was not his father she was intending to kill. But was then shocked at the news he just relieved. Aagine raised her eyebrow. "Ooohh. Your father?". The boy breathing heavily looks her dead in the eyes. "That makes you the prefect candidate then." Harthus kicks and shakes, but is unable to get free. "You two stay here and tie the boy up. We are taking this barge and all of it's cargo." Edited by Avhali, Jun 3 2016, 03:57 AM.
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| Artstotszka | Jun 1 2016, 07:57 PM Post #19 |
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The two of them had barely made it to the crowd before the fight started. Anya was ecstatic to find Ragnar again, but Adrian was much more concerned with how they found him. Even with a numbers advantage, The Harbinger of Eldengarde was one of the most dangerous warriors out there; The position required you keep winning duels and challenges. He was about to ask Anya her thoughts on the matter, when suddenly the duel took a turn for the worse. Hakonor knocked Ragnar down and parried a blow from Wolfgang, bringing up a crossbow with his other hand and firing it, killing the young prince. Ragnar got up, but he could tell that his fighting was different; He was enraged, and sooner or later he'd make a mistake. His queen noticed this too, and she looked over at him, with a distraught look on her face. She was quick to speak up "Adrian, what'll happen if he loses?" "Then he will kill him, as typically happens in these matches" A look of horror washed over her face, and she glanced back at the fight, before looking at him again. This time, the horror had been replaced by a look of determination (and some nervousness, which was unusual of her). "We can't let that happen. I have a plan though..." She leaned in and whispered it in his ear- "What! Anya, you gotta be kidding me, this is your stupidest idea yet!" "You will do it Adrian, don't make me order you." The sudden shattering of metal caused them to break from their argument, watching Hakonor knock Ragnar down with a slash, his sword shattered and broken. Looking over at his concerned leader, he knew that if he didn't act now, then there wouldn't be another chance. Pushing forward through the crowd, he unsheathed his Uvask blades. Forged hundreds of years ago by his father's family in Altberg, they had been reforged when he had became a Knight, giving them their Tribal-Kitari style. They were curved, setting them apart from the Altic weapons normally seen in the Empire or the colonies. Remembering his training, he readied his blades, jumping at Hakonor with his arms pulled back to his left, slashing rightwards as he aimed for his upper back; He felt the blades meet armor as he landed, quickly rolling before, turning to face his opponent. The slash had done no damage to his armor, but it had distracted Hakonor. He would have to keep his attention though, if he wanted to buy time for Ragnar to escape. "Nikakikh dal'neyshikh voin korolya." As metal met metal, he knew he was in for quite the fight... Anya pushed her way through he crowd, keeping an eye on Adrian while he fought the Harbinger. She was trying to make her way over to Ragnar, but someone beat her to it; A woman she'd never seen before also moved toward Ragnar, who was getting up, probably preparing for Round two. Thinking it was a threat, she reached toward her belt… But then the woman grabbed his arm, saying something she couldn't hear over the crowd. Ragnar apparently trusted her enough, so she turned away from them, deciding to follow them after this and find out for herself. She saw Adrian take a mean blow to the right side, and she knew that it was time to end this fight now. Reaching toward her belt, she readied her 2 pistols; they'd be good for 2 shots, and she had to make them count. Luckily for her, while some people like the Harbinger, or his guards, might not be fazed by a gunshot, the large crowd they had acquired would probably be terrified at these ungodly inventions from the east. She raised one pistol towards what she assumed was the leader of the soldiers, the one giving orders to the rest of the men, who were making sure the fighters stayed in the ring and the rambunctious citizens stayed out. Taking aim with her left weapon, she took aim towards him, steadying herself, her finger slowly squeezing the trigger- BOOM A loud boom resonated throughout the crowd, accompanied by a large furl of smoke. The guard leader slumped over, blood suddenly escaping through the new found hole in his neck. The crowd reacted exactly as she had planned though; A mixture of screams and gasps rose up, as people ran in every direction to avoid the sudden danger. Ragnar and his companion used the distraction, but Adrian was still kept up by Hakonor, who was unfazed by the panicking peoples. They were facing each-other still, Adrian right between The Harbinger and herself. She needed to end this, now. Adrian clashed swords with him again, neither of them giving way as they tried to overpower the other. Taking a risk, she aimed at the back of Adrian's head, before calling out "Adrian , utka seychas!" He listened, ducking down as Hakonor slashed at where his neck once was. Now with her target in clear view, she aimed for his neck, pulling the trigger again BOOM The Harbinger recoiled from the 2nd shot, now preoccupied with the bloody hole in his left cheek, ignoring the two Kitari for a moment. A moment was all she needed, as she grabbed Adrian's arm, running away from the duel, hoping to leave before a Guard or the Harbinger got it together and pursued. Noticing Ragnar and his friend ahead of them, she ran to catch up, making sure that this time, he wouldn't leave her sight. |
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| Ascarenor | Jun 13 2016, 04:00 PM Post #20 |
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The carriage was able to get passed the crowd on its slow ascent to the castle Imrahil drew back the curtain to see what all the commotion was about as they passed. Three large men had unsheathed their swords and were arguing about something or another, Imrahil could not tell what, but heard someone call himself Agnar the Snowy Bore, Bastard of Herhnhel, or something, a scion of Heinreckt… he did not hear it clearly but sounded impressive. “Dueling.” Scoffed Imrahil, “Not something I had ever found useful.” “You are High Blood now. You will have to learn to like it, they duel each other over the smallest of slights.” Aira said as she watched the crowd and duel go by. “You seem to know an awful amount of the nobility for someone who claims to just be a lowly soldier.” Imrahil looked over Aira, the woman was hiding something. But so was he, and he knew better than to pry her secrets. Just as they finally managed to get passed the crowed he heard it. The horrendous sound of the Escanárë, the gunpowder weapon he loathed. He had almost been shot by the cursed things back in Arda Tuluva, a few times more than he wished to recount. Why the alchemists concocted that powder was beyond him. The crowd dispersed in a screaming panic, everyone fearing for their lives. After all a man had just been shot by an escanárë. Imrahil’s carriage had been far enough a front to avoid being surrounded by the panicking, “You.” Imrahil shouted to the fleeing man opening the large carriages door, “Agnar the Snowy Bore, come quickly we offer you shelter. We are but mere moments from the castle those men will dare not pursue you there.” He hoped anyhow. Imrahil needed information about this place and that Agnar? Ragar? However his is called he seemed knowledge and well-traveled. “Estanë istë 'Ragnar of the Snowy Shore'.” Aira said in Quenya. (He called himself...) “And how would you know? You do not speak that language.” He restored in the same tongue, “Anyhow.. just.. Be quiet, Aira.” Switching to the tongue of Moreland, “Ragar, apologies," Aira rolled her eyes at him who seemed to just never really listen, "There is little time. Come and fall under the protection of the House of Úrinendárinë. This I vow." Edited by Ascarenor, Jun 15 2016, 08:52 PM.
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12:33 AM Jul 14