Roleplayer Guild - Forum Roleplaying Games

~Garbage Dump, Alabar, Branchwood~

Orin:

The leader of their group, Evie, had threatened him if he tried any more "tricks." Orin only clutched his bottle tighter with renewed determination to defend himself. It wasn't like he had just blown the powder into the other woman's eyes. She had attacked first. He was just defending himself with the only means he had. It wasn't like he had the strength to go waving a blade around like the rest of them.

But he had no time to really think about it any more because they had taken off at the sight of the court sage. Now it was only the guards left with him. And the sage. Orin wanted very desperately to make himself small and scarce. But as part of the Branchwood army, he had a duty to stay with the guard who still held his hand. He kept his side to the sage, unsure of what that one's next move would be. Finally, he lowered the bottle from his lips, but still held it, ready still for any attack.

"What do we do?" he asked of no one in particular.

Geoffrey:

"Do?" he said. Anger flashed behind his eyes as he rounded on the court sage. "Yes, what can we do? I was this close to convincing them to come back to the castle with me where they could have been treated fairly, and we could have figured out just what is happening. What the hell did you think you were doing? You're supposed to be serving the kingdom, not serving your own sick satisfaction in whatever game it is you're playing."

The threat in the air might have been palpable. He wasn't sure. But he was sure that someone was going to hear about the court sage's deliberate thwarting of a possible resolve to all the conflict. Who had let him out of his cage, anyway? This was a guard's concern, not some hunt for the enjoyment of whichever noble decided he wanted some sport. He sighed.

"Well. Done is done. I don't think we have a chance of catching them, so I'm heading back to the castle to report. Healer--er. What is your name?"

The little healer looked up at him, and he felt him squeeze his hand in trepidation. "O-Orin."

"Orin. A good name. I'm called Geoffrey," he said, trying on a reassuring smile for the man. "Can you help those two over there?" He pointed to the shack where another guard was trying to help the foolish one out of the haze of pukeweed. The man nodded and hurried off, obviously happy to get away from the "sage." Geoffrey snorted. Some wise sage the man had turned out to be.

Well, he had been given a clue. They were staying in Branchwood. Actually, he had never said he thought they were returning to Atles; only he had laid out what would probably happen if they did. Branchwood was very easy to go over in terms of consequences. So where did they intend to go in Branchwood? Some safehouse? To what end? To hide there for forever until the war sucked them in or someone could retrieve them? That didn't seem likely. If anything, they would want to do something. He stopped worrying about it then. He couldn't think with this big hulk next to him, anyway.

He watched Orin open the shack door and windows, the hem of the robe at his throat pulled up over his mouth and nose. He was airing it out very quickly, and he wasn't flinching at the sight of the puke, either, and Geoffrey liked that in a healer. He had proven very brave and quick-witted, and Geoffrey welcomed a sensible ally when he found one.

"I'm going back to the castle to report," he called to them as Orin finished airing out the place. Two guards had come, as he thought they would, but little help either had been. Done is done, he repeated to himself. Done is done.

Orin trotted back up to him. "You aren't giving chase? I-I mean. It's not my place to say. But I thought..."

"Those two may give chase, but I'm on orders that if I spotted those guys and had a confrontation, I was to report afterward..." He wondered if anyone would think about that. The guards were sent to capture these guys, but, quite obviously from what he had said just now and the way he spoke earlier, he was not just a regular guard. "Besides, we're not really in any shape to go after them, anyway." He motioned to the rubble of the ally. "They're long gone. Better to cut our losses."

Orin seemed to think on this, then nodded. Geoffrey turned back to back to the two other guards. "Good luck to you guys, then."

He turned and walked toward the castle. He wasn't surprised when the healer began to follow after him, keeping wary watch on the sage they left behind.

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Sigmunt: ~Garbage Dump, Alabar, Branchwood~

The vile little spellcaster giggled and twitched with glee. These were fun rabbits indeed. They would be so very fun to chase. He glanced over to see if the talentless were having as much fun as he...they were not. In fact, one of the guard dogs was making some less than pleasing comments about Sig's motives.

How dare he. How dare he! To stain the tapestry of Sig's memory with his stupid, ignorant commentary. Truly exquisite fun like this didn't come around all that often.

Sig wanted to burn him. He really, really wanted to burn him. Only the barest vestiges of rationality held his hand. But when the fool dog decided to walk away in self-righteous bombastity, Sig had enough.

Ripping himself out of the air he tore through the fabric of reality, blazing into existence back in front of the retreating guardsman. He had taken a chunk of road with him and it shattered at his feet as he came down. Rushing forwards he jabbed a finger into the guards breastplate, surprising strength in his bony digit. He leaned in close snarling with all too white teeth at the guard, their noses almost touching. The nauseous stench of mint and rose petals wafting about him.

"Now listen here, you little, stupid, ugly, talentless dog." he hissed in a dangerous, peppermint whisper. "Don't you ever...EVER! dare to question my motives or methods." He pulled back turning up his nose in indignant fury, the corner of his eye compulsively twitching and tightening. His tone shifted into patronizing dryness. "That kind of stupidity will quickly earn you a messy...messy end." His hand flexed open and shut each time his fingers splayed a sphere of rolling fire springing into existence before extinguishing itself. "What if we'd brought them back to the castle hmm? They would immediately be brought up for summary execution. No matter their protests. They have offended the royalty of Brachwood, evaded arrest, threatened Branchwood lawbringers, their relative innocence in other crimes is unimportant. It was unimportant the moment they escaped the first time. All I'm doing is getting a little fun out of a bad situation. Your naivety is astounding!" He huffed.

Growing silent for a long moment, and doing his very best to keep himself in check. So intent on the talentless in front of him, he forgot to check for any talentless behind him.

Needless to say, when the spear point thrust through his front he was quite surprised. He looked down at the gleaming, bloody lance of metal, that had so rudely torn his flesh and caused his robes to be stained a deep ruddy red. He gasped and turned his head slowly. The man behind him almost made him laugh, though that was difficult considering his current predicament. He was swathed in a high collared cloak, looking for all a world like a man trying too hard to be an assassin.

"Wha- What?" He said simply, as if unable to understand what had happened. His yellow eyes dropped to the leather gloved hands gripping the spearshaft tightly. "Did you? Did you just stab me?!" He said with rising petulance.

"DID YOU JUST F**KING STAB ME!!!" He turned towards his opponent, who swiftly wrench the spear from the court sage and dropping into a low guard. Sig roared with prideful irritation waving one hand dismissively.

Most mages were seen through the lens of mysticism, transformed into awe inspiring beings able to work subtle forces beyond the skein of mortal men. Their graceful cunning and razor sharp minds dealing with invisible energies that flowed just beyond sight. Sig had none of that. He may be awe inspiring in his potency, though terror might have been more likely. But he was anything but subtle. Some worked the Art with grace and complexity, he used it like a sledgehammer. He was the barbarian-genius, his spells weren't woven, they were raw power, to be brought crashing down upon his enemies.

So as his arm gestured with effete delicacy, the result was anything but. A torrent of ice and frigid air exploded outwards in a wave, instantly freezing and shattering everything it touched. The would-be assassin leapt back vaulting on the end of his spear. Not far enough, no one escaped Sig, his feet came down on slick-ice the cold immediately creeping up his legs, locking them in a block of impossible frost. Sig gave a savage smile his other arm waving, this time a circle of fire flickered for an instant, almost anti-climactic as it looked like that was all there would be, then the alley exploded in a horizontal cyclone of white-hot fire, a burning holocaust to consume everything in its path. When it was through the street was laid bare, the ice instantly boiled away into a thick steamy fog, the cobblestones glowing red with raw heat. Of the assassin there was no sign.

Sig sniffed. "Maybe I burned him all way."

In response the bloody spear lanced through the cloud of steam. Sig tsked with disappointment his hand lifting for a third time, the spear disintegrating in flight. Sig looked down at the big bloody hole in his chest, and tugged at the sullied robes, now almost completely stained red. Seemingly unaffected by the terrible wound he had received. He frowned at the guard. "There, now they've gone and assaulted the Court Sage as well...still any complaints." Turnign his frown to his soiled clothing. "Oh bother...I can't go on a rabbit-hunt like this. I'll have to change now."

Turning away, the sage hopped what should have been a short hop, the rabbits and the offending dogs apparently forgotten, his launched himself high into the air, slowly fading out of existence before he'd passed the rooftops.

Pent: ~Backstreets, Alabar, Branchwood~

The knight tore off his smoldering cloak, having narrowly avoided being charred alive by the frightful magician. He hated spellcasters, they were always an unknown quantity. But he was almost shaking with fear of this one. He was not a man, not a man at all. A monster could be cut, a monster could bleed, a monster could die. This man...this man had been cur, he had bled, but he had not died. Pent was good at his job, he knew a killing blow. That should have ended the sadistic spellcaster. Pent had heard the man speak, he knew he could not let him give chase. Pent may have to betray the poor students soon, but for now, for now they were loyal citizens of Altes, and he was a loyal knight of Altes. He could not let that monster chase them. He could only hope his efforts would slow the beast down.

He grimaced with discomfort. He was dressed in all too tright black leather, from head to foot. Why the hell did those cloak-and-dagger types wear this stuff? He could move more easily in plate-mail. He shunted his own pain aside, he needed to help the students now. The recent witchery seemed to bring the capable Brachwood city guard out of the woodwork. Rounding a corner he almost ran straight into a small group much like the one he'd taken the spear from. They looked at him in stunned surprise...perhaps shocked that anyone trying to be inconspicuous could look so obvious. Whatever their skill however, his was better. Whipping his shortblade out of his sheath he hacked the broad blade into the firsts neck. Spinning as the remaining two tried to bring their weapons to bear he chopped the second in the flank, a messy blow, but he didn't have time for theatrics. Twisting under a desperate thrust by the third he cracked a glooved fist into the side of his helmet, spinning it to obscure his enemies vision. Gripping the mans jaw he slashed his blade sharp and short underneath, cutting his throat. He swiftly turned to end their lives with a cleaner, quicker blow...no need for them to suffer. He would ask the gods for their forgiveness later. For now, he had to hurry on his way. Rounding another corner he found himself again confronted, something that was happening far too frequently. This time however, rather than the gleaming uniform of Branchwood guards he found the more ragtag appearance of his marks. Immediately backing away he sheathed his sword, hand thrusting out palm first to diffuse hostility.

"Hold! I am not your enemy!"

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((Giving my charries a little jump, here. Feel free to let the Prince actually stumble in on Orin and Geoffrey's convo, LH. I left an opening, but you can ignore it if you want.))

~Garbage Dump - Castle, Alabar, Branchwood~

Geoffrey:

Orin gripped the fabric underneath his armor at his back, but even without that warning, the sage's movement was loud enough that he would have known he was moving. The man was showy. He probably couldn't help it. The sage landed in front of Geoffrey, earth breaking underneath him where it had followed him. So not only was he loud, obtrusive, and insane, he was also careless of what such damage would cost the people or the monarchs.

Geoffrey waited patiently for the sage's tirade to end, keeping his face carefully neutral. That last was a bit hard, as the man obviously chewed too much mint. Not to mention peppermint. What was the last scent? Rose? He thought so. He had been around enough courtiers who bragged about their perfumes that he had come to recognize a great many scents. When the petulant rant was over, Geoffrey nodded to him. Orin, still gripping the fabric underneath his armor, was shaking.

In the long silence, Geoffrey began to move aside from the little man. "Your naivety is just as astounding. Must be nice to think on things so simply. I don't have that luxury."

The healer edged to his other side as he attempted to pass the sage, then, suddenly, a man ran up and thrust his spear through the sage's chest. Geoffrey, just as surprised, backed up from where he was, putting an arm around Orin to usher him as well. The sage's wrath had been awoken, or perhaps only withheld from Geoffrey himself, and Geoffrey picked up the healer to make a hasty escape from whatever damage the spellcaster was about to wreak.

"B-b-but the wound," Orin protested as he tried to save his bag from clanging against Geoffrey's armor. The bottles inside would break. He managed to shift the bag into the curve of his stomach and clutched it with one hand, the other fastening onto the heavy cloth that draped down from his armor to cover his neck.

Geoffrey didn't glance back. "He seems all right to me."

Orin:

Orin was secretly relieved. If he had had to heal the man, he would have had to touch him. Orin's magic was sufficient to heal without physical contact, but something as deep as that would have required a certain finesse that only came with contact with the patient.

There was a blast of heat that Orin ducked away from. The sage was reckless with his magic. He either had a lot of it, or he didn't mind the cost it would have on him. After a while, Geoffrey stopped to catch his breath and set Orin down.

"Um. Thank you," he said. Geoffrey only nodded, swiping a hand underneath his helmet to clear it of sweat. The rest of the way, they walked, Orin going over his bottles to make sure none were broken or damaged. None were, but he knew he would have to replenish his powdered blue flag soon.

Finally, they arrived at the castle, and like any castle, it was cool inside even in the full heat of the day. They had had little trouble getting in, both being part of the military. Orin closed his eyes to the shade for a while, enjoying the relief. Beside him, Geoffrey removed his helmet, also looking more refreshed. Orin watched him with interest, the only features he had seen from the man up til then were his very green eyes and neatly trimmed circle beard.

Geoffrey was tall, a good head and a half from Orin's height, and obviously lean, his strength made evident by the fact that he wielded an axe in place of the more elegant sword or spear. He had high, prominent cheekbones with an olive complexion that made his face look thin. He wore a white bandanna over badly shorn sun-bleached light brown hair that stuck out in every direction from its own shortness. Obviously, the haircut had been done in haste, maybe even by Geoffrey himself. But overall, he had a dashing and handsome quality to him. Orin wondered who he really was.

Geoffrey arched one eyebrow, letting the other knit. His eyes were half-lidded as he looked almost sideways at the healer, the corners of his mouth turned ever-so-slightly upward. He almost looked bemused. It was a look Orin would come to know as Geoffrey's signature look. "Am I that interesting?" he asked, voice a low rumble inside the castle walls.

Orin started, letting out an elegant "Errr," noise as he was caught staring. He tried to catch himself. "D-don't you need to report? I mean, isn't that what you said?"

Geoffrey nodded, then sighed. "Yes. I've got to try to fix this mess before it becomes any more convoluted than it already is. It would be easy if I worked for the monarchs themselves, but I don't, so I have to go the roundabout route to get information to them. Sorry, but... I didn't mean to reveal to anyone I was working for someone, and I'd like for their identity to remain hidden."

Orin nodded. "The box-maker?"

Geoffrey gave him his sideways bemused look again. "You won't abuse that, will you? But you can use it if you get into trouble."

Orin nodded again, more vigorously. "I p-promise! I won't use it without real cause."

"My thanks. Now, I have to report."

"Good luck getting your message to the Prince," Orin wished him as he began to turn away, although his words were empty. He fiddled with his bottles in his bag, nervous again, wondering what he should or was expected to do.

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Corrin - Backstreets, Alabar, Branchwood

Eyes still burning with stinging tears, Corrin was guided by her companions as they began to flee. She had heard the crazed voice of the person who she realized was the famed court sage of Alabar, Sig of Branchwood. The was someone she did not want to mess with. People like that were the main reason that she hated magic. Unpredictable, dangerous.

She had only a vague idea of what was happening as she fumbled about. Soon, however, her eyesight began to return and she realized that they were following a lonely backstreet that led away from the alley. She heard a loud, crackling noise behind her that she recognized as the sound of a powerful spell being cast, and she glanced behind her at the alleyway to see a cloud of smoke trickling down the street from where they had just come.

She was in this deeper than she had thought, and now several of the Branchwood authorities knew her face. She wondered again why she had been sent on this mission. She was beginning to get a sour feeling in her stomach. This was all too like that other mission, years ago, when she was just a girl. Jan had gone with her then. The last stealth mission that they had been sent on together for the good of Atles. But no, this was different, and that was four years ago.

She was trying to think of what they should do now when suddenly a man clothed in black rounded a corner and appeared in front of them. The man held his palm out towards them as in companionship, but she was testy at the moment and wary of anyone offering help or otherwise, especially since he seemed to know who they were.

She drew out one of her throwing daggers and made a gesture with it that indicated that she could plant it in the man's chest before he could reach her with the sword he had sheathed at his side.

"And now who are you? Speak now, or get out of the way."

((Short, I know, I don't want to go to far without letting other people have a chance to respond, catch up, and have their piece.))

Pent: ~Backstreets, Alabar, Branchwood~

The man in black rose up his arms dropping to his side as he eyed the dagger thoughtfully. She had some skill with a knife, that was certain from her bearing and stance, and the others were all a variable, being magic-users and the like. The elven were always a challenge. Most of them had already spent the better part of the day fighting and fleeing, that would be taken it toll on them. The best way to take them out would be...wait, that wasn't right.

He was thinking about them as if they were enemies. They were not his enemies, at least, not yet. He shot a glance around them, as if checking to see if it was secure. "This situation is rapidly getting out of hand. Suffices to say, my name is Carlyle, and if you want to get out of this death trap without steel in you or on you, then you'd best follow me. I've cut a path through the guard perimeter. You are rapidly running out of both time and allies, I suggest you make use of the ones you still have."

He tried to sound urgent and authoritative, disturbed at the ease with which he lied. It was...disconcerting to say the least, perhaps even a little disheartening. But it was for his queen, everything for his queen.

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