Alarei Member
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- Old Guild Username: Fulsom
- Joined: 11 yrs ago
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- Alarei 11 yrs ago
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5 yrs ago
I'm leaving.
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5 yrs ago
What up, big pimps?
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Most Recent Posts
Turt, could you mark 4 coins off my sheet please? Cheers :)
He entered out into the daylight just as everyone else scattered ahead of him to prepare for the hunt. The fighter figured he’d do the same; his breastplate must have been repaired by now, so the first stop was the local smithy. He parted through the thick crowds of varying races, at one point knocking his knee against a gnome, altercating in an exchange of flustered expressions on the shorter man’s part before he scurried away, flapping his arms above him in the air and muttering unpleasantries. Alarei shrugged it off with a chuckle as he finally found his way to the smithy.
“John, how did the breastplate come along?” he entered the shop rather clumsily, hitting his head off of one of the horseshoes hanging from a tethered rope to the ceiling. “Rather dangerous, don’t ya think?” he joked as he shook the smith’s hand. “Aye, your plate’s good, not a ding in sight!” John replied, admiring his handiwork and presenting it to Alarei. “Very nice, friend,” the fighter beamed “Would you mind…?” he motioned to the straps on the plate as he began to fit it back on, the blacksmith obliged, tightening the straps accordingly.
Having paid in advance of the work, Alarei concluded business with the blacksmith and walked back into the busy streets of Titania. He pondered what to do next, he didn’t have a schedule to keep and he was already outfitted and supplied for the Goblin raid. The fighter finally decided to take it easy, using what remained of the afternoon to relax and unwind, as he rarely had the chance to do just that.
Alarei arrived at the gates ahead of everyone else, a few saddled horses being sold caught his attention and he approached. “Good man, how much for one of your stallions?” The merchant smiled a toothy smile as he raised his hand in front of Alarei’s face, four fingers outstretched. “Four gold coins?” the fighter smoothed his face with his gloved hand, pondering for a moment as he stared at a sheer black horse, with strong hind legs.
“Perhaps we could do barter, friend. What say you?” Alarei offered a gentle smile.
“Feeeck off, four gold or nothing!” the merchant hollered, closing his fist and shaking it. Alarei shook his head and began to thumb the coins into the merchant’s hands. “You drive a hard bargain; this horse had better be worth it.”
Unhitching the horse and mounting his supplies upon its back, he began leading the horse by bridle back to the city gate, and awaited the rest of the party. He stroked the beast’s mane; the horse whinnied moving its face closer to his hand. “I should find a name for you, ‘Horse’ just won’t do.”
“John, how did the breastplate come along?” he entered the shop rather clumsily, hitting his head off of one of the horseshoes hanging from a tethered rope to the ceiling. “Rather dangerous, don’t ya think?” he joked as he shook the smith’s hand. “Aye, your plate’s good, not a ding in sight!” John replied, admiring his handiwork and presenting it to Alarei. “Very nice, friend,” the fighter beamed “Would you mind…?” he motioned to the straps on the plate as he began to fit it back on, the blacksmith obliged, tightening the straps accordingly.
Having paid in advance of the work, Alarei concluded business with the blacksmith and walked back into the busy streets of Titania. He pondered what to do next, he didn’t have a schedule to keep and he was already outfitted and supplied for the Goblin raid. The fighter finally decided to take it easy, using what remained of the afternoon to relax and unwind, as he rarely had the chance to do just that.
Alarei arrived at the gates ahead of everyone else, a few saddled horses being sold caught his attention and he approached. “Good man, how much for one of your stallions?” The merchant smiled a toothy smile as he raised his hand in front of Alarei’s face, four fingers outstretched. “Four gold coins?” the fighter smoothed his face with his gloved hand, pondering for a moment as he stared at a sheer black horse, with strong hind legs.
“Perhaps we could do barter, friend. What say you?” Alarei offered a gentle smile.
“Feeeck off, four gold or nothing!” the merchant hollered, closing his fist and shaking it. Alarei shook his head and began to thumb the coins into the merchant’s hands. “You drive a hard bargain; this horse had better be worth it.”
Unhitching the horse and mounting his supplies upon its back, he began leading the horse by bridle back to the city gate, and awaited the rest of the party. He stroked the beast’s mane; the horse whinnied moving its face closer to his hand. “I should find a name for you, ‘Horse’ just won’t do.”
Sini said
I thought Upper-Aedirn/ the Vergen Freestate despised Nilfgaard?
Aye, to my knowledge they seem to.
Like I said...Vergen seems like the place for a hodge-podge of drama and violence at the moment, haha...fun times ahead!
Jesus I laughed harder than I should have
I have a feeling my character is gonna develop into something near-nihilistic during his introspective journey....he'll be quite some fun at parties.
I have a feeling my character is gonna develop into something near-nihilistic during his introspective journey....he'll be quite some fun at parties.
icos211 said
I was just sending my character there to open the possibility of him interacting with some other characters.
A meeting between two Witchers could be quite possibly entertaining to write!
That could be quite interesting, because right now my character has no motivation to do anything. He's sort of a witcher without purpose at the moment....suppose he could do his job...
Brugge...that could actually be fun!
Brugge...that could actually be fun!
I don't plan on my character staying in Vergen for too long, but it does seem like the melting pot for a lot of drama so far...so we'll see!
icos211 said Kate, Ful and Moon are the last three that we are waiting on. I'm really getting anxious to see what they are going to do.
Ah, speak of the Devil and you will find him.
I've finished typing up my post, I kept it a little shorter than what I'm normally used to. Still breaking myself in seeing as I was on hiatus for a long while, but it should be enough to get the wheels moving for my character, and enough to allow me to begin getting back into the saddle of things.
Amir led the horse by bridle; the valley accentuated a cruel wind which tangled the man’s chestnut hair by the knots. His fingers seemed to freeze to the bone, and his toes were found to be no better. Each trudge was emphasized by a grunt; wet mud clung to his rawhide boots as the ground opened up and swallowed his feet. The Witcher quickly detested taking this route through the Pontar Valley.
Much blood had been shed upon this particular swathe of land; strategically it was an important stretch of landmass, adjoining the borders between Kaedwen, Temaria, Aedirn and Redania, and was also the scene for several violent conquests in the past.
It rained the night before, and the Pontar River swamped the flat plains, leaving nothing but a soupy mess which Amir now found himself unfortunately cutting across. The Witcher could almost see the crimson shade of blood that mingled with one of its branching tributaries as he carefully stepped through the sludge, and the horse reluctantly followed.
“Please Master Witcher, I ain’t done nutin’ wrong!”
The Witcher’s face formed a scowl as he continued to trek onwards. “Only guilty men run.” He massaged his forehead between his thumb and forefinger, sighing exasperatedly. The captive was a human, no less, but a disgusting rat at heart. The Witcher had hunted eleven long days to find this particular shit stain, slowly tracking the cur north to Vengerberg, and then to the eastern foothills of Aedirn before finally catching sight of him just outside the Kaedwenian border.
“But a swear Master Witcher!”
Amir cocked his head behind him to meet the man’s whimpering gaze. He was pot-bellied, with sparse tufts of hair splayed against his scalp. He was drabbed in sheep cloak and browned britches, whilst the only protection for his feet were mud-caked sandals. Tears collected against his reddening cheeks before absorbing onto his unkempt beard. The rat was hogtied to the back of his horse, surely a display of humiliation for the man once they returned to town. “Shut the fuck up” the Witcher sneered. Provisions were running low, and Amir had been grouchy since he took on this work. “A Witcher reduced to the work of a fucking bounty hunter!” he scoffed, the thought made him weary and at the edge of his temper.
The captive remained silent for a while; he knew that opening his mouth again would surely be the quickest way to meet the end of the Witcher’s blade; he also knew that the bounty wouldn’t be reduced whether he was brought back alive or dead. “Only a few more mile...” the Witcher pondered aloud. Vergen, the city built in stone was a splendor of Dwarven ingenuity. The settlement was an important trade center where precious ores were unearthed and sold, and just outside was the Pontar Valley – an agricultural superzone, producing most of the food and wine which surrounding settlements feasted upon.
As they drew closer, the prisoner began to chime up again. “Witcher, fer the love of fuck I didn’t do it!” His words gargled from the back of his throat, and snot smeared across his face. “One more word and I’ll cut out your fucking tongue.” They had finally made it out of the boggy part of Pontar Valley, and the end was just in sight.
After a while longer the city began to emerge from behind a formation of massive rocks, and Amir smiled. “Looks like we’re here,” but things never go smoothly for a Witcher. The city had been reinforced and on heightened guard detail since it had won its independence from the clutches of Henselt’s Kaedweni warriors, and had been wary of anything that stood more than five feet, and without pointed ears.
“Halt!”
The Witcher froze.
Six guards wearing plated steel approached him, two Elves, and four Dwarves. They drew their weapons and circled around the outside of him, outnumbering him and surrounding him. “What’che got there traveler?” one of the Elves slapped the ass of the captive that had been hogtied to the back of his horse. “A present,” the Witcher grinned.
“What sort of present?” a Dwarf snorted and spat, a miasmic amount of phlegm landed next to Amir’s feet.
“He’s a Nilfgaard spy, and my prisoner.”
Their eyes widened, and their mouths agape. They stood silent for a while, exchanging glances between one another, and the Witcher spoke once more.
“Now sheathe your fucking swords. Tell Saskia that a Witcher is here to see her.”
Much blood had been shed upon this particular swathe of land; strategically it was an important stretch of landmass, adjoining the borders between Kaedwen, Temaria, Aedirn and Redania, and was also the scene for several violent conquests in the past.
It rained the night before, and the Pontar River swamped the flat plains, leaving nothing but a soupy mess which Amir now found himself unfortunately cutting across. The Witcher could almost see the crimson shade of blood that mingled with one of its branching tributaries as he carefully stepped through the sludge, and the horse reluctantly followed.
“Please Master Witcher, I ain’t done nutin’ wrong!”
The Witcher’s face formed a scowl as he continued to trek onwards. “Only guilty men run.” He massaged his forehead between his thumb and forefinger, sighing exasperatedly. The captive was a human, no less, but a disgusting rat at heart. The Witcher had hunted eleven long days to find this particular shit stain, slowly tracking the cur north to Vengerberg, and then to the eastern foothills of Aedirn before finally catching sight of him just outside the Kaedwenian border.
“But a swear Master Witcher!”
Amir cocked his head behind him to meet the man’s whimpering gaze. He was pot-bellied, with sparse tufts of hair splayed against his scalp. He was drabbed in sheep cloak and browned britches, whilst the only protection for his feet were mud-caked sandals. Tears collected against his reddening cheeks before absorbing onto his unkempt beard. The rat was hogtied to the back of his horse, surely a display of humiliation for the man once they returned to town. “Shut the fuck up” the Witcher sneered. Provisions were running low, and Amir had been grouchy since he took on this work. “A Witcher reduced to the work of a fucking bounty hunter!” he scoffed, the thought made him weary and at the edge of his temper.
The captive remained silent for a while; he knew that opening his mouth again would surely be the quickest way to meet the end of the Witcher’s blade; he also knew that the bounty wouldn’t be reduced whether he was brought back alive or dead. “Only a few more mile...” the Witcher pondered aloud. Vergen, the city built in stone was a splendor of Dwarven ingenuity. The settlement was an important trade center where precious ores were unearthed and sold, and just outside was the Pontar Valley – an agricultural superzone, producing most of the food and wine which surrounding settlements feasted upon.
As they drew closer, the prisoner began to chime up again. “Witcher, fer the love of fuck I didn’t do it!” His words gargled from the back of his throat, and snot smeared across his face. “One more word and I’ll cut out your fucking tongue.” They had finally made it out of the boggy part of Pontar Valley, and the end was just in sight.
After a while longer the city began to emerge from behind a formation of massive rocks, and Amir smiled. “Looks like we’re here,” but things never go smoothly for a Witcher. The city had been reinforced and on heightened guard detail since it had won its independence from the clutches of Henselt’s Kaedweni warriors, and had been wary of anything that stood more than five feet, and without pointed ears.
“Halt!”
The Witcher froze.
Six guards wearing plated steel approached him, two Elves, and four Dwarves. They drew their weapons and circled around the outside of him, outnumbering him and surrounding him. “What’che got there traveler?” one of the Elves slapped the ass of the captive that had been hogtied to the back of his horse. “A present,” the Witcher grinned.
“What sort of present?” a Dwarf snorted and spat, a miasmic amount of phlegm landed next to Amir’s feet.
“He’s a Nilfgaard spy, and my prisoner.”
Their eyes widened, and their mouths agape. They stood silent for a while, exchanging glances between one another, and the Witcher spoke once more.
“Now sheathe your fucking swords. Tell Saskia that a Witcher is here to see her.”
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