His travelling clothes - Dark, earthy shirt and coat, with trousers tucked into boots A hooded, oilskin cloak His bow, unstrung A musket Two pistols Two hatchets His travelling pack
Of course, it had to be today. Scathael hadn’t expected otherwise.
Well, most of him hadn’t, at least. It would be a lie if he said that there hadn’t been a small part of him that had wished for the rest of his time in the Nest to go quietly and smoothly. And so, he didn’t. That part was a fool, anyway; the place was practically a font of chaos. Neither did peace follow him whenever he left the open road for a town or city. With those two incontrovertible truths in mind, it would have been a far bigger surprise had his visit to the Next gone off without any further trouble.
Granted, he hadn’t quite expected trouble to manifest itself as a hulking Warforged launching itself through the doors. Flimsy wood burst into a shower of tiny splinters. Shouts and yells of surprise echoed up, down, and across the inn’s floors. One tore itself from Scathael’s lips as he almost fell from his seat. He kept his balance, however, and managed to catch a glimpse of the machine as it went straight for the dragonborn, his elf friend, and the demi-human. A fight erupted immediately, and the rest of the inn went into a riotous uproar, although all had sense and none joined in. “Bloody typical,” Scathael muttered beneath his breath as he settled into his chair once more and did his best to ignore the noise. Really, what had he expected to happen, coming here?
At least the Warforged didn’t seem interested in anyone else. Scathael just had to wait long enough for it to capture its quarry, or for said quarry to make a clever and daring getaway, and he could continue going about his business and on with his day.
Said business was a feline demi-human seated across the table from him. Her tail swished excitedly, as if it had a mind of its own, as she twisted around to watch the altercation with rapt attention. Scathael sighed and folded his arms over his chest. Up until just now, she had been haggling with him over a good quantity of excess musket balls he had cast back in the village. They had almost agreed on a good price, even. But Fate, as it was wont to do, just had to intervene.
Scathael exhaled slowly though his nose. Things could be worse, he supposed. He could be one of those that were fighting the vicious-looking Warforged, for one.
The demi-human furtively slid a hand towards the pistol on her thigh, and Scathael immediately gave her chair a hard kick. She let out a yelp, and snapped back around to glare at him with annoyance and a touch of embarrassment in her wide, brownish-green eyes. Scathael didn’t look apologetic in the least. He didn’t even sound sheepish when he said, “Are you an idiot? If you want to do that, do it from the other side.”
“Oh.” The demi-human’s irritation seeped away from her visage. “D’you think it’s got a sore spot around its back or somethin’?”
“No,” Scathael replied, managing to pack the dryness of a desert into that one syllable. “But I won't be turned into a stain on the wall with you if you're over there and I'm here.”
The demi-human scowled, but returned her hand to the table nonetheless. “I take it you’ve dealt with one of those before?” She jerked her head towards the Warforged.
“Yes.”
“What was it like?”
Scathael shrugged. “I fixed the broken ones and left the able ones alone. That’s all. I never stayed around long enough to get to know them.” He never stayed around long enough to know if those in particularly dire straits ever survived long enough to get proper repairs, either, but he kept that part to himself. He recalled meeting some that had – quite literally – been on their last legs. Scathael could keep the mechanical parts running, but their magical components? That was well-beyond his expertise. He could only hope that they managed to find their way to someone who could properly fix them before expiring.
“Really? You weren’t curious at all?”
Scathael fixed the demi-human with an unamused look. “Yes, yes, you exposed me. I made friends with a few and we had tea parties.” The demi-human rolled her eyes, but chuckled and smirked anyway. Before she could reply, however, Scathael noticed the Warforged doing something strange. An unfamiliar tension gripped his heart as he eyes narrowed. Then, they widened as he saw sickly, yellow smoke billow from the machine’s mouth. He had seen something similar before, and on a Warforged as well. Granted, the smoke then had emerged from somewhere else, and had looked different, but Scathael wasn’t about to take any chances. It had been terrible then. He would bet that it would be terrible now if nothing was done.
“Windows,” he exclaimed and shot to his feet. The smoke was still thickest around the machine, but it was spreading quickly. Though the cloud itself was unlikely to reach him, diffusion would ensure that everyone in the inn would breathe some of the stuff in, even if they could detect neither scent nor colour. He looked at the demi-human, still seated. “Get the windows, get the fans, cut a hole in the walls if you have to.” His words came out in a torrent. “That thing is going to suffocate us all if we don’t do something quick!”
He didn’t bother waiting for a response, but the patter of feet against wood told him that she was at least doing something. One of the windows on the wall behind him was already ajar, and its old hinges squeaked painfully as he pushed it open to its greatest extent before moving on the the next. “Every window, every door has to be opened! Get the fans going as fast as they can as well!” He yelled at anyone in earshot, which wasn’t much thanks to the din of the fight. “Unless you want bad things to happen to you, do it quickly!”
Time: Late Morning Interactions: @Tae Kalliope; @Potter Layla Mentions: Attire:
(Placeholder until I get a better reference image) Roughspun, blue trousers A shoulder belt and waist belt carrying his equipment Two swords and two pistols, one on either side A woven, conical hat wide enough to shade his entire face
The sincerity in Kalliope’s words loosened the tension coiled within Sjan-dehk. Somewhat, in any case. He still wished to be elsewhere; he still felt unease roiling in him, and he still didn’t understand why he had felt what he had felt. But the urge to excuse himself and return to his Sada Kurau had lessened, at least. And truth be told, he felt more silly than anything else. There was no reason for all this internal turmoil. None at all. Whatever relationship Kalliope had with Cassius had nothing to do with him. All of this was just his own heart and mind being fools and tormenting themselves – and him, in the process – for no reason.
“No, it’s alright.” Tried as he might, his smile wouldn’t appear naturally, and so he forced it out. Likewise for the levity in his words. The strange pangs pricking his chest whenever he looked at Kalliope probably had something to do with that. Once again, their origins were utterly unknown to him. “I was probably being too careful. Because of all the nonsense that happened, you know?”
Part of him wondered if he should thank her, in fact. At least now he had a vague idea as to how he should act around her. Such rules of decorum grated on his nerves and sat poorly with him, but he couldn’t avoid the fact that they kept him out of trouble and stopped trouble from finding him. The Mother of the Waves alone knew how much he needed both. All the moreso, now that he was in a strange city far from home.
He cleared his throat. “I should–”
That was all he managed to say before the dark-skinned lady returned. Sjan-dehk groaned inwardly – she hadn’t exactly made the best impression on him earlier – and hoped for no trouble. It proved to be a fool’s hope as the lady made herself known. Very, very known, and in an exceedingly venomous manner. There was no one that was spared from her cutting and biting words. First was her cousin, then it was Kalliope, and then Charlotte after that – because of course, the poor girl simply couldn’t be allowed any respite, and then it was Kalliope again. Sjan-dehk resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Perhaps it was judgemental of him, but she reminded him of nobles who had been allowed to get away with one too many things. Or perhaps those whose grudge against the world became a touch too personal. It was either of the two, and neither were pleasant to deal with, as far as Sjan-dehk was concerned.
He looked away towards the horizon as the lady – Layla, as he soon gathered – continued. Gazing out at the glittering sea and gently rolling waves was a far better use of his time than listening to the venomous words of a spiteful lady. Sjan-dehk had to admit, however, that the amount of spite and venom Layla held within her was very impressive. He thought she would have run out of steam by now – the way his father had dealt with such people in the past was to simply let them talk themselves into tiredness – but she just kept going with no end in sight. Had her words been nicer and more learned, Sjan-dehk didn’t doubt that she could give even the best scholars a hard time in a debate.
An amused smirk crept onto Sjan-dehk’s face, and he did his best to keep it hidden from Layla. It probably wasn’t going to help with how things were, but he couldn’t help it. She sounded as if she was going out of her way to be mean, as if she was really trying to get a rise out of everyone, that it was almost cute. Like a child believing that whoever lost the run of themselves first in an argument was the loser. Or a noble who mocked and offended in an attempt to agitate another. The latter wasn’t unfamiliar to Sjan-dehk. Though it had taken him plenty of pain and trouble to learn his lesson, he knew better than to react.
His odd mirth, however, slowly dissipated as Layla continued to tear into Kalliope. Her words sounded less amusing and more offensive – even to him – as she went on and on. Well, if he had to be fair, it wasn’t as if Kalliope had been polite either, but at least she didn’t disparage Layla in such a degrading manner. Even Sjan-dehk, who had nothing to do with anything, began to feel indignation on Kalliope’s behalf. He turned back around just in time to see Layla blow him a kiss, and he only replied with a shake of his head and a roll of his eyes. It did get a chuckle out of him, albeit an incredulous one.
“Doubt either of them would get that way over a skank like you.”
She sounded so sure of herself. Sjan-dehk breathed in sharply, and felt a tinge of excitement bubble within him. Proving her wrong was going to be so much fun.
Of course, that didn’t mean he interrupted her. Even with such things, one had to be polite and observe all proper forms. That was the Way. Sjan-dehk waited until Layla was done before sidling over to both ladies, standing beside them. “Are you done?” He asked, an ominous smile on his face. It was the same as what he used with unruly crew members awaiting sentencing. Partially assuring, mostly foreboding. “You speak very well. Good words. It is a shame, yes? That what you say is so…” He paused for a moment to think of a proper phrase. ‘Full of shit’ and ‘a verbal atrocity’ came to mind, but he doubted either would do anything to smooth things over.
“...So evil.”
There. That should do.
Sjan-dehk carefully inserted himself between Kalliope and Layla. Though his stance was casual with arms loose, he still made sure to cover the former with his body in an almost protective manner. Though it was up to debate as to who it was exactly that needed protection. Both women seemed ready to turn this fight of words into a physical one at a moment’s notice. If Sjan-dehk wasn’t careful, he was going to be the one who needed help most. “Kali said things to you, I know. But she did not start this. You are the one who first came here, first started scolding and being such a…A bitch to everyone.”
The expletive had slipped out of Sjan-dehk’s mouth, but surprised as he was, he didn’t seem apologetic. If anything, he appeared almost relieved. He had already gone that far – even if by accident – so he may as well go all the way. “You come here, you attack Charlotte. You expect no…No punishment? If we went too far, we say something that make you upset, then fine. I apologise. But why must you be so mean?” There was no anger in Sjan-dehk’s voice. Rather, he sounded curious. “You say you are a princess, yes? Is that how it is in your land? A princess can be a fucking bitch to everyone, can be so impolite, and nothing can happen to her? Hope not. But if it is, then I pity your people.”
He took a step back with a shake of his head. “But you, I pity the most. Whatever it is that happened that make you like this, it was terrible, yes? Unless you came out like this. Then I pity your family.” He placed a hand on Kalliope’s arm, holding it in a gentle, yet firm, grip. "Maybe I speak too much. Guess too much. I apologise. But you must understand, yes? That the im...Impression you give is fucking bad. Hard to keep quiet. Feel like I must say something." He gave Kalliope a surreptitious tug.
“Come on, let’s go,” he said in his native tongue. “No point talking to people like her. One doesn’t chastise nightshade in hopes of it becoming a rose. She won’t change. Not now, at least, and we’re only going to end up poisoned for our troubles.” He glanced at Kalliope, then at Layla. “And beating sense into her likely isn’t going to end up well for any of us. As much as I would like to.”
With a smile that was likely as aggravating as it was amicable, he looked back to Layla. “Ah, sorry for my language. I am a sailor. We speak freely. Sometimes I forget, you know?” He gave Kalliope a little tug and began to lead her further up the beach and away from everyone else. Some time away might help cool her head. Before he left, however, he tipped his hat towards Layla.
“Oh. Apologies Forgot to answer.” A smirk played across his lips. He even found the mischief in him to return her gesture from earlier, and blow her a mocking kiss. “Yes, I think you are pretty. It is a shame. Great shame that the inside does not match the outside. And my ‘fucking name’, princess, is Wasun Sjan-dehk. Next time you want to fight, pretty one, come find me, yes? Will be interesting. Might learn from each other. Now excuse us. We leave. Have a good day.”
He hurriedly led Kalliope away before anything more could happen. “What a bitch. Are princesses around these parts all like that?” He grumbled beneath his breath before casting a glance over his shoulder, then at her. “I didn’t catch everything, but I know she said some very nasty things. Are you alright?”
Time: Early Afternoon Location: A village outside Roshimi
It wasn’t everyday that Scathael allowed himself a midday nap. Or any sort of rest outside of sleep, for that matter. Industrious dark elf that he was, he usually did all he could to stay busy, even if that meant crafting arrows and casting musket balls until his mind went numb.
But today was different.
Although the late-morning sun still bathed all in its radiance – as it was wont to do – the heat of its rays wasn’t as stifling as their intensity suggested. Thatched roofs and leafy branches rustled softly in the wake of a cooling breeze whispering through the village’s only street. Overhead, bulbous clumps of cotton-white clouds drifted across a sky of clear azure. The long shadows they casted as they floated beneath the disc of iridescent-white provided even more respite – however temporarily – from its rays.
As loath as Scathael was to use the word, he could only describe the weather as perfect. Coupled with the lilting birdsong and vague murmurs of village life filling his ears, it felt as if the world itself was inviting him to rest. And who was he, mere dark elf that he was, to decline such an invitation?
A contented sigh quietly left his lips, barely moving the dirty rag he had draped over his face. Seated on a wooden chair in the front yard of the village smith – the same man from whom he rented a room – he was surrounded by tools and materials of the familiar trade. Leaning back, he rested his legs on a scuffed and battered anvil, and his head against the cold face of an unfired furnace. Bundles of freshly-whittled arrows, all neatly tied with strips of cloth or leather, laid strewn across the table beside him.
He drew in a deep breath, filling his nose with the comforting scent of metals and charcoal. Gentle winds washed over his body and tousled his wiry, pale locks. Memories of better times surfaced in his mind, and a wistful smile came over his face. A twist of pain pinched his heart, but it could neither stay, nor did it last in the face of the soothing calm which completely filled and enveloped him.
Such peacefulness was addictive. Much more than the greatest vice. And so of course, it couldn’t last.
The crunch of approaching footsteps tapped on his eardrums. “Smith’s not in.” Muffled by the rag, his gruff words came out as a barely comprehensible mumble. He crossed his legs on the anvil, and his arms over his chest. Quiet, strained creaks ticked from the chair’s suffering joints. “If you’re here for a delivery, leave it by the door. Otherwise, come back later.”
Silence, broken by the shuffling of feet, was all that answered him. “O-Oh, I’m not looking for the smith,” a small and timid voice squeaked. It was that of a child, by the sound of it. “I-I um, I was hoping you c-could help me, mister Arash.”
That got Scathael’s attention. His eyes snapped open and he swung his legs off the anvil with a grunt. His rousing muscles ached, and drowsiness made his head a leaden weight. But he forced himself to sit up all the same. Idle hands were unbecoming of an artisan, and his had been idle for long enough. Granted, he wasn’t quite sure what sort of work a child would have for him, but it would certainly be better than lazing around and doing nothing. “You can drop the ‘mister’. Just call me Scathael.” A muted yawn left his mouth as he rubbed the lingering sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Anyway,” he said tersely, and spun around to look at the child. “What do you– Oh, it’s you.”
Large, upturned eyes looked back at him, their vertical irises dark against a sea of amber, and their brows knitted in worry. A pair of long, furry ears laid flat against her messy head of saffron-coloured hair, and she hugged a crossbow – which was almost as long as she was tall – close to her waifish frame. Over-patched and ragged, her simple dress hung loosely from her narrow shoulders. Just the thought of her lugging the cumbersome weapon all the way to the smith was enough to bring a snicker up Scathael’s throat, but that was as far as he allowed it to go.
“Yes, it’s me,” the vulpine demi-human girl said, eyes peering over the crossbow’s arms. “I-I’m–”
“Vallana. I know.” Scathael finished her sentence as he stood up. She looked at him in surprise, and so he continued, “You keep introducing yourself every time I pay your father a visit.” He pushed bundles of arrow shafts aside to clear a space on the table. “And I know that’s his arbalest that you’re holding. Hand it over and tell me what’s wrong with it.”
The girl’s arms trembled precariously as she lifted the heavy weapon towards him. Her lips were pressed together and her eyes squeezed shut in effort and strain. Scathael sighed and shook his head. “Don’t hurt yourself,” he said drily and with both hands, carefully took it from her with a grunt.
Vallana shook away the soreness in her arms. “I-I was cleaning the house, and I-I was trying to get around it and I think I-I ac-accidentally knocked into it and it fell and I heard a crack and it didn’t look right and so I brought it t-to you as quickly as I could.” The panicked words tumbled from her mouth like water breaking through a dam. As she spoke, her voice cracked and tears pooled in the corners of her eyes. “Please fix it, mister Ara–Scathael! F-Father will kill me if he finds out I broke it!”
“No, he won’t,” Scathael said matter-of-factly as he hefted the arbalest, wincing as he felt the full weight of it pull on his arms. A cumbersome thing, it boasted two long and powerful steel arms that launched heavy bolts with both speed and accuracy. Great for a hunter prowling the woods not far from home, but not for a wanderer like Scathael. “He dotes plenty on you. Even I can see that, and I only talk to him when I have to buy hides or meat. So calm down and stop worrying. It’s distracting.”
The fox-girl stifled a sniff. “Really?”
“Yes. Now stop crying. If you have to, do it quietly.”
“O-Oh, sorry.”
“Thank you,” the dark elf mumbled. He shook his arms loose, drew in a deep breath, and with teeth gritted so hard that it felt as if he would grind them to dust, he lifted the arbalest and aimed it at the sky. Squinted eyes battled the sun’s glare, and sweat pooled on his brow. Within moments, his aching muscles begged for rest. Scathael ignored them all, and instead focused on aligning the sights of the arbalest. In no time at all, he identified the problem, but still he slowly brought the weapon down onto the table. There were steps to fixing such things – he had made them up himself. To not abide by them was to invite careless mistakes or missed defects, both of which were unforgivable errors as far as he was concerned.
Beside him, Vallana fidgeted. Curious eyes ran over everything in the yard at least twice.
He ran a hand over the stock. A solid piece of oak hewn into something vaguely resembling a stock, it was rough, it looked – and likely was – unfinished, but it could be braced against a shoulder and sat under an arm well enough. Then, he gripped the bowstring tightly and gave it a strong tug. The resistance, the pull against the meat of his fingers, those were all expected. What wasn’t, however, was the imbalance he felt in the string. With furrowed brows, he carefully released the string and pulled it again.
Yes, one side was certainly pulling harder than the other. That was all the confirmation he needed.
“Father says you’ve been to a lot of places,” Vallana piped up as she stood on the tips of her toes to peek over the table’s edge. As unwelcome as the interruption was, Scathael wasn’t as annoyed as he would be had she been just a few years older. It amazed him enough that the child had held her tongue for as long as she did.
“I have,” he replied simply and brushed Vallana away from the table.
“You must have seen amazing things.” The awe in her voice was palpable. “Being an adventurer must be a lot of fun! I want to be one too, when I get bigger.”
Aching legs. Cold Fear. A crack of thunder. Pouring rain lashing his cheeks. A thousand thoughts crashing through his mind. His boots slipping against soft mud. Hanging thorns cutting his face. The sight of a cave entrance through the vines. In his relief, a second wind. The scent of moss. The scent of blood. A body he recognised, trapped beneath rocks. Dead for days. A scrawled apology, red ink darkened to brown. Shock and pain. Anguish and despair. Crushing regret.
Scathael exhaled sharply and pushed those memories aside. “No, you don’t,” he said drily and beckoned for her to stand beside him. “And you have bigger things to worry about now. You’re right, your father’s arbalest is damaged.” He dragged the weapon over to the edge of the table and tipped it over just enough, and for just long enough, for her to see the hairline cracks on one of the arms. Terrified realisation came over the girl’s face, and her lips began to tremble. Sighing, Scathael pushed the arbalest back onto the table.
“Relax.” His tone was flat, and not reassuring at all. “It’s not entirely your fault. One fall wouldn’t have done this. Not unless it fell off a roof. Damage like this builds up over time. Your father must’ve knocked it about more than a few times.” A subtle bitterness crept into his words, and he swallowed whatever else he had to say about the matter before continuing. “Anyway, I’ll have to make new limbs for it. Not difficult work. All the materials are here already, so I should have it done by this evening.”
Vallana’s face was still scrunched up in anxiety. “But…But father will be home before then…”
Scathael shrugged. “It’s the best I can do.” His expression softened upon seeing the girl’s downcast eyes, and her ears lying so flat against her head that they disappeared into her hair. Sighing, he – albeit a touch reluctantly – added, “You’re welcome to stay and watch until I’m done, but only if you’re quiet and don’t touch anything. Cause trouble and I’ll throw you back home myself.”
Relief flooded over Vallana’s face, and she nodded enthusiastically. “I promise, I will! Thank you! Oh, and I can pay…” She pushed her hands into her dress’ pockets. Coins clinked together, the sound only slightly muffled by the thin fabric. “I-I’ve been saving. It should be enough–”
“Don’t bother,” Scathael cut her off. “I can already hear that you can’t afford this.” Neither was this a job so challenging that he felt he needed to ask for payment. Repairing a damaged crossbow limb was about as mundane as jobs went. It almost felt insulting to be rewarded for something he could do from start to finish in his sleep. “If you really have to pay me–” he grabbed a few bundles of arrow shafts and handed them to Vallana “–you can bring these to the bowyer and ask for a crossbow string for your father, and a bowstring for me. You know who’s the bowyer, right?”
“Mister Tesh? Yes, I know him.” Vallana nodded as she tried to balance bundles in her arms. Each was the length of her forearm and almost just as thick. “Krawin and I play together sometimes. That’s his daugh–”
“I don’t need to know that,” Scathael interrupted. “Just go to the bowyer and exchange the arrow shafts for the things I told you. One crossbow string, one bowstring. Tell him I sent you.”
“Okay!” Vallana sounded far too excited for the task, but it was endearing, in a way. With the arrow shafts tucked precariously under her arms, she hurried away from the yard. Scathael watched her leave, his face impassive even as she stumbled a few times on the rough and uneven ground. Soon enough, Vallana was consumed by the milling crowd, and he lost sight of the little girl. Only then did he bring his attention back to the weapon on the table before him.
He chewed on his lip. Such peacefulness – such normality – was indeed addictive. A small, but noticeable part of him was already busy weaving fantasies of a simpler life. One where he wasn’t on the move all the time. One where he could rest his head on the same bed, under the same roof every night, and awake to the same sights, and same scents every morning. Such a fantasy wasn’t one that was strange to him, but it certainly was one he despised. He knew it was unattainable. Impossible, even. Yet, his mind refused to stop tormenting him with imaginations of a life he simply wasn’t fated for.
A wistful sigh left his lips. He gripped the arbalest firmly by the stock and carefully unhooked the bowstring from one of the limbs. Perhaps, in a way, it was good that he was reminded of that painful dream. It was a sign that he had stayed in the village for far too long – long enough for him to get comfortable, and for him to start getting ideas. Ideas that were poison to an elf like him.
It was time he left.
Time: Early Afternoon Location: The Nest; Roshmi Equipment:
His travelling clothes - Dark, earthy shirt and coat, with trousers tucked into boots A hooded, oilskin cloak His bow, unstrung A musket Two pistols Two hatchets His travelling pack
A few days later, Scathael found himself in an environment that was the exact opposite of the village.
Cacophonic, musty, and filled to bursting with people who either drunk their inhibitions away, or had drunk themselves insensate, the Nest – to him, at least – truly encapsulated the nature of Roshmi’s slums. Wild, ever-changing, and unpredictable, it was the sort of place most people took pains to avoid. But it was also the sort of place where one could find things – or people – that weren’t easily found elsewhere. So long as one was also ready to have the thrill of danger excite their blood. Or have it spilled over the ground. It was a toss-up between the two, really.
Scathael was in search of neither. Whatever items he needed, he could craft. And unless there happened to be someone wandering the dark web of streets with a convenient mithril mine hidden in their pockets, it was highly unlikely that he would find anyone that interested him.
Rather, he was the person who was sought after. A semi-regular at the Nest – he made it a point to pop in at least once every time he was in Roshmi – those who recognised him knew him as someone who would fix and repair weapons, armour, and tools with no questions asked, and all for either just a token sum, or information about – of all things – rare minerals and materials. Those who didn’t recognise him, soon did for the arrows, bolts, and bullets he sold at such a low price that he may as well be giving it away.
“Tell me again, what did you do with this?” Scathael turned a pitted and heavily-scarred sword over in his hands multiple times. Shadows danced across its dull blade in the dim lantern light, but Scathael could still tell that none of the damage done came from battle. “Did you chop down a tree with this thing? Or did you oil it with butter?”
The light elf sitting opposite him squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, his turquoise eyes averted. That gave Scathael his answer, and for a moment, all he could do was stare at the youth in barely-disguised disgust, and also a modicum of surprise.
“It was a difficult time, okay? I had no choice!” The light elf suddenly blurted out.
“I understand cutting down a branch, but the butter?” Scathael shook his head and rested the sword upon the table. “Doing nothing would’ve been better. How long have you been adventuring?”
The light crossed his arms across his chest. “Long enough.”
“It’s going to become ‘short enough’, if you keep being an idiot,” Scathael said and pushed the sword over to the light elf. “Next time, use animal fat if you really have nothing else. Go buy yourself a new blade. It’ll cost you almost just as much if you want me to reforge the damn thing, and I’m not wasting my time doing that on a buttered blade.”
The light elf grumbled, but took the sword and walked away.
Scathael sighed and shook his head. That was the price of doing business in this part of the city. Most who came to him were criminals – or at least, they dealt in matters that made approaching a legitimate smith a problem – and for the most part, they weren’t the sort to be able to afford to take proper care of their tools of the trade. Granted, this was the first time Scathael had seen a sword oiled with butter, so perhaps it was that particular light elf who was special.
He leaned back in his seat and looked over the crowd. There was still plenty of time left in the day. He just had to be patient, and he would make enough to buy passage to–
"Who the fuck dared to pour water on me!?"
That shout, so full of rage, put a quick end to Scathael's planning. Casually leaning over to one side, he peered between shoulders and craned necks just in time to see a leporine demi-human turn a table into splinters with her hammer. Her body was soaked, and her hair matted wet. The culprits – Scathael assumed – a light elf woman and a green dragonborn, laid on the ground before her. For a moment, he tensed up, half-expecting a fight to break out. His eyes darted to the various exits and entrances of the Nest.
But it all proved to be unnecessary. For now, at least. The demi-human didn't seem too upset by her rude awakening, and she didn't seem to be in too violent a mood, the table aside. With a shrug, Scathael looked away from the scene and leaned back in his seat. Strange things happened everyday. In the Nest, moreso than other places.
(Placeholder until I get a better reference image) Roughspun, blue trousers A shoulder belt and waist belt carrying his equipment Two swords and two pistols, one on either side A woven, conical hat wide enough to shade his entire face
The mysterious, discomforting feeling festering in Sjan-dehk’s heart diminished slightly as his conversation with Kalliope progressed. How could it have done otherwise, in the face of pretty eyes shining with playful mischief, and in the presence of her amicable warmth? Even the prying questions that had floated through his head earlier fell silent – as they should have been from the very start. Sjan-dehk felt himself genuinely relax, instead of having to pretend to be casual and at ease. He could scarcely remember why he had to in the first place. Not even Kalliope’s remark to the departing Cassius could rattle him, although that was more because he didn’t quite understand what she had meant.
A subtle flutter tickled his heart at Kalliope’s words. “My dashing Captain.” There was something about the way she had said those three words that made Sjan-dehk feel happy, yet at the same time, brought him a degree of bashfulness he hadn’t experienced in a very long time. He dipped his head ever-so-slightly, and hid more of his face within the shadow cast by his hat.
Nevertheless, he chuckled at Kalliope’s remarks regarding the stranger-with-the-guards. Sjan-dehk made a note of her name – she seemed to be an important Alidashti, and thus was likely someone he needed to be aware of, at the very least. “Let’s hope the repercussions never find you, then.” Sjan-dehk offered her a grin along with his words. “Makes what you did pretty damn admirable, if I do say so myself.”
And just as he was about to ask Kalliope about her history with Layla, she introduced Cassius to him.
There was nothing wrong with her words themselves, but there was something in her voice, some strange and vague thing underlying what she had said that brought the discomforting feeling back to the forefront of Sjan-dehk’s heart and mind. His brows furrowed slightly.
“...known for his ways with the ladies."
Suddenly, Sjan-dehk started to understand what Kalliope had meant by Cassius uttering the wrong name the previous night, and with it, an insight to their relationship he wished he never gained. Not that he knew why he felt what he felt, and that made things all the more uncomfortable for him. He was, however, very much aware that the unease he felt was etched upon his face, and so he quickly turned away from her. He looked towards Charlotte, but his eyes were, in fact, focused on the horizon far in the distance.
He cleared his throat and tried to sound as normal as he could when he answered Kalliope. “So that’s her name? Charlotte? Only just met her this morning. She seems nice enough so far. Reminds me of–” He cut himself short just before mentioning his sister. “Of people I know. Might be too early to tell for certain, but I can’t see any harm in getting to know her a little better.”
Then, he turned back to Kalliope, his face neutral but eyes reproachful. “But I do know that she’s had quite a rough morning as it is. Let’s not tease the poor girl and give her any more grief, aye?” He let out a muted sigh as he looked back towards the shore. This was all so very silly, and worse than that, immature. What did it matter to him, if Kalliope was in a relationship with Cassius? Nothing at all, surely; she was merely a friend, if even that. Acquaintance might be a more accurate way of putting it – Sjan-dehk had only known her for all of a day-and-a-half, at most. In a mutter, he added, "Just doesn't feel right, you know? To see a girl like her getting shat upon."
Yes, he was just being silly. That was what Sjan-dehk told himself.
And perhaps, that was why right at the very moment, he wanted to be anywhere else but here. The beach no longer felt even remotely familiar or comfortable. Every fibre of his being told him to leave, to return to the comforting surroundings of his Sada Kurau and lose himself to the monotony and drudgery of the daily routine of keeping a warship running smoothly.
But he couldn’t. To do such a juvenile thing was shameful.
Instead, he did something even sillier. “Looks like they’re having a good time,” he said and tilted his chin towards Charlotte and Cassius. As much as he could, he tried to keep the bite from seeping into his words, though he doubted he was overly-successful. “Your partner seems quite interested in her as well. Should we go join them? Going into the water sounds like a pretty damn good idea to me right about now.”
(Placeholder until I get a better reference image) Roughspun, blue trousers A shoulder belt and waist belt carrying his equipment Two swords and two pistols, one on either side A woven, conical hat wide enough to shade his entire face
The concern written across Sjan-dehk’s face as he watched the girl approach the lapping waves was as clear as the sky he stood beneath. He considered following her, but quickly decided against it. Some time alone might do her some good. Besides, did he really think he had the words to ease her situation? Not in her language, he didn’t, and he doubted she understood Viserjantan. His presence would likely do more to confuse than anything else.
So instead, he remained where he was and kept a vigilant eye over her. He might not have understood the full details of their earlier altercation – which, as he thought about it, made his reaction seem all the more silly and reckless – but he caught just enough to know – or guess with some confidence – that this wasn’t the first time the girl had been harassed. And judging by her muted reaction, harassment and ridicule were things she had unfortunately gotten used to.
Or, perhaps her parallels with his youngest sister ran even deeper, and extended to a common gentle and forgiving nature. Either way, the abuse faced by the pale girl displeased Sjan-dehk greatly.
He pulled his tunic back on and tied off the drawstrings at his side. It still escaped him as to why he felt so protective about the girl – a girl whose name he had failed to catch – other than that she reminded him of his sister and evoked the same feelings. Beyond that, it was all a mystery to him, but it wasn’t one he was going to try too hard to solve. To put an end to unjust acts happening before his eyes wasn’t a question of reason. It wasn’t even just that it was the Way. It was also the right and moral thing to do, and that was all that mattered to him.
“Yes,” he said in response to Roman’s query as he threw his equipment back around his body. “I handed it to Lady Adiyan. She is…She will take more time to recover.” Sjan-dehk winced as he recalled the state of the High Queen’s Voice when he had last seen her. As much as her condition had improved, she was still in quite a rough state. “But we have others who can talk, if time is…Not enough. But not today. That is too soon. Maybe another day?”
Sjan-dehk threw a quick, sidelong glance at the pale girl before turning to John. A slight frown flashed over his features as he heard the doctor’s words. Yes, Sjan-dehk once had such thoughts as well, and it would be a lie if he said that he still didn’t find it exhilarating to be at the helm of his Sada Kurau and to have her crush pirates beneath her keel. But at the same time, he was all too aware of bitter reality. The damage a cannonball did to a man was unspeakable, and Sjan-dehk was immediately reminded of decks sticky with blood, and strewn with bodies both torn apart and pulverised into barely-recognisable pulp. And he would have had to keep fighting on amidst such a sordid and macabre environment, and always with the thought that he could just as easily meet such a gruesome end lingering in the back of his mind.
He shook his head slightly, and placed a smile on his face. “Yes. Sometimes,” he replied simply. “This city, it is very…Nice? Good place to be, yes.” He left his response to the doctor at that.
Once again, he snuck a glance at the pale girl. And once again, he considered joining her, but those same doubts from before surfaced in his mind. Not that it mattered in the end; while Sjan-dehk was entertaining his thoughts, someone else approached her. It was the man who had arrived with Kalliope.
That brought him to the woman who had been on his mind. Sjan-dehk had, in fact, noticed her before she joined the group. How could he have not? Dressed in an outfit that showed off enough of her physique to be tantalising, but still keeping enough hidden to allow the imagination a bit of fun, and with her fiery hair pulled up and framing her sun-kissed face beautifully, she was an eye-catching sight to say the least. That was in-and-of-itself a problem for Sjan-dehk; he wasn’t quite sure where he should look. The slight flutter in his heart didn’t help in the least.
“Good morning, Kali,” he said with a tip of his hat that also served to shade more of his eyes. If he couldn’t find a place to rest his gaze, then he would simply obscure it. Even so, he made sure to meet her verdant irises with his earthy ones from time-to-time. It would be impolite to do otherwise. And each time he looked at her, the smile playing across his lips inexplicably widened. “You’ve got a way with words. Can’t say that I understood enough to say anything more about them, but they sounded powerful to my ears. And…” He trailed off as he looked over her attire once more, his cheeks tinting red as he did so. Utterly determined to avoid the same mistake as the previous day, he wracked his mind for a good word to use.
Embarrassing as it was, he immediately thought of words he used to describe ships. “You look…You look stunning.” That word didn’t leave his mouth as smoothly or confidently as he hoped it would, but at least it was an improvement from yesterday. Marginally, but an improvement, nonetheless. He checked on Charlotte once more, but this time, his smile faded as he looked at the man with her. Who was he? And why had he come to the beach with Kalliope? Guilt and irritation flooded his heart almost as soon as those questions entered his mind. Why was he being so nosy? He wasn’t some palace gossip with nothing to do but needlessly pry into the affairs of others. Kalliope could do as she wished, and none of it would be any of his concern.
No, it really had nothing to do with him.
And so, that was why instead of asking those questions, he simply nodded to the pair standing not too far away at the water’s edge. “Who’s your friend?” He asked in as casual a voice as he could muster, and that alone made him even more annoyed at himself. Why was he acting this way? It was unbecoming and not at all congruent to the Way. A flush came over his cheeks. “I-I mean, I didn’t catch his name. Don’t want to be rude when he comes back, you know?”
(Placeholder until I get a better reference image) Roughspun, blue trousers A shoulder belt and waist belt carrying his equipment Two swords and two pistols, one on either side A woven, conical hat wide enough to shade his entire face
While Sjan-dehk did his best to take in all of Farim’s introduction – and much to his surprise, he managed to grasp more than just the gist of things – it was the Alidashti’s mention of a trading company that piqued his interest. A trading company that was owned by Farim himself, no less. A tinge of excitement bubbled in Sjan-dehk’s heart. Assuming all went smoothly, and that Lady Adiyan would be well enough to conduct negotiations within the next two weeks, he might not even have to bother sailing for Alidasht or Varian. Not that he minded the journey; were it just his Sada Kurau and himself, he wouldn’t mind making the trip as many times as it was necessary. Unfortunately, he had the Sudah and her obstinate passengers to escort, and he would prefer to spend as little time as possible doing just that.
He willed himself to remain calm, and stifled his anticipation. There were far too many variables, too many things that could go wrong for him to put too much hope into that possible future. Besides, he wasn’t sure if Farim was being serious. He looked trustworthy enough – even if his resting eyelids made his gaze one that discomforted Sjan-dehk slightly. The clothes he wore were new to Sjan-dehk; they hugged his body tightly like a second skin, and for a moment the Viserjantan wondered just how comfortable it was.
“You are…Too nice? Kind.” Sjan-dehk bowed his head once more to Farim. A minute smile played across his lips as the Alidashti gave his Sada Kurau a compliment. It took all of sjan-dehk’s restraint not to go on at length about her strengths and virtues. “She is a very…Fine ship. Thirty-four guns. Sails good even into the wind. And fast. Good crew. We fought, we won many fights.”
Well, he tried.
He cleared his throat, and went on to answer Farim’s question. “We, my ship and Sudah, we came here to trade. Many things in–” half-turning, he pointed to the huge, imposing vessel in the distance, her battened sails swaying gently in the morning breeze “–the Sudah’s hold. Woods, metals, carved…Art? Decorations, yes, and spices, and more things.” He paused, then shook his head slightly. “Ah, apologies. Sada Kurau and me, we have…Not a lot to trade. We…Mostly protect the Sudah. Keep her safe from pirates. My ship, she is a warship. Very good at fighting, but not good at trading.”
Whether by intention or by accident, Farim helpfully introduced at least one of the others to Sjan-dehk by way of greeting them. Though the man’s name proved too long for Sjan-dehk to remember, he understood that he was a physician of some sort. He turned towards the well-dressed man. Sjan-dehk wasn’t a man of medicine by any stretch of the imagination, but he was curious about how injuries and diseases were treated by other peoples. Perhaps he could learn something that might be of use to Dai-sehk, things that might help the surgeon better treat the crew. Or at least improve his bedside manner.
Just as Sjan-dehk was about to speak, however, someone new arrived.
Dark and pretty, she reminded him of those who hailed from the Commonwealth’s northern territories. He dipped his head slightly towards her and started to offer a greeting, but she spoke first. And as the first of her sharp words flew from her tongue, whatever prettiness she had in his eyes instantly vanished.
To Sjan-dehk, she seemed determined to either offend or wound as many people as possible with scalding words, and even though she never turned her ire towards him, he found himself chewing both his tongue and cheeks to a pulp. Especially when she started insulting and deriding the pale girl. But still, Sjan-dehk kept his mouth shut; Farim seemed to be family with her, and he wasn’t about to jump head-first into what could very well be a familial affair. It wasn’t polite, and it surely wasn’t the Way. That, however, didn’t stop him from eyeing her guards. This newcomer had to be some noblewoman – he couldn’t imagine anyone else who could be afforded such protection, and who could speak with such venom. Sjan-dehk drew in a deep breath and kept his calm. So long as words were all she threw, he could swallow his rising anger.
The newcomer snatched the pale girl’s ribbon from her hair. Sjan-dehk ground his teeth, but kept calm. He didn’t want to make a bad situation worse.
She snatched the girl’s drink from her hands. Sjan-dehk still kept his calm.
Then, she emptied it over the girl’s head, and Sjan-dehk could keep calm no longer.
An auburn-haired lady reacted first, but the newcomer’s guards surrounded her as soon as she rose to her feet, giving her no chance to do anything. Farim dispatched three of them with impressive skill and speed, but left one who stood far enough away to avoid the scuffle. “This, please hold,” he said in a quiet voice to the pale girl, handing her his drink. Then, he stepped forward to place himself in front of her, at the same time drawing one of his pistols. He didn’t point it at the guard, but instead held it out just enough for it to be clearly seen. Despite the indignation burning within him, a grin pulled hard on his lips. With his other hand, he pointed at the guard.
‘Come if you dare. Only one of us will remain’. So caught up was Sjan-dehk in the moment that he barely realised that he had shouted at the guard in his native Viserjantan. Neither did he realise the weight of his actions, nor did he consider the consequences. All he knew was that he saw an injustice happening right before his very eyes, and it had reached the point where he could no longer let it go. And so he had to act.
As Farim accosted his cousin, Sjan-dehk kept watchful eyes on the guard – and as the other three got to their feet, them as well. Only when he was done, and the guards returned to the newcomer’s side, and he felt certain that there would be no more fighting, did he slide his pistol into its holster. He turned towards the newcomer. “Your words, why do you say them? Why do you think it is right?” His voice was light, and his grin still remained on his face. “Because you have guards? Good that a pretty…Noblewi–Noblewoman like you got them. But you are not the only one.” He flicked his eyes up towards his Sada Kurau. “I have two hundred. I look at them in the right way, one hundred will come. Please, do not make me do that. It is…A lot of trouble.”
He shook his head as the newcomer turned to leave. “Please think about what you do. You called her ugly, yes? I disagree. You make her dirty, but that is only outside. Can be cleaned. You are ugly inside. Even if you are pretty outside, you are still…Most ugly here. That is a shame.”
With hands folded across his chest, he watched them leave. One-by-one, they disappeared into the dense crowd. And as they did, Sjan-dehk’s mind slowly caught up with all that just happened. Once he lost sight of the last of them, he let out a long, heavy breath. His hands went to his hips, and he ground his toes into the sand, all the while chewing on his lip until he was sure he would soon draw blood.
“What the fuck did I just do?” He couldn't have done nothing, but at the same time, he wondered if he had done too much. Not that he could have helped it; everything he did had largely been on instinct, and those were still very much tuned for times of open warfare.
Well, it was too late. He did what he did.
He took a moment to steady himself before returning to the group, taking care to pluck the discarded cup with the pale girl’s ribbon off the ground as he did. With a hand, he loosened his belts and pulled them off of his body, dropping them onto the sand beside the chairs. “Apologies,” he murmured. A flush crept up his cheeks. The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed that his interference might have made a bad situation worse. But when he saw what that newcomer had done to the pale girl, something within him urged him to do something. He couldn’t just stand by and watch her be abused like that.
Sighing, he untied the ribbon from the cup and threw the latter away. Then, he took off his outer tunic and shook it free of sand, leaving him wearing only his white and sweat-stained undertunic. He offered both to the pale girl. “Your ribbon,” he said. “And my tunic, until you get new things to wear, you can use it.”
(Placeholder until I get a better reference image) Roughspun, blue trousers A shoulder belt and waist belt carrying his equipment Two swords and two pistols, one on either side A woven, conical hat wide enough to shade his entire face
A light flush crept up Sjan-dehk’s cheeks when the pale girl complimented his appearance. It wasn’t out of embarrassment so much as it was out of surprise. That was the last thing he had been expecting after he so rudely interrupted her conversation. Though if he had to be honest, he still wasn’t quite used to hearing good things about him outside of his martial and sailing skills. Even if just the previous day, Kalliope gave him enough such compliments to last him a year. Perhaps two or three, if his memory retained them well.
For a moment, he wondered what she was up to. And for a moment after that, he found himself strangely looking forward to the ball – or whatever the locals called it – later. Formal events rarely sat well with him, but this particular one? He felt as if evening couldn’t come soon enough.
In the space of a blink that took a touch longer than the rest, he pushed those thoughts aside. Wondering about the evening’s events while it was still morning was just silly. All he had to do later was just meet with Kalliope and attend the ball. Nothing that needed much forethought or planning. And if by then he was still curious about her day, he could just ask her and find out. Not that her affairs were any of his business. Not in the least.
“Thank you,” he said with a bow of his head to the girl. “You look…” He trailed off as he cast his mind back to yesterday, specifically a lesson he had learned early on. “You look pri-pretty.” The words tumbled from his mouth and likely didn’t sound as good as he would have liked, but he meant them. Looking at the girl’s dainty face, pale complexion, and flowing hair, Sjan-dehk couldn’t help but be reminded of his youngest sister, to whom he was closest to out of everyone in his family. He even had to tell himself that she wasn’t, in fact, his sister, and thus he had to act accordingly.
Right then, a familiar face appeared. It was the blacksmith from two days ago. Sjan-dehk took a moment to recall his name before nodding towards him and saying, “Good morning, Roman.” It was a shame that Sjan-dehk didn’t have the things he wanted to give to the man with him, but he supposed that there was always next time. Roman’s favour with the coin had not been forgotten.
Everyone else seemed to know each other, and being the outsider, Sjan-dehk almost quietly backed away to disappear into the crowd. But he didn’t. Instead, he simply stood and watched as the pale girl rushed off towards her friends to ask them what they wanted in their drinks.
A gentle smile came over Sjan-dehk’s face. His sister was similar in that regard, always thinking about the needs and wants of others. According to his brothers, she took it upon herself to keep his rooms neat and tidy even when he was expected to be at sea for months at a time, and she was usually the one to remind their father – and everyone else at court, for that matter – of the plight and troubles of their peoples during discussions of war and whatnot. If every one of his siblings represented an aspect of the Wasun clan, then Sjan-dehk was more than certain that their youngest sister was its heart.
So caught up in the moment and in his mind was he that he merely nodded and followed the group to get their drinks when the girl returned. Before he knew it, he was walking with them back to a blanket laid out on the sand, a thick juice – the locals called it a smoothie, as he found out – of fruits that looked the most familiar to him at the stall. The proprietor had told him their names, but he had either failed to catch them, or he just failed to understand them. It didn’t matter; fruits were fruits, and unless he had the misfortune of choosing something akin to a bitter gourd, then he was confident that this smoothie would be, at the very least, refreshing, and that was all that he wanted.
The girl invited him to sit, but Sjan-dehk chose to remain standing. His weapons made sitting down a noisy affair, and he still had some strength left in his legs. Only when she introduced her companions, and asked for his name, did he finally realise that he had failed to properly introduce himself. With a crimson flush on his cheeks, he pressed a hand to his chest and bowed his head to each person in turn. “My apologies,” he said upon straightening himself. “I am Wasun Sjan-dehk. Captain of–” he pointed to his Sada Kurau, her hull and sails plainly visible from the beach “Sada Kurau. Also Fourth Lesser Marquis of Jafi, of Viserjanta”
He looked at the unfamiliar faces. “I ah…Roman, I saw the other day.” He nodded to the man. “But the rest of you, I do not know. Can…No, that is not right, yes? May I know who you are?”
Time: Late Morning Interactions: @princess Charlotte; @Conscripts John Mentions: Attire:
(Placeholder until I get a better reference image) Roughspun, blue trousers A shoulder belt and waist belt carrying his equipment Two swords and two pistols, one on either side A woven, conical hat wide enough to shade his entire face
As Sjan-dehk wandered through the ever-growing crowd of beach-goers, thoughts of his nightmare faded away until they were little more than a quiet presence lingering in the back of his head. Carefree mirth and light-hearted cheer took their place, borne out of the merriment thick in the atmosphere around him. There were even a few familiar faces amidst the crowd. Some were the Sudah’s crew – easily noticeable thanks to their clothes – who were likely here out of curiosity, just like him. Others were newer friends, namely the fisherfolk whom his Sada Kurau had escorted out to sea the previous morning. He tipped his hat to a few he passed, and they smiled at him in return.
“Good morning, Captain,” one of them, a youth growing his first whiskers, greeted. “Thanks again for your help yesterday. Never thought I’d see the day Aislin and her da be happy about our catch.”
“It is no problem,” Sjan-dehk replied, and they parted ways. There wasn’t any need for gratitude, if he was to be completely honest. As far as he was concerned, his Sada Kurau had done nothing. The pirates here were little more than robbers in skiffs – from what he had seen, at least – and were easily deterred by the Sada Kurau’s presence alone. His crew didn’t even need to roll out the guns; the more daring pirates had been scared off by a few blasts of the swivel guns. Sjan-dehk doubted they even had to hit anything.
But none of that mattered, really. He had gained some measure of the fisherfolk’s trust, and that was all he had aimed for. It would go a long way towards making obtaining provisions that much easier.
Sjan-dehk continued making his way through the crowd. The sweet and inviting scent of fruits wafted past his nose, and suddenly he found himself craving something refreshing. Perhaps he could find something close to the honeyed melons and juicy peaches of Jafi. Or perhaps, he could find out just where everyone was getting the drinks they were holding. Sjan-dehk didn’t quite recognise what it was – it looked like juice, but a little thicker in consistency – but he knew he wanted to give it a try.
Finding out where it came from was the tricky bit. As he quickly found out, stopping strangers amidst such a crowd was a challenge in and of itself. Being as armed as he was likely didn’t help at all, and most gave him a wide berth even if he did offer them a friendly smile and tip of his hat.
Thankfully, he saw a man holding such a drink just standing around. His attire seemed overly warm for the heat of the morning sun, but Sjan-dehk supposed he was in no position to talk. Using both his words and a few gentle pushes, he briskly made his way through the sea of people towards the man. “Excuse me,” he said once he was sure he was in earshot, giving the man a friendly smile. He pushed the brim of his hat up to show more of his face. “I ah…I was wondering if you know where I can find–”
It was only then did he realise that there was a woman there with them, and that he had likely interrupted a conversation.
A flush of embarrassment crept up his cheeks. How could he have been so foolish to have been so fixated on a mere drink. “My apologies,” he said to the man before turning to face the woman. Right away, he was taken by how her dark hair and pale skin reminded him of his youngest sister. That thought didn’t last long before he mentally shook it away, however. “I did not see you. Rude of me. Please, accept my ah…My most true? Yes, most true, apologies.”
Height: 1.85 m (6'0") Build: Fit Hair Color: Greyish white Hair Length: Short Eye Color: Hazel brown, bordering on amber Skin Tone: Dark grey Distinguishing Features: His hands and arms are speckled with burns and healed scars.
Psychology
Likes: ⋆ Solitude ⋆ Seeing new sights ⋆ Finding new materials to work with ⋆ Making / repairing things
Fears: ⋆ To be unable to wander anymore ⋆ To be trapped in one place ⋆ To lose those he cares about ⋆ To be revealed in-RP
Habits/Quirks ⋆ Whenever possible, he whittles wood into arrow shafts when idle ⋆ He scribbles into a notebook every now-and-then, especially after visiting somewhere visually impressive or new to him
Sexuality: Straight
Personality: ⋆ Behavior towards others is: extroverted or introverted. Scathael will only interact with people as much as he needs to. No more, no less. It’s not the interaction he minds, you see. It’s that it’s – to him – a needless distraction from more pressing work. ⋆ Where on the spectrum of selfish to selfless If he has something you need, and he himself doesn’t need it, then it’s yours if you ask. Just don’t expect him to give it on his own volition, and be prepared to have a very convincing argument if the thing you need happens to be raw materials. He can be quite the hoarder with such things. ⋆ Where on the spectrum of kind to mean. He wouldn’t go out of his way to be mean, but neither would he make much effort in cushioning a heavy blow. ⋆ Is your character affectionate? Do they enjoy hugs and being touchy? No. He has it in him, but he has no reason to show it. ⋆ Is it hard to gain your character’s trust? Scathael doesn’t trust people easily. It can happen, but it’ll take plenty of time and effort. Perhaps more than what most can be expected to give.
⋆ Easy to anger or does your character usually remain calm? What about irritation? Anger requires care, and Scathael honestly cares little for anything beyond his work to be easily roused to anger. He can, however, be easily irritated. ⋆ Patient or impatient. Is your character impulsive? On a day-to-day basis, he’s rather patient. He doesn’t quite mind waiting days or even weeks to acquire the materials he needs for a project. That said, when it comes to finding said materials, he can be easily spurred to action by mere rumours of something rare or just difficult to acquire. ⋆ Brave or Cowardly? Are they brave to the point of recklessness? He’s as brave as he needs to be. Risks are calculated, and he sees no shame in running from a hopeless fight or declining an overly-dangerous task. ⋆ Anxiety hold you back? Do you get nervous? Not much; he’s sure enough of his abilities to do most things confidently. However, he does get antsy if he’s working with something which he knows he can’t easily get a replacement for. ⋆ Reaction speeds to situations. Travelling alone has given him decent instincts. He might not be the fastest around, but he certainly knows when danger's near and how to react accordingly.
⋆ Intelligence level: Are you a cunning mastermind? Scathael has a quick mind. He picks things up easily, but there’s a catch. It has to be something he’s very much interested in. Anything less than that and he switches off so quickly that barely anything gets into his head. So if it comes to a topic that he's knowledgeable in, he'll likely be able to think or outsmart his way out of trouble. Outside of that, he'll have problems. ⋆ Charisma level: How well can you manipulate people? Do you make friends easily? Are you persuasive? He has all of the charisma of a boulder. ⋆ Sense of humor or no sense of humor? It’s sardonic, caustic, and can often be dark at times, but he does have one. Knowing when he’s joking and when he’s serious is the real challenge. ⋆ Sanity level of character/do they struggle with any mental illness/disorders? According to Scathael himself, he’s very sane. A very stable individual. According to those with whom he interacts, his single-mindedness when it comes to creating things, and his obsession with finding new and better materials, traipses on the border of insanity.
Background
Occupation Itinerant General Craftsman
Living Immediate Family Members: None
Dead Immediate Family Members: Maisil Arash (Father) Vannea Arash (Mother)
Current Companions: None
Current and Past Lover(s): Rezirael Illimac
Current Equipment: Weapons: Horn/Maple composite bow Shortened musket Pistol Two Hatchets
Tools: Whittling knife Smithing hammer Tongs Forge Gloves Needle and Thread Whetstone block Bowstrings Pestle and Mortar
History:
It would’ve seemed that Scathael was destined for an average life.
He wasn’t born to anyone of note – his parents were magically gifted, for sure, but they weren’t exceptionally powerful by any stretch of the imagination – and the village in which he grew up was one so small that most cartographers simply glossed over it on their maps. Really, it was more of a hamlet, and a small one at that. The nearest town was at least a day’s ride away, and there was nothing that attracted even the most curious of wayfarers. Life was quiet, solitary, and peaceful.
Throughout his childhood, Scathael’s parents did their best to pass on their knowledge to their son, but it was evident as he grew up that magic wasn’t where his talents lay. Rather, it was the forge, the anvil, the carpenter’s bench, the tanner’s rack, anything related to making things, with which he had an affinity. His parents, rather than forcing him to be something he wasn’t, instead encouraged him to nurture and build upon his innate talent. Though he still had to practise magic, it was more to maintain what skills he had rather than to develop them any further.
It didn’t take long for him to learn all he could in his little hamlet. If he wanted to go any further, he’d have to venture out to the bigger towns and cities. His parents were naturally reluctant to let their only son leave on his own, but Scathael eased their worries by showing that he could adequately take care of himself with the bow. Neither did he have any intention of leaving home for good; he’d journey in search of teachers and masters to learn from, but his path would always lead him back to the little cottage on the outskirts of the nameless hamlet. In due time, he even became something of a general tradesman for the rest of the villagers. To spend the rest of his life in such a way didn’t seem unappealing in the least to Scathael. It was more than what he could’ve wished for.
Fate, however, had other plans for him.
Scathael no longer talks about that day, but memories of it still linger vividly in his mind. He had only just returned from a hunt when he found his parents killed. Not murdered. He’d never use that word to describe what happened. Murder implies that someone had planned for his parents to die. Murder implied that there was a reason for their death. But that wasn’t the case. He simply found them both cold on the autumn grass, the arrows which took their lives still lodged in their bodies. A dozen bodies surrounding them told him that they at least didn’t go easily, but it was little consolation.
He never did find out the exact reason for his parents’ deaths. Their neighbours – all of whom lived a fair distance away – told him that it all stemmed from a heated argument between his father and a roving band of hunters. Or outlaws, or mercenaries, or any other type of group, depending on whom he asked. But regardless, one thing remained constant. It had just been a misunderstanding gone horribly, and violently, wrong. Nothing more.
It was that randomness that devastated Scathael the most. A targeted killing, he could perhaps rationalise it away. He could maybe even plan revenge to soothe his heart, but something like this? There was nothing for him to do but mourn and try to continue living. He resolved to stay in the hamlet his parents had so resolutely refused to leave in an attempt to honour their memory, but that proved to be far too difficult. Every sweet memory he had in the old cottage slowly became daggers pricking his heart, and soon he grew to despise the place.
And so he left. He had no choice.
Barely an adult, he struck out on a path to places unknown. First, he wandered about Daka Island, using his skills to earn some coin wherever he found himself. Then, when he ran out of places to explore, he took ship to lands further out. It wasn’t easy – he didn’t exactly grow up with much exposure to the world beyond his isolated cocoon – but he adapted quickly enough. As it turned out, cultures varied across peoples, but the need for a skilled hammer or deft chisel didn’t, especially in the smaller villages he often found himself. Being able to put his skills to good use, and being able to use them to pay his way to so many new and exciting places, and along the way discover new methods of crafting and materials, did plenty to soothe the pain that had been plaguing his heart.
Then one day, he met a certain Rezirael Illimac.
She’d been a wanderer like him, though her business lay more towards exploring old ruins and delving into caves in search of treasure rather than wanderlust. Their relationship had been strictly professional at the beginning. She needed her tools and weapons maintained in places that could be days away from any settlement, and he needed the coin she earned to fund his need for progressively rarer and more expensive materials. It was a mutually-beneficial relationship that suited the both of them just fine. It didn’t hurt that their personalities complemented each other, too; her fiery passion melted his restrictive caution, and his calm logic tempered her reckless eagerness.
What was supposed to be a temporary partnership turned into something semi-permanent, and then it became strange for either to be away from the other for long. As the time they spent together grew, so too did their relationship deepend. They became fast friends, then close confidants. Neither kept any secret from the other, and their nights were often spent in quiet places swapping stories about their pasts. It was thus only natural that romance would bloom between the two. Scathael still remembers the exact moment it happened. They’d been simply talking as usual after a long day. He’d been going on and on about something – likely related to crafting or materials – when Rezirael kissed him. It’d been a surprise, but one he quickly and eagerly reciprocated. And once they confirmed their love for each other, their bond only grew all the stronger as the days passed.
They still adventured, and explored, and delved together, but between their travels, talk of settling down began to bubble. It started as just a flight of fancy to be laughed over a campfire. Just a nice thought and nothing more. Then, as they added more and more details to that fantasy, it stopped being a mere dream and became more of a goal to be achieved. Between the two of them, they had more than enough coin to sustain them if they stopped their adventures, and in the right place, Scathael’s skills would likely be more than enough to support the both of them and perhaps even a family. Soon enough, it became something that he hungered for; a life he couldn’t wait to start.
And that was when his old friend, fate, paid him another visit.
Scathael hadn’t been there. Rezirael had decided to scout a cave on her own while he remained at camp to repair damaged tools. As night fell, and she didn’t return, Scathael’s worry finally managed to push him to search for her. He found her in the cave she’d been exploring, half-buried and crushed beneath a mound of rocks and dirt. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t dig her out of it, but his efforts would’ve been all for naught even if he’d succeeded. Scathael buried her where she laid, left only with a diary she’d left with him listing the sights and places she wanted to see before they could settle down.
That diary now sits with the rest of his meagre belongings in his travelling knapsack. Every place and every sight, he went and he saw, and he made sure to write down every last detail. But he didn’t stop there. He couldn’t stop there. Fate had made its message clear, and the price Scathael paid for his ignorance had been steep. Too steep. If the death of his parents had cracked his spirit, then Rezirael’s passing shattered it entirely, and he patched it back together with flax thread and leather hide; with hewn oak and forged steel. Settling down was not meant for him. To wander, to discover, and to create better and better things was his lot in life, and he’d been a fool to fight it. All he could do was move. And move. And move some more.
And maybe one day, he’d move far enough to escape this unwanted fate.
Combat and Magic Stat Creation
Fitness Level: ⋆ Scathael is very active. He has to be. As a survivalist-of-sorts, he hunts his own food when living in the wild (and sometimes when living in a settlement, even), chops his own wood for fire and shelter, and digs his own little holes when the terrain allows.
What are your character’s physical strengths? ⋆ Good endurance; Scathael endeavours to spend his nights in settlements as much as possible, and that means trekking long distances with whatever he owns on his person. ⋆ Stealth; Scathael dislikes direct confrontations, and so has learned how to either skulk away from confrontations, or end them from the safety of the shadows as much as possible. ⋆ Accuracy; related to the above, Scathael has good aim with both bow and musket. Not only does that help to end a fight quickly, it also saves him labour. Bullets and arrows are tedious things to make.
What are your character’s physical weaknesses? ⋆ Poor offensive magic; Scathael has always been a middling sorcerer, and his years of refusing to use his abilities haven’t done him any favours. He only ever uses magic to shroud himself in darkness to make a quick exit. ⋆ Close combat; while he could maybe handle himself against the average street tough or outlaw, don’t expect much from him against tougher foes. Or against multiple foes, for that matter. ⋆ Over-caution; Scathael will always err on the side of caution in a fight, sometimes to what can be perceived as a craven degree. He sees himself as a craftsman first, and adventurer second.
Years of Experience: Weapon(s): ⋆ Bow: 257 years. His parents taught him how to use from young, and intensified said training once it became clear that he was neither interested nor did he possess the aptitude to be anything beyond a middling sorcerer. ⋆ Firearms: 150 years. He picked up his first firearm a little while after leaving home for good, and immediately found it useful to have as part of his arsenal. Whatever skills he has with them were learned whilst travelling and typically on the fly.
Hand-to-Hand Combat: He has no formal training in hand-to-hand combat. He knows enough to handle himself in a brawl, but that's about it.
Dark Elves ⋆ Offensive Erebokinesis: Completely out-of-practice. His parents did teach him how to use his magics, but he hasn't touched anything offensive ever since their deaths. ⋆ Shrouding: 160 years. This is his most-used ability, even if he only started seriously honing it after he started wandering the land. Aside from the basics taught by his parents back when he was a youth, most of what he knows comes from trial-and-error. ⋆ Shielding: 110 years. He uses this ability to protect himself from cave-ins and rock-slides whilst exploring.
The air was abuzz with the cheery buzz of lively chatter. Wherever Sjan-dehk looked, he saw only smiling faces and eyes bright with excitement. Booming, percussive music reverberated in his ears and the sweet, savoury scents – amongst so many others – of strange and foreign foods teased his nose. The former, he found to be discomforting; he much rather preferred the lilting notes of strings or the hollow, wistful tones of a flute. The latter, conversely, proved to be far more enjoyable. Beyond that, even. As he ventured onto the soft and pristine sand of the beach, he found himself following the smells more than anything else.
“Tsaan-teik!”
But he couldn’t fully enjoy them. That shout from the unknown boy still played in his mind. He didn’t hear it as much as he felt it throb like an old wound somewhere at the back of his head. Neither did it stay for too long in his conscious mind, lingering just long enough to cloak all that he felt in a muting greyness – akin to a heavy fog clouding a dawn sea – and disappearing before Sjan-dehk could even do anything about it.
He clicked his tongue with knitted brows. This was neither the right time nor place to deal with such banal matters, even if he was left free enough for his mind to start entertaining such nightmares. It was anyone’s guess when Lady Adiyan would need his services, and now that he was in an unfamiliar city, wandering unfamiliar streets, and amongst people who spoke unfamiliar tongues, he would need every last scrap of his wits about him to see his tasks through. He couldn’t allow his mind to hobble itself.
“Tsaan-teik…”
For now, he ignored the cloying scents calling to him with promises of delicacies. Instead, he made tracks towards the shore, where sapphire water washed white against land. The languid crash of waves and the bracing scent of ocean brine were together a stronger call than anything else in the world. Especially now, when Sjan-dehk needed his mind calmed and his sight clear.
A few people gave him curious looks as he passed, but not as much as before. Word must’ve spread that there were Viserjantans in Sorian. That, or perhaps he didn’t look as imposing as he did days before. For today, he had forwent his usual weapons and armour. His tassets weren’t lamellar, and were instead made to simply look like it with its stitching. In reality, they were simply padded cloth and did more to protect his azure pants from the swishing of his swords and pistols than anything else. Arm and leg wraps secured the loose fabric of his clothes to his limbs, and he had a scarf wrapped around his neck to protect the skin there from the irritation of sun-rash. And of course, his usual woven hat sat atop his head.
“Tsaan-teik.”
As he walked through the thronging crowd, however, he slowly began to get the feeling that he was a little too overdressed. Almost everyone he saw was – for the lack of a better term – in some state of undress or other. Not that he had any problems with that; Viserjantans from the inland cities approached the sea in a similar fashion, not being comfortable enough with the sea to jump in fully-clothed as those living along the coasts were wont to do. What Sjan-dehk had problems with, however, was that he didn’t quite know where to look. To allow his eyes to linger too long over a stranger’s naked flesh was simply rude. That was simply a matter of courtesy, really.
And so he kept his eyes directed straight ahead, at clear and rolling waters.
“Tsaan-teik!”
He didn’t stop until he felt the waves lap against his boots of hardened leather and soak his legwraps. The water was cool against his flesh, and the brine sharp in his nose. For several moments, he did nothing and simply stood there with arms by his side and took in the sea and her endless beauty. Undulating waves shimmered like precious gems in the sunlight. Gliding seabirds cawed overhead. A gentle breeze washed over his body, its light touch brushing past his cheeks like a lover’s caress. Sjan-dehk closed his eyes and breathed in deep.
For a moment, he was home. Not Viserjanta, not Jafi, but a home beyond them.
Then, he slowly lowered himself to a knee and slid a hand into the water. It still carried the barest traces of the chill of night, but it wasn’t icy. Neither was it dark; so clear was it that Sjan-dehk could easily make out faint scratches on the stones beneath its surface. The peaceful cold, calming and familiar, travelled up his arm and spread to every corner of his body. A soft smile spread across his lips, and he carefully scooped up a handful of water with a deliberateness that bordered on reverence.
“Tsaan-teik.”
Sjan-dehk never was one for rites or rituals. As far as he was concerned, they were little more than acts of pomp and vanity; simply ways for the nobility to make themselves feel even more self-important, as if they needed it. But when it came to the sea, things were different. The sea was the very thing that could see him safely to distant shores, or it could lead him to a sudden and abrupt end. She could be either a mother that nourished with love, or a mother that punished with furious anger. She was that which washed ships away from dangerous shoals, or that which dashed them into flotsam against shallows.
And above all, the sea was the domain of the Mother of the Waves. She, who became the Blue Serpent to protect Jafins of old; she, whose favour allowed Jafin ships to rule the open sea, and she, who all Jafins called ancestor.
Sjan-dehk drew in a deep breath, closed his eyes, and pressed his hand against his face. Keen seawater washed down his cheeks, and he tasted its salt on his lips. He opened his eyes and blinked several times as he exhaled sharply. His smile returned to his face. This was the sea which he loved, the sea which he knew would never let him down, and the sea which he would always find no matter where he was.
“Tsaan-teik!”
That ghostly voice still called in his head, but it grew muffled and soft. “Those who live, will live and see a new dawn,” Sjan-dehk recited beneath his breath, wiping his face dry with sleeves between words. “Those who must die, will die and be brought to calm waters and fair winds by the Mother Serpent and be granted the long peace. Such is the Jafin Way of the Great Harmony.” He squeezed his eyes tight and bowed his head. In the wind that blew over him, he heard the Mother’s whispered words, and in the waves that broke against his ankles, her soft embrace.
He slowly returned to his feet, knowing that he had likely attracted more than a few curious gazes, but he couldn’t care less about that. All he knew was that the unknown boy’s voice had vanished from his mind, at least for now. He knew it wasn’t gone for good – it would one day return as surely as the tides – but that would be a problem for another day. There would be more nightmares in his future, he imagined. Times of quiet always did that. But so long as he had the sea with him, all would be well.
All would be well.
He drew in a deep breath, and turned back around. Now his day could begin.
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