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STATUS: @Zeroth I have the same issue. DO NOT try to uninstall and reinstall because you'd be blocked from downloading the app at all from the site as well. 1 yr ago
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1 yr ago
Current @Zeroth I have the same issue. DO NOT try to uninstall and reinstall because you'd be blocked from downloading the app at all from the site as well.
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2 yrs ago
My back, my back, and my back. They're all in pain.

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In 🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕 → 8 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
A couple of days ago



Time: Night
Location: Somewhere around the Varsonian Strait
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For a man who was held at the points of several muskets, bayonets, and cutlasses, the Caesonian captain was remarkably calm. He stood with his back ramrod straight, his hands clasped behind his back, and his head tilted just enough to allow his frigid, blue eyes an imperious glare down his aquiline nose. Dressed in an immaculate uniform – with its yellow trimmings bright against the night and spotless fabric shimmering in the lamplight – his presence contrasted starkly with chaos unfolding around him.

Cynwaer met the captain’s contemptuous gaze with a mocking smile. The two men said nothing, with only the clamour of looting punctuating the extended silence. With a wave of his hand, Cynwaer dismissed the men guarding the captain. They hesitated for a brief moment, glancing at each other with uncertainty upon their grimey and sooty faces before nodding their acknowledgements and moving off to join their fellows in plundering the captured merchantman.

“So,” Cynwaer began and hooked his fingers into his sword-and-pistol belt. “Are yer gae’n– goin’ tae finally start talkin’, or do I ‘ave tae ‘elp yer find yer tongue?”

The Caesonian captain's eyes narrowed. Then, he exhaled sharply through his nose. “I am Captain Oscar Soderman, Captain of the Summer Evergreen.” Exasperation and impatience laced his words, and he did nothing to hide the scorn in his voice. He looked Cynwaer over, examining him as if he were nothing more than some strange specimen to be studied. “Surely, you are tired of hearing the same thing over and over again as I am of saying it…Captain.”

The Caesonian spat that final word out like it was some disgusting thing, clearly meaning for it to be taken as an insult. But Cynwaer instead chuckled. As much disdain as he had for anyone serving under any and all Caesonian flags, he had to give credit where it was due. Only a Caesonian officer could willingly strike his colours and surrender after the briefest of skirmishes, and still sound like an arrogant lordling. It was, if nothing else, highly amusing.

And Oscar – insufferable as he was – did have a point. Although Cynwaer was the captain of his own ship, he certainly didn’t look like one. At least, not one similar to his Caesonian counterpart. Where Oscar was refined, with clean features and holding himself with the airs of a gentleman, Cynwaer was rough, and not just around the edges. From his drab and roughspun clothes – over-patched and stained – to the shadow clinging to his chin and jaw, and to his unkempt mane of rusty hair, everything about Cynwaer spoke of a man who cared little about the elegance of higher society. And judging by the smirk on his face, and by the confidence in his mossy eyes, that was a source of pride for him.

“Aye, I am,” Cynwaer replied. “And I’m nae interested in any o’ that nonsense. ‘Tis yer cargo that I’m after knowin’ more about.”

Oscar stiffened – if that were even possible – and his thin lips cracked into a frown. “You know as well as I do that I cannot tell you that,” he said. “The Rule of the Sea is explicitly clear on such matters. The captain of any boarded merchantman is required to divulge only three things. His name, his ship’s name, and their destination. I have already told you all three, and I am under no obligation to tell you anything more. I trust that your…crew will undoubtedly discover all that you wish to know whilst ransacking my ship.” He paused for a moment before continuing, “And I do hope, captain, that you are aware of your obligations to myself and my crew, seeing as how you accepted our surrender under the white flag.”

Cynwaer shrugged. “Cannae say I dae, ta’ be honest.”

“You are to treat myself and my crew fairly, captain,” Oscar said pointedly.

“Aye, aye.” Cynwaer waved his hand dismissively in front of him. “I’m nae sure if you’ve noticed, cap’n, but we’re nae privateers. We’re feckin’ pirates. Yer rules mean piss-all ta’ us.” For the first time since boarding the merchantman, Cynwaer’s smile disappeared. “Aye, I’ll treat the lot o’ yer fairly, yersel’ and yer lads, but it’ll be what we consider ta’ be fair. Not what feckin’ moronic rules yer crown decided ta’ be fair.” The threat in his words were clear, but Oscar didn’t seem too perturbed by it. Perhaps he believed that Cynwaer was merely trying to sound tough. Perhaps he simply didn’t understand the gravity of the situation. Either way, Cynwaer decided to approach this in another way. He tilted his chin towards Oscar. “Soderman’s a strange name fae a Caesonian. Yer nae Varian, are yer? Or ‘ave yer got some Varian in yer?”

Oscar scoffed and folded his arms across his chest. “Of course not,” he replied, sounding almost offended and looking like he had just been slapped. “Montauppe has been my home all my life, and so it is our King Edin’s authority which you go against, should you decide to be…Unreasonable.” He fixed Cynwaer with a glare, and the corners of his lips twitched in a smug smile. “I am sure you know what the consequences of doing such a silly thing would be, captain.”

Cynwaer ignored everything Oscar said about the King. “Montauppe, aye. I’ve ‘eard good things about the place,” he remarked with a series of nods.

Then, very casually – as if it were the most natural thing in the world – he drew a pistol from its holster and pointed it squarely as Oscar’s chest. The Caesonian captain’s eyes widened. Panic broke his composure, and his face visibly paled. “Wha-what–” he stammered, holding up both hands in front of him.

“Oh, ‘tis simple, cap’n,” Cynwaer said with a shrug. “If yer nae wantin’ ta’ return ta’ Montauppe in a feckin’ box or barrel or whatever the feck we’ve got fae a coffin, then I suggest yer gee’s– give us aw’ that I want ta’ know.” He thumbed the pistol’s hammer. It locked into place with an ominous click.

“You–” Oscar began, his voice starting to crack and waver. “You would really shoot a man over grain? Are you mad?”

Cynwaer smiled darkly. “See? That was’nae so hard, aye?” He kept the pistol aimed at Oscar, and took in the look of realisation creeping over the Caesonian captain’s face. “Yer’ve almost a thousand tons burden o’ grain in yer hold, aye? An’ aw’ bound fae yer capital o’ Sorian, no less. ‘Tis a lot o’ grain ta’ take frae the common folk. Aw’ frae just one village, aye?” Oscar began to stammer something, but Cynwaer cut him off before he could even get one word out. “Surprised? Word o’ advice frae cap’n ta’ cap’n, make sure yer lads can ‘old their drink, an’ if they cannae, make sure they’re nae the sort ta’ get loose lips after just one drink. ‘Twas feckin’ embarrassin’ for aw’ involved, mysel’ included.”

“If you knew,” Oscar swallowed hard and hissed. “Then why do all this?”

“Just wanted ta’ ‘ear it frae yer, ta’ be honest,” Cynwaer replied with a nonchalant shrug. He briefly turned his eyes towards the deck. “So aw’ o’ this ‘neath our feet, ‘tis just grain ta’ yer, is it? Ne’er crossed yer wee mind that ‘tis what some folk need ta’ live, aye?”

“We didn’t take everything,” Oscar protested. “Just what is rightfully the crown’s by tax. Those people have enough to eat. You are making a mistake, captain.”

Cynwaer didn’t reply immediately, and instead raised his brows. “Are yer a farmin’ man, cap’n?” He asked, and when Oscar didn’t respond, chuckled. “I did’nae think so. Yer types ne’er are. But I s’pose I’m nae the person ta’ talk. I used ta’ fish fae a livin’, yer see, but I knew some farmin’ types. Want tae know somethin’ interestin’ I learned frae ‘em? See, aw’ the grain they ‘arvest duin’ ta’ season’s nae just fae eatin’. Some o’ it’s stored awa’, some turned ta’ feed fae livestock, an’ that livestock’s made ta’ salted meat ta’ last ‘em the winter.” He paused, and upon seeing no understanding on Oscar’s face, continued. “So if yer leave ‘em wi’ just enough fae them ta’ eat, then they’ve nothin’ ta’ feed the animals an’ nothin’ ta’ store. They’ve nothin’ ta’ feed the animals and nothin’ ta’ store, they’ve nae salt meat or stores to last ‘em o’er winter. An’ when they’ve nothin’ ta’ last ‘em o’er winter, then people start dyin’.”

He jabbed the pistol towards Oscar. “An’ everythin’, cap’n, starts wi’ yer takin’ their grain. Ta’ me, it sounds an awful lot like yer’ committin’ murder, aye.”

“That– That’s ridiculous!” Oscar protested loudly. “You can’t know–”

“Oh, but I dae, cap’n,” Cynwaer interrupted. “‘Tis a story I’ve ‘eard and seen many times, aye.” He stopped smiling, and gave Oscar a hard look, one discomforted the Caesonian captain greatly. “Normally, I’d shoot yer and be done wi’ it, but I’ve places ta’ be. More o’ yer bastard king’s ships ta’ rob, yer see. An’ I s’pose ‘tis yer lucky day, ‘cause I’m feelin’ particularly generous. I’ll let yer live, but only if yer turn this ship around and bring it back ta’ where yer came frae. Gee’s o’er the grain ta’ the village, gee’s ‘em an apology, an’ I’ll consider everythin’ o’er. That’s more than fair if yer ask me.”

Oscar baulked at the suggestion. “Th-That’s crazy! I will be branded a criminal–”

“Aye,” Cynwaer agreed. “Yer can join our wee club.”

“–the King will place a bounty on my head–” Oscar’s words tumbled and fell from his mouth, each melding into the next, in a semi-coherent ramble. He barely noticed Cynwaer’s interruptions.

“Again, we’ve a club for yer ta’ join.”

“–And I have a family–”

“So did I, pal. Yer’ll be fine.”

“–I need the money–”

“The people need ta’ eat.”

“–What will I do–”

“Yer free ta’ join us. Plenty o’ yer kind sailin’ wi’ me.”

“–No, I cannot do this. Please, you must understand–”

Cynwaer sighed heavily and shook his head. “Took yer own sweet time ta’ say that, did yer?” He grumbled with a huff. “Yer know what, feck it. I’ve nae the time ta’ reason wi’ the likes o’ yer. Yer bastard king’s grain ships’ nae gae’n ta’ wait.” He lowered the gun, and pulled the trigger. The frizzen flashed, flames shot from the muzzle, and the crack was deafening amidst the relative silence of the night. A bullet crashed through Oscar’s knee, snapping bones and cutting flesh as it sliced cleanly through the joint. The man immediately crashed to the deck, howling in pain and clutching his thigh.

“Y-You bastard!” He managed to shout through clenched teeth. “When my family finds you–”

“Oh, nae bother, pal. I’ll send ‘em aw’ yer way, don’t yer worry,” Cynwaer interjected and casually stepped over to Oscar. Kneeling beside his head, Cynwaer said, “Yer cannae blame everythin’ on me, aye? I gave yer a chance ta’ walk awa’ untouched, and yer did’nae take it.” He patted Oscar on the shoulder. “Learn ta’ take some responsibility fae yer decisions, aye?”

“Gods damn you,” Oscar hissed. His eyes were wide with both pain and rage. “Just kill me, pirate. You’ll be joining me soon enough. When the King’s forces find you, you will pay with your life, but only after days of suffering and pain. You will find no respite and no relief.”

Cynwaer shrugged. “Tell yer what, pal. I’m plenty damned as ‘tis, aye,” he said. He leaned over Oscar with a wicked grin pulling his lips wide across his face before continuing. “Nae need ta’ worry. I’ll be sendin’ yer on yer way in due time, but what’s it yer people say about me? Was it that I torture folks like yer until death seems merciful? Nae sure I like the sound o’ that, ta’ be very honest, but reputation’s reputation, aye? An’ I hate disappointin’ folk like yer, so I s’pose I’ve ta’ live up ta’ yer expectations. Pretty sure some o’ my lads would want ta’ ‘ave a go, too.” Oscar’s face paled even more. His lips trembled, as if he were trying to say something, but no words left his mouth.

“Take it as time ta’ reflect,” Cynwaer said and stood up. “I gave yer a chance ta’ show some compassion fae us lowborn folk, and yer chose ta’ be selfish. Kept thinkin’ about yerself, din’t yer? S’pose yer just bein’ what yer are. Dis’nae matter. You showed nae compassion. Yer kind ne’er showed compassion fae us little folk, and so now we will’nae show you any.” He nudged Oscar’s ruined knee with his boot, and that was all it took to get the man to start screaming once more. His pleas for mercy gradually turned incoherent, and his screams into nothing more than animalistic, blood-curdling shrieks.

“An’ we’re makin’ nae excuses fae our terror,” Cynwaer said and turned away. There was plenty of work to be done. By the time the night was over, Sorian would have a new taste of the Seahawk’s vengeance.
In 🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕 → 8 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay


In 🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕 → 8 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Sjan-dehk & Kalliope
Time: Late Evening
(Thanks to @Tae for helping with this)



Sjan-dehk followed half-a-step behind Kalliope as she led him away from the docks. Most of these streets, with smoothened cobbles sheened by warm lantern-light, and narrow grouts coloured by stubborn mosses and hardy lichens, were familiar to him. Well, they were to his feet, in any case. His eyes recognised none of the buildings lining his flanks – even though he had trudged past them several times since he arrived to Sorian – but all the same, his legs seemed to remember his current course as one he had charted before.

Not that it mattered a great deal; Kalliope did most of the navigating. She kept a hand around his arm in a gentle hold, and used it to guide him through the thronging crowd and into the encroaching night.

And it was a pleasant night, he had to say. The fading light did plenty to hide away the few imperfections which day had been so unabashed in showing him. Dancing shadows, cast by murky lanterns swaying in a soft wind, concealed from sight the muck and grime which caked the ground in patches. Were it not for the not-so-occasional squelching of his boots, Sjan-dehk might have even completely forgotten about the disgusting, sticky stuff. Accentuated by the low light, every source of light – no matter how little – seemed all the more comforting and warm. Even the narrow side-streets leading off into the warrens of slums, with flickering lamps hanging precariously from doorways, managed to look inviting.

Of course, being in good company played a major part in keeping Sjan-dehk’s spirits buoyant.

Despite all of his earlier misgivings – about Cassius and Kalliope, about how he should conduct himself in her presence, about the entire masquerade itself, about why he even had such concerns – Sjan-dehk was strangely at ease as he walked with her through the city. Granted, the light and relaxing atmosphere surely helped him to push such thoughts aside, but there was something disarming about Kalliope herself. What it was exactly, he didn’t know. Maybe it was how she carried herself, or maybe it was her natural charm, or maybe it had been that long since he had a night out that wasn’t related to his duties. Either way, he found himself chatting with her about everything and nothing, all at once. Just simple small talk about their days, about what they had done, and yet it still brought smiles to his face and pulled quiet laughs from his lips.

“Stop, thief!”

The booming, angry shout – loud enough to rise high above the din of the crowd – interrupted Sjan-dehk’s retelling of his earlier adventure at sea. Looking away from Kalliope and further up the street, his eyes fell upon a diminutive figure clumsily weaving between surprised pedestrians. A woman yelped and tripped as she flung herself out of their way. “That boy’s a thief!” That same, booming voice bellowed. “Someone stop him!” A sharply-dressed man tried to do just that, and reached for the elusive darter, but his fingers found naught but air. The boy threw a glance over his shoulder, but continued scrambling ahead.

As the commotion unfolded, and the lively atmosphere of the pair’s conversation was brought to an abrupt stop, Kalliope’s instincts had her tighten her grip on Sjan-dehk’s arm. Keen eyes, sharp and green, tracked the accused thief as he flitted and stumbled through the crowd. A look of determination hardened her face, and a plan materialised in her mind. “Grab the boy, but try not to harm him,” she said. “There may be more to this than we realise. I’ll handle the man.” Glancing at Sjan-dehk, she swept a hand over her dress. “I’m better suited to deal with the pursuer currently, anyways.”

Sjan-dehk understood right away what she meant. He responded with a nod when she loosened her hold on his arm, but she didn’t notice. She was already taking action.

Kalliope dashed ahead, expertly navigating the sea of densely-packed people. Neither the fleeing boy nor the man chasing him expected her sudden appearance. Kalliope swiftly intercepted the former, positioning herself directly in his path. The boy let out a surprised yell as he collided with her. She left him little time to recover his bearings or even realise what was going on, however, as she skillfully redirected him towards Sjan-dehk. Unable to stop himself, the boy’s own momentum sent him crashing into the Viserjantan’s legs.

So waifish was the boy that Sjan-dehk felt little of an impact. It didn’t take much to restrain him, either – a firm grip on his shoulders was all it took to root him in place. “Let off!” The boy yelled through gritted teeth, his feet kicking against the ground as he struggled with all his might to break free. Sjan-dehk tightened his hold on the boy, but only slightly – the boy was so skinny that it felt as if his bones would snap with even a touch too much force. “Let off! I didn’t do anything!”

“Be calm,” Sjan-dehk said gently. Or at least, he tried to. The boy’s wild flailing – futile as they were – had annoyed him somewhat, and his words came out sounding like an order. Not surprisingly, they did little to assuage the boy, and he continued to struggle. “Be calm,” Sjan-dehk repeated. “Or we cannot help.”

The boy’s pursuer soon caught up. He was a rotund man, with a round face, and wearing a white shirt that was mottled with old stains. Sweat dripped from his brow and clung to him like a second skin. He glared at the boy – who glared back – but could do little else. Kalliope stood firm in his way, arms crossed over her chest and back straight. “Alright,” she began. The man almost looked small in her presence. “Let’s calm down for a moment, then you can explain the situation to me. My friend stopped the kid, but I’m not about to allow you near him till I know the full story here.”

“That boy stole from me,” was all the man managed to say between gasps and pants before he hunched over, hands braced against his knees. He drew in a deep breath and grunted as he righted himself. “A loaf of bread, would you bloody believe it? Now, I’m not looking for trouble. Have him return what he took, and I’ll consider the issue settled.”

Sjan-dehk immediately looked at the boy. “What he say, it is true?”

The boy bit his lip and stared at the ground for a moment. All Sjan-dehk could see of him was the shock of dirty, unkempt brown hair covering his head like a mass of seaweed washed upon shore. “So-So what if I did?” The boy said defiantly after some time, but there wasn’t as much of a fight in his voice as before. “It’s just bread, and it’s not like the old man’s selling much of it! I-I’m not hurting anyone!”

Sjan-dehk grimaced and looked at Kalliope. Regular thieves weren’t the sort to steal something as cheap and as worthless as stale bread. Such an act was that of the desperate, and the boy certainly looked as if he was in desperate need of just about everything.

Kalliope’s gaze shifted between the boy and the man a few times before she caught Sjan-dehk’s. Hearing the boy’s words ignited a burning fury within her, the sort which wouldn’t – couldn’t – be easily doused. In an instant, she rounded on the man. Her eyes burned with indignation, and disdain dripped from each and every one of her words when she spoke. “You chased this boy relentlessly and caused such a scene over a fucking loaf of bread?” The man shrunk before her, his earlier anger gone, replaced by worry and some amount of fear. His eyes looked to Sjan-dehk, as if asking for help. The Viserjantan merely responded with a grin and a shrug.

“Can’t you see this child is starving?” Kalliope’s voice rose, and she gestured vehemently at the boy, who by now had stopped struggling against Sjan-dehk’s grip. A disgusted smirk played across her lips as she leaned in towards the man. “But no,” she continued, her voice dropping to a threateningly low pitch. “Your fat ass has decided that your precious profit comes first, doesn’t it? One look at this boy, and anyone with a shred of decency would see that he’s desperate. Yet here you are, making a scene over a morsel.” She stepped forward, her eyes burning unabated. She looked the man up and down. “You’ve probably never missed a meal in your cushy life, have you? I can tell you haven’t! How about showing a bit of compassion for once? Or is your heart as bloated as your belly, filled with nothing but greed?”

Sjan-dehk said nothing as Kalliope verbally lacerated the man. What else was there to say that she hadn’t already said, and with far better words? And so, he simply listened and watched. It heartened him greatly to see Kalliope rebuke the man and defend the boy with such passion. That alone would have earned her his deep respect, but she managed to go even further. With each successive word, the man’s discomfort grew until it became impossible to hide. He shrank and looked as if he would rather be anywhere else but here. Kalliope was clearly not a lady to be trifled with.

But they couldn’t stay here forever. Neither of them could order the man to leave, and once he figured that out, he would likely recover some modicum of courage. And after that, things would simply devolve into a shouting match where nobody won. “Kali,” Sjan-dehk called out to her. “Can you get my coin pouch? Left side of my belt, on my back.”

Kalliope snapped off a few parting words – all of them dripping with acerbic contempt and accompanied by a withering glare – at the man before moving to Sjan-dehk. She plucked the pouch from his belt and gave it to him. “I am well aware that stealing is wrong,” she said in a voice low enough for just him to hear. “But I’d rather this boy steal food than starve to death. No one deserves that fate.”

“I agree,” Sjan-dehk said and fished a coin from the pouch. “And I honestly wouldn’t pay this man for a loaf of stale bread, but I don’t think he’s going to leave us be, otherwise. Could always use threats of violence, but…” He trailed off as he beckoned the man over. The man hesitantly approached, his eyes gazing at the ground, but glancing at Kalliope every so often. “Think of it as me paying him to piss off,” Sjan-dehk added and pressed the coin into the man’s palm. With a wide grin on his face, and keeping his gaze locked onto the man’s the entire time, Sjan-dehk said in a cheery voice, “Now kindly fuck off, thank you very much.”

The man eagerly turned and hurried back the way he came.

With that settled, Sjan-dehk turned his attention to the boy. “So why steal?”

“I told you, I–”

“Yes. You were hungry. I know.” Sjan-dehk released his hold on the boy, but he didn’t run. Kneeling to look him in the eye, Sjan-dehk continued, “You do not have money, yes? Not enough to buy food. What…Why is that?” The boy didn’t reply, and instead stared at the ground between his fidgeting feet. Sjan-dehk’s lips curved into a frown, but he had expected this. Here he was, a total stranger who couldn’t even speak the local tongue with any sort of fluency, questioning a child. Of course, the boy would be uncomfortable. But still, Sjan-dehk pressed on. “You tell us, and maybe we can help.”

“He’s not a bad person,” Kalliope added, and cast a sidelong glance at Sjan-dehk with a teasing smile. “A little rough, but he’s not bad. We want to help you, but we can’t if you don’t tell us anything.”

The boy looked up at her, then at Sjan-dehk, then back to her. He gulped. “T-There’s this gang,” he began, his eyes darting around as if he were worried that someone might be listening. “They-They’ve been askin’ my mother for money. Tellin’ her that she either pays or somethin’ bad’ll happen to us.” His lips trembled and he gulped once more, but he carried on. “So she’s been payin’ them most of what she earns, you see, and what’s left ain’t enough for us to buy anythin’. I just wanted to help, is all.”

Sjan-dehk sighed. He had heard this story – and many others like it – far too many times. In the immediate aftermath of the war, Iwa-Jafi’s poorer quarters had been rife with similar gangs attempting similar rackets and schemes. An unfortunate side effect of the chaos and confusion that came with the end of a conflict. It had been Shim-sen’s – one of Sjan-dehk’s brothers – to put an end to such criminal activities, and that he did with ruthless efficiency.

But Shim-sen wasn’t here now, and Sjan-dehk was. And so there was only one thing for him to do.

“This…Gang. You know where they are?” Sjan-dehk asked.

“Yeah.” The boy nodded, looking at Sjan-dehk momentarily before turning his gaze to Kalliope. “Everyone does. We’ve to go there to pay our dues.”

Sjan-dehk nodded slowly, then stood back up. “I can’t leave this,” he said with a heavy sigh and placed his hands on his hips. “Not as how it is. It’s not the Way. By the Abyssal Depths, it’s not even the right thing to do, Way or not.” He turned to Kalliope with an apologetic look on his face. “I know I promised to join you at the ball, and it’s not my intention to break my word, but…” He trailed off and nodded towards the boy. “This is something that must be fixed, and I need more guns and more swords to do that. Means I have to return to Sada Kurau before teaching some ruffians a lesson, and I think the ball will be long over by the time I’m done with everything.”

Kalliope reached out to gently touch his arm, her eyes soft with understanding. “Sjan-dehk, darling.” There was warmth in her words. “You don’t have to apologise to me. I would never expect you to turn a blind eye to injustice like this, especially when it’s right in front of us.” She spoke reassuringly and gently at first, but then her lips curled into a playful smirk. Twinkles of mischief lit up her eyes. “But you’re a damn fool if you think I’m going to stand aside and let you have all the fun, especially in my own city. I’m coming with you and you can’t stop me. First, though, I need to do one thing.”

She had been listening intently when the boy related his story earlier, and her heart had grown heavy with empathy for his struggles. The desperation that drove him to theft, the threats made by ruthless people far more stronger than him, she understood them all, all too well.

Crouching, she met the boy’s eyes with a compassionate gaze and smile. “Listen, sweetheart,” she began, her tone gentle but firm. Even so, the boy looked away, as if he were expecting a scolding or a lecture. But Kalliope continued anyway. “I understand why you had to steal, but stealing is dangerous, especially when you’re up against those gangs. You could get yourself or your family hurt, or even worse.”

She paused for a moment, a thoughtful expression painted across her face. “But I have another idea. How would you like to work for me?” She asked, her voice brightening with enthusiasm. In an instant, the boy’s attention returned to her, his eyes snapping back to her face. “You see, I need someone with sharp ears to keep me informed about what’s happening in the city. Just listen out for any interesting tidbits of information you come across and bring them to me. I’ll pay you weekly, no matter what, but I do expect you to keep me updated from time-to-time. Another thing I’ll occasionally need you to do is to deliver messages for me. Do you think you can do that?”

“Y-Yes,” the boy croaked, eyes wide in surprise at the generous offer. He quickly cleared his throat, and repeated in a clearer voice with a series of enthusiastic nods, “Yes! I can do that for you, miss!”

Kalliope smiled. “Perfect. Your first job will be to deliver a message to my sister who should be at the ball at Count Damien’s. I’ll write up the letter and give you the details on how to find her.”

She looked up at Sjan-dehk, her smile bright. “My dear captain, do you think you could spare some clothes, weapons, paper, and ink?” She asked, eyes sparkling with mischief as she stood back up. “I don’t think this dress, beautiful as it is, is quite suited for a fight.”

Sjan-dehk chuckled and nodded. In truth, he had been half-expecting Kalliope to come with him. Part of him wanted to turn her down – things could get quite rough, after all – but then there was something about her that made him feel as if she could handle herself. Something about the way she carried herself that reminded him of some women he knew. Women who were proper terrors on the field of battle. “Can’t say I’m not curious to see how you’d fight in that,” he teased with a grin. “But sure, there’s more than enough onboard Sada Kurau for the two of us.”

He turned around, facing the way they had come. “Let’s go.” It was difficult for him to hide the excitement in his voice, and so he didn’t. Who could blame him? This was far better than any ball. “We’ve got a long night ahead of us. Best not to keep it waiting.”
In Avalia → 9 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay


What had he done?

Ashen smoke and putrid rot mixed to form a nauseating miasma in Scathael’s nose. Blackened wood and shattered corpses greeted his eyes wherever he rested his gaze. Behind the crackle of smouldering thatch and groans of collapsing houses, Scathael heard the screeches of carrion and growls of scavengers. That there was ever a village here – with people who lived and dreamed and just existed, and people whom he knew – just felt so surreal. As if this burnt, devastated ruin had been just that this entire time, and Scathael had dreamt up his entire time here.

But that wasn’t the case. He knew that.

That smoking hut to his right, with its once-flowering garden of pungent herbs and vibrant flowers now little more than mounds of mud, had once been the apothecary. The kindly old woman who had lived there had helped Scathael patch up his wounds the day he first entered the village. On his left, the pile of rubble that stretched out onto the main street had once been a house. Scathael knew the family who lived there – the mother had fed him on the two occasions he had to help the father with repairs. And there, near the head of the main street, laid what once was a simple farmstead. The old man who worked the fields there never did warm up to Scathael, but always paid generously with his produce.

Scathael didn’t know them well, but they had treated him fairly. They surely didn’t deserve such an end, to lay broken amidst the remnants of their own homes.

Just what had he done?

You wanted to stay.

The answer came to him quickly enough. Though the voice was hers, he knew the words weren’t. That did little to stop the sting, however used to it as he was. But she – or it, or they, or whatever it was – was right; all of this came about simply because he even entertained the idea of stopping. Nevermind that he never would have seriously considered the option. Just the mere thought of it was enough for fate to decide that he needed another reminder to always be on the move. It happened with his family. It happened with her, it happened with many other places, and now it happened again.

This was your fault.

Scathael squeezed his eyes shut. Focus. He had to focus. What was done, was done. All of the guilt, all of the sorrow in the world wouldn’t change a thing. The village was gone. On whose head was the blame laid was irrelevant. Scathael had to look ahead, at where his path would bring him next. He had to be prepared for whatever would come his way, and that meant that he needed supplies.

And so, he made his way back to the blacksmith’s home. Compared to the rest of the village, it was largely intact. The walls were still standing, even if the roof had caved in. Most of the tools and materials Scathael wanted – such as ingots, files, sandpaper, and whetstones – were gone, but still he searched. He tried his best to ignore the familiar corpses that laid in misshapen heaps not too far away. It had only been just two days ago when they had been conversing about everything and nothing amidst a peaceful night. And now, they were dead and Scathael was left alive. The dark elf tried not to think about that as well, as difficult as it was. How could it be easy, when their bloodied faces were right there for him to see?

“Scathael?”

That hoarse, whisper-quiet voice came so suddenly, and so softly, that Scathael didn’t believe it to be real at first. Only when it repeated itself – straining to call for him once more – did he understand that he wasn’t hearing things. He immediately stopped whatever he was doing and dug his way towards the voice, prying burnt planks from where they were jammed, and tossing loose debris aside. “Yes, it’s me,” he replied. “Try not to move. It’s dangerous.”

Hidden behind a stack of crates and empty roughspun sacks was the foxgirl, Vallana. She was huddled on the ground, with knees brought up to her chest. Tears, both fresh and old, stained her face. Her ears were flat against her head, and she couldn’t stop shivering. Whether it was out of cold, hunger, or fear, Scathael couldn’t tell. Black soot and dirt covered her skin and clothes. “S-Scathael? Are…Are you real?” Her voice quavered and faltered as she looked at him with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“Yes,” Scathael answered, but heard himself as if he were a mere observer.

Vallan’s lips quivered, and she sniffed. “Th-They came–” she began, but had to stop as she choked. Large tears dripped onto the ground, and she wiped her eyes with filthy hands as she wailed. Through her sobs, she cried for her father, her mother, for everything that she never again would have. Her little body heaved with grief and sorrow.

For what felt like an eternity, Scathael could only watch. His worry and concern were plain on his face, but he didn’t know what to do. This wasn’t a problem he could fix; there was nothing he could make that would make things better for Vallana. And so, he froze. His mind, however, dragged him back to the day when he found his own family, cold and dead in their own home. He recalled the dark gloom that had consumed his entire being; the grey nothingness which had coloured his world, and the dreadful uncertainty that had left him paralysed for so long. But he was lucky. He had already been an accomplished engineer and tinkerer when that happened. Good enough to let him survive on his own until he was well-enough to move on.

Vallana, however, had nothing. What would she do from now on? What could she do?

Scathael gulped. He didn’t have the answers to those questions. But he knew that he couldn’t leave her. It would be unconscionable, even for him. “Vallana,” he called to her as gently as he could and knelt. “I can’t reach you.” He reached for her with both arms outstretched. “You have to come to me. We can’t stay here, whoever did this could still be around.” The foxgirl flinched at the mention of the ones who had sacked the village. “Vallana, you have to come. You know you won’t last long alone. I don’t want that, so please, come to me and we can get away from here. We can think about what to do afterwards, but we can’t do anything until we’re safe.”

Vallana sniffed, but nodded. She crawled her way to Scathael, and it was clear from her slow and lethargic movements that she was nearing the end of her strength. Thankfully, she got close enough for Scathael to pull her from the rubble. “It’s okay,” he whispered as he carried her in his arms. She was light. Too light for a girl of her age. “It’s okay,” he repeated. Those words didn’t even register in his head. All that mattered to him was that they seemed to calm Vallana somewhat. “It’s okay.”

And somewhere in his head, he heard a response. Liar.

Only this time, the voice was his own.

Time: Morning
Location: Campsite outside Roshmi
Interactions: Mari @princess
Mentions: Thraash @funnyguy; FIVE @shiningsector
Equipment:

Morning came as a dreadful surprise for Scathael. The past two days – or was it just one – had been but a blur to him. Between taking care of Vallana and making adjustments to the Warforged’s repairs, he barely had any time to sleep for long, nevermind go about his daily work.

The latter was an easy, if boring and mind-numbing, task. Reattaching the Warforged’s arm to his shoulder had been a fairly straightforward job, as such jobs usually were. The problem had been mechanical – the Dragonborn had thankfully avoided damaging any magical circuitry – and so all Scathael had to do was to grind the damaged, jagged parts smooth, and rejoin the limb to its socket with the aid of patch plates. That was where most jobs would end, but because the repair involved a joint, Scathael had to keep watch over the Warforged to make sure that the plates weren’t getting in the way of their arm’s usual range of motion.

It was a lengthy process – one that required a lot of welding and de-welding – but it was the proper way of doing things, and most importantly, gave him a reason to stick around the motley group.

As much as Scathael preferred to be alone – and as experienced as he was a wayfarer – he wasn’t foolish enough to believe that he could take care of Vallana on his own. The traumatised foxgirl had barely left his side since leaving the village. Whether it was eating, sleeping, or travelling, she refused to even be a step away from Scathael. The Dark Elf had to admit, however, that he wasn’t quite sure whether that was due to what Vallana suffered, or simply because of their travelling companions. A Warforged and a Dragonborn were intimidating presences even to seasoned adventurers, let alone a mere child. And Mari, friendly and loud as she was, was still a stranger.

Either way, it meant that Scathael spent most of whatever time he had left after inspecting the Warforged on Vallana. He didn’t regret it – it was his choice to take her, after all – but he did find himself wishing that a day had at least a dozen more hours.

And now, as the sun rose on a new day and breakfast sizzled over an open fire, Scathael sat on the naked earth with legs crossed and shoulders hunched. In his hands, he whittled curves into a small block of solid oak. Vallana was sound asleep beside him, swaddled up in his travelling cloak. This was probably the first proper rest the girl managed to catch since leaving the village, and so he took care to be quiet. Every now and then, he glanced at her, making sure that she was still asleep and undisturbed.

Mari’s sudden statement caught his attention. “Are you going to tell us why?” He asked pointedly in a quiet voice, then tilted his head towards Vallana. “Keep it down if you do. She’s finally sleeping soundly and I’m not going to be happy if she gets woken prematurely.”
In Avalia → 9 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay


Time: Evening
Time: Evening
Location: Village on the outskirts of Roshmi
Interactions:Mari @princess; Thraash @funnyguy
Mentions:
Equipment:


Scathael arched a brow at the Dragonborn’s words. He wasn’t offended – this wouldn’t be the first, or last, time someone mistook him for a mere village smith – but rather, he was amused. “You walked all this way, only to question my skills when you’re here?” The look in his eyes was one of utter disinterest, his voice a flat monotone, and every part of his body telling the two that he honestly couldn’t care less whether or not they actually hired him. Granted, the prospect of working on a warforged was tempting, but he didn’t trust these two. Not enough to follow them to who-knows-where after dark, at least.

It was for that reason that he started to dismiss them. But then, the Light Elf spoke up. Her words carried a sort of energy that was somehow simultaneously eminently annoying, but also strangely nostalgic. As if it reminded him of someone.

Scathael quickly nipped that thought in the bud. She was dead. There were many people who were similar to her, but none who were her. He had made the mistake of going down that road once. Never again. Still, he couldn’t help but soften his tone as he addressed Mari, something which didn’t escape his own notice, and something which annoyed him to no end. “You already know who I am, so I won’t bother introducing myself,” he said and looked at her and the Dragonborn in turn. “I saw the two of you in Roshmi. You fought a warforged there, did you not?”

He paused for a moment, then turned to pack up his tools. “I’m guessing that the warforged you want fixed is the same one you tried so hard to destroy. Not unless you have another one tucked away somewhere. I don’t think that’s the case, though.” Turning back to the pair, he continued, “Surely you can see why things feel suspicious to me. Why are you going through so much trouble to fix an enemy? I’m not saying I won’t do it, but I want to know more before agreeing to anything. And I want a guarantee that I won’t find a knife in my back once I leave with you.” He paused again and shrugged. “Some have tried that before.”
In Avalia → 10 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay


Time: Evening
Location: Village on the outskirts of Roshmi
Interactions: Mari @princess
Mentions: Thraash @FunnyGuy
Equipment:


“Looks like we’ve visitors.”

The huntsman’s words were said nonchalantly, but the slight furrow in his brow and brief downward curl of his lips betrayed his unease. Scathael followed the man’s gaze, leaning as far back in his seat as he could and looking down the village’s main street. Despite being a visitor himself, he regarded both strangers with as much suspicion on his face as the blacksmith beside him. A village this small and this far off the beaten track might expect the odd wayfarer during the day, but at night? And two at the same time, at that? Either they were lost – their steps carried enough confidence to make that seem unlikely – or they were looking for something. Or someone.

And there was also something about the pair that struck Scathael as familiar. He didn’t like that.

The blacksmith shrugged and returned his attention to more important things, such as the half-empty mug sitting on the table in front of him. “Eh, they don’t look like they’ll be trouble,” he said and brought it up to his lips. Just before he tipped it back, however, he lowered it and glanced at Vallana. The foxgirl sat on the bare ground, deep in concentration as she glued pre-cut feathers to prepared arrowshafts. Headless ones, of course; Scathael knew better than to let a child anywhere near sharpened arrowheads. “It’s a little late for me to mention, Sadras,” the blacksmith said, addressing the huntsman. “But are you absolutely certain that it’s alright for us to drink in front of Vallana?”

The huntsman shrugged. “I’m not fussed, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

“It’s not you that concerns me. It’s your wife. I swore in front of your little girl the other day and I swear she would’ve torn my head off if Scathael wasn’t there.” The blacksmith glanced sideways as the dark elf with a grin. The gesture wasn’t returned, but Scathael did nod as if to confirm the story.

Sadras chuckled. “Ah, she’s far too refined for the likes of us.” He smiled softly, and his voice turned warm as he went on to say, “Gods alone know why she agreed to come back to this shithole with me.”

“Love makes idiots of us all, as they say.” The blacksmith raised his mug and drank heavily from it. “Can’t say that they’re wrong.” He nudged Scathael with the mug. “What about you, Scathael? I don’t recall you mentioning anything about a lady in your life.”

Scathael gently, but firmly pushed the mug away. “There’s none to mention,” he said curtly. It was, at best, a half-truth and at worst, a quarter-lie. He didn’t care either way; he had no intention of sharing that part of his story or his life with the present company. Or anyone, for that matter. Clearing his throat, he carried on in a level voice, “If there was, I don’t think I’d be here right now.”

“Makes sense,” Sadras said with a nod. “I suppose you’re still young for an elf. Remember us when you’re finally old enough to think about putting down roots, eh?”

Whispers of painful memories drifted through Scathael’s mind, and he pursed his lips. Sadras was right on one thing – by Elvish standards, Scathael had only just begun his foray into adulthood – and wrong on the other – Scathael had considered a less-itinerant life many times over the decades. As much as he enjoyed the freedom a life on the road afforded, he wasn’t blind to the security and simplicity that would come with settling down. In many ways, he preferred the latter. It was just pure misfortune and a string of strange and terrible coincidences that kept him moving. That, and he also had a promise to keep. The sort which would be quite tricky to fulfil without travelling.

Fortunately, Scathael didn’t have to spend too long dwelling on the matter, or even give Sadras a reply, for that matter.

"SCATHAEL! HEY SCATHAEL!!! GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE, BOY!"

A thunderous shout echoed down the street, made all the louder by the prior quietness. The blacksmith let out a string of expletives, his colourful words and angry voice joining a chorus of similar voices and words thrown from open windows and doorways. “Gods above, Scathael. Did you piss off a banshee?” He said in a low grumble. “Haven’t heard a woman scream that loudly since Old Idrid dug up a dead deer in her back garden.”

“I think she was louder,” Sadras said wryly. He knelt on the ground, gently patting Vallana’s back. The poor girl was huddled on the ground, with hands over her ears. “But it looks like you’re wanted, Scathael.”

Scathael looked back at the strangers. Now that they were closer, and in better light, he could tell that they were a Light Elf and a Dragonborn. A strange pairing, if he ever saw one. Stranger still, however, was how familiar they seemed. Scathael was sure that he had seen them before; he just couldn’t quite put his finger on where and when. Perhaps they were past customers? They seemed to be adventurers, and Scathael had certainly done plenty of work for plenty of such travellers and wayfarers. It didn’t seem likely; he didn’t think that he would easily forget such a distinctive pair.

Well, it didn’t matter. If they were looking for him, it could only be for one reason. Work was work. Scathael wasn’t in the habit of turning down work over personal misgivings. He would be a lot poorer and a lot less well-travelled if that were the case.

“I'll call them over. Do you mind?” Scathael asked the blacksmith. Normally, he would have no problems with going over. But considering the manner in which the Light Elf had called for him, and the hour at which she had done it, he felt like making things just that little more difficult for her.

“Go ahead,” he replied with a shrug and stood up. “Come on, Sadras. Let’s get Vallana inside.”

The foxgirl looked up at Scathael as her father helped her to her feet. “Are they friends?” She asked.

Scathael shook his head. “No. I don’t know them,” he said bluntly. “Now go inside.” He got off his seat and walked over to the open gate, brushing off the dirt and dust from his earlier work as he did so. There was no need to rush. More like than not, whatever work they had for him would have to wait until morning. Not that he had any issues with working in the dark, but because he was already done for the day. Working on his personal arms was always his very last activity before sleep. It was an age-old routine, and he wasn’t going to break it without a very good reason.

"Be quiet, lady. It's too late for all that noise," Scathael called back from the gate with arms folded. "I'm who you're looking for. Come over if you've got work for me. We can discuss. If you're looking for me for any other reason, turn around and leave. I won't be interested and you will be disappointed."
In Avalia → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Roleplay


Time: Evening
Location: Village on the outskirts of Roshmi
Interactions:
Mentions:
Equipment:


“I knew you’d be back, kid.”

The village blacksmith’s voice was harsh, but his words were affable and teasing. Scathael’s ears twitched as an involuntary show of his annoyance at the interruption. He didn’t respond, pretending to hear nothing, and instead focused his attention on the partially-disassembled musket neatly laid out on the workbench in front of him.

It was an interesting weapon. Certainly more interesting than whatever inane chatter the leonine smith had just attempted to coax him into, at any rate. A wheellock firearm, the musket was an interesting oddity at a time when almost every gunsmith in Avalia seemed to favour the more modern snaplock mechanism. And for good reason; a snaplock was simpler and cheaper to manufacture, easier to maintain, and much faster to load. Everything any gunsmith or gunner looked for in a weapon. At least, that was what the dwarf who had sold Scathael the musket had said. The dark elf hadn’t any reason to doubt the merchant’s words, not when he had been so eager to get rid of the thing that he accepted the robber’s price Scathael had offered with relief instead of complaint.

“Aye, our wee village just has a charm few can resist.” A different voice – this one belonged to the village’s chief huntsman, Scathael recognised – spoke. His words came out smoother, and carried a smile within its melodic and lilting tone. “But truly, it’s good to see you again, Scathael. You did good things for us last time you were around. Don’t suppose we could convince you to stay? I know my wee Vallana here would love it if you decided to stick around longer. You should’ve seen how mopey she was while you were gone.”

Perched on a high stool beside Scathael, the vulpine girl sputtered. “F-Father, s-stop it,” she protested in a whine, almost dropping the brass plate she was polishing. Scathael placed a hand on her back, preventing her from completely losing her balance, though it was more out of concern for the plate than it was for the girl's safety.

Aside from that minor action – which wasn’t enough to get him to look away from his task – Scathael didn’t pay the huntsman’s question any heed. There were still plenty of tiny and easy-to-lose components dotting the tabletop, and the flickering lamplight made them cast dancing shadows that confused even Scathael’s keen eyes. Missing even one of them would render the musket useless. He had to be careful in putting the thing back together. Senseless talk was a distraction he wouldn’t, and couldn’t, allow.

“Interesting firelock you’ve got there, by the way.” The blacksmith was, if nothing else, persistent. “I haven’t seen a wheellock in ages. I think that’s what you’ve got, at least. You’ve done plenty of strange work to it, I can tell. Can’t say I understand what for, however.”

That brought the ghost of a smile to Scathael’s lips as he popped the firing mechanism back into its carved slot in the stock. Few could discern his intentions for the musket from just a glance, and that was always a source of pride for him. It was a vanity, he knew, and certainly one borne from his pride for his work, but it was one of the few which he allowed himself.

He secured the mechanism firmly into place with a handful of screws, then held out his hand. Vallana gave him the brass plate, and he similarly fastened it to the butt of the musket. After giving everything a forceful tug to make sure all was right, he raised the weapon and aimed it towards the night sky. A push and swing of the trigger guard forward tightened a spring within. He returned the trigger guard to its original position, and squeezed the trigger. The quiet whirr of a steel wheel spinning at speed inside the mechanism was all Scathael needed to know that all was well.

Satisfied, he lowered the weapon and finally turned to face the two men sitting with him in the front yard of the blacksmith’s home and shop.

“May I?” The blacksmith asked and held out a hand. Scathael shrugged and passed him the musket. The blacksmith turned the weapon over, looked down its sights, and felt its heft. “Impressive, I’ve to say. I can’t recall the last time I handled a wheellock that wasn’t on its last legs. This feels very well-crafted.”

Vallana beamed. “I helped!”

She had really only handled parts which Scathael had given her. None of them were essential to the basic functioning of the musket. However, the dark elf kept that information to himself. He couldn’t bring himself to, especially not after hearing the joy in her tone and seeing the wide smile stretching across her face. He might be a dour grouch of a dark elf, but even he wasn’t immune to the innocence of a child.

“Yes,” he said simply. “You did.”

“But I have to ask,” the blacksmith continued. “Why not just get a snaplock? It’d save you all this trouble to keep this antique in working order.”

“A snaplock’s easily doused by rain. A wheellock doesn’t have that problem,” Scathael replied. “I simplified the mechanism. Reduced the number of parts by more than half, re-built the entire mechanism as a single block that’s easier to remove, and–” he pulled his chair forward and pointed to a segmented portion at the rear of the barrel. “–made it a breechloader. Makes it easier and faster to load. You also tension the spring by operating the trigger guard, which makes it even faster to fire. I’d say this thing fires at least five times faster than a regular muzzle-loading musket. It still needs work, however. It’s less powerful than a regular musket of the same length.”

“Less powerful, he says,” the huntsman repeated with a chuckle. “Unless you’re planning to hunt a dragon or shoot through a solid block of steel, I don’t think the difference would matter.”

“Who knows?” Scathael regarded the man with a deadpan expression. “I might run into a steel dragon one of these days and wish I had something that could hurt it.” Vallana gasped, and so he clicked his tongue and quickly added, “It’s a joke. Only dragons I’ve ever heard of are made of scale and blood. Bad manners and worse houseguests, though, I’ve heard that too.”

The blacksmith snickered and shook his head. “Don’t worry, Vallana. He’s only being half-serious.” Holding out the musket in front of him, he gave it an approving nod. “In all honesty, you did fine work with this one, Scathael. You’ve taken a wheellock and turned it into something a snaplock could only dream of. I’ve only got one other question, however. Why do you carry a bow on your person if you’ve already got such a fine piece of weaponry?”

“The bow’s for hunting,” Scathael replied simply. “I want my prey dead, not its meat obliterated.”

At that, the huntsman guffawed. “See? This dark elf understands! If you want a good cut of meat, it’s bolts and arrows you’ll have to use.” He gave the blacksmith a hard, but friendly slap on the back and turned to Scathael. “Truly, Scathael, you should stay. We could do with another smith in this wee village of ours, and I don’t think anyone would complain. We live simply here. You’d have a nice, peaceful life, I imagine. After spending the time I assume you do on the road, that should sound quite pleasant, aye?”

Scathael exhaled slowly through his nose. The huntsman was right; it did sound great to his ears. Deep in his heart, however, he knew that it would only ever be a dream. The chance for him to settle down passed a long time ago, along with the one person he likely would have ever settled down with.

The features of her face fading from memory. Yet still beautiful enough to warm his heart. “So.” Her voice, so clear in his head. “What do you think? This place would make a nice home, I think.” A smile on his face, and one on hers. The rest of the world falling away. Joy. Expectation. Anticipation. All filling his body. And then a flash. In the cave once more. Fear clawing at his heart. Regret sapping his strength. A body, broken beneath rocks. A scrawled apology, red ink darkened to brown. Pain. Tears. Anguish.

Scathael shook his head and blinked that vision away. Then, he cleared his throat. “Thanks, but I’m going to have to decline.” He turned back around to pack up his tools. “It’s not for me.”
In 🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕 → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Roleplay




Time: Evening
Interactions: Kalliope @Tae
Mentions:
Attire:


The darkening sky spread over Sorian harbour, and with it came a scattering of ships seeking safer waters for the night within the city’s breakwaters. In the diminishing light, even weather-beaten and tarnished sails appeared to be wavering slivers of luminescent white. They fluttered furiously against the nightly seaward winds, but still flagged more than they billowed. Pushing their hulls towards the docks at a torpid pace was all they could do.

From the waterfront, Sjan-dehk watched with crossed arms and in amusement. Beneath the lopsided grin, the occasional snicker – particularly when a ship found itself in irons – and the less-occasional thoughts of how his Sada Kurau would be the superior vessel in similar conditions, he felt some sympathy for the crew aboard those ships. Really, he did; to spend a day of toil at sea, only to be delayed by something the fickle winds so close to home was frustrating, to say the very least.

Granted, that wasn’t something Sjan-dehk had ever personally experienced – the sea was both his closest companion and second home – but he had observed his crew enough to understand it, somewhat.

“That’s not good,” he murmured and drew in a sharp breath through his teeth. A sizeable ship – a freighter, judging by its size and heft – had lurched into a lumbering turn, only to have her sails immediately deflated and pressed flat against her masts by the headwind. She lost what scant speed she had in an instant, and drifted slowly and aimlessly to a complete stop. There was little her crew could do aside from trimming her sails every which way in vain hopes of catching some form of wind. Such a position was unenviable; even Sada Kurau would be hard-pressed to get out of such a situation – she could sail much closer to the wind than most, but she could not sail directly into it. No ship could.

Or rather, no sailing ship could. A steamer wouldn’t have cared which way the winds blew.

Sjan-dehk grunted and leaned forwards, resting his forearms on the salt-pitted guardrail stretching across the length of the waterfront. It felt surreal – wrong, almost – how quickly those machines of iron and steam took to the seas. When the War began just over half-a-decade ago, they were mere theories dreamt up by shipwrights and engineers. Two years into the fighting, and the first wooden frigates to be fitted with steam engines were put into service. The following year, those very same ships were coated in thin plates of iron and sent to the front. And by War’s end, there were ships leaving the slipways that looked completely alien to Sjan-dehk.

He recalled seeing one such vessel, the Sadhakan Ai-kai. It had been during the final days of the War, and Sada Kurau had happened to pass her whilst underway to the Viserjantan capital, Mersawas. Her hull had gleamed in the sunlight, and she had sailed into the wind with naked masts and funnels belching clouds of dark smoke and white vapour. It had been a strange sight, and to this day Sjan-dehk was still uncertain as to what he thought of it. On the one hand, being able to sail without paying heed to the wind was a dream of every captain. And yet on the other, that very same dream made real sapped the magic from sailing. As if it turned something that called for talent and imagination into something colder, and more clinical.

Well, he supposed it didn’t quite matter what he thought. If it ever came to a day when he would be forced to leave his Sada Kurau to take command of one of those newer ships, then he could either simply accept the decision without fuss, or fight tooth-and-nail to remain aboard the ship that had taken him to countless victories. And he already knew which option he would choose.

A familiar voice from behind quickly dispelled whatever daydreams he had of a probable future, and pulled him back to his senses. “Captain, I hope you don't mind a siren's company for the night's festivities.”

“You know, sirens–” Sjan-dehk began with a chuckle as he turned around. And as soon as he laid eyes on Kalliope, whatever words he had left to say vanished from his tongue. Without thinking – or even knowing, for that matter – he swept his gaze over her form before resting it on her face. Her verdant eyes gleamed with mischief, but also shone with the waning twilight.

"Shall we dance in the realm of arrogance and pompous asses?"

Sjan-dehk cleared his throat, coughing into a fist, and nodded in response to her question. “When you put it that way, it almost sounds like it’d be fun,” he said with a quiet laugh.

Once again, he couldn’t help but take in the sight of her. The gown she wore was the exact one which she had bought days ago, so it wasn’t as if he was looking at anything new. And yet, he was captivated all the same. Blue fabric, soft and fine, flowed from her like the rolling waves of the gentle sea, and pooled at her feet in ruffles reminiscent of swirling eddies. And just like the sea, it was broken up by golden accents that reminded him of the vibrant hues painted by a setting sun. Intricately woven to look like scales, they made her look like a merrowfolk from ancient legends.

And it was around that time when Sjan-dehk realised that if she hadn’t noticed him ogling her before, she certainly must have, now. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly, and carefully considered his words. A not-so-small part of him just wanted to call her ‘beautiful’ and be done with it, but knowing what he now knew about her relationship with Cassius, he knew he had to establish and maintain a respectful distance. He may as well get started – and get used to it – sooner rather than later.

“You look…Wonderful.” That was the most neutral word he could think of while still retaining some form of honesty. “It’s a beautiful dress, and it suits you well.” He should have stopped there. That would have been the wise thing to do, but he couldn’t stop himself from continuing with, “I mean, the rest of you is…Well, it’s easy on the eyes as well.” He paused, and tapped his finger on a scabbard. “You dressed up well, is what I’m trying to say. Almost makes me feel a little underdressed.”

Sjan-dehk spoke the last sentence as a half-joke. Compared to Kalliope, he looked remarkably plain. That wasn’t the seamstress’ fault, however, but rather his own. The poor woman had tried to convince him to at least try some of the more fanciful and eye-catching clothes she had to offer. Consummate soldier that he was, Sjan-dehk naturally refused. He eventually settled on something that was as close to his usual attire as possible, albeit with some flair in the form of elaborate patterns embroidered with golden thread. Even that was something the seamstress had to talk him into accepting. She had pointed out – and rightfully so, in hindsight – that without them, he may as well wear his own uniform. And that was hardly fitting for what seemed to be an elegant and grand event.

“Anyway,” he said, taking a step back from her and tilting his head to one side. Whether that was the right way to go was unknown to him. “Shall we go? I don’t know where this count makes his home, so I’m afraid you have to lead. Not unless you don’t mind us ending up some place where we shouldn’t.”
In 🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕 → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Roleplay




Time: Late Morning
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Sjan-dehk didn’t linger at the beach. After Kalliope told him where they were to meet – and after he agreed to her suggestion – he bade her a short, but still polite, farewell before taking his leave. This morning had been eventful enough on its own, and he wasn’t too keen on making it more so. Between meeting a bevy of new faces – as well as learning the names which came with them – and the small debacle courtesy of the Alidashti princess, he felt he had seen and heard enough for one day, let alone just a part of it. There was already plenty for him to think over as things were.

And yet, as the crunching of sand beneath his boots gave way to the tapping of leather against stone, his thoughts were of neither new acquaintances nor of capricious royalty.

Rather, they were of Kalliope and Cassius, the man who had accompanied her to the beach. Specifically, he pondered over the nature of their relationship for the umpteenth time. He wasn’t sure what vexed him greater: that he didn’t know, or that he was devoting so much thought to a trivial matter. What did it matter to him? Both were little more than strangers to him. Kalliope less so, granted, but he still only knew her for all of two days, at best. And Cassius? The man may as well be a giant question mark. Sjan-dehk couldn’t think of a reason for him to be so concerned with how the two were linked. They could be friends, or even lovers, for all he cared.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Though he couldn’t say for why, that last thought – of Kalliope and Cassius being lovers – made his chest feel ever-so-slightly tighter, and brought a twitch of a furrow to his brow. He willed both away with a shake of his head and a growl that wasn’t quite as muted as he had intended. This was all just a result of having too much time on his hands, he was sure of it. Spending a bit of time aboard Sada Kurau and busying himself with the tasks of the day would fix that in short order. Mending sails and polishing yardarms for hours on end would numb anyone’s mind to whatever it was that plagued them.

However, the sight that greeted him as he stepped onto the dock put a quick end to those plans.

Standing near the end of the boardwalk, and right by the foot of the gangplank leading up to his ship, were two familiar faces. Or to be accurate, it was one familiar face – Iyen – and one somewhat-familiar head of flaxen hair. With how raised their voices were and how wildly they gestured to each other, Sjan-dehk didn’t know if he was witnessing a particularly animated conversation or the start of a fight, and so he proceeded cautiously, as if he were sneaking up on a skittish animal.

Iyen’s eyes found him as he drew closer, and the barely-hidden exasperation on her face melted away to a look of relief. “Sjan-dehk!” She called out over the shoulder of the other person, who revealed herself to be Aislin – the fishergirl he had met just days before – as she spun around. “Praise the Mountain and the Shadowed Green that you’re here. It’s about time, too.” Iyen rested her hands on his hips. “Any longer and I would’ve had to go out looking for you.”

“Well, are you going to tell me what’s so important, then?” Sjan-dehk asked.

Iyen shrugged. “Not a clue.” She cocked her head towards the shorter Caesonian girl. “I found her running up to every one of our people near the beach, asking about you and your ship. Couldn’t understand much more than that, so I brought her here. I was hoping that you’d know what she’s going on about.” Her eyes shined with mischief, and a smirk tugged on her lips as she leaned in closer to him. “My, Wasun Sjan-dehk of Jafi, you haven’t done anything to her that you shouldn’t have, have you?”

Sjan-dehk ignored her and addressed Aislin directly. “Iyen says you looked for me. Why?”

Worry was written plainly upon the fishergirl’s visage. She had clearly left her work in a hurry – her simple, over-patched dress and bodice were streaked with stains of red-and-brown, and there was a strong scent of the ocean – laced with that of fish guts – that clung to her hastily-tied hair and clothes. “Sorry Cap’n, but I need your help.” Fretful eyes flitted between Sjan-dehk’s face and Iyen’s from beneath knitted brows, and she wrung her hands over her chest as she spoke. “A few boats went out fishin’ early in the mornin’. They should all be back by now, aye they should, an’ most of ‘em are, but we’re still missin’ one wi’ crew an’ all, an’ I ‘eard frae the rest that they went farther out, but ‘tis pirate waters o’er yonder, ‘tis so.” She paused to take in a heaving breath. “Pa said tae tell the city guard, but if anythin’s really ‘appened tae ‘em, it’ll be too late by the time those bastards do anythin’, an’ I cannae think o’ anyone else who can ‘elp, so I came tae you, Cap’n–”

Sjan-dehk stopped her torrent of words with a gentle pat on her shoulder. He offered her a small smile and said, “It is…It will be okay. We will go find them. If there are pirates, we can fight. Will be okay.” He glanced at Iyen and nodded. “Missing ship,” he translated for her. “Sounds like there might be pirate trouble too, or not. I’ll take Sada Kurau out and see what I find. It’ll do the crew some good, either way. Nothing like a surprise journey every now and then to keep them sharp and on their toes.”

“And any excuse to step away from shore, eh, Captain?” Iyen teased with a grin. “Just as well that I’ve got nothing planned for the rest of the day. I’d hate to miss out on the fun. It’ll be just like old times.”

“Don’t you have duties?” Sjan-dehk asked. “Like looking after our Lady Adiyan?”

“She told me to take the day.” By the sourness in her voice and the brief twisting of her lips, it was clear to Sjan-dehk that Iyen was too pleased about that. Then, she shrugged. “But I guess it’s better that I take it today, when she’s safe aboard the Sudah, than when she’s able to come ashore.” She let out a breath that was halfway between frustrated and resigned. With a shake of her head, she brought a cheeky smile back to her face and playful mirth to her voice. “Anyway, there’s nothing for me to do other than to go wandering around a city I don’t know, and you know that means I’ll pay you a visit sooner or later. Might as well make things easier for us both and let me join you now, eh?”

Sjan-dehk took a moment to consider her offer. It didn’t take long for him to nod his assent – Iyen wasn’t a stranger to his ship, and her skills would be more than welcome if it came to a fight. “Alright. An extra pair of eyes is always helpful.” Then, he shifted his attention to Aislin. “You know where….You know where it is the boat can…Might? Yes, might be?”

She nodded. “Aye, I’ve got a pretty decent idea. She canne ‘ave gone far frae our usual waters, otherwise the others would’nae ‘ave let ‘er sail away, nae they would’ve.”

“Okay. You come with us. Take us there.”

“You got it, Cap’n.” Aislin smiled, but Sjan-dehk looked away. He would have preferred to leave the young fishergirl behind. Bringing her – someone unused to battle – to a potential skirmish was a risk to everyone involved, most of all the Aislin herself. But when the alternative was to wander aimlessly across unfamiliar waters for Mother-knows-how-long, what choice did he really have?

Sjan-dehk led the two of them up the gangplank and onto Sada Kurau. Her crew milled about on her main deck. Most were in the midst of returning to their duties – descending steps into her bowels, clambering up shrouds ratlines to her tops, or scuttling across the deck to their stations – and some were either sitting or laying by her gunwales, catching some hard-earned rest while they could. It almost made Sjan-dehk feel a little guilty about what he was going to do.

Almost. Sada Kurau was a warship. The crew knew what they were getting into when they joined her.

The first of Sjan-dehk’s barked orders shocked those closest to the gangplank awake. Those who heard it clearly immediately sprang into action, and with his subsequent commands, he pushed more and more of his crew to action. Before long, Azwan’s voice – along with those of the other officers – joined his in urging every sailor to their station. There was little time to waste; if there were pirates about, Sjan-dehk wanted to catch them as soon as possible. Every delay, every slight moment wasted, was simply another chance for them to slip away. Nevermind that there was only the possibility of pirates; Sjan-dehk acted as if it was all but confirmed that they were involved.

And it was that attitude of his which he spread to his crew. Like a well-maintained machine, they prepared Sada Kurau for a speedy departure. The gangplank was pulled up, and her mooring lines cut and allowed to drop into the harbour. Teams of sailors called out their cadence in unison as they hoisted her long yards into position. Crimson sails, once free from their lashings, fell in waves from them, bellowing and stiffening almost immediately as they caught the wind. With a deft hand on the wheel, Sjan-dehk guided her away from the pier.

And soon enough, her svelte hull was slicing through the water like a shark’s fin.




Time: Late morning to Early Afternoon
Interactions:
Mentions: Kalliope @Tae
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As Sada Kurau quietly slipped into Sorian harbour, so too did thoughts of the masquerade drift to the very top of Sjan-dehk’s mind once more.

The setting sun, a blazing disc of orange hovering just above the horizon, splashed calm waters with hues of vibrant pinks and fiery reds, even as the skies above were cooling to shades of soft blues and enigmatic purples. From shore, a breeze swept across the harbour and washed over Sjan-dehk, its chill a welcome contrast to the gentle heat warming his back. Quiet murmurs of conversation, the occasional ruffling of his ship’s sails, and the slow rush of waves graced his ears. They were all that accompanied Sada Kurau as she returned to her berth.

It was a fine evening by any account, and a finer way of ending a day of sailing.

But it wasn’t one Sjan-dehk found himself enjoying very much. Not when the prospect of having to mingle with other nobles – and the observation of niceties that came with it – loomed over his head like a gloomy shadow. Such events rarely sat well with him. They called for someone with finesse, decorum, and at least the airs of nobility. Sjan-dehk possessed none of those. He might have the rank, but he was a sailor and a soldier through-and-through. The events of the day only made that all the more apparent; he had been so comfortable, so in his element, in leading Sada Kurau out to hunt pirates, rescue the fisherfolk, and mete out justice. But now? He felt like a lamb awaiting slaughter.

“My, you’re a cheerful one, aren’t you?” Iyen’s voice freed Sjan-dehk from his thoughts, and he turned just in time to see her join him at the starboard gunwale. The slight slurring of her words, the pale flush tinting her cheeks, and the fact that she was wearing a sleeveless tunic rather than her usual attire told him that she had been part of the victory celebrations going on below decks.

“You’d be the same too, if you’re going where I’m going later,” Sjan-dehk replied drily.

Iyen laughed, hiccuped, and slapped him on the back. “I heard from the others,” she said with a grin. “But I think I would’ve guessed anyway. The way you’re dressed, you’re either going for something fancy or your burial, and I think I would’ve noticed if it’s the burial. You look pretty good, by the way.”

Sjan-dehk tugged on the collar of his shirt. It was strange; the other day, when he had bought these exact clothes with Kalliope, everything had been well. The fit was perfect, the soft-yet-hardy fabric gentle against his skin, and the design elegant yet simple enough for his tastes. Now, however, with the masquerade less of something far away to merely think about, and more of a real thing that was happening soon, Sjan-dehk felt ill at ease. His clothes felt restrictive, as if it were a prison tight around his body.

“Think I’d prefer the burial,” he said wryly. He glanced sideways at Iyen with a little smile. “But thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Iyen replied as she tied her hair into a messy tail. “I heard that you’re going with quite a lady, as well.”

“Is that what they’re saying?” Sjan-dehk asked and chuckled bitterly. Although where exactly the bitterness came from, he wasn’t quite sure. “It’s nothing like that,” he continued with a wave of his hand. “I’m just her escort and nothing more. She's probably already got someone in her life, anyway.”

“Huh.” Iyen’s lips twisted into a lopsided frown. “Why would she invite you, if that’s the case?”

To that, Sjan-dehk could only respond with a shrug. He had been pondering over that same question, and found no good answers. Perhaps Cassius wasn’t available? Or perhaps he was seeing things that weren’t there, and this was nothing but an invitation of politeness or friendliness. “Right place, right time, if you ask me,” he said with uncertainty clear in his words. “Either way, it doesn’t matter. I gave her my word, and I’ve to keep it. The Count hosting the damn thing invited me again at the beach this morning, too. Can’t back out of something like that even if I want to, now.”

“A Count?” Iyen’s surprise was palpable, as was her concern. “Not sure I like the sound of that, Shanya.”

Sjan-dehk turned to her and patted her shoulder. “I’ll try to be careful.” He smiled, though perhaps it wasn’t as reassuring as he had hoped. “Don’t worry, Yen-yi. If there’s a way to get out of dealing with nobles and their gullshit, I’ll find it. Been doing that for a damn long time, now.” The deck beneath them shuddered as Sada Kurau pulled up alongside the same pier it had left earlier that morning. Shouts went up the masts to furl all sails and to prepare her yards for lowering. “I should probably get–”

“Iyen!” A shout from Aislin came from behind the two of them. They looked back over their shoulders, and saw the fishergirl poking her head through a hatch. By the tone of her voice, she had clearly been drinking whatever it was Iyen had drunk. “The lads want tae start another round! Are you joinin’ in?” Then, she saw Sjan-dehk and waved. “Good evenin’, Captain! An’ thank you again!”

Sjan-dehk waved back with a nod. “Look after her,” he said quietly to Iyen. “And do not let her drink Avek’s brew. In fact, you shouldn’t drink it either. Nobody should. Mursi drank it once and we found him the next morning half-naked and in the shrouds. Removes stains like nothing else, though, so I don’t want to think about what it does to your insides.”

“Aye, comin’!” Iyen shouted back to Aislin. To Sjan-dehk, she said, “Don’t worry, my dear Shanya. Azwan’s making sure nothing bad happens, and I’m keeping an eye on Ai-shi-lehn. I don’t think anyone would do a thing to her, though. She’s getting into everyone’s good graces by teaching us bits of her language.” Then, she smirked. “And in return, I’m teaching her how to fleece coin from some of your boys. And that’s where I’ll leave you, Captain. My game awaits.”

The two of them parted ways – Iyen returning below decks with Aislin, and Sjan-dehk leaving Sada Kurau for the pier. It was a strange feeling for him. All his life, he had never worn anything that wasn’t Jafin or just Viserjantan in general, and now here he was, doing just that in a foreign city. He pulled his hat a little lower over his eyes as he walked towards the waterfront, and brushed his hands against the swords and pistols at his belt. At least there were those pieces of his normalcy still with him.

He stopped at the edge of the passing crowd, and looked for a familiar face. Kalliope had agreed to meet him at his ship, but seeing as how he had only just returned, he wondered if perhaps she might have gone elsewhere upon seeing Sada Kurau’s absence. He hoped not. It would be a poor start to what he was already expecting to be a difficult night.
In Avalia → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Roleplay


Time: Early Afternoon
Time: Early Afternoon
Location: The Nest; Roshmi
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Mentions: @ShiningSector Five; @FunnyGuy Thraash; @princess Mari; @Alivefalling Aerilyn
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Scathael’s plan did not work.

Granted, he supposed that it had more to do with the fact that everyone was far too occupied with trying to get out of The Den than anything intrinsically wrong with his idea itself. Not every window had been thrown open to their fullest extent, and not every ceiling fan spun at their best possible speed. But, there was one saving grace: In their rush to vacate the building, nobody had the mind to shut the doors behind them. Dirt and detritus from the street outside drifted past thresholds, caught in the swirls of a weak breeze.

Such a paltry wind did little to dispel the Warforged’s miasma, and its effects were already starting to make themselves known. It wasn't the individuals on the peripheries of the cloud who suddenly collapsed that caught Scathael’s attention – more likely than not, they were simply struck by panic and hysteria – but the Dragonborn engaging the automaton in combat. As far as Scathael knew, the Dragonborn were a resilient and tough people. They could take enough punishment to kill any other species thrice over and still remain on their feet and raring to fight.

And so, to see one slowed and muddled by the gas was concerning, to say the least.

“Paralytic agent,” the dark elf muttered beneath his breath. Be it as gas or liquid, it was a common enough thing used by bounty hunters across the world. Scathael would never claim to be a chemist, but he spent enough time around such people to know a thing or two about such concoctions. Chief of which was that depending on the ingredients used, the gas could either be effective only in a dense cloud, or it could put a person on the ground with just the barest of whiffs.

Scathael wasn’t keen on finding out firsthand. Clicking his tongue, he grabbed his equipment and slipped around the sides of the building towards the kitchen. Between the rushing crowd making their exit, and the cacophony of the fight, it wasn’t difficult for him to pass unnoticed.

The kitchen’s air was thick and soupy, heated by at least a half-dozen idling stoves. Half-cooked food and discarded pots and pans sat on their tops. Scathael ignored them all and focused on searching for the one thing he cared about. It had to be in here somewhere; every kitchen had one, lest the owners of the place be of the sort to not mind one or two kitchen staff suffocating to death every so often. And even so, there had to be something similar, or at least something Scathael could bend to his purpose with some tinkering.

The ventilation fans sat partially embedded in a wall far to the back of the kitchen. Scathael made his way towards them with haste, pulling out his tools even as he moved. By the time he reached the scuffed panel he knew was covering the gearbox, he had his screwdriver out and ready to remove the rusted and pitted screws holding it in place. The hammered piece of copper was dropped onto the floor along with its ruined fasteners. Scathael had no need of them anymore. His true aim was what laid within.

“Alright, let’s see here,” he murmured as he looked at the collection of gears before him. Each was linked with another, and all were heavily scarred with rust. It didn’t seem as if anyone had ever given them even a customary oiling before. Scathael chewed on his lower lip. That could potentially prove hazardous to his plan, but it wasn’t as if there was anything else he could do at this point. He flipped the switch to stop them from turning. One-by-one, he carefully plucked them from their axles and laid them on the floor by his feet, arranged according to their size.

Scathael had repaired enough such mechanisms to pay for food and lodging to know how a large majority of them worked. Connecting the fans directly to The Den’s power plant would cause them to spin much too fast to be of any practical use. It was thus the job of the gearbox to essentially reduce and limit the power given to the fans. With a little creativity and intentional malpractice, however, Scathael could just as easily reverse the process and instead feed the fans as much power as The Den could provide. It was, at best, a wild idea and at worst, a stupid one, but it was all Scathael had. He didn’t even care about the fight at this point; no matter who won, the gas would still linger and stay, and cause problems for everyone involved, himself included.

He hammered the last gear into position just in time to hear someone’s muffled attempts to parley with the Warforged. A brave attempt, but not one Scathael was confident would succeed. “Lady Fate, don’t piss on me now,” he said drily beneath his breath, then pulled the switch.

The gears crunched once, then twice, and then spun with such intensity that they visibly shivered on their axles. The fans spun until they made a loud whine, and a gust almost knocked Scathael back. The strong wind tore through the kitchen, rattling utensils and sending loose parchments flying. The dark elf gathered his things and made a quick exit. It was unlikely that the gears or even fans themselves could keep this up for long before, quite literally, shattering themselves. He wanted to be away when that happened. It didn’t feel like the sort of thing he could repay with just his labour.
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