@WeepingLiberty@Obscene Symphony@Ellion I do apologize for my tardiness, have had a nightmarish fortnight of moving house whilst dealing with the fallout between one of our room mates and the rest of our household. Was going to give a heads up a few days prior, but aforementioned room mate closed our internet account and moved back in with his parents, leaving us to pay his fourth of the bond. Fun times ensued. I'm now trying to play catch up and will hopefully have a post up soon.
Two pillars as dark as midnight, entwined with one another, jutted forth from the earth, thrice the size of any Drakkan. They formed a striking image among the desert landscape, like a great twisted horn, the early morning sun gleaming softly off the dark stone. It was an old shrine to Drun, seldom used these days in favor of more modern temples or personally kept effigies. Ordric noted the damaged parts of the shrine where stone had chipped away, most likely from exposure to the elements. He placed a hand along it's edge to inspect it further.
The stone was smooth and cool to the touch, Ordric ran his fingers absently down the pillar, the shadowy skyline of Železna Kri absorbing his attention and occupying his thoughts. He had a choice to make today, a tournament was to be held as part of the celebration and those receiving brides were required to make an appearance, whether spectators or participants. Although Ordric relished the idea of refusing the summons, one didn't refuse the royal family lightly. I bloody well made my way to this shit heap of city didn't I? Why must I now attend this farce. His eyes grew hard and his brow knitted together in a frown as the sun crested the top of the city, flooding the landscape in harsh light. He knew all too well that he couldn't be a spectator, there was no place for him among those on high, he had to earn it and the thought of those entertainers put him on edge. As a boy growing up in Železna Kri he recalled a blacksmith whom had told him his mother had most likely been as much. A lie most like, but Ordric never really knew the truth of it and that had troubled him for most of his life.
He broke his gaze away from the city and stared down at the palm of his free hand, observing it under the rising light. He ran his thumb lightly over the calluses and traced the small scars he had earned from his travels. The skin was the color of ash and looked both strong and youthful, yet as he looked closer under the sunlight he could swear that there was the faintest glimmer, perhaps a trick of the eyes. With a frown he clenched his hand into a fist. Dropping it to his side and out of sight.
He leaned a moment more on the pillar, staring out at nothing in particular. A sigh escaped his lips and he turned to face the shrine, seeking out what he had come here for in the first place. Bloodroot. The object was attached to the pale white flowers that decorated the earth around the shrine, a bulbous root which in turn was attached to a gnarled black vine that ran beneath them. These vines were found alongside all the old shrines to Drun and were believed to be sustained through his will. The flowers only flourished when warriors seeking favor, or headed to war, spilled their own blood in honor of the war god, watering the earth and nourishing the vine.
Blood of the ancestors. Ordric dug his hand beneath one of the flowers, cupping the root as he pulled it free from the sands. Lend me your strength. The old prayer resounded in his head as he snapped the flower stem from the root, wrapping both pieces of the plant up separately in square cloths before placing them within his satchel. If he was to fight this day, he'd prepare for it accordingly. With his work done Ordric crouched beneath the shrine, pulling free his knife from its sheath and pressing the blade to his palm. Running its edge downward he watched as blood welled to the surface, crimson tendrils snaked down his fingers to fall as droplets to the ground, the sand greedily drinking in his offering. With a satisfied grunt, he stemmed the flow and wrapped a makeshift bandage about the wound. He rose quickly and turned with purpose toward the city, beginning the small trek back.
In a dark room beneath the pits Ordric unrolled his kit by the light of a wall sconce. It was a small cell with a dirt floor and no real doorway to speak of, one of many that ran along the curve of the arena above, serving as public preparation areas for those who were to fight. Undoing a few clasps, Ordric let his attire fall to the floor, his naked flesh prickling in response to the cool air. Once settled he sat down, crossing his legs and set to work on making himself ready. He begun by mashing up the bloodroot from earlier, with a mortar and pestle, til he was left with a thick, red ochre paste. Normally he would of had peeled the root, and allowed time for it to dry out and become a powder to be used in various vision rituals, but today it would serve a more aesthetic purpose.
With two finger he applied the paste to his body, decorating his face and neck before marking out runes of protection and strength upon his chest and arms. With that done he laid the bowl aside and rose to collect his choice of weapons from the walls. After a little deliberation he settled on an oaken shield and blunted axe. These should serve me well as any. Returning to his seat with the bundle in his lap, Ordric awaited his time.
The night was young yet the moon shone bright and full, the sky an ink black backdrop, the silvery glow it emanated washed over the sand dunes accentuating their smooth waves and ridges. Still as stone. I'm still as stone. The thought rattled off in his head as he knelt motionless among the sands, his right hand buried up to his forearm as he used the affinity with his element to feel out for the beast that stalked them. Still as stone. I'm still as stone.
Slowly his eyes parted open as they gently began scanning the area for his companion. Some way off to his right he lay, prone on his belly, so still he may as well of been dead. So good at its craft was the Blackridge fox, that Ordric would have looked right past it were it not for the reflection of light that came from the bone protrusions that stuck out from its body. A series of interlocking bone plates that covered the spine of the critter from head to tail, acting as a natural armor from the razor sharp talons of owls and other creatures that shared its habitat. Some plates ran down its side too, tracing the ribs, but where there was no such protection, long, black, sleek fur took its place.
Ordric wondered if the creature had some mantra of its own to aid in its stealth, or whether the skill came from the inherited mastery of his species, an invisible instinct that guided it along. Suddenly there was a shift in the sands, a twitch from Rippers ear let him know that the fox was aware of it too. Carefully Ordric craned his neck to the left. There, about a stones throw away, the earth moved and sent the shadows to dancing. The sand cascaded in large, silvery sheets as the great worm moved beneath them, snaking its way in their direction. A few tense moments passed as the sands shifted ominously around them. I'll be damned if I let Krenta gnaw on my bones for dying to some worthless worm. His face slowly twisted into a grimace as he reached for the knife on his hip. His left hand gripped the hilt as the worm came so close that the sands washed over his boots. He could feel it there, just beneath the surface, it was certain to surface, he was sure of it. And then one of us shall live and the other returned to their creator in shame. His body was now wound tight like a crossbow, ready to let loose his fury upon the beast, his heart beat faster and faster til he feared it might rip free from his chest. The worm moved with haste and Ordric went to pull free his blade, but something made him hesitate. The beast has turned away! Sure enough the worm had fled in a hurry, either having grown tired of this pursuit or sensing new prey nearby. It mattered not to Ordric. He was alive. He was whole.
Although the night was cool and pleasant, a fine sheen of sweat covered his skin as he steadily rose to his feet. Ripper got up to, stretching out his fore paws before trotting over to his master.
"Seems Norric himself watches over us little one." Ordric chuckled, squatting down to give the fox a scratch around the ears. His eyes turned hard as he scanned the horizon, in their time waiting for the worm to pass he had long forgotten their bearings. Luckily for him the stars had come out, shining bright and clearly he was able to make out several constellations. He traced the Traitors blade with a finger, following down its edge to another collection of stars that vaguely resembled a fang, Jorrins fang. Named for some old Drakkan hero, whom in the stories had wrestled a dragon from the sky on a drunken bet. He fought long and hard til the dragons tail caught him in the mouth, knocking loose a tooth in the process. He was eventually able to drag it back down to the ground, but his tooth remained high in the heavens, and now served as a guide south. One need only find the fangs point like the old man showed me, all those years ago.
The rest of the journey proved mostly uneventful and Ordric found himself walking through the gates of Železna Kri with the other waylaid parties and stragglers that had pulled themselves in to celebrate the Reaping. A lot of the younger Drakkan wore smiles and chattered about what things they looked forward to most on the morrow, or how they'd find some lord to challenge so that they may steal away his prized Gems. Like they wouldn't piss themselves if faced with a real lord worthy of the title, born and bred of Drakka and not just born into a name. He gave them little notice beyond this, tearing his eyes away from their direction lest they betray the disdain he felt. How can these fools celebrate the slow killing of our people, our way of life. This diluting of our blood by taking on these Gems as wives. These beings who are weak of body and spirit will prove our downfall. The thought that his people would be brought low by such a race as theirs filled him with shame, and the hypocrisy of his thoughts left a bitter taste in his mouth, for had he not been sent here to claim a bride of his own? He spat on the ground in hatred and moved on into the streets of the lower district. His eyes seething with anger.
The walk served to calm him as he winded through the busy streets, bustling and alive with all kinds, even at this hour. He wove his way through the alleys, all still as familiar to him as when he ran them as a boy with the other orphans. He had been quite the monster then, wild and free, he and his gang terrorizing the locals. Lying, stealing and killing to survive. Had the old man not found him and brought him up under the Order he would of most likely wound up face down in one of these gutters, or strung up in the main square with the other criminals.
He rounded the corner and came upon an alehouse, a quiet establishment on the edge of town that had offered cheap accommodation and tolerable drink to him in the past. The wooden signpost that hung over its entrance had begun to warp with age and the paint was peeling at the edges, but one could still make out the faded lettering. 'The Headless Ogre'. A picture of the large, oafish creature was displayed above, its body chasing down the severed head that rolled away from it. Ordric pushed into the entrance with his shoulder, his fox scampering in behind him.
"By Sorraks balls! Ordric, is that you?" Asked the older Drakka behind the bar. "Aye, and weary from my travels." Ordric replied, gazing about the alehouse, few patrons filled its seats, none of which paid him any mind. His eyes came to rest on the barkeep, a slender Drakka that stood a head or so taller than himself, he had twisted black horns that pointed skyward and had a habit of making him seem even taller. Ordric allowed himself a smile as he extended hand in greeting.
"It's been too long Laz." He said as they took each other by the forearm in a firm embrace. "That it has lad, that it has. I take it you'll be wanting a room?" Laz inquired with a scratch of his chin. Ordric answered with a fistful of coins upon the counter. " That, and a tankard of ale. I have quite the thirst." The older Drakka shuffled to a barrel behind him and poured his ale. It was a dark amber color, with a strong smell, but smooth on the tongue. He gave his thanks and found himself a seat in the back, Ripper curling up at his feet. Pulling free some strips of hard, salted beef from his pack, he begun chewing away at his meager fare, washing it down with drink as he mulled over his thoughts. He chewed angrily as he recalled the elders decision that he'd be the one to take upon this burden for the Order. The royal family were once again meddling in their affairs, assimilating them more and more into this twisted path that the Drakkan were walking. He doubted they'd go through the all the trouble if the Order weren't such good surgeons and healers, no one rivaled them in their skills with fire and knife, nor their knowledge of herb lore.
Ordric took a final swig from his tankard, drinking long and deep. Damn them all. He thought bitterly as he took one last gulp, slamming it back down with dissatisfaction. Ripper jumped up from around Ordrics feet, he had been so caught up in his musings, he hadn't noticed the fox there.
"Sorry little fella, I'd quite forgotten about you." He said apologetically, leaning down beneath the table to pull free another strip of salt beef for the fox to worry away at. Ripper took the meat with an eagerness only hunger could inspire, holding the strip to the floor with his front paws as he tore at it with his teeth, growling contently as he did so. Giving the fox a quick scratch behind the ears, Ordric lifted his head up to look about the empty room once again, his heart was heavy with the dread of unknowing. "Lets see what the morrow brings, hey?"
Ordric has some fun in the desert before grabbing a drink in town.
Race: Drakkan Age: 182 Element(s): Wind and Earth Height: 6'9''
Bio: Ordric was born to an old nomadic order of the Drakkan people, seekers of the will of the gods, or what was left of it. Practitioners of shamanism and old Drakkan customs, they refused to bend the knee and submit to anything but the gods themselves, believing such servitude to be a distraction from their holy quest and tending of the old shrines. This led to their open defiance of the newly crowned king during the time of the Anathosian wars and later their opposition to the union of the Drakkan and Gemmenite people earning them the ire of the royal family, who no longer able to dismiss them as a nuisance, diverted resources and warriors into seeking out these communities, slaughtering the masses and chaining the survivors in fetters, throwing them into dungeons to rot while they awaited their fate. Upon his return from the war victorious, the king pardoned those who survived the catacombs of Harand Kor, allowing them to go free and resume their way of life under the condition that they swore fealty and received a brand that would mark them out and serve as a reminder of their transgressions. Many accepted these terms, and instead of returning to their old lives, melted away into the newly forming communities, eking out what miserable existence they could. Yet a few took this brand and resumed their pilgrimage, turning the mark of shame into their own symbol, later using it to mark initiates in their order who showed skill and promise.
Ordric shares many of the orders views, much of which has drastically changed in their time under a king, their disgust of Drakkan interbreeding with Gemmenites still remains, but the order over time had become more royalist in nature, realizing the true strength that comes from a united people. Keeping what grievances for the crown and its practices aside, the order did its best to become the leading group on all matters religious and spiritual in the courts they traveled between, transforming into wandering, warrior priests that dabbled in healing and soothsaying. Although many utilized their talents, the order still found itself ostracized and abused by its kinsmen for the next 100 years or so, til finally they were granted the kings protection, an act that saved them from the brink of ruin and ultimately bound them closer to the royal family. However their numbers still dwindle, as few elect to join them and fewer still survive the trials of priesthood.
Ordric has a bitter and grim view of his fellow Drakkan, but does well to mask his disdain, often appearing to be enigmatic. Carrying the memory of his orders past has also made him more morose and at times even wistful in his private moments, believing himself apart from his own kind. Although often vocal of his misgivings of the Drakkan Gemmenite relationship, Ordric only half shares the sentiment of his order, curious to find out for himself just who the Gemmenites are as a people.
Other: Ordric has his orders mark branded on his right cheek, and possesses a Black ridge fox, called Ripper as a companion.
I read you weren't really looking for Drakkan, but hoping I can reserve a spot and leave this bloke here for perhaps a later stage in the story, I dunno, give us your thoughts. @Obscene Symphony The universe of this RP just looks too good, how could I not lurk?
Ordric
Race: Drakkan Age: 182 Element(s): Wind and Earth Height: 6'9''
Bio: Ordric was born to an old nomadic order of the Drakkan people, seekers of the will of the gods, or what was left of it. Practitioners of shamanism and old Drakkan customs, they refused to bend the knee and submit to anything but the gods themselves, believing such servitude to be a distraction from their holy quest and tending of the old shrines. This led to their open defiance of the newly crowned king during the time of the Anathosian wars and later their opposition to the union of the Drakkan and Gemmenite people earning them the ire of the royal family, who no longer able to dismiss them as a nuisance, diverted resources and warriors into seeking out these communities, slaughtering the masses and chaining the survivors in fetters, throwing them into dungeons to rot while they awaited their fate. Upon his return from the war victorious, the king pardoned those who survived the catacombs of Harand Kor, allowing them to go free and resume their way of life under the condition that they swore fealty and received a brand that would mark them out and serve as a reminder of their transgressions. Many accepted these terms, and instead of returning to their old lives, melted away into the newly forming communities, eking out what miserable existence they could. Yet a few took this brand and resumed their pilgrimage, turning the mark of shame into their own symbol, later using it to mark initiates in their order who showed skill and promise.
Ordric shares many of the orders views, much of which has drastically changed in their time under a king, their disgust of Drakkan interbreeding with Gemmenites still remains, but the order over time had become more royalist in nature, realizing the true strength that comes from a united people. Keeping what grievances for the crown and its practices aside, the order did its best to become the leading group on all matters religious and spiritual in the courts they traveled between, transforming into wandering, warrior priests that dabbled in healing and soothsaying. Although many utilized their talents, the order still found itself ostracized and abused by its kinsmen for the next 100 years or so, til finally they were granted the kings protection, an act that saved them from the brink of ruin and ultimately bound them closer to the royal family. However their numbers still dwindle, as few elect to join them and fewer still survive the trials of priesthood.
Ordric has a bitter and grim view of his fellow Drakkan, but does well to mask his disdain, often appearing to be enigmatic. Carrying the memory of his orders past has also made him more morose and at times even wistful in his private moments, believing himself apart from his own kind. Although often vocal of his misgivings of the Drakkan Gemmenite relationship, Ordric only half shares the sentiment of his order, curious to find out for himself just who the Gemmenites are as a people.
Other: Ordric has his orders mark branded on his right cheek, and possesses a Black ridge fox, called Ripper as a companion.
The sun shone brightly, illuminating the busy streets of Epic city, adding a much needed warmth to help get people moving. Starks living room fell short of this incandescent wonders reach, the drawn blinds doing a fine job of keeping his apartment a dark and cool cave, with James seated in his armchair, slouched into its comfortable hold. Dark to hide the sin and debauchery, safe from the revealing light and judgmental eyes. Was the stray thought of conscience that still swirled about the haze of his mind, he felt a strange pang of disappointment in himself, an old disapproval of his actions these past two weeks. With that in mind he stirred from his vegetative state, blinking the fog from his eyes as the world surrounding him came into focus, his ears twitched in response to the song playing on his sound system, one of the many forgotten tunes he kept on his iPod. Although he couldn't really relate to the lyrics it always had a strange way of drawing out his melancholy, he rose from his seat unsteadily, clutching his forehead as his world surged violently in front of him.
"Fuck me.." He groaned painfully, feeling out with his free hand for something to act as a crutch, hastily slapping a hand on a nearby table as he stumbled. He took a moment to recover, quietly observing and reflecting on the scene before him. Strangers of all kinds were laid out around his apartment, as dead to the world as he was moments before, Boost somewhere among them.
He gave the sleeping body a quick jab in the ribs with his toe, having found him passed out spooning a pizza box, Boost moaned in reply hugging the box closer. James squinted in frustration, but promptly let him be, taking great effort to work his way past other awkwardly positioned people to his room. Thin streams of light illuminated this single room in his whole apartment, the soft light casting a benevolent glow upon it that set it apart from that behind him. James felt his brow knit into a frown at the sight of a figure shrouded by a white sheet laying upon his bed, but took a moment to watch the small movements of the person beneath, the gentle rising and falling of their chest as they breathed matched perfectly with the serenity of the moment and James decided to let them be, quietly closing the door behind him he tiptoed as stealthily as he could to the en suite.
Once safely inside, James locked the door and made his way to the mirror, leaning heavily upon the sink he stared blankly into the darkness of the drain. He briefly regained awareness, his body shaking momentarily with the realization that he had just been zoning out, his hand acted on memory and shot out, turning on the water. He cupped both his hands, holding them beneath the flow til water cascaded from their hold, whipping them up quickly to assail his face and revitalize himself with a shock. Issue was, he didn't feel revitalized, with a brief glance at the mirror, James saw tired eyes staring out from a disheveled, wet face. Blocking out the image as he dried himself off with a hand towel. Well, might as well enjoy a nice, warm shower. He thought to himself as he gazed back into the mirror, his eyes flickering down, drawn by a small crack in the glass that sat in the corner of the mirror, he gently ran a couple fingers over the fractured lines, feeling out the cobwebbed shape it left behind. Odd. Thought the High island dealt with this kind of shit. Mused James, or perhaps the big fella never gave a shit about the small stuff and James had never noticed the small breaks and tears of his own home before, with a shake of his head James shed the thought along with his clothes and hopped into the shower.
