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A kings' political marriage plan- closed

What does everyone imagine Apura's language to be like?

Night of the Hunt - a Bloodborne RP

The churchfolk, in the end, seemed to Morgaine to be an incredibly antisocial bunch. Several times, Morgaine tried to make some light conversation with either, but all that speaking simply returned to silence. Did the good hunters of the Church not have weather, or engage in any pastimes? As they continued to walk in silence, the chill grew and grew, biting ever deeper into her garments. The hood and half-cloak, though a powerful ward against evil misfortune, was alas not so against the environment. The metal and stone trinkets within were of little help either, as they absorbed the merciless cold. If only she had thought to wear something more substantial than this thin white shirt and brown vest . . .

The awkward trio then stumbled upon row of homes etched into the Yharnam backdrop, many abandoned. Only one on the entire street had a lit censer, its deep red glow accentuated by the pungent smell of spice. Morgaine was glad to see it, the group having crossed over a lookout hanging over the infamous Old Yharnam. Its reputation followed it out of the city proper, bleeding into the countryside beyond. Everyone knew of this story, of how an entire urban quarter of people were consigned to flames in a desperate attempt to contain the beasthood curse. Little it did them, with the howling that followed the group as they passed. There were beasts down there, no doubt about it, roaming out in the open in packs, obviously fearing nothing from the activity of men. The burgundy light of the incense was almost merry in contrast with the sight. With a curt bark of orders, Victor had drawn his sword and stepped into the incensed building, leaving Morgaine to watch Adelicia.

"I don't suppose there'll be much to welcome us with in there," Morgaine began, to the near-mute Adelicia. "You think they'll host us, the people in this home? We are on Church business. Well, you are. At least a soup . . ." she trailed off, upon hearing the muffled sound of screams coming from within. Was it one beast, or two in there? Did beasts even make such a sound? The noises from within were almost human, how indistinguishable it was from the other side of the thick door. Yharnamites certainly knew something about structural building. They'd have to, with the curse that has fallen upon this wretched land. What hit her next was not the sight of anything, but the smell of something. Blood, thick and aromatic, struck her like the blast of a blunderbuss. That smell . . . so sweet and cloying, so desirable and mesmerizing. Morgaine couldn't believe it. She could almost taste the blood on her tongue, like a slice of fine fruit pie. It was invigorating and soothing all at once, and she needed the smell to keep coming ever more. Then, just as the sensation came, it passed, her head clearing again. What a strange thought. It was the smell of blood, is all. Tangy and sickening, as blood tended to be. Was it because the blood within was of a beast? Or was it that of man, that takes control of the mind and calls to spill more? Eventually, the man emerged, his white garb stained deep red.

"Now wait just a-" Morgaine began, but Victor immediately began trotting away, calling the two to follow. Adelicia fell in behind him without a word, and Morgaine could do nothing but the same, with a sigh. Onwards they went, pushing into the dimly lit evening streets, until they reached one of Yharnam's magnificent curiosities; the elevator. A large room suspended by a chain, centred around a large round button in the middle. Victor and Adelicia entered it without so much as a second thought, evidence of their Yharnam upbringing. Morgaine was not so inclined. It took a bit of hesitant prodding to goad her to follow, and at last, when the elevator began to ascend, she could do nothing but grip the bars surrounding them as they descended at a frightening pace.

At the bottom was quite the horrific sight. There was some sort of street battle here, involving a few agents of the Church and some beasts they had been unfortunate enough to encounter. Those mysterious white-skinned folk have an eerie look to them, hidden under their hoods and thick robes. Slumped over dead, they didn't look so different to how they were alive. One of them was a veritable giant, one of those agents that would shake the ground as they stamped. What horrific beast had the power to kill such a creature? The last of them was not an agent at all, but a human, garbed in the off-white of Adelicia and Victor. His weapon lays smashed a few steps away, unusable, and his torch has long been snuffed. Morgaine looked at the body, approaching it slowly, before finally mustering up the courage to grab him and flip him over. The spirit ascends upwards, and escapes through the eyes. Thus, the eyes must be faced up towards the open sky, lest they be trapped. She didn't need to see the judgemental glances she was being given by the other two members of the group. These Churchfolk, can't even treat a corpse right.

Morgaine and Victor left Adelicia at the next shelter. Probably more patients within, just waiting for their Saint's Blood treatment. Without Adelicia, Victor felt more comfortable going forward at a brisker pace, and Morgaine found herself well able to follow. Morgaine was not weak by any means; on the contrary, she was of abnormal strength in her village. However, even at a full near-run, she found she did not even become slightly winded. Is this the saint's blessing, this strength that fills her? The grand gates to Cathedral Ward loomed ahead within mere minutes, what would once have taken them perhaps half an hour to traverse. What awaited her beyond those gates, she couldn't even begin to guess.

Night of the Hunt - a Bloodborne RP

Is the white church hunter armed? Morgaine might just pick something up while the other two aren't looking.

A kings' political marriage plan- closed

Archery? Well, Vyarin had to give it some thought. Sure, he understood its purpose, that much was well drilled into his mind. Yet, to actually wield one was another matter. He had been taught, of course. His tutor had taken it to heart that the young Vyarin could hit a target from twenty paces in a pinch. Yet this lady seemed rather enraptured by the idea of them. Perhaps Apura too had a strong archery tradition? It made sense to his mind, on some level. What was he to say?

"'Archery,'" he began. The word he didn't know in Apura-tongue, so he continued to use the Prozdy term. "I to know it. Yet not good. I ask you to help me? To make good in the . . . ahh . . . 'archery', yes?" That was about as well as he thought he could handle it. To be quite honest, it would be good to have some more practice in the craft. Strenuous activity was far more to his taste than this court life, and besides, it would be nice to share an activity with a local. Maybe even a friend, if the diplomatic relations here don't fall through. He blinked with his one good eye, recalling with a touch of annoyance playing across his face. The eye thing, right. He wouldn't be able to tell if his target were at ten paces or a hundred.

"I . . . not to see good. You help me there also, yes?" He said smiling a bit, hopefully conveying that it was but a light-hearted joke.

Night of the Hunt - a Bloodborne RP

She'd left before Torquil entered the Hunter's Dream, and Arcturus and she never introduced themselves to each other.

A kings' political marriage plan- closed

Sorry the reply is late; I'll have it done by the end of today.

A kings' political marriage plan- closed

"Woman. Yes," Vyarin muttered. He remembered it now. The way they are said in Apura are so different from each other, the words for man and woman. The poetry of this land must be difficult indeed. The mysterious lady led him to a somewhat private corner of the ballroom, at least as private as such a crowded and active space could be, and led him through the steps of the march. It wasn't easy, that much could be said, but eventually certain patterns began to click. It was like a puzzle of sorts, in a certain manner of speaking. The steps had to fit in with the music. His host, fortunately, was an able teacher. Although, were this to continue, he ought to have the decency to learn her name, which to his shame he had forgotten to ask.

She was making a motion with her hands, in the lull of the music. Vyarin nodded, the mime appearing very familiar. It was a sort of pulling motion, perhaps like pulling dough into strips for traditional Yevtiaka? No, he had seen the bakers of the city work the dough every year on the Yevtiaka Festival, and it certainly didn't look much like that. It reminded him more of something else. "Longbowman!" he finally concluded, exclaiming in Prozdy, a bit louder than he would have liked. It was a near-perfect imitation of the famed longbowmen of Oloyeva, straight-backed and intimidating they were in their heavy armour. "Longbowman?" Is that what she was looking for? "Bow? Arrow? Archery?" He didn't know what word she was looking for, precisely. He switched to his limited Apura, trying to explain himself. "Is looking the same to . . ." Archers, he wanted to say archers. "Man of Oloyeva. He make the . . . err . . ." He copied her bow mime, making a whistle in imitation of the sound of an arrow whizzing away. "Oloyeva is land of father-brother. Brother-father? Father of me, brother of he." His uncle is what he meant to say. "Oloyeva make the . . . many. Many of many!" He did the bow mime again for effect.

A kings' political marriage plan- closed

Her speech was thickly accented, and her sentences as broken as his own, but something in Vyarin's mind clicked as she made those complicated steps in a circle around him. He was to mimic her, it seems. He nodded slowly, observing with his mind's eye how she had done it. Then, briskly and with the solid-footedness of a march, he copied her, whirling until he was almost dizzy.

"Is good, yes?" He asked, in his Apura. She spoke his language, and he would speak hers. Perhaps over time, they would even out with practice. "I to do . . . like you." He did it again, slower this time, lighter on the feet, like the other men would. It was amazingly light-footed this formation, nothing like the strong battle formations of Prozdy. Perhaps it descended from scouting and skirmishing manoeuvres? This land must revere forest rangers in much the same way that the many societies of the League revere heavily armoured foot-warriors. Understandable, perhaps, with the sheer volume of forest he had traveled through in the south. The green stretched for many hundreds of leagues without even a little snow or sand to separate them.

"Err . . . Now you?" He asked. She had graciously shown him his role, but this sort of thing, by his reckoning, did require a partner to act out. "Thank for you to show me . . . 'walking' of the man. Now you 'walking' of . . ." he drew a complete blank then on the right word to use. ". . . The not-man? Apologies. I am of the forgetting."

A kings' political marriage plan- closed

Vyarin stopped mid-step, one foot awkwardly hanging in the air. Eventually, gravity got the better of him, and he stumbled sideways into a table with a thump and the clattering of jumping plates. One of them, laden with fine delicacies, hung precariously off its edge. Vyarin took a few steps back from the table, as if it were a lit bombard, only to tap into another one behind him, fortunately far more gently. Were anyone even to sneeze at that table . . . He cleared his throat and turned to meet the sudden voice at his side.

The voice belonged to a slender woman, whose skin was the colour of earth. Vyarin had never met anyone like that before. He must admit now to himself that his world was rather small before he left home. He didn't catch all of her Apura-speak, but he did recognize his own name. She knew him before he knew her. Perhaps she had studied the guests who are to be hosted here? Certainly more than he had thought to study his hosts, at the very least. After a few seconds of piecing together his thoughts, he responded.

"Yes. Is good," he replied in his broken Apura-tongue. "You . . . and I, to be like . . . them?" He pointed at the dancing crowd. "Is very apol-" No, that didn't sound right. 'Apologies' was the other one. ". . . Thank. For you. To help." First thing he will do when the fete ends is to reread all of his texts and dictionaries. Something ought to stick by tomorrow.

A kings' political marriage plan- closed

Vyarin was shamefully unprepared for this particular event. These people of the south have a certain way of doing things that no doubt they have grown accustomed to, having grown up with these methods. However, he had never even seen such a display until just last year, and are still somewhat confused by its application. These nobles, dressed in their finery, have formed a tradition of standing in rows, walking circles about each other in pairs on their tiptoes until some point comes when the pairs break off to find new ones. It confused him to no end, these southern formalities and traditions, and Apura's seem the finest and most traditional of them all. His eyes darted about the participants, then towards the crowd of bards in the back playing instruments he'd never seen. None of them looked like the bardic instruments of his homeland; no serpent-tongues or steel-cords to be seen among them.

After watching for a little while longer, he began to recognize a pattern. The bardic group played and the participants followed. In his mind, everything clicked into place. It reminded him of the military drills his father loved so much to preside over. The bards, they were not so different from the wailing shamans or the banners with their blowing horns. This act they put on, it is not so indifferent to the lockstep formations and the mock-duel patterns, set to the command of shouting princes and their clansmen. Perhaps Prozdy and Apura are on similar ground, if the latter are so dedicated to drilling that it has become ritual, even in the highest levels of their society.

Armed with this newfound knowledge, he cast his gaze over the crowd again. There was Annalise, fluid and- Vyarin stopped himself. Look at someone else, anyone else. He was not going to play his father's game. There. As one song ended and another began, the green-skinned noble joined by a resplendent noble lady formed up to the line. Vyarin kept his gaze locked on the large fellow. They were not so different. Barring the hair, and the colour. What mattered was their similar dimensions. In his mind's eye, Vyarin could see himself in a similar position. Left here, right there, turn and follow . . . Vyarin whispered commands in Prozdy aloud to himself. Today, he was going to be his own drill commander. A small step forward when the other man did, a small step back, he slowly began to mimic the performance. He could learn this drill given practice.