bloonewb

The Sahasian Alliance

Vyarin gratefully takes one of the silver cups, looking down into the well to see for himself. This did not look particularly different from the profaned drink of the gold cup, but an experimental sip told him that it was well and safe enough. Opposed to the chokingly bitter sample before, this was mild, sweet but with a spicy aftertaste. How did they manage that, he wondered? Did they crush apples into a chalice, and sprinkle in a dash of ground peppers? What an amazing culinary tradition this land of Astalia kept. His mind came alive with the most absurd things being served on a platter. Goat's livers covered in honey? Fresh honeygrass mixed in with fried horseflies? Entire frogs, stuffed full with stalks of raw grain? He was certainly willing to give them a try.

"Let us go forth to glory," he sarcastically muttered in Prozdy, finally building up the courage to take a full swig from the spiced drink. It was a common phrase spoken before the consumption of a dinner. No man of the League would dare speak in the night preceding a battle. The various principalities that dotted the land were all unique in their own customs, but they all shared that much. The drink was strong with spice, so much so that he could feel particles of it scratch at his throat as it went down. It was powerful and uplifting, like the drink was made of fire, like it could fill him up with a fire's fury and he could raise fortresses with his own hands. Only guiltily afterwards did he realize he had taken the entire chalice in a single gulp, and was greedily eyeing another one. How unseemly of him, he thought to himself, pulling out a chair and joining the other heirlings as they gathered about the table, servants already melting away as they left behind them plates of resplendent, though disappointingly mundane-looking food.

The other seven chatted eagerly amongst themselves, all they who were fluent in Astalian. Vyarin felt a frustration bordering on anger bubble up inside him. So long as he sat here, he was deaf in all the ways that matter. He imagined it to be not much different from wading into battle missing an arm. Perhaps he could pick up a word that appeared frequently enough. 'Wine, wine,' they said. That Astalian word appeared frequently, but he could not even begin to wonder what it could translate to. Was it marriage? That was their purpose coming here, after all. Perhaps they were speaking of arranging matches between themselves. Was it war? There are hushed mentions of a brewing war, greater than any skirmish between princes Vyarin would ever have seen, between this land and the great northern realm. He could not see any sign of worry on any other faces; they are mighty and stoic, these fellow heirlings, brave in the face of threat. What could this 'wine' possibly be?

The Sahasian Alliance

The Court of Flowers was well named, Vyarin thought, as he lumbered into the moderately sized meeting hall, adorned with flowers hanging from baskets all along the walls and peeking up from long vases an entire two thirds his own height. Heads of red and gold, violet, white, even pale blue clear as the sky bowed in solemnity as the shamans do. If they had arms, perhaps they would be raised above their heads as well, until the lack of blood left them white and hard as the branches of trees. Perhaps these flowers as well were of a mystical nature? Many things were in this land of the southeast, far from the natural ebbing of the spirits. They weave the world with their 'sorcery', raising large works of stone tall as mountains such as the building within which he stood right now. Recalling his amazement as he passed under the gates, he recalled how the entire estate seemed to grow out of the ground. What a marvel it was! He imagined taking some of this sorcery home with him, and transforming the entire cityscape with its power. Would they remember him as Vyarin 'the Magnificent' for his effort?

The others had arrived first, sharing conversation amongst themselves sat about a table. Golden chalices were displayed in some of their hands, filled with a dark liquid that looked unlike any juice he had ever had or seen. Some turned to meet his new, sprightlier acquaintance as she bounded in, which inevitably led their gaze towards himself. Whether they were looking or not, Vyarin gave a small and curt nod to the six others, then ambled over to a corner of the table and swiped one of the chalices, lifting the contents to his nose and sniffing. That's when he realized what it was.

It was forbidden, he knew. The shamans said again and again, for as long as he could hear them. That which is rotted has been given to the spirits, and is beyond its time for the world of men. This was Essence of the Rotted Grape! He could have stumbled at the noxious odour. Did they not realize that by its imbibing they become cursed? Surely they must know better, he thought, glancing at the faces of these merrymakers. Mayhaps it would not be so bad, that they would enjoy it and fear naught. Things were different here, after all, in these lands of magic and mystery. If he were to one day take charge of their armies, he must then learn to live as they live, and if that meant drinking this product of rot, then he could do so without too much concern. The spirits would understand, he concluded, as he lifted the chalice again to his lips and sipped of the fluid. It was a mistake, in the end. Gasping and reeling, he sat the cup down with a too-loud clang. It tasted as foul as it smelled, too bitter and thick and somehow wrong on a level fundamental to his soul. He felt dirty, the dregs that remain swilling under his tongue. He leaned on the wall, whispering curses the sky in Prozdy, hoping nobody paid too much mind to his outburst.

The Sahasian Alliance

Vyarin could only watch dumbly as the smaller figure before him continued to speak, getting progressively louder as she continued, as if addressing the audience of a music hall or the troops before a battle. With his limited Astalian, he could only conclude that she seemed upset about something, or at the very least concerned. Was it something he said? The fool Vyarin, perhaps he should have studied more about the culture of the realm that may one day belong to his progeny. However, the more he thought about it, the less sense it made. Did she find something objectionable . . . regarding the way he asked about her sword? It made no sense to him, but the more he considered the possibility, the guiltier he felt. Mayhaps he had said the wrong thing after all.

Well, he needn't think of that longer, because after a moment's silence between them, the princess spoke again, this time in Prozdy. What a relief that was, that she didn't seem nearly so angry at him after a pause.

"I am . . . to see- er, to find . . ." he began in Astalian, trailing off and not knowing how to continue. It seemed only good manners, at least that's how he understood it, even if he spoke painfully slowly and was no doubt losing the meaning of some matters in translation. "The . . . Chamber? Of . . . erm . . ." he scratched the back of his head, looking down and away. He had thought out what to say so thoroughly, and now that he needed it, everything was gone.

"Is interesting." Nevermind then. Curiosity, he must admit, had gotten the better of him, and he wasn't about to come up with anything better to say. He strode purposefully to the rack that the princess stood by, and pulled from it one of their curious long-swords. The hilt was massive, longer than some daggers, obviously meant for two hands to grasp. "I am not see. In life, I am not see." He could not imagine the metalwork necessary to make something like this. Would it not snap halfway up, from the strain of maintaining its own form? Perhaps he should steal it when nobody is looking, and bring it home with him. This would be quite a curiosity for both his father and his advisors, that is beyond doubt. "You knowing this, yes? What is . . . how is . . . ?" he asked.

The Sahasian Alliance

Finding this 'Court of Flowers' was easier in Vyarin's mind than it was quickly turning out to be. The palace was tall, imposing even on the inside, intricately decorated down to the smallest corner. In his lone eye, the world within seemed stretched upwards uncannily, like cowhide in a tannery. Windows stood the height of two of himself, but barely the width of three-quarters himself, packed closely together in organized regiments one after the other. The effect was exacerbated by the figure of the doorways that line the halls and the various items of furnishing and decoration, all built conversely too small for him. He had to duck down to enter into giant spaces. It was a fever dream to navigate, like something out of the maddest stories his carers would tell to him.

In the end, Vyarin decided the best path forward was tried and true methodology. It was simple, once he thought back on it. He will simply start entering doors and offshoots until he reached the Court of Flowers. There were only so many places a courtyard fit for a party could be; he will doubtless stumble onto it long before it ended. So, alone and armed with his conviction, he began his search . . . and immediately rammed headlong into a particularly thin candle sconce. Rubbing his temple and glowering, he righted the object, looking around for any sign of disturbed castellans, which there fortunately were none. He will keep a hand to the wall at all times.

Path after path, road after road, a few minutes began to stretch to near the majority of an hour. Most of the rooms he came across were as strange themselves as devoid of flowers. Some were bare of all things, blocked off by a simplistic looking door, awaiting a renovation that may take centuries to come. Others were perhaps bedchambers, but so clean that it was most like prepared for some guest that will never arrive, as evidenced by the thin sheen of dust upon the desks and sheets. Good luck was on Vyarin's side, for he did not stumble upon any spaces already occupied, and quite unfriendly to his sudden intrusion. Yet, as his ears picked up the faint sounds of some commotion, he concluded that was not to be for long. Instinctively, he felt relieved at the presence of a resident of some sort. He could ask their guide towards this elusive Court. Then, he stopped short, realizing the fault in that reasoning. It would entail him having to communicate his own desire, as well as understand their response all in Astalian. Holding a hand to his forehead, he rehearsed some crude phrases to himself.

"Excuse . . . where . . . the Chamber of the . . . the Primrose? The Chamber of the Primrose . . . is . . . to be? Excuse, where the Chamber of the Primrose . . . is to be . . ." He nodded, and raised himself to full height, striding purposefully in.

He didn't know what to expect from this next room, but that was not it. A lone girl, one of the four daughters in fact, armed with a sword far larger than his own, dancing about and striking at invisible foes. Vyarin could only watch for a few moments, observing the movements closely. They were precise, swift, she is obviously familiar with their use. Was it their way, in this strange land, to arm and train women as one would do for the men?

"Excuse," he finally said, breaking the silence. He pointed to the sword, the one so great it must be wielded in two hands. "Apology. Is . . . interest. Very interest." A heavy silence fell on the room, absent of the clatter of shoes on polished wood.

The Sahasian Alliance

There was a lot to consider for Vyarin, as he is led along another great hallway by his retinue. His eyes narrowed unjustifiably at the paintings arranged along the wall. Those women, the daughters, had made something of an impression on him. He thought back to earlier in the day, how two of them had approached the assembly of princes. Each was flanked by a man, a loyal guard most likely. They were as the new moon and the full, the two of them. Was it a ploy of some sort? He had seen such a plot before, observing as his father and his uncle would question defectors. Yet all that was years ago, and Vyarin's memory of that now has faded near enough that he cannot recall for the life of him any particulars. He scratched his chin, where the scruff was just beginning to return. Focus, now, was key; it was of paramount importance that he take note of all that occurs within these walls.

The first had introduced herself as Sulhana, before the entire hall. She then approached Vyarin first, her loyal man in tow, and spoke to him, venom in her throat. As she stepped forward, he and his men stepped back. Vyarin looked into her eyes but for a split second, and looked away. Her gaze could only be surpassed in its strength by his own father. He had spent enough time with his father to know; the older man was never shy to display his anger, and very quickly do all who counsel him learn to recognize when they are being spat at. So too was the case with this Sulhana, who although of shorter stature and more slender form, spoke down to Vyarin in the nature of a host to their unwanted guest. Her guard translated, his mastery of the Prozdy speech impeccable, but overly literal, and the language of Astalia did not map perfectly to that of Prozdy, it must be admitted. Vyarin found the man curious, in a way. Did his ancestry stem from the League? Had he served under a prince within? As Sulhana finished, Vyarin gave a nod to her, and another to her translator, and they moved on to the next prince.

The second daughter was the true surprise. Rather than making use of a translator, she spoke to him directly, calling him by the traditional manner and offering to him a gift. The jewel was magnificent, larger than his own thumb by at least twice, cut with obvious masterwork. Vyarin reached out with his hands and took the box.

"I receive this . . . err . . . in your honour," he had said. Poetics did not come naturally to him. Yet, she had made the effort to speak to him as the nomad-chiefs did, so he felt he ought respond in kind. He didn't dare try the same in Astalian; that sounded a path towards disaster.

The crowd, with time, began to depart. Vyarin took one last look at the other princes, then at his own retinue. The loyal men returned his look with their own, some of them quizzical, most of them tired. After a brief silence, one of them approached, and whispered.

"Your orders, superior?"

"Go into the town and collect the rest. We were promised food and shelter, let them feed and shelter us. If any of them managed to get themselves into trouble . . ." Vyarin thumbed the little jewel in his hand. ". . . Pay off their grievances. We have excess coins; not steel." As for him, well . . . the Court of Flowers awaits.

The Sahasian Alliance

Vyarin was shuffled awkwardly through the grand halls of Castle Aeli, flanked on both sides by a small host of his own loyal men. He, wisely, had dismissed the majority of them, allowing them leave to retire to inns and taverns. It was perhaps for the best. His own host and the local garrison were eyeing each other up the whole time, a few even daring to rattle their swords in their scabbards. These Astalians were not men of the League, but nonetheless Vyarin was not the least bit interested in such a demonstration of Prozdy strength. Better to appease their host now, and enter into the castle with only a token guard. After all, it was not as if Astalia was plotting his death. Vyarin grimaced and rested his hand on his shashka, now pondering the thought. A flick of his eye met with those of the castle guards, none of which were particularly friendly. A look back revealed that his own men shared this sentiment. Were they truly itching for a fight, right here in the seat of one of the great realms of the world? It must be their insular habit coming through, having never known the world on the far side of the Drizima River.

"Send word to my father," Vyarin whispered to his shaman, who nodded, with a hand to her chin. "I am in the land of Astalia, I am in good health, I await your orders." The shaman needn't hear more, peeling off from the group. With a wave of his hand, two of his loyal men turned to follow her, nodding at the command.

At last, the what remained of the warband entered through the doors into the main hall, wherein stood the King of Astalia, surrounded by his daughters. As one, Vyarin and his loyal men brought themselves down to both of their knees in his presence and tipped their heads downward. Out of the corner of his eye, he could spot the other princes, strange figures in stranger dress. Oddly, they did not prostrate before their hosts as he did. Slowly, Vyarin stood back up, realizing his instinct had led him astray. That, perhaps, was not the custom of the land.

Fortunately, nobody seemed to think much of the Prozdy mens' display. The king had granted them a greeting in Prozdy, thickly accented and pockmarked with grammatical errors. It was to be forgiven, Vyarin supposed, knowing his own relationship with their language. He then raised his arms and gave to them a speech, slowly and clearly, with a booming voice that carried itself naturally within the bounds of his hall. Vyarin could understand not a word of it, save a few phrases here and there seeded between lengthy strings of gibberish. At last, when he completed his thought, Vyarin visibly relaxed, shoulders slumping as he exhaled. One of his loyal men surely must know more than he regarding the Astalian tongue.

Barely seconds after, he was tapped on his shoulder, leading him to whirl and nearly strike one of his own. It was, now seeing him, one of the men he had sent to escort his shaman. Vyarin gave him a hard look with the eye remaining to him.

"Word has returned quickly," the man whispered, pressing a scrap of papyrus into Vyarin's hand. Without delay, he opened it to reveal the glowing Gluzic runes within. They read curtly and without prose, a manner common to the renowned Zarrir.

"My son," it began. "The land of Astalia is of a foreign ethic. Their succession prefers consanguinity to strength. Daughters in this land are more legitimate than brothers with large retinues. Your choice here will dictate the future of Prozdy itself. I am recommending to you to demand from the ruler of this vulnerable realm his eldest daughter in marriage. By the laws of this land, your son by her is eligible not only to our lands, but to their crown. Such power, concentrated into a single hand, will be doubtless the most powerful in the continent, and the combined wealth of the new realm shall raise armies uncountable. Do not disobey me." Vyarin blinked up, his eye jumping from one daughter to the next. Which was the eldest? A second though manifested for a second, before his own iron discipline squashed it out. It mattered not how he felt about things.

Night of the Hunt - a Bloodborne RP

It's worth a try, bumping the interest check I mean. Better than doing nothing.

Night of the Hunt - a Bloodborne RP

I must admit, when I joined the RP, I was hoping there would be more of a community behind it. Being the lone player really is sapping my interest in this. I'm not saying this as a threat to leave, but I am stating that I'm finding it more difficult to continue on at a consistent pace.

The Sahasian Alliance

From distantly behind him on the road, Vyarin can hear orders being shouted. The steady stomp of greaves in the dirt called out in waves, rising and falling. The column of grizzled Prozdy veterans, armoured and armed, had every simple merchant and traveler crossing them in the road scampering to the side of it to allow them passage. No doubt rumour followed the band of Prozdy men as they wandered from inn to inn, through village to village, bearing their combined arms with them. Could they be invaders, the vanguard of a much larger force come to pillage and raid? It was not for them to know, inevitably. These men are Vyarin's; men bound to defend him as if brothers. They were a prince's retinue, with which no true prince of the League would travel without. They who do tend to find themselves on the unfortunate end of an ambush brought on by a usurper.

None of them could have predicted just how torturously hot the southern climate was. Did it ever snow down here, where great fields of grass grew, lush and deep green, where the trees stretched up straight into the sky, their leaves wide and flat as fans? Did this land know any hardship? Once the bearer of welcome warmth to chase away long nights, the sun had betrayed Vyarin's host in the night and now beat down on their weary bodies. One league turned into two under the blinding sun, and soon, one step turned into leagues. Occasionally, these great roads would pay host to a pack of mules, each carrying with them saddlebags of valuables. Other times, swift regiments of horse guards would pass by, exchanging brief but informative conversation with the party before going about their way. Neither of these luxuries were available to the Prozdy men. They would have to content themselves with their heavy stress-worn boots and their iron will to keep walking.

Yet, it was not without waste, this forced pace they kept themselves to. At last, before them rose the walls of mighty Astalia's capital, built of yellow-brown stones, that reflected the afternoon sun beautifully, so seamless in its construction that they appear to have grown out of the ground rather than having been fashioned by masons. Above them rose points of shining light, as stars in the broad daylight, the helmets of the garrison soldiers. Behind those walls the peaks of spires and towers rose, thin and coloured in many bright tiles. They were not built to defend against siege. This was, no question, a land of finery and luxury, of stability and excess. The city itself seemed a bulwark against the sea, placed squarely upon a sheer cliff face at the foot of which waves lapped like dogs. So near they were, that its majesty may be observed, yet it was still unlike that they would actually reach those walls before evening. No good daydreaming about rest now; there was still a ways to go.

The newcomers did not arrive unnoticed. As the column of men approached, more points of light congregated together at the great gate meeting the road. Was it that they were expecting a battle? A worrying thought, that their intentions be misinterpreted. As they drew near, Vyarin could finally take note of those polished helms, and of the men sitting beneath them. Their armour was fine, intricate patterns drawn into them that shimmered in light like the sea they guarded against. In their hands were crossbows and longswords, marvels of engineering by the standards of the League. One of them shouted a few sentences in the Astalian tongue at them. By the distance, Vyarin could not quite make sense of what they were saying; not that he would have understood much of it otherwise. He turned over his shoulder at the band and shouted an order.

"Bring forth one who speaks the tongue!" His words rang out, and were repeated by those immediately behind him. There was some shuffling in the ranks, and one was pushed up to the front. In broken Astalian, the guard and the Prozdy warrior exchanged greetings, and assurances of peace. With some commotion, the gates began to crank open, and his loyal men began to shout and bang their spears on their shields. The ruler of this land will know of their coming.

The Sahasian Alliance

Any word on the discord server?