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@bluetommy2
Am I approved?
Tommy is one of the mods for our roleplay, so you weren't wrong to contact him. However we're doing everything through Discord -- if you're there and we've talked, you're approved.
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Sadness isn't the absence of happiness.
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6 yrs ago
Erelith is back, baby.
6 yrs ago
Feels bad man.
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Tommy is one of the mods for our roleplay, so you weren't wrong to contact him. However we're doing everything through Discord -- if you're there and we've talked, you're approved.
(Holden d’Alnharte, Streets of Artis Port, Praelium)
“My apologies, Major d’Alnharte. I did not recognize you in the fog. And don’t worry, you don’t know me.”
Holden stopped, and frowned. Either nobody knew a hair of his story, or they knew him by name. “If that’s supposed to be comforting, it isn’t.” He looked over his shoulder. “No need for the formalities as ‘Major.’ Didn’t care for the title much before being tossed into a dungeon.” As the mage beckoned to him, he sighed and turned around, following behind.
“The House of Dominus requests your assistance. We’ll notify officials later. But for now, we must find transportation. I need to tell the House of this.”
“Well, I’ve borrowed a horse from Paline. I’m not sure if it’s going to be of any help.” Holden remained wary of the mage. He had no idea what Dominus was, nor what they wanted with him. That they knew who he was took away what little comfort he had. Glancing towards the waters, his frown only deepened.
Approaching them was a group of armed men with their horses. “I don’t suppose that they’re more of your Domidus friends,” Holden muttered to the Dominus. Clearing his throat, he spoke so the Saldomans could hear. “Good afternoon, gentlemen! Is there anything I can help you with?” He tightened the grip on Yusil’s hilt. Something told him the fighting was far from over.
“My apologies, Major d’Alnharte. I did not recognize you in the fog. And don’t worry, you don’t know me.”
Holden stopped, and frowned. Either nobody knew a hair of his story, or they knew him by name. “If that’s supposed to be comforting, it isn’t.” He looked over his shoulder. “No need for the formalities as ‘Major.’ Didn’t care for the title much before being tossed into a dungeon.” As the mage beckoned to him, he sighed and turned around, following behind.
“The House of Dominus requests your assistance. We’ll notify officials later. But for now, we must find transportation. I need to tell the House of this.”
“Well, I’ve borrowed a horse from Paline. I’m not sure if it’s going to be of any help.” Holden remained wary of the mage. He had no idea what Dominus was, nor what they wanted with him. That they knew who he was took away what little comfort he had. Glancing towards the waters, his frown only deepened.
Approaching them was a group of armed men with their horses. “I don’t suppose that they’re more of your Domidus friends,” Holden muttered to the Dominus. Clearing his throat, he spoke so the Saldomans could hear. “Good afternoon, gentlemen! Is there anything I can help you with?” He tightened the grip on Yusil’s hilt. Something told him the fighting was far from over.
(Holden d’Alnharte, Streets of Artis Port, Praelium)
“Sounds like the Tyrannus is a busy person.” Holden looked in the direction that the necromancer ran off. “And if they’ve got the balls to run around in broad daylight, then it’s not just my concern.” He knew full well that there was only one guild that accepted necromancers with open arms. And talented ones, at that.
“The Withered Beacon can ruin an entire army within a night,” he explained. He knelt down, and ripped his arrow free from the ground. “Whomever you are, I doubt you and your organization’s abilities to handle this alone, and I don’t say that to insult you.” He frowned; the arrowhead was broken. Tossing it aside, he stood up, and nodded his head to the Dominus. “But should you insist on handling this yourself, good luck, Door minus... err, Dominus.”
He gave a small bow, and walked in the direction that the necromancer disappeared. With the obscure fog lifting, it would be plain to tell that he was no Praelian. He wore simple clothes, a leather tunic and a dark green cloak; a strip of On’hinian blue wrapped around the collar.
If he was going to make Praelium his new home, it was a priority for him to see that it is not destroyed by the mages urging forth a new era.
(Alon d’Trilith, Perona, On’hino)
“You’re kidding me.”
“That, I am not.” Marius sighed, and leaned against the wall of the local pub. “They’re waiting for you down there.”
“I’m not even an escort? Just a piece of meat for show?” Alon groaned, and looked at the ship he was to board. “Politics is for the soft and complacent.”
“If we’re getting into a war with Benaduza, we’re going to need to make what friends we can.” Marius pinched the bridge of his nose. “Even if it means dealing with the Flowerheads.”
“What good will the Consortium do for us?” Alon argued. “They have little reason to aid us in our time of need.”
“Assuring that they don’t condemn us when the time comes is reason enough.” Marius gestured for Alon to go. “You’re going to represent the elite military of On’hino. Remain disciplined. However, should you be threatened, do not stand down.”
“Our efforts would be better spent going and making ties with Praelium. They’re not going to bend by force.” Alon shook his head. “Why don’t you go?”
“What is the Royal Army without you?” Marius asked. “It’s still the Royal Army. If I were to go…”
“I get it.” Alon picked up his blade, and walked down to the docks. This morning, he was scrubbing blood, bone and shit off his steel. This evening, he would have to swallow a ton of the latter.
“Sounds like the Tyrannus is a busy person.” Holden looked in the direction that the necromancer ran off. “And if they’ve got the balls to run around in broad daylight, then it’s not just my concern.” He knew full well that there was only one guild that accepted necromancers with open arms. And talented ones, at that.
“The Withered Beacon can ruin an entire army within a night,” he explained. He knelt down, and ripped his arrow free from the ground. “Whomever you are, I doubt you and your organization’s abilities to handle this alone, and I don’t say that to insult you.” He frowned; the arrowhead was broken. Tossing it aside, he stood up, and nodded his head to the Dominus. “But should you insist on handling this yourself, good luck, Door minus... err, Dominus.”
He gave a small bow, and walked in the direction that the necromancer disappeared. With the obscure fog lifting, it would be plain to tell that he was no Praelian. He wore simple clothes, a leather tunic and a dark green cloak; a strip of On’hinian blue wrapped around the collar.
If he was going to make Praelium his new home, it was a priority for him to see that it is not destroyed by the mages urging forth a new era.
(Alon d’Trilith, Perona, On’hino)
“You’re kidding me.”
“That, I am not.” Marius sighed, and leaned against the wall of the local pub. “They’re waiting for you down there.”
“I’m not even an escort? Just a piece of meat for show?” Alon groaned, and looked at the ship he was to board. “Politics is for the soft and complacent.”
“If we’re getting into a war with Benaduza, we’re going to need to make what friends we can.” Marius pinched the bridge of his nose. “Even if it means dealing with the Flowerheads.”
“What good will the Consortium do for us?” Alon argued. “They have little reason to aid us in our time of need.”
“Assuring that they don’t condemn us when the time comes is reason enough.” Marius gestured for Alon to go. “You’re going to represent the elite military of On’hino. Remain disciplined. However, should you be threatened, do not stand down.”
“Our efforts would be better spent going and making ties with Praelium. They’re not going to bend by force.” Alon shook his head. “Why don’t you go?”
“What is the Royal Army without you?” Marius asked. “It’s still the Royal Army. If I were to go…”
“I get it.” Alon picked up his blade, and walked down to the docks. This morning, he was scrubbing blood, bone and shit off his steel. This evening, he would have to swallow a ton of the latter.
(Holden d’Alnharte, Streets of Artis Port, Praelium)
Holden did everything short of outright snarling at the sight. While his vision was not perfect with the current weather, he was no fool. The stench of death and twisted fate hang heavy in the air. It was the work of necromancy. He stood up, and looked for a viable target. It was not the first time he had dealt with the Withered Beacon, but this would prove to be one of the most dangerous encounters yet. There was more than a few cultists; those who commanded death itself were here.
The pieces were too scattered for him to understand everything. Who was an ally remained a mystery to him. However, to stand and do nothing would prove to be a fruitless choice.
The commanding of the undead took no small amount of concentration. If that concentration were to be broken…
The Exile took a deep breath, and took aim at the speaker for the necromancers. Perhaps he could break the focus enough for the third party to make an escape. With his exhale, his arrow whistled through the air. It narrowly missed the necromancer as he ran off with his prize. Though, seeing the undead fall in an instant fueled him with hope to make a difference. To dismiss the undead was one thing, but to resurrect them them would take more than just a gesture, after all.
“Run!” he yelled, reaching for another arrow. He cursed under his breath, the fog being too thick to make any impression with a bow. Tossing it aside, he drew Yusil and moved into the thick fog. He listened for necromancer’s footsteps, but to no avail. He was not planning on going empty-handed, though.
“On the authority of Praelium,” he shouted, “you’re under arrest for… err, destruction!” When he reached the Dominus mage, one of his hands left his blade’s handle, and slide the knife from his belt. “Tell me you’re not going to try and kill me,” he muttered, shaking his head. Of course, he knew nothing of Praelium’s workings; of the legal system, or of House Dominus. “What did those necromancers want?”
Holden did everything short of outright snarling at the sight. While his vision was not perfect with the current weather, he was no fool. The stench of death and twisted fate hang heavy in the air. It was the work of necromancy. He stood up, and looked for a viable target. It was not the first time he had dealt with the Withered Beacon, but this would prove to be one of the most dangerous encounters yet. There was more than a few cultists; those who commanded death itself were here.
The pieces were too scattered for him to understand everything. Who was an ally remained a mystery to him. However, to stand and do nothing would prove to be a fruitless choice.
The commanding of the undead took no small amount of concentration. If that concentration were to be broken…
The Exile took a deep breath, and took aim at the speaker for the necromancers. Perhaps he could break the focus enough for the third party to make an escape. With his exhale, his arrow whistled through the air. It narrowly missed the necromancer as he ran off with his prize. Though, seeing the undead fall in an instant fueled him with hope to make a difference. To dismiss the undead was one thing, but to resurrect them them would take more than just a gesture, after all.
“Run!” he yelled, reaching for another arrow. He cursed under his breath, the fog being too thick to make any impression with a bow. Tossing it aside, he drew Yusil and moved into the thick fog. He listened for necromancer’s footsteps, but to no avail. He was not planning on going empty-handed, though.
“On the authority of Praelium,” he shouted, “you’re under arrest for… err, destruction!” When he reached the Dominus mage, one of his hands left his blade’s handle, and slide the knife from his belt. “Tell me you’re not going to try and kill me,” he muttered, shaking his head. Of course, he knew nothing of Praelium’s workings; of the legal system, or of House Dominus. “What did those necromancers want?”
(Holden d’Alnharte, Port of Artis, Praelium)
Fog. Damned fog.
Holden dismounted from his borrowed horse, and ran on foot. His instincts screamed to do anything except run towards what was likely an early grave. Where men and women with the ability to twist nature did battle, he would arrive with a bow, a blade, and his mortality. It reminded him of an old saying that spread through the Royal Army like wildfire.
Arrows fly faster than spells.
While he wanted to believe it was true, his past experiences proved that it was not always true. And while daggers, arrows and blades alarmed him, none of them sent the hair on the back of his neck on end. Not like that voice did.
Was it too late to return to Paline?
He stopped as silhouettes formed in the fog. As the dying light cast a rose-stained light through the air, it offered the sight of a ruined barn. Yet, there was a particular lack of smoke in the air. This was not an On’hinian attack. There would have been plenty of soldiers greeting him by now with the glint of steel. The robed figures only confirmed his suspicions – if nothing else had.
On’hinians had a specific distaste for magic in any form. They would rather perish than utilize magic in their armies.
The Exile moved towards a tree and hid. He had to pick his timing just right. Sliding an arrow from his quiver, he peered around the trunk and observed the two. He was too far to make out their conversation, though the way they acted told of the tension. Neither broke the other’s line of sight.
He smirked.
Maybe one will kill off the other. Would make my job all the more easy.
Fog. Damned fog.
Holden dismounted from his borrowed horse, and ran on foot. His instincts screamed to do anything except run towards what was likely an early grave. Where men and women with the ability to twist nature did battle, he would arrive with a bow, a blade, and his mortality. It reminded him of an old saying that spread through the Royal Army like wildfire.
Arrows fly faster than spells.
While he wanted to believe it was true, his past experiences proved that it was not always true. And while daggers, arrows and blades alarmed him, none of them sent the hair on the back of his neck on end. Not like that voice did.
Was it too late to return to Paline?
He stopped as silhouettes formed in the fog. As the dying light cast a rose-stained light through the air, it offered the sight of a ruined barn. Yet, there was a particular lack of smoke in the air. This was not an On’hinian attack. There would have been plenty of soldiers greeting him by now with the glint of steel. The robed figures only confirmed his suspicions – if nothing else had.
On’hinians had a specific distaste for magic in any form. They would rather perish than utilize magic in their armies.
The Exile moved towards a tree and hid. He had to pick his timing just right. Sliding an arrow from his quiver, he peered around the trunk and observed the two. He was too far to make out their conversation, though the way they acted told of the tension. Neither broke the other’s line of sight.
He smirked.
Maybe one will kill off the other. Would make my job all the more easy.
All good, we figured stuff out :p Waiting for you on the cord!
(Holden d’Alnharte, Fort Paline, Praelium)
Holden clashed swords with Jameson, and his eyes flicked to his right blade. There was no way to stop both. Stepping in, he twisted his torso and slammed his shoulder into the Sergeant’s chest. As they both hit the ground, Holden pinned one of the Sergeant’s arms to the ground with his shoulder, occupied the other by locking steel once more. He froze as the a crackling BOOM resounded across the open skies.
The scout got up, and offered his hand to the Sergeant. Within that instant, the mood changed. No longer was it a light afternoon.
“Not a drop of rain,” he said, listening for the sound again. Was it thunder? Explosions? “I don’t think this fort is under attack,” he muttered to himself, “but where else?” He sheathed Yusil, and picked up his bow. “Once again, Sergeant, I apologize. But if the On’hinians have made a point of it to attack today, then I must stop their assault.” Or, at least die trying. It was the least he could do, after all.
“You can consider that a victory by my resignation.” He grabbed the leather bag that the Sergeant had brought him before, and tucked it under his belt. With a salute – by a palm to over his heart – to Jameson, he made his way towards the gates. Stopping at the stalls beside them, he untied a horse before hurrying towards the nearby port. While there was no way for him to pin point the origin of the noise, it was pretty clear that the only other clear target in nearby would be the lightly defended port of Artis.
(Holden's coming to join the blunderfuck!)
Holden clashed swords with Jameson, and his eyes flicked to his right blade. There was no way to stop both. Stepping in, he twisted his torso and slammed his shoulder into the Sergeant’s chest. As they both hit the ground, Holden pinned one of the Sergeant’s arms to the ground with his shoulder, occupied the other by locking steel once more. He froze as the a crackling BOOM resounded across the open skies.
The scout got up, and offered his hand to the Sergeant. Within that instant, the mood changed. No longer was it a light afternoon.
“Not a drop of rain,” he said, listening for the sound again. Was it thunder? Explosions? “I don’t think this fort is under attack,” he muttered to himself, “but where else?” He sheathed Yusil, and picked up his bow. “Once again, Sergeant, I apologize. But if the On’hinians have made a point of it to attack today, then I must stop their assault.” Or, at least die trying. It was the least he could do, after all.
“You can consider that a victory by my resignation.” He grabbed the leather bag that the Sergeant had brought him before, and tucked it under his belt. With a salute – by a palm to over his heart – to Jameson, he made his way towards the gates. Stopping at the stalls beside them, he untied a horse before hurrying towards the nearby port. While there was no way for him to pin point the origin of the noise, it was pretty clear that the only other clear target in nearby would be the lightly defended port of Artis.
(Holden's coming to join the blunderfuck!)
@jeroukoo Just looking at this reply, am I reading this right?
(Dominus, Streets of Artis Port, Praelium)
They didn't intend to stop their spell, especially if it were to hit Holden. They would hold it until the man crumpled to the ground, then probably find something to cause blunt force trauma to make them forget seeing their face.
(Holden d’Alnharte, Fort Paline, Praelium)
With an exaggerated bow, Holden then stepped to his end of the circle, and brandished his blade; during which the leather guard slid off. His hips sank, and his cordial demeanor melted off. With each breath, a dozen thoughts came and went through his mind. The grip on his blade tightened as his arms grew limber. His heartbeat remained steady as he began to circle Jameson.
“Where I come from,” Holden began, “we sparred until our officer pulled us apart. There’s a scar across the palm of my hand, where I pushed my partner’s blade to her own throat.” The wind tugged at his cloak, threatening to steal it. While he waited for the Sergeant to make the first move, his mind let go of the current situations weighing him down. He was not a criminal, nor a refugee; he was a warrior, dancing an aeons-old duet with steel and vigor.
Then, without warning he lunged into his strike. Aiming low, he brought his blade into the motion of an uppercut, but carved through the ground itself; flicking up dust before he brought the flat Yusil's steel towards the Sergeant's gut. While he was not aiming to kill, he certainly was not going to be gentle about it.
With an exaggerated bow, Holden then stepped to his end of the circle, and brandished his blade; during which the leather guard slid off. His hips sank, and his cordial demeanor melted off. With each breath, a dozen thoughts came and went through his mind. The grip on his blade tightened as his arms grew limber. His heartbeat remained steady as he began to circle Jameson.
“Where I come from,” Holden began, “we sparred until our officer pulled us apart. There’s a scar across the palm of my hand, where I pushed my partner’s blade to her own throat.” The wind tugged at his cloak, threatening to steal it. While he waited for the Sergeant to make the first move, his mind let go of the current situations weighing him down. He was not a criminal, nor a refugee; he was a warrior, dancing an aeons-old duet with steel and vigor.
Then, without warning he lunged into his strike. Aiming low, he brought his blade into the motion of an uppercut, but carved through the ground itself; flicking up dust before he brought the flat Yusil's steel towards the Sergeant's gut. While he was not aiming to kill, he certainly was not going to be gentle about it.
(Holden d’Alnharte, Fort Paline, Praelium)
“I was worried that you would turn down my invitation,” Holden remarked with a grin. He raised Yusil, but its shining glory was stifled by the leather guard around its edge. He set the leather pouch on the ground, stepped away from it. He would have time to fix it to his belt after a bit of fun. “Would it make the match fair if I used my offhand?” the Exile mused. Of course, he was not planning on doing any such thing. The Sergeant deserved a fair shot at him without a handicap.
“Tell me, Sergeant; would you rather bash heads in a courtyard, or see me in real combat?” Chuckling, he offered his hand. “I feel like I cheated you out of an interesting afternoon, earlier. I wouldn’t think of it as anything more than what you deserve if we hunt for trouble.” It would give Holden the chance to observe the caliber of soldier that Claudius suggested he would lead, after all. “It’s your call. Should you choose to duel…” Holden patted his own chest with a smirk.
“I was worried that you would turn down my invitation,” Holden remarked with a grin. He raised Yusil, but its shining glory was stifled by the leather guard around its edge. He set the leather pouch on the ground, stepped away from it. He would have time to fix it to his belt after a bit of fun. “Would it make the match fair if I used my offhand?” the Exile mused. Of course, he was not planning on doing any such thing. The Sergeant deserved a fair shot at him without a handicap.
“Tell me, Sergeant; would you rather bash heads in a courtyard, or see me in real combat?” Chuckling, he offered his hand. “I feel like I cheated you out of an interesting afternoon, earlier. I wouldn’t think of it as anything more than what you deserve if we hunt for trouble.” It would give Holden the chance to observe the caliber of soldier that Claudius suggested he would lead, after all. “It’s your call. Should you choose to duel…” Holden patted his own chest with a smirk.
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