Oh my goodness I thought this RP died! :DDD
I'm reading now.
I'm reading now.
em Member
Or used to be, anyway.
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Bio
The room still had evidence of the fading night. Little patches clung to corners and crevices, flickering in the shadows of a tree outside the window. A faint hint of green and the homely dust of old homes lay, sad and comfortable, over everything.
Most Recent Posts
Hey guys, sorry I haven't been posting. Finals are happening and I won't be able to post for the next couple of weeks :(
Feel free to ignore that Arya ever existed in the meantime.
Feel free to ignore that Arya ever existed in the meantime.
@em
Thank you. I didn't mean to come off so snobby about it.
Don't worry about it! It's a fun character, I can understand why you're keen to keep things directed. Sorry about the misunderstanding.
<Snipped quote by Light>
She'll mention that the old man at the farm uses a skeletal horse to plow with, but can't animate it for more than three or four hours because he doesn't have much skill with necromancy.
I like this idea! Constructive necromancy had never occurred to me before this. This sounds like a neat side quest.
@em
His existence as an undead was common knowledge in his home plane, but not here in Mym.
I know. It's clear in Adamar's bio. I just didn't realize it wasn't obvious. Either way, I'm changing it right now.
@Light
Apologies for the misunderstanding. I was under the impression from your biography that his status as a lich was obvious, since it's so integral to his backstory and it's never explicitly stated that it's a secret.
I realize Adamar himself never mentioned it, though. I'll remove references to his lich-ness and replace it with an air of mystery.
Apologies for the misunderstanding. I was under the impression from your biography that his status as a lich was obvious, since it's so integral to his backstory and it's never explicitly stated that it's a secret.
I realize Adamar himself never mentioned it, though. I'll remove references to his lich-ness and replace it with an air of mystery.
That sounds like a better plan. She'll be there in my next post, that setup should do it.
The stall was hot, bright with summer, the salty sea air filled with an unpleasant scent of fish and unwashed city streets. A reddish tint filtered through the cloth above, casting a light shade over the table. Beside Arya sat a portly wine-seller, who was calculating the market value of a particular vintage, and across from her sat an elderly Minnese man, his slanted eyes darting suspiciously over the wine-seller’s work. She could see a shining bead of sweat forming on his forehead, and she found herself wondering idly whether he would be too offended if she wiped it away.
“Tell him his request is ludicrous,” the wine-seller said.
“☬ ⁂♣♮ ⚜♦,” Arya said hesitantly. It is not possible. The price is too high.
Angry chattering in Minnese.
Arya turned back to her irate employer. “He says he won’t take any less. He wants you to stick…” She paused. “He wants to end the negotiation unless you accept his offer.”
The fat wine-seller struck the table in frustration. “Wonderful. Well, by the gods, I’ll take his damn deal, but don’t ask me to be happy about it.”
Arya repeated his acceptance. The Minnese trader’s scowl deepened, and he cursed, muttering about being cheated. They shook hands.
It was not out of the ordinary for negotiations to become tense, even around her. Managing the egos of wealthy men was part of the job description, and with such large fortunes at stake, emotions inevitably ran high. This, however, had been a particularly heated argument. The wine-seller didn’t want to tarnish his reputation by selling cheaper wines, but the Minnese trader was the only one to come through the region in a month, and if he didn’t buy his stores, he’d lose customers. He’d agreed to purchase his whole stock at a greatly inflated price, but the trader still wanted more. Minnese men were always particularly resistant to her brand of light persuasion. Stubborn bastard. He wouldn’t know a good deal if it smacked him in the nose.
After the negotiation was formalized, she left the stall, her work completed. The midday sun beat down like a physical weight, and the lazy humidity only made matters worse. Business was slow, and everyone shuffled from shade patch to shade, the wealthier ladies fanning themselves and the poorer ones splashing water on their faces. Work was torturously slow, and men carrying goods or negotiating trades were few, far between, and generally unhappy about it. The Emblem of Neutrality - a heavy white sash issued by the Guild, the symbol of her trade - rasped on her bare shoulder, and she found herself compulsively shifting it, as if trying to get out from under the weight.
Arya ducked into a pub near the center of town, the Old Red. Settling down in a dark corner, she extracted a small black notebook from her handbag, and absently ran her eyes over the symbols she had drawn before. It wasn’t as if she could do much without a Dictionary of Symbology, but the mystery still drew her eyes to the page.
Her reverie didn’t last long. A loud voice approached along the street, and the door banged open, revealing a fat man and a shorter, skinnier companion, both wearing Guild emblems. “- long and short of it, oh yes, it was a right scene. I don’t agree with the Guild renting out member facilities to hooligans. A good Deepwood wine!” He snapped. The barkeep raised an eyebrow, but made no complaint. “It’s no good,” he continued, sitting down heavily by the bar. “Next election, I’m going to vote for someone who’s dedicated to the integrity of our fine institution!”
“Indeed, indeed.”
“And why is this Kismet girl allowed such privilege? Tut tut. Another flagrant violation of well established traditions! Favoritism! I sense something underhanded.”
“Yes, yes. Must be, must be.”
The first man looked pleased at this. “See, you’re a good fellow.” A large tankard slid towards him on the bar, and, grasping it by the handle, he raised it in a gesture of respect to his companion. “Stick with the folk like us, the respectable tradesmen. You’ll go far.”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt, none at all.” They clinked glasses, and drank deeply.
“I saw an odd fellow, wrapped from head to toe. Couldn't even see his face. Made my skin crawl.”
Arya’s eyes narrowed. She had heard stories that certain dark wizards couldn't uncover their skin, or they would burn. Could this be the presence she'd felt in the night?
“It seems they’re going off into the Fog tonight,” the thinner man said, raising his eyebrows.
“What do you mean, going off into the Fog?”
“I mean, the girl Siana is leading them off. That’s what the meeting was for.”
“By the gods, are you sure? Are they mad?”
The thin man shrugged. “Seems so. She claims to have found an inland lake, surrounded by paradise, or portals, or some such nonsense. I wasn’t listening too closely.”
“These are certainly strange times.”
“Indeed, indeed.”
They fell silent for a moment. Arya’s mind whirled. It couldn’t be a coincidence, could it? A mysterious figure suddenly appearing in a sleepy seaside Guild town, an impossible mission into the fog… Arya wondered whether there really was something underhanded going on. Black magic, she thought, dread creeping along her spine. Wonderful.
“Tell him his request is ludicrous,” the wine-seller said.
“☬ ⁂♣♮ ⚜♦,” Arya said hesitantly. It is not possible. The price is too high.
Angry chattering in Minnese.
Arya turned back to her irate employer. “He says he won’t take any less. He wants you to stick…” She paused. “He wants to end the negotiation unless you accept his offer.”
The fat wine-seller struck the table in frustration. “Wonderful. Well, by the gods, I’ll take his damn deal, but don’t ask me to be happy about it.”
Arya repeated his acceptance. The Minnese trader’s scowl deepened, and he cursed, muttering about being cheated. They shook hands.
It was not out of the ordinary for negotiations to become tense, even around her. Managing the egos of wealthy men was part of the job description, and with such large fortunes at stake, emotions inevitably ran high. This, however, had been a particularly heated argument. The wine-seller didn’t want to tarnish his reputation by selling cheaper wines, but the Minnese trader was the only one to come through the region in a month, and if he didn’t buy his stores, he’d lose customers. He’d agreed to purchase his whole stock at a greatly inflated price, but the trader still wanted more. Minnese men were always particularly resistant to her brand of light persuasion. Stubborn bastard. He wouldn’t know a good deal if it smacked him in the nose.
After the negotiation was formalized, she left the stall, her work completed. The midday sun beat down like a physical weight, and the lazy humidity only made matters worse. Business was slow, and everyone shuffled from shade patch to shade, the wealthier ladies fanning themselves and the poorer ones splashing water on their faces. Work was torturously slow, and men carrying goods or negotiating trades were few, far between, and generally unhappy about it. The Emblem of Neutrality - a heavy white sash issued by the Guild, the symbol of her trade - rasped on her bare shoulder, and she found herself compulsively shifting it, as if trying to get out from under the weight.
Arya ducked into a pub near the center of town, the Old Red. Settling down in a dark corner, she extracted a small black notebook from her handbag, and absently ran her eyes over the symbols she had drawn before. It wasn’t as if she could do much without a Dictionary of Symbology, but the mystery still drew her eyes to the page.
Her reverie didn’t last long. A loud voice approached along the street, and the door banged open, revealing a fat man and a shorter, skinnier companion, both wearing Guild emblems. “- long and short of it, oh yes, it was a right scene. I don’t agree with the Guild renting out member facilities to hooligans. A good Deepwood wine!” He snapped. The barkeep raised an eyebrow, but made no complaint. “It’s no good,” he continued, sitting down heavily by the bar. “Next election, I’m going to vote for someone who’s dedicated to the integrity of our fine institution!”
“Indeed, indeed.”
“And why is this Kismet girl allowed such privilege? Tut tut. Another flagrant violation of well established traditions! Favoritism! I sense something underhanded.”
“Yes, yes. Must be, must be.”
The first man looked pleased at this. “See, you’re a good fellow.” A large tankard slid towards him on the bar, and, grasping it by the handle, he raised it in a gesture of respect to his companion. “Stick with the folk like us, the respectable tradesmen. You’ll go far.”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt, none at all.” They clinked glasses, and drank deeply.
“I saw an odd fellow, wrapped from head to toe. Couldn't even see his face. Made my skin crawl.”
Arya’s eyes narrowed. She had heard stories that certain dark wizards couldn't uncover their skin, or they would burn. Could this be the presence she'd felt in the night?
“It seems they’re going off into the Fog tonight,” the thinner man said, raising his eyebrows.
“What do you mean, going off into the Fog?”
“I mean, the girl Siana is leading them off. That’s what the meeting was for.”
“By the gods, are you sure? Are they mad?”
The thin man shrugged. “Seems so. She claims to have found an inland lake, surrounded by paradise, or portals, or some such nonsense. I wasn’t listening too closely.”
“These are certainly strange times.”
“Indeed, indeed.”
They fell silent for a moment. Arya’s mind whirled. It couldn’t be a coincidence, could it? A mysterious figure suddenly appearing in a sleepy seaside Guild town, an impossible mission into the fog… Arya wondered whether there really was something underhanded going on. Black magic, she thought, dread creeping along her spine. Wonderful.
Whoops. I waited too long to write my bit and now I'm behind. Arya's gonna follow behind you and catch up.
Arya jerked awake. A high screeching filled her hearing, like the squeal of ice on metal, like the roaring wind of a hurricane. A spike was driving itself viciously into the back of her skull, an agony so great her vision blurred, as if her skull were expanding from the inside out. She heard a high, keening shriek of pain - her own - and attempted, in a panic, to gather her mental defences, fighting to keep from giving in to the whirlwind.
And just like that, the presence moved away.
She shivered.
Many hours later, she fell asleep again.
* * *
The next morning, Arya pulled a parcel out of her bedside drawer, and sat cross-legged on the floor. Out of the parcel, she pulled a small black book and charcoal, of the type used by students and scribes. Taking a deep breath, she chanted through a nursery rhyme, paying little attention to the words. With her eyes closed, she passed the charcoal along the paper. At first, the markings were nothing but loops and lines, but as time progressed, they resolved into shapes, and slowly bent into complex symbols.
Opening her eyes, she fell silent. Her eyes scanned the page with a scholar's eye. It had not been a deliberate attack, that much was certain. The presence had merely passed within her range while her defenses were down. She desperately hoped it had not noticed her, but it was impossible to say. There were no patterns of aggression, but several symbols were drawn with an odd slant. A lapse in concentration, or a clue? Tracing her finger along another circular symbol, her brow furrowed. It was one she didn't recognize. A name, perhaps? A place?
Sighing, she replaced the book and charcoal into her bag. Father Roe would have known what to make of it.
And just like that, the presence moved away.
She shivered.
Many hours later, she fell asleep again.
* * *
The next morning, Arya pulled a parcel out of her bedside drawer, and sat cross-legged on the floor. Out of the parcel, she pulled a small black book and charcoal, of the type used by students and scribes. Taking a deep breath, she chanted through a nursery rhyme, paying little attention to the words. With her eyes closed, she passed the charcoal along the paper. At first, the markings were nothing but loops and lines, but as time progressed, they resolved into shapes, and slowly bent into complex symbols.
Opening her eyes, she fell silent. Her eyes scanned the page with a scholar's eye. It had not been a deliberate attack, that much was certain. The presence had merely passed within her range while her defenses were down. She desperately hoped it had not noticed her, but it was impossible to say. There were no patterns of aggression, but several symbols were drawn with an odd slant. A lapse in concentration, or a clue? Tracing her finger along another circular symbol, her brow furrowed. It was one she didn't recognize. A name, perhaps? A place?
Sighing, she replaced the book and charcoal into her bag. Father Roe would have known what to make of it.
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