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The only thing better than an elf is two elves.
3 mos ago
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5 yrs ago
I feel like I'm learning to write all over again.
5 yrs ago
Roleplaying is like a fine wine. I don't get enough of it, and most of the time I fail to appreciate it properly.
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6 yrs ago
Writing is work. The more of it you do, the more you feel like Steve in Accounting is out to get you.
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Most Recent Posts
I also posted in the IntCheck and am reserving space for my soon-to-be created CS. Can I do that?
I am super-interested in this. This has amazing potentials!
Woosh! This moves along quick! Gonna try and get a post in today between the gigs, but I can't promise anything!
I apologize for the shorter and less involved post. I promise I shall make up for it when I can/when I return.
Now; To festivals and partying!
Now; To festivals and partying!
Erin Farain
The Boot Buckle, Deliar
“Aye lass, we got food. Mutton, chicken, bread – some beer blasted onions, too. Might be able to getcha some fish’n ‘tatoes, n’all, if that suits the ladyship?” There was a friendly sort of respect to the man's words, even if it wasn't something she'd asked for. Just as swiftly as the conversation had begun however, the elder man gave his attention elsewhere, inevitably drawing Erin's eyes with him to the entering crowd. The man excused himself to go speak with them, and Erin twisted to spectate out of the corner of her eye.
Then came the second man, posting a quick query about what she wanted. Haggling wasn't on her mind any longer, whatever this was would no doubt be interesting enough to follow, so just handing the man her coin and mouthing 'food'. It seemed to work well enough. Maybe even gave her a little confidence in her dealings. Or not. It didn't really matter, her interests were on the man who rather clearly stood out, and his interactions with the rough-yet-friendly barkeep. Whatever was going on, it was exactly the kind of thing she left the store to see. Right?
Something about an injured soldier. The same group as outside perhaps? Would it be that recent, perhaps an ill stroke of luck on the barkeep's part. Apparently they'd accosted a girl and paid the price for it. Serves them right. The gentle stir of emotions rises again, though not powerful enough that she risks doing anything but watch the exchange. It would be typical injustice for the barkeep to suffer for this. But it's not her business, is it? She shouldn't get involved. Definately should not get involved.
So she watches from her corner, skulking by the edge of the counter.
The Boot Buckle, Deliar
“Aye lass, we got food. Mutton, chicken, bread – some beer blasted onions, too. Might be able to getcha some fish’n ‘tatoes, n’all, if that suits the ladyship?” There was a friendly sort of respect to the man's words, even if it wasn't something she'd asked for. Just as swiftly as the conversation had begun however, the elder man gave his attention elsewhere, inevitably drawing Erin's eyes with him to the entering crowd. The man excused himself to go speak with them, and Erin twisted to spectate out of the corner of her eye.
Then came the second man, posting a quick query about what she wanted. Haggling wasn't on her mind any longer, whatever this was would no doubt be interesting enough to follow, so just handing the man her coin and mouthing 'food'. It seemed to work well enough. Maybe even gave her a little confidence in her dealings. Or not. It didn't really matter, her interests were on the man who rather clearly stood out, and his interactions with the rough-yet-friendly barkeep. Whatever was going on, it was exactly the kind of thing she left the store to see. Right?
Something about an injured soldier. The same group as outside perhaps? Would it be that recent, perhaps an ill stroke of luck on the barkeep's part. Apparently they'd accosted a girl and paid the price for it. Serves them right. The gentle stir of emotions rises again, though not powerful enough that she risks doing anything but watch the exchange. It would be typical injustice for the barkeep to suffer for this. But it's not her business, is it? She shouldn't get involved. Definately should not get involved.
So she watches from her corner, skulking by the edge of the counter.
Erin Farain
Streets of Deliar, and the entrance to The Boot Buckle
A cloak and padded clothes weren't enough. The biting cold was invasive, unfriendly enough to ward away any cheer both Erin and any others she could see out on the winding streets. A few guard patrols, even if they rarely came down this way. A lone man hammering away at a door, pleading to his 'honey' to let him in. Maybe Erin was lucky to have somewhere at all. A house. Occasional heat, relatively average food. She'd heard more than a few horror stories of people coming to the capitol to make it big, or find adventure. Most of those stories end with the protagonist finding death's door, rather than any reward. Still, they were stories, and she could not simply sit at home and wait for a change that would never come. That, if anything, would be naive. She could brave any chill. A little cold - she pondered with a shudder - is a mere trial for any true challenge.
The rumble of her stomache, however, was a challenge best heeded. It might be good to eat something tasteful, for once. Or at least warm. Ever since the turn of the new year, she'd snuck out ever so often to partake of the life her parents so desperately intended to keep from her. She'd gone to taverns to listen to the ruckus and catch herself up on the news, participated in a small betting ring, and helped a local farmer investigate a few thefts. The occasional store customers never were interested in sharing their tales, at least not with her, and it made good practice for when she finally got her chance to show what she was worth. Not to mention that it was absolutely thrilling. Something deep in her belly flushed with warmth whenever she'd received a compliment for her work, or been acknowledged as the potentially clever gambler she was. She knew she was made for greater things. And it felt good to be free.
The feeling dissipated just as quickly, following another dissatisfied rumble of her stomache. Definately not pride that time. The unpleasant ache of skipping breakfast and glossing over the rest of the day has begun to set in. She needed to find something as quickly as possible, after a cursory exploration of the massive savings in her beltpouch. A lonely silver denar, and two inches' worth of crumpled thread. No wait, that's from the lining of her pouch. Great. It ought to buy her something, at least.
The embittered murmurs of a passing group of soldiers rips her from her chilled reverie. They're practically carrying one of their own. Good to see the city is lively despite the friendly weather. Not often she'd see guards or soldiers actually harmed, though. Couldn't matter less though, they knew what they were risking, no?
Erin presses onwards with cold shivers and the modest desperation that comes with a setting sense of hunger. She knew there was a place around here somewhere, she'd been inside once or twice since the turn of the new year. It was just the right kind of place for what she was after.. And they had to serve food too, right? Rounding another corner and a few hasty steps brings her to just the right place. The Boot Buckle. Not a terrible name, though personally she'd have preferred something a little less commonplace. The Gilded Dragon, perhaps? Or would that be too fanciful a name?
Hiding her shivers with a clutched cloak and rubbing her cheeks with leather gloves for warmth, Erin pushes inside to be a part of the heat at last. The atmosphere is equally inspiring and terrifying. Boisterous men - soldiers or guards by the looks of them - having a good time. People going about their own lives with good cheer. Why couldn't her part of the city be alive like this?
She stands by the door for a few moments, peering about in quiet observation. Sucking in the atmosphere, looking for faces that'd stick in her mind. It's only when she turns her head to peer at a patron who stares right back that she jolts out of her investigative apprehension and clears her throat to herself. She mosies on up to busy-looking fella behind the bar and boldly demands some of his best food. The gathered courage turns to halfway terror when she realizes that her grand request sounded more akin to a murmur.
Streets of Deliar, and the entrance to The Boot Buckle
A cloak and padded clothes weren't enough. The biting cold was invasive, unfriendly enough to ward away any cheer both Erin and any others she could see out on the winding streets. A few guard patrols, even if they rarely came down this way. A lone man hammering away at a door, pleading to his 'honey' to let him in. Maybe Erin was lucky to have somewhere at all. A house. Occasional heat, relatively average food. She'd heard more than a few horror stories of people coming to the capitol to make it big, or find adventure. Most of those stories end with the protagonist finding death's door, rather than any reward. Still, they were stories, and she could not simply sit at home and wait for a change that would never come. That, if anything, would be naive. She could brave any chill. A little cold - she pondered with a shudder - is a mere trial for any true challenge.
The rumble of her stomache, however, was a challenge best heeded. It might be good to eat something tasteful, for once. Or at least warm. Ever since the turn of the new year, she'd snuck out ever so often to partake of the life her parents so desperately intended to keep from her. She'd gone to taverns to listen to the ruckus and catch herself up on the news, participated in a small betting ring, and helped a local farmer investigate a few thefts. The occasional store customers never were interested in sharing their tales, at least not with her, and it made good practice for when she finally got her chance to show what she was worth. Not to mention that it was absolutely thrilling. Something deep in her belly flushed with warmth whenever she'd received a compliment for her work, or been acknowledged as the potentially clever gambler she was. She knew she was made for greater things. And it felt good to be free.
The feeling dissipated just as quickly, following another dissatisfied rumble of her stomache. Definately not pride that time. The unpleasant ache of skipping breakfast and glossing over the rest of the day has begun to set in. She needed to find something as quickly as possible, after a cursory exploration of the massive savings in her beltpouch. A lonely silver denar, and two inches' worth of crumpled thread. No wait, that's from the lining of her pouch. Great. It ought to buy her something, at least.
The embittered murmurs of a passing group of soldiers rips her from her chilled reverie. They're practically carrying one of their own. Good to see the city is lively despite the friendly weather. Not often she'd see guards or soldiers actually harmed, though. Couldn't matter less though, they knew what they were risking, no?
Erin presses onwards with cold shivers and the modest desperation that comes with a setting sense of hunger. She knew there was a place around here somewhere, she'd been inside once or twice since the turn of the new year. It was just the right kind of place for what she was after.. And they had to serve food too, right? Rounding another corner and a few hasty steps brings her to just the right place. The Boot Buckle. Not a terrible name, though personally she'd have preferred something a little less commonplace. The Gilded Dragon, perhaps? Or would that be too fanciful a name?
Hiding her shivers with a clutched cloak and rubbing her cheeks with leather gloves for warmth, Erin pushes inside to be a part of the heat at last. The atmosphere is equally inspiring and terrifying. Boisterous men - soldiers or guards by the looks of them - having a good time. People going about their own lives with good cheer. Why couldn't her part of the city be alive like this?
She stands by the door for a few moments, peering about in quiet observation. Sucking in the atmosphere, looking for faces that'd stick in her mind. It's only when she turns her head to peer at a patron who stares right back that she jolts out of her investigative apprehension and clears her throat to herself. She mosies on up to busy-looking fella behind the bar and boldly demands some of his best food. The gathered courage turns to halfway terror when she realizes that her grand request sounded more akin to a murmur.
Put a tavern in an RP, instant meeting place. :D
I always feel nervous when I make my first few posts. So with that in mind, I hope it's up to snuff, and all that! Everyone else is so awesome. X.x
Erin Farain
Evading Fate, Deliar
Few things were as bad as a midwinter day. The biting chill in the air meant people stayed home or sought out the warmth of a tavern instead of strolling the streets. Falling snow meant sleet and slush ended up all over an already dank-looking floor. Crisp papers seem to rip and tear easier in the fresh air, and there was no way mother was about to let there be any sort of fire made to keep the heat up. With a house full of flammable materials, it wasn't a hard to see why, but that meant the only option was to bunch up in all available blankets and sheets, like some kind of beggar. Huddling together for any last remnant of heat, all for the highly prestigious mission of watching the store - perhaps the very epitome of a waste of time. Ever since father had passed, mother had grown disinterested with remaining chained to store. It fell on the equally unwilling Erin to keep the family business alive, which would be fine were it not for the fact that noone ever came here.
'Farains Maps & Scripts' said the fading sign outside. During warmer months, they'd get one or two interested people from off the street a day. If they were lucky, at least one of them bought or commissioned something. Prices were too high, and whatever lustre the store had had in the past, it breathed its last with Father. In the last month, they'd got on by selling empty scrolls to scribes in other parts of the city. February showed no signs of being any different.
Now even Mother had stopped appearing in the store, out chasing down new contacts or trying to call in old debts, or just not spending time in the store. The result was the same; Erin found herself locked in place behind a musty old counter, with nothing to show for it. On the off chance that someone actually wanted a map drawn, she'd get a few days of interesting activity. Nothing compared to what she knew she was capable of, however.
She'd written a whole book on the stories of her ancestor, passed down through a long line of Farains to reach her ears. From the stories, she'd made maps and images of his great battles and travels. Chronicled the one thing that made her proud to be part of her family. Yet there was only so far you could go with writing about the glory days. By sitting here, she was throwing her life away, an argument she had made many a time to both of her parents, neither of whom had any mind to listen. Uncaring, they'd prefer to forget what heroes were in their blood. Forget the past, and throw their lives away maintaining a failing, decrepit storefront. It had already claimed Father, and Mother was invisible at this point.
It would not claim her as well. As she had done so many days before this one, Erin cast herself free of her blanketed prison cell behind the counter. After a quick claiming of her heavy, comforting cloak and the sword of her ancestor, the last link to a great time, fastened to her belt, she spectated herself as best she could. As good as any mercenary or hireling, surely. Maybe a little scrawny. Or young. But only fools let their limitations stop them. Erin was not a fool. She would see her name be the one that brought glory back onto their family. She would make all of them proud.
With that, Erin abandoned her posting, trodding out onto the streets in search of something greater. She had a pretty good idea of where to start.
Evading Fate, Deliar
Few things were as bad as a midwinter day. The biting chill in the air meant people stayed home or sought out the warmth of a tavern instead of strolling the streets. Falling snow meant sleet and slush ended up all over an already dank-looking floor. Crisp papers seem to rip and tear easier in the fresh air, and there was no way mother was about to let there be any sort of fire made to keep the heat up. With a house full of flammable materials, it wasn't a hard to see why, but that meant the only option was to bunch up in all available blankets and sheets, like some kind of beggar. Huddling together for any last remnant of heat, all for the highly prestigious mission of watching the store - perhaps the very epitome of a waste of time. Ever since father had passed, mother had grown disinterested with remaining chained to store. It fell on the equally unwilling Erin to keep the family business alive, which would be fine were it not for the fact that noone ever came here.
'Farains Maps & Scripts' said the fading sign outside. During warmer months, they'd get one or two interested people from off the street a day. If they were lucky, at least one of them bought or commissioned something. Prices were too high, and whatever lustre the store had had in the past, it breathed its last with Father. In the last month, they'd got on by selling empty scrolls to scribes in other parts of the city. February showed no signs of being any different.
Now even Mother had stopped appearing in the store, out chasing down new contacts or trying to call in old debts, or just not spending time in the store. The result was the same; Erin found herself locked in place behind a musty old counter, with nothing to show for it. On the off chance that someone actually wanted a map drawn, she'd get a few days of interesting activity. Nothing compared to what she knew she was capable of, however.
She'd written a whole book on the stories of her ancestor, passed down through a long line of Farains to reach her ears. From the stories, she'd made maps and images of his great battles and travels. Chronicled the one thing that made her proud to be part of her family. Yet there was only so far you could go with writing about the glory days. By sitting here, she was throwing her life away, an argument she had made many a time to both of her parents, neither of whom had any mind to listen. Uncaring, they'd prefer to forget what heroes were in their blood. Forget the past, and throw their lives away maintaining a failing, decrepit storefront. It had already claimed Father, and Mother was invisible at this point.
It would not claim her as well. As she had done so many days before this one, Erin cast herself free of her blanketed prison cell behind the counter. After a quick claiming of her heavy, comforting cloak and the sword of her ancestor, the last link to a great time, fastened to her belt, she spectated herself as best she could. As good as any mercenary or hireling, surely. Maybe a little scrawny. Or young. But only fools let their limitations stop them. Erin was not a fool. She would see her name be the one that brought glory back onto their family. She would make all of them proud.
With that, Erin abandoned her posting, trodding out onto the streets in search of something greater. She had a pretty good idea of where to start.
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