FetzenJohnathon's eyes were caught by a sudden motion, as a mountain of a man sat down at the table across from him. He appraised him briefly, noting the sword at his side and the black, armored clothing the man wore. He was surely a soldier of some type, most likely a sellsword given the locale. A dangerous man, but one that got the job done for the right amount of coin. An amount that John hoped he currently held. His new tablemate introduced himself as Crom Vastil, and luckily he was here about the sign. John smiled brightly and replied, "Johnathon Wenigsten, hoping to have your service." He looked briefly over his shoulder towards the windows at the front of the inn. "The weather's been awful nice considering. You would think storms should come with such terrible news." The outside world was invisible through the filthy windows, but the brightness of those dirt colored glass squares indicated that the sun was shining brightly outside. John shook his head, looking back to Crom and getting back to business. Mercenaries always seemed to praise 'getting straight to the point,' or a saying like that, and as much as he loved to chat there was no sense starting out on the wrong foot with a burly man with a sword.
"I'm looking for a man who can show me a way through the mountains. I want to go west and get back into the heartlands basin so I can travel on foot safely." Johnathon reached into his bag and withdrew a small pouch of coins. Ten silver Arcarti Marks. It wasn't all he had, but he didn't want to put everything on the table just yet. Maybe he would need more guides, or Crom would have a higher asking price than he anticipated. As he set the bag down, a crack followed by a long, rolling boom permeated the walls of the building, barely raising above the din of the tavern. He frowned momentarily, supposing that a storm had been brewing all along despite the sunny day. "I don't have much but I can offer ten marks for your service. It's a short run over those mountains but I've never dealt with the snow before." John said, looking sheepish in announcing his failure as a traveler. He'd come in on a boat, a mistake he'd never make again now that he'd seen the sea. Before he could sink further into a tirade that was equal parts pleading for cheap assistance and friendly recounting of his travels, alarm bells began to sound outside. The tavern hushed for a moment, and a few men even left their seats to head outside and investigate the commotion. John himself took the opportunity to look around the interior of the Mast, at first craning to see if anything was visible through the dingy windows. As if. What he did see was some young looking man waste his drink all over the bar counter, and was momentarily glad that he hadn't chosen a seat at the bar. He managed to recall his attention to Crom and turned back to the man to wait for a response, all the while hoping the soldier didn't plan on checking out what was happening outside.
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That's an idea I've played around with. I am leery about definitively mapping the entire world of a freeform roleplay although I'm definitely hoping to make a pretty map of Estovet some time soon.
Accepted, Micah, welcome aboard. Feel free to make an intro when you can.
Accepted, Micah, welcome aboard. Feel free to make an intro when you can.
Cool, a freedom fighter. Accepted and welcome aboard, Jake. Feel free to make an intro whenever you like.
Bump
We're still accepting (read: desperately searching for) players
We're still accepting (read: desperately searching for) players
Name: Martin Stone
Age: 21
Gender: Male
Appearance: Martin was always seen as a short man, standing at 5'9" with his stature accentuated by a slight, sometimes derided as feminine, build. He has an ovalesque face that always looks very thin, with high, defined cheekbones that lend a certain hollowness to his cheeks. His lips are thin and usually curved into a sneer or snarl at the world. His jawline is slight, sharply defined but thin and unimpressive. His nose has been broken one too many times, and while it's still straight enough the ridge dips in and out at odd intervals. His eyes have somehow remained undamaged, and inside angular, angry looking eyes are two cold green orbs with a clarity of color that defies his otherwise dingy and beaten appearance. He is unmuscular, and never had time for doing much of anything through most of his youth before spending most of his adulthood thus far in a cell. Also as a result of that, he is paler than he should be, spared total whiteness only because there was often no roof over his head while he sat idle.
Clothing: He previously owned a set of prisoners rags but has, since enlisting, aspired to greater things. He's never had money and never wanted any, frankly, and dresses plainly in whatever cheap linens and cottons he can find or legally acquire within the Night's Watch. He is grateful, most of the time, simply to have clothing on his back and sometimes finds himself uncomfortable in the heavy layers of the Night's Watch gear.
Weapons: Hardly a weapon at all but the only thing he could take from his once-home is a short steel knife. It has a wide, single edged blade that Martin thinks might have been for skinning things but he isn't quite sure. The flat bone handle was ornately carved several generations of the Brusilde family ago and as the only son, albeit a bastard, he felt the knife belonged enough to him to claim from an empty house.
Personality: Martin is deeply bitter about his time in the Vale and holds his homeland in his heart with a special sort of contempt. The rest of the world seems just fine so far. He lacks social skills of any sort having spent his life at his dying father's side or in a jail cell, although his attitude towards life makes him tend towards sarcasm. The one thing he does have of any import in the social arena is a stoic face and attitude, something that would have taken him far if not for bad luck. He's a cynical person and has come to a habit of questioning the motives of anyone and anything around him. He considers failure to be a typical state and is genuinely surprised to see anything going right. Strangely enough with that attitude, he absolutely cannot resist a test of chance, maybe as some desperate grasp at being right for once. In addition, his view on society was heavily limited and he finds himself amazed when in the presence of anything resembling a functioning civilization.
History: Martin comes from the Vale. His mother was a prostitute and likely the one that gave his father the venereal disease which would one day claim his father's life. A flesh eating, festering rot that spread from the man's groin into his body at a maliciously slow pace. His other bastard brothers either ran way or died in stupid street brawls over the years and as Martin grew he was the only caretaker of his ailing father. Day after day he would listen to the man's raving about the past and the world at large as the rot overtook his body and his mind. Martin never had time to leave his father's side, venturing away only to tend the property and ensure that some kind of food was growing or provided. One day, Martin's father passed. He had no idea what to do or where to go in life, so he packed up what little he could sell, sold it, and went with the family fortune to gamble. He lost and sold, until what remained was a single knife that his father had raved about particularly much. His father's father's father, on to you now Marty, and so on. He could not sell that knife, and determined on the spot to put his life to better use. It didn't mean much because a few days later he was thrown into a debtor's prison and held at the Eyrie for a time. A significant amount of time. One day a peddler who specialized in 'ladies of the night' who weren't exactly ladies had his go at the dungeons, offering whatever price the lord asked for the finest prisoners of the Vale. Martin, thin of form, was to be sold into prostitution. It was either that, or let some kid watch him thrown from the moon door. He chose the Wall. Martin begged for and was somehow granted leave to take the black and serve the realm as its unlikely protector, and/or steward, in the night.
Age: 21
Gender: Male
Appearance: Martin was always seen as a short man, standing at 5'9" with his stature accentuated by a slight, sometimes derided as feminine, build. He has an ovalesque face that always looks very thin, with high, defined cheekbones that lend a certain hollowness to his cheeks. His lips are thin and usually curved into a sneer or snarl at the world. His jawline is slight, sharply defined but thin and unimpressive. His nose has been broken one too many times, and while it's still straight enough the ridge dips in and out at odd intervals. His eyes have somehow remained undamaged, and inside angular, angry looking eyes are two cold green orbs with a clarity of color that defies his otherwise dingy and beaten appearance. He is unmuscular, and never had time for doing much of anything through most of his youth before spending most of his adulthood thus far in a cell. Also as a result of that, he is paler than he should be, spared total whiteness only because there was often no roof over his head while he sat idle.
Clothing: He previously owned a set of prisoners rags but has, since enlisting, aspired to greater things. He's never had money and never wanted any, frankly, and dresses plainly in whatever cheap linens and cottons he can find or legally acquire within the Night's Watch. He is grateful, most of the time, simply to have clothing on his back and sometimes finds himself uncomfortable in the heavy layers of the Night's Watch gear.
Weapons: Hardly a weapon at all but the only thing he could take from his once-home is a short steel knife. It has a wide, single edged blade that Martin thinks might have been for skinning things but he isn't quite sure. The flat bone handle was ornately carved several generations of the Brusilde family ago and as the only son, albeit a bastard, he felt the knife belonged enough to him to claim from an empty house.
Personality: Martin is deeply bitter about his time in the Vale and holds his homeland in his heart with a special sort of contempt. The rest of the world seems just fine so far. He lacks social skills of any sort having spent his life at his dying father's side or in a jail cell, although his attitude towards life makes him tend towards sarcasm. The one thing he does have of any import in the social arena is a stoic face and attitude, something that would have taken him far if not for bad luck. He's a cynical person and has come to a habit of questioning the motives of anyone and anything around him. He considers failure to be a typical state and is genuinely surprised to see anything going right. Strangely enough with that attitude, he absolutely cannot resist a test of chance, maybe as some desperate grasp at being right for once. In addition, his view on society was heavily limited and he finds himself amazed when in the presence of anything resembling a functioning civilization.
History: Martin comes from the Vale. His mother was a prostitute and likely the one that gave his father the venereal disease which would one day claim his father's life. A flesh eating, festering rot that spread from the man's groin into his body at a maliciously slow pace. His other bastard brothers either ran way or died in stupid street brawls over the years and as Martin grew he was the only caretaker of his ailing father. Day after day he would listen to the man's raving about the past and the world at large as the rot overtook his body and his mind. Martin never had time to leave his father's side, venturing away only to tend the property and ensure that some kind of food was growing or provided. One day, Martin's father passed. He had no idea what to do or where to go in life, so he packed up what little he could sell, sold it, and went with the family fortune to gamble. He lost and sold, until what remained was a single knife that his father had raved about particularly much. His father's father's father, on to you now Marty, and so on. He could not sell that knife, and determined on the spot to put his life to better use. It didn't mean much because a few days later he was thrown into a debtor's prison and held at the Eyrie for a time. A significant amount of time. One day a peddler who specialized in 'ladies of the night' who weren't exactly ladies had his go at the dungeons, offering whatever price the lord asked for the finest prisoners of the Vale. Martin, thin of form, was to be sold into prostitution. It was either that, or let some kid watch him thrown from the moon door. He chose the Wall. Martin begged for and was somehow granted leave to take the black and serve the realm as its unlikely protector, and/or steward, in the night.
Awesome, I look forward to getting this all rolling.
Accepted, Pangolin. Welcome aboard. Same as above, feel free to post an intro. We might look out for another bio before starting up proper.
Gertrud opened her mouth to reply, happy to have received such a level response. "Of course n-," and Simone had already brushed past her and started walking off towards wherever stray Simones went to. The smile that had previously graced her face instantly reversed, and she paused a moment to glare in disbelief at how quickly he had simply walked off, again. It was typical, something she really should have gotten used to at this point, but somehow every time he worked his way under her skin. Worse than people who cut lines or didn't return books, even. In a rare display of a complete ignorance of social protocol, she ignored the others and raced off after her weapon. She caught up fairly quickly.
"There you go again," she said, slowing to walk beside Simone. "What was going on back there? What's the big rush for?" Her speech stopped abruptly, stemming even more questions before they could be asked. There wasn't really a point to playing twenty questions right now, no matter what kind of mood she was in. She'd made up her mind to follow and let come what may, so at least when the time for class came she'd be at a suitable distance to enforce responsibility on Simone. She fidgeted with her bag a moment, cringing as she discovered that the neatly folded bundles of her suit had gotten disturbed jostling through crowds.
"Forget it," she said, sighing. "'Where are we going', is all I really want to know."
"There you go again," she said, slowing to walk beside Simone. "What was going on back there? What's the big rush for?" Her speech stopped abruptly, stemming even more questions before they could be asked. There wasn't really a point to playing twenty questions right now, no matter what kind of mood she was in. She'd made up her mind to follow and let come what may, so at least when the time for class came she'd be at a suitable distance to enforce responsibility on Simone. She fidgeted with her bag a moment, cringing as she discovered that the neatly folded bundles of her suit had gotten disturbed jostling through crowds.
"Forget it," she said, sighing. "'Where are we going', is all I really want to know."
While Lena and, apparently, her new meister were breaking in her weapon form Gertrud had gotten sick of waiting and decided to reign in Simone or at least figure out where he was. It was an impossible task, finding him in the immense crowd of weapons and meisters. After several minutes of uncomfortably weaving through people swinging around various weapons and arranging partnerships, cradling her bag all the way, she was about to give up and camp out at the doors. A lucky break arrived in a fit of screaming coming from somewhere behind her. By the time Trude had turned herself around to see what was happening, Simone was standing apart from two women introducing themselves, looking far too serious for his normal self. Her mind went to the worst, but there wasn't any blood so whatever shenanigans were afoot they were nowhere near the scale of the usual 'problems' that came up around Simone and Gertrud. She swept up to Simone on large, gliding strides with a frown etched across her face. Words always came slowly and Trude had no idea what to say to such a dejected looking Simone, especially not when he didn't seem to be actively troubling anyone.
"I've been looking all over for you, Simone," she said, clasping a hand on his shoulder. She looked around, trying to find a clock to no avail. Only the impish sun indicated the time of day, smiling almost maliciously down at the world.
"I think sorting might end soon," Trude added, though it was more than likely far from the truth, she felt like changing whatever topic had been at hand before she arrived was for the better.
"I've been looking all over for you, Simone," she said, clasping a hand on his shoulder. She looked around, trying to find a clock to no avail. Only the impish sun indicated the time of day, smiling almost maliciously down at the world.
"I think sorting might end soon," Trude added, though it was more than likely far from the truth, she felt like changing whatever topic had been at hand before she arrived was for the better.
Gertrud stood back from the two, retreating back to her thoughts for a moment while they had a chance to sort out who would be whose meister and weapon. Green and blue was an interesting color combination, at least to her. She hardly knew a thing about Lena and absolutely nothing about the boy joining the fray, other than that he seemed a little nervous approaching a prospective weapon. Who wouldn't be? It was a difficult proposition to walk up to a stranger and ask them to partner with you. Being a weapon and meister team was more than just an arrangement, it meant welcoming someone else into your life. It reminded her, in a pleasant way, of how simple and quick her own partnering process has been: two kids who knew each other popped out of the woodwork, brought together for the first time in a few years and far too confident from it, to form a team. Trude sighed, looking away from Lena and the newcomer to search the crowd. She couldn't see him among the crowd, and wondered what Simone had gotten himself pulled into in the span of only a few moments. Every now and then she caught fragments of yelling from within the mass of students that sounded just close enough to the Weapon's voice that it might have been him. If there were any kind of involved activities this morning and she showed up separated from her weapon it would be a blunder she would never live down, but after everything else in the first morning back to school even that thought couldn't shred her nerve. Unconsciously, she began to tap her foot as she looked around, waiting again.
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