Don’t worry about it, mate. It’s the end of term for me, so I’ve got plenty to occupy myself with anyhow.
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Cassius
22 y/o | Male | High Elf | 6'7STR [2] | DEX [3] | MAG [1] | DEF [1] | RES [1] | AGI [3] | LCK [4]
《 Level 1 Bandit 》
𖦭
Personality
A bastard, to be sure. A scornful, smug bastard, who sees those around him as nothing more than methods of advancing himself or indulging his pleasures. Really, he's nothing more than a low-tier thug, a born criminal with no future prospects other than a prison or a grave. What's the point of playing nice, in a world even more cannibalistic than the last? Here, at least, he'll take all that he wanted and fill up his stomach before it's time to leave.
Cassius is here for a good time, not a long time.
Cassius is here for a good time, not a long time.
History
It's not that complicated, really.
Once he died in such a stupid, random, unfair way, he left behind every reason to remain a law-abiding, hard-working, productive member of society. In a world so fantastical, so nonsensical, that it feels like walking through a waking dream, what reason is there to pretend that it's real? What are these people, except walking flesh that are even more surreal than the humans of his past life? He was not born here. He was not raised here. He was made here, injected into this wonderland after being exiled from his home. There was nothing to fear.
After all, if he died again, so what?
He knows what lies beyond the grave.
Once he died in such a stupid, random, unfair way, he left behind every reason to remain a law-abiding, hard-working, productive member of society. In a world so fantastical, so nonsensical, that it feels like walking through a waking dream, what reason is there to pretend that it's real? What are these people, except walking flesh that are even more surreal than the humans of his past life? He was not born here. He was not raised here. He was made here, injected into this wonderland after being exiled from his home. There was nothing to fear.
After all, if he died again, so what?
He knows what lies beyond the grave.
Cassius
22 y/o | Male | High Elf | 6'7STR [2] | DEX [3] | MAG [1] | DEF [1] | RES [1] | AGI [3] | LCK [4]
《 Level 1 Bandit 》
𖦭
Personality
A bastard, to be sure. A scornful, smug bastard, who sees those around him as nothing more than methods of advancing himself or indulging his pleasures. Really, he's nothing more than a low-tier thug, a born criminal with no future prospects other than a prison or a grave. What's the point of playing nice, in a world even more cannibalistic than the last? Here, at least, he'll take all that he wanted and fill up his stomach before it's time to leave.
Cassius is here for a good time, not a long time.
Cassius is here for a good time, not a long time.
History
It's not that complicated, really.
Once he died in such a stupid, random, unfair way, he left behind every reason to remain a law-abiding, hard-working, productive member of society. In a world so fantastical, so nonsensical, that it feels like walking through a waking dream, what reason is there to pretend that it's real? What are these people, except walking flesh that are even more surreal than the humans of his past life? He was not born here. He was not raised here. He was made here, injected into this wonderland after being exiled from his home. There was nothing to fear.
After all, if he died again, so what?
He knows what lies beyond the grave.
Once he died in such a stupid, random, unfair way, he left behind every reason to remain a law-abiding, hard-working, productive member of society. In a world so fantastical, so nonsensical, that it feels like walking through a waking dream, what reason is there to pretend that it's real? What are these people, except walking flesh that are even more surreal than the humans of his past life? He was not born here. He was not raised here. He was made here, injected into this wonderland after being exiled from his home. There was nothing to fear.
After all, if he died again, so what?
He knows what lies beyond the grave.
Yeah, unless ya got anything extra, Zeroth, that's probably all Esfir'll do for the rest of the night. I'm seriously running out of camp things that she'd be interested in pursuing kekek.
A monopoly, or at least a superiority, in violence.
That sounded like an appropriate resource to develop then. Esfir, certainly, couldn't lay out an adult orc with a singular punch the same way that Xolkug did, and if she had used a weapon, that would have escalated the situation too. Fisticuffs were an expression of aggression; a blade drawn lead to a certainty of death.
As the last of the sausage disappeared, she wiped her hands of grease and fat by scrubbing it against the dirt, before tossing the charred stick she had been using as a utensil into the flames. The orcs that had gathered were gone at this point, their stomachs not satisfied but their taste buds happy, and it was now truly dipping towards the evening. All that remained was a shelter, and Esfir scampered off to get one set up. Looking towards the sky, it didn't appear as if it would rain, so she settled for a quick concept. Taking her hatchet, the runt headed off to the copse of dead wood around the camp, cutting off longer branches to serve as a simply frame for a shelter that would be just large enough to sit down in. The Harpy's wing membranes that she had kept were stretched out over the A-frame made from the branches, then secured in place by a combination of the remaining Mycellium lashes and the more pliable roots that she dug out from the earth. Maybe tomorrow, she'll spend the time to harvest leafier branches from the nearby forest to better help with rain-proofing and insulating the shelter, but it'll have to do for now. A lightweight shelter that was mostly just good for windbreaking would be fine.
And as for the matter of security...
Esfir looked at what remained in her bag. She had taken all she could from her kills at the start, mostly under the presumption of waste-not-want-not, but now, a lot of it just appeared to be...unusable. That was good though. There were some things that could be cared for, and others that could be treated as disposable. The rocks she had were kept for Bowbh, and she still figured that there was something useful to be garnered from the more 'unique' parts of the beasts she slew, but those cracked claws and horns? The talons? She could find more mushrooms in the future, and those rotleaves didn't look like they were an uncommon occurrence either. So instead, the Runt laid out all the mish-mash of sharp animal parts she had and used a stick to crush the rotberries and mushroom bits together into a paste. Carefully, she wiped that paste upon the broken claws and points, then scattered them around the entrance of her shelter, before throwing a dusting of dirt over top to hide it.
It would be easy enough to cross if one took an abnormally long step into the open entrance of her tent, but who would do that, unless they knew of the 'caltrops' she had laid in front? And her own shelter was separated far away enough from the others that one would have to intentionally walk towards it in order to step upon the caltrops to begin with.
At least, that was the hope.
...she wasn't going to think about the off-chance of someone walking up to her shelter because they wanted to go talk to her.
@Zeroth
That sounded like an appropriate resource to develop then. Esfir, certainly, couldn't lay out an adult orc with a singular punch the same way that Xolkug did, and if she had used a weapon, that would have escalated the situation too. Fisticuffs were an expression of aggression; a blade drawn lead to a certainty of death.
As the last of the sausage disappeared, she wiped her hands of grease and fat by scrubbing it against the dirt, before tossing the charred stick she had been using as a utensil into the flames. The orcs that had gathered were gone at this point, their stomachs not satisfied but their taste buds happy, and it was now truly dipping towards the evening. All that remained was a shelter, and Esfir scampered off to get one set up. Looking towards the sky, it didn't appear as if it would rain, so she settled for a quick concept. Taking her hatchet, the runt headed off to the copse of dead wood around the camp, cutting off longer branches to serve as a simply frame for a shelter that would be just large enough to sit down in. The Harpy's wing membranes that she had kept were stretched out over the A-frame made from the branches, then secured in place by a combination of the remaining Mycellium lashes and the more pliable roots that she dug out from the earth. Maybe tomorrow, she'll spend the time to harvest leafier branches from the nearby forest to better help with rain-proofing and insulating the shelter, but it'll have to do for now. A lightweight shelter that was mostly just good for windbreaking would be fine.
And as for the matter of security...
Esfir looked at what remained in her bag. She had taken all she could from her kills at the start, mostly under the presumption of waste-not-want-not, but now, a lot of it just appeared to be...unusable. That was good though. There were some things that could be cared for, and others that could be treated as disposable. The rocks she had were kept for Bowbh, and she still figured that there was something useful to be garnered from the more 'unique' parts of the beasts she slew, but those cracked claws and horns? The talons? She could find more mushrooms in the future, and those rotleaves didn't look like they were an uncommon occurrence either. So instead, the Runt laid out all the mish-mash of sharp animal parts she had and used a stick to crush the rotberries and mushroom bits together into a paste. Carefully, she wiped that paste upon the broken claws and points, then scattered them around the entrance of her shelter, before throwing a dusting of dirt over top to hide it.
It would be easy enough to cross if one took an abnormally long step into the open entrance of her tent, but who would do that, unless they knew of the 'caltrops' she had laid in front? And her own shelter was separated far away enough from the others that one would have to intentionally walk towards it in order to step upon the caltrops to begin with.
At least, that was the hope.
...she wasn't going to think about the off-chance of someone walking up to her shelter because they wanted to go talk to her.
@Zeroth
In
Reborn in a Fantasy World, This Time I Shall...! (Interest Check)
→
7 mos ago
Forum: Casual Interest Checks
Will keep an eye on this. Isekai truly is brainrot, regardless of my thoughts on the genre outside of RP.
Goblin livers, their weapons (she'd recognize the same kinda spear that Theo had), as well as small pouches they carry that contain shiny tokens and whatnot. Predictably, goblins don't drop great loot, but if she was trained as a monster slayer, usually she'd make money off of the act of killing a monster, rather than the act of butchering a monster. Adventurers in Oratorio, however, make most of their income from the latter.
//A7 - The Ever-Burning Mausoleum
It was a solid building, with solid chimneys. No windows from the outside, but the chanting of canticles sounded alongside the rising plumes. It was continuous, that liturgy, a task taken on in succession rather than unison, but the words were ancient or foreign, indecipherable beyond the underlying emotion within the art.
If the end came, let it be bright.
The Ever-Burning Mausoleum was such a building, and when Lethe pulled the doors open, he could feel how heavy they were, could feel the hot draft that struck him as if he were entering a forge. His eyes teared up from that ambient heat, his dark clothes ill-suited for the searing brightness of the undying pyre. Acolytes, half-naked to avoid an unwanted immolation, chanted and raked ashes in sequence. It was through the gift of the Thousand-Faced that such miracles could be accomplished to begin with, magic alone being the source of the inferno that so readily blackened and disintegrated bodies beyond recognition.
Here too, however, money remained something to be considered. Clear prices segregated the services that would be given to the rich and the poor and those in between. The more money one spent, the whiter the ashes, the more private and glorious the spectacle. No doubt, the cheaper prices had no guarantee to begin with, that the ash brought back truly belonged to the one that was sent off.
Perhaps that was just another compromise though. If one’s life had burnt out, then so too ought one’s flesh.
"You appear to not require our services," a man, noteworthy due only to his age and the burn scars entwining with his sinew, approached Lethe's flock. "Are you followers of the Flame-Face? Or have you come only to watch our ceremonies?"
@Thayr
//A3 - The Mug At Dusk
It could have ended in bloodshed and great loss, or even just a first blood and a small loss.
But instead, nothing had come of the encounter, that monstrous swordswoman breaking away and retreating. It had been an exchange that only lasted a fraction of a minute at most, far too short for any of the bystanders to have really noticed or considered it to be of any concern.
For those involved, however, it had changed everything. There was no mistaking it, after all. If that woman had not announced her presence, if she had simply steeled her resolve and struck like a proper bandit would, Theodore would be missing his head. Even if they had fought her with all they had, with all of Theo’s followers, they would’ve likely been on the losing end. It was by the fortune of her weak will that those who were Blessed by Blood had not been forced to swallow their pride and run away.
And now, there was a true and proper conundrum. Was it still wise to split, when that inconstant Ichor-Blessed could change her mind and return? Was it smart, however, to simply miss his other three followers, in an unknown city that was approaching the gloom of gloaming? If there was one Ichor-Blessed, there had to be more. Who knew how many threats remained then, how many who would be as flagrantly aggressive as that swordswoman?
Regardless of what Theo thought, regardless of what he did, he found himself sitting across from Samuel in a dingy pub. The Mug At Dusk was a proper hole-in-the-wall, squished between two more raucous establishments. Candles burned away by the half-dozens within the building, its dim light serving more to accentuate shadow than to illuminate darkness. Some huddled to play cards or games of chance. Others whispered furtively, planning heists or trysts. Still more remained by themselves, their moods ill-suited for the revelry that was common in other parts of the Adventurer’s District.
Samuel himself, however, was in a good mood.
“C’mon, mate, drink up,” he gestured. “Yah got outta it with your head intact and your wallet unharmed, so what’s there to sulk about? Now for real here, what exactly is your deal here? Divinity, blood-drinking, monster bait, tell me everything you can offer, and maybe you’ll get real rich, real quick.”
@SilverPaw
//The Abyss
The Abyss welcomed her.
Even as the day died, after all, there were still guards up on the walls, ferrying adventurers up and down, and Elys too found herself descending into the darkness. Without the sun overhead, darkness consumed the Ichor-Blessed of the Void in her entirety, dark robes mixing with deep shadow. She could not appreciate the fog until she felt the damp against her skin. She could not appreciate the ridgeline terrain that paradoxically persisted in the depths of the earth, but could feel the softness of the grass beneath her feet. She could not appreciate the vibrant hues of the wildflowers yet smelled their scent in the misplaced breeze.
The beauty of the Abyss, its allure of adventure within a nonsensical labyrinth, was perhaps lost upon her, who sought only to wield her blade and to lose herself in the death-dance. To lose her thoughts before what she sought to achieve clashed once more with her own ideals as a human being.
It was a seductive thing though, the Abyss.
Even if ‘adventure’ was lost to her, ‘battle’ was not. And as the earth around her began to shift, the labyrinth rearranging itself beneath the twinkling rapture of the Perishing Star that crested over the horizon, she could feel it.
Monsters. Drawn to her, and her alone. Motley crews of murderous goblinoids, the entirety of their meagre intelligence driven to violence and plunder. If they had freedom of choice, they would undoubtedly be ‘evil’, but just as animals were driven to predation without burden upon their souls, so too were monsters driven towards the destruction of the creations of the Thousand-Faced Deity.
They would come. She would fight.
Perhaps that is where her solace lied, her identity as a monster slayer.
Or perhaps that is where she would fall further, away from what an Ichor-Blessed ought to be.
@Estylwen
Otis just lost his title as the Dark One, eh?
Time to rebrand as the Gray One.
Time to rebrand as the Gray One.
I'll post after Sifr does.
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