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Alchemistic said
(Herald .. I am both disturbed .. and slightly aroused. Solid post. I liked the punishment for speaking ill of the ruling castle, though I would like it noted that it should be done when ill will and hate, or cursing, is said directly to his highness, for the hot coals. Anything else could constitute a solid beating (the guards will do that a lot)


Duly noted.
Men, I have a life too. Somewhere around here anyways.

Can really post a reply yet cause I'm at work, but where would you like to go next in the rp?
Vaerun was tossed unceremoniously into his cell, the guards evidently having had more than enough of his smart mouth from the long walk to the dungeon. He rolled as he hit the ground, taking the impact on his shoulder and distributing the damage across his shoulderblades. He bit his cheek to stop himself from giving the guardsmen any satisfaction from a cry of pain, and instead began to look around what was likely to be his new home for the rest of his life.

It was dank. Dreary. Cold...

Everything a cell below the capitol building of Providence should be. The bars were over two inches thick, and ran ceiling to floor and were covered in rust, blood, and other substances best left to the imagination. He knew these cells harbored only the worst kinds of prisoners, the kind that the kingdom simply didn't trust without a virtual army living over their heads. As his eyes scanned the dark shadows of his cell, he noted several things, each more disheartening than the last.

The first was that although the bars were quite filthy with rust, evidence of several attempts to pry them apart was also present, with no signs of success. The second was that the bucket he could only assume was meant to be his bathroom, looked as though it hadn't been changed in several days and Vaerun could swear there was a splinter of three poking upwards from the rim. His bedding was in a similar condition, the filthy straw scattered about the cell and practically soaked in grime. All of that could be managed, what really made Vaerun's hair stand on end was one simple fact.

He wasn't alone in the cell.

A massive and overly muscled man leaned against the back wall of the cell, grinning at Vaerun with a look that was halfway between hunger and amusement. To either side of him were two less burly men, but each still likely had a good twenty five pounds or so on Vaerun. As they stared each other down, the guards began to laugh.

"We'll be back in a few minutes for you, traitor," one of them said between chuckles, "you'll have to wait and introduce yourselves later boys, but do give our friend here the best of your hospitality."

Vaerun smirked, "oh I'm sure we'll be the best of friends. I'm very sociable."

The guards departed, leaving the four men to glare at each other in silence for a few minutes. Vaerun had yet to move from where the guards had thrown him, save to stand up and dust himself off. Deciding that this was getting him nowhere fast, Vaerun approached the other group and held out his mind, smiling at the biggest of the three men.

"Good evening friends," Vaerun said, "let me guess....,"

He pointed to the biggest man "Alpha male...,"

The biggest man grinned again.

Vaerun looked at his companions, pointing at each of them in turn, "and his two bitches. Am I right?"

Both men stiffened, a look of pure rage crossing their features yet neither made a move to attack him. Vaerun guessed they wouldn't, not unless big boy here told them too. That was good, he liked dealing with people who couldn't think for themselves. "And I assume I'm supposed to be the new prison service boy, eh?"

The big man grinned again, and now that he was closer he noted the peculiar burn marks around the edges of his mouth. Someone had placed hot coals in his mouth, a common punishment for those who had spoken ill of the ruling caste. Small wonder he hadn't spoken yet. Scars were a good sign though, it meant he was either too slow, or too stupid to avoid getting caught.

"Well see that's just not going to work I'm afraid," Vaerun began, walking back to the bars, "you see my friend, I've become accustomed to doing things a certain way." He ran a hand down one of the cleaner area of the bar. Pure wrought iron.

"And one of those ways is not taking orders from men who look like they pound their face with a meat tenderizer every morning," Vaerun said, and the man's smirk disappeared, "what's the matter? Cat got your tongue?"

The man let out an unintelligible grunt of rage, likely attempting to threaten Vaerun with something nasty. He began to stomp forward, raising his fists when the guards returned. The man glanced sideways at the guardsmen then retreated to the back of his cell.

"That's right little doggie, the masters are here, time to tuck your tail and hide," Vaerun said, chuckling. The guardsmen entered the cell, tying Vaerun's hands together with rope and giving him a good bash in the stomach with a cudgel for good measure. Vaerun doubled over, coughing and trying to resist theurge to vomit as they hauled him down the corridors.

"Time to get your mark, scum," one of them said, "you'll bear it the rest of your miserable life. Don't worry though, that not like to be very long at all..."
Khaylan stirred, his whole body shuddering as though life was only just now returning to his form. He let out a grown of pain, his every nerve feeling as though it were burning. How did I end up on the street, Khaylan thought to himself, struggling to push himself off the ground. He managed to rise to his knees, then blinked repeatedly in confusion as he realized there was a sword next to him. His sword.

"What in all the nine accursed hells happened to me?," he muttered, reaching over and stifling a moan of pain as another wave of agony slid through his body. He seized his sword, returning it to its sheath. As the sword slid home, he felt two strong arms slide under his own and pull him to his feet. Looking to either side, he saw the faces of the two knights that had been accompanying him on his foray into the village. That was when the memories came flooding back.

He thrashed and shoved both knights away, his eyes scanning the area for the whereabouts of the witch. She seemed to have slipped away while he was unconscious, however. His subconscious began to wonder why she didn't simply kill him while he lay there helpless. Witches were not known for their mercy, and the thought that he might be worse off alive sent a shudder down his spine. He glanced at the two knights at his side, wondering how much they knew about his connection with the witch. He could always deny the words of the peasants, but an accussation from not one, but two brother knights would damn him almost instantaneously. If either of them knew anything, they weren't showing it. Instead, they seemed focused on the songstress and her companions.

One of the knights approached the other group, pointing an accussatory finger at Miranda. "You. You brought a witch into the village!"

Khaylan put his hand on the shoulder of the knight. "Be at ease. Now is not the time for this."
No worries. Real life comes first.
Alchemistic is not for everyone. Please consult your physician before roleplaying.
Too early to say really. I like the plot and the races are fascinating. Im actually impressed with the amount the both of you are posting. Im used to advanced being about sixish paragraphs or so. Was not expecting to be out-posted so early in the game.

Ah well, the bigger the challenge, the better.
Posted. I played with the cosmetic effects of the magic a bit. Hope you approve.
"Feisty one, she," the witch said, barely flinching from the girl's attempts to inflict injury."And yet none will save her; because chivalry is long since dead."


"Damn you, witch!," Khaylan shouted, freeig his sword from its sheath at last. There might be no love lost between him and Miranda, but he would rather be damned than watch this witch victimize someone else. "She has nothing to do with this. You want me."

The witch however, had something in mind. Even as Khaylan tried to approach, she drove her impossibly sharp fingernails into Miranda's shoulder."The blood in this wench's veins will be your undoing, Khaylan," she said, and words of power echoed from her throat, the flowing blood dripping to the ground and forming some sort of symbol that Khaylan had never seen before. He took a step forward, his sword raised, ready to end this once and for all when the spell's power overtook him.

He writhed in agony as the powerful curse began to take shape, the blood flowing from the magical symbol up his boots, legs, and onto his chest. The blood seeped through his vest, ruining the fabric, but what was even more concerning was the symbol it began to draw on Khaylan's chest. His sword clattered to the ground, his mind so full of pain he couldn't even control his own body. The blood felt more like silver that had been heated to its melting point and poured onto his bare flesh.

He screamed. For how long, he didn't know. He only knew that the moment the witch ceased casting her spell, his vision began to blur and fade. And the last thing he heard before losing consciousness wasthe sound of her grating laughter.
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