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After a slight pause, Flake got an unexpected response from Raine. “Geeze Flake. Did you let them run all over you or something?” The bounty hunter looked over at her in confusion, opening his mouth to talk, but instead spat out more blood which was collecting in his throat. His nose-bleed was clotting, but there was still enough blood floating around to pose a minor annoyance. Flake wasn’t a doctor by any sense of the imagination, but he knew enough about blood to know that he’d be fine soon. His confused expression returned as she finally answered his question.
“They can keep us in here for as long as they want. We’re traitors, and they do not want to put the public in danger by letting us go,” she responded. Flake was satisfied with this answer, so he leaned forwards again to stop the blood from leaking back into his throat. Suddenly, Raine continued, “And sit back, you’ll make the bleeding worse,” as she gently pushed him back, further surprising him. What is with her? She’s acting like… he thought, his train of thought interrupted as he started listening to Raine continue speaking.
“Now, of course we don’t have to stay in here for the rest of our lives,” she pointed out, “we can always find a way out of here, ya know?” Flake managed to suppress the urge to grin after hearing this: he needed to keep Delta Six a secret for awhile longer. “Also,” she continued, “you’ll just have to deal with any pain you’re feeling until night falls.” This point did make Flake grin. He had dealt with pain far worse than he was feeling now. Raine then explained, “Oruin won’t be back until then.”
After Raine had finished her speaking, Flake cleared his throat of blood once more, spitting to the side of the bed, then scornfully responded, “The only medicine I need right now is rest. I appreciate the concern, but choking won’t make my nose stop bleeding any faster.” He paused for a moment after saying this, pushing Raine back so he could lean forwards once more, then, with an intrigued look, asked, “who’s Oruin? Never heard of him.”
- Last Seen: 6 yrs ago
- Old Guild Username: Icicle
- Joined: 11 yrs ago
- Posts: 252 (0.06 / day)
- VMs: 1
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Username history
- icicle 11 yrs ago
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9 yrs ago
Current
It's pretty chilly today. :3
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Bio
If you are reading this,
Send me a message. I do not care what you send, just send me something. :P
Most Recent Posts
Welcome to the guild!
In case you do not know everything, I have a few tips for getting started here(as a new member, not as a RPer). I'd advise looking at the interest checks if you are looking for a roleplay, because there are tons of them. If you are lazy, you can go ahead and make you own.
If you haven't already, there are a few Articles and Guides that you can read, provided you have the time, a new user's guide which explains most of the features of this site, and the rules of the guild.
If you're interested in starting a roleplay with me, I have my interest thread linked in my signature which you can check out.
In any case, I wish you a great time here! Stay frosty!
-Icicle
In case you do not know everything, I have a few tips for getting started here(as a new member, not as a RPer). I'd advise looking at the interest checks if you are looking for a roleplay, because there are tons of them. If you are lazy, you can go ahead and make you own.
If you haven't already, there are a few Articles and Guides that you can read, provided you have the time, a new user's guide which explains most of the features of this site, and the rules of the guild.
If you're interested in starting a roleplay with me, I have my interest thread linked in my signature which you can check out.
In any case, I wish you a great time here! Stay frosty!
-Icicle
Character #2:
Name: Ratimir Floros, "the Breaker"
Appearance: A sweet-faced man with eyes of pure compassion. Judging from his towering figure of 6'2", most people need to look up to talk him in the eye. His stocky, lean appearance and hardy beard can easily intimidate anyone upon first glance. Both of his hands and feet are heavily callused, and his physical shape is superb, due to field work and training. A few minor scratches and scrapes lie on his upper body from previous fights, along with three major scars, one on his left thigh, one along his chest, and one on his right shoulder. His hair is normally disheveled and short(knife-cut). Clothes he wears are always worn out significantly, and his shoes never last very long.
Overall. upon first meeting Ratimir, one would think of him as a mercenary or a traveler. He never carries a weapon, only a finely polished steel shield and a rucksack of food, water and medical supplies.
Magic: The Breaker uses his magical talent, "vanish," to defend himself and others at all costs. This magic skill calls upon a being of great power in order to conjure a magical powder over the surface of an object. This powder exhausts The Breaker based on how much it moves, how much is conjured, and how long it is conjured.
This magic powder sticks temporarily to any surface it is summoned on, perfectly bending all light around it, leaving the object covered with the powder utterly invisible to all forms of light detection. If the object moves too quickly or is hit forcefully, the powder will disappear completely around said object. If the object moves with powder on, no matter how slowly, distortion will occur around the object, making the object slightly more detectable.
This magic can be used up to four hours a day per square foot of surface area covered with the magic powder, not counting movement of the object. This skill has a very low mental exhaustion rate if used correctly, and can completely exhaust the user in seconds if used poorly. No laser can hit a target which is covered in this magical powder, however, physical objects can still hit objects covered in the magical powder. When used on himself without moving, he can remain invisible for around ten minutes a day.
Training: Throughout his life, The Breaker has been known for his amazing non-lethal battle tactics. From talking to famous traveling fighters and reading books about the body, he has learned a great deal of skills with which he can disable, knock out, pin, bar, and/or throw targets without causing any permanent harm to them. He adapted a mixed fighting style which gives him a great deal of flexibility in grappling and closing distance to targets. Normally, he will use his invisibility to confuse a target and catch him/her/it by surprise.
When the robots started to pose more of a threat than his fellow humans, The Breaker started to make use of a beautifully polished steel shield to keep from taking too many hits from the robots' lasers. He also adjusted his fighting strategy to either use the robot's weapons against them, or to remove their weapons. His non-lethal and highly defensive tactics have led to many unnecessary injuries, but many lives were saved as a result of his efforts.
Personality: The Breaker is adamantly opposed to killing and to causing unnecessary harm. He is usually optimistic, rarely solemn, and always ready to talk or sing. His mere presence lightens the mood among friends of his. No matter who is in trouble, The Breaker will attempt to help or save them if possible. Even when alone, The Breaker has an unrelenting, positive attitude towards peace and life. His anger is almost never present, but is extremely violent and explosive when present. He has no regard for the well-being of robots, seeing as he does not think of them as "living."
Backstory: The Breaker got his name from destroying a large group of robots with his bare hands when he got caught in an important battle. His efforts were spread far and wide, and thus he got his name, "The Breaker" or rarely as, "Ratimir the Savior." He was always seen as an invaluable asset in defending friends, especially when working with a small number of other people. When it comes to larger scale fights, the sight of blood, scent of burning flesh and sound of screams has greatly reduced his effectiveness in combat. Even still, his invisibility posed a valuable asset in the fight against the machines.
His parents were very caring, both still alive and well within his home city. He had few friends growing up, but to those who bothered to befriend him, he defended them in every situation he found himself in. He was not always loyal, nor honest, nor quick-witted, but he never let a man take a hit or die in his place.
KatherinWinter said
Wow thought there would be more interest.....
If you want more people to be interested, add more to your first post. It's underwhelming to click on a thread and see only one line of text for a first post, and it gives no indication of your writing abilities or interests.
Anyway, good luck.
Flake noted that Raine did not respond immediately, to his surprise. As he wiped a bit of blood off his face, he saw Raine approach him from his peripheral vision. “What did you do to get thrown in here, and why?” Raine asked, her tone dripping with curiosity. Flake felt around his mouth with his tongue to ensure he didn’t lose any teeth, then he responded, “long story short: they think I’m a traitor,” with a nasal voice. He was gradually starting to feel the damages he had taken as his adrenaline drained away, resulting in a lowered capacity to retain a neutral expression.
The man had taken quite a few hits, but he had taken them well. The only signs of major damage were present in his face, where he had a black eye and a few bruises. His fighting experience and solid muscles absorbed the hits like armor. It was well noted that the hits he took were not made to kill him. His broken ribs were an unavoidable result of getting beaten, but his tunic was still fully intact, thus there was no visible sign that he took any hits below his clothing. He checked to see if his nose was still bleeding as he finished the last words of his comment, but pinched his nose again after a few drops of blood leaked out.
He then spat out a bit of blood which leaked into his throat from his nose-bleed and paused. Flake needed the time to collect his thoughts and suppress the signals of pain and fear running across his mind. With a somewhat retained composure, Flake looked over at Raine, still pinching his nose, and continued, “I suppose we are traitors…murderers betraying murderers.” He then looked towards the ground, where a few drops of blood had pooled, and asked, “how long do you think they’ll keep us here?” slumping forward slightly to examine the liquid on the floor.
The man had taken quite a few hits, but he had taken them well. The only signs of major damage were present in his face, where he had a black eye and a few bruises. His fighting experience and solid muscles absorbed the hits like armor. It was well noted that the hits he took were not made to kill him. His broken ribs were an unavoidable result of getting beaten, but his tunic was still fully intact, thus there was no visible sign that he took any hits below his clothing. He checked to see if his nose was still bleeding as he finished the last words of his comment, but pinched his nose again after a few drops of blood leaked out.
He then spat out a bit of blood which leaked into his throat from his nose-bleed and paused. Flake needed the time to collect his thoughts and suppress the signals of pain and fear running across his mind. With a somewhat retained composure, Flake looked over at Raine, still pinching his nose, and continued, “I suppose we are traitors…murderers betraying murderers.” He then looked towards the ground, where a few drops of blood had pooled, and asked, “how long do you think they’ll keep us here?” slumping forward slightly to examine the liquid on the floor.
Hello and good evening! I am sorry to say that I have not found interest in any of your three propositions, however I have three of my own on my interest check. A link is in my signature. If you are interested in one of those, or interested in role playing with me in general, send me a PM!
(I know it's supposed to be me sending you a PM, but, hey, gotta get two sides to a conversation, right?)
(I know it's supposed to be me sending you a PM, but, hey, gotta get two sides to a conversation, right?)
I have added a few new ideas. Give me some feedback, internet people.
AKA, this is a bump.
AKA, this is a bump.
During the night, hours before dawn, Flake decided that he could sleep no more and shot out of his bed. Immediately, the man disrobed and searched his shack for some normal civilian clothing. He dug down to his hidden chest and shoved his armor, sword, knives, boots, and a few other valuables, then locked it, covered it, and hid its location once more. The man then calmly dressed in a thin woolen tunic, undergarments and thin leather shoes and left, looking little more than a commoner. He was completely unarmed, however his scars were enough to discourage any common man from asking for a fight.
Flake had taken a great many hits over his fighting career. Most of the more visible scars were caused by Drake, but he had a great story for each of them. His neck and face were more-or-less unharmed, miraculously, but the rest of his body had at least one scar over every muscle and bone. For a man so young, he had certainly taken far more than his fair share of hits. The most surprising thing about it is that each hit was taken on purpose, or so he says. He couldn’t help but think about his scars, as he no longer had his armor to cover them up.
After a long walk, Flake came across Drake in the town hall. Drak had finished his work early and left the garrison to meet Flake in this designated location. “Good, you got it!” Flake commented, applauding Drake. “Not so loud,” Drake responded, shushing his comrade as he quickly made his way over to him, “Delta Six?” he asked, frowning at Flake. Flake nodded silently, then pointed towards a vacated fruit stand and commanded, “stand there, and don’t make a big scene out of it.” Drake then nodded, then handed Flake a moderately large knife and walked over to his position. Flake took the knife and walked into an alleyway, concealing the weapon in his sleeve.
The two waited in their positions until sunrise, when activity started to rise in the town square. “Time to shine,” Flake murmured to himself, then he rose from his position and started walking towards the market. Drake saw the man walk out of the alley, then shifted a little in his position, preparing a few lines. Flake walked through the crowd rather calmly, smiling innocently all the while, and headed towards the tax stand. When he made it to the tax stand, the wooden structure across from the fruit stand Drake stood at, Flake pulled out his knife and started madly chopping at the wood, resulting in a sudden panic.
The guards at the stall quickly rose from their positions and apprehended Flake, who gave up immediately after they reached him. Drake ran over as Flake was being chained and commented, “I saw what happened here, turn him.” The guards then turned Flake towards Drake, who stared into the bounty hunter’s eyes and growled, “did you conduct this treason willingly and thoughtfully?” Flake then spat in Drake’s face and shouted, “Yes! Of course, idiots! To hell with you all!” in the most immature tone he could muster. Drake and Flake then barely held in their laughter, in fact, Drake had to slap Flake’s face and grit his teeth to stop himself as the other guards laughed their heads off. “Take him to the small chambers, bottom of the First Dungeon.”
The guards affirmed their orders and two immediately left, practically carrying Flake as they went due to his light struggling. “I can’t believe it…kids nowadays…” one of the guards commented, shaking his head scornfully. Drake thought, a kid who can get me?...I cant believe it either… and dismissed the guard to continue his duty and repair the stall.
Flake got hit a few times on his way to the dungeon, both guards having been agitated by Flake’s act. He got beaten twice, resulting in a black eye, a few bruises, and a possibly broken rib. The things I do for a friend Flake commented, still struggling lightly as they made it to the first dungeon’s gate. “Open, we have a prisoner,” the first guard commanded, saluting the man in the turret, who then motioned for the gates to be opened. As always, the iron bars rose out of the guards’ way and allowed them to walk into the dungeon, carrying Flake. They had to force him through the doorway and into the dungeon, holding down his arms so he wouldn’t grab onto any bars. “This one’s a fighter,” a guard commented looking at the attendance keeper, amazed at the boy’s endurance, “What’s your name, son?”
Flake responded, “The names’ Alphonse. That’s all you scum are getting.” He then amassed a large bit of saliva and spat in the face of one of the guards, who promptly knocked the wind out of Flake in response. “A real fighter,” the guard added, wiping the spit out of his face as the other guard wrote down the name, “we were told to take him to the small chambers in the basement.” The guard with the attendance sheet then commented, “go ahead, there’s plenty of room in the first cell.” The guards then escorted Flake over to the stairwell and practically kicked him down.
Flake landed at the bottom of the stairs face-first, then rolling upright and running towards the other wall with extremely tiny steps due to his chains. “Get the hell back here!” one of the guards shouted in exasperation, sprinting after Flake, then tackling him to the ground. They opened the cell with the assassin in it and commented, “you’re getting friend you might just like! A traitor, just like you!” one of the guards said as the other one lifted Flake by the collar and the leg-chains and chucked him into the room. The guard quickly smacked Flake over the head another time, just to be sure, and unshackled him, hastily exiting the cell and locking the door. Flake lay motionless on the floor as the other two guards left, both commenting on how they deserved a rank-up.
Finally, after a few moments, Flake looked over to Raine on the floor and, after recognizing her, enthusiastically commented, “well whaddaya know! It’s the accursed assassin, in the flesh!” as a bit of blood trickled down his nose. He then dizzily rose to his feet, brushed himself off, and sat down on a “bed." He felt his face for wounds, and thus pinched his nose to stop the bleeding.
Flake had taken a great many hits over his fighting career. Most of the more visible scars were caused by Drake, but he had a great story for each of them. His neck and face were more-or-less unharmed, miraculously, but the rest of his body had at least one scar over every muscle and bone. For a man so young, he had certainly taken far more than his fair share of hits. The most surprising thing about it is that each hit was taken on purpose, or so he says. He couldn’t help but think about his scars, as he no longer had his armor to cover them up.
After a long walk, Flake came across Drake in the town hall. Drak had finished his work early and left the garrison to meet Flake in this designated location. “Good, you got it!” Flake commented, applauding Drake. “Not so loud,” Drake responded, shushing his comrade as he quickly made his way over to him, “Delta Six?” he asked, frowning at Flake. Flake nodded silently, then pointed towards a vacated fruit stand and commanded, “stand there, and don’t make a big scene out of it.” Drake then nodded, then handed Flake a moderately large knife and walked over to his position. Flake took the knife and walked into an alleyway, concealing the weapon in his sleeve.
The two waited in their positions until sunrise, when activity started to rise in the town square. “Time to shine,” Flake murmured to himself, then he rose from his position and started walking towards the market. Drake saw the man walk out of the alley, then shifted a little in his position, preparing a few lines. Flake walked through the crowd rather calmly, smiling innocently all the while, and headed towards the tax stand. When he made it to the tax stand, the wooden structure across from the fruit stand Drake stood at, Flake pulled out his knife and started madly chopping at the wood, resulting in a sudden panic.
The guards at the stall quickly rose from their positions and apprehended Flake, who gave up immediately after they reached him. Drake ran over as Flake was being chained and commented, “I saw what happened here, turn him.” The guards then turned Flake towards Drake, who stared into the bounty hunter’s eyes and growled, “did you conduct this treason willingly and thoughtfully?” Flake then spat in Drake’s face and shouted, “Yes! Of course, idiots! To hell with you all!” in the most immature tone he could muster. Drake and Flake then barely held in their laughter, in fact, Drake had to slap Flake’s face and grit his teeth to stop himself as the other guards laughed their heads off. “Take him to the small chambers, bottom of the First Dungeon.”
The guards affirmed their orders and two immediately left, practically carrying Flake as they went due to his light struggling. “I can’t believe it…kids nowadays…” one of the guards commented, shaking his head scornfully. Drake thought, a kid who can get me?...I cant believe it either… and dismissed the guard to continue his duty and repair the stall.
Flake got hit a few times on his way to the dungeon, both guards having been agitated by Flake’s act. He got beaten twice, resulting in a black eye, a few bruises, and a possibly broken rib. The things I do for a friend Flake commented, still struggling lightly as they made it to the first dungeon’s gate. “Open, we have a prisoner,” the first guard commanded, saluting the man in the turret, who then motioned for the gates to be opened. As always, the iron bars rose out of the guards’ way and allowed them to walk into the dungeon, carrying Flake. They had to force him through the doorway and into the dungeon, holding down his arms so he wouldn’t grab onto any bars. “This one’s a fighter,” a guard commented looking at the attendance keeper, amazed at the boy’s endurance, “What’s your name, son?”
Flake responded, “The names’ Alphonse. That’s all you scum are getting.” He then amassed a large bit of saliva and spat in the face of one of the guards, who promptly knocked the wind out of Flake in response. “A real fighter,” the guard added, wiping the spit out of his face as the other guard wrote down the name, “we were told to take him to the small chambers in the basement.” The guard with the attendance sheet then commented, “go ahead, there’s plenty of room in the first cell.” The guards then escorted Flake over to the stairwell and practically kicked him down.
Flake landed at the bottom of the stairs face-first, then rolling upright and running towards the other wall with extremely tiny steps due to his chains. “Get the hell back here!” one of the guards shouted in exasperation, sprinting after Flake, then tackling him to the ground. They opened the cell with the assassin in it and commented, “you’re getting friend you might just like! A traitor, just like you!” one of the guards said as the other one lifted Flake by the collar and the leg-chains and chucked him into the room. The guard quickly smacked Flake over the head another time, just to be sure, and unshackled him, hastily exiting the cell and locking the door. Flake lay motionless on the floor as the other two guards left, both commenting on how they deserved a rank-up.
Finally, after a few moments, Flake looked over to Raine on the floor and, after recognizing her, enthusiastically commented, “well whaddaya know! It’s the accursed assassin, in the flesh!” as a bit of blood trickled down his nose. He then dizzily rose to his feet, brushed himself off, and sat down on a “bed." He felt his face for wounds, and thus pinched his nose to stop the bleeding.
Nestor walked into the crowd, casually making his way towards the entrance to the city hall. He hadn’t expected for the crowd to part as it did for a king, but he was surprised that most people made room for him to pass by. The few people who bumped into him curtly apologized and returned to what they were doing. One person even threw a silver coin at him due to tripping the seemingly fragile traveler. Nestor was very annoyed at this gesture, but took the money with a faked modesty.
Midway through the crowd, however, he finally found the trouble he was looking for. No, it was not a pickpocket, nor a weakling who was just passing by. It was not a lady in trouble, or a beggar, or even another traveler seeking a chat. He was stopped by what seemed to be a devout thief with blood-stained plate mail armor, carrying a crossbow with a few skull pieces and monster teeth/claws incorporated in. He could tell a great many details about the crossbow, for it was pointed right at him. The people quickly backed away from the two as they silently sized each other up, resulting in a make-shift brawl area.
Nestor’s eyes focused on the fact that the crossbow had no bolt nor trigger, despite being pulled back. Immediately, Nestor assumed that the man’s power was a deed power related to the creation of bolts of some sort. His time for observation did not last long after this as the burly man before him roared, “How dare you bump into me?! Do you not know who I am?” His muscles flexed in turn after saying this, as if he was attempting to intimidate Nestor with his physique. As this happened, a few men from the crowd worked their way over to the man and positioned themselves behind him, already having drawn weapons.
Unfortunately for the man, Nestor calmly joked, “Is it not common to bump into a bull when travelling through a herd?” and got a few cracks of laughter as the man before him and his buddies growled at him.
In response, the bull-man yelled, “I’ll feed you to a herd if you don’t beg on your knees right now!” His cronies then backed up his words with shouts of agreement and aggression, waving their weapons carelessly at Nestor and walking towards him. “He the strongest crossbowman in the world,” one of the men shouted, “Ralick the Skullcrusher!”
Nestor chuckled after the brief introduction, then commented, “I don’t think the locals agree with your aggressive antics…” as he motioned towards the people around them, whom had gradually been drawing their own weapons. “We don’t need any fights here yet,” a lady from behind Nestor shouted, pointing a staff at the crossbowman, “for all you know, this man could lead your group right to the magician!” A murmur of general agreement then passed around a few members of the crowd as Ralick’s cronies relaxed.
Ralick himself, however, was too angry to be swayed by those words alone. “SILENCE!” he roared, stomping the ground hard enough to crack the stone, “I SAID BEG!” After saying this, a bolt appeared in his crossbow and, without a second delay, it shot into the stone immediately next to Nestor’s right foot. After the round was loosed, a few members of the crowd advanced a step to stop a fight from ensuing.
Without moving, Nestor calmly leaned towards Ralick and joked, “I think this bull needs some grass, it looks hungry and irritable.” At saying this, Ralick swung at Nestor with his crossbow, but, once again, Nestor didn’t move. The crossbow passed in front of Ralick, but by the time he reached the end of his swing, Nestor was behind him, holding a knife to his throat. “That’s enough,” he commented, kicking out the man’s right leg with a loud “thwack,” and bringing him to the ground.
After Ralick hit the ground, Nestor sheathed his dagger and sweeped one person from Ralick’s posse to the ground. A few members of the crowd then quickly suppressed the other few angry members of Ralick’s group, disarming them and calming them down. It took a few heavy men to keep Ralick pinned down until he was calm, but the incident was stopped without any major injuries. Of course, by the time everyone was calm again, Nestor was already moving through the crowd some more, interested in the diversity of people.
He bumped into a few more aggressive people, but he didn’t need to fight anyone else that day. He moved towards the town hall, and eventually made it near the edge of the crowd and bumped into a lady. He managed to bump rather accidentally into her, however, for a trouble-maker decided to catch his foot as he walked in her direction, resulting in him tripping into the lady’s behind. Nestor rolled out of the way of a kick as the flustered lady tried to respond to the awkward situation with violence, then stood up and held up his hand.
“If you are looking for the culprit of this situation, the man at blame is he,” Nestor commended, pointing towards a man who was quickly working his way away from the two of them. The lady did not believe Nestor, and quickly slapped him in the face before leaving, muttering curses under her breath. Nestor sighed, deciding that her assumption of his perversion merited a hit, for the purposes of common courtesy. “Not really worth it though…” he murmured to himself, reminiscing the moment.
He then started walking towards another group of gentlemen near the edge of the staircase leading up to the town hall. The men looked to be established warriors, with moderately dirty armor and custom-made swords, the likes of which were probably power-related. Nestor assumed that the meeting would be taking place soon, but there was still plenty of time left. Maybe one more scene, Nestor thought to himself, sizing up a few of the individuals of the group as he continued calmly nearing them.
As he approached the group of warriors, one of them quickly turned around and greeted Nestor. “Hey, you’re the guy who took down the Ralick guy earlier!” he exclaimed, hugging Nestor, as was the common greeting among friendly travelers. Nestor patted the man on the back and commented, “If I hadn’t, he’d have whacked me in the face.” This caused a few other men to look over and greet Nestor in turn, offering a few words. As a result, Nestor got caught up in a friendly banter with a few other travelers for awhile, discussing the town, the possibility of a hoax mission, and other such important points.
Around ten minutes after greeting the warriors, Nestor gave his good tidings and left, rather skeptical of their treatment towards him. They seem like a band of thieves, he thought, ensuring his money pouch was yet present as he weaved through the bodies of people. A notable number of people in the crowd were rather aggressive, the type to openly betray a comrade. Nestor hoped that he wouldn’t have to deal with people like that, especially not for a mission like this one.
Nestor found himself bumping into a group of rather young men and women and tried to discourage them from joining on the mission. “No way, mister, we’re ready for this. We’ve been training all of our lives!” one of the young men commented, toting his bow and evoking agreement from his peers. Nestor groaned and commented, “and just how much longer do you think the Black mage has trained? And those security escorts who die on their missions across the Sulva Plains?” This caught the young man off-guard, but he retorted, “we won’t make foolish decisions like that, we have Johnny here!” He then pointed to one of his peers, who nodded.
Nestor heard a loud trumpet sound from the town hall immediately following this young man’s statement, then quickly turned around to witness the source of the noise. Two men stood at the open door, dressed in what looked to be a fancy robe with the town’s crest on the chestpiece. Before Nestor understood what was going on, the man announced, “I hereby call into order the meeting declared by Councilor Kagan of the Haldor High Council! All who wish to join the search for the Death Magician may now file into the town hall! All seats must be filled, and public decency is advised! No drawn weapons are allowed in the town hall by punishment of imprisonment and fine!”
Upon the last word of the announcer’s speech, the trumpeter played a quick tune and they opened the doors to the town hall. Immediately after this, the people of the crowd started to file into the hall, each man taking a seat in the vast room, some people needing to stand up due to the vast number of men. After the last man entered the room, the doors were shut, but not locked, and the trumpeter went to the stage at the front of the town hall. He played his tune, then the announcer walked up and introduced Councilor Kagan, who walked up to the stage with five armored guards.
Kagan was a pot-bellied man with a well-tended head and a fine robe who carried with him a ceremonial sword. His appearance was best described as that of an upright gorilla without hair. Not the most handsome of men, but rather professional in mannerism nonetheless. The crowd was still shooting murmurs and general chatter as he got into place to speak, many comments being asked about the man’s identity and stature. “Looks like the kind of guy who’d fall over dead after starting to run…” Nestor commented, evoking the chuckles of a few men next to him. After clearing his throat and calming the crowd, he began to speak in a rather nasal voice:
“Greetings, men and women of Haldor. As of now, I am sure that you are all wondering whether or not this, ‘Black Magician’ you were told of is real. The Haldor High Council has had many, many readings confirming an entity which has been seen in seemingly random places across Haldor, bringing with it plague, famine, many, many monsters, and a great deal of suffering and death.” After saying this, a murmur of general disagreement passed across the crowd, then Kagan continued, “Few men have ever seen this entity and lived to tell about it, let alone describe what it looked like or follow it home. As a result, many of you are undoubtedly skeptical about this ‘Death Magician.’ The solution?” He paused, then shouted, “We find this ‘Death Magician’ and get some proof! All men providing proof will be given 600 gold pieces, as was changed by the Haldor High Council, and remission of any crimes previous to the last year.”
At this point in his speech, Kagan motioned for two men on the balcony, who then unfurled a extremely large scroll with a map of Haldor. There were a great many mountains and rivers across the map, a number of dots with the names of cities beside them, and two hundred sporadic red x’s across the entire map. “Above me is a map of Haldor,” he commented, scanning the crowd as the people started to look up at the paper, “Each red X marks a general area one of your groups will explore. We’ll need to separate you all into two hundred groups, one for each x. Each group will have anywhere from two to fifteen people in it, ranging based on the suspected probability of finding the ‘Death Magician’ there.”
Kagan then motioned towards the sides of the stage and a large number of men and women started to file through the crowd with a large number of scrolls. As they reached the crowd, Kagan continued, “Each of these scrolls of paper is a map. On this map is a detailed map of Haldor with one of the red Xs marked with a number.” As he continued speaking, the people of the crowd started to gradually lose interest, grabbing the scrolls and talking amidst one another. “If you do not like the map number you got, find someone to trade with. You are all to meet with the other people assigned the same map number as you in the courtyard tonight. You have three months to complete this task, after three months, you are all to return here whether you have succeeded or failed.”
With these words said, Kagan motioned for his guards and finished his speech with the words, “I wish you all the best of luck. Keep each other alive out there!” and left the stage with his escorts. After he left, a few minutes were allowed for the distribution of scrolls. Nestor grabbed one of the scrolls from a particularly pretty maiden, then opened it and discovered that he got #143, an area near the North Westernmost part of Haldor. Deciding that he was too good to trade with the other people, he decided to sit back down and wait for the people to open the gates so he could leave. Before opening the gates, the announcer and the trumpeter reappeared. With a quick fan-fare, the trumpeter left, providing the announcer a bit of peace from which to talk.
“You are hereby dismissed from this meeting! From this moment forth, all information must be sent to us regarding the ‘Death Magician’ must be given to the Haldor High Council by person, so as to determine the validity and honesty of the claims. You are all dismissed!” He then motioned for the guards at the door to open it, stepping towards the stage exit. It did not take long for the gates to open, for the men nearest the gate helped to open it. Nestor then worked his way through the crowd and escaped the stampede by jumping over the railing and off the stairway, landing a few feet down on solid rock, resulting in a bit of ankle pain. Shortly after this, Nestor looked around, brushed himself off, and made his way back towards the slowly emerging crowd, highly uneager to find his partners.
Midway through the crowd, however, he finally found the trouble he was looking for. No, it was not a pickpocket, nor a weakling who was just passing by. It was not a lady in trouble, or a beggar, or even another traveler seeking a chat. He was stopped by what seemed to be a devout thief with blood-stained plate mail armor, carrying a crossbow with a few skull pieces and monster teeth/claws incorporated in. He could tell a great many details about the crossbow, for it was pointed right at him. The people quickly backed away from the two as they silently sized each other up, resulting in a make-shift brawl area.
Nestor’s eyes focused on the fact that the crossbow had no bolt nor trigger, despite being pulled back. Immediately, Nestor assumed that the man’s power was a deed power related to the creation of bolts of some sort. His time for observation did not last long after this as the burly man before him roared, “How dare you bump into me?! Do you not know who I am?” His muscles flexed in turn after saying this, as if he was attempting to intimidate Nestor with his physique. As this happened, a few men from the crowd worked their way over to the man and positioned themselves behind him, already having drawn weapons.
Unfortunately for the man, Nestor calmly joked, “Is it not common to bump into a bull when travelling through a herd?” and got a few cracks of laughter as the man before him and his buddies growled at him.
In response, the bull-man yelled, “I’ll feed you to a herd if you don’t beg on your knees right now!” His cronies then backed up his words with shouts of agreement and aggression, waving their weapons carelessly at Nestor and walking towards him. “He the strongest crossbowman in the world,” one of the men shouted, “Ralick the Skullcrusher!”
Nestor chuckled after the brief introduction, then commented, “I don’t think the locals agree with your aggressive antics…” as he motioned towards the people around them, whom had gradually been drawing their own weapons. “We don’t need any fights here yet,” a lady from behind Nestor shouted, pointing a staff at the crossbowman, “for all you know, this man could lead your group right to the magician!” A murmur of general agreement then passed around a few members of the crowd as Ralick’s cronies relaxed.
Ralick himself, however, was too angry to be swayed by those words alone. “SILENCE!” he roared, stomping the ground hard enough to crack the stone, “I SAID BEG!” After saying this, a bolt appeared in his crossbow and, without a second delay, it shot into the stone immediately next to Nestor’s right foot. After the round was loosed, a few members of the crowd advanced a step to stop a fight from ensuing.
Without moving, Nestor calmly leaned towards Ralick and joked, “I think this bull needs some grass, it looks hungry and irritable.” At saying this, Ralick swung at Nestor with his crossbow, but, once again, Nestor didn’t move. The crossbow passed in front of Ralick, but by the time he reached the end of his swing, Nestor was behind him, holding a knife to his throat. “That’s enough,” he commented, kicking out the man’s right leg with a loud “thwack,” and bringing him to the ground.
After Ralick hit the ground, Nestor sheathed his dagger and sweeped one person from Ralick’s posse to the ground. A few members of the crowd then quickly suppressed the other few angry members of Ralick’s group, disarming them and calming them down. It took a few heavy men to keep Ralick pinned down until he was calm, but the incident was stopped without any major injuries. Of course, by the time everyone was calm again, Nestor was already moving through the crowd some more, interested in the diversity of people.
He bumped into a few more aggressive people, but he didn’t need to fight anyone else that day. He moved towards the town hall, and eventually made it near the edge of the crowd and bumped into a lady. He managed to bump rather accidentally into her, however, for a trouble-maker decided to catch his foot as he walked in her direction, resulting in him tripping into the lady’s behind. Nestor rolled out of the way of a kick as the flustered lady tried to respond to the awkward situation with violence, then stood up and held up his hand.
“If you are looking for the culprit of this situation, the man at blame is he,” Nestor commended, pointing towards a man who was quickly working his way away from the two of them. The lady did not believe Nestor, and quickly slapped him in the face before leaving, muttering curses under her breath. Nestor sighed, deciding that her assumption of his perversion merited a hit, for the purposes of common courtesy. “Not really worth it though…” he murmured to himself, reminiscing the moment.
He then started walking towards another group of gentlemen near the edge of the staircase leading up to the town hall. The men looked to be established warriors, with moderately dirty armor and custom-made swords, the likes of which were probably power-related. Nestor assumed that the meeting would be taking place soon, but there was still plenty of time left. Maybe one more scene, Nestor thought to himself, sizing up a few of the individuals of the group as he continued calmly nearing them.
As he approached the group of warriors, one of them quickly turned around and greeted Nestor. “Hey, you’re the guy who took down the Ralick guy earlier!” he exclaimed, hugging Nestor, as was the common greeting among friendly travelers. Nestor patted the man on the back and commented, “If I hadn’t, he’d have whacked me in the face.” This caused a few other men to look over and greet Nestor in turn, offering a few words. As a result, Nestor got caught up in a friendly banter with a few other travelers for awhile, discussing the town, the possibility of a hoax mission, and other such important points.
Around ten minutes after greeting the warriors, Nestor gave his good tidings and left, rather skeptical of their treatment towards him. They seem like a band of thieves, he thought, ensuring his money pouch was yet present as he weaved through the bodies of people. A notable number of people in the crowd were rather aggressive, the type to openly betray a comrade. Nestor hoped that he wouldn’t have to deal with people like that, especially not for a mission like this one.
Nestor found himself bumping into a group of rather young men and women and tried to discourage them from joining on the mission. “No way, mister, we’re ready for this. We’ve been training all of our lives!” one of the young men commented, toting his bow and evoking agreement from his peers. Nestor groaned and commented, “and just how much longer do you think the Black mage has trained? And those security escorts who die on their missions across the Sulva Plains?” This caught the young man off-guard, but he retorted, “we won’t make foolish decisions like that, we have Johnny here!” He then pointed to one of his peers, who nodded.
Nestor heard a loud trumpet sound from the town hall immediately following this young man’s statement, then quickly turned around to witness the source of the noise. Two men stood at the open door, dressed in what looked to be a fancy robe with the town’s crest on the chestpiece. Before Nestor understood what was going on, the man announced, “I hereby call into order the meeting declared by Councilor Kagan of the Haldor High Council! All who wish to join the search for the Death Magician may now file into the town hall! All seats must be filled, and public decency is advised! No drawn weapons are allowed in the town hall by punishment of imprisonment and fine!”
Upon the last word of the announcer’s speech, the trumpeter played a quick tune and they opened the doors to the town hall. Immediately after this, the people of the crowd started to file into the hall, each man taking a seat in the vast room, some people needing to stand up due to the vast number of men. After the last man entered the room, the doors were shut, but not locked, and the trumpeter went to the stage at the front of the town hall. He played his tune, then the announcer walked up and introduced Councilor Kagan, who walked up to the stage with five armored guards.
Kagan was a pot-bellied man with a well-tended head and a fine robe who carried with him a ceremonial sword. His appearance was best described as that of an upright gorilla without hair. Not the most handsome of men, but rather professional in mannerism nonetheless. The crowd was still shooting murmurs and general chatter as he got into place to speak, many comments being asked about the man’s identity and stature. “Looks like the kind of guy who’d fall over dead after starting to run…” Nestor commented, evoking the chuckles of a few men next to him. After clearing his throat and calming the crowd, he began to speak in a rather nasal voice:
“Greetings, men and women of Haldor. As of now, I am sure that you are all wondering whether or not this, ‘Black Magician’ you were told of is real. The Haldor High Council has had many, many readings confirming an entity which has been seen in seemingly random places across Haldor, bringing with it plague, famine, many, many monsters, and a great deal of suffering and death.” After saying this, a murmur of general disagreement passed across the crowd, then Kagan continued, “Few men have ever seen this entity and lived to tell about it, let alone describe what it looked like or follow it home. As a result, many of you are undoubtedly skeptical about this ‘Death Magician.’ The solution?” He paused, then shouted, “We find this ‘Death Magician’ and get some proof! All men providing proof will be given 600 gold pieces, as was changed by the Haldor High Council, and remission of any crimes previous to the last year.”
At this point in his speech, Kagan motioned for two men on the balcony, who then unfurled a extremely large scroll with a map of Haldor. There were a great many mountains and rivers across the map, a number of dots with the names of cities beside them, and two hundred sporadic red x’s across the entire map. “Above me is a map of Haldor,” he commented, scanning the crowd as the people started to look up at the paper, “Each red X marks a general area one of your groups will explore. We’ll need to separate you all into two hundred groups, one for each x. Each group will have anywhere from two to fifteen people in it, ranging based on the suspected probability of finding the ‘Death Magician’ there.”
Kagan then motioned towards the sides of the stage and a large number of men and women started to file through the crowd with a large number of scrolls. As they reached the crowd, Kagan continued, “Each of these scrolls of paper is a map. On this map is a detailed map of Haldor with one of the red Xs marked with a number.” As he continued speaking, the people of the crowd started to gradually lose interest, grabbing the scrolls and talking amidst one another. “If you do not like the map number you got, find someone to trade with. You are all to meet with the other people assigned the same map number as you in the courtyard tonight. You have three months to complete this task, after three months, you are all to return here whether you have succeeded or failed.”
With these words said, Kagan motioned for his guards and finished his speech with the words, “I wish you all the best of luck. Keep each other alive out there!” and left the stage with his escorts. After he left, a few minutes were allowed for the distribution of scrolls. Nestor grabbed one of the scrolls from a particularly pretty maiden, then opened it and discovered that he got #143, an area near the North Westernmost part of Haldor. Deciding that he was too good to trade with the other people, he decided to sit back down and wait for the people to open the gates so he could leave. Before opening the gates, the announcer and the trumpeter reappeared. With a quick fan-fare, the trumpeter left, providing the announcer a bit of peace from which to talk.
“You are hereby dismissed from this meeting! From this moment forth, all information must be sent to us regarding the ‘Death Magician’ must be given to the Haldor High Council by person, so as to determine the validity and honesty of the claims. You are all dismissed!” He then motioned for the guards at the door to open it, stepping towards the stage exit. It did not take long for the gates to open, for the men nearest the gate helped to open it. Nestor then worked his way through the crowd and escaped the stampede by jumping over the railing and off the stairway, landing a few feet down on solid rock, resulting in a bit of ankle pain. Shortly after this, Nestor looked around, brushed himself off, and made his way back towards the slowly emerging crowd, highly uneager to find his partners.
A few loud crashing noises resounded from a sealed off room within the garrison, attracting the attention of a number of guards on active-duty. “What is he doing in there?” one asks, looking to his buddies in confusion. “Beats me,” another says in response, crossing his arms as he waits for access to the room once more. A candle hanging from the wall beside the door provided the only light in the room, enough that one could read the inscription on the door, “Captain’s Office.”
Drake finally let out a grunt of pain as he pulled off the last piece of armor from his suit. The blows he received from Flake the other day fractured a few links of his chainmail, which then lodged themselves into his wrists. He was bulky and enduring enough to ignore the pain for an impossible span of time, but that didn’t make it go away. As he waited for his appointed man to return, he decided to remove his armor and tend to his various injuries. The man stood tall enough to tower over almost any man, had enough muscle mass to make an average soldier look like a stick figure, and appeared to have never shaved in his life. His figure didn’t help as he tried to stretch a little, taking his time to enjoy the somewhat fresh air against his skin.
His brown-red hair was deepened by the light of the candle he had placed on his worktable, the same light he used to look at his injuries. Using a very thin dagger, he made a few small cuts to loosen the blood clots around the metal shrapnel, allowing him to pull out the pieces more easily. After he pulled out the last piece, he wrapped some light bandaging around his blood-covered wrists and walked over to a bucket of water to clean himself a little.
After a bit of maintenance, the soldier analyzed his suit of armor. For the most part, the chain links were still functional, despite being over five years old. He attributed this feat to his proficiency in combat. The sections near his wrist were destroyed in multiple places, along the angle of Flake’s cut. He then analyzed the plates, and decided that he’d need a new wrist-section, because Flake’s prank had destroyed the plate in this region. The helmet was salvageable, being a rather thick piece of armor, but he decided to get a full repair soon, just to be sure. “I have the money, so I’ll make it work,” he commented to himself, starting to fit the armor back over his bulk.
By the time he had finished with his left arm, a few desperate knocks on his door sounded, and a voice, “Sir, I have accomplished my task.” Drake yelled back, “hold your’ horses! I’ll address you in a minute,” and sped up his suiting process. Upon tightening the last strap on his wrist, he grabbed his helmet and, walking towards the door, commanded, “Attention!” The soldier outside the door made a loud thump sound as his feet met in the stance of attention, then the door to the Captain’s office slammed open. “What do you have to report, soldier?” Drake asked, his eyes shooting out through the helmet.
“Sir!The prisoner has been escorted to a small chamber near the basement of the First Dungeon, sir!” the soldier responded, saluting briefly as he started speaking. Drake nodded and curtly said, “dismissed!” as he shut the door behind him, motioning for a guard to stand guard as he walked through the garrison towards the exit.
Drake left the garrison and walked through the streets of Talgot without much of a thought. He knew Delta Six by heart now, so he decided to relax as he continued towards his destination. Fairly soon, the captain approached the First Dungeon and stopped at the gate. “I demand entrance,” he commented, staring over at the left turret beside the gate. A soldier in the turret, having noted the giant, quickly motioned to the operators to permit him entrance. After this, a few guards walked over to the outside of the gates and stood guard as the iron bars slowly rose, leaving Drake’s path open.
The guard marched into the establishment and, upon weaving his way through the volatile mess of a place, he reached a much smaller garrison of a few guards and demanded, “Attention!” The guards in the room immediately shot away from their beds and chairs, shooting into the stance of attention with a quick salute. “I am here for a role inspection, provide me with your list of captives,” Drake commented, eyeing the guard nearest the table. Quickly, a different guard ran over to the table, pulled an unsealed scroll out from a drawer, and ran over to Drake, saluting him once again as he held out the scroll. Drake collected the roll of paper and, unfurling it, scanned the lines. “So it is true…” he mumbled, spotting the name of the newest captive.
Another guard immediately talked out of turn, exclaiming, “I was stunned by it as well! I never thought we’d-“ Drake quickly and sharply interrupted, “You are still at attention!” The guard who spoke then quickly silenced himself and returned to his composure. A minute passed of Drake scanning the paper, then he returned it to the guard. “I reserve the right to take control of the supervision of any and all prisoners in the small chambers at any and all hours for the next extended duration. Understood?” The guards in the room all responded, “Sir yes Sir!” and, with this said, Drake turned to leave and said, “at ease.”
From there, Drake returned to the garrison, and then to his office. He had a great deal of reading and paperwork yet to do, because his positions throughout the day prevented him from accomplishing his true task. As a result, instead of sleeping, he decided to remain awake that night to complete his assignments and confirmation requests. “The things I do for this city…” he grumbled, dipping his quill pen in the ink well yet again.
Drake finally let out a grunt of pain as he pulled off the last piece of armor from his suit. The blows he received from Flake the other day fractured a few links of his chainmail, which then lodged themselves into his wrists. He was bulky and enduring enough to ignore the pain for an impossible span of time, but that didn’t make it go away. As he waited for his appointed man to return, he decided to remove his armor and tend to his various injuries. The man stood tall enough to tower over almost any man, had enough muscle mass to make an average soldier look like a stick figure, and appeared to have never shaved in his life. His figure didn’t help as he tried to stretch a little, taking his time to enjoy the somewhat fresh air against his skin.
His brown-red hair was deepened by the light of the candle he had placed on his worktable, the same light he used to look at his injuries. Using a very thin dagger, he made a few small cuts to loosen the blood clots around the metal shrapnel, allowing him to pull out the pieces more easily. After he pulled out the last piece, he wrapped some light bandaging around his blood-covered wrists and walked over to a bucket of water to clean himself a little.
After a bit of maintenance, the soldier analyzed his suit of armor. For the most part, the chain links were still functional, despite being over five years old. He attributed this feat to his proficiency in combat. The sections near his wrist were destroyed in multiple places, along the angle of Flake’s cut. He then analyzed the plates, and decided that he’d need a new wrist-section, because Flake’s prank had destroyed the plate in this region. The helmet was salvageable, being a rather thick piece of armor, but he decided to get a full repair soon, just to be sure. “I have the money, so I’ll make it work,” he commented to himself, starting to fit the armor back over his bulk.
By the time he had finished with his left arm, a few desperate knocks on his door sounded, and a voice, “Sir, I have accomplished my task.” Drake yelled back, “hold your’ horses! I’ll address you in a minute,” and sped up his suiting process. Upon tightening the last strap on his wrist, he grabbed his helmet and, walking towards the door, commanded, “Attention!” The soldier outside the door made a loud thump sound as his feet met in the stance of attention, then the door to the Captain’s office slammed open. “What do you have to report, soldier?” Drake asked, his eyes shooting out through the helmet.
“Sir!The prisoner has been escorted to a small chamber near the basement of the First Dungeon, sir!” the soldier responded, saluting briefly as he started speaking. Drake nodded and curtly said, “dismissed!” as he shut the door behind him, motioning for a guard to stand guard as he walked through the garrison towards the exit.
Drake left the garrison and walked through the streets of Talgot without much of a thought. He knew Delta Six by heart now, so he decided to relax as he continued towards his destination. Fairly soon, the captain approached the First Dungeon and stopped at the gate. “I demand entrance,” he commented, staring over at the left turret beside the gate. A soldier in the turret, having noted the giant, quickly motioned to the operators to permit him entrance. After this, a few guards walked over to the outside of the gates and stood guard as the iron bars slowly rose, leaving Drake’s path open.
The guard marched into the establishment and, upon weaving his way through the volatile mess of a place, he reached a much smaller garrison of a few guards and demanded, “Attention!” The guards in the room immediately shot away from their beds and chairs, shooting into the stance of attention with a quick salute. “I am here for a role inspection, provide me with your list of captives,” Drake commented, eyeing the guard nearest the table. Quickly, a different guard ran over to the table, pulled an unsealed scroll out from a drawer, and ran over to Drake, saluting him once again as he held out the scroll. Drake collected the roll of paper and, unfurling it, scanned the lines. “So it is true…” he mumbled, spotting the name of the newest captive.
Another guard immediately talked out of turn, exclaiming, “I was stunned by it as well! I never thought we’d-“ Drake quickly and sharply interrupted, “You are still at attention!” The guard who spoke then quickly silenced himself and returned to his composure. A minute passed of Drake scanning the paper, then he returned it to the guard. “I reserve the right to take control of the supervision of any and all prisoners in the small chambers at any and all hours for the next extended duration. Understood?” The guards in the room all responded, “Sir yes Sir!” and, with this said, Drake turned to leave and said, “at ease.”
From there, Drake returned to the garrison, and then to his office. He had a great deal of reading and paperwork yet to do, because his positions throughout the day prevented him from accomplishing his true task. As a result, instead of sleeping, he decided to remain awake that night to complete his assignments and confirmation requests. “The things I do for this city…” he grumbled, dipping his quill pen in the ink well yet again.
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