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Sorry for the delay, folks. New post is up.
- Jin
- Jin
- Last Seen: 7 yrs ago
- Joined: 10 yrs ago
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Username history
- Jintaru 10 yrs ago
Status
Recent Statuses
9 yrs ago
Current
On the search for inspirado...
9 yrs ago
Trying my hand at GMing. Wish me luck.
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likes
10 yrs ago
Not quite what I remembered...
10 yrs ago
Back in the game after a long time out. Fingers crossed.
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Most Recent Posts
In
The Chaos of Butterflies - Small Group Fantasy RP - *Still Accepting Applications*
→
9 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
In
The Chaos of Butterflies - Small Group Fantasy RP - *Still Accepting Applications*
→
9 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
In his peripheral vision, Taru noticed the young blond and found his thoughts drawn to the young man. He didn’t have the look of a warrior but Taru sensed a sort of awkward potential within him. Perhaps it had something to do with the weapon the boy carried. One doesn’t carry a weapon like that purely for decorative purposes. He found himself wondering about everyone in the bar. The obviously former military bartender, the young blond with the elaborate sword, the green eyed mage, even his anxious, moustached companion. He realised that there were many coiled springs in the Stiltwalker’s Fall tonight, the air itself seemed pregnant with the promise of violence. He felt a slight pang of shame that the thought excited him. He knew he oughtn’t be too hard on himself. After all, every man is a product of the life they have lead, and his was forged on the battlefield and tempered by bloodshed. He sighed and finished his drink.
A flicker of light brought him round and he turned to see the young mage casting a subtle but intricate fire spell over the herbs he had given him. He would have been very impressed by the young man’s arcane dexterity were it not for the hackles that rose on the back of his neck. He knew that the Frowthorn would distract the weaker Ablated and their moans and gravitation towards the Stiltwalker’s Fall would be ignored by their handlers, but he knew there would be Alphas out tonight. He knew this because a lot of people came through the gates of Dalvastre today, he knew that despite his slender years, Gabriel III was a gifted military leader and statesman, and he would doubtless send out patrols tonight. Taru knew all this because it is exactly what he would do in the young emperor’s position.
He heard the young man at the bar ask for a room for the night and hoped there would be one sufficiently far away from his own for the boy. He was quickly drawn back to the table with the two men as the mage withdrew the Sun Stone from the linen in which it was bound. It had been many years since he had last seen one, when a ‘friend’ had shown one to him. The sight of it dragged memories back up from the depths of his mind. Wonderful, painful, lost memories. Memories of her. He shook them away as the small moustached man left hastily out of the front door. He could no longer stand by and do nothing as the boy endangered them all. He turned to the blond at the bar, taking his own key out of the fold in his tunic and sliding it back onto the bar.
“I’d find somewhere else to stay tonight, if I were you, boy.” He said, looking the young man dead in the eyes.
Standing from his seat, he approached the table at which the young mage was sitting. As he crossed the floor his mind swam with everything he had seen tonight. The young blonde at the bar, the mage at the table, the Lamplighters and the sun stone, and knew there was something happening, something larger than himself, something with the scent of destiny about it. As he arrived at the young man’s table he was surer than ever that he knew him, like an echo of a former life, or one he has yet to live.
“I suggest you find your friend before they do, and get out of Dalvastre tonight, boy.” He said. “You may fool the lesser Ablated but, to an Alpha, you’ve just lit a homing beacon.”
He couldn’t have timed his words worse. Just as he finished his sentence, he heard it. Distant but too close for comfort…the shriek of an Alpha. She was female and, before the ablation would have been a powerful mage. She could hear the arcane song and called out to it in pain. Between her cries he heard the footsteps of soldiers. Eight of them, a full patrol. Whilst the Dalvastren regiments of the Val M’ahrian infantry were far from the most elite of soldiers, he knew better than to underestimate any man whom had dedicated his life to the sword. He turned back to look at the barman whom, he could tell had heard it too.
A flicker of light brought him round and he turned to see the young mage casting a subtle but intricate fire spell over the herbs he had given him. He would have been very impressed by the young man’s arcane dexterity were it not for the hackles that rose on the back of his neck. He knew that the Frowthorn would distract the weaker Ablated and their moans and gravitation towards the Stiltwalker’s Fall would be ignored by their handlers, but he knew there would be Alphas out tonight. He knew this because a lot of people came through the gates of Dalvastre today, he knew that despite his slender years, Gabriel III was a gifted military leader and statesman, and he would doubtless send out patrols tonight. Taru knew all this because it is exactly what he would do in the young emperor’s position.
He heard the young man at the bar ask for a room for the night and hoped there would be one sufficiently far away from his own for the boy. He was quickly drawn back to the table with the two men as the mage withdrew the Sun Stone from the linen in which it was bound. It had been many years since he had last seen one, when a ‘friend’ had shown one to him. The sight of it dragged memories back up from the depths of his mind. Wonderful, painful, lost memories. Memories of her. He shook them away as the small moustached man left hastily out of the front door. He could no longer stand by and do nothing as the boy endangered them all. He turned to the blond at the bar, taking his own key out of the fold in his tunic and sliding it back onto the bar.
“I’d find somewhere else to stay tonight, if I were you, boy.” He said, looking the young man dead in the eyes.
Standing from his seat, he approached the table at which the young mage was sitting. As he crossed the floor his mind swam with everything he had seen tonight. The young blonde at the bar, the mage at the table, the Lamplighters and the sun stone, and knew there was something happening, something larger than himself, something with the scent of destiny about it. As he arrived at the young man’s table he was surer than ever that he knew him, like an echo of a former life, or one he has yet to live.
“I suggest you find your friend before they do, and get out of Dalvastre tonight, boy.” He said. “You may fool the lesser Ablated but, to an Alpha, you’ve just lit a homing beacon.”
He couldn’t have timed his words worse. Just as he finished his sentence, he heard it. Distant but too close for comfort…the shriek of an Alpha. She was female and, before the ablation would have been a powerful mage. She could hear the arcane song and called out to it in pain. Between her cries he heard the footsteps of soldiers. Eight of them, a full patrol. Whilst the Dalvastren regiments of the Val M’ahrian infantry were far from the most elite of soldiers, he knew better than to underestimate any man whom had dedicated his life to the sword. He turned back to look at the barman whom, he could tell had heard it too.
In
The Chaos of Butterflies - Small Group Fantasy RP - *Still Accepting Applications*
→
9 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
With the arrival of the blond haired young man, the Stiltwalker’s Fall was suddenly beginning to seem rather crowded. This had not turned out to be the quiet drink Taru had been hoping for. He gestured for the attention of man behind the bar and the pot-bellied landlord sidled over to him obligingly, wearing that same practiced smile on his aging face.
”What can I get you?” The man asked.
”I could use a room for the night.” Taru said.
The barman’s gaze flicked briefly over Taru’s shoulder and the scarred swordsman followed the man’s eyes. The daylight had all but dies and the hunched figures of the Lamplighters could be seen moving between the gas lamps dotted around the streets, lighting them. Both men watched them for a few moments, the nocturnal keepers of light. The unsung ghosts of Dalvastre. The barman broke their reverie.
”They’re only lighting every other lamp… “ He said softly.
The man was right.
”War necessitates austerity on both sides, my friend. Taru said, turning back to face the barman. The man was nodding in agreement but there was something in his face, something stirring beneath the mask of the affable innkeeper the man wore so well. It was his eyes that betrayed his smile.
”A room, you say?” He shook away whatever thought that was troubling him and returned his eyes to those of the shaven headed man before him.
”Yes, your cheapest. I am not a man who highly values luxury.”
Coin and a key were traded and Taru refilled his cup.
He turned as the young mage approached and enquired about the root sage. It appeared the man had a keen nose as well. It was true that his new gravel-voiced companion would benefit from its calming properties but he would find no luck here.
”I’m afraid I don’t have any left, I tend to blend it all together immediately. However, if your friend has a pipe, I’m sure I could spare a pinch of the mixture.”
Knocking out the spent ash from the bowl of his own pipe, he filled it again and packed it down with a press of his thumb. Using the flint from his pocket, he struck the stone on the rim again and the herbs within burst into life. He drew deeply and a whisker of smoke danced from the bowl before spasming into nothingness as he exhaled the rest in a sprawling cloud.
”What can I get you?” The man asked.
”I could use a room for the night.” Taru said.
The barman’s gaze flicked briefly over Taru’s shoulder and the scarred swordsman followed the man’s eyes. The daylight had all but dies and the hunched figures of the Lamplighters could be seen moving between the gas lamps dotted around the streets, lighting them. Both men watched them for a few moments, the nocturnal keepers of light. The unsung ghosts of Dalvastre. The barman broke their reverie.
”They’re only lighting every other lamp… “ He said softly.
The man was right.
”War necessitates austerity on both sides, my friend. Taru said, turning back to face the barman. The man was nodding in agreement but there was something in his face, something stirring beneath the mask of the affable innkeeper the man wore so well. It was his eyes that betrayed his smile.
”A room, you say?” He shook away whatever thought that was troubling him and returned his eyes to those of the shaven headed man before him.
”Yes, your cheapest. I am not a man who highly values luxury.”
Coin and a key were traded and Taru refilled his cup.
He turned as the young mage approached and enquired about the root sage. It appeared the man had a keen nose as well. It was true that his new gravel-voiced companion would benefit from its calming properties but he would find no luck here.
”I’m afraid I don’t have any left, I tend to blend it all together immediately. However, if your friend has a pipe, I’m sure I could spare a pinch of the mixture.”
Knocking out the spent ash from the bowl of his own pipe, he filled it again and packed it down with a press of his thumb. Using the flint from his pocket, he struck the stone on the rim again and the herbs within burst into life. He drew deeply and a whisker of smoke danced from the bowl before spasming into nothingness as he exhaled the rest in a sprawling cloud.
In
The Chaos of Butterflies - Small Group Fantasy RP - *Still Accepting Applications*
→
9 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Alright chaps. It is now 10:40am and I have done an NPC post to give a bit of behind the scenes action and have updated the lore with a small piece on the Ablated but I have run out of creative energy as of right now. I will, when I get back from work, endeavour to get Taru's next post up and running. I humbly request your patience.
- Jin
- Jin
In
The Chaos of Butterflies - Small Group Fantasy RP - *Still Accepting Applications*
→
9 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
“You’re late, General Brydaan.”
“Forgive me, your Excellency, I was delayed in making sure that our guest has entered the city.”
Emperor Gabriel Vel M’ahr III was looking out of the window, watching the waning twilight cower and slink behind the skyline of his city. He did not need to see the soldier kneel to know that he had. He was young. Some had thought him too young to hold the throne after the passing of his father but he had proven those people wrong. The boy, for that was what he was, had the blood of soldiers and statesmen in his veins, his bloodline was strong, and so was he. His green eyes burned with ambition and his pale, flawless skin was a map onto which he planned to paint the map of his own successes.
“I trust it is good news, General.” His back to the kneeling general, he toyed with the grey velvet drapes framing the open window. He inhaled deeply, despite the view of many, he actually liked the smell of Dalvastre, in the stone he smelt strength and in the acrid smoke, he smelt progress. Finally, he turned to face the soldier and put him out of his misery by gesturing for him to rise.
“Yes, your Excellency.” The general began, getting to his feet. “My men at the gates inform me that he arrived nearly two hours ago.
“And where is he now?”
“We believe he has sought refuge near the outskirts. Would you like for me to have him found and brought here.”
“No, no. Let’s not vilify the man before he has a chance to do so himself. Allow him to relax in whatever deviant way he sees fit until the morning.”
“Very good, your Excellency.” General Brydaan bowed his head. There were times when the old soldier inside him cursed his cowardice for cowing to a child but that voice was quickly silenced. In truth, he had seen his share of combat, the sleepless nights, restless brown eyes and missing left hand were a testament to that, but he had rarely come across a more ruthless leader, a more prodigious swordsman or a keener military tactician than the boy stood before him. What he lacked in years, he compensated for in regal qualities so profound only a fool could ignore them.
“How goes progress in the mines?” The emperor asked.
“Steady but…” The general hesitated, well aware that the news would displease his lord.
“Slow?” Vel M’ahr got there first.
“Yes, your Excellency. With the nights drawing in, we are finding that we cannot spare enough gas to light the lanterns within the mines as well as light the city herself.”
The emperor turned away again and walked over to a large desk to the left of the window. Carved from one single piece of teak, the legs bore gilded filigree and the edges of the desk itself were inlaid with crushed pearl. He placed the palm of his hand upon it and was silent.
The general knew better than to interrupt.
“Keep the mine lanterns burning. Send word to the Lamplighters that they are only to light every other gas lamp, in both residential districts, until we have reached our goal.” He finally said. “We are close now, Brydaan, I can feel it.” A fire flashed in Vel M’ahr’s eyes as they swung to round to piece the general. He saw the boy’s father in them and, for a moment, wondered whether he was right to feel afraid. “Was there anything else, General?” The boy emperor asked.
“Five mages, your excellency, arrested this afternoon.” Brydaan kept his face carved from stone as he looked back at the emperor. “Two women , one man and two young children.”
“Powerful?”
“The children are too young to tell. The man is a street illusionist at best, the one female is not much more but the other...Well, she stirred up the Ablated something fierce.”
Vel M’ahr walked back to the window and a breeze whispered across it. Clouds were rolling in from the East and the air began to smell like rain. He folded his hands behind his back and was lost for a moment in thought.
“Send the children to the mines to act as scuttle runners. Hang the male.” He said softly.
“And the women?” The general enquired.
“Ablate them both.”
“As you command, your Excellency.” General Brydaan bowed before turning on his heels and walking towards the large doors at the other end of the room. He reached the doors before the emperor spoke again.
“Send out a patrol with an attachment of Ablated.” He began. “Make sure they have an alpha amongst them. I don’t trust tonight.”
Bowing again, the general took his leave.
“Forgive me, your Excellency, I was delayed in making sure that our guest has entered the city.”
Emperor Gabriel Vel M’ahr III was looking out of the window, watching the waning twilight cower and slink behind the skyline of his city. He did not need to see the soldier kneel to know that he had. He was young. Some had thought him too young to hold the throne after the passing of his father but he had proven those people wrong. The boy, for that was what he was, had the blood of soldiers and statesmen in his veins, his bloodline was strong, and so was he. His green eyes burned with ambition and his pale, flawless skin was a map onto which he planned to paint the map of his own successes.
“I trust it is good news, General.” His back to the kneeling general, he toyed with the grey velvet drapes framing the open window. He inhaled deeply, despite the view of many, he actually liked the smell of Dalvastre, in the stone he smelt strength and in the acrid smoke, he smelt progress. Finally, he turned to face the soldier and put him out of his misery by gesturing for him to rise.
“Yes, your Excellency.” The general began, getting to his feet. “My men at the gates inform me that he arrived nearly two hours ago.
“And where is he now?”
“We believe he has sought refuge near the outskirts. Would you like for me to have him found and brought here.”
“No, no. Let’s not vilify the man before he has a chance to do so himself. Allow him to relax in whatever deviant way he sees fit until the morning.”
“Very good, your Excellency.” General Brydaan bowed his head. There were times when the old soldier inside him cursed his cowardice for cowing to a child but that voice was quickly silenced. In truth, he had seen his share of combat, the sleepless nights, restless brown eyes and missing left hand were a testament to that, but he had rarely come across a more ruthless leader, a more prodigious swordsman or a keener military tactician than the boy stood before him. What he lacked in years, he compensated for in regal qualities so profound only a fool could ignore them.
“How goes progress in the mines?” The emperor asked.
“Steady but…” The general hesitated, well aware that the news would displease his lord.
“Slow?” Vel M’ahr got there first.
“Yes, your Excellency. With the nights drawing in, we are finding that we cannot spare enough gas to light the lanterns within the mines as well as light the city herself.”
The emperor turned away again and walked over to a large desk to the left of the window. Carved from one single piece of teak, the legs bore gilded filigree and the edges of the desk itself were inlaid with crushed pearl. He placed the palm of his hand upon it and was silent.
The general knew better than to interrupt.
“Keep the mine lanterns burning. Send word to the Lamplighters that they are only to light every other gas lamp, in both residential districts, until we have reached our goal.” He finally said. “We are close now, Brydaan, I can feel it.” A fire flashed in Vel M’ahr’s eyes as they swung to round to piece the general. He saw the boy’s father in them and, for a moment, wondered whether he was right to feel afraid. “Was there anything else, General?” The boy emperor asked.
“Five mages, your excellency, arrested this afternoon.” Brydaan kept his face carved from stone as he looked back at the emperor. “Two women , one man and two young children.”
“Powerful?”
“The children are too young to tell. The man is a street illusionist at best, the one female is not much more but the other...Well, she stirred up the Ablated something fierce.”
Vel M’ahr walked back to the window and a breeze whispered across it. Clouds were rolling in from the East and the air began to smell like rain. He folded his hands behind his back and was lost for a moment in thought.
“Send the children to the mines to act as scuttle runners. Hang the male.” He said softly.
“And the women?” The general enquired.
“Ablate them both.”
“As you command, your Excellency.” General Brydaan bowed before turning on his heels and walking towards the large doors at the other end of the room. He reached the doors before the emperor spoke again.
“Send out a patrol with an attachment of Ablated.” He began. “Make sure they have an alpha amongst them. I don’t trust tonight.”
Bowing again, the general took his leave.
In
The Chaos of Butterflies - Small Group Fantasy RP - *Still Accepting Applications*
→
9 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
He had finished his first drink before the young man arrived, and his presence altered the atmosphere of the room. As far as the Shaven Headed Man was concerned, not for the better. I was as the barkeep was refilling his small cup that the boy dropped the jar of frowthorn onto the weathered surface of the bar. This made things interesting.
Following the young man’s discourse with the bartender, he had him pegged as a lively local, fancying himself as something of a smuggler or trader, but there was something other about him. Something that didn’t sit well with the scarred stranger. There was only one reason why a young man like him would risk his life, or worse, carrying a single jar of frowthorn around the city at twilight. Mage
But there was something else about the new arrival. Not just the minute hum he felt in his ears, a note that would have deafened a mage, the sound of magic, something more. He couldn’t place where or even when but it picked at the carrion at the back of his mind like a raven. He knew this boy from somewhere.
He heard the boy repeat his last words and followed him with his eyes as he retreated to his table. I could not have overheard him and there was no such thing as coincidence…not here. Everything about this scenario…the bar, the frowthorn, this young mage…it all made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Something wasn’t right here.
As he turned back to the bar, he noticed the barman who had served him and another patron looking at him and talking amongst themselves. He killed the liquid in the cup and gestured for another. He would have to enquire about a room soon and perhaps if the barman knew anywhere he could find some company for the night. There was a look in the barman’s eyes as he approached.
”Is there a problem?” He asked.
”I know you…I’m sure of it.” The barman began.
”You must have me mistaken for someone else.”
”No, I’m sure of it. You’re a pit fighter aren’t you?” The barman continued. He took the Shaven Headed Man’s silence as admission. “I saw you fight…must have been fifteen years ago, whilst Gabriel II was still alive. You were incredible!
“It was a long time ago.” The Shaven Headed Man finished another cup of the D’ol Dathri whiskey and exhaled slowly.
”But you were amazing to watch. The amount of damage you could take and keep fighting was unbelievable…wounds that would have finished other men. You’re Taru the Unkillable!”
“Keep your damn voice down! He snapped before collecting himself again. “As I said, it’s a long time ago…and not everyone is as proud of my past as you.”
The barman filled an empty bottle from the cask and set it down on the counter top. It was obvious that his excitement had been quashed by the Shaven Headed Man’s outburst. The man was right though, he had been a fighter and a good one. In fact, violence had always been in his blood, it was the only thing he was ever good at… and he was very good indeed, even in his advancing years.
“Very well…” The barman said after setting the bottle down. “But I won a lot of money thanks to you. [/color] He gestured around him. “And it meant I could buy this place. So I figure you drink for free tonight. He pushed the bottle towards Taru and nodded before returning to the other drinker at the end of bar. It was obvious from their body language that they had both recognised him.
He glanced over his shoulder at the young mage and saw him staring intently at the door. The boy hadn’t ordered a drink and hadn’t said anything to anyone since sitting down. What does he know that I don’t? Everything about him made Taru nervous and he was fairly certain that those nerves would be proven right sooner rather than later. The man expected something and Taru wondered how long it would take before whatever it was actually happened.
Following the young man’s discourse with the bartender, he had him pegged as a lively local, fancying himself as something of a smuggler or trader, but there was something other about him. Something that didn’t sit well with the scarred stranger. There was only one reason why a young man like him would risk his life, or worse, carrying a single jar of frowthorn around the city at twilight. Mage
But there was something else about the new arrival. Not just the minute hum he felt in his ears, a note that would have deafened a mage, the sound of magic, something more. He couldn’t place where or even when but it picked at the carrion at the back of his mind like a raven. He knew this boy from somewhere.
He heard the boy repeat his last words and followed him with his eyes as he retreated to his table. I could not have overheard him and there was no such thing as coincidence…not here. Everything about this scenario…the bar, the frowthorn, this young mage…it all made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Something wasn’t right here.
As he turned back to the bar, he noticed the barman who had served him and another patron looking at him and talking amongst themselves. He killed the liquid in the cup and gestured for another. He would have to enquire about a room soon and perhaps if the barman knew anywhere he could find some company for the night. There was a look in the barman’s eyes as he approached.
”Is there a problem?” He asked.
”I know you…I’m sure of it.” The barman began.
”You must have me mistaken for someone else.”
”No, I’m sure of it. You’re a pit fighter aren’t you?” The barman continued. He took the Shaven Headed Man’s silence as admission. “I saw you fight…must have been fifteen years ago, whilst Gabriel II was still alive. You were incredible!
“It was a long time ago.” The Shaven Headed Man finished another cup of the D’ol Dathri whiskey and exhaled slowly.
”But you were amazing to watch. The amount of damage you could take and keep fighting was unbelievable…wounds that would have finished other men. You’re Taru the Unkillable!”
“Keep your damn voice down! He snapped before collecting himself again. “As I said, it’s a long time ago…and not everyone is as proud of my past as you.”
The barman filled an empty bottle from the cask and set it down on the counter top. It was obvious that his excitement had been quashed by the Shaven Headed Man’s outburst. The man was right though, he had been a fighter and a good one. In fact, violence had always been in his blood, it was the only thing he was ever good at… and he was very good indeed, even in his advancing years.
“Very well…” The barman said after setting the bottle down. “But I won a lot of money thanks to you. [/color] He gestured around him. “And it meant I could buy this place. So I figure you drink for free tonight. He pushed the bottle towards Taru and nodded before returning to the other drinker at the end of bar. It was obvious from their body language that they had both recognised him.
He glanced over his shoulder at the young mage and saw him staring intently at the door. The boy hadn’t ordered a drink and hadn’t said anything to anyone since sitting down. What does he know that I don’t? Everything about him made Taru nervous and he was fairly certain that those nerves would be proven right sooner rather than later. The man expected something and Taru wondered how long it would take before whatever it was actually happened.
In
The Chaos of Butterflies - Small Group Fantasy RP - *Still Accepting Applications*
→
9 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
He was tired. These days he always seemed to be tired. As he picked his way through the streets, past the last throngs of patrons and vendors of the city’s closing market, he pondered why he was always so drained. Was it his long journey? Was it the life he had led catching up with him? Was it simply age? His train of thought was broken by a man stumbling backwards into him. Heaving the man back upright he growled. There was no apology, but then, he didn't expect one. Not these days.
"Watch where you're going, you imbecile.” He called after the man as he once again disappeared into conversation about some trinket or other, the next in a long line of shiny placebos the man will buy in order to fill the void that's left in the absence of any real freedom or happiness. People fill their lives with useless material things, convinced that one day they will be content, but they never are. He hated those people. Whether he hated them for their avaricious nature, their poorly thought out, illogical delusions or simply the fact that they still had the will to chase some kind of contentment in their lives, he wasn't sure. All he knew was he hated them.
Turning a corner, he relaxed a little, the alley into which he had turned as far less crowded than the main street and he was finally able to relax his shoulders and fall into a decent walking rhythm. The noise of the market died down and he could hear the people in their homes, behind the walls that created the alleyway. There were arguments, crying, at one point, he was convinced he could hear someone praying. There's not much call for prayer in place where the gods have stopped looking. He thought to himself as he reached the other end of the alley and walked out into a small plaza. As he crossed the square he looked down at the mosaic set as the centrepiece. It must once have been a sight to behold, a striking mural of prosperity, but now, the scuffs of his boots joined the decades of others marring its surface, making the original pattern all but impossible to discern.
As he reached the other side of the square he ducked between two buildings into another alley where he found his destination. The Stiltwalker's Fall was a tavern and adjoining stables that had been renovated into one larger inn. One of the best kept secrets in the city. It was no surprise though, a secret that nobody cares about is one easily kept. It was isolated and dark, but it was quiet. That was exactly the type of place he was looking for. He looked up at the weather beaten sign above the door, the jesters hat and broken stilts, with the silhouette of a downed man in the background. Apt.
Stepping inside, the smell struck him immediately. It wasn’t damp but it was meant to smell like it. Frowthorn. Whilst it was a plant with magical properties, its healing abilities meant that it was not restricted by the imperial decree. It also had the added bonus of confusing The Ablated. The owners of the inn obviously kept it around in order to throw off any Ablated that were sent round. Too many false alarms meant that the town guard no longer bothered wasting their time with the Stiltwalker’s Fall. The smell of the Frowthorn often put people off but he didn’t actually mind the smell at all.
He found himself a stool at the bar and, pulling a simple pipe with stone around the edge of the bowl and a small leather pouch from the folds of his tunic, he got the attention of the barkeep.
“What’ll it be, friend?” The man behind the bar smiled the practiced smile of someone whose living depends on being pleasant to people. The act was good. He was a stout man but by no means fat. He had the carriage of a man who had seen battle more than once in his youth. His greying hair and the lines gracing his cheeks and forehead held up a mirror to the Shaven Headed Man. Perhaps he had something in common with this man.
“What’s good?”He asked.
“As a matter of fact, we have just had in a barrel of D’ol Dathri whiskey.” He began, his ruddy cheeks stretching his lips into a smile. “It is triple distilled and glides over the tongue.”
“Why not…” He forced a smile, not wishing to be rude.
“Glides over the tongue.” The barman repeated, turning away to one of the many large barrels behind him.
The Shaven Headed man untied the noose on the pouch he had produced and the earthy smell of herbs wafted up from it. He packed his pipe and put it to his lips. Retrieving from his pocket a small stone, he struck it against the stone on the rim of the pipe and sparks cascaded down into the mixture which began to smoulder. Drawing deeply from it, he closed his eyes, allowing the flavour to circulate around his mouth before inhaling.
“Root Sage and…dried Needle-Cap?” The barman’s voice brought him around.
“You have a keen nose.” He replied.
“But not keen enough…there’s something else in there isn't there?” The barman said, placing a small clay cup full of an amber liquid down on the bar.
“Some things are best kept a secret.” The Shaven Headed Man said.
“You’re a wise man, my friend.” The barman replied. “Enjoy your drink.” He smiled before disappearing to the other end of the bar.
"Watch where you're going, you imbecile.” He called after the man as he once again disappeared into conversation about some trinket or other, the next in a long line of shiny placebos the man will buy in order to fill the void that's left in the absence of any real freedom or happiness. People fill their lives with useless material things, convinced that one day they will be content, but they never are. He hated those people. Whether he hated them for their avaricious nature, their poorly thought out, illogical delusions or simply the fact that they still had the will to chase some kind of contentment in their lives, he wasn't sure. All he knew was he hated them.
Turning a corner, he relaxed a little, the alley into which he had turned as far less crowded than the main street and he was finally able to relax his shoulders and fall into a decent walking rhythm. The noise of the market died down and he could hear the people in their homes, behind the walls that created the alleyway. There were arguments, crying, at one point, he was convinced he could hear someone praying. There's not much call for prayer in place where the gods have stopped looking. He thought to himself as he reached the other end of the alley and walked out into a small plaza. As he crossed the square he looked down at the mosaic set as the centrepiece. It must once have been a sight to behold, a striking mural of prosperity, but now, the scuffs of his boots joined the decades of others marring its surface, making the original pattern all but impossible to discern.
As he reached the other side of the square he ducked between two buildings into another alley where he found his destination. The Stiltwalker's Fall was a tavern and adjoining stables that had been renovated into one larger inn. One of the best kept secrets in the city. It was no surprise though, a secret that nobody cares about is one easily kept. It was isolated and dark, but it was quiet. That was exactly the type of place he was looking for. He looked up at the weather beaten sign above the door, the jesters hat and broken stilts, with the silhouette of a downed man in the background. Apt.
Stepping inside, the smell struck him immediately. It wasn’t damp but it was meant to smell like it. Frowthorn. Whilst it was a plant with magical properties, its healing abilities meant that it was not restricted by the imperial decree. It also had the added bonus of confusing The Ablated. The owners of the inn obviously kept it around in order to throw off any Ablated that were sent round. Too many false alarms meant that the town guard no longer bothered wasting their time with the Stiltwalker’s Fall. The smell of the Frowthorn often put people off but he didn’t actually mind the smell at all.
He found himself a stool at the bar and, pulling a simple pipe with stone around the edge of the bowl and a small leather pouch from the folds of his tunic, he got the attention of the barkeep.
“What’ll it be, friend?” The man behind the bar smiled the practiced smile of someone whose living depends on being pleasant to people. The act was good. He was a stout man but by no means fat. He had the carriage of a man who had seen battle more than once in his youth. His greying hair and the lines gracing his cheeks and forehead held up a mirror to the Shaven Headed Man. Perhaps he had something in common with this man.
“What’s good?”He asked.
“As a matter of fact, we have just had in a barrel of D’ol Dathri whiskey.” He began, his ruddy cheeks stretching his lips into a smile. “It is triple distilled and glides over the tongue.”
“Why not…” He forced a smile, not wishing to be rude.
“Glides over the tongue.” The barman repeated, turning away to one of the many large barrels behind him.
The Shaven Headed man untied the noose on the pouch he had produced and the earthy smell of herbs wafted up from it. He packed his pipe and put it to his lips. Retrieving from his pocket a small stone, he struck it against the stone on the rim of the pipe and sparks cascaded down into the mixture which began to smoulder. Drawing deeply from it, he closed his eyes, allowing the flavour to circulate around his mouth before inhaling.
“Root Sage and…dried Needle-Cap?” The barman’s voice brought him around.
“You have a keen nose.” He replied.
“But not keen enough…there’s something else in there isn't there?” The barman said, placing a small clay cup full of an amber liquid down on the bar.
“Some things are best kept a secret.” The Shaven Headed Man said.
“You’re a wise man, my friend.” The barman replied. “Enjoy your drink.” He smiled before disappearing to the other end of the bar.
In
The Chaos of Butterflies - Small Group Fantasy RP - *Still Accepting Applications*
→
9 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
The sun was setting behind the city in the middle distance, Dalvastre, his destination. Framed by the evening’s crimson glow and with the mountains rising up behind her, she truly looked like a city with the world on her shoulders. Amid the sprawl, the spires of what he assumed were churches and basilicas carved a harsh and tattered skyline.
He drove his heels into the side of the gelding he sat atop and, as the creature drove forward, the trail dust was flung into nervous pirouettes around its hooves. Across the flat terrain, he could see the crowds from almost a league away, the refugees, the hopefuls, the masses in search of work, or shelter. The biggest city for almost fifty leagues in any direction, Dalvastre was a beacon if industry in an otherwise arid landscape, any farmer whose crops had failed or blacksmith worth their salt eventually ended up there. All too willing to become a cog in the monstrous, grey machine.
He pondered that notion for a while and realised that he oughtn’t pity or look down on the mass of humanity seething just outside the city walls. After all, he was soon to be one of them. The Imperial Writ he carried set him apart in a sense, but he was still drawn here, like every other moth, to the fires of the forge.
As he drew closer, he was beginning to feel the strain of his long ride. He ran his hand over the ridges and scars of his shaven head and let his palm settle against the back of his neck. Rolling his head from side to side, he began to hear the shouts of the soldiers at the city gates, corralling people into lines. As the sun set further behind the city, the air cooled and he felt the sweat on his face cool with it, gathering in the labyrinth of lines and scars that was his face. If faces told stories, his would not be one with a happy ending.
The soldiers had split the crowd into two lines and, as he approached, he dismounted and led his horse up through the middle of them. This would not go down well but he didn’t fancy waiting in line for hours only to be told that there would be no more entrants today and that he would have to wait until tomorrow. He did not want to spend another night with only his horse as company. Adjusting his sword belt, the wakizashi sitting at his left hip and the fencing eppe at his right bounced against his thighs as he walked.
As he made his way between the two rows of people he saw them at the front. The Ablated. Two of them, each with a handler. Poor bastards. He never thought much of mages or their arts but he had to concede that to have all that you were, all that you could do, taken away by an obsidian needle through the eye and into your brain…it wasn’t right. But to the empire, those poor handicapped souls still served a purpose. The previous emperor’s bigotry had proved to be hereditary and, with Gabriel Val M’ahr III on the throne, the persecution of all things magical was still strong. It turned out that an Ablated, although no longer capable of using magic, could still sense it. They were the first line of defence against the arcane arts entering Dalvastre.
As he reached the gates, a young soldier approached with two others flanking him.
“To the back of the line with everyone else!” He barked. The Shaven Headed man looked at the soldier and his two accomplices and something akin to a smile crept across his face. The young man was strong and energetic, he could tell by the soldier’s posture. A fire burned within him and the man couldn’t help but think he was bound for great things.“Did you hear what I said?”
“What’s your name, soldier?” The Shaven Headed Man asked.
“Matrius Shard…” His question clearly caught the young soldier off guard. “Why?”
He pulled the imperial writ from a fold in his tunic and held it out to the young man.
“If I wait in line with everyone else, you and I both know I won’t be getting through those gates today.” He began as the young man unfurled the scroll he had been handed. “If I don’t get through today, then I will be late for my meeting with the emperor, and I’m sure His Excellency would enjoy knowing the name of the man who made him wait for my arrival.”
Keeping as straight-faced as possible and not allowing the threat to affect him in front of his entourage, the young soldier returned the scroll. Without turning his back on the Shaven Headed Man, Shard called back for the gates to be opened. Bound for great things. As he made his way through the gates, the sun was truly setting and the buildings cast increasingly long shadows on Dalvastre’s cobbled streets. He swung by the stables and sold his horse. The creature had done well but their journey was over. Besides, the Shaven Headed Man knew where he was going. Like a siren’s song, it called to him. There was only one place a man like him would go with an evening to pass in Dalvastre.
The Stiltwalker’s Fall
He drove his heels into the side of the gelding he sat atop and, as the creature drove forward, the trail dust was flung into nervous pirouettes around its hooves. Across the flat terrain, he could see the crowds from almost a league away, the refugees, the hopefuls, the masses in search of work, or shelter. The biggest city for almost fifty leagues in any direction, Dalvastre was a beacon if industry in an otherwise arid landscape, any farmer whose crops had failed or blacksmith worth their salt eventually ended up there. All too willing to become a cog in the monstrous, grey machine.
He pondered that notion for a while and realised that he oughtn’t pity or look down on the mass of humanity seething just outside the city walls. After all, he was soon to be one of them. The Imperial Writ he carried set him apart in a sense, but he was still drawn here, like every other moth, to the fires of the forge.
As he drew closer, he was beginning to feel the strain of his long ride. He ran his hand over the ridges and scars of his shaven head and let his palm settle against the back of his neck. Rolling his head from side to side, he began to hear the shouts of the soldiers at the city gates, corralling people into lines. As the sun set further behind the city, the air cooled and he felt the sweat on his face cool with it, gathering in the labyrinth of lines and scars that was his face. If faces told stories, his would not be one with a happy ending.
The soldiers had split the crowd into two lines and, as he approached, he dismounted and led his horse up through the middle of them. This would not go down well but he didn’t fancy waiting in line for hours only to be told that there would be no more entrants today and that he would have to wait until tomorrow. He did not want to spend another night with only his horse as company. Adjusting his sword belt, the wakizashi sitting at his left hip and the fencing eppe at his right bounced against his thighs as he walked.
As he made his way between the two rows of people he saw them at the front. The Ablated. Two of them, each with a handler. Poor bastards. He never thought much of mages or their arts but he had to concede that to have all that you were, all that you could do, taken away by an obsidian needle through the eye and into your brain…it wasn’t right. But to the empire, those poor handicapped souls still served a purpose. The previous emperor’s bigotry had proved to be hereditary and, with Gabriel Val M’ahr III on the throne, the persecution of all things magical was still strong. It turned out that an Ablated, although no longer capable of using magic, could still sense it. They were the first line of defence against the arcane arts entering Dalvastre.
As he reached the gates, a young soldier approached with two others flanking him.
“To the back of the line with everyone else!” He barked. The Shaven Headed man looked at the soldier and his two accomplices and something akin to a smile crept across his face. The young man was strong and energetic, he could tell by the soldier’s posture. A fire burned within him and the man couldn’t help but think he was bound for great things.“Did you hear what I said?”
“What’s your name, soldier?” The Shaven Headed Man asked.
“Matrius Shard…” His question clearly caught the young soldier off guard. “Why?”
He pulled the imperial writ from a fold in his tunic and held it out to the young man.
“If I wait in line with everyone else, you and I both know I won’t be getting through those gates today.” He began as the young man unfurled the scroll he had been handed. “If I don’t get through today, then I will be late for my meeting with the emperor, and I’m sure His Excellency would enjoy knowing the name of the man who made him wait for my arrival.”
Keeping as straight-faced as possible and not allowing the threat to affect him in front of his entourage, the young soldier returned the scroll. Without turning his back on the Shaven Headed Man, Shard called back for the gates to be opened. Bound for great things. As he made his way through the gates, the sun was truly setting and the buildings cast increasingly long shadows on Dalvastre’s cobbled streets. He swung by the stables and sold his horse. The creature had done well but their journey was over. Besides, the Shaven Headed Man knew where he was going. Like a siren’s song, it called to him. There was only one place a man like him would go with an evening to pass in Dalvastre.
The Stiltwalker’s Fall
In
The Chaos of Butterflies - Small Group Fantasy RP - *Still Accepting Applications*
→
9 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
I will be updating things like the lore as we go as I and my good friend [@NomiYanimura] are big fans of a more organic approach to RPing. The short introduction above is designed to give a feel for the starting point. Where we go from here will be a mystery to all but I will, by a mixture of stoic democracy or tyrannical coercion (dependent on my mood 
), guide the narrative, and together we'll try and craft a story of which the bards will sing for generations.
), guide the narrative, and together we'll try and craft a story of which the bards will sing for generations.
In
The Chaos of Butterflies - Small Group Fantasy RP - *Still Accepting Applications*
→
9 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Magic is not about conjuring or creating things which were never there. The mage does not manifest fire from nothing. The song for the flame has existed for millennia, its notes form the fabric of everything there ever was and ever will be. The mage simply listens and plays the tune
Rylus Drake
Teachings of the Arcane. Vol. 1, Pg 6
Teachings of the Arcane. Vol. 1, Pg 6
Introduction
They call Dalvastre the Empire’s second city. Whilst its size certainly corroborates this claim, one might find cause to argue with the use of the word ‘city’. From afar, with its foundries belching smog into the air and the spires of its churches and keep stabbing skyward like broken limbs, Dalvastre takes on the form of some colossal, fallen creature, with the grey mask of death and the stiffness of rigor mortis.
It is a hub of industry for the Vel M’ahrian Empire. Almost all of its weapons and armour is created here, the ore-rich veins beneath the city proving too much of a temptation for House Vel M’ahr to resist. Dalvastre drags the very core of the earth to the surface, strips away all that was natural and hammers it into swords, shields and trebuchets. It is not a city; it is a hulking, grey machine of war.
It is a hub of industry for the Vel M’ahrian Empire. Almost all of its weapons and armour is created here, the ore-rich veins beneath the city proving too much of a temptation for House Vel M’ahr to resist. Dalvastre drags the very core of the earth to the surface, strips away all that was natural and hammers it into swords, shields and trebuchets. It is not a city; it is a hulking, grey machine of war.
Yan Pelith
The Ascension of House Vel M’ahr, Pg 237
The Ascension of House Vel M’ahr, Pg 237
Royal Decree
By the command of Emperor Gabriel Vel M'ahr II, ruler of this empire,
it is hereby Royally decreed that all users of the hostile arcane arts,
including, but not limited to elemental manipulation, divination, telepathic
manipulation and/or suggestion and necromancy, except in instances of state-
sanctioned practice, shall submit themselves to the state for summary
registration, identification and, where deemed necessary by the aforementioned,
ablation of such conduits responsible for the individuals’ abilities. An
individual’s failure or refusal to submit themselves for and any all mandatory
censuses and/or examinations or neglect to identify themselves upon entry
to any governed settlement will be regarded as an act of conspiracy to commit
civil unrest, heresy or treason which is punishable by imprisonment for life.
Practice of any of the arcane arts within governed realms will be treated
as an act of high treason for which the punishment is death.
Emperor Gabriel Vel M'ahr II
"I have never seen more wretched souls than those of Vel M'ahrian Empire's Ablated mages. I have travelled to many lands and seen all manner or odd and, at times, unsettling local traditions, but the way those people are robbed of what was such a crucial part of them, turns my stomach. One has trouble picturing them as sentient beings any more as they shamble around in shackles, moaning and shrieking, pulling at the chains held by their Imperial handlers.
Nearly all I have seen have been malnourished and pale, one can only imagine the awful conditions in which they must be kept. The obsidian needle, driven into their right eyes, renders them partially blind and robs them of the arcane power they once possessed. I have no idea of the life expectancy of an Ablated but I know one thing for sure, there is not enough pity in all the world that can undo the torture those people have endured."
Rylus Drake
Teachings of the Arcane. Vol. 1, Pg 239
Teachings of the Arcane. Vol. 1, Pg 239
Lore
Gods
Character Sheet
I'm not a huge fan of character sheets for several reasons, the main of which is that I feel it stifles a certain degree of creativity when it comes to the real task of depicting and developing your character in your posts. I feel there is far more to gain by workshopping your character within the RP and the posts you write about them. That said, I concede that it is common practice to write one so below is a vague outline if it helps you to solidify your character or as a point of reference for others.
I am happy for you not to fill one out if you prefer not to, just write a post in the characters tab with a rough outline (however suits your style best) or PM me with any details you think are pertinent. Just please ensure you read up on any lore etc I've gotten round to posting before jumping in with your albeit wonderfully crafted giant mecha werewolf from the future.
Cheers
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