Kassarock

SANDSTRIDERS: A Lost Land

Aaaaaand... Posted!

SANDSTRIDERS: A Lost Land

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H A R W A A H M E S T E P | Q A D I R

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The sun beat down hard on the dry hills where the Twaran hinterlands met the sands of the Manudhe Desert. The air was thick and still, without a breeze to stir the fronds of the dusty palms. It was the kind of heat that sent man and beast a like in search of shade. But in a town such as Qadir, shade was a sought after commodity, especially for those who could ill afford it.

This close to the Manudhe it was known that on days such as these, that to spend to long exposed to the Lhat of the Sarin, was to invite death upon one's head. The only people who would willingly sit out beneath the open sky for any extended period of time in such conditions were those who had no other choice, or one who's sense and reason had deserted them.

Harwa Ahmestep wondered which one he was.

The old man sat cross legged, his white haired head and thick armoured body covered with a thin dun coloured sand cloak in a vain attempt to block out the noon inferno. His axe lay beside him, its blade wrapped in bandages to make it appear little more than a bundle atop a stick. Obscured so, there was little to differentiate him from the other beggars and street dwellers of Qadir. Save for the fact he was broader than any beggar had a right to be.

He was perched upon his open bed roll, placed along the edge of one of the thoroughfare's that led through the city up to the Imit's palace. His wooden begging bowl was placed in front him, for that was the prime purpose of choosing such a god forsaken spot such as this.

Of course there were other places that were populated and well trafficked enough to warrant pan handling that were also in possession of shade. But those were either kept clear by the guards, or currently occupied by other beggars. Harwa knew he could send either of those running if he revealed his blade and made a few choice cuts, but he had no heart for it. The guards were only doing as they were ordered, and the beggars were just as deserving of the merciful blessing of the shade as he was... Perhaps more so.

And so Harwa sat beneath the sun, half hidden under his cloak, bowl outstretched the other unfortunates that braved the noon-day sun.

"Alms for the poor? Take pity upon a old sinner." He croaked out in a low and husky voice to the shadows that passed over him, their very indifferent presence providing a moment of respite from the relentless heat. A few coins had rattled in his bowl over the last few hours, but none for a while, and so he had hoped for another copper when two of these shadows paused above him.

"Hedes, friends! Spare a coin for a lowly beggar?"

A swift and sharp kick to his lowered head was the only response.

Harwa bent himself lower and tasted a mouthful of dust, mixed with the faint copper tang of his own blood, his ringing head pressed to the dirt. A spurt of rage, hotter than the sun above, seared his insides. For a moment he thought of how easy it would be for him to unwrap his axe and paint the street red with the blood of these two bastard fools. It was what he would have done once if provoked so, the inclinations of a man better left buried in the past.

He breathed deeply, and suppressed the urge.

"Clear the street, by order of the Imit. Find some other corner to stink up, old man." Barked one of the pair of guards who had just kicked him in the face.

"But of course, of course, fine sirs. Sahnat a wenbet besu!"

All the while he prayed for them, that the Arhanphast would forgive them for the damages they unknowingly did to their everlasting soul.

When they had gone he looked up and gathered his now scattered belongings, including the coins that they had spilled from his little bowl. It wasn't as much as he had hoped for, but it was enough for something to eat from a market stall... and maybe a swift drink. In fact, Harwa thought that the drink might serve him better than the food at this point.

There was a taverna near by that was friendly enough to his kind. He took a quick swing from his waterskin and began to head in its direction.

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The shaded interior of the taverna was mercifully cool compared to the world outside. It's arched doors were covered with beaded curtains through which the sun's baleful rays furtively tried to creep they way inside. Harwa did not do likewise, he strode in, bold as brass, his voice booming as he called out to the bar keeper.

"Hedes, my good friend! Do you perchance have a free drink for one of your best customers?"

It was not a practically busy bar, but there were some other patrons. Some merchants and market traders, a family with young children, and a hulking Ayiralite of stone and earth who appeared to be playing with a child, with broken glass of all things. Strange.

"Harwa, you are neither one of my best customers, nor my friend. Unless you have coin, Pah hret!" Came the answer from the other side of the serving hatch. Harwa reacted with mock surprise and feigned outrage.

"You wouldn't deprive a feeble old man of his last few coins simply because he needed to quench an unbearable thirst?"

Perhaps there was someone here who would buy a drink for him?

Sum up your week in roleplaying in just 3 words

Old spark rekindled

SANDSTRIDERS: A Lost Land

Okay, almost there with the other posts I need to do first, will start working on my OP for this soon!

Oblivion: Wrath of Akatosh

Posted! Hope it doesn't get in the way of this other collab that happening.

I wasn't planning to going all the way up to the earthquake, but it seemed too funny not to when I realised where the post was doing with the whole asking for a sign angle.

Oblivion: Wrath of Akatosh

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G A V | ​1 S T O F L A S T S E E D | K V A T C H

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Well, things had taken a turn to the fucking weird hadn't they?

For all his inclination to be a flashy bastard, Gav' prided himself on his ability to stay inconspicuous. That was actually the harder part of being a sneak thief. Not being seen was easy, but being seen and still not drawing attention to yourself? That was the hard part. And he had been trying his damnest to stay inconspicuous as he had made his way to the Temple in order to return what he had 'borrowed' from the old Dragon God. The crowd should have helped a bit, easier to blend in when there's more to blend with.

But in the end, it hadn't done him a lick of good had it?

Somehow that blonde Nord bint with the ice blue eyes had spotted him right away. Walked up to him and a bunch of people he didn't know and declared them Tourists, Thieves or Mages. The only thing that tempered his annoyance was just how pretty she was, more than pretty enough for Gav'. He made a mental note of her, every disadvantage could be turned into an opportunity.

Before he had a chance to say anything, some other bleedin' idiot came over, claiming that they were his guests and that he would take them to his shop. Gav' was appreciative enough of the distraction to go along with it and follow the bosmer and the motley little group that he had gathered out of square, before taking the very first opportunity to slip away when none of them were looking.

That was a fucking close one.

Gav' still wasn't quite sure how that had all happened back there, but he was free to do as he pleased again. He wish that group of weirdos well, and hoped they would enjoy being ripped off by that pint sized purveyor of poor quality baked goods. He had more important things to do. Gold to return, Gods to appease.

He slipped through the busy streets, a quiet shadow amongst the merriment and gayety of the festival. It took him longer to circle back around to his destination than he would have liked. But a circuitous route seemed like the more sensible option, didn't want to run into that Bosmer again, or the pretty Nord... well... not yet at least anyway. Maybe later on tonight when he had time to buy her a few drinks and work his charms on her, now that would be a pleasant end to this business, wouldn't it?

The square seemed a little quieter upon his return. He guessed the main events at the arena would be starting soon if they had not already. That would mean less people about, less chance of being seen. Perfect. He would do it now.

The quiet shadow detached itself from the wall beneath an coloured awning and skirted around its edge. He shunned the main set of doors and instead made for a small side entrance that he knew from experience opened up half way up along the nave of the temple. It had been unlocked last time, with luck it would be again. Gav' gently pressed the handle down.

Click.

It opened, and swung inward silently on a set of well oiled hinges. It looked like luck was still on his side after all, eh?

The inside of the chapel was still bright, only the very corners of the high vaulted ceiling and the tips of the stone columns lost in shadow. The rest of the temple was filled with the sunlight that streamed in through the vast stained glass windows that lined each and every wall. From the far end of the nave, away from the altar, Gav' could hear low conversation being made by at least two people on the rows of wooden pews.

He left the door slightly ajar, in case he needed to make a quick getaway, and snuck down the side of the chapel. The lines of pillars made good cover to keep out of the view of whoever was talking at the other end. This was almost as easy as when he had taken the damned things.

Within seconds he was kneeling behind the altar, burlap sack in hand. From out of it came a pair of large ornate silver candle sticks that he set back upon either end of the altar. To this he added his gold purse, which contained all the gold he had taken from the communion plate, plus a substantial donation of his own.

As soon as it was out of his hands Gav' already felt better. He closed his eyes and made a whispered prayer to the mighty Akatosh, the divine to which this temple had been raised, and whom Gav' had so recently drew the attention of. It went a little something like this:

"I don't really do this kind of stuff very often... praying and that. But I guess if you're a God and everything you can hear me? Anyway I just wanted to ask... we cool now? Cos I gave it all back, everything, plus a bit extra to y'know sweeten the deal, and I would really, really, really, like to get some uninterrupted sleep."

Silence.

"...Guess I'll take that as a yes then?"

More silence.

"Okay... cool. I mean, would it be too much trouble to give me a sign or something?"

Suddenly he felt it, the very ground beneath him beginning to tremble and shake, knocking dust from the down from the high vaulted ceiling and setting the new returned silverware to rattling upon the altar.

It was an earthquake.

Fuck.

What Are You Listening To?

Summer vibes

Oblivion: Wrath of Akatosh

Gonna try and get a quick solo post up to explain Gav's transfer from one group to the other, expect tonight or tomorrow!

SANDSTRIDERS: A Lost Land

I was worried we would all roll mages, instead three goddamn clerics showed up.

Kass's Kharacters

Harwa Ahmestep

"No soul is irredeemable. None are beyond the forgiveness of the Great Father."

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Art by Fetsch ___________________________________ P R O F I L E Age 59 Race Human Sex Male Height 5'11" Weight 220lb Alignment Lawful Good Class Slayer Level 1 Health Points 32 ___________________________________ I N V E N T O R Y - Water Skin. - Bed roll. - Begging Bowl. - Flask of distilled liquor. - String of Prayer Beads. - Loaf of Bread. - Bronze Face Mask, broken. ____________________________________ E Q U I P M E N T - A two handed Twaran Battle-Axe. - The Shafrat Alrahma, a thin curved dagger, used to kill mortally wounded opponents. - Tarnished Bronze Scale Mail, with brightly coloured ragged arming garments. ____________________________________ A T T R I B U T E S Athletics: 16 (Class bonus +2, +4) Dexterity: 10 Intelligence: 10 Wisdom: 10 Charisma: 12 (+2) Constitution: 16 (+6) ___________________________________ S K I L L S (A) Strength: 8 (Class bonus +4, +4) (A) Agility: 0 (D) Stealth: 0 (D) Acrobatics: 0 (D) Trickery: 0 (I) History: 0 (I) Nature: 0 (I) Arcana: 0 (I) Religion: 1 (+1) (W) Perception: 0 (W) Medicine: 0 (W) Survival: 0 (C) Persuasion: 1 (+1) (C) Deception: 0 (C) Intimidation: 2 (+2) (C) Performance: 0

____________________________________________________________________________ A P P E A R A N C E Harwa Ahmestep is a heavyset Tawran man, who is rapidly leaving his middle years behind him and entering his old age. The effects of the passage of time are evident all over his person. His long mane of coiled braids has lightened from black, to grey, and at last to white. It stands stark against his dark skin, and though time does not whiten that, it does not escape its grasp unscathed. A spiderweb of scars and wrinkles stretches across its surface, testament to a lifetime of experiences. His physique gives the impression of solidity. Though not overly tall, Harwa more than makes up for it in his girth, with wide shoulders, thick arms, and a heavy belly. In his youth, he was hard and chiselled all over, his body a tool forged for violence. Age has softened and blunted him, but there is steel at his core still, and muscle beneath the fat. Like his body, his face is well fleshed, with full lips and a broad flat nose. Harwa was not considered a particularly handsome man, even in his younger years. A beard hides most of his chin and jowls, it is normally scruffy and unkempt, much like his hair. The eyes that look out of this worn and craggy face are dark brown, warm, glinting with humour... at least, that's what they look like most of the time. Sometimes there is another man looking out from that kindly old face, one with eyes colder than a desert night. One who has the eyes of a killer. Harwa dresses slovenly, in brightly coloured but much patched and repaired garb. It is the motley uniform of the Tariqa Al-Shahadh, the Order of the Mendicants. Holy warriors of Sharaqan, they distain all property and instead live by begging, they are recognisable by their brightly coloured patched robes, sewn from many different coloured rags. His armour, made of overlapping plates of bronze scales, is dull and tarnished, though still servable enough to offer Harwa protection. ____________________________________________________________________________ P E R S O N A L I T Y Philosophers and scholars of the world are in frequent disagreement as to the fundamental nature of man. According to one camp, humans are savage beings, violent animals whom are only tamed through the application of civilisation and society. To others, hatred and cruelty are traits that we are taught by the harsh realties of the world, and our truer nature is that of the innocent guileless child, fundamentally good. Harwa is inclined to agrees with the latter, and his greatest fear is that the former are correct. He believes that there is no one that is not worth saving. That there is grace in every person, no matter what they have done. That redemption can always be earned. In his person, Harwa is kind and gregarious. Always willing to share despite having very little himself, and equally open to receiving hospitality with graciousness and enthusiasm. Despite the somewhat ascetic nature of his order, he has an immense appetite and enjoyment of the physical pleasures of life, in particular food and drink. For a supposed beggar warrior, Harwa eats rather well. He is pious, without being dogmatic or taking himself and his faith too seriously. His lively sense of humour frequently makes pointed jokes at his own expense, and when Harwa laughs, he laughs loudly and deeply. He is a loud person in general, from his bright multicoloured garments, to his deep and booming voice and outgoing personality. It is rare that he is raised to anger, but should it occur, it is a terrible sight to behold. ____________________________________________________________________________ B A C K S T O R Y For all the loudness about Harwa Ahmestep, there is one thing he is more definitely quiet about - his past. There are some things however, that would be evident to anyone who had the opportunity to observe him for a decent length of time. Firstly, he speaks Tawrish like a native and has a noticeable accent when switches to Equarish or Urkun. It can easily be assumed that he was born there, or at least grew up in the lands of the Maatrho God-Kings. Though his familiarity with the diverse languages of Dahard imply that he has some familiarity with the region, despite only being recently arrived. Secondly, he clearly does not share the faith of his country men, for he is of the Tariqa Al-Shahadh, the Order of the Mendicants. They are beggar warriors, sworn to protect those in need and live off of the charity of others. And they do not subscribe to the cult of the Maatrho, instead they follow the teachings of Sharaq and worship the Great Father Arhanphast. If you were ask Harwa how a Tawran native came to live in the service of a foreign God, he would be more than happy to tell you. The faith of Sharaq came to him at the lowest point in his life, when he had lived a bad and selfish existence that had led him to nothing but ruin and misery. He had been saved by a holy man who saw something good in him still, and had given him a new life though he himself had no worldly goods of his own. Ever since he had been inspired to live by such an example. It is a good story, and Harwa has gotten better at telling it with each recounting. The truth of these events are now distorted to the point it no longer hurts to tell. If you got to know Harwa a little better still, you might catch glimpses of the painful past behind that well worn story. He lets them slip sometimes, normally late at night when he's had a drink and his thoughts turn sombre and a little melancholic. He was married once, back in Tawr. They had a farm and a family. They grew fields of cotton and grain, raised goats and girls. All his children were daughters, he still smiles ruefully when he thinks of them. At first they were happy, but it did not last. He drank, too much and too often, and back in those days Harwa was much more... violent... when he drank. It all ended badly. Before that he was a soldier. It's evident enough by his martial prowess, even at his advanced age. He still carries himself like one, even though its been years since he wore that uniform. Years since he hid his face behind that bronze mask. But for all your prying, you would not get him to talk about it, despite his normally gregarious nature. Speaking of it makes him remember. And he does not want to remember what he did. ____________________________________________________________________________ M O T I V A T I O N A N D O U T L O O K Harwa is drawn to Dahard to do as he had been trying to do since he left his old lives behind and joined the Tariqa Al-Shahadh. He is desperately trying to atone. And he feels that Dahard is the place where he can best do this. ____________________________________________________________________________ M I S C E L L A N E O U S Harwa's Holy Order, the Tariqa Al-Shahadh, although a martial organisation focused on fighting and combat, distains the taking of life unnecessarily. Its members are sworn to try and resolve all disputes peacefully before resorting to violence, and only kill in defence of one's own life or the lives of others. The one exception to this is in the use of the Shafrat Alrahma, the mercy blade, which a warrior may use to end the suffering of a mortally wounded opponent, as a final mark of respect.