POOHEAD189

At The Edge of The World

I had managed to secure a room for a bath, the bathhouse located just next door to the tavern. Emmaline had been muttering about it for some time, and honestly I needed one too. Not just for the dirt and stray leaves stuck across my anatomy, but my aching body needed to relax. My master had always reminded me that rest was important for health and muscle growth, and I kept that in mind since. Plus, I couldn't go walking around like this with a girlfriend. An aristocrat girlfriend.

Olly managed to procure some pulled pork and two large potatoes, and later when it arrived, they would covered in cheese and tangy sauces, with the pork piled atop. I was hungry now, but I really needed a bath and knew Emmaline was anxious for it. Heading out to the patio, I found Emmaline sitting there, lost in thought. The sun gleamed off her golden locks, and I had to admit I found her perplexed look pretty adorable. But without warning, a small bird landed on my shoulder and hopped twice, giving off a high-pitched tweet. Emmaline then noticed me, and if I did not know better, her ears twitched slightly under her cascading waves of hair.

"Friend of yours?" I asked her, then turned to the diminutive bird. It tilted its head, tweeted at me again, and then flew away.

"Never met him," She said, and despite the fact we both knew it was facetious, she seemed to smile guiltily, as if she had just lied. She was strange, but I found it was endearing. I leaned against the back of the closest chair, enjoying the light breeze. Around us, couples and friends, or groups of travelers heckled or whispered to one another, enjoying the pleasant cool breeze and the shade.

"We got a room upstairs, and I got us a bath." I told her.

"Oh..." She looked as if she was about to say more, but suddenly a dozen birds fluttered into the supports of the roof above us, chirping intermittently and looking at Emmaline. My face wrinkled in confusion, considering how odd that was. Usually I was pretty good with animals, but even as I made the assumption they were there for her, my suspicions were confirmed when three of them hopped down on the desk and danced in front of her. She pulled her hands off the tabletop and waved them at the birds. "Shoo! Get out of here!"

I laughed. "Well, I'll be in the bath. It'll be the second room down the first hall, on the left. They're pretty nice, last I remember. When you're done with your friends, you can head on in too. After that we'll grab some food, unless you're hungrier than tired." I told her, and headed off to get clean, slipping by the filled tables and walking across the small expanse between buildings. A woman in adventuring gear stepped out of the door and waved to some companions by the large fountain. I passed her, walking into a slim wooden corridor with doors and small openings between each room and the hall to let the steam air. I opened the door on the left and stepped in, glad to see the water was already hot. The steam immediately felt good to breathe in.

Stripping off my upper gi and undershirt, I groaned gently and took a look at my form. I had a few new cuts, most shallow. There was a leech left of my chest, stuck fast. I peeled it off and tossed it, wiping the small blood that drained out of the mark it left. I appraised myself a moment further, running my hand up my abdomen, the muscles still hard and prominent from exercise and lean living. Sort of pridefully, I stretched my arms and gave them a flex, satisfied. It was a manuever I did before most baths since I was a boy, when I was first amazed at the fruits of training my body. Business as usual, but it felt nice. I finally stripped my pants off and shook my head quickly to fan my mane of hair a bit, before stepping it.

"Can't believe I'm back here," I said softly, then decided I was too relaxed to continue the thought, and sunk into the pool.

Rise to The Top: Medieval Intrigue RP

Galt had come face to face with death a number of times, not to mention the myriad of occasions he had very nearly been caught in the act of thievery. For someone in wealth, they might attribute it to something as innocuous as eating dessert before dinner or sneaking past one's parent to go play outside, but Galt could vouch it was an entirely different, more horrible feeling. And yet today was probably the most nervous day of his life, and he felt nearly as anxious now as he had when he had proposed to Silke. When her father had looked to her, Galt had held his breathe, but once he had given the Lord Harrowmark his approval, Galt had let it go in a happy sigh. He could almost laugh at the weight that had flown from his shoulders.

Vincent's rebuff had been expected. His chief concern there was their father taking it and feeling emboldened in a decision to deny Galt. But that had not seemed to be the case, even if Silke were not there, as patient and rational as ever to pull her brother back to the ground. He should have known even if her family were against it, she would rein them in without much trouble. The Gods smiled on their marriage, thankfully, and it looked like Lord Kasper was on board.

"I've already tried to make progress on that front," Galt remarked wryly to Lord Kasper's last item of discussion, Galt giving a smile to Silke's father, before glancing at Silke with a grin. He reached over and took her hand in his, rubbing a gentle thumb over the back of her hand. "I think I'm getting to her, kind of...sort of..."

"Well there are first's for everything," Lord Bryne remarked, raising his glass to the two of them. Galt raised a glass in return, enjoying the moment. Vincent, on the other hand, still seemed less than enthused, but he did not give an outburst or made a fuss and excused himself. He looked content to sulk and idly toy with his food using his salad fork, choosing naught but to shoot Galt and Silke a glance every few moments. Lord Kasper shook his head, out of his wits from the whole discussion.

"Perhaps you are right Bryne, my friend. Or perhaps I should finally learn a bit of bookkeeping myself." He professed. Galt did not know all of the duties of nobility yet, even after being drilled for weeks over the subject. But he was quite certain Lord Kasper was not a lazy man. Silke was an excellent administrator, but he wouldn't be surprised if her father could do his normal duties and rise to the occasion. Plus, if Galt had to be honest with himself, he had the distinct feeling Silke would somehow find a way to weasel her way back into her father's affairs and help, even when she was not in the same residence. He almost laughed at the thought. Lord Kasper took that as a smile to his own remark. "You're just happy you don't have to learn this sort of thing now, I presume?"

It was a joke, but Galt still wound answer earnestly. "Well, to be honest it's not the most exciting task, but I also am attempting to learn some managerial skills as well. Silke has been very good at teaching a man like me, though I'm sure I'm not the best student."

"From what Vincent tells me, you took to arms quite well." Lord Kasper complimented, his face beaming with approval. His eyes flicked to his son and patted his the table to draw his attention. "Is that now right?" He prompted. Vincent took a few moments to answer, as if swallowing something stuck in his throat.

"I did utter something along the lines, I think." Vincent divulged begrudgingly. His next statement was added, with a bit more energy. "How does everyone enjoy the food?"

The Sunday Group - Seeds and Harvests

Hard Boiled Detective

Character Name: Alcander Mires

Concept: Scarred Paranormal Detective

Background: Alcander's upbringing was atypical, though notably not paranormal. His parents, Nestor and Candice, were both Greek, having moved to the United States for business, finding a home in western Florida. Alcander was taught both English and Greek by his father, and his mother gave him a love of the ancient classics. Not only of Greek origin, but the myths of many cultures, most notably Near Eastern and Norse. He was encouraged to pursue a career in law by his father, and Alcander notably excelled in school. By age 16 he had graduated highschool, and was sent to live with his cousins in Athens, pursuing an undegraduate in law. Unfortunately for his parent's expectations, the locale and historical sites rekindled his love of myth and history, and soon he changed his vocation to archaeology and the classics.

He found he wanted to remain in Greece, and even went so far as to advocate for his inclusion in the HAF for the compulsory military service, spending a full 12 months in the Hellenic Army. There he met his closest friends, Castor, Irakles, and Petros. All four were discharged by age 19, and they all went to university together. Alcander would never forget those three years he spent with them, laughing until they cried and even getting into a few fights downtown with rowdy louts on drunken nights.

Once they each graduated, the four went on several digs together. Six months later, they took a dig with a team a few miles outside of Argos.

The site was closed a day later, and save for a few locals swearing they heard a keening, animal wail in the wind, no one ever found out what exactly happened to the team.

Alcander still won't speak on that day. He emerged out of the ground bloodied and covered in dust, his friends gone. Even when he gets particularly drunk, one can only get the words 'Tartarus' and 'Hydra' out of him. Alcander spent a few weeks settling his affairs, and then he left Greece without a word on where he was going. Every now and then he would call his family, speaking in brief sentences on his whereabouts. Istanbul, Edinburgh, Stockholm, the Song Mountains, San Paulo... Five years off the map, only to return to the states, quieter and world weary, but otherwise healthy.

Physical Description: Alcander cuts a wiry but not unpleasant figure. His mane of wavy and unremarkable hair, along with his earthy brown eyes give him an unintimidating and approachable look, particularly before his travels. He has a fine nose that accentuates his youthful face nicely, and a cut chin to match. His eyes are cold or distant, however. The bags under them betray his frequent, invasive dreams.

He used to wear casual, but fashionable clothes. Button downs he would keep open and khakis or shorts, frequently going to the beach. Now, his shirts are wrinkled and his trousers are functional but unremarkable. He's almost never seen without a long duster-like coat, though he still wears the Greek orthodox bronze medallion his father gave him, hanging against his skin from a sturdy sterling silver necklace.

Powers and Skills:

Descendant of Apollo: The years lie lightly on him, and his ability to survive and endure harsh injuries are due to his lineage. One might call him a 'hero' in the Greek tradition, but he certainly would not.

Knowledge: A nymph claimed he was closer to Hermes than Apollo in spirit, and it was due to his knowledge of both mythology, language, and forensics.

Pacts: Has a number of otherworldly contacts, acquaintances, and bound entities to call upon when in need.

Minor Sorcery: Has no real talent for it, but has learned some occult arts to help him in his pursuits.

Military Training: Knows basic combat and has limited firearms training.

Might not be able to do this after all. I received some rough news on Friday. Very sorry.

@Mistress Dizzy

Stay safe! Sorry to hear :(

The Sunday Group - Seeds and Harvests

Still brainstorming, but I'll get a sheet in soon

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

"Our Sun Shines Brightest." The dashing man in red remarked, his head tilted as if amused by the knowledge or context of his words. He had a way of smiling as if he knew a secret privvy to none other. "Is that not the aphorism? Or would it be maxim?"

The Faith Militant shared a look, unsure of what to do with this strange, foreign priest. Kian felt similarly perplexed, though he did hide it extremely well. He had been sent here by his faith to proselytize to his 'original' people, but Westeros was far different than any of the varied city states of Essos. So many strange peoples and customs. Not least of which were their 'house sayings.' He could only surmise they were a sort of boasting coinciding with a delectably funny moniker. He had figured a township where they revered the sun in their motto might be more inclined to be receptive to his faith, but so far he had been met with naught but strange looks by the men, and a frightened curiosity by the womenfolk.

It was minutes ago that Kian had been accosted by a roaming band of ruffians in simple garments. He had left Ashford after receiving no purchase in his preachings. In fact he had nearly been bludgeoned by a jealous husband. Kian had not even made advances to the fellow's wife. She had just tittered and gave him a look her husband clearly did not like. Still, it wasn't him that had these men go after him, he was quite certain of that. It was likely the dogmatic elder who yelled at him, or the crone that spat at his feet. Either way, the Lord of Light saw fit to test him with these unwashed apostates.

"I'll say again, cur. What is your name?" The leader asked.

He was younger than Kian might have expected, at middling age and lean as a grey hound. He had a mane of brown hair and a short beard that matched, albeit barely. He carried a cut and thrust sword, double edged and broad of blade. He waved it around the way a child might shake a toy, though he had a wild look in his eye that betrayed a madness within. Kian no doubt suspected he would be fierce in a fight, despite his lack of training. The ones behind him seemed much the same. Their hands and faces were dirty, but their weapons looked new. They looked to be useful thugs, but poor priests.

"I would tell you, but I don't fancy hearing it tumbling off your clumsy tongue." Kian remarked glibly. He gave a smile that showed his teeth, fully aware that no matter what he said, the man would find fault with his words. Kian was slim and handsome, of good height and keen intellect. He annoyed many men by simply being his devil-may-care self. Still, he did have to add a diplomatic addition at the end: "However, I can tell you I hail from across the narrow sea, and I mean you nor any citizen of the seven kingdoms harm."

"Oh, is that so?" The zealot bristled, barely containing his rage at the impudence. "And what of the damage you provide to the souls of these kind people?"

"I merely seek to enlighten the people, to grant them what their souls truly need." The red priest responded, gesticulating with his simple staff. "In fact, I believe we could help one another. With your fervor and my wit, I am sure the people would be delighted to-"

"Enough, you fucker!" The Faith Militant raised their weapons, their eyes dead with certainty at a coming violence. Kian sighed, lamenting his luck. He supposed there was less religious tolerance in the seven kingdoms. He would like as not have to run, but even if he escaped, he had little doubt they would find horses and pursue him. The Lord of Light did not simply bring him out here to die in a cruel irony, had he?

That would be a dick move, he decided.

The Sunday Group - Seeds and Harvests

Now to decide on who or what to make...

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

Kasimir found his way to a high top table easy enough, grabbing a drink on the way. The aristocracy either gave him a wide berth or watched him curiously until he stared back, and they would look away. He was in no mood for games, at the current moment. The ridiculous Eleanor of Coucernne was a conundrum to him, but it had also made him less able to act amicably amongst the courtiers and nobility, and decided to simply get more drunk than he had originally intended. On his second glass, a pretty woman with blonde hair tied up with lacquered pins approached him, wearing a delectable dress and a necklace of blue pearls.

"That's an expensive brandy in your hand." She said, glancing over her shoulder. No doubt to a party she had left to speak to the anomaly, and Kasimir wondered if he was now the butt of a private joke. He simply shrugged, taking another sip.

"The richest people in Middenheim all gathered in one place and everything is free anyway." He said with faux interest. "Isn't it wonderful to be noble?"

She swallowed, but pressed forward and tilted her head. "You didn't look too enthused when you were attacked on the street because of who your father was." The declaration was unexpected, and though he did not place his drink down, she had his full attention. After a closer look, he believe he recognized her. She continued: "And I don't appreciate being used as an excuse for said attack."

She had been the noblewoman whose 'honor' Clausewitz defended. He would have laughed were he in a better mood. He glanced to his right to see a few eyes their way, but scattered amongst the crowd, not in a concentrated area as he might have expected. "I suppose you wouldn't. To what do I owe this meeting, my lady?"

"Lady Janderbilt." She said by way of introduction. She did not have a drink, and the servants were elsewhere. She stood somewhat awkwardly, opening and closing her mouth. "I just wanted to tell you not everyone is aghast at your presence, though you do well to make yourself unlikeable. The Brettonian woman, Lady d’Aberville, seems to have particular disdain for you. What did you say to her?"

"I was just inquiring on her journey to the city. I made one myself very recently." He replied, giving at least a half truth for her. Before she could speak again, one of the pair of eyes approached. The crowd behind, they coalesced into a familiar face. A bit greyer of hair and a few more wrinkles, but still tall and fit and with a jolly smile.

"Ah, Kasimir. I haven't seen you since you were a pup." The bear-like aristocrat said, extending his hand to shake. The Lady Janderbilt decided to make her exit there, apparently not wishing to speak without some privacy. Kasimir could not begin to guess why. She certainly did not seem attracted to him. He gave his full attention to his old friend, however.

"Lord Hargulf, I almost did not recognize you. It does me good to see you are well." Kasimir said honestly.

"I am doing quite well, and I can see you're less so. You certainly have the temper of your father." The hairy baron shook his head. Were he not in such fine clothes, he might have looked like the aging cheiftan of a Norscan tribe beyond the Sea of Claws.

"I did not strike first." The bastard assured him.

"I believe you, but perhaps you should do your best to keep out of sight after tonight. I fear the hydra that is this court has not been sated of drama as of yet, and you're the prime prey." Baron Hargulf whispered conspiratorially.

Fortune & Glory: Grimdark Pulp RP

"Inside?" Jocasta asked, finishing up her scibbling with a flourish of her pen. Well, she seemed about to finish, before she saw something else that had her furiously writing again. It was at that point Beren picked her up and draped her over his shoulder as he and Buri ran to the stairs that led into the grand mausoleum. Jocasta got the last bit of a rune inscripted onto the page before she dropped the book back in her pack and smoothed her hair out of her eyes. She saw Buri huffing and puffing behind them, the fat dwarf making it up the stairs in good time for one who's legs were so short.

"Jo, get your helpers to see if there are any other exits around this place." Beren told her, gently setting her on her feet.

"You heard 'em, get going." She said as she clapped twice, the two little drones hopping off her ears with energetic buzzing and zoomed off in two different directions.

The floor they were on looked incredibly ancient from the dust and the indecipherable inscriptions, yet the magnificent craftsmanship of the dwarves made it seem as if it were made only a day prior to its discovery. Dozens of sarcophagi, topped with immaculate and gilded stone effigies of every dwarf interred, lined the chasmal hall. Every few tombs, there were smaller mausoleums; arched sepulcher tombs for what looked to be resting places of even higher status dwarves. To Buri and Beren's lament, a few of the stones had been undone and some of the doors had been smashed in, but it was only light damage for a room that must have existed for over four thousand years.

"There looks like there's only two exits, one up and one down." Beren said.

"Aye, there wasn't much ceremony here like in the great masoleums in the center of the city." Buri remarked, which gave Beren a tight-lipped smile. Not much ceremony to a dwarf meant they only made perfect sculputes of every deceased and the family would still visit and recite their name and deeds and would hum dirges for hours to give proper respect. Still, he took Buri's meaning.

The drones careened back to Jocasta in unison, buzzing intermittently in what Beren could only guess was either in code or soft voices only she could hear. Either way, she understood them.

"There's smaller openings upstairs, but nothing but an arrow could fit in them. Other than the broken wall behind us and the stairway, that's all that anyone can use to get in." She said quickly. "I think we should go upstairs where there's only one way at us."

"And leave this floor for the wretches!?" Buri huffed, but as he looked around, he realized the strategy of it.

"One entrance also means one exit. So we'll have nowhere to run, either." Beren remarked. "But I guess it's better than being flanked. Jo, head upstairs. Buri, help me get a few of these slabs up there."

Jocasta nodded. "I'll set up what wards I can. Maybe give them a few surprises?" She said before bounding up the stairs. Buri and Beren grabbed a large slab and began carrying it, the stone even more weighty than it appeared.

"Have you ever fought Gundarogs before?" Beren asked the dwarf.

The merchant nodded. "Aye," but added uneasily. "Er, when I was a beardling. Managed to kill one too."

The two of them took the stairs, Beren walking backwards as Buri pushed. That news didn't bode well. Beren knew the fat dwarf was less combat experienced than all his fellows, save potentially for Varin the youngest, but he wasn't expecting to have killed more Gundarogs than him, considering the disparity of their lifespans.

Paranormal Detectives

I am ready to get hurt again

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

Like a Little Caesar's pizza, he's hot and ready.

Kian Cran'Darack the Flame Priest

Kian of the Flame

Priest of R'Hllor || Flame and Shadow

Kian cannot remember his parents very well. He recalls the smiling face of a woman, the deep voice of a man and a moving picture in his mind of what must have been his father walking past him, asking about the night's dinner. Somehow, the word Riverlands sticks in his mind. Verdant green and blue skies outside a wooden cottage, smoke lazily pouring forth from the chimney. The first smoke. His next memories fade, and suddenly he finds himself in flea bottom. The sun baking the sandstone hovels as men and women scrape for a living. He remembers walking the docks, fascinated with the men hauling ropes and carrying wooden crates of the unknown on and off ships as waves lap against the quay, dancing with coruscating, shimmering white light. It's all in a haze, as if he dreamed the entire affair. He remembers looking up, into the first clear image he can see in his mind.

Thrandos the Fateful looked upon him, his goatee more golden than grey, those years ago. A dimple on his left cheek, pock marks gently kissing the right of his head, just beside his mane of light hair, almost angelic as the sun beams upon him. Thrandos was kindly, Kian recalls. He offered Kian something to eat; a sweet he had never tasted before. The youth followed the man to a ship. The vessel gently rolls away from the sprawling urban center of the Westerosi. Waves and one particularly bad storm staying in his mind, even now. Hiding under the bed, fear gripping his throat.

Volantis awaited. A city that awed him, even beyond the scope of King's Landing. Perhaps so because he could not recall approaching the Westerosi capital from the sea. Only leaving it, and he was occupied with other things. But Volatnis was immense, a place of wonders. It was said the hundred isles of Braavos could be dropped into the harbor and disappear, he recalled one sailor claiming. The nameless ship had docked, and from there Thrandos the Faithful led the young one to a vast structure, almost a plaza of sorts, and yet its varying minarets seemed each as large as the Red Keep from across the narrow sea.

The Great Temple of the Lord of Light.

Kian's memories grow far more pellucid and unclouded. And yet, this is the chapter in his life that must remain shrouded in secrecy. R'hllor is the God of light, but also the God of shadow. His rituals are secret; surreptitious, and even if they were made know, the dimensions would be paradoxical, incomprehensible, and would undoubtedly prove ephemeral in one's limited mind.

What Kian is permitted to recall aloud, however, is the women. Alonta of Braavos, Serana from Lys, Princess Philandrae of Sarnor, and many more. One needs to appreciate the finer things in life when traveling in service to the Lord of Light. Thrantos had told him that, though granted the old priest had meant the occasional glass of wine, not bedding royalty and whispering into the ears of other men's wives. But the Lord had blessed Kian with the looks of a sculpture and the voice of a singer, who was he to question it?

His devil-may-care attitude however, was somewhat tempered when his next pilgrimage was not to one of the Free Cities, but to the land of his birth. The council of flame had given it to him with their full blessing, but he could tell from their eyes it was a penal assignment; a punishment for his extracurricular activities. He was granted no audience with the crown, or any representation with any of the seven kingdoms. He was there to spread the faith, and provide light where there was darkness.

Well, he supposed he would have to make do, now wouldn't he?