POOHEAD189

The Sunday Group - Seeds and Harvests

"The usual, Al?"

He lifted his hand from the countertop, the sticky residue of cooking grease and strawberry jam on the tip of his fingers. Barb hadn't cleaned the counter this morning. Big surprise. Tony dropped freshly cut onions on the grill, the sizzling deceptively satisfying to hear. If you could see past the smudged windows and the quaint sign at the front, you might think this was a nice diner. One need only eat the eggs to realize the enormity of the mistake. But the coffee was good, the people left you alone, and the food was deservedly cheap.

Alcander raised his other hand and pushed a wave of his tangled hair out of his face. He hadn't found the time for a haircut in months. One crackhead had creatively said he was LARPING as an apostle, which he guessed was not too outlandish. But it did get him to shave, at least. Before he opened his mouth, his phone vibrated audibly on the counter. He lifted it up and gave it a cursory glance. He took a moment and nodded.

"Yeah Barb, put it in a cup."

The weather had cleared, the sun peaking intermittently through the fleeing clouds, leaving the decrepit stink of the city wafting as clear to the senses as the food at the diner. He had grown used to it, passing the offices and apartments that littered the business sector of the city. He sipped his order, letting the coffee heat his belly as he walked the three blocks from the diner to the crime scene. He finished just before he found the alley, tossing the cup in a corner bin and clearing his throat.

"El," He said by say of greeting. Alcander was an unassuming figure, his lean greyhound frame hidden by the large overcoat he wore day by endless day. Passed his hair, his face was finely formed, but the bags under his eyes and the weathered look to his face betrayed the fact he hadn't slept six hours in two days. His eyes glanced down at the corpse, then flew upwards.

"Well, he didn't fall. At least..." He wrinkled his nose as the smell of refuse and piss finally hit him. The detective looked straight up at the sky, as if the clouds had answers. -not off the roof."

Alcander wasn't shaken easily. Not anymore, at least. He felt at home when looking at mangled corpses, which was a bit of therapy he would have looked into, in another life.

"His arms aren't aligned in the way one might try and shield themselves from a fall." He explained, taking a pen out of his jacket and dipping it into the black sludge that had accumulated along the uneven pavement the government so generously kept up to standard, as far as they told the taxpayers. Even a man committing suicide would instinctually try to block his head from striking the hard ground. He scooped up a bit of the alien liquid, fishing in his jacket with his free hand and producing a lighter. The small metallic click accompanied the flame, and he raised the coated pen, gingerly placing the flame beneath it.

The black sludge erupted in flame, which swiftly turned a sickly green, illuminating Alcander's face, his dark irises glowing with a muted forest color. "Could be wyvern bile, or maybe even cockatrice blood. I'll know better once Jo runs some tests."

He dropped the pen even as it dematerialized, the flame somehow spreading the ichor across its length, as if it made the flame hungry.

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

The attack had been swift and well executed. Kian almost laughed when the arrows came whistling out of the trees and the screams erupted up the road. He had figured the Lord of Light would not have let him die so ignominiously at the ass end of the world. Though, admittedly, he had been a bit worried there for a moment.

The Red Priest did gape, however, when he saw the vanguard of his saviors.

"Dothraki!?" He echoed to himself. He had a comically bewildered look on his face as arrows arced past his vision and men and horses collided with the poorly equipped Faith Militant. Blood spurted and men screamed, accompanied by the whooping cries of the Dothraki and the more stoic warcries from the notably more armored Westerosi that followed them. Amid the chaos, Kian decided he would not question good fortune. His rescuers were curious, but that just made it all the more interesting. His thoughts were interrupted by a particularly girlish squeal, and he winced when he saw a Faith Militant being murdered in an exceptionally brutal fashion.

Still, he waited patiently for the one sided slaughter to finish, not saying another word and simply watching. Soon, the cries of pain and elation subsided, now replaced by the moaning of the dying and the laughter of the victorious. He felt the rope around his wrists begin to chaffe a bit, but otherwise he was not in too big of a hurry to speak to whoever led this warband. Of course, he swiftly changed his mind when a well armored and lovely woman approached him, leaving behind a still warm corpse she had just comforted. It seemed like there was going to be one surprise after another today, and it occurred to the itinerant priest that despite being saved, he was still in quite a precarious position.

"Yes, I've noticed." He replied to her. "I've watched as you Westerosi have shared your culture with each other all morning. I suppose it's a bit like the Dothraki, though a bit less bloody and far more talk of justification." At that last word, he chuckled. He found the woman had introduced herself well, at least. He visibly brightened when the maiden spoke so knowledgeably with the epitaphs of his deity. She sounded educated, and moved with an almost courtly etiquette. Kian did find it curious she was leading these men, a tale he was most interested in hearing. Her invitation arrived just after that thought, actually.

"I would be a madman to refuse after that introduction. To say it would be a delight would be a disservice, my lady." He responded, his voice as smooth as liquid gold. "And before you ask, yes, I do lay it on thick. Erm-" He looked at the corpses of the zealots on the ground, shrugging. "Perhaps a bit too thick, I admit."

He gestured to his hands, or that was to say, he sort of wriggled a bit and gesticulated with his head towards his back. "If you would do me the kindness of cutting me loose, I would be much obliged. I go by the name of Kian, and as you guessed, I am a priest of R'hllor, Defender of the Lord of Light, The Heart of Fire, God of Flame and Shadow. And truth be told, he's been a bit of a jokester as of late, it seems."

All this talk of fire had Kian wondering if the phrase 'out of the pot and into the fire' was apt here. Hopefully not.
@Ruby

Fortune & Glory: Grimdark Pulp RP

Beren and Jocasta suddenly heard something hard scraping against stone, which would not be too disconcerting if the sound was not occuring in two dozen places at once, all around them. Jocasta spun, trying to gauge if there were other entrances they might have missed, anxious even after getting confirmation from her drones to the contrary. Beren understood how she felt. Chitters and screeches echoed in the wide cavern, but chillingly, Beren realized were not the random, animal noises one might suspect.

There were words in those cries.

Buri looked nervous, but there was very little room for cowardice in the culture of the daurgrim. Even if he was shitting his pants, he would stand his ground or be sent to the halls of the dishonored at his death. Even Beren knew very little about that bit of dwarf theology, but whatever that involved, it was worse than anything a dwarf could rightly imagine. Beren made it to the stairway, but was nearly bludgeoned by a ball of dark glass. The object sailing past him, and were it not for his finely honed reflexes, there was little doubt it would have shattered near the center of the floor. Instead, Beren spun and caught it, completing the spin and sending it flying back down the stairs. Screams arose as a small VOOMPSH and a ripple of concussive force blew up the stairway. Whatever it had contained, it smelled like urine and dead fish.

"Acid flasks!" Buri cried with an accusatory tone. The dwarf had a handful of jagged stones in his arms, hustling to the lip of the barrier.

"Good catch," Jocasta said to Beren just after an appreciative whistle.

"No big deal," He replied with (fake) smugness, shrugging his big shoulders. Jo's eyes widened, and Beren caught her look, turning to see a Gundarog that had ascended the barricade quickly, launch itself from the top of the newly formed stone barrier, leaping at Jocasta with its spindly limbs out and hands aimed at her throat. Its grotesque face contorted in a scream of violence. Jocasta squealed and ducked even as Beren leaped, his foot snapping out to hit the thing in the side of the head, breaking its neck with an audible crack of bone. The thing landed in a tangled heap just as Beren himself landed, knees bent and feet shoulder width apart, his hands splayed in a curious stance of the far east.

"Ok, now you're just trying to impress me." Jocasta laughed, albeit a bit nervously.

"Yeah, I shouldn't press my luck," Beren responded curtly, still in a jocose fashion.

"Little help!?" Buri yelled, tossing large stones down at the horde now teaming on the stairway. Beren leaped forward, seeing a tide of ugly, malformed humanoids with sallow, mottled skin and covered in black, serrated armor pushing against one another and running up the stairs on all fours. A few, somehow, were even crawling along the walls. Behind them, the warband gave the central ground a wide berth, as acid still sizzled on the ancient stone. A few limbs still smoldered from the unfortunate creatures that had been hit by their own cruel device.

"You have any spells that can hit a bunch in a group!?" Beren called to Jocasta, ducking a spear thrust and yanking the weapon out of the hands of its user, tossing it to the floor. He grabbed his axe in time to block a sword cut with the haft, shoving the smaller creature back into its companions, pushing a number of them down for a moment. Buri did his best to pelt the wall climbers, too short to use his own axe with the barricade in front of him.

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.

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.