Noctis
Izurich
sandstorm
Alfhedil
Tuujaimaa Don't worry ... I went a bit over, too. But then again, I had a mini short story to write, and a fair quantity of my roleplaying posts are over a thousand words. I'm a bit on the verbose side as a writer. (I could give you a much shorter synopsis, but I doubt it'd be half as interesting a read.)
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Two days ago, he had crashed his car into a lamp post. Second one to the left on the old bridge, coming from the center of the city. It had been an accident, he had said in his statement. It was raining heavily, it had been dark, visibility had been low, he had thought he had seen a figure in a gray raincoat amid the downpour, made a sharp turn to swerve around the supposed person, his car had gone hydroplaning... The next thing he had known, a crash and a short metallic grinding, then stunned, numb silence. It had taken a few moments for him to realize that the rain drummed on, pattering against the roof and smashed windshield of the fresh wreckage.
He had ended up repeating the statement three times. Twice to police and once to his insurance company. Poor conditions, figure in the rain, swerve, hydroplane, crash. Nothing more than a few bruises on him. Blessed be crumple zones and high safety ratings. For a car as old as his had been, anyway - the electronics in a new car would have stopped the impact from ever occurring in the first place. His car itself? Totaled, of course.
The wreck was gone now; the local tow company had unceremoniously dragged the remains of his old companion off after he himself had been taken to hospital for a checkup. The man felt kind of sorry for his car... It had been aging and ailing, the transmission would soon have given out entirely, and replacing that would have cost more than one of the car's cousins, but had been his first car of seven years, and people tended to grow kind of attached to their first and long-time rides alike. He had been no different.
Incidentally, the crash had also taken out the only camera overlooking this side of the bridge. The city was yet to replace it; it usually took at least two weeks of bureaucracy before they managed to send out a guy with a new one to hook up.
Two weeks ago, he had been let go from his job. It had been a dead-end one - being an office accountant, to be more precise -, but it had brought the cash in. Enough for his mother's (and, as an extension, his own) rent, to buy them food, to cover their utilities. It had been not much, but it had been enough to maintain the status quo and just have a little bit to put aside. He had intended to eventually buy a new car with that. And perhaps a washing machine for his mother (and, as an extension, himself).
If it had not been embarrassing enough that a guy his age - thirty! - was still living with his mother, he hadn't even lost his job to another person. He had lost it to a computer program - one of those newfangled things which went over the company account and POS systems, compared everything, ordered new stock, paid bills, handled salaries, and spat out the overview of everything for the boss to peruse - all for the measly running price of the extra thirty kilowatt-hours of electricity to keep the computer going. He and a few of his colleagues cost much more, so his company, being a company oriented on profits like any other, had made them all redundant. It had been happening more and more lately, automated systems replacing office workers. The chances of getting a similar, no-diploma, non-physical job with comparable pay were quickly approaching nil. Even this job had been too good, for suspiciously long.
He had went and ordered new documents for about a quarter of all of his money the very same evening, before he even went back to his mother and his little apartment with his head down, and conveyed her the sorry news.
It was his mother because of whom he felt the most sorry for... That it had come to this, that he felt it was the best thing he could do, given everything. His father, he had never known, and he did not have any siblings. Nor a girlfriend. His mother, though, had always been kind. She had tried his best. Attempted to see him through university. Doctor, she had insisted. And he had failed... Burned out and dropped out fourth year.
He had left two thirds of his remaining money for her to find.
Today, he was standing on the same bridge that had witnessed the demise of his car, staring over the railing into the white rushing waters below. Staring and contemplating. The simple electronic watch on his wrist stated 3:12 AM. No reasonable soul was out at three in the morning. The last car had passed him over twenty minutes ago.
The man's eyes moved up his arm, to where he knew a microchip was buried. Traceable via satellite. They had become standard practice not long before his birth. The theory had been "for the good of people", as always with such things - no more missing children, no more men frozen dead, no more speeding on the roads! In reality, it meant that kidnapping victims - if they were found - were usually found with hastily gouged and poorly bandaged holes in their arms, or their entire arms missing, men froze to death before people drove over to where they were, and speeders signal-proofed their cars, even when it was illegal. That is, until car-makers starting making cars that pedantically drove themselves, and only somewhat allowed people to play drivers. As an end result, the chips were discontinued eight years ago, but he still had one.
And now, it was time for the owner of the chip - the almost-unhirable nobody with no car, job, wife, children, friends or own apartment - to die.
The man flicked open a knife in his left, and carefully placed the razor-sharp tip near the nook of his elbow. He'd seen his X-ray images - he knew where it was. He swallowed; it'd hurt. Breaths were drawn in through gritted teeth as the blade sunk in and hit something hard that wasn't bone, blood rivuleted down his arm, knife was pulled out and cast into the river beneath. It had been a gift - too identifying. Some mucking about with pliers, and he had the damn thing ... little green-copper rectangle with a black serial number on it. It followed the knife. So did the simple electronic watch.
From the satellite recordings, it'd look just as if he had jumped off the bridge and gotten pulverized between the rocks in the rushing waters. The missing camera would neither confirm or deny it.
Hissing, the man wrapped his jacket around his bleeding arm as he attempted to fish out a small tube from another of his pockets. He knew enough from his unfinished medical training to miss significant blood vessels and nerves, but damn... He felt slightly faint. He unscrewed the tube with his right, unwrapped some of his makeshift temporary gauze, and holding the wound closed as much as he could with his pinky and ring finger, pressed on the tube with his thumb and index finger ... just about doable. The tube emitted a clear liquid that solidified, sealing the injury. Medical glue ... possibly a bit past best before, but that probably wouldn't kill him. (The super glues of old had started out as medical glues, too, some part of his mind reiterated a bit of trivia.)
The bloodied jacket followed the knife and chip. So did his T-shirt, jeans, shoes and socks. And his high school ring. Now he was feeling cold, too, rather than just faint... And in hurry. There were spares in the bag next to him, along with some electronics he was supposed to be returning to the rental tomorrow ... lent for "finding a new job", which, if someone managed to fish out the devices, he had been doing. And little else. Just reading mail and watching some videos. Boring search history, all undeleted (except for that one link which was, on purpose, porn - he had thought it might seem too odd if he were entirely a saint for two weeks and didn't give the recovery team anything to find).
He pulled on a new pair of jeans, followed by first one set of sock and sneaker, then another. A small plastic bottle full of water was used to wash off his arm and hand, leaving just the pucked-up red-orange streaked patch of hardened medical glue. Half-full bottle was returned to bag. T-shirt, jacket and wig were picked out and donned. A quick pat to ensure that his documents and last quarter of money were still safely in the pocket of his jacket. Bag went the way of his previous attire.
If they found any of the things, the better for the him, and the theory that he had jumped off the bridge. No actual body? In these waters, entire people, if any bits all, were rarely found to begin with. For all legal purposes, he was dead now, just five minutes after flicking open the knife. His old, real documents had drowned with the jacket. The ones in his replacement jacket were fabricated. The diploma, ID, work record, everything. Better yet, there were government and company records of his entire existence. The gal had known her job - and all the law knew was that she had a little bar with the rights to sell booze, and host two slot machines and billiard. Cameras specifically did not cover one table right by the front in her establishment, even though it was within an arm's reach of the front. Brilliant.
A man who had not existed two weeks ago wandered off the cameraless side of the bridge, crossed the street to avoid another camera, inched under the view of the next one, then turned into a narrow street that was uncovered, strolled behind a conveniently (for him) parked bus, climbed over a fence, moved behind a hedge for a few hundred meters, and helped himself into the small unlocked shed of a rich person. Perhaps he should not have thrown the water bottle away so hastily ... the blood-loss or shock from the injury made him thirsty. Too late now; he'll have to buy a new one tomorrow.
Come morning, he will come out of the shed, try to sell those people a few nonexistent vacuum cleaners, be rejected, find a bus, let himself be taken over to the next city, find a new job (his old hobby, and new diploma and CV should help with that bit ... with all the other jobs taken by machines, the man whose job was understanding and giving meaning to the machines still had his), stay in a motel until he can get an apartment, maybe get a girlfriend...
Would it be too suspicious to arrange it so that his mother just happened to win one of those magazine competitions for various appliances? She filled those out, sometimes. And he had intended to get her a washing machine...
He had ended up repeating the statement three times. Twice to police and once to his insurance company. Poor conditions, figure in the rain, swerve, hydroplane, crash. Nothing more than a few bruises on him. Blessed be crumple zones and high safety ratings. For a car as old as his had been, anyway - the electronics in a new car would have stopped the impact from ever occurring in the first place. His car itself? Totaled, of course.
The wreck was gone now; the local tow company had unceremoniously dragged the remains of his old companion off after he himself had been taken to hospital for a checkup. The man felt kind of sorry for his car... It had been aging and ailing, the transmission would soon have given out entirely, and replacing that would have cost more than one of the car's cousins, but had been his first car of seven years, and people tended to grow kind of attached to their first and long-time rides alike. He had been no different.
Incidentally, the crash had also taken out the only camera overlooking this side of the bridge. The city was yet to replace it; it usually took at least two weeks of bureaucracy before they managed to send out a guy with a new one to hook up.
Two weeks ago, he had been let go from his job. It had been a dead-end one - being an office accountant, to be more precise -, but it had brought the cash in. Enough for his mother's (and, as an extension, his own) rent, to buy them food, to cover their utilities. It had been not much, but it had been enough to maintain the status quo and just have a little bit to put aside. He had intended to eventually buy a new car with that. And perhaps a washing machine for his mother (and, as an extension, himself).
If it had not been embarrassing enough that a guy his age - thirty! - was still living with his mother, he hadn't even lost his job to another person. He had lost it to a computer program - one of those newfangled things which went over the company account and POS systems, compared everything, ordered new stock, paid bills, handled salaries, and spat out the overview of everything for the boss to peruse - all for the measly running price of the extra thirty kilowatt-hours of electricity to keep the computer going. He and a few of his colleagues cost much more, so his company, being a company oriented on profits like any other, had made them all redundant. It had been happening more and more lately, automated systems replacing office workers. The chances of getting a similar, no-diploma, non-physical job with comparable pay were quickly approaching nil. Even this job had been too good, for suspiciously long.
He had went and ordered new documents for about a quarter of all of his money the very same evening, before he even went back to his mother and his little apartment with his head down, and conveyed her the sorry news.
It was his mother because of whom he felt the most sorry for... That it had come to this, that he felt it was the best thing he could do, given everything. His father, he had never known, and he did not have any siblings. Nor a girlfriend. His mother, though, had always been kind. She had tried his best. Attempted to see him through university. Doctor, she had insisted. And he had failed... Burned out and dropped out fourth year.
He had left two thirds of his remaining money for her to find.
Today, he was standing on the same bridge that had witnessed the demise of his car, staring over the railing into the white rushing waters below. Staring and contemplating. The simple electronic watch on his wrist stated 3:12 AM. No reasonable soul was out at three in the morning. The last car had passed him over twenty minutes ago.
The man's eyes moved up his arm, to where he knew a microchip was buried. Traceable via satellite. They had become standard practice not long before his birth. The theory had been "for the good of people", as always with such things - no more missing children, no more men frozen dead, no more speeding on the roads! In reality, it meant that kidnapping victims - if they were found - were usually found with hastily gouged and poorly bandaged holes in their arms, or their entire arms missing, men froze to death before people drove over to where they were, and speeders signal-proofed their cars, even when it was illegal. That is, until car-makers starting making cars that pedantically drove themselves, and only somewhat allowed people to play drivers. As an end result, the chips were discontinued eight years ago, but he still had one.
And now, it was time for the owner of the chip - the almost-unhirable nobody with no car, job, wife, children, friends or own apartment - to die.
The man flicked open a knife in his left, and carefully placed the razor-sharp tip near the nook of his elbow. He'd seen his X-ray images - he knew where it was. He swallowed; it'd hurt. Breaths were drawn in through gritted teeth as the blade sunk in and hit something hard that wasn't bone, blood rivuleted down his arm, knife was pulled out and cast into the river beneath. It had been a gift - too identifying. Some mucking about with pliers, and he had the damn thing ... little green-copper rectangle with a black serial number on it. It followed the knife. So did the simple electronic watch.
From the satellite recordings, it'd look just as if he had jumped off the bridge and gotten pulverized between the rocks in the rushing waters. The missing camera would neither confirm or deny it.
Hissing, the man wrapped his jacket around his bleeding arm as he attempted to fish out a small tube from another of his pockets. He knew enough from his unfinished medical training to miss significant blood vessels and nerves, but damn... He felt slightly faint. He unscrewed the tube with his right, unwrapped some of his makeshift temporary gauze, and holding the wound closed as much as he could with his pinky and ring finger, pressed on the tube with his thumb and index finger ... just about doable. The tube emitted a clear liquid that solidified, sealing the injury. Medical glue ... possibly a bit past best before, but that probably wouldn't kill him. (The super glues of old had started out as medical glues, too, some part of his mind reiterated a bit of trivia.)
The bloodied jacket followed the knife and chip. So did his T-shirt, jeans, shoes and socks. And his high school ring. Now he was feeling cold, too, rather than just faint... And in hurry. There were spares in the bag next to him, along with some electronics he was supposed to be returning to the rental tomorrow ... lent for "finding a new job", which, if someone managed to fish out the devices, he had been doing. And little else. Just reading mail and watching some videos. Boring search history, all undeleted (except for that one link which was, on purpose, porn - he had thought it might seem too odd if he were entirely a saint for two weeks and didn't give the recovery team anything to find).
He pulled on a new pair of jeans, followed by first one set of sock and sneaker, then another. A small plastic bottle full of water was used to wash off his arm and hand, leaving just the pucked-up red-orange streaked patch of hardened medical glue. Half-full bottle was returned to bag. T-shirt, jacket and wig were picked out and donned. A quick pat to ensure that his documents and last quarter of money were still safely in the pocket of his jacket. Bag went the way of his previous attire.
If they found any of the things, the better for the him, and the theory that he had jumped off the bridge. No actual body? In these waters, entire people, if any bits all, were rarely found to begin with. For all legal purposes, he was dead now, just five minutes after flicking open the knife. His old, real documents had drowned with the jacket. The ones in his replacement jacket were fabricated. The diploma, ID, work record, everything. Better yet, there were government and company records of his entire existence. The gal had known her job - and all the law knew was that she had a little bar with the rights to sell booze, and host two slot machines and billiard. Cameras specifically did not cover one table right by the front in her establishment, even though it was within an arm's reach of the front. Brilliant.
A man who had not existed two weeks ago wandered off the cameraless side of the bridge, crossed the street to avoid another camera, inched under the view of the next one, then turned into a narrow street that was uncovered, strolled behind a conveniently (for him) parked bus, climbed over a fence, moved behind a hedge for a few hundred meters, and helped himself into the small unlocked shed of a rich person. Perhaps he should not have thrown the water bottle away so hastily ... the blood-loss or shock from the injury made him thirsty. Too late now; he'll have to buy a new one tomorrow.
Come morning, he will come out of the shed, try to sell those people a few nonexistent vacuum cleaners, be rejected, find a bus, let himself be taken over to the next city, find a new job (his old hobby, and new diploma and CV should help with that bit ... with all the other jobs taken by machines, the man whose job was understanding and giving meaning to the machines still had his), stay in a motel until he can get an apartment, maybe get a girlfriend...
Would it be too suspicious to arrange it so that his mother just happened to win one of those magazine competitions for various appliances? She filled those out, sometimes. And he had intended to get her a washing machine...
Jordan Forthey
The stranger halted, first turning his head to look at him, and then facing him fully.
"You think you know so much, assuming that I have someone to meet or that you could be useful in the event I was meeting someone..." The mysterious figure's movement had changed again. It was now ... stalking. Yes, stalking was an apt descriptor. Like a cat closing in on a sparrow. So, he was appraising him? Preparing to attack, and just stalling with his words until he can find the best angle?
Jordan's eyes moved from the figure, to the horizontally poised studded staff, to the narrow passage between the two residential houses the stranger had trying to flee into - he was pretty much still out in the wider street himself, and back to the figure who was now approaching, rather than distancing himself from him. Half-instinctively, half because his training told him he probably should, he took a step back at this point, and carried his weight over to that back foot. He had not let go of his sword's grip after the stranger had grabbed him and insisted he did not know anything, and still he kept it there.
"I have no interest helping you, your master, or the law, but you would know this--" the stranger rushed him; as a response, Jordan did the only thing he had the time and mind to attempt, and abruptly twisted his torso to the right while lifting his right foot for another step back, and this time to the left, so his feet formed a line one behind the other.
He had reacted as soon as he saw the stranger begin to move, from what had seemed to be quite far away, yet he couldn't quite finish even this comparatively quick maneuver. Though, he wasn't hit in the chest, and the staff instead made contact with his triceps. It seemed like enough force that, had it hit his upper arm full-on, rather than glancingly, it might have cracked bone, and even now it probably left a nasty bruise, even through the sleeve. Pain radiated both up and down his arm. (He had been hit in the upper arm ... his shoulder he could understand, but why did his wrist hurt?)
Even before his right foot had made contact with the ground again, the stranger had gone into a strange flip ... with his staff still in hand ... and landed to what was now his right side, back on the street they had first started out on.
Without wasting any more time, he finally drew his sword, baring all of its ninety-three centimeter blade to the sunlight, which reflected off the refurbished, but meticulously sharpened and cleaned weapon. His right hand felt slightly numb now. His left hand joined the right on the sword's grip as he quickly diagonally retreated three more steps, watching the stranger. His heart was beating hard.
The stone wall of the closest off-white building was now right behind his back, the closest corner of the building at an arm's length to his left. Well, there would be no flipping past him, unless the stranger wanted to faceplant the wall... The stranger who now undoubtedly was not a normal person. Too fast. Wardens could make themselves unusually fast, right? Fast and resilient. If the stranger had been any closer, or telegraphed his moves any less, Jordan knew he'd have gone down, no questions. Had the stranger wanted to whack him over the head when he had grabbed him ... well, he'd have been done. If the stranger actually gets close to him ... or uses some kind of trickery, he is done, no questions about it. He had picked someone who was too much superior to him indeed.
"--If you really knew anything." Well, he thought he had discovered quite a lot by now, at least...
"Shoot the messenger, will you?" he half-shouted, half-said. Maybe if he keeps speaking, the stranger might stall a bit? What now ... prepare to dodge? He must not be let close. Jordan carried his weight over to his right foot and bent his knees slightly, keeping his sword in middle guard. Predict. Yeah. Predict.
Provided the stranger didn't launch at him again immediately, he continued. "I'm the least of your problems." Well, attacking people in the middle of the day simply because they wanted to find out what the heck was going on was certainly a problem. "Interest doesn't matter, sometimes. It's just not how things are."
Sir Yanin Glade
There were many almost, but quite not like the anchor. Similar enough for the anchor's image to act as amplifier ... to almost, but not quite register as the same thing binding to anchor had attuned one to. What was permeated, could be sensed, and those feelings did not belong. So withdrawal into the anchor and the stable upper earth it was; the anchor was familiar, and the upper earth did not feel or shift quite as violently.
Not much. The first things he had learned were not much, and so he was told to come back once there has been a little more time for research. He did get a new nickname for his new friend, though. "Void beast" was perhaps more apt than "demon".
Meanwhile, he should probably find his squire and let him know about the change in plans. And have lunch. Evidently, the boy had lingered by the gates for a while, and then headed towards the city center, accompanying one of the refugees. He had managed to locate the man, and from him gotten the general direction the squire had headed. Before he moved on, he had handed the man the package he had been carrying under his arm. The man had stared at the package, dumbfounded, and then shuffled in to awkwardly untangle it with a single hand.
Sir Yanin himself continued down the designated path, heavy hiking boots hitting the cobbles, mail west upon his gambeson and his signature sword on his side. Today, he was not concealing his person, so he went without his cloak.
You're an evil person, Legion. (Never mind that I just might have brought it up myself first. Might.)
EDIT@Rhae: How long is the quarterstaff Morgan uses exactly? Also posted; let me know if I'm otably off with something.
EDIT@Rhae: How long is the quarterstaff Morgan uses exactly? Also posted; let me know if I'm otably off with something.
Think it would work best to me, too. All Dom (and I imagine Iridiel) is doing before setting off is running about and picking up things, after all, and that's not anything that needs too much describing, or its own post. Just would need to decide how we're fitting five people on three animals capable of carrying people - Itanale (Aemoten's horse), Immanuel's donkey and the paladin's big white one (unless we're being suboptimal and just have some humanoids walk ... in which case we'd need to decide which ones).
Gates should work ... if for no other reasons, then because of what sorts of people they'd be passing upon closing in. (There is more or less no one left to recognize there, and thus little to talk, unless they feel like asking whether a large stalking best came through with two people half a day ago, so might as well just stay with Angora's family at this point.)
A couple of additional reminders: Claw will say goodbye before city gates. Iridiel also has a wolf with her.
Will certainly try to type up something for Jordan today; I fell asleep yesterday. Long day.
May make myself go through the Aemoten-timeskip, too.
Gates should work ... if for no other reasons, then because of what sorts of people they'd be passing upon closing in. (There is more or less no one left to recognize there, and thus little to talk, unless they feel like asking whether a large stalking best came through with two people half a day ago, so might as well just stay with Angora's family at this point.)
A couple of additional reminders: Claw will say goodbye before city gates. Iridiel also has a wolf with her.
Will certainly try to type up something for Jordan today; I fell asleep yesterday. Long day.
May make myself go through the Aemoten-timeskip, too.
Don't worry, Rhae - post length should be relative to what's going on foremost. You'll probably naturally end up a lot when you time-skip over a lot of activities or a character has a time to think and muse, but actual dialogue/combat would obviously leave less opportunity to cover a lot of thought or action (unless we want some unfortunate time-shearing to occur). Of course, the exceptions to this rule are giving background information and describing scenery ... which can be useful to do in some detail just to ensure that everyone imagines the same scene (tree? what tree? oh, we're in a forest, not on a town square? whoops).
Just to note, Jordan isn't quite as hopeless as he seems to think he is - he is at the very least better than the average town guard, courtesy of Sir Janin Glade (and over a year). He is a bit worse than Aemoten (when healthy) is, though, and obviously with not nearly enough practical experience.
Aemoten, while more experienced, has always been slightly worse than Jaelnec in at least the terms of speed and strength, in my mind (so if they were to fight, and Jaelnec didn't make any moves that registered as actual mistakes in my mind, Jaelnec would have probably won).
Domhnall is very quick and agile, but pretty much all his combat experience is from hunting, so might be better off staying back and crossbow-bolting things. Even a fairly inexperienced person with a spear can be rather annoying, though, so at least he has that going for him when it comes to polearm fights. With sword he's quite useless, and I doubt he'd get close enough with a knife to anyone with reach advantage once they have spotted him. He can be sneaky and/or set traps, though.
Etakar is, due to what he is, an absolute physical powerhouse, and has a fair amount of potential to master at least earth elemental magic. (Ironically, unless we count Aemoten's divine bargains, Etakar is my most magically talented narrative character - so leaving out various mentioned characters - to date to be included in this RP. Well, I suppose you could count Nkaa Raakan as "narrative charater", though that one is technically a NPC and, well, an actual god to boot, with everything that comes with the status.)
Sir Yanin Glade is by far my strongest humanoid physical fighter in the RP (even prior to the, uh, "demon problem", which comes with its own set of useful-once-mastered ... which is, in by far most aspects, "not yet", meaning the only pro and con at present is the passive effect provided by presence alone), and the most skilled one. Sir Yanin is also notably less reckless in combat than Aemoten, for the matter...
Just to note, Jordan isn't quite as hopeless as he seems to think he is - he is at the very least better than the average town guard, courtesy of Sir Janin Glade (and over a year). He is a bit worse than Aemoten (when healthy) is, though, and obviously with not nearly enough practical experience.
Aemoten, while more experienced, has always been slightly worse than Jaelnec in at least the terms of speed and strength, in my mind (so if they were to fight, and Jaelnec didn't make any moves that registered as actual mistakes in my mind, Jaelnec would have probably won).
Domhnall is very quick and agile, but pretty much all his combat experience is from hunting, so might be better off staying back and crossbow-bolting things. Even a fairly inexperienced person with a spear can be rather annoying, though, so at least he has that going for him when it comes to polearm fights. With sword he's quite useless, and I doubt he'd get close enough with a knife to anyone with reach advantage once they have spotted him. He can be sneaky and/or set traps, though.
Etakar is, due to what he is, an absolute physical powerhouse, and has a fair amount of potential to master at least earth elemental magic. (Ironically, unless we count Aemoten's divine bargains, Etakar is my most magically talented narrative character - so leaving out various mentioned characters - to date to be included in this RP. Well, I suppose you could count Nkaa Raakan as "narrative charater", though that one is technically a NPC and, well, an actual god to boot, with everything that comes with the status.)
Sir Yanin Glade is by far my strongest humanoid physical fighter in the RP (even prior to the, uh, "demon problem", which comes with its own set of useful-once-mastered ... which is, in by far most aspects, "not yet", meaning the only pro and con at present is the passive effect provided by presence alone), and the most skilled one. Sir Yanin is also notably less reckless in combat than Aemoten, for the matter...
Jordan Forthey
The stranger made a slight annoyed sound, then leaped from his position not unlike some wild animal, a cat or some such. It was at least three meters, was it not? The guy was not large, but he wasn't that much slighter than Jordan himself, either. It should have been rather impactful landing, no? He had been right. This was by no means some regular vagrant. The stranger was, at minimum, very well-trained. And more likely to be a combatant than some errant circus performer. Very likely to be somehow magically enhanced. Small feats like these looked easy. Jordan knew full well they weren't.
"Then no, Forthey, errand boy of 'The Viper,' I do not know anything on the supposed happenings of Zerul, whateverintheplanesthatis."
Did the stranger take him for a fool? He knew he was lying, even when he did not know what he was lying about. Another part of Jordan quickly noted: right time, right place, wrong name. The stranger had been waiting for someone, had he not? More than likely, someone whose face he had not seen, but whose name - or whose master's name - he knew... The stranger had been willing to talk until he said a name he was not expecting, had he not? Damn it!
The year and a half he had spent as a guard - this guy was obviously up to something shady! - and his earlier thirst of adventure ... and his his own personal curiosity stated he should intervene. His self-preservation instincts disagreed. Both from natural intuition and what training Sir Yanin had managed to get through to him, he knew this man was extremely dangerous, involved in something shady, and no doubt more skilled than him, as well as rather annoyed by someone unanticipated bothering him. But, he had some kind of duty as a squire, even if he wasn't currently on duty as a guard, right?
Some part of him was also annoyed in turn. Errand boy? No, not at all ... that was something he had decided to do on his own accord. Apprentices could do more than just fulfill whatever tasks their masters desired of them. Especially when said masters had wandered off to do something they appeared unwilling to reveal, too.
For a couple of moments he stood still, watching the stranger rush past him and head towards some more secluded street. No ... if he was to talk to the stranger, then a less public place would hardly do.
"Hey!" he started after the stranger, who immediately whirled around and grabbed hold of the fabric covering his chest.
"I don't know anything, boy!" Cold, annoyed voice was gone. Now the guy sounded like an animal.
Jordan's heart was suddenly beating too hard and fast again, his breath was momentarily caught in his throat, and this time, his hand actually did close around the grip of his sword ... though the dagger would probably have been more useful in an encounter this close. Dumb mistake.
Luckily, the stranger let go almost as quickly as he had grabbed hold of him, and seemed more intent on rushing off than continuing to confront him. "Hack! I-I know nothing, as I said..." Perhaps somewhat unluckily, Jordan was also riled up enough to argue, rather than let go of the matter and shamefully drag himself before his master and admit that he had found something suspicious he could not figure out on his own. Could still go either way ... could end with a rather irritated Viper of Glades, or one who was actually impressed. Granted, he was as of yet unsure whether Sir Yanin even did "impressed". More disconcertingly, it was also possible he had followed him, and was already making judgments...
"I know you're lying," he stated at the stranger's back. "And I know you're meeting up with someone today, and that he was not supposed to be me. I don't know whether you'd prefer to speak to my master rather than I, but we might be able to help you, and you us."
What was he getting himself into?
Ah, must have somehow read the years as months... Curious, though; I'd imagine cities would be much more dangerous. Very many nosy guards and people who might be capable of sensing him, always someone within shouting distance, people having friends nearby and noticing missing people ... whereas in some very secluded places, one could be dead for weeks or months without anyone realizing. Or feasibly get lost in a forest and be eaten by a bear.
And indeed. The Viper? Not likely to have heard of 'im. Sir Yanin Glade? Probable.
And indeed. The Viper? Not likely to have heard of 'im. Sir Yanin Glade? Probable.
"The Viper" on its own is not known at all - "The Viper of Glades" is basically just what his eldest brother jokingly nicknamed him a few times, and Jordan dropped the "of Glades" part. If there are any kind of vipers or adders native to Rodoria, there should probably be at least two dozen Vipers running around to boot...
His actual name (Sir Yanin Glade) is moderately known, especially in Etlon, where his family resides, to some extent in Seclyr, where he served for about year and a half, and to a smaller extent in Zerul City (the last in part courtesy of Lady Alaisi). Primarily known for combat prowess, secondarily just for being a Glade. The more specific speculations are endemic to people who actually know the particular members of the family, and have perhaps met him.
(There is at least one more thing Morgan would be immediately notice about him owing to him having been made a sniffer, but I'd probably PM it when Yanin actually shows up.)
Hmm... Morgan was a blacksmith apprentice from eleven to turning eighteen, when he was made sniffer, then he was a sniffer for ... months, a year? before being turned into vampire, and now he's thirty, so might have spent a bit over a decade as a vampire. How far has he traveled as a vampire? ((Trying to figure out what the actual timeframes are for Morgan.))
His actual name (Sir Yanin Glade) is moderately known, especially in Etlon, where his family resides, to some extent in Seclyr, where he served for about year and a half, and to a smaller extent in Zerul City (the last in part courtesy of Lady Alaisi). Primarily known for combat prowess, secondarily just for being a Glade. The more specific speculations are endemic to people who actually know the particular members of the family, and have perhaps met him.
(There is at least one more thing Morgan would be immediately notice about him owing to him having been made a sniffer, but I'd probably PM it when Yanin actually shows up.)
Hmm... Morgan was a blacksmith apprentice from eleven to turning eighteen, when he was made sniffer, then he was a sniffer for ... months, a year? before being turned into vampire, and now he's thirty, so might have spent a bit over a decade as a vampire. How far has he traveled as a vampire? ((Trying to figure out what the actual timeframes are for Morgan.))
@Rhae/Merc: Hmm, I reckon it doesn't make too much difference how long the two interact before Ixion shows up (and whether Ixion shows up before or after "the Viper" does) - as long as Merc lets Rhae/I know when he actually starts writing a post (it has happened a few times people attempt to post at the same time - it can end up being a bit awkward)?
EDIT: Eh... I feel my last post was not much in terms of interaction, but then again, Morgan did ask a rather simple question, and Jordan answered ... can't really assume how Morgan would react, there.
EDIT: Eh... I feel my last post was not much in terms of interaction, but then again, Morgan did ask a rather simple question, and Jordan answered ... can't really assume how Morgan would react, there.
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