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    1. Skrakar 11 yrs ago

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*inconspicuous whistling*
Welp, now I feel like I killed the mood.
And it escalates.
Strogobor hastened his pace a little after spotting Rhian. He honestly did not expect her out in the streets this early. Usually, all kinds of people would swarm her at the crack of dawn to cure their aches and mend their wounds. Did Meidiba finally have a quiet night? Unlikely, he was up and about for the last three nights and two days trying to figure out which establishment served the least water in their drinks. When he stopped before her, the priestess greeted the mercenary, with a soft jab at his behaviour. He responded in kind, trying to pay no attention to Zek. "Hail to you, Rhian. I'm glad I left a lasting impression since you remember my work better than I." Strogobor masked his disappointment with a facade of bravado, he genuinely hoped Rhian forgot about the incident. Though, he had to admit it was an impressive incident on all accounts. "But enough about me. You are a warm ray of sunshine in this dark city." The priestess shifted her stance into a pose that spelled out 'get on with it' to the mercenary, but he was certain she wasn't entirely displeased by the comparison. Zek, on the other hand, gripped his mace, making the leather upon which it rested audibly strain. Strogobor didn't like Zek much. Even as a mercenary, he seemed too much of a moralist and rigid for that line of work. And morals don't put bread on the table. Sure, refusing a job for the sake of your own mental and spiritual health is understandable, but Zek had an air about him that made him seem like a person that would turn on his employer if his sensibilities were endangered. Strogobor assumed that was why he was left half-dead and silenced forever. Not that he was more talkative before they ripped out his tongue. But, what annoyed Strogobor the most about Zek had very little to do with his moral compass. In a way, the mercenary could respect his idiocy worthy of a paladin and Zek probably counted as one now. What rubbed Strogobor the wrong way was how Zek treated Rhian. He idolised her earnestly, though that was typical of men who were nursed back to health by women. Sure, it was only natural. But Zek saw a saint in what Strogobor saw a woman. The self-righteous oaf would only dare to pine for the priestess from afar, as if this world were a chivalric romance, while keeping all others away. It is not like priesthood means celibacy, right? The towering man would have counted his teeth long ago if it didn't bear the risk of making him look even worse in Rhian's eyes...figuratively speaking. With that passing thought, he began to word his request to Rhian. "Now, I was actually on my way to you. I know this might sound strange, but do you have experience with healing things other than humans?" Strogobor noticed that she wasn't quite grasping where he was going with this. As far as she knew, he might've kidnapped a dark elf and caused it grievous bodily harm. 'Great', he thought. "It's Wojda. My mare. She's not that well and I don't know any apothecaries knowledgeable in animal matters that aren't dead. So..." He paused, awaiting her decision.
Chocolate is always good for playing it safe.
Well, the loud, large, crude, violent man is heading towards a Priestess he doesn't particularly hold in high regard, for healing of his horse, with her silent protector next to her.
I need to point out that the loud, large, crude, violent man respects the Priestess as any other woman of the cloth...with a cultural twist to it, though, which doesn't translate well in Meidiba. It's the certain kind of vermin that flocks to her side he finds distasteful, such as beggars and other passive people who wait for things to land in their lap. And he didn't wreck her followers because they were her followers, but because they wanted a drunken brawl with him and a drunken brawl is what they got - the same would happen with any other patron. Sorry if I wasn't that clear.
The whistled tune suddenly stops as the man and his horse are intercepted by a beggar, sheepish smile on his face. As with most beggars, it is unkempt, dressed in rags, malodourous to the point that Wojda's excrement smells like rosewater in comparison and with a feigned disability. An amputated right leg combined with a crutch this time. He even has a hat with a wide brim to obscure his lying eyes. It would certainly fool some naive bleeding heart with a coin purse heavier than the contents of his or her skull. "Alms for the poor, m'lord? May gods bless you." It speaks. At least it's not feigning muteness as well. But a lord? What manner of fool would mistake an easterling like Strogobor for a lord? Is it the horse? One would think that scum would remember that there is no lord in this town as tall as a tree or that there is a mercenary of great stature that has no fondness for the lowest echelon of criminals, such as beggars. Of their kind, only the children could evoke sympathy in him and only in the sense that he would teach them how to be proper low-lifes. What infuriates him most about them is how they invoke gods, no matter which ones, without actual reverence or respect, just to leech out money. A con-artist he could respect, but not these lazy rats. "Move aside, filth." Strogobor almost snarls at the beggar. The corners of the beggar's mouth drop, ready to curse at the mercenary. Before he can, the brute swats his hat off, wide brim proving to be its downfall. The beggar witnesses an extended index finger right before the tip of his nose. "Don't." Strogobor says. "And don't dare try picking my pockets or you'll be visiting the Mother of the Damned to beg for her generosity, like you scum usually do." With that, the rat hurriedly hobbles away back into the shade. Satisfied to be rid of him and his stench, the mercenary realises that something is off. The beggar left, but stench remained. Puzzled, he looks around to notice that Wojda marked the road with her dung, far more foul-smelling than it was usual for the mare. Colour was odd too. "Blast it!" Strogobor yells out, kicking an imaginary rock in frustration as the last decent apothecary who knew anything about animal ailments died merely a week ago. As he calms down, he caresses the mare's neck and whispers to her. "Seems like you'll have to visit the priestess instead...Hopefully, her powers work on horses." Wojda neighs assuredly. Strogobor switches the hand holding the reins and starts mapping in the air the path toward the Priestess' lair, as he dubbed it once while drunk. That night ended in a brawl as some of her Damned happened to be as drunk as he was. Maybe offering a donation as an apology for the incident would warm her up to him if she likes to hold a grudge? With his route established, the mercenary recalls a notice board at a crossroad leading to her lair. A job for the old boss man or Lady Z would do him good while Wojda is recovering, Strogobor thinks.
I'll be posting as well. Soon, hopefully.
Okay, I edited what I wanted to edit.
I've just noticed some mistakes in my post and some details I forgot to write in my character sheet. Would it be okay if edit those things?
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