Not totally loving my last post, but I knew what I wanted to do, just not how to execute it best :P
And no worries, Apokalipse, nobody's gonna get on your case.
The Psychic Refugee Member
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I'll post soon. Glad to see we're all seemingly bound for Central Park.
This sounds reeeeeally fucking cool. I'll get back to this soon.
Valfunde Perar
Streets of Deliar, around the corner from the Belt Buckle...
Valfunde arched an eyebrow as he watched a small group of soldiers slowly make their way towards him, carrying one of their own between three of them. "Halt." The men, really just boys in legionnaire's helmets and gear, recruits, looked bewildered, noticing for the first time that they did not stand alone in the street. None of them spoke for a moment. Valfunde examined their wounded comrade, closely, noting the already dried blood on his collar and forehead. He was an ugly man, pockmarked and scarred hideously, probably the veteran of this group. "What happened to him? Took a fall?" He asked with an official tone, looking over the others for any injury.
"N-no, sir. Vince took a knock down at the Buckle, sir. From tha' barkeeper." immediately stated one of the soldiers, respectfully at least trying to show respect, despite his eyes and movements being noticeably clouded with alcohol. "How does he fare?" Valfunde responded, looking from him to the other man. He again raised an eyebrow, interested. "He ain't breathin' too well either, sirrah." another of the legionnaires said, grimly, checking his mate. The incapacitated pikeman shifted and groaned for a moment before slipping back into complete unconsciousness. The patrol sergeant took over, moving forward to check the man. "He's down good, strong arm, this barkeepa'." he whistled, looking back at Valfunde, who narrowed his eyes before looking back at the street ahead of them. "Do we investigate, m' lord?" Valfunde nodded, slowly, looking over the drunk and frightened recruits. "Return your comrade to his barracks and report back to your optio before leaving him alone." There was a chorus of half-hearted salutes, and the guardsmen side-stepped to let the little group through. "I suspect there's more to this, but move on. To the tavern."
As they came upon the entrance to the respectably dingy pub called the Boot Buckle, a little place run by a Jymson Fletcher, a rugged older man who usually knew his place when it came to fights. With a wave, he directed two of the guardsmen to stand waiting by the door. Quietly, his sergeant slid open and propped open the door to admit the rest of the patrol, Valfunde walking in second behind another guard. Quietly, the men took up places around their captain, cold eyes watching the bar-goers for any trouble. As he walked in, he unfastened and took off his helmet, sliding it under his arm. It got quieter as those at the bar noticed the huge, armored nobleman stride up calmly to the bar, one hand firmly placed on the pommel of his sword, low in his belt. He grimaced, not wishing to have made such a spectacle in hindsight.
He picked out Fletcher subconsciously, sure to remain neutral-toned here and now. "Master Fletcher, I came across a group of soldiers on their way home from your bar. One of theirs was wounded, apparently something he received here, as I am told." He sighed, looking over the man. "Can you explain why you attacked that man?" He laid a hand on the bar to steady himself as he leaned forward, watching Jymson. "I hope for you that your reason's just, sir, this is not a light charge. You may have nearly killed this legionnaire, messir. Not a good idea." He sensed now the eyes of every one of this man's sworn friends (who doesn't love a barkeep?) bore into the back of his head, a host of hostile eyes looking over. He simultaneously checked his poin curse, snatching gold coins from it and placing them down slowly before the man. Good money. "A round of beer for my men and I, meanwhile, if it shall please thee."
Streets of Deliar, around the corner from the Belt Buckle...
Valfunde arched an eyebrow as he watched a small group of soldiers slowly make their way towards him, carrying one of their own between three of them. "Halt." The men, really just boys in legionnaire's helmets and gear, recruits, looked bewildered, noticing for the first time that they did not stand alone in the street. None of them spoke for a moment. Valfunde examined their wounded comrade, closely, noting the already dried blood on his collar and forehead. He was an ugly man, pockmarked and scarred hideously, probably the veteran of this group. "What happened to him? Took a fall?" He asked with an official tone, looking over the others for any injury.
"N-no, sir. Vince took a knock down at the Buckle, sir. From tha' barkeeper." immediately stated one of the soldiers, respectfully at least trying to show respect, despite his eyes and movements being noticeably clouded with alcohol. "How does he fare?" Valfunde responded, looking from him to the other man. He again raised an eyebrow, interested. "He ain't breathin' too well either, sirrah." another of the legionnaires said, grimly, checking his mate. The incapacitated pikeman shifted and groaned for a moment before slipping back into complete unconsciousness. The patrol sergeant took over, moving forward to check the man. "He's down good, strong arm, this barkeepa'." he whistled, looking back at Valfunde, who narrowed his eyes before looking back at the street ahead of them. "Do we investigate, m' lord?" Valfunde nodded, slowly, looking over the drunk and frightened recruits. "Return your comrade to his barracks and report back to your optio before leaving him alone." There was a chorus of half-hearted salutes, and the guardsmen side-stepped to let the little group through. "I suspect there's more to this, but move on. To the tavern."
As they came upon the entrance to the respectably dingy pub called the Boot Buckle, a little place run by a Jymson Fletcher, a rugged older man who usually knew his place when it came to fights. With a wave, he directed two of the guardsmen to stand waiting by the door. Quietly, his sergeant slid open and propped open the door to admit the rest of the patrol, Valfunde walking in second behind another guard. Quietly, the men took up places around their captain, cold eyes watching the bar-goers for any trouble. As he walked in, he unfastened and took off his helmet, sliding it under his arm. It got quieter as those at the bar noticed the huge, armored nobleman stride up calmly to the bar, one hand firmly placed on the pommel of his sword, low in his belt. He grimaced, not wishing to have made such a spectacle in hindsight.
He picked out Fletcher subconsciously, sure to remain neutral-toned here and now. "Master Fletcher, I came across a group of soldiers on their way home from your bar. One of theirs was wounded, apparently something he received here, as I am told." He sighed, looking over the man. "Can you explain why you attacked that man?" He laid a hand on the bar to steady himself as he leaned forward, watching Jymson. "I hope for you that your reason's just, sir, this is not a light charge. You may have nearly killed this legionnaire, messir. Not a good idea." He sensed now the eyes of every one of this man's sworn friends (who doesn't love a barkeep?) bore into the back of his head, a host of hostile eyes looking over. He simultaneously checked his poin curse, snatching gold coins from it and placing them down slowly before the man. Good money. "A round of beer for my men and I, meanwhile, if it shall please thee."
As you said, she's royalty. A lot of the gear they'd wear would have to be both fashionable/ornate AND useful, even at a cost in utilitarianism.
Shadowcatcher said
i'll be posting my second CS here soon for review.Edit: And geez Alice, i didnt think i had to teach Alicia not to talk to strangers. What the heck? Next time a man approaches you and your under the age of 12 STAB HIM AND RUN HOME!!!!
Holy shit, run away!
Swarley said
I've been listening to a lot of Hip-Hop I've never listened to before this weekend. MF Doom, Madvillian, A Tribe Called Quest, Ol' Dirty Bastard's solo stuff, and Black Star right now. I think it's just summer that makes me want to listen to hip-hop, I dunno I just have some connection with that genre and summer. I've liked everything I listened to this weekend though, which is good.
FUCK YEAH, man. The best shit. I remember hearing Doom for the first time at my old dealer's house
Well, he would have been in a weirder phase of his life, and yes, cults are indeed built out of people like that, not just rules and this indomitable idea of an impenetrable cult. Most religious groups are built around drug experiences which aid religious figures in reaching & preaching the altered state of mind that is central to their dogma, and help their followers stay within that altered state. Almost all religion and witchcraft culture is based around this concept. Trust me, I study religious anthropology :P
Anyway, he was more a person used/using the movement for a brief and harrowing time of his life. Imagine a Nazi youth waking up one day and realizing how fucking stupid his life was. When many of the members were still figuring out just what a life in this cult would mean in the early days, either going crazy or finding "God within", he saw the closing window to vanish and went through it. He is still extremely terrified/respectful of the Great Annihilator. (btw that's a great album, lel) I hope he doesn't seem to obnoxious...
Name: "The Druid" AKA 'Cid
Gender: Male
Age: 25, nearing his 26th birthday.
Pre-Apostate Occupation: Political activist/militant, Student, drug-dealer.
Equipment: A badly maintained but still operable Remington 870 shotgun, sawed barrel, 6 shells for said shotgun. This weapon is mostly used to scare off people. He always carries at least one bottle or his canteen of water with him. In his rucksack (old, canvas), he carries a snub-nosed S&W revolver and 15 bullets for it, a dangerous-looking utility knife-kit, dried food made from several ground up and dried sources. Always has at least one working lighter on him, if not more. Strapped to the back is his guitar, the only thing he's owned that stays in working order on its own. He also carries an extra blanket in his bag, just in case. He wears a thick, heavy green military jacket covered in band patches, a filthy workshirt, a brown shirt, well-fitted black jeans, and always wears old, brown military boots. Always armed with a smirk.
Personality: Loud-voiced and almost stupid, this is mostly a front for a survivalist, kill-or-be-killed attitude, even if he really isn't all that smart. His attention span is erratic; sometimes he can carry an actually intelligent debate on for hours, most of the time he'll remark on tiny things in the world around him as they distract him. Other than this, he is a gentle person and incredibly respectful, almost meekly unwilling to ruin anybody's day. He is driven to express his thoughts either in-articulately or through music.
History: From what little he's shared, he "used to have" schizophrenia ("or somethin', maaan") and was committed briefly to a mental hospital (incidentally the same that housed the Seer, who he remembers vaguely in amiable terms) before being released with a clean bill of health and new hatred for "the system". For some time, and while in the hospital, he kept up a guise of misanthropic hate for most of those around him. While this experience certainly embittered him towards his idealized and near-mental view of a society that had tried to suppress him, he wholeheartedly threw himself into the punk "movement" and "never looked back."
Selling pot in college while studying agriculture and growing his own shit was an easygoing lifestyle, but when the Apostate took place, he was once again alone and angry at some make-believe cause of all these problems. Surviving for a time on his own, he eventually made contact with a group of other survivors that he felt compelled to follow after one conversation with their leader, a strange mystic, after avoiding most other people (after seeing them murder and loot in the first days...) While he doesn't talk much about it (out of fear, out of respect, no one's sure), he makes vague mentions here of the early days of the Children of God, where he "dropped acid way too much with the fucking weirdest group of nazi motherfuckers I'd ever met" and got involved teaching the group how to sustain itself with food and farming. At some point, he appears to have left their brotherhood behind, rejecting their ideology. He's loath to mention most of this, knowing they'd probably want his ass now. He also absolutely refuses to mention just how involved he was.
Other: Always really, really high, somehow. He runs a small farm within the ruins of Central Park, supplying neighbors with food to maintain friendship ties. Has a good reputation. An unconfirmed Pansexual. Always gets you the best weed.
Anyway, he was more a person used/using the movement for a brief and harrowing time of his life. Imagine a Nazi youth waking up one day and realizing how fucking stupid his life was. When many of the members were still figuring out just what a life in this cult would mean in the early days, either going crazy or finding "God within", he saw the closing window to vanish and went through it. He is still extremely terrified/respectful of the Great Annihilator. (btw that's a great album, lel) I hope he doesn't seem to obnoxious...
Name: "The Druid" AKA 'Cid
Gender: Male
Age: 25, nearing his 26th birthday.
Pre-Apostate Occupation: Political activist/militant, Student, drug-dealer.
Equipment: A badly maintained but still operable Remington 870 shotgun, sawed barrel, 6 shells for said shotgun. This weapon is mostly used to scare off people. He always carries at least one bottle or his canteen of water with him. In his rucksack (old, canvas), he carries a snub-nosed S&W revolver and 15 bullets for it, a dangerous-looking utility knife-kit, dried food made from several ground up and dried sources. Always has at least one working lighter on him, if not more. Strapped to the back is his guitar, the only thing he's owned that stays in working order on its own. He also carries an extra blanket in his bag, just in case. He wears a thick, heavy green military jacket covered in band patches, a filthy workshirt, a brown shirt, well-fitted black jeans, and always wears old, brown military boots. Always armed with a smirk.
Personality: Loud-voiced and almost stupid, this is mostly a front for a survivalist, kill-or-be-killed attitude, even if he really isn't all that smart. His attention span is erratic; sometimes he can carry an actually intelligent debate on for hours, most of the time he'll remark on tiny things in the world around him as they distract him. Other than this, he is a gentle person and incredibly respectful, almost meekly unwilling to ruin anybody's day. He is driven to express his thoughts either in-articulately or through music.
History: From what little he's shared, he "used to have" schizophrenia ("or somethin', maaan") and was committed briefly to a mental hospital (incidentally the same that housed the Seer, who he remembers vaguely in amiable terms) before being released with a clean bill of health and new hatred for "the system". For some time, and while in the hospital, he kept up a guise of misanthropic hate for most of those around him. While this experience certainly embittered him towards his idealized and near-mental view of a society that had tried to suppress him, he wholeheartedly threw himself into the punk "movement" and "never looked back."
Selling pot in college while studying agriculture and growing his own shit was an easygoing lifestyle, but when the Apostate took place, he was once again alone and angry at some make-believe cause of all these problems. Surviving for a time on his own, he eventually made contact with a group of other survivors that he felt compelled to follow after one conversation with their leader, a strange mystic, after avoiding most other people (after seeing them murder and loot in the first days...) While he doesn't talk much about it (out of fear, out of respect, no one's sure), he makes vague mentions here of the early days of the Children of God, where he "dropped acid way too much with the fucking weirdest group of nazi motherfuckers I'd ever met" and got involved teaching the group how to sustain itself with food and farming. At some point, he appears to have left their brotherhood behind, rejecting their ideology. He's loath to mention most of this, knowing they'd probably want his ass now. He also absolutely refuses to mention just how involved he was.
Other: Always really, really high, somehow. He runs a small farm within the ruins of Central Park, supplying neighbors with food to maintain friendship ties. Has a good reputation. An unconfirmed Pansexual. Always gets you the best weed.
I don't mind, he'd probably have a couple of bondsmen with him though. Making his way to the pub for a post-patrol drink. He's also awaiting Haljon's report on the letters he had sent.
Valfunde Perar,
City of Deliar, on patrol
Scowling through his helmet at the peasants openly glaring at the small unit of Guardsmen as they made a quick beat through the streets, Valfunde only thought of the rest of the morn' spent and wasted, anxiously, in the Council chambers. They hadn't even had real matters to discuss, he reflected sardonically. The clip-clop of mailed boots in fresh shit was a funny sound; one of the Perar warriors before him halted, grunting as he knelt to inspect his shoe. "Good step there, sergeant." Valfunde said with a light note of humor in his otherwise deadpan voice. The warrior only responded with a grunt, before grabbing a cloth from his belt to wipe at his shoe. "Hold here a moment," the nobleman added, smirking.
He took advantage of the pause to examine again the faces of the passerby. Commoners. Lots of brown, dirty hides, leather. Everything dirtied, scuffed, or held together with patches and more dirty cloth. This district was one of the lower ones, a place where before the Guard had been unusually lax, allowing a flow-in of illegal visitors and an increase in poverty that always followed. This was also the former home of many of the commoners serving in this Guard detachment, somewhere they had been glad to have risen out of. He sniffed in dank air through his helm and relaxed a bit. A hard place, surely, but not all these people were low-brow scum, even if they made it harder. Meanwhile, the patrol continued, Valfunde simply putting his hands slowly around his sword's pommel where it sat low in his belt, the men paying attention to their captain's subtle movements.
As they walked, they were recognized by soldiers headed back the other way, and exchanged salutes for a moment before breaking back into their own stride. Neither group seemed particularly on-guard, since an ambush or attack was hardly to be expected on an armed detachment of the Guard, especially not with Valfunde Perar at their head. Likely they'd end their patrol at the pub, or maybe he'd let his men go whoring for the night after making his own way to the tavern, alone. The stress of the sealed chambers meeting earlier faded a little, but he was still distracting himself with these refreshingly honorless thoughts as he made his way down the street. A night of not-absolutely-shit beer at the Buckle seemed most ideal.
City of Deliar, on patrol
Scowling through his helmet at the peasants openly glaring at the small unit of Guardsmen as they made a quick beat through the streets, Valfunde only thought of the rest of the morn' spent and wasted, anxiously, in the Council chambers. They hadn't even had real matters to discuss, he reflected sardonically. The clip-clop of mailed boots in fresh shit was a funny sound; one of the Perar warriors before him halted, grunting as he knelt to inspect his shoe. "Good step there, sergeant." Valfunde said with a light note of humor in his otherwise deadpan voice. The warrior only responded with a grunt, before grabbing a cloth from his belt to wipe at his shoe. "Hold here a moment," the nobleman added, smirking.
He took advantage of the pause to examine again the faces of the passerby. Commoners. Lots of brown, dirty hides, leather. Everything dirtied, scuffed, or held together with patches and more dirty cloth. This district was one of the lower ones, a place where before the Guard had been unusually lax, allowing a flow-in of illegal visitors and an increase in poverty that always followed. This was also the former home of many of the commoners serving in this Guard detachment, somewhere they had been glad to have risen out of. He sniffed in dank air through his helm and relaxed a bit. A hard place, surely, but not all these people were low-brow scum, even if they made it harder. Meanwhile, the patrol continued, Valfunde simply putting his hands slowly around his sword's pommel where it sat low in his belt, the men paying attention to their captain's subtle movements.
As they walked, they were recognized by soldiers headed back the other way, and exchanged salutes for a moment before breaking back into their own stride. Neither group seemed particularly on-guard, since an ambush or attack was hardly to be expected on an armed detachment of the Guard, especially not with Valfunde Perar at their head. Likely they'd end their patrol at the pub, or maybe he'd let his men go whoring for the night after making his own way to the tavern, alone. The stress of the sealed chambers meeting earlier faded a little, but he was still distracting himself with these refreshingly honorless thoughts as he made his way down the street. A night of not-absolutely-shit beer at the Buckle seemed most ideal.
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