TMS Prime

Mote

"No worries lad, no worries. I'm mentally unstable, not senseless. I'd be even madder than I am now to try touching this lovely Mote here without some trials beforehand! Now come over, if you please. I don't bite, Knight's honour. Well, a former knight, but same difference. No guarantees for Ranger, though."

"I...I..." Griff was at a loss for words. "Okay."

He put his hands down. No point in feigning deference. However, Griff wasn't exactly keen on sidling up next to this strange man in the eye-patch. In his mad, sing-song baritone, Griff could see how someone could get mystified at the man's casual mention of his own sanity. There was a phrase for something like that; the truly mad never considered themself such? The stranger's apparent self-awareness actually put Griff more at ease than the man's mention of a forsaken knighthood.

"Appraiser. That sounds...sounds about right," He replied after several long seconds.

The Mote was enchanting. Phosphorescent blue swirls stood out even more against the inky blackness of the night tide. Though it was simply a huge chunk of rock, every crevice and vertex of the relic seemed somehow designed; pressed into shape by diligent earthen fingers. As a craftsman, Griff could appreciate the shape. His eyes drifted upwards, to the storm of trash that gently orbited above the Mote. Old shoes. A snapped bow. Fishline and broken bottles.

It was easy to get lost in the glow of the Mote. Waves bubbled up against the shore, spray getting caught in the airy vortex above the monolith. Several pieces of garbage would clatter together as the rhythmically jostled in orbit. A meager mewling as what Griff assumed was a crumpled piece of fabric turned out to be a mangy puppy. It pun around, upturned and small legs swimming uselessly against the invisible pull.

"We should--"

Something happened very quickly. A girl, with long hair and wearing a white dress, folded to her knees. She was small. Griff wagered she was younger than him, though only by a few years. One of his sisters looked near about her age. As wet sand matted the strange girl's dress, he saw her lean forward. Her breath seemed to tarnish the Mote as she mindlessly moved closer.

"Don't touch it!" He hissed. "How many people must I reprimand tonight?"

He made a motion down towards Capella, as if he was going to snatch her waifish hand out of the air. He stopped, fingers straining against instinctive reflex. The girl's hair; bifurcated perfectly down the middle, light and dark. Chimerical and otherworldly. Witchcraft? Best not to touch her. If only he had something to whap her hands with. A long stick. A piece of driftwood? No time to look.

The puppy whined again. Griff bit his lower lip, frustrated at this turn of events. While he didn't much care for the idea of keeping a dog at his side, he couldn't just leave the animal to its assured demise. Additionally, if he could get rid of these two strangers, have some time to himself in front of the Mote, he could devise a plan to carve out shards of the monolith and make the return trip to Crossroads, only slightly behind schedule.

"The dog," Griff said in a forced calm, "I'm here for the dog. Someone in the village, you see, in Laku...they reported a missing puppy. If we touch the Mote, disturb it in some way, who knows what will happen to the dog. But...how to pull it out?"

It wasn't a smooth lie, but it would at least obscure Griff's real reason for coming here tonight. It could also distract these strangers and stop them from potentially ruining his plans. Motes were finnicky, as the stories went. Capricious. If someone touched it, the Mote could blast off into the sky. Erupt in a shower of acid. Griff needed to ensure that it was he and he alone that would make first contact and shave off a piece.

Mote

Yep, I should be able to get a post up this weekend! Maybe tomorrow, but I've got D&D to work around--no stops on the roleplaying train. Should be able to push the three characters together in a dog rescue attempt or something.

(Also @Juicy, what a fascinating character!)

Mote

"Unbelievab--"

Griff nearly choked on surprise. As the urge to cough seized his throat, his voice muffled against his sleeve. He sunk even further behind a thicket of dune-grass and cattails. There was a flick of a crab scuttling on the white sands of the moonlit beach.

'Unbelievable,' He thought again.

Someone was approaching the Mote. A man. Not old, but older. Griff could only see the man's profile as he seemed to saunter towards the monolith. Weapons? Unclear. From the angle, and the ephemeral spotlight cast dramatically from the moon above, the stranger seemed to be finely-dressed. If there was one thing that Griff knew about rich garb, it meant you either trusted yourself to be armed, or hired good hand. Well-dressed, traveling at night alone? Well, Griff wasn't a betting man...

He just kept low. Breathing was the key. It was like checking the traps and snares early in the morning. Weasels that were flitting about after the rising sun. Near the morsel of bread or bloodied meat that had been concealed in the jaws of the trap. Breathe too hard, move your boot in the wrong direction, you'd crush a twig underfoot, and bank on one fewer strip of leather or boot-fur. Fewer coins in the grocer's fund.

Patience was key. To wait, and to watch. Ensure the quarry was hungry enough, curious enough to venture closer to the trap.

A shadow dove from the sky and melded with the man's silhouette in a flurry of wingbeats. Griff's eyes strained as he resisted the choke of surprise once again. However, it wasn't some shadowbound wing-beast of a woods-whisperer's pact--it was a bird of prey. A hawk, maybe? Too far to tell. Griff was briefly reminded of a falconer that visited Crossroads nearly every spring; the man used some sort of unseen prestidigitation to hypnotically soothe his familiar.

Griff dared edge closer, now almost flat on his stomach. His legs remained taught, ready to fly into action, as his arms naturally guided him forward, pushed and pulled at the grassroot and sand in such a way to slide him even closer to the Mote. Its sigils seemed to pulsate with blue light, almost as if they were breathing. Bleeding. Griff could almost imagine the ice blue energy pour out of the etchings and dissolve into the tide below.

Griff shook his head, knocking himself out of the Mote's own brand of hypnosis. Trash swirled like a dreamcatcher above the rock.

He needed a distraction--a rock, a thrown stone into the water just shy of the man. Maybe that could deter the stranger, spook the man and his bird away from the Mote. Griff could fall back and try his approach again in an hour. He could try a sharp whistle--something so loud and sudden on a dark beach would surely discourage further inspection of the Mote.

'No,' Griff realized dully. 'If he's approaching such a strange thing on this witching hour, there can't be much in the way of splashing rocks he fears.'

Fine. It would be the final approach. The plan that Griff had put on a back-burner in his mind. Something that he had considered, but failed to give any meaningful weight. Useless to devote time and energy to rare happenstance, but now here he was. Sand down his collar, dagger and tools pressed against his waist, and the moonlight threatening to reveal his location if there was too strong a sea breeze. What were the odds that he'd encounter someone up here?

"W-wait!" Griff pounced. His legs drove him up and to a quick pace. He approached the stranger from the opposite end of the stark beach. "Don't touch it! Be careful! The Mote. It's, er...it's dangerous!"

As Griff approached Evelio, he raised two open palms as a sign of nonviolence.

So stupid. So useless. The worst plan: Diplomacy.

Mote

Good lort, not the puppy! This is too much for me to handle.

I know I said post incoming, but I think I'll have to push it back to tomorrow due to travel stuff! Can't wait to see what's going on with these motes (and to get all up in Evelio's grill before that).

Mote

Hey again everyone! Sorry for the radio silence on my end, was attending MagFest the last few days! Back now, and certainly have not forgotten the RP.

@Loki Odinson, I was originally going to wait for another person to jump in and post, but I could have one up in the next day or so if we think it's pertinent to keep action rolling!

Mote

And I've finally posted! Sorry it took the better part of "later" in the day. If anyone spots an inconsistency or needs me to add anything to smooth the entrance for other characters, let me know!

Mote

'It's not useful,' Griffin could almost wail. 'But I'll make it worth my time.'

He had spent good coin to go on that tour. Better coin, coin that he needed to stock his return to Crossroads, was spent to retrace his steps to the Mote on the second tour. Perhaps if he hadn't needed to replace his hand-pick, Griff would have enough for a third. There was room and board to consider as well. The fisher's wife had gotten stingier with her crawlspace as the days trickled by in Laku, and Griff knew that travelers with deeper pockets were due to approach any day now.

An expert had taken the party to visit the stone. He was old, and half-blind. Griff wanted to see sparks of lightning; shards of crystal springing forth from the rock's rounded face; perhaps the rings of vapor that you could sometimes see seeping out of the forest in the middle of the night would be exhaled from the Mote.

A dervish of junk spun above the monolith. Griff frowned as he recalled the spectacle. Useless.

It was disheartening, but it wouldn't stop him. He'd memorized the path that the half-blind expert had taken to get out of the village. Footprints in the sand had been swept away by tide; though the sun had set long ago, Griffin felt as if he could see them clear as day. As he neared part of the shoreline that dropped steeply into the waters below, he swung around the well-traveled trail and ducked behind a thicket of tall, threadbare cattails.

Time was short, and Griffin had wasted so much already. Yet here he stooped, immobilized as he rehearsed the motions in his head. Appraised the tools at his disposal. He reached into a hide pouch on his belt. Leather-working tools he had re-purposed for a new mission. Metal for carving, scraping. Blunted the end of a narrow pick so that he could wedge it into the stone's smallest imperfection. A rawhide mallet, expensive but reliable. Needles. A compass. Griff had his dagger, too, but that would hopefully stay snug against his hip.

The Mote was over this dune. All he had to do was swoop around and approach it from an angle opposing the expert's path. None would dare travel at this hour, but it still couldn't hurt to be careful. Patience was something Griff usually didn't have the luxury to have in high supply, but he didn't want to mess this up. As others in Laku slept, or sorted their wares for tomorrow's market, or idled their time in the ramshackle pub near the docks, Griffin took a deep breath.

He scurried from behind the thicket, crested the dune, and made his way towards the glow of the beach.

Mote

Whoa, awesome starter post, Mokley! I should get a post up later today--just taking some time to block it in my head. Anyone have any prerequisites? I think I'm mostly going to post about Griff milling around and deciding that he will go try to carve out a chunk of the mote during the night when no one is around.

Mote

Coolio. @Mokley, are you making a character too or are you just GMing?

Mote

Sweet! All done. Can't wait to see a few more characters and get started.