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      Vote for Valucre [August]   05/16/2017

      Voting for the month of August is open on TopRPSites! Vote for Valucre daily and help new members searching for a place to roleplay discover the same joys you have in Valucre. You can vote daily, so make voting for Valucre a habit. Discussion thread


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  1. Anguish.[Scudder Forests.]

    Barric’s face rolled up into a frown, an expression oddly out of place on the optimistic wizard. He thought it terribly unfair, what this lady’s ‘tree’ had done to her, separating her from her child. He expected better from a primordial force of nature, but perhaps he was naïve in believing that the natural forces were somehow devoid of the cruelties of man. “If you dun’ mind me sayin’, I think it migh’y unfair wha’ yer tree dun to you.” He was sat down next to his horse as he said this, staring angrily at an oak, one hand running along the handle of his remaining axe. With a sigh, he led back against his horse and allowed his misplaced anger to dissipate, he had to learn to stop taking everything so personally, people sometimes had to deal with their own problems, and Dhizzandra said as much. “I’m no’ too tired, bu’ if you could fetch me some wood that’d be great, I’ll ge’ ready to star’ a fire.” Once again, the wizard delved into his pouch of many mysteries, looking for some copper dust. He kept it in a separate little container, because as far as his materials went, the copper dust was one of the most expensive. Meanwhile, Dhizzandra had used her unusual natural magic to create an impromptu wall around the camp, which would help keep predators out. Who knew how well it would serve if inquisitive Centaurs approached the camp, but Barric had completely forgotten the story of how Scudder Forest got its name. A short while later the Dryad returned with a bundle of dry twigs and sticks, perfect for fuelling a fire. Barric wasn’t averse to doing things the old-fashioned way at times, and to be honest, he had never learned any evocation magic capable of creating fire outright so lighting a fire with magic was a little difficult. However, he was set on impressing Dhizzandra, or so it seemed, and therefore only magic would do. With a handful of copper dust in one hand, he leant towards the little bundle of sticks and spoke some words in a completely foreign tongue, the strange syllables accentuated by his own accent. From his hand burst a sudden flash of light and a fork of electricity slammed into the twigs, igniting them instantly, and a few moments later a small fire was borne. “Tha’ should las’ mos’ the nigh’.”
  2. Anguish.[Scudder Forests.]

    He was sad to see tears on her face, but glad to take them away with a little bit of magic. In the end, that was what magic should be for, little acts of kindness that brightened people’s hearts! So Barric fervently believed, as he took his half of the cinnamon roll and broke it down further, feeding it to Jorgh as his nose came swooping it to investigate the food on offer. He was a little greedy, that horse, but Barric loved him all the same. Barric munched down on what was left, enjoying the taste of his mother’s cooking transplanted far from Dougton with the power of magic and memory. Before he could swallow however, Dhizzandra surprised him with a hug, and he coughed uncomfortably in shock before returning the hug with affection. When she released him, his mind caught up to what she had said. “You lost yer son? Wha’ ‘appened, he’s… not dead is he? If he is I’m so sorry fer you Dhizzandra, if he ain’, is there any way I can ‘elp you get’im back?!” Barric’s offer was given freely and with complete sincerity. He was just like that. However, Dhizzandra spoke of escaping the forest, and that was the pressing concern. He watched as her feet transformed into roots, eyes wide with amazement. Some sort of powerful natural magic was at work before him, and for a mad moment he considered delving into his pack to take notes and draw the scene, but then he would miss seeing it with his own eyes. The garland of flowers atop her head grew healthy and fragrant before his very eyes where before they were wilted and dying, and in some way, it gave the wizard comfort. “Predators? If anythin’ does show up Jorgh’ll ‘ear it and warn me, but I thank you anyway, I’ll sleep a lo’ more soundly knowin’ there’s some’un who can talk watchin’ ou’ fer me.” He gave Jorgh a grin and the horse snorted, before settling down to sleep himself. Barric looked at Dhizzandra for a moment, a question seemingly on his lips but his mind uncertain as to if he should ask it or not. Finally, he asked: “Dhizzandra, you don’ mind if I light a fire do yah?”
  3. [Ravenspire] Finally.

    Skitt took tiny little bites of a lump of cake and stared at the female as she approached, seemingly unperturbed. He was expecting someone to kick him out or chase him away eventually, that was how these things always went, so in his strange way he was grateful he’d been able to eat so much of the delicious sugar mountain. Yet he was still so hungry, and there was so much more cake to eat! Could he resist fighting for a few more morsels? Of course not. Especially if he could just talk his way out of it, in that strange way of his. The woman stood beside him and addressed him archly: "You know, it's really rude to eat a cake without sharing and ... eating the figurines on it is even more rude." Skitt cocked his head like a dog. His large bug eyes stared right into her, never blinking, in a little unsettling fashion. Up close, his alien nature was far more visible, the dark-green and orange carapace in place of skin, the clicking mandibles, and some twizzly antennas that smelled the newcomer, taking in her scent. Skitt finished the last bite of food and watched the woman steal the middle section of the cake from him. Then, he grabbed a rough slice, cutting into the lower tier with a sharp claw, and pulled it free. Dutifully, he handed it to the girl. “Skittt share.” He tittered, his words rough and badly formed, but words none-the-less. If she accepted his offering he’d titter happily, if not, he’d just eat it instead. All of this would take only a few moments, in which time one of the soldiers of the human hive approached Skitt and spoke to him. "Rude? This is a great disrespect to mother and father. Perhaps the gardens would be more accommodating to you?" Skitt sized him up for a moment, the hump on his back shifting near imperceptibly. Perhaps fortunate for the man, Skitt wasn’t interested in fighting humans unless they attacked him first, he preferred more ferocious prey. More fun, more food afterwards. Skitt’s mandibles clicked for a moment, the insectoid equivalent of licking one’s lips. “Skittt go tten… buttt Skittt ttake ttis.” With astounding arrogance, Skitt simply scooped up the remainder of the cake, except for the second tier the girl had rescued, carrying the significant weight with ease. With a happy tittering sound, he turned away from the two humans, and started to scuttle off towards the entrance, his prize in hand. He had to find Arklar and share this with him!
  4. Anguish.[Scudder Forests.]

    Her hand was soft in his as he lifted her to his feet, and for a moment, he was struck with memories of Nieve. Twice now he had been before beautiful women who radiated incredible magic, and the experience was by no means losing its charm through repetition as of yet. He smiled dumbly, a little enchanted, and released her hand, patting Jorgh on the head as the horse nickered inquisitively. Dhizzandra, her name was, he committed it safely to his memory alongside a picture of her face, there were quite a few new people there already, but she was rivalled by only Nieve in being the loveliest to look upon. “I’m ‘fraid I am a little lost miss, I ‘ave a vague idea where I am, but I can’t say I been to this forest’ before. Course, I ‘eard your cry earlier and wandered right off the game trail, so I can’ even backtrack. Stupid of me really.” He smiled apologetically. “Stay ‘ere miss? You mean in this forest?” Then, “Course Terrenus is magical, we got all sorts round ‘ere. My Uncle told me we live ‘longside a spirit world, some people can tap into the power in tha’ place. I’m tryin’a learn ‘ow, but I ain’ much good yet.” “Cinnamon rolls?” He looked crestfallen. “I’m sorry miss, I ain’ got any…” His mind was working furiously, normally, Barric was not overly ambitious. However, for some reason, he wanted to impress this woman and so he was really stretching the limits of his ingenuity for a solution, not to mention his small magical reservoir. He raised one hand, the one holding Jorgh’s reins, as if suddenly struck by an idea. The horse nickered and took a few steps towards Dhizzandra, but Barric was too busy rifling through the scholar’s pouch at his side, retrieving a fairly slight tome, to notice. “There is one thing I could try, I ‘ave the herbs and-“ He picked up a rock off the ground. “A rock…” He started muttering, leafing through his book until he found what he was looking for. He replaced the book, his lips moving as if trying to formalise something in his own head, and then picked some herbs out of his alchemical pouch. “Creetus Sustanas.” He spoke over the rock in his palm, sprinkling it with dried herbs from his other hand. He focused, harder than he ever had on this spell before, and ever so slowly the rock started to diminish from a palm sized stone to a thumb sized pebble. It bubbled momentarily, regaining a little mass, and with a brief splash of magic remained still. However, it was no longer a rock in his hand, but a freshly baked cinnamon roll. He smiled in surprise, it was small, barely a mouthful really, but he’d never made anything but bread and water before! Eagerly, he handed it to her. “It’s not much, best I can do really, but I reckon it should taste mighty fine, seeing as how my mother makes the best cinnamon rolls, an’ I jus’ conjured one.”
  5. Guard on the Road (Commemorating the Dead)

    Men work quickly with the whip lashing at their heels. Four graves had been desecrated and their occupants removed, mostly intact. The Ambassador would be happy enough with these, their flesh was rotting and putrid, their faces unrecognisable masses of meat wriggling with maggots. Bloodguard looked at them with a disinterested expression on his face, unbothered by the foul smell or the sight of the human body decomposing before his eyes. A different sort of man may have had an existential crisis, confronted with their own mortality in such a grotesque fashion. The man of Zine however had a mind for more practical concerns. “Get the tunics on them.” He commanded, before striding over to two of his riders who were idling by their shovels, having already excavated two graves. They should have been helping the others dig up the final corpse, but no matter, Bloodguard had a more important job for the two of them. “You, graze your arm, let the wound bleed into your tunic and then bind it. This is what happened, some peasantry ambushed you by the roadside with crossbows, you chased them down but spared their lives. Decide the details yourselves, I assume you understand what I’m saying?” “Aye Bloodguard.” “Aye.” “Good.” That settled, he watched over the men who were dressing the corpses in ratty tunics emblazoned with the insignia of Zine. It was all a necessary part of the subterfuge here, the Ambassador’s plan, or rather, contingency, for heading off any political ramifications of this impromptu ‘excavation.’ Once garbed appropriately, the men hoisted the foul cargo onto the back of the carts, just in time to see the final corpse being dragged from the earth.
  6. Anguish.[Scudder Forests.]

    Golden eyes, antlers sprouting from her brow, Barric gazed upon no ordinary woman. Yet if the man was what he seemed at first glance, he would have run away in fear of the unknown, not stood his ground. His eyes were full of sympathy for lady lost, for she seemed so confused and sad and that worry etched her face with lines of misery that tugged at Barric’s heart. She sat on the ground in front of him and began to speak, haltingly, and Barric saw that the flowers in her hair were dying. “You don’ know where yer are?” Barric frowned, and then a grin lit up his expressive face. “Well, truth be tol’ neither do I, but we call this lan’ Terrenus.” He tugged Jorgh over to the woman and held out a callused hand, offering to help her to her feet if she so desired. As he did so, he introduced himself. “As fer me, name’s Barric, Barric Bosworth.”
  7. Guard on the Road (Commemorating the Dead)

    The invasion of a paramilitary group named ‘Oxy’ had caused numerous fatalities in Predator Keep and led to the debilitation that Zine had preyed upon. Most of those lost in the attack were burned and disposed of, somewhat callously some may have argued. Bloodguard found it frustrating, more than anything, because he had to go to greater lengths to fulfil his Master’s unusual request… for corpses. Fortunately, not all the peasantry had been willing to let their brave men and women be burned to ash and thrown into the wind, and had returned their bodies to the village where they were born, laid to rest in front of a war memorial. Relatively fresh corpses were usually hard to find, but after a recent conflict, Bloodguard was confident those buried beneath the earth would still has a little flesh on the bones, albeit decomposing. Bloodguard, with a small group of ten soldiers carrying shovels on their shoulders and blades at their sides, rode into the centre of the village towing two small carts behind additional mounts. He explained, quite reasonably, that men of Zine had fought in the war and that their bodies had been buried here by mistake. The people complained, rather rudely he thought, and his interest in negotiation had dwindled until finally he told his men to draw swords and wall off the graveyard. The people had got the message pretty quick, some disappearing into their homes, peering through the drapes with furious eyes. Others, more worryingly perhaps, had ran off in the direction of the keep, presumably to get the authorities. Bloodguard sent two of his riders to run them down, quite literally, and leave them bruised and bloodied on the road. He couldn’t be sure he’d stopped everyone, but he was pretty sure that the Keep would hear nothing of this until he was already gone. All of this was overseen by a small red-painted robot which had dutifully followed the riders, rolling around at breakneck speed to keep pace with them on horseback. Somehow, Bloodguard couldn’t even begin to guess how, Omi was able to see through that robot and deliver orders from afar. The Guard mostly just tried to ignore it, unless he was being given a direct order he was content to blank out the small machination as it trolled around, occasionally making ominous sounds. The men clearly disliked it at least as much as he did, but they were far worse at hiding it. “Get to work you dogs, the Ambassador wants at least five grown corpses with most the flesh still on, get it done.” And so metal hit dirt, the ground was shifted, and the men of Zine set to work. Commemorating their dead.
  8. Son of Zine

    Bloodguard walked away from the elves, carrying the piece of parchment he had scrawled visiting hours on half folded in his left hand. If he was taken aback by Omi’s sudden proclamation, his ferocious temper emerging and burning through his men, he did not show it. Bloodguard had heard this speech already, when he had first made the unknowing mistake of telling Omi he had acquired the services of a Healer. It seemed the man had a prejudice against that school of magic, and the elf woman was one such mage and had offered her skills, and more, to all the men in the camp. Apparently, the Ambassador wasn’t having any of that shit, and Bloodguard wasn’t surprised in the slightest. Some of the men caught his eye as he returned, those who were unbowed, resentful, angry even. They hated being talked down to, they’d take it from a Vamp or a Lich, but not from another man. Those were the ones that hadn’t seen what Omi could do with his own peculiarly blend of power. They were also the ones Bloodguard had to watch out for, Omi couldn’t watch his own back every second of every day, and when it came to killing officers, Zine troops were irritatingly creative. Such was life in a culture that valued social Darwinism over all else, take what you want, kill whoever stands in your way, even if it is your officer. Bloodguard swept his own gaze across them, letting them know they were marked, ensuring them of a simple fact. They may somehow sneak up behind Omi, they may even have a chance of thrusting a blade at his back, but with a Bloodguard here, they would die before their stroke fell. In physical skill, every-one of them was outmatched by this monster born in the Hall of Claret. “Sir.” Bloodguard made the honorific clear even to those outside the tent, re-assuring those around that Omi was even his better, another layer of fear to keep the men in line. “I have what you asked for, here.” He said in a more moderate tone, aware that the Ambassador was in a poor mood. The date and time, not to mention location, at which he was asked to visit his child were written in a plain, rough, hand on the piece of parchment Bloodguard handed him. Then, the guard turned on his heel and walked out of the tent. Whatever Omi had to deal with he would deal with alone. Bloodguard was a warrior, not a confidant.
  9. Anguish.[Scudder Forests.]

    Well, it was official, he was lost. He didn’t know where he was, either did his horse, and that was pretty much everyone he had to rely on for directions so that was that. The sturdy man in peasant browns was a little rougher around the edges, a little changed by his experiences so close to home and yet so far away from what he knew, but those changes hadn’t instilled in him any greater sense of navigation. How was it that when setting off west towards Weland, he had somehow found himself in a forest? Scudder Forest, to be exact, but he honestly did not know that. For a moment, he almost lamented nodding off during his Uncle’s boring geography lessons, but to be honest, they were pretty dull. Besides, when one has no real idea where they’re going, any road would get them there! “Ah, wai’ there ain’ no road.” He muttered, realising that the rough dirt path he’d been following for the last few hours had disappeared completely, transforming into a meandering game trail carved through the forest. Barric Bosworth, wizard in training, was doomed to spend the rest of his days wandering through a woody expanse with no one for company but his horse. “No’ tha’ I’m sayin’ yer bad company Jorgh, jus’ you don’ ‘ave much to say fer yerself yer know?” He patted his riding horse on his furry head in apology for his unspoken lamentation. The horse snorted, almost mockingly, and trotted on unperturbed. Barric frowned, as if feeling the animal’s snub, and then a smile lit up his broad face. He ran a hand through his messy brown hair to free it of a few fallen leaves and clicked, egging Jorgh on a little faster, letting out a little laugh. There was no point worrying, being lost was just another adventure after all! As night closed in and the meagre light filtering in through the leaves above began to wane, Barric was ready to call it a night. When one couldn’t even be sure they were heading in a consistent direction, travelling at night through a forest writhe with knotted roots and other hazards was hardly a wise course. Even at just nineteen and relatively new to this lifestyle, Barric knew that much. However, before it was time to stop, Barric heard a sudden piercing scream echoing from somewhere far off in the forest. It was a guttural cry, filled with anguish, unmistakably feminine. For just a moment, his eyes narrowed with a newfound cynicism that almost overcame his natural honesty and naivete. A cry in a forest, close to night, how was he to know what danger lurked out there? Yet Barric was Barric, and no experience with a haunted house filled with shadows and monsters was likely to change that, at least, not the one. “Come on Jorgh, sounds like some’un needs ‘elp.” The horse nickered in agreement and pointed its nose in the direction of the sound. His passage through the forest took him some time, plenty for the Dryad to succumb to a weary slumber, for travelling in a singular direction was pretty difficult in a forest unless the game had been travelling the same way. Unfortunately, in this case they had not, and Barric had to stop frequently and lead his horse, unsure if he was even really heading towards the sound or not. His doubts were quieted when he reached a patch of dead foliage, standing out in stark contrast from the rest of the forest. In the middle of the withered plants, in the fading light, there lay a woman garbed in leaves. Barric approached, leading his horse by its reins, the picture of a sturdy peasant lad approaching a spirit of nature. Except, he was a wizard. In training. “Miss, are you alrigh’, do you need ‘elp?”
  10. Son of Zine

    The Bloodguard was willing to concede to escorting the girl out of the tent, but he would not compromise on remaining within earshot. Considering the ‘nature’ of his bond with Omi, it’d have been unwise to leave him alone with anyone, let alone someone he was beginning to have suspicions about. He heard Kalmuli’s threats, and was waiting only a short way away from the tent with the other girl in tow. The bigger issue was that he was not the only one who heard. Warriors of Zine, cruel eyed men of all race and type who shared only an abstract notion of comradery, had perked their ears at the insult to their leader. If Kalmuli had left it at that, they would have sneered behind Omi’s back and continued as usual… but she had threatened them as well. Some stood, their hands on their weapons, regarding the elf women with nasty stares and dark intentions. There was a whispering in the camp, a muttering, as her words passed through those closest to their comrades behind. Suddenly there were ten fully grown men before them, watching, waiting. Like any sort of hound, they looked to their alpha for the command they thought sure to come. Let loose you dogs of war, show these bitches what happens to those who threaten the men of Zine! Yet Bloodguard stood, impassive, his own eyes devoid of good or evil, cruelty or kindness, simply dead, unreadable. “I told you to watch your mouth.” He said, finally, spitting on the ground at her feet. As if remembering something, his face teetered between letting the hounds loose and honouring some order. Unfortunately, once remembered, he could not disremember an order no matter how much he wished too. Omi had wanted these ‘guests’ unmolested, and that was the way it would be. “Alright you churls, you never had a whore’s pimp give you some choice words? Let ‘em be this time, they’ll go back to the cathouse and tell everyone about the hospitality of Zine, perhaps even send a couple girls over eh?” His words were jovial, his face was not. The men laughed in a brutal fashion that was edged with hunger. The tension of an uneasy peace was torture to these men, the Ambassador had to realise that, it wouldn’t be long before he couldn’t hold them back. If you pulled a bowstring back too far, two things could happen, either your strength fails and the arrow is let loose… or the string snaps. Neither boded well. The Bloodguard took the time and address dutifully, his letters rough and unkempt, as if he had been taught to write purely functionally and no greater effort had been invested in improving his hand beyond making himself understood with writing. He was lucky the Hall of Claret had invested even that much time into this side of his education, or perhaps unlucky, if they hadn’t he might not be here on the tip of a knife’s edge. “Best be getting home quickly, little Elves, the lads looked eager to see more of both of you.” With that ominous warning, the Bloodguard picked up his falchion and turned away, carrying the instructions back to the Ambassador.
  11. Son of Zine

    Bloodguard stood impassively in one corner, a hulking shadow presiding over proceedings, offering not a word but missing nothing either. It was interesting to watch Omi work, not that he expected anything less from an Ambassador from Zine, manipulating and dominating two elven wenches in conversation should have been child’s play. However, the one woman, apparently not the one he had got with child, was a force of her own. If Bloodguard didn’t know any better, he’d guess she had magic to her, she might even be dangerous in the right circumstances. He would have to keep an eye on that one. Ultimately though, Bloodguard really didn’t care. It was hard to form any personal attachments for those you work for when your expertise is traded around like market stuffs. Omi had a child, so what? It would be many years before the child would be worth anything… could be worth anything. Right now, it was just a minor nuisance, a simple consequence of a night’s pleasure. It occurred to him that he was looking on a child that two decades hence could make waves, but could also simply die in its cot come evening. A sombre thought for a sombre man. “I am lettered, I will do as you say, Sir.” Bloodguard snapped out of his reverie and grabbed a small piece of parchment and quill in his free hand, dipping it into ink in a brusque manner. Then, he led the women out of the camp, past the hungry eyed men cooped up in camp, where they were most dangerous. Stopping at the entrance, he turned to the mother of Omi’s child and held his parchment up against the low wall, resting his sword up against the same wall so as to have both hands free. “Woman, what times and days do you request the Ambassador’s presence?”
  12. [Ravenspire] Finally.

    Skitt was almost lost to the sweet sensation of spongey pudding filling his complex and in some ways overdeveloped tastebuds. To an insect, and by extension, an insectoid, something with such calorific content was beyond beautific to the senses. Skitt was constantly hungry because he metabolised so quickly, powering the growth and regrowth of his alien body, and his appreciation of food was tempered by an evolutionary disposition towards those foods that would serve as the most effective fuel. In other words, he found the cake fucking delicious. So delicious in fact, that he might have been taken unawares by the women carefully surrounding him, closing off his exit points. He had, after all, been expecting the armed males to apprehend him and when they had shown no sign of doing so actually thought he was going to get away with consuming the whole pudding! Fortunately for him perhaps, one of the small figurines above the cake had fallen as the structural integrity of the entire thing began to crumble due to the insectoid ruthlessly carving a cave out of the lower layers with his greedy hands. He had caught the falling decorative rather deftly in one clawed hand, pausing to regard the miniature of the man that was favourite to the Queen, and was in the process of putting it in his pincered mouth and munching on it when he caught the sideways glance of an approaching woman. His bug eyes roaved around, spotting more of the women with similar intent, his instincts alerting him to the trap forming around him. The head broke off the miniature and fell to the ground as he crunched through the body, and for a moment, time stopped. Slowly, ever so slowly, like a quickdraw in a western Skitt had never seen, his hand reached down. Further, and further, until his claws clasped around… a particularly choice piece of cake. Almost mockingly, he raised it to his pincers in plain view of one of the approaching woman, leaving no doubt that he had seen her, and pushed it into his mouth. Then, looking up frequently to check their positions, he just went right back to eating. If they weren’t going to attack him immediately, he figured he might as well keep feasting on the delicious mountain of sugar. “Omnomnomnomnom.”
  13. Son of Zine

    The Guard’s face shifted just a little, just a tiny bit, into a smirk. So it was like that then? The Ambassador was more of a hound than he realised, perhaps a worthy Alpha, and definitely still human. Omi would hardly care, but upon hearing of his deeds, Bloodguard’s respect for him only grew a little. Shame it had to be an Elf, but then again, giving it to one of those haughty bitches was something to be proud of in itself. After this thought crossed his mind, his composure almost cracked a little, he found himself wanting to laugh in these woman’s faces. Yet he could not. No more than he could walk away from this camp and Zine and free himself from a path that led only down, six feet under. “After money then are you? Well, the Ambassador has never shirked from throwing some coins at the feet of beggars. Follow me, and don’t try anything stupid, you hear me?” His warning dripped with vicious intent, more a promise really, that violence would ensue if they brought it upon themselves. With a slight shrug, the Bloodguard turned at the heel, concentrating on sound where his eyes would be of no use with a hardwired ease. Should they approach him suddenly, or even shift perceptibly in that way that may betray an attack aimed at his turned back, he would not be caught unawares. Yet this was wholly hypothetical, he hardly expected to be attacked by two women with a baby from a land such as this one, perhaps back in Zine such a tactic might have been employed, but not here. He took them into the embassy, past leering soldiers with suggestive eyes, warding the lesser dogs off with naught but a glance. He was escorting these visitors, and they were not to be harmed, his stare seemed to suggest. Finally, he reached the ornate tent in which Omi resided while at work, and called through into the entrance. “Two elven women here to see you, Sir, one claims you fucked her and got her with a child, she brought it with her. Do you want to see them?” "...? Elven women? And I did what? No no, that's ridiculous. Turn them away, I-" There was a faint pause as Omi seemed to reconsider, Bloodguard could not see his face but he imagined he was probably stroking his chin in that irritating way of his. "Wait. No. They're right. No, escort them inside, I'll hold an audience with them." Bloodguard turned to the two women. “I guess you’d best come in then, follow me, watch your mouths.” And with that, he led them inside.
  14. Son of Zine

    The scraping sound of metal against stone penetrated the relative quiet outside the Ambassador’s embassy, and would be the first thing the Elves would hear as they approached. It was an uncomfortable, warlike, sound, that of a weapon being honed to a respectable edge with a whetstone. In this case, the weapon in question was a cruel looking but highly effective steel falchion, grasped in the armoured hands of a pale man very much like the weapon itself. Cruel looking, but highly effective. A good a description as any for a Bloodguard, for Bloodguard himself. His features concealed by a dark metallic conical helm, only his bulk in hauberk was plainly visible for the elves to see from afar, as they likely could. He sat before the tent, seemingly quiet and at ease, but in reality nothing of the sort. Apparently finished with his maintenance, the man stood and swung the weapon a few times. He then rested it upon his shoulder in a matter that while not wholly threatening, was far from disarming, and regarded the visitors to the Zine embassy. Those pale, dead, eyes that marked a Bloodguard, as significantly as the branded sword on their cheeks, roved over the two Elves and the small child. He wasn’t one to jump to conclusions, but this looked mighty… unfortunate. “What business have you with the Ambassador?” He barked, like a good guard dog, he had found it was a good tone of voice to scare away those of lesser import nice and quickly. Kept things quiet and simple.
  15. Guard on the Road (Commemorating the Dead)

    An ordinary man might have sighed wearily at such a display, but a Bloodguard was made to serve first and foremost and their training came second to that all-important role. Omi was practically buzzing with excited energy, belting out sensitive information with callous disregard, or so it seemed to the pale man stood before him. To him, there was but one saving grace to serving this ambassador, and that was a name of some small valour. This Bloodguard had been given countless names by nobles and aristocrats of Zine in the past, names like worm, scum, and other petty insults that constantly reminded him of his worth to his master. Something about being known by his position, his rank alone, was ever so slightly heart-warming to the Bloodguard, to Bloodguard. Yes, he could wear this name with pride. “Bloodguard. As you say, Sir. I commend your success.” The Bloodguard gave the courtier a ruthless glance, the threat as evident on his own face as it was on Omi’s, but far less subtle in its insidiousness. The man quickly averted his gaze, but certainly not his ears, this conversation would reach the Queen… eventually. “Great tidings, Sir? Then I shall ensure we both survive. Shall we depart?” Though the Bloodguard would not question his master, he was personally unwilling to divulge information in public that could be sensitive. Perhaps he was missing the point, but that was why Omi was the Ambassador and he the lowly guard. Regardless, when they departed the keep, he could fetch his horse and properly equip himself for his role. More importantly perhaps, he could find out what their first plan of action was, and fill Omi in on his own humble pursuits in Predator Keep, namely the acquisition of a trained healer and his general perceptions of the Keep’s weaknesses and strengths. It seemed there was much to do.