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Biggie_Smalls

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Biggie_Smalls last won the day on September 17

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  1. Biggie_Smalls

    Writing Styles

    As someone who tends more towards the verbose aspect of lengthy posting, I'll bite the bullet and explain where I come from. Without further ado, allow me to lead(heh, puns) to my stance on this. I'm fully aware that brevity is typically better for reading comprehension and making things easier. It's easier to come to an understanding of what's going on when things are boiled down to as straightforward a written reaction as possible. No lie, people have told me on other websites stuff along the lines of "you do realize brevity is the soul of wit, right", and it just really irks me. Not because they're wrong. It's actually the opposite. If I wanted to write something really, really good, I would absolutely start out with what I write as a basis to work off of, and build off of it by, ironically, cutting it down, and finding out what can be trimmed, what can't, what word choices I can utilize towards better implementing my point, deciding whether or not it fits the thematic ideas of what the character is meant to represent, who the character is, what background they have, whether or not I'm breaking the grammar rules correctly to fit the narration of the character action, etc. I could go back five or ten times to type up something really, really meaningful and good, but... That's not really why I'm here? It sounds lazy when I put it that way, but especially when I'm talking to multiple partners, working off of multiple angles, exploring dynamic relationships that are changing in post-time relatively quickly, and exploring multiple aspects and themes within a setting... I don't want to do that? I could go back five times to make sure that my post is as pitch perfect as possible. I could cut everything down. When I'm writing for something like a short story, or to get a point across, I understand that meandering, lengthy messages aren't the way to demonstrate it. One of my favorite lines in a book is "I laughed. He laughed. We laughed together. And I shot him with the gun under the table", because the build up to that very simple series of statements not only really drives home who the character is, what they did, how they feel about it, and how tense the moment is by using short, staccato sentences... It's wonderful. But when other people are waiting on me to post, when I feel like I want to take time to actually write something out, and account for 3-5 different other people, it just feels like doing all of that is going to take too long, I won't be able to maintain the discipline to maintain that level of commitment across 4 different roleplays with 4 different characters without taking so long that it feels like I'm making my other partners in other roleplays wait for me, and that just doesn't feel bad. TL;DR: I don't consider myself to be the pinnacle of writing and am aware that lengthier posts aren't as reader-friendly in the vast majority of situations. But given that I'm not planning to go back to the drawing board 5-6 times every time I write a post to maintain narrative, thematic, and character consistency while weeding my way down word by word, synonym by synonym to ensure that every single choice I make is impactful and meaningful as writing, I don't mind throwing out something lengthier broken down into digestible chunks that most people can skim through without reading thoroughly because I'm here to have fun, more than anything else.
  2. Speaking of being misunderstood, there was Bellamy. Neither a roguish scoundrel, nor a pitiable wreck, the sociopath simply sat there, taking advantage of the opportunity to dry off. By the good ladies and lords, whoever waltzed throughout the skies, this was exhaustive. His physical needs were more important than his mental, as he had no mental health or emotional satisfaction with which to chase down. He'd presented himself as minimal a threat as possible, and done what he could to redirect the staff away from him. The longer he remained pitiful, the longer he could enjoy the warmth within the place to keep the chill away from his bones. The chaotic maelstrom of sudden, multidimensional, reality-shattering energy seemed to draw a number of reactions. Screams. Shudders. Raw terror and violence so intense that the empath could drink them through a straw, the myriad dusty greens flitting about the second his eyes opened. And yet... He didn't move. A calculated risk that was measured in the bottles of alcohol shattering around him, one at a time, each one hitting the mahogany wood of the bartop. Echoing crashes... And the bottles that would have hit Bellamy were simply nudged aside, as if by the casual prodding of a fingertip, falling to the sides of his arm-cushion. Liquor, brusque, heavy, and rough, soaked through his coat, and the pirate finally brought himself up. It was an agonizing process to lift himself, his palms flat against the surface, as one last bottle hung in the air in front of him. Unbroken. Motionless. Until he plucked it out of the air, and placed it atop the bar. Despite the booze reeking from his every pore, he flung it back towards the barista. "There." Throwing liquor bottles was a forte of his, and thus, his aim was at least partially true... Especially since he'd tossed, more than chucked. Meanwhile, that strange man, Mudra, felt a sudden, vicious sound pounding behind his forehead, the vibrations of it more a thing of sensation than physicality. You daft fuckin' prick. If you ever try somethin' like tha' again, what happens when there's a livin' person in the space ye' try t'jump through? There was no rage in the thoughts plucking at him. Purely judgement. Yer' gonna fuckin' stand and apologize fer' pullin' some multiplanar bullshit, or by Blood and Fuckin' Bones, I'm gonna take nice care jus' t'make sure ye' don' get a fuckin' second without my voice in yer' skull. Stand up. Straighten yer' back. An' apologize. With his mental lecture finished, Bellamy flicked his gaze towards his coat... And lolled his head back. "Now I reek'f booze an' trash. Lovely." And when it wasn't one thing, it was another. Bellamy had a massive man gripping onto his shoulder, squeezing and digging into his muscles as if they were made of tissue paper. "Can't say tha's in yer' best interest, lad." The drunk quipped. "Heard it ain't pleasant t'steal a man's hard-earned money out from under his nose." Bellamy straightened his back, leaning against the booze-stained bar, and let the liquor soak into his coat, as he shed it from his shoulders, and let it lay across the bar like a paper towel. Of course, with the flicker of vision of yet another newcomer, and the return of the myriad colors now that he was up and about... Bellamy closed his eyes, and leaned back into the bar. The physical sensation was starting to become epilepsy-inducing. Too many colors. Too many feelings. He preferred dives for just this reason. "Blood an' bones, yer' all too colorful. Couldn' ya'... I dunno... Not be like this fer' a few minutes?" A rhetorical question that was more a statement. But, even without seeking out an answer, bile seemed to cling to his words, acidic spite spat into the air from between his teeth.
  3. For sure. Less as a threat now, more as a traitor. How dare she be able to fight! Now HE'S the only brainy, surrounded by jocks!
  4. And made my edit. Got to lean more into the self-isolating nerd stereotype surrounded by jocks, so I'm happy.
  5. No worries, we're all here to write and have fun with it, so I've got no problem with correcting it when I make mistakes. I'll make a quick edit, and, just to make clear: Simon has no idea who or what she is. His big thing is that "she's more than she appears to be". It's one of those things in media where you see the guy sitting at a bar, and you don't know who he is, but when he looks over his shoulder at you with a scarred eye, no matter how bad a dude you think you are, you wanna back up and not challenge him for his seat. Sure, you don't know who this guy is, or what he's capable of but he's absolutely not the average dude, based on stuff like narrative framing. Less about "Oh I can tell you're a secret criminal out here for some nefarious reason". More like "Damn I don't wanna mess with that but I also don' wanna fight it". Gonna do a quick rollback on some of the deets, gimme a sec. This actually lets me explore something else that's way more interesting, so I got no qualms with swapping things out.
  6. Oh heck, I must've misinterpreted. "amalgam of the most common citizens of Orisia and their most common traits" was the thing that made it seem to me like she was trying to be a person of Orisia, and then speaking with another language felt a little bit weird. It's like seeing the "perfectly average Frenchman" and then having him speak with a German accent, so if you want me to roll back on that, I'd be happy to. It might've come across as a little more extreme to me as a writer than it would've to Simon. "thin muscle, average-height, and coordination that suggested she knew how to move and not stumble." is typically reserved for the kind of build where it's lean muscle with a little bit of something extra, so my brain figured "oh, so she's got the build of a sailor moreso than the build of a farmer", which would be more defined by things like a powerful core and legs to retain balance amidst the floating of a ship. Not excuses, 'cuz like I said, I'm happy to roll back some of my post, but just trying to explain where I was coming from. That's my B.
  7. The Backpack Begins. Also that post wasn't too long, it was plenty nice to read though. Enjoyed getting a lot of that exposition out of the way.
  8. "I see. Evie." He hissed out the words, an unintended venom slipping past his lips with the air he'd exhaled. The young man flicked his eyes to the dirt as she drew out a knife, and thus, did the worst thing imaginable to the young Simon: She'd demonstrated that she was a combative type, and thus abandoned the artificer completely to the dealings of the cerebral and non-confrontational. She'd been his second. His back-up. The thoughtful type, the one who wasn't expected to charge headfirst into dealing with things! And yet here she was, with her... Muscles! And her fancy accent! And her coat! And her knife! All of this, all of it, pointed towards a repetition of his experiences during mandatory schooling. A youth surrounded by nothing but the strong... Hopefully this wouldn't end in an ocean-based head-dunk. He'd never had that before, and the thought had him squirming. The notion that he would somehow be amongst the important, when he was just a researcher was something that would've made Simon laugh, had Tibale not vocalized the opposite of it. There was danger, of course, and the idea that there was danger was nothing that seemed to demonstrate even the slightest inch of hesitance from Simon. At least they agreed that there were no fangs to be had in terms of what Simon was capable of. But, when listening on everything that was brought about, Simon couldn't help but bring a hand to his lips. Covering his face as the older man started to lavish his ears with a tale of an old town, crafted and coated thoroughly in beautiful, dangerous flowers, hiding treasure deep within the ruins. "Pollen?" Simon questioned, to clarify. His eyes rose up, and his expression became overjoyed, at the prospect of it. "Pollen is the danger?" As he spoke, he reached behind him, and started to pull out a number of oddities, one after another after another. The side of his coat bulged out when he put a bottle of what looked to be liquor within it. Several unlit lamps were placed along with several jars... Along with cloth. The lanterns had their contents poured out while the older man began to imbue his knowledge in, and the kerosene found a new home in the jars, filled up, and then blocked out with bunched-up cloth. Was he?... The last thing Simon plucked from his pack was a strange little device, that he flicked up and down, carefully exploring it. A flame danced quietly atop the little, nonmagical device. The youngest, and supposedly least threatening member of the group used the long rope he'd brought with him to tie together his six molotov cocktails, none of them yet lit, around him like a bandoleer. "Charcoal should be easy enough to make ourselves, if we find some trees within the area, and properly treat the wood." The young man bounded up to his feet, jars clinking, and expression joyous. Taking a mask, he covered his face with it, carefully making sure to latch it and tie it in place, so that his breaths would be as difficult to obtain as possible, almost choking on charcoal. That was how it would remain effective. Simon remained silent, however, during the demonstration. He'd noticed the flickers of arcane energy, and their denial. His tactics, therefore, had already adjusted within his head. Eliciting magic to cause an effect would be deleterious to himself and those around him, an uncontrolled, unreliable swathe of energies that didn't function like the genus loci within Lagrimosa... But amplification?... "I suppose I'll take this one." Simon plucked one of the sprites out of the air, carefully holding a wing between his fingertips. Somber and dejected, a sigh left his lips, plucked from them as easily as he'd plucked the sprite. "What a shame that familiars fade upon death... Sprite-hunting for materials would be so much easier if otherwise. Here you go, little guy." Simon didn't leave his sprite about, out in the open, and simply tucked it into the collar of his shirt, the nimble, capable faerie hidden beneath feathers as black as his heart... And tapped it twice on its large, bulbous head. "There we are, little guy."
  9. @Dupin @supernal @Purple Eagle Well, it's good to meet all of y'all, and to get a chance to play with ya'. Having a good time already, so looking forwards to playing with all of y'all. If y'all feel up to going anywhere, Simon will probably follow you, provided that there's something interesting to look at.
  10. Simon couldn't help himself. The vial's contents took precedence over his own faux pas and social inability, and he was damn sure to take care of it. His fingers dipped into his pocket, and a set of words that sounded too muted to be anything other than "excuse me" were accompanied by the flicker of the young man grabbing what looked to be a hilt. A hilt that flicked outwards into something approaching a telescoping baton, only remarkably thinner, as he snapped it out with his wrist. A telescoping wand. An intricate gesture here. A wave there. The kinetic energy of his gesticulation and spellwork made all the more effective as he pulled the material out from the woman's clothing, slowly drawing the material itself upwards... And over... And back into the vial from which it had spilled, holding it there, and plucking it back straight. Good. All's well that ends well- Oh right. By now the whetstone in his free hand wanted to shatter. Or it would if it had a soul, spirit, or any level of artificial or natural intelligence, which, given its owner, was a possibility. "Yes? To the, uh, daft part." He tried to respond, only to be cut off with a continued barrage, that made the supposed vampiric-looking young man shrink backwards, his hands raised up, to use his telescoping wand and his whetstone as an ineffective shield, between himself and the screaming lady. Hoo boy. He'd just come over to say hello! What kinds of social cues had there even been that the woman didn't want to be disturbed?! She wasn't wearing a sign! He had a sign that he put on his cart for such events, it made things obvious. "I am?" Poor lad tried to placate the angry young lady, only to deflate when the comparison to some monstrous evil came up. His shoulders sagged, and his chest hunched forwards as he tried his best not to groan out loud. He knew it would happen eventually. But the fact that it was one of the first things people noticed about him made him all the more upset about it. Still, he had none of the good sense to take this opportunity to introduce himself. At least. Not at first. His attention was much more focused on the spellwork-resilient, masterwork-crafted obsidian blade in front of him, his eyes flicking down to it with a cool, professional distance, as the warmth and anxiety seemed to melt off of him in waves. Those red eyes flicked up and down it, nimbly tracing its outline no less than twice before he shook his head, arms folded quietly across his chest(which meant that he smacked his arm with the flexible shaft of his wand, and thudded the whetstone against his shoulder. Ow). "Providing a baseline enchantment on this kind of material is a functional artifice design, but the person who came up with it had to be out of their mind. Magic is already naturally unstable when provided with a baseline, consistent effect, in a couple hundred years this weapon could be entirely unusable based on effect-degradation. Absorbing spellcraft is a nice side-effect and all, but really, with that much work put into it, and its resilience to external spellwork, it would work better as a conduit for a secondary effect. Maybe something along the lines of absorbing kinetic energy matter to transmute into something akin to a flying slash? Or utilizing the effects in order to replicate the effects in the air in order to borrow and develop an anti-spellwork-shield...." His words died off, and his eyes slowly rose up again, to stare at the woman who'd granted him the opportunity to stare at her blade. And he'd been criticizing the worksmanship and theoretical design of magitech. Something in the back of his head told him to apologize. His conscience. Something far bigger told him that he still had to introduce himself. His social anxiety. "H-Hello there! My name is Sui Generis, President of the Simon Faber company-" Wait FUCK "I mean, Simon Faber, President of the Sui Generis company! It's a pleasure, uh, to make your acquaintance on this fine day, which proves that I cannot be a vampire, as I am standing in the sunlight, which I could not do if I were a vampire, so you shouldn't be worried about me doing something like attacking you!" Nailed it. Drive it home, buddy boy. "I have experienced attempted staking no less than five times since I set from Blairville!" Almost there, just push a little bit further- "Metallurgical magic is functional, but the resonant magical effects can cause excessive degradation effects! When you don't need to use spellwork in order to maintain something, it's usually better to do it in such a way! That's why here at Sui Generis, I design everything with the notion that even a nonmage can replicate- No wait, that's my, uh, elevator pitch." The young man's voice died off in his throat, and he turned to give the woman a bleak, exhausted smile underneath that ruffle of feathers. "It's a good sword. But a properly-designed whetstone should be able to sharpen any manner of blade, provided its craftsmanship. If your weapon requires you to use metallurgical magic in order to repair it in the field, what happens when you don't have metallurgical magic available?"
  11. NGL, reading some of these posts straight up makes me think Simon's gonna go Dora the Explorer, and just reach into his backpack to try and solve any problem by rifling through random materials to string together something useful. Magic is untrustworthy, but you can always trust pens and hedgeclippers.
  12. Poor, innocent, naive Simon. Gathered up all of the materials for an expedition, and here he was, facing down a man who thought of him as a being with hidden depth. The young lad almost laughed, but had the good sense(and the respect for his elders) not to let it escape from beneath that feather-rimmed collar of his. "That... Will be lovely." The young lad flicked his wrist outwards, fingers drawing out a circle in the air. To a whole lot of nothing, of course, perhaps the faint tug of the tea bags dangling from the grizzled old warrior's fingers. "Ah. Right." Magic here was extremely variable in terms of efficacy. In Simon's case... The young man reached out again, another circle flicking into the air, and a slightly greater exertion of will. The kinetic force of his hand's motions wrapped around the tea bad in an ethereal grasp, the displacement of movement requiring a more forceful somatic gesture in order to gather up the will to flick it into his hand. "That may take some getting used to, but luckily for me, I've packed more than enough pens in my pack." Pens? Did... Did he not realize the dangers he was going into? His pack hit the ground with a resonating whud, metal clanking, glass clinking, and pens clattering, as he plucked a white, ceramic mug from within the confines of his pack, and dropped a teabag within. "Apologies. I would much rather use my own. Sigil-maintenance and all that." The fingers moved around the bottom of his mug in another circle... Before pouring hot water into his mug, gloves insulating him from enough heat to at least pour himself his own mug. "Fangs? Me? Oh, no no no. I'm no beast. Just a scholar." He corrected the older man, as he took a seat in front of the fire, his bag working as a cushion for him to lay across. "In fact, I'm currently away from my studies in Blairville to maintain an occupancy in developing widespread magitechnological engineering processes, techniques, and innovations in order to develop my own company. Of late, my arguments with my professors about developing devices capable of allowing any individual to wield spellcraft through unique distributions instead of commonplace things like enchanted blades, wands, cloaks... All of those are interesting, but their developmental methods are too crude to apply worldwide, due to the natural degradation of magic over time. I wanted to-" The boy had rambled for a full minute before realizing it, his passions bubbling out of his mouth with an energy more powerful than any spell he'd wielded. His cheeks flushed red, and he became far more grateful for his ring of feathers. "I'm here to study the magical effects. I'm... Prepared for the trip. Just not... I don't know if I've ever been in a fight before." He finished, his tone quiet, and his eyes flitting to the ground, while everyone prepared their drinks, and their little campfire storytime. "Simon. Simon Faber. Mage, researcher, and artifice developer. That's probably what's the most important thing to know about me. I'm here to better come to understand the magic in this region, and gain some information to better develop techniques. As is, my magic isn't particularly stable, so I'll be offering up aid primarily in the form of the things that I've brought with me. There's a use for every tool, after all." The young man nestled his shoulders back into his pack, and lifted his gaze from his mug of tea towards the other two. A woman so clad in the dressings of Orisia that it was strange that she came from offland. The Orisian girl seemed to wield the parts of the agricultural aspects of the society and the naval aspects in equal measure, something that seemed downright... Odd to the young man. Not that he suspected her of being anything dangerous. Probably an Orisian who wanted to hide her presence. But still... His eyes leveled onto her, carefully watching her as she took from her own coffee. A man dressed as a warrior. It seemed he was the only scholar who'd found this investigation worthwhile. A long sword drawn across his back, leather coat thick enough to be magecrafted armor of some kind, everything about the man screamed of combat... Save for the fact that he was the last one there. Or maybe Simon was just early? The young man shifted deeper into his seat. Surrounded by jocks, as an engineering nerd. Oh, at the school, this would mean he would be the butt of the jokes, but everyone else was the joker here. Coming underprepared was a death sentence on these kinds of expeditions. And most people had only packed the most basic of camping supplies! To all around him, it seemed that Simon was lost, deep in thought, quieted after his introduction... Before he piped up again. "As for questions, I would like to ask details in regards to what you're all capable of in terms of expedition material, as well as your mindsets. It seems that we have two with an inclination towards combat, and two without, so balancing our skillsets and coming to a better understanding of what each individual is capable of might be useful to determine what can be done and what needs to be done."
  13. Oh. Right. The down-on-his-luck man recalled the lad without much effort(pounding headache aside, it wasn't as if he were still drunk, just hungover). The one who'd refused to answer his question before. The one who didn't... Get it. Hollow brown eyes flickered over to the young man he'd stolen a seat next to, the man who'd seemed to think something of the world of his looks, of his appearance. It took more out of Bellamy not to laugh out sharp, hollow barks of laughter at that admiration than it did to rub his fingers over his bruised shin, or to think of his down-spiraling life. The grotesque mess of masculinity found his seat once more, plopped down within to try and nurse his aching, throbbing skull. "Not a fight." He corrected the young man, using the minimum number of calculated words, each noise another hammer to his skull. "Sold myself." He corrected the young man without much further explanation, instead flicking his gaze up to the bar workers. It seemed that they better understood him. Dull flickers of a deep indigo gathered around each of them, and for the first time since stepping within, he couldn't help but smile. It was wretched. A hollow, mindless thing, an approximation judged by the meticulous movements of muscle, moreso than any kind of natural emotion. His lips peeled back just enough to reveal teeth, a mixture of dark, bony tinges of yellow mixed with whites, his breath reeking not of booze this time, but of women's perfume, the last bits of his dignity long since rotted deep in his lungs. His teeth were static bones, refusing to part, as if the notion of opening his mouth further was somehow antithetical to what a smile was supposed to look like. And his eyes never shifted, nor changed, no matter how high he pulled the corners of his lips. A pierrot's smile. A falsification, done by an ill-performing actor. "Dropped my weapons, y'know." He reiterated towards the woman who'd approached them to pass off the ale. Gertrude's Brew. A simple enough pale drink, hard and heavy when it sat in a gut. But made for the memory of a mother's drink, of how she would warm up her children with a bottle shared by the fire, during the cold, harsh winters of a time long before. Indigo, mixed with a few flickers of red?... Bellamy's eyes flitted up, hollow sockets with painted-on browns, meeting the woman with that same demon's false smile. "Thanks, love." He sold the image of the out of touch, out of time, world-shattered drunk with a swipe of the bottle, happily plucking up the drink that Tibale had ordered, and turning to the young man. "'Pologies." One gulp. A second. A third. The burning, heavy feeling felt nice as it rolled down the back of his throat. "Bellamy, love." He'd memorized her name within an instant. Hixel. But to get her away, so that he wouldn't have to deal with the murky colors, everything he'd done had been measured. He'd called her out with his depositing of his weapon. He'd called her by a pet name despite her obvious distaste. He'd taken a drink from another customer. He'd introduced himself direct and straightforward, all while maintaining the minimal number of words possible, curt and polite, with an edge. "An' he's not my companion." A correction, sure, but bringing the neck of the bottle in front of him, there was a low, heavy done that seemed to dance on his chapped, cold lips. "Good men don' associate with my type, love. You should know. Probably chatted with him while I was drunk, hardly remember't." Another lie. Hidden within truths, but cool and distant enough to work a series of manipulations and half-truths into his words. But as the two turned to talk books next to him, the washed-up pirate was happy to be removed from that particular spotlight, nursing from his drink, and allowing the drip still soaking through his clothes to dry up. The alcohol was taken to give some warmth to his belly, injected like a physical drug, a blanket wrapped around his innards as the cold continued to cling to him. His head sagging forwards, and hitting the bar with a quiet "thunk". It hadn't taken long for him. His eyes slowly sealed shut, and the blissful black that wreathed his vision hid the myriad, epileptic colors still swirling around him from hitting his vision. So much easier this way. No shining whites. No pretty golds. No muddled indigos. Only the calm, somber black, as he continued to nurse from his drink, his machinations set, hopefully just far enough to leave him to dry. The chill wasn't going anywhere, so at least the warmth could soak into him faster. The loudness coming from the other had become a distant second concern, something he was willing to tolerate from Shanna, given that it seemed that Hixel wanted him either dead or gone.
  14. Threw out my introduction post! Good to be workin' with you all, I'm gonna be using Simon Faber in this set-up, an artificer/mage whose main goal going into this is to study magical effects in the region, moreso than obtain the treasure. Hope it'll go well working with all of you!
  15. "Lad, are you gonna be alright?" The grizzled, rough tones of the old sailor were packed to burst with emotion... None of it, Simon thought, concerned about his actual safety. Of course, That might have been a little presumptuous of the young man. The fact that there were other sailors who were laughing at his predicament, trying to cover their mouths in order to hide the mirth that seemed to leak out of them like air from a poked balloon... Complete with hissing. The artificer had to admit, though. He wasn't sure why the ocean was doing this to him. His stomach felt fine enough when he was doing complex work on engraving sigil patterns into wood or metal, even when he was working in a moving cart on a bumpy stretch of road. He kept balance while flourishing in his mobile workshop. So the fact that just the rocking of the sea had resulted in him not only getting seasick, but falling and nearly projectile vomiting over the side of the ship probably... Was humorous. "I think... I just need to get onto dry land." His handkerchief dabbed at the sides of his mouth, removing the sick from his face, as he choked up the last few flecks. Bluh. Note to self. They were in Genesaris. And airships had neither of these issues. Simon would take an airship next time. He'd made his way from Port Caelum all the way out here, accepting a job promising all sorts of fascinating explorations into the nature of magitechnology through explorations in the fields of how magic without focal genus loci functioned, a completely unique alternative to Lagrimosan magic. The treasure itself was secondary, at best. Distant third. His research could help him further develop additional theorems on magic, study the history of how it functioned in these locations, come to a greater understanding of the rules and laws of spell work! Having retreated for nearly ten minutes, the concerns of the crew replaced with utterances of how strange he was, Simon hardly noticed the fact that he'd managed to make it to Osiria until the same concerned sailor tapped him on the shoulder, with a reminder of paying the last of his fee. With the useless coin plucked from his purse, and a quick dip to his cabin below-deck, it took no time at all for the young man to escape off of the rocking waves of the boat, onto a smaller lifeboat, and then onto the gently-lapping waves on the shore. "Thank you, gentlemen. Sirs." The awkward, stilted words escaped from him almost robotic, only barely holding the barest modicum of human emotion in them, as he slung his pack over his shoulder, wielding the muscles of his back, his shoulders, his arms, his chest... Everything he could put into it, really. Slinging his pack over his back, tools clinging to the outside of it. A rolled up sleeping bag here. A large canteen of water there. Various tools clinking and clattering around in his backpack. A rope slung over his chest like a bandolier, complete with a lovely iron grappling hook. Sure, it was all analog, but that wouldn't stop him from enjoying and learning on this new trip, as he turned over towards cliffside(that he hoped was the cliff he was meant to head towards). His eyes flicked over to the long bridge of stone and rock, that carried over the ocean, as he walked along the shoreline. And, shockingly, the young man clicked his tongue in disapproval. An earthen bridge designed over a beach had to account for tidal changes, a static set of rock could be taken over at any moment due to unfortunate waves. He wasn't one to test fate that way. Not with a pack full of mostly heavy tools slung over his shoulders, a rope in hand, and a full outfit on. Had it been erected by magic, it might've been even more dangerous. Those blood-red eyes seemed to measure out the earthen pathway, eyeing it up with careful consideration. He didn't need arcane foci to test it, even though he was carrying no less than three full component pouches somewhere in that passive pack. But... Others might be carrying less than him. His tests could wait. However, once those dark, evil-looking eyes settled onto the only person waiting for him, the young man couldn't help but sigh. Large, muscled, stylish, with a single-purpose magical item that was constantly active. Everything about this caused the young man, clad in all dark, pitch blacks, from his jacket, to his boots, to his trousers, to his gloves, to have to restrain his groan. This was a man of action. Of purpose and strength and most importantly, probably the kind of guy who easily pieced himself together for treasure and fighting. Sure, it shored up His weaknesses, but these jock-types never got along with him. From his own slender figure, not lean with muscle as much as it was just lean, with muscle, to his remarkably quiet, somber-looking expression, to the feathers that crowned around his neck, to the silken-looking gloves. The young man was this musclebound old man's opposite in nearly every way... He looked more like a demon prince in the making than anything good-natured. But, with the man clad in a rogue's outfit sitting at a kettle with tea boiling over, the call of tea rang out to Simon, who approached the miniature camp with a forced smile stretching as high up his face as his muscles could pull it. "Hello there!" The cheer even sounded forced, dammit all. "Simon. Simon Faber. I'm here for this expedition- Quest, it's a quest." He quickly corrected himself, his tongue feeling fat and swollen as he twisted it over his own words, his tenor tones more staccato than sing-song. The sand crunched underfoot like gravel, as he finally crossed into the boundaries of the campsite, eyes glancing over towards the campfire that was being used. "... Tea?" Poor thing. He sounded legitimately hopeful, on that note. The first measure of real, genuine emotion he'd displayed towards the guide.
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