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Found 42 results

  1. Blairville OOC Only 2 people had shown up for his adventuring clinic. A few factors contributed to this low attendance: he was kind of young for a professor, adventuring as a whole was on a decline as circumstances multiplied avenues by which a person could make a mint without putting their lives at risk, and he wanted to teach at an intermediate level when most people were either new to the field or tired, old hands at it already. Appreciating these facts cerebrally failed to dull the emotional sting. But the pain was short-lived, and quickly replaced by the burning engine of Donovan's uncompromising ambition. He met them at the Pavilion of the Sun, Moon and Seasons; on the table were little sandwiches, empty cups, and a pot of coffee. He had poured himself a cup, minute sips turning into hearty gulps over time, but without any sense of hurry or anxiety, bright yellow eyes on a casual swivel to take in the constantly changing people-scape of the bustling market. And when they arrived, and introductions were exchanged, Professor Cutler dove into it. "This is a 102 clinic, which means no chaperone. You two are going to do it all your own, and I'll either be watching or will rely on feedback from the customer and reports from you two about each other, to determine your final score. "The job belongs to Mone, a wizard with a place in the Tower Quarter. He'll tell you the rest of the job when you get there and tell him you're on the case."
  2. Madam Rosalia NPC It had been five years since their divorce, and not much had happened to make her regret her decision. Well, it wasn't as if they were officially divorced. After all, he hadn't even turned up to sign the papers. Legally, he wasn't even alive. His citizen's folder stated that he had been dead for 10 years and that she, Madam Rosalia, was a widow. What an absolute joke. Few knew of him, the Gypsy Market Mob Boss, her ex-husband. He applied a great deal of practical intellect to what many would consider a brutefully forceful career. Collecting tabs from the various Gypsy Market stall owners for "protection" and dealing with those who refused to comply with great severity were just a few of the activities that governed his daily life. But ever since he had risen to the absolute top of the mob hierarchy, he never had to do the job himself ever again. She for a time, was the only person who knew where he hid. But ever since their separation, he had changed hideouts multiple times to throw off assassins and jealous rivals. And most frustratingly, the law ignored him. Not because they didn't want to catch him, but because they simply couldn't hold a trial against a dead man. A deal made with a corrupt politician years prior had paid off immensely in his favour. So the Gypsy Market Mob Boss continued in his reign over the market, and in recent months, he had been getting more and more aggressive in his demands. The Gypsy Market was losing business because its stall owners couldn't make a cent with the ridiculous fees that he imposed on them. People no longer felt that the market was safe and the crowds were starting to avoid it like the plague. Perhaps it was time someone confirmed his death certificate. Rosalia hadn't picked up a weapon in years. For the past half a decade, she had lived as a simple barmaid, constantly switching between employers so as to maintain a low profile and to never remain in the same place for too long. Few knew of the immense fortune she possessed from her years a mobster. The few that were aware were affiliated with her ex-husband and sought to reclaim her wealth. She was sick of hiding. "And that is why I've brought you here today. In my prime, I would've tracked him down and did it myself," she lifted a bag of silver coins and put them on the table, addressing the individual that now stood before her. "There are others who have responded to the call. Meet back here tomorrow at seven in the morning sharp. The others will be waiting for you. Bring me evidence that he's dead, and I'll reward you all handsomely." @danzilla3 @Thotification
  3. ► Blairville was cold. Tommy was underdressed. She was wearing a rain jacket, because she didn't have anything else to wear. It didn't help that the winds here were strong enough to hurl a kid (much like herself) into the river. Every now and then she'd catch the gentle drifts of wind like an icy soul caressing her skin, but most of the time, it was the WHOOSH and the FHOOOOOOO—and—Tommy got a cold, Tommy has been sniffling and sneezing for the whole duration she's been waiting here. A pair of drunkards hobbled their way behind her. Luckily, they were too intoxicated to notice Tommy, nor were they able to utilize their locomotive functions considering the fact that one of them tripped, the other tried to pick him up, but he ended up sitting down and then laid down. They complained to each other in incoherent speech about wanting to pee and not wanting to pee over there, goddamnit Joey, that's not a fucking water hydrant, that's a mailbox, Tommy, on the other hand, didn't seem to be at all bothered. She kept standing there in the cold, cold dark, along with the occasional blinks of pink logo light that flashed across her. The logo—if you could make it out—says 'The Wet Dog', and it belonged to an abandoned diner whose windows have been heavily boarded down with rusty nails and dead wood. Much like everything else in this part of the neighbourhood, it looked sketchy as hell. As far as she can tell, the light from the diner is the only light you can see from a distance away. She took out her wrist and looked at her watch. It was one of those kiddie watches where you had to slap them real hard on your wrist to wear them. Her eyes squinted from the constant flickering of pink light and the sudden disppearance of said pink light. It read 1AM. 1AM, and she's standing around in the slums. All alone. That, right there, wildly screams mug me. And Tommy is aware, Tommy is well aware of that. It's nighttime in Blairville: not a very good time for a teenager, let alone a girl, to be wandering around in a city where magical criminal activity spiked. She almost got convinced into smoking a new drug on the way here: Mydixadril, the locals called it. Scary how they almost convinced her, even more scary were the supposed side effects. Tommy shivered. But to be fair, Tommy had balls (no, not those), and she's not gonna pussy out because a bunch of evil evil wizards are out to sprinkle glitter in her eyes and take off with, like, her wallet. Which she doesn't have. Because she lost her wallet, and she figured that it'd magically come back to her in a twist of good fortune. Anyway, the matter at hand right now was way more important than her money. This interview could mean everything. Mercenary work was her only source of income nowadays. She even took a shower, bought some new clothes: the things she didn't know she was capable of doing! Tommy blew a raspberry, it faded into a cloud of white air. She started hopping and up down to shake off some anxiety. "Okay, okay," hopping up and down, "be cool, be cool," Just be cool. Say hey. Saying hi's lame, don't say hi. Just be cool. Tommy made her way up the broken stairs and almost got tetanus. Her eyes settled on the symbol on the door, the dust settling inside the etchings of wood. It looked exactly like the one she saw in her paper. A sword bisecting a scale. @Praetorian @supernal
  4. Jute Bound Book Characters - Asura Tags - @Panda Kid Location - Blairville, Book/Ends Background Music (If you so choose) - Link There she sat, a table by the window. Her face buried in a book, enjoying the rare peace and quiet that came with her job. Being a scientist for the Illyrian Scientific Division, she really left the city. But when she did it was always a non-stop battle, usually requiring a few stitches here and there afterwards. It was one of the rare times in which she could relax and unwind in a foreign city, away from the lab and endless experiments. The jute bound book that lay in her hands was old, far older than Asura. It contained notes of rare sightings and myths of the beasts that roam Terrenus, a current passion of hers. She almost completely forgot about the world around herself.
  5. Richter König, Amelia Beaumont and Koltira Amakiir all sat around a table in Tavern in the City of Blairville. This was their first job since they managed to get the Justicar airworthy after her battle with the Rattail Corsair's back in Genesaris. They had left the ship in the capable hand of her crew but the Big Three, as they were called on the Justicar, knew they needed to make money and fast. Most of their Coffers went to repairing their Ship. Leaving many men without pay. Many of the Crewmen understood the situation and happily waited on their next check. Still nevertheless Captain Richter König would not stand idle while his crew went lacking. When he heard there was trouble brewing in Blairville he saw opportunity. They moored the Airship several miles out from the City and the trio walked their way into town. They sourced the closest tavern and began getting the lay of the land and the current societal climate. They were coming blind, without any real intel, or knowledge what in the Creator's green earth was going on between the citizens and the Gypsies. It probably wasn't helping them given they primarily worked in Genesaris but kept their feelers out all across the World of Valucre. Still the Rune Mage, Red Mage and Shield Knight wouldn't be phased though. If they could fight a dragon survive, Wreck the Justicar in a Daring Single Ship raid on a Sky Corsair's Nest and bring her back from the Ship graveyard. How tough could settling a Civil dispute between Commoners and Gypsies could be? Koltira glanced around the Tavern in a slightly paranoid fashion. As a former spy and the current spy master of the Justicar, he had to be slightly paranoid. He muttered under his breath to the Captain "With all due respect Captain. I don't agree with all three of us coming down to do this job. While I don't doubt our abilities as mages and Warriors. I do worry about us putting the remaining command Staff of the Justicar in danger's path." Richter smiled softly at his old friend as he said "You fret too much Koltira. We will be fine. Between your Sword, Amelia's Shield, and My Magic. We will be able to overcome this job with ease and panache." Koltira rolled his eyes as he said "It's my job to fret Captain. And where is Amelia anyways?" Richter took a sip of water from his flagon as he said "Probably out among the people working her 'Feminine wiles' to get us information on this Gypsy situation." Koltira sighed as he shook his head. The only problem when three nigh immortal people live together is the inevitable drama between one another. Especially since the Captain and Amelia would frequently share the same bunk with one another. Leaving Koltira to become the unfortunate punching bag for the two when they quibbled. It seems the couple had undertook this job whilst bickering. Not the wisest of choices in the Red Mage's humble opinion but he was merely the Spymaster. What would he know? Still it was good that the Couple could put aside whatever misunderstanding they were having for the Well Being of the Justicar...truly this was their family now.
  6. one. It is perhaps a testament to her upbringing that Míra does not cry, when the news comes. She spends the first few seconds after on the floor, however: staring into nothingness, blinking and blinking and not-crying, and it’s all still very much a process of mourning because there has indeed been a loss—a loss so tangible, so weighty that she feels it sticking to the walls of her ribcage when she breathes in too deep. The wine spilled onto the tiles—red on marble white—seeps into her silk frocks, staining and chilling her skin underneath. She does not move away from the encroaching puddle, focused on the inside instead, on the parts that are flayed-out and depthless and drenched, poised to snap and break. Grief hurts, presses in on everything like a newly-minted bruise, and the idea makes itself known in the distant part of her mind: everything is about to change. After: she accepts the crown of thorns, takes up the mantle of dark wings and a name that does not belong to her in the first place. She transforms the worn-down business of her family and acquires new ones, and she does not, for one second, stop and look back. Now: she begins the task of spooling her thoughts away from the death of her parents, presses her fingers into the crimson pool at her knees, and allows herself to be vulnerable, open and bleeding on the floor, just for a little while.
  7. The purpose of this thread, like Social Temperatures, is to allow the winners of the various Zones in the Tower to make posts concerning their Zones that they can edit and update at their leisure.    I had to post it in TRP so as not to fluff the word limit.
  8. Character in use - Chinafel Summon - Shaka Tags - @Djinn&Juice Location - Blairville Background Ambiance (If you so choose) Quests - To Make A Guardian The Market Place was bustling, herds of people drift around. Sellers and traders yell from behind their stalls, just barely audible over the talking of the ever growing crowds. The occasional guard walks by, keeping people in line. The day was brights and cheerful, with only a few clouds daring to ruin the otherwise clear sky. The city of Blairville was alive and well, its free market teeming with life. To anyone who lived here, the market area was a well know and frequently visited area. But only a handful of people truly knew of the wonders of the Gypsy Market, a small Bazar that catered to those living the life of a mage. At every stall lay magical trinkets or ingredients, their uses only limited to the buyers imagination. This is where Chinafel frequently visited to buy and sell his goods, the alleys and stalls he knew all to well. 'Hmm, a good day so far.' Chinafels store sat at the outer ring of the market place, an area usually reserved for temporary stalls. The badgerfolk sat behind a sheet of canvas, his goods lay sprawled out on top. His companion Shaka sat on top of his bag, guarding his possessions from potential thieves. He was selling a variety of charms, amulets, trinkets as well as some carved wooden utility golems. The small wooden helpers were popular with many users, as a trust worthy source of help around the house. He'd just returned from a contracted trip and was looking to unload his goods. A hooded figured approached Chinafel, his presence giving an untrustworthy aura. "Did you make it?" His voice deep and slow, with no emotion to his words. "Yes yes, I made it. I'm not someone to go back on his words you know." Chinafel handed over a small green egg, its shell covered in black paint. It sat in a wooden cage, which the hooded figure hid beneath his cloak. "Thank you, I'll also be taking my usual order." His reaction monotone as before. "Of course, I've got it right here. You know, I'd like to see you smile one day." Chinafel handed him a bag of assorted goods, which the hooded figure slugged over his shoulder before handing him a coin purse of considerable size. The man parted ways without a word, leaving Chinafel to himself. He sat stroking his beard, waiting for his next customer.
  9. Arsinia Crescentia was a fairly simple women, as simple as one of her station could be. Standing at four foot two and of a strong constitution, she ate meager meals though she could afford more, and her housing area was small but she could pay for a larger one. She didn't care much for wealth and comfort, simply yearned for the rewarding effort of smithing. The jarring clangs of metal on heated metal, the satisfying hiss of warm iron meeting water, and the workout that came with pumping the bellows. Smithing was her life. And her shop, the Crescent Hammer, was going to be her lifeline. Arsinia, if you haven't picked it up yet, was a blacksmith. She originally started it as a hobby, but eventually money started to dwindle, and she came to face the facts: You needed coin to survive. Without coin you couldn't buy food, or water, or a workspace, or materials... If she wanted to keep up the hobby, she needed to turn it into a job. So here she was. Wiping her hands down the front of her smock, she looked at her newest creation: A long, thin sword called a rapier. She should name it, she thought, but her mind was blank of ideas. Her short, brown, bobbed hair bounced as she spun deftly towards the back door. She opened it and stepped through silently, into the space behind the counter. Into her shop. Her shop. The concept felt so new, so foreign- but she wasn't dreaming. She beamed with pride, gazing around the room. It was filled with various examples of her work- battleaxes, warhammers, shortswords, staffs- there were even some pieces of armor scattered about. The shop looked clean, new- void of the usual dust that seemingly followed her everywhere. The weapons were arranged neatly on racks, in displays, and on the walls, with stands near the doorway for the armor. The wooden interior felt crisp and well-kept, and she was glad. She knew that the tiny bell arranged above the door would ring out an alarm whenever somebody entered- nothing too shocking, simply a noise like a windchime- and that a sign above the door exclaimed the presence of the building to anybody who passed by. It was only a matter of time. Until then, she'd wait. She sat, folding her hands. Only a matter of time, she assured herself. OOC Thread
  10. A man adorned all in black, with a brown hood over his face that whipped in the chill, walked across farm and prairie land north of Blairville. To his one side, the sloping giants of the mountains; to the other, a desert. Behind him was the city, his people, two separate entities. The five had eaten in town before leaving restocking on food and water. Having spent everything but potential funds for lodging on their way down from the mountain, the operatives were optimally prepared to climb a mountain this crisp fall. After all, this frozen foot of the mountain was the last path rumored to lead to the artifact. A wizened Cain had opted not to buy any wine until after the lantern was found; believing after many a merciless experience that nothing was a romp in the park until you lived to tell it like it was. He still longed to be drunk, though. His sense of smell was damped by the desire and the cold. A bearskin mask and gloves staved off the cold, but their primary function was to conceal the likeness of Tia’s old regent. “Just look at it,” said his muffled voice. The yawn of his hood stared out on the rolling hills rising into Blaurg Mountain. Descending from the mountain’s peaks shrouded in black was a cascading energy that created evil dissonance with the city behind them. Thunder and lightning and freezing rain distributed down to the valleys so that, even in the early afternoon it appeared to be nighttime. Near the deepest scoop of the valley, a quarter mile up the dirt road, was a village. Looking down from the other side of the valley, Cain could see that rain besieged it and there was little to no traffic. “We start there,” he said. @Rin @Aleksei @danzilla3 @-Lilium-
  11. Character in use - Chinafel Summon - Shaka Background Ambiance (If you so choose) Previous Chapter - Link Next Chapter - Link (First part only) Chapter 2 - Blairville, Terrenus After several boat trips and a week of walking, Chinafel finally reached Blairville. His contract had taken him on a lengthy journey, and he was thankful that the rest was in the comfort of a city. The day was bright, and the market place blooming with happy faces. Walking into a town and being greeted by the smell of freshly baked bread was a blissful feeling to anyone. Despite only returning, Chinafel jumped straight into work. He'd managed to collect over half the ingredients on his list, the rest were items far outside of his capabilities of collecting by hand. These were specialist ingredients, only collected by the specialists. There were very few areas that these items could be collected, one area was the gypsies market. A bazar that stocks a plethora of magical items, perfect for the elder badgerfolk. "Good to be back, always good to be back." The old timer cheerfully said, walking through the red drapes of the bazar. This market felt like a second home to him, he knew every stall and could chat to each shop keep. The bazar was home to the strange, almost acted like a magnet. There was one stall in particular which Chinafel was fond of, the Grey Hunter Stall. It was a owned by a very talented hunter, as well as a good friend. He wasn't a big name, he preferred to keep to himself. The stall was long and well decorated, twice the size of any other. An example of what happens to veterans of the bazar, it was his throne. Decorated with metal chains and shield, each with their own emblem to represent a beast slain in battle. The sound of metal of metal could be heard from the back. "Actaeon? You got my order yet you old bastard?" He smashed his hand on the table, trying to get the attention of the stall keeper. The hammering stopped and a few second passed before a short beer bellied man slowly waddled his way to the front, planting his enormous sword on the counter. "You got a better attitude yet you glorified rat? Get fucking moving before I turn ya into a tunic!" A minute of silence passed before the two burst into laughter. The grand hunter was a frequent stop for Chinafel, his wares and goods are a staple in the charm makers products. The hunter was a specialist on larger game, aided by his two apprentices made him a formidable foe. "Yep, right here. Weren't easy, but we always get it done." He dropped a large pouch onto the counter, its contents creating a hefty thud as it dropped. Chinafel opened he pouch, revealing black ash reeking of sulfur. "You've been ordering a lot of draconic related stuff lately, making yourself a dragon?" "As if these old bones could tame that! Nah, a special order. It was a hard ask, but worth the gold. Where are your boys?" Chinafel put the contents in his backpack and place a pouch of gold coins on the counter top. "On lunch, probably getting themselves a drink down at the tavern." He picked up the coin purse, shacking the contents by his ear. "Good, give'em my best. I'll be see you around old timer, I've gotta little more shopping to do" He slowly walked away, giving the shop keep a brief wave. "Who ya calling old ya grey possum!? Go get yourself a new purse! Haha!" With a chuckle, Actaeon went back to his work. The hammering slowly fading as Chinafel got further away. The rest of the day was spent searching for the remaining ingredients. Despite the abundance of goods, hunting down specifics could be a challenge. Not to mention the hundreds of distractions round every corner, it was a procrastinators paradise. After visiting several herb stalls and treasure hunters, he finally completed the list. He was on the home straight, he just needed to put it all together and contact his client. 'Oh god, please let this quest end already!' ~Elemental stones ~Draconic Scale ~Korenia Root ~Copper Ore ~Manamoss ~Lavaweed ~Creeping Charlies ~Photas ~Membrane ~Dragon Ash
  12. “Listen, I just wanted to know the price on this scarf and nothing else!” Like talking over a storm, he thought while wearing an exasperated lopsided smirk. The woman didn't like him, and that's perfectly okay in his book, he didn't harbor any love for her either, but damn it! All he wanted to know was the price; it's not like he insulted her ancestors or anything. The likelihood of him buying it was extremely high; was the right color of red, fit just like a glove, and he could justify the purchase. Her ranting and raving at him were only knocking the item down in price, and he was becoming extremely irritated by her attitude. She said something that made him look down at his appearance - come again? He'll have her know that his armor was the best and just because he chose to wear it fashionably doesn't make him some haphazard knight. There are generations and generations built into the black armor, he’s not going to let some wrinkled old hag insult him because he may not fit in with the rest of the crowd. What gave her the gal? The man stood six-feet and at least - at least! - five inches and she was standing up against him like he was just a breeze to her mountainous impersonation. “Listen! I will give you what you want for it, just stop yelling at me!” Harshal said a prayer for the old woman’s family, because if she was his granny … “Wait, what?!” Just as he fished the coin out of its pouch, she slapped him with a preposterous number. He looked at her like she had three heads (matching the current two already protruding from her short frame). “Who has that kind of money?! It's a scarf, a scarf! Did the All-Creator wipe her ass with it?!” By this point, a small crowd of onlookers gathered around the stall to put their noses in not their business. Entertained by the sight of this giant man arguing with an old woman, some felt the need to stick around and see who was going to win this tug-o-war. Harshal is not going to bend knee for this hustler in wrinkles; he is also not leaving without the scarf. Now just a matter of principle, she was wasting his time throwing numbers she’s probably pulled out of her ear, but he’s no fool. He could care less if she’s a lady probably older than dirt itself, she started this whole thing by being snooty with him, and he’s not going to back down. @ourlachesism
  13. In a tower made of an alien stone, in a chamber high above the shuffling canaille in the streets of Blairville was Nisnav Ghoulface. He was a mage of some celebrity in Blairville's arcane circles, once for the horrible deformity of his body and once again for his generous and noble conduct. It was clear to any observer that Nisnav had suffered a horrible burn to the torso and face on the right side of his body. The skin was burned away, and the muscle and bone exposed themselves across his jaw. Beneath his wet cheekskin, teeth glinted from open windows in the ruined flesh. His right arm did not exist anymore, burned down to the shoulder joint leaving not so much as a stump. Long ago, he had wrapped his body in shawls and rags and cast his magic from the shadows. No longer. Now, he was a man of influence and reputation in Blairville; he was a philanthropist, a teacher, a government volunteer, an inventor, and a businessman of no mean prosperity. All that esteem required a level of dignity he had grown accustomed to displaying. Now, he wore the cloak and belt of a respectable mage, and a wide-brimmed hat when he went outside to protect his raw skin from the sun. The children hid whenever he walked the streets, but the citizens of Blairville were kind to him, and he to them. Here, at least, he was admired. Now he was in a long rectangular chamber, awaiting a call from an elven visitor. Often Nisnav would cooperate in the pursuit of new spellcraft and, having recently hit a thaumaturgical quandary, he had sought out the famous bookseller Ioreth to counsel him on the particulars of certain natural crafts he was hoping to intervolve with his own enchantments to create new and possibly revolutionary magic. As far as he knew, she would be arriving any minute now. Whether she did or didn't, Nisnav's day continued uninterrupted. He raised his lone arm and aimed his finger toward the far wall. Across the length of the room many piles of melted and exploded clay lay strewn about the floor. More were to come. "Pull." he said serenely, and nearby a wretched little homunculus struggled to pull a lever on a strange and magical box. The homunculus's puke-green half-melted skin jiggled in effort but finally his wavering arms won their battle with the lever and the box activated. Lights shone from beneath its closed top, and it shook with a clatter before springing open like an oversized jack-in-the-box and blenching out smoke and a streak of gold into the air. Nisnav's eyes widened and he gave a gruesome, lopsided smile. "Oh, yes!" he said with a thrill in his voice. A golden bird! It was a rare product of the box, which existed for the sole purpose of dispensing animated clay birds for target practice. Yet there was no clay this time, no clacking adobe wings to give away its movements, no, this bird sailed quickly and quietly and even as Nisnav cast forth darts of acid from his fingers he knew he would not so easily catch his mark. Indeed, the bird spun and dipped past the attacks, acid splattering against the wall behind it and hissing without effect. With a gesture, Nisnav remotely slammed the door to the room shut, for immediately the golden bird made to escape. The elegant construct swooped gracefully away from the closed exit as though it had always meant to and then bore down directly at Nisnav. Such a bird had never struck him before, but the deformed wizard only widened his eyes and stood his ground. This, he knew, was why the bird-spitting device existed in the first place: to challenge him. If he shirked from a fake bird, what chance did he have in the cutthroat realms beyond? The bird aimed a blunt but painful looking beak down toward Nisnav's chest, and he swerved aside at the very last moment, like a triceratops fighter, and threw his hand out to cast at the bird as it made a leftward swing to retry its attack. From his palm, a small blue bead fired. No larger than a pellet from a toy gun, the sphere bounced into the flank of the golden bird and swallowed it, growing to a size large enough to fit the golden construct almost instantly. The bird flailed and kicked against the humming plasmatic capture field, but to no avail. Nisnav scooped the energy field up in his only remaining hand and leveled it with his injured face. The fire which had so disfigured him had not reached his eyes, and they smiled in victory. "A most fortunate counter-attack, master. Surely, I anticipated it would strike you down." said the homunculus in a thin, gravelly voice. Nisnav sighed with unyielding patience. "Spare me your repulsive fantasies Vert," he said calmly, "put the box away and prepare a lunch." Lunch downstairs was a spread of sugared bread, sliced orlupple and ribbonberry fruits, and oatmeal, with a course of lemon butter codfish and mushroom and lobster bisque. Nisnav reclined as Vert meticulously served food into his mouth and peppered his lips with gentle brushes of a napkin, as though an artist at his easel. Halfway through the relaxing meal, Vert piqued alertly, closed his mismatched eyes, and announced: "Lady elf at the door, master." "Ah, Ioreth. Let her in." Vert closed his eyes again, and before Ioreth the doors to Nisnav's wizard tower swung open to accept her. The dining hall was not so far from the entrance on the ground floor. As she entered, torches sprung to life to show her the way to the master. @KittyvonCupcake
  14. Constans had hitched a ride with some Dougton merchants on the way to Blairville. “-and so then he says ‘fine! we’ll just put it back in the cow!’” Constans finished, pantomiming the act of gripping something tight in his hand and thrusting that hand into something unpleasant. The merchants howled with laughter. One even fell off the wagon on the left, which made everyone laugh even harder. Bigby, who was sitting beside Constans at the front of their carriage, was doubled over. Constans politely rubbed the man’s back as he looked from person to person, enjoying the mirth he made. The night air was so rich you could almost taste it. It was tinged orange, colored by the rays of setting sunlight crossing through the lazy haze of pipe-smoke he and the fellows produced. Tonight, the stories came out easy and the pace was slow, an ideal night as far as Constans was concerned. He was enjoying being out in the world, away from Coth and among folk who had no idea who he was. He’d named himself “Conner” on the travel manifest, but on account of his green eyes they all called him “Cothite”, which of course he was. Constans was proud to see that “Cothite” had become a term of endearment for the people of Terrenus; a name for free folk, for brave folk who eschewed the easy life. And if people from the cities were somewhat ambivalent about the Cothite god, well, that was to be expected. One day god would be more to them than some distant religious icon from a small town. In time, Constans told himself, in time. For now, he was happy to see that Coth had entered the public mind as a beacon of freedom in a land of lawlessness and danger. He was just as happy to see trade resuming on the roads between cities. It meant that people were starting to feel safe again, in no small part because Cothites like himself were out in the world making it so. “So Cothite,” Bigby said later, when everyone had caught their breath, “What is bringing you to Blairville? Has your fire god sent you?” This question was met with a few grunts of disapproval from the other travelers. It wasn’t in good form to pry too deep into other men’s business. Constans encouraged them to pardon Bigby with a genial wave of his hand, “I’m an elf-friend,” he began, “and a lady Ioreth, an elf, has been encouraging me to visit Blairville for some time-“ he began, but was interrupted as three of the men began talking all at once. “Is it true there are more elves in Coth than men?” One shouted over the others. Constans shook his head, ”No but there are many.” He admitted, “God alone knows why. Anyways, so this lady says I’ve been spending too much time at home, and that I ought to see more of the world. Coth is such a paradise it’s sometimes hard to find a reason to leave, but she was right.” “Aye, the fair folk always are.” Bigby intoned beside him. ”They are,” Constans agreed, “so I’ve come to see if Blairville is a good and just place, I suppose. I’ve promised my kin I’d tell them of it. Some have never seen it. Some have, but haven’t been back since before the war.” This answer satisfied his fellow travelers, and it had the added benefit of being mostly true. “Things are different now, I’d say.” Another traveler said from the carriage on the right, “All the same old problems, but worse then ever before. The damn mages-“ That line of conversation elicited a slurry of opinions all shouted over each other at once. Constans gave an apologetic look to Bigby, who shook his head as the men around them began to jostle for the group’s attention. As always, one voice finally broke out, a grey beard’s to their left: “My sister is a witch and I say there’s no good reason for putting her on a list, she’s never hurt nobody!” “But she could! And who would know?” Another shouted ”Ah, what’s a damn list of wizards going to do to protect anyone anyway?!” “It’ll hold people accountable! Show them sorcerous folk we’re watching them!” “A politician’s trick! You know it won’t do nothing!” Constans felt his eyes bouncing between speakers as he watched in silence, they continued, “What’s any wizard done to you makes you want to put them on a damn list, huh?” ”My ma told me a wizard turned my uncle Rebo into a weasel once!” It was quite possibly true, and a sobering enough thought that the group quieted for a moment to think on it. Every man there knew they would find it funny to turn one of their friends or enemies into a weasel, but at the same time knew that they themselves never wanted it to happen to them. That was the crux of the problem, as far as Constans’ investigations into the matter had discovered. In Blairville, the people were clamoring for accountability from the city’s many mages. Yet at the same time, most people understood that accountability had a nasty habit of transforming into tyranny. That was all well and good, but as far as Constans was concerned, tyranny was already well present and accounted for in city life. Yet Ioreth had challenged him to prove it. She had a soft spot for Blairville, he knew, and she was ever the skeptic even while she helped shape Coth’s dogmatic idealogies. Constans felt that if he could convince her, he could convince anyone. So here he was, going to collect the evidence his arguement would need. “Putting people on a list for maybe being dangerous is foolish.” Bigby finally said, “How many men carry swords in Blairville? No one puts them on a list and they’re plenty dangerous.” ”If I may,” Constans interjected, “a sword is a danger I can see. The man carries it on his hip. Even a secret dagger has to touch me to hurt me. Magic can kill me from miles away, or plague my dreams or do awful things I can’t even imagine. I like magic personally, but I bet no one here could tell me how it’s done, or what anyone could do to stop it if it’s thrown at you.” There was a general agreement to this, and another voice rose: “Listen to the Cothite, Big. Magic is no sword! And frankly I think the only people who ought to have it are priests. At least with a priest Gaia— or whatever god,” he added quickly, nodding to Constans, “can make sure they don’t abuse it. Who does a wizard answer to? Eh? No one! Well, should that be? I say no! And you would too if anyone ever turned your uncle into a weasel!” Others began to talk, and Constans leaned back in his seat, contemplating. Bigby beside him did the same, taking long draws from his pipe. As the light waned and the moon rose, they looked to the horizon and spotted something in the distance at the same time. “What’s that?” Constans said of the huge shape as it came into view. ”Our destination. Troubled Blairville.” Bigby answered mournfully. Indeed it was. That huge shape turned out to be walls, and the little points above were towers, wizard towers mostly. “Well, here I am then.” Constans whispered to himself, “Let’s get the measure of this place once and for all, Ioreth.” @Minuet of the Nightingale
  15. Fatal Seduction: Scene 2. There was something special about tonight--although, Ryker couldn’t necessarily put his finger on it. Fatal Seduction was busy, per usual, men from all over Blairville flocked with cash in hand. It seemed like a typical night, other than the fact that Ryker had been spending an unusual amount of time at the establishment, which had a majority of his staff on edge. All of the women on call showed up on time and even went out of their way to greet him. That’s when he knew something was off, or maybe it was just another case of brown-nosing. Whatever the case may have been, Ryker was just as much on edge as they were, their behavior only egged him on. He was even sober, or at least looked as if he had been. Perhaps that was the key--Ryker hadn’t indulged in his vice for the greater part of the evening and he didn’t have his head on straight. “Inform me upon her arrival.” -- “Will do, boss.” With that, he excused himself from the floor and made his way back into his office to powder his nose. Ryker was dressed to impress tonight, sporting a slim fitting tailored suit, black on black, adorned with a crimson tie. Concealed within his suit jacket was a holster containing a semi-automatic 9mm handgun, chambered and loaded with hollow points. Which was unlike him; normally he trusted and relied on his security detail to handle any situation that arose, but there was no such thing as being too safe. Taking a seat behind his desk, someone on staff was kind enough to arrange his paraphernalia, which made him smile. Taking hold of a nearby razor blade, Ryker began chopping at a rather large pile, from there he sifted through some of it to form a straight line and indulged with a satisfied sigh. “Any minute now.” @Sigil Warden
  16. Ryker was an entrepreneur; unlike a majority of those who shared his line of work, he invested a majority of his income in other lucrative markets. Most of which consisted of small businesses. Doing so allowed him to avoid the peering eyes of the man, via laundering his illegal profits through “legitimate” assets. All of which was carefully and thoroughly documented. Occasionally he carelessly threw his money around, whether that was on luxurious accessories, exotic vehicles, or out of spite. Tonight was one of those occasions. Ryker had finally taken a vacation, entrusting one of his many goons to oversee production and distribution of his enterprise, for the time being, only to give another his undivided attention. This venture dealt in another vice of his--women. “Fatal Seduction” is what the sign read, vibrantly glowing just above the main entrance, with an enormous man stationed just in front of it. This one didn’t sport a formal lanyard like the rest of Ryker’s law-abiding employees. Instead, a polo shirt, khakis and dress shoes adorned his appearance. He also sported a pair of sunglasses, albeit pointless at the time of day this particular establishment bustled, they did prove to be somewhat intimidating. Which were reflective and aviator in design. Several more men just like him also kept a watchful eye inside. Upon entry, the layout of the building was exactly what one would come to expect a Gentleman’s Club to resemble. Multiple stages spread throughout, a decently sized bar, multiple booth styled tables, and of course a DJ podium equipped with a microphone. Every two the three songs, the women on stage would rotate and the DJ would announce the new dancers and what stage they would be at. Desperate men of all shapes and sizes threw their money at them, some more so hesitantly, while the more experienced patron cleverly placed folded bills on themselves and stacked their singles atop one another only to be swept greedily onto the stage by the entertainers. At this very moment, Ryker was going over an application for employment he had just received, ensuring everything applicable was properly filled out. If everything checked out, the candidate would undergo an interview, which consisted of a demonstration of their skill set and of course a brief questionnaire on why they would be a good addition to the team. “What’s your stage name?” A name had to catchy. It had to have a certain ring to it. If it didn’t catch his attention, why would it catch the attention of his customers?
  17. Nyra’s adventure was a long one, however, it could have been longer. Traveling by horseback was ideal; hopefully, her newfound barbaric colleagues didn’t worry too much about her seizing one of their ponies. The stolen steed made her travel that much shorter. Save for an overnight camp, which wasn’t out of the ordinary, making that long of a trek in a day was unthinkable. Nyra’s arrival was anticlimactic; drawing unnecessary attention onto herself was the last thing on her to-do list. Her clothing consisted of mostly leather and linen, tight-fitted to the shape of her body, pauldrons appended with fur, gauntlets, greaves, and sabatons were the main bit of her attire that was metal in nature. Other than her sword, which was joined at her left hip and sheathed. Nyra was short in stature; give or take 5’6”, and very petite. Her small frame bolstered an astounding 165lb, consisting of conditioned muscle that was aesthetically pleasing. Her hair was dark and dreaded, styled into a braid and decorated with what looked to be beads, and a variety of teeth/claws. Nyra’s complexion was an exotic shade of tan and her eyes were a brilliant emerald green. Her facial highlights were delicate. After touching base into town, she guided her mount to what she thought to be a stable of sorts, tying it off and giving it a pat before advancing further into town. Rumor has it there was a woman residing in Blairsville that could possibly help her overcome the monster within her. Her townsfolk would sit back and relax knowing there was certifiably no way of it getting away and butchering whoever crossed paths with it. But where was the best place to follow-up on rumors? A tavern. Exploring for a bit, Nyra would eventually discover an establishment that was exactly that. Upon entering, each inhabitant would get a once-over before she advanced to an empty table. Taking a seat, she’d trust that someone would inevitably take notice of her and fetch a beverage. @Sleepy Seal
  18. Vince ducked behind a alleyway, diving in between some trash cans to hide from guards who had been chasing him. The Elf was afraid, and definitely guilty. The time of day was late afternoon, and he was in a random town close to Blairville. He wore his usual getup, but was also carrying a bag filled with what appeared to be vials. Yes, you see, this story can only be made clear with context. Context that I shall begin to give you now: ***(2 days earlier)*** High above the world among the clouds, flying alongside the birds and wind; Vince flew his airship determinedly, having been searching for work and finding no such luck. This was Vincent Redhill, an elf engineer who was trying to score some cash to pay for ship repairs. His airship, the dusty ol bird, needed a new pair of wood board replacements, and he could only hold it together with nails and tape for so long. If all else failed, he always has his trusty parachute. But today he had an objective: he'd heard about a calamity that befell the lands of Terrenus. A calamity that caused the magic of the whole land to be sucked up into an ice desert and leave the population stunted and frustrated. This meant 2 things: People would be short on magic all over the lands, and that there would be a demand for it. But how would he make a profit out of this? Easy, Vince himself hated magic, but he was a being that produced it. And elf. So, long story short, he'd fill vials with his magic reserves, and sell them for a decent price. Decent being enough to fully repair his airship after all is sold and done. Maybe some food and drink too. Vince smiled, he knew this would be a simple mission. In and out, no problem. What's the worst that could go wrong? ***(Present)*** He'd sold some vials, was approached by the authorities aggressively for selling magic, and ran for it under the impression that counterfeit magic was apparently illegal. Now he hid, hoping nobody would find him in the back alley of a bar... (Feel free to join in if you want, Its all for fun, and maybe cannon post too if I passed the Supernal exam?)
  19. Static echoed from a two-way radio. "Ralph, the boss is expecting someone, let us know when they arrive." --- "Understood, Corey." Ralph was a money motivated man and recent prospect, due to sudden and aggressive expansion he was hired on as a patrolman. His sole task was monitoring the block and alerting staff of any suspicious traffic. Corey was the acting doorman, stationed behind a gated fence lined with razor wire, his job description was far simpler than Ralph's, yet mind-numbingly painful. All he did was wait for a customer, identify them via codeword and permit them entrance into the facility. All with the press of a button. Doing so opened the gate, which promptly closed upon entry. Said facility was a two-story building, complete with a basement, and resembled that of a simple establishment. A neon sign flickered above the front entrance that read, "Albrecht's Pristine Dry-cleaning". Standing just beyond the entryway was a brute of a man known only as Paul, or so the lanyard hanging from his slab of a neck claimed. Positioned and aligned just above that was a hyphenated "APDC" in a bolded block font. If someone paid close enough attention, they would identify a noticeable bulge posted on his hip. Which was that of a concealed firearm. His job was that of an usher of sorts, Paul escorted guests to their destination and made sure they didn't get lost in the process. Which loosely translated into keeping any inquisitive behavior to an absolute minimum. At first glance, the establishment appeared to be exactly what the sign out front proclaimed. Inside, employees of many shapes and sizes could be seen bustling about. Loading and unloading clothing by the hamper full into large machinery. Each of them wore a lanyard identical to Paul's own, which displayed their supposed name and company logo. Doors were sporadically placed throughout the hallway leading into the main operation room, attached to the wall adjacent to their handles was an electronic contraption of sorts, black in color. Employees used these to gain entry into the assorted rooms via scanning their work badge. Conveniently placed just above the doors were cameras, which moved from left to right and vice-versa in three-second intervals, relaying video surveillance of the facility to presumably a security room somewhere in the facility. Paul's route never changed; leading his guests through the laundry room, around a corner that lead into another lengthy corridor, at the end was a door labeled "Employees Only". Like the others, this door also had a camera, however, the badge scanner was replaced with that of an intercom. Bulky and metallic with a rather large red button positioned in the center just below the microphone/speaker system. "How many?" --- A voice always answers when the button is pressed, which Paul answered accordingly each time, with a buzz the door opens and one customer is permitted entry at a time. On the opposite side, they are greeted by two men equal of stature to Paul, their lanyard jokingly reads "Thing 1 & Thing 2". Thing 1 is responsible for acquiring the customer's money and running it through a state of the art electronic counter, assuming it adds up, Thing 2 is responsible for handing over their purchase. Which was a vacuum sealed bag of varying size, neatly folded clothes was all that was visible through the transparent material. What they truly purchased was cleverly hidden somewhere within the clothing. Each time the door opened, the pungent smell of petrol wafted into the corridor, which only became that much more evident within the room itself. Sitting at a desk was a man fitted in a tailored suit, black in color, adorning a matching vest and crimson colored skinny tie. His sleeves were precisely rolled up just after the elbows, tattoos of varying color and design were on display, stretching from his hands up onto his shoulders. His hair was the exact opposite of his fancy attire, ruffled, unkempt and brown in color, as were his eyes. Reddened and dilated, bags laid beneath them as if he had been up for several days. He too wore a lanyard that read "Albrecht", beneath that "Boss Man" was stylized in an intricate font. Stationed across his desk was a sword, atop the blade itself was a white powder formed into a thick straight line, which had a unique sheen. Some found it comparable to that of fish scales. Within his hand was a cylinder-shaped tube, placing it just passed his left nostril, he bent down and forward. Using his opposite hand to apply pressure to his right nostril, with an exaggerated snort the powder was inhaled and a heavy sigh of relief escaped him. @Voldemort
  20. For a long while, it had seemed as thought Vashka would not see some field action for a good long while. Being called on for a job like this was troubling though, being as it was recruitment type work which was becoming more and more a staple of the company dealings of of late. Either way, he was happy to be on the job. The heavily armored goblin found a nice place amidst the 'Pavilion' area of town to watch the crowds of people come and go. His heavy plate armor was luckily cooled on the inside, if it wasn't for the inside lining, he would never wear this suit in weather that was as hot as it was. It seemed very strange for the set up of this job to involve a non-disclosed location, making the possible mercs have to seek him out, though The End Game was a bit of a secretive fellow on occasion. Either way, he chalked it up as commitment and dedication to the job ahead. From his seat at a local cafe, Vashka had tipped his helm back and was enjoying an early morning of spiked coffee, dark roast with a nice spike of some dark spiced rum. The day so far wasn't a bad day, it was his second day in blairville. Overall the city was nice but not his kind of town. A few sips from his coffee and it was becoming a good start of the day. While not drinking from his mug, Vashka would simply toss his helm back over his face and keep a place near the road so those looking for him could easily see him..though it wasn't that hard to notice him being his armor was bulky and a light tint of blue, almost bearing a knightly presence for such a short figure. Then there came the situation of having to use a false name..why? Why now of all times to use a false name, it wasn't like anyone was coming after them, at least best he knew anyways. Though this job held a few oddities to it, he wouldn't complain much seeing as how it wasn't really his place to question The End Game's methods. Instead he simply sat back, took a good view of the place, and let himself relax. Anything to keep him away from the tavern he called home right now, that place was a bit dangerous for the time being.
  21. Just some blocks north of the Gypsey Market, is a well known and well established building in Blairville known as the Central Medical Hospital, the largest hospital in the city and a well known place for medical care. Doctors and healers move throughout the halls in droves, planning and concocting all sorts of medicines and potions to help their patents. Nurses, whether they be the kindly kind, the sweet kind, the...extremly attractive kind, or even the sassy "dont you dare get in the way of me treating my patients" kind, among others can all be found helping patients in need. Among them was Public Room 42, the Physical Therapy Room. There, a young boy stood naked as two nurses continued to examine him. His body seemed weak and scrawny, but at the same time had sort of a scrappy feel to it. However, what was only noticable thanks to him being naked were the countless scars, burn marks, and other marks that screamed all levels of abuse. There was not a doubt in anyone's mind that this boy had been repeatedly beaten, used as an ashtray, neglected, and hurt both physically and psychologically. In fact, for the first five days, he refused to let anyone touch him and they were forced to sedate him. Repeatedly. After he screamed something about dying. From what the nurses, doctors, and psychologists could tell, his parents probably beat him so badly he had thought he died, and it left an impression on him. But now, he just lacked communication. However, as per Hospital Protocol, the wounds had to be repeatedly checked, see how they reacted to medication, see how they reacted to physical stress, and see what they could do to make them less noticable. Although, it was true that his parents were apparently smart enough not to make it too noticeable, for the trained eyes of the medical staff his body was covered in evidence of abuse. Some parts of his body, they thought he might have been hit by a baseball bat. Others, cut by a knife. Definently fist marks on some places, kick marks on others. Broken bones that healed, bruises, and burn marks. At the moment, they had just made him run on the treadmill, see how his legs were doing. It seemed like he must have gotten hit on the head, because once he finally woke up after having been found naked in a field unconscious, he finally came to but could barely move his body. It took him several days to be able to walk on his own, and while he can do fine now, they still make him go around in the wheelchair. Or maybe that was just because of hospital policy? He also claimed to have no memories, aside from his name being Noah Bell. The nurses ended up giving him the nickname Nobel though, a good nickname to try and brighten the spirit of someone who had been through so much darkness. The nurses were currently just waiting on a doctor to show up, and examine him further. Noah himself found the whole situation rather embarrassing, but given the state he heard he had been found in, he didn't have much room for complaint right now. Although to be honest, he did want to leave as soon as possible. He hoped the doctor would show up soon, and just clear him to leave the hospital already. While thinking that, he continued to chew some Tooroot, something the hospital gave him. He was not a major fan of the taste, but it was apparently to help deal with the sicknesses he kept getting.
  22. Not that the hearings and on goings of this day were unique compared to the others of late. While the civil unrest was far from over, each day brought with it more of those in opposition of the ridiculous Safeguard Act. More and more casters of varying backgrounds came to their senses, yet only at the cost of sowing more worries and doubts into the minds of the sheep that begged for the Act. The concept was simple, and sounded innocent enough in its intent. However, there was clearly ample room to bend the policies entailed there in, and abuse the act as a way means of abusing the people they claimed it would protect. While this man in particular never even considered such an empty promise of safety, he also wasn't one that needed it. He immersed himself into the Arts as any other should feel inclined to do in a world full of magical prowess, even more so, he dabbled into the likes of which few dared, and even fewer had ever managed to Master. The Dark Arts. These studies were a part of his reason for being here today, at this very moment, no matter how indirectly. More direct, a practitioner in kind in which he shared an intimacy even deeper with. A young promising Witch, capable and wise beyond her mortal years. She was a tiny shred of light pierced his darkness, forcing a genesis within his very soul while in his still very impressionable youth. While she was the younger one between them, she in his eyes carried more worth in life than life itself. It was for this simple reasoning of admiration and profound sense of agapē that he had to fight his usual behavioral tendencies and brave the masses all his own. It wasn't a normal occurrence to not hear from nor see her for an entire day, at least not without prior warning of said absence. He wasn't sure what she had been up to, though the whispers upon the wind of an unregistered witch that dared to trifle with the ilk of Black Magics. Rumor had it that the witch had been detained by registered magic folk and non-magic folk alike. As opposed to the law taking it's course however, the citizens had deigned themselves just as fit if not more so to defend their livelihoods. Rumor had it that they were to burn the witch at the stake at noon! They burned a witch in Bingham Square Last Friday afternoon. The faggot-smoke was blacker than The shadows of the Moon; The licking flames were strangely green Like fox-fire on the fen . . . And she who cursed the godly folk Will never curse again. The closer he got towards the the heart of town, the more gossip he heard upon the streets surrounding the incident. The witch in mind had allegedly been caught stealing. Others argued that she had actually cursed an unsavory vendor in the Gypsy Market that had ties to a predominate family in the market's controlling interest. Then of course he had heard of a small string of deaths the night prior that they were easily pointing fingers at this not so widely known witch. While none of these facts stood out to him as identifying factors surrounding the one he sought, none of them outright debunked her presence in these unsavory situations. Without them at least giving him some more details to go off of such as appearance or actual eye witnesses to the culprits mannerisms, he could assume either way. Though it became clear by the time he reached the opposing side of the market from whence he entered that today's festivities were ironically taking place in a part of ton meant for celebrations and joyous occasions. The Pavilion. @Akako Akari
  23. FIELD TRAINING CAMP BROADBENT, 1445 ROMEO TIME A thin trickle of sweat beaded on his brows and unceremoniously dripped onto the flat white paper of his assignment sheet. A second fell, and then a third. Max's emerald eyes trailed across the last line of the briefing and then snapped right back up to the officer who had presented him with it, a question emerging almost immediately. "With all due respect, Lt., why me? I want to be out in the field getting ready for our Hells Gate deployment. I don't have any experience dealing with the law, or conducting investigations on my own." His tone was pliable, conciliatory, even. But there was a lingering edge of deep concern beneath the calm veneer. The fingers of his right hand tensed uncomfortably as he waited for Lieutenant Mark's response. "It's simple. They want someone with a decent head on their shoulders as a second to an investigator. Thanks to all that Safeguard crap, they're desperately shorthanded. Can't have them in teams anymore because there's too much going on. So you'll be helping out as the muscle to their brains." Lieutenant Tom Mark was a tall, spare man in his mid forties. He scratched the beginnings of stubble along his cheek thoughtfully. "Private, allow me to state that these are lawful orders." Mark's voice was almost cheerful as he continued. "And you will follow them to the best of your ability, even if you spend the next three weeks bringing coffee for some hotshot investigator trying to figure out the great sweetroll heist of the century." Max simply nodded his head tightly, lips parsed in obvious disappointment. It would hardly do any good to get into it with the LT. Surviving the colossal fuckup at the live firing range had given him some measure of respect among the commanders of his training unit - enough that he was able to obtain one of the more cutting edge prostheses available - but certainly not enough to where he could demand his assignment changed. No, far better to simply deal with it and hope it earned him enough favor to be put back into the field with the rest of the unit. "For what it's worth, Sanders," the LT added as he reached the exit, "I would think of it as an opportunity. Not too often you get to see the other side of what we fight for." Not too often you get sent to the rear echelon for saving someone's life, either. To Blairville, then.
  24. Thrazes wandered a branching pathway on the outskirts of the inner city, looking around at the architecture with a hint of confusion on his face. He knew not how he came here, though his only thought was to find somewhere to rest at. He felt exhausted, magic levels drained. He'd have to find some food and drink if he were to survive any longer in this strange city, under the strange sky. Even on this road that seemed unpopular and dark, people bustled by on their way to... well, anywhere. The skeleton couldn't imagine how many people lived in this city, nor what direction he could go to escape the city. His footsteps made a thump-click sound on the ground because of his steel-toed boots, a sound he'd grown used to over time, especially in the cobblestone-paved pathways of his hometown. He brought aside one of the citizens, speaking in a low, quiet tone. "What is the name of this town?" The response he got was a scoff and the citizen pulling away, walking in the opposite direction. Grunting, he continued on his way. His gait was a little unsteady, caused by another reason he should find somewhere to rest... the chafing of his armor. Even as a skeleton, he did suffer from the rub of rough fabric on his bones. He usually only noticed it when he had worn his armor for an extended amount of time. After a few minutes he'd tried to speak to a few more citizens and got the same or similar reactions as before. He was starting to get irritated. Very irritated. He wondered what would happen if he decided to just punch something. Though, he didn't really feel like breaking his hand... yeah, bad idea.
  25. The apartment wasn’t as big as it had looked in the picture. Sure, four stories was pretty high, but the width of the building was just disappointing. Still, she had gotten this place for a very decent price which was getting harder to find in Blairville. Clothed exaggeratedly, she and Grant looked as if they were ready to survive a winter snowstorm as they made their way up to the front steps. In reality, they were trying to survive the eyes of the media. Their intention was to keep a low profile. Nobody needed to know that the Hyperion Prince was taking up residence outside of his city, far away from any of his bodyguards or the watchful eye of his mother. When they had reached the front porch, she tried out the key that would open up the fence door. It slid open with a soft click. The grass in the yard bloomed lusciously. Reyna was careful to stay away from it so as not to cause it to wilt. As they paced up the short stretch of stone pathway, hands clasped together tightly, she turned to Grant, an excited grin spreading across her face. “I’ve waited all my life for this,” she beamed proudly as she slid her key into the door. “Are you ready?” The lock popped open with a soft “click” and slid open to let out the warm smell of their new Blairville home. @danzilla3
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