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After Tolok helped Saskion with putting the Jackalwere on the table and being explained the meaning behind the beast's name, he replied to his question: "No, I haven't ever taken apart an animal before."
 it was time for him to watch Saskion. As he grabbed the cleaver and the hunting knife, with the precision of a surgeon and the raw strenght of a butcher, the sewing began, while the guts were going all across the table. He felt a strong disgust, watching the blood dripping out of the Jackalwere's body, but the elf was not done yet.
"No, who the hell would want to mount his monster?!" He said to himself, while watching the elf cracking its ribcage with the knife, revealing its heart and lungs, wetted in oil and blood. "Gross! Maybe I fought against putrifying zombies, but no, I can't stand this smell and landscape! But for food and respect, uhh.. I will always stay for food, at least for now." He let out a slight smile, trying to convince Saskin that he likes what he sees.
What happened next, though, was something that almost caused Tolok to vomit: the elf sewing the lower body of the monster, leading to a gory, disgusting and bloody mess or, more simple, a gory flower. Tolok felt his stomach turning upside down, feeling like coughing and he put his hand at the mouth, trying to act as it was a normal cough. He couldn't believe his green eyes with a golden floral structure about what he got in, sewing a Jackalwere in the open, on a rented table with a new person, though he likes his company, seeing passion in what he does. It reminded him of his father, crafting his sword before he left the house.

Tolok started helping the elf with flipping the carcass over, after being told what organs to remove. He knew it was almost over and only one bit of effort was needed before he got his meal, flipping the carcass. All the blood spilled on the street, dirtying up everything around them. After that, it was supportable for him, watching Askion cutting the meat, finally getting his part, as a promise, one the Jackalwere's legs. It looked beautiful and probably, very tasty.

"It tastes pretty similar to dog, I've found." "I don't care, really." "Somewhere between beef and mutton." "And that is why I don't trust comparisons."
The slap of the elf on his shoulder was considered welcome. He really appreciated the elf for teaching him how to cut an animals, even though he wouldn't probably do that. Plus, he didn't really care about the blood on his shirt. He had worse coming to him.
"I just let the winds guide me. Going on a trade route, considered dangerous by the people around, I killed maybe too many bandits who lurked those places and I arrived in Coth. I had a long way 'till here and it is good it was worth it." He said, while packing the meat he was gifted into a leather he found in the backpack. "I am sure you live around these places." finishing the packing and putting the meat into his small backpack.

 

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[Coth; Opera ston Aera]

There were different types of smiles, just like there were different types of blinks. The face has forty-three muscles, and with practice, many of these could be controlled to produce expressions that meant different things. The half-closed, fluttering eyelids of Zollenstar was not flirty, nor was it fatigued, but it was a projection of tolerance at its edge, of impatience under wraps.

The smile that Dash returned was masterfully arranged. Polite enough that it couldn’t be faulted, but yet contempt was obviously hidden. The shining star met Zollenstar’s handshake directly, not allowing the other man’s arm to come too close to his body, keeping the distance of their hands roughly equal. The bonecrushing grip would meet its match, and the two men’s eyes did a visual spar, blue against green. Dash maintained his smile, the charm of it being a weapon in itself that he often used to his advantage in the battlefield known as media; apt that Zollenstar had brought it up.

“Truth and trick are two sides of the same coin. The best tricks are rooted in truth, and the truth of the trick is often as impressive, if not more, than the illusion.” Dash replied when Keith chuckled. His smile grew wider, angling slightly to the side in not-quite-a-smirk. “But yes, we could talk theory all day about stars, and not get anywhere. In our line, ‘action’ speaks the most, as I’m sure someone like yourself is aware. Please, follow me.”

Dash would set a walking pace that was somewhere between brisk and leisurely, making sure he was at most only a little in front of Zollenstar. He did not like the idea of the man conversing with Thea alone behind his back. As such, he sought to engage the man first. “So, Mr Zollenstar, what exactly is it that you do?”

@vielle @Die Shize

Edited by jaistlyn

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"Actually, I don't live around here. This is my first visit." Saskion admitted. He had never been to Coth, and any seeming familiarity he showed for it was more a familiarity with the ubiquitous structure of all human societies. They bought and sold things incessantly, and to flourish in their lands all you had to do was bring something and then trade it for whatever you wanted in an elaborate bargaining ritual. Like all human habits, it was a needlessly complicated descendant of an ancient elven custom: gift-giving. 

"I'm here following after that fellow's mate." 'that fellowwas the leg Tolok had shoved in his backpack. There was a second Jackalwere, and it was here in Coth. 

"I also have some business with the human in charge of this place. Apparently this town has become the home of more than a few elves, so..." 

So what, he didn't explain. Why bother to educate a human on the calculus of elven diplomacy? They'd die just as they were beginning to understand it. 

"And what of you? You're brought here by wanderlust? Safety in an unsafe land? Do you have family here?"

@The Fire Heart

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"Business with the leader? It looks like you have some good connections." Tolok realised Saskion didn't want to continue with explaining about the elves, so he jumped to the another question.
"Unfortunately... My family is dead." He looked up in the sky towards the white as milk clouds, "Even though they are gone, I am sure they are happy with what I became until now. I've been in far dangerous places, though I don't really crave for fights now. Killing the bandits was more than enough, but normal people cannot defend themselves. Thus, wanderlust guided me until here. Hunger, too, but that was for the moment, when I saw you with the Jackalwere."
"Even though I am done, for the moment, with big fights, I don't mind helping others. That's what I used to do until I came here, directly or not. It's just a matter of mutual respect for me."

((My right wrist hurts a lot and I will write small messages for a bit.))

Edited by The Fire Heart

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“Before we come across any more gorgeous women, can I please change my clothes, bathe perhaps?”

Had he always been a charmer before something whacked him upside the head with a blow hard enough to shake free his identity? Rather than blushing or giggling behind her hand like one of the village women gathered around Mythandriel’s handy work with the garden, Ioreth merely granted him a look that was a combination between a sidelong glance and a slight grimace. It then twisted into a smirk, one that even an amnesiac may have recognized as an indication that Ioreth Rhavon not-so-secretly liked to watch flirtatious men squirm.

“Unfortunately for you, the baths are watched over by a group of gorgeous women. You shall have to suffer a little longer. Come, Mythandriel. If we tarry, their acolytes will swarm our home and drink all your coffee.”  

Ioreth led them both through tidy rows of wooden homes and personal plots for flowers and herbs that she caught Myth scowling at more than once. Down they went along the path of packed earth that led them away from the cluster of modest dwellings, past the stables where a red cheeked man in a straw hat held the reins of his horse with a tightened grip when his eyes met Ioreth’s and she grinned sharply, until they were walking through another quiet patch of greenery still emerging from the remnants of last season’s frost.

It was with a self-assured familiarity that Ioreth assumed as she guided her kindred and the lost half-orc to temple of the Fidei Lena. She left conversation up to Mythandriel, too focused on mentally sorting through techniques for restoring and extracting memories. There were legends of books that contained one’s entire life history stored within a hidden library inaccessible by common beings. As thrilling as it sounded, chasing after a story conceived by folklore from long ago for one lost stray found in the cow fields made little logical sense. There were numerous painful ways to dig through one’s head. Ioreth gave an involuntary flinch, and turned elsewhere for possible help. There were remedies for improved mental focus, which Myth could brew, oneiromancy for viewing dreams, and artifacts to collect things one wished they would not forget, but it would be difficult to decide upon the best approach until one knew just how much damage was dealt to the mind.

The priestesses kept their temple along the edges of woodland. Its stone columns mirrored the tall trees that nestled around it. Everything teemed with life around the structure of the temple; birds sang in the verdant tree tops, lichen clung to the stairs that led up to the temple’s wide doorway, chipmunks sprung across the plush carpet of soft grass and budding wild flowers. It was as if the ancient building had been lying in wait for the Cothite priestesses to claim this place as their home. As it awoke, it brought about a permanent spring.

“The baths are this way,” Ioreth said, squinting in the sunlight. Her pupils had constricted to thin slits, reminiscent of a cat. Up the stone stairs and through the open doorway led them to the temple’s entry room, a place marked by its large fire pit and ever burning green flame.

Ioreth took approximately eight steps inside the temple before her prediction of being swarmed by acolytes rang true. Rather than clambering through her cabin and drinking Mythandriel’s bean juice, two young girls no older than seven seized hold of her white skirts. They were flanked by an elder acolyte reaching adolescence that carried a basket of fresh linens.

“Lady Yoorrref! What did you bring us?” the one of the youngest exclaimed. “Do you have more books?”

Her red headed counterpart clung tighter to Ioreth’s leg and wiped her nose on Ioreth’s skirt. The elvish woman pretended not to notice and draped a hand on her little shoulder.

“What happened to the stack of books I brought you last week, Astraea?”

“I read them all for her five times each,” sighed the girl with the basket. “She’s obsessed with the one about the talking horse.”

Astraea’s green eyes lit with a flame akin to the one burning in the pit, causing Ioreth to carefully untangle herself from the little girl’s grasp before Astraea began to launch into an enthusiastic retelling of her favorite horse complete with surprisingly powerful tugs on Ioreth’s dress. Instead, she picked up the still silent girl with red hair, rested her matchstick like frame on her hip, and said, “Cassia, could you help my friend here—“ she nodded to the orcish man “—find clean clothing. He also…” Ioreth dropped her voice to a theatrical whisper, causing the youngest two girls to giggle. “...Desperately requires a bath. Can you show him where the men bathe?”

“He’s smelly,” Astraea whispered back. She wrinkled her nose and shook her dark braids, causing the golden jewelry interwoven in her hair to clatter and chime.

“Yes, but he’s nice. Mythandriel also brought the herbs you lot hounded me for. Off you go now.”

Astraea bounded fearlessly over to Ioreth’s smelly new friend and seized his hand with gusto. The smile she offered Myth was a touch more shy. Another elf, and this one looked more wild than Mother Isabelle. “I know where everything is,” she boasted to them both. “But I don’t remember where the clothes are. But Cassia does! She washes laundry!”

Still holding her basket, Cassia groaned and gestured for both Mythandriel and the orcish man to follow her down the hall. Mythandriel would have been shown the store room for herbs, where poultices and elixirs were kept along with the equipment needed for their creation. The orc was treated without the reverent respect they saved for Ioreth’s kin. Instead, he was half dragged along by a small girl that chattered endlessly of horses until she went to an abrupt stop at the archway that led to the men’s heated baths.

“I’m not going in there,” she announced. “Cassiiaaaaa! He needs his clothes.”

With another groan, the eldest girl disappeared for several minutes down another hall of the temple and came back with a fresh white shirt, a pair of pants, underclothes, and a towel that she hoped would fit his large frame decently enough. “There you go,” she said, clearly harried by the other girl’s impatient expression. “Many blessings. God smiles upon you and all that.”

As for the Lady Ioreth, she was found outside on the steps, sitting next to the quiet little waif, watching the birds flutter in the grass until Mythandriel finished her business with the temple’s apothic supplies.

@Better Than Gore @Witches Brew @LikelyMissFortune

Edited by KittyvonCupcake

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“Before we come across any more gorgeous women, can I please change my clothes, bathe perhaps?”

Unlike her cousin, Mythandriel’s cheeks flushed red, the heat spreading to the tips of her pointed ears. She fanned her face gently, and shook her head so that her hair would reposition itself, so that her fringe covered one side of her face, and one of her cloudy grey eyes. She made no comment though, and her embarrassment drifted away quickly as her cousin mentioned the acolytes, and “coffee”. What was coffee? Oh! Coffee was the juice made from beans, she understood now. She hadn’t known there was a proper word for the bean drink, she had just recently learned that the dirty leaf water her cousin drank was called “tea”. 

Anyhow, Mythandriel followed her cousin and her silent half-orc acquaintance towards the temple, weaving in between houses and passing overgrown gardens, which Myth stared at with such a harshness, their owners might thing she was cursing thier measly crop, but she was not, she was not the sorceress her kindred was. Mythandriel made sure to keep a tight hold on her basket, fear the songbirds might swoop down upon it, mistaking her gatherings for nesting materials. The walk to the temple was not terribly long, and watching her cousin smile at nervous townsfolk made her giggle. Ever since the goat incident people have stayed clear of the Lady Ioreth. 

Rumors also flew around town about she and her cousin. Ioreth was a Sorceress that could turn you into a farm animal with a single flutter of an eyelash, and that she herself could brew a potion so horrible that it could turn your blood to tar. Another one Mythandriel found particularly amusing was that Viscerex’s mind was stolen from his head, and the cousin’s made it into a stew, making him their mindless servant. Definitely amusing stuff. Mythandriel tried to tell her bucket-headed friend that one once, he just stared at her, and then told her she was an idiot. That rumor definitely wasn’t true at all. 

Upon entering the temple, her cousin was swarmed by tiny humans, their chubby hands grasping at the white skirts she wore, one even wiped her nose discharge on it! How revolting these human-lings were. Myth took a step back, making sure she was not swarmed by the pint sized females, and she looked to the older one as Ioreth was told about the horses that talked. Mythandriel almost believed it herself when she read it, but after hours of trying to get Dorian to say “Mother” in elvish, she determined it couldn’t be done. Finally it was time to take the herbs back to the store room, and Myth couldn’t be happier to finally finish her task. She was begrudgingly ushered to the store room by Cassia, and she let the half-orc take the smaller one, so that he could hear all about the “horseies”. She’s heard the story before. She would tell him later the story was a falsehood. 

She entered the storeroom, and began to bundle herbs, and braid them together so that they could dry, and she then hung them from hooks on the ceiling. She knows little about the women who live here, but she knows two Elves here hold high titles of status, and she wondered how that could have come to be. Did Constans look at a group of women and pick whomever had the best tits? She assumed so, human men did so very much like to talk about tits. 

After twenty or so minutes in the store room, she wandered back out of the temple. Ioreth sat alone, the orc must still be in the bath. She walked down the steps to where her kindred sat, and plopped down beside her, and let out a groan. “I cannot see how you let those human halflings fling themselves upon you. They’re so dirty, always leaking from someplace.” 

 

@KittyvonCupcake @Better Than Gore

Edited by Witches Brew

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[Coth: The Basement Library]

Any quiet amusement at Mythandriel and her tea cup’s expense coiled to tightened ball as Constans spoke. Ioreth listened to him as he listened to her: with a dedicated focus that pulled in each word and placed it meticulously in her memory’s care.

Perhaps Mythandriel would see the respect she had for the priest and Odille would notice how she trusted him. However, it was her resistance that Constans’s glowing eyes would have perceived, how his stare of iron was countered with steel. Had he been anyone else, she would have snarled at the mention of her punishment. For him, only for him, did she hold her tongue and wait for the conclusion of his thoughts.

“What will you do with it?”

She made her decision the moment she cast an enchantment that could be unraveled. It would have cost less strain upon the reserves her energy to sever Billy’s connection with his humanity permanently, yet she left that thread behind in anticipation of a confrontation such as this.

Ioreth took a sip of her tea and set the cup down on the priest’s writing desk. Her expression was ilegible, her shoulders squared. “You speak of just men and of good men, but what of wise men? The wise man would separate himself from sentiment, from the abstractions of justice, and consider the entirety of the situation. The wise man would not put his faith in the goodness of other men’s hearts, for hearts can change, and would instead base his decisions on the nature of the man in question. Does he have the capacity to change for the better, or is he more likely to stay a threat?”

She glanced up from the writings on his desk to look Constans in the eye. Hers were reflective in the light his radiated. “A just man punishes, a good man forgives, but what action does a wise man take? After all, if you dive too deep into introspection, there is the possibility that you may drown.”

Ioreth found it unnatural to remain still as she revealed her thoughts. Her restless hands fluttered upwards to toss back her hair, to tap a fingertip along on her bottom lip, to gesture and to adjust the scarf she wore around her neck.

“I may not know what it is like to be a father, but I do recall my own father’s thoughts on forgiveness and justice. He once told me that good was a story mankind told to excuse their weaknesses, and evil was merely fear of what they were too fragile to face. He said that one must always be aware that the world is a hungry wolf. To survive, you must become the hunter. To rise above it, you must become its master, and this means to embrace both the light and the darkness.” She held her hands before her and revealed her once bloodstained palms. In one, delicate violet light pulsated with the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. In the other, shadows writhed and hissed without a sound. “Not only must you assess the threats that surround you and act accordingly, you must not be guided by passion or by fear. I am certain you have heard the old saying that good and evil are two sides to the same coin. My father was fond of that one.” A wistful softness crept into her voice. “I often wonder what he would think of your beliefs.”

The light and darkness faded from her hands. She returned them to her sides, and said, “Were I to speak only the words he gave me, I would be a different woman, and I doubt we would be friends.”

Ioreth turned to gaze at Odille and Mythandriel with a small smile. “We have our own thoughts, and we can stray from the beliefs of our elders. My own consideration of forgiveness is this: that the responsibility of forgiveness is too often placed upon the victims. How often must they open themselves to the possibility of further harm in the name of another’s redemption?”

“I will change Billy back,” she told Constans as she reached into one of the pouches of her belt and took out the remaining strands of Billy’s hair, “but I need your promise that Odille will be safe from him. It will take some time to prepare...Did you want to be there while I reverse the spell?” A sly grin slid up her lips and she added, “You know my face is not one he would care to see when he’s no longer a goat. He might look upon you more kindly.”

@LikelyMissFortune

@Witches Brew

@Vansin

Edited by KittyvonCupcake

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"Lovely." A heavy sigh complimented his sarcastic tone. One didn't have to necessarily have a memory to understand that a first impression was important, and here he was... ripe. That word didn't quite do his current aroma justice, the sheer fact that Ioreth and Mythandriel were in close proximity was surprising, at least they fortunate enough not to be downwind. He carried himself differently now that he was in the presence of others. Which was difficult, as there were so many new things he wished to interact with, especially the horse. It could have probably held a better conversation than the cow. Ioreth was kind enough to oblige his request, deviating from their path wouldn't have been the nicest thing to do, so he resisted the urge. But damn was it hard.

Then there were little creatures surrounding Ioreth; of course, he knew they were children, but he could hardly recall ever seeing one previously. “She’s obsessed with the one about the talking horse.” He knew it. Cows suck, horses are where the good conversations are at. "He's smelly," That was a fact, but that didn't keep him from sticking his tongue out at the little girl in response. Children were brave, that's for sure. Or at least this particular one was. 

All this talk of horses intrigued him, it certainly made him regret not approaching the one they saw earlier. “Many blessings. God smiles upon you and all that.” "Thank you," And with that, he b-lined straight for the bathing quarters, clothes in hand, and he made sure not to get them anywhere near his current attire. It took some time but after a while, he emerged a new man. The clothing they provided him with must've been tailored to fit a human's frame, it fit, but it quite tight. The shirt barely confined the sheer mass that was the Orc, his gray skin exposed and rippled with muscle that was aesthetically pleasing to the eyes. We won't even go into detail about the pants... they didn't leave anything to the imagination and we'll leave it at that. His raven black hair was loosely tied up into a topknot.

"Now what?" He smiled.

@Witches Brew @KittyvonCupcake 

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[Coth: outside the Temple]

Though the young acolyte that accompanied Ioreth outside of the temple had not yet found her voice after being rescued from the gutted remains of her family’s homestead and brought to Coth, she was sensitive to the voices of others. She felt perturbed at Mythandriel’s groan and her slight frame tensed as her wide green eyes flicked with worry from the younger elf to the elder. A soft blush rose to her pale cheeks, but it was followed by a shy smile when Ioreth pointed out a patch of blooming wildflowers.

“Lyra, Mother Eleanor might like fresh flowers,” she remarked. “Could you bring her back some?”

With the child happily occupied away from the elves, Ioreth was free to release her look. Mythandriel would have recognized it, from the arched brow and the general expression of one that has bit into something unpleasantly sour yet is forced to conceal the depths of their distaste. The look then spawned into a smile alight with mischief.

“When you were an elvish ‘halfling,’ I recall a time when you consumed an entire basket’s worth of sage berries after I specifically told you not to eat more than a handful. There was a great deal of leaking then.”

She watched Lyra tread upstairs with arms full of picked flowers before she looked back at Myth. The smile had departed. Ioreth tucked a stray tendril of silver hair behind her ear and smoothed her white skirts.

“She lost her parents, too,. Had a messenger on his way to bring Constans his letters not found her, she would have starved to death in the ruins of her home. What happened is a mystery—Lyra seems unable to speak and could only write her name. Coth is full of people that have been lost and then found.” She reached out and laid her hand gently upon Myth’s knee. “Like you. And like him.”

She heard the newly clean orc approach before he spoke, but she had not expect to turn around and see...that. He would need a trip to the seamstress, and then there was a question of his lodgings. Hopefully, he did not expect to live with her. The sofa would have been far too uncomfortable to sleep on for someone of his stature, and there was the question of Mythandriel.

“His eyes are up there,” she murmured in Duendaic playfully, “right on his face.”

“It looks as though you feel better. While you were scrubbing yourself clean, I gave your memory problem some consideration. I believe I can help you, but I would need to use a spell to examine your head. My library tower is—“ she gestured to the east, where the ruined church stood atop its hill and the tower watched over on flatlands near the Coth’s forest boundaries. “—a long walk. I need to speak with Dale Thimmick before we make that trek. It’s over a horse,” she added with a grin. “Far better than cows, and less prone to gossiping. Would you like to come?”

@Better Than Gore

@Witches Brew

Edited by KittyvonCupcake

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Mythandriel shrunk away as she felt the full force of her cousin's look. That look was brought out only when Ioreth was disappointed in something she did or said, and this definitely had to be about something she said. Her suspicions were confirmed when Ioreth started to talk about the girl that was with them previously, She was orphaned, like she was, but she had been found, and brought here. The poor child didn't even speak. 

Guilt seeped out of Mythandriel's pores as she watched the child pick flowers for whomever Eleanor was. Myth then flinched at the memory, and she whipped her head around to look at her cousin, glaring at her. "I thought we agreed to never bring that up again." She said in a hushed whisper. "You didn't even bother to mention that sage berries were harmful in large doses." Myth grumbled, her stare drifting off to the stairs below them. The vomiting that occurred after eating all those berries was not pleasant, but another elven child dared her to eat them! She couldn't just, not eat them after being called a baby like that. 

Not long after that conversation, the mysterious half-orc emerged from the Temple, smelling like rose hips and mint, a squeaky clean aura just radiating off of his gray skin. Mythandriel smiled, grateful to have any excuse to be done with their current conversation, but the smile quickly fell when she saw just how taught the fabric was across his skin. This guy had muscle groups she wasn't even aware existed. His pecs were so prominent, and his thighs and calves were...just bursting from the seams of the pants he wore. Her eyes were stuck past his hips however, and Ioreth whispered in her ear, the smugness dripping from her lips like honey. 

Myth's eyes widened, and her face turned bright red, and she quickly turned away, her own hair whipping her in the face. "Ack!" She gasped, and she quickly swatted the long silver tendrils away from her face and neck, and she spat out a few strands that attached themselves to her lips and tongue. She waved her hands in front of her face, trying to fan away the deep pigment that spread over her face and ears. This was a total mess. She'd have to get back at Ioreth later for this! 

 

@KittyvonCupcake @Better Than Gore

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He had heard that dialect before; however, he couldn’t recall when or where for that matter, or even what language they were speaking. They seemed to only speak it whenever the subject was sensitive, in this case, it was probably regarding just how revealing his trousers were. He had nothing to be embarrassed about, the grin on his face made that evident. There were children running amuck though, so perhaps concealment was his best course of action. But they had split in the time it took him to bathe. “You don’t have to spare me,” He, of course, was referring to their native tongue.

“Although it does make me wonder what else you can do with your tongues.” He too apparently spoke a different language; whereas, it didn’t sound nearly as elegant as their own, a language nonetheless. It was Orcish. He apparently felt much better after his bath. First, he was talking to cows and now he was shamelessly flirting with the woman that rescued him and her cousin for that matter. A hearty chuckle managed to follow his cheesy pickup line, but they couldn’t have possibly understood him, or did they?

Ioreth spoke more about helping him regain his memory but all of that went out the window when she mentioned speaking to a man about a horse. Instantly his eyes lit up and his grin immensely grew in size. “You had me at horse,” Another chuckle followed and then a firm nod. “Aye, I’ll accompany you Ioreth. Will you be joining us gorge---Mythandriel?” There he goes again. Something told him she had more important things to attend to, but the hope of her tagging along outweighed said tasks.

@KittyvonCupcake

@Witches Brew

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[Coth: outside the Temple]

Before Ioreth dwelled in her cabin overstuffed with Mythandriel’s collections of seeds and flower bulbs, she traveled beneath the stars and roamed across Terrenus. A passing familiarity with other main languages was a necessary acquisition, and one that came easily when her elder brother collected coin for several years as a translator.

Though she lacked Draug’s innate talent for matching the cadence and flow of foreign tongues, she managed to adapt the low melody of her natural speech for an Orc’s guttural dialect adequately enough to counter, Keep wondering. Even if I do not have to spare you from my tongue—“ her lips twitched to a half smile “—I will continue to do so.”

The temple’s surroundings—its warmth, the birdsong, the plush greenery of early spring—all contributed to a sense of lethargy that threatened to overtake the restlessness that tumbled about inside of Ioreth. After a languorous stretch of her arms overhead, she let out a yawn and made her way down the temple’s stairs. As it had often been during her sojourns there to drop off books for the acolytes, it felt as if there was a cloying warmth that tugged at her feet to walk back inside. Linger a little longer, the grass whispered to her feet. Stay here.

She rarely did. One of the priestesses would then swoop upon her without fail and it took a higher level of concentration to ignore their enticing requests to stay just for the lady-scribe to stay for an hour more and chat. Mother Isabelle made it evident that a mere chat was not all that she had in mind.

Pushing against the torpid peace of the temple’s grounds, Ioreth led them away from the airy building and its ambrosial gardens and back towards the path that led to the rural stretches of land that made up the outer layers of Coth.

“You seemed interested in the horses.” Ioreth’s violet eyes swept across the half-orc and settled upon his face. “Why is that?”

@Better Than Gore

@Witches Brew

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such shaping fantasies;

 

[ Coth: Ópera ston Aéra ]

 

Thea does not blush at Keith’s sudden complimentary words, not really, not entirely, not exactly, but she does feel touched enough to laugh and grin wide at him. “Thanks, I guess? I mean—thanks. Just thanks.” Great, she had ruined it entirely by sputtering about like a moron. Truly a connoisseur of the highest echelons of dramatic prose.

Keith then turns to Dash, and the two men exchange a series of statements in what is perhaps a picture-perfect drama scene worthy of being showcased on any stage out there. She’s almost a little envious that she hadn’t in fact penned their lines, the dialogue that bounces back and forth between the two in sharp, dry wit.

“But yes, we could talk theory all day about stars, and not get anywhere. In our line, ‘action’ speaks the most, as I’m sure someone like yourself is aware. Please, follow me.”

Yikes. Thea thanks every god of every religious belief that Jude hadn’t been a part of this tense standoff. If he had been, she would have burst into flames right then and there. No matter; she takes one look at her sleeping friend, warmly wreathed by the sunrays, and then nods to herself before turning to follow the men away towards the opera house’s offices.

“So, Mr Zollenstar, what exactly is it that you do?”

Thea raises an eyebrow, curiosity making itself known in the pit of her gut. If Keith is to become a possible colleague in the business, perhaps she should educate himself in his skillset, whatever assets he is able to bring to the forefront for the benefit of the Silver Screen. “Yes, what is it exactly?” She chimes in cheerfully, letting the men know of her own personal interest in the answer. “You’re an actor, I’m guessing? Have you done any performances I might've seen before?” With the myriad of stories she has seen come and go when their time beckons them so on the public stage, Thea isn’t quite sure she’s seen Keith before, but a little deeper inquiry won’t hurt.

 


 

 @jaistlyn @Die Shize

 

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The Orc spoke in guttural growls and grunts, his tongue clicking once or twice. She blinked, having no idea if his stomach hurt or if he just spoke an actual language. She looked to her cousin, trying to gauge her reaction from what just sprang out of the Orc’s brutish tongue, and to her amazement, Ioreth spoke it too. Dumbfounded and bewildered, Mythandriel stood there, feeling quite awkward. The way Ioreth smirked, the half-smile She always wore when she was being mischievous was present. So, I’m a brilliant display of childlike curiosity and perhaps stupidity, she looked at them both and sucked in a deep breath. Her lungs expanded in her chest, and she did not for one second regret what she was about to do. 

As she exhaled, a low growl escaped her throat, her vocal chords vibrating in her throat as the low, meaningless sound rang between the three of them. It did not sound intimidating at all however, like the Orcs or even Ioreth’s clumsy interpretation of the Orcish language. It was harsh, but it rumbled low, it sounded much like a cat when cornered. Not brutish at all. 

Her attempt was almost seemingly ignored, as Ioreth turned her attention back to the Orc, who seemed to have a keen fascination with Horses. Her kin insisted horses were not as horrible as a gossip as “cows” were. She wasn’t even aware those creatures could speak! Perhaps it was a falsehood also, much like the horse story. 

Her mysterious new friend looked at her, and as he spoke his voice caught, replacing what he was going to originally say with her own name. She blushed, her face once again turning beet red. This had to stop happening, it was starting to get embarrassingly obvious that she became foolish when it came to compliments, and those they came from. Being on her own her entire childhood made her easily susceptible to flattery. And even though she did have tasks to take care of back at the cabin, because of this simple, unfinished compliment, she was willing to put it all on hold for him. 

“Yes, I-I do believe I will accompany you both.” She said, still fanning her face to scare away the remaining redness lingering on her pale skin. “I don’t have any other responsibilities today, I think.” 

Lies. She had many. Dorian needed a good brushing, and a bath, which would have taken up the entire afternoon. Her garden needed weeding, and someone at the tavern had asked her to brew up something for hair growth. Poor man was balding already at 23 years old, and he was unmarried. Apparently baldness ruined his chances at finding true love, or something. And then there was the best friend necklaces made of rabbit bones she was making for herself and a Viscerex, but that could definitely wait. All of it could wait, couldn't it?

 

@KittyvonCupcake  @Better Than Gore

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Lucas stirred, the poorly maintained inn bed he laid on wasnt the most comfortable thing he'd ever slept on but he needed to rest. It had been a week long travel to this town, there was a certain few places he was intrested in in this some one distant place. There wasnt magic, not that he'd seenthe few hours he was out and about the town. Compared to places like Rose, it was certainly a dramatic change. The tech, what little he saw seemedd outdated. Still his tired body ached andhe didnt noticed as he fell asleep and as rare as dreams where, this one came naturally....

The crowd was full, demigods on par with lesser known gods filled a elaborate golden labyrinth of a  palice. The more known and powerful gods over saw them from high up on the balconies draped from the ceiling as if they were only held by red silk walking way that hovered beneath them as they conversed. It was a simple party, and gathering of sorts that happened rarely. A time where all god froth entities could mingle and gather with seemingly solid peace. The only clashing in the structure was that of wine glasses filled with elaborate faire and celestial mixture that seemed to hold all of them well in the place where possible things could happen as the cups never emptied and the conversations never ceased either as friends and family conversed over the occurring events of millenia. Some had failed to see each other in far longer than melania, a young man in particular. His name Setanta, a young man with a gentle crown of black circles that giggled slightly as he laughed standing next to his father Lugh an towering man that looked to be from irish decent with a deep main of golden circles. A sun god both of them stemmed deeply from ancient Celtic mythology. Above them floated one of the oldest kings Gilgamesh, dawned in vibrant amber armour to complement his jaggedly brilliant golden spiked hair. To his left was the goddess of creation, an elderly like woman with a balding head that seemed to shiver away from Gilgamesh’s gaze even in the warming environment history told itself threw the smallest silmers of light.

 

Though the party continued, drink passed threw lips equally as smooth as word. Laugher found the room like the brilliant streams of light that drew into the room threw bay windows and smiles quickly outgrew glares. A timeless peace.

 

From the edge of the room stepped a smaller sized woman, a line of shiny red hair falling threw a runic hood that almost fully masked her face. While there was no definite entrance or start to the palace there was less dense areas making the teleportation into the room easier as there wasn't doors. Smoothly the woman passed threw the crowd, her elegance shown in her walk made the nameless gods she passed think of her highly. Her path directed into the standing figure of Setanta, hey eyes scanning the small crowd around him thinking of potential dangers . Karna, another son of a sun god. Atlanta one of zeus’ granddaughters who stood next to a nameless demigod. A hunter with no match and a cloaked golden demi? On top of one of the best lancers in history…. The woman's eyes left them an casually focused on the floor. To her surprise she looked up to meet the eyes of karna, he was tall about 6’4 to her 5’7. A charming but humbled face with white hair that rested upon his golden shoulders. As she’d recall that golden armour made him invincible.

 

Holding a hand out the young man spoke :Hello, My Name is Karna. I dont think ive seen you around here before: a warming smile to his face complemented his legend. The hero of Charity.

The woman shy-ed away from him for a moment before accepting his hand watching carefully as he kissed the back of her palm as she spoke “I'm a recent nameless, it's an honor to meet you. I've heard much about your legend during my lifetime” The demigod smiled as he left go of her hand. :How so? You’ve flattered me: the woman went to slip past the man “Until next time”

she spoke as if he was already gone, upon second glance he was. That was one, the woman didn't waste time linginering. Constantly moving as she aimed her eyes at the archer, Atlanta walking up to her and extending a hand in greetings. The woman Atlanta had just grazed the brush of the strangers fingers before the nameless grabbed her by the wrist pulling her forwards whilst bringing a crude knee to meet the demi godess’ chest knocking the breath from her lungs as at the end of the miniature assault the demi goddess vanished. To the nameless woman's right stood a shaken  as he instinctively drew his spear, a large red tipped pole. Almost a second too late as the nameless woman smashed her fist again the polearm, the sound of metal on flesh halted by the sound of metal on metal as a white aura cloaked the woman's fist. Opening her fist into a palm the woman grabbed the spear using its grip to pull herself closer to the lancer as with an insane blurry of speed the woman whipped her hand across the man's throat gashing it open as a stream of ichor sprayed outwards. Recoiling the man let go of the spear and backed up, gasping for air in a wound that wouldnt close.

 

The woman was gone, and so was the spear and he awake in a cold sweat.

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