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Post by relentless on Sept 9, 2018 4:25:33 GMT -8
Duval hissed as he was moved, every muscle in his body felt diminished and spent. Whether that was from the intimate interaction or... he just couldn't move, at least he felt like he couldn't. "I can't..." He groaned, his legs wobbling as he stood, skin paling with every sway of his body that he would make. He felt drunk, but he wasn't drunk... at least for the most part. For Duval, his body seemed please, but he still held a grimace, acting like he was holding off a sensation of vomiting. "W-what... what happened George?" Duval huffed, out of breath as he struggled to keep balance, his vision flickering, his mind ill. Soon enough, Duvals steps began to fumble on the floor, his footing was lost and any form of balance had been lost as well. Soon enough, he was leaning the other way as he felt as numb as when he woke. But then he suddenly sprang up, using George to his advantage and tugging himself to stand once again. "Ff-fff-fuckin piss... don't tell me I..." Duval coughed as a hand ran through his hair, staring off into the distance, before his stare went blank, and he faced George with a dreading look. "-We?! Nah... what? Surely... aw what the fuck is going on..." He was as confused as the sentence he just spoke, gripping his face as if he had just lost his eye by a lead ball going through his skull and bouncing around in there. He shook his head, whilst he whispered a variety of cusses and swears, seemingly to himself.
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Post by rumsztyk on Sept 9, 2018 4:42:03 GMT -8
George frowned. "What do you mean, 'what happened'?. Surely you weren't THAT drunk." He snapped his fingers in front of his face.
"Light almighty, you look like someone ate his shit and vomited right up." He scoffed, bracing himself for support. "You need to eat, let's hit the tavern."
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Post by relentless on Sept 9, 2018 7:44:36 GMT -8
Duval flinched at the click of Georges fingers, it sounded more like an echo inside a cave than an immediate snap of the fingers. He let the hand fall, opening and closing his eyes tight hoping it'd make him feel more conscious.
"Not sick you tosser... I think... I think it happened before, during the raid."
Duval kept his eyes shut one last time, shaking his head with a cringe before he opened his eyes and sighed with a sharpness to it. He let his back straighten, though he seemed to shiver ever-so-slightly, along with a coldness that seemed to radiate from the pale snow that was his skin.
"So we... we did Courcy? The... the real one? Warm red hair, and freckled skin?"
He drearily recalled with confusion, hissing as he rubbed the top of his forehead, creased and strained from internalized stress. At the sound of food he had heard from George earlier, he nodded, and rotated his body in a janky manner toward the door as he remained supported by George.
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Post by rumsztyk on Oct 27, 2018 3:32:44 GMT -8
"That's exactly who we did." He replied rather dryly, eyebrows curved in surprise. "Did you pass out or something?"
"Hold up... I swear if you puke in my office..." A brief warning was given, then George rather heavy-handedly lifted Duval upwards more, to get a better hold on his sick friend. Now supporting him firmly, he walked them both out of the room, closing the door behind with a heavy iron key.
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Post by relentless on Nov 16, 2018 14:12:57 GMT -8
His overcoat swayed from the bottom, clung together with buttons on the edges of his coat as he was hefted up to a more comfortable standard. He hobbled along with George until Duval eventually put a hand on Georges wrist, the side that was holding him steady.
"I'm... I'm fine now."
Duval nodded quickly, lifting his wrist up as he attempted to stand on his lonesome. His legs wobbled, and he sidestepped awkwardly in his place, but eventually he came to his footing and seemed somewhat competent to walk on his own. The tickling of whispers in the back of his mind, giving remembrance to that dreaded ordeal, during the raid and as of right now. Duval couldn't recall much from his dream, though he didn't seem pleased from how sickly he looked.
Hands left his sides to comb through his hair and rest his face in his cold palms, hissing out of discomfort, and drowsiness.
"... Did I drink much? I don't think I did... I don't even remember what Courcy did!"
Duval let one hand fall, and the other scrunch at his brow, before he moved it down his face toward the buttons of his overcoat, rotating his neck cornered by his wool collar. The buttons came off loosely, clicking as they did so, making him feel a lot more free and relaxed. Once his overcoat had been undone, he turned his head toward George with a tired squint.
"You didn't take my fags, right?"
Duval asked, looking away with a slow head movement, down toward his overcoat as he patted the pockets. He withdrew a tinderbox, but not any of his tobacco rollups.
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Post by Bloodtrailkiller on Dec 13, 2018 9:44:00 GMT -8
A chuckle gave way at the jab, one that showed Libourg to be impressed, and understanding of the jab itself. Although he was a half blood,the lines of his noble upbringing through childhood didn't seem to go away, along with the rare encounters with other noblemen in his adult life. "You're quite the constable, Gisheler! Yes, I'm from the land where this style of armour was birthed, 'Gotischer Plattenpanze' as one of official terms might call it." Libourg stifled a smirk and another chuckle, giving a knock on the hard wood of the Guilds door as he circled to face the sellsword as he left the door open, "Of course, there's the festival of our renowned beers and ales to celebrate..." There was a drag in Libourgs voice as his eyes came to notice the tense, and cold hostility that seemed prominent in the features of the sellswords face, along with the eyes. It was something that Libourg wouldn't dwell on for the sake of not creating a strange environment, but in that short passing of time, there was a collision of caution between the two. The Knight gave the man a stare in passing that was disciplined and searching, as if they had just locked swords and the grate of sharp steel caught both their eye. The man didn't seem to carry on with his explanation of his homeland, either out of realization that this man was more interested in that of sparring, or to simply save his breath after the exchange of glares attempting to overrule each other in passing. "... I do not recognize your name, your accent or any origin of your garb. Perhaps you're from the lower reaches of Queens Country?" Libourgs voice and posture had changed from a casual demeanor to one postured upright and to appear quite solid, whilst his voice carried forth a sense of ice that built along the fringes of his tone, as if to combat Gishelers own coldness. In a way, he knew there was some resentment between the Knight and the Mercenary. One man brought up at a young age to live a relatively easy life, not having to worry about the funds for food or education, whilst this man could've been the exact opposite. Libourg would indeed tread along the path of this interaction between two separate origins more carefully. /Gisheler/ "Perhaps." Gisheler nodded in agreement as he pulled his eyes away, sheathing the metaphorical blade he'd risen with his sharp eyes and accusing leers. It was unkind and rude, he reminded himself, as he stepped into the Guild Hall and quickly glanced about the rather well kept but... untouched interior. A few guards milled about, which made sense. The structure was singularly the most defensible and no doubt housed a barrack of some kind amidst its various floors. There was an immediate flat covered in sand and straw that stole Gisheler's attentions; a sparring square. It boasted a few wooden posts with rope strewn between each to catch any that might fall out of bounds and onto the much less forgiving cobblestone floor that dominated most of the Guild Hall's interior. The torchlight of the various sconces on the wall only just illuminated that sparring square that Gisheler rather readily marched on towards; he spoke on, heedless of Libourg's following. "I grew up amongst Battle Brothers. Their accents and origins came from everywhere..." He explained before pausing and looking down at his own dress; before nodding, he returned his gaze to Libourg as he found a place to stand beside the sparring area, "... We never took any specific patronage for any extended period of time. Not--" Again, Gisheler paused, and his crown tilted to the side in curiosity as his throat choked and he took the time to massage it beneath the chain and padding. Perhaps he was getting sick? It was a new theater... or maybe he was dehydrated... "--Apologies. The Company had found a prolonged hiring under the Gunsches as peacekeepers. Perhaps you have heard of them? They owned lands and operated from the Mainland, to the North and East... Probably farther still, now." |
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Post by rumsztyk on Dec 14, 2018 12:23:41 GMT -8
Duval's assurance - or pretending - was taken well by George, who smirked and breathed a small sigh of relief. Though his face quickly assumed a more morose expression as he explained to him: "No, can't be drinks. You barely had any. Must be... must be that thing you spoke of earlier."
He stopped, pushing the thoughts away. They quickly soured his mood again, thankfully Duval provided a distraction quickly. "What? Nah, I have better. Don't recall you ever pulling them out?"
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Post by relentless on Dec 16, 2018 10:19:04 GMT -8
It was an unusual predicament indeed. Visions of living things once beautiful folding and unfolding to portray an effigy of dead flesh and yellow bone, parts of his memory blank and distorted as if he were never there. Was he going mad? Had this place he so rightfully mocked took a turn and swung back at him?
Would overconfidence be his insidious killer? He didn't know, and didn't really care to know, for there were other things greater on his mind. Thin but rough hands caressed the interior of his pockets, until he recognised the shape of something that brought him calm, or so he hoped. Withdrawing it fast, he held it outward so he could get a better look at what he held. A squashed cigarette, bunched up and rather pathetic looking. A defeated expression formed on his face with a sigh on the side of his platter, before he thumbed a matchstick out of his tinderbox and struck it fast against his coat, where a vindictive flame sparked before it settled into that of a droplet.
"Hm."
The man watched the matchstick as it was ablaze, the texture of his hands ripe with aged bloodshed given a home underneath the hearth of the match. A moment of hesitation had stricken him black as death, and it seemed he wanted to give his mind a moment to think over his situation. It wasn't long before his hand that held the match flicked in one motion, silencing the flame in one fell flick of the hand, whilst the other that had the squashed rollup pinched simply let go of it. The cigarette fell beside the mans shoe, which he would step upon as he made to turn so he could face George.
Colour had returned to the mans face, but any form of comedy or belligerence the man once held seemed to have been caged away by that of a professional motive. An adult personality, seemingly locked away underneath the mans laughter lines upon the forehead. His stare was cool, collected, whilst a thin line across his lips displayed a veil of neutrality.
"George-"
His teeth bit on the question before it had even left the chamber, his thumb inbetween the hammer as he flicked against the wall of teeth. A shade of physical knockback made the mans feet twitch, as if shot back by something powerful, like a cannon, but in reality he all but hesitated.
"I think we can both agree, as men, that... that somethings up, eh?"
Duval proposed to him in a manner that seemed defeated, almost sad, shrugging it off with a motion of his shoulders.
"I feel that as a man I should... explain a couple things so that we don't get off on the wrong foot about this whole knock in the noggin. And before you say it, I'm not a sissy fucker, I reckon during that bout with the redhead, I had the last laugh! I just... just can't remember."
Duval explained with a wry joke at the end to balance out the whiskey with a bit of water, hands returned to his pockets as he flicked the burnt matchstick over toward the mans office.
"Shall we walk? I feel we both need some fresh air."
The rogue would nod his head back toward the entrance of the guild hall, with his feet already backstepping their way, but doing it at a slow pace incase the warden felt that his duties lay elsewhere.
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Post by relentless on Dec 17, 2018 12:45:39 GMT -8
/Gisheler/ "Perhaps." Gisheler nodded in agreement as he pulled his eyes away, sheathing the metaphorical blade he'd risen with his sharp eyes and accusing leers. It was unkind and rude, he reminded himself, as he stepped into the Guild Hall and quickly glanced about the rather well kept but... untouched interior. A few guards milled about, which made sense. The structure was singularly the most defensible and no doubt housed a barrack of some kind amidst its various floors. There was an immediate flat covered in sand and straw that stole Gisheler's attentions; a sparring square. It boasted a few wooden posts with rope strewn between each to catch any that might fall out of bounds and onto the much less forgiving cobblestone floor that dominated most of the Guild Hall's interior. The torchlight of the various sconces on the wall only just illuminated that sparring square that Gisheler rather readily marched on towards; he spoke on, heedless of Libourg's following. "I grew up amongst Battle Brothers. Their accents and origins came from everywhere..." He explained before pausing and looking down at his own dress; before nodding, he returned his gaze to Libourg as he found a place to stand beside the sparring area, "... We never took any specific patronage for any extended period of time. Not--" Again, Gisheler paused, and his crown tilted to the side in curiosity as his throat choked and he took the time to massage it beneath the chain and padding. Perhaps he was getting sick? It was a new theater... or maybe he was dehydrated... "--Apologies. The Company had found a prolonged hiring under the Gunsches as peacekeepers. Perhaps you have heard of them? They owned lands and operated from the Mainland, to the North and East... Probably farther still, now." Libourg ambled along with Gisheler to the training area, where skills of the fight were honed through grueling sparring and obnoxious lectures from the veterans of the estate. He took interest in the ambling of guards, along with the various training equipment they have in stock. Libourg didn't reply right away as he walked up to the fencing of the sparring borders, a small rack made to carry blades containing that of wooden swords of varying sizes, hooked around small cylinders that were supported underneath the handguard of the blades. The knight would place the helmet down beside the racks, and once that was properly placed down out of harms way, his torso pivoted to the left so he could clip off his sword holster. "The Gunsche? The name shares resemblance to that of the Germanic Lands, but I have not met with any noble falling under that name." Libourg commented in passing, a flair of neutrality was prominent in his voice, hands coming about to unsheathe his blade from its scabbard. It was a wonderful blade, pride had been taken in its care, finely sharpened and cleaned with delicate hands, this sword was indeed cherished by Libourg. It the flickering aura of light, it gleamed after being recently wiped down. Though such admiration for its beauty was not shown on Libourgs face, who seemed neutral, a distinct lack of emotion wouldn't be shown, as if he were a statue. Though he could not hide it in his eyes, a sense of tiredness.
Passing the blade calmly to the right hand, then placing it beside the rack along with his scabbard, his dominant hand moved to pick up a wooden longsword from the rack itself, Libourg moved toward the fence and vaulted over. The heavy rustle of armor would make the inexperienced think the armor was heavier to move around in that one thought, which is true to those who haven't become acquainted with such padding. Once over, Libourg took a look about the area of straw that would be there training ground till the other began to sweat blood. At the thought, he turned his head toward Gisheler across the fence, searching him. "Did your battle brothers become as free as you are now, Sellsword? One would pray to be let off from the acquaintance of a noble house without any strings attached." Libourg inquired, eventually leaving the border of the fence to meander over to one corner of the pit to the other, opposite Gishelers position. The man took his time with the walk however, thinking to himself. "-I know a few fellow soldiers that I served with during the times of the Crusade, they still serve under the rule of the Lights Prophet. However, to say that they're better well off than your brothers in arms under this 'Gunsche' house? I wouldn't know." Libourg talked for long enough so he could get into his corner, leaning against the post in a relaxed manner, arms hung over the supporting poles with legs crossed over one another.
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Post by Bloodtrailkiller on Dec 17, 2018 14:09:32 GMT -8
/Gisheler/
The Sellsword watched the Knight go about his business with a fast becoming signature scrutiny that... given experience under the gaze, felt more curious and intrigued than truly hostile. The violent intent was more akin to a child thinking of ways to crush a beetle than a murderer looking for a way to kill in cold blood.
"The Gunsche are German, yes." He intoned with a bow of his black crown, it seemed the tendencies of social interaction were slowly bleeding back into his stiff tongue.
Gisheler's eyes lingered on the sword drawn by Libourg; he could almost see his own green eyes in the polish of the sword. Well kept, perhaps oiled? The make of Libourg's scabbard didn't neccessitate it but... still. As he squinted, the flat sheen of the blade impressed that it was not, infact, oiled.
A fair choice. The Knight must maintain it frequently to keep its sheen as it were. Admirable.
"You can measure a man by the steel he holds in his hand." He mumbled to himself as he shuffled after Libourg to the sparring swords.
Though he watched Libourg remove his helm with curiosity, Gisheler supposed it was a fair decision too; there was no threat of lethality, meaning he'd be better off with a broader range of vision.
"All my brothers are dead. Our contract ended a year ago; I used its earnings pay for the families I knew of my Brothers." Gisheler replied, at last, as he undid the belt that held his scabbard and blade and hung it alongside Libourg's sword, its length and make markedly shorter than his Longsword. It did not bother the Sellsword, and he stole a sparring sword from the rack before finding his place quickly at the opposite side of Libourg.
"I do not know if Crusaders are better off than my brothers. I do not care."
Gisheler gave a quick salute with his sword, pointing to Libourg with it in one hand, before pulling his free-hand to his heart. He slowly bowed his brow, before fluidly pulling his hands down to hold the sword with his right-hand in a middle-guard stance. Practicing a standard and balanced pose that Libourg might be familiar with.
It is important to respect your partner in sparring, so they might respect you on the battle line.
"Would you prefer I fight left or right handed?"
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Post by relentless on Dec 17, 2018 14:47:49 GMT -8
The knight watched the man as he made his way in a stiff, strict and disciplined manner. He noted his postured, and the respect he showed toward the Knight. Although the title of his being had no merit in this place of the damned, it was nice to see that some formality could be seen from time to time. With a rattle of his armor, Libourg leaned off the post, the soles of his feet met soundly with the ground as he took up a more stoic posture. Straight and noble, emphasizing his size as if posing for a portrait, the man gave a short bow to his opponent, hand over heart with the wooden sword pointed toward, along with his head.
"My condolences to your men, sir. May they find peace in the Light, and find themselves among their kin."
Libourg humbly stated, giving himself a couple seconds before he slowly raised his form into a standing posture. Once his face had been raised, a new expression had been formed; a steeled look, almost unreadable. The perks of dueling many a foe, such as it is in gambling. If they can't tell what you feel, they can't place your actions. Of course, the cold look about him would have to be compensated by body movement, perhaps even more so, but working together, it can be a potent advantage.
"Your hands are your own, Gisheler. I would prefer you fight with technique, and not with force, so that we may both learn something new from this exchange."
The knight instructed in passing as he flourished his blade to a relaxed position, raised above his shoulder with the sword a bit aways from his face. The blade was horizontally positioned toward the sellsword, remaining in a state of neutrality.
"Let us begin, the idle get nowhere."
Libourg nodded at the sellsword, remaining still, postured in a tight defence.
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Post by Bloodtrailkiller on Dec 17, 2018 15:00:46 GMT -8
/Gisheler/
"Mmm." Gisheler replied mutely to Libourg's sympathies, as he nodded and approached Libourg; making note of his footwork with the occasional glance. Gisheler's right hand held the sword firmly, near the crossguard, while the other held the pommel lightly in his left-hand's palm; his blade held vertical and aligned with Libourg's swordtip.
Gisheler's face barely moved outside those subtle flicks of his emerald eyes, but with the slight bow to his crown, his helm shadowed them with cold and dark menace. Indeed, like a dark spectre, Gisheler looked rather silly holding a wooden sword against his rather lethal garb of black and steel.
He circled slowly, at first, before he darted forward and made a quick, testing strike towards Libourg's brow; paying more attention to the point of Libourg's sword than his own as the wooden sword flicked with due speed. His left hand aiding in levering the weapon out as the stroke moved more in the wrist than his arm.
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Post by relentless on Dec 18, 2018 14:09:35 GMT -8
Libourgs movement would almost match the speed of Gisheler despite the armour he wore, able to act in a flexible fashion against his slash. It was a quick one, perhaps to catch Libourg off guard, or to intimidate him with his own speed. Reacting back, Libourg cast the blow aside with a natural parry and using the momentum to carry Gisheler in the opposite direction, he skirted to the left out of the corner and into the middle of the ring. His footwork was superb, solid and sensitive, his sword was now postured down below to his side, keeping both hands on the handle as it remained pointed offside Gishelers form to maintain his defense. Now that he had guided the sellsword away, he was able to move a lot easily in his position, but the knight remained wary.
"I hope that was your bad hand."
Libourg said in passing as he stared down the edge of his sword, smirking a little. It was both a calm jest, and an underhanded ploy. Mind games were amusing. For now, Libourg would remain passive, waiting to act on a mistep, or to react spontaneously to force an opening.
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Post by Bloodtrailkiller on Dec 18, 2018 14:28:25 GMT -8
/Gisheler/
The Sellsword offered no reply as he held his sword short, his swing was tight, controlled and he quickly pivoted on his extended foot to face Libourg now as he positioned himself towards the center of the ring. It was an admirable parry, Libourg had obviously been practiced in his armor, as any good knight aught.
The Knight certainly knew how to move on foot, which was impressive in its own right. He knew his armor, which was dangerous; a fact noted as Gisheler watched the way his sabatons moved over the ground and didn't catch on the dirt.
"I trained to fight with both hands. Both are bad. Both are good."
He gave quietly as he assumed a neutral guard position; holding his sword at his centerline, the blade's point slightly lowered to accomodate for Libourg's own low guard position. Gisheler's own movements were tight, controlled; like a machine... His maneuvers were almost flawlessly textbook, for better or worse.
As easy as it was to read Gisheler's judgemental gaze when they had been talking before, it was an entirely different story now that a weapon was in the man's hand.
As stiff and predictable as Gisheler's movements were, each step and posture the man took was posed to strike from any angle.
But, for all the variety Gisheler's posturing allowed; he made a sudden and quick jab towards Libourg's chest, aiming at the man's upper right shoulder, where his collar bone might end.
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Post by relentless on Dec 18, 2018 14:50:37 GMT -8
A fair, and intelligent blow made by the Sellsword indeed. For those who didn't know their armour inside and out, the stab would have indeed entered through the gap, and probably cut up his shoulder. Even with Libourgs duelist skills, he wouldn't be able to fend off the blow. However, thankfully his sword was positioned in a way where he could send the blow off course, or... gamble. In a manner of seconds, Libourg managed to tap the blow off kilter so that both of their swords would become locked as Gishelers wooden sword was angled up with a risky parry, forcing Libourg to lock swords with the Sellsword.
In a manner of speaking, Libourg utilised his footwork more than his strength to hopefully work his way around and into a position where he could strike.
"A fine- blow! Almost lucky!"
Libourg huffed tersely under his lip as he met eye to eye with the man, the sound of wood scraping against each other as they worked their way into a struggle for dominance over the other. It was a matter of chance who would come out on top for this.
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