|
|
Post by Outisakanobody on Feb 11, 2019 20:25:17 GMT -8
Ignis had a very good very good vocabulary, but combining the words 'egregious' and 'sexual'... Well she had some trouble processing that.
"Perhaps you should start with the beginning."
|
|
|
|
Post by Kidney on Feb 11, 2019 20:38:56 GMT -8
Tod gulped, looking around the godforsaken courtyard before looking back to Ignis, "Dear doctor, do you mind taking us both to someplace more private? I'd rather not explain everything in public."
Tod had a grand story to tell, and he was truly terrified.
|
|
|
|
Post by Outisakanobody on Feb 12, 2019 5:28:36 GMT -8
"Oh, yes. Of course. Perhaps back to the Abby?" Ignis suggests, assuming that's where Tod would be most comfortable.
|
|
|
|
Post by Kidney on Feb 12, 2019 15:51:41 GMT -8
Tod took a long glance back towards the Abbey and shook his head with a sharp exhale. He tapped his right foot, seemingly stuck in place, deciding. "No..."
He shrugged, taking a look back towards the Tavern, taking in another breath, "Tell no one this, but I need a drink." He stated, rubbing his throat, dryish and cracked from hours of not drinking. Tod now, rolled up his sleeves, yanking them high enough to reveal inkage upon and above his mid-forearm. Tod let out a short sigh, "Come, please. We have much to discuss if I'm to be honest about my... dungeoneering career."
|
|
|
|
Post by Outisakanobody on Feb 13, 2019 13:22:35 GMT -8
Ignis didn't understand why the need for secrecy regarding Tod's thirst, but filed that question away for later. She shrugged, encouraging her bird friend to fly off for now.
"Very well. We shall talk in the tavern." she says, walking that way slowly.
|
|
|
|
Post by EtherealNoire on Feb 18, 2019 12:32:53 GMT -8
Whether or not Talea fully grasped Adeney's struggle was not so important as her aid. Her response soothed his nervous fidgeting and he was no longer on the verge of an outburst. Instead he only looked exhausted, frustrated, and pensive. He clenched his jaw as Talea gingerly touched his face. Adeney broke his gaze from her veiled eyes to set on her other features.
"Do you know what I... feel for her? You can sense it?"
Talea's fingers drifted from his cheek yet the feeling of her skin lingered, cool against the heat of his anger. It was an alien mark. A sigil gifted by one beyond the mortal realm. Like the blessings of a ghost, she neither smiled nor offered further guidance as her steps fell once more in silence on the solemn road. Still, in her passage, knowledge seem to cloak her, as if she too emitted rays ancient as the moon.
"Wariness lingers in thy countenance, yea though the path sought winds ever further ahead. Need ye respite before we encounter the woman spoken of arcane crafts?"
Foreign as a star in daybreak, though she bore not the semblance of his own kind, there could be no refutal that Talea's words harbored the melodic chords of compassion. |
|
|
|
Post by black379 on Feb 20, 2019 15:42:58 GMT -8
Adeney thought her strange. But if it weren't for Talea, both her understanding and willingness to help, he would be a wreck. He would be secluded and intoxicated to smother his guilt. Yet Talea's soothing presence allowed him to maintain his solemnity.
"Yes. I need respite. But I can't have it." The doctor answered morbidly as he started up the path alongside her. This waking nightmare was not yet done, but he couldn't neglect his responsibility to the girl he killed. And if Talea could detect his affectations of fondness for Silvant, he couldn't leave her tortured and confused.
"Audrey must be miserable... We can wait with her for Florence."
|
|
|
|
Post by relentless on Feb 20, 2019 16:49:40 GMT -8
-Duval- Air was as swampish and as grim as it had always been, as it always would be. The small bittersweet aesthetic of the hamlet was rustic, though in the end there was always a layer of dread that stuck to every roof, every wall and every speck of dirt and stone, where a single thought dissuaded most hunters, warriors, pilgrims and abominations to venture into these lands. The thought of being mere cattle, in hopes of finding at least one that showed promise, or at least would yield a greater harvest from their bones, before they're swept aside.
Though this thought, at least to those had managed to live long enough in this place, seemed to evaporate alongside their sanity. To exist as cattle for so long, one would inevitably grow used to such an existence, and the longer they exist, the more resistant they're to the prospect that death may one day embrace them under his cloak of shadow. Duval, to some extent, began to feel the same as the grim transgressions set on him like a pack of hounds had unfolded him like a pack of cards. Mirela, Marcel, his other companions lost or picked off one by one, lost to the ashes that settle in between the paths of cobblestone, or reside as granules in the mud. And now, this... the 'accident', the befuddlement of the mind that led to his once perfectionist noblemen personality complex shattered, taking only a sleepwalk to unconsciously carry out his downfall like a puppet guided by thin strings. Everything took its toll, the mind as fragile as glass, and how quick things seemed to fall from grace so easily, was the only thing Duval seemed to understand from all of this. Yet as he opened the door with George on his heel, an old companion, now an employee of the heir, guiding him to chat, the shame grew on him as fast as a jouster performing for the King of the Crusading Isles.
The thought of expulsion, without the privacy of a confessional box or the sanctions of the church, was an all too frightening prospect, with many avenues to follow, most leading to rejection, and hate, at least in Duvals mind. His mind went places where he shouldn't and he came to once more as he stood outside the guild hall, hand leaning on the door, apparently he'd unconsciously held the door open for George after being lost in his dream state. He blinked twice, holding the lids down hard over his eyes, shaking his head afterward with a hand to come up and pinch his eyes in an exhausted manner. The hand dragged down, looking to the right at George, eyes landing on his blonde hair, before resting on the usual expression the bloke always held, before taking in the air around him with mouth and nose, looking about at the enviroment. "Gods. I've only just realized..."
Duval seemed thunderstruck, bewildered even as he scanned around the place with a finger pointing over each thing, building and stall he looked over, over to his left side before he tutted, hand dropping to his hip like a doll with no muscle. "It's still a shithole." The rogue exasperated as he twirled back to face George once again, left hand on the hip whilst the other rested by his side, sucking in a raspberry from his lips as he looked over his shoulder, before he began to walk past him, tapping him on the shoulder with a pat of his backhand, meandering seemingly nowhere down the street toward the west wall, the wall that had previously been attacked by semi-sentient skeletons, a time that has long since passed, and those bones now burned to be used for other purposes, such as farming.
"Come on you weren't shot in the leg during the war were you? Or are you still 'dieting'?"
Duval chuckled as he walked forward without him, though he stopped once, looking back slightly with eyes looking at the floor, a hand coming up to stroke the wisp of his chin.
"Actually, don't tell me, I know its the latter mate." He shot a finger at the Warden, before he continued down the street with hands in his pockets.
|
|
|
|
Post by rosallora on Feb 24, 2019 21:52:58 GMT -8
It's not quite dawn when they arrive.
The sky is paling in the East, but it isn't the same as it should be - as she knows it to be. It's almost colorless, and instead of the feeling of dawn coming closer it's like watching something else, something stranger, emerge from the horizon. It sends a shiver down her spine. She knows it's nothing, but she has to calm herself anyway, a breath hissing through lightly clenched teeth. She's seen strange things before: sunsets that seem to last for hours because of friendly talk and company, nights that take weeks in their loneliness, winters that stretch like long shadows over withered crops. This is no different, not truly - she tells herself this. No sight can be so different from the pain she has seen before.
Toustain doesn't believe in omens, but maybe she should. The carriage bumps unevenly, cobblestones haphazardly placed and dirt packed in besides. Her fingers run tentatively over the rosary she has in hand as she watches the streets. It's misty here. She's seen mist before. Why, then, does this feel so different? It's cold on the skin the moment the driver opens the small wooden door, it clings to her hand like it wants to guide her somewhere. She thanks the man in a hurry, a smile on her face, and she hopes that she looks grateful. She is. She's come so far to get here.
A few wander about and she knows she must look lost. Between the mist and the never being there before, she is. She heard from another in the carriage that the Abbey was hard to miss, but in the fog, she's genuinely managed it already. It's a struggle to see thirty feet in front of her. There's noises - the sounds of civilization. Talking, quiet, the exchange of secrets? Or was that just how mist made everything feel, covered up, muted...
She shakes her head at herself, and walks forward. Nothing ever good came of standing still for too long.
|
|
|
|
Post by Boo Ghostie on Feb 24, 2019 23:00:11 GMT -8
It seemed normal at this point, almost routine, with another night of debauchery had found its end on the streets. With a lone figure slumped against some miscellaneous building that held no true importance. Not even the tippling of drink or the feign intimacies with a courtesan's company could really grant closure for a mind that simply refused to cope with loss. If wallowing in misery were a profession, then Flynn would be an artisan by this point. And it was no clearer sign than laying on the streets of the lowly Hamlet. Surrounded by broken glass stained with the scent of alcohol.
The sounds of clacking metal plates resonated through the streets as Flynn looked up to see a familiar sight. With vision blurred from both fog and overindulgence, the bounty hunter pushed himself upright, grumbling to himself as the crusader stared down at him with a judgmental aura just stamped on the face of his visor.
"Evenin' Roland." Flynn greeted, his voice rather chipper albeit sluggish. Only to not receive a single word in return. Just a sigh that resonated beneath the crusader's helmet. His silence spoke volumes, like an older brother dealing with his sibling. With armor plated hand, Roland offered out his hand for his inebriated companion. Which Flynn gladly accepted. Pulling himself on to his feet and resting his arm around Roland's shoulder.
"So, there any jobs for us? Or are ya' still whippin' yourself in the abbey?" Flynn let out as the two marched through the streets of the hamlet. Hoping to make their way to their lodging. Roland merely stared back at Flynn dismissively at his comment.
"Ye' ye'. My bad. In all seriousness though, I'll be checkin' the bounty board in the morrow. I doubt the heir would be gettin' any more meat for the grinder." The two found themselves passing by the stagecoach. Finding that they had left a lone figure out in their lonesome. Which gave Flynn a shallow smirk at the sheer coincidence of it all. "Ah, speak o' the devil. Seems like we've got more. If only the guard-... Nevermind. Let's jus' get on our fockin' way."
|
|
|
|
Post by rosallora on Feb 25, 2019 9:01:49 GMT -8
Ah, people! She takes a few steps forward at the sound of conversation. Maybe she could get some instructions to the Abbey and get put to work. She didn't want to keep still, not when she felt that she had been sitting still for days on end. The smell of alcohol hits her as she moves towards the duo, making her nose wrinkle. Ah. Well even if they were inebriated, they could... point.
"Morning, gentlemen..." she realizes she's speaking far too softly too late. She isn't a part of the mist, she shouldn't endeavor to sound like it. She clears her throat. "Morning! Morning. I'm -" asking to get directions to the Abbey would be far too rude. She has to introduce herself, do the dance. But then again... these were the people she would be working for, or with. Either travelers like her or citizens of the Hamlet that she would serve in the Abbey. There was no such thing as a wasted sentence with them! "Toustain Royer. Vestal of the light." There we go, a smile. "It seems the night hasn't been as kind to you as it has to me," she says, look drifting to the less armored of the two. "Then again the carriage ride was rather... exciting, at times."
|
|
|
|
Post by Boo Ghostie on Feb 25, 2019 21:44:18 GMT -8
"Goo mormiff..." Flynn let out with not a care for his drunken destruction of the english language. "Wait is mormiff?" He looked over to Roland only to receive a shrug in return. "Bloody 'ell ye' can't tell the time o' fockin' day around 'ere."
"Nah, the night 'as been pretty good. It thinks I've peaked. But I 'aven't even begun ta' p-Shite!" The bounty hunter attempted to step away from Roland to address the new Vestal, only to stagger off of his own footing. Forcing his ally to pull him back to support his imbalanced state. "Anywho... 'Ehm, introductions introduc- 'roight. The name's Flynn Mc-... Y'know honestly 'at don't bloody matter with the goin' ons. N' this!" The man took a moment to poke at the crusader's plated chest. "This is Roland. 'E don't talk much but. So I tend ta' do that bit fer' the both of us. Ya' needn't worry 'bout 'is stoic nature. He's workin' out some shite."
Flynn took a moment to lowered his bandana to give off a coy looking smirk. Whilst Roland's skull faced visor merely stared at her. It wasn't clear whether or not this stare was meant to convey a feeling of hostility, or just a simple look. A simple fault of a masked helmet that bore imagery of death and yet shown no emotions. It was a strange dichotomy between the two unlikely allies. However given the nature of the hamlet, it did not matter. All walks of life found its way at the doorstep of the Ancestor's sins.
"Don't stare ya' bloke it's a bit rude." Flynn commented at his armored ally. "Anyways... Welcome to the 'ehm... I forgot the name, nor could I read the sign."
|
|
|
|
Post by rosallora on Feb 25, 2019 22:01:21 GMT -8
"Flynn.. and Ser Roland," she says, speaking along as the man drunkenly tried to get his consonants and vowels out in the correct order. The crusader's visor was intimidating to say the least, but so was the slightly drunken smirk that the other was sporting. "Hamlet...?" she supplies. "Estate?" She's starting to feel bad for him. Maybe that's just pity at his situation. She's never had the fortune, or misfortune, to be as inebriated as he was.
"I was actually looking for the Abbey. Or... barracks? I suppose I don't exactly know where I should be. I'd supposed that the Abbey would take me in with me being a vestal... but I realize that they're hardly, ah. Obligated to. And that the other workers? Mercen...aries? I mean they would be housed... elsewhere." Her gaze travels away from them and towards the streets thick with fog. "Not that I'd be able to see any of those other places. But it's very nice to see friendly... welcoming faces." Even if one doesn't have an expression and the other one is zozzled. "You know, Flynn... it might be time for you to retire. And if there's a place, perhaps nearby, where I can.. put my things... delivering you will be just as beneficial to me! If that'd be alright with the two of you," she adds quickly, eyes darting between them.
|
|
|
|
Post by Boo Ghostie on Feb 25, 2019 23:08:48 GMT -8
"Aye, Hamlet... Would 'ave been more respectful o' me ta' refer to it as it's title. Instead o' what it's supposed ta' be." Flynn let on as he nodded at the mention of their names. With Roland giving off a silent bow following suit. "Most newcomers take their stay in the pub. I still do. But I'm fairly sure the Abbey would provide lodgin' fer' the likes of ye'. Ain't that right Roland?"
Flynn already knew the answer to his own question, but to him he felt obligated to at least include his stoic pal to the conversation. "Right... Still, that's very kind of ye'. The tavern is jus' around uhm... Somewhere, but I know that Roland would be marchin' his way back to Abbey after I've been delivered." The bounty hunter looked over to his friend with a bit of a nostalgic smile, "Reminds me o' the hospitality we received when we first came 'ere. Aye Roland? Fockin' 'ell I miss 'er."
The crusader shrugged at his friend's bout of reminiscing, only to gesture with his head for Toustain to follow the two on their march through the fog ridden streets.
|
|
|
|
Post by EtherealNoire on Feb 26, 2019 12:20:54 GMT -8
Talea gifted obeisance to the brisk evening breeze, bowing her head in gratitude for a night devoid of tribulation. Ever subtle were her motions that the air instead seemed to part in their wake, rather than two silent strangers traveling amidst its veils. She could find no further words rolling on her tongue to quell the mortal's reservation, for her mind lingered on the spirits watching beyond.
Miserable..? Dolorous coinage he used, like a bird with broken wings, doomed to forsake its chosen skies. Perhaps.. the souls truly did lament? Perhaps their voices did sing miserable?
She repaid his words with silence, while vacant eyes searched the empty streets. A path lay before him, weary though his spirit weighed on his mind. How far would he follow?
The arcane woman, Florence, sheltered a brief distance beyond, and Talea knew not whether to welcome or resent their conversation's end. He taught her much, yet she understood so little of this foreign emotion. Affection.. Love.. Would she ever grasp its meaning?
As her gaze drifted to the pale lines of her palms, she queried her own purpose. Could love be devotion, or had she branded emptiness eternal on her heart.
The questions lingered on her lips, daring her to inquire of him. To learn. Yet the one voice that answered, that spoke louder than her own, was Fear.
|
|
