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Post by rosallora on Aug 4, 2019 18:21:26 GMT -8
Aurora looks at the Rus, at the new arrival, and just nods her head. "Sure, I could use someone watching my back. Never know what's going to be out there, I guess. Bandits and the like." He didn't look like much. But meat was meat, and if she needed to put some between her and danger, she needed it there to throw. "Don't have much coin on hand to get the supplies, though. I'm guessing we'll need... fishing rods." She squints at the idea. Fishing. That was something poor people did. Then again, she was certainly poor people now.
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Post by Kidney on Aug 5, 2019 7:09:33 GMT -8
Semyon, with grand vigor and a mighty smile, he opened his arms wide and yelled, "Of course you can come! Though, is speedy trip!" He explained, reaching around himself to grasp at his backpack. Yanking it open quickly, he suddenly brandished a roll of paper maybe...2 and a half feet in length, handing it to Aurora.
He next looked to Julian, offering a placid glance before pulling a large knife from his leg, flipping the blade and holding out the handle to Julian. "But, only if you take my finka."
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Post by azmoham on Aug 11, 2019 9:14:54 GMT -8
His thumb rubbing idlyover the polisher surface of his sword's pommel, Giles had hardly noticed the first time he had heard the distinctly-accented tones of Semyon's voice. The second shout, which rang like a bell through the square, caught his attention and he had at last paused his pursuit to look briefly about, looking for the source. He found it readily enough in the shorter man, who appeared in the middle of conversation with someone. The blonde young man's ears perked up, so to speak, and he approached with a self-confident stride, his hands which had so far been stuffed into pockets he now removed in order to tip his hat to the lady it was now apparent Semyon was conversing with. Allowing for a shallow bow and deep nod of the head, hat doffed in courtesy, Julian popped back up again like some children's toy, a nervous energy faintly detectable around him, as if he had just received the news that all his most imposing in-laws would be coming to visit on the same day. "Good day to you miss, I see you've made the acquaintance of Semyon here, quite the cracking old thing isn't he?" he smiled broadly, nodding to Semyon like a dog or a prized pupil. "I do hope I'm not interrupting." he said after an slightly uncomfortable moment of silence.
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Post by Spookery π on Aug 11, 2019 10:46:01 GMT -8
Julian blinked in surprise at the knife being held out to him. He wasn't sure what a finka was, beyond a knife, but he supposed the man was expecting him to gut fish with it. Or something. He didn't know what else he'd need a knife for on a fishing trip. Still, he reached out to take it from him gingerly and gave him a small smile.
"Thank you," he offered awkwardly. "I'll m-make sure it finds its way back to you afterward." The knife felt heavy in his thin hands. "Madam has a f-fair point. We do need fishing supplies..."
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Post by rosallora on Aug 11, 2019 11:23:18 GMT -8
She takes the paper with the spirit of someone who has always owned the paper. She opens it up, looking upon it. A map. Interesting. She rolls it back up, the crude squiggles upon it no doubt useful to them. She casts her eyes then to one of the newcomers, looking at his better apparel and far better manners. A tip of the hat - how novel in this backwater. How sad that it's notable. Ugh. Her standards are headed straight for the chamber-pot.
"A knife and a map aren't enough - he's right." She gestures with her own dirk to the thin thing that looked like he could get knocked over by a strong wind. Her attention goes back to the well-dressed man, shifting her weight. "I'd suppose if you know this man and the task he has set out for us, you know a better means of catching fish. A rod. A net." She punctuates each consonant, irritated by the Rus' impertinence and lack of explanation. "You know. The tools of the trade."
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Post by Kidney on Aug 11, 2019 14:11:14 GMT -8
Semyon, suddenly assailed by friends and strangers alike, giggled and clapped his hands together. Though, as time dwindled, and questions assailed him harder than the others did, he did think on his response for some time. He did indeed have a fishing pole, with an entire satchel of tackle, and fishing hooks throughout his hat, but his reluctance to give them up became apparent.
Though, in the presence of dearest Giles, and the idea that the Hamlet did not have much in form of fishing tackle, Semyon relented. Setting his satchel to the ground, the Rus began to pull forth the Tools of The Trade.
First came forth a well-taken-care-of net, of which surrounded a leathery satchel. Unwrapping the net partially, he sadly pulled forth a collapsed fishing pole. Each individual piece was both wooden and hand-made, and a spool of fishline sat next to it. Wrapping the bundle back together nicely, Semyon brought it to Giles, handing it to him with care. "Giles, take." He said, leaving the bundle to the man.
Next, Semyon took his furred hat from his head like a crusader removing his helm, and took four flashy hook-lures. Staring at the group once more, he delivered a hook to each of them, choosing one from the stack. He first grasped a small wormish lure, yellow in color with browning spots on the sides, and gave it to Julian.
Next, he ventured to Aurora, who received a greenish fish-like lure from the small Rus. The little fish seemed to be made in the image of a sardine or guppy, some sort of smallish aquatic critter. With that, he took the other two and stuck them back into his hat, staring at the group. "That was hard part, now, when get supplies, grab string. Next, punch hole," he said, using a finger for emphasis, "in sturdy stick or branch, and throw lure with line or string into water."
The Rus next shrugged, "I have heard that any man can catch fish at this spot, so even crude...eh...things can catch fish. Yes."
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Post by azmoham on Aug 11, 2019 22:08:28 GMT -8
"Well it seems I rather have interrupted something, haven't I?" Giles said in the tone of a man who was now deeply regretting his situation, fighting to keep a grimace from his face as he held the rod like some sort of venomous snake. "Fishing, mmmm. Quite a bracing venture I'm sure but not the one I've come to pursue unfortunately." He said in a way that implied he'd didn't find it at all unfortunate, and indeed was rather relieved. His smile faltered for a moment as he took notice of the third man, one he had heretofore failed to realized was even there. "Ah! My apologies sir, and madame" he looked quickly from Julian to Aurora with a look of almost comical sincerity. "I've only just realized I've yet to give you my name! Ensign, ahem, former Ensign Giles J. Knight, at your service and pleasure." He nodded once more to Aurora and for the first time to Julian, his face now the picture of a pride which Giles did poorly masking.
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Post by Spookery π on Aug 26, 2019 15:44:19 GMT -8
His instructions were crude, but at least they would be next to impossible to do incorrectly. Or, at least, for someone that wasn't Julian. He had a feeling he could still do it improperly. He held the lure up to the light and turned it so the sun glinted off the yellow sides. If the main purpose of the trip was fishing, so be it. He would attempt to fish. He wasn't quite used to aquatic botany, but he could still maintain his own little purpose of collecting samples along expeditions.
"Well, then. I suppose that was the hard part," he mused. "So long as one of you knows where to g-get a hold of fishing line, I only need long enough to grab my own supply bag." The doctor gave them both a sheepish grin. "Wouldn't b-be much of a medic without my kit, I'm afraid."
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Post by rosallora on Aug 26, 2019 17:52:53 GMT -8
Aurora looks at her.... gift.
Right. Gift.
At least she could pretend the thing was some sort of emerald, and it did match her outfit. So that wasn't a complete loss. Her eyes keep going to this... former knight, whoever the son of a bitch was. The Rus hands the knight (former knight, she reminds her self, God why even introduce yourself as any sort of noble if you're just going to downgrade yourself afterwards, what a fucking disgrace, people here had no class) the materials, and the man goes on to say that no, he won't be joining them. He has other things to do, apparently. He was too good for this little JAUNT.
Aurora snatches the things out of the man's arms. "Well if you aren't coming, I'd assume these are for us. Net, line, all that." she has no bag of her own and ends up pushing the load into the other, thin man's arms, snapping her fingers. "Put it away; we'll need it. Thank you for pushing it along, Giles." Aurora looks at the Russian, her slight impatience wearing on her facade of pleasantry. "I'm sure that we'll have a fine enough job fishing. How hard could it be?"
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Post by Kidney on Aug 26, 2019 21:07:59 GMT -8
Semyon shrugged, "Well, I would assume." He stated, staring around to the strange band, but smiling all the same at their preparedness, or lack thereof, and overall zeal. If he could call it that. His hands returned to his hat, adjusting it slightly, feet shifting in the dirt as he rustled himself, kicking a bit of dust from his shoulders.
"Oh!" Semyon remembered something, "Remember, run from Mermaids."
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Post by Bloodtrailkiller on Aug 30, 2019 6:51:40 GMT -8
/Beneaimos/
The Old Road was bumpy, and jostled the Leper like a bundle of sticks in its wooded confines. If but for the cushioned seats the man was certain he'd be aught be about as useful as one by the time the ride was over... Yet he was still thankful for the journey, far and away from the burning dunes and dry air. Thankful for this experience, grim and uncomfortable as it was.
He cast his eyeless visage of ceramic white to gaze out the window, where he knew it lay for he'd used it as a handhold to clambor inside this glorified coffin on wheels. Ben did not need eyes, however, to feel the evil that lingered just beyond the confines of the carriage; haunting the pressed Dark with bated breath and clenched claw... He'd seen evils before, yet there was evil beyond his imagination in the shapeless shadows of his mask.
Tendrils coiled, a thousand eyes and a thousand mouths, limbs and hands groping in the air in silent peril... His imagination was a curse in the eternal slumbering dark imbued upon him through the mask. Yet he blinked and a wash of red freed him of his imaginings.
A droplet of blood fell from the chin of his mask and onto the floor, a sound he heard more than felt. He paid it no mind as he tightened the bandages about his face, securing his mask and wincing at the sharp tug and shift, slight as it may be.
Yet for all the terror wrought in his mind's eye, he trembled not. For this was his purpose, no sign had led him in any direction but here... to the Darkest Dungeons.
He paid the rumors mind, when he'd fled from the City that Bled, and knew there was no other place in the world where his manner and make ought rot. He did not fit in this world, not anymore.
Hoarsely, he coughed and rubbed the gilded kite at his throat, soothing the muscles there. The air was wet and heavy, and it made it hard to breathe at times... a prospect he'd not considered from his haunting of the dunes. He prayed it would not prove his undoing... That was his only fear, to be true; to be sub par for the task laid before him. The task bidden by the Red... The one who'd made him endure, to fight, to win. With a sigh, Beneaimos shook his head and pulled his hood further down his face, tighter so the warmth of the cotton would reach the depths of his rancid flesh. Desperately feeling for the desert sun and warmth lingering still in its sanguine hue.
But it was long since gone... some years ago, perhaps. He'd spent too many days on the road, away from where he might have heard bird's chirp and owls hoot. He managed a small whimper before the carriage came to an abrupt halt; the Caretaker's snickering finally coming to a sigh, before starting up again.
He assumed to open the door and step out into the mud of the Estate. The realm was Dark, as its namesake, and he could feel the stress looming over the unseen crowds like a plague. It was not a pleasant place, but he knew himself not to be a pleasant man; he knew it was a match made before he was born.
Though the warmth of his homeland had fled his silks and cottons, he still remembered its songs; he started up a hum, Sigmazam, he knew its name and he began a slow, trepidatious walk forward as his head swivelled about; as if to see without his eyes. His hands fished about his satchel and pulled free a handful of oats, which he began to throw about himself in an underhanded, casual manner. Finding the statue at the center, he shuffled over to it and placed a hand on it to ground himself, before sighing and moving on; walking in a straight line, tossing oats afront himself, then to his left, then to his right, then afront again...
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Post by relentless on Sept 3, 2019 6:45:32 GMT -8
// Gandry //
The wooden confines of the carriage that had stopped would bare one more individual, a quiet man who had shrouded himself in the shadows of the corner. He stayed there for a while longer, sceptical of his arrival to the Hamlet. A place he had known on the other side of the fence.
Affixed to his knifes, the man rubbed them clean against the rough texture of his thinly plated greaves, grime and dirt from his voyage to the stagecoach washing up on the chipped and dented metal protection he wore. Eventually, he would spy upwards through the thin glass and wooden frame of the window to the stagecoach, looking up high to the grey clouds, that masked a sunlight that had been forgotten long ago.
"Hmph."
Was all Gandry could manage, before he turned over his seat, and began to make his way off the stagecoach. Although he had no connections to the land or its horrors, since his area of work was beyond the dangerous areas that lurked. Well, if you weren't a brigand that is.
~~
His jackboots grinded against the grit and the mud, many footprints had been pressed all around this area, some aged beyond compare, some new. Through his domed armet, he surveyed his surroundings with some caution, before giving a gentle tug on the hood over his helmet, stuffing hands into pockets and making his way somewhere else. For a while he had looked at this place as an outsider, but now...
The mans defensive, and altogether cautious walk would bring him close to the leper throwing oats about the place. There was no emotional sign of how he viewed this action, he just stood there about eight meters off to his left from the statue, hands stuffed into his pockets and looking down at the oats he had already thrown. The man cleared his nose with a sniff, and moved to one side of the statue, and leaning against the stone base with arms crossed as he threw one leg over the other, stretching them idly from the long ride. Gandry watched as the man walked off, and considering that they had shared a ride... albeit unknowingly, an attempt would eventually had to have been made to gather fighters. Coin makes the world go round, for Gandry at least.
"Wasting food."
Gandry called out to Beneaimos, raising his head from the ground, the hooded visage staring at the back of the man. He had nothing more to say, other than to voice what he was seeing. The posture would remain, standing in a relaxed, casual manner.
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Post by Boo Ghostie on Sept 3, 2019 14:24:44 GMT -8
The rattling of armor and the clacking of plated boot against stone echoed through the air as Roland pushed his way past the Abbey doors. It was an odd sight, a man covered head to toe with darkened steel and macabre iconography marching alongside a sister whose attire simply radiated the glory of the Holy Flame itself. However the two were both driven by divine purpose. A crusade was soon to be taking root. And it was only a matter of time before a proper warband to muster.
Roland peered through his visor at the Hamlet Streets. The shadow casting down against his face concealing his eyes, leaving but the skull embossing of his helmet staring down judgement to those who may be deemed worthy of taking up arms against the coming darkness. The penitent crusader remained stoic, for it was not his place to speak. He was a sword, a tool of the Holy Light to strike down its enemies. And it was the duty of the Light's speakers to command.
Such was the sacred balance between church and militant.
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Post by Bloodtrailkiller on Sept 3, 2019 15:55:12 GMT -8
Beneaimos turned sharply, almost unnaturally turning his upper body to face the noise Gandry made with his lips; he could almost imagine the weathered sellsword. He'd seen many in his time before he'd lost sight, they were oft as unique as they were familiar... Each straining to get money to stand out more. There was a beauty in their simplistic aims, but he could admire it.
"Hello." Beneaimos replied merrily, though his voice was horse and hissing as he bowed his mask and turned to face Gandry in full.
The Leper plucked out an oat, cast his eyeless mask's gaze to it, then Gandry, before throwing it squarely at the Sellsword's forehead.
"I have lots. Oats can serve things aside..." He hummed, or rather, grumbled in thought, "... satiation." He decided would be a good word before nodding,
"I seek a dead thing. A-ah, or... no... Introductions..." He stammered and tapped the chin of his mask, "... I -eneai-os..." He grumbled again and traced out the letter 'B'
"-eneai'os.", he nodded, "And you?" He inquired but his attentions snapped to the sound of metal shuffling, plate armor and faith in their footsteps.
He hummed, a sound closer to a man gargling on his last blood.
Absently, he began to throw oats in the direction of Roard and Harina; the oats flying higher and falling closer towards them.
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Post by relentless on Sept 4, 2019 3:53:10 GMT -8
Beneaimos turned sharply, almost unnaturally turning his upper body to face the noise Gandry made with his lips; he could almost imagine the weathered sellsword. He'd seen many in his time before he'd lost sight, they were oft as unique as they were familiar... Each straining to get money to stand out more. There was a beauty in their simplistic aims, but he could admire it. "Hello." Beneaimos replied merrily, though his voice was horse and hissing as he bowed his mask and turned to face Gandry in full. The Leper plucked out an oat, cast his eyeless mask's gaze to it, then Gandry, before throwing it squarely at the Sellsword's forehead. "I have lots. Oats can serve things aside..." He hummed, or rather, grumbled in thought, "... satiation." He decided would be a good word before nodding, "I seek a dead thing. A-ah, or... no... Introductions..." He stammered and tapped the chin of his mask, "... I -eneai-os..." He grumbled again and traced out the letter 'B' "-eneai'os.", he nodded, "And you?" He inquired but his attentions snapped to the sound of metal shuffling, plate armor and faith in their footsteps. He hummed, a sound closer to a man gargling on his last blood. Absently, he began to throw oats in the direction of Roard and Harina; the oats flying higher and falling closer towards them. // Gandry //
It was a strange looking man, a culture of attire that he had never seen. Bedecked in gold wrappings and draped in silk, to Gandry it was something you'd read out of a childrens book. That saying, he never read much of them, so he wouldn't really know. He let him talk, slipping the name in his pocket, despite it being crudely pronounced he was able to understand it. Ben, that was as much as he'd be arsed keeping to memory.
The crossing of the sell swords arms tightened in between each other, taking a few seconds more to give reply, whilst watching the oats fly behind him toward two other individuals from a distance.
"Gandry."
It was all that was needed in reply, a share of contacts, the more the better. He looked back at him, though eyes shadowed by the dome armet steeled onto the white mask he wore. Like Gandry, looked like he had something to hide, but he could understand the sentiment. "Here for 'work'?"
Gandry inquired, inquisitive and suggestive in his approach in regards to expeditions and what have you.
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