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Post by MidnightRunner on Mar 15, 2020 22:32:54 GMT -8
Rellen's steps staccatoed down the stone stairs leading to the Abbey. As he came to the dirt from the last step, his tempo slowed, wandering into the various goers of the Hamlet. With time, his wander became a loop, circling about the Town Square, both lost in thought, and memorizing the unfamiliar streets and buildings around him.
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Post by Kidney on Mar 21, 2020 22:10:03 GMT -8
Steps, along the road. Flamel's tall form rode the line between road and wilderness on the outskirts of the Hamlet, boots tapping against the stones. He was enjoying this, drifting into his own thoughts, thinking on times better than now. He sighed, rolling his shoulders, long hair falling into his face. He raised a hand up, tossing it back, looking towards the square on a whim. He spied a man covered in bandages not far off. He approached slowly, reaching a hand to stroke his beard.
""Allo!" He said, patting the man on the back. "Flamel Anders, Sellsword." He said, extending a hand for a shake.
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Post by MidnightRunner on Mar 22, 2020 5:34:43 GMT -8
Rellen jolted at the sudden friendly action, spinning on his feet into a defensive posture, as if an assassin had the audacity to show them self. His eyes had, at first, an instinctual cold stare, before quickly melting into a warm smile as he calmed himself.
"Eheh, sorry about that." He accepted the handshake firmly. "Name's Rellen, curious to see a Sellsword in this humble abode."
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Post by Kidney on Mar 22, 2020 16:44:14 GMT -8
Upon the jump of Rellen, Flamel leaped back asame, hands outstretched like he had cornered a chicken. He smiled wide, face focused, moving from side to side, "Ah! Okay, okay!" He chuckled, loosening slowly, approaching and shaking the hand of Rellen tightly. "In the midst of all of this, a sellsword is needed!" He gestured to the Estate itself, pointing to the spear and shield upon his back. "How are we supposed to protect this little 'abode', eh?"
He tapped the chest of Rellen then, laughing, "I joke, I joke, it is a humble place. Mwah." Flamel kissed his fingers, extending them to the sky above.
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Post by Kidney on Mar 23, 2020 13:54:33 GMT -8
"Torches. Check." Semyon said, eyes squinting in the direction of the bundle of 4 torches that settled into his beefy arms. He eyed Aurora, additionally around him, standing smug, as he imagined her. Though, being not the brightest, he did not notice her aura of contempt. "You have your lure, yes?" He said then, a bit of a bark, in her direction, speaking about his gift from their first meeting.
"We can make rod when we arrive." He said again, a sly smirk appearing on his mustached face, "Heh. Rod. Fucking english."
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Post by rosallora on Mar 25, 2020 10:37:03 GMT -8
"I am quite ready, yes. I have your... lure." She's unhappy about the situation - having to go about in her nice clothing into the dankest of settings. "At least buy us some bread and meat so we'll have something to eat when we get there. From what I understand fishing is a profession that requires some patience. So get something to assuage what I'm sure will be your wanting stomach."
She stands with hip cocked, looking at the greasy and yellow-toothed man in front of them. "He's paying, of course," she says, indicating Semyon.
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Post by Kidney on Mar 25, 2020 11:05:00 GMT -8
Semyon looked to Aurora with some hesitation, then a bit of a smirk. His laughter echoed against the inside of the Caretaker's cart, and he turned towards the jester. "Oh? Am I?" He spoke with a deserved amount of frustration, and a small bit of grit. "We fish hungry. Sharpens eyes, quiets mouth." He looked back towards the Caretaker again, "Sorry, but no."
The Rus took a few short steps past Aurora and the yellow-toothed man, looking back towards Aurora's face, not altogether caring how she felt. "Bring lure, walk softly."
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Post by rosallora on Mar 25, 2020 11:52:13 GMT -8
"Christ, not an ounce of courtesy." She steps away from the rather disturbing man's gaze, scoffing to herself. "I'm coming, I'm walking." She grumbles lightly under her breath, thinking that he wouldn't even appreciate her songs if she deigned him worthy to play to. She wasn't going to give up her gold for a few mealy morsels, that was for sure.
She walks down the road, towards the salty smell of the cove. Her hurdy gurdy is solid in her hands, and her dagger sharp at her side. At least she felt prepared. For a fucking fishing trip, at least.
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Post by MidnightRunner on Mar 26, 2020 10:23:42 GMT -8
Rellen nodded curtly with a smile, chuckling when his new acquaintance tapped his chest. He gazed around promptly before turning his attention back. "The joke is in good taste friend, they come in many colors, and... smells." He noted the spear and shield.
"Though, people like us have them mixed and muted."
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Post by nox14 on Apr 13, 2020 21:23:51 GMT -8
The coach rolled in on its rickety wheels, and came to a stop just outside the towns tavern. Door opening on overused and under oiled hinges with a screech, out stepped a man carrying two large bags of belongings. Kor Hael Ezekiel Kasky II stepped out onto the old, pitted ground of the town square and immediately noticed one thing in particular as soon as his boot clacked on the ground.
His brand was itching.
It was one of his many superstitions, but when his brand itched, it usually meant something was wrong. Looking around, he snorted in derision. It was hardly the most run down place he had been, but when you had been to the most Lightforsaken places in this corner of the world that was hardly a compliment. Looking around, the witch-hunter quickly made his way to what he could pick out as the blacksmiths forge, and came out after a short visit with one less bag. King and Queen were gone, as was his dilapidated warplate. However, he now had coin in his pocket. Enough for a bed and a cold drink, at the least.
Now, the once fearsome Hammer of Witches looked rather defeated. Shoulders slumped, clothes tattered and once vibrant green eyes dulled by weariness. He looked around for someone who seemed familiar with the place, eyes darting back and forth between the sleepy buildings. He had answered the call, and was now seeking someone to answer him.
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Post by Kidney on Apr 13, 2020 21:46:02 GMT -8
Upon the Old Road, there was the clattering of hooves on old cobblestone, and the cackling of a madman, and the silence that followed a man realizing his dreams were dead.
Within the confines of the Caravan, settled on barely-padded seats, sat Churchill, Master of None. His eyes lay focused on the trees and briers through the window, and his hands sat tangled together, fingers that could only bear to touch themselves, never to touch grace again. His dark face was solemn, like stone, settled in position, the moonlight cast upon it like dust on an old bust. With every bump, every movement, his plate armor clanked upon itself, but it held court now, within this dark prison.
Churchill grasped the sheath of his great Flamberge in an act of defiance, and self-preservation. What followed that movement was the placement of cold steel to his scarred temple. The great man that sat next to him was known as Black Knight Gael. His dark, spiked armor did not clink the same way Churchill did, and his ungauntletted hand held onto the dark steel pistol with righteous fury. Had he the opportunity, he would have blown Churchill's brains across the inside of this cart, and leave the body as a symbol of The Faith. But, he steadied himself, and turned his dark tower of a helmet to the hand that Churchill wrapped around his blade's length.
Churchill's hand, slow as the sun's crawl across the day's sky, pulled his hand away. And with his hand, the pistol fell back to Gael's lap, though its end still pointed to Churchill's skull. Churchill frowned, eyes turning away from the dark world outside, and to the cold floor of the caravan. Gael took a deep breath.
Churchill winced as Gael punched the ceiling of the caravan. The Caretaker's cackles ceased for but a moment as the vehicle suddenly stopped. Gael's gaze was more turned towards Churchill's form, and it remained there as he slowly, purposefully, exited the caravan. He aimed but one word to Churchill, before slamming the door shut with zealous finality. "Repent."
Churchill's head fell into his hands as the caravan started back on its trail towards his damnation. He did not cry, but instead sulked, and allowed his eyes to finally rest, a full breath to fill his lungs, and true horror to settle in his mind. He pressed a fingertip to the inflated flesh beneath his left eye, trailing it across where it swollen shut, and shuddering in the presence of the pain it wrought, emotional and physical. A parting gift.
The caravan stopped, and Churchill rose from his slumped position, and reached for his blade once more.
The process was slow, and The Caretaker got to the door before Churchill did, he held his flamberge close, like a prized possession, before shambling forth from the caravan's entrance. He carried in his arms his blade and his helmet, of which he both attached to himself in one way or another, placing his sugar-loaf helm upon his head and his greatsword on his hip. His eyes took in many sights, though he simply stood, trying to block it from view. He could not accept it, truly. Was this his destiny? Was this a reward for his life of service to The Light?
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Post by speakeroftruths on Apr 14, 2020 8:37:08 GMT -8
"You alright, friend?"
The figure approaching Churchill is a thin, bald... hunter? Their form is concealed by what appear to be clerical robes with treated animal skins overladen, the crossbow and quiver giving lie to the image of rural priesthood. On their androgynous face is a simple bandage covering one cheek, the plaster already looking to be melting in the wet weather.
"You look like you've taken a bit of a beating. Were you accosted on the road?"
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Post by Kidney on Apr 14, 2020 9:12:17 GMT -8
The form ahead of Andy straightened up, casting a honey-colored eye to the Hunter, growing stoic. What stood ahead of him was a helmeted figure, a crusader in every aspect, lean, tall and armed. No words came from him for a moment, and he looked the person ahead of himself for a moment, taking in what details he could. Rage built within him, his face was not meant to be seen. He let out a deep breath, "What does it look like?" He said, indignant, hostile, perhaps.
The man ahead seemed capable enough, but he...they...seemed strange. Churchill was less than pleased that they had seen damage upon him. All he truly wanted was a place to pray, and to heal. The sight of this place, and its first resident, it brought him great pain.
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Post by speakeroftruths on Apr 14, 2020 9:32:22 GMT -8
A brief frown etches its way across Andy's face before they temper back to a neutral expression. Internally, they chide themselves for the lack of disciple that caused the momentary lapse, but the damn itching has spread down their arms and the Whispers are speaking in the back of their mind in just such a way that it is impossible to make out anything useful. They shake their head lightly to clear it, before turning to that old an true method of sizing someone up. Their eyes dance up and down, taking in the little details as they go in their piercing manner.
"It looks like you were moving with hesitation that implies a recent injury. When I spoke to you, the manner in which you reacted implies that you have but one functioning eye, whether permanently or temporarily I could not say without you removing your helm. Your blade and kit mark you as a holy warrior, though your heraldry is not one of an order I recognize offhand. All told, it looks like you are an injured crusader, and I too am of an order sanctified in the Light, it is only right that servants of the Flame offer each other aid."
They shift a section of their furs aside, revealing a small badge with an inverted flame upon their chest.
"As I have marked the pain affecting you as from the head, it is also possible you have been concussed. Which is why I thought it best to approach as soon as I noted you."
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Post by nox14 on Apr 14, 2020 10:01:18 GMT -8
Kor Hael, who had been standing nearby running his hands over the ornate hilt of his rapier, perked up as he heard the mention of the Light and servants thereof. The witch-hunter, turning and taking a few tentative steps toward the pair. They certainly looked a rough lot, between the fur covered robes and suit of plate armor they wore. He squared his shoulders toward them, regaining a measure of his once imposing presence.
"Sirs." He cleared his throat, looking almost uncomfortable at having to use basic manners. "I'm sorry to bother the both of you, but from what I overheard it would be in my best interests to seek out fellow servants of the Light to form companionship with in this... place." The words escaped Kor Hael, an expression of frustration flashed on his face that he managed to push aside well enough in an effort to present himself as close to 'friendly' as possible despite his raggedy appearance.
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