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Post by Dane Outlast on Jul 14, 2020 17:23:41 GMT -8
"I think you already know that! That fucking Tyrant still wants my head after three years and keeps sending more and more of you bounty hunters at me! I have already had to kill so many of you, and I will kill a lot more! Leave me the hell alone!" *stands still and keeps my sword at the ready, fully willing to kill the man standing in front of him.*
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Post by Kidney on Jul 16, 2020 21:30:44 GMT -8
Dane's face twisted into confused frustration, and with a snort he turned away from the man entirely. "Feh."
His next action was to pick up and hurl a stone over a building some 40 yards away with a rough yell, and stomping off away towards The Tavern, his gaze locked on the door, his mind far away from everything else, somewhere darker, with bile in the gutters and blood in the soil. His hand impacted the door for a moment, before he looked back to the panicked man with his sword still out. "Go back to sitting, heathen!"
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Post by Dane Outlast on Jul 16, 2020 21:41:28 GMT -8
*Dane's body relaxes a bit* 'maybe I overreacted a bit....' *Dane goes back to sitting and thinking about what he should do, finally deciding to stand up and walk into the tavern to say sorry to the man he saw earlier, he sees a tavern full of people, but quickly finds the man and approaches him*
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Post by MidnightRunner on Jul 20, 2020 14:50:17 GMT -8
Rhaan shifted his weight from one leg to another, giving a light chuckle. “I can say the same for potatoes, boiled, mashed, stuck in stew, though it seems you know more to cheese than you let on.” The tall man stretched the bandaged arm for a moment before sheathing it behind his back again, letting out a smile at a passing thought. “To smell like cheese would in a way, be quaint, a large step above being without the smell of good food for a week. It would be quite the world, though I‘ll constantly be hungry.”
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Post by relentless on Jul 23, 2020 1:06:38 GMT -8
|| The Road, leading into the Hamlet ||
Upon the dirt trodden road, where mud water mixed to form a slowing sludge, and the fog persisted among the trees and in the bankings of the warping terrain, from upon the clear view of the road, a robe clad individual walked down its pathing, having denied transport. The bottom hem of the individuals robe was dirty and laced with strains of mud from the walking, and on the underside of his robe, the man wore what could only be described as a monks clogs. They raised him above the ground slightly so that the mud would not touch his soles, nor the majority of his apparel. The most notable thing however, was a large ceremonial urn made from what seemed to be as simple hardened ceramic, though around the material, runic etchings were apparent, faint and otherwise decorative at first glance. A hemp rope binding was used to secure the urn in place, and was carried much like a backpack. Viktor did not seem to mind as he walked quite normally, his posture straight, considering how the hemp rope was otherwise binded to him quite nicely.
The ramshackle bone mask would be hung from the neck, dangling down the chest in a jingling assortment of various facial bones, tinted a dark blue, and glittering with a smear of melted gold. Upon his head, the conical hat was worn upon his scalp, pointing upward, black and otherwise dreary. The same clogs would eventually meet with the cobblestone of the bridge, having already shown the advertisement that the ancestor had sent out far and wide to the estates guards, he had no troubles moving in. Viktor Menkenhof slowly made his way into the Hamlet, hands clenched together in prayer, the man quietly made his way down the alleys and the roads, eventually finding refuge against a wall to lean on, just beside the Tavern within the entrance of an Alley. The urn was withdrawn from his shoulders as he shrugged off the hemp rope, robes creased since the binding of the hemp rope had been drawn on the man for a while. With a pivot and a careful nature, Viktor squatted partially to allow the Urn to be seated next to him. Viktor turns and leans against the wall, thin and wiry hands coming up to comb the conical hatpiece downward, revealing the mans somber, thin and haggard look.
He took a moment to take in a moment of respite, stretching and turning as to creak the body into a repairable state of affairs. A hand comes up to the top of the urn once he's done, giving it a brief pat, before he'd withdraw a small ball with holes in it, a censer. He'd withdraw what could be described as a semi long stick, the top of it blackened and laced with a minor ignitable substance. The collector strikes the sticks against the coarseness of his robe, setting it alight, where he would insert the ember stricken stick into the censer via one of the holes, and holding it there. Eventually, small wafts of smoke would begin to emit from the censers holes, and depositing the stick back into his satchel, the figure calmly allows the censer to sway from left to right, the smoke wafting around. After this, the man would continue to do it, simply remaining in a dull silence, essentially taking the time to regain strength and composure.
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Post by rosallora on Aug 1, 2020 9:10:25 GMT -8
In Regards to A Haunting We Will Go
[Sal Faerth]
It'd be enough to say that she was tired. She must be, if her crew had been able to beat her down this absolutely. Get someone to expunge the ghosts, they said. The ship's haunted, they said.
What a load of bullshit.
Regardless. They'd been making good money lately, and the mercenaries here were cheap and most of them didn't startle too easily. But she doubts that any of them would take on this task for chump change. This was just a tactic to make them all shut up about it. Damn ghosts. She takes the hammer and a nail she'd swiped from Hickory's quarters and lifts up the piece of paper, tacking it overtop of one of the other papers that she honestly didn't care much about. She stands back, surveying her work (slightly crooked but serviceable) and shrugs her shoulders.
"It'll just stay tacked up forever," she mutters. "It's not like anyone will answer it."
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Post by The Carrying Blade on Aug 3, 2020 12:21:18 GMT -8
As Ellie exited the Tavern she checked her person, making sure in the easiest pocket held her average looking dagger she had gotten before she went to hibernate. Learning to have something other than her beast form would be invaluable for any future expedition where her beast form might not be the best choice was paramount in her eyes. But, now as she walked towards the bounty board, she wondered if she should learn something a big bigger. Maybe not a sword but like a mace she sometimes saw those holy Vestal’s used. Until then though, she would use what she got and see how it faired for her now.
As she approached the board she would comb them over and tried to find the easier ones to ease her way back into expeditions. One about cleansing dark rituals seemed good. But fiiirst, the one about investigating a possibly haunted ship by spending the night. There were a couple of good things about this one. There was the fact she got a free place to sleep for a day, she would get paid for spending the night, and there was a chance the ship might not be haunted and she could score a free meal with the trespasser if it came to it.
“Well that should be good, wonder where I can find this ‘Captain Sal.’” She said aloud, smiling as she looked about in case Sal was actually closer by than the docks.
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Post by Kidney on Aug 3, 2020 18:50:03 GMT -8
Tod's tentative steps into the Square were fraught with burden and ragged thought. Each idea in his head was a rasping file on the inside of his transient skull. The images of blood and death wracked him, in a strange way, he felt greater amounts of displeasure from the bruising then the attempted murder...and murder. He felt himself growing more jaded with each passing day, and the age showed on his once young face. A hollow, tired expression settled on a matching complexion.
The time had come to abscond to a different location for a while, to earn coin, and escape the bloodstains for a long enough while to get some sleep by a fire after a long day's dungeoneering. The first time had been abysmal, sure, but this one couldn't possibly be any worse. On his approach he spied two others congregating by the Board, which brought a small smile and a bit of hope to Tod's sheepish face. He approached with a gentle 'Hello!' and wave, skirting around Sal and Ellie in an attempt to get a good look at the page.
What he spied, he liked, very much. The existence of ghosts was very much a debated topic, but spirits inhabiting a ship in The Hamlet seemingly piqued his imagination enough to investigate, for coin, nonetheless.
"Ah, indeed!" Said the young man, rolling his shoulders and adjusting his coat. "Exorcism seems the likely solution, that of which...I can provide." The last word piqued on its own, a question, but a mostly solid one, a question of execution rather than concept.
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Post by brazilianguy on Aug 6, 2020 19:32:55 GMT -8
/ Sascha Holzmann and Milo /It is the start of the second week of Sascha in the Hamlet and after a sounding arrival, to arouse attention to the sale she needed to conduct, the investigator became the opposite. She became a silent person and her dogs, the same. No barking, no mess. Not talking in public, but at the same time, all the time out there, in the streets. Most of the day time at the square, just observing people. Her presence and the dogs in the first days always draw attention. But with the time passing, more and more she became part of the landscape and whoever was too focused on their own business, would easily miss her completely. In the night, she was still there, lurking between buildings and streets. She was rarely spotted at night, and when it so happened, in the middle of a dark street, with a collection of jaws at her side, people would just move forward. If asked by someone, she would completely ignore it.
That wasn't necessary her usual behavior, but when you're on the hunt, sometimes is needed to act like the beast, to understand it, to think like it. It helped as well in avoiding many unnecessary social interactions or creating bonds. Sascha didn't came to make friends or to stay. She wanted to finish her errands in this dreadful place and leave. "Yes, Milo, you smelled it, right? Even I can smell it." she thought, looking to the dobermann, that have its eyes forward. From a distance, Sascha follows to quietly point her sight on the same point of the dog, checking 3 people gathered over a sign on the Bounty Board. For now she remained in her position, observing her prey.  Milo lets escape an almost inaudible snarl and Sascha immediately pat the side of its torso two times, with her eyes sharp on one of those three, speaking softly: "Not now... not with this much people around."
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Post by rosallora on Aug 6, 2020 21:39:45 GMT -8
[Saoirse]
She wanders down one of the thoroughfares, weaving between a couple houses and coming through an alley on the other side. Drops of water run down the cobbles and join with the rivulets that run through this town. Not her town. Someone else's town.
She sings a little ditty to herself, mostly off key.
"If I were followin'
Your eyes your eyes your eyes,
Then I would most certainly
Find the prize the prize the prize,
And if'n you were willin'
Then I'd share and share again,
Unless you were a selfish prick
And I'd kill ya in the fen,
In the fen, in the fen,
In the wild wiltin' fen - oh darlin' -
Be swallowed up an' mind yourself
Gold doesn't shine through, even a lick.
If I were followin'
Your hands your hands your hands,
Then I would most certainly
Find the fairest maiden in the land,
And I be knowin' I'm not showin'
My face ain't a sky, it's clouded fog,
So I'll settle for your severed wrist
An' throw your body in the bog.
In the bog, in the bog,
In the broilin' nasty bog - oh darlin' -
Breathe no more an' mind yourself
Loves' lips don't touch a muddy bottom."
She continues on as she wobbles through town, heavy-stomached from beast and vegetable alike. She forgets the words of the third verse, ba-da-ba-ing her way through it as she splashes a puddle with her boot.
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Post by Kidney on Aug 6, 2020 21:51:00 GMT -8
The air is cold and wet, and her song ricochets between buildings and through alley and window. His steps were much softer, a bit of muddy fur suddenly tied to the bottoms of his boots, and his hands clasped around the metallic cap of a maroon and black helmet. Metallic strips of steel reinforce a veil of dark fabric attached to the main frame. With a small adjustment, he placed the helm upon his skull, and tied the strap at the bottom.
He was behind her for an uncomfortable amount of time. Each stoned road is a path closer, and as she sings and she shifts, the man behind her shifts alongside her. He sees her stop, and he is four...three...two...one pace behind her. His voice is a block of obsidian attached to a wooden handle, a cruel instrument of pain. But unused, sharp edge merely placed against soft metaphorical flesh. "Nice song." He says, low, ready, aloof. A bit of mud she kicked sticks to his pantleg, and he looks to it.
"Did you learn it from someone you killed?"
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Post by rosallora on Aug 6, 2020 22:13:57 GMT -8
[Saoirse]
The yelp she emits is enough to startle a rat in a nearby alleyway, making it squeak as well. She whirls around, off balance, and looks at him. Scarylike. Maskedlike. She puts a finger up and pokes his chest. "Oh. Aye. I go learnin' all my ditties right 'fore I cut someone's fingers off. I go 'oh by the way, before I cut all ya fingers off, wouldja care ta share some a your favorite songs with me?' an' it usually goes right over, very well, just smooth n' silky." She backs off a step, nearly stumbling. "I've been around this town just killin' wherevers I can. That's why I get drunk at the Tavern an' also why I'm walkin' around really much not carin' who hears me. 'Cause I'm a stealthy killer type."
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Post by Kidney on Aug 7, 2020 22:08:23 GMT -8
Dane's aura is oppressive. Boiling blood churning under the surface, not running over the edge of the pot by sheer motion alone, the motion of his choosing a small one, a single step, closing the distance Saoirse meant to make. His eyes were locked on her every move, he wouldn't catch her if she stumbled, but to know she was about to was beneficial. Her words came forth in a burbling mess that was...momentarily frustrating to decipher. But, Dane listened, and he paused before he responded. "Speaking about Taverns." He began, a fragment of a greater idea, a sharp edge attached to a broken piece of a greater point.
"You didn't cheer for the death of bandit-kind, seemingly the reason for the ruckus in the dining area." He continued, gesturing to Saoirse's pointy finger. "Why oh why, may I ask?" He paused for a second before he added one last tidbit. "Scared their souls will find you? Haunt you like the damn spy you are. Among...the real common folk."
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Post by rosallora on Aug 8, 2020 7:35:01 GMT -8
[Saoirse]
"Oh I'm sorry," she says, and the finger jabs into his chest a little bit, "'sit not enough for you that I killed somma the damn bastards today?" She grabs her collar, pulling down a bit more than necessary in haste and passion to reveal the already deep, purpling marks on her neck. "Got choked out n' called a whore by one, that ain't enough either? I gotta sing praises every time someone wants t' draw blood?" She lets go of the fabric, the neckline returning to mostly where it should be, rumpled from the tension she'd laid on it. "An' who're you, walkin' around the streets at night, preyin' on women - FOLLOWIN' women - who don't do 'xactly as you think they ought to, eh?"
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Post by rosallora on Aug 8, 2020 8:21:12 GMT -8
[Sal]
It's like goddamn magic.
Why the hell can't this happen when she's looking for literally anything else in her life.
Low on pocket soup tabs and it takes her two days at port to find a guy who can make some over a span of five fucking days. Need some specialized wax for the Ursa, but she has to endure the weeklong goose chase that it takes to get to the right supplier. Even getting here, to this fucking port out in the middle of ass nowhere, always feels like it's fighting the tide.
But no. Her crew wants a goddamn ghost hunting group and they all appear within minutes.
She purses her lips. "I'm Captain Faerth." She looks at the first comer, a little woman who looks like she'd be perfect for looking for ghosts that don't exist. The same for the man that comes after, slight enough looking but also claiming to be an exorcist. Must be of the faith. Must also be of the dumbass. "It's my ship that..." she rolls her eyes "is allegedly possessed."
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