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Post by Vanitypirate on Mar 3, 2018 11:08:42 GMT -8
The spelling of the book mattered little to Meriwether-- it might as well have been written in Sanskrit. He never learned to read any language.
The young guard made a frustrated huff and began to flip through the book with increasing impatience, skimming over the text and only really focusing in on the strange pictures, which were, at the very least, pleasantly interesting to look at in their strange and alien nature.
Perhaps he could pester another guard who knew how to read, or one of the more scholarly-looking types that floated around town...
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Post by Mr. Swagwalker on Mar 6, 2018 15:05:32 GMT -8
"Karnaka? Hmm. I assume that is your home? Well, prior to coming here, I mean." Brenton gave Charis a sheepish smile. "You did not bring with you all your belongings, yes? What did you leave behind?"
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Post by twostepsback on Mar 10, 2018 0:22:59 GMT -8
"Dunwall Abbey is my home, though Karnaka as a city was well on its way to becoming a second home. Karnaka Cathedral, on the other hand, was closer to a gilded birdcage." Charis explains, "As for my belongings? It's more like I was forced to leave them behind..." Charis grumbles bitterly. "Mother Superior Delilah didn't approve of my non-church related activities... My Alchemy experiments, making friends with 'the wrong kind of people', my 'pagan' name." Charis looks particularly cross about the slight towards her name. "She called me 'Sister Charity', how cliche, why not use my full first name? 'Sister Charissa' rolls off the tongue quite nicely!" Charis rants.
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Post by Mr. Swagwalker on Mar 10, 2018 18:44:06 GMT -8
Brenton gave a hearty chuckle and held his gloved hands together. "Charissa, is it? A far more elegant name, I must say." he complemented. "My humble apologies for referring to you improperly all this time."
Brenton then crossed his arms with an smug expression on his face.
"Heh, such is the way of the faithful. Their vision is clouded by jugdementalism and superiority-complexes." he said. A rather ironic statement for him to make. "Well, you being an exception, of course." the doctor added with a raised palm. "Leaving that place might have been the wisest choice you ever made. Those fanatics would simply hold you back and prevent you from reaching your maximum potential."
Brenton would then smirk and rest one hand on his hip and let his other arm hang loosely along his side. "I like you, sister Charissa. While you may originate from the arrogant ranks of believers...you still appreciate the art of alchemy and anatomy, and you have a mind sound enough to think on your own. Not to mention your handy usage of daggers." He made a deep bow, although his demeanor was more like that of a jester performing mockery on a stage. "You have my professional respect, friend. Few individuals have earned it - that I can assure with certainty."
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Edgar quietly listened to the conversation between Brenton and Charis, and he would pick up some new and intruiging information; such as Charis' full name being Charissa. Although her mention of 'making friends with the wrong people' caught his attention the most.
Who were these friends of hers? Why would her associates not approve of them? Edgar became curious and wanted to know more, but he was too afraid to ask or speak up. Instead he continued to sit by the side, clutching the brown cloak over his shoulders in silence. As he always would.
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Post by Kidney on Mar 13, 2018 17:56:49 GMT -8
The smell of rot. The glow of the moon. The shine of black liquid on a stinking man's face. Roard came by way of caravan, and the squeeze to get out of it was perilous. The giant received no help from the thin driver, his small yelp was evidence enough that whatever help Roard might have come by was moot. He grumbled, his barrel-like chest clamped between the arch of the caravan. With another grunt, the mighty man got himself out of the caravan.
He looked around, hefting the mighty hunk of steel, slamming it upon his shoulder. He looked, pale face splotched with black, towards this humble square. He listened to the cackle of the driver, and with a small wave, he watched the caravan depart. He turned back towards the world. This one was colder than the padded seats of the caravan, but Roard seemed neutral about it all. Any person that looked upon the gross colossus would find a scanning head, eyes soft, taking in every detail.
The idea of entering the building clearly marked a Tavern struck him, but also the mighty place across the way, with swords on banners upon it's walls. It interested him, although his dislike of practice also weighed on his mind. This hardly mattered, though, as the immense pain in his feet rolled into him, and he let out a groan of pain. He looked down upon the socks, and down at the laces of his sandals.
He hefted the blade, smashing the end into the soft soil between two cobbles with a loud sound of moving earth. He slowly knelt with a heavy thump, and began loosening some leather and tightening others.
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Post by Vanitypirate on Mar 17, 2018 10:27:15 GMT -8
Ponytail was perched atop a wall, knee bent and cocked, but he was anything but idle. Quite contentedly, he was watching the town and keeping his eyes open for anything interesting. The hunter had, of course, heard rumor of the Hamlet constantly being under siege by the most alien creatures.
There was something-- it looked awful and sickly-- beyond that piqued his interest. So he crept forward toward Roard, knees bent slightly. His feather bobbed as he walked.
He cocked his head and cleared his throat.
"Ahh, have you a curse, my friend?" He curiously eyed the sword jammed into the soil. The hunter's voice was strongly accented-- one would recognize it as French if they were even moderate well-traveled.
Ponytail looked up to the man's face proudly with his hands on his hips. Even kneeling, the other man was still at a gargantuan size compared to Ponytail. "I have pity for you, yes; do you not know not to sit in the road? It poisons the humors."
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Post by Kidney on Mar 17, 2018 10:35:16 GMT -8
There was silence, blissful silence. Then, a voice. Heavily accented. French.
Roard turned towards the man, shoulders shifting, chest heaving simply from the exertion to keep his bloated body upright in the kneeling position. And whatever face was plastered onto his skull was bared in full view to Ponytail. A hideous one, with no nose, empty slits, cheeks with rough edges and black tears, like a dog. His lips were thin, veins bulging, nearly clogged. He was missing ears, and the glimpse Ponytail got into the back of his throat and mouth was through the spongy exterior, in his cheek.
The warts also stood out from this distance, on his cheeks, around his nose-slits, and one on an eyelid, or whatever remained of it.
He spoke, a tough voice, almost like the rusty sides of railroad nails scraping together. "Your pity is endearing, friend."
He looked down at himself, "Am I leaking? I do not wish to poison anything. I'm just tying up my sandals."
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Post by Vanitypirate on Mar 17, 2018 10:49:04 GMT -8
"'Leaking'?" Ponytail squinted thoughtfully and looked the man up and down, inspecting him carefully from afar. He stroked one side of his ginger moustache, idly curling it upwards. "...Eh, no, you are not. You are contained, good fellow!"
The man was certainly in a sorry state, but Ponytail had learned in his travels that the appearance of a man had no bearing on his character. The sickly man seemed to be more rotting than crumbling-- this was rather tell-tale of Road Sickness.
"Did your mother never teach you to not sit on roads? Come, good man, and stand up; we shall find you another place to sit, and perhaps you shall feel better."
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Post by Kidney on Mar 17, 2018 10:56:40 GMT -8
Roard seemed momentarily paralyzed. His eyes nearly watered. It was the most hospitality he had received in maybe a year. He stood, rising. And rising. This man was a quite literal colossus. He looked into the face of the smaller man, his hand subconsciously grabbing the handle of the dented and hastily sharpened blade, and with a huff, he ripped it from the earth like a hook from fishcheek. He hefted it up onto his shoulder, switching hands to hold it with a less-dominant hand.
He turned back towards the man, his neutral face landing him a strange look. The center of his lips parted slightly, lips together mostly, except for a single dot in the middle. He spoke again, quieter than before, possibly his conversational volume, "Where to? I am new here," he spoke with sincerity.
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Post by Vanitypirate on Mar 17, 2018 11:32:47 GMT -8
Despite the man's face being at a neck-breaking angle for Ponytail, he did not step back.
"I am also new! It is nothing to worry." He nodded, leading the way with due pomp to the graveyard's wall where he had sat.
He gave a quick glance over his shoulder at Roard, olive eyes looking him over again.
"Ah, I forgot to say: I am called Ponytail! It is a pleasure." He hopped up to perch atop the wall, and motioned for Roard to join him.
"Who are you? And from where do you hail?"
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Post by Kidney on Mar 17, 2018 11:46:25 GMT -8
A short walk, a brisk pace. A small man, taking him to a graveyard. Roard moved as quickly as he could, lumbering behind the man, his sword edge grinding on his shoulder-wrappings. The little guy moved fast, although Roard valued him a great deal too much to bring it up. Then again, everyone looked small from his point of view. He stared openly as the man, and as the man plopped himself onto the wall.
He spoke as he turned towards the wall, maybe three feet from it, and flipped his blade. The horrific thing flipped, and Roard slammed it once again into soft soil. He huffed, and made his way to the wall, hands slamming upon it before he pulled his smelly-self up onto it with yet another out-of-shape breath. He turned towards Ponytail, staring before speaking.
"I am Roard of Badger's Cross. I was polish, but I no longer ally myself with nations."
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Post by Vanitypirate on Mar 17, 2018 11:50:53 GMT -8
"It is excellent to meet you, Roard of Badger's Cross." Ponytail clasped his hands together in a tight bundle and nodded. Even in the face of the sick man's scent and appearance, Ponytail still appeared unfazed; bold and confident, he still wore a kindly smile on his face.
"For what purpose have you come here? I would think you should be recovering in bed, Roard of Badger's Cross."
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Post by Kidney on Mar 17, 2018 11:56:40 GMT -8
A joke. Heh. Jokes were nice.
Roard's internal 'Heh' was audible, his body lifting slightly with the hiccup-like jolt. He looked down at himself, hands reaching up to subconsciously lift his chestplate, making sure it sat nice and comfy. He looked again towards Ponytail, "I don't have anywhere else to go. I wish to speak with the cure-givers. I'll even settle for an apothecary."
He was sincere in the greatest sense of the word, his eyes softened even further, and although his voice remained euphorically monotone, body language spoke for itself. "I do not want to be like this, forever."
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Post by twostepsback on Mar 17, 2018 13:49:52 GMT -8
"Eh... I'm not very picky about my moniker. Charissa, Charis, I've even been called 'Sissy Carrie' by some of my younger patients." Charissa says with a chuckle.
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Post by Vanitypirate on Mar 17, 2018 14:23:34 GMT -8
Ponytail noted the white-haired man exiting the Sanitarium, dressed in strange garb and built like a bear.
He stroked his chin and considered calling after Taas, before deciding against it. He'd meet up with the fellow later.
"Ah, you have no-where you need to go? Why would you choose here?" He leaned his chin on his open palm and rose a red brow. "There are many talented healers in places much sunnier than this."
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