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Post by Kidney on Jul 22, 2017 23:21:38 GMT -8
Tod moved quickly out the front doors of the Abbey, brushing his fingers through his curly mop of hair. Which now bared a thin part down the top of his head, the two sides of hair going to each side, wavy, but curling at the ends, with a lighter shade of brown. The added weight of both the sphere and crucifix connected to him by his heavy coat made Tod feel protected, despite the small breeze coming from the blood-encrusted gash in the shoulder area. The dried blood would flake off eventually, only leaving a pinkish stain at the end of Tod's days. Tod's straight face betrayed not the shining beacon of hope he held in his heart, for these clothes he wore, and the items he carried, they were imbued with Light. And Tod knew he would never leave them, he would not risk their glow dimming. He needed to keep them upon his person, they were his, and he theirs. He walked towards the Tavern, he wasn't a swinger or a tippler, but he was a Tod. And Tod needed a drink. He swung open the door to the Tavern.
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Post by stealthclaw on Jul 23, 2017 6:12:28 GMT -8
Fen listened attentively as Mordecai spoke, at one point frowning in thought. So he was more a doctor of wounds, dealing more with healing a broken bone or a bad wound. She had been taught about herbs and diseases, different kinds of cures and treatments for such as those. Illnesses were usually an easy fix, so as long as the sickness was identifiable against a different one.
"Some diseases are incurable as such with my research, however, who is to say that a cure does not exist? With research a plague could be rendered curable, or at least briefly treatable." Fen replied, "I have come seeking knowledge on such the subject. I think that this place could offer insights such as that, and I can grow my know-how of dealing with them better. Or even turn an incurable disease into an easily eliminated one. I know not how to be a surgeon, but perhaps those skills would be useful in the future."
Fen looked away, falling silent again, if only for a brief moment.
"If I had known how to heal wounds, my teacher might have survived."
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Post by lightningfast on Jul 23, 2017 18:24:40 GMT -8
Mordecai pats Fen on the shoulder. "You needn't blame yourself, Fen. We cannot always control who lives and who dies, but we as doctors can do our best. If it pleases you, I can share with you some of my master's teachings, if you'd share with me some of your curative concoctions and recipes."
"If you like, I will buy us some drinks at the tavern: I am parched from the long journey, and I would imagine we'll be able to ask someone about our lodging and such."
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Post by stealthclaw on Jul 23, 2017 18:41:28 GMT -8
At the older man's soft, comforting taps on her shoulder, she sighed. Mordecai had a point, everyone had a time limit within this plane of existence. Perhaps fate meant that it was her teacher's time to go. In that same instance, she wondered briefly if her own time had almost been cut short due to the raider. Had her carelessness for storing the volatile powder not left the crate of it behind her teacher when the assailant shot, perhaps she would be dead. The spark from the pistol had ignited it, and set the man and her home ablaze. Her hands were scarred from the fire, but her hands were protected with her thick gloves.
The suggestion of trading knowledge was a smart one: they could both learn from the other. A valuable exchange would prove useful for the future, so perhaps Fen could prevent a tragedy like that of her teacher's demise. The girl gave it a few heartbeat's thought before nodding.
"Aye, teaching one another things the other does not know would be quite beneficial for both of us. A strong plan, I shall follow beside you."
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Post by lightningfast on Jul 24, 2017 14:39:24 GMT -8
Mordecai smiles as he walks towards the Tavern, eager to finally relax a bit after his long trip. "Whoever killed your master can't hurt you now. I'll tell you one thing, when I was your age..." And with that, Mordecai heads to the tavern as he tells another old story to the younger, less experienced doctor.
(Entering the Tavern)
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Post by Unter on Aug 1, 2017 11:59:56 GMT -8
François steps out of the stagecoach. He opens his eyes wide, trying to memorize every single detail to this new place. "I was right to come here. A corpse could smell the misery in this town."he mutters to himself. He starts walking in the streets of the hamlet, with a confident pace, like he owns the place. His armor shines to the pale sun and every steps he takes is concluded by the "tink" of the mail on the plate. He stare at the inhabitants of the hamlet with boastful eyes, his challenge cried out to the world. His leather pouch is bouncing up and down to the rythm of his feets, and a pretty big bag full of his possessions weigh on his shoulders. Now, he is headed to the local church, where his salvation awaits.
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Post by rumsztyk on Aug 2, 2017 14:59:33 GMT -8
Into the Hamlet square comes a squalid figure, dragging his feet through the dirt. Milo was darting his eyes all around the place, rubbing his arm uneasily. But somewhere, on that ruined face, was a smile. This place, if rumours were true, was an asylum. An asylum for the likes of him.
He raised his head higher, hopeful for his future. And as he began to stride more confidently, almost immediately he began to shrink before the Sanitarium's massive walls. Urged to run, he walked away to the familiar building - a tavern.
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Post by Vanitypirate on Aug 2, 2017 15:42:35 GMT -8
Or, rather, Milo would walk into less of a familiar building and more of an unfamiliar person: a shortish, hatted woman with straw blonde hair and an almost comically prominent nose.
"Oh, heavens!" She smiled and took a step back away from the wispy boy who looked like a particularly strong breeze would carry him away.
Her hands fluttered out of her pockets and moved to steady and refit her battered cockel hat atop her head, making to sidestep around him on thin, spindly legs, fit into tall boots at the ends of them, with shiny, brass buckles.
"Pardon me!"
Tilly's voice was light and bouncy, with an Islander's accent.
She gave a short, cordial nod to the boy and made to be on her way, if uninterrupted.
[Onwards to the abbey!]
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Post by rumsztyk on Aug 2, 2017 16:17:21 GMT -8
Milo stiffened with surprise, instincts kicking in and preparing to run - that was not necessary, as the person that bumped into him was a cordial woman who clearly did not mean any harm. Even a person as paranoid as Milo realized this.
He returned a very weak smile, his right hand shaking a little while the left rubbed the arm. "T-thank you, m'lady."
Not staying in one place too long, he reflexively looked back at Tilly with the corner of his eye before entering the Tavern.
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Post by Kidney on Aug 3, 2017 15:26:40 GMT -8
Dewitt stumbled from the front of the Sanitarium, fumbling. He closed the door behind him, his encounter with the staff making them more than reluctant to go and grab him. He walked down the steps, angrily moving towards the tavern. He could hear them, the Roses. Their skin, pulled tight against muscle and bone. Their mouths, teeth grinding against each other, yellow stained and rotting. He moved faster, hitting the doors of the Abbey and walking in.
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Post by stealthclaw on Aug 4, 2017 18:06:20 GMT -8
So, this was the place. It looked a little bedraggled, slightly miserable, and those that wandered between the buildings there looked about the same. The tall woman's eyes narrowed as she watched around, using the un-tipped of her Halberd like a walking stick. Her hair was tied high in a ponytail, waving ever slightly in the wind. Soft breezes also disturbed her long bangs and she irritably swatted them back behind her right ear. What a sad little hovel, Katja thought, scrutinizing her surroundings and attempting to commit them to memory. If for some reason she had to be chased out, she wanted to see the fastest route out of the little Hamlet. Thinking of such things made the branding scar on her upper left arm burn, suddenly aware of it. Many of the locals probably knew what such a mark meant: she was an exile from a traveling nomadic clan that specialized in banditry and the like. From the rumors that Katja had heard, this place did not care for one's origins, so as long as they kept violence out of the town.
Brushing the thought of violence following her to the Darkest Estate aside, Katja took a wary step into the Hamlet, going nowhere in particular. At least she could spend her time scouting the place out, figuring out where everything was located. She didn't like the eyes that she felt landing on her, the burning feeling from her brand seeming to intensify. Even though it had been over a year since the brand was inflicted, the feeling would occasionally return as a sort of phantom pain. There was suddenly a sharp, stinging pain in her chest when she remembered it. The sting of being cast out, publicly shamed and humiliated by her father and the rest of the large group would probably haunt her forever. In that moment her face softened like she was in physical pain. But then, she steeled her nerves and the fierce scowl returned. No, she wouldn't let it happen again.
Outcast once, she refused to be ousted from her home again. If this was to be her home, Katja vowed that it would stay that way. There was an icy coldness in her eyes, her gaze lacking compassion. The Hellion marched onward, her hair and the furs that stuck out from pieces of her armor swaying with her movement.
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Post by lightningfast on Aug 5, 2017 8:33:26 GMT -8
Mordeaci left the tavern with his map rolled up in his hand and a slight spring in his step. He was excited to finally get the chance to explore the Wealds and collect a few materials for the rituals and poultices he would no doubt need during his time here. The Guild Hall would be his next stop, no doubt the place to recruit more adventurers to his little posse. Fen would be of some assistance, but to put it bluntly, they needed more muscle. Monsters lived within the Wealds, and as good as he was with a surgical knife and bonesaw, one half-competent warrior was nowhere near enough.
As he withdrew into his own mind, Mordecai's shoulder accidentally bumped into a rather intimidating-looking woman. "Pardon me, ma'am," he said, looking her up and down briefly, "I'm new in town and having some trouble finding my way around." She tough enough to have seen a hundred battles. An idea popped into his head. "... Forgive me for being so sudden, but I don't suppose you're looking for work? The name's Mordecai." He extends a hand to shake hers, smiling. She bore the mark of an exile, but Mordecai didn't much care: a fighter was a fighter, and this one looked to be particularly strong. That, and Mordecai was guilty of crimes that warranted much greater punishment than mere exile...
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Post by stealthclaw on Aug 5, 2017 9:34:45 GMT -8
At the contact, Katja jerked back, her Halberd pointed menacingly toward Mordecai. There was a damn near animalistic snarl on her face. It was clear that she had expected someone more dangerous bumping into her. When Katja noticed he posed no noticeable threat she withdrew her weapon until she held it like a walking stick, looking at him distrustfully. At his sudden proposition her snarl lessened into a frown. Well, the man was right. She did need money if she was looking to survive in this new place. Perhaps such a thing would lead to these people at least tolerating her, not giving those evil side-eyes as she walked. To be feared was excellent, but it made getting a source of income difficult.
Seeing his outstretched hand, Katja scoffed. "Keep yer hands to yerself," She made no move to accept the greeting gesture, looking up at Mordecai. "If th' work is bloodshed, count me 'n." Her response was blunt. Her coldness was questionable, but it was probably a way she protected herself from further backstabbing. She found herself having trouble trusting others, always keeping them in the corner of her vision when possible.
Fen watched the exchange from behind Mordecai, not liking the look of the warrior. The Hellion definitely screamed of danger, but so as long as her fury was directed towards the enemy, perhaps she would be reliable? Nervousness was easy to see in the young Plague Doctor's stance.
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Post by Unter on Aug 5, 2017 12:07:25 GMT -8
"Alright kid, follow me. We're going to try finding some privacy here." Francois sees a little cliff, with some tents on it. He heads there, trying to find some cover. Here, it will be fine. He throws his longsword to the kid and point to a fallen tree on the ground. "Try your best."
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Post by rumsztyk on Aug 5, 2017 13:30:15 GMT -8
Milo made sure no one was watching them when he attempted to pull the sword from the scabbard, looking uneasily between Unter and the weapon.
"There it goes..." He held the sword with both hands, lacking any and all technique. Raising it overhead, Milo dropped it with a loud THUNK.
The sword was now stuck in the wood, released only after Milo wrestled with it a little. The gash in the trunk was deep and long.
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