We Are Not Idle

For out-of-game events, wrapping up in-game adventures and rumours.
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Holy_Rage
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Location: Axe an' Hammer

We Are Not Idle

Postby Holy_Rage » Tue Jan 31, 2017 11:18 pm

An odd sight he was, reaching the gates of Sarshel this cold winter morn, where mist and pale light pave the way for the glorious arrival of the fiery orb that lights the Lands Above. Keeping mostly to the shadows, an ancient Dwarf, curbed and limping slowly, a thick oak wood staff at hand, snatching it fervently with his claw-like hand, with a trimmed satchel, half-empty, thrown over his uneven back. Mumbling seemingly to himself, he passed a hand over the newly cut stone that had been recently replaced, in order to mend the ravages of the Slaughter. Those of them visible, at least.

An open wound, not a festering one.
Or so it would appear.


The Dwarf cast one more look towards the ever brightening horizon, then turned his sunken, red-rimmed eyes fixed keenly towards the city's interior. Hungrily. Expectantly. A blotch of greyish brown in the iridescent, blinding background of dawn.
Current PCs:
Hróin | Ygrak Ironflame

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Kilaana
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Awakening Sleep

Postby Kilaana » Wed Feb 01, 2017 4:44 pm

Horse hooves kicked up mud, preceding the supply wagons that trundled through the open gates. Bolts of cloth. Stacks of unfinished wood. Fish from along the coast. Traders, tourists, citizens.

Spirits were high this morning, for the dawning sky promised to be a pure cornflower-blue with wisps of cloud that would portent the signs of a fine winter's day ahead. Above the cacophony of civilised tongues, the snap of colourful festive banners that fluttered in the wind echoed through the town square. Behind the slim, stolidly-built dwarvenstone wall, Sarshel was preparing to welcome a hard-earned celebration.

It was little wonder then, that the small shadowy figure of an ancient Dwarf passed quite unnoticed into the crowd that had gathered each morning in the Square. From the vicinity of the founder's statue, now reduced to rubble, a clear and confident sermon of the Morninglord was being recited to a modest crowd who came each day to take their blessings from the Dawnlord Artemis d'Assanthe. It did not take the keenest of perception, however, to notice how the elegant female voice of the priestess seemed higher and thinner than usual - like a fine, brittle glass that had been emptied of its wine. Behind them, beneath a shelter of clustered tents, a heated debate between three Scion Devouts and two Sarshellans had caught the attention of a nervous-looking palace guard whose uniform and boots shone with the newness of his station. Shouldering his way through the street, the swaggering figure of Jonan Mard disappeared down an alley before his path collided with the Dwarf's, but by then another figure had crossed this way: she was late, late for work at the docks at having been delayed by a previous patient - Cassandra of Ilmater wore her cowl high on her head as her scarlet-and-grey robes brushed against sandalled feet that hurried and did not stop for her customary greetings.

To the left lay the Red Anvil; here a fishmonger hailed a potential customer in the Dwarf as the latter would pass under an ornate archway. A tattered flyer fallen from its post, its edges disintegrating from a previous rain, screamed its headlines from the cobblestone gutter - a sum of money for the 'Vlasta Slasher' named Merney Valroc, dead or alive. Not a few paces away, upon the wall of a building, blared the call to join 'Elethlim's Vanguard', a troupe of professionals vouched for by Jerek of Ilmater. Just below it, a notice proclaimed 'The Golden Quill' re-opened under its new mistress, Sarshel's beloved author Wynna Blackwing.

On 4 Rook Lane, however, no lantern was lit to herald the Dwarf's return. The cavernous interior, masked by its demure shopfront, lay dormant. Its cold hearth stood forgotten, straying ashes from an old fire had obscured the maritime namesake that once glittered in its opalescent colours from the ground.

Like ghosts, memories lingered beneath stone and shell, privy only to those who only knew what lay beneath...
“Violence is the mark of the amateur.” ― Garrett, Thief: The Dark Project

Kallian | Delorwyn Lle'quellas | Wilhemina Alencar | Zalika Maszim Zartusht
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Loreweaver
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We Are Idle

Postby Loreweaver » Fri Feb 10, 2017 9:35 pm

The wake of the dwarf's entrance bounced off the curios on the walls and dropped coldly into the pit of the tavern's common room. Unnoticed at first, but unerring as any dire sign of doom. It may have been the flickering of a solitary candle or the flutter of a nostril tormented by the 'charisma' of this withering caller which beckoned the conscience and then prompted a human to stir in the far corner.

"Time, master?" she asked, once she identified the situation. A process slow enough to allow the dwarf to shamble out of shouting distance into a more comfortable range, yet heavy with disapproval of the tardiness of 'time' itself.

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Holy_Rage
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Re: We Are Not Idle

Postby Holy_Rage » Sun Apr 30, 2017 11:20 am

Sunken, red-rimmed eyes, glazed with the ravages wrought by old age, fixed upon the voice's owner. Brows, ghostly and wispy, the colour of sullied ice, furrowed in obvious disapproval, as was their wont more often than not. The ancient eyes, beady, went aflame, blazing. A decrepit, throaty hiss made its way out of the Dwarf's taut and tight-lipped mouth.

"Time indeed, Apprentice. We stop at Vlasta. Provisions shall await us there."

Closing his eyes, the Dwarf took one last look at the slowly reviving walls around him. The warmth of body and breath alike, the ever growing number of patrons, words exchanged and tales wrought, the power of an ale mug brought to a patron's lips; they seemed to chase off the darkness bit by bit, to lift the shroud of emptiness that was mercilessly whipping the empty room until shortly ago. Song and merry would not tarry to make their way to the Star's confines soon, for such is life and its ways.

Damn you, Sagi. A pox upon yer line, wherever your bones might be rotting right now. Fool. Fiend. Follower.

FRIEND.


The Dwarf shook his head vigorously, his straggly beard following suit to its owner's abrupt movement. Shirking off inaction and invading, gnawing thoughts alike, he placed his trim brown cowl over his head and grasped his thick staff tightly, skeletal fingers wrapped around it like claws.

"Time indeed. For you to learn patience."

The glorious orange of the radiant dawn engulfed the dark blotch as it stepped out in Sarshel's fresh morning air.
Current PCs:
Hróin | Ygrak Ironflame


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