The Hand That Scorns The Meek

For out-of-game events, wrapping up in-game adventures and rumours.
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Khaela Mensha Khaine
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The Hand That Scorns The Meek

Postby Khaela Mensha Khaine » Mon Feb 13, 2017 9:26 pm

What a face, all but slack-jawed looking back. Bleak eyes for a bleak life - now they begin to frown. Yeah, and the mouth starts to twist. That's the look of contempt I see. That's the look they all see, every time. It looks away when I do, looks down at the shirtless torso beaten and tattered from since-forgotten violence. Lifts its arms and I see them, grown thick and firm from what was once starved, lean muscle.

Then the hands; torn veins lifted underneath the skin, dirty nails - some bitten, some shorn or blackened by accident and poor coordination. Less tanned, but still scarred like my father's. Where there was a crescent scar on one of his knuckles, on this hand it's a line across them all; a sword had bitten into the flesh and scraped across the bones. Any lower and it might've been fingers missing. Fucking bad guard on a shittily made sword. I remember that one.

Didn't see his hands often, mostly covered up by gauntlets when I saw them at all. Unlike these hands, I don't tremble when I see them. Wonder if I'd lose my nerve if I saw them now. Men of war, but this one isn't a man of faith. Not anymore. Strength isn't His to give, it has to be mine to take. Least I learned that from the spiteful cunt.

I'm looking at myself in the mirror again. No face over my shoulder anymore, no one to tell me I'm a better person than I act. Doubt I am. Maybe I could've been, but the chance for that's long lost. Just this sneer left, just this patchwork body. No-one to guide me but me. Alone again, but not floundering and crippled now. Not drooling and crying in agony, covered in snot and clinging to some simpering soft girl for my life. But still not like it used to be.

I remember what it was like. Black and yellow banners and footsteps side-by-side. Not even a face in the crowd because we all wore helmets. Orders barked from the back or the front. March, halt, shields up, shields down, spears out, swords out. Who was I? Another fucking pawn on the chess table. Move forward, move forward, eh? Move up, cut him down. Move forward, move forward. Stop. Now get yourself get cut down. Long as the king survives, right?

But he didn't, the bastard was as useless as the rest of us.

But I still feel that calling, I still feel the rush, the exhilaration of it. Even when I dream, I see a throne made for me. I'm the one wearing the gauntlets, I'm the one moving the pawns, deciding who dies and who lives. I mean, really, what other way could it be? What else do I aim for, now?

One thing's for sure: need to learn to keep my damn mouth shut.


-

The reflection no longer arresting his gaze, the long-haired man looked around the small inn room. It was still empty. Expression growing tense and fist clenching, Baalon drew the aromatic air in through flared nostrils. Cinnamon, jasmine - the scents of Sayildi's pervaded the room. Nothing about this place was familiar anymore, but memories lingered here like somber eidolons, filled with longing and regret, unable to fully part with that which anchored them there. Shoulders sagging, his gloomy grey-blue eyes regarded the bed.

Back to dreams of grandeur.

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Kilaana
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Rude Awakening

Postby Kilaana » Tue Feb 14, 2017 4:59 pm


There was a knocking at the door. A gentle tapping, followed by a feminine voice laden with the accent of the far south.

"Rafayam zaa'anedi *, please... may we speak?"

It was Neha, the serving girl from downstairs. Large, timid eyes peered through the crack in the doorway, finding the looming figure which came to answer. She bobbed a quick curtsy, opening her mouth to explain the interruption but before a word could be uttered, a heavy hand pushed the way through into the threshold, the double doors banging unceremoniously on either side of the painted frame.

Baalon Drosc found himself being propelled backwards against the wall as a large man in a leather surcoat entered and shoved him out of the way. His heel caught the leg of the sideboard, sending a brass platter clattering to the ground and the pile of apricots that bruised their smoothly rounded sides with dull thuds in its wake. The hand on his chest was strong; with it came a stare that promised trouble if he courted it.

"Search the room." A different voice barked from beyond the doorway. Disdainful, sour, impatient. Impilturan.

Another bodyguard entered, leaving careless footprints on the carpet as every corner was turned. Some invisible acknowledgement was received, for then there was a muffled shriek as the servant-girl was pulled away out of sight, and the man in front of Baalon Drosc began an uncomfortably familiar body search**.

--------

*Alzhedo: Rafayam zaa'anedi - Greetings, exalted sir
**DM's note: The character may choose to roll an appropriate 16DC Strength/Dexterity check if he objects to the body search.




“Violence is the mark of the amateur.” ― Garrett, Thief: The Dark Project

Kallian | Delorwyn Lle'quellas | Wilhemina Alencar | Zalika Maszim Zartusht
Cedric Lesàre


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Khaela Mensha Khaine
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Awkward Choices

Postby Khaela Mensha Khaine » Tue Feb 14, 2017 9:49 pm

"What do you want, girl-" the recently-awoken rumbled in a groggy slur, cut off by the sudden intrusion of a meaty set of fingers that shot over the dusky-skinned servant's shoulder and rammed themselves against the door.

Swaying back - or more like stumbling back - in shock, long hair all messed up from sleep whipped the side of his face as he regained his footing and righted himself, only to be knocked off balance again by the broad, heavy-set figure that moved past the wench and shoved him aside like he was a rag-doll.

It sharp sobered him up from the dizziness of sleep, and the bemused expression from gathering his bearings contorted into a mask of anger when the deep pangs of rage set his blood to fire.
The loud clang from the platter on the ground startled him, but his body wouldn't feel the aching heel until the adrenaline stopped pumping. And it had only just got going. His hands balled up tight into fists, his brows knit into a grim frown while his eyes shot frantically towards the bastard sword leaning against the wall near the head of the bed.

He looked up to the glum, broad bastard trying to menace him with a thick hand on his bare chest. There was an instant when he almost put a knee to his bollocks, the only thing stopping him was the second voice that piped up from beyond the door. He wasn't a native, but he'd been around Sarshel enough to know these were. They weren't Sayildi's lot, he reckoned. Well, unless they were hired muscle. Problem was, now he didn't know how many of them there were. He'd probably be able to take the big man, push him off and grab his sword, but near to naked and still waking up against half a dozen men weren't good odds.

Not like he'd done anything to piss the Calishites off. Least not that he knew. Alright, he was a twat to them, but that was nothing new.

Didn't look like Warswords; didn't wear the colours, at least not that he could see. Faces? Didn't recognize the big man, and he couldn't see the other one still. Only heard his voice, and it wasn't one he recognized - except for the tone. He had plenty of experience with Cunt With Too Much Authority. A few words alone, and he was already clamouring to paint him a red smile.

But there was nothing in his room to worry about. Was there? He gave it a quick look over, barring what the big bastard was blocking from view. Bastard sword by his bed, shield just next to it. Steel-capped boots at the foot of the bed, longcoat in a heap on the floor along with his shirt and chain tunic. He was still wearing his trousers, and his dignity as a result. What else? Piercings were in, lantern was on the floor. What was behind the thug? Couldn't remember. So . . .

"Who the fuck are you lot, then?" he barked venomously as the second goon waded into the sweet-scented room and started turning the place into more of a mess than even he'd made it.

One thing's for sure, alright.

They didn't answer immediately, and that made him grind his teeth. His features screwed up even more when the ugly muscle-for-hire started searching him. Unless he was looking for an erection or a longsword up his arse, Baalon couldn't fathom what the stupid twat expected to find in his baggy, pocketless breeches. Despite the fury, though, he was cornered and he knew it. Even then, his eyes drifted back to the sword.

It still looked tempting.

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Kilaana
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Man for Hire

Postby Kilaana » Mon Feb 20, 2017 3:59 pm

"Nothing, m'lord."

He was released abruptly, under the smirk of the guard whose black eyes sent a mocking reprisal towards his comrade as he withdrew - Not much here either.

The man who stepped through would remind Baalon of a rather large mole. Wide of girth, emphasized by a studded leather belt, the rotund figure favoured the long greatcoats that were a staple among the Impilturan well-to-do, but in a size that hung on the rounded frame like a well worn dressing gown. The large hands were matched with small feet, woollen half-gloves for the cold and boots that strained at softened seams with use. The square jaw held a surprisingly personable face were it not for the dour expression; astute eyes above a trimmed moustache took in the room with a peremptory glance before settling on the vagabond figure of Baalon Drosc. A brief gesture dismissed the bodyguards, and then they were alone in the cramped room where they could be safely watched from the half-open doorway.

"You'll have to excuse my men, they are... shall we say.. not much for the morning?" The question begged no answer, dry and humourless as it was, but smooth like old wine with a label claiming its vintage wholly Impilturan. "And you, I will ask pardon for the rude awakening. You see, I had little choice."

The man leaned in to inspect the bastard sword that stood in its scabbard near the bed. "It concerns a matter for which one holds dear. No stone must be left unturned in seeking the joys of another. Wouldn't you say so, my good man?"

Before a response could be met, he leaned down to retrieve Baalon's coat with nimble, thick fingers. A silver ring glittered with an plain emerald crown as the man stepped up to the vagabond figure and draped the longcoat around the bare shoulders. He was at least half a head shorter than Baalon, but that fact did not faze him. The green gaze, shades duller than the gem that adorned the finger, observed the scarred body in a way that had nothing to do with queer appreciation, but rather, calculating intent.

"She will be dismayed, regretfully, to find out that her brooch is lost, but let us just assume it is a lady's fancy - as the one who gifted it to her was one: a passing fancy, no more." A pause here, but if there was regret or scorn in the words, its matter-of-fact tone covered those sentiments well. "Still, I should like to relieve the coming day of a headache when I must bring my dear wife such tragic news."

He brushed an invisible speck of dust off Baalon's collar, leaning to the side a bit to examine a faded scar on the slanted jaw before pulling away.

"You look like a man who has seen the world a few times and lived to tell the tale. Tell me, how much do you ask for a night spent with a lady and her retinue? I don't ask for a mere distraction, but something worth what that little trinket would have fetched. Something to show them what the world is outside their boudoirs. Something we can agree upon to be only a matter between you and me."

"Now that is out of the way, allow me to introduce myself - I am Oskar Vezelize. What shall we call you?"
“Violence is the mark of the amateur.” ― Garrett, Thief: The Dark Project

Kallian | Delorwyn Lle'quellas | Wilhemina Alencar | Zalika Maszim Zartusht
Cedric Lesàre


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Khaela Mensha Khaine
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Biting His Tongue

Postby Khaela Mensha Khaine » Mon Feb 20, 2017 5:56 pm

What a face, all condescension and nostrils. Funny how it was with nobles, still looking down at you even when you're taller. Green eyes, weary expression. No real contempt here . . . more like disdain. A man with too much money, trying to find something to make his life exciting. Why? Must be a fucking adventure trying to roll himself out of bed. Man's got more chins than I've got knuckles.

Never going to let myself to become this. Even with a gilded golden throne and a servant for every hour. Money isn't strength. I can feel my teeth grinding with anger, still. The only thing stopping me from punching this fat cunt in the throat is the muscle just outside - but what he's paid them only goes so far. They walk away, he'd be eating that shitstain of a moustache with his bottom jaw. The most he's bought himself is time.

For now, I'll bite my tongue. Have to start somewhere.


"So let me get this straight," the scruffy, scarred apprentice smith retorted slowly, as if only just catching up with everything that just happened, "you killed some idiot that was fucking your wife and took the brooch he gave her as a present - and now you want me to take her in a jaunt through the forest? Or, what, you want me to fuck her myself? And charge you for it?"

Baalon raised his eyebrows, but in the supremely sardonic way that few who had ever crossed paths with him would be unfamiliar with. Not just in that particular expression; it was an air he had. It might even constitute as a talent. As he spoke, he poked his arms through the sleeves of the longcoat the mole-man had casually dumped on his shoulders. He tried not to glance briefly at the idle weapon resting against his bed in the process. He failed.

The proposition wasn't remotely interesting to him and the old cuckold didn't even know his name. Which might be a mercy as it stood. Then again, someone like this? Probably just a show. A man like this tended to make it their business to know the person they're talking to well before they talk to them. He grew up among merchants. He knew. Business was more cutthroat than soldiering.

Felt like being pushed naked towards a bugbear den arse-first. The question was, how would he get out of it.

Standing up straight and tall, his brows fell back down into an austere frown and his lips crushed into a slender line. Glum eyes gave the portly man a brief up-and-down. "Name's Baalon."

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Escort

Postby Kilaana » Tue Feb 21, 2017 4:59 pm

"Baalon." The name was swilled around a wine-stained tongue, then left to fall smoothly from the thick, rough lips. A cursory glance followed, then there was a slow chuckle that grew into a single thunderous laugh that rolled back from the curtained walls. "Ah, Baalon."

Vezelize stepped back from the man, smiling from ear to ear with a genuine mirth in his expression. When he spoke again, it was still with the same ingratiating formality. "Would you take 'No' for an answer? As it was I who woke you in this manner, I fear that would only lead to disappointment, but if I were to agree, I would be lying. What an example I would be to present to a man I look to employ, eh? ...No, Baalon. There is no fucking involved. Even if you were to be paid for such, I would need to be there to make sure it was worth my money, and your time. Do we have an understanding?" There came another smile.

"Put on your clothes whilst I explain." The rotund Impilturan found a position at the foot of the bed a few paces away where he could watch the vagabond figure as it got dressed.

"I assume you have been long enough in the city to know the name Naveric." Vezelize momentarily studied a faded pattern on a hanging tapestry next to the window. "Started out shipbuilding, then wine-making, if you consider two decades something of a recent past. I was fortunate to meet my wife; you will know her as Evita Consvorga Naveric if you choose to meet her. I am a self-made man like you, Baalon. Without Naveric, the Vezelize family name would have had its regrets in me, because hard work only takes one so far in life, yes? ...Yes. I know that look in your eyes. I see how hard you worked for yours; the story is written all over you."

"This is what I ask of you, Baalon. I would like you to show Madame Evita and her friends a good time. Show them how good you are with that sword. Can you kill a boar? Perhaps some target practice with a bow. Take a half day's ride down to the coast. They desire to have a picnic in the gardens of Filur, under the moon. Don't worry, the food and music will be arranged - all you need to do is entertain them."

----------

*Optional: Baalon Drosc may attempt a 15DC Knowledge: Local skillcheck if he wishes to find out more about the Vezelize family. This will be taken to be scouring the streets for rumours concerning this name, or questioning people in the vicinity for information.

“Violence is the mark of the amateur.” ― Garrett, Thief: The Dark Project

Kallian | Delorwyn Lle'quellas | Wilhemina Alencar | Zalika Maszim Zartusht
Cedric Lesàre


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Khaela Mensha Khaine
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A Self-made Man

Postby Khaela Mensha Khaine » Sun Mar 12, 2017 2:05 pm

"You aren't like me."

The words were a growl, dripping with contempt. Nevertheless, Baalon did as he was bidden - perhaps more out of his own desire than any show of obedience - and began gathering the rest of his clothes that were haphazardly strewn about the pocket-sized room of the inn. Didn't take long. He was sure as shit he hadn't heard the name Vezelize before; posh bastards like this didn't tend to emerge in the kind of chats he'd share with the local scum in watering holes about the Docks. Most times the only information he left the Docks with were how a black eye and loose teeth felt, and how you never really felt your knuckles aching from hitting bone until well after the fight was over. And, to be fair, those were only reminders.

But they need to learn their place, and who I am.

Didn't reply to the rest of it while he was getting dressed. Didn't feel the need to, didn't feel the rush. If this Vezelize was genuine about all this, he'd wait. Baalon held the deck, this old fool was waiting to be dealt some cards. And there were still questions that didn't settle too well on his mind. All seemed a bit too convenient. He knew he'd shit on a few peoples doorsteps in the past, but would they really organize something so fucking elaborate to have him dead? This was all a bit too in-your-face. Damn, it didn't settle well, though.

"Yeah," he eventually said, the comfort of having his sword at his hip seeping into his tone, "I know the name Naveric. Pass by the estate every now and then when I'm making deliveries for Jes. Big name in the city, I hear. Done well for yourself, haven't you, self-made man?"

A snort and a sneer, followed by a glance to the doorway. Those guards were grim looking, but he could probably kill them now. There'd be no staying in Impiltur after that, though. Not with someone this high-profile, because he knew he'd have to kill him, too. Just wouldn't happen.

"I'm a soldier and a smith, not a fucking entertainer. Fortunately for you, I'm desperate for money, and the last big payout I was supposed to get seems to have fallen through." Heaving a sharp breath in through his nostrils, the long-haired warrior sighs it harshly out of his open mouth and shakes his head: "Filur, yeah? I know the way, though I'm guessing I don't need to."

Settling his left, bare hand around the grip of the bastard sword sat in its sheathe next to his thigh, Baalon furrows his brows and regards the merchant closely. "I'll do it, but get one thing straight: you don't know shit when it comes to me."

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Ustenflich

Postby Kilaana » Fri Mar 24, 2017 9:20 am

The journey to Vezelize's estate was a scenic one, if a little strained by way of the silence in which the vagabond warrior sat with his newfound employer. Passing along the Royal Road beneath the dappled shade of pines, the coach soon turned off on a trail that crossed wide plains blooming with a riot of wildflowers and spring daffodil. A signpost marked the territory they were entering by the name of 'Palmworthy', and it was no less a pleasant a view they had left behind on the highway. The carriage paused to allow a set of walled gates to open, then it continued along a sweeping country lane that seemed to stretch for as far as a full mile before stopping at the secluded entrance to a large manor that looked more like a severely modest miniature castle.

Baalon Drosc was ushered into a chamber on the second floor that seemed fit more for a noble guest than a lowborn soldier. A polished oaken four-poster bed by the wall held a different sort of luxury to the extravagance of Sayildi's where he had last spent his rest. The servants that bustled around the place spared him no second glances, though it was clear from the upturn of their noses that there was some hierarchy at work here. What he didn't expect was Tobias, the guardhand who frisked him, to enter a moment later as he was starting to clean up. He bore two flagons of ale in hand and set one down by the washstand, proceeding to drink from the other as he watched Baalon at his ministrations without seemingly any sense of propriety. Green-eyed, broad-shouldered, sandy-haired Tobias stood just a little bigger and taller than Baalon Drosc by a half head and seemed proud of it.

"Don't look at me like that if you know what's good for you, ustenflich." Years spent in Impiltur did little to assimilate the Illuskan-born's tongue. "Yeah, you heard me. Ustenflich." He smirked and turned away from the sink to pick up the bastard sword that leaned beside a footlocker, testing its weight. "Means idiot. Better you know what to expect than find out yourself, eh? You can thank me later. We're going to be working together anyhow, if you don't fuck up."

The scent of a roast dinner drifting in somewhere from the kitchens reminded Baalon sharply of just how lean his pockets really were, and how it had been a while since he had more than a soldier's portion in his belly.

"Our master is a good man, generous as you can see." Tobias returned the sword to its place and looked about the room, bored. "I asked myself the same questions when he took me in - why? All I did was win the fucking game of cards and he just laughed. 'Come to dinner, he said.' So here I am. Crazy, right? Well, it's a good life, as long as you don't do anything stupid, because His Lordship isn't one."

Tobias drained the last of his ale and looked into his empty cup with his characteristic smirk, but it seemed a more contemplative one than the last. Then he swung about on his heel and reached for the door, calling overshoulder:

"One more thing. Whatever that Madame Evita says, keep your cock in your pants, eh? ...Dinner is in half an hour. Don't be late."


-----------

DM's note: Some inspiration for the Vezelize manor comes from the real-life 15th century Great Chalfield Manor in southwest England.
“Violence is the mark of the amateur.” ― Garrett, Thief: The Dark Project

Kallian | Delorwyn Lle'quellas | Wilhemina Alencar | Zalika Maszim Zartusht
Cedric Lesàre



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