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| Chronicles of Athylon; Act I: The Rose of Rotharia | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Nov 13 2013, 11:59 PM (3,390 Views) | |
| Karia Morsenia | Nov 19 2013, 05:45 PM Post #21 |
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Dragoness of Spellsongs
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Before the performance began, Thaeran had slipped Karia her double pistols to her with a sideways smile as he disappeared into the theater to head backstage. Karia was stationed near the front to monitor the entrance while a couple of other Ensemble members patrolled the auditorium. She was dressed in a dark, short leather bodice and matching pants with a separate chain-mail top and skirt laying over them. While the last of the audience was filing in, she saw a couple of men dressed all in black walk past her without a glance. Frowning, Karia stepped inside the doorway and hand signaled to one of the other patrol: the sign to be cautious. She started adjusting her flintlock pistols to her legs when she heard the opening monologue begin. That's when she started hearing the screams from the crowd and shouts of her comrades. Rushing into the theater, her wicked warspear was in her grip in a flash, extending into a longer length with a quick shake of her hand. She had barely rushed in before the masses of frightened civilians were stampeding towards the exits. There were shady dressed bandits everywhere flashing steel, pouring from the backstage area and within the mass of people, and sliding down from ropes hanging from the rafters. A rope dropped down atop of Karia, who swung her spear up as the bandit descended, meeting the blade and falling to the ground with a bleeding leg. Her spear flipped in her hands with grace to point down and buried itself in the man's chest, his gurgling only lasting a few seconds. Another bandit came running up to Karia with twin daggers aimed at her side. She whipped the spear up and slashed in an arc to her right, the blade curving and wide enough to sever both hands. He stared at his stumps in shock for a second before his head rolled across the floor. Casting a look of disgust at the corpse, Karia scanned the fray spread through the theater and spotted Felicia sprawled on the ground and saw blood from a distance. As she started making her way to her, one of the bandits was racing towards her friend, ready with sword in hand. She wouldn't reach her in time, she knew, and cocked her arm back to throw her spear. It sailed through the air and met its mark, impaling the bandit through the chest and making him crumble to the floor in a heap. Karia pulled her weapon from the broken body and continued running over to Felicia and knelt beside her, gently shaking her and checking for a pulse. When the woman stirred, Karia sighed in relief and holstered her spear, hoisting Felicia up on one of her shoulders, trying to be careful with her wounds. "Come on, Felicia." She looked around for a place to carry her wounded, and from the corner of her eye she saw a swift motion, seeing Silversteel waving her over from the shadow of an alcove. Karia hurried to him, dragging the captain along and set her down next to Silversteel. Karia ripped shreds of cloth from his discarded coat and banded Felicia's wounds as best as she could, worried slightly over how little her friend was saying. Her wounds looked bad enough that she could bleed out where she was lain. "Stay here and don't move," Karia said to Silversteel after a quick check of his wounds. "Karia---" "Do as I say! You're both too hurt to do any good, stay out of sight and stay alive." She gave him a quick squeeze on the shoulder before sliding out of the alcove, careful not to draw any unwanted attention to the hiding place. The spear was in her hand again, hacking at running bandits and hanging ropes. A couple had managed to get a slash in or two, her left shoulder and arm dripping with scarlet. She saw her other comrades locked in sword play, some fairing well and others not. She fired one pistol at a bandit sneaking up behind Thaeran locked in battle with another man, and threw the empty gun at an approaching bandit, knocking him unconscious. She lost sight of the Duchess, which sent a cold shiver down Karia's sweating body. She could feel the exhaustion settling into her bones and ignored the quaking of her muscles. The longer she carried on, the higher chance she had of screwing up. Out of the crowd she noticed a young man in brown robes rolling with a bandit on the ground, a knife at his throat. She saw a quick glimpse of the symbol of a phoenix and a shepherd's crook on the man's robes. The Order of Saint Alerion. Narrowing her eyes, she found herself making her way to the duo, dodging swings and attacks. In several steps she was upon them, grabbing the bandit atop the man by the back of his vest and throwing him off. The bandit rebounded fast, his hand still clutching his weapon and charged at her. She side stepped his swings and brought the heel of her boot up to connect to his jaw. His body stumbled to the ground, only to be knocked down with another kick. Her boot pinned him down on his chest, her spear coming down vengefully and slicing into his throat. She walked away from him and approached the young man on the floor. She bent over him and grabbed him by the shoulder. "What's your name?" "Samus--" "Are you a Shepherd?" "Yes...?" She lifted him up off the ground with one hand. "You're coming with me then, Samus." She led him to where Silversteel and Felicia lay slumped on the cold floor, looking worse by the minute. Felicia wasn't moving at all. Silversteel just glanced up at them with a weary smile. Karia pushed Samus down next to her friends. "I need you to heal them and I will make sure you get out of here alive. Don't draw attention to yourself here." Before anyone could respond, she melted back into the battle, searching for any signs of Navitia or any other Ensemble cast. A force hit her hard in the side, sending her rolling several feet away, her last pistol flying from her palm, but still managing to grip her spear as she tumbled. Karia looked up to see a hulking giant of a man, appearing barbaric with no shirt and a giant battle axe in one hand. In three strides he was on her, slamming his axe down where she lay. Karia tumbled to the side just as the axe split the floor next to her, swinging her spear up and creating a line of red across the man's back. Barely phased by the hit, the giant growled and swung his axe at her head from one side to the other, forcing Karia to bend backwards and take several steps back. She parried the blow several times, her spear vibrating roughly in her grasp, her weakening grip almost dropping it twice. She ducked to the side and stabbed at her opponent in the side, a howl of pain ripped from his lungs. His arm struck out, the bracers making contact with her stomach and doubling Karia over as she stumbled away. Her eyes laid sight on her pistol, just a few steps from her. She made the risk of diving towards it, the giant's axe clipping her across her back. Her grip fumbled with holding the gun as she turned towards him, willing herself to remain standing. She felt the blood trickling down her lower back and fought off the exhaustion racking her body, raising the gun as her foe towered over her with his axe dripping with her fresh blood. With a defiant and focused expression, she smirked and aimed, firing her single shot. |
| “Solitude has soft, silky hands, but with strong fingers it grasps the heart and makes it ache with sorrow.” | |
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| Samus | Nov 19 2013, 06:26 PM Post #22 |
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The Guardian
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Samus’ hands moved frantically from the satchel at his side back to the two wounded people before him. He reassured the man softly as he worked on the unconscious woman. His hands moved with the training Martin had bestowed upon him and he focused on cleaning and sewing any wounds that were threatening. Her leg was one of the worst, and Samus swiftly crushed several herbs together to act as a poultice. He whispered the healing prayers Martin had taught him on their long journeys, placed the poultice on the wound and took a needle and thread to stitch the wound before wrapping it in bandages. As he looked back to the man, he saw an impressed look on his face. “You’re pretty fast.” He said wincing. “It gets easy once you’ve done it for six years.” Samus replied, smiling. “Samus.” He said, holding out a hand. “Silversteel.” As Samus moved over to the man, satisfied he could do all he could for the woman, the Silversteel’s eyes widened and Samus turned to see a bandit running towards them through the chaos. Samus’ eyes fixed on the sword nearby and a part of him yearned to take up the blade and cut the man down, as his father would have done. Instead, Samus stood between the wounded and the bandit and fixed a burning gaze upon his attacker. “In the name of Saint Alerion,” He roared, standing level with the bandit who faltered before the fury of the robed man. “Stop this madness!” There was a huge bang as Samus finished his exclamation, as though Saint Alerion himself had called down thunder upon Avareux. The bandit froze and decided he would be better off attacking someone who wasn’t a servant of the Awakening. Samus’ heart was in his mouth as he knelt back beside the wounded man. He had no idea what the bang had been, nor did he want to know. Luck, it seemed, was with him. Proceeding to heal the man as best he could, Samus immediately regretted leaving Brother Martin at the ruined shell of the Phantom Froth in order to watch the show. Impressed as he had been with the Twin Mask’s escapades, Martin had declined Samus’ invitation to watch the show and remained there. And now here Samus was. He’d been threatened, attacked and even picked up bodily by a woman he couldn’t seem to stop picturing. When the chaos had began, Samus had confronted a bandit that refused to let a woman he held by the hair go. Samus had stood before him, imploring him to release her and stop the assault. Instead, another bandit had attacked him and would have killed him were it not for the woman with the warspear. Sometimes, the urge to fight outweighed the need for peace. Samus fixed Silversteel as best he could and told him to stay hidden where he was. Taking up his staff, Samus looked back into the chaos and dived into the crowds. He came across several people that were clearly not involved in the fight and began to guide them from the showground. As he did so, he saw the only clear exit was crammed with people and several bandits were amongst them, stealing from some, killing others. It seemed to Samus that most of these men were here to cause chaos and distract the guards and fighters from something else. What it was, Samus had no idea and cared little for. Samus helped guide the people he was with to a small fence that encircled the improvised amphitheatre to ensure the crowds stayed infront of the stage and could not get backstage. Samus helped one man over and began to pass the children over when a bandit shouted behind him. Samus turned and saw a bandit chasing a child towards them. With no time for an emboldened speech and no way he’d chance another divine intervention, Samus ran forwards and leveled his staff in a horizontal swing that struck the unsuspecting bandit in the face. With the combined effort Samus had put into the swing and the fact that the man was running, the blow spun the man round in the air and he fell face down in the dirt. The child back ran into Samus’ arms and he picked her up. Looking over her small shoulder, Samus caught the eye of the woman that had saved him earlier. She gave an impressed sort of nod in his direction and Samus returned the gesture before he turned away to take the child to safety. |
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| Archbass | Nov 19 2013, 07:21 PM Post #23 |
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The Architect
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The matte painting ripped once more. This time, a body flew through a hole that it could only fit through in a crumpled state--which was exactly what happened. The bandit's crumpled, bruised mess of a body landed off of center-stage, barely missing Ornstein's piano and lying with its limbs articulated in ways hardly imaginable. Through the hole in the painting, part of Cyrus's hulking form stood in the shadows. The painting creaked, and fell over, crushing the stage and revealing the melee backstage. A cloud of dust obscured the melee as the panting hit the stage. For the very first time since joining the Ensemble, Cyrus appeared to give a fuck (not that he would believably do so). He stepped from the dust, his sihlouette only making him look shorter than his actual height. In his other hand he held another bandit by the collar--dead weight in his hand, as the lump on the cheek told; if one couldn't see that through the dust, they'd be acquainted quickly. Cyrus threw the other bandit -- unlike the last one, this one landed directly on top of Ornstein's piano, collapsing its legs and letting out a terrible cacophony of keys struck no worse than Ornstein's normal piano playing. "My piano!!" Ornstein could be heard yelling at the top of his lungs. Cyrus stepped from the dust. "Oi. We've got this," he said to no one in particular. Not that he gave a fuck--not that he gave a fuck that his hands were stained with the blood of more than just the bandits he threw off stage. Fraye hadn't fought this hard in years -- bandits giving her a run for her money was on her list of things most unlikely to happen to her in her lifetime. But fighting them was just like fighting thugs. The one in front of her, with his cutlass brandished, didn't seem too different from a thug from back in the day. Just less tall, since Fraye wasn't a kid anymore. Deep breath, keep the footwork loose, and move in any direction possible. She felt a presence behind her. "Like old times, kid?" Baragos. He faced a bandit in front of him as well -- why so many backstage? What were they thinking? And what was Navitia doing; where did the auteur go? Fraye nodded. Cyrus was a lost cause now that he'd left a trail of two bodies backstage plus two more and a wrecked canvas, but Baragos would have her back here. Cyrus leapt off the stage, landing on the body of the bandit on the wrecked piano, and started after others throughout the square. That left Fraye and Baragos to these two clowns backstage. Deep breath -- keep the foe's eyes away from the sword. It was a little like dancing--if that dancing was done in a trance. Every time she flipped forward, her foe stepped back, utterly confused by the display. It was dizzying, but she had a grasp on her cutlass, and a sense of where it swung. Her foe did not. A few seconds was all she needed -- an opening created by the bandit's bewilderment. By the time she stood up straight again, she stood on him, his sword hand cut and a gaping gash over his chest just underneath her boot. Baragos fared just the same--he was quicker, and more calculated. His attack came earlier, and he needed only one blow. The crumpled bandit beneath Fraye's foot groaned. "Who do ya think we are?" she spat in the bandit's face. She applied more pressure under her foot. The already weakened chest cracked beneath it. The bandit gurgled, and coughed, only to stiffen completely. "Let's get going. Dead men won't know anything," Baragos said. The two of them stepped off stage and joined the melee--security was surely now in full force, and they'd need every hand they could get, Fraye secretly hoped. |
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| Ser Falcon of the Seventh Stream | Nov 19 2013, 07:29 PM Post #24 |
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Stagehand
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The cloaked woman had made her way around the city, a grin held on her lips the whole time. She heard nothing but praises about the troupe that was to perform tonight, and that there may have been a yet to be known guest of honor as well! Oh how exciting everything was going to turn out. She was positively bursting with energy, but did her best to wrangle it in when she had asked for directions after politely excusing herself for interrupting a conversation. After arriving at the messengers, she set the letter down upon the desk, with a coin atop it. He reaches for the letter, but before he can inquire about the destination, she speaks once again. "Make certain it reaches the Gilded Roost, please." She bows her head lightly, then withdraws a pad of paper. All the while, he's just staring at her with a confused look. 'Could she really have been...? Naww. Must've just been an informant.', he thought. "Might I get your name, Ser?" "It's uh... Steven..." His voice droops off as his response becomes muffled. "Thingkeeper." She stared at him blankly for a moment as well, then dipped her quill into his inkwell. She was quick to jot his name down, then nod. "I'll just call you Steven then. It's been a pleasure, and may the Lady of Light always keep your path bright." She bows her head in a respectful manner, then departs. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ After a trip to the grocer and parting with a small amount of lesser coins for a group of street urchins, she makes her way back to the Inn. "Seems that this city isn't without its own problems... but I imagine that's just life here. All cannot be accounted for." She shrugs her shoulders somewhat, a frown upon her lips with that bag tucked under her arm. She reaches into her cloak once more to withdraw the key to her room. She slips it into the lock, opens the door and withdraws the key, then closes and locks it behind herself. The hour had drawn late, but not enough that it was pitch black in her room. Aside from that, there was the illumination from the stage that kept it bright. Though, she needed to make just a minor adjustment. She pulled the desk over to the window, and set the chair before it. Reaching into the bag, she withdrew a piece of cured meat, followed by a fresh loaf of bread. As she takes her seat, overlooking the square below, she withdraws a knife from the small of her back and uses it to cut portions of both the meat and the bread. She eats both happily as she waits for the show to begin. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ By the time she had half-way consumed both the meat and bread, washing it down with a skin of water, the sounds from outside seemed to dull. She stood, opening the window and slid a bar of wood between them to ensure it remained open. She returned to her seat, a rather eager grin upon her features. Though once the voice of the lady had reached her ears, she spoke in a soft whisper. "Oh, now that's class." She folded her hands beneath her chin, watching intently as the one in crimson armor appeared from the left of the stage as the lady departed through some mysterious means. Magic? No, just simple theatrical magic. But that man that took the stage, oh he was something. She couldn't quite make his face out, but his voice? Those words that he spoke and that rose he presented to the audience? She couldn't let something like that pass up! She brings two fingers to her lips and whistles sharply, then joins in the clapping. But when that dagger pierced through the rose and pinned it to the painting, she fell silent. "... Why now?" She asked herself, but to no answer in return. "And what do I do?" She asked herself, turning to look over her shoulder at the bow and quiver resting against the wall. A low sigh escapes her lips as she turns back and blows out the candle, hoping to mask her presence some. She's quick to scamper over to the wall and collect both, her bow in her left hand with that quiver now being slung over her shoulder so it hung by her right hip. She pushes the desk out of the way, then stands a few feet back. A quick survey of the scene lets her know that many of the crowd has, or was trying to depart from the scene. The others though, the rabble that would have ruined both this play and the special guest that they all seemed to be flocking to. She notches a single arrow in the bow, her voice low as she whispers this prayer.The screams, all of the chaos below falling silent. "God of battle, You know of the ever lasting struggle amidst all humans, for you know who is the strong and who is the weak. Hear my prayer in the midst of destruction, and grant me the strength that I might vanquish my foe, so that one day I may be reunited with my family and friends." The string is pulled tight, enough that the string presses up against her chin. She swallows, but speaks once again. Her eyes focused off to the mob that appeared to assault a single man who came to the aid of the actors. "Goddess of light and fire, I ask that you forgive me, for I will sin this eve'. I do not cleanse the heart of beasts that have been corrupted and turned from your light, but I instead cleanse the hearts of man that would willingly do wrong unto others. Innocent, guilty, I know not. I know however, that should I sit in passing, the consequences will be far more dire. Grant me the serenity and clarity I need to strike true, And may your brilliant aura always guide my way." With that prayer said, she looses the arrow upon one of the bandits. Though the arrow sung true, it didn't hit where she had intended. She hadn't accounted for the constant coastal breeze, and a shot meant to kill was instead turned into an incapacitating shot as the arrow sunk deep into his shoulder. But well enough, it may have kept him from further attacking that eve. Another arrow is notched as she looks for a suitable target. Once they had been found, the arrow is loosened. |
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| arrogantRooster | Nov 19 2013, 11:50 PM Post #25 |
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Stagehand
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Time slowed as the dagger embedded itself into the painting that served as the backdrop, the impaled rose like blood blossoming from the shoulder of the blade. The cold steel glistened in the stage lighting and a moment of stunned silence followed before Damian realized with an immediate, crushing horror that no, this was not an intended part of the performance. That moment was all it took before the bandits were upon the crowd, surging forward in a number and intensity he would never have expected. "Protect Lady Harmon!" he shouted, on his feet in an instant as chaos erupted around him. His sword hand flew to the sabre sheathed on his left as he turned to face Priscilla. Though her entourage of guards had been seated in a defensive circle around her, the back row had already been cut down, with two of the pirates now on either side of her as she struggled valiantly against their grips. Four more of the brigands were engaged in battle with the remaining guards. Damian reacted too slow; as he made to draw his blade, one of the pirates holding Priscilla released her and kicked the pommel of his sabre, driving it back into its sheath. Damian flinched backward away from the horizontal slash that followed. Grabbing and twisting the pirate's forearm as it passed, he brought his free arm down on the other man's elbow with as much force as he could muster and smiled grimly at the resounding crack. The pirate dropped his cutlass and howled in pain. Damian snatched it up as it fell and mercilessly impaled the man through the chest with his own blade. The man's eyes widened and he opened his mouth as if to speak, but managed only a gurgle before his eyes rolled back in their sockets. Damian kicked him from the platform of Lady Harmon's seat of honor. The man that still held onto Priscilla brandished his blade, flashing its sharp edge at Damian before holding it dangerously close to the woman's neck. "Back off or she dies now," he snarled. Damian froze where he stood, cautiously analyzing the situation. He couldn't afford any moves that would put Lady Harmon further into harm's way. His next move was decided for him when she flashed him a warning look and unexpectedly stomped her heel down on the bandit's toes. He jerked away with a yelp at the sudden pain, and without hesitation Damian drew the pistol holstered on his right and unloaded the single shot into the man's upper torso. The man lost his footing as he stumbled back from the impact and tumbled over the edge of the platform. Damian reholstered his empty pistol and rushed to Priscilla's side. He gestured frantically toward the edge of the plaza where her carriage awaited. "Lady Harmon, we must -" he began, but was interrupted by the warning shouts of the few remaining guards who had gathered in a protective semicircle around their charge. He drew his sword and turned - right as a crossbow bolt whizzed by his cheek, so close that the fletching brushed his skin, leaving a paper-thin cut below his left eye. "Damn, missed," laughed the woman across from him. She dropped the crossbow and bounded up, three more of the bandits appearing at her side with weapons drawn. "Oh well." Damian tore his own sabre from its scabbard and pointed it toward the four approaching enemies, eyes flicking uncertainly between them. The sounds of struggling to either side indicated that his fellow guardsmen were already preoccupied. They were completely surrounded. Two of the pirates moved in on him, stabbing simultaneously with their blades. Expertly, Damian jammed the tip of his saber between the handguard and the hilt of one of their swords and twisted, flipping the blade out of their grasp as he turned to narrowly avoid being gutted by the other. It caught in his side, slicing through the leather portion of his armor to cut a small gash in his flesh and tearing completely through his tabard. He spun toward the offender and delivered a crushing blow to the nose with the pommel of his sword, watching as they crumpled to the ground. He whirled back around and slashed with an angry ferocity at the disarmed man, slicing deep into the man's neck. The man dropped to the floor with a strangled cry, his hands desperately clutching at his own throat in a futile effort to stem the bleeding. Damian whipped around at the noise of a scuffle and Lady Harmon's silenced scream behind him. The lifeless body of a guard lay at the feet of a tall, burly pirate, who had Priscilla in a chokehold. This time, she was being held a foot above the ground, kicking only at air. The man swiftly knocked her out with a blow to the head. Enraged, Damian made for the man, but with an incredibly harsh clang that reverberated through his helmet and in his ears, he dropped to his knees as an intense pain and dizziness washed over him. Black crawled at the edges of his vision as his eyes watered and the world began to blur. He retched. The last thing he saw before the world faded to black was Lady Harmon being carried away... "Heh. Killjoy," the woman's voice echoed and faded. |
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| Wanderlust | Nov 23 2013, 05:55 PM Post #26 |
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The Sleeping Soul
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Why did these blackhearts have to choose tonight of all nights...? Thaeran knew he shouldn't have been as surprised as he was at the sudden raid, and cursed himself for asking such a stupid question. The Ensemble all should have been more prepared for this - they had given these "bandits" the perfect opportunity, and they had leapt at the chance. Of course, these weren't any ordinary bandits. Thaeran had first started to notice something was going on when he saw the shady individuals dressed in black start to filter into the audience - but no, that would have been too easy. He had assumed them to be simple pickpockets; every outdoor performance had its cutpurses that preyed on the distracted spectators, and in some cases Ruezann's own apprentices were among them. Karia and her crew were more than efficient at taking care of the more blatant ones, and so he had shaken them from his mind. Then a thrown dagger missed Silversteel's head by inches, and complete chaos had broken out in Avareux's city square. Thaeran had broken his guitar over a ruffian's head, drawn the sword hidden in his coat, and joined the fray all before he realized something was very wrong: very few bandits were this stupid. The Twin Mask's reputation as skilled privateers and occasional soldiers of fortune was fairly well known. Avareux was one of the wealthiest provinces in Rotharia, and its guardsmen were well-trained, if not few in number. And the presence of the duchess's daughter would have only meant even more security: Thaeran had heard that soldiers from Valencia and Bausqé had been temporarily stationed in Avareux to reinforce its guard during the Twin Mask's stay... just in case ("Be flattered that they're taking us seriously for once", Ruezann had told them). So why were these marauders dressed in clothing so conspicuously shady that they all but shouted "I'm a bandit, please stab here"? He was locked in a fierce duel with one of the rogues, steel ringing against steel, when out of the corner of his eye he noticed something that answered his suspicions: while most of the civilians had panicked and rushed to escape the pandemonium of city square, the blue-cloaked Avareuxian guards guiding them, several plain-clothed men and women, ignored in the chaos, had strangely lingered behind... and they were heading straight for the platform Priscilla Harmon had been watching the Twin Mask's performance from. Of course, Thaeran thought. These men attacking us - this is a performance of their own put on to distract us. Our lives were never their intended target, only Duchess Harmon's gold... and our reputations. Karia shot dead a bandit closing in behind him as he smashed the hilt of his blade over the head of the man he had been dueling, knocking him unconscious, then he dashed for Priscilla's platform. "Priscilla!" he shouted,"They're after Lady-" His words were replaced by a cry of pain as a crossbow bolt suddenly buried itself in his shoulder, and he roughly collapsed to one knee on the cobbled city streets, losing his grip on his blade. Three of the rogues swiftly closed in around him, daggers in their hands, and as Thaeran tried to reach for his fallen sword one of the men slammed his foot down upon it. "Well, if it ain't Thaeran Rochester," the man said with a toothy grin. "We snagged a good one 'ere, boys - Ruezann'll pay a pretty penny fer his life." "Fuck Ruezann, slit his throat and be done with it," another said through clenched teeth. "Every breath we let him take is an insult to our brothers and sisters that the Twin Mask left to drown at sea. Captain Reyna said take no prisoners." "Ah," Thaeran growled through his pain, flashing them a cocky smile. "So the Seareavers are behind this. I thought you might have been just a little bitter after we sunk that last ship of yours in Saerotha. Which one was that? Four? Five? Reyna, though, I don't know that name. Oh, Captain Dowd and Tuomas Bastriel say hello, by the way." Keep them talking, Thaeran thought. He could already see one of the Twin Mask, shrouded in a dark cloak, inching his way towards them with a curved dagger in his hand. "Six," the man spat, "but it'll be the last. The Twin Mask will be less than nothing after tonight, then we'll hunt down Dowd and that traitorous whore Bastriel. They'll beg for death long before we're through with them." "Y'gonna sing a song fer us before ya die, Rochester?" the first man asked, pressing the cold steel of his blade up against his throat. The cloaked man was right behind him, and the others hadn't even noticed... but then, being noticed only precisely when he wanted to be had always been the greatest of Ruezann's many talents. "Nah," Thaeran said, "but I'll sing the dirge at your funeral if that makes you feel any better." The man opened his mouth to speak when Ruezann suddenly buried his dagger in his throat, and he only managed to cough up blood with a sickening gurgling sound. Before the other two even had a chance to blink Ruezann tore his blade out of the man's jugular and turned on them; he was frighteningly precise and surgical with his blade, every slash tearing through a major artery, and within seconds all three men were on the ground in pools of their own blood, dead or dying. "Ever the artist," Thaeran muttered, swallowing down his disgust. "Though, if you only ever paint with the color red, people might accuse you of lacking creativity. Just looking out for your career, you know?" Ruezann rolled his eyes and offered him his hand, helping him back to his feet. "As luck would have it, a Shepherd of the Awakening made time in his busy schedule to attend our performance. He's cleaning up Silversteel and Dowd backstage. Go see him about that hunk of metal in your shoulder, you're useless if you can't play an instrument." "Yeah, yeah, thanks," Thaeran said dryly. "What about you?" "I've got the duchess-to-be to save, not to mention our reputations. Karia and I will find this Captain Reyna - the rest of you clean up here and protect the civilians." |
| A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies. The man who never reads lives only one. | |
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| Karia Morsenia | Nov 23 2013, 09:00 PM Post #27 |
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Dragoness of Spellsongs
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Another pirate fell beneath Karia's blade, her arms speckled in red and the leather and chain-mail on her body shimmering with streaks of dark and scarlet. She was merciless and lost herself in calculating every move before turning to look, never missing her intended aim. Counting the seconds on each breath. A heavy pressure pushed down on her shoulder, bringing her to twirl so her spear's edge would rest against her attacker--- Ruezann stared into her steel, turquoise eyes. "It's the Seareavers, and they took Lady Harmon. We need to follow." Karia blinked and nodded, not needing any further explanation. She shadowed Ruezann's footfalls as she had so often before, especially amongst the memories of their pasts, trusting he knew which path the pirates traced. They cut back along the border of the square to the opening of one of the alleys. There at the end they saw Priscilla tied and gagged, looking half dazed and in the middle of a group of the black clothed rats of the sea. "They've only had her for a few minutes and her cheeks are already bruised," Karia muttered. Among the group was a woman with sharp facial features and a scar across her beautiful face. Her eyes were liquid ice and her hair as wild and untamed as fire. The smile she gave them upon turning to stare at them was a wicked one mixed with pleasure. "We're fortunate today, boys. There be two of the three famous leaders of Twin Mask in the flesh. Come to see the beginning of your ridiculous troupe's downfall, have we? Because I'll tell ye, we're just getting started." "Captain Reyna, is it? I'll match the name to your face while I carve out your heart," Karia spat. A bark of laughter escaped from the pirate lady's lips. "Oh you pretty thing, I dare you to take a step forward and try." Ruezann placed a hand on Karia's shoulder. "You all never cease to stop making the same mistake when crossing our path." Karia spun her warspear between her hands and began her advance. Ruezann frowned and glanced up between the two buildings. "Karia!" He pulled her back by the shoulders just as Reyna fired a pistol, unleashing a pile of debris and wood planks to fall where Ruezann and Karia were standing. They rolled out of the way of the falling trash, staring at the oil cascading down from the pirates atop the buildings. Torches descended on the pile, setting it alight in a roaring fire and forcing the two Ensemble leaders to step backwards. Karia held up her arm to cover her eyes from the brightness of the flames, Reyna and her group disappearing down the alley with Priscilla. Ruezann glared at their retreat through the smoke and dance of the blaze. "Come on, we need to regroup and check on the others. We'll need a good plan." Reluctantly, Karia turned her back on the fire blocking their path and walked with Ruezann back to the square. Thaeran looked at them with a question in his eyes, answered by a shake of Karia's head. By this time all of the remaining pirates had been slain and order was retaking the scene as guards flooded in to tend to the frightened, wounded, and dying. She searched the crowd for the Shepherd she saved earlier, glancing down at her wounds and weariness and thinking of him. The Twin Mask's performance for their sixth anniversary had been cast into ruin, and now there'd be rumors and questions. They had to reclaim the better side of their reputation now. |
| “Solitude has soft, silky hands, but with strong fingers it grasps the heart and makes it ache with sorrow.” | |
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| Samus | Nov 23 2013, 11:33 PM Post #28 |
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The Guardian
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The blood trickled down Samus’ hands as he stitched another wounded member of the Ensemble. Since the fighting had died down somewhat with the successful kidnap of the duchess, Samus had done nothing but see to the injured. His hands ached and he was running low on supplies. He wiped his brow with a forearm, careful not to get sweat anywhere near his hands and finished seeing to the young man’s lacerations. He grabbed a member of the Ensemble’s backstage crew. “Please, I need any medical supplies you have. Needles, sutures, thread.” The man nodded, “I also any medicinals you have I can use to stop the infection. Any chaparral leaf, any Tears of Ibarra, anything?” The man’s blank stare back reflected the fact that the ensemble didn’t carry the kind of medical care Samus was used to. “Any alcohol?” The man grinned and Samus asked to have the strongest spirit he could find. As he turned back to the nearest patient, a member of the ensemble entered carrying a man with a crossbow bolt in his shoulder. Samus rushed over and helped the man to a makeshift bed where they laid him down. Samus immediately cut the clothing around the bolt while talking softly to the man. “My name is Samus, I’m a Shepherd of the Order of Saint Alerion.” “Good to have you here. I’m Thaeran.” The man’s smile was cocky, but Samus immediately liked him. Plus, he had heard of Thaeran Rochester. “Quite the show you guys put on.” Samus scanned the wound. “Well, you’ve not torn any major blood vessels, and it looks like a clean shot. Only problem is the bolt has broken, the head’s come away from the shaft.” He smiled as he took the bottle of alcohol from the stage-hand and washed his hands. “That’s a waste of fine alcohol.” Rochester said smiling. “Worth it if it will stop your arm from falling off. You’re lucky I’m here.” He said, turning back to the man. Samus splashed the wound with alcohol and worked the wooden part of the bolt away from the wound, scoring it with a small knife. Rochester was clearly in pain, but did not cry out, much to his credit. Samus turned to a man watching him. “I need a long piece of metal, like the tip of an awl pike. Sharp.” The man nodded and disappeared. “I need to pull the metal tip of the bolt out and cauterize it. You seem like a tough bastard, but I’ll tell you now, it’s going to hurt like a cunt.” Rochester’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve never met a shepherd with so loose a tongue.” “I’ve never met a musician with so good a sword-arm.” Samus smiled as he took a pot of honey from his satchel and mixed it with a good amount of alcohol. The honey and alcohol would act as an anti inflammatory, and provide Rochester’s wound with enough protection from infection. The stagehand returned again and Samus took the small metal spike from him. “I took it from the stage.” “Hope it’s not important.” Rochester quipped. “It is for you.” Samus joked. “Okay. Here goes. This is going to hurt.” Using the spike, Samus centred the spike on the bolt’s metal head and slowly dug it into the hole that had formed when the bolt had broken. The head must have torn deeper into Rochester’s shoulder, but once Samus was satisfied he had the bolt’s head firmly attatched to the spike, he slowly pulled both from Rochester’s shoulder. Swiftly, using a heated metal poker, Samus burned the wound closed and placed the honey/alcohol mix in and around the wound. Samus sighed as he sat back upon his knees and wiped his brow once more. He was thinking desperately on how to get more supplies when Brother Martin appeared backstage. “Thank the saint.” Martin said when he saw him. “I thought you’d been killed.” Samus met his fellow shepherd with an embrace and quickly asked for his satchel. “Samus, there’s news.” Samus was too busy rooting around in Martin’s bag to notice. “Brother.” Samus found a vial of Tears of Ibarra and returned to Rochester. “Drink this. It’ll help.” Martin pursued Samus to Rochester’s cot. “The Wings of Avaleria was destroyed. Prince Cecilius, Lucia, all of them with it.” Samus stopped and stared at his blood soaked hands. In a second, he was back to taking anything useful from Martin’s bag. “Did you hear me?” Samus took a roll of bandages and wrapped Rochester’s wound, avoiding both men’s gaze. “Lucia is…” “I heard you.” Samus said. “And I think there are some wounds to see to. Brother.” Martin nodded and stepped reluctantly away. Samus had no words for how he was feeling, but somewhat regretted how he had spoken to Martin. “You allright there?” Rochester asked. Samus nodded as he finished wrapping his wound. “You need to avoid using the arm for at least a week or two. If you lose feeling in your fingers, you must find a doctor.” “Or a shepherd with hands like yours.” Samus smiled, but he felt numb inside. He walked away from Rochester, with no idea how he was feeling. He needed a distraction, anything to keep him from thinking of Lucia, his former master. When the woman from the fight entered and asked him quietly for some attention, he was glad to help. “I’m Samus.” He said as he used the mix of honey and alcohol to keep any of her more serious wounds from infection and bound them with the bandages. She had been through a rough fight, and Samus was keen to help her recover. “Brother Samus?” She asked. “Aye,” He smiled. “Brother Samus.” “I’m Karia.” “Nice to meet you. And, thanks. I never got a chance during the erm… the battle?” “Not much of a battle.” She smiled. “But no problem. Glad you can help the Ensemble.” “It’s what we do.” Samus said, somewhat resigned. In his head, all he could do was think of Lucia, of how ashamed she would have been of his behavior in the battle. Had he been a knight of the order, like her, he would have wiped the bandits out with little effort. Had he been half the warrior his father was, he would have been in the mix of the battle with a war cry on his lips and blood on his blade. Instead, he was back here, stitching cuts and fixing broken bones. Samus had grown up hating the idea of fighting, as his father did. But now, after that? These people didn’t prioritize, as his father did. It seemed to Samus that they would help anyone, not just a royal family. “How does that feel?” Samus asked. “Fine. Am I set to head back out?” Samus was impressed that the woman was already eager to get back to sorting the Ensemble’s problems. “Yeah, just wish I could join you.” He said, smiling. “But I’m not much of a swordsman.” “You handled one of those bandits well enough. Knocked him half around the world with that staff of yours if I remember rightly.” She touched him lightly on the shoulder as she walked away, catching his eye and making the young man blush. Avareux was certainly different from Valencia, or the Godlands for that matter. And the Ensemble? He thought as he looked around. They were certainly different from the Order of Saint Alerion. And he liked it. |
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| Wanderlust | Nov 26 2013, 12:24 AM Post #29 |
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The Sleeping Soul
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For her part, Alexandra Lerender had hidden beneath the stage the moment the chaos began. Daring heists and heroic escapes were one thing, but when faced with life or death, she was compelled to choose the former, even if it meant taking the cowardly route. She stayed huddled in the shadows, eyes shut tight and ears covered, doing her best to drown out the cacophony of shouts and screams and ringing steel. As the fighting quieted somewhat, however, a small shred of bravery sprouted within her, and it encouraged her to not be entirely useless. I-I can go get help, at least. The Crimson Rose, she told herself, Bastriel and the rest of the crew, t-they can help us... She was shaking with fear, but as soon as she saw an opening, she harnessed what small courage she had before it faltered and scurried out from her hiding place, bolting back in the direction of Avareux's harbor. She quickly found her way through the panicked throng of civilians struggling to escape the marauders through the narrow streets, past blue-cloaked city guards, and finally found an opening, dashing madly towards her destination. It was then that a large, dark-cloaked man jumped out of an alleyway in front of her and knocked her off her feet with a sudden, brutal swing of his arm. Head reeling, Alex tried to struggle to her feet, but the man wrapped his arm around her neck in a chokehold and dragged her back into the alley. "What've we got 'ere? Tryin' t'escape?" He chuckled darkly, then gave her a brown-toothed smile. His breath was rancid. "Fuck, I can't even tell what y'are. Girl? Boy? Either way, yer a pretty little thing." The sprout of courage in Alex's chest suddenly bloomed. "Don't fuck with me," she shouted in his face, trying to writhe and struggle out of his tightening grasp. "I'm... I'm one of the Twin Mask Ensemble! We don't fear shitstains like-" The man rolled his eyes and backhanded her across the face; she'd have collapsed if not for his grip around her neck. "I know what y'are, y'little twit. Cap'n Reyna said t'take no prisoners, ah, yes, but you... well, the rest o' the crew might appreciate me takin' home a little souvenir from the Twin Mask's big show t'share with 'em all, no?" Her mind still spinning from the blow, she opened her mouth to speak when the man suddenly shoved a moist cloth up against her face. She gasped in sudden panic, and that one sharp breath against the cloth was enough to make everything go black. |
| A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies. The man who never reads lives only one. | |
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| Maria | Nov 26 2013, 12:29 AM Post #30 |
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Best Avatar Award 2013
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Somewhere in the depths of the pirate ship, Lady Priscilla paced back in forth in her prison, her blue silk gown torn and soiled. Her hair had long since fallen out of its elegant bun and arranged itself into a tangled mess. The room was simply but comfortably furnished, much nicer than what she had expected on a pirate ship but it still had an oppressive quality. The portholes had been boarded over. How long had it been? Priscilla knew not. She had fainted promptly after being dragged away from her guards, kicking and screaming for her life. The shock of getting a knife pressed against her throat was just starting to wear off, and the even greater shock of being kidnapped by pirates and getting taken away from everything she had ever known or loved was beginning to set in. Unbidden, tears came to her eyes, which she hastily wiped away. Tears were a luxury she no longer had. As the future Duchess of Avareux and the sole heir to House Harmon, she could not show her weakness to anyone. Still, her sobs echoed through the small room. Helplessness washed over her. Every couple hours, a priestess of Avaleria would come in and bring her a plate of food or a glass of watered wine. Every attempt to speak to or bribe the woman was rebuffed with silence and a strange glare. Famished, Priscilla would take a few bites of the food before seasickness took over and she vomited every last morsel into her chamber pot. Priscilla comforted herself with thoughts of her mother and the palace in Avareux. It was only a matter of time before her mother paid the ransom on her head, no matter how high their price was. And then life would return to normal; she would grieve her mother’s death and become the Duchess of Avareux, ruling with a kind but firm hand. Still, Priscilla could not help but think about what would happen to her if her mother failed to provide the ransom in time. What would become of her? Would the pirates sell her to a slaver? Throw her overboard? Priscilla would not allow herself to think of what they would do to her first. She had heard the stories. From a leg on the nightstand, she had peeled off a thin but wickedly sharp splinter of wood, about the length of her hand. As she squeezed it in her hand, she felt every so slightly less helpless. You'll be out of here in no time. |
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3:18 PM Jul 10