Story It was once golden you know, Para’Ven, though I suppose a hundred years or so has a habit of tarnishing most things. Glowing spires pierced the sky while vaults and workshops lay beneath the earth. Of the towers I can speak clearly, having lost their light and seeming to have shrunk, more like talons or fangs than any tool made by man or gods. Beneath the city? I do not know, nor do I hasten to think of what lies beneath that dark place. What? You seek to enter that place? I’d advise you to turn back now, though I know my words are unlikely to shape your thoughts. Perhaps you seek to make the world a better place, sharing forgotten treasures and lost knowledge amongst all, or perhaps horde it for yourself, either might make the world a little better, or your place in it at least .Maybe you want to halt the stream of creatures that leave its walls, an honorable goal, though many have tried. Though I shall give you one piece of knowledge from my venture into the walls. Find Marius’s Aeyrie, a large black platform attached to the parapet. Ring the bell, while your journey may not be easier, it will not be as meandrous. The Gods and their city Beyond even our eldest records the three have existed. Marius of the Steel Wind, Tynivia the Summer Queen, and Formless Relatus. In times of need they have provided aid , in times of arrogance, they provide humility. Kings have been sired and passed, empires have risen and fallen, mountains born and weathered to little more than dust, yet the three persist. The first, Marius,was different from the other gods, a pair of pale wings sprouting from his back, with bladed feathers that he bestowed upon his followers as weapons, for war was his domain. He was a stern soul, if not a little dictatorial, and sought to protect others from things that might hurt them, taking domain over fire and justice, the first hurting the careless while the later allowed him to deter people from hurting others. His followers are near exclusively warriors, though whether they use bow, blade, or anything else, he cared not. His artifacts are mostly weapons and armour, though a few do stand apart from the rest, such as The Crown of Judgement, which forces the wearer to reveal their sins. Tyniva, as her title suggests, took domain over summer, and all things associated with it, prosperity, nature and beauty, a sharp contrast to her husband. Another term for her is The Mage Mother, for it is she that bless humans with magic, and would even bestow miracles upon those without. Many would pledge their loyalty to her, from farmers to kings and any in between, and her relics held as much range, though all granted fortune Finally, Formless Relatus, who claimed anything the others deemed themselves above. The dark, the cold, death, and the less savoury emotions. While these might shape the image of a cruel god, Relatus seeks to move mortals past these, and will always favour the lesser party in any fight, making him a rather balancing force in the world, and a great ally to heroes and villains alike, though his loyalties to either side are often, variable. Of course, this was all before their absence. For over a century, the once golden city of the gods has lain dulled, slumbering amidst a near eternal twilight that lingers amidst the spires. Once the city was shared equally amongst the gods, Marius claiming the north, Relatus the west while Tynivia ruled over the east, the southern quarter known as The Gilded walk, where visitors enter the city. Now, it belongs to none, except the beasts that lurk in its halls, and the ones that rove the world in search of fresh meat. The World The Northern Wastes Tynaven The easternmost of the northern territories. A beautiful land of fertile plains and crystalline waters, eroded to an endless desert with migratory tribes scavenging attempting to rebuild their lands to what it once was. Led by sorcerous chieftains, the people will search for any ruins torn from the deserts grasp, slaying whatever beasts have claimed them, taking whatever relics they can and returning them to their last city, little more than a crystal tower that juts into the sky like spear, though what lies beneath is a trove of treasure. The Cracked Plains Originally the harshest hit area of the world, the desert was made solid by a rain of meteors, and provided amiable refuge for those who fled the Para’Ven. Ruled over by a priesthood that still clings to the old faith, despite the lack of miracles that once kept the masses in their sway. Rich in metal and glass from the impact, the warriors of the land are well equipped, the underclasses less so however, though both fight to see all brought under their true faith. Magic is forbidden, the priests claiming that the force is what brought ruin to the world, and witch hunters seek both practitioners and the beings that followed them in their exodus, both being cleansed with fire. The Middle Belt Brackenmarsh It is often said that the marsh has never been invaded, as it has never been worth anything. Little more that a series of huts amidst putrid waters, the people of the swamp tend to be spindly and sallow skinned. They hold no ruler, instead each village governing itself, though there is something that unites them, a closely guarded secret. In the centre of the swamp lies a pleasent grove, where the scents are sweet and animals strong, ruled by a figure calling herself The Marsh’s Muse. Every solstice, the people send any child with magic to her. The daughters join her coven, what happens to the sons however, is unknown to all except the Muse. The Scaled Empire Deceit is in the nature of a many serpent, though the people of Verant would claim otherwise. A series of plains, steppes and mountains where the people have taken Dragons as their new gods. The great beasts have accepted their positions with great enthusiasm, and quickly shaped the lands into a dozen allied city states, each dedicated to guarding and rearing new clusters of eggs. Whether their governance is beneficial is a matter of perspective. While the empire is constantly at war, the expansion granting many new resources, they are consistently winning, for it is hard to oppose any army when they are supported by gargantuan creatures of scales and fire. Torun Torun There is little to say about this southern land, with its near endless peaks and frost-covered valleys, all under the yoke of the Jotun, the mysterious giants arriving shortly after the gods left and claiming the land for themselves. The people are hardy, built to survive the ever present snow and hunt the similarly large creatures. Magic is sparsely used, the people being self reliant and preferring an axe to anything arcane, though those gifted with the craft are appreciated, especially when it comes to dealing with the lands masters. The people of the land are not receptive of their overlords, only accepting their rule when no other alternative is present. Magic, curses that force their bearer into the form of a wolf, and long forgotten blades are used, though they can only stave off the Jotun for so long. Character Sheet Name: Sex: Age: Nationality: Profession: Traits: Biography: Rules GM is god. No god modding, apart from if your GM. If you feel he is abusing this power please contact him, or your lawyer, preferably the former. Be polite when out of character, when in character, have as much fun as you like. If you’re going to have your character fight someone else's, try to compromise when working out the ending There is no minimum or maximum requirement on posts, do whatever feels right. Try to keep it tonally consistent, though some comic relief might be useful at times. You are permitted to swear like a sailor who has just stubbed their toe. Just don't be gratuitous. Fun is mandatory. One main character per person preferably, exceptions can be made for a good cause. No Mary Sues. Send you're character sheet to the GM for approval before posting in either the main or discussion thread. Addendum The vast majority of magic is instantaneous, however, things like necromancy or say, changing the weather, take time. There are no healing spells. If you're character gets wounded, best hope there's someone with a bag of herbs or some bandages around.
YOUR GAME OF AWESOME HAS BEEN APPROVED!!!! May your journey into this dark concrete jungle be a GREAT ONE! Looks AWESOME! Approved! Your grand opening!
Thirteenth of the Lengthening Nights. 128 P.E A thin haze hung in the air, barely perceptible yet unmistakably there by the way light seemed to hold a light shimmer. Despite the sun's vantage point atop the plains, little light made its way below, a coldness gripping the land with a thin layer of frost upon the tips of the overgrown grass. The road, if it could be called such, was little more than a series of ancient cobbles, drive apart by roots of an ancient oak and peppered with weeds. The ancient path stretched from the nearest sign of civilization, an imperial outpost, to the ancient gates. Twenty feet wide and more than three times the height, built for the ancient beings who had aided in the maintenance of the world, though the name of their kind was long forgotten. One gate was open, the obsidian panel decorated with gold, humans looking up at the stars while three figures above them looked down. One wore a plated helm bearing an avian design, the next a woman, beautiful and reaching down with the sun in her palm, the final was little more than a cloak, its hood empty apart from a single point of silver where it’s left eye should be. The other gate lay broken, shards of black glass driven into the ground to form some sort of makeshift barricade, a dozen brass climbing hooks embedded in the cracked surface. The whole area was near silent, the only noise being the echoing of hooves against a path, as the latest party of heroes, or scavengers, rode towards the remnants of the city.
The caravan, as tan as the desert it traveled through, clopped and bounced along the stumbling, drunken road. Marcus sat silently, uncomplainingly on the floor of the caravan as the mules carried them and their nourishments along towards the massive remnants of the city in front of them. Marcus slid his finger into his jacket, grabbing at a two-sided coin his mother had given him. They would be hunting the various parties that would come through this city. A cheetah lying in wait, if you will. If a cheetah had a bow and arrow, several swordsmen, and various other mercenaries. "Marcus. I hope you're ready for anything. Who knows who we may have to kill here. Any magnitude of sorcerer or magician could come through. You best have a quick shot." Kent asks, wearing a light tan robe over his head and body. He blended in with the ground if one didn't look hard enough. And not seeing Kent meant a quick death. "You know I do." Marcus grabbed at his quiver, his finger twitching, expecting to grab an arrow and fire it. The quick, clean motion of death. "Yes, I do. Just be ready." "I will." Over the course of a few hours, the caravan makes it to a winding, hilly curve in the road about, and the caravan quietly parks there, behind the hills, invisible to any traveler from the road ahead.
Two months earlier There was no moon in the cloudy sky, and the showering rain ment that half the torches in the castle constantly had to be re-kindled. Only half the required amount of guards were stationed on the castle walls, holding the furs tightly against the blistering wind. A perfect night for Jade Kleese. Covered by shadows, no matter what light was shining at her, the black clad assassin scaled the castle walls. The climb was difficult and dangerous, even with the right equipment, and she had to stop and rest for a couple of minutes once she reached the top. As she rested, Jade quicly surveyed her surroundings. The castle grounds were dark and empty, but light shone through the windows of the main fort. There, she knew, on the ground level, Lord Morgen would be sleeping. Jade decided to climb through the first large window she could find. She ran down the stairs to the main hall, and ran through a corridor to the lord's chamber. Outside his doors was the first couple of guards she had encontered. Two sleep darts later she entered. She strode towards the bed, drew her knife, and threw away the covers. "Damn," she muttered, looking at the empty sheets. Out of the floor, four cage walls surrounded her reaching up to the ceiling. Jade's breath accelerated, and a for the first time in eons, she felt panick. "Well, what do we have here?" The Lord Morgen himself entered the room. He took some time to admire her before continuing. "Seems as if we have caught our sacrifice. Believe me when I say it, tracking you down was hard, and catching you, well that was like trying to tame a dragon." He laughed. "Now rest, we have a long trip ahead of us. It will be an exciting one, I assure you."
From afar it appeared as if a small black tent was moving along the road, a single high peak spreading out like a large umbrella. It completely concealed the figure within, but with the thickness of three men and twice as wide, whatever lay underneath the black tent-like cloak was as murky as the shallows of the Brackenmarsh from which it hailed from. A protrusion on the top front hung down and parted, allowing a small opening in for the traveler to see, but the sun graced not the interior of this space. A careful inspection of the front showed the box form that was not of flesh or bone and the rear protrusion was configured in such a way that the drapery was similar to a common laborer carrying a large basket on their back. Such a theory was supported by the sluggish pace of each step. The swaying of the tent allowing the clever eye to realize that this figure shunned the sunlight more than the cold air, but regardless - such lengths spoke not of strength, but disease, madness or desperation. Within the folds of the black shroud was Mixine, a witch from the Brackenmarsh, cast out into this land by her own decision. Burdensome as it was, Mixine carried that which was most valuable to her - a collection of simple folk medicines, wooden implements, a large waterskin and dried foodstuffs. While the untrained eye might envision some metal monster traveling beneath the cloak, nothing could be further from the truth. The only metal to be found on her person is a humble rod marred with innumerable scratches from use. These cold days were pleasant to Mixine, it kept her cool and it prevented her unwashed clothes from reeking with bodily secretions. Still, her scent would precede her and the strange musk would catch the nose of all those downwind. A mixture of earthy living, unwashed clothes and Mixine's own essences - the smell of peasantry. Though washing was an unpleasant and potentially dangerous, Mixine loved strong odors. Contrary to the opinion of outsiders, the smell of the Brackenmarsh mud was bouquet of wonders odors. Homesick, but unable to admit it, Mixine had no purpose or duty in this strange land. Yet, directionless as she was, her feet continued to carry her on to an uncertain future. Stopping to rest, she stood beside the road and shuffled about, the front and back of her gear shifting together as she fumbled about in the front mass which housed a small reserve of dried nuts and she popped them into her mouth. Tree nuts... how she longed for a succulent frog or the tender white flesh of a snake. A muddy ray, now that was divine, delicious pink oily flesh, searing it over a fire. Her stomach growled in protest at the meager offering. Shaking off her thoughts of home again, she set off and tried to quiet her mind. As she walked, she hummed meditatively to herself, anything to keep her mind from the boredom of her lonely existence, anything to keep at bay the thoughts and responsibilities which came with her age. "Wanderlust affliction," Mixine snorted derisively to herself, "There is no such thing."
Three Months Earlier... His mother gently massaged Marcus's shoulders as he laid back, breathing hard. They had got him. Dead, maybe. He felt the pressure of the hastily-crafted bandage around his chest. Others hadn't been so lucky with only a glancing, shallow strike. The intruder had killed 3 women and 5 men before Dart had killed him. The intruder had almost made it out with the containers of water. If only he had been a bit quicker on the draw... then Marlene and Jacob wouldn't be dead. They were so young, and she with child too. "You must not blame yourself, sweetie." Marcus looked up to his mother, still breathing, finding a vestige of solace and calm in her touches. Touches that warmed his skin. He was quiet and his lips laid against each other calmly, as his mind wandered into a sleep. Now Marcus's eyes slowly open, finding himself alone. Mother was at home, and father too. That's right. He had argued with them about it for weeks after his recovery before they relented. They didn't even know that it was to Para'ven. They just thought it was another trip. They thought he would be safe. He wasn't, and he was perfectly fine with that. It was much more exciting to live with Kent out in the desert, than to stay home and work a monotone life away. Dart dipped his head into the cart, nodding it quickly, before zipping out, grabbing his blade along the way. Marcus stretched his arms, then blinked his eyes a few times, wiggling his fingers. There was no stiffness. Marcus grabbed his bow, then quiver, then breathed in and out. Someone had been spotted, and it was hit duty to kill the driver. He maneuvered his way on top of the kart, able to see slightly around the hill, and saw a caravan coming along the way. He saw the other 12 men get in position behind the hill, ready to strike out. In, and out. Marcus crouches on the top of the caravan, and draws an arrow from his quiver. He pulls back the string, and sets his aim on the driver. His thumb barely grazes the tip of the arrowhead in slight hesitation. He lets it loose, and it flies true. What happened next flew by in a moment. Everything went smoothly. Later he would learn that they had 20 pounds of gold and several days worth of supplies, and they had a sorcerer with them. There were no survivors on their side, and not even a scratch for the raiders. Apparently, they had also a young mother with her young baby, who died. So it goes. In a few minutes, they had everything that the travelers had had in the wagon, and Marcus and company continued on their way, towards another series of dunes further towards the city. They were within a mile of it. The air seemed filled with something, whether it was a figment of his tired brain or a magical unknown thing, Marcus didn't know. He really didn't know very much. Kent dipped into the caravan, sitting besides Marcus, watching him. "Do you regret coming with us? I understand its not for the faint of heart." Marcus is silent, merely gazing off into the distance. He really wasn't sure. Kent's lips turn into a half-smile. "I think we should go in the city." Marcus turns his head sharply. "I thought you didn't believe that there is anything in there?" "I've changed my mind. Plus, even if there is nothing there... there are greater opportunities for trapping inbound travelers in the castle. We gain a huge advantage in a fight if we can utilize unfamiliar surroundings." Marcus's head leans back again, on the one pillow that they had. Kent chuckles. "Do you approve?" Kent smiles. Marcus lightly nods his head, and Kent sighs. "I'm used to the others. Your silence I am not used to." He clambers towards the exit to the caravan. "Tell me if you need anything. Good work out there." Silence fills the air, and Marcus could feel those familiar words resounding in his heart. Mother. Child. He tries to sleep, ignoring the rickety bounces of the caravan.
Mahtr trudged slowly along the ancient cobblestone path. Much time had passed since he'd left his small hut, but he hadn't tried to keep track. Letters and numbers he knew not. He'd never been educated back in in his village, merely trained in hunting and gathering. He had always disliked hunting, despite its necessity. He hated hurting other things, and even paid respect to the giant trees he felled for firewood. He had brought little with him for the road, but he hadn't owned a lot to bring either. A thick leather fur lined coat, a bedroll, and a small satchel containing a couple extra shirts, cloths, a pipe, jerky, and some berries he had picked along the way. He carried no weapons or staves with him. He pulled a rag from his pack to wipe his sweating brow. He was unused to this unfrozen climate, and had removed his coat shortly after leaving Torun, and it had been wrapped in his bedroll since. His bare arms were bulging with muscle and covered in a myriad grotesque scars from his past encounters with wolves and bears. The price for his pasifism. As he continued along his path, an odd scent drifted into his nose. It smelled vaguely familiar, of sweat, and of nature, but there was something strange about it as well. Something offputting. The scent grew stronger as he moved, until he caught sight of a heap of abandoned belongings laying on the side of the road. Or was it? As he approached, he could see the tower moving around. How peculiar. Whatever scent he was smelling seemed to be originating from the mountain of rubbage. He watched as it began lurching up the road toward the city that lay ahead. Perhaps it was seeking its fortune as well? Whatever the case, he didn't want to get involved with it. As strangely nostalgic as it seemed, the smell reminding him of his hut, he was wary of magical things. Magic was unnatural and unpredictable. It was dangerous and caused more harm than good. Even in using the one spell he knew, he could feel it drain him of his spirit. Magic was not a force to be taken lightly. He continued along the road behind the sentient heap, making sure to keep a good distance back.
Jade woke up in the darkness of a wagon. She was exhasted, as if she didn't sleep at all. The position in which she was sitting, with her hands chained behind her back and onto the floor was an uncofortable one, tp say the least. She had no idea for how long she had been sleeping, captivity took away her comprehension of time. Was it three weeks in the dungeon, four? A month on the road, maybe even two? All that time she was left to herself and ger thoughts. She had plenty of time to think, too much time. She made herself a mental list of the people that would have to die once she eacaped. There was Vystar, the man who contracted her. He was definately on the plan. There was the guard in charge of her, such a disgusting bastard was hard to come by. There were the two men who thought they could have their way with her, until she almost bit their fingers off and went on to being gagged as well as chained. Then, of course, there was Lord Morgen. She thought and dismissed so many plans to escape that she couldn't count them anymore. She windered where she was being taken, and why did they need her. She thought of taking her life, if she could just free herself from her cuffs, and fought those thoughts back every time they came. She even thought of her family. But she didn't cry. Jade had not shed a tear since she left Brakenmarsh. She heard the wagon opening and a sudden rush of light caused her to flinch. Her guard entered. Hatred filled her eyes, which suddenly turned to surprise, for he was there alone. A small smile crept on her face.
Before exhaustion set in, Mixine decided to stop for a break in the shade of a great oak tree. Against the side of the trunk, Mixine stooped low into a kneeling position to let the basket and front pack touch the ground before slipping out from underneath the canvas and into the sunlight. Mixine's patchwork tunic and slacks were made of a bast and skin fiber composition that was originally buff in color. Soiled and darkened with age from her time in the Brackenmarsh, it was stained with the soils and mud of her home. The cloth was processed and resistant to rot and though the material exterior was originally rough and matted, it was now soft and pliable with age. New patches of differing colors showed that was stitched together, adding to it as necessary. This had lead to Mixine's clothing being unusually thick from this process, but it deliberate one. Her neck, hands and feet were wrapped and gloved in a fine brown material that was unlikely to be of Brackenmarsh origin. Completely covered from head to toe, none of her gray skin from being shown to outsiders except from the two eye slits through the wooden mask that adorned her face. The mask was painted white and marked with a single black line in a great brimming smile. Attached to her right thigh was a slender metal rod, extending a bit past her knee. Turning her attention to setting up camp, Mixine pulled the top of the black canvas off and revealed the rattan-like front pack consisting of several compartments that had had a trunk like top. The rear part of the pack was like a wicker basket with a single deep top that contained a jumble of personal items and a bundle wrapped in black canvas and bound in twine. Mixine set the umbrella like top aside and its four-post configuration rest upright on the ground. While this pack was a blessing in the rain or in any elements, it was considerably weighty and possessed limited wind-resistance. Her figure was vaguely female now, tall and slender, like most of the Brackenmarsh's finer denizens, but her small breasts and thick clothing concealed her well. What gave her away was her hair, uncut black hair running from the top of her head down to her ankles, bound in ten places with simple knots of yarn. She would not cut it. One by one, she undid the knots of yarn and let her black hair fall free. Her tension and stress abated almost instantly, stretching and flexing her aching muscles. Pulling a simple bone brush out from the front compartment, she took a seat against the trunk of the tree and slung her hair over her shoulder to brush it. In the shadow of a great tree, she snuggled herself into its rough bark and stared out across the road while brushing her hair meditatively.
The plains were silent, lacking even the chirping of crickets, while the azure sky was empty of birds, though a single, petty cloud drifted over. The city was large, a dozen miles wide and almost the same from north to south, teeth jutting from the walls in the form of parapets while fangs were formed of lengthy towers. Statues lined the walls, gazing over the plains, though many were missing, having been pilfered or torn down. If one was to look upon the walls from the a distance, they might see a series of figures, hunched silhouettes scuttering along, like cockroaches upon some brazen trophy. In the far distance a herd of horses could be seen, one wandering in the direction of the city. At a certain point it seemed to pause, one foot in the air and head raised as if listening to the command of some invisible rider before turning round, a strange affliction known to affect any animal that might meander towards the walls.
Mahtr's pace had slowed significantly, his usual loping stride now a calm trudge. He wasn't especially tired, though he could feel the heat fast draining him of his energy. He was taking in his surroundings, and looking ahead to the abandoned city, its tall black gates looming over the plains. What would be lying in wait for him there? He had always heard stories of the city of the gods. Of sacred artifacts created by the divine. Were any left? He could see something on the side of the road again. It was the strange tent-like mound he'd seen earlier. He'd lost sight of it when his pace had slowed. He could see movement behind the mound. He moved to the opposite side of the road as he approached, but did not slow his pace. He pulled his cloth out again, and stopped to wipe his brow directly across from the mound to see. There was a person. Perhaps the strange pile was theirs? Perhaps it was a thief? It sat beside a tree and began running a comb through a long trail of filthy mane. He couldn't see its face through a mask. He finished wiping his brow, and continued slowly on his way. He was relieved that there wasn't any magic involved in the mound after all, at least, none that he could see. What a strange patchwork individual; though, he himself looked quite out of place. A scarred, mountainous man held together like his clothes by a few threads and tendons. His peasent's garb, and simple demeanour had earned him several dirty looks from passersby during his journey to this place, though he had never been disturbed.
Sensing Mahtr as he drew near and passed, Mixine sized him up from behind that smiling mask. She took an immediate interest in the tall man whose physical strength far surpassed her own. She considered her options and enjoyed his indifference and disinterest in confronting her. Brush, brush, brush... her head tilted to follow him like a sunflower basking in radiance. Her mind jumped about chaotically. He's interesting! He is alone. He travels light. Did he live nearby? No visible weapons, was he also capable of magic? Was he a threat? Perhaps... maybe? Her hand slipped to her rod and she realized that she was afraid of him. Her chest tightened and she let out a soft anxious burp as her body tried to dissuade her. However, this person resonated with her, and though she knew nothing about him - he seemed like a good person. For once in her life, she would take the initiative! She had to meet someone and it might as well a good person. Mixine did not want to leave her gear or pursue someone who did not want her company. but she needed to at least try. As he passed, she found herself running after him and calling out with her youthful girl's voice founded in convincing desperation, "Wait! Sir... Master... Help me!" As she said it, she feigned an injury by twisting her right leg, but the fake fall became real over the cobblestones. She held out her hands as she fell forward before crumpling down on the hard roadway. Mixine's thick clothing protected her from injury, but the impact was still unpleasant and her knees cried out painfully. She looked up towards Mahtr and suddenly hoped he did not turn back. From down on the ground he was like a massive beast wrapped in thick leather coat and covered in scars. He looked like a peasant, but now she saw him as a dangerous killer. She started to whimper as it dawned on her that she might have made a huge mistake.
Mahtr looked back to find the strange masked person lying across the ground behind him. The voice he had heard had sounded like a woman, perhaps this masked stranger was female? He pushed out his lower lip, as he often did when thinking, and stood stupidly wondering what to do. Was the girl hurt? Why would she move if injured? Perhaps out of desperation? Was it a trap...? Making up his mind, he tromped to where the girl lay. Leaning in, he shovelled her up effortlessly in his emormous hands. Walking to the side of the road, he set her down gently on the grass beside her strange pile. "What're you hurt?" He asked slowly, in a deep bass voice, hoarse from unuse.
Mixine gasped in surprise as she was scooped up in his arms. He was too strong! As she was gently set down, Mixine realized he was a good person. His voice shook her back to her senses and she suddenly felt terrible for having tried to manipulate him. Weakly, she pointed to her knees and tracing up to her thigh and across to her left hand, "My knee went out... and... it hurts..." Carrying such weight was hard on Mixine's body, but her muscles were so used to the weight that her sudden unburdened run was dangerous. She did not even realize it, but she had fallen and drove the side of her rod into her thigh, bruising her fatigued muscles. She did not know how to respond. She fell and felt like an idiot! Then he touched her, picking her up as casually as a potted flower! She did not like to be touched, did he not realize she was a woman? Her mind set upon that immediately and she pulled off her mask to reveal her gray face to him. A strong, slender face with a thin chin and high cheek bones. A small nose and three freckles under her right eye, Mixine's gray flesh darkened as she revealed herself to him, "I am Mixine. I'll forgive you for your matrimonial carry - this time." Mixine started to giggle as she caught his scent, "You smell interesting. Do you smoke?" Though she never smoked, Mixine found the vanilla-like scent of good tobacco to be pleasant and nostalgic. That kind of smoke was different from that produced by campfires and hearths, it was thick and stuck to everything in a warm embrace. Mixine moved over and opened the third of the seven little draws on her front pack and pulled out a small wooden box of vanilla Cavendish tobacco and offered it up to him. It was partly selfish, but it was also a fitting reward for being kind to her.
Jade watched as the guard closed the wagon door, opening a small window for light. Fool, she thought. The small window of light ment large, sharp shadow. Perfect for her to work with. The guard moved slowly towards her. "Morning, bitch," he enjoyed calling her a bitch. "I was thinking. You enjoy our food, our vans, our toilets, even the time we need to look after you. We gotta have something in return." Jade saw the man's intention in his hungry eyes. How she hated men. But then again, she realised with elation, when a man feels his cock's neess he forgets about anything else. She bit held the wave of fear that had flown through her, and focused on the enourmous shadow the man cast behind him. Predictibly, the guard hadn't noticed the tentacle emerging from his shadow. He didn't see as it turned into a hand either, and left the ground, making its way towards the chain of keys attached to his belt. However, he saw how the girl in front of him was becoming even paler, and how her body was shaking from the strain. He took it to be her fear. "Oh, don't be scared," he said mockingly. The keys were already plucked from his belt. "Believe me, I can make your time here worthwhile." He leaned over her. "You may even find your death in the city worth it. And also, I like my women lively so-" He stopped mid-sentence in a groan of pain, as Jade's knee pushe itself into his groin. Before he knew it a sword was pressed against his throat. "Now, you listen to what is about to happen," she said. "You will walk out of this cart, and pretend as if nothing has happened. You will continue your dull daily routine, and if you so much as hint to the fact that I am missing, your head will make a fine decoration to this cart. Do you understand?!" The man was sobbing at her feet. Oh, how she despised men. He nodded. She gestured with her head as he ran out of the wagon. Jade flexed her muscles, feeling how sore she was. Now was not the time for revenge, she realised, she would have to recover. She used the sword to cut a circular hole in the wagon's floor, and slid through it. She was lying on a frost-covered cobblestone path. Jade breathed in the cold air of freedom, and laughed in joy.
The group stopped at another large hill after a large amount of time, night approaching. They were only maybe 3 or 4 hours travel away now. Marcus could clearly see the gates, and could swear that he sees tiny movements on the parapets and walls, but dismisses it for the moment. It would come up later. It was a bitter, sour quiet. He lay on the top of the caravan, looking back along the road. His watch. He would knock on the roof if he saw any movement. After an hour of guilty nothingness, he spots an incoming vehicle, a wagon, on the horizon, moving towards them along the path. Another traveler. He knocked on the roof, and Kent poked his head out, seeing immediately the same thing. "Alright. Guys, set up. Be quiet. It's a silent night, and we don't want to interrupt it." Kent whispered to the crew. Marcus didn't say anything. Nothing needed to be said. He watched everyone take their positions as the form moved closer and closer, unaware of the hidden death that they were inviting by simply being. It was an anxious half an hour before we struck. Shwing. Schwing. Schwing. Three deaths. He heard a scream, and cringed. The sound of agony. It was to his ears the same as it was to the victim's body. Before long, they were back. Marcus had apparently saved the life of one of their crew. Kent said one of the men was walking with a noticeable limp, as if he had been injured in the groin. His was the scream Marcus had heard., because apparently Dart had found it funny to stab him in that selfsame area. So it goes. An hour after the assault, Marcus lays again on the roof. He couldn't sleep. He watches the road, and sees a small, black speck. He rubbed his eyes, then looks again. It was still there. He hesitates to knock. What if it's a hallucination? Nobody would be walking alone on this path... Would they?
The attack happened at night. Jade was hanging on the bottom of her wagon when the first arrow struck, and a body fell from its front. more arrows followed, the rocks. And once it happened, the orderly march of Morgen's party became absolute chaos. The galloping of horses, the dashing sound of men. "Fall back!" The fear in Morgen's voice was music to her ears. "You, make sure you turn this wagon around. If we lose our prisoner, you lose your head." And he galloped away. Jade laughed, and swung her sword at the wagon's wheel, breaking it. Then, she shrouded herself with the shadows of the dark night, before running off. Jade made her way towards a group of hills. The fear of the bandits overshadowed by the elation of freedom. She heard more arrows, and three bodies fell on the ground. the others escaped, leaving most of their valubles behind. A scream pierced the night sky, Jade's guard. She laughed to herself. She hoped Lord Morgen hadn't survived, though logic had it that he was the first to escape. Shame. After the battle cleared Jade allowed herself to walk back to the road. She held the sword in her hand, in any case if trouble. What should she do now? She realised it had been a mistake not to ask her guard where she was. Too preoccupied by her sudden freedom, she acted foolishly. She decided to move towards the hills, maybe a good look from above will help her see more clearly. She completely forgot about the bandits. Then, she heard a sound that made her pause in alarm. A bowstring being pulled.
Marcus saw the figure moving, and was quick to pull his drawstring back. He would only have to let go to kill the figure. It was closer now. He breathed in, then out. Kent walked up to the top, and saw what Marcus was pointing at. "We missed one, did we?" Marcus didn't say anything. "Are you stopping because we told you we'd heard something about a prisoner?" Marcus's hold on the bow twitched. "Well, I'll tell you what. If you want to see who it is, go ahead. I'll send some people with you just in case this figure's dangerous. Or, you could just be safe. Let go." Marcus dropped his bow onto the top of the caravan, and saw a flurry of mixed emotions on Kent's face. "I don't know why you have a sudden pity for this man... or woman. Marcus, we are sellswords. You've killed so many already. Why risk it for one life?" "I don't want to." Marcus whispers. Kent smiles. "Well, it's nice to hear your voice for once. Go ahead, go see who that is. I'll be right behind you, out of sight." Marcus drops off of the caravan, landing on the hard, rocky road. His steps are slow, deliberate, careful. He knew that the figure could see him. He debates quickly whether or not to level his weapon at the figure. He decided to lower his bow. If he appeared non-threatening, then perhaps the figure would lower her defenses as well. Then they could talk, and Marcus could see if he had made a mistake or not. Hopefully the latter.
Mahtr's lower lip jutted out as the girl talked to him. Mix... ine. He'd never heard a name like that before. Where was she from? He could see her face now. Yes, definitely a woman. A slender face, with such oddly grey skin. Mahtr was well tanned like the thick hides he wore. His face was in stark contrast to this Mixine's, his round and bulbous, with a thick defined jaw coated with his peppered beard. What caught his attention most was her long hair, nearly obscuring her body as she sat on the ground. He felt very aware of his shining, sweaty dome. "You smell interesting. Do you smoke?" Mahtr was brought back to the one-sided conversation with Mixine's line. He did smoke; though, he hadn't in some time. He was very partial to dried ragweed, but he hadn't been able to find any in these lands. He eyed the box Mixine presented him. He reached slowly for the box, then hesitated. He was forgetting something. "M-... Mahtr," He said, taking the box, "My name..." He fumbled with the clasp of the box, with thick fingers failing to grab a hold. He readjusted his grip, and nearly dropped the thing. Pink with embarassment, he set the box on the ground beside him, and pulled the satchel from his shoulder. He searched until he found what he was looking for. He pulled out his berry pouch, and a small flat rock, and rummaged through the bag. He'd picked some for a small wound he'd sustained several days prior. "Bruckberries!" He said with a dim smile, pulling three out and placed them on the flat rock. With his small finger he crushed the berries, and spread them across the rough stone until it became a thick paste. Bruckberries were small, grey, seedy fruits that grew on the poisonous Bruck weed. While the berries themselves were inedible, Mahtr had learned they made for great solutions to pain. They completely numbed the area he would spread the paste on. "Rub i-on." He said, pleased with himself, as he held out the stone, his small finger now completely limp. "It's... It'll 'elp."
Jade cursed herself for her foolishness. One movement, and her life is over. Then, she heard the bow drop, and saw a figure coming towards her. Well, she thought in relief, it seemed like they weren't going to kill her, just yet. She dropped her sword, and held her arms up. The figure was getting closer, so close, that she realised she could kill him. Cover herself with shadows, and use the knife she stole from one of the guards to cut his throat. After a thought, though, she decided against it. She did not know how many more of the bandits were out there. Let them try something, she thought wickedly, I have been locked long enough, and I won't just be some bandits' prize. She put her hands on her head and called to the figure, "I'm unarmed, see? If you want to kill me now is your chance. But if you don't, let's just skip all the unpleasantries and I'll come quietly."
The grey paste was intriguing to Mixine who favored her own capsaicin-based liniments. Mixine dipped the very edge of her pinky into the paste and raised it to her nose to try and identify it better. The scent was stronger than normal due to the crushing, but she would remember it well. To test the effect she rubbed a bit on the tip of her nose and felt it tingle. Sensing danger, she winced as the tip of her nose quickly numbed. What poison was this? It penetrated her skin so quickly! Applying it to her knees would have prevented her from even walking, is this what he wanted? Or was he just ignorant? Trembling in fear, Mixine tightened up, "This is poison... why would you want to numb my body like this? I would not be able to walk!"
"This is poison... why would you want to numb my body like this? I would not be able to walk!" Mahtr's brow furrowed in concern at Mixine's fright. "S'only poison if y'eat it," he said, lifting his shirt to reveal the wound he had sustained several days prior. A bite from a wild beast across his left side. The wound had a grey tinge, and a distinct lack of blood. Mahtr scooped up a little paste, and dabbed it into the wound, nodding in relief as it immediately numbed the pain. "See?" He said, pulling his shirt back down, "Y'can still move." He held up his numbed fingers, and focused heavily. Through sheer force of will, he bent and straightened them, twisting his wrist to prove there were no tricks. Several ominous creaks could be heard from his knuckles as they moved. "Works like'a charm."
