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| Marked For Death; for garrard! <3 | |
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| Topic Started: May 6 2018, 05:32 PM (101 Views) | |
| Phaedrus | May 6 2018, 05:32 PM Post #1 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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Rain pelted itself against the tavern. It fell like a sleet of fists, hammering the windows and churning the earth to mud. The roiling clouds growled like beasts, cleaved by spears of lightning. BOOM. The panes of the windows jostled with fright; a flash of white cut the tables and patrons into high relief, throwing long black shadows across the floor planks. Outside, the stabled horses whinnied with terror, their cries drowned out by a high keen of wind. “If me mare runs off I’m focked,” a man swore, squinting outside the window with beady eyes. He rubbed his lumpy nose, scowling. After the blinding flash of lightning, the light from torches looked feeble and greasy, flickering uncertainly on the walls. They did a poor job of piercing the gloom. “Nasty storm, that,” the innkeeper sighed, pausing in the middle of sweeping the floor. “That’s spring in Morrim for yeh. If it’s not snowing, you’re drowning…” If you’re not drowning, you’re roasting, Phaedrus finished in his mind, mouth twisting. His snakelike eyes sparked with the light of the fireplace, but none of the warmth reached his cold hands, stark white against the drab table. But for a nervous barmaid, everyone had given him a wide berth. “…Ser?” He looked up, and her ruddy, stammering face came into view. She tucked a brown lock behind her ear. “Can I interest yeh in some ale? Mulled wine?” She faltered as he shook his head, slow, like he heard it a million miles off. The girl attempted her best smile. “…Anything?” One white finger peeled itself off the table. She followed where it pointed—to another woman setting down a few piping pork-and-onion pies. “…Dinner?” Palpable relief broke across her face at the nod. “Righ’ yeh are, ser, not one minute…” And she hurried off, giving him an unobstructed view of the tavern at last. And… nothing. The necromancer frowned. Another clap of thunder shook the building, sending the man off about his mare again. “By the blood o’ Vespasian! Bessie’ll drown!” “Ye, gods, marry yer horse already if yeh feel for her so much,” a woman snapped with a roll of her eyes, prompting a wave of laughter. But the mirth did not reach him. Their laughter sounded far-off, discordant— Phaedrus stared between his fanning fingers, lost somewhere in the grain of the table. I must find them, he thought, swallowing. I must. At the very least, the storm would stall the slavers’ progress — no caravan could possibly wade through this. If they haven’t been taken in a flood, then the earth has swallowed their wheels, to be certain. There shall still be time before they reach Orl’Kabbar. Phaedrus twisted his hands to and fro, looking up. And if I must do such a thing alone, so be it. He’d rather not. The necromancer’s foot jiggled under the table, tapping a melody lost beneath the babble of the tavern. By the look of the weather outside, no one was leaving, and prepared for the matter by throwing down playing cards and ordering more rounds of ale. But amongst the bobbing faces, he could make out none that fit the description of the mercenary Garrard: scarred, blonde, hair cropped short, with a nastyish sort of face and worse tongue… Where could he be? Hopefully not drowned. Or on another job. The innkeeper had assured him that the man frequented the tavern for work and didn’t ask too many questions— so long as the pay was good. And what luck that I have heavy pockets and no friends. The necromancer frowned, drummed his fingernails, and waited |
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| Tran Garrard | May 6 2018, 05:55 PM Post #2 |
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A horse-drawn wagon managed to slog up the mud-caked cobblestone road that led to the tavern. Garrard had been lucky enough to come across the old farmer earlier that morning. For the cost of a piece of copper he’d managed to secure himself a spot on the bench beside the driver. They’d talked idly while the weather was still bearable, but since the real downpour took hold both men had fallen into a somber silence. Without a word, the old farmer took the reins in one hand. Smacking the mercenaries shoulder with the other, he pointed a boney finger up the road, and then nodded. Garrard returned the nod, tightened his road-worn cloak about his shoulders, and hopped down to the road below. The old mule trotted off into the storm, leaving Garrard alone on the small stretch of storm-drenched road leading up to the tavern. The warmth of the tavern was among one of the welcome sensations in Garrards recent memory. Kicking the mud from his boots at the door, Garrard crossed the threshold. Wordlessly, he scanned the room, offered the barmaid a quick nod, and then found his way over to the hearth. He was waterlogged and miserable, certainly, but his spirits would lift considerably once he finally had a hot meal and a strong drink to his name. He warmed his hands by the fire a moment, his muscles aching from the cold of the night outside. When the barmaid approached he offered her a curt nod and said, “I’ll take a room for the night, and some stew. Ah, and grab me a tankard of something bitter.” The wench returned with a roomkey and showed the mercenary to his quarters. When Garrard returned to the hearth, he was without his pack and cloak. He’d left his broadsword, quiver, and bow locked in his room as well, but he still wore a short sword at his hip. The hilt of a dagger glinted from a boot cuff, and anyone observant enough might just notice the stiletto thin blade hidden in the cleft of his leather breastplate. |
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| Phaedrus | May 6 2018, 08:16 PM Post #3 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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Another presence joined the hearth. The necromancer looked up, broken from his thoughts, to see— Was it…? The man had his back to him, and the crackle of fire limned his hair red. Still, from a glimpse of profile, he could see a face gouged and slit by scars; a quick glance at his boots—which were caked in mud (fresh, he noted)—revealed a dagger’s hilt. There was a certain wolfishness to his posture, the tight muscles of a man ready to spring into action. Even if it wasn’t the fellow the innkeeper had recommended, he seemed a good enough mark. The necromancer rose like a silent ghost. The floor planks creaked some under his step as he strode to the mercenary’s table, cloak chasing his calves. “Pardon,” the necromancer stopped before Gerrard, offering what he hoped approximated a genial smile. Since the war and Etruria, they had all gone brittle: something dark haunted his face now, a shadow that lingered behind his eyes. They fixed on the mercenary, marking the shortsword at his hip and sliding to the glint of the stiletto tucked away in his breastplate. Armed to the teeth. Splendid. The corner of his mouth curled. Phaedrus put his hand to his hip, shifting his weight to one leg. “…Might you be Tran Gerrard? Dreadful weather we’re having. It dampens the spirits,” he clucked, whisking over the man’s sodden hair and clothes. “But I wager I have something to cheer you.” With a prim smile, the necromancer pulled out a chair across from him and sat in it carelessly, crossing his legs. A feline smile played on his lips, eyes golden with the light of the fire. Phaedrus folded his hands on the table and leaned back into the chair as if they were fine friends. “…Might you be interested in a job?” |
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| Tran Garrard | May 11 2018, 04:53 PM Post #4 |
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The former soldier downed nearly half his tankard almost as soon as it was in hand.Raising a hand to his mouth, he belched into his closed fist. He was finally starting to warm up. Certainly the bowl of stewed the barmaid had just put down in front of him would help plenty. His meal was interrupted by a stranger. Clunking the drink down with a heavy thud on the wooden table-top, Garrard rolled his stiff shoulders. Leaning back in his chair, Garrard passed a scrutinizing, blue-eyed stare across the red-headed man across from him. “Depends on the job,” he replied in a gravelly, tired voice. He’d just gotten off a vaguely profitable venture and had been looking forward to a day or two of rest before heading north. Granted, he generally favoured gold over relaxation. |
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| Phaedrus | May 12 2018, 05:05 AM Post #5 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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Thud, went the tankard. The necromancer glanced at the sloshing ale, drawing a deep breath. A familiar hunger itched the back of his mind but he ignored it, drumming his manicured fingernails against the wood instead. The man's eyes burned into him, cold and hard like inset lapis; Phaedrus kept up his smile, folding his hands. "I think it'd be most profitable," he chimed amicably. "You see, there is a caravan due to come by sometime in the morrow. It's bearing... goods I don't want delivered." His eyes flashed at the word, fingers tightening till his knuckles jumped. The necromancer leaned forward with a creak of the chair, lowering his voice. "Likely it shall be guarded... as such, I need help with an ambush." His lips twitched. "Besides your payment... you are welcome to whatever coin they might have." The necromancer shed his smile, tone growing cold. His snakelike eyes fixed on Garrard's. "You see, this is a personal matter. It's their lives I'm after, not their gold." |
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