| Welcome to our home, a world in which anything can happen. From sprawling deserts and vast forests to massive volcanoes and luscious hot springs, Soare and the Scattered Isles are beautiful places just waiting to be explored. For the brave and the bold or the cautious and the wary, creatures of all kinds roam the earth, looking for adventure or for a place to call their own. Species of all kinds - the well-known and the unknown - thrive here, though not always in harmony. Elenlond is an original medieval fantasy RPG with a world that's as broad as it is unique. Calling on characters of all kinds, the sky's the limit in a world where boundaries are blurred and the imagination runs rampant. Restrictions are limited and members are encouraged to embrace their creativity, to see where they can go and what they can do. It's no longer just text on a page - it becomes real. Enter Our World |
| Hungry Ghosts; ~ Open! ~ | |
|---|---|
| Topic Started: Apr 13 2015, 11:14 AM (557 Views) | |
| Galena | Apr 13 2015, 11:14 AM Post #1 |
![]()
Thy sins, paid in blood...
![]()
|
Her reflected image stared down at her, vacant, somnolent in the mirror fixed above the bed. Sheets tangled about the pale expanse of her legs like covetous serpents, the slash of moonlight from the window picked out her features, like a silver ghost hovering over her own head. The other half of the bed fell to shadow, only barely revealing the figure curled on her side, dark hair spilling across the fat pillows and lace. Galena found herself picking out her features, so different from the swarthy Shantae that she'd kept company with for the evening, the ghost in the mirror slowly revealing the tiniest of smiles at her, the twitch of the bow lips that marked her amusement, eyes gone to grey in the darkness. She looked pallid almost, lifeless, meat on a block waiting to be chopped. A corpse that leered at herself, an ephemeral spirit of the cold, hungering yet for the warm touch that might bring calm, sweet sleep. The gaze wandered over languid limbs, the curve and shadow of breasts, ivory hands stirring on her midriff, the swell of a hip, all limned in argent. Perhaps she'd look like that if she died, but she thought not. Only to rot, not be preserved a chilly wraith, but to crumble, desiccated, a hollow shell of a human, back into a dying tree. Mulch and cool earth, ready to give life to another. Perhaps she was really the specter in the glass, the corpse prison beneath her just a figment of her imagination, continuing the daily banal activities that spelled out her life, unbeknownst to herself. It wasn't something she would ever know, wasn't meant to know. All the same, the coin still traded hands, if only on a rare basis. For all that the shallow courtesies and lovingly whispered entreaties it bought, it always died afterwards, left her empty and yearning for something she yet had no knowledge of. It was wonderful all the same, just to feel warm and safe in the arms of another, to laugh and jest freely in warm water and soap, to bathe and play music, talk and indulge in the small pleasures that for a time, left her full and ripe as summer fruit. The night was wearing onwards, the sliver of moon crawling through the window towards the ceiling. She should have been gone an hour ago, never bothered to stay til morning. The scandal such a thing might cause was...unthinkable. Yet her limbs were leaden and though the pressure to move continued to beat at her like tiny invisible hands, trying to roll her chilled limbs from the comfort of the bed, she refused to move. The ghost stared at her, lips parted in the faintest of sighs, almost a permission. The ghost might have been dead, but the cold was real, the tiny tremors that wracked her flesh telling. The silver faded as clouds scudded across the sky, banishing her from the mirror, and stirring her to action. Carefully she pushed herself upright and swung her feet from the bed, plucked at the silken sheets and draped them over her night's entertainment. The woman murmured in protest, shifted but did not wake, despite her dark lashes fluttering on honeyed skin turned to slate in the darkness. She dressed herself without hurry, choosing to leave her hair unbound, frosty waves that tickled her bare shoulders. The blue stola looked black in the dimness, the wide beaded belt a myriad collection of dancing flecks of light as she clipped it into place. It was with reluctance that she gathered up her palla, as dark a blue as the sky, and shrouded herself in it til only her eyes were visible, a few wisps of defiant snowy curls escaping the hood. Of course the board house knew her identity, it would be strange for them not to, considering how well they honored esteemed clients. She pulled the door shut behind her with a clack that sounded altogether too loud, settled her accounts and left the warmth and light, the quiet idle chatter and clink of glasses behind her. Outside was chill, the scent of the city superimposed on the arboreal tapestry that was the surrounding forest good enough for her to lower the cloth a touch from her face, til her nose was freed, already tinging red with the sharp snap of the temperature. Slush still filled the gutters, freezing now without the sun, yet it did little to deter those who would celebrate. She paused as a jeering crowd spilled from a tavern, music shrilling discordantly behind them until it was abruptly shut off on the closing of the door. Their figures weaved drunkenly in and out of the lantern light as she knew her own petite form did, crimson staining her garb from midnight to dawn before it was extinguished again. The street was not entirely empty, nor quiet, but the loud clap of some bird taking to the wing in the dark drew her uneasy gaze, failed to find it and was forgotten as she turned the corner, and was almost stonewalled by another figure doing likewise. The breath snatched from her throat, fingers curling tightly around the skinny hilt of the scalpel strapped to her thigh. The guards could only do so much, after all, and for all she knew someone might mistake her for a flower girl offering her wares on a street corner, bundled up even as she was. "Pardon me, I did not see you!" Edited by Galena, Apr 13 2015, 11:15 AM.
|
| (OFFLINE) PROFILE | QUOTE GO TO TOP |
| Phaedrus | Apr 15 2015, 10:19 PM Post #2 |
![]()
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.
![]()
|
[[lolololool tl;dr ayyyy ; D]] One night, then. One last stroll before the rites set, before the last tome was swallowed into darkness, his garments packed, the ink drying on dozens of To Whom It May Concerns. Everything checked and accounted for, trails smoothed and hidden, his house free of implication. If the Mystic Occult tore down his door on the morrow, none would be the wiser. After all, no one but a pudgy antiquarian had lived in the house at Willowfair, with its cheery red door. An eccentric rake, and that was all. Sociable but rare to know beyond cordial smiles and teatime, supposedly a rich bachelor. Some merchant’s son still living on his dead father’s treasury, drowning his intellect in wine and giggling women. Enough scandal and tragedy to keep heads shaking and mouths muttering, their desire for gossip satisfied. Enough to distract them from the truth. Because if he failed, he decided, Alloces’ tomes could not come to light—could not fall into some wretch’s hands, and tempt them with their hollow powers. They would be incinerated with him, belched to the heavens as ash, and all of Soare would be freed of the horrors therein. And even so—even if he succeeded… Ah, but he’d seen himself regardless — hurling them into the Mulciber, watching his tormentor swallowed by the earth itself. Reduced to nothing. Back to hell, back to the realms where it belonged. The giddy terror of it, clutching the parchment, letting it fall. To burn, to forget, to truly turn his back on it… Could he ever do such a thing? The chained, desiccated slave in him whimpered, stirred, his flesh a parchment rustle on stone. And again he saw himself, rifling through the warded pages, jaw clenched, trying to rip his past from the vellum. Some part of him always crawled back, tail curled under his legs, slavering for another morsel. The sick, beaten thing that could not turn away, hungered for the truth even as dread welled in him, plunging his chest like a stone. Malakar. At first that name felt ill-fitting, wrong on the tongue — a foreign sultan, a desert myth, suited for dusty tomes and forgotten scrolls. Not for him. Not for a thing that lounged in the gardens of Madrid and was overly fond of almond cake. He thought his own name would give him comfort, perhaps — but ah, he was wrong, laughably wrong! Like a naive child! — now that he had it, he avoided it like a shambling leper, flinching from it, pretending it did not exist. And all the while it hounded him with hollowed eyes and decaying lips, waiting until he cusped on sleep. Malakar. He’d decoded the runes for that name, at last, and like a twisted key it swung open new understanding. Rotten pages leered at him, smiling in a broken string of words. … to summon … yellow eyes … darkness … thin of limb, twisted … fashioned in the shape of Man … … neither Male nor Female … responds to He… Sick with panic, he’d slammed it shut and reeled back, dust stinging his eyes. And, with a bolt of clarity, he’d realized the awful truth. He did not want to know what he was, or who he’d been. For years he had been married to the possibility, the dreams borne of ignorance— the ability to imagine himself as a rosy-cheeked thing, a man who once thrummed with Life and could have been anything before Alloces took him; in his fancies, he pictured himself whole— a thing of true flesh-and-blood, divorced from the Art that had made him, sleeping soundly, sleeping strange human dreams of inconsequential things, waking to a simple life. Perhaps it was a silly thing to think on, to wish for. Like a man who knew nothing but the city and yet pined for an idyllic country he weaved in his mind. Malakar. A bitter laugh hounded him through his studies. It can wait. Other things draw my attention. He had felt ill with increasing regularity, wringing his hands and making sick in a bucket — slammed the books, his frail nerves jumping, on the cusp of shattering but for his Purpose, a burning need. If he was too late, he would never forgive himself. But he’d had to stay — had finally unlocked what could bind Thepsis, give her a chance to subdue the beast. Now he had to wait for the cover of darkness before he could flee Madrid, slip out unnoticed and unremarked on by guards and neighbors. They knew him as a prowling cat, an impulsive young man wont to whisk off on undeclared vacations and trysts. It would be weeks before the residents of Willowfair muttered amongst themselves that they did not hear unseemly relations at ungodly hours, or smell cakes rising on the weekends. Only Miss Beaumont knew, because he had entrusted her with his cats, and suspected something from his clinginess, the way he lingered in the doorway and stirred too much sugar into his tea, reluctant to part with Malo. And when he’d left, his eyes misted absurdly, a sharp pang staked in his chest — wiped his face and slinked back into his home. The sight of cat hair on empty cushions almost pushed him into a maudlin fit, cemented the reality of what was happening. He’d set Caulcis on clearing the last of his shelves, hunched over an inkwell, and when the sun set, he’d decided he’d had enough. The door of his house vomited him into the street. He barreled into it like some madman, slamming the door behind him; a grey fog had rolled over in the night and left everything tremulous, quivering like shades. Shakily Phaedrus locked his door, tottering down Willowfair in a haze. The neighborhood had fallen quiet, and no next door murmur or rattle of carts drove out his thoughts. He could not amble by the garden or weasel past the baker's bell, buying another pie he did not need. In winter, the only life stirring in Madrid's twitching, tremulous veins were the holes to bury oneself in drink and pipe, in grim-eyed women with grimmer mouths. Like an automaton, he headed that way, not expecting to find anything. His feet carried him down a familiar path, a winding zigzag through shadowed alleys and ungentlemanly lanes. The streets he’d once walked for entertainment now seemed cacophonous and strange, reeling this way — the light of the taverns gave a hellish glow to patrons, whooping and stumbling like demons vomited from Gehenna. The necromancer flinched away, hugging the darkness of the street. Memories descended like lashes. There, a tavern where he’d taken a bet on who could make a filthier limerick, and deemed himself the great bard Smutpurn. There, where the flower-woman Ohenna used to wait, and the way she smelled like marigolds and sour wine, her Ashokan accent fake in his ear. The boarding house where he threw up in a pot of flowers and sobbed into a courtesan’s shoulder instead of bedding her. A thousand ghosts loomed, reminded him of his debauchery. Devils! Had his life really been such, nights spent so often here? Had he done anything of consequence at all? Walking it sober was maddening. Every shred of him screamed for a drink. The buildings dwarfed him, walls looming, signs swinging like the gallows. Jeering patrons watched like judges, leaning over balconies and whistling at some far-off courtesan. It was like a jaunt through hell, their breath hot at his neck, faces twisted in inhuman masks. Again he stuffed his hand into his mouth, nearly chewing off his thumbnail. He’d abandoned manicures altogether, and his primness had frayed into something almost feral. Black ringed his eyes, his hair tumbling a touch too long to be intentioned fashion, a slight hollowness in his cheek from losing weight. People avoided him as he passed, thieves reconsidering despite the finery of his clothes — there was something in his burning eyes and step, as if he simultaneously ran from and pursued a hidden quarry. He did not see her. One moment, he was turning the corner, his mind completely elsewhere. The next, he slammed bodily into a smaller figure, jarred back to his senses. When he blinked, a petite woman materialized in front of him, her palla seeming to melt from the night itself. To his great surprise, he recognized her voice. “Councilor?” Dumbly, unthinkingly. Then reality bled into his senses, reminded him of the scandal of where they were, and who could overhear. Wincing, the necromancer drew his cloak around himself, face twitching in an attempted smile. “Pardon me. I should have watched where I was going. I nearly knocked you into the alley, and it won’t do to stain such a splendid palla.” The pleasantries jittered off his lips. Devils! Well, she had fortitude, if he did not knock her over! She was so tiny. The man had to crane his head down to look into her grey eyes, half shaded by her hood. A few wisps of snowy hair escaped from the darkness, framing her soft face and bowed lips. Once, he might have found her lovely, but now it did nothing for him. In the cold light she looked even more like a classical statue, the sort that peered from the Guildhall with their blank eyes. Dead, dead — everything looked bloody dead in Madrid. He looked at her as if searching for glowing cheeks and tan, warm skin — blinked, and the illusion shivered away, leaving Miss Barillus again. He could not guess what business took her here — and one did not ask. Another time, the scandal would have ignited him, brought a delighted curl to his lip, and he’d have pulled and plucked at the fascinating morsel. But now he did not care. The councilors of Madrid could be copulating with each other in the streets and he would not spare them so much as a glance. After the initial surprise, his manner smoothed to a genuine nonchalance that verged on apathy, as if they’d bumped paths in a bakery. “Rather brisk tonight,” Phaedrus sighed, rubbing his hands to snatch a semblance of warmth. What was the polite thing to do in this situation? Should he escort her, so she was not grabbed at like a common whore? Should he ask where she was headed, or drop the whole thing and walk off with a ‘good night’? He’d only met the woman a handful of times, at the fluttering insistence of Modeste Bellamy, and usually after an indecent amount of wine. Devils, he could almost hear the little elf working himself into a fuss. Master Phaedrus! It is utterly rude and unseemly to not escort a woman after hours! Think on what could happen! The shrill voice pinged around in his skull, stirring some sleepy remnant of the socialite that tittered in parlors and kissed ugly noblewomen’s hands. “…Far too cold. I find myself needing a drink, if you are so inclined, or should like company on the way.” Edited by Phaedrus, Apr 15 2015, 10:46 PM.
|
| (OFFLINE) PROFILE | QUOTE GO TO TOP |
| Galena | Apr 22 2015, 03:36 PM Post #3 |
![]()
Thy sins, paid in blood...
![]()
|
Oh Gods, maybe she should have affected a fake voice or something. She wasn't much good at doing fake accents and she doubted it would gel the situation if she suddenly started doing one now she had been recognized. What would she say anyway? Hahah, you have discovered my twin in the red light district, hahaha? On second thoughts that was quite disturbing. There probably were prostitutes hired because they looked like the doppelganger of particular more famous persons. Did those people know about it? How would they take it to know that perhaps say, somewhere Orion was entertaining... No, let's not go there. She was lucky she managed to keep her footing really. Had she been going any faster she might have been flung to the cobbles and what a disgrace that would have been. It wouldn't have been the first time either, you got used to finding yourself sitting dazed and on your rump when you were small of stature. Either everyone else was a barbarian, or she should start looking around corners with mirrors to make sure nobody else was coming the other way. All the same, the voice was familiar, dragged half remembered foggy illusions to the forefront of her mind, of lights and colours and music, of laughter and spinning around, the scent of the night and woodlands and the taste of wine and pond water and - oh Gods. The kaleidoscope of memories spun lazily, only to spill out like a deck of cards upon a table. "Master Phaedrus..." Her words sounded breathy and faint to her own ears as she peered up at those chilly, unsettling yellow eyes. For all that his face had been pallid on each occasion that she'd seen him, there were shadows beneath his eyes now, and the smile seemed strained, like his skin was stretching too taut across his bones. Wait didn't he have one of her dresses? And her favorite comb? She'd spent the better part of an afternoon looking for the latter until she discovered the green tunic hastily stuffed into a drawer and wondered who she might have exchanged it with, before deciding that she didn't in fact, want to know after all. Was it his? Her hand dropped loosely to her side. Well he was no real threat. His mannerism though rakish was far too effete to show the sort of interest her little group of dandies that she affectionately dubbed her suitors. No, she thought it had been directed more in the direction of...well, Councillor Bellamy's type. Was he a type? She shrugged that one off, thoughts for another time. Really she couldn't see Modeste indulging in anything he deemed improper. The necromancer looming over her was probably off to find a catamite to sate his lust. Then again she had been wrong before, as her husband had proved to her already. To even speak of this would be to shame them both. Well, maybe it was expected of him, she couldn't speak for that. Galena bit her lip, undecided, then bent her lips into a smile and bobbed a neat little bow to him. "Quite. Verily sir, it is winter." She regretted it little, the sardonic smile coming easily to her lips as she tilted her head. "Oh no, that's really not..." Seemly? She was going to say necessary, but as she raised her hand, her sleeve slid back and the light of the lanterns caught the edge of the razor, glittering like a priceless gem. Undoubtedly she knew how to use it. Regret shone back at them, engraved into the metal in a bold hand, as though it offered nothing of the sort. "A woman should keep some things to herself, do not you agree? There are many churls on the streets in these parts, for all that we must have a city guard." Her arm dropped, and the razor slid from sight once more, her fingers fumbling to lift her stola and return it to her thigh under the concealment of her palla. "Are you well sir?" Hesitant questing fingers reached up to the shadow of his cowl, warm fingertips catching his chin and turning his face first this way, then that. "Trouble sleeping?" She released him, the gentleness that overlaid the firmness remained yet, the doctor in her surfacing again. Was he on drugs? Alcohol? Possibly it was a troubled spirit? Whatever, he looked quite exhausted with the weariness that comes born over time. Perhaps a drink would help, after all. A smirk touched her features, swiftly hidden. His presence might be helpful to deter unwanted company, but she doubted he'd be much good after that. Maybe her presence would help him as much as his helped hers. "A drink would be welcome, I think." That seemed to be the end of that, for she took his arm and not unkindly steered him away from the glare of crimson lights, as if they were two old companions on a simple evening walk. They might as well have been, not that she could remember too much from the wild rush of drunken memories from the last celebration... Well, enough of that. And without mentioning that they were both present in the seedier part of the city, she found herself unsure of what to say. It was not an uncomfortable quiet between them, more a..loss of what to say. Two people distinctly avoiding the subject hanging between them. Thankfully there wasn't too far to go, and the unimpressive front of the bar with its dim lights and green glass and lead panes almost looked a small haven in the darkness. Someone was playing a dulcimer quietly inside, the music dribbling forth as she eased the door open, and bathed them in the welcome glow. |
| (OFFLINE) PROFILE | QUOTE GO TO TOP |
| Shiro | Apr 22 2015, 08:27 PM Post #4 |
![]()
Valkoinen Metsästäjä
![]()
|
Madrid. Shiro told herself, nay, promised herself that she would make a trip to Madrid. She spent a week in the sprawling city, purchasing supplies and selling a few pelts she previously gathered. Tonight was her last night in Madrid, before returning to the south. Hopefully her trip back will be uneventful. She had perched herself on a chair off in a corner, where few eyes lingered. The shadows casting upon her, hiding all but her eyes. The piercing grey orbs stung all those who attempted to rest their gaze upon her for to long. Even with her small stature, few dared to bother her. She finished off the last of her lightly intoxicating drink. Something to warm her veins for a while. The din and camaraderie around her rested at a high-ish level. A few sailors surrounded a table, drinking and telling wild tales. Another group, a little closer to her was locked in a heated game of cards. Quite a bit of money on the line, by the looks on their faces. The music playing just a little to loud, but nothing to complain for. Not that Shiro would complain in the first place. She figured she should either stay and have another, or take off and return back to the inn. She mentally flipped a coin. Heads or Tails? Tails. Well, better get moving then. She picked up her glass and lifted it, looking directly to of the barmaids. She quickly retrieved the glass from Shiro. The little Neko withdrew a few coins and tossed it towards her. Straightening her cloak and adjusting herself to hide most of her profile. Her tail curling around her leg, hiding itself under her coat. All set. She made for the door, before she could get within a few feet, a pair of souls entered. She studied them quickly. The girl was five(give or take) feet tall. Shorter than Shiro? That was odd, and she certainly did not look like a child of any sort. There was a...political air about her. She seemed like one of the councilors that sat and ran the country...why would one of them be here? The man was even stranger. Standing a little higher than Shiro. Pale skin, yellow eyes, reddish hair. A curious pairing? A noble-esque lady and a vampiric looking man. Shiro's curiosity spiking. Eyebrow raised, she froze. The aforementioned coin decision tossed right out the window. Sometimes she cursed her curiosity. A voice trying to pull her away from the pair. It was a bloody and long battle. But the winner played dirty and always had the upper hand. Curiosity won. As usual. One day she'll stop herself. One day. She spun around and promptly ordered a round of drinks for the three of them. Nothing heavy, just some light stuff that'll take the edge off. That'll flatter them at least. Good way to spark up conversation. "Hello, I hope you don't mind, but I went ahead and ordered a few drinks for all three of us. I do hope you don't mind that you could accompany me and we can set to a conversation?" She spoke just above the din. Hopefully they will be agreeable to a drink or two? She could spare enough coin to learn about them at the least. She did survive an encounter with a drake and a brash monster hunter not to long ago. Given that this is a city, Shiro figured that getting to know a few strangers wouldn't hurt much. She padded back to the table she just left a few moments ago, with one hand beckoning the two over. She sat back down on the same chair. The drink being laid about on the table by the barmaid. Shiro looked towards the strangers expectantly. |
| (OFFLINE) PROFILE | QUOTE GO TO TOP |
| Phaedrus | Apr 23 2015, 06:28 PM Post #5 |
![]()
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.
![]()
|
((LUL it got long. i kinda feel like i hijacked the post?? err, let me know if this is too hard to respond to, and i'll change eet. c: )) For a moment she wavered, as if unsure how to respond. And very well. Embarrassing enough to be stopped outside a whorehouse — but to carry idle conversation? He supposed it wouldn’t be the first time they’d met under scandalous circumstances, however. The little he remembered came in flashes of lewd mosaics and wine. Jaunty music… a half-naked woman, or — perhaps that’d been a statue. Devils. Mostly, he remembered a sharp slap, then blinking the horrified face of Modeste Bellamy into focus. The rest of the night plunged into a moody fog of alcohol. When he woke up the next morning in a nest of petunias, an impressive bruise bloomed across his cheek, suspiciously five-fingered. And, he noted, the little councilor had not called upon him for some weeks. Did I try to kiss him? Oh, probably. He felt too numb for proper embarrassment, recalling the memories as if blandly curating a museum. The councilor had served as a fine enough distraction through the springtime — a sort of infuriating quarry, an object of frustrated lust. He’d been sure the man wanted something of him, albeit choked by his own prudishness, but… well, he’d been wrong. Hardly any sense in pursuing a frightened deer. It all seemed rather pointless — even as some part of him twinged in regret of not… devils. He removed the fantasy of Modeste’s perfect form from his mind, excising it with the precision of a surgeon. In truth, a thing better kept locked in the world of daydreams, protected from reality. Devils, if he’d ever gotten so far with the little elf, the whole thing would likely be spoilt by that wretched stammer. Where was his mind? He picked it from the gutter, shaking it dry. It’d been… months. Pulling himself off of that road, the necromancer forced himself back into reality, back to the sardonic smile bleeding over the councilor’s lips. Oh no, that’s really not… necessary? Wanted? Easy enough to fill in the blank. Why, he almost felt something like relief — he really hadn’t expected to meet anyone of acquaintance, preferring to slip away from Madrid like a thief in the night. But instead the woman pulled back her sleeve, revealing the grim flash of a blade. Regret. The necromancer blinked. And, quite of their own accord, his lips curdled into a mockery of a smile. “Oh, certainly. Everyone is entitled to midnight walks. What an… interesting name for a blade.” The bold letters disappeared, engraved like an omen. His mood had turned the night portentous, casting shadows on every corner. The scalpel was another divine little irony, a cherry atop his fraying nerves. For a moment he almost shrieked with laughter, felt as if the councilor had been aware of the whole thing—a paid actress, laden with props, set to roam the travesty of a stage Madrid had become. He felt like a mummer himself, going through the absurdities of etiquette and calmly stopping for a drink while the entire world roared up in flames. His eyes must have gone distant again, for sudden concern edged her tone — and suddenly her warm fingers probed his chin. He flinched. “Oh, I am well enough.” A hysterical shriek bubbled up inside of him, culled to a tired laugh. “Had a bout of flu, but I am feeling better. Damnable winter. If I spent another moment abed, I would go mad.” Best to keep consistent. He’d written as much to Bellamy when the man called upon him. Still, a certain paranoia knifed him, carved to a singular fear. Bollocks. She was a doctor. For a moment he’d forgotten—but now he placed her as the head of the Ameliorate Ordos. He’d toyed with the idea of going to them for some sort of sleep tonic, but decided the risk was too great. What if they conducted a full examination? Why, he could almost hear the novices screaming after taking his pulse. A drink would be welcome, I think. Phaedrus kept his brittle smile lashed to his face, swallowing his rising disappointment. Well… perhaps her presence would not be too awful. It’d keep him distracted, at any rate. One drink, and he would excuse himself, totter back. One drink. Best to remind himself of that. He needn’t get so drunk that he fell off his horse. If all went well, he’d be in Fa’im— a small trading town —by dawn. Camping in the Erth’netora sounded nightmarish even in good weather. Thankfully, she took the initiative, taking up his arm and leading the way. Frankly, he had no idea where he was going—simply planned on wandering until he stumbled into a tavern. Silence settled between them, broken only by the sounds of snow crunching underfoot, and the far-off merriment of patrons. He was grateful for it. It gave him some respite, a quiet span of time to calmly collect his thoughts and readjust his mask. It occurred to him, belatedly, that he’d locked himself in his study for weeks, only venturing out to inhale bread and cheese before slithering back down the stairway. But for Winterbringer’s unexpected visit, he’d scarcely spoken to anyone, or entertained company at great length. I’m busy, became his mantra. He’d penned so many excuses that he no longer remembered them all. Madrid had thinned to an abstract reality, lost to the clink-clink-clink of necromantic metal, the dull, sonorous chants, the repetition, checking every rune to make sure it would work. And… the box. Tantalizing, glimmering with a foul sheen, ever-whispering in the corner of the room. When it had sprung open… The bar came up abruptly. Dazed, he wasn’t quite sure how it’d gotten there, reading the weathered name with a jolt. “The Lusty Queynte?” He shot the councilor a look, somehow surprised and not. A smirk crept to the corners of his mouth, sinister beneath his hood. “Oh, my. Somewhere, Bellamy is fainting into his teacup.” The faded woman on the sign seemed to smile serenely down at them, a finger pressed against her lips in secret. Any regular of this street knew the bar doubled as something else, given the right coin and knowledge. The names of cocktails could be despairingly… literal. Is that why she chose it? A drop of ale and then a toss upstairs? Did she choose it because of him? Hardly a surprise, then. How could he be offended? He’d carefully cultivated a reputation of being a wine-lush whore. Still, he felt the warmth radiating from the door and eagerly slipped inside, giving a faint sigh of relief. The dulcimer rose thinly above the babble of company, startlingly loud after the quiet of the streets. Seemed to be a motley of people—he recognized the sea-worn, dark faces of sailors from Reine, likely fresh off a trader; some hooded sorts put their heads together in the corner, muttering dark nothings; one man was turning purple as he dealt a card, sliding over a pile of chips with grit teeth. And… The necromancer locked eyes with a short girl by the door. For a moment her icy stare flashed back at him — then she spun away, indicating a barmaid. Well. He supposed he did look like Death warmed over. Oddly self-conscious, he faltered in removing his hood, aborting the movement and readjusting the clasp of his cloak instead. Why had he kept his face? He should have changed it, been little more than a ghost, a transient stranger… Just as he eyed an empty table, the girl came back, quick on her feet. A round of—oh. Oh, devils. Oh, no, bollocks, no. She looked so young. Drink flushed her round cheeks, only enhancing the appearance of youth — how old could she possibly be? sixteen, at most? — and her eyes, though large and childlike, were hardened with grim experience. He’d never been able to lay with sweet looking girls. Not after Ariane, wretched, gormless Ariane — the very thought made him sick. Accompany me and … set to a conversation. In context, the meaning was clear. He groaned internally, half considered excusing himself, spinning on his heel, and bursting out the door. “Oh.” Phaedrus looked at the girl with an almost stricken expression. Gods below, stop that. She is not a charity case. Modeste and that wretched tin priest have wormed into your brain. If a man drops his hat, will you cry for that too? Suddenly, the fire felt far too hot, prickling on his skin; his cloak scratched against his face like a thicket of thorns. The necromancer forced himself into a halfway normal reaction, feeling like he wore a loose-hanging mask instead of a face. “That is most generous of you.” Should he simply feign ignorance? Yes, perhaps… “I am hardly one to turn down a round. What do you say?” He turned to Galena questioningly, realizing that she was now his company, and might be… averse. For all they knew, the girl didn’t work here as a whore, and her intentions were of an investigative flavor. But… judging from the drained tankard on the table, she’d been here some time, hadn’t followed them… Or, a dusty, mocking voice interjected. She is simply being friendly. Drunks had a tendency to be open with their arms and purse. One drink, another voice reminded him as he shuffled over to the table, feeling like the evening had been wrenched out of his hands. The cold made the worst of his scars ache, sending a dull throb through his legs. A few still hadn’t healed from that wretched little accident, striped and inflamed on his pale skin. The largest one gave an angry twinge as he settled into his chair, feeling utterly decrepit. Why did he come out all all? Well, at least there was alcohol, sweet ale, gurgling as it… “Here you are, then — oh!” The barmaid paused in pouring a drink. Familiar. Freezing, Phaedrus tried not to wince. By some miracle, he stayed composed, pale hands folded demurely on the table, and forced himself to look up, praying to Thaenon himself that he matched her pleased surprise. No. No, devils, is every acquaintance out to haunt me? Next I will run into Janjak, and he will hex me into vomiting toads. Kill me now, gods, if you are there. “Heavens me. Thought I saw a ghost, and ‘alf I did. Now there’s a face I haven’t seen in a while. How’ve you been, love?” She beamed at Phaedrus, and the necromancer forced himself to smirk back, looking into her twinkling eyes. “Wretched,” he answered, dead-pan, honestly, putting on his most affected whine. He was rather proud of it, after all these years of pretending to be an orphaned fop. “Working.” The barmaid burst into laughter. “Oooh, there’s a sob story. Working,” she crouched, whispering the word to Shiro in feigned horror as she poured the girl’s drink. She rolled her eyes, not unkindly. “Poore lad. Da’s money run out yet? That what’s got you looking so glum? ’S okay, I’m all for charity. How’s about a round, on me?” He laughed, as he was expected. “Oh, that’s really not ne—“ But she bustled away, slamming down three fresh tankards on the table. The necromancer stared at them as if they’d rutted on the table and multiplied before his eyes, picking one up experimentally. Ale sloshed, and it trickled coolly off the lip, nestling between his fingers. He felt so exasperated it became mirthlessly funny, and he actually laughed, shaking his head. Does the entire world conspire to get me drunk? “You devil. I was going to have one drink and call it a night.” The barmaid gave a snort to rival a hog, tucking her serving plate under one arm. “Aye, and I’m a five-headed chicken. Peeled you off the floor too many times to believe that shite. Now, if you an’ your lady friend excuse me, I have to get back to work.” She dramatized the word, waggling her fingers for effect, and looked at each of them in turn. Then she leaned in, muttering something teasingly into Phaedrus’ ear. “Between you an’ me, think you looked better with that redhead.” He’d rather she’d punched him, frankly. Phaedrus’ lips spasmed, and he just managed to scrape it by as mirth, tittering horribly into his palm. But now his mind spun like a puck, and he wanted to screech that it was none of her bloody business, none of it — but she was laughing, laughing with the innocence of not knowing, laughing because he’d honestly made jest about flavors of the week once; made a ritual of seeing how many barmaids he could charm before falling flat into his tankard. Another time, almost surreally so. “Think so? Oh, I’ve changed my mind. Once this is out, bring a round of firespirit. If they don’t drink it, I will.” The necromancer laughed, a high, clear bell, perfectly charming and airy. But he meant it. Some part of his mind told him it was a bad idea, but he didn’t care, not anymore. The barmaid winked knowingly and bustled away, going to mind other tables. Soon her laughter and conversation burbled from the tables over, and men whooped lewd comments. One drink, the voice reminded him meekly, as he clenched his tankard a bit too tight and lofted it into the air, staring at Shiro. “Sorry about that. I would toast to our mysterious patron, but I don’t even know your name.” A smile trickled thinly over his features. “New to Madrid, are you?” Edited by Phaedrus, Apr 23 2015, 07:10 PM.
|
| (OFFLINE) PROFILE | QUOTE GO TO TOP |
| Galena | Apr 23 2015, 08:16 PM Post #6 |
![]()
Thy sins, paid in blood...
![]()
|
"Thank you." The metal snicked quietly as it folded back on itself and vanished from sight. It didn't seem right to explain the reasoning behind it, as though she might enjoy pulling awful puns out at the worst possible time. It wasn't as though she'd ever had to literally pull a beautiful one liner while slicing and dicing someone. Perhaps she ought to be thankful for that, though a small savage part of her wished that she might get the opportunity sometime. No, that was awful, how could she think that?! Though there were plenty enough bandits on the road these days...no, that one ought to be reserved for her dearest, loving spouse, if nobody else. She wasn't a particularly hateful person, but it seemed to know no bounds there, a terrible well of bitter spite that made her dislike herself for allowing it. For a moment she wished that she was again just meeting eyes with her ghostly mirror image, but there was propriety to uphold. She only hoped that he didn't expect her to suddenly knife him. If anything it probably hadn't eased his mind on the general and proper safety of escorting a lady. He looked more wooden than ever. Well...it was obvious that she made poor decisions, especially when alcohol was concerned. Ashoka had been a grand testament to that, beating the High Priest into submission with the dinnerware. And here she was accepting to go for a drink again...well it couldn't get that much worse, if she were looking to destroy her reputation. They were, point in fact, standing in front of a pleasure house. Just as abruptly, his chin jerked out of her fingers and she allowed her hand to drop loosely, kept her face carefully neutral. Did he know that she had sap in her veins rather than blood? She couldn't recall if she'd mentioned it, hoped not. Better that people didn't know, for the kneejerk reaction to pull away in disgust, to refuse to be treated by what some of them would deem some horribly fae creature. Well. Not everyone could be as wonderfully educated as they, she was sure. For now she let it go, deemed it not worth worrying about. It wasn't like she was going to start snatching children in the dusk and weaving with shadows and starlight. "Verily, I can relate to that. The inactivity doth drive one to a restlessness that wouldst disrupt the healing process. It thine mind is quite set...I shall not mention it hence." She peered at him over the rim of her spectacles, flashing most demonically as she moved out of the light. It was not as if she were about to tie him down to a bed and make him stay there until she were sure he was well again. The very notion..she was not a tyrant! Did considering it for more than a heartbeat mean she had tyrannical tendencies? Something to think on later. Spots of colour tinged her alabaster complexion as he questioned the name of the establishment, but the councillor held her head high all the same, chin lifting a touch defiantly, the ghost of a smirk threatening to destroy it all. "Something tickles your humors, Master Phaedrus?" Her calm composure shattered at the mention of the fluttery elfin councillor and her lips parted in a tinkling laugh, all ladylikeness failing a moment. "I know not what you mean ser...I am sure that Councilor Bellamy wouldst faint if a mouse broke wind within his walls, much less to think such bawdyhouses exist...nor that such polite company might entertaineth there..." Galena was sure to keep her eyes on him as they entered, seemingly demure and watching the room beneath golden lashes. No, one did not expect such behavior from a councillor, and gods forbid Modeste heard of it, she would have him knocking on her door within the hour, probably shrieking at her to deny the truth of it. Need she remind him that her husband preferred the company of men such as he, to her? That she had been alone for more than half a decade, childless and occupied only with an unending stream of open wounds and broken bones? She'd have rather not, in all honesty. It wasn't that she found him detestable, not at all. Afternoon tea with the flowery little man could be quite delightful, it was just that...he was such a prude. And she was a nymph. What she would give for the company of Master Frej right now, even if he said little and drank a lot. It was all in the eyes really, those compelling, glacial eyes... Galena cleared her throat, attention sadly diverted from the thoughts of the appealing woodsman to the pale girl addressing them. Eyes as hard as gimlets flashed from beneath her hood, a gaze that had seen much, for all that she appeared young. She could expect no less, those that came to these sorts of places knew the hardships of desperation and poverty. Hers was not a face that she recognized however...not that she'd been here in some weeks. They took on new girls all the time... "Oh..yes." She murmured distractedly, let the fiery haired companion of hers guide her in the direction of the vacant table. Strange, she'd not been approached thus on entering before. Well only once and then it was a customer who thought she was for sale. Phaedrus was almost tongue tied if she didn't know better, and hid a smile behind her hand as she feigned scratching at an itch on her chin. Perhaps she ought to play along. Besides, there were other kinds of healing that the soul needed as much as the body, and perhaps that was what he needed most? She slipped into the seat beside him and as a gesture of goodwill, reached up and slid her pall gently from her head to her shoulders, the cloth pooling heavily as it loosened and drooped away from her face. "Thank you, this is most kind." She cleared her throat as the barmaid chattered away to the now, seemingly embarrassed rake at her elbow, neatly averting her eyes from the ample cleavage at perfect eye level with her face. A soft chuckle built in her throat, never made it past her lips but died as a gurgle of amusement there. Looked like her prior estimation was way off the mark, if the woman's breathy murmur not quite between them was anything to go by. She busied herself in taking a tankard and examining the contents, peered at her own reflection speculatively, almost as if she'd never seen ale before. "Pretty girl. Friend of yours?" She murmured low, then lifted her eyes to share a subtle wink with the neko opposite, and contented herself in knocking back the entire tankard, slapping it heartily onto the tabletop, a little foam dribbling over the lip. Roughly she wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, then steepled her fingers as though nothing had happened. Ye-es...if she didn't know better he could use some time in the sheets. Good thing they were in a place that catered to that sort of thing. Already her imagination was running away with her, lips quirking into an impish grin. Some tryst with a lover that had resulted in him being jilted? Perhaps a woman refusing to leave her husband for him? Naughty naughty. Not that she was playing matchmaker. Oh no. The dryad smiled across the table at Shiro, content to let Phaedrus chatter away as she helped herself to the second ale, dipping her finger in and swirling idly, one eye on the barmaid. On her return she reached out and pinched the woman's apron delicately between thumb and index, tugged just hard enough to get her attention. "Can I help you?" "Please, drinks are on my tab this evening. For the entire bar." "In a good mood tonight?" "Not especially, Mistress. Might I also place an order?" "Of course..." The woman frowned at her as though she'd made a mistake asking instead of demanding, but such was her way. Mild, silk over steel. "One of your bright fancy coloured things, with the little sticks and fruit, and parasols. Verily, do not forget the parasols." She leaned back in her seat as the barmaid rattled off a speedy list, the very same as chalked on the wall, knowing full well what the tiny woman was going to order, even as they shared a salacious smile. "The regular?" "Indeed." "One Screaming Orgasm comin' up!" Galena lifted the mug to her lips and drank deeply, the only hint of her smile the crows feet crinkling at the corners of her eyes. By the choking noise beside her, Phaedrus had found the ale. "Be not such a prude, ser Phaedrus. Seek a little fire, hm? It is just a drink, after all. Welcome to Madrid stranger. You may call me Galena." Edited by Galena, Apr 23 2015, 08:25 PM.
|
| (OFFLINE) PROFILE | QUOTE GO TO TOP |
| Shiro | Apr 25 2015, 01:28 AM Post #7 |
![]()
Valkoinen Metsästäjä
![]()
|
In retrospect, Shiro should have picked a better place to have a drink. What was the girls name again? Gale-something? Galeas? Hmph, no. That grumbly old mage certainly was no girl. Besides, what would he be doing in Madrid? She giggled inwardly at the thought of Ser Galeas in a whorehouse like this. Two ladies of leisure flanking him, drawing circles upon his robed chest with their fingers, whispering sweet nothings into his ear vying for his attention while he attempts to keep his irritation under control. A gentle clearing of his throat as he takes another swig of his drink. She could see his eyes, locked dead ahead in the most serious of tones. Shiro had to restrain the thought, or else she just might find herself rolling on the floor in a fit of laughter. As the two sauntered over to join her, the curious pairing kept getting more intriguing. The man having a gallivant with one of the barmaids. Apparently he comes here often? Oh my... in a flash, the drink count upon the table went from one round to two sets, with more on the way! Perks of being a regular to a place such as this? There was no way that Shiro would be having any more than what she already consumed. The little huntress must always keep her wits about her, no? Still, with two pairs of eyes laid upon her, she felt some scrutiny. They could have mistaken her for a new girl in the house. Truth be told, the only two reasons she visited this establishment was that no one bothered her, and the drinks were cheap. While the former not entirely true, she had been mistaken by a sailor for a whore when she first arrived. He was made a quick example of and no one bothered her after that. She half wondered how his face is doing now. He must be permanently scarred from all those precise cuts she made... The girl ordered an odd drink as well. Quite a pair, these two. Thanks to the little girl, Shiro picked up their names. Phaedrus and Galena. If the little Neko did not know any better, she'd almost say that they were marrie-wait, what was the ladies name again? Galena? Alarm bells started ringing and red flags started popping up. THE COUNCILOR?! her mind screaming. Her brain scrambled, utter shock. What in the seven blazes is a politician doing in a bar like this?! Gathering herself, Shiro reclaimed her calm. If she had known that she would be in the presence of someone with so much power, she would have dressed a little better. A small thought flashed through her mind, What if I play it as if I don't know who she is? That could certainly lead to some interesting events. Shiro then decided to play both sides of the coin at once. See which scenario played better in her favor. A sincere smile washed over her face. The man inquired if Shiro was new to Madrid. "Aye, that I am. I apologize for the setting of our meeting. You must take me for a lady of ill repute. Surely I am not." She paused, emphasizing that she wasn't. "Just a visitor, passing through. I hail from Reine, with the forest as a second home. A hunter by trade. A pleasure to meet the both of you. I am Shiro." Lowering her head in a small bow. "You two looked like a curious pair. And as much as I detest the phrase...Curiosity killed the cat." She glanced betwixt the two, with all that being said. She hoped it was clear that she was interested in learning about them. It's not every day that you just bump into a Sotoan Councilor. Shiro gave a half worried look at Phaedrus, I sure hope he really was only kidding when he stated that he'll drink all of that booze... She pulled her hood down further to hide her ears, mustn't cause a disturbance now. After all, she just met these two and she had no clue how they would react if they suddenly found themselves in front of an adorable Catgirl, ears exposed. Her tail twitched in agreement. "A toast then, as you stated. I will have to say nay to the toast in my name however. A hunter's life is one of much humbleness. I say we toast to the new spring, just arrived!" She held her tankard in the air, the first to toast this evening. Still, her mind wary of how she presented herself in front of the councilor. She really wasn't one to anger someone of that much authority. She wanted to get on Galena's good side, if anything. Friends in high places, as they say. |
| (OFFLINE) PROFILE | QUOTE GO TO TOP |
| Phaedrus | Apr 30 2015, 11:27 PM Post #8 |
![]()
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.
![]()
|
[bah sorry, shitty reply is shitty. wanted to keep things moving though~] Devils, but she had a murderous look about her sometimes. Those spectacles seemed to flash of their own volition, as if she were some hellish librarian. What manner of woman was she, truly? Walking the unsavory bowels of Madrid with a blade in the dark… Perhaps he should have attended more of her garden parties. A wry smirk twisted his face. Mercifully, she respected his wishes, dropping the matter of his health like a filthy rag. Best kicked to the gutter and forgotten, after all… Ah, so she did take his meaning. He marked the color in her cheeks, thought on the dimly lit boardinghouse. Well, the implication was clear. Understanding rooted the two together, bound them in a single conclusion. A smile wound its way insidiously over his face, curling like a viper. At her comment, a tinkle of a laugh escaped him, muffled by a delicate hand. “Oh, no. As far as I’m concerned, Miss Galena, neither of us were here. Master Bellamy needn’t be the wiser. If I have to endure another of his lectures, I will surely expire...” He trailed off as they entered, settling into their respective seats. To his surprise, Galena slipped off her palla. Was that wise? By anyone's counsel... It seemed rather brash in such a place as this — but there was a bemused glitter to her eye all the same, as if she knew a secret and would not tell. From the startled look upon their patron’s face, she seemed to recognize the councillor, but… sod it. Not his business. It wouldn't matter. Not for him. Suddenly the room felt rather stifling, a nauseating miasma of heat and laughter, too many prying eyes on his back. Keep laughing, Phaedrus. Laugh like an accursed fool, the jester you are. The barmaid’s comment left him rattled, a thousand thoughts pinging in the hollow of his skull. To calm himself, he stared into the ale, doing all in his power to not down it in one draught. “In a manner of speaking,” the necromancer murmured distractedly, drumming his fingers on the tankard. The ale rippled, sending his reflection shivering, distorting grotesquely — Phaedrus’ stomach flipped, breathing painfully tight. An unhinged laugh almost chittered off his lips, stifled by the rim of the tankard, teeth close to snapping in his smile. Get a bloody grip, you—finish the drinks and leave… He didn’t hear a lick of what the councilor said, wandering far outside the tavern, the mirth, the burbling company. Somewhere between his mind and the sloshing ale at his lips, stare cast to the wood as if he intended to brand it with sight alone. Words passed around him, thinning to wind, there and then forgotten. He hoped they weren’t meant for him, or — One Screaming Orgasm, coming up! He choked on his ale. Spluttering, the necromancer whumped his collarbone lightly, regaining his breath with a few delicate coughs. Well, he’d missed something. The salacious little order brought him back, at any rate, tugging on his mind like an insistent fisherman. When he looked up, the councilor’s eyes danced with amusement, crinkled by a hidden smile. “You mistake me for a nun,” Phaedrus scoffed, brandishing his tankard. The liquid sloshed as he brought it back up to his lips, sick at the sudden thirst that opened up in him, screamed that he down the lot. “I am simply maligned by your taste. If you want parasols, then you must have Sex on the Beach. Really, Ms. Barrilius…” Far, far more parasols. And it came with a pineapple in a phallic wedge. Clucking in disappointment, the necromancer returned to his drink, eyes flickering up to fix on Shiro. A hint of relief washed him as she shirked any notion of being a prostitute — oh, good. One less thing to deal with, he supposed. He could not wrestle with that complication now, the well of misplaced guilt—did not want to think about what it meant, hoping it would simply go away. The strange knot that’d bundled in his chest unraveled somewhat, at least enough for him to relax a touch. You see? Your pity was misplaced. “Ah. I see.” He kept a polite smile affixed to his face, leaning upon it as a crutch. A tinkle of a laugh followed her rejection of being a lady of ill-repute. “I hope you haven’t met with boorish men thinking otherwise. My name is Phaedrus, as you have likely gathered. A pleasure to meet you, Shiro.” With her occupation off the table, it opened up new considerations. What did she want, then? He fiddled with his thumbnail, watching the girl as she spoke. He found it hard to concentrate fully, grappling at the conversation like a man fumbling with soap. Hunting… bit small, wasn’t she? Then, one didn’t need to be a brute to wield a bow, hm… Shiro. Not a Sotoan name, by any account. Where was she from, truly? Over the burble of patrons it was hard to mark any kind of accent or strange lilt in her words — but it sounded like a name from across the sea. Daro? Well, Reine was a port town… His fingernails drummed the table. “Reine, hm? What a nice city.” In truth, it smells like a mermaid’s twat. All that fish… “I’ve always wondered what it would be like, to simply board a ship and go halfway across the world. Somewhere bloody warm, for a start.” Angkar was fine this time of year, wasn’t it? With a sharp pang of regret, he realized he’d never been. All that talk of diamond sands and swaying trees… a virgin queen and eager natives… and most importantly, no snow. Besides, the sea had a calming aspect to it, too, eerie and unforgiving as it was. He’d always felt it was the closest thing to Death in this world — spanning endless over the horizon, variable as temper. It could be a bright, sparking blue or the darkest hell, a current swimming with bodies… And his mind fled elsewhere again. A toast, then. He wandered back with a positively vapid smile. Perhaps they’d just write him off as a half-witted fop, and leave it at that. He itched to get away of a sudden, wrestle himself out of the chair and back into the cold, fleeing towards his house. Spring? Phaedrus’ smile went brittle, fixed in his mouth like glass. The word struck like a blow, and the necromancer started, slopping ale over the rim of his tankard. Spring? Already? No. He almost laughed in disbelief, felt the world dim, the burble of patrons dying to a faroff buzz. No, no. Time shrieked with mirth, wheeling on its horse, hoofbeats thundering through his mind as if to mock him with its passing. “To spring, then,” a hollow voice rasped. Was it his? Clearing his throat, Phaedrus attempted some control, high and tight as if warding off tears. “May it bring you ample quarry. And give the butchers something to sell besides pheasant.” His hand shook as if palsied, the toast an aborted, clattering tremble — his tankard scarcely touched Shiro’s before he whisked it to his mouth, draining the ale in one swoop. That finished, he grabbed at the second like a man dead of thirst, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. His limbs felt weak all of a sudden, phantoms popping before his vision, far too cold and warm at once. Caulcis, hurry. Damn you, damn me, damn the Arcana, the Constructio, all of it… Drink. A lump cloyed his throat, made it hard to swallow the ale. But for that, he’d have drained it in the same manner — instead he was forced into some semblance of pacing, watching them over the rim of his tankard and blinking too rapidly. Edited by Phaedrus, May 1 2015, 12:16 AM.
|
| (OFFLINE) PROFILE | QUOTE GO TO TOP |
| Galena | May 1 2015, 10:32 PM Post #9 |
![]()
Thy sins, paid in blood...
![]()
|
If the councillor had known that her acquaintance considered her a trifle murderous she might have been offended, considering her profession was to mend the sick. Of course, sometimes the only way to mend was to cut the offending article out. Why else would she be so bold as to carry a razor strapped to her thigh, and a second nestled between her breasts? At least they were situated where nobody was liable to notice. Yes, but Gods knew that one barely had to whisper a word like nipple and the man entered a coma. He never seemed to expect it either, which was all the more amusing. There had been that one time that they'd taken tea in a parlor and then walked about the upper town...he'd stopped to remark on the grace of a statue, a nymph classically carrying a jug of water, and with a perfectly stony face she'd said it was probably improper, given that she was a little exposed. The fact he'd not noticed and instantly turned beetroot was hilarious. It had taken most of her willpower to hold her calm composure, and not fall over her skirts laughing about it. It was probably best if he really did say nothing, undoubtedly Modeste would try to make some sort of cover to explain to himself why she was moseying around the streets in the middle of the night and ended up on the red lantern district, as if she either didn't know what the place was, or only affiliated with it when there was an emergency. And of course she'd play the gentle unassuming politician, neither confirming nor denying. What was the point in denying things, rumors or truths? As soon as you did, people jumped on it and thought that you must be hiding something. Either way you never really won. The only way to win was to play along, and play them against one another. That was how the game went. Of course, she bloody well knew what sort of friend the girl was to him. She hardly expected less, given the type of establishment it was. The patrons knew her, the staff knew her, and she was in fairly safe hands when it came to visiting the place. Just one of the many contacts in her network, they wouldn't talk if she dressed like one of the Gods and paraded around the place offering all and sundry a chance to sample her wares as well. Not that she ever had. But they weren't likely to talk. After all, she owned the place. "Thou may as well be a nun, for thine need to wear a wimple indoors." As one of the few places she felt that she could relax, the little woman sat back with a broad smile slowly replacing the cool mask, the sudden wit -albeit in her archaic tongue - coming easily to bear. "One hath been yonder and already done that. Still...thou hath yet more sand in thine fairypocket than thou wouldst let on." Whether she meant that she'd had the drink or actually had coitus on the beach she wasn't about to reveal in polite company. She'd had far too little to drink to be so talkative, though that might change, depending on whether the current company lightened up any. It arrived, very very blue, and gods knows what they put in it to make it turn that colour. The drink positively bristled with tiny paper umbrellas and little sticks with cherries on. And the pineapple. She sighed, then removed the sickly sweet thing and dropped it on the table where it oozed juice into the grain of the wood. As if it needed a fruit phallus to make it more obnoxious than it already was. She sipped at it through her reed straw, and joined their toast with the mug of ale instead, since lifting the glass would have taken both hands to do so, and likely would have doused herself in the concoction. "To spring." She kicked him under the table, demurely lowering her eyes at the same time to watch her drink as she sipped at it. Gods but if you were to spend time with people, you could at least have the common decency to pay attention to the flapping of their lips. Whatever he was thinking about, it couldn't have been quite so joyful for it seemed to absorb his whole focus, gnawing at him even when he felt moved to speak a minor pleasantry that added little enough to their conversation. Perhaps she'd wrestle him down later and demand to know all the filthy secrets he was hiding that were more important than brightly coloured drinks and paper umbrellas. She waited until they were both drinking before popping the question, as impotent as it was. "Pray speaketh, what didst bring thee to this part of Madrid when there are so many other things most charming for thine eyes to prey upon?" Galena surveyed the taller girl from across the table, her eyes roving speculatively to the hood considering the warmth indoors, and back to her clear grey eyes. It wasn't the sort of place that one just casually wandered into without intent, the red lanterns were pretty much universal all over...maybe she was the shady type. They were always useful to be acquainted with, especially if you needed something specifically retrieved that wasn't in your own possession. Or someone to help with leverage with the dockmasters leasing supplies in Reine, though she doubted the girl's small stature helped in that department. |
| (OFFLINE) PROFILE | QUOTE GO TO TOP |
| Shiro | May 4 2015, 01:59 AM Post #10 |
![]()
Valkoinen Metsästäjä
![]()
|
The banter between these two was uncanny, to say the least. Their glasses clinked, the man barely had time to lift his mug to toast before he was downing it rabidly. Yeah...he was serious about drinking all that alright. Shiro sipped lightly on her drink, a careful and measured consumption made her sure of her wits. The councilor had gotten some flashy blue drink of sorts. It looked tantalizing. She kept to her own though, the one-now two drinks was plenty for Shiro. She addressed the golden eyed man, "Aye, Reine is not as glamorous as one would make it. It's mostly marketplace after marketplace." She chuckled a bit, her tail bouncing under the table, "...if you get the right vendor, the fish is phenomenal." She lamented that it was not quite the place. But it wasn't a place for the careless spender, the merchants would eat you alive if they smelled the money on you. Shiro thought back to the first time she went to get some supplies. They tried to haggle so much out of her, the merchants learned quickly to not try anything of that sort with her. The underestimation tactic works every time. Turning her head towards the councilor, she answered, "Being one who survives off the land, hunting for food, I don't necessarily have to remain put in one place. To be straight, I've always wanted to visit Soto's capital. I then decided to gather some pelts to sell and ventured my way up. Aye, I did see many a spectacle whilst on my visit. But all visitations come to a close, I was actually about to turn in for the night and leave for Reine in the morrow, but no worries. I have my doubts that the city is going anywhere." She joked, beaming. Mustn't be so serious constantly. Her eyes did that for her, the grey irides speaking high of history and anguish, hardened with grisly maturity. "The drinks are cheap, and I don't get bothered." She paused, smirking. "Enough about me, tell a weary huntress about yourselves, I am eager to learn." An air of camaraderie was being built, no doubt. From her modest observations, the man was pale. This paleness almost made him look...dead-ish? His defining feature being his glowing gold eyes. Shiro never really encounter the dead, greater or lesser. She had figured there would be more...decaying flesh and a undying need to eat people? Her tail shuddered at the thought. But she hasn't seen much of that, so he must not be all bad? The councilor on the other hand was a character of her own. Somehow being smaller than Shiro herself, the little Neko couldn't believe it. She seemed quite...loose, relaxed. The catgirl had a small innate fear of authoritarian figures. She had always thought they kept to themselves and always were drabbling about the affairs of the state. Now she found herself sharing a round with one. It was a small cause for alarm if anything. Shiro figured that at this late of hour, Galena wasn't out and about to reign the town. She was surprised at the lack of bodyguards that normally would accompany figures of such power. Maybe she didn't want them? Or better, she probably snuck off without them realizing. Such a rebellious teenage spirit. What an odd combination. Stranger things are out there... |
| (OFFLINE) PROFILE | QUOTE GO TO TOP |
| Phaedrus | May 8 2015, 05:27 PM Post #11 |
![]()
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.
![]()
|
Thou may as well be a nun, for thine need to wear a wimple indoors. The cloak itched on his cheek. Truly, he had no need of it — the regulars here knew his face well enough, if the barmaid was any example. Hardly a matter of privacy, really. Still, the looks he’d snuck at himself in the mirror convinced him of its virtue, given his current… ailment. If the box could be called that. Perhaps he’d overreached these past months, testing the limits of his power. The Gates were unforgiving, treacherous things, all thieves. Still, one does not snub a Councilor, he supposed… Reluctantly, the necromancer removed his hood. The torchlight did little to thaw his complexion, lending it the look of vellum. His parchment lips crackled into a smile. The winter had darkened his hair to an almost bloody red, and it hung lankly around his neck, tousled and unbrushed. Half of it had been fiddled and plucked by nervous fingers, fashioned into a plait that swept behind his ears. Frankly, he looked like he’d been trampled by a horse and hadn’t quite gotten around to dying yet. “There. My sisters will be furious at my immodesty.” He knitted his fingers together under his chin, mouth curling at her comment. How forward. Well, it left a great deal to the imagination, he supposed. Then, it made sense. She’d been widowed a long time, no? Poor woman, ailing in an empty bed. He would have snorted at the image, but even his outlandish imagination couldn’t conjure it for so much as a second. Sand in my fairy pocket is the least of my concerns. A thin smile sliced his lips, one brow quirked. “Speaking from personal experience?” Devils below. The drink arrived—some blue abomination, positively bristling with umbrellas like an alcoholic porcupine. And… oh, what a telling gesture. Phaedrus watched as her delicate fingers plucked up the fruit phallus, tossing it aside like a nuisance. “Not fond of pineapple?” A sneer wound up his face, sparking in his eyes. Well, he already knew the answer to that. Innocently enough, he returned to his ale. The world swam in his tankard, a dull reflection and far-off flicker of lights, the toast floating over his head. He’d just raised it to his lips when the councilor kicked him, sending a splash over the rim and onto his tunic. His eyes flashed up, but she was smiling serenely into her drink, lashes hooding her eyes. The burble of the tavern punched through his consciousness again — the present broke over him in a wave, lapping at his attentions. Dazed, the necromancer blinked, grateful that Galena tugged the reins of the conversation for now. As they spoke, he dabbed at the wet spot with his cloak, fussing with it. She was… inquiring as to why the girl was here, and yes… hunting, pelts… For once, he was content to simply sit and listen—to let their talk wash around him as he nodded, drinking and contributing little. He just… wanted to be around people for now. Their simple presence was an anesthetic, lancing the silence of the streets and his home. People, people. There were others out there, living their lives, milling the corners of the every city. And the world went on for them, an unstoppable machine, untouched by his own troubles. To be straight, I've always wanted to visit Soto's capital. He smiled at that at least, a small wistful thing. Ah, he’d said that once. Just a visit. And well, the gardens and beauty of the place had convinced him, and in no small part, the food. It certainly helped that the Mystic Occult was stationed here, and therefore the perfect place to get acquainted with a library… “Be careful. I told myself the same, and ended up moving here.” A light snort left him, and the necromancer raised his eyes to the girl’s cold ones, marking that her joke did not reach them. “Come back in the spring, Miss Shiro. There are bacchanals then, and all manner of festivals to the gods of the earth. Traders and performers pour in from all over Soare. Most importantly, there is excellent wine.” He tapped the table for emphasis, leaning back into his chair. When the girl inquired about them, the necromancer glanced at the councilor. A quiet stalemate broke out across the table, a heartbeat in which he pondered who would answer first. Given her occupation with that… drink, it seemed up to him to do the honors. Well, bollocks. The necromancer shrugged, drawing his cloak about himself. A vicious titter almost leapt off his lips, imagining the absurdity of telling the truth—letting it all spill, aired like foul laundry. Oh, nothing really. I was once the slave and apprentice of one of the worst sorcerers in history… I’m older than the republic of Madrid… I own three cats… “Me? Mm.” The question had caught him midway through a sip of ale. Phaedrus lowered the tankard, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “I’m a consultant for the Mystic Occult. That is… I work in their library, in the Eighth Wing.” His pale fingers drummed a tuneless melody into his tankard. The necromancer nodded at Galena, affixing a smile to his face. To most, the workings of the Mystic Occult was uncomfortably obscure, best swept under a rug and forgotten. Occasionally it bubbled up in people’s awareness— if the streets mysteriously smelled like egg or an unaccountable blizzard descended in the midst of summer… else wise, the people of Madrid simply marveled at their pretty marble buildings and cast wary glances at the Zauber mansion. “See, the librarians organize and manage everything. But we’re the ones that must identify books and artefacts, translate them, that lot… most of the time I renew wards on doors or seal off dangerous archives. There are some that haven’t been touched in decades. Our Wing is rather neglected, given that we have some of the highest… turn overs.” Phaedrus examined his nails, clucking in disappointment. A kind way of saying that many of us end up in asylums. The lucky ones become unsightly smears on the tile. The necromancer steepled his fingers, frowning. “Frankly, we’re the rubbish dump. We get everything the other wings don’t want to handle. Exploding tomes, cursed lamps, ex-wives, that ilk.” That was the least of it, really. But it was hardly appropriate to talk about grimoires made of human flesh in polite company. Phaedrus peered into his tankard and scoffed, letting the liquid slosh about. “I never know if I’m going to translate an ancient inventory of corn, or end up mauled by a demon. Keeps things interesting, I suppose.” He gave an effete flick of his hand, taking a nonchalant sip of ale. There. Let that dispel any rumors on my involvement with the occult, or at least put them to rights. |
| (OFFLINE) PROFILE | QUOTE GO TO TOP |
| Galena | May 29 2015, 01:54 PM Post #12 |
![]()
Thy sins, paid in blood...
![]()
|
She wasn't wrong about Reine. There were places where the streets wound and snaggled together almost as badly as they did in Ashoka, wall to wall packed with coloured awnings and rickety stalls, people shrieking and hawking their wares. A perfect haven for thieves she expected, and all of the natural city smells overlaid by the rich stinging tang of salt, of sea and fish. Each city had its own unique scent, she thought, and Madrid was no exception. Being buried in the forest meant that much of the environment surrounding them inevitably worked its way into the very stones they built on. And the mercantile...well they were the same everywhere. It was money money money. She spoke lightly enough, but her eyes didn't reflect the levity of her words, as if her thoughts were dwelling elsewhere. Was she the only one right here and now in the present? This somber girl and her air of secreted grief, and the dowdy brooding man withdrawing into himself at her elbow... well what fine company this was. Perhaps she ought to say or do something to lighten the air before it became absolutely maudlin. One brow arced studiously as she sipped at her drink. The patrons didn't bother a nubile young maiden all on her own? Fancy that. That, was nothing to do with her either. She couldn't be everywhere at once, and sometimes things happened, whether her eyes were there figuratively or not. She wondered what those eyes were thinking now as they rested on her, and had she been a psion she might have laughed. She didn't have bodyguards, acolytes maybe, as she was often seen with one or two in tow. Who would set out to attack a physician, who was otherwise mostly thought to be a gentlewoman and otherwise harmless? Rebellious teenage spirit indeed...if she'd known, she might have had ideas about climbing trees and sneaking out of windows to tumble with lovers in the middle of the night unbeknownst to their guardians, or painting crude slogans on the city memorials. How unfitting for a councillor. At least Phaedrus had the decorum to remove his hood indoors. The girl, not so. He could do something with his hair though, he looked as though he'd not slept in a month, and had been dragged through a hedge backwards to boot. "Oh, naturally. I keep company with a suitable number of elderly shrews, verily though, I hadst not the faintest idea that thou wouldst be one among them." Her eyes slid slyly in a sidelong glance to see the devilish leer among autumn locks, her own gaze imparting just how unimpressed she was. "I am quite sweet enough without adding extra." As an afterthought, she added, "Well, only sometimes." "Thou art not from Soto, Master Phaedrus? I never could quite place thine accent." The drink was disappearing oddly quickly, and she found herself a little annoyed with...well, herself. It wasn't as though she were drinking to forget anything, or celebrating something. That was how most people ended up getting drunk, in her experience of being on the receiving end of having to pat them on the back of the hand and make them drink a raw egg or something similar. All jiggery pokery of course, she didn't know any definitive cure for a hangover. Just give them a touch of arrowroot, which honestly did nothing but taste bitter, and a breath of her healing hymn and... Well they didn't need to know that. Sometimes a placebo effect was just as useful as the real thing, if it kept them out of her office. "Verily, that is rather disappointing. Always mine thought was the Mystic Occult were supposed to be a little more...well, mysterious." With one finger she pushed the pineapple phallus around the table, then began to draw aimlessly in the juice trail it left behind. "I had to turn one out of my garden once, he was stealing my roses." She looked faintly bemused, then smiled, "Of course the roses savaged him, I hadn't pruned them in a month. Said he wanted to make a love potion. Thou would not happen to knoweth of that, Master Phaedrus?" She shook her head, frosty curls bouncing gold in the lamplight. It was all rather ridiculous. The man had entered with a furtive air, and had said that he was doing it under the duress of a friend. How many times had she heard that one? "I run the medical center here, the Red Hands. It is where the more seriously injured and sick are taken when they require treatment. I also deal with the charitable donations and healthcare for the poor and the sick that cannot afford physicians. It does keep one busy." She drained the last of her cocktail, then sighed and steepled her fingers before her on the table muzzily. It had been a long day. Perhaps she'd only do the paperwork tomorrow... |
| (OFFLINE) PROFILE | QUOTE GO TO TOP |
| Shiro | Sep 23 2015, 01:22 PM Post #13 |
![]()
Valkoinen Metsästäjä
![]()
|
Shiro's mug sat upon the table with a mild thump as she stomached another mouthful of alcohol. This was roughly the time where the liquid went from "not to bad" to "disgusting". Usually, the catgirl would switch to lighter drinks...if she ever drank more than one or two. The company she kept was something akin to a comedy troupe. If Shiro didn't know any better, she would have damn near gave them money for their hilarious banter back and forth. She had to restrain her delight, merely giving out enthused chuckles and giggles. Even when they have told her about themselves, she was mindful of the public setting they were in. One can never be to overtly cautious. Phaedrus lowered his cowl at the pointed jabs of Galena. It was quite the show, but Shiro got the feeling that the councilor wished for the Neko to follow suit. "Apologies, Not to ruin the mood. I've had some less than favorable experiences in the past pertaining to this cowl of mine. I have found that things are a lot less..." she paused, searching for the word, "...problematic if I leave it up." She stated apologetically, trying not to turn this into huge debacle and have a repeat of that horrid day. Her visage slipped for a second, a wince, she quickly recovered. If the three of them were somewhere a little more private, she could have lowered her hood. The neko's hand reached up and gave the aforementioned hood a small tug further down to emphasize the point. Galena was making some rather pointed jabs at Phaedrus. Whom of which, Shiro noted, was consuming the alcohol at an intoxicating rate. It was a sight to behold. The councilor poked at her pinapple wedge, fiddling with all the juices it was now sweating onto the table. She asked the Necromancer about an affair with her rose garden. A love potion? Of all the things...the catgirl shook her head and looked sideways at Phaedrus. She quickly thought of something to get him out of the proverbial doghouse. "The library? I might have to stop in sometime soon and pick up something, I've been meaning to do some research about a few things." Shiro paused, "In my 'infinite' hunting knowledge, there are things that even 'I' don't know." The neko broke off into a giggle, keeping the tone relaxed and light. Turning to Galena, Shiro listened to her talk about running her clinic. Donations for the poor? How noble. Shiro made a note to pay her a visit if she ever got seriously injured. After all, there is only so much you can do with a broken arm. "It is easy to lose your way out in the forest. I don't know the ins and outs this far north. So, I half was lost and wandered in here...and half wanted to visit, truth be told." Shiro confessed. There was no ill will in wanting to visit, right? "It all worked out in the end, I found a merchant to offload some of the venison. Found myself a place to rest up, and get a drink! And not to mention I have some lovely company, you two. Win-win, right?" Shiro smiled as she pointed at the pair. Shiro watched as their drinks slowly but surely drained down to nothing. She noted that Galena was somehow drinking more than Ser Phaedrus. Then again, the councilor only had the one drink-where Phaedrus had several. Maybe he was just trying to keep the flow steady for the entire gallons he ordered. Never before had Shiro seen someone who could consume such vast quantities. It was horrific but entertaining to watch. There was a quiet tug at the back of her head telling her to watch out it he starts to get to grabby...or going to puke. Weird, a odd combination of things to think about, safety from rape and...getting vomit all over her. Shiro paused for a second, she figured it was her turn to elaborate about herself, "I'm just a simple huntress, I found my way to Reine and reside in a small cottage a small ways out from the town. That was a few years ago, I think. Time here is a odd thing. It doesn't help that my memory of all past events are gone..." the catgirl trailed off into silence, silently cursing her damned memory. Shiro looked back at the two, her grey irides gleaming with dismay and hardened maturity. |
| (OFFLINE) PROFILE | QUOTE GO TO TOP |
| Phaedrus | Sep 26 2015, 01:38 AM Post #14 |
![]()
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.
![]()
|
Less than favorable experiences? The girl’s strange admission tugged him back to his senses. Curiosity flickered in his eyes — the necromancer knitted his fingers by his chin, gaze flicking briefly to the hood. Less problematic? He did not inquire, but a series of guesses paraded through his head. Does she have horns? A second head? A mark of daemonic origin? An unseemly birthmark resembling a phallus? Or was she a wanted felon? It hardly mattered, he supposed. The girl looked uncomfortable enough about it, wincing visibly before she rearranged herself. “Ah? Well, we are all entitled to our own secrets. None can fault you for that, Miss Shiro.” Indeed, we are full of them tonight, are we not? To his distinct displeasure, the conversation shifted back to him. The necromancer scratched at his nose, sniffing. I never could quite place thine accent. Ah, yes. That. He’d devoted all of his linguistic energies to developing a properly foppish drawl — but that did not stop the rays of Ashoka from shining in here and there, poking sunny holes in his accent. “I have traveled much,” Phaedrus answered without answering, tracing the rim of his tankard. “Ah. I belong nowhere, truly. I spent a great many years in Ashoka, in study.” There was something in his face that suggested he was resolutely unhappy with that fact, and would not probe it further. “And Morrim, for a time…” His expression worsened. Or rather it became very still, studiously blank. The wryness in his eyes vanished. “But one can only wander so much. My heart is here, and I came by fortune when my…” He stared vaguely into his tankard and took a deep gulp. It was effective, he’d found, to say the least he possibly could about his so-called father and so-called inheritance; best to leave gaps and suspicions, ample amounts of room for gossip. The most popular rumor was that his father was a well-to-do merchant, and had cried out in dismay when his useless son ran off to pursue whatever rich boys fantasize about. Sorcery, poetry, chasing strange women… He had worked himself into enough of a fit to die, and now his useless lout of a son had returned to spend his money in new and more outlandish ways. A fine tale, all told. It even conveniently excluded a mother. “I’m afraid not.” He wiped the foam off his lip, eager to launch into a new subject. “They are fusty old men, mostly. They are too busy arguing to truly accomplish anything. Remember when the streets smelled of boiled egg? That was the work of Marilus Avenculus, who was inflamed someone insulted his beard. He meant to curse the offender with poor body odor, but he misfired and it launched right into the Square. Ugh! Dreadful.” The man screwed up his face in distaste, delicate nostrils flaring. “You could not open a window for fear of the entire wing smelling like a latrine. Idiots, all of them.” His opinions on practicing magicians was quite clear. The story about the roses did not surprise him in the least — but he could not help but feel the jab about the love potion, a conversational bodkin slipping into his ribs. Was it a guess about his current state? Or perhaps it was innocuous enough. Even so. In his state he could not tell, and did not care. Something that might have been a laugh escaped him — if the laugh had been beaten and set to dry in the sun just short of a decade. He swallowed the rest of it with the ale, sliding aside the empty tankard. To his relief, the huntress changed the subject. “It is quite beautiful. The ground floors are open to the public, although if you need to access any level above or below… you’ll need special permission. What precisely are you looking for?” His pallid fingers drummed on the table, making a hollow sound against the wood. Lovely company. Is that what they were? The wriest of smiles twisted his lips. For a moment the world seemed to stop entire, composed into a curious vignette. His chest felt like struck glass — Shiro’s grin and pale finger stayed frozen; the glint off Galena’s glasses and the golden cast to her hair seared into his memory. Would this be his last memory of Madrid? A dim whore’s bar with odd company… snowdrifts twirling outside the window… Somehow the third round appeared in his hands, and he snaked his fingers around it for comfort. Every detail pressed on him — the dim gurgle at other tables, the smoke-stained wood and dark panels, the barmaid’s swishing dress. The way the candles exuded a reddish glow, strange islands of warmth peppered throughout the tavern. The moment felt drawn out and still much too fast, ticking inexorably on, on… Time here is an odd thing. Phaedrus nodded, taking a morose sip of ale. It was beginning to warm him, finally — he could feel its dull heat at his cheeks, felt it wash his spirits. “Gone?” Well, Miss Shiro was full of surprises, wasn’t she? The necromancer regarded her curiously—almost scientifically, as if he meant to pick her brains in the next moment. He broke his eerie gaze to return to his ale, cloak rustling as he shrugged. “How odd life is! Just last spring, a gentleman—” if they knew just what Glede looked like, they might be inclined to disagree with that description, but so it was nonetheless, “—came to my door with precisely the same malady. He begged me to restore them.” Well, not in so many words. “I coaxed them out to the best of my capacity… but the mind is unpredictable. The horrors his mind sealed off all came forth at once. He lived them again, and, well — he tried to decapitate me!” A high-pitched titter spilled off his lips, as if it were the most amusing thing in the world. “It was a perfectly horrible day. And afterward — after such misery — he confessed he felt only worse for knowing. It did not help at all.” Phaedrus blathered, tongue loosened by the alcohol. The morbid thoughts kept piling up in a stream, and he felt quite at a loss to filter them. “The mind does not imprison memories lightly. If there are locked doors in your skull, then… all the best to leave them be. Amnesia is hardly the curse many people suppose.” Hypocrite. The irony struck him like a gong, but it did not make it any less true. He shook his head, lank curls bobbing, aware of how bitter the words tasted in his mouth. “For many, it’s better to live with the question than to have the answer.” Edited by Phaedrus, Sep 26 2015, 01:45 AM.
|
| (OFFLINE) PROFILE | QUOTE GO TO TOP |
| Galena | Nov 26 2015, 01:08 PM Post #15 |
![]()
Thy sins, paid in blood...
![]()
|
"I see." Problematic how exactly? The young woman opposite was hardly unattractive to look at, in a rather boyish way, which she found herself to find recently not unappealing at all... A stupid grin had worked its way onto her face, and it was with some difficulty that she wrestled it off, and her thoughts away from the High Inquisitor of Ashoka. How scandalous and unseemly...two country officials spending time in one another's company in such settings as one might expect to see a couple...and both of them women, to boot. She cleared her throat, resting her chin atop her knuckles, but kept her counsel private. If the girl didn't want to take her hat off indoors, she supposed there was little she could actually do about it. Unless she ordered the patrons to hold her down and pull it off. A low giggle tinkled off her lips before she stifled it, eyes shining dewily. It was an appealing idea...but no, let her keep her secrets for now, she supposed. She didn't look horribly disfigured or overtly strange, and perhaps the game of guessing what she was hiding under there would keep her entertained a little. Horns? Ears? Some kind of antennae used to contact extraterrestrial beings from the stars? Considering how diverse Soto was, and compared to the other nations perhaps, more accepting...it was all rather strange. "Ah, mysterious, romantic adventure." The dryad licked her finger and ran it around the rim of the glass, eliciting a pure ringing tone to her delight. Perhaps if she hadn't grown the ambition to help everyone and anyone who so much as got a runny nose or scuffed their knee, she'd have done just such a thing. It must have been wonderful to feel so free, that one could go anywhere, and do anything they pleased. But perhaps that too was a chain in itself. How could one take tot he wing if they didn't know where to start? The alcohol told her that she certainly would turn her back on this life of work and luxury in equal parts, were the right hand extended, the right question asked. One should not let themselves acquire too thick a layer of dust, after all. Her eyes skated away to rest on Phaedrus as he spoke, murky and unreadable as she sucked at the tip of her finger, half imagining she could still taste the pineapple. She agreed with him as much as she found herself disagreeing. One could reflect back on memories when times were trying, how certain events made them feel and what they learned from it, or held valuable information and skills. But, she supposed, amnesia wasn't all that bad. It meant that one was able to relive certain feelings and events again, as if for the very first time. And sometimes little pieces of information surfaced when one least expected it...how to tie a particular knot...which stone to lift by the door to find the key...the list could go on endlessly. "Verily, perhaps next time thou art within the confines of Madrid, thy feet might find themselves at our doors? We might yet be able to show thee our fair city in full, or at the very least, find a navigator to direct thee to the interesting places that one may hath missed." |
| (OFFLINE) PROFILE | QUOTE GO TO TOP |
| Shiro | Dec 5 2015, 03:21 AM Post #16 |
![]()
Valkoinen Metsästäjä
![]()
|
Shiro's tail flicked under her cloak. There was much that was said. She stirred over the words. At the urging of Phaedrus, it was the for the greater good that she didn't have memories. The neko begged to differ, her memories were floating just out of her reach. They were very important, they contained so many answers that she needed to know, answers about everything she knew and was. That was why she wanted to recover them so bad. "...What precisely are you looking for?” Phaedrus asked, tapping his fingers against the table. Was he anxious? Shiro briefly wondered what for, but she quickly disregarded the notion. "Various items of my particular tastes, some knowledge of plant-life and animal-life. Histories of various places. The normal items, nothing of any wild interests." Shiro explained, "Maybe a recipe for that love potion, eh?" She winked at Phaedrus, getting one last stab in about that whole deal. She chuckled quietly. The night carried on anyways. No matter how many drinks that the Necromancer consumed or how many insults disguised as jokes could be thrown. There was a surreal moment about the whole situation. Everything seemed...okay. Like there was no problems to be had by anyone. Shiro reveled in the juncture, she didn't get to spend a lot of time in such humorous company. Aside from a grumpy mage, a beautiful wood nymph, and a raging warrior of death. This was the best company she had in a long time. "Yes! I do actually plan on returning to Madrid. The only variable is when." Shiro answered Galena. The Councillor was right about one thing, Shiro did want to see more of this city."This is a wonderful place and I would be delighted to take you up on your offer, Galena, if you don't mind," Shiro continued, "we could make it a girls night out, just the two of us. Hell-raisers!" Shiro laughed. She was giggling so badly that she had to wipe tears out her eyes. "Thank you, the both of you. This has been the best night I have had in some time." Shiro said after her laughing fit, she wasn't lying. This was very entertaining to her. She realized how uncouth she was being, the neko did have a little concern about it. But she figured that indulging a little wouldn't hurt. They were just a simple bar enjoying each others company, trading some banter about their lives and slipping in some jests here and there. Was this the life of socialites? Shiro wondered about it. She enjoyed the seclusion of the woods and being alone. But this scene before her was some good evidence that the grass was indeed greener on the other side. She mentally made a note to socialize more. It never hurts to make connections, does it? Especially connections like a Councillor of Soto! It pays to have friends in high places, that phrase flashed through her mind again. A third set of drink lined up in front of the Necromancer. Shiro actually began to worry about him, the way he tossed back that amount of alcohol was unhealthy. It seemed like this was a normal thing for him. "You should, ah, take it easy on the drink there, Ser. Don't want to end up face down in a gutter with nothing but a book full of enigmatic stories and poems to show for it." Shiro stated with obvious concern for Phaedrus. "I'd also hate to lose a newly acquired friend so quickly, be it death or imprisonment." At least Galena only had the one drink. It was probably mixed with several types of alcohol, not a good thing. But only one drink couldn't possibly do a lot of damage, right? After all, Shiro did have two drinks, and she could feel the effects already; she was giggling and laughing like a schoolgirl. That was very uncharacteristic of her. Damn alcohol, soon she'd be doing drunken back-flips off the bar if she had kept drinking. The little catgirl mentally shook off the notions, and got a grip of herself. Regaining her composure, she smiled softly to the pair and leaned back into her chair. Refocusing on the conversation before her. |
| (OFFLINE) PROFILE | QUOTE GO TO TOP |
| Phaedrus | Dec 6 2015, 11:16 AM Post #17 |
![]()
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.
![]()
|
“Well.” The librarian in him kicked in, somewhere, relaying the message on autopilot. “You should find those easily on the first floor… it is general enough, and if it strikes your fancy, there are basic books on magic and tinctures…” His lip flickered into something he tried to fashion into a smirk — but his efforts abandoned him, his energies drained to a shell. Love potions, yes, yes. The very height of hilarity. He could not laugh, did not want to — nursed his ale instead, quietly bracing himself to get up and leave. He’d dallied enough, and the conversation seemed to be moving on well enough without him; the girl’s tipsy laughter assured him of that. This, and he’d be gone. The thanks was unexpected. The necromancer stared, unsure of what to say to that — unsure of what to feel, for that matter; he’d been little more than a dead fish, mouthing off the conversational necessities and staring blankly the rest of the time. But then—drink made everything amusing, didn’t it? Or at least it did for others; he could not remember the last time drinking gave him pleasure, or loosened him to actual joy. It was always for escape, or else out of habit; most days it was to forget himself, for he had realized he’d never outrun those haunting thoughts and memories—he could only drown them, put himself into a state where he did not have to be aware of them any more. Where he did not have to be aware of himself—of the state of affairs, of anything — chasing oblivion, as it were, death without the commitment; that’s all he could do, wasn’t it? Drinking was a resignation, hanging his hat upon the door, a hullo, goodbye to himself; goodbye, goodbye, enough of this rubbish. “Oh? Don’t get out much, do you?” It came out all wrong—he regretted it the moment he said it; had no idea why those words had reared their heads, when the girl had been naught but polite to them. Perhaps her laughter grated on his nerves overmuch, the sudden giggling mirth. He wasn’t aware of his mouth — he hoped it was a smile, but perhaps it was a sneer or a grimace; his teeth felt like a block of ice in his mouth, his cheeks hot, the reserves of his politesse rapidly crumbling. “I mean… there are many other places to…” You’re making it worse. “—see, and do…” He nattered off some senseless recommendations, words limping half-heartedly along. Ah, sod it. The necromancer took a heady gulp of ale. You should, ah, take it easy on the drink there, Ser. His eyes flashed to the girl, brows arching — as if he’d been backhanded, the comment a personal jab. “Pardon?” His tinkling laugh fell just short of polite, too measured to be casual. Who is she to say that, to presume? Why, we’ve scarcely met. “There is hardly need for concern. I’m fine.” The forcefulness hiding under his breath suggested he wasn’t—nor his livid eyes, the sleepless rings like bruises, scraggled hair clinging to his cheek. The concern in his tone rankled him, for it implied there was an issue, a problem he certainly did not possess—he, of all people, deserved a drink for the hideous ordeal these past months had been, this life — what was ale? It wasn’t as though he was downing three flasks before them. He felt suddenly on-edge, paranoid. “Just fine,” the necromancer muttered through his teeth, as if to convince himself of that fact. An agitated melody drummed into the wood. I'd also hate to lose a newly acquired friend so quickly, be it death or imprisonment. It made him feel painfully self-conscious, and he resented it; as though he were infirm, a wild, dangerous drunk. But now—now at this, he did laugh. Found it bursting past his lips quite outside his will, for it was desperately funny in its irony. “Oh," the necromancer breathed, once he’d recovered. “Oh, you needn’t fear for me, Miss Shiro.” I am well-acquainted with death and imprisonment—we are old friends. “I should like to see a prison that holds a sorcerer. And death? I should like to be far drunker and entirely immodest when I meet Thaeonon, thank-you.” He sniffed— polished the last of the ale and stood, a weight heavy in his chest. For a moment he was made of iron — felt he had stood too abruptly, cut off the moment before its completion; but he knew it was now or never. Move, or he’d be mired. It seemed a fine time to go, before he lost all grace. The night would not get any balmier, and undoubtedly Caulcis was ready now. “Now, I must take my leave, I’m afraid… I lost track of time, and I have much to do. Councilor?” A strange amount of warmth bled into his tone—a sudden, maudlin outpouring, he supposed; he turned from Shiro to look at her. Part of him wished to take her pale hand and kiss it—but that would have been wildly uncouth, and so he merely inclined his head, a phantom of a smile on his face. “A pleasure, as always.” Then, turning— “Miss Shiro. A pity we do not have more time to get acquainted. May we meet again sometime.” He wished it for all of them, truly, wished it more than they knew— felt shaken up all of a sudden, busying himself with his hood and the clasp of his cloak. A few coins clattered on the table—for what, he didn’t remember—who had paid? Who cared? Let them make merry with it, he supposed. “Good-bye, then.” Phaedrus cleared his throat, made a vague hand gesture — at first passable as an effete flick of the wrist, till his fingers continued to move in arcane rhythms. The air behind him seemed to split, warping as though above a fire; a chill knifed into the tavern, and the necromancer turned his back on them. “Cause a grand amount of trouble.” His cloak snapped in an invisible breeze — the fire guttered and spat, flaring up wildly again; patrons stopped midway in conversation, eyes flickering towards their table. Phaedrus stepped nonchalantly into the portal, tugging his cloak closer about him and shoving his hands into his armpits to keep them warm. Reality swallowed him just as abruptly as it split. Where the sorcerer had been standing was naught but thin air. The fire leapt up again; the chill dissipated; patrons stared at the empty space— one barmaid had slopped beer upon herself and didn’t notice, mouth agape. “Th’ hell was that?” One man slurred, gawping at the table. Edited by Phaedrus, Dec 6 2015, 11:21 AM.
|
| (OFFLINE) PROFILE | QUOTE GO TO TOP |
| Galena | Jan 20 2016, 02:06 AM Post #18 |
![]()
Thy sins, paid in blood...
![]()
|
A girls...night...out? She wasn't entirely sure she understood the implications, but smiled nonetheless. What did one do with other girls, precisely? Not to presume, but the stranger, this Shiro, did not seem the type to want to sit at a table drowning in lace and exquisite doilies, sipping from expensively twee porcelain cups and chattering about nothing in particular. The general politics and social ladder-climbing of the nobility was...at best, really quite dull, unless you took some real delight in being a social butterfly. Personally, she found it a useful means to bend one ear in that direction and use her small network of companions as a sort of...information gathering exercise. And when you knew most of the clientele by their medical needs, well...it didn't hurt to have dirt on one or two. And taking the girl to a brothel of all places, or a suspect establishment such as this did not seem an overly good idea either. It did not say very much about herself for one thing...and she had a reputation to keep. Neither could she see her being fascinated by the hospital, trundling past rows upon rows of the sick and injured, emptying bed pans and mopping up vomit, draining and dressing wounds...no, it was hardly what one might think of as entertainment. Perhaps she ought to just stop fretting about it, and worry about crossing that river when they got there. There were always things like the theater, plays and lecture halls, or simply a tour of the city if the weather was good. She should have invited Phaedrus too, he was effete enough to fall in with the girls, and likely knew a fair amount of the city that she did not. "Quite so. Verily, thou shalt hath to call upon mine services soon, and we shalt make a good time of it." Her lips twisted in a wry smirk, most amused at the girls apparent concern for the scholar at her elbow. Goodness, if she had entertained her at one of the garden parties, she'd have near swooned at the extent of alcohol consumed. It was hardly as though the pair of them were the only ones who ended up lying prone in the petunias, or swimming in the pond. She pressed the backs of her fingers across her mouth, turning away her face in case she exploded into giggles as the necromancer spilled his tactless and somewhat snide question. Truth be told, she'd been thinking it herself, but it would be nice to be able to introduce someone to the niceties of society. What must it be like, to have never seen actors on a stage, or listened to a debate, or simply walked through the marketplace at noon once the local farmers had set up? There was much that was different from living outside in the wilds, and all of it a colourful experience to be sure. Galena turned her face back towards the catgirl, watching the man beside her from her peripheral, the faintest of frowns wrinkling her forehead again. Fine indeed...well, she wasn't going to pry. Perhaps she'd invite him to tea instead, if she thought she could stand an afternoon of being drowned in obnoxious puns and wicked tittering. She wondered briefly what he had to do that was so important in the middle of the night, when sleep seemed to be a wandering fancy. Again, not her business but...there was that brief flicker of concern. It wouldn't do to hear he'd been robbed or beaten to an unsightly pulp over a couple of drinks after hours. "Charmed. Do call sometime, will thou not? It wouldst not be unwelcoming to share thine presence again soon." She balked as the sudden cold washed over her like a slap to the face, the air tearing itself asunder in a manner fit for stories, and those told in the warmth and safety of one's own home, not where the darkness could hear and claw close. She swallowed audibly in the quiet, drawing the thin veil of cool calm back over her features, and rearranged her palla. It was something to think about later, for all that she heard he dabbled in the strange and unholy... "Barkeep, another round for those who wish it, upon mine tab." That seemed to settle the mood, the unease swept aside slowly with the good natured promise of beer and food. Not so for the gooseflesh creeping across her skin beneath her clothes. "I fear that I too, must be upon mine way. The sun shalt be arising soon, and there are always the infirm to attend to." A smile alighted on her bow lips as she raised her palla back over her hair, smoothly rising to her feet and tipping her head in a bow. "It was a pleasure to make thine acquaintance, Shiro Sogeki. May the winds carry good fortune to thee, and thy future be bright and prosperous." She turned and swept from the bar, ducking beneath the arm of a patron as he stumbled upright and hastily pushed the door ajar for her. Nothing so flashy as Master Phaedrus, but being rather common and disappointingly normal had never upset anyone before. She glanced back once, flashed a warm smile, and stepped out into the night. |
| (OFFLINE) PROFILE | QUOTE GO TO TOP |
| Shiro | Feb 19 2016, 03:34 AM Post #19 |
![]()
Valkoinen Metsästäjä
![]()
|
With the reasurement from Phaedrus that his consumption of the liquor was nothing to be worrisome about, Shiro casted the concerns she had back to the depths of whence they came. Her tail twitched, his words were off. There was a hint of agression behind them. Not wanting to raise the issue and cause a scene, Shiro let the topic drop. The last thing she wanted was a fight on her hands. As sudden as the drinks had appeared on the table when they first sat down, Phaedrus bid the two girls a good evening and made way to retire for the evening. Shiro blinked and he was already standing. How much time had passed indeed? She watched him toss several coins down onto the table, he must have not heard that Galena was covering the bar for the evening. The Neko casually fiddled with one of the coins, flipping it over and over in her hand repeatedly. Shiro looked up as the pale man addressed her, "Miss Shiro. A pity we do not have more time to get acquainted. May we meet again sometime." She perked up at the thought, she agreed wholeheartedly. She did say she was going to pay a visit to the library soonish after all. "Yes quite! Maybe in a more formal setting perhaps? We shall see. Farewell." She stated back at him, giving him a small wave. The lithe catgirl watched as Phaedrus turned, made several hand gestures all while doing so and in a flashy manner stepped into a portal out of thin air. Mortified, Shiro watched on. The whole tavern dropped several degrees. A gust from nowhere flew up and ruffled everyones clothing. He literally just stepped through air and was gone. She had seen some things, but this really took the cake as it were. This whole place was just getting weirder and weirder by the day. And then nothing. The rift was gone and so was the wizard. The bar had stopped is merriment and all eyes were upon their table and the spot where Phaedrus once stood. Several patrons made comments drunkenly but no one dare moved. Shiro finally looked over at Galena, wondering how she was taking to the whole situation. The councilor appeared calm despite the scene unfold before her. It struck Shiro as incredibly odd, but she figured this was a common thing with these two. Galena called for another round to the barkeep and just like that, the whole place was back to it's normal rowdiness. The former event gone from memory like the snap of a twig. Switching topics, Shiro was delighted that the councilor was interested in having a day of fun and relaxation. Before she could express such, Galena stated that she must be off as well. Busy lives for everyone around. Shiro considered leaving as well, start heading back to Soto and crawling back into bed. That was quite the trip and she was in no state to make it now. She'd have to sober up and wait for the morning. Galena stood, wished the catgirl good fortune and her future bright as well. As fancy as always, Shiro thought. Galena fled out the bar, nothing as fancy as Phaedrus, but Shiro didn't think that she was magically inclined as the necromancer was. Secretly, the catgirl was relieved that she didn't do any special teleportation magic. The Neko didn't think the poor patrons of the tavern could handle another spell. It was probably for the best that the councilor return to her quarters, after all; she was an important person. And important people had bodyguards, it wouldn't take long for them to cause a panic if someone found that she was missing from her room. Given that the sun would rise soon and surely someone would check up on Galena. It would also be helpful if rumors weren't being spread around that she visits brothel/bars in the dead of night for unknown reasons. Rumors like that would spread like wildfire. Now all by her lonesome, Shiro decided that it too was her time to leave. She stood, and placed a few coins for a tip on the table for the barmaid. She adjusted her cloak, pulling her hood down to further hide her ears. The Neko started for the door, arranging her gait and overall precence to be utterly inconspicuous. No one bothered her, as she looked like some tiny wanderer just leaving the bar. She walked through the door, back out onto the streets. It was indeed the middle of the night. She started walking. Back out into the dark, Hunter... FIN |
| (OFFLINE) PROFILE | QUOTE GO TO TOP |
| 1 user reading this topic (1 Guest and 0 Anonymous) | |
| « Previous Topic · Madrid · Next Topic » |




















