General > Original Submissions Discussion

The life and times of Kitrix Borsail - submissions by James de Monet

(1/6) > >>

Adhira:
Artwork and a log from the point of view of Lord Templar Kitrix Borsail.


Submitted by James de Monet:

Artwork:  The Borsails

Adhira:
Artwork:
With Enemies Like These...
c.1633 (Year 16 Age 22) A rogue defiler makes an appearance in an Allanaki tavern. After exchanging jibes with a blue robed templar...")

Adhira:

--- Quote ---This log has been edited for clarity, brevity, and typos.  It involves references and scenes of a violent nature, to include some that might now be impermissable under the updated rules.  It required the CONSENT of all present.  Please be forewarned.
--- End quote ---

A foreign presence contacts your mind.

 
The sable, scar-faced mul sends you a telepathic message:
     "Greetings Lord Templar."

You contact the sable, scar-faced mul with the Way.
 
You send a telepathic message to the sable, scar-faced mul:
     "Captain."
 
The sable, scar-faced mul sends you a telepathic message:
     "I assume our agreement still stands?"
 
You send a telepathic message to the sable, scar-faced mul:
     "Of course."
 
The sable, scar-faced mul sends you a telepathic message:
     "And what of the Borsail and the Byn? Are they still hunting me?"
 
You send a telepathic message to the sable, scar-faced mul:
     "I was quite plain with House Borsail regarding the arrangement.  They know what hangs in the balance."
 
The sable, scar-faced mul sends you a telepathic message:
     "Excellent."
 
You send a telepathic message to the sable, scar-faced mul:
     "I cannot speak for the Byn, but I gave explicit orders to the Gemmed."
 
The sable, scar-faced mul sends you a telepathic message:
     "As per the agreement, I have my first tribute for you."
 
You send a telepathic message to the sable, scar-faced mul:
     "Very good.  If you would feel more comfortable delivering it to one of my junior officers, or to my assistant, than to me personally, I will not take offense."
 
The sable, scar-faced mul sends you a telepathic message:
     "Who is your assistant?"
 
You think:
     "To reveal, or not to reveal.  She can hardly be used as leverage against me, competent though she is...."

You send a telepathic message to the sable, scar-faced mul:
     "A woman by the name of Flay.  She is generally not about at this time of the week."
 
The sable, scar-faced mul sends you a telepathic message:
     "A junior officer then?"
 
You think:
     "They did kill Takharion's assistant, but then, he was spying on them."
 
You send a telepathic message to the sable, scar-faced mul:
     "Sergeant Torgun is generally about.  And he has a document for you, besides.  Something to forestall trouble with authorities, should it arise in my absence, as per our agreement."
 
The sable, scar-faced mul sends you a telepathic message:
     "Excellent."
 
You feel contemplative, cautious, but unthreatened.
 
The sable, scar-faced mul sends you a telepathic message:
     "I've spoken with a man named Nams. He's agreed to deliver things between us. Do you know much about him?"
 
You send a telepathic message to the sable, scar-faced mul:
     "I know that he is unlikely to be delivering anything.  He met his end last week.  Not at my hands, I might state, though he was apparently of a rogue persuasion."
 
The sable, scar-faced mul sends you a telepathic message:
     "If he is agreeable, I'll use him. Bah, it's typical. Every fool that comes to Red Storm seems to die in a few weeks."
 
The short, hairy, burly man sends you a telepathic message:
     "Suspected rogue or rogues on Meleth's, intervening now."

You stand up from a four-poster agafari wood bed.
 
A Sparse, Black-Walled Living Room [N, E, S, Quit, Save]
A thick wooden cask sits here, tapped and ready.
An embossed plain clay cask sits here, tapped and ready.
A carved bone winerack stands tall next to the black wall, here.
A bloodied grizzkt staff hangs on the wall behind the desk here.
A compact agafari desk sits here, its lacquered surfaces lustrous.
A glass paned case sits on an elegant stand here, its contents glittering.
A wyvern-pommeled, ivory and obsidian dagger rests proudly on the outside edge of the desk here.

The sable, scar-faced mul sends you a telepathic message:
     "I'll have someone pick up your tribute. It's a tamed gwoshi. Should make a nice gift to one of your allies if nothing else."
 
You send a telepathic message to the sable, scar-faced mul:
     "*with a faint sense of pleasure* Indeed."
 
[The spare, sharp-eyed templar makes his way to the scene of the incident, picking up some guards along the way.]
 
Meleth's Circle [N, E, S]
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak is standing here.
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak is standing here.
The slender, blonde-haired female is standing here.
The pale, fine-boned young woman is standing here.
The statuesque, black-haired woman is standing here.
The grisly, one-eyed brute is standing here, looking tired.
- he is carrying a large bag.
The half-giant soldier has arrived from the south.
 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak steps forward, grabbing for the grisly, one-eyed brute's arm and swiftly stepping behind.
 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak subdues the grisly, one-eyed brute.
 
The sable, scar-faced mul sends you a telepathic message:
     "Is it safe for me to walk the street of Allanak?"
 
Extending another handful of coins, the pale, fine-boned young woman says to the statuesque, black-haired woman, in sirihish:
     "I'm certain that your brother will be fine, if he obeys the law."

With a jerk of his helm at the statuesque, black-haired woman, the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak says to the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "Grab his sister. She gets the same deal."
 
The statuesque, black-haired woman glances at the pale, fine-boned young woman, and then at the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak.
 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak says to the statuesque, black-haired woman, in sirihish:
     "Don't resist."
 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak subdues the statuesque, black-haired woman.
 
The ropy, leathery-skinned man has arrived from the south.
 
At the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak's words, the pale, fine-boned young woman retracts her handful of coins and shrugs her tattooed shoulders, stepping back from the scene.
 
Placidly and fearfully, the statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "Okay."
 
The slender, blonde-haired female hangs back and watches, lifting her hand to rub gently at her forehead.
 
Not struggling or resisting at all, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "Sure thing."
 
Tucking them away, the pale, fine-boned young woman puts her pile of allanaki coins into her jozhal-hide belt.
 
The short, hairy, burly man sends you a telepathic message:
     "Kaya reports the man's either a rogue or in league with them. She'll have more information."
 
The ropy, leathery-skinned man draws to a halt as the circle becomes clogged with soldiers.
 
The short, hairy, burly man sends you a telepathic message:
     "The woman is apparently related to him."
 
Lowering in an uncertain bow, the ropy, leathery-skinned man looks up at you.
 
The slender, blonde-haired female pulls her hands from her pockets and turns more to you, dipping into a quick bow.
 
Giving you a nod and turning the grisly, one-eyed brute to face you, the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "Lord Templar."
 
The pale, fine-boned young woman looks up at you, stepping to the fringe of the scene and bowing politely.
 
You send a telepathic message to the sable, scar-faced mul:
     "Safe?  Yes, it should be.  It might draw a great deal of attention, however.  I would advise you to keep a low profile, though you are under no such compunction."
 
The slender, blonde-haired female breaks a bit away from the group and comes up by the pale, fine-boned young woman, hands returning to the pockets of her cloak.
 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar purses his lips, glancing around the Circle.
 
Once more, the slender, blonde-haired female looks at the grisly, one-eyed brute.
 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak grips the statuesque, black-haired woman tightly, by wrist and neck, facing you.
 
In a sing-song voice, the statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "I'm part of the party. I'm part of the party."
 
With a look of recognition, the ropy, leathery-skinned man looks down at the grisly, one-eyed brute.
 
Resting one hand casually on the hilt of your engraved, broad-hilted bastard sword, you ask the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "What is the meaning of this, Sergeant?"
 
The statuesque, black-haired woman bends her neck forward and down, twice, facing you, as much as her captor would allow.
 
Silvery eyebrows knit a bit as she leans in, the pale, fine-boned young woman whispers something to the slender, blonde-haired female.
 
Studying him with pale, unblinking eyes, you look down at the grisly, one-eyed brute.
 
The statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "Brother, I'm not so sure about this party."
 
The sable, scar-faced mul sends you a telepathic message:
     "As you wish. My thanks Lord Templar. I shall prove myself useful to you in Red Storm."
 
Giving the grisly, one-eyed brute a jerk up, the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "Reported criminal, Lord Templar. Smuggler. Came up and the woman mentioned her being a sister, so I had her grabbed too."
 
Curtly, the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak says to the statuesque, black-haired woman, in sirihish:
     "Quiet."
 
The statuesque, black-haired woman asks, in sirihish:
     "I'm guessing you didn't plan this?"
 
Glancing sidelong at the statuesque, black-haired woman, the slender, blonde-haired female whispers something to the pale, fine-boned young woman.
 
The slender, blonde-haired female whispers something to the pale, fine-boned young woman.
 
The short, hairy, burly man sends you a telepathic message:
     "Kaya told me. Corra was here stalling them. I haven't called them rogues in public. Smugglers."
 
Suddenly falling off of her person with a thump on the ground, the statuesque, black-haired woman drops her tattered cloth bag.
 
The statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "Oh, shit."
 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak asks the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "Can you see inside that, Private?"
 
The sable, scar-faced mul sends you a telepathic message:
     "Calm silt, Lord Templar."
 
The slender, blonde-haired female bobs a small nod, and then looks aside when a bag falls by the statuesque, black-haired woman.
 
You send a telepathic message to the sable, scar-faced mul:
     "His Shadow, Captain."
 

Adhira:
The statuesque, black-haired woman begins humming contently under her breath.
 
With a shake of his head as much as his being held allows, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "Didn't plan it, but I'm sure everything will be fine when we do as these fantastic folks ask of us. Sister."
 
You ask the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "And you, wanderer?  What have you to say?"
 
The short, hairy, burly man sends you a telepathic message:
     "Kaya mentioned something about a Gemmed being captured by the one-eyed man, or something."
 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak cranes over, tightening his grip on the statuesque, black-haired woman as he does so to look in a tattered cloth bag.
 
Simply, the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak says, in sirihish:
     "Spice, sir."
 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak nods to the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak.
 
Looking with his one eye to you, the grisly, one-eyed brute asks you, in sirihish:
     "Lord Templar, exactly as your man here has said. He mentioned something about a fine earlier?"
 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar lifts an eyebrow at the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak, glancing at the bag.
 
With a nod over at the half-giant soldier, the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak asks you, in sirihish:
     "Hand one of them over to your giant, Lord Templar?"
 
The short, hairy, burly man sends you a telepathic message:
     "I told him "come with us and pay the fine." Didn't want to start a fight on the road."
 
Pleased, the statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "I'm made of spice. I throw it up when I'm not feeling so good."
 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar glances at the half-giant soldier, gesturing to the bag.
 
The pale, fine-boned young woman sends you a telepathic message:
     "The man matches the description of one who attacked a vivaduan and claimed to be able to see the magicks on the vivaduan's person, and was working with, or was himself, capable of wind magicks."
 
Stooping to pick it up, the half-giant soldier picks up a tattered cloth bag.
 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak nods at the half-giant soldier.
 
The slender, blonde-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
     "This one matches the description of a person who captured one of the gemmed, Lord Templar.  With magick."
 
The pale, fine-boned young woman sends you a telepathic message:
     "Of course, he only matches the description. There could be more Red Stormers with one eye, a broken nose, black hair, and red cloaks."
 
The short, hairy, burly man sends you a telepathic message:
     "Pikks is also out scouting gith at the shield Wall, which could get interesting in a hurry."
 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar glances in the bag as the giant holds it out to him.
 
In a tattered cloth bag (here) :
a few limp rolled tubes of spice
a solidly packed tube of spice
a knot of dark-red spice
many grains of viscous black spice
many grains of dark-red spice
many multi-colored grains of flaky spice
several grains of dull red spice
many grains of dark-red, golden-flecked spice
a spiky, thin-stemmed chitin spice pipe
 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar purses his lips, looking amused.
 
The pale, fine-boned young woman sends you a telepathic message:
     "I was unaware that he was actually a smuggler, Lord Templar."
 
Looking back to the statuesque, black-haired woman, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "My sister and I rode her from Red Storm to join the T'zai Byn. She is a little odd, I'll grant you, but don't mean any harm to you or your city Lord Templar."
 
The statuesque, black-haired woman asks, in sirihish:
     "Brother, do you have a hairbrush I could borrow?"
 
The slender, blonde-haired female pulls her hand from her pocket and gently scratches at her cheek, keeping silent as she watches on.
 
The short, hairy, burly man sends you a telepathic message:
     "There's a taller guy, thin muscles at the edge of the crowd. Followed us out of the tavern. Seemed to know who Mister One-eye is."
 
Whiningly, the statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "I'm hungry. I want a hairbrush."
 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak rolls his eyes.

 
Tapping thin fingers on the hilt of your engraved, broad-hilted bastard sword, with a smile, you say, in sirihish:
     "Well, well."
 
The statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "Umm, it was all my idea."
 
Singing, the statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "All my idea."
 
You say to the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "Only fools intend harm to that which cannot be harmed."
 
The short, hairy, burly man sends you a telepathic message:
     "Sounds like the Byn's gotten into a fight. Twelve gith in a crashed wagon last word I had. If they survive and are retreating, I will let you know."
 
Singing, the statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "Like the wind, or the sun."
 
Glancing toward the grisly, one-eyed brute with a fleeting, displeased frown, the pale, fine-boned young woman whispers something to the slender, blonde-haired female.
 
Glancing aside, the ropy, leathery-skinned man looks down at the pale, fine-boned young woman.
 
The slender, blonde-haired female purses her lips a little as she looks back over to the pale, fine-boned young woman, nodding a few times.
 
The pale, fine-boned young woman looks up at the ropy, leathery-skinned man, returning a sidelong glance.
 
Softly, the grisly, one-eyed brute asks, in sirihish:
     "Quite so, quite so. How then can I make myself useful?"
 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak stands stalwart behind the grisly, one-eyed brute, keeping his arms twisted back in a practiced grip.
 
Turning his helm aside to look at her, the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak looks up at the statuesque, black-haired woman.

 
The pale, fine-boned young woman sends you a telepathic message:
     "Certainly matches the tone described. Always calm, in control."

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman hums a song contently.

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak keeps his grip firm on the statuesque, black-haired woman, unmoving amidst the lunacy.

 
The huge, red-bearded half-giant has arrived from the south, wandering along with loud steps.

 
Simply, fingers continuing to tap on his sword hilt, you say to the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "Come along quietly.  I have some questions I would ask you."

 
The huge, red-bearded half-giant takes his littlest finger out of his nose to dip into a bow for you.

 
Nodding as much as his position allows, the grisly, one-eyed brute says to you, in sirihish:
     "As you command, 'course, Lord Templar."

Then the huge, red-bearded half-giant wanders along again, even re-poking his finger into his nose.

Quietly, turning, the pale, fine-boned young woman asks the slender, blonde-haired female, in sirihish:
     "Well. This has been a very unusual pair of days. Let's make it even more unusual. Would you like to go get a drink?"

The slender, blonde-haired female stands back up straight, her gaze shifting over the others gathered.

Shoving the grisly, one-eyed brute forward, the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "He will come, Lord Templar. His sister, too."

The statuesque, black-haired woman says to the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "I, love your cleaver. I want one just like it someday, I think."

 
Looking back to her and bobbing a small nod, her voice just as quiet, the slender, blonde-haired female says to the pale, fine-boned young woman, in sirihish:
     "Aye, drink sounds good."

 
It is a warm day.
A hot breeze blows from the east.
Jihae, the red moon, is high in the sky.
High in the sky is the black moon.

 
Still seeming amused, you say, in sirihish:
     "Nice day, if a touch warm.  I would hate to spoil it for my soldiers by making them chase you through the streets."

 
Edging past a crowd of soldiers, the ropy, leathery-skinned man walks north.

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "Bye pretty pale lady."

 
Watching the statuesque, black-haired woman and the grisly, one-eyed brute with a thoughtful squint, the pale, fine-boned young woman says, in sirihish:
     "His Shadow upon you, girl."

 
You ask, in sirihish:
     "So, let's have a nice, calm stroll of it, shall we?"

 
Attempting to smile in the grip he is held in, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "Wouldn't want to upset anyone, Lord Templar. It is a nice day for a stroll."

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar turns, nodding easily as he sets off across the circle.

 
[The group walks through the city, toward the Templarís Quarter.]

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak tugs the statuesque, black-haired woman along with an almost unhindered gait.

 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak keeps the grisly, one-eyed brute moving in front of him, letting you set the pace.

 
Keeping up as he is led along by the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak the grisly, one-eyed brute follows you.

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar strides unhurriedly down the street, citizens scattering to make way for the party.

 
Templars' Way [N, S, W]
A human soldier of Tektolnes stands here, guarding the Templar Quarter.
A half-giant soldier of Tektolnes walks along here.
A half-giant soldier of Tektolnes walks along here.
A half-giant soldier of Tektolnes walks along here.
A half-giant soldier of Tektolnes walks along here.
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak has arrived from the north, dragging the grisly, one-eyed brute behind.
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak has arrived from the north, dragging the statuesque, black-haired woman behind.
The half-giant soldier has arrived from the north.

 
You send up a call to the wall for the gates to be opened.
A human soldier exclaims, in sirihish:
     "Hail the Servants of the Almighty Dragon!"

 
After a soft whistle, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "Lord Templar, I must say, with everyone showing their respect of you, I've never walked so smoothly through the city. Right relaxing stroll."

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "Oooh now that you've said that, I've noticed that too."

 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak gives the grisly, one-eyed brute's arm a twist further back at his words.

 
The grisly, one-eyed brute grunts softly as he bites his lower lip in response to the arm twisting.

 
[The party reaches the jails.]

 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak waits patiently beside the surly, half-giant jailer.

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman begins to appear nervous, stamping her feet lightly and looking at the jail door.

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman shouts, in sirihish:
     "Brother, if not you then who will save Lirathu!"

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak tugs firms upwards on the statuesque, black-haired woman's arm, till it can move no further upwards.
 
The statuesque, black-haired woman yelps as her arm is twisted back.
 
You gesture towards the door and nod at the surly, half-giant jailer.
The surly, half-giant jailer unlocks the door with an obsidian key.
 
The surly, half-giant jailer opens the door.
 
Leaning back a bit, the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak looks at the grisly, one-eyed brute.
 
Softly, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "It's alright Pasheen. Just hush a little and I'll speak with the nice folks."

The statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "Okay."
 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar turns around, surveying the grisly, one-eyed brute and the statuesque, black-haired woman for a moment.

 

Adhira:
[They step into a cell.]

 
Darkness

 
Someone lights something.
The area is filled with a green light.

 
The Dungeons of Allanak [S, Quit]
Several tiny, dead cockroaches are here.
A half-giant soldier of Tektolnes walks along here.
The statuesque, black-haired woman is standing here held by the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak.
The grisly, one-eyed brute is standing here held by the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak.

 
You close the door.

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar fingers your medallion of Tektolnes, looking at the grisly, one-eyed brute.

 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak shakes his glowing leather-strapped green glow-crystal on with a kick against the floor.

 
You call out the name of the Highlord Tektolnes.

 
[The spare, sharp-eyed templar does something magickal, inspecting both of the prisoners in turn.]

 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak turns the grisly, one-eyed brute to face you.

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar turns pale eyes on the statuesque, black-haired woman.

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak steps to the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak's side, doing the same with the statuesque, black-haired woman.

 
The grisly, one-eyed brute looks up at you simply.

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman gazes wonderingly between the grisly, one-eyed brute and you, mostly the grisly, one-eyed brute.

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman cringes, watching you.

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar rubs at his jaw, releasing your medallion of Tektolnes.

 
You say to the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "Hold him here."
 
Nodding, the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "Yes, Lord Templar."

 
You say to the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "With me."

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman garbles in her throat.

 
With a slow nod, the grisly, one-eyed brute says to the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "That's right. One good eye, one eye filled with silt. Barzel is my given name, and my sister is named Pasheen."

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "Yeah I'm Pasheen. Correct color as well."

 
[The prisoners are split into two separate cells, where they cannot communicate with each other.]

 
You say to the half-giant soldier, in sirihish:
     "Leave her here for now, Private."

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar simply turns and walks out.

 
[The soldiers move back into the cell containing the male prisoner.]

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar holds out a hand to the half-giant soldier.

 
The half-giant soldier gives you his tattered cloth bag.

 
Drawing it out and giving it a slight sniff along its length, you get your solidly packed tube of spice from your tattered cloth bag.

 
Chuckling over his shoulder at you, the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak asks the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "Just some, Silteye?"

 
You ask the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "Do you have a torch, Private?"

 
His head tilted a little, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "Well, the Byn do take you for at least a year, don't they, Lord Templar."

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak gets his unlit simple, leather-wrapped bone torch from his bone-studded backpack.

 
You say to the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "Light it, and put it in the ring.  I want some proper light."

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak says, in sirihish:
     "Yes, Lord Templar."

 
Setting it down carefully, the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak drops his burning simple, leather-wrapped bone torch.

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar holds the end of your solidly packed tube of spice to the torch's flickering flame a moment, lighting it.

 
Sticking it casually between his lips, you hold your solidly packed tube of spice.

 
You bring a solidly packed tube of spice up to your mouth and inhale deeply.
You feel euphoric, and a numbness creeps across your body.

 
Gesturing casually to your tattered cloth bag with the smoldering end of your partially smoked solidly packed tube of spice, you say, in sirihish:
     "This is quite a lot of spice, Stormer."

 
A finger of torchlight stretches beneath the door of the cell, only to fade away amidst a thick, coarse chuckling.

 
Nodding slowly, the grisly, one-eyed brute says to you, in sirihish:
     "I don't know exactly how much my sister packed for her journey to the T'zai Byn, but I'm sure you're right."

 
Glancing in your tattered cloth bag as he sticks the tube between his lips, you say, in sirihish:
     "About a large worth, I should say."

 
As he nods towards his shoulder, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "I've about a hundred, hundred and fifty grains myself. Lord Templar, in my saddlebags. Don't want to forget about them."

 
Exhaling heavy, sweet smoke around the rolled tube, you ask the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "No, indeed.  So, you say you were coming to join the T'Zai Byn mercenary company?"

 
A woman shrieks several times from the next cell only to be suddenly silenced.

 
With a nod, the grisly, one-eyed brute says to you, in sirihish:
     "We were, My sister has always spoken of being a trooper, and I planned to spend a year training and settling her in."

 
At the shriek, the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak looks to the door, letting out a thoughtful hum.

 
Tone casually probing, you say, in sirihish:
     "And you thought you would bring enough spice with you to last you your year."

 
With a few nods, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "That's right, Lord Templar."

 
Tilting his head again, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "Maybe see if the sergeant wouldn't accept part trade for our joining fee as well."

 
You say, in sirihish:
     "Even though to do so would be a violation of His Law."

 
With a frown, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "Wasn't entirely sure on the particulars. No intention of selling the stuff or corrupting the citizens, Lord Templar. Just keep my sister happy."

 
Light flickers faintly against the floor of the cell as a guard lumbers by.

 
Nodding slowly, a serious intensity laying itself over his features, watching the grisly, one-eyed brute, you say to the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "Mmm-hmm.  You needn't worry about that, for the moment.  I am certain my guards are keeping her well entertained."

 
You ask the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "Have you already made arrangements with the Byn?"

 
With a shake of his head, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "Not particulars, but I've exchanged thoughts with one of the Sergeants. Pikks. Let him know my sister and I wanted to join up."

 
You ask the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "Interesting.  So tell me, Silteye, is it?  What did you do before bringing crime to His Streets?"

 
With another simple nod as he is transferred again, the grisly, one-eyed brute says to you, in sirihish:
     "That's right, Lord Templar, or Barzel if you prefer. Before this I was a grebber out of Red Storm village."

 
You ask the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "Sifter?  Hunter?  Little of both?"

 
The distinct sound of two people fist-fighting, complete with shouted curses, comes from the next cell.

 
Nodding again, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "Little of both. Silt lurkers, desert rodents and jozhal when opportunity permits. Spice 'n silt pearls otherwise."

 
Nodding slowly, you say, in sirihish:
     "Mmm-hmm."

 
[Inspecting his gear a moment] You say to the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "Why don't you drop that bag.  And those coins.  And the saddlebags, while you're dropping."

 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak says to the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "Open that cloak of yours too, while you're at it. Nice, 'side from the holes..."

 
With a nod as he wiggles a little in the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak's grip to accommodate, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "Course, Lord Templar."

 
The grisly, one-eyed brute drops a large bag.

 
Nearby, the sound of a cracking whip is followed by a muffled yelp of pain.

 
The grisly, one-eyed brute drops many coins.

 
The grisly, one-eyed brute drops a pair of drab canvas saddlebags.

 
The grisly, one-eyed brute holds his hooded, tattered dark red stormcloak open as the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak releases him.

 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak subdues the grisly, one-eyed brute.

 
Gesturing, you say, in sirihish:
     "The other bags."

 
The grisly, one-eyed brute's his hooded, tattered dark red stormcloak falls limp as the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak grabs him again and he wriggles to reach his patchy, well-used leather tool bag to free it from his belt.

 
The grisly, one-eyed brute nods to you slowly after letting a patchy, well-used leather tool bag slip to the ground.

 
Glancing at the bags, you say to the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "Take out anything that looks spice-related, Private.  And check any other bags within."

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak nods stepping forward to sift through the bags.

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak gets his bone-buttoned canvas spice pouch from a patchy, well-used leather tool bag.

 
Turning back to him, you ask the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "Now...tell me.  While you were out grebbing these things, did you ever greb anything larger?"

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak gets his red clay spice pipe from a patchy, well-used leather tool bag.

 
(Though his manner hasn't much changed, a hint of malice has crept into the spare, sharp-eyed templar's posture, leaning forward at the shoulder, brows narrowing slightly, eyes unblinking.)

 
With a shake of his head, the grisly, one-eyed brute says to you, in sirihish:
     "Not really, Lord Templar. Found a couple of lost war beetles 'n a dead fellow with a tent strapped on one once."

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak says, in sirihish:
     "Hrm, bloodburn."

 
Giving a slow puff on the tube as he lifts an eyebrow, you ask the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "What about live people?"

 
Shaking his head, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "No, I can barely hunt Jozhal. One of the reasons I was here for Byn training, learn how to fight."

 
Muttering softly, the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak says, in sirihish:
     "Fucker's got all of Storm in here."

 
Musing quietly, pale eyes watching him, you say to the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "That's strange, because I have several reports.  Several.  That a one-eyed man with black hair in a red cloak has been kidnapping Gemmed."

 
Gesturing to a patchy, well-used leather tool bag, the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak says to the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "Rest in there's things like a travel bag, minus the sunslits."

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak gets his battered grey bone spicebox from a pair of drab canvas saddlebags.

 
After swallowing hard, the grisly, one-eyed brute asks, in sirihish:
     "Gemmed? Like, finger-wiggling, magic using, gemmed? Now why would I do such a suicidal thing as tangle with mages?"

 
Leaning forward, you say to the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "Exactly like that.  And do you know -why- that would be suicidal, wanderer?  I will give you a hint.  It has nothing to do with Gemmed."

 
The shuffling of heavy, booted footsteps moves past the door of the cell, pausing for only a moment before moving onward.

 
Simply, the grisly, one-eyed brute asks you, in sirihish:
     "Cos, seeing as they wear a gem, they work for Him and you?"

 
Taking the tube from between his lips, you say to the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "No, they do not "work" for Him.  They -are- His.  They owe their lives."

 
Holding up his sturdy rope-slung leather sack and his battered grey bone spicebox, the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak says, in sirihish:
     "Hot spice, paraphernalia, and bloodburn taints, Lord Templar."

Navigation

[0] Message Index

[#] Next page

Go to full version