Planting the seeds of the Grey Hunt (spies) -- Booya

[Nyr]

Now to something that has more meat to it, as well as one of my own personal favorites for sdesc of the year.  Shortly after all of this (well, later in the year at least) we fixed the "true-inked northerner" stuff, so if that doesn't make sense...that's why.

ENTER MULLET MAN

******This is the scene where Alize plants the seed of joining the Grey Hunt in Rider's mind. Staff had never mentioned Hlum to me, nor were enthusiastic or dismissive when I talked about it in my reports. I had know idea where this plot-line would end up! I was told it neatly dovetailed into staff wanting to get rid of the Hlum when I stored her at the end of the storyline.

Background: Xen, who Alize had been kanking in the hope he'd drop secrets from his position with Tenneshi, has died/gone missing. She's having to pretend to mourn which she's finding boring, and is working out what she can do next to keep spyness rolling. She's now an apprentice bard of Elkinhym, and a partisan/aide for a Faithful Lord (who she only very rarely sees). She and Rider have a budding friendship at this point, and later that day he starts providing her with food from his hunts, and then a few weeks after starts training her in combat.******

The Sun King's Sanctuary [NESWUD]
  Meticulously fitted blocks of onyx comprise the floor of this expansive
room, frequently polished against the scuffing that comes from heavy foot
traffic. The dark floor gleams dully under the light from the stained
glass windows positioned high on the walls and the light of the agafari
chandelier that hangs above the center of the chamber. Vine-carved trim
of darkly-stained baobab circumscribes the spacious room, smoothly
fashioned to flow seamlessly between each intersection of the ceiling,
walls, and floor.  Occupying a significant portion of the space, a large,
circular bar topped with buffed alabaster sits in the middle of the area,
surrounded by baobab stools.
  Several decoratively carved tables fill this room, while a polished
leather couch nearly ten cords in length sprawls along the northern wall.
An arch in the western wall opens to an expansive gallery and opposite it
a similar opening leads out to a small courtyard. Music, laughter, and
applause drift in from the stage area to the north. In the northwestern
corner a tightly spiraling wooden staircase embellished with carved leaf
patterns winds its way up to the second floor. A thick, black-painted
baobab door sits in the southern wall, opening out the bustling North
Road outside.
The Tuluk bulletin board is here propped up on a stand.
A grand mural of a stylized map adorns the entire southern wall here.
The moustached, mulleted man is sitting at a polished alabaster bar.
The pale, broad shouldered man is sitting at a polished alabaster bar.
The plump, tawny-skinned woman sits on a stool, strumming on her mandolin.
The slender, henna-haired man sits at the bar, with a wineglass in one hand.
The plump, greying man stands by the bar, smoking and drinking.
The petite, ebon-maned woman sits cross-legged at the end of the couch.
The long-haired, middle-aged man stands behind the counter.

Quietly, you look at the moustached, mulleted man.
This adult human male is of medium build and average height, his dark thewy
form weatherworn and leathery, likely due to exposure to the harsh elements
of Zalanthas, then further accented by callused hands and the lighter flesh
of numerous healed scars. His visage is long and rectangular, complementing
a long nose, thin lips, and a flat brow resting over a pair of beady russet
eyes. Well-maintained around his mouth is an arch-like moustache of notably
thick proportions, reaching down from above the lips and down both sides to
his bare-shaven chin. Course from his crown, and of dark brown hue matching
his prodigious moustache, grow locks of hair carefully trimmed in the front
with straight-cut bangs, while much longer strands grow below the shoulders
out the back of his head, both falling and cut on the ends neatly straight.
The moustached, mulleted man is in excellent condition.

The moustached, mulleted man is using:
<on head>                a fur-lined, jet-black chitin helm
<in hair>                a set of feather-tipped leather cords
<on face>                a pair of razor-thin black chitin sunslits
<in left ear>            a blackened ear cuff of polished bone
<in right ear>           a blackened ear cuff of polished bone
<around neck>            a spiked, jet-black plated gorget
<about throat>           a hooded, amber-fringed leather shoulder cape
<slung across back>      a muted, sleek hunter's longbow
<across back>            a large, black leather backpack
<on torso>               a plated, red-and-black maned cuirass
<right shoulder>         a black diamond tattoo, outlined in crimson flames
<left shoulder>          a black diamond tattoo, outlined in crimson flames
<on arms>                a pair of inky-black leather sleeves
<around right wrist>     a glossy, jet-colored shell bracer
<around left wrist>      a glossy, jet-colored shell bracer
<on hands>               a pair of elbow-length, crescent-plated gloves
<on forearms>            a small black leather armsheath
<as belt>                a large, black pouched belt
<hung from belt>         a gortok-headed granite war mace
<hung from belt>         a gortok-headed granite war mace
<around body>            a hooded, hawk-scorched leather duster
<about waist>            a soft, amber-tasseled suede quiver
<on legs>                a pair of inky-black leather leggings
<around right ankle>     a thin, grey-sandcloth ankle wrap
<around left ankle>      a thin, grey-sandcloth ankle wrap
<on feet>                a pair of high, soft black leather boots

He is carrying:
nothing obvious

It is late at night on Waleuk, the 39th day of the Descending Sun,
In the Year of King's Anger, year 8 of the 22nd Age.

At your table, the moustached, mulleted man says in sirihish, simply aside to you:
     "Quiet night."

At your table, you say in sirihish:
     "Yep. and I'm feeling terribly dull company at the moment."

At your table, the moustached, mulleted man says in sirihish, hefting a shrug:
     "Better than a beetle."

At your table, you say in sirihish, her tone grateful:
     "Oh, thanks Rider."

At your table, you say in sirihish:
     "You do talk prettily sometimes. "

At your table, the moustached, mulleted man says in sirihish, amused:
     "Anytime. Fanny still thinks I hold my inix in higher standing than her."

At your table, you say in sirihish:
     "Have you made her feel like that?"

At your table, the moustached, mulleted man says in sirihish, scratching his cheek:
     "And here I thought my talk's about as pretty as a magera after it's been playing in raptor carcasses."

At your table, you say in sirihish, with a little grin:
     "You see! Or is it because she likes you more than you like inixes."

At your table, the moustached, mulleted man says in sirihish, hands rolling over in resignation:
     "Krath if I know, I'll never figure that woman out."

At your table, you say in sirihish, shaking her head gently:
     "No, nor me."

Working quickly, two barmaids clear a central table for some Faithful.

The tiny, copper-skinned, auburn-haired woman has arrived from the east.

At your table, you say in sirihish, contemplatively:
     "I'd say you might find it easier if you were true-inked, but I don't."

who
Immortals
---------

There are 0 visible Immortals currently in the world.

There are 9 players currently in the world, other than yourself.

You suffer from use of the Way.
You are unable to reach their mind.

At your table, the moustached, mulleted man says in sirihish, bobbing a few nods:
     "Aye, I figure if I were true-inked, Fanny wouldn't mess with me at all."
At your table, you say in sirihish:
     "Not talk to you you mean?"

At your table, the moustached, mulleted man says in sirihish:
     "Nah, the flirting or whatever you'd call it."

At your table, you say in sirihish, bobbing a little nod:
     "I'd call it flirting. I wondered if it was just flirting, but then I remembered it was none of my business."

A little smile flits over the lithe, henna-haired woman's mouth a moment.

At your table, the moustached, mulleted man says in sirihish, inclining his head lightly in reply, eyes rolling:
     "Apparently you're not the only one. Dealer Virren thought we were mates."

The tiny, copper-skinned, auburn-haired woman walks east.

At your table, you say in sirihish:
     "Well, I know you're not that, as Youko's her mate."

listen
You start trying to listen.

At your table, you say in sirihish, lifting her chin a touch as she regards the moustached, mulleted man:
     "But you could join the Grey Hunt, and then we'll know for sure if it's just your murky foreign blood!"

At your table, the moustached, mulleted man says in sirihish:
     "Aye - I've wondered if Youko lets her flirt with outlanders since there's no chance of it being anything else. Odd thought, but they're an odd pair."

At your table, the moustached, mulleted man says in sirihish, shaking his head to himself:
     "I wouldn't be winning that, regardless of the tasks."

At your table, you say in sirihish:
     "Why don't you think you could?"

At your table, the moustached, mulleted man says in sirihish, waving a hand vaguely:
     "It's not based on the Hunter's skill, it's the Sun King's choice.. and I'd wager there're better choices than me."

Moving along the bar, the long-haired, middle aged bartender mops up some spilled wine.

At your table, you say in sirihish:
     "Yes, but Sergeant Cal hasn't finished his tasks yet, and you have as much chance, if not more as Izari."

At your table, the moustached, mulleted man says in sirihish, quirking a brow to you:
     "How so?"

The athletic, olive-skinned woman has arrived from the south.

The athletic, olive-skinned woman walks up.

Up above are "The Sun King's Sanctuary" - Sleeping Commons.
[Near]
Nothing.

Several Legion recruits raise a loud toast to the Sun King.

At your table, you say in sirihish, with a vague wave of her hand:
     "As far as I know, your private life is less controversial."

You suffer from use of the Way.
You are unable to reach their mind.

At your table, the moustached, mulleted man says in sirihish, words trailing a fleeting grin:
     "My private life might be a good thing.. go figure."

The lithe, henna-haired woman smiles a little to the moustached, mulleted man and gives a soft shrug .

At your table, the moustached, mulleted man says in sirihish, absently drawing a hand over his whiskers:
     "I wonder if an ankheg or a bahamet would make a better trophy kill.."

At your table, you say in sirihish:
     "The Sergeant brought in an anakore, and I haven't heard what Izari offered. What are ankheg's like?"

At your table, the moustached, mulleted man says in sirihish, amusement in his words:
     "Spiky, green, and faster than a stilt on spice."

Sitting slouched against the wall, a long eared half-giant boy plays with some carved stone figurines on the ground.

At your table, the moustached, mulleted man says in sirihish, conversationally:
     "Bahamets are big and mean, but you can circle them.. oversized gurth. Ankheg.. don't really give that luxury."

At your table, you say in sirihish:
     "Huh! Well I suppose you could always ask my patron what he suggested, if you have that kind of rapport with him. And are ankheg as terrifyingly deadly as bahamets?"

At your table, the moustached, mulleted man says in sirihish, nodding:
     "Reckon I could - and in some ways, they might be deadlier, at least to folk slower on their feet."

Light flute music fills the tavern as a young bard begins to twist a tune.

At your table, the moustached, mulleted man says in sirihish:
     "I know the trophy doesn't decide the winner.. but eh."

At your table, you say in sirihish:
     "No, but startlingly impressive nonetheless. But krath, Rider...how scary."

[Nyr]

At your table, the moustached, mulleted man says in sirihish, canting his head:
     "Hm? "

At your table, you say in sirihish:
     "The thought of you fighting an ankeg is probably scarier for your friends than you."

At your table, the moustached, mulleted man says in sirihish, chest jostling with a soft chuckle:
     "I don't think there'd be many folk who'd care a few weeks after I was gone if anything happened to me."

At your table, you say in sirihish, with a slight shrug:
     "I'd miss you. Who else puts up with me when I'm dull?"

At your table, the moustached, mulleted man says in sirihish, mirroring your gesture:
     "I wouldn't know, never seen you dull."

You suffer from use of the Way.
You build a psychic barrier around your mind.

You think:
     "hmm, am I not showing worry and grief over xen enough? or is he just trying to woo. "

You suffer from use of the Way.

At your table, you say in sirihish, a vague, wistful smile on her features:
     "Maybe I'm too good at hiding it."

cease
You let down your psionic barrier.

At your table, you say in sirihish:
     "Having you as a Hlum would be wonderfully fun, though."

At your table, the moustached, mulleted man says in sirihish, shaking his head to himself with a lazy smile:
     "Oh, how so?"

(The lithe, henna-haired woman's vague smile lingers.)

At your table, you say in sirihish:
     "I don't know yet exactly how, but I'm sure it would be."

You begin watching the moustached, mulleted man.

At your table, the moustached, mulleted man says in sirihish, absently scratching his cheek:
     "Well, now you've went and planted something in my head."

At your table, you say in sirihish, musingly:
     "Hmm."

At your table, you say in sirihish:
     "I hope it's a good thing, or that would be terribly mean."

At your table, the moustached, mulleted man says in sirihish, grinning to you:
     "Probably payback for the moustache bet."

At your table, you say in sirihish, a rueful smile forming:
     "I got terribly confused about that, I blame my current dullness."

At your table, the moustached, mulleted man says in sirihish, waving a hand dismissively:
     "You're preoccupied, it's to be expected y'know."

At your table, you say in sirihish, running her thumb and forefinger above her upper lip a moment:
     "The bet's still on though. Maybe by the time I feel better I'll have one."

The moustached, mulleted man bobs a few nods in agreement with you.

At your table, you say in sirihish, casually as she looks over the moustached, mulleted man appraisingly:
     "I wonder if you'd look good in a bodysuit."

At your table, the moustached, mulleted man says in sirihish, a brow quirking at your remark:
     "Huhwha?"

With blithe curiosity, her kohl-smudged gaze remaining on the moustached, mulleted man, you look at the moustached, mulleted man.
At your table, you say in sirihish:
     "Yes, if I win I might ask for a bodysuit. Hmm, either that or a skirt or dress."

At your table, you say in sirihish:
     "But a bodysuit...hmm, it would be useful."

At your table, the moustached, mulleted man says in sirihish:
     "Well go ahead and order what you want from Kadius and let me know, eh?"

At your table, the moustached, mulleted man says in sirihish:
     "You get the outfit in question either way, remember?"

At your table, the moustached, mulleted man says in sirihish, absently:
     "So much simpler just betting inix on folk."

At your table, you say in sirihish, nodding in sympathy:
     "It is confusing.  But you're a terribly brave gambler to give me such an open invitation to order from Kadius. "

At your table, the moustached, mulleted man says in sirihish, in agreement:
     "I'd probably say foolish, but oye - way I see it, they're either the spoils from winning your bet and growing a moustache, or payment toward getting a song about moustache."

At your table, you say in sirihish, whimsically:
     "Lots of layers...dripping with jewels..."

(The lithe, henna-haired woman has a certain playfulness to her tone.)

The moustached, mulleted man's eyes roll after a mock huff at your words.

The blocky, stout dwarf has arrived from the south.

The blocky, stout dwarf looks down at the moustached, mulleted man.

You are a little hungry.

At your table, you say in sirihish, her brown gaze hinting at mirth:
     "You either trust me or my sense of style. "

The moustached, mulleted man looks up at the blocky, stout dwarf.

Her attention drawn, you look up at the blocky, stout dwarf.

A few days later...

The moustached, mulleted man sends you a telepathic message:
     "See what you've done? Now I've went and got a thought in my head."

You contact the moustached, mulleted man with the Way.

You send a telepathic message to the moustached, mulleted man:
     "I'm a bard, Rider. What thought?"

At your table, the athletic, olive-skinned woman says in sirihish, shrugging:
     "Was the last Soh I ever traded with, name was Chedya."

The moustached, mulleted man sends you a telepathic message:
     "I'm going on the Hunt."

End of log.

[bcw81]

Your signature was perfect for the end of this.

"I'm going on the hunt."
"Cool guys don't look at explosions
They blow things up and then walk away
Who's got time to watch an explosion
Cause cool guy's errand's that they have to walk too."

[Dakota]

Rider did have a badass sdesc.

[Harmless]

Rider did have a badass sdesc.

agreed. I SUMMON THE PLEASUREMAN

[Booya]

Yeah. Rider was class.

[Barzalene]

I adored Rider.

[Barsook]

I hearted Rider also.