71452K — Roleplayer Guild

I, Ricardo de Vigil, am writing down my thoughts from recent days on the last day of the short while that I've been introduced to the troupe who will accompany me and vice versa on this task. *Which is simply to deliver a stock of goods to the clientele in a less-than-savoury land. Should something unprecedented befall our troupe, may this journal find it's way into hands who can put it's records to good use. But for most part, this is for my personal reference.

*several pages go on about the unusual sights and sounds the writer encounters, which in all honesty, makes very little to be bewildered about from the viewpoint of a local*

...But so far my most interactions have been limited to the hands of the vessel and establishment, out of neccessity, and then the members of the courier company, out of proximity.

Of which include our bodyguards, Rosha and Reginald. Both humans, like me. Yes, I am Human. The two stand out quite readily in a crowd. One being decked in polished, emblazoned armor with heraldry I've yet to ask about, the expensive kind. Sword and board silently screaming at all who see him, about his identity as a knight. I've only spoken to him enough to know that he was once the leader of a battalion and that he has accquired a few nicknames, none of which he seems to have taken particular fancy to. He seems to be duty bound to the task and appropriately so, for I have by chance seen some of his swordplay -and while I may be a lacking judge when it comes to the combat between men, it is not hard to tell that the moves are practiced and enacted from a memory beyond that of the mind. That takes dedication to the art.

  It's not I have not tried to find out more, but our allocations are far from one another and I have had my reservations about militant kinds. Mayhaps it is nigh that I accustom to this world and think of him as less of a soldier and more of a human being.

  Speaking of soldiers,

  The other, Rosha, baring her midriff as a tall, tan skinned woman. The healed scars that appear to the attentive and observant, alongside the tone of her contours, point her out to be just as much as a fighter as the other. A pugillist of sorts, honed in martial arts I have yet to seen, before I met her.

...But, to be ungentlemanly blunt, I have engaged with stone golems that had more personality than her. My first attempt at interaction came by my second night out in the 'courtyard', the natural loomings and abundance of dense, heavy objects (that I am sure were not meant for us), made it the better spot of all the areas to engage in physical exertion. She had the same idea in mind, apparently. ...But our sessions near each other were awkward beyond description. She stared unblinking at me when I looked at her. As if trying to say something but ...nothing, while her body moved independantly of her face. Of course, I wouldn't back down and stared right back, at some point I had the urge to command "Deactivate!" just like I would a stray automaton ...my eyes were in dry turmoil that night (I should rue the day if her's weren't too) after that staredown -which I don't even think she realized happened. 

Later, much later, I found out by unabashed gossip, that she was just highly dependant on orders. Somehow or rather, if I pictured her as a statue, she felt more relatable. Recently, I've had taken interest in attempts to induce independance in her out of curiousity. She needs to realize that as much as she relies on others for direction, there will come a time when others will rely on her too. Not for power, but Will, what then? *The ink splashes a bit on the paper here, as if to blot out a few sentences written by mistake*

Then there's R'orrn. Including yours truly, that makes four of us with 'R' type names. Coincidence? Hmm ....He stands out too. But why wouldn't he? A tiny, white haired, fuzzy little ...mage. A Savolin, so they call him. *a detailed drawing of R'orrn in a hamsterlike pose peppered with words like 'Squishy', 'Furry', 'Squeekable', 'Tasty?' takes up an entire page, very little makes sense* 

...Now, I am intruigued by the prospect that there is a whole village of them out there.

---------------------

Every mission trip requires a healer, likely out of some unspoken protocol. However. It is to some extent of fortune that this time the healer was Elsie. I've had dealings with her in the past, her acumen as a physician is noteworthy, as most of the couriers already know. But in the last week I've had the chance to visit her amongst her stock and I must say, the amount of debillitating toxins at her disposal are ..., unhealthy, for a healer. Our relationship has been professional thus far and while I am genial that she does not question the ingredients I purchase from her of their purpose, I am also wary that a single drop of ichor made from many of those plants is all it takes to wreck havoc on the anatomy.

Dumbcane, for example, has no homeopathic uses.

Why is she carrying it?

The others seem to look up to her despite her demeanour being akin to cacti, I believe their judgement but I ...worry for our well-being somewhat. I really shouldn't. But. What if...

--------------The dates skip a few days----------------

Perhaps of the grim nature of the task at hand, that normality seems so exaggerated especially in recent days as the date end nears, as if we're all trying to indulge ourselves in the  last comforts of society.

  To that, I am reassured of my conclusions once more by the pressence of bards in our group. It is perculiar how one can make a living through voice and song out here, back home music was just a hobby and one we had to be discreet about, to stay the beasts who listen at night. We sang to remember the fallen mostly. But here, out in this side of the world, notes have become almost an art form - to the point where mentalism seems to be woven into it without the audience even noticing it.

Take Eloen for example, the maiden who plays the flute, famous -I heard. The first time I attended one of her fortnightly performances. She played a serene song I found farmiliar but somehow have never heard of before, it felt like only brilliant minutes had passed but the hour candles had all burnt out when she was done. She is mute too, so I heard, and while I've never seen her talk I am wary of how truthful someone so versed in hypnotism can be.

Of which, there is also Hartwine, famous too ...but for very different reasons I prefer not to divulge yet. A Bard nonetheless. During his recital of Somnus (or Sombre something? Musical terms escape me quite readily.) I whiled away the hours without realizing it till I was woken from my stupor by a sharp pain through my palm as my fingers bit deep into it, how was I feeling peace yet my body felt anger at the same time? Looking around, the other 'guests' were in an array of emotions and poses, and I wager none knew it. Unfortunately, that meant I quickly had to retire for the night to my room and lock the doors.

  I am certain, almost, after many retaliatory stares as he leered one too many times into my temporary laboratory - that those wide, slanted, eerily green eyes are indicative of something less than human. I won't denounce the chance that it might be the paranoia of my studies at work. But, together with his ...to put it lightly, 'mischievious nature', has prompted ringing bells in my instincts as a hunter of the inhuman. 

*another piece of paper is glued to this paragraph citing page 245 of Ornswold's Beastiary*
  
It is unusual to see musicians on this task, but after much contemplation I see that they will be an appropriate boon to morale should we travel to the dark lands. Perhaps our hirers, whom I shan't name, had a bit of wisdom afterall.

Ricardo is very aware that his journal may end up being read by unwelcomed eyes, so he writes them all as couriers and bodyguards and makes no truthful reference to who they are hired by.

Ricardo also talks somewhat unlike how he writes. He seems much more light-hearted in voice.

Third waxing Moon,
#3 journal entry

"...I've come to realize, aboard this damnable vessel, that the word bard stands for "Basically, A Retarded Donkey" as I find my medication mysteriously reduced.

 With the grace on an/ of the aforementioned animal -The haphazard manner in which that bag was opened suggests that it was made in haste, and the stench of arousal that lingers faintly after the burglar left my quarters has forced me to wipe everything down with ethanol just to err on the side of caution.

  But I regress, for I must cut this entry short to go find a suitably large object with which to apply gratuituosly to the perpetrator's cranial region.

...
...
...
P.S. If you, human non-elven bard, have somehow survived to be reading this and decided to go through my belongings once more. Go steal from the grumpy healer just two doors to the left for goodness' sake! Shrivelled whitish root with a pungent stench of aniseeds and rotting oak. Boil in two cups of wine. Take thirty minutes before being laughed at in bed."

OOC: He's not really going to hit your character (because it would be too severe), just intimidate/asking him into returning what's left and some coin to make up for the rest. Then walk away grumbling. Those pills indeed didn't do what was expected. It's the copper syringes that I mean. DON'T. TOUCH. MY. STASH. 

...Or call my character by the animal he hates most (given where he is from), unless you want all your lutes broken. ALL the lutes. :>.


@Kalleth

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