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8 days ago
Current What if *I* was the small creature all along?
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2 mos ago
O . O staring
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1 yr ago
2 yrs ago
V.1.26 (House of Caecilius Iucundus); 4091: Whoever loves, let him flourish. Let him perish who knows not love. Let him perish twice over whoever forbids love.
3 yrs ago
Hello and good tidings to thee! What brings you to this line of text?
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"Don't go standing up on my account," Morgaine said dryly, reaching out with a hand towards the fallen Torquil. "I'm no abbess. A noble lady neither. You?" Her other hand went to the brim of her hood, pulling it ever so slightly further down on her face, similar almost to the tipping of a cap. "Let me help you up." The other man said something she didn't quite catch, but she did hear the question that followed. She glanced back at him, then into the lantern, for a few moments longer than she would have if it didn't give off that intoxicatingly welcome glow.

"He jumped into the lantern, looks just about like," she said. "Fell asleep right there and disappeared right in front of me. I couldn't tell you how." Her eye was pulled back to the weapons that hung off these two men. A hatchet on the downed fellow, not much to say about that. Fit neatly in the hand, and likely wouldn't be much trouble to swing. The other man had something more dangerous on him; a big sword, something that looked like it could cut a straight line through beasts without stopping. "Well, don't be looking at me. I don't suppose the either of you have seen a man just vanish like that?"
Fetes and processions marked the passing of every hour here, it seemed. So soon after the last ended did a new one begin, with even more pomp and finery.

"Look at this wealth," Tellos said, having returned to Vyarin's side. "Imagine the silver it must have cost to arrange this party. With that same money we could hire tens of free companies from across the Zpina, entire warbands up and down the Three Great Rivers, and contract princes from every corner of the League, amounting to . . . hundreds? Thousands of able swords."

"Prozdy is at peace," Vyarin responded, gritting his teeth. Behind his rotted eye a dull pain throbbed. He could barely listen at all.

"Peace will not last. We have repelled the Western Overlords once; they will return. With such a show of arms, we needn't fear this second attack. Indeed, with such power, we could cross the Zpina and destroy their fortifications on the mountain pass. Then we shall rule in their lands, for a change." Tellos continued. If he was aware of Vyarin's annoyance, he made no show of it.

"Do you intend for us to capture the silverware, with which we may hire these swordsmen?" Vyarin asked, with a raised eyebrow. Of course, it mattered little, as the other eyebrow rested under a thick coat of cloth.

"If the knowledge Brudzkon passed to me is correct, the traditions of this kingdom are strange," Tellos said, after shooting his cousin a withering look. "The succession prefers consanguinity to strength. Daughters in this land are more legitimate than brothers with large retinues. The woman you were speaking with-"

"Annalise is her name," Vyarin hissed.

"I know," Tellos said. "She is eldest among her siblings, and thus the primary heir. Eventually, she will rule over her sisters as liege, if her sisters ever inherit parcels of land at all. Do you realize what this means?"

"That were this . . . 'alliance' to happen, you will be advising a woman on matters of war?" Vyarin asked, rhetorically.

"You already know," Tellos huffed. "I will write home to your father, detailing the options given to us, our clan. He will likely write back with commands. They are to be followed." With that, Tellos left Vyarin, ducking into a side hall in search of a local scribe. Vyarin grasped the cloth over his head with a heavy hand, stress pounding in his skull. Who was his cousin, or his father, or even his great ancestor Kremaze to dampen his new acquaintanceship so? He exhaled heavily through his nose and looked around. Nosy courtiers, as usual. Ever since Annalise pointed out their tendency for spycraft, he began to see it everywhere. Hushed whispers, sideways glances, a few words here and there traded as they pass each other. They were listening in on him. He looked around for her, then made a show of pretending not to. He had to get a grip on himself. Would she see this potential marriage in the same light?
I think that's for the best as well. Vyarin has nothing to do until the ball, anyhow.
Was Morgaine supposed to feel fear? There was a time, perhaps, wherein that would be the case. Watching a man simply disappear from in front of her, transmuting into nothing but air. However, her instincts have strangely . . . changed, since she woke up mere moments ago on that hospital bed. All she could feel was a mild curiosity as to where that man disappeared off to. In fact, the lantern itself was to her mind almost a familiar thing, like she knew how it functioned, vaguely, on an instinctual level. It gave off a bluish glow, which strangely seemed more a warm colour than cold. Almost as if to beckon wanderers and strange souls to its side, where they may rest easy.

Surrounding the lantern was a second room similar to the one she woke up in, but livelier by far. Unlike the first room, some people were awake, albeit huddled silently in their own respective corners, small and mute and closed off. Some bore the distinct signature of hunters, that being weapons. Well, in that case, she was in good enough company. Morgaine, after all, was now a hunter herself. There is a contract somewhere that says as much, though when she tries to envision herself signing it with that church man, her memory fogs over and details become difficult to pluck out. Was he a blind man, wrapped in bandages from the nose up? Was she a handsome woman with an oblong face, grim and wrinkled as a nun ought be? Was it a red-furred beast, enveloped in flame and sorrow? Everything is mere figments and shapes before her awakening.

"Oi. Top the morning," she says, breaking the silence in the room. They were hunters, these supposed companions, but didn't seem like they'd simply up and slaughter her where she stood. It was good to get the greetings out of the way now. The men of her village never hunted alone, and if she had any wits about her, neither would she. If she was going to leave her life in the hands of these strangers, she ought know their names at the very least.
Is there something perhaps my character could do that doesn't require activity on the part of other players?
I suggest changing the scene. I think we're all tired of the ballroom meet-and-greet.
I'm doing fine, thank you.
"What's this then?" Morgaine asks the strange little creatures, they're crawling toward her in a mass, each doing their part to lift a portion of what must be an incredibly heavy sheet of paper for them. She was tempted to simply grab it and read it, but stopped. Remember, must always remember. She reached up to her hood and pulled it over her head, a movement reported by the clinking of charms. The hood focuses the mind and blocks out lies. Then, at last, she leaned over, grabbing at the paper at first, but finding it as similarly incorporeal as the creatures themselves. Groaning, she finally decides to crouch and read the paper as it is presented mere finger-lengths above the ground.

"Companionship," Morgaine mutters. She had borne a habit of whispering along the words as she read. Reading for her, as for most in her home, was not a near-instinctual skill, as it seemed to be for many in the more urban Yharnam. To be able to read letters and divine their meaning in a single glance was a marvel to her, as if they were hearing the words said to them as they read. "Companionship," she said again, looking incredulously around her. Standing back up to her full height, she could survey the chamber again with more clarity. It was as she had first seen; everyone here seems to be either dead, near dead, or passed out. "Well, this best be worth the time." Stumbling a bit, she manages with the help of leaning on the other patients' beds to manoeuvre herself to the far end of the room, near to the door leading out.

Finally, her motor skills were returning to her. She began practicing for a few minutes, taking slow, jittery steps without assistance by her hands. Those transitioned in a few moments to confident walking steps. Her arms came next, a few stretching exercises and wiggling her fingers until they felt somewhat responsive. Then, the moment of truth, as she laid a hand on the door and pushed. It didn't respond, until she realized with a little embarrassment that it opened inwards via use of the doorknob. Strange, where had she come to the idea of pushing on it? "Well, one mustn't allow companionship to wait. So long, creatures," she said, mostly to herself, before finally opening the door and stepping through.
What does everyone envision to be the time period equivalent for the rp setting? I feel like this would clear up a lot of future confusion.
Vyarin could only look on, in shock, as the intruder blasted open the doors, immobilizing the house guards of his host with but a flick of his wrist. Vyarin's hand went to his belt, pulling the shashka from his belt with a whisper-sound of steel. Within the second, Brudzkon was at his side, blade also in hand.

"Prince of Princes, your command," said Brudzkon, quietly. Vyarin considered it, but alas, all he could imagine was despair. He was in no condition to fight. Perhaps he never will be. Unless he squints very hard, he can't tell exactly if the interloper king was within lunging distance or not. The courtiers surrounding the two of them backed away, creating a small clearing for the two men of Prozdy. An unlucky few looked frozen as statues, caught between Vyarin and the shaman king.

"If any fighting should begin . . ." Vyarin began.

"Of course," Brudzkon said, nodding and stepping forward to put his admittedly smaller body in the way of any potential spells.
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