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9 mos ago
dun dun dun du-dun dun da-dun dun dun du-du-du-dun
10 mos ago
Lo, tis a creature of the avian category! Lo, tis a mechanical elevating carriage! Lo, tis Especially Competent Bipedal Sentient Creature!
10 mos ago
There is something interesting right outside your window right now.
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"A bit, yes," Sigrid said. It was a lie, and she knew it. She could read, but only a little bit, and even then only the Futharc used in Jutland. The Angle runes baffled her. They were familiar, but just not familiar enough that she may recognize the corresponding runes in Futharc. What's more, she's pretty sure the Angles have at least twice as many runes in their script. "Why do you ask?" She hoped that there wasn't some sort of test coming up, or worse yet, a task assigned to her that required mastery of the script. Most horrifying of all would be if her failure to read Angle script marked her forever as a foreigner, a blood with the brutal raiders that ignited the flames spanning the whole Angle-land coast. Sigrid took a nervous bite of her pear, and found it tasting like ash. Perhaps she should have gone to the other farmer . . .

Soon enough, the pear was done. Despite its taste, Sigrid still wished there was more. Pears aren't exactly the filling type, and a merchant's job was never finished. She still had a couple of things to handle before night, not least of which was meeting the local jarls and working out a charter. She looked over to her ship, her mind cataloguing all the articles of clothing she owned. There had to be a fancy dress somewhere in that rotting log. She distinctly remembered buying something of the sort in . . . either South or East Seaxe, definitely something with Seaxe in the name. Yet, for the life of her, she cannot remember if she traded it away. That'll be an afternoon of digging through her muck again.
@Spriggs27 I'm sure there is a way to keep the personality and goals of my character, while still integrating your suggestions. Allow me to tinker around with my character a bit, I'll see what I can do.
@Spriggs27 Why do you say that? If you could give me a couple of suggestions, then perhaps I can change the character to fit the group better.
Name: Fahim ibn Omar (or "monkey")
Age: 19
Gender: Male
Class: Sniper
Race: Human
Home world: The Legislator-23, a space station orbiting the star Taekar's Fire

Appearance: At first appearance, Fahim looks exactly like his nickname implies. He is so short an average man would see right over him, not taking notice of him until they look down. This is not helped by his near-horrific spindliness, brought on by years of poor care and his own mockery of self-sufficiency. On his head lies a thick mop of dark curly hair, which also dusts his arms, legs, and chin. Occasionally, his left eye twitches from a vitamin deficiency.

Former Profession: N/A. Wants to become a philosopher.

Personality: Fahim, raised in a strongly religious environment, is a faithful adherent of the Mecca Faith. He dreams of learning the holy language on his sound recorder, and making the pilgrimage to Sol 3 that his caretakers had always said was mandatory. In the few occasions when he could get someone to listen to him, his conversations eventually turn to him preaching what little he knew of his faith. However, he can rarely get anybody to listen to him, and has therefore resigned himself to his largely silent life. Therefore, he could go days without saying a word, which suited both him and his former superiors just fine.

History: Fahim was born on the Legislator-23, a space station system consisting of a residency and a Dyson Sphere. Both of his parents worked as mechanics, maintaining the Dyson Sphere on behalf of Dimashq Corp, a subsidiary of Steele Corp. Soon after his birth, Taekar's Fire spit up an unexpected solar flare, blowing up the Dyson Sphere and killing every worker on it. He was raised with all the other kids orphaned by the flare. The caretakers did what they could, but they had their hands more than full with all of the children.

Taekar's Fire was a strange star capable of producing oxygen, and was thus inhabited with ever-flying sunflies. They were as big as dogs, and would often chew through wires along the Dyson Sphere or even attack the mechanics. Steele Corp always supplied the station with rifles to clean out infestations of them, but since the flare, they have shot up in number. The older children, Fahim included, had to take the abandoned weapons and protect the younger ones from being carried away.

Most of the surviving adults were chaplains, many graduates of the Medina School of Philosophy on Sol 3. Because of this, Fahim was enraptured with his vision of the Medina School, and the moment he saw a ship heading in that general direction, he stowed away and offered his services at a very low rate, though not before stealing a smattering of things from the Legislator.

Primary: An old Steele Corp Projector, a light sniper rifle that fires lead bullets.
Secondary: N/A
Melee: A heavy wrench

Equipment:
A watch set to Earth time.
The above-shown heavy wrench.
A sound recorder with a few sermons saved on it, all in a language he doesn't understand (Arabic).
Lukas had just arrived in the clearing when he heard the bosun sound of an electrical bell ring out across the camp. Was he late already? He hadn't yet had a chance to speak to the counselors, or anybody for that matter. Perhaps this'll be sorted out by the end of the day or something. That can't be too far away, right?
" . . . Three pouches of herbs!? For that!?" Sigrid exclaimed in mock surprise. The morning's trading is quickly coming to a lovely end. Throughout the day, she had seen her bag of things empty and fill up multiple times. She had promised herself three exchanges ago that that was the last one, and this time she intended to go through.

"The fruits I pick are the highest quality in the village, and my hide is the most fertile in perhaps the entire eorldom," the man said, turning his nose up.

"Isn't that what the other man . . . what was his name . . . Æthelbald, said?" Sigrid said. She had to hide her giggles when the farmer's blood vessels began to pulse in his neck.

"Well, that inbred cow thinks he can grow better pears than me, eh? Well, taste changes depending on who's buying, but price is constant! At two pouches of herbs, that makes one of my pears the less disagreeable price, doesn't it?" the farmer sneered. Sigrid couldn't believe her luck. She didn't even know there were any other farmers, and she just picked a name out of her mind.

"At one and a half, not only are your pears at the least disagreeable price, they are the most delicious as well!" she said. Still, he looked on the fence, so she took the initiative, plopping down one pouch of herbs and another smaller one, and nabbing a pear. Best not let him think too much. "A pleasure buying from you," she said, flashing him a wide grin. "How's that?" she asked Mildemaer, tossing the large, ripe pear in her hands. "Fancy some pears for breakfast?"
Sigrid laughed. "Everybody's a miser," she said. As far as she has seen, that was true. Up and down the rivers, from small villages with no name all the way to grand Lundenwic itself, the locals worshipped money more than they worshipped Jesu of the Cross. Her mind went back to her early days, when she was but fourteen, and the long hours of haggling and sweet-talking that went into every little transaction. No matter how she seemed to win them over, the final price was never where she wanted it to be. Ruefully, she reminded herself in her head that those times can't have been longer than a year ago, and not to get so high-and-mighty about experience she didn't yet have. Though still not yet visible, the bells of the town square rang out, piercing through the early morning. It was the church, no doubt. "Come, I'll race you to the village," Sigrid said, a grin creeping across her freckled face.

No town she had ever seen was quiet, and this one was not to be an exception. The shouting of angry traders, the crunching of famished peasants, and the preaching of zealous priests permeated the square and its surrounding woods, possibly for furlongs out. Sigrid unslung her sack from her shoulder and loosened the tie, quickly counting up the contents of its insides. Metals were a precious thing, and she was too smart now to flash it in front of everybody like a Jarl. No, this time she would be smart. Trade goods for goods, like a local would, and try to go through the morning without having to dig into her coins at all. "Care to show me around?" she asked. Mildemaer didn't seem like the deceitful sort, not to her at least. Better yet, she must know some of the locals. This would be a good time to get into the market, as well as the good books of a couple of big names. Already, she could imagine how she would leave this town, her karve spilling over the sides with radiant gold and silver.
Sigrid stopped, hearing the sound of a chipper voice. Was it calling to her? She turned, and saw to her surprise saw a tangled mess of brown hair right before her face. Below that were a pair of shining eyes, both affixed to her. "Ves heil," Sigrid responded. Oops. She had let a bit of her accent come through. In her mind, she was panicking, trying to worm her way out of a rude encounter, and praying to Loki the trickster that the other girl suspects nothing. "Ay, It's the market for me. You?" By the instinct drilled into her through experience, one of Sigrid's hands wandered down to her belt, where her coinpouch hung. Best not let the other girl get too close. "I'm Sibley. From . . . " Come on, she has sailed the entire Thames by now! She must know a town far enough away that her false step could be mistaken for a local accent. " . . . Sweyn's Dun. What's your name?"
Well, I think I am.
Kutur didn't remember offering his hand to Kali, but the next thing he knew, he was being dragged through the winding streets, through alleys and backroads he had never seen before. No matter how hard he tried, he still couldn't shake his worrying about the contents of his pack. It felt wrong to be contemplating work when he should be anticipating leisure, but that was just the way he was. Illumination was a time-consuming process. Imbuing the paper with magic took strong focus and long hours of thinking, but he had nobody to assist him. Who on the whole city knew the Red Discipline of Bythesea like he did? Who in the whole city even knew magic like he did?

Still, he allowed himself to marvel at the little surprise Kali showed him. True, it was unlike a glamorous restaurant like those that littered the street corners in all the Bythesea cities. True, it was also unlike the more humble eating shacks that seemed so popular with the commoner dracons. However, Xigyll finally had one of . . . whatever it is . . . of its very own. "Erm . . . I don't have any coin on me," Kutur said, sheepishly remembering. He had dropped everything when his master came to retrieve him, and hadn't had a chance to go back for his gold. The Constantsea bag wasn't even his, it being a gift from Exarch Rokkar to all of the magisters. What was he supposed to do for this . . . place?
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