bloonewb

The Sahasian Alliance

Vyarin was shuffled awkwardly through the grand halls of Castle Aeli, flanked on both sides by a small host of his own loyal men. He, wisely, had dismissed the majority of them, allowing them leave to retire to inns and taverns. It was perhaps for the best. His own host and the local garrison were eyeing each other up the whole time, a few even daring to rattle their swords in their scabbards. These Astalians were not men of the League, but nonetheless Vyarin was not the least bit interested in such a demonstration of Prozdy strength. Better to appease their host now, and enter into the castle with only a token guard. After all, it was not as if Astalia was plotting his death. Vyarin grimaced and rested his hand on his shashka, now pondering the thought. A flick of his eye met with those of the castle guards, none of which were particularly friendly. A look back revealed that his own men shared this sentiment. Were they truly itching for a fight, right here in the seat of one of the great realms of the world? It must be their insular habit coming through, having never known the world on the far side of the Drizima River.

"Send word to my father," Vyarin whispered to his shaman, who nodded, with a hand to her chin. "I am in the land of Astalia, I am in good health, I await your orders." The shaman needn't hear more, peeling off from the group. With a wave of his hand, two of his loyal men turned to follow her, nodding at the command.

At last, the what remained of the warband entered through the doors into the main hall, wherein stood the King of Astalia, surrounded by his daughters. As one, Vyarin and his loyal men brought themselves down to both of their knees in his presence and tipped their heads downward. Out of the corner of his eye, he could spot the other princes, strange figures in stranger dress. Oddly, they did not prostrate before their hosts as he did. Slowly, Vyarin stood back up, realizing his instinct had led him astray. That, perhaps, was not the custom of the land.

Fortunately, nobody seemed to think much of the Prozdy mens' display. The king had granted them a greeting in Prozdy, thickly accented and pockmarked with grammatical errors. It was to be forgiven, Vyarin supposed, knowing his own relationship with their language. He then raised his arms and gave to them a speech, slowly and clearly, with a booming voice that carried itself naturally within the bounds of his hall. Vyarin could understand not a word of it, save a few phrases here and there seeded between lengthy strings of gibberish. At last, when he completed his thought, Vyarin visibly relaxed, shoulders slumping as he exhaled. One of his loyal men surely must know more than he regarding the Astalian tongue.

Barely seconds after, he was tapped on his shoulder, leading him to whirl and nearly strike one of his own. It was, now seeing him, one of the men he had sent to escort his shaman. Vyarin gave him a hard look with the eye remaining to him.

"Word has returned quickly," the man whispered, pressing a scrap of papyrus into Vyarin's hand. Without delay, he opened it to reveal the glowing Gluzic runes within. They read curtly and without prose, a manner common to the renowned Zarrir.

"My son," it began. "The land of Astalia is of a foreign ethic. Their succession prefers consanguinity to strength. Daughters in this land are more legitimate than brothers with large retinues. Your choice here will dictate the future of Prozdy itself. I am recommending to you to demand from the ruler of this vulnerable realm his eldest daughter in marriage. By the laws of this land, your son by her is eligible not only to our lands, but to their crown. Such power, concentrated into a single hand, will be doubtless the most powerful in the continent, and the combined wealth of the new realm shall raise armies uncountable. Do not disobey me." Vyarin blinked up, his eye jumping from one daughter to the next. Which was the eldest? A second though manifested for a second, before his own iron discipline squashed it out. It mattered not how he felt about things.

Night of the Hunt - a Bloodborne RP

It's worth a try, bumping the interest check I mean. Better than doing nothing.

Night of the Hunt - a Bloodborne RP

I must admit, when I joined the RP, I was hoping there would be more of a community behind it. Being the lone player really is sapping my interest in this. I'm not saying this as a threat to leave, but I am stating that I'm finding it more difficult to continue on at a consistent pace.

The Sahasian Alliance

From distantly behind him on the road, Vyarin can hear orders being shouted. The steady stomp of greaves in the dirt called out in waves, rising and falling. The column of grizzled Prozdy veterans, armoured and armed, had every simple merchant and traveler crossing them in the road scampering to the side of it to allow them passage. No doubt rumour followed the band of Prozdy men as they wandered from inn to inn, through village to village, bearing their combined arms with them. Could they be invaders, the vanguard of a much larger force come to pillage and raid? It was not for them to know, inevitably. These men are Vyarin's; men bound to defend him as if brothers. They were a prince's retinue, with which no true prince of the League would travel without. They who do tend to find themselves on the unfortunate end of an ambush brought on by a usurper.

None of them could have predicted just how torturously hot the southern climate was. Did it ever snow down here, where great fields of grass grew, lush and deep green, where the trees stretched up straight into the sky, their leaves wide and flat as fans? Did this land know any hardship? Once the bearer of welcome warmth to chase away long nights, the sun had betrayed Vyarin's host in the night and now beat down on their weary bodies. One league turned into two under the blinding sun, and soon, one step turned into leagues. Occasionally, these great roads would pay host to a pack of mules, each carrying with them saddlebags of valuables. Other times, swift regiments of horse guards would pass by, exchanging brief but informative conversation with the party before going about their way. Neither of these luxuries were available to the Prozdy men. They would have to content themselves with their heavy stress-worn boots and their iron will to keep walking.

Yet, it was not without waste, this forced pace they kept themselves to. At last, before them rose the walls of mighty Astalia's capital, built of yellow-brown stones, that reflected the afternoon sun beautifully, so seamless in its construction that they appear to have grown out of the ground rather than having been fashioned by masons. Above them rose points of shining light, as stars in the broad daylight, the helmets of the garrison soldiers. Behind those walls the peaks of spires and towers rose, thin and coloured in many bright tiles. They were not built to defend against siege. This was, no question, a land of finery and luxury, of stability and excess. The city itself seemed a bulwark against the sea, placed squarely upon a sheer cliff face at the foot of which waves lapped like dogs. So near they were, that its majesty may be observed, yet it was still unlike that they would actually reach those walls before evening. No good daydreaming about rest now; there was still a ways to go.

The newcomers did not arrive unnoticed. As the column of men approached, more points of light congregated together at the great gate meeting the road. Was it that they were expecting a battle? A worrying thought, that their intentions be misinterpreted. As they drew near, Vyarin could finally take note of those polished helms, and of the men sitting beneath them. Their armour was fine, intricate patterns drawn into them that shimmered in light like the sea they guarded against. In their hands were crossbows and longswords, marvels of engineering by the standards of the League. One of them shouted a few sentences in the Astalian tongue at them. By the distance, Vyarin could not quite make sense of what they were saying; not that he would have understood much of it otherwise. He turned over his shoulder at the band and shouted an order.

"Bring forth one who speaks the tongue!" His words rang out, and were repeated by those immediately behind him. There was some shuffling in the ranks, and one was pushed up to the front. In broken Astalian, the guard and the Prozdy warrior exchanged greetings, and assurances of peace. With some commotion, the gates began to crank open, and his loyal men began to shout and bang their spears on their shields. The ruler of this land will know of their coming.

The Sahasian Alliance

Any word on the discord server?

The Sahasian Alliance

Well, we needn't decide on with whom our characters end up with before the game begins. I think it would be fun to let events play out and see how it goes.

Night of the Hunt - a Bloodborne RP

"I- err . . ." Morgaine mumbled. It was a strange question. Was it a test of some kind? She gave the old man another look, this time more thoroughly. Yet, no matter how she considered him, the only answer she could come up with was the same. This was nothing more than a kind old man. She could trust him. It was almost infuriating, how intrusive that thought had become. Yet, something told her that wasn't what Vicar Harold wanted to hear from her. She had to come up with something, even if it was a bold-faced lie. "Well . . ." She shuffled her feet a bit, trying to look away from him. Trying to stimulate her legs, which tended to have a habit of stimulating her mind as well. "I think . . . that you're . . . a man. That you are old. An old man, sir. And . . . that . . . I feel you're no particular danger to me, I spose. You remind me of my grandpappy, in some ways. Disregarding the love of the hard whiskey, of course."

Yet, a nagging idea tugged at her mind. These flowers, the old vicar, the walls themselves, they were all in concert trying to hide . . . something, somehow. It was like she was near-sighted, having put on her da's spectacles and is stumbling about the open chamber in them, but this was happening not with her eyes, but her mind. She couldn't make sense of it. Something was missing. Did Dietrich see it? Was he keeping silent on the old vicar's orders? What did Dietrich, a big man with a bigger blade, have to fear from this wrinkled bundle of sticks? Morgaine was suddenly struck with a profane shame for thinking of Vicar Harold in that way. She nearly mumbled an apology before stopping halfway through the first word. It felt as if the old man could read her mind, and he wanted her to know as much.

The Sahasian Alliance

Hmm, perhaps I should drop Vyarin and pick up a princess to even out the numbers?

Night of the Hunt - a Bloodborne RP

Alright. I'll fix it.

The Sahasian Alliance

Maybe it's worth making an interest check as well? People might be more likely to look there and find us that way.