POOHEAD189

The Sunday Group - Bumps in the Night

I'm loving all these posts. Glad to see there's momentum in this RP :)

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

The rain outside grew audible as Amal closed the door, setting the sack down on the single chair in the room so they could better grab at it. He was drawn to her when she spoke, and almost instantly he realized she was blushing fiercely, and why it was. He chuckled, rising to stand before her, in very close proximity due to the room's size. "Hey, no need to be embarrassed Em." He said, very uncharacteristically understanding. Not to say he didn't have a conscience, but he was generally the type to tease or smoothly transition into a flirtation. Perhaps it was because he had grown to enjoy her company more than he had ever imagined. "It was a very lovely thought to think." He admitted.

Within the folds of their bags, their magical carpet's rug-tail poked out as if it had eyes to see with, and once it saw they were both in a rather intimate moment it slid back into it's rolled up form.

She was like to blush more now, and he felt he was too. "I'm not the most honest man you'll ever meet, but I would lie if I had not thought of such things, or kissing you quite often since we met..." He felt his own face reddening, and his tongue suddenly couldn't form any words. What in Allah's name was he doing? "Ealayk allaena" He cursed in Arabyan, feeling very awkward. "I mean... Look, let us simply sit down and-"

The ship lurched suddenly, the wood around them groaning from the water pressure. Emmaline stumbled and fell into Amal's quick arms, and they were all of the sudden nose to nose, and he had a very telling view of her generous bosom. "Are you ok?" He breathed, not knowing what else to say.
@Penny

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

Amal might not have found the cook, but as thieving was one of his prime talents he still had collected enough to sate he and Emmaline. In a small sack he had two apples, three warm loafs of bread, two waterskins and a bottle of Tilean spirits that they would doubtfully need if the thunder continued to roar alarmingly close. Making his way up the stairs, he arrived at the forecastle to catch the tail end of Emmaline's story. He bit his tongue as not to laugh, and positioned himself smugly on the railing near them before he announced his presence.

"Ready for another round?" He said in an exaggerated, throaty voice.

The crewmembers jeered and whistled, except for a few of the jealous blokes who eyed Amal like he'd insulted their mothers. One of the sailors had nearly toppled over the side with surprise when he had shown up but another caught him as if it was a normal occurrence. There was a small sprinkling of rain that suddenly appeared from the clouds above, so Amal guided Emmaline away as the men realized it was time to get back to their duties.

"Come lover, let us go below decks to enjoy ourselves." He whispered, and opened the bag to show he had found some food. If he were in Al-Hiekk it would have been a veritable feast, but it would still suit he and Emmaline for now. Truthfully he did wish to talk to her about what their plan was in Marienburg, but the mental image of him riding her as she bit on a silk scarf couldn't quite leave his head, try as he might. Likely the sailors had a similar problem judging by their trousers.

"Perhaps you can tell me more of this silk scarf I might have misplaced, eh?" He joked.
@Penny

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

The ship catered to the left somewhat dangerously, which thoroughly messed up the crew member's game of knucklebones. The bearded Arabyan fellow had been winning thanks to Amal's whispered advice to him, but the dice had tumbled under the center table. As the men crawled to grab it, Amal felt he'd tarried long enough and gave an Arabyan handshake with his countryman, who held his hand in both of his and patted him. It was odd; back in Al-Hiekk he would never greet or say farewell to someone so politely, save for a priest or someone who got him off the hook from the chopping block. But here it was not only the part he played, but he found it easier to do with a kinsman among foreigners.

Passing through the dining hall, he turned left down the corridor to the very end where Captain Diego resided. Amal had already checked above a few minutes ago, else he would have run into Emmaline. He straightened his jacket and knocked on the oak doors three times.

"Dios mio, What is it?" a voice called, which Alim took as an invitation and opened the door. Captain Diego lifted his head from the map he had been viewing, annoyance turning to mirth. "Oh, lord Ahar! Forgive my manners, come in. Yes, what can I do for someone so rich and esteemed?"

The Captain wasn't necessarily a handsome man, but he had a magnetism about him. With long, greasy brown hair and a whisp of a goatee upon his face, he had the look of one that was both unscrupulous yet with the air of a fine leader. Amal had to keep his hands steady when he walked in, for there were items from across the Old World staged on the wall and leaning upon the cupboards. A sword of elvish design hung upon the wall above the skull of a beastman, which was set next to the ivory tusk of a bull elephant.

"I was wishing to know how long our trip will take, Captain." Amal said, trying to sound effete while having to simultaneously deal with his less than scholarly knowledge of Riekspiel. At least it was a handicap he and the Captain shared. "With the storms and all, I just wish to know." Diego rubbed the whisps of hair on his chin as he thought for a quick moment.

"Hard to say, hard to say... usually it would be less than two weeks. But since we have changed course, it could take up to three. That depends on the wind and rain." The Estalian replied. There was sudden thunder in the distance, and somehow it felt as if it shook the very face of the sea. Amal was foolhardy to a fault, but even he perked up in surprise and trepidation at the sound. Diego simply laughed. "Worry not, good Satrap. I have sailed through storms before. You look as if the ship has been cursed or something."

That gave Amal pause, and so as not to betray anything else he took his leave almost immediately, giving off some faint goodbye before shutting the door. Amal thought for a moment, and the implications of his dream seemed likely. "Damn," He whispered to himself. The thief calmed himself after a brief moment of panic, remembering the tales he had heard as a child. Settra was powerful, but he was no God, try as he might in the legends. If they sailed far enough away from the Land of the Dead, then they will go beyond his power.

The thief started back towards the dining hall, passing a new game of knucklebones to enter the hall. Stepping out, he felt a force shoving him into the wall, and it took a second for him to realize it was a large, barrel-chested crew member carrying a huge cask. Amal wasn't a small man, and he was lithe and powerfully built from having to climb and hold his body weight for most of his life. He knew he could kill the man in a mere heartbeat, and likely beat him in a brawl too. But as a decadent Satrap?

"Out of my way!" The Imperial crewmember growled, shifting his hands to get a better grip on the cask. "You might be able to buy your way onto the ship, but keep your bleedin' distance.

He needed to sound haughty and smart in his speech, but dammit he had not learned Reikspiel from any teacher. Hmmm, think of words Emmaline has used when she was lying he advised himself. What would a Satrap threaten a foreigner with? He straightened and said. "You cannot speak to me like that, pale skin! Lest I fine you for a...tremendously judicious amount! Inexplicably!"

He crossed his strong arms, eyeing the man who looked just as confused as Amal felt.

"Did you just insult me?" He grunted, anger and confusion on his stupid face.

"I... think I threatened you." Amal muttered.

The crewman's slow mind began to crank, but clearly it wasn't working fast enough. He decided to scoff and shrug his shoulders, walking away and muttering what Amal was certain were racial slurs. He didn't really mind himself, as he was too busy examining the new flintlock pistol he had taken off the fellow's belt. Maybe Emmaline knew how to operate it? "You know, I've always wanted to use one of these." He breathed.

He hid the weapon beneath the folds of his belt and went to find her.
@Penny

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

Two scoundrels I see, a thief and a liar. Haughty you feel, but I will see you will die by fire!
You've more to worry of than hunger and thirst. Mark my words, for thine is cursed!
Blood red rubies you have taken for your own, within my vault of clay and bone.
Asaph may guard you, and Ranald holds you high,
But ware Settra the Imperishable, FOR MY VENGEANCE IS NIGH!

---

5 days later...

Amal awoke with a start, the words of the Tomb King echoing in his mind before they faded into nothingness. When he realized he wasn't face to face with the mighty king of old, he relaxed. It wouldn't be the first time he had been cursed by a dead man, though admittedly it was the most powerful deadman who had cursed him up to this point. So far the only real problem was the dreams, but with five rubies the size of his fist? It was worth it in his humble opinion, and he reached behind his pillow to pull one out, marveling at it once again.

He sat up now, sweat glistening off of his bare chest. The thief turned to gaze about the small cabin they had procured for themselves, finding Emmaline still asleep on her small cot, the day out of the window grey and lifeless. It was times like this he missed the unrelenting sun of Araby, but they had both agreed that angering the Tomb King was a sign they should leave the country for a small while. What with the Emirs and likely the Sultans after them as well, and with a hefty prize of priceless rubies they could sell on foreign markets...

The handsome Arabyan slid out of bed, moving as quietly as if he had intention of stealing something. He gazed out the window and drank in the sight of the vast ocean before him, the waves weaving about, up and down in strange patterns so much like the dunes of sand he had grown up in. Amal had been at sea before, but never to another land! Short trips on bare Arabyan boats were a farcry from this large, wooden and iron ship they found themselves in.

El Cargador was it's name, a large Estalian Frigate that made its business transporting goods and manpower to and from its homeland to varying nations. It was by pure luck Emmaline and Amal had found the ship just last night, having stumbled out of the desert half starved and covered in sand. It had been grounded on the barren coastline for repairs, and nearly shooed or shot Amal and Emmaline before Amal gave the captain one of the five rubies, and their hostility quickly changed to steadfast friendship. The two had been given baths in the Captain's quarters and feasted with the crew and a few other rich travelers, having been given this small, out of the way cabin to use during their trip up north. Marienburg was the next destination. Amal had no idea what to think, but Emmaline promised they'd find good prospects there.

Pushing away from the window, Amal treaded back to his cot to check his things only to pass by the room's mirror and realize he was stark naked. He almost laughed, imagining what Emmaline would think if she awoke when he was simply strutting about. He slid on his newly cleaned, still somewhat finely made clothes he had gotten back in the markets. He heard her stirring lightly as he wove his sash belt around his waist, still yet to put on his vest and light jacket. His muscled back was turned to her if she looked, and he spoke as if he had eyes in the back of his head.

"I hope your dreams were less trouble than mine, princess." He remarked, adding the last name playfully since that was her disguise. A lost princess of the Border Princes, and her Satrap companion who had been forsaken in the wastes after a vicious attack on their caravan by a djinn. The vest and jacket befitting a highclass Arabyan were on in a matter of seconds, and he ran his hands through his incredibly thick head of dark hair. Checking his belt to make sure his dagger was on hand, and the magic ring still on his finger, he glanced her way.

"I'll check on how long we're to remain cooped up in here." He said. "Maybe if I am lucky, I'll find something good to drink or smoke. Perhaps see a mermaid or two, eh?" The young thief gave a wink and stepped out into the hall, the boat shifting beneath his nimble feet. He hoped he was getting used to the constant movement. So far, so good. The hall was spartan and bland, as they were located on the lower decks of the ship. The further up one went, the more the halls had horses carved upon door frames and bronze tapestries and paintings of various city states array to marvel at.

Amal leaped up the stairs four steps at a time out of habit, having had to do so on many chases through the city. Two levels up he nearly bowled over one of the other guests, sir Brenly of the Empire. A portly man almost never without his comfortable robes and monocle. He had strong hands and had likely once been a great warrior before old age grey his mustache and ached his bones. Once Amal was face to face with him, he guffawed heartily.

"Ah, Satrap Ahar! Fine morning to see you." He said, seeming an earnest man. He wouldn't survive three hours in Al-Haikk, but in some way he respected the man's forthright manner. "I was just seeing if these Estalians had any of that strange brew they call coffee. Are you going to the mess hall?"

"Simply to find the Captain," Amal replied in Reikspeil, smiling. "Have you seen him?"

"Yes, yes, Captain Deigo is topside getting the men spurred into action. Apparently it will storm the next few days. Dreadful if you ask me. But what's life without a little excitement?"

Amal could not agree more.
@POOHEAD189

How do YOU do 1x1s?

Gently, but with a firm hand

The Sunday Group - Bumps in the Night

Edgar placed his coffee cup down on the table with a faint 'clack', and he breathed in through his large nose as he considered the evidence before them. One of the reasons he joined the Sunday Group, other than a chance to make a normal wage, was so he could keep an eye on the spirits and eldritch beings of the world. Particulary the beings that hunted and fed upon men. If the demons or followers of the primordial chaos returned to the world, he was as likely to find the news here as he was in his sanctum.

These corpses were an oddity, he admitted. Many aberrations could have slaughtered these men in that fashion. Immediately he thought of a Wendigo, but it was dismissed as soon as he thought it. A Wendigo would need outside help to travel such distances, and far more of the corpses would have been devoured (if it left anything at all). A Fomorian of celtic origin might leave the water at each scene, but not the ice necessarily. It must have been some spirit or wraith, at least when he was given such limited information to go with. But perhaps there was more...

"Play both images back, will you girl?" He bade Ellie. She had either given in or kept her cool long since they had met from his useage of 'girl.' It was hard to halt saying it, since everyone here could be his thrice great grandchildren. He performed a quick Lunkt Aiga spell mentally as she humored him, his eyes gleaming faintly for the briefest of moments. In modern terms, it allowed him to zoom and clean the images in his mind, doing what most software could do in a fraction of the time. Technology was so limited, he thought to himself. As he soaked in the two images, he found something.

The melted ice was of course a slight giveaway that narrowed down the list of suspects. Whatever had killed them was likely or nordic origin, his specialty. It wasn't the style of any celtic beasts, or inuit monster. This thing had brought the ice with it and had left it at the scene. But what he truly found fascinating was the blue tinge of the skin just as the cusp of eviscerated injury. Edgar lit his pipe as he pondered the information, not wanting to conclude it was some form of frost jotun or ice-wraith, but considering the possibilities highly.

The magician hobo took a lengthy draught of his pipe before using the instrument to point at the projector. "I suggest you print out the images and magnify." He said to the group. "You'll see a frost blue lining along the edges of the wounds that suggest that if it was not from some ice creature, it was done by a weapon edged in ice. It was done by a weapon of Jotunheim if I don't miss my guess. Though it is possible that a wizard such as myself, or an arctic beasts committed such a crime. For ice magic is telling but not exclusive."

Puffs of smoke wafted about his wizened face. "Perhaps if I was at the bodies I could perform a divination, and the length between the crimes is concerning. But as it stands, my conclusion is a Jotun. Even weaponless, a frost giant can use the ice on his body to rend and tear midgardians with relative ease."

He was concern on the implications of such a reality if it were true. Jotuns in the americas either meant they were expanding their territory or they were desperate, and both promised more deaths in the future. He would need to consult the books in his personal library to render more information however. He was sure there was something more to be found. He turned his head to regard Val, sizing her up. "Young one, I am in need of your assistance." He said, eyes filled with the promise of wisdom.

"Do your best to make better coffee for next time. I can't think after drinking that hot garbage."

Hider

He finds the ice to be put there from the perp, and finds blue tinges from an ice weapon/appendage on the wound

@Penny@Fetzen@Rapid Reader@Jarl Coolgruuf

The Sunday Group - Bumps in the Night

Sorry for the short delay, I'll get this show on the road for us this weekend!

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑫𝒊𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒅 & 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑹𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉

Harun considered her offer, wondering for a moment whether or not he could refuse the offer. He felt that maybe he enjoyed skulking through streets and fighting other thieves for food. Nothing tasted better than a meal you stole or fought for. Then again, that's what made this job so tempting. If he came out rich, he'd feel as if he had paid a lifetime's worth of food and drink in one fell swoop.

He took her hand in his. It was a stronger grip than he would have expected from such a delicate hand, which made him grin. At least she had conviction. "You have a deal, babe." He told her, a fire in his eyes.

All they needed to do was get into the Palace via making sure he looked dirty and worn and without having bathed in a few days. Check, check, and...yeah, check.

Cinnabar Forever! (RCN)

Wisely, Kaiden had elected to eat a bit more and drink a modicum of water before he partook in any other alcoholic beverage. Despite his current companion enjoying a delectable Cinnibar vintage, brewed in 5026. It was one of the perks of being a Liuetant, after all. No non-commissioned officer could acquire a drink of this caliber from most military sanctioned barrooms such as the established they found themselves in, simply called the Black Kettle. It was mostly vacated save for a few off-duty MP's that seemed to be chatting up the bartenders as they cleaned shop. The lovely reported and Kaiden sat across from one another at one of the tall-tables beside one of the vaguely faint lights that were encased in faceted glass. So far she hadn't yet annoyed him, he only wished he were slightly more sober so he could delve back into being tipsy more easily.

"And you were transferred to the Vicount so recently...interesting..." The woman often paused and idly bit her pen, jotting down notes so quickly it seemed an art form. He was content to simply sit there and enjoy the heated wheat loaf that had been provided to them while idly taking the smallest sips of the aged wine. "But there was little explanation as to why, I see. Other than the general mounting escalations of the relations between the Alliance and Cinnibar. I appreciate your candor, which is why I haven't asked you anything that might compromise you. But I am afraid I might need a bit more."

Kaiden chuckled, lounging on his chair as he watched her work. If they weren't expected to set out tomorrow at 0600, he would ask her to share a night with him. But he felt that was the drink taking advantage of his mind. It didn't do to mix with journalists, even one as smart and pretty as this. Then again, it didn't do to mix with fellow soldiers and he ignored that bit of advice. Maybe the taboo aspect was partly why he was drawn in? He pushed the thought away. "I'm afraid I don't have anything more, unfortunately. Unless you'd like my shoe size or my blood type. I would like to know where all of these basic military questions are being sent to. What was your network again?"

"The Herculaneum Vault, network 5B on Island 67." She reiterated, sharp eyes switching to him again. "And I'm certain theres more. Maybe something personal?" Tilda began with a hinting smile. "Being a scion of the Caladwarden houseshold must have its share of secrets, and you're no fan of your father as you've said. Or Perhaps something a bit less domestic? You did jump on my offer when I told you of Liuetenant Sabatine. You were lovers, weren't you? Ah, the look says it all! I had not been informed relationships among officers was allowed in the navy, or was it simply frowned upon?"

"I wasn't aware the Herculaneum Vault were into gossip columns," He shot back, amused. He took the last sip of wine he would have that night, for the 3rd time. "I didn't think you were that kind of woman either."

"And what kind of woman am I?"

"Intelligent...relentless if given the opportunity. None of which scream gossip columnist." He remarked, sitting up in his chair. He couldn't tell if it was the alcohol, his libido, or if he was truly impressed that led him to his next train of thought. Clearing his throat, he asked. "How much does the vault pay it's employees? Let me guess, enough? I'm leaving tomorrow. Find me when we make port again, and if you don't lie about your wage, I'll add 20% and ask for your services as my helper."

"A servant?" She laughed incredulously, staring at him. "...You're serious? I mean, I'll think about it." She idly fixed her hair as if she was at a job interview, or speaking to someone she found attractive. Both was likely, he thought.

"Just think on it. And do decide before I return. I doubt I'll be drunk the next time we meet." He told her, leaving money to pay the bill as he made his way out of the barroom and back to his quarters. He was going to have a hell of a day tomorrow.